#they would have burnt and he would have stood inside. laughing manically

[officersnickers]

Okay, currently rewatching S1/05, and while Norman is arguably smarter than Ray, he can't even begin to rival Ray in one aspect:

Radiating ✨The Audacity™✨ of literally grinning while he's exposed as Isabella's spy and traitor to the whole plan 😩

[slurrmp]

okay so - this just appeared in my head after a conversation in the doctor who dis.cord server. it isn’t exactly a continuation from THIS prompt, but it does involve my version of dhawan!doctor - so you all seemed to like that one. here’s hoping y’all like this mess of a fic. here’s to many more prompts this year !!

warnings: blood mention, injury, detailed wound

pairing: diaster!reader x dhawan!master

                                                             -x-

If someone had told you last year that you’d be stuck in a parallel world, with a version of the Doctor that looked like the Master, you probably would have laughed at them. Like full on kinda mental breakdown kind of laugh, though even the idea of time travel and aliens was still an entirely foreign concept to you at that time. But yet here you were - exactly 12 months later, with your hand clasped firmly in his grasp as your legs tried their hardest to keep up with him.

It was still kinda surreal that HE was standing in front of you, looking so much like YOUR Master and yet he wasn’t. He was kinder, softer, his dark eyes didn’t seem scary anymore when you looked into them and touch certainly wasn’t that big of a deal anymore. He reminded you so much like your Doctor that it was kind of freaky, almost like their entire personalities had switched. And that was the right assumption, considering you had met this universe’s Master not that long ago - looking like HER and your brain had a hard time trying to wrap around everything that had happened during that week.

With the ability to get back to your own universe very slim, you had decided to join the Doctor on his travels, much like you would with your Doctor back home. Might as well stick around just in case he miraculously finds a way to send you home. Though really, you should have come to terms with the fact that sooner or later you would run into an adventure that could possibly get you both killed. The pair of you had caused a little bit too much trouble on this particular planet and of course the guards that were chasing you out of the town weren’t so forgiving, a giggle left your lips as your hand shifted in his ever so slightly. The Doctor looked back at you - tightening his grip on you, a manic grin crossing his lips and your couldn’t help your heart as it skipped in your chest.

“Stop in the name of the emperor!” The loud shouts and calls from the guards caused you to look behind you and to be honest you knew that while everything had been going so smoothly the last couple of months, something was bound to happen that would bring all of that good feeling crashing down. Your eyes widened ever so slightly when you spotted the weapons in each of the guards hands - most of them aimed towards you. They looked like a cheap version of a Star Trek phaser.

“Doctor!” Your voice seemed to be drowned out by the villagers around you, who were all spilling out into the streets, wondering what was happening - the low murmur of their voices getting louder and you tried to keep your focus in front of you. The TARDIS came into view then and your whole body relaxed.

“Come on,” Your name left his lips as his free hand moved to reach into his vest pocket and pull out the TARDIS key. Then there was a tickle at the back of your head, telling you that something was going to happen, that’s when you saw it -  the bright orange light left one of the weapons, sounding like a firecracker as it raced through the air towards you. The initial impact didn’t hurt and you thought that it must have missed - but it wasn’t too long until your whole body felt like it was on fire. You didn’t have time to realise you had been hit, or even react properly when you spotted the TARDIS doors slam open and the pair of you fell inside, doors slamming shut behind you. Jumping when the banging against the doors filled your ears.  

The Doctor had let you go by then moving chaotically forward towards the console. You tried to keep your composure, trying to make it seem like you were okay and fine, but your legs gave way from underneath you and you hit the deck, your forearm being the only thing that stopped your head from whacking against the grated flooring. “I would have admitted defeat earlier, but I had forgotten how head strong the Orion’s are.” The Doctor wasn’t even paying attention - too busy trying to get you out of that place. “You tell them once that they’re wrong...” He rambled, head bent forward - fingers flying about the console, while you were trying your hardest not to burst into tears.

Looking down, you spotted that your clothes were covered in blood, a trail leading from the top of the steps to the doors could be seen as well. A whine escaped your lips, as a hand came up and pressed lightly against the wound in your side, but you couldn’t help the wince and a hiss escaped through your lips. “Doctor...” your voice was low and you could feel your head beginning to tilt to one side. Your vision was starting to blur and you knew that you had lost too much blood already, the feeling that your side was being ripped open.

“Then there’s the entire thing with the slaves. I tried to convince them more than once ...” He was still busy plotting in a course and dancing around the console. It wasn’t long until he flipped the lever and the TARDIS shuddered in response, moving into flight but telling him something else. “What’s wrong girl?” His voice was soft and hand reached out to touch the crystal in the centre of the console. Then his head snapped to the side and his brown eyes caught yours and a sad smile crossed your lips.

“I’m fine... It’s fine.” Then he was in your face, his smell hit your nose and it was such a contrast to the metallic of your blood that had invaded your senses. “Today’s been fun,” You continued, a wet laugh escaping your lips as a hiss once again escaped you as the Doctor placed a hand over your wound - fingers wrapping around yours and you could feel your blood spread even more. His other hand pulled out the sonic and he waved it over you - frantic. “Aside from the hole in my side, it’s been great.” Your cheeks felt wet and your heart hurt.

“No,” The Doctor mumbled pressing down on the gushing wound. “No,” Hair flopped in front of his face and suddenly his eyes reminded you so much of him and you didn’t like that. Not at all. A shaky breath escaped as you pulled your hand out from under his and rested both your hands on either side of his face. You winced when you noticed that your blood covered hands were causing the liquid to stain his dark skin.

“Hey ...” You murmured. “Hey don’t look like that,” Your head tilted once more and your vision blurred once again. “You look like him when you do that.” Nails dug into his skin, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“I’m sorry...” Your name was soft on his tongue, his eyes watering. “I should have been paying more attention.” Brows furrowed then when he looked down at his sonic, brown eyes flickering over the device for a couple of seconds, he was reading it. “Why didn’t you tell me...” His voice was a low growl and you shook your head, you would have thought that, with it being something like a Star Trek phaser it would have cauterized the wound, but you were in no such luck - in fact the beam of light only made it worse, seemingly burning through your flesh and muscle. “I could have gotten you out of the way...” There was silence, the smell of burning flesh filled your nose once more and a sob escaped your lips. It hurt like hell - it felt like acid, like you were being burnt by acid. Then the sonic made a noise and his face lit up. “Ah ha!”

Your hands couldn’t keep their hold on his face any longer and they fell down by your sides. Your head fell forward, forehead pressed against his cheek. “Just hold on a little while longer,” Pain burst through your entire body and you cried out in pain. “I know, I know - I’m sorry,” he mumbled into your hair, as he slid his arms underneath your body. Before he stood up, taking you with him. Another cry of pain left your lips, as your head fell against his shoulder this time. “I can fix this.”

“Are you sure?” A frown settled on your brow as your eyes started to close. You knew that he could work wonders but even the Doctor had to be stumped by something and a flesh eating, muscle eating weapon seemed like it could be it.

“Yes - now you stay with me, love. I am not losing you today, not again.” Maybe you did stay with him but it had been too traumatic and you forgot the events, or you did fall unconscious - either way you were glad you weren’t awake when the Doctor placed pieces of skin back over your wound, healing you from the inside out.

You probably would have thrown up at that.

[abused-sides]

Virgil Comes Home [Roommates AU]

Trigger warning: This au follows most of the sides in the aftermath of surviving abuse (domestic, parental, etc). In this particular fic it’s not stated explicitly, but it’s an instrumental part of the story and if that bothers you, then please not only scroll past this fic, but block my blog as well. 

More tws: All sides are sympathetic, mentions of living in homeless shelters, poverty, a lot of flinching (though no actual danger), food, descriptions of severe eczema, please let me know if i missed anything. If there are any other preventative measures I can take to keep people safe, also please let me know. 

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Ships: Endgame romantic intruloceit, romantic prinxiety, queerplatonic royality 

Words: 1729 

Virgil’s hands trembled as the elevator climbed. 

He was still in a sort-of trance, ready to wake up back home with his boyfriend on his way and waiting for dinner. He wasn’t convinced he was moving into his new apartment today, wasn’t convinced he was starting a new life. 

He flinched, the elevator ding sharp. He adjusted his backpack and ducked his head as he tiptoed down the hallway. He reached the door, but before he could knock, the door behind him swung open. 

“So you’re the new one!”

Virgil whipped around and puffed his chest out, squaring his shoulders. 

“Remus,” a bored voice said, “leave him alone.”

Remus stared with a manic, unblinking grin. His face was covered in stubble and his dark hair fell in oily, tangled curls down his face. Dread settled deep in Virgil’s stomach. 

“Remus.” Another boy appeared at the door, a delicate, scab covered hand wrapping around Remus’s shoulder. The new boy’s face was red and blotchy, covered in angry scabs and dead skin. A glare twisted his face. “You’re going to be late for work. Want me to finish, or not?” 

Remus’s face melted into a pout. “You’re the one that insists I put it up in the first place!”

“That’s because you look like you never made it off the streets.” The boy flicked one of Remus’s curls, his mouth quirking into a barely-noticeable smile. 

The door behind Virgil swung open, and he leapt back so his eyeline could catch both threats. 

“Are you two seriously trying to scare him off?” A boy who looked strikingly similar to Remus, only more… Put together, glared at the neighbours. 

“Don’t lump me in with him,” the boy said flatly. 

Remus giggled and kissed the boy’s cheek. “You’re stuck with me, Jan-Jan!” 

“I’m sorry about them,” his new roommate huffed. “I’m Roman. Come on inside, I’ll help you get the rest of your stuff.” 

Virgil’s heart pounded. He couldn’t get himself out of fight mode, even as Jan pulled Remus back into their own apartment and slammed the door. “This- This is it,” he managed. “This is all of it.”

Roman poorly masked his surprise. “Oh! Okay, well, travelling light has its pros, too, I’m sure.” 

He gestured Virgil inside. The apartment was exactly how he remembered it; warm, a little cluttered, covered in frames of photos of the three of them, beautiful homemade artwork, to-do lists, and schedules. Patton, the one who interviewed Virgil, stood in the kitchenette over a sizzling pan of bacon. 

“Virgil!” He cried happily and bounded over. 

Virgil stiffened as Patton pulled him into a tight hug. He marginally relaxed when Patton pulled away. “You’re just in time, breakfast is ready!”

Shrieking sounded through the apartment— Everyone flinched, and Virgil covered his head as the smoke detector wailed. A boy in glasses came out of one of the closed doors, disabled the smoke detector without stopping, and headed for the front door. 

“Thanks, Logan!” Patton straightened up and grinned. “Breakfast is ready!”

“I’m okay, I’ll grab something on the way.” He stopped in front of Virgil. His face was guarded, unreadable. He stuck his hand out. “My name is Logan. Virgil, I presume?” Virgil managed a nod. “Welcome. I won’t be back until tonight, but Patton works from home, so he should be able to help you settle in.” 

“Mister, your schedule is self-imposed,” Patton said with a scowl. “You’re eating breakfast! I know you won’t actually grab something on the way. Do you think I’m stupid?”

The smallest of flinches tensed Logan’s shoulders. “Of course not.” 

Patton scraped the burnt bacon into the trash. “Ro, set the table for me, love? Logan, show Verge to his room and get cleaned up for breakfast.”

Logan pursed his lips and nodded. “Come with me.”

Virgil followed Logan into his room. It was bare, walls empty and carpet vacuumed. There was a mattress and a desk with no chair. 

“We wanted to get you started with more, coming from the shelter and all that, but we’ve been short on rent the last couple months so we could only spare so much.”

Virgil was shaking his head before Logan finished talking. “It’s everything I need. Thank- Thank you.”

Logan glanced at him from the side of his eyes. “No trouble at all, Virgil.” 

Logan left. Virgil shrugged his backpack off and set it on the mattress. It was covered in what was clearly spare blankets, and a dirty pillow without a case. It was both so much less and so much more than what he left behind. It was his. 

From his backpack, he pulled out two t-shirts, a pair of jeans, a sleep shirt, a teddy bear, a stress ball, and a bag of cash. This was all he owned. It was all he needed. 

“Virgil! Breakfast is getting cold!”

He shook off the panic crawling up his spine with the realization that he did nothing to help. He just got here— How was he meant to help? 

He steeled himself, forced up a scowl, and headed into the kitchen. He fought not to melt at the amazing smell coming from the stack of pancakes, warm bacon, and hot coffee from the table. 

“Coffee, Virgil?” Roman asked as he poured Logan some. 

“Uh, sure.” He refused to admit he’d never had any before. “Thank you.” 

“Milk and sugar’s by the bacon!” Patton handed out napkins and took his head. 

“I’m fine,” he mumbled. He wrapped his stiff fingers around the hot ceramic and pulled it close to his face. It smelled like hazelnut and vanilla. 

Don’t cry. 

Don’t let them see you cry. 

“So, Virgil,” Roman said after downing half of his coffee, “Patton’s been talking about you nonstop, but we still don’t know anything about you.”

Virgil hummed noncommittedly, not sure how to answer. All the eyes on him made him want to crawl out of his skin. 

“Don’t be invasive,” Logan mumbled. He cut his pancakes into perfect squares, piling up the round edges on his fork and dropping them onto Patton’s plate. Patton immediately soaked them in syrup. “He doesn’t have to talk about anything he doesn’t want to.” 

Roman pouted. “I know that! But, well, he can at least tell us what job he plans on getting.” He peeked at Virgil nervously. “Right?” 

Virgil’s heart was in his throat. Was he supposed to know that already? What jobs were even available in the city? 

“Roman.” Patton gave him a look. 

Roman huffed and continued eating. “Well, if you’re stuck, the theatre is always hiring for the crew. We can’t get anyone to stick around that long.” His eyes widened. “Not that it’s a bad job! We just don’t really have enough money to pay more than minimum wage, and there’re limited hours. You can volunteer more time if you want, but we wouldn’t be able to pay for it.” 

Patton dumped approximately half a cup of sugar into his mug and stirred it with a child’s spoon, a frog at the end of the handle. “How about this: Virgil, would you want to walk around the city with me later? I have a few orders to finish up and then I gotta drop them off, so I’ll be walking around for a few hours. We’re sure to pass tons of help wanted signs, and we’ll see if anything pops out at you. If nothing does, maybe you’d want to go to the theatre with Roman tomorrow and see if you like it better there.” 

Virgil nodded slowly. “Sure. Yeah, I can do that.”

They finished eating, Virgil silent while the others engaged freely. Roman was louder than Virgil appreciated, constantly making Virgil flinch or go into defence mode. Logan occasionally noticed and gave him a small nod, or an eye roll in Roman’s direction, and it almost made Virgil feel better. 

Logan hurried out the first chance he got, claiming that he was behind on schedule and he really needed to get to the library. Roman was out shortly after, declaring something about the play they’re doing that Virgil couldn’t understand as much as he tried. 

On autopilot, Virgil picked up all the dishes and balanced it all in his arms. Patton looked at him in surprise as he carried them to the sink. 

“Wow, that’s- That’s impressive!” He laughed. “But you don’t have to do that!” 

Virgil’s face heated up as his actions caught up with him. He scrambled for the upper hand, “Yeah, I drop in short on rent, don’t help cook, eat my share, and I don’t have a job to get to, but sure, I’ll go fuck off and you can do them.” 

Patton’s giggling surprised him. “Well, I won’t complain! Thanks, Verge! I’ll just get started on my orders.” 

He pulled out the flour, sugar, and other baking supplies while Virgil washed the dishes. When he finished drying and putting them away, he went to leave, when Patton stopped him. 

“Oh, Verge!” Patton smiled sheepishly, his fingers covered in sticky cookie dough. “Could you grab the chocolate chips for me before you go?” 

“Uh- Sure.” Virgil found the bag with Patton’s direction and poured them into the bowl until Patton said. “Anything else I can do for you?”

Patton looked at him in surprise. “Well, if you really don’t mind, I’m going to have to use the bowl and other stuff again right after I get the cookies in the oven. Would you mind washing those, too?”

He didn’t have anything better to do, and he wasn’t even paying the full rent. “Sure.” 

He got those washed up, too, and once again asked if Patton needed anything else. He ended up helping Patton through the rest of his orders, getting powdered sugar and flour and cinnamon all over his clothes and hair. He knew more about baking than Patton had expected— Much to Patton’s delight. 

“Okay,” Patton said once all the treats were packaged up in pastel boxes, “I’m going to go clean up, and then I’ll be ready.” He threw his arms around Virgil, who flinched, but found his arms wrapping back around him. Patton squeezed him and buried his face in Virgil’s sweaty neck. “Welcome home, Virgil.” 

And then he’d skipped back into his room, door shutting behind him. And Virgil was left alone with the butterflies in his stomach. 

[thirsty4theextraordinary]

Everything Burns - Chapter 6

Pairing: Ledger Joker X OC

Warnings: Breaking and entering.

Word count: 1774

Previous Chapters: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 l Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

Chapter 6: The Addiction begins

The days after that went quickly and so did the next week and the next. Scarlett did not see The Joker again for a long time and it was having a profound effect on her. 

She was a like a drug addict in withdrawal, she had never had an addictive personality before but The Joker was a kind of drug that you would become addicted after just one taste. She had lost her motivation to work, she lost her smile and she felt tired constantly. She couldn't focus on anything and found herself in a zombie-like state most days. 

So as she entered the end of the second week of not seeing him, she gave up on her rehabilitation and mad a decided that most drug addicts do. She needed to get her fix, no matter what.

That night she didn’t finish work until 3am but it didn’t matter, sleep couldn’t help her now. When she got in she headed straight to her room and searched for the joker card he had given her, when they had first met. She found it quickly and stared at the numbers for a moment. Scrawled around the edge of the card, like a strange border, were the numbers. It was hard to tell where the numbers started and ended, without the complication of the dirty mark that was smudged along one side making the numbers even harder to read. 

 She yanked the phone from the wall and kicked off her shoes, slumping down onto her back and staring and the numbers again.  She felt like a teenager who had just got the number of the popular boy she had a crush on. Taking a deep breath she began to dial.

"Hello" called a very feminine voice.

"Urr, Hi. Maybe I got the wrong number who is this" said Scarlett.

"This is Louise," said the female voice on the other end.

Scarlett wasn't sure what to do, maybe this was his girlfriend. Who was she kidding he probably didn't have a girlfriend.

"I must have the wrong number," Scarlett said before she hung up and sighed before she fell back into the bed dramatically. Then looked up at the card again and sighed. She flipped it over in her hand, partly wishing she didn’t feel so desparate for his attention. 

Wait! Was that a 2 or a 5? Why was this card was so difficult to read? Why couldn't he just print his number like a normal person. But he wasn't a normal person, and that was exactly the reason she needed to call him.

She picked up the phone from where she had thrown it and redialled using a 2 instead of a 5 this time.

"Hi," said the voice she had been yearning for and dreaming about, for two weeks now.

"Hi," she said her voice much higher than she wanted.

"Jester!" he said happily and she couldn't help the grin that came to her face, simply the sound of his voice seemed to ease her mind, like a addict getting there fix. She lay back down on her stomach, her feet in the air. She truly felt like a teenager calling her crush now. Her heartbeat 100 times faster than usual and she grinned like an idiot.

"What can I do for you gorgeous?" he asked and she could hear the smile in his voice.

"I" Scarlett stuttered she wasn't sure what to say, she wasn't sure she could admit to him that she was calling because she missed him.

"I don't know, why I called," she said after a little while and her ear nearly burst with his manic cackling response.

"I've missed you too gorgeous," he said still laughing slightly and she blushed madly.

"I tell you what, do you fancy coming with me tomorrow around 1 to a little meeting I should probably go to," he asked and she felt like all her Christmases had come at once.

"Oh, yeah that would be amazing," she said stuttering slightly.

"Brilliant! I'll be right over and we can sort out your costume" he said before he hung up and she was unable to reply.

What the hell did he mean by costume?

Within the hour he had arrived, breaking his way into her apartment while she was watching TV, causing her to jump and him to break down into hysterics.

He placed a bag on the counter and curiously she looked inside. That's had what he had meant by costume, a set of grease paint was in the bag and they were clearly used recently and she looked up at his freshly painted face.

"Well?" he said and she smiled.

"Do you want to help me find something to wear?" she asked and he grinned.

"No Jester, this has to be your design, I'll wait here and you show me once your done." he said and she smiled nervously, she had no idea what she was doing.

She didn't know where he was taking her tomorrow but more importantly, she couldn't afford to be seen with a psychotic clown. So at least this would keep her identity unknown. At least for now. She wondered if that was why The Joker painted his face, but somehow she knew it was for another reason.

She headed off towards her bedroom.

"Don't forget this" he called after her as he threw the jester hat to her and she caught it, smiling coyly at him. She heard the TV turn on as she entered the bedroom, she snatched up the green waistcoat she had bought and decided it would be the base to her costume.

She pulled on an emerald green tank top, before almost immediately pulling it back off again and throwing it on the floor, she picked up a purple tank top, before slipping on her waistcoat. The tank top was just enough to cover her bra, she pulled at the strings of her waistcoat, and pulled them as tight as she could.

She began her search for some bottoms, quickly she found a pair of purple and white striped shorts, they were part of a Halloween costume she had never got round to wearing and had only really bought for the boots that came with it. THE BOOTS! They would be prefect, on her hands and knees she dug through the wardrobe till she found them buried under a million other pairs of shoes.

They wear bright purple PVC platform boots that came up to her knees and laced up the front. The were ridiculous but she had worn them once and they were surprisingly comfortable. She pulled on a pair of fish net stocking with a suspender belt before pulling on her boots. She pulled on a pair of purple fingerless gloves to match. She looked in the mirror and smiled, there was something very Joker about her outfit, or rather Jester.

She combed her hair and left the natural curl in it before pulling the top half inot a sh pair messy space buns on the top of her head giving her an almost mini mouse look as her natural curl twisted out of the bun, and the rest of her midnight hair rested against her shoulders. She left out her bangs before she headed back out to the living room nervously the jesters hat in hand. He was watching the TV when she entered and didn't seem to notice her.

She coughed slightly and he looked up, before he did a double take and stood up to look at her fully.

"Hello beautiful," he purred and she blushed, until he said that she felt slightly silly but now she felt almost empowered.

"One last thing is needed," he said holding out the bag with the greasepaint inside. She took the bag from him and headed to the bathroom, she pulled her hair away from her face, before taking the plunge and smearing the white paint over her face, she brushed her face with baby powder and smiled at her self in the mirror. Her teeth looked yellow against the stark white of her face. She painted heavy black around her eyes almost mimicking the Joker but not quite as extreme and far more neat with an almost catlike wing. She looked down and the red he had given her before closing the lid and searching through her make-up draw until she found the bright purple she had bought for the same Halloween and had never really worn. This sexy-witch costume was really getting a new lease of life. She applied it to just her lips, flicking it out slightly at the corners of her mouth to give her a small smile but she did not go up her cheeks as he would. She stared at her self in the mirror again, she hardly recognized herself but that was the point and she laughed.

She pulled the jesters hat onto her head and laughed again.

"Looking good Jester," said a voice and The Joker stood in the doorway of the bathroom looking at her, grinning like an idiot. She smiled widely and he approached. He stood close to her, closer than he had ever been to her before. She could feel his breath against her face and it was intoxicating, his fingers came out to touch the fabric of her waistcoat.  He rubbed it between his thumb and first finger. He made a noise close to a growl and moved closer to her still. Before she could react he had pull her into his grasp, a strong arm around her waist, and she purred. He laughed as she bent her head back on her neck and he traced her neck with his finger tips.

"I like this Jester," he said flicking a bell on her hat. She purred again and his fingers moved down her arms.

Her phone began to ring loudly and The Joker jumped away from her like he had been burnt, before he started to laugh and she grinned at him, trying not to show the devastation of the loss of his touch. That had been a strange but amazing moment to happen between the pair. She needed it to happen again.

He walked away from her leaving her standing in the doorway of the bathroom feeling slightly overwhelmed but absolutely fabulous. But a part of her knew that just like an addict this experience had built her tolerance, her addict her reached a new height and a level of expectation for their meeting. Should he leave her again now, the withdrawal might kill her. 

[lilwenney]

TOO HOT (HOT DAMN)

pairing: james  x reader warning(s): a lot of fluff & james sets things on fire word count: 1.2k  a/n: just a lil something while u all wait on a fic update. and james is severely underappreciated in terms of writing so here’s a random fic about him not being able to reheat food properly 

For a flat in the middle of London, noises during the night typically came from the busy street below - someone was always honking their horn at the ungodly hours of the morning or groups of drunk friends stumbling on the street screaming out the lyrics to house-party songs or laughing, it was always something. 

But never the sound of a smoke alarm.

The smoke alarms were usually never triggered in your flat building, and if so, it was only just for a few seconds because someone was automatically manically waving a towel in front of their alarm to stop it before it triggered the others. You had your own scare once, thanks to your flatmate, and it caused the entire upper level of the building to evacuate, but luckily everyone seemed to manage their cooking or fire-involved activities pretty well after that. That was, until your neighbor moved in.

James had moved into his new flat a mere 72-hours ago and already had the fire alarm blaring in the kitchen. It was quite impressive, actually. 

You never cared about the alarms cutting into your sleeping schedule for a few seconds, but this time, it was far too late and this alarm had been going on far too long for your liking. Glancing at the clock on your nightstand, you groaned when the digital numbers read off 02:31 a.m. - you had work in less than six hours and there was no way you could get back to sleep until the blaring alarm stopped. 

Sliding your feet into the pair of slippers at your bedside, you briskly walked through your flat and to the door, throwing it open and poking your head out. The alarm got louder and louder as you neared it, your head ringing while looking down the hallway to see the source of the alarm coming from the flat with an open door. 

It was your new neighbor, as in so new you hadn’t even got the chance to meet him yet. You only knew someone moved in because the landlord had sent out an email to those on the floor, telling them to give a warm welcome to the new addition.

Well, your ‘warm welcome’ happened to be standing in their doorway in light smoke as they fanned a towel in front of the fire alarm yelling “what the fuck?” 

You quickly took in the scene, piecing together the story of what might have happened. The microwave door was wide open and inside laid something small and burnt, smoke rising to the cabinets above it. Your neighbor, who you didn’t particularly focus on, was standing on a chair waving a towel. Like an instinct you sucked in a deep breath and walked further into the flat, grabbing the first thing you saw (which was an instruction manual) and used it to fan the smoke in an attempt to clear it out. 

Less than fifteen seconds later, in the rush of fanning wildly, the smoke alarm finally stopped beeping. Smoke fanned across the ceiling and out to the hallway, disappearing, and whatever was in the microwave, had also now melted. 

“You were trying to reheat a burger?” You finally asked, looking into the microwave to see a burnt (partially melted) wrapper on a McDonalds burger. Turning to him, you raised a brow, “are you mad?” 

“In hindsight, probably wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had.” 

“I could have told you that beforehand.” 

Heavy footsteps followed the clicking of the stairwell door and within seconds two firefighters appeared in the doorway. They looked at you both, frazzled and out of breath, and then nodded. “We’re going to have to evacuate this floor.” One of the firefighters said, behind them someone knocked on the neighbors door, telling them to head downstairs. “Get your keys and head down, please.” 

You nodded and quickly moved past them, down the hallway back to your flat. In a rush, you grabbed your keys and a blanket from your sofa to put over your shoulders, then took the stairwell to the first floor where you stepped out among the other floor residents. None of them seemed particularly happy to be standing out in the cold on a Tuesday morning when most of them, including you, had to be at work in just a handful of hours.

The culprit came outside a minute later, pocketing his phone and keys as he walked down the steps to the pavement. Everyone stood together quietly, mostly still half asleep, as firefighters came in and out of the building to inspect any damage and the cause of a nonstop alarm for three minutes. 

Looking over at your neighbor, you watched him shudder from the chill. He was only wearing a t-shirt and shorts, not at all prepared to stand outside after his own attempt of a late-night snack went wrong. He shuddered again and you sighed, stepping closer to him.

“Come on,” you held out the side of your blanket to him, and he tilted his head, hesitating, “I’m only offering it for so long, you know.” 

He laughed and stepped over, taking the other side of the blanket and draping it across his shoulders. “I’m sorry about all of this.” He apologized. “And I didn’t catch your name.” 

“(Y/N),” you said.

He nodded, “I’m James, your bastard neighbor who doesn’t know not to put fast food wrappers in the microwave.” 

You let out a small laugh, looking up at him, watching the red lights from the firetruck nearby bounce off his dark hair and eyes. “Don’t worry,” you finally said with a smile, “last fire alarm was because my flatmate tried to reheat a pizza. In the oven. With the pizza still in the box.” 

“Ooh, unlucky,” James chuckled, “fire alarms happen often?” 

“Not really, usually just for a few seconds. So you might have the record for the longest fire alarm now.” 

“Really am off to a great start here, aren’t I?” 

“Great is one way to put it,” you said now watching the firefighter exit the lobby, holding the microwave from James’ flat in his hands. Raising a brow, you turned your body to him, “Please tell me that’s not a new microwave.” 

“That’s my new microwave,” James said with a now dejected tone and your lips flattened, trying not to laugh. “I have a concrete table that I’m trying to get rid of so maybe I should have set that thing on fire instead.” 

You let out a small laugh and the firefighters said everyone was allowed back in. Quietly, everyone shuffled back up the steps and into the building, taking the lift up to their floor. You and James were the last ones to shuffle off, now standing on opposite sides of the corridor, talking like neither of you had to be awake in just a few hours.

“If you need a microwave anytime soon, you’re free to use mine,” you said sliding your key into the lock and turning it, your door sliding open. “On second thought, do you often set things on fire?” 

“Why?” 

“Because we might need to hang out more if you do. You know, for safety purposes,” 

James grinned when he saw you shoot a wink at him. “For safety purposes and safety purposes only?” 

“Of course, why else would we hang out?” 

“Because you like my company?” 

“And where would you get an idea like that from?” You smiled and nodded at him. “Goodnight James,” 

“Night,” he chuckled as your door clicked shut, and then he slid into his own flat.

[kae-karo]

freeing icarus (dabihawks)

i won’t even pretend this is happy. i’m so sorry in advance (nobody dies it’s just Sad)

freeing icarus - 1.7k - G

tags: angst, introspection, basically dabi’s thoughts on some of the stuff in the most recent chapters, implied past dabihawks relationship, no happy ending i just wanted y’all to suffer with me

[read on ao3]

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Dabi thought he could change Keigo’s mind.

Years. Years ago, he’d had some sway, perhaps. When they were both young and naive and Keigo looked at Dabi with stars in his eyes and a grin on his lips and said he’d follow Dabi wherever, to the ends of the earth, and then he’d wrap his arms around Dabi and hold on tight and launch them both off into space. They could fly through the universe together, twist and spin and dive among the stars.

Dabi can’t look up at the night sky without thinking about him.

He’d run away, Dabi had run, just like he had with Natsuo and Fuyumi and Shouto. And Rei. He’d run, because staying nearly killed him time and time again.

Leaving had nearly killed him, too. In more ways than one.

He did what he had to do, or so he tells himself when nightmares haunt his every step. And it had left him like this: burnt, destroyed, unrecognizable even to Keigo. He became someone that Keigo watched only with distrust and the eyes of a spy trained for too long under the Commission’s influence.

And damn Dabi for his naivety, but he thought he could change Keigo’s mind.

He thought he could show Keigo just how twisted the Commission was, how they’d tried to twist Keigo too. That Keigo was better than that, that he was so much smarter than to fall under the Commission’s thumb and remain there without a fight. Keigo had always been the cleverer of the two of them, witty to the point of pissing off half their supervising team and fearless in the face of whatever punishment they deemed fitting for his insolence.

And Dabi had loved it - the wit, not watching Keigo suffer. His unerring pride and smirk in the face of whatever they threw at him. A confidence, a strength that Dabi had never possessed. Had only envied at first, then come to adore.

They’d broken him, broken the bird who had dared to stand up to them. Dabi had hoped, had so desperately hoped he could bring back the Keigo he knew.

And then Keigo had turned up with a duffel bag. Had shown Dabi the body inside. Had given him that cold, stone-faced expression. Then a smirk, but without any amusement in his eyes.

Dabi couldn’t speak to him for a week. Couldn’t even think about him, about the person he’d become. Is it fair, though, to hold Keigo to who he used to be all those years ago? Dabi’s own hands certainly aren’t free of blood.

Still, his stomach had twisted itself in knots, and it took more effort than he’d care to admit to keep his expression neutral as he took the bag from Keigo’s hands.

He thought he could remind Keigo of who he was. He had so naively believed the Keigo he knew still lurked beneath the surface. That the face he wore was nothing but a facade for the sharp-tongued, confident, good Keigo hiding beneath the surface. Buried, but not gone.

And Dabi could dig, could claw at that surface until his fingers bled. Would do it for Keigo, to see that light again.

But days and weeks and months passed, and Keigo remained the stone-faced, cold-hearted spy, willing to do whatever it took, whatever Dabi asked of him so flippantly to ‘prove his loyalty’. No hesitation to his actions.

Dabi had hoped, for a brief moment, that the way he’d fought to save Endeavor meant his heart still beat inside his chest, that Keigo was not lost to the Commission yet. Was not lost to doing whatever Dabi demanded, whatever horrible acts he requested as proof of his fealty.

And he’d befriended Twice - a ploy, Dabi knew on the surface, but deep down...god, he’d thought perhaps Keigo wasn’t who he pretended to be. That he was still the boy with wings and a bright smile and dreams too big to be contained by the gilded cage the Commission built for him. For him and Dabi both.

Dabi should’ve stayed. Fuck, if he’d stayed, maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe he could’ve held Keigo’s hand, pulled him back from the pressures the Commission placed on his shoulders. Could’ve reminded him who he was, who he is.

He refuses, even now, to believe Keigo is lost.

But at the time, Dabi had run, because he didn’t know - hadn’t wanted to know what the Commission could do. That they could break Keigo the way they did, that they could turn him into this…

The same Keigo who had once found Dabi curled up in the corner of his room, nightmares both real and imagined hounding him in the early hours of the morning. Who had settled down beside him, tucked a small wing around his shoulders and pulled him in close. Who had told him that the world would be better one day, that they would make it better together, and that Dabi’s nightmares couldn’t hurt him.

That Keigo wouldn’t let those bad things get to Dabi, not ever. That he’d protect Dabi.

And Dabi had believed him. Had never, not in a thousand years, imagined that Keigo would be the nightmare that Dabi faced. That his feather blade would point in Dabi’s direction, would haunt Dabi’s waking hours and chase him in his sleep until that sleep no longer left him rested.

In those hours that Dabi had not slept, he’d thought - god, so naively - that he could remind Keigo who he was, who he really was. That, even if Keigo didn’t recognize him, he could bring out the real Keigo. The mischievous grins, the wild dreams, the laughter so infectious Dabi still hears it sometimes, years and years later, inside the safety of his mind.

He could get Keigo to laugh like that again, he’d thought. Hoped. Dreamed.

And maybe he could do it without telling Keigo who he was, reminding him that Dabi had run. Had left Keigo behind, left him to the beasts at the Commission. That he’d allowed the Commission to take Keigo and twist him, break him, turn him into their pawn.

Dabi should’ve known, of course he should’ve known what the Commission could do. He’d certainly known what they’d nearly done to Dabi himself. And he’d left anyway, made his great escape and let Keigo believe him dead. Let the world believe him dead, let the Commission believe him dead. They wouldn’t grieve.

He didn’t want to know if Keigo had.

A horrible thought had crossed his mind, once, in the sleepless hours of the early morning: had Dabi’s ‘death’ been the nail in the coffin for Keigo? The beginning of his end, the moment the Commission had gained control over him? Had it been, even more than he imagined, Dabi’s fault?

In that moment, in that terrible, aching moment, he’d resolved himself to fix what he’d done, what he’d caused. The Commission, they had a stranglehold grip on Keigo, on the real Keigo. Dabi’s certain it remains beneath the surface.

It must, it has to, or Dabi is lost as well. He has to believe that Keigo is still there, still desperate to spread his wings and fly away.

Ironic, given what Dabi will have to do to free him from their grasp.

He doesn’t let himself think as he stands over Keigo, his body curled up into itself, the tattered remains of his wings still smoldering.

Wide eyes meet Dabi’s, pleading. Broken. Suffering. Keigo is suffering, he has been for so long. And it’s all Dabi’s fault.

But he can fix that, can do this horrible thing that has to be done to give Keigo his escape.

So he grins, wild and manic - let Keigo believe him a villain. Let him think that this had been done by someone with no remorse. Let him forget Touya, let him forget the long nights spent in each other’s company, in each others’ arms. Let him forget the comfort, hands held as they stood against an evil far greater than the League had ever been. Let Keigo direct his anger, his sorrow, at Dabi. Let that rage replace any love he ever had, let him feel nothing but hate for Dabi, if it eases the burden Dabi is about to place on him.

If Dabi could cry right now, he would.

He burns, then, flames blisteringly hot as he directs them at Keigo’s back. They burn against his own hands, too, but it’s a price he’s willing to pay. A price he’ll pay it over and over again if it means he can set Keigo free. Dabi wishes, with his entire being, that he could bear this burden instead. That he could leave Keigo’s wings alone, let them grow back, and that Keigo could be free anyway.

But he can’t, because the Commission would never let their weapon go. He’s too valuable, an asset and a pawn they can’t afford to set free. So Dabi burns those beautiful, magnificent wings, and he buries his heart deep in his chest, locks it away and does not let the pain in Keigo’s eyes touch it.

“Who are you?” Keigo demands, because he still doesn’t know. He still sees the villain that Dabi has become, that he had to become. That he has to be now, for Keigo, because he couldn’t bring Keigo back on his own. He wasn’t enough, was never enough.

Keigo had been the fire between the two of them, the one that shone and flickered and lit up the night. A bright, beautiful star where Dabi had only been a black hole. He supposes it’s fitting, then, that he is the one to destroy Keigo. He was only ever built to tear the world apart.

“My name is Touya.”

Keigo’s eyes go wide, and Dabi mourns. He lets Keigo’s fear, his recognition wash over him like a wave. He lets it drown him, lets it suffocate every good thing Dabi had ever felt - everything Keigo ever was to him, he lets that wave drag it all down to the darkest depths of himself.

He lets it die, because he can see it in Keigo’s eyes: the death of everything that Touya ever was to Keigo, the swift and painful shock of seeing Dabi alive, of knowing that he is the one to take Keigo’s wings from him.

If there is forgiveness somewhere down the road, if there is a time in which Keigo realizes that he’s been freed - at no small cost, but freed nonetheless - Dabi does not care. He does not need that resolution, that closure. He does not deserve it, will never deserve it for leaving Keigo, for finding him again only to tear him apart.

It’s funny, he thinks, how nobody ever blamed the sun for burning up Icarus’ wings.

[pastelgrungewrecker]

Chain[gun] Reaction

Slim Pickens, well he does the right thing And he rides the bomb to hell Yeah, he rides the bomb to hell

He was young, young and full of promise and potential and all those words the recruiter used to soothe the raw wounds left behind by a yellow letter delivered to the front door of a once happy home.

Whirl, young and bright with eyes like sunshine and a crooked smile, signed his name and soul away in memory of his mother- who loved her son more than she ever loved her sky, even thought it was her sky that sealed her fate.

His father watched with dim and dead eyes as his only son, his bluebird boy, packed his bags and hugged him tight.

“I’ll be fine, Pop- don’t worry, I’ll come home, okay?”

He didn’t know, oh he didn’t know how his future would change with this decision- He had no idea the sound of gunfire and the burn of toxic words and liqour would become lullabies as he watched his unfamiliar claws pretend to be gentle.

And it was brutal, and it was cold. And it broke him and remade him and broke him again as he learned to bare his teeth first in a snarl and then in a manic smile he never knew he possessed. And with orders ringing in his ears and bitter apathy brewing in his heart he pushed and pulled and dragged himself over finish lines and end points that seemed to be farther and farther away from him- flagpoles moved once a month, once a week, once every other day.

If he only knew how he’d be betrayed by the system he served, if only he knew how his midday sunshine eyes would be broken and dimmed and warped from their almost childish dubloon wideness into the narrow slices of molten metal sighting down the barrel of a gun.

And his father gave weak smiles with honest joy as his son looked back over his shoulder as he walked with the graduating crowd; looking back with a lopsided grin like an angel with aircraft wings had done once upon a time so long ago and an artisan filigree heart broke when Whirl smiled.

If only the golden son had known he would set with a flash of fire and a comet’s trail.

And then his father couldn’t smile anymore.

Whirl stood solemn in front of the grave, not feeling the pats to his shoulder, the affectionate squeezes to his arm. He refused to look at the pity in officer’s eyes when he declined reenlistment, refused to see the worry in the eyes of his fellow Corps members when he fell silent for hours. Then days.

When he finally could hold his head up, his father’s shop looked back at him  with dusty windows and a door that still creaked if it opened too wide. And so he began to repair- the building or himself, he couldn’t tell.

The feel of gold and silver and platinum between his fingers, the casual catch of his lower lip with his teeth in concentration, the gentle ticktockticktock of seconds and minutes and hours fluttering away like crows from a carcass; a rustle of dark feathers and bluegrey hair in a loose tail down his back.

They called him an artist, they called him a master. They lauded his new work, they cooed over cogs and wheels and carefully designed faces coated in a countdown to the end of days.

He wondered if he would outlive these creations, when his father didn’t outlive his own.

If he only knew he would not only outlive them, but outlive the memory of his father’s legacy as it was laid to rest.

The Dead End, for him, had it’s draws. Dens of debauchery masquerading as bars or ‘spas’ and any kind of company for the right price. Whirl, his hands curled in his pockets, often wondered to himself why the streetlights didn’t glow red like a warning like in all the old holovids his father used to watch from a gilded age.

It was a thrown bottle that let the Devil’s eye turn to him. A thrown bottle, a mocking laugh, the word “coward” slung coldly at him by a face he only half remembered...

And then his knuckles were coated in blood that wasn’t his own. Once again a sneer painted his face, shattered his crooked grin and darkened his sunshine eyes and he released the shirtcollar of his target to watch them hit the floor facedown with a wet sound like old meat on a butcher’s counter. He looked over his shoulder with his eyes on fire.

“Who’s fuckin’ next?”, he drawls out in a voice made rough by silence and mourning in equal measure; a raven’s hiss of Nevermore, a crow’s caw from the gallows.

Something in him gave up on kindness. Something inside of him broke down like clockparts in a housefire and his cogs ground themselves apart as he rebuilt with fistfights and binges, with questionable company of any and all kinds.

“You were an Aerial Corps prodigy.”, mused the Enforcer of the week, “You’d be... useful, to us.”

He spat on the Enforcer’s shoes, squinting through a busted cheek and grinning with a split lip, “Get fucked, fuzzman.”

“It would be wise to show a little respect.”

“Fuckin’ earn it then, pissrag.”

More bruises, more cracked bones and weakened joints. Nineteen and lost, twenty and cracked like church windowglass and he grunted in muted pain as he laid on his back in a bare cell for an overnight in solitary.

He ignored his father’s voice chiming in the back of his mind, asking him what his mother would think.

He ignored the memory of her laughter his mind called forth against his will.

The cell door opened; hours early, at hours questionable, and he turned his head and made a noise of confusion. The medic beside the Enforcer smiled with nothing behind it, empty as Whirl’s eyes had become, and nodded once.

“That’s the one.”

Whirl sat up slowly, curses and vindictive words dancing on his tongue before a heavy fist flashed across his face and slammed his head into the wall the bench-turned-bed was mounted against.

He wouldn’t wake up until he smelled antiseptic- and he’d wish beyond wishing he hadn’t woken up at all.

When he awoke, his vision blurred and swam and his arms burned like hellfire as the numbness in his face flickered like radio static. He tried to speak, to scream, but the medics around him simply frowned and shook their heads as they loosened the straps holding him down.

He was eased up into a sitting position, and told in flat tones he had ten minutes to gather himself and leave the operating theatre.

“Op-erat-ing?”, he rasped out, before he raised his hand to hold his throat; and he froze solid at what answered his movement.

Ragged and matte-dark, hard steel with a three-point claw on the end. Panic rolled over him in tidal waves and threatened to drag him under as he held his new arms out in front of himself and nearly screamed.

They had taken his hands.

He looked frantically around at the passive and disinterested faces around him before he caught his reflection and his raw voice howled out like a hurricane. A blank patch over one eye with heavily stitched lacerations leading out from underneath it. His chest shuddered and hiccuped, and he felt the covered eye burn like fire as the other leaked viscous red in a thin line.

“Do not worry. Once the removal injuries have healed, there will be no more pesky things such as tears or foolish bickering outbursts.”

Whirl looked up. The surgeon smiled as they pulled gloves soaked in blood off their hands. Their functioning, real hands.

“We have fixed you, Whirl- that is your name, correct? We have repaired all of the flaws in your character with science and scalpels.”

That smile unchanging as horror flooded the channels panic had work into Whirl’s soul.

“Once you are healed, of course; then, you will truly be a Model Citizen.”

Whirl flew at him with a snarl, those claws cinched around the surgeon’s throat and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed until the screaming stopped and the doctor’s hands dropped to hang at his sides. Limp, and twitching; and the surgeon gurgled as he was dropped.

Whirl looked up at his reflection one more time before security wardens burst into the room and grabbed fresh prosthetics; ignoring Whirl’s screams and howls as they dragged him out of that sanitized white light.

He was thrown out by three Enforcers, tossed out into the back lot among dumpsters of medical waste and they laughed as he struggled to push himself up to his knees. The sun was setting, his sun was setting, and the sluggish red tears from his remaining eye burned as they trickled free.

He’d learn, later, what was severed and taken. His means of expression burned away and sliced free of his mortal coil. Model Citizen. Emotionless wreck. They knew the way to cage a bird was clip his wings- but they didn’t have to take his ability to cry.

He staggered to his feet, his steps uneven and crooked as he tried to operate with only one half of his vision. He sobbed out for help, he reached out for aid and was met with disgusted looks and threats of further violence and those words chased him and chased him until he stumbled onto the streets that would take him home; take him back to safety and seclusion and softness and-

And fire. And brimstone. And nothing left but a burnt family photo and a pocketwatch from a destroyed desk.

One day, it would be found by a young boy with sunshine eyes. And he’d ask where it was from, and call it beautiful; and Whirl would smile weakly like his father once did to a smiling new pilot and be unable to find the words to explain what it was, what it meant.

Whirl sobbed; on his knees and broken in ways he had no way of knowing yet, he sobbed. He sobbed like a lost child, like a scared boy, like a pilot under fire. He sobbed like a mourning husband and a confused son.

His eye leaked viscous red; there was pressure, there was pain.

And then, there was nothing. There was blank days and a back alley apartment. There was a tiny sting and a heady flight. He was a pilot again, without needing a plane as he stared at nothing and bounced from job to job and came closer and closer to giving up.

And then They found him.

“Sounds like you wanna die.”

“Maybe I fuckin’ do- I don’ exactly look the fuckin’ picture of privileged livin’, do I?”, he snapped.

The man who sat down next to him; dressed in the green of militia’s and murder smiled through his laughter and clapped a hand on Whirl’s shoulder.

“Forty two percent chance you’ll get your wish, kid. And at the very least- you get out of this shithole and three square meals a day.”

“Yeah, and forced sobriety.”

“I don’t care how high you fly or how deep you sink in a bottle as long as you know which way to shoot.”

Whirl looked up, the patch over his scarred blank space slipping slightly, “...A’right, I’m interested.”

“Welcome to the Wreckers; lemme call my ride and we’ll get started.”

=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=

And now, years and bullet-shells and nightmares in the future, Whirl stands at a kitchen counter and chokes on air as his lungs seize and fall still. He smells it, that too-clean stench of medical tools and antiseptic and just washed floors and the light is too bright.

Ratchet swears, realizing he hadn’t changed clothes after a day spent teaching the new doctors dropped in his lap by the university (good kids, good hearts, but almost too gentle for the job) and he calls for Perceptor, he calls for Drift.

Whirl doubles over; he gasps and hiccups and screws his eye shut as newer, better, safer prosthetic hands cover ears that still ring like a battlefield song is playing on repeat.

He feels Perceptor’s cold hands on his shoulders, hears Drift call for the dining room light to be “Shut off dammit!” and he exhales a sob.

He opens his eye. There is pressure, there is pain, there’s a crimson dot on the floor like a scope’s laser sight.

He still, after everything, after healing, cannot cry.

[slashersrus]

Jerome Valeska x Male Reader - Sociopath

AN - I made this one shot based on another book I'm writing called Insanity. I used the character of Kai Parker from The Vampire Diaries. You don't need to read the other book because this one shot does not connect to it in any way. If you enjoy the characters though, be sure to check it out.

The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils, breathing it in with a smirk, he watched his childhood home become encased in the blood red flames. The feeling of freedom rushed through his veins like a drug, a pleased sigh passing through his lips, the fire dancing in his dark eyes.

Hearing sirens in the distance, he dropped the smile, pulling his denim jacket further around him and sniffling. A blanket was soon placed over his shoulders, a cop whispering reassuring words in his ear as he was dragged from the crime scene, pitying looks being sent his way as his family burned alive.

"Do you have any other family?" The question came the next day, when the fire had been declared an accident and he had been put into the care of the police. Being only 16 and under the age of 18, he had to be relocated to any remaining family he had or the foster system until he was a legal adult.

Mischief lit up inside him as he spoke two words, "my uncle."

Gotham here he comes.

"Come on, son, we gotta go to GCPD to meet your uncle." Harvey sat up from his ratty couch, pulling his uniform on as he spoke to the brunette who was currently staying with him. His uncle had decided to go to the circus with is girlfriend meaning Kai had nowhere else to go other than Harveys for the night as his uncle didn't trust him to be left by himself. Kai glared as he opened his eyes from where he had been resting on the hard floor, his glare settling on the ceiling before Harvey stepped into his line of sight.

"Come on, up." Harvey nudged him in the side of his rib cage with his foot, in that moment Kai conserved removing that foot from Harveys body but ultimately decided against it. He had a plan, he needed to stick to it.  He was turning 18 in a couple of days and when that happened he would leave Gotham, not before killing his uncle and the detective that stuck to his side like a rat. Originally, he had thought Gotham would be a fun place to be, he had heard many rumours of the violence of the city, but they all turned out to be disappointing. After nearly two years in the city, he was about ready to claw his own brains out in boredom. His uncle kept him locked up, away from the fun and criminals in Gotham and due to the constant watch he as under, he couldn't go out to create his own fun. Kai was a lot of things, but dumb was not one of them. He knew that if he killed his uncle now, then he would be immediately arrested, if he waited till he could legally leave, he could leave straight after. He had tried to run away multiple times, broke a police mans wrist once when he tried to keep him in the house, and according to his psychiatrist he had ptsd and intense anxiety from the trauma of losing his family. Kai merely laughed at this, the notion that he was sad over his family's death was hilarious to him, however his uncle decided that he needed to be under constant supervision for his own safety and mental health state.

It was a little while later, he was sitting outside the room where his uncle was currently interrogating someone, apparently there was a murder at the circus. Given murder investigations are the only remotely fun thing to happen, Kai opted to sit outside and listen in.

"Sex is a healthy human activity." Hearing a timid voice speak these words, Kai snorted as he pictured his uncle's startled face.

"Malachai!" Gordon spun around at the noise, his eyes angry as Kai leaned his head into the door frame to peek inside, his head tilting as he saw the red headed boy, something was off about him.

"Yes?" Putting on his most innocent face, he stood leaning on the door frame confidently, his lip twitching as he tried not to grin.

"I told you to stop listening in on interrogations." Gordon shot an apologetic look at the red head whose eyes were analysing the new person in the room.

"Not to. But I'm bored. Oh right, manners,, I'm Kai." Darting forwards into the room, kai held his hand out to the boy in greeting.

"I'm Jerome." The handshake was tight, neither of the two wanting to back down from the strong grip. Narrowing his eyes at the ginger, Kai saw a mix of curiosity and amusement in his eyes. Raising an eyebrow, he let go of Jerome's hand, turning to his uncle when he next spoke.

"So, he the killer?" The straight to the point question shocked Jerome slightly and Gordon seemed taken aback.

"No Malachai, he's the victims son. Now please, you're not a detective, I could get you arrested for being in here."

"Don't call me that." Kai's fist clenched, glaring daggers at the sound of his full name.

"Well, nice meeting you Jerome, see you later." Rolling his eyes, he went to walk out of the room, feeling two pair of eyes watching him leave.

"Pleasure to meet you, Malachai." Jerome's words seemed innocent enough to Gordon, but they caused Kai to freeze, he could hear the malice in the words, he knew that the ginger was purposely accenting his full name to annoy him.

"I hope we meet again, mommy's boy." Gordon turned around to scold him, not seeing the dangerous glare Jerome sent Kai or the hearing the threat within Kai's words.

After finding out that Jerome had been called back to the GCPD under the suspicion that he had murdered his mother, Kai waited till he was in the interrogation room alone before slipping in, a small knife hidden up his sleeve.

"So... you murdered your mommy." Kai drawled, strolling over to sit on the opposite side of the table to a startled Jerome.

"I don't know what-"

"You don't need to pretend, don't worry, nobody is behind there." Kai cut him off, jerking his head towards the one way mirror.

"Well you know what mothers are like, she just wouldn't stop nagging. And I'm like fine mom, be a whore, be a drunken whore even, but don't be a nagging, drunken, whore. Ya know?" Jerome burst into sinister laughter.

"You're crazy, shocking." Kai mockingly rolled his eyes with a smirk once Jerome finished laughing.

"You're as crazy as I am, Malachai." Jerome placed his hands on the table, leaning forwards with a huge grin on his face.

"No, I'm a sociopath." Kai growled annoyed, moving quickly and stabbing the knife into Jerome's hand. As the blade went into his hand, Jerome looked at it wide eyed before giggling manically.

"And I don't like being called Malachai." The look Kai gave Jerome could cause any grown man flee in fear, but Jerome simply laughed louder.

"So, who'd you kill?" Jerome spoke with humour, no trace of pain on his face as he sat back, his hand still pinned to the table.

"My family, I tied them all up and burnt them all alive." Kai grinned, looking into the distance as he remembered the night.

"Ooooh" Jerome visibly lit up, his grin widening to an impossible size.

"I was always the abomination of the family, the bad son. Hey they treated me like a monster, I simply acted like they wanted." Kai shrugged, "who names a kid Malachai? It's like they expected me to be evil."

"You gonna let me outta here? We could have sooo much fun together."

"Where's the fun in letting you escape? You'll get sent to Arkham, come find me when you get out, ginger. I've heard great things about Arkham, you'll fit right in." Kai grinned, getting up to leave when Jerome sarcastically called his name.

"I think you forgot something." He tilted his head at the knife in his hand, yanking t out without flinching and handing it over to Kai.

"I'll find you when I get out, Kai. It's gonna be so fun." Jerome grinned darkly, his voice taking on a threatening edge as he giggled.

"I look forward to it." Slamming the door behind him, Kai walked out of the GCPD, feeling entertained for the first time in two years.

He would see Jerome again, he knew it.

Whistling a tune cheerily, he walked down the street as he made a decision.

Maybe he would stay in Gotham for awhile longer.

[waywardnerd67]

Deep Down

Summary: Dean and Sam call on (Y/N) to help them with a case in her hometown. When things go terribly wrong, Dean is faced with feelings he had buried deep down from when they were kids. Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Reader Pairing: Dean x Reader Warnings: Fluff Word Count: 1943 Squared Filled: Realized Feelings (Fluff) / Human Shield (Bad Things Happen) A/N #1: @spnfluffbingo and @badthingshappenbingo A/N #2: As always this is unbeta so all mistakes are mine. Likes, comments and reblogs are splendid and I will love you doubly for them! Enjoy!

Dean sat in the motel room looking down at the number on his phone his thumb hovering over it. “Call her.” His brother, Sam, said.

He took a deep breath and pressed his thumb down before lifting the phone to his ear. “Hey (Y/N/N), it’s Dean. We’re in Little Rock working a case and could… uh, use your help. Give me, us, a call back.”

“Smooth.” Sam chuckled as Dean narrowed his eyes at him.

“Shut it.” He warned tossing his phone down at the table.

It had been over twenty years since he had last seen or spoken with (Y/N) that very night etched into his memory permanently. The way tears fell down her face as his dad handed her money and a bus ticket. The sound of her voice as she pleaded to stay and called out his name for him to come with her. Her (Y/C/E) eyes giving him one last look before turning around and walking out of his life.

“Do you think she will call back?” Sam asked bringing him out of his thoughts.

Dean shook his head, “No I don’t.” he said simply opening the book that was in front of him and pretending he was reading.

A few hours later, there was a knock on their door startling both Winchesters. Sam got up as Dean grabbed his gun pointing it at the door. Sam opened it slowly and Dean saw his body relax immediately.

“Hey Sam, been a long time.” (Y/N)’s voice made Dean’s heart flutter. She gave Sam a small hug as she walked in their room. “Hi Dean.” She said voided of any kind of emotion.

“Hi (Y/N/N).” Her nickname had tumbled off his lips so easily. He watched her body go still for a moment before she grabbed one of the chairs from the small table and sitting on it.

She looked back over to Sam, “So, tell me about this case? I’m a little rusty on the whole hunting evil thing.”

Dean sat on his bed silently as Sam and she went over everything they found. (Y/N) pulled out her phone looking at something and then review over Sam’s notes once again before finally speaking. “The Arkansas Traveler.”

“The what?” He and Sam asked at the same time.

(Y/N) chuckled, “Your case sounds like a horror movie version of The Arkansas Traveler. It’s a tall tale of a stranger squatting with a family who can’t finish his song and the stranger finishes it for him earning the right to sleep on the only dry spot in the house.”

Dean looked from Sam to (Y/N) in disbelief as she continued, “The difference is your spirit is killing people. Best guess we should stake out Abandon Row which is a housing complex that is home to a lot of homeless and wayward people.”

“How do you know all of this?” Sam asked as they got ready to leave.

“All of the research and lore knowledge I have bouncing around up here. I put it to good use and have a degree in Literature specializing in American Folklore. I teach a few classes at the community college in town.” She explained laughing when she saw their surprised faces, “Don’t look so shocked boys. I had to pick up the pieces somehow.”

Dean flinched slightly following Sam and (Y/N) out of the motel room. She directed him to the area where a lot of the victims had gone missing. The tension was high within the car between him and her, so much so that Sam had decided to do a walk around the perimeter.

“Thanks for helping us.” He said looking back at her through the rearview mirror.

He watched her shrug, “I figured it best to help you, so you can get out of here faster. I’m sure you don’t like being here.”

Dean sighed frustration building in his chest. He wanted to tell her how he really felt that night and how he wanted to go with her but could never leave his family. They sat in silence the tension becoming almost to unbearable for Dean. When he looked out the windshield he saw Sam signaling for them to follow him.

“Come on, Sam’s got something.” He said as they got out of the car carefully walking over to his brother who was hiding behind an abandoned house.

“I think our spirit is in the house across from this one.” Sam said pointed to a particularly run-down one-story house.

Dean looked to see a man laughing manically to himself, “Why do you say that?”

Sam looked to them, “I heard the man inside mention something about someone traveling and writing a song.”

Dean looked to (Y/N) who was looking wide eyed to them both. “Alright, well let’s see if we can gank ourselves a traveling ghost.”

(Y/N) looked up to Sam, “What is the spirit tied too?” she asked.

“I think it’s a guitar inside the house. The homeless man was playing it when I walked by and that’s when I heard him talking about the song.” Sam explained as they made their way towards the house.

Dean turned towards (Y/N) handed her his shotgun with salt rounds in it, “You’ll need this.” He said simply as she took it from him.

“What exactly are you going to do?” she asked.

“Someone has to be bait and I’m not letting some homeless dude be it. Unless you have a better idea?” he said as she stood there glaring at him for a moment. “That’s what I thought. I know you two have my back.”

Dean did not wait for a response and walked into the house pulling out his wallet. The homeless man looked over to him clutching the guitar, “W-What are you doing here?”

“Hey man, nice guitar. I was wondering if I could buy it off you. I have two hundred here that is all yours if I can have the guitar.” Dean said as the man looked down at the guitar and then to the money in Dean’s hand.

The man handing him the guitar and took the cash, “I think there is a store down the street. Get some food and maybe a cheap place to stay.” Dean suggested as the man nodded walking out of the house.

He sat down on an old bucket that was in the middle of the room. Suddenly the guitar began to play on its own as it laid on the ground in front of Dean. “Here ghosty, ghosty, ghosty.” Dean whispered.

“Play.” A deep gravely voice sounded throughout the room.

“I’m gonna pass, why don’t you show yourself.” Dean called out seeing Sam and (Y/N) just off to the side.

Appearing next to the guitar was a man in shabby clothing with a blood-stained shirt. His eyes focused on the guitar, “Play.” He said again.

“Look, I know things on the other side of the veil are a little nutty, but I’m gonna give you a chance to go peacefully to the next life or I can send you there. Your choice.” Dean said standing up.

The ghost looked up glaring at Dean snarling his lips. “PLAY!” he yelled.

Sam took the first shot the salt round piercing the ghost making him vanish. All of them were looking around to see where he would pop up next. The guitar playing an eerie tune by itself. Dean turned his back towards (Y/N) looking to the guitar.

“DEAN! Watch out!” He heard (Y/N) yell as he turned towards her.

He watched as if in slow motion (Y/N) running in front of him as the ghost drove a piece of wood from the old house through her shoulder. Hearing her agonizing scream sent chills down his body. Dean quickly grabbed her falling body.

“Sammy burn it now!” he yelled out as he laid (Y/N) on the floor. Dean could feel the heat of the flames behind him as Sam set the guitar on fire. The ghost yelling out as he burnt into nothing.

“Damn it (Y/N), hold on. I can’t lose you again.” Dean said as he quickly took off his jacket and flannel placing the shirt on her wound as Sam pulled it out.

Dean wrapped her in his jacket and handed Sam the keys to Baby, “Come on we need to get her to a hospital.”

A week later, (Y/N) was realized after losing a lot of blood and needing a transfusion. Sam and Dean drove her to her apartment walking her up to it. Sam set her things down on the kitchen table as Dean helped her to her couch.

“Sam, would you mind doing a little grocery shopping for me? I trust you getting me stuff rather than Dean. I need something more than burgers and beer.” She said as Sam chuckled grabbing the keys from Dean.

He looked back at her as she stared at him, “Dean I think we need to talk.” She said.

“Look (Y/N), I know you didn’t want to be dragged back into this life and you got hurt which is all my fault…” he started to say.

“Dean!” she said loudly catching his attention, “Shut up. I know you think this is your fault, but it’s not. That is not what I want to talk about.”

He looked over at her curiously, “What then?” he asked.

“I heard you when I was stabbed. You said you didn’t want to lose me again.” She said as he looked away from her.

“Oh. Yeah that.” He said rubbing the back of his neck.

(Y/N) let out a frustrated sigh, “Care to explain because what I know is that you chose to push me out of your life when John sent me away. You didn’t even fight for me Dean. I thought we had something between us and then to see you just follow John’s orders to send me away. You broke my heart.”

Dean clenched his fist taking a deep breath. Hearing what she thought that night made him hate his father a little more for sending her away. Looking at her, he could see all the emotions running through her (Y/C/E) eyes.

“(Y/N), that night with everything that happened, is my biggest regret in my life. I didn’t realize it until much later in my life that I not only lost my best friend but the love of my life. Deep down I knew I fell in love with you and it scared me. I told myself that you were safer away from me because if anything had ever happened to you I wouldn’t know what I would do.” He explained feeling his own emotions bubbling in his chest.

(Y/N) moved closer to him, “Then why didn’t you come find me earlier?”

He shrugged, “I figured it was too late. A beautiful, smart, funny woman like you should have men falling at your feet. I always assumed you had found someone who could take care of you and love you better than I ever could.”

“Oh Dean…” she said leaning her head on his shoulder hooking her uninjured arm with his, “There is no one in this world who could protect me better than you.”

He looked down at her as she lifted her head up. Her perfect pouty lips mere inches from his and he could not take it anymore. Leaning down, he kissed her ever so gently cupping her smooth cheek with his calloused hand. He pulled away resting his forehead on hers.

“So, sweetheart where do we go from here?” he asked.

(Y/N) leaned back slightly smiling, “I go wherever you go. As long as we are together.”

If you enjoyed this story then check out my Masterlist!

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[ffangirlingsince2001]

Manic Pixie Dream Girl

Loki x OC (Ivy Cotton)

Warnings: FLUFF, Loki is a gentlemen (not that that needs a warning), scary dark alley attempted assault, Loki straight up skewers someone

A/N: Due to the fact that I don’t find myself to be very good at writing with Y/N in place of an actual name. So for everything that I write with Loki, Ivy Cotton is your gal. So, let us begin.

The first time he found her she wore a yellow skirt.

He had been standing outside a coffee shop, The Marshmallow Swirl, for thirty minutes, waiting for Thor to return from his errand. The smell from the shop was delicious, tantalizing; though he couldn’t enjoy it. The name of the shop drove him mad, and the laughter from inside was enough to turn his stomach. She came rushing out, carrying far too many coffees in arms. She had barely bumped him with her hip but it was enough to distract him from his own thoughts.

That’s all it was. Barely a tap and she was apologizing profusely.

“I’m so sorry. Did I get anything on you?” she asked shifting the pile to one arm so she could see him. Had it been anyone else he would have cursed them, clumsy mortals, but he was far too captivated by her copper eyes.

“Not a drop,” he clumsily charmed. She smiled, clearly relieved, something he made a mental note of.

“I’m really sorry, but I’m going to be late,” she chirped and then shifted the coffee back, rerouting her equilibrium and continued her brisk walk down the street.

He watched her as far as he could before she disappeared amongst the city crowds, and even then, his eyes remained trained in her direction. It wasn’t until he was greeted with a rough slap from Thor that he was snapped out of his daze.

“Hope I wasn’t too long, Brother,” he called and Loki shook his head nonchalantly.

“Not at all,” he replied distractedly, following his brother down the street, the opposite direction of the girl in the yellow skirt.

 The second time he found her was a week later, and some invisible force had drawn him into The Marshmallow Swirl, despite his best intentions. He had stood in the doorway, searching for her with little regard for those shoving past him to get in and out. When he had finally given up the prospect of seeing her he found himself a little table and ordered himself an Americano.

He was a few pages into one of the books he had bought minutes prior when the bell above the door chimed and he sensed the change in atmosphere almost immediately.

The second time he found her she wore a pink sundress.

The moment she walked in his stomach wavered and the words no longer made any sense. Oxygen was no longer a necessity, she had knocked the wind from him and, unknowingly, replaced herself.

She laughed breathlessly with the barista, a familiar acquaintance or a friend he couldn’t tell. She ordered a Flat White and a Danish, scanning the room for an empty table. When there was none to be found she bit her lip helplessly.

He was unaware of what came over him, but he had his arm raised and locked eye contact, ushering for her to join him.

He had never seen someone beam so brightly. She quickly collected her coffee and sat across from him, slinging her purse over the edge of her chair.

“Thank you so much,” she twittered and then eyed his book. “Oh, don’t worry. You can keep reading, I brought a book too.” With that she dove into her purse and pulled out a little green book. As she opened the cover, he touched her wrist and she stared at him, wide eyed and smiling.

“No need. I want to get to know you,” he confessed and she ducked her eyes shyly, setting her book on the table. She leaned forward, resting on her elbows.

“What do you want to know?”

“A name would be nice way to start.” She giggled.

“Ivy. And yours?”

“Loki.”

“Like the god?” she asked, flipping over the book she was planning on reading, revealing the word ‘Norse’ emblazoned on the cover.

“Exactly like the god,” he replied and she giggled.

“Sounds exotic.”

“Not quite, very mundane, it often involves sitting in coffee shops all morning, hoping a goddess will walk through the door.” She blushed and took a sip of her coffee, giggling nervously when it burnt her tongue.  There was comfortable silence as they looked out the window at passing traffic. Her phone suddenly rang and she answered. The person on the other end of the line spoke quickly and she nodded, opening her mouth, hoping to get a word in.

“I’m sorry, work,” she groaned, shoving her book in her bag and holding her Danish in her mouth. “Thank you for the table, and I hope I see you again soon.” With that she was out the door, waving her fingers at him as she passed him on the other side of the room. He stared at her dreamily and then cursed himself.

He hadn’t gotten her number.

As the thought raged in his blood it was replaced by something far more self-deprecating. He didn’t want to ruin her. She was far too pure.

A pink sundress did not belong with a black suit.

 The third time he found her he was not looking for her, and later he wished he had been.

He was taking a walk in the dark side of New York, Times Square’s lights not quite reaching far enough to illuminate the danger that it truly held. He had a knife fitted snuggly beneath his sleeve, though from what he knew of Midgard culture he would not be bothered. Woman were the only ones who truly feared walking down the streets at night, and that night he found why.

He heard a scream, a couple alleys away, and he broke into a sprint, pulling out his knife. When he turned the corner he found her pressed against a brick wall, a man hovering over her.

The third time she wore a white sweater and streaming mascara. He did not hesitate, there was no freezing in shock. He aimed his knife and it plunged into the man, knocking him into the ground and setting her free.

She rushed to his side and he wrapped his arms around her, escorting her from the alley.

“Did he touch you?” he asked and she shook her head. He hailed a cab and ushered in the door, asking the driver to wait a moment. He looked back at her attacker and clenched his fist, the man let out a gasp, clutching at his chest until he collapsed, his heart crushed beneath rage.

He climbed in beside Ivy and she leaned into him, sniffling and wiping her eyes.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” she whispered, snuggling into him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“He just scared me. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t mean to worry you.” She tucked her head beneath his arm and closed her eyes.

“What’s you address?” he asked and she mumbled her response before returning to the crook of his arm. He wrapped an arm around her as she shook, running his fingers through her hair.

The cab pulled out front of the beaten down apartment she had give the address too. He glanced almost nervously at the chipping brick and the man sitting outside, his box close by. She glanced at the building and moved to stand, but he pulled her into his arms and carried her past the front door and up the creaking stairs.

“What number?”

“Twenty-one,” she replied wrapping her arms around his neck. He unlocked the door with a wave of fingers. “Don’t you need a key?” she whispered.

“Don’t you worry, darling,” he tsked and she relaxed in his arms once more. He sat her on the bed and helped her slither out of her dreams. “What were you doing out on the street at this time of night?” he whispered and she blinked open an eye.

“I was closing up the bookstore.”

“At midnight?” he teased and she smiled, snuggling beneath the second-hand sheets.

“I fell asleep reading Paradise Lost, we got sent a new shipment and-” she mumbled before she was sleeping soundly. He noted the look of the apartment. Books towered in high piles, but no chairs could be seen. The only furniture was the bed and a large trunk, overflowing with clothes, not a piece of black amongst them. He brushed a strand of hair from her face and stood, exiting her apartment but not before locking it tightly.

 The fourth time he found he had been dragged to one of Stark’s parties. He had said it was to celebrate his new intern, but Loki, amongst the others, knew it was just a reason to get drunk and throw around his money.

He was sitting at the bar, nursing whatever fancy drink Banner had whipped up for him, he didn’t really want to know. A woman across the room was staring at him with little interest, and large quantities of lust. He didn’t understand how women knew that he had tried to take over the world, and they still tried to make it into his bed.

Despite their best efforts though, he had no interest in their advances.

A girl who wore pastels was of far more interest.

As he thought about her, he swore he caught a glimpse of her beside Stark. When she turned to admire the party, he felt his mind go blank.

The fourth time he found her she wore baby blue tulle.

She was waltzing[AG1]  around, the tulle bouncing around her thighs. Ribbon held her dress, swaying behind her, taunting him, begging him to pull it. He stood, his drink still in his hand. She was speaking to Thor, giggling at something, twirling her hair.

It pained him to say he had never seen something more adorable. She was looking at him with wide eyes, starstruck.

“Brother,” Thor called, catching him sneaking around the outer rim of the party. “Come. Meet the guest of honor. This is-,”

“Ivy” he interrupted and she whirled around, recognizing the voice.

“Loki. I thought you were kidding when you said you were a god,” she gushed and he chuckled.

“I never ‘kid’,” he teased, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and he tried to hold in his grin as she wrapped an arm around his waist, bumping into him playfully.

“You have met?” Thor asked and she giggled.

“Only a couple times, but he is the sweetest man I’ve ever met,” she doted, forcing Loki to hide yet another grin.

“You have an unpopular opinion, Lady Ivy,” he informed her and she merely rolled her eyes, glancing up at Loki, adoration written all across her face. Thor assessed the situation and called Steve over to introduce her to the one and only Captain America.

She seemed impressed, but Thor was disappointed to see that she remained comfortably at Loki’s side.

“Brother, I wish to speak to you,” he announced, grabbing Loki by the arm and hauling him from the party. Ivy watched as they left eyebrows raised in confusion, but disappointedly turned back to Steve, chatting animatedly.

When they entered the hallway, Loki shoved Thor from him.

“What do you need?” Loki snarled, peering over Thor’s shoulder searching for the blue tulle.

“How do you know Lady Ivy? What have you done to her?”

“I have done nothing. We have spoken times before,” he defended and Thor glared at him, pushing him against the wall.

“Do not lie to me, Brother. I have allowed you to stay here, but I will not allow you to manipulate Lady Ivy. I do not know how you met, and I do not know how you managed to find her-,”

“I am not lying, and I have done nothing to her. Now, if you don’t mind I’m going to return to the party,” he spat, shoving Thor from his presence and searching the crowd for the beautiful woman. When she was nowhere to be found he cursed Thor and his lack of tact.

He stormed into the other room, ripping his coat from his arms and throwing it into a chair. He slammed his fist into the cupboards, splintering the wood.

No one could hear his distress over the pounding music from the party, and he felt momentarily grateful for the extravagance of Stark Tower. He stormed away to his room, slamming the door, holding in a roar.

 The next morning was the final time he found her.

He slowly crawled to the kitchen, cursing the early sun, a hand shielding his eye. Music rocked the walls, shaking the pans that hung on the wall. He pressed a hand to his throbbing head.

“Will you cut your insufferable racket,” he growled.

“Don’t be that way,” came the familiar chirp. His head shot up and there she was.

He found her for the final time in an oversized t-shirt, dancing her heart out.

“Everyone else left on a mission, left me to get settled-,”

“So, you decided to blare that godforsaken music and make…”

“Pancakes. Now sit down and I’ll bring you some,” she ordered, ushering him towards the counter. As he sat she slid a stack of pancakes in front of him, already topped in strawberries and cream. He stared at her over the tower of fluff. She leaned over, elbows propped on the counter. “Go on, it’s not poisonous,” she teased and he stowed his fork into the many layers. Her eyes glowed with anticipation as he took a bite.

Edible happiness filled his mouth and he fought to stop joy from erupting on his face.

“So?” she asked, biting her lip.

“They’re fine,” he told her, taking another massive bite. Her face fell and then she narrowed her eyes at him, accompanied with a grin.

“Just fine?” she laughed, “You’re practically snarfing it down.” His eyes darkened and hers followed suit until she burst out laughing.  “I can’t stay serious around you.”

“I am the epitome of serious,” he defended and it only made her laugh harder.

“You’re so brooding, but outside of this tower, you’re so sweet,” she praised and he rolled his eyes, taking another bite to avoid answering. “You disappeared last night,” she mentioned, breaking the silence.

“I believe it was you that disappeared.”

“I tried to find you for a dance, but Steve kept corralling me. You would think that they didn’t want me to dance with you.”

“They don’t.”

“Well, they’re not very bright then,” she said leaning across the counter, her lips brushing across his cheek. He fought to hide the blush that bloomed across his face but had no luck. “And you’re not dark and brooding.”

With a small giggle she pushed herself away from the counter, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, prancing away from the kitchen, hips swaying. He watched her until she was no longer there, and took another bite of the delicious delicatessens.

[vide0-nasties]

hi there! you're a darling, eustacia is a babe. how about 2, 3, 11, 17, 21 questions for the ask thingy? (ps. your answer to 20 question was something. i didn't know i need this imagery, god bless you *furiously fans self*)

i'm blushing irl because you called eustacia a babe, i've seriously never lived before today!!! ALSO, real talk? i'm probably going to make that into a longer standalone bc holy shit it was fun to write

asra angst at the top bc i love dying.

3. How would your apprentice handle being so close tosomething that they desperately want, only to have it ripped away? What was it?

It comes back—all ofher, she comes back. Asra’s done it—he’s done the impossible, he’s given her back to her. Only moments ago, hewas a complete, but friendly stranger, and now—now—

“Asra,” she sobs,reaching for him. He looks so relieved, tears spilling from his eyes, and hebreaks down himself, hacking up his own sob, “Eustacia, oh, shit, fuck, thank god! Thank all of them—”

He tries to bury his face in her chest, her stomach, but shedoesn’t let him. No, she drags him up and kisses him so hard they will bothsurely wear bruises.

Everything. She remembers everything. Every little detail.His hand lies flat on her chest, over the heartbeat he so excruciatingly loves,and they cry against each other’s mouths. It’s been so long, too long. Neveragain. They’ll never be apart again. She won’t let it happen.

She’ll tear apart the fucking heavens with her bare hands before he’s made to hurt again.

“The Count?” she asks, between kisses. “He’s dead?”

“Lucio’s dead,” he promises her. “He’s dead, and he’s never coming back.”

Another sob rips from her, and she’s made even stupider andmore boneless by relief. “Nadia lives?”

“Nadi lives. She’s alive, I think she’s safe.”

Eustacia draws him back against her mouth, mistaking the wetfrom her nose and the sting in her eyes as tears. But when her body begins tojerk, disobeying her will, and something trickles from her ears, and her mouthfills with the unmistakable tang of blood…

NO, she wants toscream, but she is frozen in place. Her body stands rigid as her expressiondrops and goes hollow, blank, even wrapped around Asra.

NO! NO-NO-NO! WE HAVESUFFERED ENOUGH. HE HAS SUFFEREDENOUGH. NOT AGAIN, NOT THIS, NOT ASRA. NOTASRA. NOTASRANOTASRANOTASRANOTASRA—

“Eustacia? Eustacia?!Wh-what happened, you’re—why are you bleeding? Eustacia? You…can you hear me?! No, no-no-no, PLEASE,” hepanics, and his panic turns to anger, despair, heartbreak. All of it, writtenplainly on his face, and she can do nothing but watch and scream silentscreams. Agony so intense, it might’ve shattered her beyond repair, if Asradidn’t take it back.

#’s 2 (nsfw), 11, 17, and 21 under the cut!

2. Does your apprentice get flustered over anything? Whatmake them flustered? Do they turn red? Stumble over words?

To give herself some credit—not the overblown, clownishly arrogant kind of credit a person thatthinks poorly of themselves uses to make cover for their self-loathing—Eustaciais usually the one to throw someone off-balance.

But, then Doctor Julian ‘I’m Actually Taller Than You And,Also, Look At My Lovely Red Hair, Dashing Eyepatch, And Big Pretty Hands’Devorak breaks into her shop, and ever since that moment she’s hasn’t knownpeace.

What a fucking suckershe is.

The Rowdy Raven is in rare form tonight, packed to therafters and so loud you’d be lucky to hear a thought in the confines of yourown head. The fugitive and the witch are hardly worthy of note, tucked into a far-backbooth as they are. But they’re having their own party. The masquerade is soon,and everything is up in the air, down to the wire, and all to sea.

It’s a shame Eustacia’s never had a knack for divination,otherwise she would’ve foreseen Julian’s very pleasant, and handsy mood.

The absolute filthhe whispers in her ear. It would make a seasoned brothel girl blush. But, toher credit, it takes Julian slipping his hand down the front of her pants toreally begin to undo her. She remains tucked into his side—nose-to-nose, hisarm around her shoulders—wheezing jagged, nervous laughter. Even with his gloveon, his fingers feel amazing circlingher clit.

She has to be an obscene red from her navel to her chin, andshe knows she keeps trying to bunch up like a dead spider—crossing her legs, duckingher head, hugging her middle, or tryingto. Julian’s making such good arguments.

Her laughter rises to a wild pitch, one of her hands flyingup to cover her mouth when he removes his hand and sucks her slick off hisfingers. She knots a hand in his shirt and thinks her howling laughter willrattle her apart when he kisses her and purrs, “You are the best thing I have evertasted. I really think I might die if I don’t get to hear how you laugh whenyou cum.”

11. Talk about how your apprentice deals with emotions. Boththe ones they like to feel, and what they don’t like to feel.

Unfortunately, especially for Asra, Eustacia knows she isthe sort of person that either feels everythingat the height of their extremes, or she plays numb to cover what she does notwish to display.

Her elevated moods, the good and the manic, make her brassy,brazen. Difficult to stomach for long periods unless you’ve trained yourself towithstand them. In these states she’s loud. Overwhelming. Her energy isfrantic, and she’s too lost to it to remember things like volume control, ormonitoring her mouth, or keeping her hands from being destructive when shetalks with them.

Everything is exciting, and everything needs done right now, right this instant.

Sadness, fear, anxiety—they all become anger. Her teeth andher muscles clench like her fists. Her voice bottoms out and her eyes weighheavy and unforgiving on any and all that cross her path. She stops walking,and ends up stalking, prowling. She watches empty air and waits for a fight tocome to her. When it doesn’t, she wants to look for one.

She doesn’t remember her old life, what kind of historycould happen to produce a person like she is, but she wonders how often shegave into the urge. She wonders if she ever tried to smother the impulse, killthis ugly beast with her hands breaking its neck, like she tries to do now.

When she is overtaken by anger, or clued into the vulgarityof her good moods, she pulls away from herself, putting her mental reins underan iron hand. Her incorporeal self takes a step away from her physical body,needing time and space to right herself, and her expression slips into a coolmask. Her body quiets, starting with her hands.

Only once she has made herself as placid as unbroken glassdoes she return.

17. Can they bear pain? How much pain can they bear? Do theyhate it or do they like it ala our good Doctor?

There’s something mean inside her, something ugly, and itfeels good to feed it.

This is a bar she’s never been to, and never will again. Shepours a beer in the lap of a man she’s never met, and never will again.

Her head snaps to the side when his fist connects. Laughterpipes up her throat, and a crimson bubble of blood on her lips breaks apartwhen it exits. The world blurs when the brawl starts. Eustacia splits herknuckles open on whatever they catch, throws her elbows, crushes feet with herheels, launches her knees.

Starbursts of pain make fireworks explode behind her eyes.Her nose gets broken, her brow split, her jaw rocked. Her cackle is howlingwhen she feels a rib grind together—broken. She rears her head up, catchingsight of Asra’s white hair weaving through the violence. He wades inthoughtlessly, as if he’s done this more times than he can count, a dance thathe knows by heart.

His expression is almost as murder as hers is, but itblanches to rabbit-hearted terror when she wipes her mouth on her sleeve,pushed by the crush of bodies out the door, bar brawl turning street riot likelightning.

It feels like the ocean is sliding off her body, and shestands straighter, taller, broader, as dark as an ocean trench’s bed.

She spits her blood in the face of a man that floors her,his hand eclipsing her head to slam it into the coarse pavers. The side of herhead shreds, pebbling with blood. Asra finds her again, hands glowing dangerously.He grabs the man by the nape, and Eustacia is bombarded by the stench of burnthair, laughing when her attacker screeches and wheels away.

“Get up,” Asra wheezes, taking her wrists. “You have to getup. The guards are coming—get up!”

He’s able to haul her away, her arm flung over his shouldersand her steps sometimes catching. Her head’s fogged, and she’s a littleconfused.

“I was gone for fiveminutes,” he barks. “Five minutes, and you start a riot. What were you evendoing?! What if you got stabbed?! Youcould’ve died, Eustacia—you could’ve died—!Do you know what that would do tome?!”

“Felt good,” she croaks, trying to wipe at her mouth, endingup hitting her nose and sending sparks into her vision. “Felt so good, getting—gettingthe pressure off. Don’t feel so badnow. Always feel so bad, like I’msick. It never stops.”

21. What’s their relationship history look like? What weretheir previous datemates like? Do they have a type?

At thirteen, she had her first kiss, and ever since thatmoment she was ruined. Completely andforever, in fact! When the girl that kissed her immediately stood up and left,scrubbing her mouth on her shirt and retching melodramatically, Eustacia was tooheartbroken to understand this was the beginning of a trend.

Through the rest of her teens, she would find herself drowning in romances—incredibly powerful,painfully short romances. The actualperson mattered very little, she went for all types if they spared a kind wordor a sweet touch on her.

There was a green-eyed woodcutter’s son that wooed herrelentlessly for weeks, and left her minutes after they finished fucking in hismother’s woodshed. A fellow witch in the Sisters that only met her in the dark,who went around calling Eustacia pathetic and creepy behind her back. A poetwith long, silky hair that introduced her husband to Eustacia the way wardensreleased hounds on escaped prisoners.

Her last ‘real’ romance, if you could’ve called a single onereal, was an opera singer. Renaldo Sarintoni, a man twice her age with a tenoras sweet as church bells. She’d gone to two of his shows, and after one of themhand-delivered a bouquet of roses to his door.

She’d scraped and scraped to afford those roses, and she thoughtshe might burst into tears when he ran his fingers over the petals and calledthem beautiful. What a sonorous voice you have, he marveled, do you sing?

Not much—she knew three arias and countless pub tunes—but,for Renaldo, she cleared her throat and sang a piece of a love song for him—libiamo, libiamo ne’lieti calici che labelleza infiora. The sparkle in his eyes was incredible.

That was probably her most intense love. He’d swept her offher feet, dressed her in fine things, wasted money on her to the point of embarrassment,took her to beautiful restaurants. They talked endlessly, for hours, abouteverything. She never wanted children, but might’ve had his.

Three months of otherworldly loving, until they woke up onemorning and he said, “I’m sorry. But…”

As badly as she wanted her heart to scar over and feelnothing, it didn’t happen. Left and right, she continued to fall in love, butno longer did she allow herself to wander into a place where her misshapen littleheart could get broken again. There was little to it left, and she wanted it toherself.

For a time, she fought herself, her nature, her ways. Shesnapped at suitors, laughed off ladies, and heaped scorn upon romantics that sniffedher out like bloodhounds.

And then, Asra found her.

She will end up wishing she hadn’t fought that love so hard.

[mindfulwrath]

Silver, Part VII

Celebrity crushes really never turn out the way you think they will.

Words: 3,882 Warnings: Blood/gore, excessive swearing

Part I Part VI

Hyde couldn't believe it, but he'd finally, finally made it to Blackfog. Oh, it had taken days, an unbelievable amount of nagging and niggling and finagling, and there had been ever so many detours (some of them exceptionally pleasant), but he was here.

And it was everything he could possibly have hoped for.

The bazaar spanned several blocks, tented under colored silks flung over laundry lines. The air was a clamor of voices, glowing mists and brilliant lights, shadows black and velvet. A thousand different smells pervaded the space, wafting up above the rooftops with the fog. Everything glittered and gleamed, green and gold and silver and red. He could taste the place, like curry and sea salt, could feel its electric tingle in the air. The press of people was incredible—it seemed like every miscreant and vagabond in London had turned up, every monster and madman had crawled out of their sewers and down from their towers to join in the crushing tide of life. The opportunists of the London underworld had come out in full force, too—pickpockets, beggars, prostitutes and hawkers all dotted the crowd and gathered in the corners, shouting and sneaking and selling their little hearts out.

Jasper was clinging to his arm for dear life, and that was all right, too. He'd gotten rather quiet after their tete-a-tete—probably impressed, far too overawed for words—

Dear God, you're up yourself, Jekyll remarked.

—far too overawed for words, and additionally in a state of such overwhelming bliss that words had been unnecessary. But Hyde's energy had been unflagging, manic, to the point that holding still was torture, and there was still so much night left, and if Jekyll was going to go about drinking poison and writing wills, Hyde was damn well going to milk every second for all it was worth.

"Oooooh, look look look!" he cooed, dragging Jasper over to a lime-green stand filled with glimmering bottles in a thousand different hues. "Now that's quality herbalism, that is. You fiddle about with potions, don't you?"

"I—I do," said Jasper. He leaned over Hyde's shoulder, peering at the bottles. He looked up at the salesman, who was half-shrouded in shadow. "You wouldn't . . . happen to have any wolfsbane potion, would you?"

"Wolfsbane?" said the salesman, in a thick accent that Hyde couldn't place. "Yes, yes, we have."

"Oh! Er . . . how much?" Jasper hazarded.

Hyde was about to scold him for being a total rube when something shinier caught his eye, and quick as thinking he was off, dodging through the crowd.

Do not leave him alone here, Jekyll scolded, frowning at him from a puddle on the ground. Hyde stepped on his face. I mean it.

"Or what?" Hyde muttered under his breath.

Or he'll get hurt! For God's sake, at least pretend to have an ounce of compassion.

"Like you care," said Hyde, rolling his eyes. He pushed out of the press of the crowd and grabbed a handy post to keep from being dragged away. It was really inconvenient, being short. He might have to take to the rooftops. All this getting elbowed in the head was starting to annoy him.

Hyde. . . .

"So what's all this shiny business?" Hyde asked the stallkeeper, gesturing to the glittering assortment of gems and filigree wires laid out on velvet cushions.

Hyde.

"Ah, a discerning eye, sir," said the stallkeeper, with a what-a-sucker glimmer in her eye. "These stones are imbued with incredible powers, beyond all imagining! This one—"

Hyde!

"Funny, 'cause they look like cheap shite to me," Hyde quipped, and darted back into the crowd. He found Jasper huddling against a wall near the potion stand with his metaphorical tail between his legs. He nearly went up the wall when Hyde caught him by the arm.

"There you are," Hyde said, rolling his eyes. "Gotta keep up, Jazz, don't want you gettin' et up."

"Right," said Jasper, leaning on him. "Right, yeah, right. Sorry. Look, I—I really should be getting back, I didn't have enough for the wolfsbane and—"

"Oooo, I've only heard about those!" Hyde said, off again after a particularly eye-catching assortment of luminiferous wights. He kept a firm grip on Jasper, if for no other reason than to keep Jekyll quiet. He fluttered from stall to stall, directionless and erratic but endlessly delighted. He towed Jasper along with him, finding him an excellent sounding board to prove how bloody brilliant Hyde was, all that stuffy knowledge Jekyll had amassed finally coming in handy. Jasper seemed suitably impressed, and after a while even started to look like he was enjoying himself. An awful lot of money was spent, but it was worth every penny—there were salts and reagents, daggers and dirks, disgusting (but delicious) meat pies, more drinks for the both of them, vicious chemicals and sparkling trinkets and a book so musty and old and ugly that Jekyll nearly fainted clean out of Hyde's head when he saw it.

They bought that one, too. It was boring and idiotic, but if there was one talent Jekyll had, it was taking boring, idiotic, dull-as-dirt science and turning it into. . . .

Well, Hyde, for one.

He was just beginning to feel like heading in a vaguely homeward direction when his eye caught on the single most incredible sight yet. The noise that came out of his mouth was inhuman. He grabbed Jasper by both arms, hauled him into an alleyway, and pinned him to the wall.

"Did you see?" he squeaked. "Did you see? That was her! That was her, that was Lucy!"

"What—who?" Jasper said, looking a little stunned. He might possibly have hit his head on the wall in all the excitement (not Hyde's fault).

"Lucy! Lucy of the Forty Elephants, Lucy the—look, just stay here, don't get into any trouble, I'll be back, don't follow me!"

"Why—"

"You'll make me look too good!" Hyde called, even as he bounded back into the crowd.

It was impossible to carry off a proper swagger in the press of people, but the good news was, he did manage to keep Lucy in sight. It took him a good five minutes to work his way over to her. Perhaps by sheer force of presence, she had cleared the area around her. Hyde slipped up next to her and leaned a hand on the stall she was currently perusing. He gave her his worst smile and tipped his hat.

"Evenin', miss," he said.

She spared him a single withering glance. Hyde almost passed out.

"Go away, boy," she said.

"Boy?" he cried. "Boy?! I'm a fully-grown man, thank you very much!"

"Fully?" said Lucy, arching an eyebrow. "My, how disappointing for you."

Hyde's ears were burning. Somewhere in the back of his head, Jekyll was laughing.

"Being of a slender persuasion tends to be 'elpful when gettin' places a person ain't meant to get into," Hyde said. "By the by, massive fan of your work."

"I doubt you're a massive anything," Lucy said, a smile tugging at her lips. She did turn towards him, though, and her attention spilled onto him like sunlight. He preened.

"Only a massive pain in the arse, Miss Lucy," he said, tipping his hat. He could not have stopped grinning for love nor money. There was a constant sound inside his head like a kettle boiling over, a piercing whistle of unbelievable excitement. "Particularly to those of a more moneyed inclination."

"Is that so," said Lucy, folding her arms. He had her full attention now, the stallkeeper forgotten. Another woman had precipitated out of the crowd, hanging near Lucy's elbow—she had the look of a career thief about her, doubtless one of the Forty Elephants.

"It is so," said Hyde. His heart was going to beat right out of his chest. His blood was electric. "One might say I've taken some inspiration from a certain lady thief."

"In what way?" Lucy asked, amused.

"Might've 'eard tell of a few of your daring exploits with the peelers," Hyde said, examining his fingernails. "Might've similarly dropped a caber on Mad Moreau. 'Eard of 'im? Yeah, 'e never stood a chance against the likes of me."

"Moreau, the vivisectionist?" Lucy inquired.

"One an' the same, dear lady," Hyde said, grinning ear to ear. "Up in a blaze of glory not two nights ago, thanks entirely to yours truly. With inspiration coming from you, of course."

"Ah," said Lucy, with a twinkle in her eye. "So you're the fucker who burnt down half our best revenue."

Hyde's smile locked in place. His eyes got very wide. He suddenly noticed no fewer than four women in the immediate vicinity all giving him very unfriendly looks.

Start running now, Jekyll suggested.

"Lllllllladies," Hyde said, tipping his hat.

The first leap took him onto the shoulders of the man to his left. The second launched him up into the laundry lines. They snapped instantly under his weight. He came crashing back down in a tangle of silks. Someone shrieked. The crowd swarmed in confusion. Hyde scrambled out from under the tangle. He ducked through the forest of legs, on his hands and knees. Lucy shouted something out. Hyde clambered to his feet and dove into the nearest alley. He bounced up the walls to the roofs. Hobnails clattered on brick behind him. He took off at a full sprint.

Quick question, Jekyll said. Do you ever think about the things coming out of your mouth, or do you just prop your teeth open and hope?

"You—are not—helping!" Hyde panted. He risked a glance back. Lucy and six others were hot on his tail. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!"

Whatever you do, don't go back to the Society or the house. I get the feeling fire might become involved.

"Then where—am I—supposed—to go—you prig?"

He leapt across an alley and lost his footing on the shingles opposite. He scrabbled at the slanted roof like a dog on hardwood. He tumbled off the side. He plummeted, screaming. Several things smashed upon impact. Hyde got up and kept running. There was an awful lot of pain, and possibly splinters. Shouts followed him, then a screech of metal on stone. He did not look back. He just ran. He tore around a corner, bounced off the building, and nearly cannoned headfirst into a brick wall.

Dead end.

Perhaps literally.

Hyde flattened himself against the wall in a panic. There was nowhere to go. Nothing to leap off of, the alley cluttered with laundry lines, he'd be caught like a fly in a spider's web, he was stuck, he was fucked—

Lucy and the others spilled around the corner into the end of the alleyway. Weapons flashed in the half light. Like lions, they went for him, fluid in their ferocity. There was a horrible screeching noise from overhead, a snapping and cracking.

Jasper dropped into the alleyway, snarling and monstrous, directly between Hyde and the Elephants. Broken laundry lines fell all around him. Teeth gleamed white in the darkness, claws glittered beetle-black. Hellfire glowed from his eyes. Five crossbows leveled at his chest.

For a moment, all was stillness.

"No," Lucy said. She put a hand on the nearest Elephant's crossbow, lowering it. Her eyes stayed fixed on Jasper. "It's not worth getting bit. Another time, ladies, another time."

One by one, the crossbows lowered. Jasper stayed where he was, growling, bristled and hunched. The Elephants backed away slowly. Lucy was the last to go.

"But I'll be back, you little fuck," she spat. Her arm snapped up. There was a silken sound.

Pain exploded through Hyde's arm. The world whited out for a second. He screamed. Jasper snarled and leapt forward. Hobnails clattered on cobble. Hyde clutched at the wall behind him, kicking his feet as though he could scramble back through the bricks and escape the pain. He couldn't feel his fingers.

He risked a look at his arm. The pain doubled the moment he saw the silvery bolt sticking out of his sleeve. He very nearly threw up. He had to take a moment, close his eyes and lean his head back against the wall, just breathe, just breathe, and if there was some pathetic whimpering interspersed with the breathing it wasn't like there was anyone around to hear. . . .

There was a padding of feet, and then hot, doggy breath ruffled his hair.

"That looks bad," Jasper said. Hyde's eyes snapped open just in time to see him reaching for the wound. He kicked Jasper in his barrel chest as hard as he could, sent him sprawling.

"It's fine!" Hyde snapped. "Don't touch me, I can handle it!"

"Sorry," Jasper whimpered. Hyde turned away from him, huddling against the wall. It was half to protect the wound from further meddling and half to keep Jasper from seeing the tears streaming down his face.

With his teeth, he ripped into the sleeve of his shirt—fortunately she had missed the overcoat—and tore it off to reveal the wound, the bolt, an awful lot of bright red blood. Black threads trailed out past the shaft, punched into his flesh. His stomach lurched at the sight. That spelled infection, necrosis, he could lose the arm—

Get a hold of yourself, Jekyll snapped, though his voice was thin with pain, too. Don't pull it out or we'll bleed to death. Get back to the Society. We ought to have the right materials for the Flesh Weaver. It'll take time, and it will hurt, but it will be survivable. You like surviving, don't you?

Hyde clenched his teeth. Through a massive effort of will, he managed to get to his feet. His head spun. Again, he came very close to throwing up.

"What—what can I do to help?" Jasper said meekly.

"Get me back to the Society," Hyde said. His voice was hoarse. "Jekyll can patch me up."

Jasper's ears flattened back, and a few multicolored sparks spat from between his teeth.

"Right," he said. He sidled up to Hyde and offered one large, hairy arm. Hyde grappled onto it one-handed. Every movement sent another shock of pain through him. He grit his teeth and swore he would show no sign of weakness until he was properly alone.

He threw up three times on the way back.

Jasper got him to the laboratory door, and Hyde pried himself off and staggered inside without a word of preamble. Jasper tried to say something and Hyde slammed the door on him, locking it behind himself. The pain had gotten into his head, left him fuzzy and disoriented. He just wanted it to stop. He would've cut off his arm if it would've made it stop.

Keep going, Jekyll said. Nearly there. This is the easy part.

"Shut up," Hyde said. He shoved off of the door and staggered to the lab bench. It was a mess. Everything was cluttered and blurry, swimming before his eyes.

The decoded notes are in the desk, Jekyll said. Go to the desk.

Hyde took a few tottering steps back until he encountered the desk. There was blood on his fingers. He didn't bother wiping it off.

Open the top left drawer, Jekyll said. Just look for the title. It should say "Flesh Weaver" at the top. Big letters, can't miss it.

Clumsy and sniffling, Hyde did as he was told. The pain was too much to bear. No one was watching now, no one but Jekyll, and there were already no secrets between them. He was free to collapse into a weeping, snotty mess if he felt like it.

It really fucking hurt.

He found the papers, though only after smearing bloody fingerprints on nearly everything in the drawer. Jekyll continued to walk him through it, one step at a time. At least his voice was strained, too, even if it was only in Hyde's head. No composure could survive this kind of agony. The brewing was accomplished without antagonism from either side, perhaps simply because they were both in too much pain. The Flesh Weaver came out pale yellow and fizzing, and Hyde corked it, just in case it got knocked over. He sank to the floor and put his back against the lab bench.

This was the hard part.

Fingers trembling, Hyde grasped the end of the bolt. He was too sweaty to get a good grip on it. He wiped his hand off on his coat. He was shivering despite the warmth of the room, and his eyes wouldn't focus properly. On the second try, he managed to get a better grip on the bolt. He took three quick, deep breaths, squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth.

He yanked. Agony lanced through his arm, so intense it knocked all the air out of him, sent sparks dancing across his eyes. He threw up again, although it was more of a dry heave at this point. The alcohol was not helping with the pain—or maybe it was, in which case, thank God he was still drunk—but it was certainly helping to unsettle his stomach.

It's barbed, Jekyll said. His arm was pinned to Hyde's by the bolt, pain stitched through the both of them. You'll have to push it out the other side.

"Bitch," Hyde hissed, his voice thick with pain. "Bitch, bitch, bitch, shitting hell, cunt on a stick, mother of fuck—"

The faster you do it, the less it will hurt.

Hyde put his thumb on the end of the bolt and pressed as hard as he could. The scream that tore out of him was like a banshee's. He writhed. His head slammed into the lab bench and he barely felt it. The point of the bolt tented out the skin on the back of his arm and then punched through. Hyde grabbed the bolt and yanked it the rest of the way out. The pain sharpened to a blinding white lance and then, finally, began to dull. He subsided against the wall, gasping for air and whimpering and trembling. Blood streamed down his arm. Fumbling, he grabbed up the potion from the bench and uncorked it with his teeth. He forced himself to pour it out slowly, one gush at a time. It fizzled like phenol against the edges of the wound. An unbearable itching kicked up inside his arm as the flesh stitched itself back together.

At long, long last, the pain subsided, and the itching resolved, and he was left drenched in sweat and shivering uncontrollably. He picked up the bolt with numb fingers, examined it through misty eyes. It was a cruel, steely thing, with three pairs of barbs hooked back along its length. Blood and stringy bits of flesh were still clinging to it.

"Keepin' that," Hyde mumbled. "That's a Lucy original, that is."

You are unbelievable, said Jekyll. Now would you please change back? Someone will have heard the screaming.

By that point, Hyde was all to happy to get out of his body, to sink back into the muted mists of Jekyll. He heaved himself to his feet and whipped up a quick batch of the transformative serum. While it fizzed and shifted from red to green, there was a knock at the door.

"Dr. Jekyll?" It was Virginia Ito, sounding gravely concerned.

"One moment!" Hyde called back. He didn't sound much like Jekyll, but maybe through the door, and just two words, it should be fine, and even if it wasn't, Jekyll himself could smooth it over. He gulped down the potion and braced himself.

She knocked again.

"I heard screaming," Virginia said. "Jasper said Mr. Hyde had been hurt."

Hyde looked down at his hands. He touched his chest. There was the warmth, the salty, bitter taste, the light-headedness—but where was the pain? Where were the wracking convulsions? What was taking so long?

"Why isn't it working?" he hissed. Panic clawed up his spine. "Why isn't it working?"

I—I don't know, Jekyll stammered, the same terror in his voice. I don't know!

"What the fuck are we meant to do?"

The doorknob rattled. Hyde almost bit through his tongue.

"Henry, I'm starting to get concerned about all that silence," Virginia warned.

"Fuck! Fuckity fuck!"

Just make another, Jekyll said hurriedly. Quickly, a double dose. Now, now!

Hyde's hands shook abominably. He spilled the salt all over the table. Virginia was pounding on the door. The second potion effervesced and turned green and Hyde quaffed it without a single breath for air.

"Dr. Jekyll, if you do not open this door, I will break it down," Virginia threatened.

Pain struck through Hyde's chest, and he had never been happier to feel it. Agony consumed him, dropping him to his knees. No sound could pass his lips. Glowing ichor spilled from his eyes and mouth. He gasped in a breath, then two. He staggered to his feet, wiping his face on his coat. Said coat was then torn off and flung across the room. He checked the cheval glass.

Henry Jekyll looked back at him, disheveled and exhausted. Hyde hung over his shoulder, a mist, a dissipating fog.

Jekyll rubbed at his face, let out a breath, and opened the door.

Virginia paused with one leg cocked, as though she had been about to kick her way in. She placed her foot back on the floor and straightened her skirts. She cleared her throat.

"There you are," she said. Her eyes went wide, brow furrowed. "My God, what's happened to you?"

"Ah," said Jekyll, looking down at the sleeve Hyde had torn off to get at the bolt. There was also a great deal of blood still on him. "Mr. Hyde was . . . a touch out of sorts. I'm not injured, not to worry. It's all his."

"Good lord," said Virginia. "Is he all right?"

"He will be," said Jekyll. "I've managed to get him mostly patched up and calmed down. I apologize for not answering the door sooner, he was being difficult."

"I see," said Virginia. She let out a decisive sigh. "Well, if there's anything I can do, let me know."

"I certainly will," he promised. "Thank you for the offer. You said Jasper told you the situation?"

"Yes," she said. "In a manner of speaking. It was more a panicked sobbing than a telling."

"Ah," Jekyll said again. "Well, please let him know that all should be well, and that Mr. Hyde and I both appreciate his efforts. I'm given to understand he saved Hyde's life."

"Did he," said Virginia, eyebrows raising. "Well, we shall have to give him a proper hero's welcome. What about you?"

"Staying with my patient," said Jekyll. "He should be well by morning, but I shouldn't like to leave him alone until then."

"Of course," said Virginia. "It seems like it was quite the ordeal."

"Indeed."

"Do take care, Henry."

"You as well."

She walked away, and he shut the door. For a moment, he stood there staring at the wood grain, thinking nothing, swaying with the beating of his heart.

"That," he said to himself, "was too close."

You're telling me, said Hyde.

[michelleisinhell]

Daddy Lessons

In which Bitty comes out to his Daddy. (The mom version)

Read on Ao3

It sounded like the beginning of a joke. Two Bittles walk into a den.

Eric stood awkwardly in front of his dad’s gigantic trophy case, his body slouched and his fingers intertwined in front of him. His adrenaline was still soaring from the conversation he’d just had with his mother and he could still catch a faint hint of smoke clinging to his button-down.

The elder Bittle was sitting in his favorite navy blue recliner, the hideous and torn one that had been banned from the living room after one (or ten) too many years of service. He held his ipad aloft in front of him as he scrolled through a sports news feed with a scowl. His body language was open, but intimidating, just like always. Richard had a habit of completely filling up every room he was in without meaning to.

The easy commanding presence was great for coaching, not so much for parenting. He knew that his son found it intimidating. The boy was far too soft-hearted for his own good, never wanting to bother or upset anyone. Afraid to speak up for himself for fear of being considered a burden.

Polite to a fault that kid. Just like his mama.

It wasn’t that Eric was afraid of his father. Of course not. He was afraid of disappointing him. Of not living up to his expectations and legacy.

It was the worst kind of fear. Self-imposed and corrosive. Everpresent. A lens that had colored every interaction between the two of them for more than half of Eric’s life, starting with the disaster that was his very first football game.

He would never forget the look on Coach’s face, afterward. The tense set of his jaw as his Mama stormed the field, corralling people to help scrape him up off the turf like a burnt stuck-on pancake.

It had made Eric want to build himself a paper mache turtle shell to hide inside of for all of eternity.

Alas, that solution was neither practical nor cost effective.

Instead, he chose to focus all of his time and energy on things that he loved. Figure skating. Baking. Vlogging. Things he was actually good at, because if he couldn’t be a huge masculine football player like his Daddy wanted, he could at least be the very best at everything else.

Still, even as an adult, Eric had never been able to outrun this intrinsic fear of not being good enough. Of not meeting his father’s expectations.

The truth, though?

Richard Bittle was not disappointed in his son at all.

He was jealous.

Jealous that Eric wanted, had always wanted, to spend all of his time with Suzanne and not with him. That the two of them had so much in common. That Junior’s relationship with her was so easy when their own was so damn hard.

He couldn’t blame his wife and son for being close; he would never begrudge them that, but it was still kind of a hard pill to swallow. Eric was their only child, and for a time it seemed like the only thing his son had inherited from him was his name.

Richard had so much more of himself that he wanted to share. So much wisdom he wanted to impart. But he couldn’t. They weren’t close enough for that. Junior didn’t tell him things, and when he did, Richard never knew the right things to say. That just wasn’t the kind of relationship they had. They communicated mostly through offhandedly whispered football stats and milkshakes on friday afternoons. Hockey terminology and quiet smiles from across the dinner table.

The fact that his son suddenly wanted to talk to him about something serious was both worrying and exciting.

Richard sat his ipad aside and cleared his throat.

Junior was still standing there, not meeting his gaze. The silence was already starting to become awkward.

“Sit down, son.” he said finally, figuring that Eric would stand there looking like he was being scolded for hours if he didn’t say something to spur him into action.

Eric sucked in a breath and pried his hands apart before walking over to the ancient oak writing desk and rolling the accompanying (and completely non-matching) chair over to his father’s side. He ran his delicate fingers over the back of the chair consideringly for a moment before gracefully lowering himself into it.

Richard smiled and did his best to make it a disarming one. It probably looked like a nervous twitch more than anything.

“What’s on your mind, Jr?”

Eric didn’t know where to start. He flashed back to his mother’s advice:

There’s no one more impressive to your father than a professional athlete. You might want to lead with that.

“You know Jack?” he began, butt on the edge of his seat, legs bouncing, fists shaking, ready to bail at any second.

Richard laughed. “You mean the man who spent a whole week under this very roof? First friend you’ve had over in a decade. How could I forget?”

Eric blushed and bristled slightly. “Well um…” he cleared his throat and looked down at his lap. “Jack and I have gotten a lot closer here lately. In fact, he’s invited me to live with him after graduation.”

Richard frowned, unsure of where this was heading. “Okay, that’s fine of course. And not my decision to make, but why are you telling me this as if its groundbreaking news?”

Eric closed his eyes. For Jack, he said in his mind. For you and Jack. He took in a breath.

“Because Daddy. We’re not moving in together as friends. Jack and I are together.”

Richard froze, his world narrowing into a tiny pinprick of perspective. “What did you just say?”

Eric’s heart was throbbing and he felt like he was gonna pass out, but he forced the words out of his lips anyway. They felt like acid and cold water on a hot day all at the same time.

“I’m gay. I’m dating Jack Zimmermann. Have been for almost a year now. And please don’t ask me to prove it to you because I doubt he’s recovered from the phone call with mama and I--”

“Your mother knows about this?” Richard cut in.

Eric put a cap on his nervous babbling and nodded. “I just told her right now. She said I better come talk to you right away, so here I am. Please don’t be upset with her.”

Richard was quiet for a moment. His son watched him with wide vulnerable terrified eyes.

Richard cleared his throat. “Okay.”

Eric opened his mouth and then shut it a few times. “Okay?”

Richard nodded. “Okay.”

A spike of irritation flashed through Eric’s body. It’s not like he wanted a big reaction out of his father, but this surprising lack of one was unnerving. Quite possibly the last thing he was expecting.

“You’re not...mad, or something?” Eric asked.

Richard turned his neck to the side until it cracked. His posture was loose and unconcerned. “Why would I be mad?”

He sounded genuinely confused in a way that made Eric’s heart pound.

“Um, because it’s not manly?”

Richard quirked a brow. “Do you really think that?”

“No!” Eric said quickly, “But I just thought...I didn’t think you’d be so...you’re really not upset?”

Richard scooted forward until he was perched on the very edge of his chair and placed a hand over his son’s knee.

“Eric. You are my son. My only son. And I’m not gonna pretend to know your world or what it’s like for you or what you had to go through growing up. But no matter what you do or who you like, I will always love you. I am so proud of you son. Always have been. It takes guts to be true to yourself in a place like this, and you’ve always tried your very best. I’m sorry if I ever made that harder for you.”

Eric was blinking away the tears in his eyes. He did not want to cry in front of his Daddy. His amazing wonderful Daddy whom he clearly hadn’t been giving enough credit.

“Did you know?” he asked softly.

“I had my suspicions,” Richard confirmed.

The tears fell. He couldn’t hold them back. “Is that why were you always so hard on me? Saying I needed to be stronger and tougher all the time?”

Richard sighed and retracted his hand. “That’s part of it. Yes. Nobody wants to see their boy get hurt, Jr. The world’s not always a nice place. You know that. Seeing what those boys at school did to you…” he clenched his fists. “I’ve never been more angry in my entire life.”

Eric let out a manic and relieved sort of laugh. “I thought you were ashamed that I hadn’t been able to protect myself.”

Richard looked appalled. “The only way I could ever be ashamed of you is if you started rooting for Auburn.”

Eric laughed. “No chance. Y’all raised me right. I still have a Bulldogs keychain on my backpack even though nobody at Samwell understands.”

“Good.”

They fell into a clearer, much more comfortable silence.

“Daddy?” Eric said finally.

“Hmm?”

“Jack has a game in Nashville over New Years. Do you think it’d be okay if he dropped in for a couple of hours. I’d like to reintroduce him to you now that you know the truth.”

“As long as I get to ask embarrassing questions about why he thinks he’s good enough to be dating my boy.”

Eric flushed. “Coach…”

Richard grinned and picked his ipad back up. “This is gonna be fun.”

[gopunksphilly-blog]

Bitchin' Camaro!!!

Now, City Gardens is a place unto itself.  It’s the equivalent of a cement warehouse dropped in the heart of Calhoun Street, Trenton, New Jersey.  The name, City Gardens, has to be a play on words because there wasn’t a tree, shrub or flower within an effing’ block of this tomb.  

If Calhoun Street was ever a pleasant place to live or work, it would have only been depicted that way in old photographs but as of right now, it’s very endemic of what’s going on in every city along the Northeast corridor of the United States. Thanks to the horrendous policies of Reagan and his ilk, all of the good manufacturing jobs were either moving to the cheap wage South, or even further down the map into Mexico and the rest of Central America.  All that was left behind was horrendous poverty, horrific crime, a drug epidemic second to none, and burnt out shells where factories or homes once proudly stood.

           Enter City Gardens into this uncontrolled chaos. Roosterheads in the projects and the ghetto; it sounds fucking insane, but it’s a perfect fit.  The punk movement gained traction during the end of Carter’s Presidency and has exploded during our current President’s, jingoistic, “everything is ok white suburbia, America; just avert your eyes from the cities burning down around you,” run in office.  By enlarge, the punks I know despise Reagan and his ilk, and the punk movement has given clubs like City Gardens a great place for us to catch some great acts, have some fun, but also vent out some frustration about the bullshit we see going on around America.  As far as we’re concerned, the Anti-War hippies were now the Wall Street pariahs they’d said to never trust when they were young.  Fucking sellouts…

           The inside of the Gardens was not anymore pleasing than its exterior.  The walls are painted black, half of them were tagged with graffiti, and you’d rather drain your kidneys behind the place than actually do it in their bathrooms. In other words, it was an awesome place to be.  

           It’s also the best place to stage dive, in my opinion. The stage seems like it is ten feet above the floor, so you can really hurl yourself into the crowd.  Randy Now, the club’s promoter, is always on the PA yelling “NO STAGE DIVING!!” The last time Black Flag was here, he got pretty pissed at me and Otto for launching ourselves right past Henry Rollins. I have been tame about going into orbit from the stage since then, out of respect for Randy.  He is a pretty cool guy, but Motorhead is coming tonight, so sorry Randy, but I’m taking the stage tonight, running past Lemmy while going airborne, happily landing in City Gardens mosh pit.  You can pitch me out of the club for a week, but I AM doing this. Sometimes, as Gem says, you just have to be golden and glorious.

           Avoiding the city’s rush hour traffic is great, booking right down 4th Street, parking directly behind Gem’s SS.  It’s a gloomy morning, but a ray of sunshine is waiting for me on the stoop and she looks gorgeous for tonight’s’ event, wearing black leggings so tight, they look painted on, combat boots with bandanna’s tied around both of them; one orange, the other black, a Motorhead t-shirt, with a long sleeved purple tee underneath.  The ‘No Future’ leather is on the steps next to her and a Newp is rapidly procured from its pocket.

           The hair is similar to the way she wore it on Monday at the hockey game, but a temporary dye makes it jet black with orange streaks through it.  She’s wearing black lip gloss, making her look vampiress sexy.  “Hello, Punk Queen of the Damned.  Girl, you just look good enough to eat.”  She lets her warm breath tickle my neck while purring in my ears.

           The senses are in overdrive but they tragically come to a crashing halt when the front door opens and a familiar, playfully admonishing tone travels down the stairs. “Hey young man, we don’t have any time for that frisky stuff!  I have a job to do.”  Gem snags my keys and skips to the car for my gear after Yuka, who’s decked out appropriately in combat boots, shredded jeans splattered with orange and black paint, donning her ‘Nazi Punks..Fuck Off’ leather jacket, in homage to her favorite group, The Dead Kennedy’s, gives me a warm kiss on the lips, twirls my hair between her fingers and seductively nibbles my earlobes.  This is way more sensual overload than any eighteen year old, hot blooded guy should have to endure this early in the morning and both of these demonically giggling girls know it.                                                                                                              

           Hauling ass into the flat, Misty is up, greeting me with a hot cup of tea, along with an ashtray and a warm, motherly smile.  She is a very dear lady to put up with all the ‘Misfits’ hijinks, but will readily admit that our chaos keeps her young. “Thanks, Misty, you’re a doll for letting me do this here.”  

           “You’re welcome, Rob.  Oh, you’d better get a move on,” she chuckles, pointing towards Yuka, who is already standing by the chair tapping her foot.

           “I think I’d better, Misty.  Never keep the artist who’s doing your hair waiting.”

“You’ve got that right, mister, now get hoppin’ to Gem’s room and get changed already.”  

“Yes, boss…I’ll get a move on.”  I grab my gear, shuffle past her and playfully goose Yuka’s bottom before she shrieks, picking up a roll of paper towels to hurl in my direction but I laugh manically, slamming the door shut before it harpoons me.  

Setting out the gear, I hurriedly throw on a long black tee, a Motorhead short sleeve over top and a torn pair of jeans with different sized ace of spades, spray painted in black and placed in various spots on the garment, and throw my other tattered leather on Gem’s chair, which has an Exploited skull painted in white on the back with the words ‘Dead Cities’ written below it, and I just recently added some silver, ace of spades on both sleeves.

           Hustling back out, Yuka starts surveying her newest artwork-to-be.  “I was thinking of a Halloween theme, but that’ll be too commonplace tonight, so we’re going with a Brit theme to celebrate Motorhead’s coming to City Gardens.  Sit tight; you’re in for a helluva ride again, baby boy.” She gives me a peck on the cheek before she and Gem are off to the races.  A lot of smoking, giggling and chaos ensue over the next few hours. ‘Liquid Cement’, red and blue mix for the colors, more little cocktail flags to twist in the tips of my Warrior Spikes….Union Jacks for Christ’s sake.  When the wraps are off and cleaned, Gem and Yuka take turns getting pictures with me while Misty gets one of me and the artists’ extraordinaire.

           Finally getting a chance to throw on my combat boots, Gem gives me red and blue bandannas to tie around the tops. Misty thanks us for being such animated company this morning and for organizing the flat back to its pristine condition.  Making haste for Otis after snagging our gear, we haul ass outta’ Philly since there’s still classes to get through today.  Gem nuzzles up against me on the bench seat and happily leaves off from Yuka’s earlier seduction, nibbling ferociously on my earlobes. Yuka, who looks thoroughly exhausted, takes up residence across the back seat, falling into peaceful somnolence on the ride to campus.

           Gem goes through my mix of cassettes, starting out our venture with Bauhaus’, ‘Bela Lugosi is Dead’.  We stop off at the Wawa to buy smokes and coffee as we get closer to campus since the vending company owning the machines at the Student Union figured out our half priced smokes scheme when the change box was damn near empty but all the cigarettes were gone.  Word of a good thing travels fast, so they unplugged the machine, leaving the Bohemian student population to fend for themselves.  Capitalism wins again.

           The enjoyable sojourn culminates with us swinging wildly into the campus lot, listening to our Philly punk act and friends, The Dead Milkmen, who always have us in stitches with their songs, so ‘Bitchin’ Camaro’ is no exception, especially when Gem is in the crowd for a show and they dedicate it the song to her and the 69’, silver SS, so she loves the song for obvious reasons…

 “Bitchin’ Camaro, bitchin’ Camaro,

Donuts on your lawn,

Bitchin’ Camaro, bitchin’ Camaro

Tony Orlando and Dawn

 When I drive past the kids,

They all spit and cuss,

Cause I’ve got a bitchin’ Camaro

And they have to ride the bus…”

Excerpt from the draft of Rich Cucarese’s (that’s me!!) new fiction novel, ‘PUNKS’, Chapter 10, ‘The Ash Heaps’

[thefreckledone]

Pompeii Chapter 22

There were flowers on her desk.

Sakura blinked, setting her empty lunch container down and looking over at Shizune. “Where did these come from?”

“Seems that you have an admirer,” Shizune said, taking the box Sakura offered her with a word of thanks. “A delivery man brought it by.”

“Huh,” Sakura said, going around to the front of her desk.

She touched the petals of the sunflowers, frowning at the texture. They weren’t real. She lifted the note that accompanied it.

Thank you for your help! Bang! ~Deidara

“What?” Sakura said, examining the flowers more closely. They were made of clay and painted. Honestly, the level of detail was quite astounding. “What did he mean by bang?”

There was a sizzling sound. Sakura glanced down at the stems of flowers which were burning away, like a wick.

“Sakura!” Shizune exclaimed, leaping over her desk and knocking Sakura to the ground.

Sakura watched, breathless beneath Shizune’s protective stance, as the flowers ignited in a small shower of fireworks and sparks.

It was gorgeous and fleeting.

It had also been seconds away from burning her face.

“What was that?” Sakura demanded, brushing her hair out of her face.

“I had forgotten that Deidara has a reputation as a pyromancer,” Shizune said, frown severe. It is an intimidating look on her. She surveys the mess left behind, singed papers and black marks all over Sakura’s desk. “And he is something of a prankster. I will need to remind him that such acts are incredibly inappropriate. He could have burnt your face!”

Sakura stood, assisting Shizune to her feet. “Well you have my thanks for the quick acting,” Sakura said.

“I’ll be having words with Deidara,” Shizune said, eyes an unearthly green.

Sakura was extraordinarily relieved that she was not on the end of Shizune’s wrath.

Shizune gave her a brisk hug before turning to the mess with a sigh. “Go ahead and head out early,” she said, “I’ll call the janitor and track down Deidara.”

Sakura did not envy Deidara his position. “Alright,” she said, shutting down her computer and filing away whatever readable papers are left behind. “How are we going to fix these documents? We need them.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Shizune said. “Our janitor possesses some lovely restoration abilities. I’ll put everything away after she comes by.”

“You’re the best Shizune!” Sakura exclaimed, bussing a kiss against her cheek and heading out the front door.

It was time for dinner.

“Here are your sunglasses,” Ino said, pressing a pair of aviators into Sakura’s hands. “Make sure you keep them on at all times, even when you’re in the bathroom or if you step outside.”

“Okay, okay,” Sakura replied, pressing a hand to Ino’s shoulder to show her appreciation. She put the blue reflective lenses on. “How do I look?”

“Absolutely lovely,” Ino said as she perched the cat eye sunglasses on the bridge of her nose. She hooked her hand through the crook of Sakura’s arm and strode down the street. “We���re fabulous.”

Sakura laughed, shaking her head but keeping pace gamely. Being with Ino was always an adventure.

They stopped outside a storefront with the name Mamushi in tasteful, if plain lettering at its front. The windows were wide and showcase a scene of long tables, plush seating and warm lighting. There was an open counter where the chefs’ work with the fish was clearly visible. Against the far wall was a bold mural of two women eating sushi in a traditional Azuchi-Momoyama period Japanese art style.

Sakura whistled, impressed. “Nice place.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty wonderful. Patrons just have to be a bit careful. Better safe than sorry,” Ino said, pressing through the door.

“Sakura, Ino!” Naruto called out, waving them down. The group was  seated in a corner. “C’mon over!”

Sakura took a seat between Hinata and Menma, ignorant to Ino’s pout.

“Here,” Hinata said softly, passing her a menu.

“Thanks,” Sakura said, taking a moment to appreciate everyone’s eyewear. “What’s good here?”

“Everything!”

Sakura jumped, turning around in her chair.

A woman stood firmly planted in front of her. Her smile was wide and manic, eyes shaded by dark sunglasses.

Her hair was also made a hundreds of snakes.

The snakes were purple and writhing, hissing and turning to look at their surroundings.

“Anko Mitarashi,” she said, sticking out her hand to shake Sakura’s firmly. “I own this place.” She leaned in, scrutinizing Sakura intently. Then she plucked the menu out of Sakura’s hands. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about choosing! I’ll pick your sushi out for you tonight. You seem like an unagi, girl…”

Sakura watched, dumbfounded, as Anko walked away, whistling cheerily.

“Looks like you’re getting the eel,” Menma crowed, nudging her in the ribcage.

“I like eel,” Sakura said, smiling slightly. “I was just a bit surprised that she figured it out just like that.”

“Anko’s good at her job,” Naruto said. “A bit out there but she makes the best damn sushi around.”

“Maybe because she was around when sushi was invented,” Sasuke muttered, arms crossed.

“Oh hush,” Karin said, pouring herself a cup of sake. “You just don’t like the fact that she tried to feed you like a bird the first time we came here.”

“Karin!” Sasuke exclaimed, cheeks red. “Don’t talk about that!”

Sakura laughed, relaxing as conversations started up around her. She enjoyed this, simply being together and talking and enjoying each other’s company. She didn’t have the benefit of a shared history with those at the table, but sitting with them had started to feel like home almost as much as the actual town of Pompeii. There was a place for her here, and it was warm and welcoming. Maybe she was the newest in town, but she still felt like this was the home she was always meant to make and Sakura loved the feeling.

“Tayuya, have you heard anything about this whole fiasco that Kiri is starting up?” Menma asked in a low tone.

Tayuya frowned, thinking. “Not sure what fiasco you’re talking about. Kiri has fingers in just about every pie in town. You need to be a bit more specific.”

“The...recent incident,” Menma said, skirting around the issue.

“He’s talking about that Orochimaru thing,” Naruto said, breaking into the conversation. He was oblivious to the way Sakura flinched. “Dad’s gotten all up in arms about it but he’s keeping it very hush-hush.”

“Tsunade hasn’t mentioned anything to the coven but I know she’s only recently started to attend some city council meetings,” Tayuya said. “You think that’s what it’s about?”

“The clan heads have been to the meetings too,” Shikamaru said. “Dad is being pretty tight-lipped over the whole thing.”

“Mito-sama is involved too,” Karin said. “Whatever’s happening, it’s pretty serious.”

“Nah,” Naruto said cavalierly. “I think it’s Yagura just blowing hot air. He’s always been a paranoid bastard, especially since Akatsuki came around. Orochimaru died centuries ago; we all know it. Hell, Tsunade said-”

Something cracked behind them.

Everyone turned, taking in the sight of Anko bending over a broken tray. Sushi lay in disarray on the ground, ruined.

“Apologies,” she said, smile bland. “I just thought of something funny and I forgot my strength. I will be back shortly with your sushi. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

Most of table’s occupants turned back to their conversation, albeit in quieter tones. Sakura, however, continued to watch Anko, catching the fine tremors in her shoulders and the drooping of her snakes.

The sake in her mouth turned to ash.

“I do not feel well,” Sakura said, standing up abruptly. “I’m going to head home and sleep it off.”

She heard the protestations but she bowed out regardless, offering platitudes before heading for the door.

A hand on her shoulder stopped her.

“Don’t approach Anko, not now,” Shikamaru said, gaze steady as he stares her down. “She doesn’t possess the best control.” He looked at her drawn face and tightly pressed lips and sighed. “Troublesome. Look, Naruto may espouse his opinion the loudest but it doesn’t make it true. Talk to Anko another day. Ino and I will come by later with your sushi.”

Sakura nodded, squeezing the hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, Shikamaru.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, waving her off lazily.

Sakura stepped out onto the street, buoyed by the cool night air. She patted her flushed cheeks, trying to let go of her anger. She didn’t understand the politics of Pompeii, not in full. How could she? She’d been here for a few months while some of the denizens had been here for centuries.

She began to walk, allowing her boiling emotions to fuel her brisk pace.

It wasn’t Naruto’s fault that he didn’t know, that he spoke out so carelessly on issues that he knew nothing of. Sakura had seen the terror in Yagura’s face, the lingering, stifling fear felt through the older residents when the name Orochimaru was invoked. She doubted that Yagura would dare to resurrect the horror of a seemingly forgotten nightmare without good reason.

Sakura huffed and stared down at the pavement, wishing for a way to understand the tenuous climate of Pompeii. She needed knowledge…

Sakura blinked as the concrete beneath her feet turned to pink brick. She looked up, gaping at the building that was in front of her.

It was a building.

In the middle of the street.

Sakura shook her head, unable to understand what she was seeing. She had walked down this street only half an hour ago. What the hell was this building? Sakura scrutinized the sign, which read Sarutobi Library.

Honestly, she wasn’t sure why she was surprised. This was Pompeii after all.

Still a library, right when she needed one.

Sakura walked up the steps, anger dampening as curiosity took over. She pulled out her phone, turning on its flashlight. She pressed her hand against the oak door, feeling the fine grains of wood beneath her shifting fingertips.

The door swung open beneath her weight.

“Hello?” Sakura called, peeking inside the darkened room. “Anyone there?”

Silence greeted her.

Sakura paused, warring with herself for a moment before valor got the better part of discretion and she stepped inside.

Her footsteps echoed against the marble flooring as she began to explore. She couldn’t quite make out the details of the walls, but it looked intricate, gilt murals and swirling images of legends she knew nothing of. Heavy drapes hung in the path before her. Sakura pulled them away, grinning at the sight.

Books lined every wall as far as the eye could see. Sakura glanced up, turning her flashlight toward the ceiling. She couldn’t even see it, it was so far away.

Sakura stepped further into the library, slightly overwhelmed with all the possibilities. Where should she start?

She shook her head, squaring her shoulders.

She’d just start somewhere.

The starting was the important thing.

She looked around and finally found the light switch. She flipped it on, gasping as the light allowed her to fully appreciate the beauty of the library. The books were gilded in silver and gold and shimmery colors of all sorts, bright and inviting. In the center of the room was plush sofas and plump ottomans and pillows, ready for any reading position. There were innumerable ladders along the walls, positioned in such ways that seemed almost impossible as one ladder connected to another and then another. There were moving staircases alongside the walls, allowing for easy access to the books. The lighting was nouveau in style, thousands of colorful glass shards making up mosaics of pure light.

It was strange and beautiful.

Sakura pulled back her hair, grabbed a conveniently placed basket, and strode toward the closest ladder.

It was time to get to work.

Sakura dodged the flailing tentacle, wobbling precariously on the high ladder as she fought to shut the book. Her shirt was soaked and she smelled of brine, peppermint, and honey, an odd combination to be sure. Sap clung to different portions of her hair, making it stand on end.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had this much fun.

Sakura reshelved 1001 Tomato-Based Remedies for the Apothecary. She wasn’t sure why there was a giant squid inhabiting this particular book, but she decided not to question its culinary tastes.

Instead she pushed against the handy brass rails on the wall, grinning as the ladder swung around the walls smoothly. She paused as a glint of silver caught her eyes, examining the title:

A Brief History of Preternaturally Inclined Villages.

Sakura couldn’t help a sound of victory as she carefully lifted her evil eye medallion, brushing it against the binding on the side.

There was no reaction.

Just to be safe, Sakura pulled out the ankh given her by a client and tapped the top and bottom of the book. (She had quickly learned to be cautious with books that often had a mind of their own.)

Again, nothing happened.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Sakura tucked her talismen away and gingerly lifted the book. She added it to the basket that hung from one of the rungs of the ladder, appreciating once more just how wonderful this library was. Sakura glanced at her ladened basket, counting fifteen or so books.

With a satisfied nod, Sakura clambered down the ladder with an ease that belied her enthusiasm. She startled and nearly missed a rung when someone began to clap.

“Well done.”

Sakura turned, clinging tightly to the ladder as she surveyed her surroundings. Below her stood an older man, hunched and stooped with age.

Perhaps the librarian?

She swallowed, making her way down the ladder to meet the interloper. As she got closer to him, Sakura could make out his facial features: the craggy planes of his face and his warm, kind eyes.

“That was quite impressive child,” he said as she reached the same level as him. “I’ve never seen a newcomer handle herself so well with the more...rambunctious books. Especially considering that you did not use any magic.”

Sakura smiled wryly. “Well, Pompeii offers a steep learning curve.”

“Indeed it does!” the man said, seeming delighted as he laughed. “I am Hiruzen Sarutobi, librarian.”

“I am Sakura Haruno, new doctor here in Pompeii,” Sakura replied, taking his hand and shaking it firmly. “I apologize for barging in here unannounced.”

“No apologies are necessary!” Hiruzen said. “Truly, I am glad that the library chose to appear to you; it almost never comes to newcomers. Whenever you see the library, know it is open to you at any hour of the day.” He peered into her basket, a frown gracing his face. “What exactly were you looking for?”

“I want to understand the town better,” Sakura said, meeting his troubled gaze easily. “Things are brewing just beneath the calm surface and I am behind many other citizens by centuries. I need to arm myself with knowledge.”

“A wise method,” Hiruzen said. “And what is it specifically you seek knowledge in today?”

Sakura swallowed, remembering the reactions of the younger generation. Would this man brush off her concerns so easily too? She breathed deeply and said, “I want to know who Orochimaru was and his significance to this town.”

“Orochimaru?” Hiruzen said, voice high as he staggered back a step. “Yes...I suppose with the current unrest it would make sense to look into the underbelly of Pompeii. And Orochimaru certainly thrived in the darkness.” He sighed, drawing a shaking hand across his face. “Well, A Brief History of Preternaturally Inclined Villages is a good choice to learn about the significance of Pompeii itself but for Orochimaru…” He trailed off.

“Are there truly no books on the events in Pompeii?” Sakura asked.

“Actually, I might have something. Wait here.”

Sakura watched as Hiruzen doddered away, feeling a bit accomplished. It was good to be taken seriously in her concerns.

“Here,” Hiruzen said triumphantly, waving a book above his head. “I found it!”

He pressed a plain book into her hands, looking at her expectantly. She examined the blank cover, looking over the dark stains within the leather. She carefully opened the book, ready to find the title.

It was blank.

Sakura scowled, flipping through the pages. All were blank.

“What is this?” Sakura asked.

“It will reveal itself to you as time goes on,” Hiruzen said. “This should provide you answers on who Orochimaru is and what he has done within this town.”

“But…”

Hiruzen shook his head. “It is late. You should head home.”

Sakura raised her hands in protest but Hiruzen faded away before her very eyes. She frowned at the spot he once was, not appreciating his cryptic advice. She wanted straightforward answers.

She glanced down at the blank book.

Perhaps answers were within it.

“I’m taking this basket of books with me,” Sakura called, guessing that Hiruzen was listening. “Next time I’m here I’ll get a library card, if that is something you have here.”

When she was met with silence, Sakura took it as permission and headed for the door.

She stepped outside, blinking at her surroundings which had changed.

She was in front of the clinic.

Sakura grinned, looking up at the library. She wasn’t sure how sentient a building could be, but this was Pompeii. She patted the library sign. “Thank you,” she murmured, before moving forward and pressing a key into her lock.

She frowned as something tugged at the space behind her bellybutton.

Her seal.

Sakura placed the basket of books inside the clinic before locking the door, responding to the call of the seal.

She sucked in a heavy breath as she landed in the town square, trying to reorient herself quickly. Blue hands landed on her shoulders, steadying her.

“Sakura,” Kisame said, gazing past her with concern.

“Sakura!” Zabuza was suddenly in her face, pushing Kisame out of the way. He paced in front of her, full of energy. “I...he was alone for just a minute... I can’t believe...it’s my fault!”

“Zabuza, what happened?” Sakura demanded, grabbing his face and making him stand still. “I need you to breathe and explain.”

“It’s Haku,” he said, eyes full of tears. Sakura brushed the saline away, listening attentively. “He...he was attacked.”

“Where is he?” Sakura asked tersely.

“Here,” Kisame said, carrying a slight body over to Sakura.

It was Haku, but he was in very poor shape, tensed in agony.

“Here, hold onto me,” Sakura said, offering her arms to Zabuza, Kisame, and Yagura. “I’ll take us back to the clinic.”

“I’ll do it,” Yagura said darkly, eyes glowing.

They landed in the middle of the clinic and Sakura immediately set to work, pulling on gloves as she gave orders. “Yagura, I need you to call Shizune; let her know it’s an emergency. Kisame, place Haku on the examination table. Zabuza, grab a glass of water and sit down!

“Now,” Sakura took a deep breath to center herself, “what happened?” Sakura asked, brushing Haku’s hair away from his face.

“We were going out to the lake,” Zabuza said, gaze unfocused and voice unnaturally calm. He was in shock. “Haku ran up ahead since I had to stop by Hidan’s for some hardware. It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes...I came across him screaming, all contorted...He’s out of it now but he said something bit him.”

Sakura frowned, leaning in to examine Haku’s neck. There were two puncture holes, reminiscent of fangs. The veins around the entry wound were darkened and inflamed.

She frowned. “Kisame, I’m going to need you to call Chiyo and inform her that I will need her assistance. Kankuro’s too. Haku is poisoned.” Zabuza released a wet sounding noise. “Zabuza, you did the right thing. We are getting him treated.” Sakura wrapped a sterile bandage loosely around the wound. “What venomous animals are native to the area?”

“It was Orochimaru,” Yagura said, stepping up beside her.

“Have you seen this sort of attack before?” Sakura asked.

Yagura nodded. “Chiyo has dealt with it in the past.”

“Kisame, please let her know what we are dealing with,” Sakura said. She frowned as Haku began to scream. “We’ll need her expertise to handle this.”

Yagura stood beside Zabuza, hand on his shoulder. “Orochimaru will pay for this, in blood.”

everyone in pompeii is illiterate because the library is an asshole that acts like the room of requirement.