#that i’ve stumbled into an argument that’s gone places i was not accounting for and don’t have the context to engage with properly

[mumblesplash]

Undertale did exactly that - I'm pretty sure theyre made by the same creator, Toby Fox.

Undertale, among many, many other things, is specifically designed to challenge modern AAA game structure and break away from the norm of video games. Its not just that you can befriend your enemies and you get punished for fighting; each different monster has unique, endearing possibilities for friendship. You jiggle and dance with slimes, there a frost-bird that tells terrible jokes, one monster desperately wants compliments on their hat. Each one is utterly unique.

There are three unique paths. Pacifist means you dont kill anyone. Neutral is the standard "kill when you have to/im used to video games where you kill every monster you encounter". Then there's Genocide.

There is a unique route where players methodically and maliciously clear every region of every living soul.

All this to say - in an age where most games allow you to murder monsters, enemies, or people for rewards, Undertale (and assumedly Deltarune) treats such behavior with humanity and empathy and the correct amount of abject horror that such actions should warrant.

okok yeah that definitely aligns with what i know/remember of undertale, and i do know toby fox made both games

the weird thing for me is that i’m not really familiar with the norms undertale was subverting

all the characters being unique and possible to either fight OR befriend resulting in different consequences seems completely reasonable from my perspective, i never had a reason to expect anything else

[rebrandedbard]

number 42 for the drabble prompts please? :)

42. “I swear it was an accident.”

tw: death (not of main characters), kinda gross corpse descriptions

WC: 2456

Poet’s Sight

Jaskier keeps falling in with dangerous creatures and Geralt is starting to think he’s cursed. That is, until Geralt takes a contract for a noonwraith and Jaskier gets ahead of him. It is then Geralt remembers something important about the nature of rare poets.

-

That made the third time. Three monsters in as many months, and Geralt was starting to worry. Somehow, Jaskier had a habit of stumbling upon the creatures before him, even when he was doing his best to stay away from the fight. Though his medallion offered no hints, Geralt felt sure Jaskier had been cursed somehow. There was no other explanation for it. For two of the hunts, Geralt had not yet arrived in town, would not have been able to defend Jaskier if he got himself into any kind of trouble, and Jaskier had been entirely unaware of the contracts. But this had been the final straw. As things were, Jaskier ought not to be living.

“I swear, it was an accident,” Jaskier said. “The light was low and it seemed like any ordinary dog. I swear, it was an ordinary dog. It had fur and everything—nothing at all as you described.”

Geralt squeezed Jaskier’s shoulders, the corpse of the beast just yards away from where they stood. “It was a barghest. Do you have any idea how much danger you were in! It would have eaten you alive if I let it, torn you from the bowels out!”

“But it…”

“They don’t have a quality of mercy.”

Jaskier stared at the corpse. He wore a pinched expression, not quite comprehending the vision before him. The fleshy, mutated monster looked so much larger, so much more twisted than it had moments before. Its odd tongue, prickled and forked, flopped out from its foaming maw. That same tongue had felt the same as any dog’s before as it licked Jaskier’s face. It had been smooth and slimy and affectionate. And it had not had such large teeth.

He’d gone out to fetch more wood for the fire—really, he’d gone out to relieve himself in private—and he’d happened upon a dog among the bushes. It had looked perfectly sweet in the moonlight: a shaggy brown and white thing with a fluffy, wagging tail. It had followed after him on his way back to camp. Jaskier had always been fond of dogs, so he’d stopped awhile to pet it. Really, it had been friendly. It curled up at his feet and allowed him to scratch it behind the ears. Everything had been just fine, and he’d just picked up a large stick to initiate a quick game of fetch when Geralt came crashing out of the trees, sword raised.

“It was an ordinary dog,” Jaskier whispered. He still had the stick in his hand.

Geralt looked Jaskier in the eye. His nostrils flared ever-so slightly, as if scenting for a lie. The lines in his face smoothed and he sighed, prying the stick from Jaskier’s grasp. “I thought you’d seen it. The way you raised the stick …” He looked at it. It would have snapped in an instant in a true fight. He tossed it near the barghest’s corpse and turned Jaskier back towards camp.

“… You felt fur?” he asked.

Jaskier nodded. “Soft as anything.”

“I don’t understand it. To you, it was as if it were nothing more than a dog.”

“Perhaps I’m seeing things wrong. Was it …  as it tasting me before the feast? When I pet it, was it simply waiting to size me up? Oh, Geralt, what if I’ve had my mind taken over by a witch? Am I seeing visions? Are you real?”

He reached up to grope at Geralt’s cheeks, pulling them and prodding at his armour, his swords, and his chest. Geralt pulled his hands away carefully and shook his head.

“There’s not a trace of magic around you as far as I can tell,” he grunted.

“Then we’ll have to find someone who can tell these things. I’m scared, Geralt. I already lack the ability to defend myself in other ways; if I don’t know when to run, I’ll surely wind up dead before the year is out, if not sooner!”

Probably sooner, Geralt thought. “We’ll consult a mage. There are curses strong enough to evade detection from the medallion. They’re rare, but not unheard of. A mage would be able to tell us more: what kind of curse it is and how to lift it.”

As they stepped into the safety of the firelight, Roach raised her head, flicking her ears towards Jaskier. He wobbled over to her and wrapped his arms around her neck. She sniffed him, then turned her ear to Geralt for answers.

Geralt was looking at Jaskier carefully. It would be too dangerous to stay in the woods another night. Where there was one barghest, there were bound to be others. He would keep watch until first light, then they’d set out for the next town.

“Jaskier,” Geralt called.

Jaskier uncurled from Roach’s neck.

“I want you to stay in town for my next contract,” he said. “You’ll under a curfew until this gets resolved: indoors between dusk and dawn. I want you on the inn grounds whenever I’m not present. Are we understood?”

Jaskier balked at being confined indoors. “Can’t I come along with you?” he asked.

“No. If this is a curse, you might be a danger to me on contracts. To me and yourself.” It would be a greater liability than merely getting underfoot. This thing seemed to attract danger, or else to pull Jaskier towards danger. Either way, he was staying put somewhere safe.

“But Geralt—”

“I won’t hear any argument,” Geralt snapped. He narrowed his eyes, pinning Jaskier with a glare. “Do you remember what happened two weeks ago? You heard a woman cry in the middle of the night. And what did you do?”

Jaskier sighed and flopped down on his bedroll. “She didn’t wail like a banshee. And I’ve told you a hundred times over: she looked human! I held her hand! You can’t hold the hand of a ghost,” he protested. “And what’s more, she spoke. It wasn’t nonsense. How was I to know what she was if I can’t trust my own eyes and ears?”

He lay down in a huff, crossing his arms over his chest. Geralt could feel the frustration rolling off of him in waves. “What I find odd is that none of them so far have hurt me,” he mumbled.

“That’s because I came in time to save your satin-covered ass,” Geralt replied.

“I was with the banshee for hours, Geralt. You didn’t arrive in town until the middle of the night. Why would she wait to kill me when she had me already?”

Geralt thought about it. A banshee was more often an omen than an outright threat, though still dangerous. He’d stayed close to Jaskier for the next three days to see what dreaded fortune the omen foretold, but he’d not come to any harm in that time. Then again, he’d never heard of a banshee speaking before. It was possible Jaskier had not been with her for hours as he claimed, for if his senses were betraying him, how could he know the passing of the time? His accounts were questionable until this was resolved.

When they arrived in town the next morning, it was just before noon. There was no inn, but they were given permission to stay in one of the farmer’s barns. Geralt went to the alderman for a contract and left Jaskier safely behind, composing in among the hay. It was a noonwraith, Geralt discovered, that had been withering the fields. He oiled his sword and returned to the edge of town to wait for it to appear.

On the way, he stopped by the barn to update Jaskier. He was surprised to hear no music within. When he looked, he did not see Jaskier dozing among the hay. He was not where he’d left him at Roach’s side. Listening closely, he heard no heartbeat within. Jaskier was gone.

Geralt cursed and tore himself from the barn. “Jaskier!” he called. But Jaskier was not about. Geralt followed the trail of his scent toward the fields, his feet pounding on the dry earth. He’d made Jaskier promise not to leave the barn. He’d damn well better be enchanted to wander off so mindlessly on his own.

“Miss? Little miss, would you please slow down! I’m not supposed to be out here!”

Geralt turned his head toward the sound of Jaskier’s pleas. There, down the hill, he saw a flash of blue among the yellow stalks. Jaskier was running along the edge of the field, one arm out as if chasing something. He was shouting in his worried voice. As Geralt watched, Jaskier paced in front of the boundary, hesitating before an opening in among the tall crops.

“Little girl?” Jaskier called. “This isn’t a game! You bring me back my ring this instant!” Then, he called out again, diving into the fray.

But Geralt had seen no girl.

Geralt charged down the hill and entered the fields full-tilt. He followed the trail, catching up from behind, listening as he did. His sword was at the ready. The sun was already approaching its apex, and soon the wraith would be out. If it wasn’t out already.

“Troublesome girl!” Jaskier gruffed. “First she steals my ring, then she drops it in the dirt like a seed among the ro—”

There came a pause, and Geralt heard a stalk break somewhere ahead by Jaskier. His voice came again from the same place. “Well, that’s an odd find. Popped up like a lucky charm. Did the thing grow through you?”

The wind stirred, carrying Jaskier’s words clearly, though he was still too far to reach. Geralt’s blood ran cold. His medallion was trembling against his chest, warning of the wraith’s arrival.

“Oh? Is it yours, young lady?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt felt the panic wash over him. A ring in a field. A token from the wraith. The idiot ought not to have touched it! She’d make him the target of her wrath, dry up his soul into a husk, and force him to waste himself away like the withered stalks around them with only—

“A dance?” Jaskier asked. He laughed, voice ringing clear above the wind. “Oh, very well, but only a very short one; I’ve still got to find that little girl, give her a lecture about respecting personal property.”

Geralt was almost upon them. He could see the clearing in the field ahead, the strong sunlight filtering through. Jaskier’s voice was clearer, and the wind had a strange quality to it. It seemed to lull in time to Jaskier’s speech.

“Sister? Ah, then I’d best go easy on her,” Jaskier said. He was moving away quickly now. The wind blew, and suddenly Jaskier was laughing, bright and clear. “Buried your mother’s ring? What a scamp! And you’ve been out here every afternoon liking for it since—and no wonder! It’s a lovely piece. May I?”

Geralt broke through the field in time to see Jaskier dancing with the wraith. She was a hollowed thing, burned by the sun, her hair bleached white. They turned once, then Jaskier lowered himself on one knee and, taking the wraith’s hand, slipped the ring onto her finger.

“There!” Jaskier said. “You know? Our rings almost make a pair.”

The wind blew and Jaskier appeared to be listening. He laughed, patting the wraith’s hands, and the wind stopped blowing. “Oh no, I’m afraid I’m spoken for. It would make a lovely engagement ring, but not to me. Even so, I don’t suppose a kiss would be amiss.” And so he leaned forward and kissed the wraith’s cheek, as if she were not a lifeless husk.

Geralt was stunned. It was … it was as if the wraith were speaking to Jaskier. He watched the two of them start up the dance again. He’d witnessed the dancing of noonwraiths before, and their victims screamed in horror until their final breath. The wraith made them dance in a mad frenzy until they fell to the ground, dead from exhaustion and terror. This dance was a frolic, full of laughter. It was unhurried as Jaskier allowed himself to be twirled round and round. When the dance came to an end, it had not been any more than the length of a song. Jaskier tilted his head, listening while the wind whistled in the field.

“So soon?” he asked. “Well, I thank you for the lovely dance. You be sure to tell your sister to mind her manners for me, won’t you? I’ve got to head back myself before I give my witcher a fright. I—oh, there she is now!”

Geralt turned to look where Jaskier was waving, but he saw nothing at all.

“You mind your sister,” Jaskier said, wagging a finger at the empty air. “You’re much too old to be getting up to these tricks.”

And at once, Geralt understood. Jaskier was a poet. There were poets in this world who were made of a different cut—who could see beyond the limits of the physical world. The banshee, the barghest, the wraith … and Geralt was sure even now that Jaskier was shaking his finger in the face of a ghost. They were all of the other realm.

He had sight.

Jaskier waved as the wraith began to fade through the field, disappearing. “Take care!” he called. “And be careful on your way. There’s a contract in town, so there’s trouble about somewhere. Have no fear, we’ll be sure to make everything safe, my witcher and I.”

At that, Geralt snorted, and Jaskier turned his head.

Jaskier turned pale at once, clutching his hands to his chest. “Ger—I can explain, Geralt!” he stammered. “I swear, I would have stayed in the barn, but this little girl came in and she stole my ring right off my finger! It’s my father’s ring, and I couldn’t just let … her …” Jaskier blinked, staring at Geralt, perplexed. “Are you laughing?”

Indeed Geralt was. All the stress from the last three months bubbled up and escaped as laughter, shaking his shoulders.

Jaskier chuckled along nervously. “I would have thought you’d be furious with me for running out. Erm … did you finish your contract then?”

Geralt clapped an arm around Jaskier’s shoulder. “I’d say you finished it for me today,” he corrected. “And I’ve just figured out the answer to your little curse.”

Jaskier perked up slightly, realizing he wasn’t in trouble just yet. “Is that so? Will you tell me then?”

“If you promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

Geralt smiled and rubbed the ash from Jaskier’s lips with his glove. “Never,” he said, “kiss another noonwraith again.”

“Kiss a what?” Jaskier squawked.

[logically-asexual]

I want to give you your grin

i made this for @loceitweek2021 Day 2: Crook/Aftermath

summary:

After Thomas chose to go to the wedding, Janus has a lot of work for his plans to work out, and that includes getting Logic on his side. Logan currently is constantly being left out. He is trying too hard (and failing) to make himself fit in with the others, so he will try anything to feel useful.

Janus decides to take advantage of this (and Logan's denied feelings for him) to get away with his scheme, but what neither of them expect is actually falling for each other in the process.

warnings: emotional manipulation, Logan is very insecure. let me know if i should add more.

Read on AO3

Chapter 3 (last)

| First | | Previous |

words: 2424

Janus was very satisfied with the progress he had made with Logan, and how the pieces of his plan were falling together. He had everything under control, and now that Thomas was driving back home from the wedding, he was ready for the final act. Something in him felt guilty about pushing Logic away and impersonating him again, but it was indispensable to his plan. Besides, it wasn’t him who was going to shut Logic down, he was just going to wait for an opportunity when the others did.

Janus couldn’t tell whether Logan’s recent support of him was causing the others to embrace Deceit or to reject Logan even more, but, frankly, he didn’t care. It wasn’t his problem, he just had one goal in mind and it was taking advantage of Thomas’ mood today to finally make him listen to reason. If that came with the little side-effect of Logan coming to him later for comfort, well that was just another advantage. It was always amusing to see the stuck-up teacher all emotionally troubled.

“What the f***, everybody?”

That was Thomas. It was showtime.

During the discussion, everything went as he expected. Logan was even showing up with the written support-facts quite often (if Janus had been the one to hint something to spark that idea, for Logan to show up instead of staying out of it, no one had to know). Having spent his time a little closer to Logan in the past weeks also helped Janus improve his impression of him.

He had been ready, and it was all perfect until he pulled Logan with his crook, because he definitely wasn’t prepared for what would happen afterwards.

✩ ✩ ✩

Logan didn’t fully process what happened when Patton pressed the “SKIP” button next to him, not until he felt his back collide with someone, and the pressure on his neck was relieved. It took a minute for him to be able to catch his breath, and to be able to focus on anything other than the pain of the bruise that was surely forming. Once he did, he almost stumbled backwards again, but a steady hand on his shoulder and the chest of the other Side behind him helped him recover his balance.

Still coughing lightly, Logan turned around to see Deceit, who seemed slightly concerned for a moment, before relaxing to a smug expression. The space he was in was pitch black, but with just enough light to illuminate him and Deceit, who was now proudly standing with a tall curve-shaped staff in his hand.

“Logan, darling, how are you doing?”

Logan rolled his eyes at the patronizing tone, and decided to simply turn around and walk away, looking for an exit. However, he was immediately stopped by Deceit’s crook (now on his shoulder), and once again pulled backwards to him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Deceit’s low voice whispered in his ear.

“Back to work. In case you couldn’t tell, I was in the middle of something.” He pulled himself out of the other’s hold and faced him again, with arms crossed.

“Oh, right, because Patton and Roman are clearly thrilled to take your additions into account, as demonstrated by what just happened before you were brought here.”

“That doesn’t matter, I have to keep trying.”

“You don’t “have” to do anything. Why don’t you-”

“I don’t want to hear your suggestions. I just have to find-” Logan wouldn’t fall for Deceit’s games that easily.

“Find what?”

“Nothing, none of your business. Just let me go and get my work done.”

“You’re going to keep silently displaying information that no one wants to read?”

“No, I-”

“Or are you going to start talking without invitation for them to cut you off again?”

“No, there’s-”

“Or are you going to stay quiet until Patton calls you in and then go against your own values to say something that the others want to hear?” There was that displeased glare again that Logan just couldn’t bear.

“Look, there has to be an answer. I must find the way. I am Logic, I know there is a solution and if I don’t find it through conscientious strategizing at least I will through elimination of everything else that didn’t work!”

Logan moved to escape once again, but Deceit rapidly grabbed him by his arms and slammed him to a nearby wall, previously invisible in the darkness of the room. His hands moved to hold Logan’s shoulders, and another pair pinned his wrists to either side of his body. Logan struggled desperately against him, but to no avail.

“Logan, look at me.”

Logan looked up, but the tears that were building up for his distress made the image unclear.

“You’ll find your place, and how your role fits, but you have to just wait and let it happen.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I am not-”

“You are! I know it’s not true, and I know I’ve been in denial all this time, okay? I know it’s hopeless to think I can make myself useful again, and that I really am out of options. I have tried everything; to protest and to comply, to support them and to hold back, to have opinions and to state only facts from Thomas’ memories, to agree with them and... to agree with you, even.” He looked downwards at the gloved hands keeping him stuck, and continued quietly. “It all goes wrong, eventually. The problem is me.”

A fifth hand came to his chin, lifting his face to meet Janus’ gaze.

“Listen,” Janus was choosing his words carefully, “Thomas is changing, because he has to. Of course that will affect all of us, and it will be messy.”

Logan knew that. “But that means I have to-”

“Ah ah ah. As he finds himself again, you will find your own role. But you have to give him time, give him the chance to find the right place for you... hopefully on my team,” he added with a wink. After a pause, he went on, with a deadly serious tone Logan had never heard from him. “This is a change you can’t control, but it’ll pass. I’ll make sure of that.”

He moved the hand previously on his chin to the side, his thumb brushing against Logan’s cheek. Logan leaned into the soft sensation, feeling exposed but understood, in a way he hadn’t felt in years. At that moment he realized how close the two of them were, and how from this distance he could make out hints of yellow swirling in both of Deceit’s irises. Deceit’s eyes seemed to be studying his own just as meticulously while he slowly moved closer.

Janus was running out of time, and he had already missed a part of the conversation with Patton. He really couldn’t miss this opportunity and ruin everything he had planned. But there was something about the way Logan’s teary eyes were staring up at him, wide open and shaken, but so full of trust, that captivated him. So he leaned forward and kissed him without thinking twice.

The kiss wasn’t strong or passionate, Deceit only pressed their mouths together and lingered there. To Logan, it was perfect. Even with the softness of it, he felt almost overwhelmed, but closed his eyes and relaxed into it, and let the warm sensation wash over him for a moment. It quieted his mind in the only satisfying way he could imagine.

Deceit slowly pulled away, and studied his eyes for an instant. Before Logan could even take a breath in, he was gone. He just... disappeared. Logan tried to follow after him, before realizing that both his wrists were tied to the wall behind him.

He attempted to make the bounds disappear but nothing happened, so he tried to physically pull them off, which turned out fruitless, as well. He groaned in frustration. This was part of Deceit’s powers, after all. He could keep any Side hidden or silenced for however long he wanted. Logan just had to wait until whatever Deceit had planned was done or until he was distracted enough to let the effect wear out.

Logan thought that, unlike Roman, he would be immune to it, but the traitorous snake got away with using and taking advantage of his feelings, too.

... What feelings, anyway? What did Logan even feel for Deceit to make him act like this?

He groaned again. Of all the things that could have happened to him, he was left alone with his thoughts for an undetermined amount of time, to confront attraction and other sickening emotions he was apparently feeling but wasn’t previously aware of? Why couldn’t Deceit have left him with the Duke? The torture would have been less painful.

He leaned against the wall, ready to begin figuring things out, and noticed Deceit took his tie with him, too. He was clever, Logan couldn’t lie about that.

✩ ✩ ✩

Despite the unprecedented distraction, Janus carried on with his scheme, disguising as Logan successfully. He had been somewhat worried, because Logan is a lot more than just referencing studies and taking things literally, but lately it was all he showed to the others, so it wasn’t surprising that that was all he needed for the impression.

If everything went well, Patton would finally admit that he was wrong, and allow Thomas to relax, then Deceit could leave them all alone for a while and he wouldn’t have to face Logan.

Except it did not go well.

First, Logan showed up when he was about to reach a breakthrough with Thomas. Janus assumed it would ruin everything, since Logan would call him out for his tricks and derail the conversation, and it was embarrassing to see him either way. To his surprise, however, not only did Logan dodge the topic of what had happened between them, but he also interjected with an argument in Deceit’s favor. Well, kind of. Janus didn’t care about how “altruistic” Thomas could be, but the idea gave strength to Deceit’s proposal of self care, while being balanced enough for Thomas to approve of.

So that was awkward, but ultimately satisfactory.

After that, everything seemed to be going smoothly, up until Roman’s little dramatic episode. And yeah, Janus probably deserved it, but it was still annoying. Whatever, Thomas listened to him in the end and it’s not like he expected Roman, of all Sides, to respect him or his name. Patton or anyone else could deal with the petty Prince later. Once Thomas acknowledged that Janus was right and that he would take time for himself with less guilt and more often, his job was done, and the emotional turmoil left behind was an issue for the emotional Sides to resolve. He had more important matters to attend to.

That was, until Logan showed up unannounced in his room later that night.

Logan didn’t really know what he was doing when he went to Deceit after everyone had calmed down, but he was overthinking and that just wouldn’t be healthy. He had to take action to let out all those thoughts impending his focus.

“So... Janus?”

Janus didn’t look up from the snake he was feeding. “Wrong number, and we’re currently out of service, try again never. Thank you.”

“This is a presencial conversation, I’m not talking on the phon-”

“What did you come here for?”

Logan looked down, fidgeting with his tie. “I... I guess I never thanked you.”

That made Janus glance up. “Thank me?”

“I didn’t want to recognize it, but I have been forcing myself to fit into something that I am not. You are right,-“ Janus would never get tired of hearing that- “we’re all changing, and although I do like it when I can predict how things will happen, for this situation I will have to be patient, and wait until Thomas can make sense of himself, and then make sense of me.” Logan stepped closer to the other Side. “Realizing this lifted a figurative weight off my shoulders that I didn’t know I was carrying. So thank you.”

“So, you’re no longer going to be an exasperating people-pleaser?”

“No,” he chuckled, “you already showed me how distressing taking that to an extreme can be.” Yes, that was definitely what Janus was trying to do, to teach Logan a lesson and totally not to manipulate him to get away with his plans, of course not.

They both stood quietly for a minute, searching for something else to say.

“I guess if you can do it, I have to thank you, too.” Janus, finally said. “For helping me earlier.”

“Ah. I wasn’t trying to help you, really. But I do agree with you, and after having some time to think,” Logan paused for a moment to look accusingly at Janus, who smiled awkwardly, “I remembered reading about effective altruism, and I genuinely thought it was the best choice.”

Maybe Janus underestimated Logan, but he did know he was more valuable than what the others credited him for. “I think so, too.”

Janus still hoped that Logan would be on his side more often, now that they knew it worked well for them, but he couldn’t deny that the concept of Logan confidently debating him was exciting. So far, seeing Logan follow his lead was the best feeling in the world, but perhaps it could be pushed to second place by Logic finally speaking his own mind.

Logan lowered his gaze to the snake in the tank next to them. It was bright yellow, and impressively big. He made a mental note to inquire about it another day, before looking back up when he felt Janus rest a hand on his shoulder.

“We are a good team.”

Logan could tell he was being sincere this time, and smiled up at him, his eyes again open and affectionate. He could let bitterness and anger take over him for how Deceit abandoned him tied up earlier, but if he was already going to be disturbed by strong emotions, it might as well be enjoyable ones. Besides, he had just come to terms with a crush, something he would have never pictured himself doing, so he couldn’t let it go to waste.

Logan reached out to hold Janus’ free hand, and leaned in to kiss him quickly.

Things were far from getting back in order, and there was a lot left to figure out, but at that moment, both of them knew that right here, next to each other, they fit in perfectly.

[moldisgoodforyou]

Sophie drunk at an ugly Christmas sweater party with rafe ??

yes love this! warnings: drinking, brief nudity, v fluffy 

wordcount: 2k

_ 

After a little bit of convincing, Sophie brought Rafe to her sorority’s annual Drink The Tree party. Drink The Tree consisted of buying shooters at the liquor store and placing them in a Christmas tree at a senior house, then taking a random shot on every half hour. After the first couple hours, this usually descended into madness and the regulated shot consumption rules went out the window. 

“I still don’t think seven shots are necessary, Sophie.” Rafe frowned skeptically, watching as she struggled to hold them all in her fists on their walk to the party just so she didn’t have to bring a purse. “It might not be, but the freshman always show up empty-handed, so I’m just compensating.” She countered, almost dropping and shattering a few on the icy sidewalk. He caught them quickly and took a handful from her easily, shaking his head. “You worry me sometimes.” 

“That’s not my fault you worry too often.” Sophie grinned at him, bumping her shoulder against his. He rolled his eyes and smiled back, fond. “How long is it gonna take you til you grab my jacket?” She wore a cropped Christmas sweater, a corduroy skirt, and thin tights, and bit her lip to keep her teeth from chattering on the short walk, refusing a jacket from Rafe. “Well if I’m drinking right, I should be fine, yeah?”  

“Twenty minutes.” He wagered. 

She raised her eyebrows. “Is this a bet?” 

“Yeah. If you take my jacket before that, you have to pace yourself on drinking.” He regretted the words the second her lips set in a smug smirk, knowing immediately he was going to lose. 

“Deal. If I don’t you have to take care of me.” Sophie grinned, stopping at the crosswalk and reaching up on her toes to kiss his cheek. He laughed and ruffled her hair affectionately. “We both know I was already gonna do that.” 

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re whipped.” She beamed. “I can’t wait to see Colin’s reaction to your outfit.” Colin was invited to the party by another Theta and had taken the girl out for dinner beforehand, eager to impress. Rafe was sorely unprepared and had to wear an ugly Christmas sweater that Sophie had in the back of her closet from an ex that was about five inches shorter than Rafe, and she had accidentally shrunk it in the wash. The result was her 6′3″ boyfriend practically wearing a crop top, which he complained about the entire time she got ready. 

“Yeah, I’m still not happy about this.” He grumbled, doing his best not to raise his arms and show more than the already exposed two inches of skin. “I promise I won’t take photos.” She laughed as they came up to the house, the party already spilling out onto the front porch. “Ready?” 

“Sure you’re not cold?” Rafe raised his eyebrows in a challenge, noticing the goosebumps on her legs. “Positive. You’re not winning this.” She grinned and led him inside, greeting a few people as they made their way to the tree and arranged the shooters on the branches. Rafe cursed under his breath as he heard an unmistakably familiar snort from behind him. He turned to see Colin grinning, two cups in hand. “That’s a look, Cameron.” 

“Yeah, well, someone didn’t prepare me in advance to go buy a sweater that fit.” Rafe scowled. Sophie laughed and poked Rafe’s exposed hip. “I think he should wear crop tops more often, don’t you, Colin?” Colin chuckled and handed them each a cup full of spiked hot chocolate. “Absolutely. Heard they’re in fashion now, might have to join the trend. Sophie, what shots did you bring?” 

“Ah.” She pointed to a section of the tree, grinning. “The Malibu.” 

Colin scowled at the same time as Rafe shuddered. “You have terrible taste. We need to get you drinking whiskey sours.” 

“Believe me, I’ve tried.” Rafe lamented, shaking his head. Sophie grinned. “Just because you can’t handle Malibu -” 

“That was one time, Sophie -” 

“You were practically stripping at the party, Rafe -”

As their casual conversation quickly delved into argument, Colin just laughed and walked away, leaving them to fight it out. Rafe only noticed after a moment, shaking his head. “Hey, truce.” 

“Truce.” She agreed easily, having learned to choose her battles after a while. Sophie pulled two shooters off the tree, handing him one. “Top of the hour, drink up.” 

“Fine, but I’m not drinking your shitty alcohol.” 

“This is all shitty alcohol, baby, welcome to college.” She teased, clinking the neck of the little bottle against his before knocking it back. They both washed it down with the spiked hot chocolate and Sophie shivered, already feeling the effects taking place. Rafe grinned at her knowingly. “Lightweight.” 

“Who, me? Never.” She grinned back and gave him a short kiss, then took his hand. “C’mon, let’s go find a game to play.” 

As she got more and more drunker, she became touchier throughout the night, way unusual for her - though Rafe couldn’t say he wasn’t a fan. Sophie had her arm possessively wrapped around his waist by the end of the night, resting her head on his shoulder several times. She was clearly trying her hardest to stay awake, blinking quickly every time someone tried catching her attention. He wasn’t sober himself, but was just enough to recognize her telltale drunkenness.  

“Ready to go home, angel?” He murmured into her ear, nudging her upright. 

“Soft.” She accused, just leaning into him again. He stepped away and placed both hands on her shoulders to keep her up, thumbs kneading her muscles for a moment. “Stay awake long enough for me to get you home. Five minute walk, that’s all.” 

“You don’t have enough to shell out for an Uber?” She teased, knowing damn well it wasn’t worth the wait and the hassle. 

“No, dating you is draining my bank account.” He grinned and kissed her forehead. “C’mon, if we leave now, I promise I’ll rub your back before we go to sleep.” 

That was enough to convince her, and after a few goodbyes, they made their way back to Sophie’s sorority house. Rafe took one look at the fire escape - his usual method up to her room - and crouched down. “C’mon.” 

“Huh?” 

“On my back. I don’t trust you not to trip up these.” 

She grinned and got on his back with only a moment’s struggle, loosely wrapping her arms around his neck. “You’re so strong.” She mumbled dreamily, pressing her lips against his temple at an awkward angle. 

“Shh, Soph, gonna get us caught. I’m not allowed up here, remember?” He whispered back, being extra careful up the slick steps coated with snow. Once they made it up, she started squirming. “Let me down, I can walk.” 

“Yeah? Prove it.” He punched in the code to the door on the upper deck and ushered her inside, snorting when she tripped over her boots almost immediately. She scowled, flipping him off over her shoulder and continued her way down the hall, stumbling into the wall as she went. They were quiet until they made it into her empty room and she flopped onto her bed immediately, letting out a huge sigh. “Shoes.” 

He nodded and took her shoes off for her, placing them neatly in her closet. “C’mon, you gonna take your makeup off? You have to go brush your teeth too.” 

“Come with me.” She sat up, reaching out for him. 

“Can’t, baby, you know that. Don’t want you in trouble.” He tugged gently on her hands, trying to get her off the bed even though she stayed limp, being dragged by him. “Come on, Soph, work with me.” 

She leaned forward just enough to tip her forehead into his chest, content there. “Fine, but you gotta brush my hair out.” 

“After. Promise.” He lifted her up and set her upright, giving her a little nudge. “Go, I’ll be waiting right here.”  

“Fiiiiiiine.” She whined, leaving the room and letting the door slam shut carelessly behind her. Rafe winced and changed while she was gone, pulling on some sweats from the section of her closet that was now reserved for his stays. Sophie returned moments later and promptly handed him her hairbrush, turning expectantly. He shook his head. “PJs first. No sleeping in a skirt and tights.” 

“I’ll just sleep naked.” She raised her eyebrows in challenge. 

He snorted. “You hate that, and it’s 28 degrees outside. You gonna do it or am I gonna have to?” 

She paused, considering her options, a slow smirk forming. 

“Not what I meant - oh, c’mon.” His tone was exasperated but fond anyways as he made quick work of unbuttoning her sweater and tugging it off, then stopped in his tracks, staring directly at her chest. “You weren’t wearing a bra this whole night?” 

“You couldn’t tell?” She grinned, taking it upon herself to step out of her skirt and tug off her tights til she was just left standing in her underwear. “Hey.” She snapped in his face, bringing him out of his reverie. “Fetch me clothes, handsome.” 

He shook his head quickly, mumbling a curse word under his breath as he pulled out one of his shirts left behind and pajama pants for her. “Arms up.” 

“You just wanna see my boobs more.” She accused, pausing before obliging. 

“You just stripped in front of me, clearly you don’t have qualms about it.” He quipped back, taking a moment to palm her breast and run his thumb across her nipple as he tugged it on over her head. She made a show out of moaning obnoxiously loud and he grinned, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Sophie, shh.” 

“You like my moans.” She retorted, stepping into her pj pants. 

“Yeah, but you don’t sound like that. That sounded like a pornstar.” 

“How do you know what a pornstar sounds like?” 

“Dunno, where’d you learn to moan like that?” He shot back, teasing all the way. 

She blushed, grinning. “I didn’t forget about my hair. Can you braid it too?” 

“Course I can.” He made her sit on the edge of the bed before brushing carefully through her hair, then made a quick, practiced braid for her. She almost fell asleep at his touch, leaning closer and closer into his hands. Once he tied it off, he crawled into bed next to her, cuddling close for warmth. “What’s gotten into you? You were all touchy tonight.” 

She frowned. “Thought you liked when I held your hand at parties.” 

“No, no, I do.” He quickly backtracked, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Just not usually like you. You don’t really do PDA.” 

“But you like it.” She countered, cuddling closer into his chest til he wrapped his arm around her. 

“Yeah. I do.” He paused, wondering how much of the night she’d remember in the morning. “I like people knowing that you’re my girl. Showing you off.” 

“Everyone knows we’re dating, Rafe. Don’t worry.” She murmured, tracing patterns on his chest. 

“I know, just. I liked it tonight. Had fun. Thank you for inviting me.” 

Unspoken words hung in the air between them for a moment, ‘til Sophie lifted her head to meet his eyes. “You’re my favorite, you know.” 

“You’re my favorite too.” He kissed her sweetly, smiling. “Sleep tight, Soph.” 

“Sleep tight.” She murmured back before falling asleep. 

[procrastinatorimagines]

Could Have Been More Part 3

Fandom: Chicago PD / One Chicago

Series: Could Have Been More

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 (Final)

Character/s: Hank Voight x Reader

Warning/s: mentions of death/murder

Word Count: 1,545

Summary: Y/N blames herself for a killer now loose in Chicago and Hank does his best to comfort her

The body count had been 10. 10 people were dead, all because you’d meddled with something that was none of your business. Bangers, an officer had told you, part of the same gang as the first victim and his girlfriend, the dead waitress. Apparently the manager, Strauss, had been using his cafe as a front to move product, and now he was cleaning house.

You’d basically put yourself on autopilot after that, double checking patients and talking to officers, but it all sounded so far away, like you were listening to everything at a distance. No, like you were underwater, that would explain why you were finding it so hard to breath anyway.

After you’d gone to Med Kev and Adam had met you outside, explaining to Sylvie that there would be another paramedic to fill in for you for the rest of shift, and until this case was over. Sylvie was shocked and concerned, but Kev had told her he couldn’t get into it with her right now but that everything was going to be okay. You’d nodded along numbly and Slyvie had tried to protest, but in the end she had been called to a fire with the rest of 51 and she’d reluctantly left, giving your hand a squeeze as she did.

“Voight filled us in mostly, we’re going to take you straight home now, someone’ll pick your stuff up from 51,” Kev explained, looking at you sympathetically. 

“And don’t worry, we’ll be outside all night keeping an eye on you,” Adam patted you on the shoulder and gestured for you to follow them to the car, your mind still racing as your body started to move in their direction. 

You figured by everything, well, that’s exactly what they meant. Voight may have been secretive, but he’d never miss out information if it put the unit or anyone else in danger. And right now the person in danger was you, and so in order to keep you safe, they needed to know the whole story.

The drive was mostly quiet, save for Adam and Kev attempting to start conversations with you, but your mind kept going back to the bodies, and your argument with Hank at the firehouse.

“It’s going to be okay Y/N,” Adam tried to reassure you as you reached your house, two uniforms going in to do a sweep before they let you enter.

“I should have just left it alone,” you replied, heading into the front room and sitting down on the couch, head in hands.

“This isn’t on you, this is on Strauss, and we’re going to catch him,” Kev told you.

“And how many more people is he going to kill first?” You asked, exhausted from the stress of today even though your mind was doing everything but shut off. “I just- I think I just need some sleep.”

“Okay, we’ll let you get some rest, let us know if you need anything, we’ll be just outside,” Adam reminded you, looking like he wanted to say more but not knowing where to start. He’d be blaming himself too, and he knew it.

It was getting pretty late, so you figured you’d try and eat something and then get some sleep, but by the time you’d struggled to get some pasta down and gotten ready for bed, you’d just ended up lying there, mind racing, unable to do anything but think about what had happened. Your eyes were so tired you could hardly keep them open, but your mind hadn’t gotten the memo.

Was this on you? Would those people still have been alive right now? You tossed and turned until your sheets were too tangled for you to move properly and then threw them off. Did they really think you were going to be a target? This was ridiculous, you should have left well enough alone, trusted Hank to have plan like he always seemed to, and none of this would be happening. Strauss would be behind bars... You didn’t care if they’d had gang ties or not, people were people, and no one deserved to die like that.

With a large sigh you got out of bed and looked at your phone, texts from your friends checking in and asking what the hell was going on, but nothing from Hank. You didn’t know why, you were probably the last person he wanted to see, but you really needed him right now. Getting dressed again you thought about how much you just needed someone to talk to, and as much as the others probably wouldn’t believe it, Hank was actually pretty easy to talk to once you got to know him. 

So you grabbed your shoes and coat and headed out the house, Adam rolling down his window when he saw you approaching.

“Everything okay?” He asked, looking up and down the street to make sure it was clear.

“Yeah... I just-” You stumbled.

“Can’t sleep?” Kev asked and you nodded, crossing your arms over yourself to try and stop the chill.

“You mind er...” You clicked your tongue and thought about how you could ask them this. They knew, but it was different saying it out loud. Adam looked at you expectantly, waiting for you to continue. “Couldn’t drive me to Voight’s could you?” You got out and they both shared a look as Kev shrugged.

“Guess it’s not like you wouldn’t be safe,” he said, gesturing for you to get in the back, which you did with thanks.

“You sure?” Adam double checked as you buckled in.

“Yeah... yeah I’m sure,” you told them and they shared another look. You guessed they probably still didn’t know quite what to say about the two of you, and you didn’t blame them, 51 had certainly been shocked and they hadn’t found out with the added layer of a murder investigation. But they took you anyway, probably realising that Hank Voight’s house was actually the safest place you could be. So they drove you there, glancing in the mirror every now and then to check if you were alright.

“Do you... need us to wait outside?” Kev asked carefully as you pulled up outside Hank’s. It felt strange not having to sneak around to get there anymore, but it also felt slightly freeing that it was all out in the open, despite the circumstances.

You shook your head and got out, “I’ll be alright, see you guys tomorrow, thanks for the lift,” you replied and they said goodnight, waiting as you headed up the path to the door and knocked. 

Hank didn’t look too surprised to see you, but he did cast a conscious glance behind you to where you heard Kev and Adam start to drive off. “Sorry, I know it’s late,” you apologised, realising that this may have been a bad idea.

“It’s okay, come on in,” he said, standing aside so you could enter. You put your coat where you always did and turned back to face Hank as he continued, “are you alright?”

“Not really,” you told him honestly, “can’t really sleep, I guess I just keep going over what happened-” 

“It’s not on you, Y/N,” Hank tried, putting his hands on your shoulders, “you didn’t make Strauss kill those people.”

“He wouldn’t have had the chance if I’d have just-” Your voice broke a little, the guilt feeling too overwhelming for you to finish that sentence. Hank pulled you in for a hug and you buried your head in his shoulder.

“You’ve got a good heart Y/N, it’s what I’ve always loved about you, you always try to do the right thing,” he stroked your hair to comfort you, stepping back quickly after a few seconds, as if only just remembering that he shouldn’t be getting that close to you anymore.

“Hank-” you started but he cleared his throat, putting a boundary between the two of you as he led you into the front room to sit down.

“His place was empty when we raided it Y/N, and his bank account had been cleared days before you called your friend,” Hank explained, cautiously putting his hand on yours as he spoke. “This isn’t on you.” You let the words sink in, knowing Hank wouldn’t lie to you about something like this, even to make you feel better.

“What do I do now?” You asked quietly, giving in and leaning your head on Hank’s shoulder. He tensed a little but didn’t pull away again, missing you as much as you missed him.

“Keep moving forward, we’ll catch this guy Y/N,” he answered after some silence. “You can stay here if you want? I can... make up the spare room.” 

“Thank you,” you said, feeling a little better, and safer, already. 

“We can talk more in the morning,” you lifted up your head to look at him, so many things left unsaid written all over his usually unreadable face as he spoke, not really wanting you to sleep apart but knowing it was for the best. 

“Okay,” was all you said, wanting to say more too, not wanting him to let go of your hand as he slipped away upstairs to make you a bed, and certain not knowing what the morning would bring.

[specterchasing-a]

Brainberry Picking || Morgan & Eddie

TIMING: Current-ish

LOCATION: Jericho Hill Cemetery

PARTIES: @mor-beck-more-problems​ & @specterchasing​

SUMMARY: A zombie and a medium meet in a graveyard, one of them might have a foot fetish.

CONTENT: Aside from the foot fetish, all is well.

“I just don’t see how you can have a whole existence that relies on human systems and communities--well people systems and communities and not give a crap just because you’ve been doing it for a long time,” Morgan complained, swilling her chopsticks around her brains and rice. “Aren’t we responsible for each other even if we’re three hundred and some baby normie is twenty? How can apathy be a good thing?” 

It was her off day from work, and rather than worry her family by spending the day cooped up inside, she opted to spend as much time outside as possible, even if being in hunting range made her nervous. But Jericho Hill was more ghostly than anything else, and the trusted the soldier to signal if he saw anything dangerous looking, even if he did talk a big game about being specater in the game of humanity, and the effects of longevity. He’d saved her and Erin. He had more of a heart than he wanted to admit, even for a centuries-old kid.

The colonial soldier shrugged and said that she should wait and see until she was older. 

“Okay, teen grandpa,” Morgan deadpanned.

The colonial soldier changed the subject by way of nodding toward her foot. Did she require assistance or was she really just that bad at noticing grievous injuries?

Morgan looked down at the chunks of broken bottle protruding from her toes. “Fucking--” She hissed and propped up her foot, starting to yank out the pieces one by one and wipe the black blood on her skirt so there wouldn’t be anything for hunters to find when they prowled at night. Her wounds would close up soon enough. As much as she wanted to sport as much extra strength as possible, she hadn’t figured out how to negotiate her fear of being caught off guard by some junior college murderer and the fear of not being herself. 

In the distance, stone scattered across the tall grass. Morgan stopped, mid tug, and looked around. “Hello?”

Jericho Hill, one of Eddie’s most beloved places to visit. The other cemeteries in town had their charm, but meandering among the derelict headstones of White Crest’s oldest burial ground came second to none. As per usual, he arrived with a camera—just in case. 

Eddie minded the graves as he wandered, making sure not to intrude on anyone’s final resting place. Midway through the graveyard, he spotted two figures with their backs to him in the midst of conversation. Considering Jericho Hill was open to the public, that would’ve been a perfectly ordinary occurrence, except one of the figures happened to be a colonial soldier far beyond his expiration date. Eddie’s heart skipped a beat at the possibility of encountering another medium but, as he grew closer, he noticed the potential medium doing something with her foot.

Raising his camera, Eddie slowed his pace and zoomed in on the woman’s feet for a better look. “Oh, what the fu—” He stumbled over a semi-interred rock, nearly losing his balance and dislodging the rock in one fell swoop.

“Hello?” said the woman. 

Eddie froze in place as if staying perfectly still made him invisible. Realizing she likely had very little in common with Spielbergian dinosaurs, he cleared his throat and waved sheepishly. “Beautiful day, huh? Hey—is your foot okay?”

Morgan stiffened at the sound of a voice nearby. She ran a dozen or so scenarios Mina had drilled into her. She was better at defense on account of nine more months of practice, but that didn’t mean she relished the thought of having to throw anyone to the ground or break any bones. 

But it was just some kid, looking like a peeping tom who’d been found out. 

“Is it a beautiful day?” She challenged. “Because being spied on doesn’t usually fall under my ‘beautiful day’ umbrella.” At the mention of her foot, she put hers back down and yanked as many pieces out under the cover of the grass as she could. “I’m fine. Why are you looking at my feet in the first place?”

“Hold on, don’t do that,” Eddie said with a shake of his head. “Don’t make me sound like some kind of graveyard-foot-pervert. Look at it.” He gestured towards the foot in question. “That’s not natural and neither is talking to ghosts—hey, by the way, nice to see you again, Terry.” The second half of his statement was directed at the colonial soldier and paired with another short wave.

“Hi, Eddie,” the ghost responded.

 “Y���know, I was just excited to meet someone else who could see them, but the whole black goo thing kind of threw me off my game.” Eddie’s attention reverted back to the woman currently picking at her foot. “Also, who eats in cemeteries? I’m just saying, let he who is not being super weird in public cast the first stone.”

Morgan didn’t know what to process first, having her injuries spotted by a Gen-Z wunderkind with a camera, the “not natural” thing, him seeing the ghost, or-- 

“Terry? Really? You tell him your name, but not me?” Morgan reached over and elbowed the soldier through his arm.

“A man has to keep some mystery with a pretty lady,” he replied, smirking through the gash in his face.

 “Now you’re just trying to clean it up. Did you see him coming too?” She turned back to the kid, Eddie apparently, and  tucked her feet under her skirt. “Whatever you are, you aren’t the only kind of person who can make friends with ghosts,” she said, miffed but starting to deflate. He had said he was excited. Excited people usually didn’t try to lop off your head. “And for your information, cemetery picnics have been a time honored tradition for centuries. The Victorians designed some of their cemeteries to be enjoyed like parks. And there’s a lot less---” Kids. Couples picnicking. Burger wrappers and empty slushie cups. Life. “Crowds, in a cemetery. I like the quiet. And the company. Sometimes.” She side-eyed Terry, who clutched his chest like he was wounded.

The conversation unfolding before Eddie left him feeling like a child seeing their parents get into an argument. He casually averted his gaze in an attempt to give them some semblance of privacy while they worked through their dispute. Before he knew it, the irate woman’s attention was back on him and he found himself wishing their argument would have gone on longer.

“That’s… actually very cool,” Eddie admitted, his brows raising in approval. “But, um, circling back to what you said about seeing ghosts—I’m a medium, I thought we were only ones with that specific privilege.” He couldn’t help feeling inadequate as he confessed his ignorance. Eddie dedicated his life to knowing about the supernatural, but he barely knew anything for certain. “Who else made the cut? Obviously, you don’t have to, like, tell me what you are, or anything. Not unless you want to, which would be stellar, but… I feel like I should know that kind of thing.”

 “Medium, huh?” Morgan said, sizing the kid up again. “I’ve met a few of you. Exorcists, mostly, but still. But, since you asked so nicely, all of the undead I’m aware of and some fae can see and hear ghosts. It seems to be a proximity to death sort of thing, but I don’t know how the metaphysics works.” She set her lunch aside and dropped her hand under her foot to finish picking out the glass, away from view. She was mostly sure he didn’t actually have some voyeuristic foot fetish, but that didn’t do much for her self-consciousness. It was one thing to patch herself up at home, or with dead people who didn’t care, but with strangers, she felt the wrongness of her body. It wasn’t neutral, it was batshit. “You must be some kind of death enthusiast too, though. Coming out here by yourself in the middle of the day? It’s not exactly the nicest cemetery in town. I hardly see anyone alive out here on my visits. Shouldn’t you be hustling or studying or having fun somewhere?”

Eddie’s eyes glistened with rabid enthusiasm at the mention of the undead and fae. He’d only recently learned about the existence of zombies, and his fae-knowledge severely lacked depth. And here this woman was, sounding like she knew a great deal about both.

“Hustling?” he repeated the word with bashful incredulity. “I mean, this is fun for me. Not to sound edgy, but I love the dead. The living are cool too, but… they’ve never felt like home, y’know? All my life, I’ve been surrounded by dead people that either needed my help, or who helped me. I like spending as much time with them as I can.” He tried not to watch as she covertly plucked at her foot. Curious as he was, he could do without further insinuation that he harbored some sort of affinity for feet. “Is that how you are?”

With the last of the glass picked out, Morgan went still and regarded Eddie more carefully. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d met a human who spoke so affectionately about the dead, and she wasn’t sure whether to be thrilled or concerned. “You talk about the living like you aren’t one of them,” she said. “I don’t meet too many humans that apathetic about who they are. But your ghosts--they were good to you? You weren’t ever scared?” But one revelation deserved a little something in return, and anyone that fond of the dead probably wouldn’t sell her out. Morgan pursed her lips as she thought her answer over. “I am recently un-humaned, yes,” she said. “A little over a year now. You could say making friends with death saved my un-life, but I had lots of other help too. Living-people-help.”

The stranger had a point—Eddie never felt like he belonged among the living—but never had the dissonance he felt been stated so bluntly. “I guess, yeah. The living are assholes, for the most part.” There were, of course, exceptions to that rule, but they were few and far between. “Most have been good to me, except…” Eddie shook his head gently. “They’re individuals too, can’t expect them to all be winners.” As she admitted to being undead, he looked at her with enraptured awe. “That’s… wow. I mean, first of all, I’m sorry for your loss. You’ve probably got a handle on things by now, but I’m sure that’s a pretty wild transition. And, I’m glad you had people to help you adjust, support systems are so important.” Eddie took a moment to center himself. “What’s the, uh, preferred terminology for your… condition? Also, wow, I should probably ask your name, huh? Like Terry said, I’m Eddie. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He bowed his head slightly to punctuate his sentence.

“The living are individuals too, Eddie,” Morgan said. “And if you didn’t know about undead and fae seeing ghosts, I’m guessing you haven’t met many of the other living species of people out there. It doesn’t seem like a good idea to dismiss all of them out of hand. Or especially kind. Your ghosts were living once too, you know.” But Eddie’s vagueness piqued a troubling sense of familiarity in Morgan. Children didn’t tend to rely on ghosts if they had live people to take good care of them. “Those must have been some pretty shitty assholes to make you give up on everyone alive, human or not. I’m sorry for that, Eddie. Whatever happened to you, whoever was that cruel--I know how it can feel safer to just pull away and not risk yourself again, when you’ve suffered enough in a certain way. And I’m sorry.” She sighed and held out her hand to the kid, smiling sadly for both of them. “I’m Morgan Beck. You can refer to my ‘condition’ as zombie. But that’s classified. I don’t really enjoy having to fight for my existence. Not that a slayer won’t already know what I am on sight, but I’d rather they not get any extra help you know?” Her smile curled bitterly and she turned her eyes to the rest of the cemetery. “Are you really out here because it’s fun, Eddie…?” She asked quietly. “Or is it something else, too?”

When Eddie set out for Jericho Hill earlier in the day, he hadn’t expected a lecture. “Death changes a person,” he said softly after she reminded him that ghosts weren’t always memories. It didn’t take him long to realize the issue with his statement. “Preacher, choir.” He gestured first to himself, then Morgan as he assigned the labels. “You probably have a point.”

Eddie found himself nodding along with her condemnation of ‘shitty assholes’ initially, but he stilled when he heard her apology. His expression fell into unsure neutrality; he didn’t know how to respond. Strangers weren’t usually that kind, and they never read him like a book. It took him a moment to register her outstretched hand before he grasped it with his.

“Pleasure to meet you, Morgan Beck,” Eddie said, mirroring her sad smile. “Your secret’s safe with me. People like you shouldn’t be hunted, anyway.” Her question took some mulling over. Eddie didn’t particularly like being open and honest on that front. “Well, I mean, it is fun, but…” He trailed off with a sigh before shrugging. “Actually, that’s kind of bullshit. I can’t remember the last time I had fun—maybe with Bex or Alfie, but that’s different. Having fun with friends is easy but, when I’m alone…” Eddie shook his head and let out a terse sigh. “Are you, like, a psychiatrist or something? Analyzing brains by day, eating them by night.”

“What? Death changes you? No kidding,” Morgan deadpanned. “You can consider me an expert on both sides of the curtain,” she added more kindly. “Thank you. For your...Human-Plus allyship?” She wasn’t sure what to call it. She confided in so few humans these days. She had enough on her plate with her family as it was. 

She kept looking at Eddie, his battered hollowness and his resilient vitality. There was more than one way to be alive and dead, she supposed. “I’m an adjunct professor in the English department at the university,” she said. “But I spent my alive-time on earth literally cursed with suffering, and consequently spent a lot of time desperately wanting to get to know people and being afraid of getting too close, in case they got sucked into my magic bullshit. So I’m good at noticing things and I understand a lot. Like that feeling where you can be mostly okay when you’re with people, especially the ones you care about, but when it’s just you that feeling you’re running from is still there and it settles in. But we don’t have to talk about that, if it makes you uncomfortable. Also, I resent the suggestion that I eat people. I’m actually trying to hurt as few people as possible right now for reasons that have nothing to do with my appetite, which I monitor and manage very carefully. So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do that again. You can tell me about how you know Bex, if you really want a change of subject.” Beaming at Eddie, she brought up her knees and let her head fall to rest on them and settled in. She’d given him a lot, but if he was friends with Bex, it was probably best he got used to the ride.

Eddie deserved her snark, even he could admit that. Despite his theorizing, fantasizing, and romanticizing—he didn’t know what it meant to be dead. Against better judgement, he envied Morgan and the way she straddled the line between life and death. It sounded ideal, at least on paper. “I strive to be a friend of the dead,” he said with a mild shrug. “Clearly, that doesn’t absolve me of insensitivity though, sorry about that.”

As she caught him up to speed on the source of her empathy, he listened with enraptured fascination. Eddie didn’t know the first thing about curses, but he liked to think he understood the loneliness she alluded to. “Sounds like you got saddled with a spectator role, that sucks. Most people aren’t built for that.” He hoped he wasn’t projecting, but he wouldn’t be surprised if that turned out to be the case.

“Shit—thanks for correcting me. I shouldn’t have made an assumption like that,” he admitted timidly when she kindly scolded him for his comment about brain-eating. His face lit up at the mention of Bex. “You know ‘er?” he asked, taking a seat in front of Morgan. Knowing she was familiar with someone like Bex instantly eased whatever lingering uncertainty he still felt. “We met pretty recently, I guess, but she’s the kind of person I feel like I’ve known a lot longer than I actually have, y’know?” 

Eddie wondered how much information was safe to bring-up, ultimately deciding to play it safe. “It was after… well, she’d just gone through something pretty awful, and I think I made things a little harder on her. Not on purpose, of course, I didn’t know, but… she was really kind to me, anyway. I think that goes to show how special she is.” He neglected to mention the magical mishap; maybe Morgan didn’t know that side of Bex. “How do you know her? If that’s alright to ask, I mean.”

“You weren’t built to be a spectator in your life either, Eddie,” Morgan said. “No one is. We are here to learn, to connect, to experience. What’s the point of being stuck in a body if not to feel? What’s the point of being surrounded by so much mess and beauty if not to learn as much as you can from it? It’s cruel to take it for granted. And it’s cruel to hurt someone in a way that they cut themself off from anything good they might find in their tiny little existence.” 

She fingered the tall, young grass as she spoke. She could never settle on a memory to give its strange, invisible touch more substance. When she was a child in Houston and her mother would send her into the yard to practice her alchemy, the grass was thick and sharp. It prickled her feet so badly she’d check her heels to see if they had cut her. They never did. So maybe the grass was like dull needles, or like tiptoeing around the rules, since she would often do her exercises slowly or skip steps on purpose so she could do them over again and make her time out last longer. Long enough to see the stars appear, but before the mosquitoes ate her up.

“But yes, I was really bad at keeping my distance,” she went on. “Which made for a lot of good experiences and a lot of hurt. Honestly, I wish I’d taken more risks, made more kinds of alive-memories to hold onto.”

She couldn’t help but beam at hearing the boy talk about Bex. Nothing he said was news to her, but it was nice to see her kindness reflected in someone else’s eyes. “Bex is staying with me right now. Has been for a while. Well, me and my girlfriend. We care for her as if she was ours, as best as we know how, anyway. So I know,” she grinned. “You’re not breaking supernatural club rules if you want to talk about her.”

Eddie wanted to agree with Morgan, to say that life was something precious and cherishable, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie. Death looked a lot more appealing to him whether or not he made a triumphant return as something a little less human. “Cruel or not, people do it anyway,” he said with a shrug. “I’m coping with it the only way I know how.” Granted, his coping looked a lot more like sabotaging. 

Eddie didn’t think much of the grass, it was just grass; everywhere and unextraordinary. All it had to offer him were stains, the thought of which made him shift uncomfortably. He felt that way about a lot of everyday life’s mundanities. They didn’t exist unless they caused a problem. Morgan had a point when she warned him against taking things for granted, but Eddie didn’t realize it. How could he?

“I bet that’s weird,” he said. “Everything changing, but also not. I don’t know much about zombies, obviously, but I know coming back is rough for a lot of ghosts. I’d tell you that there’s still time to take those risks, but I get the sense you didn’t come to Jericho Hill looking for silver linings. At least, not ones given to you by some random guy with a foot fetish.” He ended on a joke in the hopes that it might lighten the mood, praying she didn’t think he was serious.

A sigh of relief passed Eddie’s lips. “Beamed a heaping helping of trauma right into my head,” he explained. “She didn’t mean to, of course, and I’m not exactly mad about it, anyway. Knowing her is worth a little muss and fuss. That said, I learned my lesson. No more alleyways for Bex.”

“Eddie, and I mean this kindly, with the kind of empathy that comes from experience--” Morgan prefaced her words softly, giving Eddie a look that pitied and understood too well. “Putting all your attention on other people’s problems so you don’t have to look at your own doesn’t make them go away, or get smaller. A lot of the time it just makes them grow heavier and sink their roots deeper into you.” 

She reached out and gently flicked some of his long hair out of his eyes. “Worrying about me isn’t coping. What’s so bad about turning all this nice attention on yourself? I know people haven’t been kind, but whatever they said or did, they weren’t right about you. You deserve kindness. And love. Being here is hard enough without being cruel to yourself too. But--” She grinned wryly. “You didn’t come to Jericho Hill for a pep talk from a walking dead lady.” 

She picked up her Pyrex and ate the last bit of lunch and dusted herself off. “I’m going to go home and prep some raccoon bones for my next art project, if you want to come. Bex has some really great pieces she’s made too. But we know each other now, so I hope you won’t try and disappear just because I know what song you’re playing.”

Eddie listened as Morgan spoke. Meanwhile, his stomach twisted into anxious knots. He didn’t want to hear that putting others first wasn’t the answer. Tackling his problems head-on hurt too much, especially considering he rarely had help. “Yeah, so I’ve noticed.” His gaze fell to the ground. Eddie couldn’t bring himself to say more, it might inspire her to confront him with even more difficult truths. It was nice feeling like she cared, he didn’t expect that from someone he just met, but it was also heavy. 

Eddie let out a soft huff of laughter when she flicked a strand of his hair. Such a simple gesture, but the familiarity of it inspired a gush of affection. “Maybe not, but I’m glad that didn’t stop her from giving it to me anyway.”

“Are you kidding?” Eddie asked in disbelief, rising to his feet. “You’re a bone-art making, pep talk giving zombie with a weirdly comforting southern accent. Good luck getting rid of me, you’ll need it.”

[trilies]

an argument for AO3

So I’m in a conversation with someone who is kind of in the “against AO3″ camp, and they asked me a couple of questions. Namely, who wouldn’t be uncomfortable with pedophilia? Isn’t it sketchy that a beta website is asking for so much money despite reaching its goals?

And my answer became so long... I figured it might as well become its own post. Please bear in mind that this is cut from a whole conversation.

But here it is.

------

No. It doesn't seem sketchy to me at all. Why would it? I know we make jokes about how much money tumblr has cost the various sites which purchase it like Yahoo, but there's some truth there: it's really expensive to host a website to thousands and thousands of people. It's why we see so many tumblr owners trying to shoehorn in ads or make people buy services, or why Photobucket tried to pull that truly atrocious bullshit a year or two back. Without image hosting capabilities (tumblr and photobucket's big thing), the strain isn't as huge.... but AO3 is MASSIVE. It is hosting literally thousands of accounts, millions of stories. That's massive on a server scale alone, ignoring all the other work they do. Yeah, it's in beta... but that's because it's trying to reach a goal of being as good a fanfic archive as they can be, and they don't believe they've reached that goal yet. Being in beta means they can better listen to their uses on shit like tagging systems and make those changes. Not to mention, again, they are INCREDIBLY transparent. If you are worried about where the money is going, you can go on the site and they have all their stuff up there.

As for the pedophilia subject matter.... Please give me a moment. because there's honestly a lot to say on that particular issue, if nothing else. This will take a while, so if you see this and there hasn't been a reply yet.... I'm still typing lmao.

To start with, of course people are uncomfortable about pedophilia. However, there are a lot of problems with how pedophilia is viewed or *used* as an accusation in the current fandom climate.

For example, in honestly EXTREMELY recent times, I was told I was "defending" pedophilia because I disagreed that a character (an immortal food gijinka) was "minor-coded" or "designed as an underage teenager". (As a note, an argument for this view was that the character's breasts were too small.) When I pointed out, hey, that's kind of a fucked up accusation to throw at a complete stranger, especially as I am a CSA survivor, I was told "You have to be lying about that, then, because a real CSA survivor would understand."

c o o l

That's just my personal experience that happened within a couple of months. Other people have talked about running into people who think that a character turning 18 means they're a pedophile for still dating a 17 year old. Or running into people who think a 40 year old dating someone in their 30s is pedophilic. Or believe that even SHIPPING characters who were not yet 18 was pedophilic if you yourself were over 18.

(Of course, you also have the kinds of people who try to use Moral Purity as a way to bash ships they don't like. I once saw someone try to claim that a popular mlm ship, A/B, was pedophilic because one half of the equation looked young.... when some other artists drew him... Of course, on the side, this person liked to also get angry that *their* favorite ship, a dude/chick ship composing of A/C, wasn't more popular. So. You know.)

So that's one half of the problem: the word "pedophile" being so warped that a lot of people now have no idea if the person using it has a genuine concern or if the accuser is trying to smear someone who doesn't ship the same thing. FFnet and Tumblr have gone with the "burn it all down" approach, which hasn't actually helped anyone and is, to boot, sloppily moderated. So we know from history, from experience in cases like mine, that it doesn't help in that area.

The other half of the problem is... How far is too far?

This is where "anti" culture begins to find similarities with the whole Warriors for Innocence thing. If you completely and blindly block an entire tag, or anyone associated with it, you have to ask: who are you hurting? Warriors for Innocence hurt actual rape victim, and queer folk, and a whole lot of others. Far as I can tell, anti culture is on the route to the same thing, because I have yet to see appropriate answers to a lot of issues.

If one says "anything with underage sex in it is bad and should be banned", what about fics that tackle it in a serious manner? The young adult novel "Speak" deals with rape of an underage girl and how she works through that mental trauma; are fics with stories equivalent to that allowed? Do fics with underage sex have to focus purely on how it is Horrible And Bad to be allowed? Does only a chapter have to be allowed? A paragraph? An author's note? A tag? Or are we allowed to never explore dark subject matter?

Is fic with underage content in it only horrible if it's someone over the age of eighteen who writes it? Can a teenager write smut (terribly written as it may likely be) between teenage characters? Can a teenager write smut between a teenage character and an adult character? For the record, i did in fact, over the summer, run into someone who said that teens/minors "shouldn't even know about NSFW", which is asinine to me, because Abstinence Only is a terrible thing to put in schools, and somehow worse in a way when you try to put that into effect in fandom. If the answer is 'yes', what are you going to do, demand to see people's birth certificates in fandom?

(As a note, I think this is a terrible message to put into fandom for teenagers because I believe it will inevitably lead to self hatred and a warped view of sex. If you make the extremely simplified black-and-white statement of "teens and sex should never go together ever in any way", that's going to mess up teens who are starting to experience arousal in their bodies. The message, whether intended or not, ends up as "NSFW things are bad, which means my brain which thought NSFW thoughts is bad, and my brain thought those thoughts because my body had these feelings". )

(This is bad for any average teenager. This will be especially worse to CSA and rape victims, along with queer youth who, in a lot of places, are still struggling with their bodies and/or feelings because the world is still pretty damn queerphobic.)

Speaking of CSA and rape victims, what about those of them who write/read underage ships or dark content as a way to cope with what happened or Just Because? That's a thing lots of us do, especially those of us who don't look like the Perfect Victims people can use as an excuse for whatever crusade they're waging. I've heard anti types go "Well, it's an unhealthy way to cope" or claims that CSA/rape victims who write such dark content are "just as bad as their abusers"... But are they psychiatrists/therapists? Are they the psychiatrists/therapists of *those specific people*? Will you moderate this kind of content by forcefully interrogating CSA/rape victims to out their trauma to a complete stranger? Will you demand to speak to their therapists? Over fanfic?

When I was a teenager, I wrote all sorts of stuff. I wrote dark dub-con fic, because I liked to explore those dark feelings in the process and the aftermath separate from myself. I wrote a fic with a fairly young teenage girl (what age was kh2 kairi? who even knows, I sure didn't) falling for a MUCH older man built like a brick shit house so that there was never any doubt to him being an adult, even giving him her first kiss, because they were my favorite characters, I wanted both of them to have a moment of happiness (that i promptly ruined but hey), and, *in this fic*, I knew it would be alright. I knew the girl would always be in control, she'd be the one making moves, that the guy was nonthreatening and kind and protect her and work alongside her.

(and then I began the process of killing him off in the next paragraph through him saving her life, but, like. Drama (tm), baby)

This was all good for me. At an age where I was young, vulnerable, and figuring out weird shit like arousal and romantic feelings, it was *invaluable* to have a space where I could explore all of that while relatively safe from actual danger, even if the stuff I wanted to explore was a little messed up. This whole thing against AO3 wouldn't have helped me, and I'm pretty sure it's not helping a lot of other people too.

There is an issue with underage people and sex stuff- not just in fandom but in culture at large. We have Hollywood dressing up young girl actresses in super slinky or revealing clothes. We have schools saying girls basically should never wear shorts, and capitalism fucking this up further by only selling SUPER SHORT shorters. We have media of all sorts giving us adults, whether in real actors or character design, in the roles of young people. (See: "how do you do, fellow kids") We should probably take more care about fandom spaces, so that people of all ages don't feel pressured to engage in sexual shit they're not 100% game for or into, or just have it shoved into their faces without consent. It's a complex issue... and it's not stuff that can just be 'banned' and have that fix it.

AO3 has on its plate a very complex problem that will, if we're all honest, never have a perfect answer. It has given us the best that can possibly be asked for. It obeys the law by not having actual child pornography on it (aka visual proof of actual real children, defined by us law as such), which is closest to "objective" we can get at the current stage in humanity and state of fandom. It has a very comprehensive and moderated tag system, so that people can post warnings along their fic so that people don't stumble onto shit they don't need to, and so that people can moderate their own reading experience to some degree.

If some people aren't comfortable with AO3, that's fine. However, most of us are getting annoyed not with those people, but with the people who just blindly say "AO3 supports child porn and is probably stealing money" (statement simplified for the purpose of this post). It shows an ignorance of the fandom history that lead us here, no understanding in either AO3's practices or how expensive it is to run a site, and no consideration for how complex this problem can really be. It would be great if this was a black and white issue, if there was an easy answer as just "banning" certain kinds of content... but there isn't. And that's where I am.

[writingblock101]

Roof Tops (Duke Thomas x Reader)

Request for Anon: “If we get caught, you can’t speak English, and I’m deaf!” with Duke

Based off actually rooftops I’ve gone on. Trespass carefully kiddos. 

Word count: 1,600

Tags: @idkmanicantenglish @mayahoelland2013 @incrediblysadstudent (hello discord friend, welcome to my account)

“Come on, babe,” Duke begs. “It’ll be fun!” 

“I don’t know, Duke…” You trail off. “What if we get caught?” 

“If we get caught, you can’t speak English and I’m deaf,” Duke insists, very sold on his foolproof plan. 

You can’t help but chuckle at his plan. 

“What if we get caught by someone more dangerous than the cops?” You propose. 

“Good thing you’ll have Signal there to protect you,” He grins, puffing his chest. “I’ve done this a lot before, I know all the good spots.” 

You frown again, skimming through all the possibilities. Roofing sounds really cool and you would love to see Gotham at night from some rooftops, but you’re afraid of getting caught. It would constitute as trespassing and your parents would kill you if you got arrested. 

“Please,” He begs, looking eager. “I promise I’ll keep you safe.” 

You sigh, barely able to say no to his excitement. 

“Okay, fine. Let’s go roofing.” 

“Yes!” Duke cheers, giving you a quick kiss. “Trust me, you’re going to love it. We’ll leave at 11. Wear something dark.” 

“11?” You question, looking down at your phone. “It’s not even 6 o’clock yet!” 

“We’ve gotta wait until everything closes,” Duke points out. “Also, I may or may not be luring you into a dinner at the Manor,” He ends with a hopeful grin. 

You sigh, rolling your eyes. While you like your boyfriend’s dysfunctional family, sometimes dinners get a little out of hand. 

“Come on, I need someone to back me up in mediating arguments between Damian and Tim,” Duke pouts. “I don’t have Dick or Cass there to help and Jason just adds fuel to the fire.” 

“Alright, fine,” You chuckle. “Is Bruce going to care about us trespassing?” 

Duke snorts. 

“That would be very hypocritical of him, but no. He’ll have much more pressing matters to deal with than my hobbies than don’t include actively picking fights with criminals.” 

You chuckle and kiss Duke’s cheek. 

“Look at you, the new golden child.” 

“No!” He protests. “Do not curse me with that! I do not need this family’s daddy issues!” 

You toss your head back, laughing. 

“Oh, come on, they’re not that bad.” 

“Jason came back from the dead and started killing criminals to spite Bruce. Are you serious?” 

“Well, at least that means you’re probably not going to do anything worse.” 

“Worse?” Duke laughs sputteringly. “What do you think I’m going to do?!” 

You grin, leaning back against his chest. 

“Dunno, babe. You’re the genius. I’m sure you’ll figure out something to wow me.” 

“Or just go on to become the lamest super villain ever,” Duke rolls his eyes. “How did I end up here? My tragic backstory? No, I was challenged into one uping my brother’s rebellion.”

“Well, you’re not going to sell shit with that attitude!” You protest. 

Duke laughs wrapping his arms around you. 

“You’re right, how could I be so pessimistic?” He remarks dryly then stands up, pulling you to your feet. “Come on, let’s go see what Alfred is making.” 

. . . 

“This feels so sketchy,” You admit, sitting in Duke’s car now dressed in all black. 

He chuckles, pulling around the back of an empty shopping center. 

“This is honestly kind of how I feel when I go on patrol,” He admits. “Just chilling on a rooftop, waiting for trouble to happen.” 

Duke parks next to a dumpster then you both climb out of the car, you eyeing the tall building. 

“Are you sure we won’t be seen?” You ask hesitantly. 

“There aren’t any security cameras back here,” Duke reassures you. “Also, the shopping center has been closed for two hours now, they leave the main ladder to the roof unlocked, and the restaurant across the street is closed for renovations,” He walks over to where the ladder is guarded by a cage, easily unlatches it, and swings it open. “You coming?” 

You grin, and start climbing up the ladder, Duke following close behind. Once reaching the top, you swing your leg over the ledge, looking out across the various air conditioning units. 

“Come on,” Duke takes your hand. “We’ve got a little more climbing to do.” 

He leads you over to where another building starts and gives you a boost up. He easily pulls himself over the ledge then takes you to a steeply slanted concrete wall. 

“This is where the sign is,” Duke explains. “I’ve found if you run up the wall and grab the ledge, you can pull yourself up.” 

He demonstrates, making it look way too easy. 

“You got this!” He cheers from his spot on top of the sign. 

You take a breath, wiping your hands on your pants then scramble up the wall, managing to catch the ledge. Using your feet to push you up, you pull yourself up on top of the sigh and sit next to Duke, your feet dangling off the edge of the building. 

There’s something peaceful about looking into the empty parking lot at night. It’s lightly misting out, giving everything a slight haze. You admire the city lights and enjoy the peace of the nighttime. Duke pulls an arm over your shoulder as you both sit quietly. 

“You know,” You say after a while. “From up here, you’d never think this city was crazy enough to need a small army of vigilantes to keep it functioning.” 

Duke laughs then stands up, holding his hand out to you. 

“I’ve got one more spot I want to take you.”

He guides you back down to the car and drives to another area you haven’t been before. 

“Electric Cowboy?” You read off an old sign. 

“It was a club,” Duke explains. “It closed a while ago and now it’s abandoned. I want to try to get on the roof.” 

“Is it open?” You ask, noticing the padlocked front doors. 

“It is around back,” Duke slowly drives behind the old building, pointing to multiple open doors. 

“Then doesn’t that mean someone has been in there?” You raise an eyebrow. “Someone might be living in there.” 

“I’ve walked around inside a little bit. No one is living there, but it looks like some people got drunk and threw around some bar stools and stuff,” Duke explains, unclipping his seat belt. “Don’t worry,” He tells you. “I’ll keep you safe.” 

Even though it sounds a little sketchy, you can’t help but be excited as the prospect of what could be inside the abandoned building. 

“Alright,” You agree, hopping out of the car. 

You and Duke turn on the flashlights on your phones and slowly approach an iron staircase. You glance in a nearby trashcan, noticing fast-food wrappers, but they seem to have been there for a few days, hopefully, a promising sign that nobody has taken shelter in the abandoned club. The staircase seems mostly steady, just a bit rusted. 

Duke pushes the door open more with his foot and shines his flashlight inside. 

“Why do I feel like the first person that dies in a horror movie?” You ask. 

Duke shoots a grin over his shoulder. 

“We’re going to be fine. Besides, I have more than enough experience to survive a horror movie.” 

He walks inside, you following slowly behind him, shining your flashlight into every possible nook and cranny. Inside, the carpeted floors are covered in a thick layer of dust. All the tables, chairs, and bar stools are gone, perhaps already sold. The club clearly followed the western theme with a large mirror on one side, salon-style doors, and curved frames on the walls. 

It’s strange to see a club completely empty, but you will admit, it’s pretty cool. 

“I think I see an office over there,” Duke nudges your shoulder. 

You follow Duke to the side room. Duke is right-- it looks like it may have once been an office with an old desk settled in the middle of the room. There’s a bar stool deeply embedded in the sheet rock. 

“I’m guessing this is what you meant by people throwing stuff around?” You ask, pointing at the bar stool. 

“Yeah,” Duke nods. “There’s another door over here, but it’s closed.” 

You two slowly approach the door and frown at the lack of a doorknob. Duke shines his light through the hole where the doorknob is and peers into the room. 

“It looks empty,” He shrugs then carefully pushes the door open, insuring you’re positioned behind him in case someone is waiting on the other side. 

The door opens to a long, dark hallway, but on the right, is another open door leading to a small porch. You step onto the porch with Duke then look on the side of the building to spot a ladder than goes up to the roof. 

“Jackpot,” He grins at you then gestures for you to start climbing. 

Once you reach the top, Duke is quick to join you. He grins, taking your hand, and you two walk to where the sign is on the building, sitting on the ledge and dangling your feet off the side. Across the street, there is a bar where you can see groups of stumbling patrons being piled into cars with much more sober friends. 

The club is closer to the city than the shopping center is so you can see more of the Gotham skyline. Bright boxes of light pouring out from business buildings and apartment buildings shine brightly against the dark sky. Ribbons of colors from building decorations and billboards decorate the black skyline and a steady flow of cars zip by in the distance on high ways and interstates. 

“Okay,” You admit, resting your head on Duke’s shoulder. “This is pretty cool.” 

Duke kisses the top of your head then pulls an arm around your shoulder. 

“Told you that you would like it.” 

Yes, Electric Cowboy was a real place. No, I never went in it when it was open, only when it was abandon. 

I want to replace my profile picture and background on this account. Anyone have any suggestions?

[wrestlingwithhistory]

Arn & Sid

There are many places across the world that you associate with some of the biggest moments in Pro Wrestling: Montreal for the Screwjob, New York for Wrestlemania I, Minneapolis for the first Monday Nitro, but one of the places that people have very low down on their list is Blackburn, England which is where this particular story took place.

On October 27th, 1993 WCW were in England as part of a European Tour. As was customary during these times, the wrestlers would always congratulate each other on a show well done with alcohol and a few popping pills.

2 Cold Scorpio: "We go over there and fly into [Blackburn, England]. We drove three hours, got to the show, just off the airplane, and did the show. After the show, we had a three or four-hour drive, maybe even five, back to the hotel where we were staying out of [Blackburn]. Everyone was off the bus, taking a few pills, having a few drinks…"

There were a number of accounts of this incident due to the amount of talent that were in the bar at the time of the catalytic argument that started the incident in question. After a few drinks, the conversation quickly changed to the performers talking shop, trying to work out the business and why things were going wrong.

Three of the group in question were Arn Anderson, Sid Vicious and Vader. Not 3 of the smallest men by any account, but according to some of the witnesses to the incident, you could see quickly that it was about to escalate further. Arn and Sid were talking about what was happening within the industry, specifically were the money was going.

Sid Vicious: "I’ll tell you exactly what happened. We were in a bar, and I was just waiting for food. We were all at a table drinking…Arn asked the question, ‘What’s wrong with our business? Why aren’t we drawing? The other company this and the other company that…So I said, ‘You want to know what’s wrong with our business? We have an old man in Ric Flair who needs to get the fuck out of the way!”

According to a few of the witnesses, those being 2 Cold Scorpio, The Nasty Boys and Vader, Arn and Sid began to get heated after Arn defended his friend and fellow horseman Flair. Vader said in one interview that after the words began to heat up, he got up and left the situation, taking himself to bed to avoid any ensuing injuries.

Sid claimed that he was suddenly pelted with beers at the bar by Anderson and retaliated in kind by throwing a beer back at Anderson. The wrestlers separate and go back to their rooms.

Sid: “As I was going to my room, [Arn Anderson] and a bunch of the other guys were in the hallway, and he broke a beer bottle and threatened to cut me.”

Sid avoided confrontation with Arn at this particular time, saying he went back to his room and although he wanted to go back to the bar, he ate a sandwich and dwelled over the previous moments.

Sid: “I got in there, and I wasn’t going to sleep real nice. I wanted to go back to the bar, but I actually went into my room, ate a part of my sandwich, and said to myself, ‘Man, this motherfucker!’ I have a bad temper, too. I said, ‘This fucker threw a beer in my face, and now he’s threatening me with a fucking beer bottle broken?’ You know, you have to draw a fucking line!”

After drawing this alcohol fuelled conclusion, Sid then snapped a leg off one of the chairs in the hotel room and made his way to the door of Arn’s room.

2 Cold Scorpio: "I hear somebody, and I’m like, ‘What the fuck? Somebody is fighting out there!’ I’m thinking it’s Vader. I’m like, ‘Goddamnit!’ Vader obviously starting shit with somebody again, man! So, I go over to Vader’s room, and shit, and I hear [snoring sounds]. I hear the motherfucker snoring through the door!”

Sid claims that he made his way to the door of Arn Anderson and proceeded to bang on the door, chair leg in hand. On hearing a drunken Arn stumbling his way through to the hotel door, he had a change of heart.

Sid: “When I got back down there, there was nobody in the doorway or the hallway, and [Anderson’s] door was shut. So, I knocked on his door and said, ‘Come on out here, motherfucker! Bring your beer bottle!’ Some words were exchanged. I couldn’t totally hear him, but I hear him falling down and stumbling around, and I think, ‘Ah, he’s fucked up…’ I looked at my hand and thought to myself, ‘This is fucking stupid.’ So, I threw the fucking thing.”

According to Sid’s story, Arn appeared at the door, scissors in hand to which Sid was claimed to say “Hey man, this has gone too fucking far…” but in that moment Arn came after Sid with the scissors and they began a brawl in the corridor of the hotel.

Sid: “I don’t remember getting stabbed in the beginning. There were two doors in the corridor there, and he backed me up there, and I had nowhere to fucking run. When he came into me and got close to me, I think I hit him one time, and he fell down like at my feet. When he did, I looked at him, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the scissors fall. They were falling out of my stomach. I have a scar right there. So, when I saw the scissors falling out, I realized I had been stabbed. I didn’t feel it in my face or hands, but he launched back for them a second time, but my feet had got them first. And then, I don’t know; it happened so fast…"

Arn’s version of the story is very different to Sid’s. Arn claims that Sid was bragging about ‘holding up’ WCW for $100,000 after Anderson had received a pay cut and said that “The old fuckers need to retire” which started the argument between the two. He then states he was helped to his room by Doug Dillinger and after a while heard banging on his door. As he answered the door, he claims he was hit on the head and was instantly knocked out. He also claimed that as he came to, Sid was on top of him throwing punches and that is when he fought back and got hold of the scissors.

Sid: “You can look at the records the police had. The stick he said I hit him with never touched him. It was twenty feet the opposite way where the fight had happened, and that stick had not one drop of blood, not one dent in it like it had been hit or nothing.”

Anderson was stabbed 20 times to the chest and stomach, Sid was stabbed 4 times were deported back to the US after receiving medical treatment in the UK and no charges were filed for the incident. On returning back to the US, Sid was fired with immediate effect and Anderson was suspended.

Sid: "When I was in the hospital, the police, or whatever you call them, the law enforcement over there, they came into my room trying to get me to press charges against him. I said, "No, man, I’m not going to press charges against him. We both made mistakes. I don’t know how bad he’s really hurt.’ I really didn’t. And they’re like, ‘You know your friend, he’s got not one scratch on him.’ Here I’m having exploratory surgery already; I’ve got stabs on my face, and I said, ‘He’s not got a scratch on him?’ I thought maybe- as I said, it happened so fast. I really don’t remember it happening. And I thought, ‘This motherfucker!’ So, I was going to press charges on him. Later that night, the nurse came over to my room and said, ‘Your friend is really messed up.’ So, I dropped the charges."

Eric Bischoff talked about the incident on the 83 Weeks podcast – “I was at home. It was — I don’t remember what time of day it was, but I think it was pretty late in the evening when I got a phone call from Doug Dillinger, who gave me the first account of what happened and kind of gave me the status of everything. At that point, I think Sid was in the hospital or had just gotten out of the hospital, so the first report I got was that it wasn’t life-threatening, but it was serious, obviously. God, I was to say it was, I don’t know, around 8:00, 9:00 at night maybe? Maybe a little bit later. I don’t remember what time it was, but it was Doug Dillinger who gave me the first piece of news.”

Regarding why Sid was fired and not Arn, Bischoff was open in saying that Ric Flair helped influence that decision, as were many others on the WCW roster who were unhappy with Sid’s behaviour on the tour. Bischoff also stated that as the instigator of the fight, by Sid going to Arn’s room to continue the argument, this more than likely assisted with the decision to let him go over Arn Anderson.

2 Cold Scorpio: "I go down the steps, and I see blood galore. Blood on the left, blood on the right, blood all down the fucking hallway and shit. I keep on walking, and I’m in the fucking hallway with a goddamn towel. I get down there, and Sid Vicious and Arn Anderson are down there just brawling. They were covered in fucking blood. Sid Vicious got the fucking scissors and got Arn Anderson by the hair, and he’s booting him in the fucking face, stabbing him with the scissors every which way. Arn Anderson got blood spitting out of him like a horror movie and shit, man. I see Sid kicking Arn Anderson’s nose, and it does a 180 turn straight the fuck up and shit. I’m like, ‘Damn!’ I jump in, boom, push them apart and shit, and Arn Anderson kind of falls against the wall from half drunk and half loss of blood and shit, and he just kind of stumbles against the wall. Sid kind of steps back, and he looks at me, and I step back in my stance, and I’m like, ‘Damn, I don’t want to have to take you down!’ You know what I’m saying? But that shit got stopped. Sid just looked at me [eyes wide open] freaked out."

After the firing, Sid went onto wrestle for USWA for just over 18 months before re-joining WWF as Psycho Sid where he competed between 1995 and 1997 winning the WWF title twice during his time. He left due to a neck injury and popped up in ECW in January 1999 before going back to WCW in June 1999. He wrestled there for 2 years until a horrific fracture of his tibia and fibula in 2001 forced him into a first retirement as the company was acquired by WWF and his contract was not picked up during the purchase.

Arn Anderson continued working with the then Turner based WCW up until its buyout by WWF in 2001. On joining the WWF, he was given the role of Road Agent and stayed with the company for a further 18 years in the role. He left in 2019, making an appearance at AEW All Out and later that year signed a contract with AEW, primarily as Cody Rhodes’ personal advisor and head coach making his official debut on the January 1st, 2020 Dynamite show, going on to sign a multi-year contract in June of that year.

Hope you’ve enjoyed reading this post, please leave a like and a comment!

[ladymostdeject]

I Use My Outside Voice (Because I Have No Choice) Chapter 1

Hamilton hurried into his office, Thomas right behind him. He flung his briefcase back onto his desk, heedless of the laptop inside.

Hamilton didn’t even flinch at the noise, and he doubled back to close the door.

“Why does Washington always send you when he wants something from me? It’s like he thinks he can irritate me into submission.”

“Nobody sent me this time.”

Thomas rolled his eyes so hard his neck popped. “What do you want, Hamilton?”

“I need this bill passed. It’s stalled right now, and I need it passed.” He moved Thomas’ briefcase to get at the papers he’d left on the desk. He clutched them to his chest, face earnest.

“You’re talking about the bank bill?” he asked. Hamilton nodded and shifted on his feet nervously. “Why are you this wound up about it? It’s just a weird little regulatory bill. Those die in committee all the time.”

Hamilton puffed up his chest. “I wrote it.”

Thomas sighed so hard it almost hurt. “Of course you did.”

“It needs your support. If you support it, the other moderates will fall in line. Madison, Woodhall-”

“No.” Jefferson leaned back on his desk and crossed his arms.

“Okay, while that’s a compelling argument, I was really hoping for a little bit more back and forth. Is that all you really have to say?”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “No, I will not support that bill.”

Hamilton huffed, “Why not?! It doesn’t violate any of the major Republican Party stances, it doesn’t threaten you or Virginia in any way, it’s reducing certain banking regulations. Look right here, where it says-” Hamilton thrust a couple of the pages towards Thomas, who took them and promptly dropped them in the garbage.

Hamilton squawked. The mean little thing in Thomas’ chest purred.

“I can’t support it. Word has come down from on high, we have to object to anything y’all want. Doesn’t matter what it is. You can’t come down here anymore looking for compromises from the moderates, the answer is going to be no.”

“And you’re okay with that are you? Total gridlock for the next two years ?” he cried. No actually. It made Thomas sick. “It’s not the way things are supposed to work! We’re supposed to be making the country better!”

He circled back around his desk to give himself a moment. “I don’t know what to tell-”

“I didn’t know you were a coward!”

Thomas thought his patience was at its end already, but apparently it could stretch even thinner. He clutched his desk to keep from leaping over it and throttling Hamilton. “Fine! Do you want to know what I think? Even if I could help you I wouldn’t. It’s a bad bill. It is way too long. It looks like you’re trying to hide something in all that circular language.”

“It is not circular! Or too long! It’s exactly as long as it needs to be! It’s thorough and precise!” He gestured wildly.

“It needs to be about fifty thousand words shorter.” Thomas was starting to get his second wind. He had forgotten how much fun it was to wind up the other man.

“Fifty-” he sputtered. “That’s half of it!”

“And another thing, it puts an outrageous demand on an already strained system.”

“No, it utilizes a system that’s already in place to-”

“Also, if you really want bipartisan support, you need to remove the clause about omegas.”

Hamilton looked thunderous before, but suddenly he looked downright deadly. “I will not,” he growled. “That clause removes a century old system of oppression.”

Thomas shrugged. “You wanted my opinion.”

“I want your vote.”

He threw up his hands in exasperation. “You can’t have it! Just wait until the next time you have a congressional majority. That’s apparently how it works now. My god, Hamilton, learn some tact! You stormed in here demanding my help, you’ve shouted at me, and you’ve argued with every one of my suggestions. You can’t just strong-arm everyone into doing whatever you want. You’ll never get elected if this is the most diplomatic you can be!”

Something he said struck Hamilton hard. He looked gutted, and sounded hollow when he said, “I’m never going to get elected. That’s why I need to pass this bill.”

Thomas grimaced. “Oh, for- I didn’t mean right now, obviously. I meant that in the future, you need a good lesson on how to talk to humans beings, not that-”

“No. I’m retiring,” he spat like it was the filthiest word he knew.

Thomas surprised himself by laughing. It was a deep, belly laugh. “Sure from the White House staff, but we all know you'll move on to something else. The House maybe? Hamilton, you and I both know you're never going to truly retire. You're going to die at age 97 on the Senate floor after thoroughly dressing down Congress.”

Hamilton collapsed into the chair by the desk like his strings had been cut. “No, I’ve got two years.” Thomas opened his mouth to refute such a blatant lie, but he plowed on, “I'll never be able to successfully win any election, because that requires people to like you. Nobody likes me. No. I am un-electable. If I’m going to make my mark, I’ve got to do it now, while I’ve still got Washington backing me. Even if all I can do is write a weird little bank bill.”

Thomas feels ice crawl down his back, and even though he's never even considered it before, he suddenly knows it’s true. There's a handful of omegas in congress, but every single one is cute. Wholesome. Quiet. Every single one has a wife or husband and a gaggle of children. Hamilton has none of those things. He has a loud mouth and huge opinions and an inability to keep those opinions to himself. Most damning of all in the court of public opinion, he has a list of ex-lovers as long as his arm. He's not the kind of omega people like to see on TV.

“Moreover, I have very few positive connections. There is no one else who would be willing to hire me after we’re done in the White House. I make enemies everywhere I go. I have what I have because Washington trusts me. Sees what I can do. I've worked for him for twenty years. And in the beginning, I even had to fight for him to give me my due. I've been clinging to his coattails. I may be able to get some bullshit job to pay the bills after our term ends but probably never in politics again and definitely never somewhere with as much influence as I have now. I have fought tooth and nail for every single thing I have, and I've reached the end. I've peaked, and there's nowhere else for me to go. No, when George retires, so do I.”

Thomas feels the world shift beneath his feet. He'd never even considered Hamilton's future. He's never given a thought to how his gender might affect his career. He just assumed he'd always be hanging around DC, stirring up trouble and bothering everyone within hearing range. And if he'd been a beta, or hell, an alpha, Jefferson was positive Hamilton would be a thorn in his side until his dying day. But omegas get married, they have children, and then they leave the workforce.

He racked his brain for an omega that's over 40 still working in DC. He comes up with that same tragically short list of senators and representatives he'd thought of earlier. He thinks about the secretaries and assistants and baristas he sees around town. Every single one is a cute young thing, flirty and sweet the second they catch on that he's an unbonded alpha. Where do all the omegas go?

Surely they're not all chained to their stoves. They run charities and volunteer at hospitals, but are never on the payroll. They hang demurely on the arms of the people he rubs elbows with. They are mothers, PTA members, and soccer team chauffeurs. His own mother had never worked a day in her life.

But what if she had wanted to? She was brilliant, always keeping his father on his toes with their lively dinner debates. Would she have been happier with a career? How is this never a question he'd asked her when she was alive? How is this not a question he'd asked himself?

He's suddenly ashamed that he's 45 years old, and he just learned something so new and so big. He doubts she could have just gone out and gotten a job, certainly not one worthy of her intellect. Not back then, but if what Hamilton is saying is true, then maybe not even now.

Things are supposed to be different. It’s illegal to fire an omega when they get married or pregnant. It's illegal to discriminate against them during the hiring or promotion process. And before this very moment Thomas had never once considered the omega population's lack of upward mobility might not be due to genetic temperament and lack of desire.

But Hamilton certainly doesn't seem inclined to find a mate and settle down. And it's not that Thomas forgets he's an omega, it's just that it’s a lot easier to lump him in with the betas and alphas he knows. He's irritatingly bursting with ambition and pride. And if Hamilton can't have the career he deserves, how many other omegas are trapped in lives they don't want?  Not everyone has the strength of will to fly in the face of hundreds of years of social conditioning, middle fingers held high, verbal abuse cocked and loaded. Not everyone has the fortitude to claw their way to the top. He has been blind. Worse than that, he's been stupid. He stumbled over to his desk chair and collapsed much like Hamilton had.

What was that clause in the bill about omegas? Something about removing the forty-eight hour wait period on omega’s requesting large withdrawals from their bank accounts without an alpha or beta’s co-signature? And removing the bank’s ability to vet the purpose of the withdrawal and deny the withdrawal if they deem it irresponsible.

Everyone knows that omegas are bad with money, and poor at resisting temptation. That law is there for their protection. To keep them from-

The scent of distressed omega finally registers through his haze of thoughts, a citrus-y tang overpowering his usual sweetness. Because Hamilton is an omega. The omega White House Communications Director wrote a comprehensive bill about bank regulations. And while the man himself is very controversial (and exhausting), with his fighting and his Twitter tangents and mile long list of exes, he has the ear and the unwavering trust of the leader of the free world. If the goddamn White House Communications Director wants to withdraw a substantial sum of his own money, he has to ask the bank nicely.

“Jesus, Jefferson.” Hamilton was smirking. Why was he smirking, didn’t he know Thomas’ whole system of beliefs is a lie? “I didn’t realize the thought of me retiring would be so upsetting. Are you gonna miss me?” Read the rest of Chapter One Here

[incoherentbabblings]

An Endless Hope (2/9)

After a horrendous blizzard falls over Gotham, Tim undergoes a sharp change in character before disappearing. Upon discovering what has become of him, Stephanie sets off on a solo journey in a magic realm to bring him home, meeting some faces which seems awfully familiar along the way.

Archive Of Our Own Link Click Click!

“Our tires have gone. Cracked and popped.” Red Robin reported, switching the interior car lights on, as Stephanie pulled out a small laptop tablet, switching to checking satellite views of the city. Tim peered at his dashboard, noting, “GPS says we’re down by Stagg Enterprises and the Trigate bridge but honestly… it’s reached whiteout. We can get out and –”

“No.” Batman interrupted. “Stay put. If your tires have frozen up it’s too cold for our suits for any trek across the city. I’m not far in my car. Signal, Robin, what did you find?”

“Mr. Freeze is a dead end.” Duke said over the commlink. “He made the valid point of this not doing much for his research. He was worried about the power outage.”

Red Robin and Batgirl, sat in Tim’s redbird car, watched the snow fly around them, heating blasting out hot air to keep the car and them from freezing. Tim peered out the windscreen, whiteout leaving them blind to the world. They could leave, but it was approaching minus thirty. Their regular suits were good… but not that good. For the moment, they were stranded, waiting for Bruce and his tank of a Batmobile to come to the rescue.

“It’s bizarre.” Batgirl said, scrolling through data. “Weather doesn’t work like this. The storm is just over Gotham. That’s not…that’s not physically possible. Blizzards are usually hundreds of miles wide. Not thirty and constricted to a bay. It came out of nowhere. There’s no way the air could grow cold that fast to freeze all that water naturally. And the wind is at eighty miles per hour. Normally it’s around forty.”

“The Flash has a weather themed villain.” Robin supplied.

“I checked.” Cassandra’s quiet voice, barely audible over the storm she was standing in, came over the speakers. The screaming wind cut off when she got inside, the door of wherever she was slamming shut. “He’s in Iron Heights. It’s not him.”

Stephanie continued to look through local news, in and outside of the city, desperate for someone over social media to have spotted something manmade about the phenomena. Tim jolted next to her violently, hands flailing over the steering wheel.

“Someone walk over your grave?”

“What?”

Stephanie put down the tablet and leaned over, staring at the white surrounding them. “Or did you see something?”

“You’d think I was crazy.”

“I’ve learned not to doubt gut instincts, Red Robin. They’re there for a reason. Especially yours.” Unable to spot anything but white, she looked back at him. Like her, his cowl was down, his nose red, skin very white. He looked frightened and instantly Stephanie became alarmed. “What is it? Did you see something?”

She whirled back around, hair falling around her shoulders and back. It really was too long at this point, but Tim reached up and tangled his fingers into it. Something to hold onto. He tried not to tug on her too hard.

“I just think someone’s watching us... me.”

“What? Who? Bad guy?”

“I think I’m seeing things.”

Stephanie hummed, slowly retreating into her seat.

“I’ll bop ‘em if they hurt you.”

Colour returned to Tim’s cheeks, and he smiled. “I know.”

The sound of roaring engines became audible over the car’s heating, and a little too close for comfort, the black Batmobile emerged, parking directly in front.

“Get in you two. I can’t drag the car with your tires gone. Lock it down, Red Robin. When the storm lessens, we’ll retrieve it.”

“Go ahead Batgirl. Locking it down will take a second.”

“’Kay.” She kicked her way out, fighting against the wind. Her cape, weighted so it wouldn’t fly up and around her face in such conditions, billowed out behind her, but her hair flew up and around her face. It made her stumble a little ungraciously as she felt her way around the car, opening the door enough to slide in the back.

“Jesus.” She breathed. Batman was looking over his shoulder, checking she was unharmed.

“I told you to cut your hair.”

“Yeah, yeah. I braided it but the wind…”

Bruce grunted. “We can’t do anything. We give it two more hours to show signs of passing. If not –”

“Call in the League?”

Batman’s face indicated he was not happy with the idea, but it was still the best solution. They were trained for street level crime, not climate change.

Tim tumbled in a moment later, shaking from the cold, slapping the ice and snow that had collected on his costume. Reaching across, Stephanie took off her gloves and placed her warm fingers on his cheeks, hissing at the cold. Tim sighed and closed his eyes, shivering.

“Where’s the others?” Stephanie asked, watching Tim’s shudders lessen as he warmed up again.

Bruce set off, heading back to Bristol.

“In the city tunnels. A lot of people are taking shelter there. They’ll be heading back now. We just have to wait it out for now.”

Stephanie did not miss the loathing in his tone at such an inaction.

“We can’t do anything for the time being.” Tim stated. “But when it passes –”

“If it passes.” Batman grumbled.

“–Then we’ll work overtime to help with recovery.”

Stephanie nodded emphatically in agreement.

“It’s not good enough.” Bruce muttered.

Stephanie went to remove her hands from Tim but to her shock he actually reached up and snatched her wrists, pulling her back. Damn, he really was cold. Usually he wasn’t that grabby.

“Sometimes ‘not good enough’ is all we can do.” Tim bit back.

Holding her breath, noting the tension in the car rising with the steady hot air being blasted, Stephanie pinched Tim’s nose, desperate to break the potential argument. Tim looked at her, a little outraged. Stephanie ignored him, speaking to Batman,

“Whoever did this – if it is a who – we’ll hold them to account.”

It really wasn’t good enough, and Bruce did not respond. The drive back was odd, Bruce relying on technology to navigate through the city. As soon as they cleared the bridge however, visibility resumed. It was a blizzard – a bad one – but nothing compared to what seemed to be only growing in intensity over the three main islands of Gotham.

When they arrived back at the cave, Stephanie asked Alfred to take a look at Tim, worried about his body temperature. She snuggled up to him, arms wrapped around his waist, cheek to cheek, as she tried to erase his shivering.

“Honey, why are you so cold? We weren’t exposed long.”

“Just feel cold. Like in my bones.”

She rubbed his back, trying to friction up some heat.

“Cuddle away then.”

“You’re like a furnace. It’s nice.” He sighed.

Alfred came over, took one look at Tim and shrugged off any major concern.

“Just a chill.” He confirmed after taking Tim’s temperature. “Take a warm – not hot – shower.”

“Sure Alfred.”

He went to walk off, hand around Stephanie’s, but she dug her feet in.

“It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m gonna wait for the others to come back safe.”

Tim blinked, then looked down at his grip. She wasn’t showing it, but with a dropping sensation in his stomach, he realised how tightly he was squeezing her. Mechanically, finger by finger, he let go.

“Yeah. Sorry. I’ll be a little bit.”

She smiled, worry leaking through, and he dashed off. She flexed her wrist, hissing a little at its stiffness. Tim was just spooked by the weather, she told herself. Nothing more.

The others returned soon enough, following the city sewer systems back to the cave entrance. Tim eventually came back too, in warmer clothes, dry hair and a calmer disposition, and everyone sat by the computer, and waited.

*****

“How certain are you of this lead?” Tim asked three mornings later.

Bruce ran a hand across his face. It had been a long three days, Wayne Enterprises was going to be funding quite a number of building sites and repairs to basic utilities over the coming weeks, but for now, the weather had calmed enough for people to emerge from the lockdown. The streets were now filled with people enjoying the snow, to which Tim couldn’t blame them. There was something beautiful about freshly fallen snow and a horizon which blurred the line between sky and ground.

“Not very,” Bruce admitted, approaching the piano. “Hence why I’m only taking Robin with me.”

Damian’s little chest puffed out – proud to be the chosen one to accompany his father. Bruce looked at Stephanie, Tim, Duke and Cassandra as he spoke, deliberately holding their gaze to convey the importance he held their task.

“You four are remaining in Gotham. I’m trusting you to look after it until we get back. There shouldn’t be any major operations. The river is frozen, and many roads are blocked still with up to six feet of snow. But still, do what you can.”

“Be safe.” Cassandra urged.

Stephanie gave a tiny wave to Damian, who’s hand twitched to return the goodbye, but thought better of it, and he tutted and turned to follow.

Uncomfortable silence filled the house as the clock closed behind the two, leaving the four remaining members of the family stood awkwardly.

“Now what?” Steph asked, pushing back the heavy curtains to peer outside. “College is cancelled, no schools, no work… At least the snow has stopped. Should we monitor for problems or take a break… just for an afternoon.”

She looked back to smile at Duke, Cass and Tim, tilting her jaw outside. Cassandra clapped her hands in joy. “I saw on the tv people playing in the snow. I never have before.”

Duke gave an encouraging noise. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Snowball fight.”

Tim looked reluctant, until Stephanie elbowed him in the gut and agreed with Duke, saying, “Yeah. Sounds good. Need a bit of levity right now, huh?”

She raised her eyebrows, and Tim got the message.

“Oh! Yes. Sounds good!”

His tone was forcibly cheery, but he would warm up to the idea when actually outside, Stephanie thought.

Alfred, with the hearing of a bat, poked his head around a door frame. “Please wrap up warm, and shower when you are finished to bring your body temperature back up.”

“Can we have coco, Alfred?” Cassandra pled, eyes big as dinner plates.

“Yes, sounds a lovely idea. Try to get some joy from the terrible weather please, all of you.”

Cassandra burst off to get wrapped up, the other three trailing behind.

Stephanie laughed at Cassandra’s exuberance, trying to get her shoes on quicker. The Manor, built on the hill in the way it was, meant that the five feet of snowfall hadn’t reached the back door and steps. It did mean though, after some shoving by Cassandra, the door heaved open. She ran out, throwing herself down the stairs and onto a hug pile of freshly laid snow. She faceplanted with a shriek of joy, quickly creating snow angels. Stephanie trotted after her, calling,

“Cassie, have you ever made a snowman before?”

“No!”

“Me either. Help me?”

Tim watched for a little while as the girls – for a lack of a better term – frolicked in the white snow. Cassandra stood out more against the white, dressed from head to toe in black, Stephanie in that blinding white, purple and green jacket blended in a little more with the landscape. He was quite content to just sit on the salted steps and watch, but a solid smack to the back of his neck, snow and ice sneaking down his collar, made him squeal.

Duke laughed, “Bad form, dude! Gotta keep your eyes peeled!”

“Jesus!” Tim choked out, reflexively grabbing a pile of snow and flinging it back weakly. A snowball fight ensued.

Alfred watched the four from the kitchen window, more than a little delighted at the childish screams of joy that made their way across the Estate. At least some people were finding joy in such miserable weather. As an adult, snow only meant pain.

Transport difficulties, concerns about plumbing and electricity, would the roof cope? What if there’s flooding? Need to clear the sidewalks and drives and roads. Is there enough food to keep us going long enough for the storm to pass?

So many worries.

For children, it only meant wrapping up warmer, maybe missing a week of school, and games outside.

Never mind, let them enjoy it for a little while longer.

Alfred noted that flurries of snow had begun to fall, though immediately he could tell they snow was larger and slower falling than the other night. Still, the four had been outside for a couple of hours by this point, perhaps it was time for them to come in.

He moved away from the stove, turning off the heat on the milk, and making his way to the door to call them back in to warm up.

He managed to get the door open only to be met with a violent shriek from Tim, his body falling to the floor and curling up in a ball.

Instantly the frivolity stopped, and Stephanie burst across the snow. She wrapped around him, pushing his hand away from his eye. Cassandra and Duke hovered around, nervous and unsure.

“It wasn’t me.” Duke begged, “He was looking up, I didn’t throw anything at him.”

Stephanie cooed, trying to see the damage.

“What happened? Is it your eye? Did something get in your eye?”

“Get him inside so we can take a better look,” Alfred urged. “I worry the weather is only going to deteriorate.”

Alfred quickly put on the fire in one of the sitting areas and sat Tim down on the rug. He still had the heel of his palm pressed to his left eye socket. Cassandra and Duke continued to hover, nervous at the damage. Stephanie came through from the kitchen with a cold compact in case there was any swelling. She knelt in front of Tim.

“Can I see?”

Tim gave her a suspicious look, which she didn’t understand. Reaching him, she went to peel his hand away, and he flinched back. Her outreached hand froze in mid-air.

“Does it really hurt?” She asked. “Do we need to get to the hospital somehow?”

“No. I don’t want you touching me.”

She shook her head, reaching for him again. She tried to gently tease, “We can’t fix it if we can’t see what’s wrong. It’ll just take a second.”

Stephanie pushed back his hair from his forehead, as she always did to comfort him. She heard Cassandra gasp before she realised what happened, but Tim recoiled at the touch and – even worse – slapped her hand away from his face.

“I mean it. Don’t.”

It had been a while since he had directed such a sharp rebuke towards her. Her palm stung with the force he had smacked her with. Immediately, she entered a panic.

“You… Okay. I won’t. Sorry. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

His sneering look did not fade, and it made Stephanie get up off the floor. She passed the cold press to Alfred, who Tim, still looking supremely uncomfortable, allowed to examine the damage.

She left the room and the manor, sitting on the steps to try and calm down. Weird how one sharp word could make her feel like she was five years old again. The falling snow muffled the sounds of the Estate, and everything was eerily quiet, save the sound of her panicked breathing.

Immediately Cassandra came out and joined her, wrapping her up in a hug.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him.” Stephanie whined.

“I know.”

Stephanie leaned down, forehead resting on Cassandra’s bony arms. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise to me. He’ll feel bad later, and you can talk it out.”

Stephanie nodded, knowing Cassandra was right. In the meantime, she flexed her hand, the one Tim had hit so sharply.

“He’s yelled at me before…”

“But never looked at you like that?”

“No.” Stephanie’s lip quivered. “I’m overthinking it.”

“You aren’t yourself when you’re in pain.”

Stephanie nodded fervently and frantically. “Right, right.”

They sat still for a while, listening to the silence. Then the door opened once more. It was Tim. Immediately Stephanie was on her feet. His eye looked fine, not even bloodshot or swollen.

“Are you okay?” She asked. He looked at her, suspicion gone but now a little bored and pouty.

“Fine. Listen, can we go home now?”

“Home?”

“To the apartment.” Tim shuffled in place, looking disgruntled. “I’d drive myself but Alfred won’t let me. My eye is fine.”

Confused, but deciding to not make a scene until they were alone, Stephanie nodded. “I’ll have to go slow. I don’t know how much of the roads have been cleared.

“Whatever.” He murmured, looking distracted.

Cassandra gave Stephanie a look which was a little unreadable. Stephanie gave her thanks to Alfred, and waved goodbye to Duke.

The drive back was painful in every possible way. Stephanie’s little purple car was sturdy, but she still went much slower than normal. Tim curled up in his seat next to her, head pressed to his knees. She could see that with one hand he was aggressively clawing at the centre of his chest, near his heart. Neither spoke for the duration of the drive.

When they got parked up, he slowly and stiffly got up and out. Stephanie grabbed her phone and messaged Duke that they had survived the journey.

She arrived in the apartment after Tim, finding him looking around the space with his lip curled. He didn’t look impressed with the place, as if it wasn’t his own home that he had decorated and lived in.

She sat her bag down by the door, and walked over to him.

“Sweetie, are you sure you’re okay? I hurt you earlier.”

“No. You didn’t.” He said, moving through to the kitchen. Whatever he was looking for wasn’t to be found, and he migrated upstairs to their bedroom. She followed, anxious about leaving him alone.

“Can I see your eye? I’d feel better taking a look myself.”

He sighed like she had asked the world of him and plopped himself at the foot of their bed.

“Hurry up, then.”

She approached him like she would a rabid dog, turning on the overhead light so she could properly see. Gently, she rested her fingertips on his cheek and brow bone.

Like he said, there was nothing amiss.

“What happened?” She breathed. “If nothing hurt you –”

“You’re really warm.” He interrupted. His disinterested look became hungry, and Stephanie dropped her hands, only for Tim to catch her wrists. His fingers were frozen, which should not have been the case after a car ride where the heating had been keeping them toasty. Stephanie felt a lump of ice form in her gut.

“Tim, stop it. What’s going on?”

“Cold.” He murmured. He squeezed her wrists tighter, tight enough to make her twist out of his grip in fear. Immediately he stood up and wrapped his arms around her waist, nuzzling into to her. Stephanie became stiff, listening to him licking his lips and mutter, “You’re warm. Hot. Need…”

Backing off just enough to look her in the eye, his expression twitched, and naked panic appeared for just a moment. Trying to maintain a poker face, Stephanie released herself from his grip, unnerved. Removed from her warmth his apathy returned, and the tenseness in his posture fled.

Confused, Stephanie massaged her wrists, and tried to buy herself some time.

“Go take a nap and warm up. Okay? Just… Just go take a nap.”

He smiled at her, but not warmly. It was mocking. “Yes, mother.”

The feeling of dread only rose and spread. She felt like there was a permanent clump in her throat. Finding there was nothing she could say that wouldn’t result in an argument, she just turned and left, leaving Tim’s sardonic smirk behind.

He had never made her uncomfortable before. Never. He had been angry with her. He had argued with her. He had yelled at her, belittled her, and once or twice in moments they never spoke about, he had been physically violent with her (the unspoken excuse was, both times, he didn’t actually know it was her… as if that made it acceptable). But never had she been made to feel unsafe. Tim was predictable in his moods. Whatever was going on frightened her. She shouldn’t have come back alone with him.

Maybe she could message Cass or Duke…they could get here in around an hour and…

While her mind raced, she resolved to make some comfort food for dinner. She opened the fridge, finding casserole beef that would be out of date in two days, an onion, a carrot, and three potatoes.

“Good enough.” She muttered and set to work.

Two hours later, as the stew continued to cook slowly in the oven and she was washing the dishes, Tim came downstairs quietly. He made his way over to Stephanie, finding it a little amusing how she tensed up when he wrapped his arms around her waist.

Stephanie managed to not gasp out loud when he pulled her long hair out of the way and pressed kisses to her neck, but she couldn’t help the involuntary goosebumps and risen fine hairs. He was frigid.

“How are you feeling?” Stephanie asked.

“Had a nap.” He rested his sharp chin on her shoulder. “I made you worry, didn’t I?”

She said nothing at his patronising tone, not sure what to say. Yes, and you still are. What the hell is wrong with you right now? But no, she was trying to be good and not respond and set off an argument.

“My eye’s fine.” He continued.

“That’s good.” She said, slowly leaning back so she could take off the rubber gloves. The moment she did, one of his hands snaked down to intertwine with her own. That did make her gasp, and flinch, but his grip on her waist tightened.

“What are you making?”

“Some stew to warm you up.” She replied, voice aggressively chipper.

Tim looked over to the oven, unimpressed.

“It stinks.”

Somehow that was the breaking point for Steph, who threw her arms back and moved away.

“What is your problem, huh?”

He looked back, almost gleeful. “You’re upset.”

“No shit I’m upset! Something’s wrong! You got something in your eye that made you fall to the ground in pain and now it’s nothing? You are physically cold as ice and you’re just being a pain and mean and childish and –”

“Childish. Childish?” He looked to the side as if he had a bright idea and moved away, back into the living room. “I thought you wanted that.”

“God, Tim, what are you blathering on abo—”

She cut herself off as he stood next to the windowsill with the flowers. It had been a couple of weeks since they had brought them home, and they were doing well, even with the general lack of sunlight. Tim stared at them like they were weeds, with nothing notable or pleasant about them, then he smiled maniacally.

With a carelessness comparable to a toddler throwing a tantrum, Tim pulled his red roses off the windowsill, the pot crashing and soil flying everywhere. Stephanie couldn’t help it, she screamed, stuck in place by the kitchen.

“Tim, no! No! Why would you… No don’t! Please don’t!”

His hand was hovering over her lilac flowers. His awful smile froze, then fell away, leaving an equally awful emptiness. His hand trembled, and his fingers instead stroked the petals. Stephanie twitched, half ready to body slam him if he threw her plant on the ground.

His hand fell away, and Stephanie – shamefully – began to cry. He had left her roses alone but wrecked his own.

“Why would you do that?”

He looked at her like she was stupid for not getting the joke. “They’re so ugly. And I thought it would be funny. Your face.”

“Funny?” She sniffed, eyesight blurry and nose running. She couldn’t bear how bored he sounded, how mean he was being.

“When you get all angry and hot.”

“Tim! You don’t do that to someone you care about!”

“Care about you? Do I?” He blinked, uncomprehending. He had gotten distracted again and was looking out the window at the snow.

She shrieked, feeling like she was talking to a brick wall or an uncaring five-year-old. She rushed over to his wrecked plant, trying to pack the soil together as best she could. Tim watched her for a moment, then kicked the spilt soil and plant. Stephanie flinched away, staring at the scattered dirt. Intentionally or not, he’d hit her hands that were trying to salvage the situation. It was such an unnecessarily spiteful and painful thing to do, that finally she’d had enough. Stephanie got up, and shoved Tim.

“Stop it.”

He didn’t look satisfied with her reaction anymore, and asked, “Do you want me to leave?”

“I want you to stop being so fucking cruel.”

It was like her words were literally going in one ear and out the other. It was like he wasn’t even talking to her, rather he was talking at her. Or he was talking to someone (something) else. “I’ll go then. I’ll go. I’m bored.”

She watched, mystified, as he put his shoes back on. He looked at her once and tilted his head like a confused dog, then moved back towards her. Still crying, she choked out,

“What are you –”

He kissed her, once, desperately. She flinched away, feeling violated for the first time in years. It seemed he was not happy with the kiss either. He looked off to the side, sucking on his tongue, musing the flavour. He shook his head once.

“No good.”

Stephanie stared, heartbroken. Tim just shrugged, like the entire thing was nothing more than a mild conversation about the weather. Grabbing her car keys. He opened the front door, giving a half-hearted farewell. And then he was gone. No coat, no gloves, no scarf. The snow flurries had picked up once more, as had the wind. He was going to very quickly freeze out in the open dressed like that. Even if he did have the car, getting stranded was a real possibility in the storm.

Hating him, but also petrified, Stephanie resolved to drag him back inside. She’d make him sit down, shove the stew she’d made down his stupid throat, then call Batman. She didn’t care what he and Robin were doing at the South Pole, something had gone very wrong back home.

Stephanie grabbed the apartment keys and grabbed her own shoes, running after him. The lights flickered, a power surge apparently occurring due to the storm, and she tripped over their pile of shoes at the front door and she tugged it open.

“You dick!” She screeched to the howling wind. No sign of Tim though, or her car. She jolted, confused at how he could have pulled out of sight that quickly. Already the tire tracks were covered in a fresh layer of snow. Her confusion quickly returned to anger.

Fuck him, she thought spitefully, slamming the door shut and going back inside. Getting back down to see what of his roses had survived his abuse. She cleared space in her own box, hoping that they would take in their temporary home.

She then went to call him, for once being the first to crack after an argument of theirs, only to realise before she clicked his face that his phone was still in his jacket that was hung on the rack.

He really had left the house with nothing on him but the clothes on his back.

She didn’t know what to do. She’d been an idiot during their time at the Manor and had left behind her suit, leaving her stuck inside with nothing warm or secure enough to go hunting for her purple car. As several hours passed, the more her anger made way for pure grief.

That wasn’t Tim. Never in a million years would he be that cruel. Angry yes, spiteful sometimes, but not callous. And he did care about her. She knew that for a fact. More than she believed almost anything else. Even when their relationship was at its worst, he had said, word for word, that he still loved her.

He wouldn’t make fun of her until she cried, he wouldn’t hit and kick her, he wouldn’t wreck a present that he knew was important to her, he wouldn’t be such a self-absorbed brat.

The wind screamed outside, and Stephanie blinked.

Freak storm. Tim’s adverse reaction. The pain in his eye and drastic mood swing.

The whole thing stank of something unnatural.

It was next to nothing to go off, but she had to try and see where that line of thought would lead. First things first though, she needed Tim to come home.

But he didn’t.

Panicking wouldn’t do any good. Tim could look after himself. Even in a storm like last night. Her little car was given to her by Bruce. It was as sturdy as a tank. He would be fine.

But still. Stephanie panicked and did not sleep that night. Instead she sat in the living room, drinking mug of tea after mug of tea, watching her roses and the snow blowing outside through the window. Occasionally she’d burst into tears, not sure what to do or what to say. She could brave the storm, maybe? But Tim didn’t have a key. What if he came home and couldn’t get in? What if he found a phone and called her, would she go to him then? What if, what if, what if?

Stephanie wondered briefly who people coped not knowing where their loved ones were before mobiles became extensions of their arms.

Maybe he’d just left Gotham, gone out of the city and away from the storm. It was minus twenty that night, again unbearably cold. Stephanie sat still, grief stricken, and waited for Tim to come home.

He never did.

Come the morning, she started her hunt, looking at the CCTV footage of Park Row and the neighbouring streets and businesses, but found nothing. The footage blinked, showing Tim exiting the apartment, then he and the car was gone, and it was Stephanie poking her head out to yell.

It was like he had shut the front door behind him and vanished. Or it would have been, if not for the fact that that blip of a power surge had happened at an awfully convenient time.

She messaged Cass and Duke, who confirmed that he did not return to the manor. A quiet enquiry to the Titans showed he had not made his way West either. The storm over Gotham that night was almost as bad as the first. He would have died if he did not find shelter.

The stink of the unnatural grew.

Her grief turned to panic, and two more awful days passed. The three of them took to frantic searching across the city, but a fresh layer snow made tracking her car difficult. Even worse, the GPS system installed by Bruce on her car (a safety precaution to now where she was at any given moment) wasn’t working. It hadn’t since Stephanie and Tim had arrived at the apartment.

Duke checked the different homes the Drake’s had owned just in case he had holed himself up there. The townhouse, the mansion in Bristol, but nothing. Cassandra and Stephanie had checked every safe house in Gotham, but no luck.

Duke wanted to inform Batman. Whatever lead Bruce was chasing, this was doubly important. One of his children had gone missing. Cassandra disputed Duke. Bruce had an entire city to worry about, adding Tim’s disappearance would not make him more urgent. If anything, it would make him sloppier. Nothing made Bruce more irrational than his family in danger. Let him tackle the issue with a clear head. The three of them in Gotham could find Tim.

But three days later, they hadn’t.

So Cassandra conceded, and the awful call to Bruce was made. Stephanie did not speak to him, but judging by Cass’ face after the conversation ended, it had not gone well. She relayed the information that his own search had been a dead end and would be home before the evening came round.

This served to make an anxious bubbling a permanent fixture in Stephanie’s gut. Surely if Bruce was coming home, the problem would be resolved?

A problem she had allowed to happen. Letting Tim just waltz out into a blizzard great job Steph.

No-one blamed Stephanie, though she certainly blamed herself. Tim’s roses were not taking to their shared space with Stephanie’s, and it felt like a miserable metaphor of how their relationship was seemingly incompatible.

What the actual hell had happened?

Staring at the roses, and hating herself a little, she decided to go speak to one of the few people in Gotham who maybe would have a clue about what was happening to the natural world.

Poison Ivy had a connection to the Green, whatever that was. It was a shot in the dark, but maybe Pamela would have heard something through the literal grapevine about what was causing the horrendous weather. From there, maybe Stephanie could chase a lead to Tim, and bring him home.

Alive. Preferably.

[kirayun]

The Journey Of Destiny (Eng Version) - S1E00: Prologue

(This is the version translated with Google Translate of my fic in Italian. And just an attempt to see if posting in dual language can work. Let me know if for those who read in English it is understandable or is it better if I leave it alone, do not worry about tell me.)

AO3 Link

Summary: "Billions of dollars of equipment at your disposal, and I beat you with a laptop that I won in a bet?"

In a similar universe, but at the same time different, the meeting in advance of two destined souls changes the unfolding of events forever. 

The cell phone alarm woke her from sleep, her eyes opened in the darkness of the van and one arm reached out to light the lamp so as to illuminate the tiny space on wheels where the girl lived.

For Skye a new day had begun, a day she would normally use to take a step closer to her goal, her constant pursuit, research that was now hampered by the empty space between her electronic equipment where she normally kept her computer. Just yesterday the laptop had abandoned her forever, deciding to die beyond repair.

After a last look and a sigh, Skye got up to begin her usual morning routine.

.

Skye came out of the diner's employees' bathroom next to the alley where she used to park the van, she had an agreement with the elderly owner couple that allowed Skye to use it to freshen up in exchange for her help in advertising the place on the internet and social media.

She nodded to the clerk behind the counter, a short red-haired young girl under twenty, although she couldn't see him because she was busy with the coffee machine

"Hey Grace"

The waitress, Grace, looked around and smiled at the sight of who had called her

"Skye hello, the usual?"

"Sure, you know how I like it," she said ambiguously and adding a wink, knowing it would provoke a reaction in the younger girl.

Grace's reaction was as expected: flush in her cheeks and she stumbled backwards slightly bumping a jug of coffee that nearly fell off the shelf behind her. "Skye!"

A small laugh went out from the hacker. "You know I only make fun of you."  

A nod from the redhead confirmed his statement. "Sure, sure, but in the meantime you almost made me break a jug ... again!" She made the point by waving the object that had nearly been destroyed in front of her.

After another little laugh from Skye, things resumed normally. She hadn't lied that his behavior was just to tease her, in fact, despite her bisexuality and her penchant for pretty, innocent-looking girls, the younger redhead was almost like a younger sister to her. Ever since she started going to the diner, the two had empathized with their similar family background, not knowing where you really come from and who your parents were.

The only difference was that as much as Grace accepted the life she now had and moved on with it, Skye couldn't do the same and was determined to find the answers she sought.

If only his computer had not dumped

.

Jemma Simmons walked along the sidewalk with her laptop bag over her shoulder and her cell phone to her ear.

"Mom I told you, I'm just waiting for Fitz and me to be assigned to the new job, Agent Weaver assured me it will be high profile but it still takes some time before it's ready."

As she continued to advance the girl noticed a small diner, an ideal place where she could stop and try to solve the problem that had arisen the night before.

"Look, I have to leave you…," she listened for a moment. "Yes, I love you too, and tell me ..." But she was interrupted by a man in a hurry who bumped into her and who continued to advance without even looking back.

After glancing disapprovingly at the direction where the man had gone, she put the phone back to her ear hearing her mother's voice asking if she was still on the line. "Yes, sorry ... yes, everything is fine ... yes I'll call you soon ...," and after a last goodbye the call ended and she walked into the diner.

.

Jemma had sat at a small table against one of the windows and was trying to solve something on the laptop while she was sipping the tea she had ordered earlier. She was thinking of having something to eat, but she wanted to fix this first.

The counter was behind her but she could hear the red-haired waitress, Grace if she remembered her nameplate correctly, jokingly arguing with another girl named Skye. Out of curiosity she was about to turn her head to see the scene when a large error message appears on the computer.

“No, no! Don't do this to me… ”But nothing, as she typed in several commands, the machine didn't respond.

All this attracted the attention of Skye who seeing the laptop and the girl from the back decided to get up from the counter and approach her table. "Any problems with the computer?" She asked and waited for the other girl to notice her.

When Jemma looked up at the new voice, she and Skye met eyes for the first time and for a moment everything seemed to stop. Both girls momentarily forgot what they were doing there or even who they were, too busy examining who they were in front of and the particular and invisible energy that a single glance had created between them. It didn't feel like a look from two strangers, it was as if they had always known each other and were just re-meeting after a very long time. Neither of the girls, however, had processed all this in their mind, it was more an unconscious feeling hidden inside them.    

After a few seconds, Jemma's brain finally processed the question. "What? ..." she was the first to recover from that strange feeling that was soon forgotten by both of them and that brought them back to the present. "... Oh yeah, and since last night he's been giving me trouble and today he seems to be totally crazy opening a bunch of random stuff at once and not responding to any commands I give him which is really weird because he's new and just for I use it for work but I didn't even have time to do anything about it because it immediately created problems, by now I have resigned myself to the fact that it must have some manufacturing defect and that I will have to change it. " She said it all at once and so quickly with even a few hand gestures that Skye couldn't help but find the lovely thing, that accent then…

Skye glanced at the screen as she ducked a little toward it. "Trust me, I know something about computers ditching you, mine just melted a few days ago ... but yours doesn't seem hopeless ...," she raised her posture and pointed to where the other girl was sitting. "I can? I'm Skye anyway. " Taking advantage of the moment also to introduce yourself.

Jemma understood the meaning of the question, nodded affirmatively and moved over the bench, letting Skye sit next to her. After all, what did it cost to let this girl give it a try? She knew that SHIELD would pay her another without a problem, part of her benefits as a scientist was the ability to have various equipment put on the expense account. And if while observing yet another failure to save him she was stirred inside by the close presence of this girl ... well Jemma certainly wouldn't have objected. "Jemma, and I don't think you're going to get anything out of him." By now she had already given up anyway.

Skye turned her head to Jemma looking into her eyes again. “So little confidence in my abilities ?,” she said using a slightly softer voice but not over the top.

"I don't know you, I can't know what your abilities are." Jemma replied with a smirk and a little playful voice, without even realizing the subtle flirtation the two had started.

"Yet you did not hesitate to immediately assume that I would fail." Skye said in the same tone as the other girl.

"I wasn't underestimating your possible computer skills, I'm just stating the facts based on the evidence I've been subjected to in the last fourteen hours." Jemma was trying to use logic in this "discussion". It was no longer about the computer, but who would have the last word on the other first.

Skye, sensing a slight hint of defiance in Jemma's argument, decided she definitely needed to impress the girl while at the same time keeping her hacker ego high. She brought her face a little closer to her. "Do you bet I can fix it?" His tone was doubtless defiant now.

Jemma didn't pull back and fold her arms as if to affirm it. “Let's do this, you said yours broke a few days ago right? If by a miracle you manage to make it work properly you can keep it, as I said so much it's new and I haven't put anything personal on it yet. "

Skye raised an eyebrow at this. "What if I don't succeed?"

"Then you buy me breakfast." Jemma answered without hesitation. At least she could get a meal with Skye and the morning wouldn't be ruined by the laptop disaster.

"This sounds like a win either way to me." Again the flirtation had made its appearance and to increase it all she even gave a wink.

Taken aback by the sudden audacity, Jemma looked down and blushed. The two remained in their positions for a few seconds, until Skye stopped looking at her and focused again on the laptop.

So for the next few minutes the young hacker did her magic and the biochemist watched her sipping her tea. For Jemma there was something special about this girl she had just met, she didn't know why, but she felt that today something had changed. She did not know what, in what quantity and how this would affect her from now on, she only knew that the meeting with Skye had shifted the axis of her life in an unpredictable way and she was curious what this would bring. The logical part of her brain, which was the one she usually used, said that it was a bit of an exaggeration to think so of a person with whom she had just exchanged a few words and who was now trying to solve her laptop, a laptop that moreover she had promised as part of the bet. But this time Jemma couldn't listen to that logical part of her, too busy with these new sensations. Nor was the "girl" part the problem since she never hid her bisexuality from anyone.

"Done! Like New!"

Skye's sudden voice roused Jemma from her thoughts, and once she understood what she had said, she moved the laptop towards her and stared at the screen. And indeed the computer now seemed to be back in place, the desktop in front of her was normal, and after a few tests, she could confirm that the device was responding to every command she gave it. "How did you do that?!" Jemma was not ignorant on the subject, you don't get two doctorates at a very young age without using computers, let alone having attended the Academy of Science and Technology at SHIELD, and yes perhaps this would have been more subject for the Academy of Communications, but she could say she could manage a little and recognize when a case was lost. But Skye had managed to solve everything in a few minutes.

"Secrets of the trade." These words and a small shrug were Skye's only response, along with a satisfied smirk that wouldn't leave his lips.

Jemma smiled along with her, and after looking at the laptop one last time, she closed it and lifted it with one hand to give it to Skye "Well, so now this is yours"

"Wait, were you serious ?!" Honestly, when Jemma told Skye the stakes, she didn't think she would actually have her laptop if she fixed it. Who does it with a stranger ?!

"Absolutely, a bet is a bet, and then my job will pay me a new one without any problems, it's part of my benefits." Jemma said with conviction.

"But won't they want the old one to check?" It couldn't be that simple.

“I will say that it ended up under a car and that there were only so many pieces left to throw away. Quiet I'm a pretty respected girl in my work area, I'm not usually the "Bad Girl Shenanigans" type. " The advantage of being a girl who usually never breaks the rules is doing what is expected of her, but spending time with Skye kept making her question a lot of things. Jemma handed the laptop to the girl once more, hoping that she would finally take her winnings.

Skye eventually gave up and accepted it, not believing her luck: she had met a beautiful girl and won a new laptop that only needed a quick reprogramming, or at least quick as far as her personal computer skills are concerned.

Once again the two girls were staring at each other, trying to figure out what they should be saying now, but then Jemma glanced at the diner's wall clock and revived all at once. “I didn't realize it was so late! My best friend is waiting for me! " She was due to meet with Fitz very soon. She stood up and quickly gathered her things, minus the laptop of course, "can you ..." she waved her hand to the fact that being seated next to her could not leave the table.

Skye, who had been immobilized by this sudden turn of events, realized the request. "Uh, sure ..." she got up to let her pass, still wondering how it was all ending so quickly.

Once clear of the table and leaving the money for the waitress, Jemma looked at Skye. "Sorry but I really have to go, my friend will kill me if I'm late, we have this dendrotoxin project and soon we'll be called back to our work ...," she quickly realized that the other girl looked confused about that. who had just said, "... sorry, forget it, big words from a scientist." The smile Skye gave in return made her smile too. "So I'm going ..." And after a last hesitation, she headed for the exit of the diner.

Skye finally recovered and ran to join Jemma who was now on the sidewalk outside the diner looking for a Taxi. "Jemma wait ... and what about that breakfast?" She asked trying on one last note of flirtation.

As the Taxi arrived, the biochemist turned to her. “You won the bet, didn't you? You'll have to settle for the laptop and wait for the next time. ”The big smile on Jemma's face confirmed it all.

"Look, I'm counting on it!" Today it seemed that neither of the girls ever stopped smiling at each other.

Jemma nodded and after having a final look at the other girl got into the Taxì, leaving a few seconds later.

Skye stood there staring until the car was out of sight, then returned to the diner. Only once inside did she realize something… they hadn't exchanged phone numbers! She immediately ran to the table with her new laptop hoping Jemma was lying when she said she hadn't put anything personal in it yet, but unfortunately for her after a few minutes she realized that in fact there was really no information that would allow her to track it down. Skye didn't even know her last name! This was an absolute disaster for her, far worse than how she had felt when she woke up without a computer to work on.

Grace, seeing her agitation, approached her. "Are you all right Skye?" Asked the young waitress.

Skye shook her head and looked up at her friend "I feel like I just missed the chance of a lifetime ..."

Grace, who had been watching Skye and the English girl interact the whole time, immediately understood what she meant. "Well you know ... if it is meant to be I'm sure that in some you will be able to meet her again, who knows, life always has a way to surprise you, you'll see," also adding an encouraging smile.

As the redhead got back to work, Skye stared out of the diner window reflecting on her words and the entire encounter with Jemma. Even though she didn't have the same confidence as Grace, just looking at how long she still looked for where she came from and who her parents were, she had the feeling that something really special had happened today and maybe this wouldn't be the only time. she would see Jemma.

But for now she no longer had time for these thoughts, or rather, she had other people to look for. And thanks to her new laptop, she could get back to work to attract the attention of a certain secret organization…

The End... or not?

What do you think? Should I continue? Is the translated version understandable and legible or should I leave it alone and limit myself to those in Italian? Don't worry to be honest, I prefer to know right away if it works or not.

[glow-worm]

How Many Times?

Lup died again and Taako's had enough. The cycle resets; the twins have an argument.

-----------------

When Lup opened her eyes, she was back on the Starblaster—in the same seat she always returned to, with the same scrapes and bruises she had gotten on a day so long ago but needed to tend to every year.

She looked around at the familiar scene, more confused than anything else because she could not remember dying.

Everyone seemed pretty sure of themselves, with the exception of Lucretia who also seemed a little out of place.

“Welcome back, ladies." Magnus said gruffly as the Starblaster wove through debris towards the next plane.

Lucretia and Lup exchanged glances, then shrugged.

Lup had died a few times already. If she wasn’t mistaken, this was probably the ninth. The IPRE crew had been at this for many years now. Considering the situation, nine times wasn’t too bad.

However, Lup seemed to be having a hard time staying alive lately. Nine deaths total so far, but the last three cycles in a row added to that count. And for all three, she had died very early on in the year.

Usually in a cycle where Lup died but Taako survived, he would greet her immediately once she reappeared on the ship at the start of a new cycle. He would stare expectantly at her chair and wait for her to come back. Most of the time he looked relieved and gave her a big smile, or a pat on the shoulder. One time he had broken down, and just grabbed her hand and held on for a while as he hid his tears behind his hat.

This time, nothing.

She looked to her right, where like clockwork her brother would always be on the reset day.

He was facing forward, expressionless. His eyes were directed towards her, but they showed no semblance of emotion. When he saw her looking at him, he gave her a small nod of acknowledgement and turned his gaze away to stare off into space.

Lup wondered what was wrong, but did not speak. Any post-death cycle recaps always had to wait until Davenport safely landed the Starblaster and the crew did at least minimal investigation of the new plane to make sure they were not in danger.

Taako was very aloof once the discussions began. Davenport and Barry led the recap, though Magnus and Merle chimed in with a joke a few times. Lup learned that she and Lucretia both kicked the bucket just five days into the cycle, leaving the guys alone for the rest of the year.

“We missed that female energy,” Merle jibed.

“Gross,” Lup said.

As Lucretia furiously took notes on Davenport’s account of the previous cycle, Lup noticed that Taako was gone.

She looked to Barry, who subtly gestured with his head to the stairs that led to the upper deck. He gave her a pat on the shoulder as she walked past him to climb up.

When Lup got to the deck, she found Taako leaning over a rail looking out at the sunset over the new planet.

The sky was full of stars which shone in spite of the last dregs of daylight. The horizon was painted teal and yellow. It was beautiful.

Taako’s ears perked slightly when he heard Lup’s footsteps, but he did not turn around.

Lup sat on a metal box that housed some of the ship’s machinery and stretched her arms. They were always sore on the reset day, and would stay stiff until she tranced that night. It was one part of the reset-routine that she had come to accept.

“So,” she prompted. “What’s up?”

Taako stood up a little straighter and looked over his shoulder at her. He turned back to the horizon, shaking his head slowly as a gentle breeze swept through his hair.

Lup sat on her hands to avoid fidgeting, and stared him down. She knew he probably wanted her to pry some more, but was not going to play that game. So she waited in silence, taking in the sunset and the landscape of the strange new plane.

It took a while, but Taako finally turned to face his sister. Although his face and body looked the same as they did every year, the expression is his eyes were different. He seemed cold and lifeless.

He let out a quiet huff and folded his arms across his chest before speaking.

“How many times am I going to have to bury you, Lup?”

She was taken aback. Lup stood up, bemused.

“Is that what this is about?” She asked. “Taako. We’ve been at this for so long. You know we always come ba—“

“Yeah, we have been at this for so long,” Taako interrupted. “But you’ve been MIA for three years in a row.”

Lup held her hands up, an eyebrow raised. She nearly laughed, “I’m sorry—are you mad at me for dying?”

He pressed a palm to his face. “No, Lup, but—”

“Because you realize there have been plenty of cycles where I’ve watched you die, right?”

“I know that, but that’s not what I—”

“What the hell happened to you last year that has you so bitter?”

Taako took a step back, his eyes defiant.

“Last year?” He repeated. “Well while we’re on the subject, how’s about I fill you in on the year before that? And the year before that? Spoiler alert! It was shitty.”

Lup balled her hands into fists, irritated, but didn’t say anything. She was ready to argue, but tried to hear him out since he apparently needed to blow off some steam.

“You realize in the last three years we’ve only been together for maybe four weeks, tops?”

She leaned over a railing, bewildered, adrenaline rising. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she thought about Taako going through daily life, cooking for the crew, and fighting off the Hunger without her for three straight years. On the few occasions she survived something that Taako did not, the nights were immeasurably lonely. With the rest of the crew needing sleep, her brother’s absence was unbearable once the others went to bed. She relaxed a little bit.

“I know how hard it can be,” she said softly. “I’m sure you had some really long nights. But it’s unfair to be mad at me when, again—you have also died a bunch of times.”

“It’s not the same,” Taako snapped.

Lup retorted with derision: “Oh, sure, it’s not the same.”

“It’s not,” he pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes tight. “Lup, when I die it’s because shit went south. When you die it’s because you pulled some ridiculous stunt!”

Taako took off his hat and set it down on a table, gathering his thoughts.

“That’s—” Lup stumbled. “That’s not—”

“I’ve seen you ripped apart by the Hunger,” Taako griped. “I’ve seen you impaled, burned, bitten, and blown up.”

He went on, “I lost you twice in a row and I just got you back and what do you do? Dive off a cliff to save some little brat who, by the way, got his shit absolutely wrecked by the Hunger at the end of the cycle.”

Lup tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. She couldn’t really remember the details of her most recent death, but knew she had tried hard to save a young boy. “I—I couldn’t just let him—what, Taako, you want me to just ignore everyone we meet like you do?”

“I want you to stop throwing your lives away just because you can!” Taako exclaimed, raising his voice.

He sat down and continued, returning to a normal volume. “Lup. You’re your own individual. You know I’ve always supported the decisions you make. I’m never gonna tell you what to do. But sometimes you don’t think things through. And yeah, we always come back. For now. But...I’ve had a lot of time to think, and I just have this feeling that one day you’re gonna go somewhere I can’t follow, and you’re gonna do something stupid and get yourself in a shit situation and no one is gonna be around to get you out of it.”

Lup stood awkwardly holding her arm, feeling a little guilty.

“We’re a family, Lup. I don’t just mean you and me. I mean all seven of us,” Taako said, struggling to admit it. “Don’t you think we should try to stick together?”

“I—” She put her hands in her pockets and cut herself off, at a loss for words. Lup looked up at the sky, which was fairly dark now. The sun had set quickly. “I’m going back inside.”

Lup looked back over her shoulder as she descended the stairs. Taako was watching her with indifference, his eyes completely hollow.

She rejoined the others for a while, hearing more stories of the previous year. She cooked, but Taako did not come down to eat.

“What’s going on with Taako?” Lucretia asked.

Magnus rubbed his head. “He got attached to someone in the last cycle. We...we all did. That kid that Lup saved.” He pushed his food around on his plate. “That’s a story for another time. Just give him some space, he’ll bounce back in no time.”

Lup cocked an eyebrow, but did not press anyone for details until later on when she had some time alone with Barry.

“We all really missed you,” Barry said. “And Lucretia. It’s been weird without you two.”

“Taako’s pissed at me,” Lup grumbled.

“Yeah,” he smiled. “I am too.”

Lup’s head snapped up, and she looked at him with surprise.

Barry shrugged, though his demeanor was cheerful and not confrontational.

“Your last couple of deaths have been pretty pointless,” Barry explained. “Lucretia’s was an accident, but you were reckless. You know it starts getting really difficult when we drop down to five.”

“I—was I supposed to just let him die?”

“No! But there were plenty of ways to save him that didn’t involve you plummeting to your death.”

“I was out of spell slots!”

“I wasn’t!” Barry countered. “And neither was Taako, and neither was Davenport!”

Lup shut up, a little embarrassed.

“I’m just glad to have you back,” Barry said. “Taako is, too. I know it maybe doesn’t seem like it. He’s just become a lot more independent lately. Plus with that kid following him around all year, it was a rough cycle for him.”

“What happened with that?” Lup prompted, keeping her voice low.

Barry took a breath and let it out slowly, trying to figure out how to begin. “You saved that little boy, and he—he got super depressed, actually, he felt really guilty that you died. And we told him not to worry about it, but—how could we possibly begin to explain that you were gonna just come back? So anyway, he started following Taako around. I guess cause he looks like you.”

Lup pictured a tiny human trailing after her brother and couldn’t help but laugh a little, even though she knew the story would not have a happy ending.

“Yeah—it was a sight for sure.”

“I have to say,” Lup interrupted. “That’s adorable. Was Taako good with him?”

“No,” Barry responded instantly. “Taako was kind of an asshole to him, honestly. Well, definitely an asshole.” Barry laughed a little, but his smile faded. “He tried not to get attached but how could he not? The kid wouldn’t leave him alone. And you died trying to save him. So Taako stayed with him until the end.”

Lup’s brow furrowed and she brushed a hand through her hair.

“But, hey,” Barry said. “Don’t worry about it. Like Magnus said, he just needs some time. He’ll come around. As long as you don’t get yourself killed again.”

Lup stood up, and went to go find her brother.

She knocked on his door.

“Taako?” She called softly.

She tried the door; it was unlocked. She cautiously pushed it open.

Taako was sitting on his bed, his arm draped over one knee, staring off into space. His gaze lolled to the side to see his sister.

Lup sat down next to him and, to his surprise, pulled him into a hug.

He didn’t do anything for a minute, unsure, but eventually gave in. He placed a hand on his sister’s arm and leaned in to her embrace, resting his head on hers.

“I promise,” she began, breaking the silence after a while. “I will make every effort to stay alive this entire cycle, and I will be more careful from now on.”

Taako did not respond, for he knew that was likely an empty promise.

----

Come read this on A03!

[atethewriting]

The Tail Of A Golden Deer: The Sixth

This is a collaborative project with the account @jongins-laceglove. We apologize for the delay and hope you enjoy the sixth part of this series!

A Deer watched as the two men ran off, staring at the group before him with a wide smile on his face.

“I’m gunna go find Jisungie!!!!! I’ll be back!!” He yelled enthusiastically, running back into the dark and scary wood.

A carefree, young lad spun and skipped around without a single thought in mind. Except for, well, Jisung. Little did he know someone was watching him from the trees. Eyes that roared with green hues, and a uniform in which was for little girls. The thing stared and pondered with its’ little green eyes, growing curious.

Another watched the deer carefully, just as unaware. A man with spitting red hands and tan skin, followed Chenle by foot. All while Peppermint remained carefree.

That is, until he saw something so dreadfully horrible that made him stop right in his tracks.

A boy with dark hair hang lifelessly from a rope that was carefully tied into a noose. The boy’s body was bruised and cut and mangled, while his head dangled by his spine. Slowly, the fairy fell out of the rope’s hold and landed silently on the cold ground.

Chenle felt himself tick and buzz as he began to laugh, allowing the toxicity of freedom and in-sanity crawl under his skin. Crack, snap, bloody murder. The Canary’s hair and once-beautiful antlers went ink black, dripping with blood and dead skin. His once-gone fingers into sprouted bones, all the while his mouth tethered shut and spread into a sewed-on smile that reached to his ears. With eyes as red as hers, the Canary turned around and laughed at Haechan. This laugh wasn’t carefree and joyous at all. This laugh...this laugh spoke murder.

“Hiya, Freak!” He giggled, getting a bit too close for Haechan’s liking. The smell of death reeked throughout the forest, nothing the two hadn’t smelled before. 

Haechan let out a hearty sigh and fought off the feeling to kill Chenle, realizing that he was definitely needed. “Hey.” He spoke blankly. 

“Haha! Acting tough, are we? How cute, how cute indeed. Yep! Yep! Such carefreeness for one who just killed my best friend. How cute, how cute indeed. Yep! Yep! We found your double. There is always the possibility of replacing you, but my Mama said we need you and your triples later on. Yep! Yep! The Canary always wins! Indeed, Indeed!” The boy’s voice worked like clockwork, ticking and buzzing and slowly losing control. A small whisper in his ear told him what to say, so he gladly listened. 

Haechan remained silent. 

“My Mama said not to trust men who know men in lab coats! Yep! Yep! How cute, how cute indeed! Rude! Rude!” Chenle sang as he paced around the Mage, laughing and giggling. 

That seemed to trigger Haechan in a way that made him stumble back and fall on the ground, a small gasp leaving his lips. “W-Who told you about that!?” His eyes went wide, a part of him trying not to cry. 

“My Mama!” The canary replied cheerfully, humming.

“G-get away from me, freak!” The mage yelled, getting back onto his feet and running off. 

Chenle only giggled, turning around and returning to his normal self. 

“Well, I found Jisungie...I guess...” 

---------------------------------------------

Winwin sat nearby the mangled body of a wind, mumbling about how he can’t leave Kun with a child and no one to protect him. He had no clue if Aldrich had returned yet but he knew that he couldn’t leave Kun with a fucking CHILD. It was a bad idea to let Kun keep her in the first place but it was even worse for this to suddenly happen. 

It then hit him.

“FUCKKKKKKKKK Even if i do make it back Baekhyun is literally going to slaughter me if he found out this happened!” Winwin yelled quite loudly, scaring off some birds. 

A loud whistle sounded throughout, spooking Winwin. Curious, he sprung up and followed the sound. 

Oh, it lead back to the cabin. OH, everyone’s here. 

“I have news...” The deer whispered, staying awfully close to his double. “J-Jisungie...Jisungie is dead...” 

Minseok blinked at him, trying to process his words before sighing heavily, moving sit down on the deck.

Hybrid Jisung smiled at the news, turned away from the group as he sat next to Yixing’s body.

That night was one big blur, everyone getting ready for bed as Minseok stared off into the forest, pacing nervously as he tried to decide on what to do with Yixing.

He walked by his body countless times, not even having the stomach to look at his lifeless form.

The moment he died kept replaying over and over in his head, the feeling he got as his friend’s life force slipped from his body like it was nothing wasn’t anything short of pure, unfiltered dread.

He finally gave up, letting out a loud frustrated noise as he opted for just putting a bed sheet on him and walked into the house.

He would have missed it when Chanyeol woke with a start, blindly searching for his notebook if it weren’t for his excessive cursing.

“Fuck if I don’t find it now I’m not going to be able to write it down, shit where is it I’m gonna fucking scream that god damned notebook is-“ Chanyeol flinched when his notebook smacked him in the face after Minseok threw it right at his face with an expectant look in his eye.

Chanyeol quickly sat down at the coffee table, quickly trying to scribble down all the events of his vision before it completely slipped from his mind.

“Fuck!” He growled, throwing his notebook across the room when he completely forgot some important information before he could write it down.

Minseok gingerly picked it up, flipping through the tattered book before stopping at the page he wanted, only to be more confused than ever.

“Orange. Blue. Black. Death. Jongin. Ch” He furrowed his brows and repeated it over and over, looking between the book and Chanyeol with a questioning look on his face.

“I don’t know, Minseok.. I really don’t know. I can’t help beyond that, I’m sorry. It’s gone.” He sighed, slumping over on the couch in defeat and running his hands over his face.

“And Jongin? Why does that name sound so familiar...” Minseok pondered as he walked over to Chanyeol, handing him his book back.

Chanyeol shook his head, taking the book absentmindedly with furrowed brows. “I.. It’s on the top of my tongue, but I just can’t quite put my finger on it. For some reason my first thought is that he has something to do with Renjun.. but that can’t be right, no that’s impossible. Right? It’s gotta be.”

Minseok stood there, his mind racing as he tried to figure out what to think of this situation when he and Chanyeol were suddenly startled out of their thoughts by the sound of the glass door slamming shut- making them both jump in surprise.

They exchanged a suspicious glance before they both scurried outside, seeing an orange-headed boy with a fluffy striped tale slinking quietly into the dark forest and immediately following after.

~~~~

He stared down at the dead body of his doppelgänger, happy with his work as he tied the cloth pouch that held Jongin’s eyes to his belt.

He was about to fly off- before he heard the argumentative shouts of.. three? People in the distance, and decided to have some more fun that night.

He quietly walked through the forest, slowly getting closer and closer before he broke through the tree line, and startled the three men.

“W-wait, you look.. Chanyeol I think you were right about Jongin being related to Renjun... I think they used to be friends.”

Kai snarled, his boney dragon wings twitching and his white eyes seemingly glowing under the moonlight. “You knew Jongin?” He threatened.

The tallest one nodded once, his ears flopping slightly with the movement. “Yeah actually. He was- wait, knew?” He backed up.

Kai smirked, staring right into him “Yes, knew. Why I killed him, after all!”

They gasped, but the one with the orange hair stood out to him in particular, so of course he did the most logical thing.

Kill him.

He lunged forward, ripping into the soft skin of his stomach with his left hand and tearing out organs as the boy let out pained screams. Black flames from his hand burned him from the inside out.

Kai turned to the other two that were trembling in fear, too shocked to say anything as he twisted his hand once more- making the boy scream even louder and enjoying the way that they flinched.

He finally had enough, reaching into his rib cage and burning right through his lungs to rip out his heart.

He kicked the body aside, moving towards the other two.

“Now. What do you know of Renjun? Where is he. If you play nice I might let you live~ barely, of course- But you’ll survive.” He teased.

The short one shuddered, his eyes still glued to the corpse of his friend and not even registering the words his taller friend sassed back at the man.

“I’d like you to say that again with just as much confidence after you know just how many seers I’ve killed, boy.”

The boy glared as he moved to punch Kai- but let out a guttural scream when he grabbed his arm, breaking his bones with the sheer force of his grip and tossing him to the ground as though he weighed nothing.

Kai smiled at the two before he slowly lifted both of his arms. One backed up as the other merely sat on the ground in horror, pathetically scooting against the dirt in an attempt to escape. “No.. no, please! I’m begging you, don’t!”

Kai just chuckled deeply, and steadily grew flames in the palms of his hands- the left being black, and the right being blue.

“Well, this was fun while it lasted.”

He shot his flames at both of them, their cries of pain the only thing he could hear over the sound of burning flesh.

He frowned at the blue flame, being reminded once again of the days when his bastard of a father took him to that small blue room.

When their screams finally stopped, he relented- and made sure he was satisfied with their charred beyond recognition corpses before finally flying back to wherever he came from.

~~~~~~~~~

What’s it like to lose your best friend?

Only few know that feeling.

Only few know the hopelessness.

A deer, a mouse, a bard, and many.

In-Sanity is a lot of fun.

When you’re doing it with another.

The Deerest of Deers stood silently and blankly, rapidly changing from his other form back to the original. It couldn’t decide. Didn’t want to decide. In-sanity is funny. It likes to bounce around wildly in your mind while you try to stay alive. Quite humorous, if you ask us. It likes to glitch and sting and buzz. A monster of all sorts, we must say.

He ticked and buzzed and flinched when the others around him in the cabin living room spoke. Everything was incomprehensible, blended in with each other. Reverbs and autotunes lifted their voices until everything was just hums and squeaks.

The boy let out a small, freakish sound. Down he went, to the ground. Not unconscious, just overstimulated. The voices mocked him. Told him it was all his fault.

The voices only laughed and the buzzes and static noise got louder. Every other sense blocked out as he fought his mind.

Don’t slip into In-Sanity.

Don’t slip into In-Sanity.

Don’t slip into In-Sanity.

Mint, snapping, twisting, deer.

The boy let out another freakish sound, covering his ears and trying to drown out the hearty thoughts that stabbed him countless times over.

It was testing him. Probing his mind with questions. He wasn’t ready, wasn’t worthy.

“Stop go away!” He yelled, yet nothing came out.

“I can’t!” He said once more, no one heard him.

A slip out of mind. To where no one heard his cries. His mind. His mind. His mind.

As soon as it started, it was over.

Skin, pale and scared, seemed to glow. The red and white hues to his features returned, no longer gold. He wasn’t worthy anymore.

To everyone else, he had merely changed colors like a chameleon. No one saw his pain. No one saw him collapse.

“Don’t trust men who have green couches! Don’t forgive men in lab coats! Don’t believe men in orange! A tiger is dead! Yep! Yep! A griffin has no heart! Yep! Yep! Dobermen Dead! Indeed! Indeed!” He blurted out, unable to control what he just said. Covering his mouth, he shook. “W-what...I-I didn’t mean to say that! Why did I say that?!!”

Jisung watched Chenle from a corner of the room, his own eyes swimming with worry. He’d been trying to muster up the courage to walk over and help him- seeing as nearly everyone else couldn’t see his distress through the haze of their own.

He mentally slapped himself when Sicheng and Yuta stepped into his line of vision, unfamiliar serious looks in their eyes.

He opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but before he could get the words out they both reached down and grabbed an arm, pulling him up. A confused noise escaped his mouth as they dragged him up the stairs into his and Chenle’s room.

Sicheng pushed him down on the bed, Yuta sitting down next to him as he pulled a chair away from the desk in front of the window it sat in front of.

He was speechless, eyes flicking between the two with a suspicious look.

“What do you two want.”

Sicheng snorted out a laugh, crossing his legs in the chair.

“We wanted to know if you need to talk? Not just about all the deaths.. but things in general.”

Jisung looked surprised, and he was indeed as to why they’d want to talk to him of all people. Why not Chenle? He certainly needed it more than him.

“I.. I suppose so. It honestly hasn’t caught up to me yet.. and I don’t think the worst has come.”

Yuta nodded, moving to wrap his arm around Jisung’s shoulder. “I see.. well, you know we’re here for you when it does hit. If you need us we’ll be there- no matter what. Don’t be scared to come get us.”

“I second that!”

Jisung chuckled, reaching to grab the desaturated orange blanket with cream splotches and black stripes that was draped over the headboard.

He wrapped it around himself, a comfortable silence settling in between the three. He didn’t have to speak for them to understand his situation or noisy mess for thoughts. They just knew. almost as if they’d been through something similar.

~~~~

Jisung shot up from his sleep in a cold sweat, looking out the window to see a bright crescent moon.

He swallowed, but the lump in his throat protested, causing him all the more pain.

He blinked, suddenly realizing the wetness of his cheeks.

All too fast, his mind flashed with the memories of his boyfriend from his dream and he only cried harder.

He got up quietly, padding through the hallway and down the steps to the bathroom. He picked up a small animal that was glowing dimly, and grabbed some sugar cubes for it on his way to the bathroom.

He set the small fluffy yellow creature onto the side of the counter, right in front of the mirror and giving it the snacks. He smiled softly as it’s glow became brighter with happiness, nearly buzzing in delight as it hummed sweetly.

With shaky hands, he took out Chenle’s pocket knife and sniffled, staring into the mirror at his own blurry and disoriented reflection.

He raised the knife to his hair- slicing off chunks until it was an inch long on top. With shaky hands, he shuffled through the drawers in the shelf behind him, pulling out an electric razor and deciding to shave the bottom a bit.

He stared into the mirror with a dull look, holding back the urge to scream and cry and punch something until his fists were bloody.

He clenched his jaw, suddenly turning to go back upstairs.

He walked right past his room, turning into an empty . His tears started falling even heavier, dripping onto the ground as he searched through the drawers for Chenle’s lighter.

He finally found it, pulling it out of the drawer and dropped to the ground. He hugged it close to his chest, sobbing freely.

After a while he calmed down a bit, and he decided to get up and go act upon whatever impulses his mind feeds him.

As he was standing up to leave the room, he jumped- the silhouette of his roommate startling him.

“C-Chenle? What are...what are you doing out of bed...?”

“What the heck do you think I’m doing?! I’m trying to find that stupid book...Yep! Yep! Indeed!” Chenle grinned and approached the other, his figure darkened and bloody. In between the knots and strings of his mouth, a set of sharp teeth rest, waiting to strike. The boy’s red eyes glowed so brightly that it was almost blinding to look at. 

“Would you like to commit a crime as horrible as murder with me? For sure! For Sure! We shall ruin life and death! The king has befallen! Yep! Yep! In a pile of roses, once more! Yep! Yep! May we pray for his poor soul!” The Canary giggled, twitching and ticking as he hummed around the room. 

“My Mama,” He continued, looking back at Jisung, “My Mama said to have you help me, as you are as heartbroken as I am!” 

Jisung gulped, shoving the lighter into his pocket and averting his gaze to the floor. “I don’t know who your ‘Mama’ is, but she’s wrong. I’m not heartbroken. I don’t know why I would be. It’s not like.. like he’s really gone or anything. He’s just, he’s just missing, that’s all. Yeah, he’s missing!”

He bounced over to the doorway, looking behind him to Chenle, waiting for him to follow.

“I- I’ll find him! Yeah, You’ll burn the book, and i’ll g- go look for him. And I’ll find him! He’s okay, I just know it.”

Chenle stopped the taller one, tightly gripping his wrist and looking down. 

“Jisungie...You can’t go in the woods anymore...there’s an evil man there. H-He...He killed your...your me. He’ll kill you, too, if you go out there. The man with...dragon wings...He doesn’t show any mercy. Just...Just grab the book. We’ll burn it together, okay?” 

He let out a shaky and weak sigh, the tension in his body slowly disappearing. 

“I.. I will burn the book with you. But after that, I can’t promise anything. I appreciate it.. but I have to go into the forest. I can’t explain it, it’s like there’s something calling me. And I need to know what it is.”

“Then, I’m going with you.” The Deer let go of the mouse’s wrist, leaving the room and coming back with a lit lantern. “But let’s do it before it gets too late. We can burn the book when we get back, or we’ll get it now and do it in the woods. How does that sound?” 

Jisung only nodded. 

And, off they went. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With winds of ice and horror, two boys stood at the edge of a dark forest, wielding only a pocket knife, a lighter, an old book, and a lantern. In Xymore times, right now it would be 2 First, or, 2AM. 

The Wood, alive with creatures only the night knows, crawled up their backs and made them shiver. Howls and shrieks and cries they had never heard before. Sounds only heard in dreams. The wisps of eerie whispers tickled them. 

Only a small flame brought them to the center of it all. Everything fell into a sort of enchanting spell at this hour, whistling a tune while purple lights dangled from the trees as if they were hung for a birthday party. 

“Mendorus Candelactum...” Chenle mumbled, “The Goddess Of Memories...She’s watching...We mustn’t make a sound, Jisung...” 

“How do you know th-”

“Shh...” 

The Deer stood tall on his heels and sniffed the air, pointing North, deeper into the forest. 

“That way...” He breathed, quietly heading the direction he pointing to. 

The reeking smell of death filled their noses and blanketed their tastebuds with rotten, human flesh. Chenle, quite used to it, kept moving closer towards the smell. Jisung, however, gagged and unwillingly followed the canary. 

What they saw was hideous. 

Guts scattered the forest floor. Blood, clotted and gooey, stuck to the bottoms of their shoes as they directed the light towards the source. Three dead bodies rest mangled and stagnant, hollow of any magic. Just a shell of the people they used to be. The youngest let out a choked sob once he saw someone familiar, yet the oldest directed his attention towards the rope that hung from a tree, and the man who lay beneath it. 

A graveyard of magic and unfulfilled hope. It disgusted them, yet, intrigued them, as well. A lighter and a book, four dead bodies, possible doom...It intrigued them. Made them so undeniably curious. What lie at the end? Only the dead knew that answer. 

The small “tick, tick, tick” of a lighter being lit was the only sound made in this moment. Soon after, the crackling of a book being burned to ashes, and the choked laughs of two In-Sane children. ‘Such a pretty sight,’ they pondered, allowing for the in-sane-ness to drown them in such a pretty and curious light. ‘Such a pretty sight to see the ones we hate mangled on the forest floor.’

Jisung giggled, the misplaced happy sound cutting through the air over the crackling of the burning book. His hand subconsciously reached towards the dancing fire, before the sound of a twig snapping from behind startled him.

He whipped around towards the sound, flinching and swiftly pulling out his dead boyfriend’s knife from his back pocket.

His eyes widened at what he saw, the corpses of their deceased friends- and his boyfriend- rising from the ground, their empty eyes dull-ly twinkling from the light of the small fire.

“Burn.. Burn.... Burn........” They groaned, clawing and stumbling after the pair before Jisung had to slash at Minseok’s hand when his body got too close. “I.. I think that’s how they died...” Jisung mumbled to himself, clicking his tongue as he grabbed a heavy rock to bash Chanyeol’s skull in with it while stabbing Minseok in his rotting temple, successfully killing them one last time.

He panted, staring down at the bodies in a moment of uneasy silence before a shrill scream of surprise ripped out from his throat, being shoved to the ground with a harsh pushed from behind.

He struggled, slashing at the crazed, re-animated body of his boyfriend that reached for him while he sobbed. “No! No, please- Chenle! It-It’s me! Don-don’t you recognize me?! It’s- it’s go-ing to be ok-okay! Just please, Don’t hurt me!!!”

Our very deer-like Chenle twitched and ticked towards his double, pulling him up by the back of the shirt and giving a dead stare. Looking him in the eyes, the Canary’s pupil dilated until the eye was as small as a pin. Looking death in the eye, giving his doom the final laugh before reaching up the lighter in which the book was burned from. Slowly, the small whispers of the forest silenced, being filled by the short breaths of someone who’s faced death many times over.

“You can’t hear me...You have nothing left...But, I promise you...I will take care of him. You shall hurt no-one...an-y-mo-re. May Death never forgive you, and may you light up in flames and fuel our heat.” 

The Silence, like a bubble, popped. Soft, crackling noises from the fire that burned a familiar body. 

“He’s watching us. Such...a foolish boy...Jisungie...Someone’s watching us. He’ll make it 21...We must hurry home.” 

A whip of dark light flew by them. The small laugh of a confused man, creeping up behind them. 

“I recognize those certain words, yes yes,” The voice spoke, making himself apparent. 

Kun. 

“Mark told me once, I thought it was your father who would say it. Of course, it’s you. He could tell the future! Ah, green, green!” Wrapping his arms around Chenle and squeezing tight, a bright smile lit up the forest. “Your father wouldn’t be proud of you, but I am.”

“Kun!!” The Deer smiled, returning to his normal self and helping up Jisung, “Jisung! This is...oh, are you okay? You look awfully pale.” 

Said boy shivered in dread, wrapping his arms around himself on the ground he sat disoriented upon. He stared Into the distance- the feeling of something being wrong consuming him before the question registered, and he stood up stiffly, offering a curt nod to no one in particular.

“Yeah, I’m.. fine. I’m just not used to an... anybody el-se b-ut m..my Chenle car-ing about m-e.”

He wiped blood off of the blade of his knife with the fabric of his tattered gray shirt, cutting a long slit into it accidentally as a result.

He scrunched up his nose in anger, impulsively flipping the knife downwards in his hand before shoving the knife into the hole.

Right as it registered in his head what he’d done, it was too late.

He gasped, the pain slowly spreading through his body before he pulled the knife back out of the side of his side in a panic- spasming in pain and flinging the knife through the air blindly.

Kun blindly caught the knife, recognizing its’ pattern and dropping it to the ground, letting a small gasp grab his throat and strangle him. A choked cry brought him all the way left as he stumbled over to Jisung and absent-mindedly started to treat his wounds. A strange tingling feeling brought him to a halt, feeling as if there was a ghost touching his shoulder. He shivered, continuing what he was doing until the wound was bandaged and secure. 

Yet, something felt off. Not in the way that’s like “oh I’m not home”, but in a “I know this place” kind of way. He knew this forest. 

It was the forest he went missing in over 20 years ago. 

“What the...”

---------------------

By now it was getting to be sunrise and the three In-Sane members of the group made their way up the steps, too tired to notice that a green book and some pointy object rest where Yixing was supposed to be, but now gone. 

Tired, but aware, Kun saw the small sign that was hung right next to the door, absolutely speechless. 

“Renjun...Renjun...Huang Renjun...?” He spoke to himself, entering into the cabin after the two boys.

With Chenle and Jisung already in their rooms, probably sleeping, Kun took his time peeking around the cabin until he had someone to talk to. Reminiscing the old cabin and memories he had in the past. 

The fiery heat of a Phoenix made his way down the stairwell, still sleepy and in his soft pajamas. It was quite early, after all. Sunlight breeched through the large windows Kun was facing, causing him to groan and shield his eyes from the powerful light. His tucked-away Fairy wings were quite visible, now, as his black shirt wasn’t at all heavy. This caught Renjun’s attention. He gasped so loud that it made Kun swiftly turn around. 

The two shook as they tried to keep themselves together. Many, Many years it had been since they last made eye contact. So many lost years in which the Phoenix called the Fairy’s name deep in the woods with no response. They both looked so mature now, it was almost too good to be true.

“Kun?” 

“Renjun?”

Renjun trembled, his eyes stinging with the pain that came along with the remembrance of lost memories.

Pictures of his childhood flashed before his eyes in a vivid haze of laughter and fun. He had been friends with the fairy at a young age.. up until he disappeared without a trace one day, leaving the boy to wonder if it was all a dream.

But he stood before him now, in all his glory.

He blinked his thoughts away, stepping closer to the other man.

“Is... is it really you? I- I assumed you were dead. You look so different now...”

“I would say the same for you, Renjun. Yes, it really is me...I uh...thought I’d never see this place ever again, honestly.” Kun didn’t seem to smile, even in this moment of joy. Yet, the phoenix could tell Kun was insanely proud of him. “Oh, right. My Renjun wanted me to tell you that he is okay. He’s at home resting....Mmmm...Do you have any soda...? It’s been years since I’ve had a coke.” 

Renjun’s caramel brown hair glowed ember in a moment of excitement as he jumped to the kitchen happily.

“That’s right, you used to really like pop didn’t you?” He thought out loud, swiping a can of coke from the top shelf of the fridge.

“I like to drink one out in the place we used to play around as kids... I never really thought about it before, but I really miss those days.” He pondered reminiscently.

“Mmm...” Kun looked down at the floor, holding the can of coke tightly in his hands. Soft tears slowly fell down his face while he attempted to push them away and act like nothing was happening. “S-Sorry...Sorry I’m sorry...”

The distant arguing of two of the now awake members came crashing down the stairs. Winwin...and Yuta...Surprise, surprise. Winwin came tumbling over to Kun, tackle hugging him. 

“Saonac, soam-raoc acaas!!“ He slapped Kun right on the cheek, giving a small pout and sitting on his lap. 

“Shoth of!“ The stupid, tear-faced idiot returned. 

“Dhraeen~” Winwin stuck his tongue out, wiping Kun’s tears away. 

“I’ve missed you, too.”

The loud crash of a startled man came tumbling down the stairs, quickly collecting himself and looking at the group with wide eyes.

“I know the coordinates!”

[lavieenprose]

on being ill

“On Being Ill” isn’t just making a case for illness as a literary subject, but for the brute, bare fact of the body itself. By insisting we acknowledge that we sweat and crave and itch all day (“all day, all night”), Woolf reminds us we have the right to speak about these things—to make them lyric and epic—and that we should seek a language that honors them. The man who suffers a migraine, she writes, is “forced to coin words himself, taking his pain in one hand and a lump of pure sound in the other.” What does it sound like, this strange, unholy language of nerves and excretions? How do we articulate the kind of pain that refuses language? We throw up our hands, or we hurl our charts: one through ten, bad to worse, from the smiley face to its wretched, frowning cousin.

Woolf’s argument may have been more urgent in her time than in ours—we have more records of the “daily drama of the body” now than we did then—but when I first read her battle cry, her call to arms (not just arms but legs and teeth and bones), it felt like encountering a long-lost relative: the banner I’d never known I’d always been fighting under: Bodies matter—we can’t escape them—they’re full of stories—how do we tell them? Her argument might have the urgency of a battle cry but it’s also vulnerable; it’s posing questions; it’s got mess and nerve—it’s leaking some strange fluid from beneath its garments, hard to tell in the twilight, maybe pus or tears or blood. Even her syntax feels bodily—full of curves and joints and twists, shifting and stretching the skin of her sentences.

People have often told me my own writing seems to be all about bodies. A woman from a writing workshop once suggested I call my collection of stories Body Issues. (I didn’t have a collection of stories: If I did, I wouldn’t have called it that.) But I’ve never wanted to write about “the body,” by which I mean I’ve never set out with that explicit intention; I’ve only ever wanted to write about what it feels like to be alive, and it turns out being alive is always about being in a body. We’re never not in bodies: that’s just our fate and our assignment. (In her beautiful memoir The Two Kinds of Decay, Sarah Manguso writes that she despises “the body” whenever it describes anything but a corpse, and I love that, though I use the phrase constantly anyway.) To my mind, the more aggressive choice is writing that isn’t physical; this insistence carries the burden of intentional absence.

All that said, I’ve always felt a certain shame about the ways my writing keeps coming back to bodies, which is why I loved finding Woolf. My shame felt such relief at the prospect of her company. My first novel was all about addiction and eating disorders and sex, and there was food everywhere, some of it gone rotten. I used the word “sweat” too many times (my editor told me); there were too many fluids (my editor told me) and far too many bruises (my editor told me) and even worse, too many of these bruises were “plum-colored”—for this last one (my editor told me), we would both get mocked, if we didn’t get rid of some of these plum-colored bruises right away. A certain shame hung over the whole narrative, like a faint body odor I couldn’t smell because it was mine: There was too much body, and this too-much-body risked banality and melodrama at once. I’ve always wondered if this shame about writing about the body is connected to the shame of quasi-autobiographical writing, that sense of failing to imagine beyond one’s own experience. Is writing about bodily experience somehow the extreme form of this failure, the ultimate solipsism? You haven’t even gotten beyond your own nerve endings; it’s no accident they call it navel gazing.

I often think of an old painting I once saw that shows an injured body pointing at its own open wounds. The most graceful victim, of course, is the one who doesn’t need to point at his holes or ask for sympathy—who doesn’t take up the lump of pure sound, who just keeps quiet. The way I imagine being scolded goes something like this: There’s something selfish about talking about bodies too much if the bodily experience fueling everything is your own.

I often think, also, of a cross-country race I ran in 10th grade: I tripped on a slab of concrete sticking up from the dirt, about a hundred meters after the start, when the pack was still dense; and I was trampled by the horde of 15-year-old girls running behind me. It was pretty minor, as tramplings go. But still, it was a trampling. I got up to run the next three miles of the race but I was shaken up and bleeding. I wasn’t running well at all—nothing close to what I’d need to do to place well for our team.

When I reached my coach, who was calling out our one-mile splits, she said something to the effect of “Why are you running so slow?”—only perhaps not so delicately phrased. I remember the awkward way I tried to point at my own wounds without slowing my (turtle) pace; and I remember how badly I wanted her to see the streaks of dirt-clotted blood; I almost stumbled again in my urgent need to show her the proof of my stumbling.

That memory has become the vessel for a certain kind of shame—the shame of pointing too overtly at what hurts, jamming the laser-pointer of language at some wound and then expecting it to yield wisdom or explanation. My coach didn’t want the epic or lyric account of my damaged body, she just wanted me to keep running, and hopefully pick up the pace.

I’m still haunted by the specter of myself in this moment—a mute form pointing, bleeding. A few years after that race I spent a couple months actually mute: I’d gotten jaw surgery and they’d wired my jaw shut to help it heal. During those months I wrote quite frequently but it was mainly practical, because I couldn’t talk. I requested things by scribbling them in a little notebook: vicodin, please; okay ensure (my mom was always foisting Ensure on me), but are there any cans of dark chocolate left? HATE butter pecan. I asked for sheets draped over the mirrors, so I wouldn’t see my swollen face; I asked for the pair of scissors that I was supposed to keep on-hand in case I vomited and needed to cut the wires between my teeth.

Eventually I started writing poems about those quiet weeks, and the surgery before them, the days in the hospital. The poems were full of IV lines and numbness and feeling returning after numbness like water oozing back into crab holes in damp sand (“crackling lines of hurt,” I wrote). I imagined myself the bard of swelling; I wanted to write toothache lyrics for swelling—to evoke the chronic panic of its deforming sculptural practice: it shapes you into something like you, but not you. I wanted to bring that aching knowledge to my nonexistent reading public.

I turned the poems into a series and then I turned them in to my undergraduate writing workshop. The series was called “Waiting Room,” meaning the waiting room before surgery but also the injury afterward as a waiting room—get it?—the aftermath as the cramped little chamber where you wait to get better; where you have to keep waiting even once it seems like you should already be there.

I wasn’t satisfied with the poems. Pain was hard to describe. I encountered Elaine Scarry’s famous formulation—“pain does not simply resist language but actively destroys it”—which recognized but did not solve the problem. My workshop wasn’t satisfied with the poems either. Everyone wanted to know: What were they about? I thought it was pretty fucking self-evident, but no, it was a different problem: My classmates got that these poems were about pain and injury—maybe in a dental office?—but what were they really about? My workshop was thinking everything must be a metaphor for something else: the cut lines on raw gums, the self-quieting sparkle of anesthesia. But in truth, nothing was a metaphor for anything. It was more or less this happened, and it hurt. There was nothing below the surface.

At the time I took this as a verdict of poverty and lack—which is why I loved finding Woolf, so many years later, who seemed to be saying, the surface of the body isn’t poverty; it isn’t lack. She rose from the dead for the express purpose of silencing that workshop, or at least arguing against the notion that there had to be something besides bodies for these poems to matter. She was saying the surface is poetry; bodies are poetry; or poetry can be made of what these bodies need and crave and bleed and feel.

I felt her summoning an army, everyone I’d ever read whose language does some justice to the way our bodies are, the ways they betray us or bind us together: Walt Whitman’s greed to catalogue the physical forms of his countrymen, William Faulkner’s fixation on muddy drawers and the waft of honeysuckle; Marcel Merleau-Ponty’s insistence on the body as an “eloquent relic of existence.”

Woolf writes: “It is not only a new language that we need, more primitive, more sensual, more obscene, but a new hierarchy of the passions; love must be deposed in favour of a temperature of 104; jealousy give place to the pangs of sciatica.” I can see the way these marching orders have infected my own prose—even this piece, with its twisting, bodily contortions—and the way they’ve helped me claim a dialect I’d been afraid was junk, a ledger of the body’s travails, not the “Waiting Room” poems (which weren’t really that great) but the notebooks I kept when my jaw was wired silent, full of their banal complaints and requests: Vicodin, please. Where are the vomit scissors? These are daily dramas of the body, charged with force and longing; the record Woolf never found, the words that pain and pure sound made.

[ineffable-snowman]

Day 5: Fire

Me - like probably everybody else in the GO fandom - sees the prompt “fire”: Ah, so it’s going to be angst today. (But not too much, I hope.)

***

“I’ve decorated the bookshop,” Aziraphale told him on the telephone while Crowley was on his way to enjoy the chaos at a Christmas Sale. He hummed occasionally while Aziraphale described everything in great detail.

“…and I’ve put garlands on the stairway railing, plastic ones because you know the real thing always runs dry so fast, but I added real fir cones and holly, so it looks quite lovely now. And I’ve finally had the fireplace repaired.”

The brakes screeched and Crowley wheeled the car around. The Bentley did a little hiccough and then made the worst possible song selection.

Aziraphale continued talking while Crowley sped through Oxford Street. “…so you could come over tonight, if you wanted to. The bookshop is warm again, no more need for piles of blankets…”

“On my way,” Crowley said through gritted teeth, and stopped at one of the many playhouses in Soho to grab a fire extinguisher.

He burst into the bookshop, ignored Aziraphale’s surprised shouting and pointed the fire extinguisher towards the fireplace like a gun. He had threatened that blasted thing several times and made his point very clear! What was it thinking, just accepting a fire again?

He was only able to focus on Aziraphale’s words when he had the fire stopped completely.

“Are you mad?”

“Are you mad?”

“My books!”

“Exactly!”

“What were you thinking?”

“What were you thinking?”

They had not had a real argument or raised their voices since the events of the summer, but suddenly they were shouting at each other.

“Do you know how many first editions you have just ruined?”

“Just restore them with a miracle!”

“No, you can’t just restore everything, Crowley! Some of them are beyond miracles! And you know how many of them were signed? You can’t just restore an autograph, it wouldn’t be the same.”

“Right, who do you need? Just tell me their names and I’ll go to Hell and get their damned souls to sign the books for you again! Whose autograph do you want? Just tell me and I’ll get it for you! But don’t make a fire in your bookshop, for heaven’s sake!”

“That’s completely ridiculous! What are you even on about?”

“It’s a firetrap – your bloody bookshop – thousands of old paper sheets – like, just a spark could burn the whole thing down in a minute! And no fire precautions at all! You know discorporation wouldn’t just be a bit of nasty paper work now! You don’t think Heaven would just issue you with a new body, do you? It would be forever now! I mean – forever gone from Earth! Forever – argh! And just because of some stupid books!”

“If you think my bookshop and my books are so stupid, you are free to leave.” Aziraphale sniffed and bent down to examine the damaged soggy books. He made distressed little noises, and Crowley lost it. With a curse, he threw the fire extinguisher at the fireplace and added a real demonic curse in order to condemn the fireplace to smother any flame that dared to ignite there. Then he ran out of the bookshop.

He might have surpassed the tempo limit a little when he raced aimlessly through London, cursing at Aziraphale’s stupid books and his carelessness, at the never-ending “Thank God it’s Christmas”, at the stupid humans who had decided it was a good idea to make a fire inside a home (it had been Aziraphale who had given them the flame in the first place, even then not giving a fucking thought about any self-protection, stupid, stupid angel!), he cursed at Heaven and Hell, at winter (why the cold?), at Christmas (why the candles?), and at himself, for being so frightened by the idea of losing Aziraphale – again and for real this time.  

He needed several hours to calm down until he could think clearly again. The whole thing was a mess. He was a mess. Had he overreacted? Probably. Aziraphale had survived centuries in his firetrap. But there had always been the option of getting a new body if anything happened. Now, however, they were just as vulnerable as the humans. And Crowley could not lose Aziraphale. But maybe in trying to prevent it, he had done exactly that. Aziraphale was never going to forgive him for damaging his precious books. Also, he would not just give up cosy fireplaces and candles just because Crowley could not get a grip on himself. Aziraphale loved nothing more than sitting in front of the fireplace with a good book and a hot cocoa, and he would never celebrate Christmas without candles.

It was hopeless but that did not mean that Crowley gave up.

He spent the next days hunting for books: very old books, special editions, signed copies, new publications that sounded like Aziraphale would like them. Then he bought fairy lights in all lengths, colours and forms, and a bunch of LED candles. Finally he added two fire extinguishers into the overloaded Bentley.

He lurked close to the bookshop until he saw Aziraphale leave. Then he acted quickly. He placed the fire extinguishers strategically but not so they would spoil the cosy atmosphere in the bookshop. He piled the meticulously wrapped books onto the armchair (the only empty surface) and added, in a last minute decision, a scribbled “Sorry” on the topmost wrapping paper. Then he replaced all the real candles with LED candles and switched them on. Lastly he hung up the fairy lights, which took a bit longer because the bloody things didn’t behave. He was just shouting at one to let him go, when Aziraphale entered the shop. Crowley froze, wrapped up in a string full of blinking little stars.

“Er,” said Aziraphale.

“Right,” said Crowley. “This is… just an experiment.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale.

“You don’t like it? Okay, I’ll just remove all the – all of it, then -” He made to do exactly that but got tangled up in the string of lights and stumbled. Aziraphale caught his arm to steady him.

“Careful, dear.”

“I – I got you books. I know it’s not the same, but…” He gave an awkward shrug into the general direction of the armchair.

Aziraphale followed his gaze and his eyes lit up. “Oh! That’s really – but let me help you out of these first.”

It was embarrassing and not at all how Crowley had planned it but at least Aziraphale did not seem to hold a grudge against him.

“You know, I like some of them,” Aziraphale said once he had freed Crowley and taken a good look around at the newly decorated bookshop. “But all in all it seems a bit…much. It’s very bright. Feels rather like a lamp store than a place to live in – or celebrate Christmas in.”

“Then just remove some of them?” Crowley suggested cautiously. “Or…you could come to my place for Christmas? If you wanted to celebrate together, that is…?”

“Of course I want to celebrate together.” Aziraphale looked intently at him and Crowley was glad he was wearing his sunglasses. “But, forgive me for saying so, your flat is not exactly a…place to celebrate Christmas in.”

“I can decorate! I’ll even put up those tasteless cherub baubles! And real candles should be fine there. I’ll – I’ll go to Christmas Mass with you if you just-!”

“Out of the question. I will not have you burn your feet on Christmas. And completely unnecessarily on top of that.”

“Better my feet than your whole body,” Crowley mumbled.

“I don’t want you to go to church on my account,” Aziraphale continued. “And I absolutely don’t want you to go to Hell. I’ve been thinking… maybe we could go somewhere else. Together.” He said the last word so softly that Crowley would have thought he had just imagined it were it not for Aziraphale’s frightened and hopeful expression.

“You mean…?”

“I mean move out of London. Just for the holidays at first. But if we liked it…maybe longer?”

“Oh,” Crowley said, and then he could only nod. (He may have been crying a little but no one would ever know because he was wearing his glasses.)