#thin tellin shell

[xray-vex]

FINALLY done! - more drawings I did for "fallow land & bigger sky" by @rattlerbit; these images are for Chapter 12.

The above series was originally going to be a single drawing but became a triptych as i worked on it. So it goes!

- Procreate, 1 hr

- Procreate, 10 hrs

- Procreate, 10 hrs

Read this incredible work here -

fallow land & bigger sky (68894 words) by getmean Chapters: 22/22 Fandom: Our Flag Means Death (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet Characters: Crew of the Revenge (Our Flag Means Death) Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Ideation, Self-Harm, Healing, New Beginnings, this is a story about healing and forgiveness of others and self, but it's also about grief in all its various forms, pastoral fantasies, splitting wood as therapy, welsh springtime, Reunions, Oral Sex, Frottage, and my favourite:, Erectile Dysfunction Summary: Spring is as much of a dying season than it is a living one. Ed had died in the spring. -- after season one, ed fakes his death, and ends up on a welsh island populated solely by nuns. there he makes wine and tends the old wood-fired boiler, thinks about his mother and makes friends with a teenage nun; dreams in horrific red and black. then one night a rowboat eases ashore, and his safe, drunken wheel of routine gets shattered for good.

[whoskimii]

DO I MAKE YOU HORNY, BABY ?

★ touching him ft. gojo ! ★

˖˚₊ warnings ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ slightly subby satoru, he cums in his boxers (prematurely), brief mention of unprotected p in v at the end (don't be silly, wrap your willy :3), curse words.

˖˚₊ wc ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 1k.

“hn...” satoru shivered as you sat behind him, drawing slow, lazy patterns across the bare skin of his trembling thighs. his pretty eyes squeezed shut as he leaned his sweaty back on your chest before letting his head fall backwards against your shoulder.

he wanted this. needed this.

you were his everything, the love of his life, the girl of his dreams— hell, you were his dreams.

however, he was scared to cum prematurely. he knew it would turn out this way, but he forced the anxious thought at the back of his mind.

every aspect of you prompted him to finish sooner than expected. your softness, your gentleness, your warmth— it was bound to happen.

“wait... a–are you sure 'bout this...?” the silly question made him cringe internally.

he was the one who should worry.

your quiet giggle made him tense subconsciously. “of course, i am. are you, 'toru ?” you whispered into his ear, your hot breath brushing against the shell of his skin. your pretty, manicured hands ran up and down his thighs, slowly, teasingly.

you were testing him.

“yeah, i a–am too... why d'you ask ?” he muttered, attempting to conceal the way his voice was coming out shakier than intended. “by the way you're trembling, i'm wondering, y'know ? especially 'cause you were so confident before this whole thing started.” you gently mocked him.

his thin, white eyebrows furrowed slightly as you spoke. his cocky personality resurfaced. “who's tellin' you i'm not confident ? i am, i just don't wanna hurt— mphm !” he inhaled sharply as one of your hands slipped under the waistband of his boxers to wrap around his hard, leaky dick.

“mhm ? what were you sayin' ?” you smirked, dragging your lips along the skin of his tense shoulder tauntingly. “fuck me...” he breathed, letting his heavy eyelids flutter shut.

“aw, 'course i'm gonna do that,” you smiled softly. “but be patient.” his eyes opened again when he felt you move. you straddled him easily. he swallowed thickly but his hands flew to your meaty hips nonetheless.

“what are you—" he fumbled with his words but you cut him off. “shh,” you placed a hand on his chest and slowly pushed on it to make him lay on his back. “you trust me, right ?”

that question was also silly.

“of course !” he hastened to answer. “i mean, 'course i do...” he trusted you more than anyone else.

he didn't know how you did it but you made him trust you.

“good boy...” you whispered and leaned down, your chest pressing against his. the praise made him shiver but he would never admit it. you ran your hands down his chest before stopping at his toned abdomen. your rosy, plump lips met the sensitive skin of his collarbone, which made him whimper. “fuck...” he breathed.

you kissed the hollow between his collarbones before teasingly moving towards his shoulder. he hummed and tilted his head to grant you further access, letting his pretty eyes flutter shut. “you like that, 'toru ?” you whispered against the flesh of his shoulder.

silly.

“uh-huh...” he nodded lazily, focusing on the lovely feeling of your lips on him. your mouth traveled from his neck to his sharp jawline, the tip of your warm, wet tongue occasionally dipping out to lick at his skin. he felt you giggle before your lips met his. he instinctively melted into the kiss, reciprocating the embrace with a soft enthusiasm.

“want me to make you feel good, pretty boy ?” your lips brushed against the shell of his ear.

did you have a thing for asking silly questions ?

however, the compliment made him all tingly inside. he knew he was pretty. handsome, even. even a blind man could see it. after all, he had been told countless of times that he was the strongest— the prettiest— during his childhood and even after.

but somehow, hearing the words roll off your tongue made it even better.

“yeah...” he whispered breathlessly. he groaned softly as you began grinding your hips into his, your clothed core brushing against the damp fabric of his thin boxers. “baby...” he placed his pale hands around your waist, guiding your lazy movements.

the more you moved against him, the more he felt that familiar bubble in his lower tummy tightening.

fuck.

it was already happening.

“angel, if y'keep movin' like that— mhm... shit...” he sighed. “you were 'boutta say something, 'toru...?” you knew what he wanted to say. “yeah... if you keep grindin' against me, i'm gonna cum...” he admitted, almost shyly.

you hummed, pressing your lips against his. he kissed you back before the tip of his tongue slid out to brush along your bottom lip, asking for entrance. once you parted your lips, his tongue found yours eagerly. “shit, you— mphm— definitely have some killer hips, love...” he sighed into the kiss, his words slightly muffled.

he was about to cum. he knew it.

“baby, please, just... i don't wanna cum before being inside you, stop...” he broke the kiss with a breathless sigh. you hummed but didn't stop grinding against him. “love, shit, i... i'm 'boutta cum. i'm 'boutta cum.”

he gripped the sheets tightly, his eyes closing as he felt a pleasurable pressure in his lower stomach. “fuck... i don't wanna... cum before you do.” he managed to gasp.

“satoru...” the way you purred his name, mixed with the movements of your hips, was enough to make him finish. “shit—! ngh...” his back lifted off the bed slightly as he came in his boxers. “oh...” he panted.

once he finally came down from his high, his usually light-toned cheeks were flushed. he opened his half-lidded eyes softly, still hazy with pleasure. he met your gaze, slightly ashamed. “baby, i... i'm sorry, i tried to warn—” you placed your lips against his, cutting off his sentence. “do it again. inside me, this time.”

oh.

based on this ask.

[halogalopaghost]

Doctor On Call

read on AO3

“Hey Donnie, is this infected?”

Donatello jerked away from his workstation as Mikey’s foot came down on it heel-first. A large nodule stuck out from the lateral interior of his foot—red, angry, and (oh, goody) leaking.

He wrinkled his nose and used his screwdriver to push the foot unceremoniously off his desk. “How’d you even manage to get a blister there? We don't wear shoes, Mikey.”

He laughed. “You’re tellin’ me, dude. But uh, it kinda hurts, so—”

Donnie heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Hang on, let me go sterilize a needle.”

---

“Y’know how you said to never remove a weapon if you’re impaled?”

Don swiveled around in his chair, only able to see a green and red blur through his magnifying visor. He pushed it up and away from his eyes with the back of his grungy hand, and found a little more red decorating the scene than he would have liked.

“Raphael,” he began evenly, “would you care to explain how this happened?”

Standing on the threshold of his brother’s lab, Raphael shifted from foot to foot. The sai embedded in his shoulder wobbled slightly, but he didn't so much as wince. “No,” he finally said.

Donnie put a hand to his face for a moment, drawing in a steadying breath. “At least have the decency to go get the suture kit, then.”

Raph grinned guiltily, then went for the kit.

---

“Heeey, Donnie,” Leo drawled.

Donatello froze, hunched over his workspace. “What did you do?”

Leo must have taken that as an invitation to enter, because his bare feet padded farther into the room, stopping just behind Don. He rested a hand heavily on his brother’s shoulder. “Why assume I did something? Do I need an ulterior motive to check in on my little bro?”

Donnie’s mouth thinned into a line as he stared bemusedly at his latest robotics project. “Well we could start with the slurred speech and the weave in your gait.”

He shrugged Leo’s hand off and turned around in the worn desk chair. It was lucky he did, it gave him just enough time to snatch Leo’s arm before he completely busted his shell. The fast-bruising welt on his head proved Don’s theory.  

“Did you hit your own head, or did Raph finally snap?”

For a second, Leo looked like he was going to deny it, then his shoulders fell and he sighed. “I lost a fight with the cabinet above the stove. Think you could check for a concussion?”

“Only if I get lifetime mocking rights,” he shot back. “Fearless Leader Felled by Cast Iron Pan From Above, what a headline.”

Leo sat heavily on the spare stool. “Fine, fine.”

Don plucked his penlight from the pencil cup and swiveled toward his brother. “See, this is why Mikey doesn’t let you in the kitchen.”

---

“Excuse me, Donatello.”

Donnie startled in his chair. Master Splinter always surprised him like that; he could hear his brothers coming from a mile away, but never their father. He stood and turned to face him, bowing quickly. “Yes, Sensei—oh.”

Master Splinter stood on the threshold of the lab, holding out his shaking paws—the pads of which were an angry red, and growing blisters quickly. Donatello practically picked his father up in the process of getting him to a place to sit down.

“Leo!” He hollered in the general direction of the dojo, hoping that’s where his brother was. “Bring ice! Sensei, you should have put these under the faucet immediately,” he chided softly.

“Yes, my son, I realized that halfway here.” He chuckled, despite how painful it must have been to have Donnie poking and prodding at his hands. “What is it that you say? Six, half dozen?”

Donnie laughed too, he couldn't help it. Anything sounded like a wise old Japanese proverb when Master Splinter said it. And the fact that his first thought had been to go to his son…well, Donnie knew he was no doctor, but it was touching how much trust his family placed in him.

Leo, bless him, showed up less than sixty seconds later with ice wrapped in a thin dish towel. “Sensei!” He sucked a breath through his teeth, catching a glimpse of his burned paws before Donnie placed the ice on top of them. “What happened?”

He looked at his sons from beneath his thick brows, one ear twitching. “We shall tell your brothers a different story, but…I was trying to make tea,” he finally relented.

Donnie’s hand audibly smacked against his forehead. Leave it to the master ninja to give himself partial thickness burns with a pot of water.

Leo laid a hand on Sensei’s shoulder. “We’ll tell Raph and Mikey that you were training and save you the torment.”

Sensei laughed again, more heartily this time. “Thank you, my sons.”

Donnie took the ice away from his hands. “Hmm, that doesn't look good. Let's go back to the kitchen and run them under water, okay?”

“Of course, Donatello. Thank you.”

Holding onto Sensei’s elbow as they left for the kitchen, Donnie beamed at the praise.

---

Three things happened at once: first, a string of very colorful language drifted from Donnie’s lab over to where his three brothers sat in front of the television; the power flickered twice and then cut out; and in the very brief, very dark silence that followed, the fire alarm in Donnie’s lab began shrilling.

All three of them jumped up without a word to one another, expertly navigating their home in the dark. 

“Donnie!” Leo called, skidding into the dark lab.

Raphael clambered on top of a workbench to silence the alarm, sending Donnie’s projects and gadgets tumbling all over. There was no fire, just the smell of smoke.

“Don?” Leo tried again. He stilled, briefly confused that he couldn't find his brother in the dark. Usually he would at least hear his breathing—

Oh shell, he wasn't breathing.

The three of them realized as one, and the scramble began anew. Leo fell to his hands and knees to find his brother, Mikey went for the emergency floodlight on the wall, and Raph left the lab altogether. By the time he came back with the AED, Leo was already halfway through a round of compressions.

CPR on a turtle was…complicated. Their hearts were dead center in their chest, to begin with, which meant ‘the medial joint of their plastron’s scutes prevented compressions too deep’, as Donatello had so technically said. Donnie assured them all that if a scute was cracked or bruised during compressions, it would be okay. But now that Leonardo actually had his brother's plastron beneath his palms, hearing and feeling the groan of it every time he pressed down, he didn't feel so certain.

Raph knelt on Donnie’s other side while Mikey stood over them with the flashlight, trying to illuminate as much of the scene as possible.

“Do you smell that?” Mikey asked, voice shaking.

Yeah, they smelled it. Burned flesh was hard to miss. But treating whatever other wounds Donnie had sustained had to come second to his heart.

Raph tore the paper off the AED pads and carefully placed them just like Don taught him, then pressed the on switch. They all nearly jumped out of their shells when Donnie’s voice, thin and tinny, came out of the AED. “Analyzing cardiac rhythm,” it said. 

Raph wanted to cover his ears. If the last time he heard his brother’s voice was from the stupid AED—

“Administering shock. Stay clear of the patient.”

“Clear,” Raph said.

“Clear,” both of his brothers echoed, Leo holding his hands up near his head to prove it.

“Shock will be delivered in 3…2…1…” Donnie jolted once as electricity shot through him. “Shock administered, check pulse and breathing and resume compressions if necessary.”

Raph put his fingers on Don’s neck, then shook his head. Leo moved to resume compressions, but he signaled him to stop. No, there was something there…

Both brothers froze.

“I have a pulse, but he’s not breathing.” Without giving his brothers any time to respond to that information, Raph lifted one meaty fist and brought it down hard on the center of Don’s chest. 

Donnie took a deep breath, eyes flying open in terror. He wobbled on his shell, off-balance in a panicked effort to flee. Three sets of hands came down on his chest to stop him.

“Donnie, don't move,” Leo said urgently. He took his brother’s pulse, actually timing it this time, and listened to his heavy, ragged breathing for a moment.

The power came back on.

“What the fuck, Don!” Raph yelled.

He looked between his brothers, clearly disoriented, but less panicked with a good view of his surroundings. “Sorry,” he gasped out. He accepted his their help as he struggled to sit up, hands over his plastron. “Ough, my chest. What happened?”

Leo grabbed his hands, flipping them palms up. He wrinkled his nose. Well, he figured out where the burned flesh smell came from—Donnie’s palms were both blistered and slightly charred, but it didn't seem to cover too much surface area.

“We were kinda hopin’ you could tell us,” Raph sighed out, adrenaline ebbing.

Donnie eyed the AED, then looked over Raph’s head up to his workstation. He blinked a few times, then smiled sheepishly. “I, uh. I think I forgot to unplug it.”

They followed Donnie’s eyes up to the unidentifiable appliance on the workbench. Whatever it was, Donnie had long stripped it of its housing and any other identifiable features. Other than that it was made of metal and plugged into the wall, they didn't have a clue what it was.

“You knucklehead,” Raph muttered. “I’d kill you if I hadn’t just finished savin’ your skin.” He ripped the pads off Don’s chest and tossed them in the AED bag, standing up to wash his hands of the whole affair.

Mikey scooted into Raph’s spot and threw his arms around Donnie’s neck. “Don’t ever do that again! I thought you were toast, bro!”

“Don’t do what again?” Splinter appeared in the doorway, body-blocking Raphael. He tapped his cane on the ground, whiskers twitching.

“Oh—Sensei, uh. I just had…an accident. Everything’s okay now. No need to worry.” He tried for a smile. It was too wobbly to be reassuring. 

He gave all four of his sons an incredibly unamused stare. They all ducked their heads, still unwilling or unable to stick their ground in the face of that all-knowing look. “Leonardo, how badly is he wounded?”

“It’s not too bad, Sensei.” He held Donnie’s burned hand out, showing him the minor damage. “I’m more worried about the fact that your heart stopped, Donnie.”

Donatello had the decency to look ashamed. “It probably didn’t stop,” he muttered. “Most likely, it was ventricular fibrillation.”

“Oh, that sure makes me feel better,” Raph drawled sarcastically. “I guess he’s fine, guys, let’s all hit the hay. Are you stupid, Donnie? No—don’t answer that.”

“I’m fine! You guys knew exactly what to do, so I'm fine. Just a little bruised up.”

Splinter, with his ears pressed flat against his head, closed his eyes momentarily and took a deep breath. “You four will be the end of me. Donatello, be honest—what side effects should we prepare for?”

He pulled his hands away from Leo, using the side of one to rub absently at his chest. “Uhh, nothing much. Just, uh, that my heart doesn’t…stop again. Or something like that.”

“Oh, sure, nothin’ too serious,” Raph scoffed.

Only the telltale twitch of their father’s whiskers alerted them to his vague irritation. “You will be sleeping in the infirmary bed tonight, my son. Come, help your brother up.”

Mikey and Leo got Donnie to his feet pretty quickly, and Raph put a hand on the back of his shell as if to say ‘there, I participated, are you happy?’ They helped him the few steps to the infirmary cot, which Donnie was surprised to actually need. Not only did his legs seem unwilling to comply—it seemed that the electricity had left an exit wound on the bottom of his left foot.

Master Splinter sat in the chair beside the cot, pulling the rolling cart of medical supplies closer to himself. “I will treat the burns while you set up the heart monitor.”

“Guys, really, I'm okay.” Even as Leo started sticking EKG nodes on him and Raph clipped the pulse oximeter on one green finger, he protested. “The likelihood of going into v-fib again is infinitesimal.”

“Ahh, darn, looks like we can't comply with your complaints if we can't understand the words yer usin’,” Raphael drawled.

Splinter gently drew Donnie’s burned hand into his own. “My son, it is you that so often cares for us when we are injured or unwell. Let us return the favor now and care for you.”

Donnie smiled in spite of himself, looking down at his lap as he felt heat rise in his cheeks. “Okay, I guess that makes sense. Thank you, Sensei.”

“Didja hit your head on the way down?” Raph asked, standing behind his head.

“Uh, I don't think so. No bumps, no headache.”

“Good.” A smack reverberated around the room. “Be smarter next time, genius.”

Don lurched forward, hands raised instinctively to protect the head that Raph smacked. “Ow! Talk about insult to injury!”

“That's actually injury to injury,” Raph corrected, leaning into his field of vision. “You die, an’ I'm gonna dig you up just to kill you again. You hear?”

Donnie winced as Master Splinter made his first pass with the antibacterial gel on his hand. “Loud and clear, boss,” he grumbled.

Maybe, just maybe, it would be okay to let himself be taken care of.

Just this once.

[treasureseekersshelltours]

Perfection right before you eyes….Candystick Tellin that’s hinged together which are very thin, pearly shells with pink rays.These guys live in sand off beaches out to moderate depths . These guys get their pink color from oxygen binding pigment , hemoglobin. Come shell with us let us help you find the Shell of a Lifetime ™️

Photo by : Captain Matt Dun @capt_matts_wanderlust_wonders

🐚

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🐚

Only Collect Empty Shells 🐚

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#pink #pinkchristmas #pinkshell #shellers #collect #hinged #bivalves #shellak #swfl #florida #floridalife #goodtimes #bestdays #christmasgifts #marco #visitmarcoisland #tours #boating #saltlife #pearl

[kurlyfrasier]

Terrified: Part 7

Raph x Reader

Synopsis: Raph saves you from ruffians one night in an alley after watching out for you for weeks without you knowing. Which leads you to getting to know the guys and becoming part of the family. But Raph keeps a distance and you don’t understand why. 

Word Count: 2043

Warnings: Sadness

A/N: At this point I believe I’ve been sucked into a bitter black hole, never to return. @thebiggestnaturaldisaster I’m really need to stop saying this is the last chapter, because once again, there is more to come! @emeraldgirltmnt I SEE YOU and I THANK YOU. Thanks to you both, really :) I’m lovin’ the comments, likes, and reblogs! Your love is making me giddy!

I woke up in an unfamiliar room, cardboard boxes littered the ground, a few books scattered on the dresser, and familiar, dirty clothes were piled in a corner. Then I realized; I was in my own room. But how? I had fallen asleep next to Raph. On his bed. With him. I sat up in my bed, flipped the blankets off of myself and stumbled to the closed door. I turned the knob, but it didn’t budge. I pushed and pulled a few times before panic started to set in. Had the guys locked me in? But why? Did they really think I would jeopardize Raph’s health? Was he okay? Did something happen?

A few minutes ticked by. Five. Ten. Thirty, as my panic slowly ebbed into fury. My short, quick breaths turned into deep heaves as it all clicked together.

Leo.

He must have carried me in here before they moved Raph into the lab and then locked me in! Like an animal! Something not worthy of trust!

I seethed, pacing back and forth until I couldn’t stand the silence any longer. I banged on the door, yelling for someone to let me out. It didn’t take long for the culprit himself to appear.

“Y/n.”

“Leo,” I ground out through clenched teeth. “Let me out.”

“I can’t do that,” he almost sounded regretful about it. “You know I can’t.”

“I call bull! Tell me the truth,” I demanded. “Why can’t I go see Raph? I’ll go through all the precautions. I won’t even touch him if you say I can’t. I’ll do-”

“Raph will flip out the moment he lays eyes on you. That’s why,” he said low, like he was trying to stay calm. “He needs to rest and not be stressed in any way when he wakes and if he sees you- well, I’m certain he’ll go on a rampage.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” I whimpered, barely keeping my tears at bay. “You me-mean he ha-hates m-me?” My knees buckled and I hit the unforgiving floor- hard, but I didn’t feel the jarring impact. I was numb to all pain by this point. The stress, the anxiety, the worry, the fear that Raph would never wake- It consumed me down to my soul.

“No! Shell no!” Leo banged on the door a few times, grabbing my attention as tears streamed silently down my cheeks. “Raph- he-he- ugh! He cares about you more than anything, that’s all-”

“He does?” I sniveled, unbelieving. I know Raph cared for my safety and did everything he could to keep me from being harmed, but caring about me more than his weights? His sais? His father and brothers? I doubted that. He could barely stand my presence except on movie nights for reasons I would never understand.

“Yeah. Of course he does, Y/n,” Leo cooed through the cold, metal door, cutting through my thoughts. “If he didn’t, then I wouldn’t have locked you in your room.”

“Well,” I dried my wet cheeks, sniffling. “I guess I have lost a little weight.”

“Yeah….” He was so quiet and sounded so unsure- so unlike himself- that I barely heard him through the door. “A little.”

I searched the room for my closet door mirror until I found it laying sideways between the wall and some boxes. I dragged it out, leaning it against the wall. The girl in the reflection barely looked like me. I lost weight, more than a little. Before, I had a few extra pounds. Enough that covered my bony joints and gave me some curves in the right places, along with a small pudge, cushy thighs, and arms that looked stronger than they really were. Now though, I could see those bony protrusions and my pudge was gone, leaving my stomach concave. My pants-held by a belt- swallowed my thighs and my once strong looking arms were sticks. I had become sickly pale, the bags under my eyes held truth to the fact that I hadn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep in weeks. Even my hair had become thin and brittle- mousy.

“Y/n?” I heard Leo call out, door still closed and locked.

I ignored him, now understanding why it would be bad if Raph saw me like this as I sunk onto bed. But I had wanted this, hadn’t I? To keep him from leaving my side. To keep him from going topside again. To keep him safe.

Still, I hoped it would be enough.

“Y/n?” Leo peeked his head in the door, looking concerned. “I’ll keep you updated on everything, okay? And-”

“Don’t tell him about- about-” I started, a little frantic and unsure of what I was trying to say. What, exactly, did I want to keep from Raph? Leo let me ruminate in silence. “Everything,” I breathed out, staring down at my skeletal hands in my lap.

“Everything?” He stepped into my room.

“Yeah,” I nodded, unwilling to meet his gaze. “About moving in, my job, my sleeping habits- everything.”

“Okay, I’ll make sure we don’t tell him anything. In the meantime, though, how about I get you something to eat?”

“Sure,” I mumbled, lying down. “You sure I have to stay locked in here?”

“Yeah,” regret tinged his tone once more. “I’m sorry. I don’t want Raph barging in when he’s first able to.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been three days since Raph woke up and he had yet to hear even a peep out of you. Donnie had expanded his and Mikey’s plastic quarantined room to cover half his lab. Enough so Raph could walk around a little now that his strength was coming back. Granted, he could only walk a few laps before his breathing got heavy, but every day a bit of his strength was coming back- at mutant speed- and he was more than thankful. If only a certain little lady would come to visit, then everything would be going perfect.

The first couple of days he thought maybe you were at work when he was awake or maybe his brothers hadn’t told you that you could visit yet. But it was close to the end of day three as he got up again to walk a few laps and you had yet to show. His patience was growing thin. It was like pulling teeth to get Mikey to even mention your name.

“Where is she?” He grumbled before glaring at his youngest brother across the room. Donnie had brought in one of his extra monitors and Mikey’s game system for entertainment. Raph got bored of it real fast, but that was okay with him because he needed to focus on getting his strength back so he could hunt you down- make sure you were unharmed and well. He had to see you with his own eyes. He was starting to think something had to be wrong or that you didn’t want anything to do with him anymore with the way all his brothers were skirting around the subject.

“At least tell me she’s not injured,” he shouted at Mikey.

“Who?” He asked, acting dumb.

“You know who, Numbskull,” Raph marched in Mikey’s direction, growling. “Y/n.”

Raph noticed his brother flinch before he answered. “She’s fine, bro. Donnie’s just worried some kinda human bacteria mi-”

“I know what Donnie said!” Raph growled intimidatingly, grabbing his brother by the shell, forcing him to pay attention. “But the way ev’ryone’s been actin’ ya’d think she died or somethin’.”

“Look, Raph,” Mikey held his hands up in surrender, voice shaky with fear. “It’s not my fault, okay? I was told not to say anyth-”

“What are ya talkin’ about!” Raph roared in his face, the commotion had his other brothers slamming the lab door open.

“What’s going on?” Leo demanded, using the tone that his brothers knew not to deny.

Raph obliged all too willingly as he shoved his youngest brother away, knocking him off balance. “Mikey here says tha’ he’s not suppose’ ta be tellin’ me somethin’.”

“Oh,” eerie silence reigned over the room.

“It’s not cos of the bacteria thing, is it? That’s not why she hasn’ been ta visit,” Raph filled the silence, his voice confident.

“No,” Donnie replied in defeat. Raph saw Leo’s head snap to their brother, even through the thick plastic he knew all too well the daggers Donnie received.

“Tell me!” Raph boomed, wishing he had a table to flip over before continuing in his most menacing voice. “Or I’m gonna rip this plastic wall ta shreds and find her. Even if I have ta rip New York apart brick by brick.”

“I’ll tell you, Raph,” Leo was quick to acquiesce. “Just, please, don’t freak out.”

“I won’t freak out.”

“You say that now, but you haven’t see her-”

“Donnie!” Leo cut off his brother from saying more. “You’re not helping.”

“Sorry,” Donnie mumbled, shuffling his feet.

“I’m waiting,” Raph stated impatiently.

“She doesn’t look like how you remember, brother.”

“Whaddya mean? Who hurt her? I’m gonna kill the-”

 “Nobody hurt her, okay?” Leo extolled quickly and waited until Raph grunted in understanding. “Just listen until I’m done and don’t freak out.”

Another grunt. Leo sighed, wishing he had more time to get your weight back up, but you hadn’t been eating as much as he would have liked since the transplant. Barely anything at all, really. So, he was forced to break the promise he made to you that day and spilled everything. How you cried- inconsolable- when you heard the news of his injuries. That they had to pry you away from his side when they bathed him. How you didn’t sleep more than a few hours a night, if that. That you were barely eating and that each of them had caught you, at least once, retching the food back up. About your job, losing your apartment, moving into the lair- everything. His brothers stayed silent as Leo spoke, not once interrupting. It was unnerving, to say the least, to see Mikey, normally so full of life, curl in on himself, to see the faraway look in his eyes as he remembered it all.

Raph didn’t want to believe a word of anything his brother said, but the more he spoke, the more he knew Leo wouldn’t lie to him about someone he cared about. Especially when it came to you. His heart grew heavier with every passing word as his fists clenched tighter and tighter.

This was his fault. If only he had seen that stupid blade. Then you’d be happy. Then he would have already told you how he feels about you- that you’re his everything. That without you, life was dark and meaningless. Maybe you two would be together. Maybe you and him would be on a rooftop somewhere, looking out at the city lights after eating a midnight picnic he set up for a date. Maybe he would be holding you tight instead of being stuck in quarantine with his ugly mug of a brother.

“It’s like, without you, she didn’t wanna live,” Leo’s somber words cut through his self-deprecating thoughts as he finished the heart-wrenching tale. “She became this….empty shell. Void of any cares unless it came to you.”

“She-” Raph swallowed the lump in his throat. He couldn’t believe what he was about to ask. “She hasn’t hurt ‘erself, has she?”

“No,” Leo was quick to reassure. “We were getting worried she might, though. So we took precautions.”

“Good,” he grunted out, thankful his family kept you as safe as they could.

“She really cares about you, Raph,” Donnie spoke softly, reverently.

Those words filled him with hope. Even as Raph told himself you probably would’ve been the same way had any of them been in his place. But he wanted to believe that he was special. That he was the only one you would wither away for. 

For now though, he would wait to see you. He needed to process everything Leo told him and be certain he could control his reaction when he first saw you again. He refused to lose it when he saw you again. Refused to lose control. He didn't want to scare you away before he had you in his arms.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part 8

[overwatchworks]

Burnin’ In Your Veins:

You can read this on Ao3 as well (can’t put the link anymore on tumblr, sorry, but my Ao3 username is WhiskeysWorks ^^)

Then he was back in Jesse’s room in the middle of the night, staring at him until he came over to pick up the pieces of him that shattered as soon as he touched his arm. Stretched so thin it only took a wrong breath to break him.

Genji was only pieces of himself anymore, desperately trying to hold on to his humanity while dealing with the traumas that took everything from him. Most of his battles were psychological. Wounds no one could touch or see.

No one but Jesse, when Genji finally, finally let him in.

Genji had been with them for a while now. Long enough to have gone on a mission with everyone on the top team two, if not three times already. They had dismantled his family’s empire. What was left of it. Someone had already done most of the work for them. Jesse had found Genji in a room he could only assume was Hanzo’s, standing in the remains of everything he had shredded.

Wood splintered, sheets torn, tables broken and paper strewn everywhere. Blood still dripping from his katana. His faceplate. Matting his hair. It accentuated his eyes, the tears swimming in them but not falling, left Jesse wary.

Touch at the time had still not been okay.

Genji had closed himself off for a while after they got back to base, going quiet and sullen again. More so than usual. Then, Jesse coaxed him out of his shell little by little again, the two training with one another and going on missions. Genji was distracted. Made mistakes, got hurt. Jesse had a feeling not all of it was accidental. Reyes had gone in to talk to him, straighten him up, tell him he was apart of a team now and had to fucking act like it, people were killed because of you today, Shimada. Get your head out of the past, stop trying to finish the job your brother started. You’re better than that.

Genji went silent.

He had been furious.

Then he was back in Jesse’s room in the middle of the night, staring at him until he came over to pick up the pieces of him that shattered as soon as he touched his arm. Stretched so thin it only took a wrong breath to break him. Genji was only pieces of himself anymore, desperately trying to hold on to his humanity while dealing with the traumas that took everything from him. Most of his battles were psychological. Wounds no one could touch or see.

No one but Jesse, when Genji finally, finally let him in. Hesitant, afraid to be hurt again by someone he trusted. But Jesse proved himself. Time and time again, accepting Genji into his arms and mending tiny pieces and what little fractures he could. Better than nothing.

Genji relied on him. Jesse took pride in it, even if he knew it was a bad idea. Took pride in the fact that Genji chose him first, opened up to him first, let him see and experience him first. Someone chose Jesse over anyone else for once in his life. It boiled down to selfishness. Jesse did not like the thought, but it was soothed by the fact that he knew he was in love. That, too, was a horrible idea, but for this, there was nothing he could do to stop or change things. He did not want to.

For all of Genji’s sharp edges and distance, he had softness and understanding hidden beneath it. Held close to his chest, shared with Jesse when he needed care in return. They were all fucked up beyond repair. Sometimes the only solace they had was that the people around them knew and felt it too.

It should have been expected, then, what happened. Jesse had fallen for Genji, others were bound to as well. He was gorgeous and dangerous, worked well with everyone even if he did not say much to them. Had some friends, but kept a safe distance between them.

Some of the other agents apparently did not get the memo.

It had just been training. Reyes grouping them up with sparring partners, purposefully separating him and Genji so they could practice with someone they did not already have memorized by heart. They worked too well together, sometimes. Jesse was given a new recruit—Reyes always trusted him with those, counted on his experience and leadership to train them well, mould them to the team.

Genji was given one of the agents that had been on the top teams for as long as Jesse had been in Blackwatch. She was a beast on the battlefield, had saved Jesse and the rest of his team’s ass single-handedly on more than one occasion. She had thick dark hair pulled back into a long braid, tattoos in lines down her chin and triangles over her forehead. Adlartok was a good match for Genji; easygoing off the battlefield and serious enough to give him a run for his money, definitely a skilled enough partner for sparring.

And she was smiling big, giving him a pat on the shoulder as he walked over. Jesse frowned. No one was allowed to touch but him.

The new agent cleared their throat. Jesse blinked and looked down at them. Caught staring.

“Agent Gris, sir,” they told him, straightening. Military. They must have been on some sort of special ops team before being pulled into Blackwatch.

“Agent McCree, and you don’t have to call me sir. That’s reserved for the big boss,” Jesse grinned, pointing a thumb in Reyes’ direction. Gris nodded, Jesse sliding back into a defensive stance.

“Now show me what you got, kid, and I’ll let him know if you’ve got what it takes.”

“Rules?”

“Just don’t aim for my face or you’ll be doin’ push-ups ‘till you drop.”

“Aye sir—McCree.”

Gris was good enough. Not Genji, no one could ever be Genji in the ring, but they held their own. Got Jesse to sweat. Had his full attention until they moved around enough to where he could see Genji sparing with Adlartok.

She had him in a choke on the ground, legs wrapped over his, arm under his chin. Keeping his weight down, pinning his struggles until he figured out they were useless and he tapped out. Then she was holding out a hand. Genji took it. Jesse stared. Genji took her hand and let himself be pulled up to his feet. He had never let anyone do that before.

There was a moment of confusion, followed quickly by a sharp pang of jealousy. Jesse looked away and shook his head. He was being ridiculous, he should be happy Genji was opening up to others. And it was not as though it meant anything.

Gris started to get the better of him, things that Jesse normally could have avoided easily if he were not so distracted. He had one eye on Gris, the other on Genji. They only worked for another ten minutes before a break was called, Gris panting and Jesse more bruised than usual. He nodded to them, gave a lopsided grin that was only vaguely thrown in their direction.

Distracted, distracted.

Staring at Genji, at Adlartok. The way she was shrugging, arms crossed over her chest and grinning down at Genji. Jesse had never seen her act that way with anyone else. And Genji was letting her. He moved closer, just enough to catch their conversation.

“You’re great, Shimada. Near impossible to take down, solid defense.”

“Thank you.”

“I’d be happy to spar with you again, if you wanted.”

“I would.”

“And hey,” she bumped his shoulder again with hers, Genji glancing up at her, raising a brow. Expressive.

“If you wanted to hang out some more outside of the gym, I’d like that too.”

Adlartok winked, and Jesse felt a surge of heat burn through him. Something not quite foreign but very much potent, making his teeth grind, bitter on the back of his tongue. Instinct and old fears bringing up even older memories. People always taking what was his, and he could do nothing but watch. His mother, his home, his found family, his dreams. Now someone was trying to take Genji from him.

Jesse shoved his way over, stepping between Genji and Adlartok. Pushing two fingers against her chest, pressing hard. She was as tall as him, did not budge an inch. Face going hard and cold.

“Hey. Lay off, you hear? He’s taken.”

"Easy. I'm asking him, not you."

"And I'm tellin' you he's taken. Leave him alone."

“Oh, and are you suddenly the master of him, then? Picking and choosing who he gets to hang out with for him?”

“Of course I ain’t. But I got a problem with you tryin’ to sweet talk your way to somethin’ you ain’t earned.”

“People like to think they have the right to make all your decisions for you, don’t they, Shimada?” Adlartok huffed, clearly not taking Jesse seriously. Her tone grated on him like sandpaper. Haughty and sarcastic. As if she knew anything about Genji at all.

“You better watch what you’re insinuating,” Jesse growled. Really starting to get angry.

“Or what, McCree?” she challenged. Jesse was only stopped from throwing a punch by Genji’s hand on his wrist, his name hissed through the faceplate as a warning.

“Jesse. Stop. She was just being friendly.”

“You don’t know the first thing about him. About us. So why don’t you stop sticking your nose where it ain’t wanted.”

“McCree, I said stop. You are only proving her point,” Genji snapped, Jesse looking down at him, his brows furrowing deeper.

“This is not like you.”

Spoken much softer, only for him to hear. Jesse took a moment to breathe. Let the pounding of blood in his ears die down, the heat in his face, the twitch of his finger, so used to having a gun in hand. Old feelings from old habits, too easy to get a rise out of. Reminding him of his Deadlock days. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth, made shame coil in his gut along with the lingering cloy of jealousy.

“I—You’re right. M’sorry,” he murmured, turning on his heel and leaving the training room. It had just been training. Just a conversation, even if a little too friendly.

Jesse shook his head, going back to his quarters for a smoke he desperately needed. It helped the minute tremble in his hands. The familiar taste of smoke in his mouth, the repetitive motions of inhaling, holding, exhaling. Fresh air on his face, the breeze taking the smoke curling from his lips up and out of sight. Jesse had watched them shake for a few minutes, stretched his fingers and finally draped them over the rail on the balcony.

It should not have been a big deal. Would not have been if he knew any other way to process these things. Anger was an easy fall back. Not one he was particularly proud of, but it hid fear better than anything else did.

It did not take long for Genji to find him, felt his presence behind him more than he heard it. Genji leaned on the railing next to him, faceplate off. Jesse still could not help but stare; beautiful views were meant to be admired.

“Hey.”

“Hey. Gave you some time to cool off. You need more or can we talk?” Genji asked, Jesse smiling a bit. It was the same question he used to ask Genji, back when they had not been so close.

“Nah, I’m good. And I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have said those things, gotten so riled up. She wasn’t even doin’ anythin’,” Jesse sighed, waving his hand in a useless little circle. Genji shrugged.

“I get it. She was flirting, surprisingly.”

“Nah, not surprisin’ to me at all, you’re a dream, hon.”

“Then why did you get so upset?”

“I dunno,” Jesse mumbled half-heartedly.

“Jess. Talk to me.”

He pulled more smoke into his mouth, let it sit for a long moment. Genji waited, eyes flicking over his face.

“I just take it personally when people try and take the things I love from me. I’m tired of it, and scared to lose you. That you very well could want someone else and chose to leave me. She was right, you can make your own decisions, and you’ve had enough people doin’ it for you. I ain’t gonna be someone you have to add onto that list. I wouldn’t blame you if you did go, but it’d still break my heart.”

Genji was frowning. Head tilting just a bit to try and catch Jesse’s gaze, which he kept resolutely outwards.

“You really think I’m going to leave you?” he finally asked, Jesse shrugging one shoulder.

“Everyone does, sooner or later.”

“Look at me.”

Jesse chewed on the end of the cigarillo, fingers flexing again before he turned to Genji. Meeting his steady gaze, that rare show of softness.

“I am not going anywhere. My whole life has been nothing but people telling me what to do and who to be, then forcing it when I said no. But no one told me to chose you, Jesse. I did that on my own, and it is not something I have ever regretted.”

Jesse stared at him, quiet, letting the words sink in. Genji reached out, wrapped his pinky around Jesse’s gloved one.

“It is difficult for me to describe what I want to, but. Does that...Make sense?”

The cigarillo was dropped and stubbed out under Jesse’s boot, eyes dropping as he stepped closer to Genji. Wrapped him up in his arms, feeling a squeeze in return, Genji pressing his nose into Jesse’s shoulder.

“Yeah. Yeah, it makes sense. I really am sorry.”

“I know. I am not mad.”

“Alright.”

“I don’t say it enough, but I love you.”

Jesse closed his eyes, nodding just a bit, nose buried in Genji’s hair. It was soft, tickled against his lips.

“Love you too, darlin’...Thank you.”

Genji hummed, pulled back and tugged at Jesse’s tank top absently.

“Reyes was not happy you left. You’re going to have to run laps.”

“Yeah, figured,” Jesse grumbled, rubbing at the back of his neck. He sighed, shoulders scrunching up tight before he relaxed them again, hands going into his pockets.

“Guess I better get it over with then, huh?”

“I have to see Angela for some testing, but I’ll cheer you on in spirit.”

“Why thank you.”

Genji gave a little smile just before putting his faceplate back into place, the mechanics clicking quietly when it connected. It still made Jesse’s heart flutter. They walked back into the base in a comfortable silence, Jesse taking the turn towards the training gyms with a wave to Genji.

“See you tonight, hon.”

“Do not run in your boots.”

“Come on, it’s a talent and you know it!”

Genji shook his head, waving him off. “See you tonight,” he called, the words warm.

Jesse huffed a laugh that faded quickly when he turned the corner. Rubbed at his arm, wondering how long it would take Genji to realize what everyone else eventually did. Hopefully not for a while. He was special.

Jesse wanted just a little longer.

[that-wimpy-cowboy-doll]

Happy Valentine’s Day @journal-of-an-outlaw!  I was your @rdr-secret-cupid this year :) I hope you enjoy the fluffy smut below!  (I’m sorry if they’re a bit OOC, I haven’t played enough RDO to enjoy the Moonshiner route yet :P)

Summary: After getting into yet another scrape, Anastasia finds herself unable to put words to the feelings she gets from the man whose arms she always ends up in.  Lem always enjoys dancing with her to the band, but when they can finally be alone, Anna gets the chance to show him, rather than tell him, how she feels.

Some might say I talk loud, see if I care Unlike them, I don’t walk away from my fear I’ve busted bones, broken stones, looked the devil in the eye I hope he’s going to break these chains, oh yeah - “Broken Bones” by Kaleo

And I’ll always love you but I don’t have to sing it “For worse or for better” don’t rhyme They say I got the right one so now I should write one But I’d rather just show you tonight - “I Hate Love Songs” by Kelsea Ballerini

“This, uh...might sting.”

Anna sucked in a sharp breath as Lem trickled the thin stream of shine over her split knuckles.  It was another fight, it always was, and as often as her mouth and her fists got her into trouble, this one had felt more righteous than most.

The Lemoyne Raiders had had it out for Maggie since they’d first heard her name, the weight she had in the shine business.  Anastasia couldn’t tell whether it’d been luck, or fortune, maybe destiny that had led her to them in the saloon on the outskirts of Rhodes.  Each was about twice her size, but like the old saying went, the drunker they were the harder they fell.  Besides, she’d needed to let off some steam these days.  Do something that made her feel free, now that she could fly without the looming cloud of Hixon and his men.

And this...thing that she and Lem had been pussyfooting around the last few weeks.

“Who was it this time?” he said flatly, dabbing at the delicate scraped skin of her fist.  She wanted him to look at her, offering a grim smile to Roy, the feller who played the banjo at the shack on weekends.  Fuck, that was right, it was Friday.  The rest of the band was due any minute.

“Raiders.  Usual jackass sort.  Caught ‘em badmouthin’ Maggie, eyeballin’ me, like they knew she brought me in.”  She could feel the calluses of Lem’s hand wrapped around her wrist, on the pads of his fingertips while he finished patching her wound.

“You know, you - you don’t need to swing on every feller looks at you the wrong way, Anna,” Lem sighed, letting his cup of shine clink softly on the table.  He glanced over her shoulder to nod at the line of musicians trailing in.  There was something exhausted in his face, like her tiredness was catching.  It was her, she knew.  She knew her mouth moved faster than her brains, and her fists faster still than her mouth.

Anastasia moved to pull her hands away from Lem’s, straightening in her seat and bringing her drink to her lips.  “I should get behind the bar.  Folk are going to start showin’ up.”

But he reached for her still, leaning forward a little.  “Ain’t anybody here yet - even so, that feller you hired, Gil, Gil what’s-his-name - he’s got a handle on it.”  His blue eyes shone in the dim lamp light burning overhead; his thumbs were tracing tender circles over the places on her hands not marked by bruises.  “Dance with me.  While the band warms up.”

She was still jittery from the fight, her hair loose and messy, a little wild with the adrenaline shooting through her veins.  But now her heart was fluttering madly beneath her chest, screaming in her ribcage.  Something warm and heavy lived in her throat, making the words creak as they slipped from between her lips: “Y-yeah, okay.”

He guided her firm but gentle away from their little table by the bar, into the center of the wooden floor across from where Roy and his boys had set up.  She gave a little start when he held her by the waist, sliding her right hand on top of his left.  For someone usually so headstrong and assured of herself, having Lem hold her, touch her this way, so solemn and so gentlemanlike, Anna felt like she was liable to turn to jelly on the spot.

The band picked up at Shifty Simon the Pianist’s count, something moody and slow she hadn’t heard them play often.  Somewhere in the back of her head, Anastasia was aware of Gil serving someone at the bar, but when Lem lifted her arm to turn her in a steady circle, his eyes meeting hers in the low, warm light of the shack, his body so near to hers seemed to hold up the weight of the world.

“You are a hot head,” he whispered, his slick, sweet breath tickling the shell of her ear.  A jolt flickered to life in Anna’s stomach.  “A h-hotheaded, stubborn, impossible...wonderful woman.”  He was smiling against her, she could tell, the playful curve of his voice.  “And you’re gonna be the death of me, I swear it.  Bruised knuckles...”

“Lem - ”  She cleared her throat, blinking glassily up at him.  “I - I don’t - ”

“That’s alright.”  He took her chin between his thumb and index finger, like he was studying her from between those soft, long lashes of his.  The air around him - around them - seemed still, separate from the rest of the shack.  She realized a half a beat too late that now they’d slowed their dancing, that he was holding her more than he was moving, and she was letting herself be held.  “You - you don’t gotta say nothin’.”

“I want to,” she muttered, her eyes dropping from his, her hands tight near his collar.  “Lem, you know I ain’t as good at...at tellin’ you, but I…”

“It’s okay.”  His thumb brushed the plump curve of her lower lip, he was close enough now that she could practically taste the whiskey on his mouth, the light sprinkling of freckles on his cheeks looking soft beneath the buzz of the bulbs above them.  “You here, with me...that’s all I need.”

It was all she needed, too, his arms around her, until the customers began to trickle in and the band picked up.  She knew that Gil couldn’t handle so many of the regulars like she could, so, painstakingly, she pulled out of Lem’s arms with a whispered apology and what felt like a daring kiss to his cheek, before making her way back to the bar.

“You’se in head over heels, girl,” Gil said under his breath between pours, his mustache bristling with the smile that played across his lips.  “Best snatch that boy up, on account of he’s head over heels for you, too.”

“Shuddup, Gil,” Anna chuckled back, her cheeks going warm, but poured them each a drink, too.

Lem stayed until closing, returning to the bar to order himself a drink, and a dinner, and to fiddle with the bowls of almonds that Anna and Gil set out, not taking his hand away when Anna reached out to bat him playfully, instead catching her fingers between his and running his thumb across her palm until another customer came to ask for their next glass of shine.  Anna declared last call just after midnight, but thankfully most of her patrons looked as dead on their feet as she felt, clambering toward the door with wilting smiles on their faces.  Roy and the rest of the band packed up while she and Gil got to cleaning, Lem helping even when she shooed him and insisted he didn’t need to wait for her.

“I think I’m gon’ bank my hours,” Gil announced, wearing far too smug a smirk in Anastasia’s humble opinion, while there was still the sweeping to be done.  “You two stay outta trouble now, I’ll see y’all t’morrah.”

“N-night, Gil,” Lem called over his shoulder, already making his way toward the broom and the dustpan.

Anna counted out the cash she owed the band, pressing the bills into each member’s hand.  “Thanks, y’all.  We’ll see you soon?”

Roy returned her smile and offered her a gentle pat on the shoulder.  “Not a moment too soon.  You take care now, alright, Miss Brooks?”

“You, too, Roy.”

She shut and locked the front door behind Shifty Simon, who nodded at Lem’s back and winked before she waved him off, rolling her eyes with a smile that wouldn’t drop off her lips.  The shack felt suddenly a lot smaller with just the two of them in it, Lem Fike dutifully sweeping away the last of the grime from her floorboards, the muscles of his strong shoulders bunching the rolled sleeves of his union suit.

It was hard for her to tell him how she felt, she knew that much.  But she could show him.

She slunk her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek to the flat of his back between his shoulder blades.  He smelled of linen and booze and sweat, but something about the scent felt more like home than she’d inhaled in years.  She could tell he was smiling, he liked it when she touched him, and he turned around with her still touching him, bringing his rough hands up tenderly to frame her face.

“Hey,” she whispered, lost in the soft echoes of his eyes.

“Hey,” he whispered back, his gentle touch wandering down the slopes of her shoulders, coming to rest at the small of her back.  His forehead brushed hers before their lips met, and then she was lost, her heart thrumming wildly in her chest, her teeth grazing against his lower lip, his stubble a sharp contrast from the slow and steady way he was touching her, kissing her.

Anna stood on tiptoe to wrap her arms around his neck, press her chest against his.  So he might feel the way her heart seemed to beat through her skin, stumbling around her ribcage to reach for him.  Her hands were skimming through his hair, pulling him close, her tongue dragging across the chapped skin of his lower lip, and then against his tongue in turn.

Lem was grabbing her by the waist, nudging her backwards, pulling back at long last to press his lips to her pulse point.  Anna couldn’t help the high, keening moan that slipped from her throat into the thick spring bayou air above them.

“Y’know I n-need you,” Lem murmured, and she could almost feel the rapid beating of his heart, too, his breath stammering on her skin.  His knee slid between hers, her hands were scrunching at his collar, scrabbling to get him bare, shed everything that was keeping them apart.

“Need you, too.”  Anna popped the buttons of his shirt, shoving his suspenders off.  “Can tell you a lot better like this…”

“Fuck, Anna…”  He leaned his head back while she kissed her way down his bare chest, leaving a love bite at the patch of skin above his heart.  It was utterly filthy, the noises he was making, and then the feel of him releasing the tension that seemed to live in his shoulders while she made her way down his front, her hands slipping beneath the front of his pants.

With a whispered “this okay?” she stroked him long and slow when he nodded.  She backed him up toward the nearest table, pushing gently so that he’d finally lean back onto it, pulling her with him.  He fell into the spot gripping her by the hips, and then peeling the buttons open of her shirt, too, weighing her breasts in the palms of his hands.

She groaned as he dragged his thumbs across her nipples, her stomach twisting with want.  He met her eyes, a small and mischievous smile passing his lips before she squeezed him just a little, Lem leaning back and slipping his hands down to the buttons on her pants.  Anna broke away from him to shrug out of the shirt he’d loosed and kick her pants off onto the floor.  He took her nakedness in with hunger in his gaze and reached for her hips once more.

“Can I…”  She flickered her eyes down to his cock between them, her teeth baring down greedily on her lower lip.

“Yeah, God, Anna,” Lem mumbled, his thumbs pressing hard into her hips, drawing her as close as he could.  She slunk down onto him carefully, cautiously, letting him part her where she needed him, filling her to the hilt.

“Fuck, Lem…”  Her hands were on his shoulders, trying to gain purchase, her knees rubbing against the tabletop.  His hands were large, warm, rough on her waist, holding her firm and steady while he let himself buck upward into her.

Anna made love to Lem messily, sloppily, tangling her fingers in his hair and drawing his moans out of him like honey from a hive, her lips and teeth desperate to cling to him as much as she could, until she forgot that they were only connected, until she forgot that he’d ever been apart from her in the first place.

The great wave of bliss rolled over her starting with the tips of her toes and tiding its way upward, until all she saw was white with his mouth pressed to her collarbone, his cock throbbing inside her, his calluses catching roughly on the sensitive bud of her nipple.

She gasped a little, love-drunk and a bit giddy, when he got his feet beneath him, sweeping her onto her back on her table, in her bar, and pressed a very stubbly kiss to the sensitive flesh of her neck while he rolled his hips flush against hers.  He was close, she knew, those blazing blue eyes boring down into hers.

“Anna…” he was breathing, his lips curling around her name like a prayer, and then he was kissing her again, groaning against her mouth while he pulled out to come on her stomach, his forehead dropping to hers while his chest rose and fell with hard, sharp pants.

Lem stood looking like Anna felt, the tiniest bit dizzy, bashful, blushing while he groped about for a spare rag to clean himself up with.  “I’m sorry, I - I hope I didn’t hurt you, I - ”

“Jesus H. Mahogany Christ, Lem Fike,” Anna giggled - giggled! - and sat up, wiping the small dew of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, remembering her sore knuckles.  “I oughta get in more fights if that’s what comes of it.”

When he thought she wasn’t paying attention, he grabbed her by the thighs, sliding her back toward him across the table, and leaned in for another kiss.  “Don’t you dare, Miss Brooks.”

[strawberriestyles]

Chapter 1

(Banner made by sweet sunshine @harry-nofookingway-styles​)

Harry X OFC (AU)

Sequel to Brutality: In which Melody and Harry must relearn how to navigate one another among a flurry of changes.

Read the prologue here.

Author’s note: YAYAY HERE WE GO IT ONLY TOOK ME HALF MY LIFETIME TO GET ENOUGH CHAPTERS STACKED UP!!! Please let me know what you think, and reblog!!!

The weather had warmed almost back to its usual summer temperatures. Melody felt like it was a sign. Harry was improving. Every day, even every minute, he was gaining something back. Just days ago he had cleared his throat and whispered something that Melody hadn’t been able to make out. It was a start.

She ran her thumb along the petal of a lily on the windowsill. Bea had sent them with her the day before. A sort of apology to Harry, she supposed, for her lack of kindness. But Bea hadn’t felt that it was appropriate for her to visit Harry, not yet. Not after the way she’d treated him since they met. And Melody couldn’t wait for them to right those wrongs, to see each other in the same light that she saw them.

“It’s beautiful out today,” Melody said as she turned toward Harry. “I wish it would stay.” She settled into her chair and wrapped her hand around Harry’s. “Do you want me to read?”

Harry squeezed a ‘yes' into her fingers, so she curled her legs up beneath her and pulled the book she’d been reading aloud from the table beside her. She’d started over the day after Harry had woken up, because despite what she’d wanted to believe, he hadn’t been able to hear her reading to him while he was unconscious. Or if he did hear her, he couldn’t remember it.

Melody flipped to her bookmarked page and licked her lips to begin the new chapter.

“Yeh changed your hair.”

Her arms jerked the book from her hands. It fell to the floor in front of her chair, cover bent back, as she sat forward again. Her eyes searched Harry’s face and settled on the sharp curve of his pleased smile. “You’re talking? You just talked.”

“I like it.”

Melody shook her head. Bea had dyed her hair for her, and had even re-dyed it since that first time. A shade darker than strawberry blonde, almost red, coppery.

“The first thing you wanna talk about is my hair?” she asked. Her voice was gentle. She didn’t really care what he wanted to talk about, she was just grateful that he was speaking at all. Even if it sounded like his vocal cords had spent years collecting dust in some abandoned attic. Like the air was being dragged over rough gravel.

“Well, it looks good.”

Melody pressed her palms to her face and took a shuddering breath. Harry’s face fell.

“Are yeh cryin’?”

Melody shook her head again and folded her hands in her lap. She let out a weak laugh. “No, I’m not crying. I could.” She stared at his curious face, now open and expectant like a child’s.

“Oh, God,” she muttered as realization dawned, finally climbing to her feet. “I need to get Dr. Florin.”

“No, she knows,” Harry said.

Melody paused, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“They’ve had some fancy speech doctor in here whenever yeh’re gone.”

She dropped back down into her chair and scratched at the cotton of Harry’s bedsheets. The only type of rehabilitation she had seen was the physician who came in once a day to test Harry’s movements, help him stretch out his limbs, begin rebuilding his weakened muscles. But they had been doing that stretching even when he wasn’t awake. It was nothing new to her.

“I don’t know whether I’m upset that no one informed me or if I’m just glad that you can talk back to me, now.”

“Can finally tell yeh to fuck off, right?”

Melody whipped her head upward, but Harry’s eyes were dancing, his lips twitching.

“That was a joke, Mel.”

She felt all of the muscles in her body coil and then relax. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed hearing her name on his lips, especially the shortened version.

“Mentioned your hair ‘cause it was the first thing I noticed,” Harry continued when she didn’t seem like she was amused by his attempt at a joke. “Have yeh also been…workin’ out?”

Melody did laugh at this. And to Harry’s horror, she also let out a stuttered sob. Tears dripped down her cheeks. She wiped at them quickly.

“Why’re yeh doin’ that?” he asked frantically. "What did I say?”

“No, no,” Melody rushed. “I just—” She slipped her fingers into her hair and rubbed at her overwhelmed head. “It’s been a while. For me. You’ve missed a lot. What’s the last thing you remember?”

Harry had taken the news of his coma surprisingly well. And he seemed to have no trouble believing that Colton had caused it. He didn’t even seem fazed when he heard that Colton still hadn’t been found, even seen. It was the time gap that seemed to cause him some trouble. Melody had watched the pulse on his monitor spike when he’d learned that nearly five months had passed. Five months. And Melody had yet to fill him in on what had happened in the meantime. Now that he could ask questions, she supposed it was time for those conversations.

Harry blinked lazily and then turned his eyes away from her. “Far as I knew, I went to sleep that Tuesday yeh saw me after trainin' and woke up here the next mornin’.”

“Jesus Christ,” Melody muttered. “Harry I could tell you I’m sorry a billion times over but I—”

“I don’ wanna talk about that. Let’s just say I forgave yeh, okay? Since Sean told me yeh basically moved in here.”

“Wait, did he know you were talking?”

“Yeah.”

“That dick.”

Harry chuckled, that deep rumble in his chest, and Melody thought she might cry again, so she worked herself through deep breaths.

“Yeh didn’ answer my question,” Harry said, perhaps to distract her. He didn’t want any more of the crying. He’d seen enough tears in the past couple of weeks, even if she tried to hide them, to blink them back. “Yeh’ve been workin’ out?”

“Yes,” Melody answered with a thin smile. “I can’t really see the difference.”

“There’s a difference,” Harry assured her. “Yeh look good.”

Melody felt herself blush like she was back in high school, like she hadn’t been in a relationship with Harry, like he hadn’t seen her completely naked on countless occasions. She pressed her fingers back to her heated cheeks. She wished that she could say the same about him, but Harry had grown thinner, paler. And even months of uninterrupted sleep couldn’t help how tired he looked. The skin around his eyes was sunken and bruised.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “You keep complimenting me.”

Harry chewed at his lower lip. He didn’t tell her that it was because he felt bad for her, like he’d put her through the ringer. She wouldn’t appreciate his pity. In fact, it didn’t even make sense in his own mind. He was the one who’d been shot in the head. By someone he shared blood with, at that. He’d missed five months of his own life and of hers. But he kept thinking about if the roles had been reversed, if Melody had been the one in this bed, if he was the one sitting there waiting for her to wake up. It didn’t matter what kind of arguments they'd had, the idea was still painful. And he didn’t want that thought running through his head. So he was trying to alleviate some of the trouble she’d probably been going through, to sop up some of the pain and fear that seemed to have spilled.

“Can yeh show me your workouts, then? What is it? Hot yoga?”

“Shut up,” Melody laughed.

“No, ‘m serious. I’d love to see that. Probably have to strip down to just your—”

“Harry, shut up!” she shouted, leaning forward to clap a hand over his mouth. It was amazing to her, how quickly they could just fall back into step. Five months of worrying whether she’d ever get the chance to fix things between them, and it all seemed like a thing of the past in a single day.

“Yeh know,” Harry said as she peeled her hand away, “just started talkin’ to yeh today and yeh’re already tellin’ me to shut up. Tha’s not a good sign.”

“Yeah, well maybe if you weren’t trying to be cheeky.”

Harry let his eyes fall closed as Melody’s fingers brushed back hair from his forehead. Her touch was gentle and he felt her skim the shell of his ear, the side of his head where his hair was shorter than the rest, where they’d shaved it down to the scalp five months earlier so Dr. Florin could assess the damage the bullet had caused and try to patch it up as best she could. He wondered how terrible the scars there looked, if they were hideous or impressive. He hadn’t been able to get himself to look in a mirror.

“Thought yeh liked when I’m cheeky."

“Oh, thank God.” Melody and Harry both turned their heads toward the open door when they heard Vanessa’s voice. “I’ve been blowing up like a balloon about to pop not telling you, Melody.”

“Are you joking?” Melody demanded, sitting back. "Did everyone know? Why are we keeping me out of the loop?”

“Doc thought it’d be better if you didn’t have to watch him struggle with his speech. And that was the skill that she thought he’d recover fastest, so surprise!”

“I hate surprises,” Melody muttered.

“Well, I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Vanessa continued as though nothing had happened. “It’s that time again, Harry.”

He hummed, not pleasantly, Melody noticed. Vanessa didn’t seem to care whether he was annoyed or not. She went about her business all the same, checking his vitals, asking him innocent questions about how he was feeling. He replied only in grunts and short words.

“You know, Doc also said Melody might be able to take you for a walk out in the garden if you’re feeling up for it today. It’s very nice out.”

Harry perked up almost immediately. His entire demeanor toward Vanessa shifted. It was visible in his face, in the way that his fingers curled at his sides.

“Okay.” She chuckled and finished scribbling stats onto the clipboard she held. “Well, your vitals are good, too. I’ll get a chair and a couple of nurses in here.”

Vanessa didn’t notice as she left the room with a smile of her own, but Melody watched the way that Harry seemed to deflate. He stared blankly across the room, his lips set stonily. He had been out of bed a few times, had even tried standing with assistance, but no one could keep him on his feet for long. She knew how much it frustrated him.

“What’s wrong?” she asked gently. “Did you change your mind?”

“No.” Harry shook his head. Melody waited for him to speak again but he didn’t, and she didn’t press. Everything about this felt eerily familiar.

They waited for the nurses to bring Harry a wheelchair, him patiently and her not so much. She’d wanted to get him outdoors for days, had been begging Dr. Florin. She thought it would do him some good and she was grateful for the opportunity that the nice weather and Harry’s surprisingly good condition had provided. Anything that might lift his mood and make his recovery less dismal.

The nurses arrived. Stocky, broad men. Despite the physical withering that had eaten away at him, Harry still had a good amount of muscle. It just needed to get used to constant movement again. But he wasn’t light and Melody couldn’t move him, no matter how much working out she’d been doing.

The men waited while Melody slid a pair of stretchy hospital pants onto Harry’s limp legs. He didn’t want these strangers touching him. In fact, he didn’t seem to like many of the medical workers very much at all. Not even Dr. Florin. He did like his physical therapist, though—a short but fit man who reminded Melody a lot of Sean in the way he spoke and joked.

Melody waited then while the nurses unhooked Harry from his monitor and scooped him out of the bed, one on each side, arms under his thighs and around his back. They lowered him slowly into the wheelchair that they'd brought, arranging his legs for him, and then they left the room.

Melody watched Harry’s eyes avoid her throughout the entirety of the process. She didn’t mention it. She could only guess how he felt, having to be moved around and carried. She hoped that when he wanted to discuss it, if he wanted to discuss it, she wouldn’t need to pry. Maybe this new dynamic that they were discovering would make opening up easier for him. She hoped for the best.

Melody kicked the chair’s lock out of place and wheeled Harry straight out into the hall without another word.

***

Outside in the garden, it was even nicer than Melody had expected from looking out the window. She and Harry had walked around in circles for almost a half hour before he’d asked her to stop.

“Just wanna sit in the sun,” he’d said.

Now they were just sitting. Melody, actually, was sprawled out on the grass before him, her eyes closed against the light. Harry was watching her, the way her hair shone differently than it did when it was blonde, with an almost pinkish hue. Even her eyebrows were this new shade. He noticed a scar at the edge of her left brow where no hair was growing. He didn’t think he’d ever seen it before, but he wasn’t sure if it was just a glitch in his memory. Everything was so different and strange. He didn’t ask her about the scar. He just let her lay there and relax, even if he couldn’t. Watching her relax calmed him.

“Are you staring at me?” Melody asked. She cracked an eye open, fanning her fingers out over the dewy grass beneath her.

Another wheelchair rolled past them. It was a middle-aged woman pushing a younger child who might’ve been about eight years old. The boy was hooked up to an oxygen tank and he was hairless and pale, and Harry had never wanted to be somewhere else so badly in his entire life.

“When do I get the fuck outta here?” he asked when the boy was out of hearing range.

Melody pushed herself up into a sitting position and tilted her head at him. She took a deep breath. The air smelled sweetly of the flowers that had survived the city’s brutal and dry August. The summer was Melody’s favorite time of the year and she was disappointed that Harry had missed so much of it—all of it, really. It would be seven or eight months until the weather started to warm again, now that fall was beginning to arrive.

“It’s probably gonna be a couple more weeks.” Melody lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the afternoon sunlight. "They just wanna make sure you’re really okay. And I’m sure they’re gonna start working you back on your feet pretty soon, okay?”

“This shit sucks.”

Melody let out a breathy laugh and rose onto her knees in front of him, nodding. “That’s why I thought you’d like being out here.”

Harry glanced around again. He would have liked it a whole lot better if he could have walked himself around the winding paths instead of having Melody pushing him around. It was beautiful, though. All of the bushes were well pruned and the flowers were arranged into bright beds of color. He wanted to be laying in the grass with Melody.

“Are you hungry?” she asked him. “We could go back in and get some food from the cafeteria. It’ll be like a date.”

“A date?” he asked. “In a hospital? Tha’s a bit of a downgrade from an art exhibit, yeah?”

“The food’s better,” she said, and when she leaned forward to kiss him, Harry was caught too off-guard to do anything but sit there. But he felt the familiarity of her lips and smelled her perfume, a scent that he had memorized long ago, and it finally felt like there was something that he could hold onto from before everything that he was missing.

He blinked at her when she rose to her feet. She blinked back and mumbled a quiet “sorry” before rounding his chair to lead him inside. They didn’t talk about the kiss or what it might mean while they ate stir-fry and chocolate cake together, and Melody left with just a quick squeeze of Harry’s hand late that evening.

Chapter 2

[agavex]

Beach finds from several walks between Penzance and Marazion during March 2020. 

7 pheasant shells (Tricolia pullus)

7 auger shells (Turritella communis) needle whelks (Bittium reticulatum). 

1 dog whelk (Nucella lapillus) shell*

48 netted dog whelk (Tritia reticulata) shells*

25 spotted cowrie (Trivia monacha) shells

1 rayed mactra (Mactra stultorum) shell half

1 pullet carpet shell (Venerupis corrugata) pair (uncertain ID)

1 thin tellin (Tellina tenuis) shell pair

1 flat periwinkle (Littorina obtusata) shell, peachy orange colour

2 flat top shells (Gibbula umbilicalis), as with the previous species, these are very common in this location, but these two have particularly appealing colouration

1 thick top shell (Phorcus lineatus)*

3 painted top shells (Calliostoma zizyphinum)

158 pieces of sea glass, including a marble, what looks like an odd shaped blue glass pebble, and a piece of bicoloured milk glass. 

6 ceramic fragments: white with azure/cyan glaze; 2 willow pattern; 1 dark green design depicting part of a leaf or petal; 1 black design possibly of the veins of a leaf - the shape of the fragment makes it seem that way; 1 sepia, depicting either stylised foliage, waves or wind. 

* = collected because of miniature (immature) size. The rest of the shell specimens are average adult size.

[ammunitionist]

“What do we do now,” Snafu drawls, slow, and there’s not even enough investment in the words to assign emotion to them. “What an idiot.”

 Sledge just watches the retreating back of the lieutenant, awkwardly hurried to get away, to the tune of Burgie opening the bottle of liquor behind him. He can’t remember his name. It got to be like that a while ago, but there’s no use in remembering dates like that- so he can’t remember quite when he forgot, either. The world had gotten embarrassingly small once the Marines he knew started getting gone and the ones he didn’t care to know fell into step in their place. It was just footsteps next to him soon enough, ankles deep in muck and dragging forward like a beast possessed.

Burgie passes the hooch to Snaf behind him, the quiet, hollow sloshing of liquid the only indicator of life between the two. The fireworks in front of them easily top the sound of breath, of fabric shifting, of metal hitting metal in one form or another. The easiest way to feel alone is to let the noise around him drown out whatever's left of the lives beside him.

He doesn’t feel alone, though.

It's a different kind of emptiness.

 Snafu taps him on the shoulder to pass down the liquor and Sledge obliges, tugging the pipe from between his lips to pull at the amber liquid. It barely burns when it goes down, tasting like very little but familiarity. After drinking off whatever hellish moonshine they got out here for months, it'll be a wonder if home's whisky ain't just like water.

He drinks, and he watches another not-shell explode in the black sky above.

 It’s hard to remember what it was like the first time. If there was an exact first time, even. The nights became one thing on Okinawa, black and thick and punctuated only by mortars and gunfire. When there weren't either, there had to be something, so they chose each other. Breath was hotter and thicker than the air- and indisputably better than gunfire- so they poured it down each other's throats like it was bound to save them. Barely sex and definitely not love, it felt more like a rodential grasp for survival. They survived, so it seemed to have worked.

 Sledge is almost surprised when Snafu pulls him aside, later, after the fireworks are gone and things are quiet again. Someone had popcorn- fucking popcorn- and he's still digging bits of it out of his teeth by the time he's being dragged into some shady corner of camp. It's not worth it to mention; Snafu's lips are already digging into his with a splitting force. He doubts the man would care anyway.

Eugene molds against Snafu's body easily, their torsos a complementary form weathered into place by repeated and dogged motion. It's their due after months of this, this thing, this strange surreptitious agreement. Snaf presses his thigh in roughly and the thoughts go blank in a sharp snap, like a wire cut somewhere in his brain. It doesn’t matter, this undertaking requires very little of his brain anyway.

The rock is cool to his back, slowly creeping in through the thin fabric he's not noticed for weeks now. Snaf is barely warmer, but he's warm enough, and Sledge pushes forward just to hear a strangled grunt at his throat. He picks his head up to force his lips back into Eugene's mouth, and Sledge welcomes it. He tastes like nothing because they taste the same, all grit and sandpaper and other unsavory things that the girls back home wouldn't understand. Not that there were any girls back home, not for him.

The thought leaves him as he palms clumsily at Merriell's face, his hand sliding down against rough skin that leaves his skin tingling.

 Snafu needs a shave, he realizes, which immediately makes his heart race in something akin to panic. Snafu always needed a shave, they all did, but he noticed this time. Without the war, there's space to notice all of the things he had no time for before. There's space to notice- or, rather, acknowledge- that this is wrong.

Not wrong that Snafu's a man. He'd long since reconciled that facet of his taste, if not with his faith than with everything else. If God were going to hate him for anything, it had to be all the killing, not the hesitant approximation of love he'd imagined up for himself.

It's wrong for its purpose. Wrong for its execution. When they were dying, it was pause. Something else to do than lose their heads. Something to pull their bodies from the mire, ignore the dead body of a friend a few yards away.

 Now that the bodies are all wrapped up and buried, it seems like the undertaking is simply trying to be something it isn't. He'd imagined love back home in Mobile, back when it was still shame. The body of someone loved, moving behind linen curtains, soft yellow light drifting in across his mother's fine china. He'd tried to imagine the body softer, curved, dressed in thin patterned rayon.

 It always became firmer again, despite his best efforts. Efforts which halted entirely when he finally enlisted. Baptist guilt was best ignored when Thou shalt not kill seemed like a flat impossibility.

The early days, he'd close his eyes and imagine the body, the smile, the laugh of a boy who didn't exist yet. That stopped too, when he stopped really closing his eyes- about the same time he fell into Snafu. That wasn't love neither, and there were no linen curtains around to imagine him behind.

 Eugene pulls away from Merriell, gasping, almost choking. He tastes like something now. Sulfur.

"What," Snafu says, slow and lazy, almost invested enough to be irritated. "Got somethin’ in ma' teeth?"

"No," He spits, honest, pushing the word from between his teeth like an expletive. "No, no, I just-"

"You just what? Don't go tellin' me you suddenly got a moral compass, Sledgehammer."

Eugene pushes him away, harder, enough for Snaf to stumble on the take. It almost digs sympathy out of his chest.

Almost.

 "I don’t want to do this." he defends, albeit weakly. "I don't- I don't want you."

"Well, this is fuckin' news to me." Snafu stands back in the way he always has, minorly inconvenienced by fucking being alive.

Sledge doesn’t say anything. He can’t quite get it out, and he’s not sure what it would be if he could.

 Snaf looks at him one last time before sighing and heading off in the vague direction of the tent they’re billeted in.

“Good night, Gene.” he says, and Sledge just stands there. It almost sounds like disappointment.

 “Happy end of the war.”

[P.S.- this is on Ao3! also ive never written the pacific fic before so we’ll see how it goes]

[thelastspeecher]

Story Time

I usually like to include in the title of the post what AU the write is from, but this particular AU has such a long name that I don’t really want to.  This takes place in the Reverse Portal Stanley McGucket AU, and is a rare write that takes place from Lute’s perspective.  It’s not quite as Lute-centric as the thing I’ll be posting tomorrow, since it focuses a bit more on Stangie memories.  But still, we get some good Lute thoughts into what is going on in this tragic AU.

              “Uncle Lute, look!”  Lute looked up from the dishes he was currently in the process of washing.  His niece Daisy ran over, proudly holding a piece of paper.  Lute smiled and dried his hands.

              “What’s this?” he asked.

              “My teacher left a note on my project, sayin’ I’ve got potential in science she’s never seen before!” Daisy enthused.  Lute chuckled.  He took the piece of paper.  It was the results of her fourth-grade science fair project.  Angie had helped, but Daisy had insisted on doing the majority of the work on her own.

              “I ain’t all that surprised,” he said, ruffling her hair.  “Yer quite the smartie.  Just like yer ma.”  Daisy beamed. “Ya told her when she picked ya up, I assume?”  Daisy nodded. “Good.  I can put it on the fridge right away, then.”  Lute walked over to the fridge and stuck the paper on the door with a magnet shaped like a salamander.  He heard the front door open again.

              “Ma, are ya goin’ to tell us?” Emory’s voice asked eagerly.

              “Yes, sweetie, just let me take a seat in the livin’ room, okay?” Angie’s voice said.  Lute pursed his lips.  Angie was frequently tired, particularly since she started to help Ford with his research on the Gravity Falls anomalies, in addition to her own.  But the exhaustion in her voice wasn’t physical. It was emotional.  And that pointed to his missing brother-in-law.

              I knew they’d start askin’ about him eventually. The breadcrumbs Danny ‘n Daisy have, or what all Stanford ‘n myself tell ‘em isn’t enough.  They want to hear about Stan from their mother.

              “Don’t start without me!” Daisy said suddenly.  She darted out of the kitchen.  Lute took a deep breath and followed her into the living room.  Angie entered and took a seat on the couch.  Emily and Emmett, six years old and just done with their first week of school, climbed up next to her.  Daisy sat on the floor in front of the couch.  Danny joined her.

              “Angie,” Lute said softly.  Angie looked up.  In the seven years that had passed since Stan’s disappearance, the bright caramel color of her hair had started to fade, and she’d been forced to wear reading glasses regularly.  Lute couldn’t help but wonder if the stress of everything that had happened was what caused her to age so quickly.

              “I’m fine, Lute,” Angie said with a forced smile.  Lute leaned against the wall.

              “You don’t have to talk about him.  I can tell ‘em another story.”

              “No, we wanna hear about Dad from Ma!” Emmett protested from Angie’s lap. Lute blinked, surprised.  Emmett was the black sheep of his siblings, quiet and unsure.  He very rarely raised his voice, and even more rarely wasn’t willing to compromise.

              Maybe he’s finally gettin’ some stubbornness in him.  Lute smiled. Good.  Stan wouldn’t want a kid who’s willing to back down.

              “It’s fine, really,” Angie said to Lute.  She took a deep breath.  “It’s been seven years.  I can talk.”

              “Okay,” Lute replied.  He stayed where he was, determined to step in if Angie became too emotional to carry on.

              “What do ya want to hear about, babies?” Angie asked, stroking Emmett’s hair.

              “What was Dad like?” Emmett asked.  Angie smiled faintly.

              “It’d take a long time to explain everything about him,” she said.  “Like all people, he’s complex.”

              “Ma,” Danny piped up.  “Don’t dance around the question.”

              “All right, all right.  He’s stubborn.  Stubborn as a mule.  Loyal, willin’ to do anything to protect those he cares about.  He has issues showin’ emotion in front of people at times. He’d try to downplay anything he did to be kind as him doin’ just ‘cause it didn’t inconvenience him.  His voice would get all gruff when he talked about yer sisters, ‘cause it was the only way to hide how proud he is of ‘em, and how much he loves ‘em.”

              She’ll never stop usin’ present-tense, will she.

              “How did you two meet?” Danny asked.  Angie raised an eyebrow.

              “I know you’ve heard that story.”

              “Yeah, but not from you.”  Danny leaned forward.  “Did ya know he was the love of yer life the second ya laid eyes on him?”  Angie laughed.

              “Not by any means.  I was sixteen and hadn’t even left the state before.  I couldn’t feel any emotion other than curiosity until I got to know him.” Angie looked over at a photo on the wall, of her and Stan’s high school graduation.  “Most of the first interactions we had, I was confused how someone could be so obtuse.  He was a real fish outta water on the farm.”

              “But he got better,” Daisy said.  Angie nodded.

              “Yes.  He got better.”

              “How did ya know he was the one?” Danny asked.  Lute let out a small huff of amusement.

              There she goes, the hopeless romantic.  Lord, am I goin’ to have fun terrorizin’ her dates when she gets older.

              “I’m not quite sure,” Angie replied after a moment.  She untangled a knot in Emmett’s hair.  “It wasn’t one moment.  It was a series of moments that all built up.”

              “What were-” Danny started.

              “Where is he?” Emmett interrupted.  Angie’s face broke.  Lute stood straighter.

              “…I don’t know,” Angie whispered.

              “We’ve answered that question, Emmett,” Lute said.  Emmett looked over at him.

              “Yeah, but yer lyin’,” Emmett said firmly.

              “No, we were tellin’ the truth.”

              “No.  It doesn’t make sense,” Emmett insisted.

              And already his new stubbornness is comin’ to bite us in the butt.  He really is Stan’s son.

              “Honey, yer Uncle Ford was there,” Angie said gently.  “He saw what happened.”

              “Yeah.  Right after he and Dad had a big fight.  Uncle Ford could be lying to cover his tracks.  He probably is.  ‘Cause it doesn’t make any sense fer Dad to be- be wherever Uncle Ford’s machine took him!”

              “Junior,” Lute snapped, using the nickname he had come up with when Emmett was five and wanted to go by his middle name, Stanley.  “Yer on thin ice.”  Emmett glared at him.

              “I just want to know what really happened!” Emmett said, crossing his arms. “Dad shoulda been here!  He wasn’t!  If it’s Uncle Ford’s fault-”  A single tear traced its way down Angie’s cheek and landed on Emmett.  He looked at Angie, startled.  “O-oh.  Sorry, Ma.”

              “I’m fine,” Angie said.  She rubbed her eyes.  “I just don’t like thinkin’ ‘bout- ‘bout where yer dad is right now.”  Emory embraced Angie.

              “Ma, don’t cry,” Emory said softly.  Angie smiled through her tears.

              “Fer you, I’ll hold ‘em back.”

              “I’ll be quiet now,” Emmett mumbled.

              “You don’t need to be fer my sake, honey-bun,” Angie said.  Her voice was still thick with tears.  Emmett shook his head.

              “No, I- we should talk ‘bout the good things,” he said.  Angie stroked Emmett’s cheek.  “I don’t wanna think about him bein’ somewhere bad, either.”

              “Thank you, sweetie.”  Angie took a shuddering breath.  “Danny, the first time I knew yer father and I had somethin’ was when we moved in together. He jumped at the chance to move out of yer grandparents’ house, across the country, with no plan fer a job or anything.  Just so he could live with me.  Everything that happened after just made me more sure of it.  Our bickerin’ over the thermostat, me draggin’ him to museums and forests, him draggin’ me to sporting events.  The way- the way he’d just laugh if I jumped onto his back, takin’ on the challenge to carry me to whatever my destination was.”  Angie’s eyes grew misty with memory.  “The way he smelled and felt.  And…the day he proposed, blurting it out without thinkin’, without even havin’ the ring on him.”  Danny’s eyes widened.

              “Wait, how did Dad propose if he didn’t have a ring?” she asked.  Lute cocked his head, curious as well.

              I don’t think she ever told anyone how Stan proposed.  Angie smiled fondly.

              “We were down in the mines, and yer father kept tryin’ to get me to go to this fancy restaurant I liked.  But I ignored it, said I was fine traipsin’ ‘round underground.  I didn’t pay attention to what was goin’ on, and yer father had to rescue me from bein’ eaten by somethin’.  He tackled me, we rolled down a hill, and there, at the base of the hill, with me starin’ up at him, he asked me to marry him.”  Angie let out a small wistful sigh.  “Never did find out what exactly prompted him to pop the question then and there.  Knowin’ him, it probably just felt right.  And it did.  It was special.  Way more special than if it had happened at a restaurant.”

              “Aw,” Danny gushed.

              “I can see why ya kept that story a secret,” Lute said softly.  “It’s a sweet one.”

              “Yep.  And Stan’s got that hard shell.  He wouldn’t want folks to know he’s secretly sappy.”

              “He’s gonna come back, right?” Emory asked.  Angie nodded.

              “Yes,” she said.  “He will.” Lute’s heart sunk.

              She’s never goin’ to move on.

              “I think that’s enough story fer today,” Angie said briskly.  “Y’all have some homework, and I have some data to write up.”  The children grumbled, but gradually dispersed.  Once all four children were gone, Lute joined Angie on the couch. She was staring at the photo on the mantel of Stan, Angie, Danny, and Daisy during their first Halloween as a family. Stan and Angie were dressed as robbers, and the infant Danny and Daisy as sacks of money.

              “Banjey, it’s not right to get their hopes up like that,” Lute said in an undertone.

              “I know you don’t think he’ll come back,” Angie said softly.  “But I know my husband.  He’d do anything to come back to his fam’ly.  It’s not gettin’ their hopes up to let ‘em know that one day, their dad will be back.  It’s preparin’ ‘em fer the future.”  She stood. “I really do have research to work on.” She walked away.  Lute sighed.

              “Learn to keep yer darn mouth shut, McGucket,” he said to himself.  He stood up and walked over to the mantel to pick up the Halloween picture.  In the background, he could just make out Ford with his back turned, helping Tate go trick-or-treating.

              If there was anyone who could bring Stan back, it’d be Stanford.  And if there was anyone who could survive alternate realities to come back home to his family, it’d be Stan.  He set the picture back on the mantel.  Maybe I should try bein’ optimistic like Angie fer once.  It’d sure be better than assuming my brother’s dead.  He let out a sigh.

              “Somethin’ to ruminate on,” he said quietly.  He turned away from the mantel.

              Now, back to the dishes.

[monaisme]

One Week Later - Chapter 7

This is the sequel to my one-shot, “The Battle”

**There is definitely a level of hopelessness here that can read as suicidal ideation. Please be careful.**

Peter was convinced that the air smelled different. His heightened senses had always helped with picking up that special something that made the cesspool-like quality of the city a bit more noticeable, but today? Maybe the ever growing piles of garbage had sat a little longer? Or maybe the despair was thicker? Who knew? Peter sure didn’t-- Heck, he couldn’t even figure out where he was supposed to go. All he knew for sure was that Grand Central Station was about as cliché for an orphaned runaway as it could get and Peter wasn’t having any of it.

And it wasn’t like he had any money anyways.

He turned right once he hit East 42nd Street, managing to make his way across the street before the light turned, allowing him to keep on the move. In his previous life, he’d have just walked home. Yes, it took a couple of hours, but back then it was nice have the chance to be helpful to those around him as Peter Parker; carrying groceries, opening doors for people as he passed by. In the now, a cold blast of wind caught him off guard and Peter couldn’t help but shiver. He knew that he’d been right to leave. He couldn’t imagine what sort of chaos his existence would cause for Mr. and Mrs. Stark and he was so tired of—well, everything. He just wished he’d thought to grab a jacket, not that he could change it now. He needed to find somewhere to go, fast.

He’d moved exactly four steps when his determination fizzled and the reality of his situation hit him. What was he supposed to do? He honestly had nowhere to go.

Peter truly was alone.

Mr. Stark had told him that the apartment was gone. He still had no phone to call May. Five years ago, he’d have just dialled up his Guy in the Chair and he’d have been set. But now? “Pull it together, Parker.” He grumbled to himself, trying to keep from panicking. “Be smart. What would Ned do?”  And then the memory sparked. Ned had been snapped, too! And Mr. Stark had said he was safe at home!

Without another thought, Peter’s arm was up and waving frantically. He was trying with everything in him to hail a cab, but some things never changed. Another gust of cold air buffeted around him. He couldn’t help but curl an arm around himself as he shivered again, trying to keep warmer than his stupid thermoregulation would ever allow. He just needed to get to Ned’s apartment and he’d be set! Ned always had a plan—and he’d be able to pay for Peter’s cab fare—another cab blew by him—IF a stupid cab would stop to pick him up!

It was after the sixth cab passed him by that Peter dropped his arm in defeat. Standing in the gloomy fall weather was getting him nowhere, literally. He gave one last look down the street, hoping for one more chance when an old, dinged up, red Honda Civic came screeching to a halt in front of him.

The passenger side window rolled down and a voice called out from the driver’s seat, “Hey, kid- you lookin’ for a ride?”

Peter stared blankly, “Uh...”

The driver, a man who embodied every middle-aged New Yorker stereotype- right down to the greasy comb-over and toothpick hanging out of his mouth, leaned over and glared at him, “Look, kid. Are you lookin’ for a ride or not?”

Every warning about getting into cars with strangers given by every adult ever responsible for Peter’s wellbeing jumbled through his head. He took a step back from the curb. “I, uh, don’t...”

A look of recognition flashed across his face. “You’re one of the ‘blipped,’ aren’t ya?”

Peter could only nod dumbly.

The man snickered and shook his head. “I figured as much. You’ve missed a bunch—like the fact that this here beauty is 100% registered with the New York City Taxi and Limousine Commission, thank you very much.” He patted the fur covered steering wheel as a horn blared behind him. The driver threw up his hand in reply... well, a finger, “Yeah, same to you, asshole!” He hollered, then turned back to Peter. “So you wanna lift or not?”

The wind seemed to cut through to the bone this time. All Peter could think of in that moment was getting out of the cold.

“Last call, kid. I don’t got all day!” the man called out, and without another thought, Peter opened the back door to the car and jumped in.

“’Bout freakin’ time. Geez. Where you wanna go, kid?”

Peter ignored the rude snap (it was New York City, after all) and rattled off Ned’s address in a rush of breath. He sat back in the oddly smelling seat, allowing himself to relax a bit while the rest of the world moved past him. The driver must have sensed Peter’s need for quiet and said nothing while he wove up and down the streets and avenues that Peter knew like the back of his hand. There were some differences from five years ago, that was for sure, but if he closed his eyes and just savoured the grind and hum of the car’s engine as it twisted and turned...  

It felt almost normal.

He really missed normal.

The cab slowed down after a while, which didn’t surprise Peter, so he opened his eyes, though it was a bit of a fight. He’d figured they’d get to Ned’s soon anyways and it was better that he catch himself before he actually dozed.

So Peter started watching.

The street leading to Ned’s place was coming up soon. It was just a block down from the park they were now passing and if a driver wasn’t careful, they’d drive right past the apartment while dodging all of the pedestrians that normally flocked to the urban green space. Peter frowned as he noted that the park didn’t look very inviting.

“Ah, shit!” The driver muttered, forcing Peter to look away from the bleak landscape.

He looked out to the car’s front window, expecting to see the apartment building he’d walked, swung, limped or cabbed to a million times over the course of his teenage years. Instead, all he could see was— Peter gasped in horror.

“This is why I hate drivin’ blippers,” he growled and he pulled over to park in front of the burned out shell of a caution tape covered building where Peter had tried and loved pancit for the first time—where Ned’s mom had to cut a wad of bubble gum out of his hair because Peter and Ned were sure it would flatten his curls if they just stretched it thin enough—where they’d built lego sets over and over and over again—where his best friend in the whole entire world was supposed to be safe with his family.

“But he said...” He finally managed to croak out, as the shock of it all wore off. “Where’d it go?”

“Damned if I know, kid, but you owe me forty-five bucks whether the building’s here or not, so fork it over.” The man glared at him in his rearview mirror. “I don’t got all day.”

Peter’s stomach dropped. “Um, about that,” he started to explain. “I was going to borrow money from my friend who lives...” He choked up a little. “I mean lived here.” Peter waved out toward the ruined remains. “I, um...” He tried to come up with another plan, but with no phone and no cash, he had no choice. His chin quivered as he realized he’d need to go back. “Crap.” He cleared his throat. “Can you just take me back to Avengers Tower, please?”

The driver was having none of it. He turned himself around in his seat and pointed an accusing finger at the distraught boy. “Look here, you little piss. I don’t know what game you’re playin’, but I sure as hell don’t gotta drive you nowhere. You owe me my money, so you got exactly thirty seconds to come up with it or I’m callin’ the cops.”

“Sir, um, if you could maybe borrow your phone I could see if I can call someone to help!” Peter squeaked out. His defeat was becoming more and more humiliating. “I can call my—“ He’d almost said ‘aunt,’ but the words caught. “I can call my boss and he’ll be able to—“

Peter’s spidey-senses flared.

“Yeah, right. Like I’m gonna give you my phone and have you run off with it on top of this shit.”  The man straightened back into his seat, slammed his hands against the steering wheel, then threw open his car door. A decision had been made. Peter could hear the profanity laced tirade, was barely processing it all for his panic when the driver threw open Peter’s door and grabbed him by the collar of his t-shirt. “You. Get the fuck outta my car.” He gave Peter a yank, dragging him out of the cab and tossing the boy onto the sidewalk. “Five years we’ve been trying to make a living, and you shits come back and think you can keep pulling a scam like this!?”

“I’m... I’m not pulling a...” Peter tried to explain from his place on the ground.

“I don’t wanna hear your garbage! You’re the fifth person this week who’s tried to pull this! You think I don’t have bills to pay, too?!” The man spit out in rage.

Peter threw his hands up in defence and supplication. “But if I could just call Mr. Stark, he’ll come and he could give you—“

People rushed by, intentionally looking away as the scene playing out before them.

“HA! Like someone like Tony Stark would give two shits about some brat like you! Stop tellin’ stories,” the man seethed. “You owe me forty-five bucks! Give me my fuckin’ money or I’ll take it outta your hide.”

“I’m not ly—“

The kicks to the ribs came from nowhere. “Hide.” -kick- “it.” -kick- “is.” The man grunted with each and every kick.

Peter curled into the first kick, trying to cover his head and face with his arms for those that followed, but instead made those a target, too. “Please, stop it!” Peter cried out, trying to make the man listen. “I swear, I can pay!”

The driver didn’t listen, just kicked and raged until he ran out of steam—or breath, Peter didn’t care which. The man’s strength had been spent. Peter was grateful for it if only because it meant the man had stopped.

“Dumb brat.” The man panted as he bent over, hands on his knees and struggling to control his breathing. “Think you can all come back—“ he gasped, “And take whatever you want—“

Peter took advantage of the man’s difficulty and dragged himself out of reach. His own breath caught at the pain in his ribs.  

The man seemed to notice Peter’s movement. “I... don’t... think so...” he huffed, and straightened himself up as much as he could. He started patting down his pockets, looking for what Peter guessed was his phone. A quiet “Dammit,” had the man lumbering back around the front of the car and throwing open his driver’s side door.

Peter could hear him digging around between the seats and console and having no luck. With less grace than one would expect from a superhero, Peter pulled himself up using the side of the car and staggered away from the scene. He could barely steady himself, dizzy from his blow to the head, but the he kept moving, grateful for the absolute disinterest from everyone around him.

“HEY! Get back here!” The driver screamed, but Peter simply sped up as much as he could while trying to ignore the blood he thought might be trickling through his hair.

An alley on the other side of Ned’s—crap!  

An alley on the other side of the burned out apartment caught Peter’s eye and he ducked into it. More of the caution tape was littered about here; people deciding that a short cut was worth more than the risk of falling brick and debris. Peter didn’t care either way. He could make it work. In fact, as soon as he entered the darkened lane, he saw the brick wall still standing several stories high, even if the building was half gone and nothing but a hollowed out husk. Ignoring the pain, he climbed and was over the top of the wall before the cab driver could reach the mouth of the alleyway.

“I’m comin’ for ya’, ya’ piece a’ trash!” The man screamed as he entered the alley, extending what sounded like a collapsible nightstick, then leaned against the undamaged building next door. He took a couple of deep breaths then headed in, kicking at bags of trash as he went.  

Peter didn’t need his enhanced hearing to get the gist of what the man was muttering as he watched from his precarious perch on the crumbling outer wall. He followed the man’s trajectory as he hunted behind overfilled bins and barrelled through more garbage. It took a few minutes, Peter holding his breath for every second of it—until the man gave up with a flurry of obscenities that made even teenager Peter blush. Torn bags and loose trash covered every bit of concrete for the entire stretch of alley. A final whack at one of the bins signaled the man’s defeat and he limped back to his vehicle, slammed its door shut and tore off down the street, leaving tread marks on the road.

Peter sagged in relief, then immediately regretted it as it jostled his definitely broken ribs. He needed to get off that wall and get the pressure off of everything. His head was throbbing, a deep breath felt impossible, and he could feel the bruises forming on his arms. He shifted as carefully as he could to take a closer look at the building’s interior and could have wept in relief for what he saw. While the caution tape definitely hadn’t been for show, there were still large stretches of floor, skeletons of previous apartments on this side of the building where someone like, say... Spider-Man could rest for a little while without messing with the obvious lack of structural integrity. He ignored the angry scorch marks and holes that marred the flooring and walls opposite him.

He dropped, landing lightly on his feet then straightened as much as he comfortably could so he could take a look around while assessing his current predicament.

Things were looking pretty bleak.

The floor was soft to step on, the elements having done a real number on the remnants of what Peter guessed must have been a pretty significant fire. He took in the water damaged and mouldy plaster, exposed pipes and support beams. while taking note of the empty space where the main staircase Peter and Ned would climb to get to his apartment had once existed. He hadn’t paid much attention when he’d been skittering up the outside wall, but now he wondered.

He was pretty sure he was on the fourth floor, if it could even count as that when he looked up at the still overcast sky. The Leeds’ apartment was only two floors down. He didn’t have anywhere else to go, and yeah, he hurt, but there was enough of the structure remaining that he could make his way further in and hopefully get out of the wind before he froze to death.

Peter approached the edge of the makeshift shaft, creeping closer to the hole proper and trying sense just how much farther he could go before something bad would happen. He could feel the floor start to creak and slope about four feet away, so he stopped in his tracks. He needed to play it smart if he was going to avoid getting hurt anymore than he already was. He flashed on a youtube video he and Ned had watched about what to do if you were on ice and it started to crack- if it could work for that, then maybe? He dropped slowly to the grimy floor, trying to move in such a way that he didn’t cry or vomit from the pain, and then redistributed his weight. He waited for the cracking to stop.

And waited—

Until finally, Peter felt secure enough to move.

When Peter was in his spidey-zone, he could defy nature, and within moments of assuming his position, Peter was confident as he slid toward the hole and, in a blink, clung to its underside. He risked a glance at the floor below him. It looked alright, or at least no worse than the floor he’d left behind. His senses weren’t buzzing so he released from the ceiling, did an aerial twist, and landed gracefully on the lower floor.

Or not—“URgH!” He cried out in pain and crumbled to the floor in a very un-Spider-Man like fashion. He clutched at his ribs, hoping a counter pressure would bring relief, but no. Peter could only stay still and try to catch his breath.  

And try to keep from breaking down completely.

Even one level down, the sounds of the city diminished enough to allow Peter the time to think on his situation, even if it broke his heart.

May was gone. He knew it in his heart. The emptiness he’d been trying to fend off since that morning had to have been the universe preparing him to be alone. He knew it. He’d felt it when his parents had died in the plane crash, and then again when Ben had bled out in his arms. They’d tried to put a name on it, tried to tell him it was “complicated grief,” but Peter understood. With each death, he understood.  

Ned was gone. Peter knew that Mr. Stark had said he was alive and safe, but he wasn’t there and a phoneless Peter meant that he’d never find him unless he went back to the tower. And Peter knew how that would play out if he made his way back after all of this.

Peter was an idiot. Back in the city and after half a day, here he was.

He banged his bruised head against the floor, reigniting the pain, and then growled out in frustration.

His spider senses flared.

“WHO’S UP THERE!?” A gravelly voice shouted out from one of the lower floors.

He couldn’t reply—couldn’t find the oxygen he needed to answer back, even as he struggled to sit up.

“I SAID, WHO’S THERE!?”

Peter could hear the person shuffling about below, probably trying to get a better look at what was causing the clatter above them. “I don’t know how you got in here, but you’d better leave now if you know what’s good for you!”

And suddenly that was the only thing Peter wanted to do in the whole entire world. He wanted to stand up, leave this place, and go home to his and May’s little apartment where he had filthy laundry all over his bedroom floor and a half built robot guard dog for May for those nights he was out late doing patrol spread out across his desk. He wanted to be warming up leftover Thai food for lunch and have the latest Binge Mode podcast playing while he wrote up the essay he’d put off for The Crucible until the last minute.    

Peter Parker hated his life.

No. Life hated him.

“Dammit,” he whispered and he banged his head against the floor again. What did it matter now?

Footsteps and some whispering caught his attention, and then the snick of a gun cocking below him.

“I will say this one last time. Get the hell outta of here before we take you out, do you hear me!?”

Peter wondered if he should bother answering or just run. He needed a few more seconds to pull himself together and then—

The blast came out of nowhere. Shards of wood and concrete flew through the air. He tried to curl in and protect himself again the pain slowed his reflexes and nothing could keep the debris from raining down on him. He cried out as it struck him.

“We mean it, asshole! Get out! We got this place fair and square and no one is taking it from us!”

Peter wanted to explain that he just needed a place to hide, that it was maybe for a couple of hours while he figured things out, but a second bullet fired up through the floor and Peter was up and running for a broken window. He knew he’d be a prime target if he went back the way he came, ribs and all be damned. He needed to be gone before whoever was shooting at him got lucky and managed to make a hit. And knowing his luck...

His spidey-sense blazed and Peter panicked. With less caution than he should have, Peter pulled himself through the broken glass, ignoring everything but his escape as he made his way down the apartment wall.

And giving no thought to witnesses...

Or the now freely bleeding gash in his thigh.

He reached bottom of the wall, dropping the last couple of feet. “UnGh!” He cried out as the wound stretched with the press of his leg to the ground. “Shit!” He caught himself on the wall with one sticky hand and balanced on his one good leg, keeping himself from falling to the ground completely.

Peter gritted his teeth and tried shifting away from the wall but searing pain stopped him in his tracks. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit...” he muttered over and over to himself as he tried to quell the nausea that the pain had brought on. Yup. It was decided. It was going to be his new mantra. “Shit.”

Another blast of wind, even colder than before, blew through the dim alley. He adjusted himself so he could lean against the brick then tried to warm up with the friction on one hand on his bare skin. It was useless, and so, with nothing else to do, Peter laughed. He hunched over, gasping as he tried to get the laughter under control, but that was the problem, wasn’t it? Nothing was under control and Peter was expected to roll with punch after punch after punch...

And he couldn’t anymore, and then Peter wasn’t laughing.

He couldn’t deal with the hits anymore—first his parents and everything that came after that, then Uncle Ben, having to move from Forest Hills, Flash and the bullying, the spider-bite—Peter choked down a sob as his mind flashed on that particular trial. What good was any of it if he couldn’t do what he needed to do? Uncle Ben. Dead. Thanos and Titan? That had been an epic example of Parker Luck... and now? Now May was gone and he was stuck in this stupid alley freezing his ass off because he would never ever be enough.

He didn’t think his tears would ever stop. Peter collapsed to the ground like a marionette whose strings had been cut, ignoring the sharp edges stabbing at him from the garbage bags he’d fallen amongst as his face pressed against the cold concrete and filth. He deserved it. He ignored the wetness seeping into his jeans, not caring if it was blood or seepage from the fetid waste he was now seated in. He deserved it. He ignored the cold. He ignored the pain in his ribs and arms and leg. He deserved it. He deserved every single thing the universe threw at him.

Because Peter had never been enough and he knew he never would be.

Thunder rumbled overhead and because there was something absolutely poetic about it, the dark skies opened up and water like ice poured over Peter like a twisted baptism.

He didn’t move.

He was done.

His last great effort had been Titan and had ended with dust and failure and desolation. Here and now, all he wanted was something—anything that felt like home, but all that was for naught. If he’d learned anything in this life...or he guessed the life before, it was that home was not place. How had May said it when they’d left behind the second home Peter had known? “Home isn’t a place, Peter,” she’d said. “It’s wherever you are.” The hug she gave him after saying that was one of the best he’d ever gotten. He’d felt so warm and safe... loved. There’d been too many times in his life when he’d had to struggle to believe he deserved that. May had changed that.

It was all gone.

Who would love him now?

Lightning flashed, illuminating the alleyway and setting off a sensory overload the likes of which Peter had never experienced. The thunder cracked seconds later and he clamped his hands over his ears  as he tried to burrow away from the noise. That it was into a bag of trash leaned against the wall meant nothing to him. He could barely breathe anyways. And It was darker and that was all that mattered.

Lightning and then thunder again with no time between had Peter losing his mind. The rain was heavier and the pelting of drops against his bare arms and the exposed small of his back had him writhing like he’d been burned with acid. He couldn’t get away from it. He gasped in agony, then gagged as the scent of rotting food from the Chinese restaurant next door and the human and animal waste deposited along the ground he was crawling upon punched him in the olfactory sense. Hands left his ears and hit the ground as he scrambled away from the bags, only to cry out and fall forward as his ribs protested the abrupt movement and the sharp pull of cut flesh flared like liquid fire.

Lightning and then thunder again.

Peter couldn’t close his eyes, couldn’t move, every cord, and sinew on fire and frozen at once as his body tried to process all of the chaos. The rain still pelted his weakened body, the last flash of lightning seemed to permanently imprint on his retinas, his eyes watered from the revolting odours all around him, the bustle of a broken city being pummelled by the storm bored through his brain as he rode the waves of pain. He struggled to make his lungs work, to breathe, to scream, to anything.

But nothing worked.

In the haze of panic, he had a thought.

Maybe he’d drown?

And then he stopped fighting.

Anything had to be better than dust, after all.

[towncalledkingdom]

The sun is bright as Mali steps out from the shade of the Grandfather Tree. Town Square is only just waking, a few bleary-eyes citizens meander the plaza behind Mali in search of coffee that they don’t have to brew themselves. The boy is used to early mornings. Spending the night beneath one of Fashi’s tables, however, has left his neck stiff despite the enormous mound of pillows that had constituted his bed. As far as he is concerned, Fashi was one of the best customers he could ask for. She is simple to please- find something illustrated and make your request. She doesn't bother with haggling or comparative value.

She had painted him a small map on a slip of flexible canvas in return for the heavy graphic novel he had brought her. He’d known from the moment he saw that beaming blonde guy on the cover that she would be impressed. Maybe some items were more valuable to her after all. He tucked the knowledge away for a future deal. The map had a small black square in the center labeled “T.S.” for Town Square. Notable locations were marked with heavy black dots- the Dungeon and the Church of M to the Northwest, the Shambles and Klava Besto to the Northeast. A little heart at the bottom right marked the Fire Tower. Mali’s path was marked in a thin dotted line, leading slightly Northeast out of Town Square a ways and stopping with a question mark in the middle of the flatlands.

“I would stop in at Bug Man’s house before marching yourself into Phylla. Things are pretty tense over there at the moment,” Fashi had told him.

“Thanks for the tip,” he’d replied, knowing he would probably pay them a visit anyway. He replays the night in his mind as he walks, smiling a little as she laughs in his head. The sun is unusually warm this morning, as if taking advantage of the cloudless sky to beat back the proliferation of nature. In the distance farmers wipe their brows and turn dirt. Are they harvesting? What season is it, anyway? The well-beaten dirt path leading out of the Square is empty, stretching endlessly out in the distance. The small pack Mali carries makes his back sweat wherever it touches. Gross.

Boredom creeps up on him as he knew it would. How far away was Bug Man’s house again? He shades his eyes and peers down at the map. He walks for a long time without taking his eyes off of it, mind wandering across the various delivery routes he’s taken in the past. Unmarked are the hidden deer trails through the forest, the back streets and alleys, and the man-made tunnels beneath the Shambles where most of its inhabitants actually live.

Mali’s foot lodges in a dip, sending him sprawling face-first from the side of the road. He has just enough time to throw an arm out in front of him, skidding painfully across the rocks and grass below. The map flies from his hand. As he falls he hears a high shriek to his left, some indignant insect scurrying for its life. Fury roils up from Mali’s raw arm and out his mouth. He pounds his other fist on the hot grass in frustration. Another shriek. He sets his jaw. “Shut up, bug, I think my arm is broken!” He yells it in that tone children use when they’re trying to convince someone that something is serious, despite not really believing it themselves.

The critter shrieks his words back at him, mimicking his inflections. An unintended laugh of pain crawls out of Mali’s throat, half-groan half-disbelief. He laughs again, a humorless, gasping breath to release the tension in his lungs. He rolls onto his back and stares at the bright blue sky, trying to shift his mind from his pulsing arm. “Where are you, little bug?” he sighs. A fleck of white hovers at the edge of Mali’s vision. He bats at it with his good hand. A little scream of outrage comes from the grass beside his ear.

“Huh?” Mali turns his head to find a tiny scrap of paper floating just a few feet above his head. A long translucent string, thin as a strand of hair trails down from it like a spider web. He traces the little string to a brown object in the grass, a cicada shell. Mali reaches over and picks up the shell. It rocks and buzzes in his hand. Something rolls over inside. Mali brings the little shell close, peering through the clear, dead lenses. A hand bursts through the back of the husk, followed by a scrambling, terrified body. Mali screams and fumbles with the shell, nearly dropping it but manages a quick save with his sore hand. His eyes widen in disbelief.

What appears to be a teenaged boy is unmussing his shirt in Mali’s hand. He crosses his arms defiantly and stamps his little foot. Then he jabs a finger at Mali’s face. “What’s wrong you, eh? You trying to kill a guy? Huh? You TRYING to kill me?”

Mali doesn’t blink. His jaw hangs on its hinges as he stares with disbelief at the boy. “N-no. No, sir, I- What ARE you?”

“I’m dead meat, that’s what I am! What in the blazes are you doing around here at this hour, anyway?” The boy paces back and forth in Mali’s hand, head low as he thinks aloud. “You were not supposed to be here. ‘Fly your kite away from the house’ they said. 'Better yet- throw that thing out and help us watch the door!’”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand most of what you’re saying,” said Mali. “Why, um. Why are you small?”

The boy stopped and turned his head slowly to face Mali. “Who are you, kid?”

“Mali. I’m a delivery boy. I was just on my way to visit Bug Man’s house.”

“Bug Man… I think I know who Bug Man is. Comes by the house sometimes and tries to spray us with poison!”

Exasperated, Mali tries a different approach. “What were doing out here? Is this thing your kite?”

The boy smirks. “That’s right. I’m a regular origami master. I can make anything! Ships or monsters, I even made a dragon once.”

Mali pushes himself off the ground with his good arm, grunting as he tries to avoid dropping his new acquaintance. “Whooooa, not so fast!” says the kite boy. He falls to his hands and knees, grasping at Mali’s skin for stability. It tickles a little.

“Are there more of you?” Mali asks, poking a finger at the boy.

The boy slaps Mali’s finger away. “Ain’t tellin’!”

“Alright. Well, do you want to come help me find Bug Man?”

The kite boy looks across the grass toward a squat house in the distance. “Yeah, sure, alright. Can you, um, can you take me over to that house first? I’ll need some supplies.”

Mali follows a narrow, recently overgrown trail back to the house. “That’s far enough!” yells the kite boy. “Drop me right here and wait until I come back.” Mali grudgingly obeys and sets the boy down in the grass. He sits down and stares after the boy as he treks toward the barely-open front door and disappears inside.

A battered envelope lays half-buried in the lawn beside Mali, paper looking like it’s been wet and dried several times. The corners curl in from the edges, horns reaching toward the sun. Mali peels it from the dirt. Smudged letters run behind the clinging mud on the front of the envelope. Something tugs at the bottom of his pant leg. He peers down into the grass.

A uniformed man about the height of a quarter with a short, smart haircut stands at ease by Mali’s feet, hands clasped to his forehead to shade his eyes. Ten similarly uniformed men sit atop various beetles behind him. Mali wonders if he might still be asleep beneath one of Fashi’s tables. It certainly seemed like a dream he’d have there. “Hi,” he manages.

“How you doing, kid? Mind if I come up a little closer? Gentle with me, now, I’m squishable.”

Mali laughs and gingerly lifts the man up onto his shoulder. The dirty envelope lays on his leg. “Wha- hold on! Hey! Kid! Where’d you get that envelope from?” the little soldier calls as he’s lifted. Mali perches him gently on a shoulder and picks up the envelope.

“I just found it in the grass right here. Looks kinda gross.”

The soldier hops out into space, rolling and running down Mali’s arm and skidding to a muddy halt on top of the envelope. He rights himself and walks across the letters thoughtfully, hands behind his back. “So she never came by. First the man walks out on us, next I find out Madison never even got her letter.”

Mali squints at the letters. “I don’t think this is for Madison. It says ’M-A-N-T-’… I can’t read the other letters. Mantis? Is this a letter for Mantis?”

The soldier crosses his arms. “You know her?”

“Of course! Well, not exactly. I know her cousin.”

The little man spreads his arms in disbelief, then begins laughing so hard he has to hold himself up on a knee. “You met… sorry! You know old Fashi? I’m sorry!” He says between fits of laughter. Finally he clears his throat and wipes his eyes. “Sorry. Whew. It’s just that Fashi didn’t really get along with children last I knew.”

Mali shrugs. “We get along just fine. I bring her comics and she tells me stuff.” He almost mentions the tea, but decides to keep that to himself.

“That’s her, alright. Man! I wonder how old girl is doing these days. She hasn’t exactly been around much.”

“Maybe she just doesn’t like little soldiers."

“Can’t blame her for that," says the man. "Now tell me, kid. Why are you trying to kidnap our delinquents?”

“You mean the kite kid I found in a cicada shell? I don’t know, I guess I didn’t really think he had friends.”

The soldier flashes a sad little smile. “That part’s close to the truth. But he does have people who care about him. He tells me you’re off to look for somebody.”

“Fashi’s cousin, at the moment. I’m on my way to find Mantis.”

The man looks uneasily back at his fellow soldiers. He scratches his chin, considering. Then he cups his hands together and calls down to them. “Hey guys, its been a pleasure but I think I’m going to have to bail on you again. Take care of yourselves, alright?”

The other soldiers begin to protest, but the little man scrambles back up onto Mali’s shoulder. “Grab the envelope, kid, I’m coming with you.”

“What, why? What about the other guy?”

“He’ll be fine. I need you to take me to my sister. Now.”

“Who’s your sister?” asks Mali, puzzled at the sudden urgency in the soldier’s voice.

The little man jumps and crawls into the shallow shelf at the bottom of Mali’s ear. He pries open the hole and sticks his head in. “You got a brain in here?” he laughs. “Mantis. Madison. Little Miss Washington! The lady in the green scarf!”

Mali is already moving leaving the indignant beatle-men behind in three long strides. “Ohhh! Well why didn’t you say so?”

“My name’s Roland, kid. I’m going to ride around on your shoulder for a while, hope that’s cool.”

“Alright, Roland,” says Mali. “I think we’re close to my stop.” He pulls the painted canvas from a pocket and points to the question mark. “I’m going right here.”

“Bug Man’s house?”

“Yeah, how did you know?”

“Good question. I think someone told me he lived nearby,” said Roland.

They stop talking for a while, Roland taking shade in the various pockets and crevices in Mali’s backpack and shoulders. He moves every few minutes in search of a cooler, more comfortable hideout. Mali smells like old sweat already.

By the time they reach Bug Man’s manicured lawn, they are beyond parched. Mali walks past the school-bus schoolhouse without a second glance, eyes set on the doorway ahead. He raises a hand to knock, but his fist swings into empty air as the door opens for him.

A young woman in a curious pair of mechanical goggles greets them, eyeballs magnified to ridiculous proportions. “Mali!” she cries, pulling him through the doorway and giving his wet body a hug. Mali blushes deeply.

“I don’t-”

“I know you don’t,” interrupts the woman. “My name is Riddle. Mantis told me you were coming by.”

“I see,” he says uneasily. “I’ve had a pretty strange day. Would you mind if I just sat down a while and drank some water?”

“No problem at all, my delivery boy friend. Just one quick question for you.” She cocks her head to the side, looking for all the world like an owl or a cat about to pounce.

Mali shrugs, “Go ahead.”

“Mind if I play with your little Snatcher friend for a while?”

[fionacorraidhin]

Two Days of Rest (continued)

She sat across from him at the small table, devouring eggs that were overdone and seasoned with too much salt. Her teeth were finding bits of shell, too, much to her dismay. Still, she ate with fervor, shoveling the food in her mouth at such a pace that Tygoh watched her with concern. “Y’going ta choke y’self if y’ keep eating at that pace,” he cautioned her, pouring her a glass of water and sliding it across the table. She glanced at him, grunted, and accepted the glass. A few swallows of her food and she added water to the mass already in her mouth before swallowing again.

He watched a while longer before he finally thought it safe to ask questions. “So, what happened t’ ya? Ain’t ever seen a wound that bad an’ the person live.” His eyes kept drifting up to her silvery white hair, making Fiona even more self-conscious about it.

“My fiance attacked me,” she told him once she’d swallowed enough egg to be able to speak. “Hit me from behind and dragged me out to the water so the sharks would get me. He told me I wasn’t rich enough for him.” T’Kygoh made a thick sound of sympathy, his gaze straying again to her bright head. “Can you ... stop?”

“Ey?” He quickly jerked his eyes down to hers.

“I know it’s weird, okay? My hair is naturally red and now it’s not. I don’t know why it’s this way, it just is.” In fact, she had freaked out when he’d offered her a mirror and she saw the bright sheen of it streaked with thin hints of red. He’d washed her from head to toe, and she didn’t want to think about that, either. “Maybe something happened. Loss of blood caused my hair to turn white, or it was such a bad shock.”

“Yeah. Maybe. Y’lucky to be alive, s’all I know. If I hadn’t been walkin’ that way, no tellin’ what could o’ happened. Sharks. Drifted out t’ sea. Drowned.” He shrugged and reached for his own cup, downed some ale as he watched her with those odd red eyes of his. “S’funny, did y’ know there was a body found not far fr’m where ya was ... some guy took it in ‘is stomach w’ a blade. Found ‘im the day b’fore, just stretched out near th’ cave we were near. Know anythin’ ‘bout that?”

Her brows beetled. “No. Any information on him?”

“S’me guy named Kehvan Carritwill. They knew ‘im down at th’ docks, an’ identified ‘im. No one saw anythin’ t’ report, so s’likely someone jus’ got off w’ murd- hey, you okay?” She’d gone horribly pale, the fork dropping back in her plate. “Wha’s the matter?”

“He’s dead?”

“Yeah - wait, you know ‘im?”

“H-he was m-my fiance. He was the one who attacked me.” Everything felt numb suddenly. She went light-headed as a voice hissed over her memory. Someone else had claimed him, IT had said. IT had wanted to kill him, and hadn’t been able to. IT had hoped she would do it, because that’s what the plan had been, hadn’t it? IT couldn’t claim either of them unless killed by the other. And someone else had stepped in to kill him after he had attempted to kill her. IT could have claimed her anyway, but ... it wanted more souls.

“Ey! Ey, wake up!” He patted her cheek roughly to get her to come around. “Y’alright? Ain’t goin’ t’ faint, are ya?” 

“No...” She still felt weak and lightheaded, though. “No, I’m not going to faint. I just need a moment.” She took in a deep breath and expelled it to ask, “Someone stabbed him?”

“Yeah. In ‘is stomach,” he repeated. 

Her stomach rolled hard. Shaky now, she rose and asked, “Where’s your privy?” He pointed toward the right, to a solitary door nearby, still watching her with those wide, questioning, red eyes of his. She struggled to keep calm, but her stomach was pitching harder now. She dashed the last few steps to the bathroom and lost everything in her stomach.

[theforgottengn]

Issues In Trust

Characters: November, Mike, Lima, Oscar, Romeo and Quebec

Word Count: 1,796

Trigger Warning: Slight Swearing, Violence

A/N: Oh boy do I really hate that title... but there’s nothing I can do about it now. This is a crap ass second part by the way.

Parts: X

Summary: November and her boys are tasked with protecting Navy SEAL. But in the world of espionage you never know who you can trust. Especially when the person you’re supposed to save won’t trust you. Click that read more if you want.

XXXXX

The nightclub was just like every other. Laser strobe lights flashed over the people who filled the dance floor; showering them in colored light. Bass heavy house music poured out of the speakers. Bartenders served drinks in a stylized manner. And the entire place was overwhelming packed.

There was practically no room to move around without bumping into another person. Romeo and Quebec stood shell-shocked near the entrance. It was almost impossible to believe. They weren’t inside for even five minutes and they had already lost sight of Douglas Minowski in the crowd.

“Great! Just bloody great!”

The sarcasm was painfully obvious in Romeo’s voice.

“It’s great that you came to my rescue and all Q but now we lost him! And who knows what he’s really up to!”

Quebec said nothing.

“Oh? Giving us the silent treatment, huh?”

“The Force is strong with this one,” Quebec replied mockingly.

“That’s real mature of you. What are you even angry about? I’m the one who should be angry!”

“It’s impossible! I can’t believe it!”

Romeo rolled his eyes at Quebec’s use of a line from Clockwork Orange. But he wasn’t done. He wasn’t letting his friend off the hook so easily.

“Well, I have every right, don’t I?! You left me to be taken by Minkowski for Christ’s sake! He could’ve killed me! Whatever happened to our promise?”

An awkward silence fell over the two of them. Romeo immediately regretted what he said. But he said nothing as he shifted nervously on the balls of his feet. Quebec ran his fingers along the edge of a nearby table. They both knew that they had a job to do and arguing would get them nowhere. It was better to put a stop to it as quickly as possible.

“I’m sorry, I have no right to be angry at you,” Romeo apologized.

Quebec nodded in agreement; “Violence makes violence.”

Romeo couldn’t be mad at him for using that line; especially when it fit the situation so well. In-fighting always made things worse. And Romeo just about had enough of things going wrong. He decided to search the dance floor and directed Quebec to search the restrooms and bar.

But before either of them could begin their search for Minkowski a loud scream cut through the thumping bass.

They ran in the direction of the noise. Stopping to find Minkowski in the middle of the dance floor; fighting another man. The other guy was shorter than the petty officer and a bit more on the larger side. There was no question about who would win the fight. And by the time they arrived Minkowski had already gotten the upper hand. The other man was bleeding from a split lip and his left eye was already puffed up and discolored. And a large welt started to form on his upper arm. The Navy SEAL really did a number on him.

That’s when he called for reinforcements.

“So that’s how you want to play it huh?” Minkowski taunted when the other man’s friends joined.

“Well, I have no problems with that man.”

“Doug! Stop this right now!” Romeo shouted; alerting the crowd of his presence.

“He... He hit me first, okay?” Minkowski responded.

People had already begun to leave the club and the bouncers were making their way to them. They didn’t have much time to calm the situation. They needed to act and fast. But before Romeo or Quebec could jump in and put an end to things the other men were on Minkowski. Quebec looked at Romeo then shrugged and ran into the fight. It was their job to protect the man after all.

Romeo hesitated.

It wasn’t a fair fight, two against five, even if Quebec was one of the two. He couldn’t just leave them to get their asses kicked. None of their teammates would do such a thing if he was in that position. And besides, for whatever reason, he was already walking on thin ice with Q and he really didn’t want it to get any thinner.

He couldn’t leave them.

Well I hope he’s grateful for this.

Quebec kicked one of the men in the crotch just as Romeo punched him in the face. The man went down faster than a sack of bricks. Before Q could thank him Romeo motioned for him to duck. He did and dodged a very harsh right hook from the man behind him. Turning around as quickly as possible Quebec squatted down and rushed him; knocking the man to the ground. Romeo turned his attention to the man who tousled with Minkowski.

“Don’t you two have any weapons on you?!” Minkowski asked; yelling over the loud music and pain-filled grunts.

“No! We don’t!” Romeo answered angrily as he kicked one of the men in the shin. The man bent down as if in pain; holding the spot Romeo hit. But his head came back up with a twisted smile. With a flick of his wrist the man revealed a knife that was hidden in his boot.

Romeo’s eyes widened in shock.

Wasn’t expecting that.

“What? Why?” Minkowski yelled again.

“Because,” Romeo continued as he fought to get the knife out of his opponent’s hand. “Someone demanded that I leave all my weaponry back at the safe house!”

Wait a minute... Q!

Elbowing the man in the nose as hard as he could Romeo heard the sound of cartilage breaking. Blood poured over the man’s face but he didn’t seem bothered by it. He held his ground. His grip on the knife remained tight. And before Romeo could inflict any more damage a loud thud came from behind him. Turning around to see what had happened Romeo foolishly lets his guard down. The man behind him took the opportunity for what it was and stabbed him in the shoulder.

“Q?! A little help here!?” he yelled as blood ran down his shoulder.

Pulling the knife from Romeo’s shoulder his attacker swiped at his abdomen. But Romeo pulled back before the strike hit him. He was caught off guard once already in this fight. It was definitely not going to happen again. Turning back around to face his opponent a surprise awaited him.

Another man joined the one with the knife.

Romeo called for help again but none came. Quebec was halfway across the now empty dance floor fighting three guys at once. And Romeo himself was fighting the other two. It seemed like the men verged on the two of them and left Minkowski alone. Even the man that Minkowski had started the whole fight with had turned his attention onto the two spies.

Odd, Romeo thought, very odd.

But he didn’t have time to dwell on things. He was bleeding from the gash in his shoulder and had no weaponry besides his fists. Hearing the sound of glass shattering from somewhere behind him he realized he had to do what Quebec was known for. He had to improvise. He had to win this fight. Looking around in desperation he grabbed the closest object; a thick plastic serving tray.

They separated us on purpose. I know it.

It was such a classic move even a child would think of it. Divide and conquer. It was absolutely nothing to brag about. Using the tray as a shield of sorts Romeo blocked a few knife stabs. Then he landed a blow into the man’s gut. He doubled over in pain but quickly stabbed again. Romeo didn’t have time to react or block. This time the knife went deep into his stomach and the assailant left it there. The blow definitely hit a vein because blood poured quickly and stained his shirt a deep, dark, red.

Need to regroup.

Walking backwards Romeo tried to follow the sound of Quebec’s voice. But it was tricky thanks to the blood loss he was suffering from. Dodging his opponents’ attacks was also becoming increasingly difficult. A harsh uppercut connected with his chin and he swayed. But the blow was quickly met with another. A hard kick, sweeping his leg out from under him, which sent Romeo crashing to the floor. Glass crunched under him as his hit the floor.

The last thing he saw, before he blacked out, was Minkowski’s smiling face.

XXXXX

Mike sat alone in the driver’s seat of a gray four-door sedan. Parked in the alleyway across from the nightclub where their target took Romeo. He was surveying the outside of the building; something he definitely wasn’t used to. Surveillance was Lima’s job. And technically speaking Oscar’s as well. Fact of the matter was he didn’t do this often.

So it really wasn’t his fault that he wasn’t constantly watching the door.

With an earbud in one ear and his comm. in the other Mike hummed along to Blackfoot’s Train Train.

Mike! What’s going on?! Lima’s panic-stricken voice shouted in his ear.

“Oh, hey, Bubba. Nothin’. Nothin’ at all.”

What do you mean nothing’s happening! The cameras shut off and we can’t see anything! Something is definitely happening!

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, okay, Bubba? I’m tellin’ you nothin’s...”

Mike, it’s me, November cut in. This isn’t just Li making a mountain out of nothing like he usually does.

Hey! I heard that you know!

This is serious, November continued completely ignoring Lima’s interruption, and you’re our only eyes right now. We need to know what’s going on out there.

“Alright, alright,” Mike said with a sigh. “I’ll take a look and see what’s what.”

November thanked him and signed off. Reaching into the back seat Mike grabbed hold of his duffle bag. After some twisting around he managed to unzip it and grab his binoculars. He thanked the Lord that they were sitting right on top of everything else. Turning back around; he put them to his eyes and turned on the night vision. Focusing all his attention on the club’s entrance he scanned the area.

The sidewalk in front of the club was oddly bare for this time of night.

Mike shrugged and thought nothing of it. Not everything that happened, or didn’t happen, meant that some deeper evil was afoot. Lima, the worry wart that he was, would disagree. He’d say something about how their entire lives proved the exact opposite of what Mike was thinking. But as his mind wandered something caught his eye.

“Hey, uh, Oscar?”

I’m here. What do you need?

“You still got the tracker on Minkowski, that right?”

Indeed I do.

“Good. ‘Cause he’s on the move.”

Are Ro and Quebec with him? Lima asked.

“I don’t think so, Bubba, I don’t see ‘em.”

Go inside and see, Mike! November ordered, We don’t have time to goof off if he’s taken our guys.

[agavex]

Beach finds from Par Sands and Polkerris Beach, Cornwall. 29 November 2019.

12 surf clam (Spisula solida) halves.

1 hard clam (Mercenaria mercenaria) half – not confident with this id.

2 rayed artemis (Dosinia exoleta) halves.

5 banded venus (Clausinella fasciata) halves.

1 thin tellin (Tellina tenuis) pair.

1 blue rayed limpet (Patella pellucida).

1 striped venus (Chamelea gallina) pair, + 5 halves.

1 rayed trough shell (Mactra stultorum) half.

1 painted top shell (Calliostoma zizyphinum).

1 flat periwinkle (Littorina obtusata).

2 netted dog whelks (Tritia reticulata).

and probably the last weathered shell fragment I’ll collect. I’d already stopped picking these up, however perfect, and only took this one to make a point about omitting this object type from beach hauls from now on.

23 glass fragments, 22 of which are the usual lovely rounded ones, and 1 is an unusual piece of black (very dark green) glass. The frosting on the raised concentric circles (which, if this is the base of a bottle, would have been on the inside) is perfect, and a pleasant contrast with the jagged (but worn enough to not be sharp) edges.