#this is your sign to watch twin peaks and the hidden back to back

[captcutshaw]

"we have trucoop at home"

Trucoop at home:

[extremelyblackandwhite]

willow

pairing: mob!bucky barnes x reader

warnings: violence, harassing

a/n: part two of cardigan, hope you enjoy xx

CARDIGAN - INVISIBLE STRING

     - I’m not going to work wearing this. - Y/N stepped out of her bedroom in the dress Pietro had brought her. When he told her he had a black dress laying around she thought he meant maybe the sort of dress you’d wear for a first date, not what she had on at this moment. The dress was short, very short, barely hitting her mid thigh in a fashion that made her have to push her dress down every time she walked in fear she would be flashing someone yet that wasn’t the worse part, no, the worse par was the décolletage. It was plunging, hitting the end of her sternum leaving little to no imagination about the shape and size of her breasts. 

     - Well hello Y/N’s breasts. - he joked, receiving a slap in the back of his head from his twin sister. - I’m sorry, Y/N. They’re staring at me, I had to say something. 

    -  What kind of dates are you having? - Wanda asked dumbfounded as she started to search for a safety pin to help mend the situation and make it look a bit more work appropriate. Walking up to her, she pinned two sections of the fabric, successfully diminishing the size of the décolletage.  - It looks ... nice.

    - Is he going to kill me if I show up like this to work? - she pointed at the whole ensemble which was very foreign to her. She was cold and uncomfortable and although the bar tended itself to be very warm once the lights were on, she was already plenty uncomfortable working there. The two twins shared a look that she could only described as “I have no idea” which did little to no good in aiding her nerves. With nothing else to do, she grabbed her worn out bag from the hanger and waved her goodbyes to the twins. Surely it couldn’t be that bad. 

It’s just a dress, Y/N. She told herself as she padded the cobblestone grounds that led into the town centre, the dreaded town centre where she was needed to work. At least you have some cute shoes, she reassured herself, looking at her plain black Mary Janes with a buckle which made the shoe extra snug. Adding to the nerves of her dress, she kept convincing herself today she would get some information for her father, even if it was Bucky’s shoe size. It didn’t matter, she was going to get some information and make her father proud.

As she stepped into the bar, she noted the absence of Bobby. Probably it was her due turn to open shop which she wouldn’t mind would it not be for the fact she could barely move in that dress. Nevertheless, she quickly got to work, wiping the surfaces clean and placing the plastic menus on them followed by a few bowls of peanuts which Bobby always told her to keep her eyes on and not let go empty. The whole thing took less than five minutes and as she finished, she leaned against the counter watching the inside of the building. Everything was so meticulously placed, arranged in shades that matched. It was perfectly linear, symmetrical even and probably the work of a perfectionist architecture. It was peaceful when no one was around but that emptiness was soon interrupted by the door being open and in stepped the notorious Mr. Barnes.

Y/N pushed her dress straight, trying not to look professional and somewhat invisible so that he wouldn’t stare her in the eye. That tactic immediately failed as once the door shut behind him and his pristine suit, his head turned to the bar. 

    - What are you doing behind the bar? - his hands stood against his hips, touching the holster where a very shiny revolver laid, a warning sign not to mess with him.

   - I’m opening. 

   - You’re waitressing today. 

   - I’m not a waitress. - he slightly widened his eyes, taking a step forward, grin on his face. He leaned against the counter, finger under his chin. 

   - You are today. 

   - I don’t know how to wait on people. 

   - You don’t know how to bartend them either now step behind that bar and go grab a tray. - he barked the orders at her but Y/N remained still. No, absolutely not, she was not going to wait around in the tightest, shortest dress created by man.

   - I would rather ... I would rather not, sir. - she pulled at the front of her dress, eyes moving from his inspecting and scaring gaze. 

   - I didn’t ask you what you would rather. You have five seconds.

Y/N didn’t like being scolded by anyone, specially by a man like him but the shiny revolver on his hip made her act more sensibly and as such she shyly stepped behind the bar, stopping a few meters away from him. His gaze followed her legs, from her hips to her toes and he himself took a step back. 

   - You could’ve told me you didn’t have a dress. 

   - I have a dress. - she put her hands on her waist, defensively. - What do you think I am wearing?

   - I was hoping you would tell me. 

   - Can I just bartend today, Mr. Barnes? Please.

   - Absolutely not. 

She wanted to argue with him, she really did, she thought she could change his mind but yet again she wasn’t stupid enough to argue with him and as such, she walked slowly to the back of the bar to grab one of the sticky metal trays. Fantastic, she went from having a counter separating her from everyone to suddenly being in the middle of them. The lights were on, the music was loud and suddenly every table was putting their hands up for her to come take their orders. 

Now Y/N had done several things she wasn’t a fan of and seen even more than stomach churning evidence from her time at university but walking back and forward in the damned was officially the worse thing to have come out of her early 20s and as she leaned against the bar to cool off and take a break, someone was yelling her name for more drinks. She had officially become “Hey you” rather than Y/N. Mid shift she had decided to start hiding away from most tables, getting lost in the middle of the crowd dancing which was proving to be effective until the table she could not ignore raised their hands. James Barnes’ table. Why he was in a table surrounded by other men when he usually stood safely in his back office she didn’t know but what she did know was that whatever they were talking about was surely something her father would like to know. So, with a smile in her very tired face, she made her way towards the table. 

James Barnes sat with two other men who were equally as intimidating than he was yet there was no question as to who held the most power. Holding the tray on her left hand she waited to be shouted the orders through the music. 

   - Hey, you’re new! - the blonde man sat to James’ left pointed at her, smile on his face which immediately dissolved whatever sort of intimidating nature used to decorate his features. - I didn’t know we had a new waitress. 

   - We don’t. - James corrected, not even turning to look at her. - Y/N is on the floor tonight to cover for someone. She’s usually a lousy bartender. 

   - Can I get a beer? The coldest one you can find, please. - the other man sat next to James asked, charming smile on. - Steve will have the same. James ...

   - Glenlivet, I know. - Y/N interjected, forgetting for a second of who she was dealing with. As she remembered, she immediately walked away from the table to go grab the orders before they took her hostage. 

   - Two cold beers and a Glenlivet on the rocks please Bobby. 

   - The floor’s giving you a rough time, kid? - he placed two beers on her tray and turned around to grab the precious 1862 Glenlivet only Mr. Barnes was allowed to drink for. In Y/N’s opinion, it was a weird drink older than both her and him together yet she guessed owning old scotch made him somehow powerful. 

   - Dress’ giving me a rough time. - she gave him an exasperated smile before taking her tray back to the table, placing it into the centre. James still didn’t meet her eye, instead grabbing the coloured liquid and downing it as if it was water in a manner which even surprised the two men accompanying him. - Can I get you anything else? 

  - No, thank you. - Steve, or at least she guessed was his name, replied handing her a folded black leathered cover. Y/N took it, not ready to make any questions before returning to the bar. Once there, she opened the cover to reveal at least 300 pounds. Did they want more drinks? Did she mishear the song again as a drink order?

  - Nice tip, kid. - Bobby peaked at the money she was holding. - Rogers and Wilson always tip well.

  - This is a tip? I get to keep this? - she looked dumfounded at the money on her hand which was enough to pay her half the rent and she had just made in less than a minute.

  - All waitresses get to keep their tips. Did you not know?

  - No, I thought people wanted more drinks.

  - You’re adorable, kid. If you don’t tip your waitress here, you get kicked out. Barnes doesn’t like cheapskates in his club, ruins the image. 

  - Oh ... I ... can you keep it while I finish my job?

  - Just put it with your things.

She placed the money safely with her bag and returned to the dance floor. Surely they were gonna ask her for something, no one just gave 300 pounds as if it were nothing and didn’t expect something. Nothing is free in life, her father had told her and she whole heartily believed him yet there were 300 pounds more to her name in less than one minute so she wondered if maybe some things were for free. Nevertheless, Y/N continued with her shift plan by hiding in the middle on the dance floor and every so often peaking out to serve some tables. As she exited the dance floor, someone pulled her in and she hit what she thought was someone’s chest, hands holding her hip in place.

   - Get off me. - she tried to walk forward, but she was pulled back once more. Turning around she grabbed her tray with both hands and hit whoever was holding her and trying to grind on her over the head. The man blinked slowly, hand resting on his head and she repeated her motions. - I said take your hand off me, RIGHT NOW!

  - Hey, what’s wrong here? - of course. The man must have hidden mics arounds the dance floor so he can sense when someone isn’t adhering to their strict patterns of conduct. 

  - He was grinding on me. - Y/N kicked her way fully of the man’s embrace. She thought it’d be best to put her defence forward first before she got to be the second person to have their head smashed against the counter. 

   - I don’t have the time for this. Steve, get him off here. - he motioned to the blonde who came up from behind. She hanged onto her tray as if it were her life source, expecting whatever punishment was coming her way. - And you go back to the bar and stay there. 

Y/N wanted to feel sorry for the poor soul who was being pulled out of the club for Steve yet all she could feel was grateful for the fact she no longer had to stay on the floor. The rest of the night was uneventful, all she could hear them talk about was some exchange yet nothing else of importance to her, or something which would create a breakthrough in the case. Soon the monotonous voice came through the speakers, warning people of the imminent end of the night. 

Everyday was the same thing. She would go into the club, collect whatever breadcrumb information she could get from her father and return them to the police. Everyday she would come in, prepare the same drinks, ignore the same comments and for a month all she could get was nothing but the fact that Barnes, Wilson and Rogers constantly spoke about a trade taking place later on the year which as good as nothing but it was something strong enough to keep her undercover. Today was no different, she had come in a few hours early, it was only a mid shift and she wanted to set things the way she liked when Mr. Barnes came stumbling into the bar, holding his hand against his forehead, red liquid running down his pale hand. 

  - Where the fuck is Bobby? - he barked, pulling a chair with his foot to sit down. 

  - He’s on holiday. - she spoke calmly but her heart was beating against her ribcage like a drum as her shaking hands grabbed the first aid kit from under the bar and rushed over to him. Whoever had the guts to cause a wound to the mob boss would surely be okay with following him in and that was all she could think about. Nevertheless, she was a nurse in training, she should be calm. She wasn’t calm. - Can I see?

  - Don’t you have something to do?

  - Let me help, please. - her touch was soft, softer than any touch he’d ever felt as her hand laid upon his, slightly yet effortlessly pushing his hand away from the gash close to his hairline. Her lips tightened as her finger pushed some of the hair away from the wound, it wasn’t bad. It was deep but not deep enough it would require any immediate stitching, some cleaning and maybe butterfly band-aids and he’d be able to go back to intimidating people. - I’m going to clean it and then I’ll bandage the wound. It might sting, please don’t shoot me if it does.

  - Is that what you think I do? - he furrowed his eyebrow, forgetting about the wound just above it as she rummaged through their first aid kit for something that would suffice in disinfecting his wound as she was sure health, safety and cleaning procedures weren’t something a mobster would consider when picking their weapon of choice. - You think I shot people just because they hurt me?

  - That’s what I’ve heard. - she shrugged it off as if they were having a casual conversation, as if he had asked her if she enjoyed the weather. She heard rumours, several of them coming from Wanda, Pietro and other people she surrounded herself with and while she would’ve discredited them in any other situation, she had her father’s confirmation that one does not mess with James Barnes and comes back whole. - Big bad mob boss … it’s what they show in mobster books and movies.

  - Trust me petal, if I hurt someone they’ve had it coming. - he leaned upon his own shoulder inspecting her. - Besides, I don’t do the dirty work.

  - Enlighten me, then. - she loosened up. Make the patient comfortable was always rule number one as her lecturers and superiors would tell her and although the man in front of her was the furthest thing from someone who’d become comfortable with someone, what she was doing would eventually sting and she’d rather have him happy than upset. James grabbed the salt and pepper sets laying on top of the table, pulling the salt to lay in front of every other container.

  - In your regular mob you have an hierarchy. - he moved the salt and pepper around in almost chess-like manner. - You have your boss, your underboss, capo, consigliere and soldiers. Soldiers do the dirty work, they do the shooting.

  - What do you do then? - she cocked an eyebrow at him, drenching the cotton round in the alcohol filled liquid which always made her feel slightly sick.

  - I’m the boss, petal. Your question should be what the other’s do.

  - Okay, I bite. - she got closer to him, hand resting on the side of his face as she started to dab the dried and wet blood away from his wound.  - What do the others do?

  - The underboss is … I guess what you could call a vice-president. They make decisions but ultimately answer to me, not that Steve listens to me anyway. Your consigliere is impartial, he comes in whenever you need an impartial decision either between capos or families. Your capos are the heads of their own families and have their sort of hierarchy, they are the lieutenants and can be or not be related to the boss and finally you got your soldiers, they do the dirty work. Although, I must say that sometimes I do enjoy applying the punishment.

  - So Steve’s your underboss… - she continued to clean the wound, waiting for the moment he would hiss and throw her away but he remained still, comfortable even. - Is Sam one of your soldiers?

  - Sam’s a consigliere and a damned good one although he is a pain. - she went back to her sit, putting the cotton round in the bin and grabbing some bandaids. - But I know about it, why don’t you tell me about you?

  - Bobby said you run a background check on everyone. I don’t think I would be much surprising. - much of her profile was real yes, but most important details have been altered so he wouldn’t suspect her or wonder why the Capitan’s daughter was applying for a position in his bar.

  - What do you fear most in life?

  - Why would you ask me that?

  - If you know people’s fears, you’re normally in control of them. Fear controls everyone, if you control their fears, you control them.

  - Do you wanna control me, Mr. Barnes? Is that it? - she had a little smile gracing her features as she bandaged both sides of the wound together.

James wondered what she was smiling about. People like to believe they’re uncontrollable or if they’re controllable that only themselves hold that people yet Y/N just seemed to mindlessly agree with that control, something which her actions forcibly went against. Nevertheless, she still had this peaceful smile on as she finished patching him up. 

   - You’re all ready. 

   - Thanks. - his voice rumbled in a tone low enough it could be considered both menacing and thankful at the same time. Nevertheless, this was probably the first time she had heard him say thanks to anyone. - What are you doing here anyway? Phoenix covers over Bobby’s shifts when he’s on holiday and you don’t start in five hours at least.

    - Oh ... my flatmate is going on a date with this guy and she wants to bring him home so I have to finish early to check into the motel near campus. They said they only check in people until midnight. I asked Phoenix and he said it was okay.

   - What motel near campus? The Love Locket?

   - Yes, it’s close to university and I have class at 8AM so I can’t go anywhere further. 

   - That’s where you take your prostitute or mistress not where you spend a night.

    - Thank you for the warning, I guess? - she shrugged. Of course she knew that, she would even hear some of the younger students bolster about how they brought their one night stands there but if it made Wanda happy, Y/N would sleep on the street if necessary.

   - You’re not staying at the Love Locket, Y/N. You’ll get robbed or kidnapped.

   - I don’t have anything precious or valuable enough to get stolen and if someone kidnapped me they would soon get bored of me. I’ve been called the human equivalent of vanilla ice cream before. 

   - You’re not staying there, that’s final. I’m not in the mood to hire another lousy bartender if you go missing.

   - Where do you suggest I stay then? - she packed the supplies onto the small blue box, walking up to behind bar to put it back. 

  - Don’t you have any other friends?

  - Her twin brother is keen on having company every night too and I wouldn’t want to be asked to join it or even listen to it.

  - You can stay with me tonight. Next time have arrangements done.

  - I’m not staying with you.

She didn’t mean for it to sound ungrateful, she would never want to be ungrateful but she also knew not to go into the house of strangers although her father would probably tell her too. How funny, normally a father would do the opposite but being in the mob boss’ house had their own perks. Surely he would keep some sort of valuables, information maybe contact numbers of bottom feeders who’d be willing to collaborate for a chance to put their boss behind bars and gain his spot. Anything. Yet Y/N’s most forceful and convincing side was telling her no. It wasn’t she was particular untrusting of him, after all he had been nothing but civil with her for the past days and would always drive her home. She guessed if he wanted to kill her, he would’ve done it already but every single day her heart weighed heavy with the thought of him discovering her lie and putting an end to her life.

  - I might not know what you fear the most, but I do know what you fear. 

He strolled from the table to the counter, hands buried in the pockets of his tailored trousers. Y/N looked at him through her eyelashes, hands behind her own back as he took the revolver off his holster and placed it on the counter.

  - You are really afraid I’m going to kill you. Aren’t you, petal?

  - It’s not an absurd fear, Mr. Barnes. 

  - Have you ever seen me kill someone?

  - No.

  - Have I ever threatened you?

  - No.

  - Have I put you in danger?

  - No.

  - Then it is an absurd fear, petal. - he slide his gun off the counter, returning it to its usual place near his hip. - Come find me after you’re done with your shift. Don’t cause any trouble.

  - Yes, Mr. Barnes. - she had soon learned there was no use in saying no to him. He got his way all the time, he was used to getting his way so she wondered why she even contested him. 

The shift was the same as per usual yet all she could think about what spending the night at a mob boss’ house. She had messaged her father during her break and he was ecstatic, telling her to take photos and videos and collect whatever she could find of use. In all honesty, Y/N had expected him to tell her to be safe but instead it was just a lead. She was scared, she was so scared that all of this was a veil of comfort he was casting over her to make sure she was a dumb little sheep walking into his trap. She begged for the clock to turn back as it hit 11PM and Phoenix told her it was okay to go. 

She held her purse against her chest, pulling onto the leather strap as she moved through the dance floor and into the VIP area where Mr. Barnes was chatting with Steve who smiled once he saw her.

  - Hey Y/N. Waiting on us tonight?

  - No ... I’m just here for Mr. Barnes. - she played with the hem of her bag, cheeks hot as she thought of the implications her word might have.

  - Is your shift over already? - he placed his half empty glass on the table and got up, hand holding his jacket. She nodded hesitantly, she was going to be fine, she was going to be fine. - Alright, then.

  - Well, it was nice to see you, Y/N. We’ll speak about this later, Buck. 

  - Let’s go. - he put his hand on her back, driving her through the sea of people kissing, dancing and drinking. He wondered if that what she liked to do on her free time, if she was like the girls who came up here on the weekends and Fridays looking for a good time yet she seemed to shut everything out. 

As they got deeper into the back of the club, she felt him drape something soft and warm over her. Looking to her left she recognised the fabric of her old cardigan, the one she had left in the same car she was now entering. The driver was mostly silent, Y/N mostly looking for the comfort given to her by the old garment while he kept his wild eyes on the road. 

The drive was a short one, stopping at a high building of thirteen floors if the elevator was to be believed. Despite being surrounded by luxury, her eyes were gazing the gun to his hip. She knew he had other weapons, she knew he kept a knife hidden and other guns with him but this one seemed to taunt her, as if she knew she was walking into her own trap.

    - Stop. - he hooked his finger under her chin, pushing her face upwards. - I don’t stain my home with blood. 

    - I’m sorry.

    - Stop that too. 

    - Stop what?

    - Apologising. You walk as if you’re apologising to the world for your existence. No one’s gonna take you seriously if you don’t take yourself seriously. 

    - It’s funny a man is asking me to stop apologising when it’s your own institution who taught me and my gender to apologise for merely existing. 

    - You have an edge to you. You should use more often. 

    - I don’t have an edge, I’m definitely not the type of person you think I am.

    - You’re definitely the type of person I think you are, petal. - he strutted into his home as the lift door’s open.

It was wide, spacious, modern, in shades of white and grey. Nothing like the stuffy, old rooms she saw in movies or the drug den picture he father painted when speaking about the mob’s place of living. No, this was a modern design, with glass hardware and marbled surfaces which belonged in a cover of a design magazine. It was pristinely clean; after all, a man of his calibre could possibly hire a maid for whenever he needed to get rid of blood but blood stains and his white carpets and blankets were spotless. She wondered if she should trust his words but that thought escaped her mind as she noticed the glass set of chess laying perfectly arranged on the coffee table in the middle of two black couches. 

   - You play? - he asked, noticing her gaze on the board. 

   - My dad only had a chess board while I was growing up. I’d like to think it was my first friend. 

   - None of my associates play. Probably the reason why they’re associates and not the boss. - he sat in one of the couches, pointing at the other one for her to sit in. 

   - Do you chose a boss by their ability at playing chess?

   - Play with me. - he placed both elbows on the table, hands folded under his chin. 

James Barnes was a brilliant player, she had to admit and he too knew it himself. The previous boss had taught him the game, sitting him down and making him win a match against him for the chance to eventually win his spot whenever his demise came.

   - You see petal, everyone thinks chess is about planning ahead. - he took another one of her white pieces, putting it on his side. - I don’t discount that, but it’s really about intimidation. You can be the best player in the world, at the end of the day if you can’t intimidate someone, you’re not gonna win.

   - Do you think I’m intimidating?

   - Why do you ask?

   - Because ... - she moved her king placing it to the right and down of her white queen, successfully trapping the black king. - Checkmate

I'm begging for you to take my hand, wreck my plans ...

taglist: @lookiamtrying @mariamermaid @sebastianstansqueen @unmagically @buckybarnes1982 @mela-noche @lowercasegenius @randomweirdooo @projectcampbell​ 

[gumnut-logic]

Alan was bored.

It wasn’t often that he found himself with a lack of things to do. Life was generally busy with Thunderbird maintenance, rescues and backup duties.

Of course, he could always kill some zombies, but he was feeling restless. Gordon was off the island with Grandma so that didn’t help. Scott was buried in paperwork and John was still hiding on Five. Virgil had disappeared.

Wandering out onto the balcony, Alan eyed the pool a moment before throwing the idea out. Without Gordon it wouldn’t be anywhere near as much fun.

Maybe he could go for a walk. Scott had been nagging him to get into a more regular exercise routine and, hey, he hadn’t seen the other side of the island for a while.

Darting up to his rooms, he threw on some loose clothes, decent shoes and a hat. A quick note to John to say where he was going and he was out the back door and crunching gravel up the side of the mountain.

While he had no objection to the great outdoors, Alan had no particular preference for sun, surf or bush walking. Not that he didn’t love a splash in the ocean with his brother, or even a jog around the island with Scott, it was just that many of his interests lay in the confines of the virtual world.

Or space.

Part of him didn’t want to admit he was like Johnny, but he was in many ways, but where John adored seclusion, Alan loved people. Basically, Alan was happy doing pretty much anything as long as it was with someone, preferably someone he loved.

So, he would really be lying if he said he took his route at random. It wasn’t a conscious decision, more just what he knew was going to happen regardless.

Virgil had some favourite places on the island to sit and just be. Alan didn’t quite get it any more than he got John’s love of solitude, but he knew his brother liked it and he stored the information for when it was needed.

Today Alan wanted company, so he used the information he had at hand.

Clambering around on the rocky island was not for the faint-hearted. There was no doubt that he was getting a good workout just by going for a simple walk. His first stop was a small cliff beyond Thunderbird Two’s runway. It was Virgil’s favourite, just on the other side of the mountain. He could often be found here just staring out into the ocean thinking who knew what. The scene had been painted, scribbled and, in one case, mosaicked onto a table. This was definitely Virgil’s favourite place.

He wasn’t there.

But Alan still had his list.

Two more Virgil spots proved empty and Alan had managed to work up quite a sweat. He was beginning to wonder why he was even bothering when he caught sight of a figure almost completely hidden in a grove of palm trees.

Virgil sat on a rock, his sketchpad on his lap, completely absorbed in his art. He was up a cliff overlooking a good chunk of the island, the twin peak at an angle even Alan could appreciate.

Alan eyed the climb and with a deep breath began the trek to reach his brother. He kept quiet. The last thing he wanted to do was disturb him. That would be a good way to get his head ripped off. But if he approached from just the right angle, he should be able to see what Virgil was actually drawing.

It took actual rock climbing in a couple of places, but Alan eventually found himself situated behind his brother on top of the cliff, and as expected the view was breathtaking.

It was late afternoon and the entire side of the island was lit up by the sun. Gulls were wheeling in the air above the forested slopes, catching rising air. Far below, raw Pacific collided with the rocky shore in places and wrangled with reefs in others.

Virgil had certainly found a spot.

Quietly Alan made his way closer to his brother. Virgil drew on, showing no sign of knowing Alan was there. The cliff was a slope that had Alan descending towards his brother. Virgil was facing away towards the scenery, slightly hunched as he drew. Because of that slope, Alan was actually able to see his brother’s hand, this time his right, sketching pencil lines on the paper.

For a moment Alan was content to simply watch, but if he was honest with himself, he hadn’t come all this way just to spy on his brother.

“You do know it is rude to stare.”

Virgil’s voice was always soft yet possessed a strength that could be startling. Alan stiffened, annoyed at being caught so easily.

“What? Do you honestly think all that rock clambering would go unnoticed?”

“Dunno.”

His brother had yet to look up at him, simply continuing to sketch as he spoke. You gonna come and sit down?” Virgil held up a hand. “Just be very quiet, I don’t want you to disturb them.”

Alan frowned. “Who?”

But that hand didn’t answer, just beckoned him over.

Alan did what he was told and found himself sitting on that rock beside his older brother.

Virgil was scratching lines furiously onto the page, but the subject wasn’t what he expected. All that beautiful scenery and Virgil was drawing a haphazard pile of sticks?

Whispered. “They’re sea eagles. I’ve never been so close.”

Alan’s eyes darted from the sketchpad to a slither of rock a stone’s throw away from the edge of the cliff. The pinnacle stood alone and defied gravity almost to the point of disbelief. On its very top sat a huge nest. From this angle he could see the two chicks waiting for their parents to return.

Breathed out quiet. “Cool.”

Virgil was sketching madly and under his practised hand, one of the chicks slowly came to life. Simple line instinctively placed, shaded and shaped. It was a little mesmerising.

Alan, of course, had watched Virgil draw before. Amongst all the other things. His brother was usually fiddling with something. He had to have something in his hands, whether it was a pencil or paintbrush, piano or Thunderbird, Virgil tended to always have something playing between his fingers.

When Alan was little there had been many a Kansas winter night snuggled up by the fire, curled up beside his brother watching him draw. Sometimes he would dare him to draw outrageous things like Pedro the Peanut-Killing Pickle. There had been odd stories and scribbled down comics. Alan had even tried his hand under a little encouragement from his brother, but he didn’t have the enthusiasm that Virgil had for the art.

Besides, Alan was quite happy to just sit and watch. Rare quiet moments shared with his artistic brother.

They had been getting rarer and rarer.

“Can I sit with you, Virg?”

A brown eye with an arched eyebrow peered at him. “You’re already sitting.” The curve of a smile. “But sure. Just be quiet and don’t make any sudden moves.”

Respectfully whispered. “Okay.”

So, they sat for an unknown length of time. Virgil drew the second chick, and as one of the parent birds landed with the evening meal, its strong wings, talons and beak appeared on the page. Alan watched as the pencil lines grew darker, surer. Virgil switched pencils and they grew darker still, the birds emerging out of the page into three dimensions.

Down below the two chicks guzzled food from their parent.

A loud, awkward screech from above and another eagle was circling overhead, likely the other parent.

In the corner of the page, the bird quickly appeared, wings spread wide, soaring.

The quiet was amazing. Alan wasn’t one to sit still for any length of time, so perhaps he was missing the obvious, but the sound of Virgil’s pencil, the tease of the breeze and the call of the eagle above had only to compete with the waves far below and the rustle of the scrappy forest.

And a pair of squawking, complaining eagle babies.

Gordon would probably have loved this. His fish brother loved the sea, but he loved all the creatures contained in it even more. Despite this preference for water breathers, if you shoved a puppy or a panda in front of him, the man melted into a gooey puddle. Eagle babies would definitely be on the goo list.

“This is nice, Allie.”

“What?”

“Bit like old times, you sitting and watching me draw.”

Alan shrugged. “I’ve always liked to watch you draw. Guess we haven’t had as much time lately.”

The pencil paused. “Yeah.” His brother turned to look at him. “Well, it is good to see you out here. Nice to have your company.” A gentle smile.

“Anytime, bro. Kinda nice out here anyway.”

That smile grew a little before softening. “Well, unfortunately we have to head back now.”

“What?”

“I’ve got to pick up Gordon and Grandma.”

Alan checked his watch. Where the hell had the time gone? He’d been out here…three hours! “Wow, didn’t expect it to be so late.”

Virgil didn’t comment, just smiled a little more as he packed up his sketchbook and pencils.

Alan stood up and stared out across the ocean. A flicker on the surface of the water and he caught sight of a pod of dolphins frolicking in the swell. He stared.

“It’s amazing what you can see if you stop and look.” His brother’s soft voice so close to him made him jump.

“Virg, personal space.”

His brother snorted and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “I don’t think such a thing exists on this island.” That smile again. “Probably why John hides on Five.”

Alan grinned. “You’ve got a point.” And despite his earlier protest, he dropped his head against Virgil’s shoulder and for just a few more moments, they both tracked the dolphins as the cavorted past the Island.

“Can we do this again?”

“Sure.” Virgil slung his pack over his shoulder.

“Great.”

Silence fell, and they stood there a moment longer until Virgil squeezed a little and let go. “C’mon, sprout, time to clamber down the mountain.”

Virgil took the first few steps and Alan followed, throwing one last glance back at the nest now full of the entire family of sea eagles. A sharp beaked head turned in his direction and glared at him.

Alan couldn’t help but smile at the bird before he hurried after his brother.

-o-o-o-

[johnduffyasy]

If a Vampire could speak to Anne Rice 

(A lone voice whispers)

I stood over her luscious form Bathed by the cool glare of the Crying Moon

As the Ancient Mother pretended to sleep But also watched slyly as she slept

Listened to her slow breathing and watched her twin mountains Rise and fall underneath her white silken sheets

I knew she didn't know I was there For she slept so innocently and soundly

That mysterious soon to be lover of mine With the long dark hair

Slowly I eased back the silken modesty protector Gorged my hungry eyes on her sensual body

And witnessed once more How she was so beautiful under Old Mother Moon The Ancient One

As she laid bathed in all her now lit glory In the pastel moonlight

Naked as the day she was born And steeped in the glistering silvery light

I knew why I had waited so long To touch her Feared she’d run with fright But courage was with me that very night

Tentatively I leaned over her majestic mountain peaks And ran my soft tongue across her luscious neck and sweet lips

For a ripe taste of her very soul Her eyes even though closed Fluttered and she muttered something so low

It was hardly audible

It was then I knew in that instant I could cross the hidden boundaries between us

For with Mother Moons pagan blessings Anything now was possible

I reached down and drew a heart shape Upon her soft cheek

Then bent low and introduced my luscious lips To her mountain peaks as her breathing increased in tempo

I knew what I had to do before The Ancient Rising Sun Bade me go

I ran my hard fingertips from the soft nape Of her seductive neck to her ankle and right back up again and

As a faint aroma of sensual excitement Appeared from nowhere

When I looked down at her My living breathing book

Filled with so many stories music and poetry I silently thanked the Great Almighty

For answering all my nightly prayers Running my tongue over my lips

As lightly as I could I tasted luscious ambrosia So delicious

Its texture and strands made me feel so eager and amorous I kept my eyes upon her face

My new goddess in a long line of many With the long black hair

And as I trailed my sharp index finger as Light as a feather across her bare hips

A groan of exquisite pleasure escaped her quivering throat And escaped through her semi-opened crimson red lips

I marked her forehead in the sign of the cross With wax from my white candle

I always carry The Joining of Spirits Potion

Given to me by Her The Gatherer of Souls

Who lives in a mysterious wooden hut In the middle of a great forest

Hidden from all but the true seekers Across the Pacific’s many deep oceans

I smiled in the darkness of that room

Since deep down, I knew that when she awoke I would be with her forevermore

No longer dreaming for this is now real

I reached down and held her hand and Drew the sign of the cross in wax

On her soft skin and as I kissed her hard I tasted sweet heaven

Knowing that my Mark connected us deeper still I knew she would always return and look for me In the longing hours

Even going against her own will I watched her breathe me in deeply

Gorging herself on my visceral scent As I seduced her mouth and with a deep sigh

She started to cry Don’t go

She whispered in my ear as her eyes suddenly opened But the rising Mother Sun had called me home Quickly From that very bedroom

And all I could do was savour Her taste Her ambrosia

Knowing I would return and all her curves and physical desires That I need will be granted

To truly consume and nothing would be rushed and done in haste That was yesterday

I just left her with a simple line

Written on a scented letter paper I found

I WILL RETURN So Soon

Just look for me when I come back With the rise of the Crying Moon

Your soon to be lover Louis de Pointe du Lac

Copyright John Duffy

[alex-ruins-everything]

Turning Pages - Chapter 7

Intrulogical bookshop au! Read the whole thing on ao3 here.

Logan took the steps back up to his apartment two at a time. Highly illogical considering the risk of falling, but he felt like his brain was short circuiting. The spot on his cheek where Remus had kissed him metaphorically felt like it was on fire. As he made it through his door he let go of a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding in. Logan had gone on a date with one of the strangest people he had ever met, but more importantly, he had liked it. He’d had possibly one of the best times of his life, which wasn’t too hard considering he usually spent time reading or studying or working. It was odd, he almost wished he had somebody to talk to about the events of the date, ‘gushing’ it would probably be called. That was insane, though. He didn’t gush, though for the first time he felt like he might want to.

Logan forced himself to go through his nighttime ritual, same as he always did, with one exception. He revisited the outfit he had set out for the next day and swapped out the previously chosen grey and blue pinstripe tie for the octopus one Remus had bought him from the gift shop. Thankfully it still coordinated with what he had planned to wear. As much as he still felt like his whole mind was going through a power surge, he still had to return back to reality tomorrow and an appropriate amount of sleep was required for that. He dozed off making a mental list of books he could recommend for Remus to read, just like he had promised to.

The alarm went off at the same time it did every morning, causing Logan to be pulled out of sleep as he blindly reached for his glasses on his nightstand before shutting off the harsh beeping. It was early, a consistent sleep schedule was highly important, but he didn’t have to be into the bookshop until three this afternoon, which left him lots of morning time to check off some chores and engage in recreation. He went through his strict morning routine, finishing it off with getting dressed and admiring his new tie a little bit. He finally thought to check his phone and saw he had a few texts from Remus, which wasn’t unusual he had noted. The mustached man seemed to disregard the use of paragraphs and texted in fragments. It was chaotic, quite like he was. The messages took a few seconds to decode due to the rather unusual way Remus texted, but they were just informing Logan that he had gotten home alright and that Roman was surprised he had actually gotten on the motorcycle. His favorite was a picture he had received of the stuffed octopus - Cthuwu - sitting on top of Remus’ messy hair with the other making some sort of silly face. That simple picture was enough to make Logan smile before responding to the messages.  

The rest of his morning was spent tidying up and reading a few chapters of his book while keeping an eye on the time. Logan thought that maybe he could leave a few minutes early today and pick up a treat for the shop, like Patton usually did. It was seen as a kind gesture so he figured there would be no harm in bringing something in. For some reason he also deemed it a good day to walk through the park, the geese not seeming nearly as annoying today. By the time he got to the bookshop with a box of donuts in hand (truly something he’d never usually approve of, they’re horrible for you) it was three exactly. It was unlike Logan to be on time and not early, but at least he wasn’t late. He nodded his hello to Patton as he passed by the shelves and greeted Mr. Sanders before retreating to the back room to set the box down on the table and clock in.

“Logan! Oh, I’ve been waiting all day for you to come in!” Patton grinned, practically skipping into the break room.

“Why? Did something bad happen?” Logan questioned, pulling his apron out of his bag and unfolding it.

“What? No. I wanna hear about your date! If you wanna share, of course…”

“Oh,” Logan said with a nod. “It went quite well. We went to the aquarium and then got coffee.”

“You’re bad at gossiping, L,” Virgil said, joining the circle that was forming. “Ro told me that Remus got you onto his motorcycle.”

“Is everyone coming back here? Who’s watching the front?” Logan asked as Virgil entered the conversation.

“Ooh! You rode a motorcycle?” Patton said, ignoring the question. “You must really like this guy, huh? That’s kinda dangerous…”

“He assured me it was completely safe - or, well...safe enough,” Logan replied, pulling his apron on and tying the back. “Truly I don’t know why you both care so much, it’s not that exciting.”

“Well...you never really go out unless we drag you out,” Patton admitted. “We’re just happy for you. Right, kiddo?”

“Right,” Virgil nodded. “I mean, I have no clue what you see in Remus, but you do you.”

“You’re literally dating his identical twin brother,” Logan deadpanned. “Now, come on. My dating life is not important. I’m sure Mr. Sanders is wondering where you all ran off to.”

The three of them filed out of the room, Patton grabbing one of the donuts on the way. Logan joined Mr. Sanders behind the counter, reaching for a white binder that had the setups for the new display tables he would be working on today.

“So you got the ambush, huh?” the bookshop owner asked with a knowing smile.

“Please, not you too. It’s truly not that interesting,” Logan replied, flipping through pages.

“Oh, c’mon. You remember how Pat was after Virgil’s first date with Roman, it’s sorta just how friends are.”

“Yes, well...I did get the ambush, though apparently I’m terrible at gossiping,” Logan said, finding the proper page finally.

“Well anyone coulda told you that,” Mr. Sanders chuckled. “Nice new tie, by the way. It reminds me of a certain someone.”

“Thank you. It’s from the gift shop.”

The rest of Logan’s day was spent setting up new display tables and helping out the few customers that came in. Patton went home first since he had opened with Mr. Sanders that day, and Virgil followed a few hours later. Logan was excused for his break where he simply chose to sit in the back and flip through a new book that came in. He checked his texts to see a new one from Remus asking if he wanted to meet him after closing the shop tonight, followed by a suggestion for getting dinner together. There was also another picture of a yellow snake wrapped around the stuffed octopus from the aquarium further up. Logan responded to the text that dinner would be satisfactory before going back to finish up his shift.

Closing went fairly quickly considering there were two people doing the job rather than one, and they finished in half the time it usually took. Mr. Sanders bid Logan a goodnight, assuring him that he’d lock up the shop. Logan was met with Remus leaning against his motorcycle holding the spare helmet he had worn for their aquarium date.

“Howdy, Loganberry,” he grinned.

“Hello, Remus Kingsley,” Logan greeted, assuming they were using full names, hence the confusion when it made Remus laugh.

“C’mon, I hope you’re hungry...and that you don’t loathe sand too much,” Remus said, sticking the helmet onto Logan’s head and holding out a hand for the other’s bag so that he could secure it on the bike.

“I’m not fond of it, but I can tolerate the stuff so long as you don’t plan on us eating sand for dinner,” he replied, handing over his belongings and securing the helmet.

“A novel idea! I will jot that down on the to-try list, but no, not tonight. Maybe next time if I don’t manage to scare you away.”

“You truly aren’t that scary, I don’t see how you would,” Logan shrugged lightly as Remus slung his jacket back on. “But don’t eat sand.”

“No promises, Nerdy Wolverine,” Remus laughed again. “But c’mon! I really tapped into my hidden romantic side for this.”

Logan was very tempted to ask what he was getting himself into here, but had the sense Remus wanted to keep it a surprise even if he did ask. He joined the other on the motorcycle and they sped away from the bookshop, following the signs that led them towards the coastal area near their town which only served to continue to peak his curiosity. He didn’t come down here often, mostly because he didn’t swim at the beach and didn’t generally enjoy the company of the people who did, what other reason would there be? Remus always seemed to have some sort of adventure planned so here he was, getting pulled out of his usual comfort zone. Though, it wasn’t too bad when he remembered who was doing the pulling. It was about twenty minutes before the smell of the ocean hit and Remus parked the bike outside of a diner.

“We’re here!” He declared happily, killing the engine. “I’m telling you, this place has to die for, well...everything. Plus we can sit outside and watch the water!”

“Well, I’ve trusted you up to this point, there’s no logical reason for me to stop now.”

“I love the way you think, Loganberry. Onward we go!”

TAGLIST

@theiwatobiicepic

[louadorable126]

Demons(you).me - A DMC Cyberpunk AU (Chapter 4)

Click here to Read over on Ao3! :D

—————————————————————————

Summary:

In a city controlled by the generally altered race of Demons, Lady's life as a mercenary on the lower floor was never easy. Especially when she ran into Dante. A demon on the hunt for his missing brother.

—————————————————————————

Important information!

Fandom: Devil May Cry

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Realtionships: Dante x Lady, Vergil x Lady

Characters: Lady (Devil May Cry), Dante (Devil May Cry), Vergil (Devil May Cry) Morrison (Devil May Cry), Nell Goldstien (Devil May Cry) Eva (Devil May Cry), Sprada (He’s mentioned bless him), Mundus (Also Mentioned)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Genetic Engineering, Sci-fi Fantasy, Strip Clubs and Strippers, Dystopia, Seizures, Flirting, Eva and Sprada are alive! :D, Human Experimentation, Cults.

—————————————————————————

Chapter 4

“Hey, so what is it actually like working for the demonic military?” Lady asked curiously, as the trio strolled down a familiar alleyway. A gentle morning breeze blowing through the cramped corridor between the large buildings towering above them.

Despite the overwhelming exhaustion she felt from being rudely woken at the crack of dawn by the ghostly Specter of Vergil standing over her in the dark. Seriously, for someone who was supposedly well-bred, the guy had no clue what "personal space" meant! He’d scared the shit out of her!. Then being dragged onto a train to the lower city, alongside an equally sleep deprived Dante - who took the opportunity to loudly vocalise his annoyance at Vergil’s spartan attitude. Lady had to admit that morning walks certainly had a certain peaceful serenity to them.

She had become so accustomed to her busy morning commute to Morrison’s bar - always having people bashing into her as they ran past her, or the sheer overwhelming noise of people’s everyday lives washing over her - that she had forgotten that peaceful silence could exist in the city. This was certainly one of those times. As nothing, aside from the group's footsteps tapping against the concrete floor below them, which even had a certain calming hypnotic beat to it, resounded in the nearby area.

“I’d think it's not much different to your career as a Mercenary.” Vergil said eloquently. Looking over at Lady beneath the shadows of his blue hood.“Every week, me and Dante are given several different assignments to complete by our superiors. We can’t be sent off onto the battlefield for another two years, so our father arranged for us to do peacekeeping at home.”

“Yeah, and we don’t get paid jackshit for doing it.” Dante moaned on the other side of her. "Think of it like annoying homework if anything, babe!”

“Huh.” Lady remarked. Surprised at how mundane they made such an extraordinary job sounded. If these kinds of thrilling adventures were what they did day in day out, it seemed amazing they had time for anything else! "Wait, so did you guys ever go to school? Or are you Demons only taught military stuff?”

“We were formally educated until we were around 16. Unfortunately…duty called for us to depart.” Vergil’s nasally voice began to fade near the end. He grew deathly silent, coming to an abrupt halt as his grip on Yamato tightened; falling behind the rest of the group.

When the pair realised he wasn’t with them, they quickly spun around. Finding Vergil standing there, his body tense as he gazed down at his boots. His pale face was completely obscured by the hood of his coat. It seemed he could sense their concerned gazes, as he quickly looked up again. His regal features schooled into an emotionless facade. Yet, Lady could’ve sworn she saw a glint of insecurity and immense hurt, hidden away in those glacier eyes of his, as he began to walk over to them. Then right past the pair. “Excuse me for a moment.”

Lady watched him hurry off down the street ahead of them. Disappearing moments later, when the tail end of his deep blue coat vanished out of sight behind the building at the end of the alleyway.

“What’s up with him?” She asked, turning her head towards Dante. Confused as to why Vergil would have such a distressing reaction to a rather simple question.

“Oh boy.” Dante muttered to himself. Letting out a long sigh, as he awkwardly rubbed the back of his head. “Well...to put a long story short, Verge wanted to stay on for higher education rather than joining the demonic military full time."

“Really?” To say Lady was surprised by such a revelation was an understatement. She was utterly gobsmacked. Never in her wildest dreams thought the stoic, battle-hardened demon would care for the intellectual. Let alone try to pursue it! He’d seemed perfectly content flaunting his flawless combat ability at every opportunity, from what she had seen of the demon so far.

“Yeah! He’s always been into books and learning since for as long as I can remember, so he wanted to go off and study English. Only issue is Dad’s position in the Emperor’s court meant that we had to go serve in the military as a show of ‘good will’ to Mundus.” Lady could practically hear the biting sarcasm in Dante’s words. “God, you should have seen him when he heard the news! Practically grabbed Dad’s knees and begged him in tears to let him stay on.”

“And he obviously didn’t?” Lady asked softly, just as the pair rounded the street corner.

“Yeah, Dad said his hands were tied and he couldn’t do anything about it.” Dante sighed, shaking his head dismay at the unpleasant memory. “I think Vergil understands now why Dad was kinda stuck in a Catch-22. But he didn’t talk for him for months until he got sent off to Vigrid."

“Wait, so is that why he’s acting like a stuck up prick? Because he’s annoyed at the world?” Lady hypothesised. She wasn’t exactly a psychologist, but she thought it was interesting to think about these things when dealing with people so damn weird.

“Nah! Vergil's always been like that!” Dante chuckled. Patting her on the shoulder like she were his dumb little sister. Much to Lady’s annoyance. “Doubt he’s ever going to change! So you better get used to it!"

“Great.” Lady sighed. It seemed the true nature of the aloof blue demon would remain an enigma to her, for the time being.

The pair soon arrived outside the now abandoned tattoo parlour. It didn’t look all that different since the last time Dante had been here. But, he could clearly see the tale-tell signs of the clean up crews presence here. Mainly, the lack of blood stains, dead bodies, and the distinct chemical smell of bleach in the air was the biggest clue.

From the looks of it, his twin had already gone inside. The front door had been left wide open for a steady draft to blow in black dust off the street, and into the building.

“Well this place certainly looks like a quick way to get blood poisoning!” Lady commented slyly. Peaking through the cracked windows of the tattoo parlour at its shoddy equipment. She began to stroll over to the entrance. “No wonder then cult decided to use it as a front-“

All of a sudden, Dante rushed past her and stood in the open doorway. Stretching his arms out so that he was holding either side of the worn door frame. Blocking her path.

“Hey Lady, can you wait outside for a bit?” Dante asked in a serious voice. Utterly devoid of the usual devil-may care energy it always had.

Immediately alarm bells started going off in the Mercenaries' head. Something wasn’t right here. She’d never seen Dante act like this before about anything they did. He’d never barred her from following him into certain danger. Nor had he ever kept any kind of major secret from her. Which given his current status as a Half-breed he probably should've done. But if anything that clarity between them had been a show of trust! (Ok, that and her stumbling onto that roof. In retrospect, Vergil probably hadn’t meant that little secret for her ears.)

Hell, it was normally her being the one to keep his sorry ass in check, and keeping him from doing anything stupid! And this abandoned tattoo parlour certainly didn’t seem dangerous in the slightest! What? Was she going to get a bruised knee if she tripped up? Maybe a slight cut on a shard of broken glass! She could handle that! She’d certainly had worse in her time! So what on earth was Dante playing at?

“Why?” Lady interrogated coldly, looking up at the handsome face hidden beneath his crimson hood. “Look, if this is because some super secret demon bullshit, I don’t really care. I’m not going to tell anyone-“

“No, it's not that.” The demon said, shaking his head. A few loose locks of flowing white hair falling out of his hood, as a concerned look grew on his features. One which certainly fit Vergil’s identical face more than it did his.

“Well what is it then?” Lady demanded. Growing more infuriated every passing second. She put a hand on his chest and tried to push past him. He wouldn’t budge. "Seriously! Just tell me Dante! Its fine-"

“Lady…when we were assigned to take out the cult's operations here. It was because they were doing illegal demonic conversions.” Dante explained slowly. Cringing internally as he watched the mercenary freeze up, deathly still, at the news. Her heterochromatic eyes blank and emotionless as she seemingly started into nothingness, or perhaps a not so pleasant memory from the past. Her small frame trembling ever so slightly, as she reached a shaky hand up and grabbed a fistful of her dark hair. Clutching it tightly. Rapid breaths escaping her parched mouth.

Dante hated to watch her breakdown. Here he was, standing here like a complete idiot while she suffered. It's what he had been desperately trying to avoid, for crying out loud! All his tact and dissuasion utterly useless in the end. But, he knew there was nothing he could do about it now. The truth was already out in the open now. All he could really do was place a gentle, warm hand on her shoulder and keep talking. Hoping that it would draw her back to reality. “I know your sensitive about that stuff 'cause of what your old man did-“

“I understand.” Lady suddenly responded in a serious voice, tinged with shakiness. She tilted her head up so she was looking at the red demon face on, a determined look to her features. Their eyes met. "I’ll guard the entrance until you get back.”

Wordlessly, Lady backed away from the door without any further argument. She swung her heavy rocket launcher off her back, and then sat herself down on the shop's doorstep. Back turned away from Dante, as her heavy weaponry rested peacefully on her lap. Taking solemn vigil like the original guard who had stood there. Her chestnut hair blowing gently in the wind.

Seeing this as a sign Lady wanted to be left in peace. Dante around turned and took a step forward onto the shop floor.

"Thanks Dante.” Lady called out softly from behind him. He quickly spun back around at her words. Only to find the young woman still turned away from him, as she looked out down the street.

For all he knew he could have imagined it. But something about that voice made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. He was touched by her words in a way. Knowing that this was her genuine gratitude towards him, untouched by any sarcastic banter that had constituted too much of their short relationship. Dante felt proud that he’d done something to help her, and make up for the mistakes of their first night together.  

"No worries, babe. See you in a bit.” He replied, smiling slightly. Before heading into the building.

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

Click here to read more over on Ao3! :D

[meetthetank]

Cruciamen Chapter 3: The Witch’s Cave

Rating: Mature Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Categories: F/M, Other Fandom: NieR: Automata (Video Game) Relationships: 2B/9S (NieR: Automata), A2/A4 (NieR: Automata) Characters: 2B (NieR: Automata), 9S (NieR: Automata), A2 (NieR: Automata), A4 (NieR: Automata), Emil (NieR: Automata), Kaine Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, genre typical violence, On the Run, Monster of the Week, 9S is a half demon, 2B and A2 are shapeshifter Dragons, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smut in the future, inaccurate depictions of medical procedures, Fantasy Biology, A2 is Nonbinary

A2 had no idea how they fell asleep in the back of a carriage on a bumpy dirt road. Maybe Emil’s voice really did put them to sleep, because he was still chatting away to the horse when they woke up. Judging by the sun bearing down on them, it was about midday. They knick a wide brimmed straw hat from one of the piles of goods in the cart with them to mitigate some of the light. It’s serviceable, but they still shift so that they’re looking away from the sun.

In the time that they were asleep, Emil must have pushed his horse hard. The vast expanse of sand and arid savannah are replaced by great towering mesas and breathtaking canyons. Bands of clay and stone of varying colors tell the story of the earth itself and conceal its ancient secrets. Growing up in a lush forest, A2 only heard about these kinds of landscapes in fantastical stories told to them as a cub, and now they were in the middle of a legend themselves.

Emil guides Halua and the cart down a narrow canyon path. One side is a horrifying sheer drop into the river below, the other a vertical wall of rock. A2 braces their arms against the crates each time the cart wobbles or bumps over a rock. They want to shout at Emil to be more careful, but terror seizes their words in their throat. Somewhere in the back of their mind they find it funny that they regularly face off against horrors from another dimension, but a drop they could easily mitigate by flying terrifies them.

“You not a fan of heights?” Emil asks, looking back at them.

Gods, was this kid psychic?!

“I’m fine,” A2 snaps, shuffling back down into their makeshift nest. “We almost to your friend’s place?”

“Sure are!” he says, excitement clear in his voice. “Her house is just at the bottom of the canyon. We should be there in a few minutes.”

A2 scowls. Someone who lives in a place surrounded by walls of earth far from civilization of any kind always has something to hide, and someone with something to hide isn’t trustworthy. At least Emil wears his intentions on his sleeves, but this new person hasn’t even been named or described beyond Emil claiming that she’s his friend. The disarming quality of Emil could all be a setup.

They grip the hilt of their sword as soon as the cart comes to a stop.

Somehow, in an area that sees little to no rainfall, a grove of trees and lush grass grows at the bottom of this canyon. Maybe the constant water from the river and shade from oppressive sun makes living more manageable for plant life. Or maybe… It’s something else.

“I’ll be right back!” Emil announces. “I’m going to let her know she has company besides me. She’s not keen on strangers without warning.”

Then why bring me out here at all?! A2 thinks and grips their sword even tighter.

Emil hops out of the cart, gives Halua a pat on the snout, and strides into the grove with confidence. The crueler side of A2 wants Emil to turn and run screaming out of the trees just to prove their own paranoia right, but they can’t bring themself to wish harm on the kid. Not yet anyway.

Never one to sit idle (and never one to sit idle next to a horse of all things) A2 meanders off to a small pond nearby. It looks to be the end of the canyon river’s offshoot and probably contributes to the strange plant growth in the area. Murky, scummy water like this yields little to no hidden snacks in A2’s experience, but every so often they’ll find a large fish ruling the pond. They crouch in the mud and watch the water’s surface for the little shadows of insects or other water-dwelling critters. A few tiny mosquitoes and flies buzz around the stagnant water’s surface, but aside from those not much lives in the pond.

A large shadow darts across the scum-covered pond. A2’s hand shoots out on instinct, their claws primed and ready to tear through the flesh of an unsuspecting fish. Instead, their hand sinks into wet clay. They grunt in dismay, but the desperate wiggling of a terrified grub catches their attention. They curl their fingers with lighting speed and yank their arm back to examine their prize. The grub is about the size of their thumb and thrashes around with surprising vigor. Its slimy, mud-covered body is gulped down without a second thought. Grubs aren’t the tastiest, but it suffices.

Another shadow passes over A2 and the pond. Their eyes dart across the surface of the water, the instincts of a predator taking over. They watch for the smallest movements, any sign of life within the pond. Again, nothing stirs. Even the flies are gone.

A chill runs down their spine. The feathers beneath their hair stand on end. Someone is nearby. Someone is watching them.

The unnatural rustling of leaves makes A2 leap to their feet; just in time to see a boulder the size of Halua hurtling towards them. They dive out of the way as the rock slams into the pond, sending stagnant water flying out in all directions. A2 grabs their sword from the back of Emil’s cart as quick as they can as Halua snorts and paws at the dirt nervously.

A second boulder crashes to the ground next to them. This time A2 sees their assailant step out from the shadows to take advantage of their weakness. A woman, lanky and covered head to toe in filthy yellowed bandages, squares her shoulders at A2. A loose sky blue robe barely covers her body as it billows gently in the wind. In her hands she grips two identical black swords that curve wickedly, their jagged teeth glinting in the sunlight. Despite the size of their sword, A2 suddenly feels wildly outmatched in terms of raw weaponry. How have they never thought of carving teeth into this mass of iron before?

“Who are you?” the stranger asks in a calm yet clearly threatening voice. “What are you doing at my home?”

A2 opens their mouth to explain, but the woman looks at the agitated Halua and Emil’s cart. Her eyes widen when she realizes that Emil is nowhere to be seen.

“What have you done with him?!” she bellows, shifting into a crouching battle stance.

A2 hoists their own sword up, pointing it at the bandaged woman. “Nothing. He brought me here.”

She looks down at them, a sneer twisting her sharp features. “Bullshit,” she spits. “What the fuck did you do to him?!”

Before A2 can begin to explain anything, the woman leaps into a brutal attack. She soars into the air and brings down both swords on the spot where A2 once stood. If they hadn’t moved, their head would have been crushed under the weight that splits the earth they stood on. A2 retaliates with a mighty swing of their own, but the cumbersome weight of the blade makes their effort slow. The woman easily backs out of the iron blade’s reach, then shifts her balance to strike at A2’s legs with her twin swords. Her first swing barely misses but the second sword’s teeth dig into the meat of their calf. On instinct, A2 jerks away from the pain, but the sudden movements cause more of their muscles to be shredded by the cruel iron.

A2 snarls and slams their first into the woman’s jaw with enough force to push her back a few inches. They shove the pommel of their sword into her gut, making her gasp as the wind is knocked out of her. With their free hand they reach for the woman’s hair to bash her head in with their own skull, but she throws her palm into A2’s throat. They force themself not to cough or gag, but they can’t stop the spit and wheeze that escapes their mouth.

The woman throws herself and her swords at A2, not letting them have any time to regain their breath. They throw up their iron sword, using its immense size as a shield to buy themself a moment to recover. Again, the woman hops backwards to prepare another assault, but this time A2 is ready. As she bolts forward, twin blades primed to strike, A2 tucks their head low and rushes into the woman, dragging the heavy blade behind them. Just before the clash, A2 channels all their strength into a powerful overhead swing. The burns on their chest and gash in their leg scream in pain at the initial exertion, but once the blade reaches its peak, gravity brings it down. The woman nimbly dodges to the side, which A2 expects. They swing their sword in the direction she moved, forcing her to back out of the blade’s massive reach.

“Stop!!” A voice calls out from the sidelines of the fight, “Kaine! A2! Stop fighting!”

A2 makes the mistake of looking over at Emil waving his arms to get their attention. The moment they drop their guard, the woman, apparently named Kaine, rushes at A2 with blinding speed. Reacting as fast as they can, A2 lays their blade flat on the ground and waits until Kaine makes the mistake of stepping on it. The moment her foot hits just beyond the tip (and the moment before her swords cut into the bruised flesh of their throat) A2 yanks the blade skyward. Kaine’s body flies upward, reaching an impressive height before crashing back to the earth with a few choice expletives. At great pain to themself, A2 corrects the sword’s upward momentum to slam it back down on Kaine, crushing her beneath the flat of the blade.

“A2!” Emil screams, “Please stop!!”

Both fighters ignore the boy’s pleas. Kaine spits at A2, who points the tip of their sword at her jugular. All they have to do is stab and the fight will be over. Suddenly Kaine’s arm shifts, and in an instant A2’s eyes and nose are filled with stinging dirt. They stumble backwards, quickly trying to dig the tiny stones out of their face before Kaine can recover, but it’s too late. A2 blindly cowers behind their sword as Kaine repeatedly slams against it. They may be strong, but a continued assault like this will break their guard. The most they can do in the few seconds they have is blink away the dirt in their eyes and wait for an opening.

“Kaine! No!!”

A2 strains their body to jump backward out of range of Kaine’s swords while still keeping her in their range. Having seen each other’s brute strength, the clash devolves into one person trying to bait the other into revealing an opening to strike a single fatal blow. All A2 has to do is hit her once. Their blade is about the size of her body; one good strike is all it would take to break a few of her bones. However, Kaine aims for A2’s chest and legs, large targets that would cripple or kill them. Both focus entirely on the other, deaf to all but the blood thundering in their ears. For A2, their dance of brutality can only last as long as their body does. Their injuries make their movements slow and sluggish as they fight against two opponents, Kaine and the pain of untreated wounds.

Kaine shows no signs of slowing down as they rush in close after A2 misses another crushing overhead strike. They brace themself for what might be the final assault-

“ENOUGH!!” Emil shouts, his voice booming with unexpected power.

In a flash of movement the boy in bandages appears between A2 and Kaine, his arms outstretched, palms facing either combatant. A great blast of invisible force slams into them like a solid wall and sends both them and Kaine flying back several feet. A2 crashes to the ground, their sword flying uselessly away from them. They shake off the twisted feeling in their gut and stare at Emil, mouth agape.

What the hell is this kid?!

“Kaine!” Emil yells. “Would you just listen to me?!”

Kaine sits up and grumbles to herself. “Urh… Fuck’s sake, Emil. That hurts…”

“I brought A2 here,” he says, helping them to their feet first. “I found her-”

“Not a girl,” A2 interrupts.

“-In town this morning passed out by the well.”

Kaine scoffs as Emil offers his thin hand to her. “You’ve got to stop bringing wounded vagrants back here just ‘cause they tell you a shitty sob story.”

“She-... A2 wouldn’t let me help them for free. They can work off their debt in exchange for medicine and a place to rest.”

A2 watches in silence as Emil speaks for them. Typically A2 would rather speak for themself but they’d rather not risk saying the wrong thing in front of either Kaine or Emil. Before the fight their attitude might have been different, but now with all these new injuries, keeping their mouth shut is the better option.

Kaine glares at them over Emil’s shoulder, her dark eyes scrutinizing their ragged appearance and battle-scarred body. “...Fine. They can work.”

Emil sighs in relief and slips right back into his chatty habits. He all but bounces around his friend as she walks towards the entrance to her cave, regaling her with how he came across A2 and his other adventures. A2 stands in place, mesmerized by how these two wildly different people could get along so well.

Kaine looks back at them, a bored expression on her face. “Are you coming? Or are you just gonna stand outside all day?”

They nod, grab their sword, and follow her without another word.

The interior of the cave is about what A2 expects. A dank, winding path carved into the earth, lit only by a few torches burnt to embers. Several species of cave-dwelling plants are hung in pots that dangle beneath stalactites dripping a constant supply of water. As soon as A2 begins to suspect Kaine to be an insane cave hermit, they round a corner and enter a sunlit hole in the ground covered with lush vegetation and complete with a small hut made of chunks of wood. Animal skins sit in the sun, stretched out on tanning racks next to discarded crates of odd treasures A2 has no name for. Some of them look like outdated tools, others are strange gemstones or rocks. There’s even a statue of a forgotten god or two in the garbage.

Kaine fiddles with the locks on the hut’s door. Most of them are simple metal locks, but some of them have intricate runes that glow a bright purple when she waves her hand over them. A2 hopes all this security is only a desire to be left alone and not an attempt to hide something sinister. Then again, if it were the latter, A2 would be dead before they saw the hut.

The hut’s interior is cluttered with even more garbage. There’s barely enough room for the three of them to walk around. Kaine takes them through the kitchen first, and A2 is assaulted by the strong scents of spices and preservatives. Countless bundles of dried plants and meats hang by the window above jars of… things… stewing in opaque yellow liquids. Eyes, lizard feet, tongues and organs, even whole newts sit in a strange method of organization. Even more curious than this are the beautiful white flowers that glow in the dim light. They reach out to touch one, their finger brushing one of the petals, which stops glowing in response only to resume the moment they remove their touch.

“You can sleep in here,” Kaine says, pointing to a small room with only a cot against the wall. “Go ahead and settle in. I gotta talk to Emil for a second.”

A2 shuffles into the room, trying to keep their sword out of the way of Kaine and Emil. Only once the door shuts behind the two does A2 relax at all. They can’t place it now, but something about those two seems off. Their smell is wrong, not like anything they’ve smelled before. In fact, the whole hut smells the same, like the old books that sat with yellowing pages. Or like a pile of salt. Or perhaps both. Emil at least had the decency to try to cover it with herbs and spices, but Kaine seems the type to not take care of herself if she doesn’t have company.

They look at another discarded leather-bound book, its pages worn far past yellow and into brown.

Old, A2 realizes. They smell old.

[sapphyrelily]

(Broken) Shapes of Love

[Alternatively: Loving is Cruel, and Hearts Always Stay Broken]

This is ~9k words ok, it’s pretty long. It’s also my heartbreak valentines’ fic from 2019

Starmist rises from his place between the leaves quietly, eyes tracking the departing saurians. With Mordremoth gone, the Mordrem are no longer an issue, but the jungle poses enough problems of its own.

He sighs under his breath and resumes his trek, eyes watchful, sword ready. The cliff where he will make his dive is just up ahead, but he would greatly prefer it if he could do it unhindered, and without being chased by the jungle's irritants.

Pocket raptors, he thinks sourly, are definitely not part of Ameyalli's provision.

He didn’t think so, at least.

Glancing around him a last time, he steps gingerly onto the branch, inching out along it. His glider is half-formed on his back, ready to be snapped open when he jumps.

He can just make out the ledge he has to get to, the faint sound of the lute almost hidden by the natural sounds of the jungle.

Starmist takes a deep breath, and leaps.

His body snaps up, lifted by the wind catching the corporeal glider formed by Mist energy he ripped out of a rift. It spreads above him in great sweeping wings, translucent but for the ripples of energy that define the shape of a dragon.

He angles the glider towards the ledge he was eyeing earlier, tugging on the tendrils of energy to steer himself.

Twenty metres… Ten metres… Five… He yanks on the energy, compressing it and shoving it back through another rift, just in time for him to drop onto the ledge. His feet land softly on the grass, and he folds the remnants of the glider up, tucking that particular energy signature into a small rift he carved explicitly for that purpose.

He looks up, head cocked; the music has stopped, and he can see why. The strumming Itzel has fallen back, his lute abandoned, bow and arrow nocked and pointed at him.

“Sylvari. But with a spectacular type of glider, the likes of which I’ve never seen. In the shape of a dragon, no less.”

Starmist can hear the unspoken question in his voice, see the wariness in his unblinking eyes.

Do you serve the dragons? Must I end you?

Starmist blinks. Opens his mouth and speaks slowly. “Ibli sent me. He said I might find you here, might perhaps commission a song from you.”

“Commission?” Acan lowers his weapon, just a fraction. “I play for fun. For joy. I had not thought of commissions before.”

Starmist smiles, a small, wry thing. “Murasaki – the Pact Commander – told me you play beautifully. She has not the time to come back, but I thought I might seek you out for a song or two.”

Hesitating for a moment, he adds, “Today is a special occasion, by the human calendars. I thought to celebrate it, with music.”

Acan blinks, the only sign that he registers Starmist's words. “The Pact Commander. Yes, I remember her. In a huge rush at the time, but with a lovely glider as well. Purple and pink – such unusual colours in the jungle. So easy to spot and get shot down, in carelessness.”

The sylvari winces, but nods. “That’s her. I’m her friend. Might I convince you to play me a song, and I give you a glider?”

Acan blinks again. His smile stretches as he lowers the bow and arrow completely. “Teach me how to use it as well, and I shall play you more than a single song.”

Starmist grins. “You have yourself a deal.”

So it was settled. Starmist would teach Acan how to glide once he was off-duty. The Itzel would play him a song right away, since he was still on scout duty, and could easily complete his end of the bargain.

“What would you like to hear?”

Starmist sinks down to the ground and purses his lips, tilting his head back against the log with a small shrug. “Anything. Play me your favourite.”

Acan's eyes flit to him, his fingers absently stroking the strings, half-formed melodies escaping into the air. “You came to bargain for a song, and you will not choose one?”

Starmist shakes his head. “Not because I will not choose, but because I cannot. I do not know any songs.”

Acan’s eyes narrow, and his mouth presses into a flat line. “That is…unusual.”

The sylvari shrugs. “I’ve lost a lot more to the dragons than just echoes of songs. I don’t bother myself with worrying about it for too long.”

Acan appraises him for a moment longer, head cocked. “What were you saying before – that it is a special occasion?”

Starmist nods. “A day of celebration for lovers. I admit that I do not know much other than that.”

Acan nods slowly, his eyes flicking back to the jungle before them. “Have you a lover?”

Starmist almost smiles, a twinge of pain in his chest. “Once.”

“…a song of remembrance, then. For what you once had.”

Webbed fingers begin to work the lute, teasing the strains of a melody from it. It winds and peaks and falls, tugging Starmist along on its journey, drawing him into a nest of memories.

A blue-barked hand takes his, softly illuminated by the glow of fireflies, and glowing within from the sylvari's glow. Starmist looks up into his face, a grin lifting his lips as he squeezes the hand.

“Star, will you dance with me?”

“Of course.”

Their entwined fingers lift, shifting until their hands lie palm to palm, flat against each other. Starmist reaches out to place a hand on his boyfriend’s waist, turning him, moving them, until they are pacing slow circles under the fireflies' glow.

Aeris dips his head, but Starmist can still see his expression: nervous but pleased, and a tad shy. He wants to reach up and kiss him.

Starmist presses his fingertips harder against Aeris’, prompting the other male to look at him. His lips lift at the corner, and Starmist’s hand shifts, sliding to the small of Aeris’ back. His other hand twists their joined palms until he has a firm grasp on his hand, and he steps closer.

Aeris steps back, but he is still in the half-circle of Starmist's arm, and the shorter male takes it as an opportunity to press the dance. Leading them, guiding them.

Aeris’ face falls as he realises it. “I asked you to dance, and yet you’re leading.”

Starmist chuckles. “We can swap, if you want to lead.”

His boyfriend shakes his head. “In a minute. Indulge me, and I’ll take my turn to treat you.”

Starmist can’t help his grin or his next action. The hand holding Aeris’ slides free, moving to cup the back of his neck and pull him down, their lips meeting in a brief but tender kiss. Starmist captures his lower lip between his teeth, tugging at it gently, marvelling at the plush flesh. He releases it and presses another kiss to Aeris’ mouth instead, relishing the taste and feel of him, never wanting to back away.

From the way Aeris’ arm has wound around his back, pulling Starmist against him, he knows his boyfriend feels the same way.

Acan’s song trails off in a smattering of notes and unwound melodies, and Starmist glances up at him. He can feel the wobbly smile on his face, the water clouding his vision, and takes a shaky breath.

“Thank you.”

(Even his voice sounds tinny, stretched thin and about to break.)

Acan nods slowly, his fingers stilling. “The song should invoke good memories. Why do you weep?”

Starmist gives in and wipes his eyes. “…because it was a good memory. A situation that will not happen again. But I am grateful that you reminded me of it. I shall treasure it dearly.”

The Itzel doesn’t look too convinced, but Starmist isn’t an expert at reading hylek expressions.

He leans back against the trunk as Acan begins a new song, uplifting and cheery.

But his heart cannot shake the earlier memory, and a tang of pain remains.

I miss you, my love.

-----

Murasaki trails a hand through the water, the ripples distorting her reflection.

She can’t look at herself. Not now, not ever. Thorns, she is such a fool.

What made you think you were lovable? Naïve, stupid sapling.

You should have died in your pod, let Aeris absorb you. At least then, one of you would have survived, remained useful.

Her teeth sink into her lower lip, and she gnaws at it, refusing to let the tears fall.

Stupid, stupid sapling.

Ayla's never going to love you. Just like Carita. Just like Varshur.

Stop falling in love with others, especially those who don’t – won’t – love you back. Or those who just want to use you. Like Amatsu.

Her fingers tighten into a fist, and another volley of ripples dances away.

Mother spare your soul, but you’re stupid.

Murasaki knows better. Knows better than to be sitting here and pining; knows better than to have this mental breakdown when out there, her soldiers are having problems of their own.

Her soldiers. The Pact.

Not really her soldiers anymore, since she resigned long ago. But everyone still looks to her as a leader, more so than Logan, and they will follow her into fire. They depend upon her leadership, lousy though she has been.

So, they are still her soldiers, after all.

Murasaki draws her hand back, barely flicking the water off before she presses it against her chest, a breath catching on its way out as a memory assaults her.

The Marshal – Trahearne – the firstborn who loved you, and was lost.

Didn’t you love him too?

She knows the answer, as well as each splintered and shattered piece of her remaining soul.

I love him. Loved. Mother forgive me, but I loved him so much.

And now he’s gone.

Just like everyone who crosses my path.

It’s a wonder Star still likes me. It’s a wonder Aoi and Dori still stay. It’s amazing that Aeris acknowledges I exist.

Oh Mother, forgive me.

Please forgive me, and my stupidity.

She can’t stay. She won’t. She has no right to be sitting here, pining and crying over people who will never love her. No right to be sitting here, whole and complete, when her twin is so badly damaged that he is not himself any more.

Not really whole and complete. I died.

Did it matter? Dying? I came back. Came back, and made everything worse.

I should’ve stayed.

The soft rustles from behind alert her to the person approaching, and she draws in a deep breath, wishing away the tears.

A heavily scarred hand flits over her shoulder, the lightness of the gesture betrayed by the weight of the hand.

“Dori wants you to stop sulking and get back out there.” Aoi's voice has an echo to it, despite being soft. “I came to sit with you.”

Murasaki sniffs. Aoi and Midori are the only ones who are allowed to see her cracked façade, and only flashes at a time. “I’m fine,” she insists. “I’ll come right out.”

Murasaki pushes to her feet, pressing harder on the earth than she needs to, allowing the pebbles to grind into her palms. Aoi's eyes are hooded, the extra eyes on the sides of her face downcast.

She must not be wearing her ring, and Murasaki wonders why.

“If…” Her voice stops Murasaki. “If it’s any consolation, I miss Rai terribly. I’m afraid of what he’ll think, when he finds out we’ve failed.”

When he finds out I’ve failed. Aoi and Dori weren’t part of it.

Murasaki holds out her hand, and Aoi grasps it lightly. They share a sad smile.

“Go write him a letter,” Murasaki says. “Tell him you love him, and you miss him.”

Aoi’s eyes widen, understanding flickering in them. Then her expression falls. “Will you write to Aeris?”

To the last person I’ve loved and hurt? No.

She shakes her head. “I’ll find Dori, let her slap some sense into me and start a new plan. Maybe arguing against the Court's mentality will bring me back to myself.”

Aoi’s fingers find hers again, squeezing gently. “Come talk to me after, if your heart still aches.”

It will never stop aching. I love too easily.

Murasaki nods, and turns to stare out at the water for a while longer. Sinks back to her knees, for she is weak.

The spot over her heart is cold, where the wind blows through the wet fabric.

-----

Aeris unloads and oils the gun, checking and cleaning its components thoroughly before putting it back together. He sets it on his left and picks up another rifle to repeat the process.

Outside the curtain, the soldiers keep going about their daily business. Their whispers have a hollowness to them, broken and devoid of life. It’s not hard to understand why, after the news broke.

Aurene, gone. Their last hope of defeating Kralkatorik, snuffed out like a flame. After being impaled, of course.

Aeris exhales deeply through his nose, clicking the rifle shut. His right hand reaches for another, but finds nothing but gunpowder dregs. He stares at the empty spot for a second, then raises his eyes to the high ceiling with exasperation. He didn’t think he’d be done so quickly.

Great. Now he has to go out there and face the rest of the Pact. He doesn’t think he’s ready for that.

Scooping up the guns, he makes his way to the rack and begins stacking them, taking his time. But he’s still done too quickly, and the lack of things to occupy his attention unsettles him.

Aeris picks up a towel and cleans the grease from his hands with it, walking over to the rainwater barrel to rinse. When he’s done, he takes a quick glance around the small area, confirming its emptiness. Good. He needs all the privacy he can get.

Crouching behind a table, he murmurs a spell, fingers tracing the symbols in the air. There’s a whisper and a rush of wind, and he grimaces as he opens his eyes.

He stands and steps over to the water barrel, peeking at his reflection. Ashy skin, wide eyes, fronds pulled back from his face. He smiles at his reflection, and a female sylvari smiles back.

Aeris hopes the illusion will hold, and steps beyond the curtain.

He goes to the forge first, seeking out the only other warbandmate in the Pact. Rune might not have been allowed to help with the dragonsblood weapons, but she would be there all the same. Nothing and no one kept her from working with metal, if they knew what was good for them.

The soldiers don’t glance twice at him as he slips past them, and he allows himself a longer look at their faces. They all look the same: tired, haggard, hopeless. Aeris can’t help but wonder what the Commanders are planning, and if they have told the troops yet. Morale was taking a turn for the worse.

The crowd thins as he makes his way towards the forge, the soldiers choosing to stay close to the hearths and not venture into the cold passageways. The halls of Deldrimor Keep are beautiful, he has to admit. It was a waste to not admire them, especially now that beauty and hope are so hard to find. He hopes it doesn’t stay that way.

The room before the forge is bustling with people, and he sticks to the shadows to avoid any members of Dragon's Watch. Not many would be able to see through his illusion, but Rytlock would be able to, and he didn’t want to face the tribune at the moment.

Aeris hears the forge before he feels it. The Zephyrite choir has stopped, but the ringing of steel hitting steel persists, and the heat from the lava never cools. Pacing around the room, as far from the heat as he can, he tries to spot Rune, and groans when he sees her speaking to the Forgemaster at the centre of the forge.

He supposes he can wait until their conversation is over.

Except that it never seems to end, dragging on and on, until he feels dizzy from the heat and his pacing.

(Really, he shouldn’t be this affected by the heat. He spends his days in Ascalon, and the Pale Mother knows how hot it is there.)

He perches on a crate and watches the two figures, silently begging them to hurry up. He rests his head against the stack of crates behind him, hoping the pressure will alleviate some of his dizziness. But no one comes for him and soon, the light and heat from the forge force his eyes close, and the ringing of steel lulls him into slumber.

His head hurts. His throat is dry and his tongue is thick and heavy in his mouth. The light above him is weak, bits of sunlight filtering through the slats in the roof. A lamp sits on the table, its light dull from the cloth covering it. He wonders where he is.

“Commander. He is awake.”

A throaty voice calls from the mouth of the room, and he turns his head, wincing at the throbbing. He can hear footfalls against sand, and soon, multiple shadows block the doorway.

He closes his eyes. He can feel emotions roiling, and they don’t belong to him. What is this?

“Aeris.” It’s a whisper, a plea. It’s one word, filled with raw emotion – panic, relief, desperation. Love?

It’s one word, and he thinks that’s his name.

Aeris. He tests the name in his mind, rolling it over. It sounds right.

It is your name, dearheart.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Who is that?

I am the Pale Tree. Your mother. You have suffered greatly, my child.

I don’t understand.

Your mind has been damaged by the dangerous magic you encountered. Fret not, for your friends have managed to cure the worst of it.

Then I must thank them.

Aeris opens his eyes, taken aback by the closeness of the person before him. A female, whose eyes are wide and stained with relief. He reaches out with his mind, and what he feels confirms it. She is the one with the wild emotions he feels.

“Aeris,” she whispers. Her hand grasps his, and he pulls it away, disturbed at her casual touch. Who does she think she is?

Her eyes droop at the loss of contact, and he senses that she wants to reach out again. She pulls it back instead – a wise move, he thinks. He’s suddenly not in the mood to deal with people, especially creepy ones.

Over her head, he spots two other females. They look at him; the green-barked one's eyebrows are furrowed, her mouth pressed into a pout. The purple-barked one seems to look at him down her nose – but that doesn’t make sense; of course she’s looking down at him, he’s lying down.

He's confused, and wonders who they are.

The voice – the Pale Tree – said they were friends. But he recognises none of them.

“Ah, he is indeed awake.” A rumbling voice drifts over to them, deeper than the one he heard before. Aeris glances up and blinks in surprise. A giant frog steps towards them, and the female sylvari drift back, allowing him closer.

Hylek, his mind supplies, and he knows this to be true. These giant frogs are a race called the hylek, and they are masters of alchemy.

The hylek places a webbed hand on his forehead, peering into his eyes. “Much better. The fever leaves you.”

“Thank you,” he croaks.

Ha, he thinks. I sound like him. Croaking.

The hylek pats his forehead, his skin cool. “You are welcome. My tribe owes Aoi a favour, and this was too easy to help resolve. Come, can you sit? Have some water, and some broth, if you can stomach it.”

He feels oddly shaky, and flinches when the wild female from before moves forward to help him sit. He can feel her hurt, but she doesn’t say anything, simply handing him the cup.

He sips at it, half-listening to the hylek's explanation of what happened to him. Chaos magic, warping his mind, twisting it to madness. He is lucky, he hears, that his body was not also affected. Does he have any missing memories?

Aeris blinks, stares into his empty cup. Does he?

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I feel as if I do not know anything.”

“What do you mean?”

He thinks about it. “I know some things, like what food is, and where places are on a map. But the specifics of my life… I feel as if I know nothing of that at all.”

The room stills. The sylvari look at him with a mix of horror, fascination and worry. The hylek looks thoughtful.

“Stay with us a while,” the hylek says. “We shall try to acclimatise you to the world as best we can. It would not do to let a patient stumble out and kill himself by accident because he is but a tadpole.”

He grins weakly, tickled by the analogy and strangely unoffended by it. “I have no objections.”

“Good, good.” The hylek turns to the sylvari. “Don’t give him a hard time, okay?”

All of them nod, the one with green bark piping up, “Thank you. You have been very kind.”

“A debt for a debt,” he replies. “I fear that I will have to repay that debt many times before it is repaid in full.”

“Nonsense, Ikniu. It was my pleasure to help.”

The hylek shrugs and bows, stepping outside. The sylvari are upon him in a moment.

“How do you feel?” It’s the wild one again, concern radiating from her. Aeris looks away, too unsettled to answer, and notices that her bark is the same shade of blue as his.

Odd, but not unusual.

The haughty one steps forward and peers into his eyes, harrumphing under her breath. “He looks decent. Disoriented, but fine.”

“Is that your professional opinion, Dori?” The green one asks, her tone lilting, teasing.

“Maybe.”

He feels like he should say something. “Who are you people?”

Hmm, not the best start, but it’ll do.

They stare at him, until the wild one breaks the silence. “You don’t recognise us?”

“No. Should I? You’re kind for helping me, and for that I thank you. But I don’t know you, and this is extremely weird.”

They seem to hold their breath, and it is the wild one who eventually speaks. “I am Murasaki, and this is Aoi and Midori. You’re my pod twin, and they’re my friends.”

Pod twin? Aeris knows that phrase, but to be the twin of this female? The Pale Mother must be joking. She is too intense. He can feel the sea of emotions that ripples under her bark – terror and panic and fierce determination, all lined with the sharp tang of violence. It makes him wary, to know that someone could be so well acquainted with death and not be affected by it.

He shakes his head, fingers gripping the cup tightly. Too tightly, but he can’t help himself. “I don’t know you. Sorry.”

The wild one – Murasaki – laughs weakly. “You’re joking, right? Aeris, this isn’t funny. I thought I lost you.”

He shakes his head more firmly. “No, I truly don’t know you. And you are freaking me out.”

“Aeris–”

He can feel her distress, but the way she says his name, as if he has to listen to her. No, he refuses to do that.

“Listen.” His voice is cold, harsher than intended, but he's in a panic now, and the defensive words flow too easily. “I do not know you, and you are not helping, if you have helped at all. I don’t care who you are, but you act as if you have power over me, and I know that’s not true. I belong to no one but myself, and I am not indebted to you in any way. Now get out.”

She hesitates, resolve faltering, her mouth half-open as if to protest. Aeris grits his teeth. “Get. Out.”

Murasaki’s hands are trembling, but her face has gone still. A mask. She clenches the trembling digits into fists, then turns around and marches out, her steps stiff. The green one – Aoi – glances at him for only a moment before she runs out after her.

The purple one, Midori, sighs and rests her chin in her hand, a small smile on her face. “You’re a lot more entertaining now than before.”

He senses that she means it; she’s amused, rather than panicked like the others are. “So you insist on following her lead as well?”

“Mm, not precisely.” Midori perches on the edge of the bed, a safe distance from him. “I’m a necromancer, and I recognise dead things when I see them. Your past is dead to you, it seems, and I sense that the only way forwards is for you to forget it.”

Aeris feels the knot in his chest loosen. Finally, someone who understands.

“I really do remember nothing,” he admits. “Everything is a blur. Indistinct.”

“But can you discern truth from lie?”

He starts, and stares at her. Midori doesn’t flinch, only raising an eyebrow to push her question.

Aeris nods slowly. “I feel as if I know these things. And I can sense the emotions of others, just a little.”

“You haven’t forgotten everything, then.” She reaches over and plucks the cup from his grip, rising to swap it out for another one on the table. “You were trained in mesmer magic before. Perhaps some of that training remains.”

“Perhaps,” he concedes. He knows what mesmers do, their manipulation of the mind. It makes sense now, how he can feel the tinges of emotion from others.

The cup he is handed is warm, and he sips the broth gratefully. The liquid warms him; he didn’t know he was cold.

Midori regards him a little longer. “My take is this: after the hylek have deemed you healthy, move on. Go into Tyria, explore and find your place. My loyalty will always be with Murasaki, and as much as I want to see her happy again, it will do neither of you good.”

“You don’t believe her, do you?” His voice drips with distaste. “She sounds delusional.”

Midori says nothing, but holds his gaze until he looks away.

“What I believe,” she says softly, “Is based on the truths of the past. The past that I bade you forget.

“To answer you: yes, I do believe her. They are her truths, as they are mine. But for you,” she shakes her head, “They are not your truths. They are a dream, long-forgotten. Dwell on your here and now instead. Make yourself a new life.”

She stands and claps him on the shoulder. “Death stalked you, and yet you got away. Treasure your second chance.”

Aeris frowns at her back, then looks into his half-finished broth.

He senses that she spoke the truth. She feels like the most straightforward of the trio, despite her haughty demeanour.

Perhaps he will follow her advice, and move away from the turbulent and disturbing past that he cannot recall.

“Aeris. Aeris, wake up.”

He blinks blearily, scowling and pressing a hand over his eyes at the brightness. He feels slow and sluggish, and he does not want to wake up.

“Burn Aron for leaving me alone in this,” he hears, before he is picked up. The breath is knocked out of him, and the blurry swishing of something before his eyes tells him what happened.

Rune tossed me over her shoulder.

He doesn’t know to feel smug or ashamed.

Aeris watches the swaying of her tail for a bit, feeling the coolness of the halls as they move away from the forge. He reaches back and tugs on her mane. ”I can walk.”

“Oh? Are you sure you’re awake?”

“I’m certain.”

She lets him slide off her shoulder, glaring at him as he dusts himself off. Ah, the illusion must have shattered when he fell asleep, he’s blue again.

“Your illusion broke when you fell asleep.”

Aeris sighs. “Yes, I just realised.”

“You should’ve just come to get me instead of waiting,” Rune continues. “I could’ve talked forever with the Forgemaster.”

“I realise that now.” Aeris rubs his neck sheepishly. “I just wanted to chat, I finished cleaning the guns.”

Rune raises an eyebrow. “You mean you want more work? What a surprise.”

“We’re among Pact here,” he hisses. “I’m trying to avoid them.”

The charr snorts. “Not fond of fame, eh? Me neither.”

Aeris throws up his hands. “If you know, why question it?”

“Sometimes it’s better to hear things spoken aloud.”

They continue down the hall, reaching the doorway that opens out into the snowy peaks. After the heat of the forge, the chilly air feels like heaven, and he takes an appreciative breath.

“Why didn’t you go to find your sister?”

Aeris doesn’t look at her, his eyes fixed on the sparking landscape. “I don’t want to cause her trouble.”

Rune snorts. “Trouble? Cub, the Commander loves you more than she does herself. After what happened, she’d be more than happy to see you.”

Aeris keeps silent. He knows it’s true. And though he loves her in his own way, he can never be the one she needs.

Her brother died in the Chaos Caverns. I just wear his body.

“She doesn’t know I’m here,” he says at last. “Last she heard, I was still in Jahai, in Sun’s Refuge.”

“So you’re a surprise. Big deal. At least you’d be a good surprise.”

Aeris sighs heavily. He can’t tell her. Rune wouldn’t understand. The warband wouldn’t understand.

“I need to see Dori first. She’ll know if it’s okay to meet Mura.”

Rune huffs and folds her arms. “Stop delaying, cub. Everyone knows the Commander blames herself for what happened. If we want to get anywhere from now on, we need her back and not mourning.”

“I think she’s allowed to mourn,” Aeris says lightly. Warningly.

“Of course she’s allowed. But Midori and Aoi don’t hold fort as well as Murasaki does. They’ve got less experience to go with the title. We need Murasaki back, or the Pact will really fall apart, even with the Marshal holding it together.”

Aeris knows she’s right, and he hates it.

“I’ll go look for her.”

He turns back into the building, still feeling Rune’s eyes on his back, and murmurs a different spell. This time, he’s rendered invisible, and sticks to the walls.

The Commander’s office isn’t hard to find, and he’s relieved to see only Midori inside. Aeris steps inside the doorway and drops the spell, clearing his throat to alert her.

Midori glances up, the corner of her lips twitching up. “I knew I heard something. I was wondering when you’d come here, actually.”

“How’d you know?”

She shrugs. “Someone just reported that the Commander was taking a nap in the forge. It didn’t seem likely, especially since I know Mura is in one of the lower tunnels.”

“And she hates the heat.”

“Then there is that,” Midori agrees. “But why are you here instead of with her? Surely you’ve heard the news.”

“I have,” Aeris says, eyes downcast. “But I didn’t think I was fit to comfort her.”

“No?”

“While I was in the forge, I– I had a dream. A memory, really.”

He glances up at her; Midori's chin is propped on her fist, and she raises her eyebrows at him to continue.

“I remembered that time when I first woke, and the three of you had taken me to the hylek.”

“Ah,” Midori murmurs. “You were nasty to Mura.”

“Yes,” Aeris mumbles. “I know she wouldn’t be thinking of that right now – we’re twins, not telepathic – but I still feel guilty. Unworthy. She deserves better than me.”

“She does,” Midori agrees, and Aeris flinches. “Don’t look like that, you came to me because you knew I’d give you the truth.”

“Have I ever told you that I hate you for it?”

“Mm, once or twice.” Midori twirls a pen in her fingers, glancing sharply at him. “But that’s not really why you came to see me.”

“No,” Aeris agrees. “I came to check how’s she’s doing, and then I’ll go back to hiding in plain sight.”

Midori glares at him, and he can sense how her mood sours. “You’re an asshole, you know that? She needs you, and you’re going to keep hiding?”

“She doesn’t need me.” Aeris says, hands clenching into fists. “She needs Starmist, or her brother. She needs someone who didn’t die and become a stranger masquerading as her brother.”

Midori suddenly stands, the chair screeching behind her. Rage emanates from her, crashing over him like a spew of hot lava. “Shut up. Shut up. I don’t care that now is the time you've chosen to grow a moral compass, because she needs you, you hear? I don’t care that you remember nothing of your life before the Chaos Caverns. I don’t care, that you’re guilty that you’ll never be who she needs. You’re all she has now, and if you care about her even a bit, you’ll let her cry on your shoulder at least.”

Aeris opens his mouth, but Midori vaults over the table and slaps him. Her hand just barely reaches his face, but his head is thrown to the side regardless.

“You are a coward,” she hisses. “A coward who dwells too heavily on the past, and lets it cloud your judgement of the present. You should be learning from your mistakes instead of letting them weigh you down. You should have learnt that mistakes are only lessons, instead of letting them build up and become a rock you cannot roll away.

“You want to do some good in the Pact? Find Murasaki. Go to her, and bring her back to the present. She has to mourn – we all do – but without her, Aoi and I can’t do anything. We don’t know enough to deal with all of this yet. We can’t move forward until we learn from her. And we can’t learn until she is pieced back together.”

Midori's words sound so similar to Rune's that Aeris is taken aback, but she is not done.

“Do you know what they are saying outside? Have you heard what the soldiers are saying about her?

“'Where's the Commander? Why isn’t she helping us? Why isn’t she fixing this? Didn’t she tell us it’ll all be alright, that we’ll win?'

“'Why is she gone? Why is she mourning for a dragon? The dragons have brought us nothing but destruction, they should all die.’”

Midori’s nostrils flare as she takes a large breath, her hands clenching and unclenching. She looks as if she wants to throttle someone. “Why is she mourning? Because she lost her daughter. Because she lost the last family member who loved her, who was there with her. But do they know that? No! I don’t think they do, nor will they ever understand.”

She fixes her glare on him again, and jabs him in the chest, hard enough that he has to steel himself against stepping back. “They look at her, and they see what they want to see: a sylvari, a fallen dragon minion. Someone they can’t relate to, because she is so high above them. Too far away. She’s not relatable, no matter how hard she tries to interact with the people or help them.”

“What has that got to do with me?” Aeris cuts in, discomfort wriggling under his bark. “Get to your point.”

“My point,” she hisses, “Is that seeing the two of you together helps not only her mental state, but it will do wonders for the Pact as well. It will help them understand. Understand that she is not so much unlike them. That she isn’t cold and unfeeling, that she’s more than a 'freed dragon minion'. That she has family she loves and will do anything to protect.

“They will never understand that she died for Tyria. They will never know that long before that, she lost half her soul when her twin died. They will never know how she kept fighting out of obligation, even as everyone close to her kept leaving or dying. She loves Tyria and will die for it again if it helps fix anything, but spoiler, it won’t.

“You want to help? Go out there, and fix your sister. Apologise to her. Do whatever. You hear me? Paint that pretty picture for the Pact to see. Pretend if you must. But show them that the Commander has something worth fighting for, that she will fight for.” Before he can nod or reply, she continues, “Or I will find a Nightmare Pod and stuff you in it myself. You’ll make a lousy Courtier, but at least I know my Courtiers have purpose. You? You’re no better than a desiccated choya in the desert wind.”

Aeris’ eyes drop as she turns and walks back to the desk. He can feel the weight of her accusations and revelations hanging heavy over him, and it makes his head dip as he shuffles towards the door. All the fight has left him, and now he just feels ashamed.

He can barely cast the invisibility spell before he slowly walks towards the lower tunnels; the buzz of words in his head is too loud.

Is it true? That Murasaki would fight for him? That part of her died when he first woke and shunned her? She always seemed like such a cheerful person, and though he could always sense the tinge of pain under her façade when they were together, he never knew how deep that vein ran.

He wonders if she hates him too, for leaving her, for never giving her a chance.

He wonders if he’ll be brave enough to drop the invisibility when he finds her.

The air grows colder and ever damper as he descends, and he wishes he thought to bring a coat with him. The floor isn’t slippery, but keeping his footing is tough when he’s trying to be silent.

He doesn’t expect to hear voices when he arrives at the cavern, and ducks behind a stalagmite in case his spell wears off.

The voices aren’t loud enough to distinguish words, but the tone and cadence reminds him of Aoi. Her words have sounded oddly twisted ever since she surrendered to Mordremoth and her body got changed. She may have reclaimed her body in the following years, but her voice never recovered.

Aeris looks out from behind the rock, just in time to see Aoi turn back up the path. The smaller figure remains, leaning against a rock and staring out over the water, hands lying limp in her lap.

It doesn’t take long for Aoi to pass by him and his hiding spot, and he waits a few moments longer before ducking out. Aeris lets the invisibility fade away, and approaches her at a normal pace. He knows she prefers to hear someone approaching, rather than sneaking up on her.

But Murasaki doesn’t look up. She’s back on her knees, the gravel scattered on her splayed skirts. Aeris is within five paces of her, and her hands are still loosely curled in her lap. Limp. Careless. Defeated. He reaches out to grasp her shoulder.

She turns her head to look at him, the tiniest of smiles flitting over her face. “I heard you.”

“But you didn’t call me out.”

“No.” Murasaki turns back to the water, but one hand moves to her arm, grasping it through the fabric of her dress. Not just grasping – pressing, crushing, trying to channel her negative energy elsewhere. Aeris only knows this because he has witnessed it before.

“Hey. Stop that.”

Murasaki’s grip tightens further. “You’re not the boss of me.”

He reaches out, but she flinches away, hand moving to her chest, fingers pressing down over her heart. Her expression twists briefly – agony, hurt, resignation – before it smooths into her regular blank look.

“Weren’t you in Jahai?”

Deflection. He recognises this game, has played it before with her when she’s not ready to open up. When she’s too shattered to speak about whatever is bothering her.

“I was,” he agrees. “I came with the Pact to prepare for the fight against Kralkatorik.”

He senses it: the stab and twist of grief, even though her expression doesn’t change.

“Ah. Were you there for the final fight?”

Aeris shakes his head. “I was helping prepare weapons for the soldiers. My Iron Legion training comes in more handy than my actual magic.”

Murasaki glances at him briefly, eyebrows raising slightly when it clicks. “Ah. One mesmer leading the Pact is bad enough.”

“Better not to give them doubt, with a second, similar-looking mesmer fighting on the front lines.” Aeris finishes her thought.

The tiniest smile lifts her lips. “Good thinking. Anyone come with you?”

Aeris takes a moment to lower himself to the ground, resting his head against hers. “Just Rune. Best blacksmith in the warband, maybe the entire legion. But don’t tell any of the other smiths that.”

“Of course I won’t.” She adjusts herself as well, until her head leans against his shoulder. He can feel the coil of emotions unravelling inside her, loosening its iron grip on her heart. It reminds him of what Midori said, and his heart twists. He turns to kiss the top of her head.

“Did Dori send you too?” Murasaki’s voice is soft, a whisper he almost misses.

He sighs and rests his cheek atop her head. “Yes. I didn’t want to bother you, but she guilted me into it.”

“Oh.” The coil of emotion tightens in her chest again, and Aeris feels immediate guilt for telling her the truth.

“I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

(If he is already telling the truth, he might as well explain it to her. He knows she would overthink it if he didn’t.)

Small, cold fingers fumble over his, squeezing his hand. It feels more like a flutter.

“I didn’t want you to see how I’d failed.” Her voice catches, the emotions tighten. The pain magnifies, and he knows there’s something she’s not telling him.

“What else?” Aeris keeps his tone neutral; Murasaki hates crying, and any emotion from others could set her off, this close to the edge.

She doesn’t say anything, but her emotions churn, her fingers tighten on his hand.

“Show me?” He tries to make his voice as soft as possible, the lightest suggestion. He’s not sure he succeeds.

Her head shifts on his shoulder, and her free hand lifts tiredly, weaving images in the air – miniature illusions, figures he recognises.

Carita de Santis. One of the trio of human sisters that Murasaki had been friends with, who had been out of touch for so long, she didn’t know where they were.

Varshur. A rather nice ranger, who had an excellent bond with his pets. Aeris vaguely recalls that Murasaki used to fancy him. He wonders where the man is, now.

Ayla Leothyra. He remembers her. A chronomancer like Murasaki, light on her feet and wove the sturdiest portals that he had ever known.

The last face, he knows by heart. All sylvari do.

Trahearne, firstborn of the Firstborns, the Pale Tree’s favourite son. Unlike the other figures who stand stoically, Trahearne stands with one hand reached out, a kind smile on his face.

Aeris bends to peek at his sister’s face. Her expression is the slightest bit downturned, and her eyes are fixed on Trahearne.

“Mura?”

She doesn’t look at him as she begins speaking. “I love them all. Loved. I don’t know.”

Murasaki takes a long breath, and Aeris can feel the shudders that goes through her. “Trahearne is the only one who loved me back. And he’s dead. I haven’t heard from Carita or her sisters, but I hope they’re okay. Varshur and Dartea have been gone for so long as well. Ayla…” She trails off. “She’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever known, but she’ll never love me. No one does. No one will.”

Aeris squeezes her hand. “You’re being hard on yourself. I love you.”

“But I killed you too.” Murasaki’s voice catches. She looks at him in the eye, her mouth wobbling. “I’ve lost you once. It’s not fair of me to keep you around, since not one part of you remembers me from before.”

“I chose to stay,” Aeris says. “I don’t remember, but this is me choosing to stay.”

“I can’t lose you again!” She turns to grab his lapels and shake him, her fingers like ice, even through the material. Her face is contorted, twisted; she looks terrible when she cries. Her agony tears through him, rending his heart as well. “I’ve lost you twice: once to chaos magic, once when you walked away. That’s not counting every little time you’ve come back and left, not counting each and every time I feel Star's heart break when he’s thinking of you.”

Murasaki's fingers loosen, her expression clearing for a second, though her emotions plummet. Her eyes squeeze shut as her head bows, a single tiny splotch appearing on her skirt.  “Oh, Mother forgive me, I killed Star too.”

“He’s not dead. And I left him in the Mists, so the blame's on me for that one,” Aeris points out, trying to ignore the echo of heartache. For the lover he barely remembers. For his pod twin, who does love him, in spite of all he’s done.

“But if I had never listened to you? If I had never introduced you two?” Murasaki dries her eyes with the back of her hands, wiping them on her skirt. “No one would be where they are, in the terrible positions they are in, if I had never interfered. I wish I hadn’t been born. You should’ve absorbed me in the pod.”

“Oi,” he protests. “Don’t talk like that–”

“And hide the truth?” Her emotions are a vacuum – hollow, empty and unending. “No. I’m tired, Aeris. So tired. I should’ve stayed in the Domain of the Lost when Balthazar fried me. I should’ve been impaled when Kralkatorik shot at me. I should’ve died a thousand times over. I should have been there to take the place of every fallen soldier, or at least put a clone in their place. I should have done so much more – I could have done so much more. I’m weak. I'm so weak. And I’m tired.”

Murasaki has been curling further into herself with this speech, pulling away from him. Aeris reaches out for her shoulders, pulling her in and wrapping his arms around her.

She is limp in his arms, even when he rests his cheek on her head. Even when he pulls her all the way into his lap, rubbing some warmth into her shoulders, because blast it, she’s insanely cold.

He doesn’t quite know what to say to her, because in a way, she’s right. But he has to say something, so he settles for, “You can’t save everyone.”

Aeris hears a small sob, feels her emotions crack; he pulls back a little, leaning down to press his forehead against hers. “Shh. Stop crying. Those soldiers knew what they were getting into. This is a war. They knew they might die. They accepted the consequences.”

“I still should have died.”

“And let this coalition crumble around you? I don’t think you could do that.”

Murasaki’s emotions plunge, and he can almost feel her heart break. Again.

Aeris sighs. Her emotions are confusing his own, and he feels the guilt and shame of Midori's words hanging over him again. “I’m not trying to be mean, okay? You just care too much. You don’t want anyone to die, because you’re too self-sacrificing. But you need to see that the Pact will literally crumble without you. Logan’s good, Aoi and Midori are good, but people will follow you. You die, and Tyria will go to mulch.”

“I still want to die,” Murasaki whispers. “For real, this time. I’m so tired of all of it.”

“Dying is the coward's way out,” Aeris says, resisting the urge to wipe her tears away. “Or so a cub once told me. What good is dying? You’re conceding defeat. You’re admitting that you’re not good enough to win. And with old Kralky eating the Mists – I don’t think you really want to die.”

Murasaki sniffs, amusement colouring the emotionless void. “You have a terrible way of comforting people.”

“Blame the charr.”

“You just suck.”

“But you feel better now.”

“No, I don’t.” Her arms wiggle free and wrap loosely around his torso. Aeris can feel the shuddering breaths that she takes, the sobs that she hides in the folds of his shirt. The gulps of air and loud sniffling, and the wetness seeping through his shirt where her tears stain. He rubs her back and rests his cheek on her head, letting the tears run their course, feeling her emotions crest and fall. Mother knows how long she’d been supressing them.

But the tears do come to an end, as does the tsunami of emotion. A listless tiredness rests in its place, and he turns to kiss the top of her head. “Better?”

A slight shifting on his chest is all the response he gets – a nod, and fingers uncurling from his shirt. Aeris bends forward, wrapping his arms more securely around Murasaki as he lifts her, staggering to his feet. He shifts his grip, but Murasaki pokes him weakly. “I’ll walk.”

“Are you certain?”

“It’ll do me good.” She wriggles until he sets her on the ground, sweeping the remaining gravel from her skirts. Then she wraps an arm around his, interlacing their fingers and leaning against him for support. “Walk with me?”

He squeezes her fingers in answer, and they move slowly towards the cave entrance.

Aeris can still feel Murasaki’s emotions in flux, but they are calmer. Duller. He feels like he should say something.

“You know I love you, right?”

He feels the tiny shift in her emotions. The lift; a small, cresting wave. “I love you too.”

Aeris squeezes her fingers. “You love too much, and too hard.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

Their footsteps echo off the walls of the tunnel – little clicks that scatter, returning to them like the pattering sounds of devourers' feet. Murasaki turns a little, glances up at him. “There’s so much to love. People. The weather. The lay of the land, the architecture of races long gone. The beauty of relationships, and the comfort we find in them. Isn’t it worth loving?”

Aeris doesn’t know. He’s not much of a ‘feelings' person. “You tell me. You've always had more emotion towards things.”

He stumbles; Murasaki bumped him with her hip. He turns to glare at her, but the crease between his brows fades when he sees her faint smile.

“You’re an emotions person, too, Aeris.” She squeezes his fingers lightly and keeps walking. “We just have to find it again. Chaos corruption can’t keep it away forever.”

Aeris doubts that, but Murasaki's no longer crying, and he’d prefer to keep it that way for a bit longer. “Mm-hmm.”

She hip-checks him again, laughing as he stumbles. “You doubt me. I'll show you.”

Murasaki sniffs suddenly, her emotions plummeting as she clears her throat and wipes her eyes. “I’ll show you. I’ll prove it to you.”

“Mura…?”

“I never got to tell Aurene how much I love her.” Murasaki’s voice is thick. Choked. “My daughter.”

They’re still walking, Murasaki pulling them along. Her grip is crushing, her footsteps like thunder in the tunnel, her breaths ragged and deep as she tries to force more tears back. “I– I’ll prove it to you, okay? We’ve spent this long together. Even if you can’t remember, I’ll show you, somehow. That you can still be an emotional person.”

Aeris lets her hand go, wrapping an arm around her shoulders instead. Her arm snakes around his waist, her sniffles muffled in his shirt. “Let’s bring flowers to Aurene?”

“What flowers?” Her voice is despairing. “Do you see flowers in this frozen wasteland?”

“What about illusions? I can’t shape snow into flowers very well.”

“We could carve crystals.” He can hear the lift in her tone, her attempt at humour.

“That too.”

They banter softly, all the way back to the main hall, past small groups of soldiers who stop and stare, who look baffled and confused. Murasaki notices them, and waves a little at each group. Her hand is now tucked into the crook of Aeris' elbow, rather than around his waist. It makes it easier to walk. It makes their relationship seem a little more acceptable, especially in the humans' eyes. Mother knows why they’re so particular about the proper sort of relationship siblings should have.

They make it back to the Commander’s office, and Aeris really doesn’t feel like facing Midori. She’s the most straightforward of the trio, and right now, that might be good or bad.

He unhooks Murasaki’s fingers from his elbow, whispering when her expression falls, “I don’t want to see Dori yet. I’ll get some crystals while you talk?”

Murasaki’s eyes crinkle. “Come back, okay?”

“I will,” he promises.

She lifts his hand to her lips, kissing the back of it. Her lips are cracked and rough; she needs to take better care of herself. “Thank you.”

He kisses the top of her head in return. “Be safe, until I get back.”

“Is that a threat?”

Aeris shrugs. Releases her fingers and walks away.

He can feel Murasaki’s amusement from behind him, fading away as the distance between them increases.

No, he may not remember much, and he may have messed things up spectacularly, but somehow, he is still loved and accepted.

Aeris doesn’t understand how, but love is a strange, fickle thing.

If only he could remember what it feels like himself. The real thing.

Something that doesn’t feel like an illusion about to shatter in the wind.

[panda-noosh]

To the Playing Field {Hunk x Reader}

Words: 12k 

Summary: The last thing you expect when coming to one of your brothers Pro-bending matches is to fall in love. 

Genre: angst - LoK!au 

Warning: Lance is a uhhhhh little shit 

Notes: masterlist  

+++

   Lance draws his shoulders back, wringing his hands in front of him. It’s not nerves - that much you know. It’s anticipation for the game ahead, the anticipation that always seems to thrum through your brother whenever he is standing upon the playing field, waiting for his opponent to make an appearance.

    His smile says it all. Even as you watch from the sidelines, you catch a glimpse of it, glimmering beneath the heavy spotlights that are currently beaming down on top of him, not letting any feature of his skin stay hidden. You can see that gleam in his eyes - the eyes that are identical to your own, and yet so different with the passion they hold. 

    The crowd screams, the echo so loud and boisterous that the ground beneath you shakes and you force yourself to hold onto Veronica’s arm to keep yourself steady. She’s laughing, giddy with the excitement of it all, clutching onto your hand not for stability but to keep herself from throwing her body into the playing field altogether, indulging in the attention that she once used to bare just as much as Lance - the two of them were the Pro-bending champions of the family, coming from a long-line of similar sportsmen. 

    You, on the other hand, had never once stepped foot onto a Pro-bending playing field with the intention of actually playing a game of Pro-bending; you much preferred your little sanctuary to the side, where you could watch and write from a nice, safe distance.

    The whistle howls above the crowd, barely audible over the screams of the onlookers. Lance looks around, still grinning from ear to ear, before his opponent is being announced.

     “Hunk Garrett, Earth bender!”

     You once thought it impossible that the crowd could get any louder, but were immediately proven wrong by the sudden belt of desire that shot from the stands. Your eyes widen, darting to the playing field just as the doors to the other side slide open, revealing Hunk Garrett in all of his glory.

    You had heard of him - almost everybody with a connection to Pro-bending had heard of him. The infamous Earth bender, famous for his confident aura and the skill he portrayed on the field. He had only been defeated a handful of times in the public eye, despite the fact that he had been playing this game almost his entire life. There was no records of anybody else in his family succeeding in Pro-bending, meaning Hunk had taught himself everything he knew.

     He steps out into the playing field, bows to the crowd only once before he is turning an eye on Lance and grinning from ear to ear, a grin that is unlike any you have ever seen before. It makes your knees weak, and you find yourself clutching to your older sister a little tighter just to keep yourself upright.

    The game begins. The screams never once cease, but there is a shift to them that shows just how invested the crowd is with this game.

   Hunk moves like a predator, feet easily gliding beneath him, dodging almost every blow that Lance shoots in his direction. He steps out of the main ring only once, but the game continues and his little mishap only seems to make him more determined to win - and win he shall.

     You feel guilty for thinking such a thing, but you can see from the way Lance’s smile fades and the way his movements get sloppier and sloppier throughout the game that the exhaustion will wear him out eventually, whether he gets tossed off the playing field or not. He balances precariously on the edge of the safe zone, shoots a water ball in Hunk’s direction, before he gasps and stumbles back. The buzzer goes off, and the commentator announces that the last round was won by no other than Hunk Garrett.

    “Oh god,” Veronica groans. “He’s going to be-”

   “What kind of rigged game was that?” Lance suddenly bursts, waving his arms around his head in agitation. You can see the sweat glistening from his collarbones, peaking up beneath the light blue collar of his gear. “I want a rematch!”

   “He’s making a scene,” Veronica hisses, shoving you forward. “Go and get him!”

    “Me?” you exclaim, before she shoves you once again and leaves you no choice but to wade over to your twin brother.

    He doesn’t even look at you as you approach, too busy screaming obscenities up at the announcer box. You cast a risky glance in Hunk’s direction; he’s bent over, retying his shoe laces but with a clear grimace of distress on his face, conjured up no doubt by the accusations Lance is currently throwing in his direction.

    You latch onto your brothers arm, startling him out of his rage. He whirls on you, eyes still narrowed and lip protruding in protest; you give him a flat glare that seems to bring him back to planet earth.

    “Did you see that?” he exclaims. “There was clearly something going on there - there was no way in hell-”

   “Let’s go, Lance,” you grumble, tugging his arm. “You lost this one, buddy. Just deal with it.”

    “Deal with it?”

    “Thank you to Y/N McClain, who seems to be dealing with the sore loser,” the commentator teases. You squeeze your eyes closed, feeling Lance tug on your arm in any attempt to run back to the centre of the playing field to continue his rant; you clutch his arm a little tighter, hiss “Don’t,” in his ear before you drag him back to Veronica, who takes matters into her own hands as soon as she can.

    You follow your siblings into the back room, but not before you risk a glance over your shoulder. Hunk is no longer standing there, having disappeared with his own team. A strange sense of disappointment washes over you, though you aren’t entirely sure why; you had never spoken to the man before, had only ever seen him play a handful of times. There was very little base for your disappointment to be built from.

    Besides, it wasn’t as if you could speak to him anyway. Not now. Not whenever it had been made deathly clear that Lance did not have the best opinion of his opponent.

    With a sigh and a final wave towards the still-buzzing crowd, you turn on your heel and follow your siblings to the wash room.

    +++

    “It’s ridiculous. You’d think the referee would show some loyalty after I’ve been training in his gym for my entire life!”

    You close your eyes, tilting your head back in agitation; this was all you had heard for the last hour, and it was beginning to drive you up a wall.

    Veronica stood in the doorway, watching Lance towel dry his hair with lazy swipes. You had seated yourself on the chair just outside the locker room, and could hear every single objection Lance was making.

     “Where do you actually think Hunk started cheating?” Veronica asks, clearly trying to tread carefully; she doesn’t want to make it seem like she thinks Lance is wrong, though she also doesn’t want to make it seem like she agrees with his claims.

    “The entire thing!” Lance exclaims. “Nobody can Pro-bend like that. It’s not possible. It’s not how the game works.”

    “So you admit that he might just be really good,” you point out, eyes still closed. “Even better than you?”

    A damp towel hits you in the face.

    “And where the hell is your loyalty?” he hisses.

    You roll your eyes, balling the towel up and tossing it onto the sofa beside you. “I just think you’re being a little over-dramatic, that’s all. Hunk might just be really good at what he does - it’s not too difficult to believe.”

    Lance scoffs, a sure sign that you have drawn him at a loss for words. He shoots you a glare before snatching the towel from the sofa, going back to drying his hair despite it already being fairly dry.

    You sigh and stand up; you don’t want to deal with this right now. You are tired, bones aching from standing around the arena all day. You had been there since the early morning, waiting for Lance to get prepared, waiting for him to greet his fans, waiting for the chance when you could finally sit down and write up your report on Pro-bending - a report which is still unwritten, the words still lingering in your mind with no means of escape.

    “I’m gonna go and get some food,” you announce. Veronica raises a brow at you, clearly concerned. It was rare that you and Lance fought, but there was no point in denying your sudden need to get away from him. 

    You give her a wary - hopefully comforting - smile in return and walk out the door, not waiting for Lance to pull his head from his ass and come to his senses.

    +++

    The wind is scarce today, barely a whisper despite the cold months that have impended upon you before you could prepare yourself; it brushes against your collar bones, which are on show through the low cut neck of your shirt. Your scarf lays in a bundle by your side, coiled in on itself like a terrified snake.

    Your notebook balances on your lap, but it is empty. No words are coming to your brain, the scenery before you doing little to trigger that usual spark of both motivation and inspiration when it comes to your writing. You are blessed in the fact that you don’t need to wait for inspiration to write - you just sit down and get it done when it needs to get done. You don’t technically need anything to write about - words are words at the end of the day.

    But today is different. Perhaps its the hectic activity of what happened, the argument you had just had with Lance, the exhaustion riddling itself within your bones.

    Or perhaps it is just Hunk Garrett, niggling away at your brain.

    It frustrates you to no ends. You had never spoken to the man in your life, and yet you sit on this bench outside of the arena with him playing on constant replay in your mind, refusing to leave you be for the few minutes it would take to get some decent content down on your reports of the day. Writing about him should be easy, considering you remember almost every single part of his match - the way he had moved so gracefully, the formations of his hand, the way the earth seemed to bend and shake purely to his will, as if he was some kind of master over it.

   In a way, you suppose he was.

    You sigh and snap your notebook closed, giving up at long last. The sun will be setting soon enough, and already Republic City was beginning to settle. The markets are closing up, people yelling their final farewells to friends.

     Republic City is always like this at night; peaceful, but with that slight hint of hostility that always keeps you on your toes. 

     “Excuse me.”

   Your head snaps up, a startled gasp escaping you. The gasp only seems more appropriate when you lay eyes upon the owner of the voice, your heart thundering in your chest at a million miles per hour as soon as you meet those big brown eyes that you had been looking at only an hour previous.

     Hunk smiles warmly, tilting his head to the side.

    You don’t smile back, feeling physically unable to do such a thing with him standing right there. You can smell the shower gel radiating off of him, a clear sign that he had at least washed up after his hectic match with your brother.

    “Hey!” you exclaim suddenly, the word ripping from your throat due to your inability to think of anything else to say.

    Hunk chuckles. “I was just - uh - getting some fresh air and there doesn’t seem to be any other benches around here. Care for some company?”

   You blink, staring up at him with your mouth slightly slack. He raises a brow, bringing you back to the surface of the earth.

    You hastily slide over, giving him room to take a seat of his own.

    He does so with a nod of thanks, folding his arms in his lap and gazing out at the same sight as you; the markets are disappearing, and you find yourself growing more and more worried that the lack of business is going to make the streets silence, is going to force you to make conversation with the complete stranger sat to your left. It is much easier said than done, considering you could scarcely believe he was sitting next to you in the first place.

    Lucky for you, he seems to be the talkative type, despite the exhausted drawl to his voice.

    “I saw you at the match today,” he says. “Standing on Lance’s side, mind you, but I saw you.” He chuckles.

    You wince. “Yeah... Lance is my twin brother.”

    “I thought you two looked alike. I didn’t want to make assumptions, though.”

    You wave the comment off with a shake of your head. “No, it’s alright. Not many people do.” You bite down on your lower lip, pondering on whether or not to dig up the elephant in the room. “I’m - uh - sorry about how he acted after the match ended. He gets like that sometimes - especially when he’s been working really hard for the victory.”

    Hunk shrugs as if Lance’s childish behaviour is no big deal, but you can see the strain in his shoulders when he does it. You can see the way he averts his gaze, the memory of your brothers idiotic actions clearly swaying him more than he cared to let on; you can’t blame him, considering how detrimental it would have been for his career if the commentators had genuinely believed Lance’s accusations.

     “We all get frustrated,” Hunk says. “We deal with it in different ways.”

     “What do you do when you lose a game?” you find yourself asking, genuinely curious.

    A ghost of a smile appears on Hunk’s lips. He lowers his head, looking down at the concrete beneath him; you watch as he idly kicks a stone back and forth, wringing his large and calloused hands in front of him.

    “I just try not to lose.”

    It’s silent after that, his words hanging loose between you. You want to ask so many more questions, all of which are balancing on the edge of your tongue, but you refrain from doing do, enjoying the peacefulness that comes with the closing of Republic City. 

     “Do you Pro-bend like your brother?”

    Your head snaps around. “Hm?”

    Hunk glances at you, a small smile still playing on his face. “Pro-bending. Do you play it? I know it runs in the family - Veronica McClain is your big sister, isn’t she?”

    You flush, looking away. Of course he would know that - everybody does. 

    “Yeah, she is,” you reply. “I don’t play, though. I’ve never been very good at it.”

    Hunk raises a brow. “I think it’s impossible for a McClain to not be good at Pro-bending.”

    “I guess I was just a glitch in the system,” you say with as much nonchalance and as much humour as you can muster, despite the slight jab it conjures up in your heart. 

    “Do you like writing, then?”

    You raise a brow. “How did you know that?”

   He nods towards the notebook laying closed in your lap. “I saw that and just kind of assumed...”

    “Oh!” You hastily pick the notebook up and stuff it into the pocket of your coat, smiling in embarrassment. “Uh - yeah. Writing is more my forte. The arts. Stuff like that.”

    “Do you draw?”

   “I doodle.” 

    “Doodle? Can you elaborate?”

    You shrug, picking idly at a loose thread on your jacket. “I just . . . Doodle. For fun. Little figures and creatures and stuff like that - things you’d find in the corner of a school kids text book or something.”

    Hunk nods thoughtfully, surprising you with how interested he seems in hearing about your hobbies. Nobody had ever taken such an interest before. Once they learn that you’re the sibling of Lance and Veronica McClain, the conversation instantly diverts. That’s what you have gotten used to, and so finding the words to describe your own hobbies is a little more difficult than you liked to admit.

      “That sounds like an awful lot of fun,” Hunk says. “Maybe you could teach me how to draw some day? And then I can teach you a bit about bending!”

    You raise a brow, trying desperately to cover the thumping of your heartbeat, the panic that arises in your throat at the mere suggestion. “I’m a water bender, you know. Not an earth bender.”

   He frowns, shoulders slumping. “Well, I could still teach you a thing or two. But only if you teach me how to draw.”

    “Why are you so interested in drawing?”

   Hunk shrugs. “I think art is a really cool skill to have - I was always more of a sports person.”

    “I gathered that.”

    “But I always admired the people who could draw, or write, or make music - they just seemed so cool and peaceful and mysterious.” He looks at you from the corner of his eye, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Kind of like you.” His eyes widen then, his back straightening as if somebody had just electrocuted him. “God, where are my manners? I’m Hunk, by the way.”

    You fluster, quickly trying to shake the hand he has protruded for you. “Y/N. Y/N McClain.”

    He grins. “I know. I heard the commentator saying your name over the loud speaker earlier on.”

    “For dragging Lance away,” you scoff, shaking your head in disbelief that such an action genuinely had to be taken today. “Again, sorry about that.”

    He shakes his head, waving a dismissive hand in your direction. “Don’t worry about it. I had a good time nonetheless. And besides, I never would have been able to sit down and have a good chat with you if he hadn’t been here today.”

    Despite yourself, you flush. Hunk thankfully turns away before the expression can be seen, but you feel your cheeks heating up nonetheless. You wring your hands between your knees, fighting off the urge to burst into a fit of uncontrollable, giddy giggles. 

    +++

    Lance looks most unhappy from the very moment he steps foot into the gym, and Hunk Garrett follows shortly after.

    You stand by the window, Veronica at your side, your arms folded over your chest as you examine the damage that will surely take place if Hunk so much as takes another glance in Lance’s direction; the two of them are clearly trying to stay as far from one another as possible, a deed which is done with difficulty due to the size of the gym.

    “Why did he think this gym would be the best one to go to?” Veronica hisses, sensing her little brothers agitation as he punches the bag hanging from the roof.

    You shake your head, at a loss for words. Lance had been training at this gym for years, and not once had you ever seen Hunk step foot within it. Why he decides that now is a good time to switch up his own training location is completely beyond you.

    But you aren’t entirely angry about it.

    You watch Hunk train, hoping and praying he doesn’t turn around and see you. That would only make Lance even more angry, and that is the last thing you need whenever he’s wearing boxing gloves, already pumped high on adrenaline. Nonetheless, you continue to stare at Hunk as he jabs at the boxing gloves on his trainers hands, bouncing back and forth with sweat glistening from beneath the bandanna he has wrapped around his forehead.

    It’s almost unconscious when you pull your sketchbook out from the pocket of your coat. It feels heavy in your hands, very rarely making an appearance when others are around; you will gladly write in public, but drawing and sketching is another matter entirely. Your lack of confidence in your own abilities for the art often keeps you from drawing in front of people, which is the only reason why Veronica shoots you a confused glare when she sees you tugging the matted, thick book from your pocket.

    You smile shyly at her and make your way towards the benches at the side, leaving her to her own devices. She won’t care, you tell yourself. Though she insisted on trying to include you in things like this, it’s no secret that she’s much better off concentrating on Lance - she knows more about Lance’s hobbies than she ever will your own.

    You fold your legs over one another, take a pencil out of your jean pocket and open the sketch book - and there, you start to draw.

    For the first time in your entire life, the sketching comes easier than writing. You remember the conversation you and Hunk had shared the previous day, how interested he had seemed in the fact that you could draw, as mediocre as your sketches often were. He had looked at you in the way that Lance’s fans always looked at him - in awe, as if you were doing something he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around.

    Perhaps that is the reason you have this sudden burst of confidence, why your hand is suddenly sprawling across the page, blotting tiny little, pointless doodles all over the page - a smiley face here, a pair of hanging boxing gloves there, a tiny little fox face in the corner that makes you smile when you look at the finished product.

    “So that’s what you meant by doodling.”

   You look up slowly, hand instinctively creeping up the page in your attempts to cover as much of the sketches as you possibly can. Hunk is standing over you, sipping nonchalantly at a bottle of water with a smile on his face - that stupid smile that he had showed so much last night, the smile that was gradually making your insides turn to water.

    Without invitation this time, he sits down beside you and glanced over your shoulder. He has a manly smell to him, like sweat and adrenaline.

    “Now I definitely want you to teach me how to do that,” he says.

    “It’s not that good. I just got bored of watching you all train,” you reply, trying to subtly close the sketchbook.

   Hunk notices your hand pushing at the cover and frowns, shocking you when he reaches out and nudges your fingers away. He leans impossibly closer - if he were just a little bit shorter, his chin would have been resting in the crook of your neck. Instead, you have to suffer through the overwhelming emotions that come with having his arm brush against yours, have his lips inches away from your ears, his breath tickling the back of your neck like the wind that had swayed the trees yesterday night when you and him had-

    “Ooh!” he exclaims, startling you out of your stupor as he jabs a finger towards the fox face imprinted in the corner of the page. “I like that one! You have to teach me how to draw that one!”

   You frown. “It’s - uh - It’s not difficult.” And before you can shy away and back out, you hand Hunk your pencil and slap the sketchbook against his knee. The action clearly startles him as he looks at you for reassurance that it’s okay, that he can indeed touch the precious little book in his lap - you smile and nod, watch as his shoulders seem to diffuse before he grips the pencil tight in his large hands and starts drawing.

    You watch him with a smile on your face, trying to resist the urge to giggle at how concentrated he is - halfway through his tiny sketch, his tongue peeks out from between his lips. Absently, he starts scratching at the back of his head, tilting the book back and forth to get a better view of what he is drawing.

   “You know, if you think too much about it, it’s not really a doodle,” you say.

   He looks up, eyes blown out with concentration. “What?”

   You point to your loose sketches as an example. “A doodle. The whole point of it is that you don’t concentrate too much - if you make a mistake, you just work with it.”

    “But I want to draw a fox.”

    “Do you also want to doodle?”

   He frowns, narrowing his eyes in a way that makes you chuckle. “Yes, but I thought doodling was just-”

    “Doodling is the art of letting your mind wander,” you say, grabbing the sketchbook from his grip and perching it on your own knee. You grab the pencil and start drawing. Line after line, thinking only of Hunk’s close proximity. It takes your mind off of the act at hand, allowing you to draw the most bizarre of things. Hunk awes over your shoulder; you can hear the quiet murmurings of “woah...” as he watches your hand drift idly across the page.

    Finally, you finish and show him the book. He takes it from you, stares at the little doodles with wide eyes and an open mouth; you nearly laugh, unsure as to why he finds such simple things so astonishing.

    “Wow,” he repeats, shaking his head dumbly. “I wanna be able to do that.”

   You giggle, patting his arm in faux sympathy. “You’ll learn eventually. But I think your coach is looking for you.” You nod towards the small woman standing on the sidelines, impatiently glancing down at the electronic watch on her wrist. She looks up, meets Hunks eye and gestures towards the mat in which she was standing on.

   Hunk sighs, handing you back the sketchbook. “I guess I need to get going. I’ll see you at the match today, won’t I?”

   You falter. Lance wasn’t playing today, meaning you have no intentions of showing up - but now that you know Hunk will be the one in the ring, a part of you is tempted.

   “I’ll see if I can make time,” you say, settling for the easiest thing. “Good luck.”

    He smiles. “Thanks. Hopefully I won’t need it.” With one final grin, he stands up and heads towards his coach, leaving you to stare after him in both confusion and awe.

    He is completely different to how you had originally expected - there is something shy about him, as if he isn’t quite yet adept to talking to strangers. It is a direct clash to the confident aura he always portrays when he steps out onto the playing field, whenever he is playing the game that he loves. 

    You hum to yourself, looking back down at the sketchbook in your lap. It only occurs to you then that you had just handed Hunk this very book multiple times, with little to no hesitation in your movements.

   The realisation leaves you stunned for a moment too long; in your time of reflection, you neglect the fact that Lance and Veronica are standing only a few feet in front of you, staring at you with wide eyes. It is only when Lance marches over to you, snatches the sketchbook out of your arms and starts yelling in his usual over-dramatic way do you realise what had really just happened.

    You reach up and snatch the sketchbook back, pressing it tight to your chest. Veronica rushes over, grabs Lance’s arms and tries to calm him down, but the man is furious - you hadn’t even realised that you had been speaking to Hunk directly in front of him. Honestly, you truly hadn’t cared all that much at the time.

    “Would you shut up?” you finally hiss, the sound of Lance’s voice giving you a headache.

   “Loyalty, Y/N! Loyalty! That’s all I freaking ask for these days, and I can’t even trust my twin to give me that!”

    “You’re so over dramatic!” you exclaim, throwing your hands up. It is one of the few similarities you and Lance actually have - you can never yell at someone with a static posture. “We were just talking about my drawings, okay? It’s nothing for you to get in your feelings about!”

   “Look, I’m sure Lance understands that, Y/N-” Veronica begins, trying to wedge herself between you and Lance but to no avail, as Lance bumps her away and continues to yell in your face.

    “He’s the opposition, you idiot! He doesn’t want to talk to you because of your damn personality - he wants information! He wants to know what my next move is!”

    Anger courses through you. “Oh, really? Because I’m just so boring and uninteresting that people only ever want to talk to me when it’s about you, huh? Is that it?”

    “Y/N-”

   “Veronica, stay out of this!” You spin on Lance again, eyes burning with a fury you hadn’t even realised you could possess, let alone genuinely use. “You are a selfish, annoying, spoilt little bastard, and if you think you can stand there and choose who I can be friends with, then you are very, very much mistaken!”

    Lance scoffs. “I can’t believe you’re that easy. Somebody shows you the briefest bit of attention and suddenly you’re ready to throw your entire family under the bus. It’s embarrassing.”

    You slap him before you can think better of it. 

    There are no words for your horror, for the anger still coursing through you as your hand burns with the impact. Lance jerks back, stumbling into Veronica who promptly lets him fall to the floor, her arms gone limp with the shock clearly sparking through her body at what just happened. You look down at your palm, bright red and throbbing, and only then does the realisation dawn on you.

    Your jaw drops open, eyes darting to Lance who lays curled up on the floor, cupping his cheek, trying to calm his breathing. When you were children, you used to always fight - Lance would pull your hair and shove you into walls, and you would throw toys at him and knot your hairbrush in his thick brown locks - but he’s older now, knows he can’t just swivel up and start shoving you into walls to get his own way.

    You’re thankful whenever Hunk’s fingers wrap around your upper arm and start tugging you towards the door. You don’t fight in his grip, but you don’t take your eyes off Lance, either. You catch the briefest glimpse of him uncurling, shooting you a glare over his shoulder before he slams his hand into the floor, causing rockets of water to shoot out from the pipes beneath the ground.

    Almost like a warning.

    +++

      The frustration does not clear when Hunk finally manages to tug you into the fresh air and far away from the gym.

    It still brews in the pit of your stomach, causing you to throw your sketchbook to the ground, following shortly after it. Your knees are weak, giving in beneath you.

    Hunk sighs, running a hand through his brown hair. In the aftermath of the ordeal, you had barely even noticed his presence, but can feel yourself growing more and more comforted as the time passes and your breathing calms down.

    “I hate it all,” you say, unsure why you were speaking but needing to vent nonetheless. If Hunk is bothered by your sudden confession, he does little to show for it. In fact, he stands over you, crosses his arms over his chest and listens intently.

    Just like he always had done.

    “I can’t help it that I’m not as invested in this damn sport as he is,” you continue, clenching your fists in your jeans. “I’m not gonna stop being friends with somebody just because he thinks it’ll damage his damn chances of winning - god, that’s all he cares about nowadays. Getting the highest score, winning his next match - and he thinks that’s all I should care about, as well.”

    Hunk slowly kneels down beside you. His fingertips brush over your shoulder blade when he pushes your hair back away from the nape of your neck, allowing the wind to whisper against your flesh and force goosebumps upon your skin.

    You shudder, tugging your arms tighter around yourself. You hear Hunk sigh again, before he lowers himself fully to the ground beside you and wraps his oversized coat over your shoulder.

    You don’t protest, though it is in your nature to do so. Anybody showing you the briefest glimpse of kindness often made you flustered, and you would insist on doing things by yourself - but now, you simply nuzzle deeper into the warmth his coat provides, not caring about humility.

    “He’ll come around,” Hunk finally says. “I just - I really hope you don’t stop talking to me just because of what he said back there. I didn’t become your friend just because I want answers.”

    “I know,” you say, because you do. As reasonable as Lance’s worries were, you somehow feel like Hunk would never do such a thing. “I know that.”

    He nods slowly, following your gaze out into the darkening scene of Republic City. It’s a beautiful sight, even now. With the winter months slowly impending, the sun had not been present for very long, meaning it was growing dimmer and dimmer even earlier than usual; there was even a slight sheen of fog drifting carelessly over the horizon, making it even darker.

    “I don’t want to be the reason you and Lance fall out,” Hunk says suddenly, startling you.

    You turn to him. “If me and Lance fall out over this, it’s because of him. You have no part in it.”

    “But I’m the reason behind your argument.”

   “So? You can’t help that. It was Lance’s choice to start an entire riot over something so simple.” You shrug, the words tasting acidic - it had been an awfully long time since you had spoken about Lance in such a way, always too afraid of setting him off to really risk it. For years, you had kept your mouth shut when he would take one of his tantrums, when the training would get into his head and push him further down the gutter. In fact, you had done that with all of your siblings, because Pro-bending was a sport that messed with peoples brains both negatively and positively - it made them angry, and for years, you had just dealt with it as if it was nothing more than second nature.

    You glance over at Hunk with a heavy heart - he can’t be the same. He just can’t be. He sat beside you, listened to you, spoke to you, took a genuine interest in the things you told him about. Not once had he become hostile, or showed any signs of short tolerance. 

    Without really meaning to, you find yourself shuffling closer to him. It’s not a subtle movement, the coat getting bundled up beneath you so that you’re forced to tug it loose before continuing on - but eventually, Hunk gets the idea and wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you gently into his side where he rests his head against the top of yours - a friendly gesture, one to preserve heat, but one that makes your heart speed up nonetheless.

    Together, the both of you calm down. With the help of each others presence and the calming sway of the horizon, you are able to come back to earth and gain a much needed peace of mind.

    +++

    “It’s not much, but I don’t really need anything fancy.” Hunk sounds nervous when he speaks, awkwardly wringing his hands in front of him as he lets you through the door of his gym, standing to the side to let you get a full view of the room you had just walked in to.

     It is nothing staggering, but you hadn’t been expecting anything like that. There is the usual equipment set up around the place, punching bags hung up on the walls, ladders trailing up to the roof that look most dangerous. The roof is high, the double doors opened to reveal a kitchen on the other side.

    Hunk steps up beside you, places a warm hand on your arm. You turn to look at him, and he smiles faintly. “I can take your coat if you want.”

    You smile gratefully, shucking your coat off of your shoulders and watching as he does a funny little jog towards the other side of the room. He makes his way back to you, and it is then that you realise you have no idea why you’re here.

    He had invited you only out of courtesy, purely so you didn’t have to go back and face Lance in your time of hostility; you had agreed for the same reason. You didn’t want to go back to Lance and try and patch things up - not right now, not whenever your anger is still burning hot in your stomach and was yet to be extinguished.

   “So, are you gonna show me a thing or two now that we’re here?” you ask, taking even yourself by surprise with the boldness of your words.

    Hunk glances at you, that smile forming on his face. He chuckles and shrugs casually, before turning on his heel and walking towards the equipment rack on the far side of the room.

    “You know, I really shouldn’t be giving away my tricks,” he says, tugging a pair of Pro-bending gloves from the rack. “Especially to a water bender.”

    “I’m also your opponents sibling,” you point out, taking the gloves from his hands and tugging them on your own. “That’s probably going to get you in even more trouble.”

   Hunk grins. “Well, you taught me how to doodle. This is the least I can do.”

    “I showed you some of my own. Doodling isn’t something you can teach.”

    Hunk raises a brow. “And neither is Pro-bending.” And before you can react, before you can even grasp a hold of what his intentions are, the earth judders beneath your feet. He slams his foot into the ground, causing a large chunk of concrete to suddenly burst beneath you, sending you sprawling across the plush mat you had been standing on only seconds before.

    You are dazed. One moment you were staring into the beautiful brown eyes of Hunk Garrett, and the next you’re staring up at the ceiling, barely registering how you had gotten there in the first place.

    It’s Hunk’s laughter that brings you back to the present. You scramble back onto your feet, clenching your fists in the way you had seen Lance and Veronica do so often - you conjure up your water bending, but even simple bending comes as a difficult task for somebody who practised it so little. 

    Nonetheless, you were still a McClain. Using your bending to it’s abilities was simply in your blood, and you use it to your advantage now.

    The walls burst around you, the pipes within them exploding. Hunk gasps at the suddenness of it, tries to block off some of the flow with the concrete he has control over, but it does very little. Water droplets shift around the fresh concrete slabs, soaking Hunk to the point where his brown hair is hanging in tatters around his head, his bandanna doing little to keep the strands out of his eyes.

    You grin when he turns to look at you, a grimace on his face. 

    “Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting that.”

    You shrug nonchalantly, despite the pounding of your heart. “I guess I’m just full of surprises.”

   “Mm.” Hunk stomps his foot again, sending another tide of cobbles in your direction. You yelp, trying to dodge as many as you can, but they chase after you like a hornet. A rock slams into your calve, and you groan as you fall to one knee on the mat.

    Immediately, the spray of cobbles stop. You look up hesitantly, not entirely sure whether it is safe to do so, but too curious to keep your head down for any longer. Hunk is standing over you, fists clenched. It is clear that he is still controlling the cobbles, as they hover in mid air around you, waiting for Hunk to release the pressure so they can continue their pummelling of your body.

    You take a shaky breath in. “Thank you.”

   He nods, whisking his hand through the air. The cobbles drop and sink back into the floor, and the room goes silent, the only noise being the heavy breathing of you and Hunk.

    You close your eyes and slump back against the mat; Pro-bending still was most definitely not your game of choice, but the freedom that came with it was one that could potentially become addicting - though you had never been restricted with your bending whilst growing up, the fact that you could bend was never something that interested you all that much - you ignored that side of you, using it only when necessary.

    Hunk slumps down beside you. “You’re better than I thought you would be.”

   “Did you think I’d be bad?”

    “I think it’s impossible for a McClain to be bad,” he assures. “But I definitely wasn’t expecting that. You owe me some new piping.”

   You flush, glancing at the walls. You had yet to gain the skill to conjure water from nowhere, meaning you had been forced to extract the water from the pipes for any punch - but it was worth it, in your opinion.

   “I’ll get you some more,” you promise. “Once I can - uh - afford it.”

   Hunk chuckles, nudging your arm. “I’m only joking. Seeing you bend like that was worth the plumbing damage anyway.”

    He stands up, stretching out his back muscles with a dramatic twist of his torso. You watch him closely, unable to take your eyes from the back of his shirt; the material is only thin, allowing you to see the ripple of muscles through it. The muscles are only more pronounced as he twists his torso to and fro. You can scarcely keep your eyes to yourself, and the sight of it alone is enough to make you flush.

    Hunk turns, catches your eye and immediately goes bright red. You jerk back when your eyes meet, quickly averting your gaze to the floor in which you sit on in any attempt to feign nonchalance. The heat rising to your cheeks is enough to give you away, though, and you silently curse yourself for being so careless.

    Hunk grunts when he sits back down, surprising you by taking your hand in his own. He grabs you by the wrist, drags your arm forward until your hand is resting comfortably in his lap. From there, he starts to trace tiny little patterns on your palm. It tickles, and yet you don’t move nor pull away, too absorbed in watching this odd little show of affection to do anything of the sort.

    He’s concentrating again. You can see it in the strain of his shoulders, the way his tongue slowly makes its way from between his lips, the way his eyes narrow. He pulls back, examines your palm as if he can see exactly what it was he had been tracing, before he grimaces and dives back in, continuing to trace the strange and random shapes onto your flesh.

    “What are you doing?” You aren’t sure why the word comes out as a whisper, but it does, and for a second, you’re not even sure Hunk hears you. He continues his movements, pulls away and examines his invisible lines before he looks up at you and smiles.

   “I’m doodling.” He then pretends to shush you, before going back to his illustrations.

    You close your eyes, losing yourself in the feel of his fingers tracing idle patterns into your flesh; it’s oddly relaxing, but perhaps that is only because it is Hunk who is doing it. His hands are calloused, rough against your smooth palm, but you don’t mind. In fact, it only makes sense. 

     “What are you drawing?” you ask after a moment of peaceful silence.

    Hunk hums, narrowing his eyes and blowing upon your skin as if getting rid of eraser shavings; you roll your eyes, shaking your hand in his grip to get his attention.

   “What are you drawing?” you repeat.

    “You and me,” he replies, taking you by surprise. “In chibi form, I believe. I don’t think I can do a full portrait just yet - especially not on hands as small as yours.”

   “My hands aren’t small. Yours are just big.”

   “So I’ve been told,” he says, looking down at his massive palms and frowning. He shrugs, going back to his doodling. “Keep still, though. Your skin is prickling.”

   “I can’t help that,” you chuckle. “You’re tickling me.”

   “No, I am not.”

   “Yes you are! Your finger tickles every time it passes over that fleshy part,” you say, pointing to the fleshy part of your palm. “I’m ticklish, as well, so that doesn’t help.”

    Almost as soon as you say it, you realise your mistake. His fingers pause, his breathing suddenly stopping short as he intakes exactly what you had just told him; terror floods your body, and before you can think better of it, you are trying desperately to wriggle out of his grip and get as far away from him as possible.

    “Ah, ah, ah!” he exclaims, grabbing your ankle before you can even reach the end of the mat. You squeal, falling flat on your stomach, allowing him the perfect chance to drag you back towards him by the foot he has firm in his grip. 

    “Hunk Garrett, let go of me right now!” you cry out, thrashing around on the mat in any attempt to get away from him. 

    He simply laughs, tugging you backwards until your feet are wrapped around his middle and his hands have perfect access to your rib cage - which he takes immediate advantage of. You yell and thrash, rolling to and fro, kicking out wildly in any attempt to get away, but his grip is too strong. He digs his fingers into your sides, pokes and prods until there are tears streaming down your face and your throat is hoarse from screaming. 

     You finally manage to roll over onto your back. Hunk stumbles, falling forward and only catching himself when he presses his hand to the mat by your head; the world goes still.

    Your screaming has stopped. Hunk’s attack has stopped, and now it is just the two of you, staring at one another as if afraid to even breathe, to move, to say anything in fear of ruining the moment.

    Whatever moment this is.

   He inhales deeply, staring down at you in a way that you have never seen before. 

    “You - You said you were ticklish,” he whispers.

    You nod slowly, not once taking your eyes from his. “I am.”

    He nods just as slow. You watch the way his eyes travel from your own to your lips, resting there. He swallows thickly, Adams apple bobbing in a show of nerves and lust and need - the same emotions you feel in this very moment.

    You want him to hurry up. You want to wound your hands in his oh-so-thin shirt and pull him down until his lips are smashed against your own and you can officially say you don’t care about anything, but you don’t. Your hands stay pinned to your side, nerves paralysing you for the time being.

    Hunk speaks, but his voice is barely heard over the thumping of your heart. The fact that he is whispering does very little to help the situation. “Can I - Could we - Do you want to kiss right now?”

     He doesn’t give you a chance to reply. His eyes widen at his own words, and he jerks away from you before you can give him a proper affirmative. He moves so fast that he ends up falling, feet tangling in the plastic of the mat until he falls flat on his back and grunts.

   “Oh god,” he mumbles. “That was so stupid. I’m so sorry. I didn’t meant to say that. It just kind of - god, please don’t think I’m weird. I’m not usually so forward, but you’re just - like - really, really different, and I don’t know why I get this way when I’m around you, but-”

    You sit up straight and lunge forward, grabbing his collar and pulling him towards you. His words are swallowed by the kiss you plant firmly on his lips, savouring the feeling that comes along with it. He gasps against your mouth, but you feel him physically relax just as fast - the muscles of his back ease beneath your fingertips, and eventually his hands are winding themselves around your waist, tugging you closer to him.

    And just for this moment, you forget about Lance, and you forget about all the worries and the struggles that come along with being in the spotlight - you just let yourself melt against Hunk, feeling safe and warm in the tight embrace he holds you in, as if afraid of letting you go.

   Lucky for him, you don’t want him to let go.

    +++

    “And where the hell were you last night?”

    Lance’s voice is the first thing you hear when you step into your house the next day. Headache already bad enough from sleeping on the floor - though it was still pleasant, considering Hunk had been cuddled up next to you - hearing Lance scream and argue was not something you were up to dealing with today.

    You slip your coat from your shoulders, tugging your shoes off at the same time. Veronica is the first down the stairs, clearly trying to put a little space between you and your twin brother, but there truly is no point. You can hear Lance yelling from the top of the staircase, making his concerns very well known.

    “Not even a phone call, Y/N? You couldn’t even spare us a damn phone call?”

   “Can you shut up?” you grunt. “I’m hungry. What food have we got left in the house?”

   “Food is the last thing you should be worrying about,” Veronica growls, taking you by surprise when she grabs your arm before you can step foot into the kitchen. You raise a brow, looking at her in concern - it was rare that Veronica ever spoke like this, as if she were truly angry at something. You aren’t entirely sure if she is particularly angry, but there is still a certain lilt to her voice that stops you dead in your tracks.

    “What is it?” you ask, looking up when Lance finally rounds the corner. He doesn’t have the expected angered expression on his face, but instead walks in with a skip in his step and smirk on his face. Veronica takes one glimpse at him, shakes her head and turns back to you.

   “This idiot decided to organise a Pro-bending match with Hunk - a physical one.”

    Your eyes widen, snapping over to Lance who has now proudly waded towards the fridge, still smirking with his head held high.

   “You what?”

   He shrugs. “Hunk messed with my family. That’s just how us Pro-benders settle things these days.”

   “Lance, you can’t be serious,” you nearly wail, breaking out of Veronica’s grip and stumbling towards him, grabbing the back of his arm in any attempt to get his attention. “You’re gonna get seriously hurt if you go through with this.”

   “And there it is again!” he exclaims. “Forever the tone of surprise with you, isn’t it? What makes you think I can’t win?”

   “The fact that you lost last time, you idiot,” Veronica hisses. You are startled by the fact that she has suddenly decided to take your side, but don’t play too much on it in fear of her turning the tables out of nowhere.

    Lance shrugs. “That was in a controlled, professional environment - just wait until we actually fight and are allowed to do stuff - he’ll be on the floor in seconds.”

   You grip your stomach, suddenly feeling ill. “Lance, please don’t do this. It’s pointless. Hunk did nothing wrong.”

   “He cheated.”

   “Oh for - You lost a match! Why is that so difficult for you to understand?”

    “You’re only sticking up for him because he took an interest in your stupid sketchbook!” Lance whirls around, face inches from your own. “Am I the only one here who actually realises the severity of cheating in a Pro-bending match? It’s my career on the line, and it’s my career that I’m protecting! I’m sorry that this family is falling apart so much that you can’t support me with that.”

    You grit your teeth, trying to ignore the sting that comes with his words. He pushes past you, glares at Veronica before he makes his way upstairs, glass of milk trembling in his hands. You desperately want to call after him, try your hardest to persuade him to change his mind one last time - but you don’t move. You simply glare at the still open refrigerator, trying desperately to catch your breath and stop yourself from screaming at the top of your lungs.

    How you had gone from a perfect night in Hunk’s arms, to now wanting nothing more than to rip your hair out strand by strand, was completely beyond you - but the shift was giving you a headache. You needed to sleep.

    +++

    Hunk looks ethereal when he trains, when he doesn’t know that somebody is standing back, watching him closely.

    There’s that familiar look of concentration playing on his features, the one you had seen only a handful of times. Every time he held your pencil in his hand, the look would appear, causing you to giggle with just how adorable he looked.

    Now, he has that same expression on his face. Tongue peaking out from between his teeth, eyes narrowed in concentration. He kicks at the punching bag, grunts, stumbles back and readies himself for another swing.

    You stand by the door, arms folded over your chest and heart racing behind your rib cage. You had arrived with the intention of talking to him, try to desperately get him to back out of this fight with Lance, but you allow yourself a moment to simply stare at him now, basking in the way he seems to calm when nobody is yelling orders at him, telling him to push himself impossibly harder.

    You don’t realise how long you’ve been standing there until Hunk is turning over his shoulder and catching your eye. You spring up when you make the eye contact, smile shyly and give him a small wave, trying desperately to pretend like you had only just arrived.

    Hunk smiles back, reaching out to steady the swaying punching bag. “Hey! What are you doing here?”

   You step forward, are taken by surprise when Hunk reaches out, wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you in for a kiss. It’s small and quick, and you can smell the sweat rolling from his skin, but it soothes you nonetheless.

    “I came to talk to you,” you reply once he pulls away. 

    He frowns. “That’s never a good sign.”

   “It’s . . . Not that,” you promise, though your tone of voice still indicates that something is plaguing your mind. Hunk keeps his frown on his face, one hand still spread out on the punching bag, the other resting idly on your waist.

    “Y/N...,” he starts, tilting his head forward to meet your eyes. “This is about the Lance fight, isn’t it?”

    Your breath hitches, eyes snapping up. “So you know about it.”

   “Of course I do. His coach gave me the offer yesterday morning.”

   “And you took it?”

    Hunk shrugs, turning away and busying himself with his sweat towel. “I had to. Imagine what the press would say if I backed out of an offer like that.”

    “Hunk!” you exclaim, jumping forward and grabbing his arm. “Screw what the press are going to say! You could get hurt - so could Lance!”

    “That’s what Pro-bending is.” He smiles. You want to punch him. “Look, it’s not going to be anything major. Neither of us are going to die, and I honestly think your brother is just dragging out this fight for the attention. I can play into his game for as long as he wants.”

    You grit your teeth. “No, he’s serious. He genuinely wants to hurt you.”

    He shrugs. “Not the first time somebody’s wanted to punch my face in.”

    You groan, winding your hands in your hair; why were these Pro-benders so difficult to get through to? Why were they so oblivious to their own safety?

    “So you’re really willing to break bones just so the press won’t see you as a coward?”

    “I’m doing this for Lance,” he corrects. “He wants to have some public drama to get his name out there, then who am I to take that from him?”

    “And what if I ask you not to do it?”

    Hunk halts, the towel draped loosely round his shoulders; you watch him closely, the tension that suddenly makes its way up through his spine, the way he stiffens at the words. He’s contemplating it, you can see, but even from where you’re standing, and even though you can’t see his face, you know that your opinion will have no affect on the final outcome.

    “You’re still gonna fight, aren’t you?” you choke out, unable to bare just weak your voice sounds, but unable to cover it with any other emotion.

    Hunk turns towards you, reaches out hesitantly. “Y/N, you’ve gotta understand. You’ve never been in this situation before-”

   You pull away before he can touch you. “No, of course not. Don’t listen to silly old Y/N when it comes to Pro-bending.” You grit your teeth, glare at him. “Nobody ever does.” With that, you spin on your heel and leave the gym, not once looking back to see how your words had affected them, whether he has the expression of somebody who cares or whether he just turned back to his training, brushing off your statement like it was nothing.

   +++

    The day of the fight comes much too fast for your liking.

    You stand on the sidelines, Veronica by your side, as per usual. Your older brother Luis stands on your other side, wearing a shirt with Lance’s face printed on the front. 

    “The McClains have got to support each other,” he had said, grinning from ear to ear.

    You hold your notebook tight to your chest, staring at the other side of the playing field - the opponents side of the field, where Hunk will soon be standing, giving out his usual fan service as he waits for the match to begin. The crowd, surprisingly, is fairly quiet this time, tension surrounding the stands that has the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end; nobody in the room is on friendly terms, by the feel of things.

    “Why do you look so tense?” Luis asks, suddenly.

    Your eyes snap over to him, an eyebrow raised. “What?”

    “You look tense,” he repeats, shifting behind you so he can dig his thumbs between your shoulder blades in that way he always used to do when you were little. This time, you grumble and squirm from his grip, stumbling into Veronica in your high-stake attempts to get away.

    Luis raises a brow. “You’re not worried for Lance, are you?”

   “Leave them alone,” Veronica grunts, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “It’s that Hunk kid they’re worried about. Them two have been getting close recently.”

    You flush when Luis’s eyes widen. “Are you serious? Are you the first of the McClain twins to actually get in a relationship?”

   “Shut up,” you growl. “I’m worried for Lance, by the way. He’s my brother.”

   You aren’t particularly lying, because you certainly are worried for Lance. Your twin brother, your promised lifelong friend - he meant everything to you. But on the same wave length, you and Hunk have grown exceptionally close over the past few weeks, and you would be lying to claim that you did not feel a tiny glimmer of anxiety on his part.

    More than a tiny glimmer, but that was something you refused to admit to your two older siblings, who had now taken to teasing you about your little crush on the man who would soon be facing your brother in an intense game of Pro-bending that could potentially land the both of them in hospital.

    You had tried, in vain, the previous night to make Lance see sense, refusing to leave his room until Veronica had to come in and physically drag you from his bed. The two of you had yelled at each other, you even throwing a shoe into his wall that had startled the house awake - nobody but Veronica had come to check on you though, used to the blow outs by now.

    But he had kept his stubborn head and refused to pay attention to any of your warnings. It had been expected, but you were disappointed nonetheless.

    The match starts at 9:00pm on the dot. The sun having long since gone down, the windows blocked with majestic drapes to give the arena a spooky vibe to it, and the crowd is feeling the aura. The whispers begin when the lights dim and the referee steps out onto the playing field, a microphone already in his long and bony fingers, his moustache twitching with the excitement.

    “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the night you have all been waiting for! Please prepare yourselves for the fight of Lance McClain and Hunk Garrett!” 

   The crowd don’t scream. They stay utterly still, whispers flying through the air like a fresh breeze.

    The referee continues his usual speech, but you block it out. You find yourself gripping tightly to Veronica’s sleeve with one hand, Luis’s sleeve with the other, trying to stabilise yourself between your two older siblings.

    And then Lance steps out, and that’s when the cries start.

    People spring up from their seats, cheering both for and against him. Through the deafening sound of acceptance, you make out the “Boo’s” and the heckles for him to get off the playing field and accept his previous defeat. Lance pays no attention to them people, though, and instead keeps his eyes trained firm on the centre of the field, walking directly into the starting circle.

    Hunk follows after. The screams get louder, the hecklers get more enthusiastic, but again, Hunk pays them no attention. His brown eyes are firm on Lance when he steps into the field, and it takes every fibre of your strength to not call out for him.

    “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Veronica whispers. “He’s going to get himself killed.”

    You bite down on your bottom lip and swat her words away - you have faith. Faith in Lance’s ability, faith in his common sense that he might just back out before the final bell rings.

    But you know you’re reaching for straws at this point; Lance is determined, stands in front of Hunk with a snarl on his face, a direct contrast to the cocky smirk you usually see plastered on his features during a match.

    And then the bell sounds, and the world erupts.

   You can’t keep track of what is happening. There’s too much going on, with Hunk diving left and right with a gracefulness that somebody of his size should not possess. Lance is the same, skittering around the playing field like a cat chasing a mouse.

    Water erupts from nowhere. Pieces of the earth are flying through the air. Buzzers are going off as the two of them step out of bounds, but neither of them care to stop once the referee shouts for time - they’re too invested in trying to hurt one another, a fact which becomes clear when Lance is knocked clean off the playing field, only for him to crawl back on, snarl, “You’re gonna pay,” before he pushes his hands forward, sending a wave of water in Hunk’s direction.

    “What is he doing?” Luis exclaims. “What are either of them doing? The referee’s called time about six times!”

   “They’re not Pro-bending any more,” Veronica replies, mortified at the violent sight before her. “They’re just fighting each other.”

   “Oh god,” you exclaim. “Somebody has to - ugh!”

    You don’t finish your sentence, because the realisation dawns on you almost immediately. You toss yourself forward before either Veronica or Luis can get a hold of you, throwing yourself onto the ramp that leads directly onto the playing field. People gasp at the sight of you - the infamous Y/N McClain, the twin that Lance always talks about, the twin that rarely shows their face. Yet here you were, climbing up onto the playing field with little to no care about the crowd or the danger you’re about to walk into.

    Hunk sees you first. His eyes meet yours, widen, and he starts to yell, but his words are cut off by a wave slamming into him. He flies backwards, directly off the end of the dais, making your heart lurch in your throat.

    Lance spins around to face you, having notices Hunk’s attention slip at the last minute, but you run right past him and slide on your knees, gripping the edge of the playing field to look down at Hunk - his form is crumpled, and it does not take a medical degree to see that he just broken his leg.

    “Hunk!” you cry, before spinning around to face Lance. “Get a medic!” 

    Despite the competition, his anger towards Hunk, Lance’s eyes widen in panic at the request. He hastily nods, spins on his heel and sprints back into the back rooms, crying out for a medic.

    You slip down off of the playing field and grab Hunk by the shoulders. He hisses, eyes sliding open to look at you.

    “What do you think you’re doing?” he grunts. “You could have gotten yourself killed.”

    You shake your head, brushing soaked strands of hair out of his face. “What did you think I was trying to tell you yesterday, you idiot?”

    He stares at you for a moment longer, shakes his head and slumps his head against your lap, letting his eyes slip closed as the pain from his broken bone finally ushers him into silence.

    +++

     “Is he okay?”

    You turn, giving Lance a mere glance just so he knows you heard him. He stands in the doorway of the hospital room, chewing nervously on his bottom lip as he stares at the sleeping form of Hunk, laying still in the bed.

    “He’s fine. Just resting,” you assure. “You finally feel bad now?”

    He sighs and steps into the room, kneeling down beside your chair. “I didn’t think it would get like that.”

    “You could have stopped it, you know. It wouldn’t have taken much to just say ‘I’m out.’”

    Lance sighs. “You don’t get it, Y/N. You aren’t a Pro-bender. You don’t know what it feels like to face the scrutiny of the public when you back out of a game like that.”

    “I know. I know I don’t understand.” And maybe that is something you need to start remembering - at the end of the day, it wasn’t you who had spent your entire life in the public eye. Not as pronounced as Lance. Though your name had been thrown around here and there, it was nothing in comparison to the level of pressure that had always been upon your twin brothers shoulders, the need to impress everybody, the need to seem as strong as possible at all times.

    You sigh and lean your head against his shoulder. “I hate it when we fight.”

   He leans his head on your own. “I hate it, too. We’re not built to be enemies.”

    “I’m sorry for everything I said. For . . . For not really understanding.”

    “And I’m sorry for being a childish idiot.” He shakes his head. “He didn’t cheat.”

    You giggle. “Yeah, I know.”

    The two of you sit like that for a little while longer, until Lance’s knees finally grow tired of keeping him upright and he insists on taking a walk down to the shop for some sandwiches. You bid him farewell and watch him leave - almost as soon as the door closes, Hunk’s fingers close over your own.

    You start, a gasp escaping you. “Hunk?”

    He smiles. “I’m awake.”

    “Oh good. You didn’t slip into a coma because of a broken leg.”

   He chuckles hoarsely, sitting upright and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. You see him wince with the movement, but he still manages to reach over and grab for his cup of water, taking a sip before passing it to you, offering you some.

   You decline, setting the cup down on the counter and instead leaning forward to hold his hand again. His skin is startlingly warm; the nurse had told you that he would be suffering fever for a little while whilst the pain in his leg went away.

    “How are you feeling?” you ask quietly.

    “Better. Especially now that I know you didn’t leave.”

   “Why would I leave?”

    Hunk looks away sheepishly. “I thought that maybe Lance had...”

    “You don’t have to worry about Lance,” you assure, waving a dismissive hand through the air. “I think he feels a little guilty for what he did and how he reacted. I can honestly see you two being friends in the long run.”

    Hunk smiles. “I’d like that. I’d much prefer to get on with everyone in your family, to be honest. Not just you.”

    You flush, looking down at your joined hands. Hunk notices, and immediately starts to trail his thumb over your knuckles. The action is small, but you find it easing the anxiety that had been knotted in your stomach almost all day.

     “I’m sorry.”

    Your head snaps up. “Hm?”

    “I’m sorry. For not listening to you when you came to the gym a few days back. You were telling the truth and I just kind of brushed you off because of your inexperience with the game...”

    You bite your lip. “Hunk, there’s no need to apologise. I know where you were coming from, as well.”

    “Yeah, but-”

   “Look, we can leave this behind us.” You lean forward then, placing a hand on his warm cheek. “The only way now is forward, okay?”

     Hunk is silent for a moment, staring into your eyes before he slowly nods. You grin, lean forward and press a feather light kiss to his lips. You push past the taste of medication, the weak grip of his hand as he tries desperately to pull you that little bit closer - instead, you concentrate on yourself, the feeling his lips put upon you even though the kiss is so simple and so quick.

     You pull away, smile again, and-  

    “I knew something was going on between you two!” Lance exclaims, tossing his sandwich at the back of your head. 

[roxywashere]

No Rest for the Wicked

Karen Reis gets introduced to true evil

Retired United States General of the Army Karen Reis teleported back to her home, deep in the Rocky Mountains. She teleported into her training room, and unbuckled her sword belt and shoulder holsters, and set them on their equipment dummy.

She teleported to her washing machine, and took her clothes off and threw them in.

She teleported into the shower, and turned the hot water on all the way. She stood in the stream and scrubbed most of her skin raw, and then let her skin heal before washing her hair.

She turned the water off, and teleported to the nearest towel.

She dried herself off, and teleported to the washing machine again to throw the towel in.

She teleported to her closet, and picked a new wardrobe. Jeans, T-shirt, and a short leather jacket.

She teleported back to her training room, and buckled her shoulder holsters back on.

She teleported to her kitchen and pulled a bottle of water out of her fridge.

She teleported to her bedroom, and grabbed her sunhat and sunglasses from her bed stand.

She teleported to Venice Beach.

It was early morning there. She sat in her usual spot, a bench at the southern edge of the beach. She watched the waves roll in and out, sipping her water, while she waited for her contact to arrive.

“You’re early,” the contact said when he sat down five minutes after Karen arrived.

“I wanted to enjoy the view,” Karen answered.

“That’s your prerogative, I guess.” He handed her a file in a manila envelope. “Usual payment. Delivered upon confirmation of kill.”

“It’ll get done,” Karen said before standing up and teleported back home.

She opened the envelope, and saw the contract. Some Saudi businessman. She didn’t recognise him, so he must have only been a bit player in the Caliphate cold war. Nobody anyone would miss.

She teleported to her bedroom and left her briefly worn clothes in a folded stack at the foot of her bed. She teleported to her training room, and geared up. Lycra catsuit, body armor, and ballistic face mask. She strapped her sword belt on, and then teleported to Dubai.

She appeared on the beach, facing the city. It was late evening. The contract said that the target lived in the Burj Khalifa, 150th floor.

She teleported up to the 150th floor. The room she teleported into had 3 armed guards, who scrambled to take out the intruder. She drew her swords and quickly dispatched them, and then pulled a couple of bullets out of herself, putting them in her pocket when she had retrieved them. She noticed that she had bled on the floor, and dragged one of the guardsman's bleeding corpses through her droplets to obscure them. A door burst open, and another 3 guards opened fire.

Karen teleported behind them and took them out. There were even more guards rushing into the room Karen had teleported into. They all raised their guns and took aim, stupidly waiting for Karen to make the first move.

She rolled her eyes, and swiftly drew her dual modified Berettas. Ten targets, 30 rounds. Too easy. They all hit the ground within half a second of one another. She slid the pistols back into their holsters, and then retrieved her bullets from her targets, and put them in her pocket.

She examined the penthouse, now that the guards had been taken care of. Fairly expansive, taking up a slice of two floors of the tower. No sign of the target, but evidence suggested that he had been home very recently. She closely examined the walls...

“Bingo.” She spotted the seam of a secret door, cleverly hidden by some carved paneling. She searched the area for the requisite hidden switch, and found it, hidden in the very same paneling. She pressed it and it revealed the safe room behind it. There was a biometric lock on the thick steel door.

It would be risky teleporting in without having an idea what’s on the other side, but she wasn’t seeing any other way.

She teleported into the small room, and was greeted by her target.

“AHHH!” the target yelled.

She grabbed him by the neck, and opened the safe room from the inside. “Hello.”

“What does the US military want with me?!”

A bit presumptuous, Karen thought, him assuming that the only people who would bother to assassinate him were the USA. “Oh, the military doesn’t want anything to do with you. This is a private hit.” She dragged the target out of the safe room, and to a window.

“What are you doing!?”

She shot the window, facing out towards the sea, and the window shattered. “I’m gonna see how big a mess I can make out of you. See if you turn into world news. Now, if you wouldn’t mind screaming on your way down...”

Karen tossed him out the window, and he obliged. A considerable while later, he hit the ground.

“I’ll give him nine out of ten. Bad form, but he really stuck the landing,” Karen commented as she started unbuckling her ballistic mask.

She teleported up to the peak of the tower, and looked out over the Persian Gulf, just barely being able to see the coast of what used to be Iran. Her facade of sociopathy melted away in the cool breeze.

She sighed, and teleported to her prayer spot, a hundred or so miles north of Baghdad. A cave, in the side of a mountain, in a region that she had been told once had previously been named Eden. She sat, on her simple prayer mat, and prayed. Prayed that the Celestial Warrior was real. Prayed to the god that the Celestial Warrior represented, to send her along, and usher in the Revelation and the Second Coming.

Karen was a very religious woman, but that fact was a sacredly kept secret. Only Alice Prince, whom Karen liked to think of as her closest friend, however distant that may be, knew.

She finished her prayer, and stood up again. She left her secret cave, and looked upon the Holy Land. It was a beautiful sight, marred by the corruption of the Caliphate. The Caliphate that had spawned from the Islamic State in Iraq and the Levant, and taken the entire Middle East, while she had been forced by the restrictive United States Government to sit by and let it happen while they tried non-superhuman measures. And now, it was far too late. Far too established to do anything about. A poison, corrupting the cradle of civilization, and the Garden of Eden. It disgusted her.

Alice Prince’s ghost of a sister, her Celestial Warrior, she was the solution to the problem of the Caliphate. The solution that would come from Paradise to smite the false prophets that had established the Islamic State and liberate the Holy Lands... Or, on the off chance that the Jihadists had been in the right all along, lay waste to the nonbelievers who had resisted the rise of the Caliphate.

It was a depressing non-zero possibility.

There was a crack of thunder, and a flash of light in the sky, and an object appeared, falling from it.

“What the hell...” Karen muttered. “And of all the possible places, it had to be my special spot.”

She watched as the object fell to the Earth, and then teleported to the crater it made.

It was a man: tall, brown hair, blue eyes, handsome features, wearing a raggy t-shirt and jeans, and smoking slightly. He was still conscious somehow, and glanced upon Karen with a look of... Familiarity. He laughed. “Imagine, of all the places I could have ended up, I get one with you in it.” He bolted upright, with a speedster’s quickness, and grabbed Karen by the neck.

She teleported behind him and drew her blades. “Alright, asshole. You’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

He looked at his now empty hand, and chuckled. “No, you are not the Karen that I know...” He turned and faced Karen. “You have her face and speak with her voice, but you are not her. You are something so very much greater. Forgive my undue aggression.”

“Who the hell are you?”

He smiled. “What a question. Who, the Hell, am I? Who is a person, truly. Who are you? Are you Karen Reis?”

“I am. What does it matter?”

“So brusque, Karen. I might prefer mine after all.”

“Where are you from that there is another me, another Karen Reis?”

“Another world, Karen. Another universe. And if I’m honest, likely a much better, more fun one.”

Alice and Karen had once discussed Multiverse Theory, when they were younger, and closer. The idea that there were other universes where alternate versions of them might live. Alice had ruled out the possibility of travel between them, saying that creating a portal from one to another was impossible by mortal science or magic. So, if this man was speaking the truth, and had come from another universe, then Alice would very much like to speak to him.

“I assume we are on an Earth, of some manner?” he said.

“We are. You didn’t answer my first question.”

“Is there, in this universe, a man by the name of Jeremy Ryan, that you are aware of?”

“Not on my radar.”

“Well, now I am on your radar. Also, may I ask, is there a woman by the name of Roxanne Furst?”

“There was a Roxanne Prince, with a mother last named Furst. But she’s been dead almost...” Karen was reminded how old she was. “Eighty five years, now.” Alice’s dead twin sister. The Celestial Warrior. “A rare, hereditary lung cancer. She was 15.”

“So she did succumb to it, in this world.” Jeremy sighed. “A shame. This world is truly lacking of a Paragon. Where on this Earth are we?”

“The dead center of the Holy Caliphate of Mesopotamia, the Levant, and Arabia. 100 miles north of Baghdad.”

He examined the landscape around them, and the look of familiarity appeared again. “Eden...” Jeremy chuckled. “It was no coincidence that I have landed here, then. Your blink, can you carry others with you when you use it?”

“I can. I assume you want a ride?”

“If you would be so kind.”

“Got a destination in mind?”

“Anywhere.”

Karen held out her hand, and Jeremy took it. They teleported to her home, and she let his hand go so she could teleport to the bedroom and quickly change back into the civilian outfit she had worn earlier. She left her catsuit, mask, and swords on the floor. She teleported back to Jeremy. “Are you hungry?”

“Famished.”

“I know just where to take you.”

They teleported to New York City, Times Square, right next to Karen’s favourite pizza cart in the world.

“Evening, Tino.”

“You’ve got a date? I thought you were, uh...” Tino started.

“He’s just a friend, Tino. Wanted to get him one of your world famous slices. Sausage and ‘roni, for me, and...” she turned to Jeremy.

“As the buddhist said, ‘make me one with everything’,” Jeremy said, looking away from the massive skyscrapers above him. “How tall is that one?” he asked, pointing to the FurstTech building, the tallest tower he could see.

“2500 meters exactly. One of a set of Quadruplets, in New York, Detroit, Danesville, and San Francisco, all sharing the title of tallest in the world.”

He smiled. “The more things change, the more they stay the same. We’ve got one just like it at home. I helped build it, as did our Roxanne Furst. Your Roxanne died young, so who built this one?”

“Her brother David and her sister Alice built it in her memory. Do they exist in your world?” Tino handed over their slices, and Karen paid.

“They do. I never met her brother in person, but her sister and I have met many times. ”

“From what it sounds like, your version of Roxanne got to grow up. What was she like?”

“She is one of the greatest superhumans my world ever managed to forge from the fires of a bloody Revelation. Boundless strength and tenacity, matched only by myself in those regards, as well as a heart with more than enough room to love every creature on every Earth, and a mind with room to hold all their knowledge.”

“She sounds like a spectacular woman.”

“And you know that more than anybody, in my world. You and her are quite famously an item.”

“Are we? Now I wish I’d gotten to meet ours.”

“I’m sure you would have hit it off.” Jeremy continued watching the tower. “Who runs FurstTech now?” he asked after enjoying his pizza for a while.

“It was passed down to David’s daughter, Aradia, after he died. But, she’s not nearly as much a scientist as she is an occulist.” Karen watched a news ticker while she spoke, and smiled as it reported that a saudi businessman had been thrown from his penthouse less than an hour ago. Job well done.

“Aradia, you say?”

“You have one of her, too?”

“Could I meet her?”

“I suppose, if she isn’t busy.” Karen grabbed his hand again and blinked into the science lab lobby in the 300th floor, but not of the tower they had been examining, instead one if it's twins, in Danesville, WI. “Is Aradia in?” she asked the secretary.

“Miss Furst is in her workshop with her sister,” the secretary replied.

“Sister?” Jeremy wondered. “Ashley?”

“What?” Karen replied, perplexed. “No, Thrud.” She blinked them into the big workshop at the peak of the tower. In the middle of the room were two women, both of them middle aged in appearances. One of them, Aradia, was wearing ornate gold and black robes, holding her hands over the other and muttering incantations. The other, Thrud, was wearing robes, body armour, and a body suit covering her torso. Her limbs were long ago amputated, replaced with black and gold, but organic-looking, metal.

Without looking, Aradia snapped her finger and flicked her wrist, and a dense patchwork of runes was revealed on the floor. “Do you even understand the great evil you have brought into my sanctum?”

“What?” Karen replied. “Jeremy, what is she...” She looked to him for an answer, and she saw him straining against some invisible force. But, slowly, he was advancing.

“This is the greatest evil to have ever appeared in this realm, and you led him straight to me.”

“You are even more skilled in this universe, Aradia, and even more alike to your namesakes,” Jeremy said. “But you are no Sorcerer Supreme. You do not possess the strength to stop me alone.” As he slowly took steps forward, his eyes shimmered to a deep crimson red.

“I may not, but I know of the one who does.”

“You won't be able to summon her and hold me back at the same time.”

“If I slay you, I will have the requisite time.”

“But then you will release me upon the citizens of Danesville. And you're not that foolish.”

“There are risks and costs for every action. You do not know me well enough to balance mine in my stead.”

“What the FUCK are you guys talking about,” Karen interrupted. “What is going on? Aradia, what are you saying?”

“This ‘Man’ you have brought here is the Greatest Demon in this Multiverse. A wretched soul that craves no more than the sowing of Chaos and the suffering of the innocent. I present to you, Therion, The Beast From The Pit, The Seven Headed Dragon, The King of Demons.” Aradia’s voice boomed as she announced the full title of her guest.

“My reputation precedes me,” Jeremy said.

“Thrud, take him out.”

“With pleasure,” Thrud said, her voice heavily synthesized. She dashed forward, drawing a sword from literally nowhere, and holding it out so it would pass through Jeremy’s neck as she flashed past him.

He smiled, and laughed, and then his head slid cleanly to the floor, his body following closely after.

Aradia collapsed to her knees. “Archangel, Paragon of Light! Hear my calling! I am summoning you from beyond the void to return this evil to its proper place. Bless us with your strength, and deliver us from the Beast!”

The room reverberated with the sound of the plea, and a moment later a portal opened in the ceiling. Out of it fell a woman, who landed on one knee and with a fist slammed into the ground. She stood up, quickly, and yelled “Jeremy!” The portal slammed shut barely after Karen had even registered that it was there.

She was wearing a full-body blue super suit with silver streaks of lightning wrapping around it, knee-high black boots, a golden metallic backpack, and huge golden wrist gauntlets, with three meter-long golden spikes sticking out the elbow of each of them, parallel with the forearm. Her face was slender, her chin was pointed, her cheekbones were sharp, and her eyes were bright green. She was short, at 4’9”, and she had paper-white hair, in a short bob. She looked exactly like Alice, but 70 or 80 years younger.

She quickly approached the body of Jeremy, and flicked her wrists. The elbow spikes of the Gauntlets slid forward and became enormous claws, now protruding out the back of the wrist area instead of the elbow, with a loud snikt. She stuck his head with one set of claws, and raised it closer to her face. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, you son of a bitch.” She impaled the torso with the other set of claws, and lifted it up off the ground. “Aradia, take me somewhere far away from people. I can’t risk the fight spilling out to populated areas.”

“I know just the place,” Aradia said.

“He’s already dead!” Karen interrupted. “What is there to fight?!”

Aradia opened a portal to a familiar desert, and the Archangel stepped up to the threshold, the body she carried beginning to writhe. “You don’t want to know.” She stepped through, and the portal closed.

Karen stood there, dumbfounded. Had that truly been Alice’s twin, the Celestial Warrior? She seemed so... Vulgar, human, nothing special. ‘You son of a bitch’? She was certainly no angel. But... Karen couldn’t let her get away. “Where did she go?” She asked Aradia.

“You know very well where,” she answered.

Karen blinked to her home, and hastily buckled her sword belt back on. She had a bad feeling she would need it.

She swallowed, crossed herself, and blinked back to Eden.

She appeared in the middle of the desert, and stumbled from the earth shaking. She slowly spun around, and was met with a terrifying sight.

A massive, red-scaled dragon, 200 meters long from tail to head. And concerning the head, it had seven of them, vaguely feline but lizard at the same time, at the end of seven snake-like necks, all sprouting from its crimson-maned shoulders. Distributed across the heads were ten horns, one on every one but the middle-most, which held the remaining four. It had two enormous wings, large enough to block out the sun, beating down, causing a dust storm with every motion. Its four massive legs, each as thick as a stand of redwoods, stomped on the desert sands, causing earthquakes. It roared with all its mouths, spitting napalm into the air.

Therion. The Beast from the Pit. The Seven Headed Dragon. The King of Demons.

The Celestial Warrior, the Archangel, stood with her back to Karen, bracing herself against the repulsive force of evil exuded by The Beast. “You wanted to know?” She yelled, without taking her eyes off The Beast. “Well, now you know! The greatest evil I have the displeasure of being my immortal enemy. Now get away from here, it isn’t safe for anybody to be within miles of this.”

“I want to help you!” Karen yelled back.

“No! I won't let him get to you again!” the Archangel outburst.

While she did, The Beast surrounded the two of them with it’s heads. “An interversal lover’s quarrel,” it growled, in Jeremy’s voice. “Poor little Karen, oblivious to how she makes the Paragon feel, ignorant to what they are in another world. She doesn’t know what she is to you, or what I did to her.”

“JEREMY! This ends now!” The Archangel leapt into the air and impaled one of the heads with her golden claws, and then slid around the neck and landed on The Beast’s shoulders, and started hacking away at it.

“Karen!” The Beast said, fighting off the Archangel with three of it’s heads, and focusing on Karen with the other four. “Come on, FIGHT ME! Share the glory!”

“Don’t listen to him!” The Archangel rebutted. “You’ll only get yourself killed!”

“I’m not weak!” Karen said in response. “I know how to fight!”

“YES!” The Beast cried. “Prove yourself! Prove that you are an equal of the Paragon! Slay me as she has done hundreds of times!” He wound his four heads focusing on Karen back, and pounced.

As four steam-engine-sized sets of jaws with razor-sharp teeth the size of tower shields rapidly approached her, Karen drew her swords. Right before they hit her, she teleported out of their way, they rammed into each other, and she chopped at The Beast’s necks.

The Beast laughed as the fight began in earnest. He darted his heads back and forth at lightning speed, far faster than a creature that large should be able to move. Karen blinked out of the way with ease, coming to and from the immediate area of the fight to recover when she required brief respite. The Archangel opted to tank the attacks, her suit showing the damage and bloodstains this approach incurred. Fortunately she healed at an incredibly rapid pace, even faster than Karen’s own healing factor.

Karen blinked away from the fight, and watched as The Beast grabbed one of The Archangel’s limbs, and threw her up into the air. She responded by firing a grappling hook, which she had been concealing in her gauntlets, back towards The Beast. It quickly retracted, propelling her claws-first into The Beast’s side.

The Beast recoiled as if he had been hit by a high-power howitzer round when The Archangel slammed into him. The Beast laughed as it stumbled.

Another of Aradia’s portals opened behind Karen. Before she could turn and look, she heard a familiar man’s gruff voice.

“Lo, behold the Angel of the World Tree,” Alice Prince’s father, and Aradia’s grandfather, Robert Prince said.

“And lo, behold her immortal foe,” Aradia said.

“And lo, behold Merlin and the Enchantress...” Karen muttered.

“And lo, behold!” Aradia said, coming to stand by Karen’s side. She was still wearing her gold and black robes.

“The woman who broke my daughter's heart,” Robert said, standing on Karen’s other side. He, too, was wearing ornate robes, his gold, blue, and brown. He was native american, Ho-Chunk specifically. Supposedly his great-grandfather was Welsh, providing the sliver of european ancestry required for his magic to work. He looked no older than Aradia was, but was obviously two full generations her elder. Karen assumed that for mystical folk immortality began whenever they reached peak regality, somewhere around 45.

“It was mutual,” Karen said, quietly, pointedly, and sadly.

“Hmm. Well then, let's put the past behind us.” Robert flicked his wrists and assumed a martial pose, and constrained bolts of multicolored energy condensed in his palms, writhing across his skin. Aradia did similarly, assuming a more dance-like pose than her grandfather. They strode forwards towards the battle in unison, and let loose their spells at The Beast.

“HAHA!” The Beast responded as one of his legs collapsed out from beneath him. “A family reunion!” One of his heads pounced at the duo of magicians, and the head was deflected by a quickly-summoned shield. Robert held the shield up, and Aradia fired an energy bolt at it.

The shield’s natural magic capacitance absorbed the energy, and when the shield was dissipated, the energy was released outwards at The Beast. The energy struck The Beast on one of his necks, and exploded the flesh, causing that head and half of the associated neck to drop away, dead.

The Archangel, covered in not only The Beast’s blood but also her own, landed roughly on her knees behind the magicians. She retracted her claws with a snikt.

She stood and stretched as her ravaged flesh regrew. Her bodysuit was barely there anymore, covering her chest only via a thin ribbon of fabric around one shoulder, the other shoulder having been sliced through and hanging free, revealing some of the flesh of her breast.

“Take a picture,” the Archangel said. “It'll last longer.”

Karen realized she had been staring at the half-revealed breast and her face went flush. “Oh, I... Uh...”

“You really are just like her.” The Archangel wiped some of the copious blood from the area around her mouth. “There’s something about Roxanne Furst that always trips the ‘bumbling’ switch in Karen Reis.”

“Roxanne. So you are Alice’s sister.”

“Technically. And please, call me Roxy. Now, this has been fun, but I think it’s about time I got Jeremy home.” She prodded at her gauntlet, and then spoke to it. “Groom Lake, I’ve got Therion at my location. Open the portal and prepare the Kingslayers, we’re coming in hot. My position Z-minus 1 meter, Radius... let’s say, 500 meters. T-minus 30 seconds. Me and Jay, plus one. Oh, and make it an airdrop.” She dropped her arm back to her side. “Aradia, Robert, you can head off now. I’d suggest looking into strengthening your Demon wards even further.”

Aradia summoned a portal back to FursTech headquarters. While Aradia quickly stepped back through it, Robert instead approached Roxy and gently cupped his daughter's face.

“I’ll talk to you later, Dad,” Roxy promised. “I have to deal with Jay first.”

Robert smirked, chuckled, and released her face, before dropping the shield and stepping through the portal. It closed behind him.

“I’d suggest bracing yourself,” Roxy said as soon as it did.

“What?” Karen asked.

The ground disappeared out from beneath them, revealing an expanse of sky where there should by all rights have been earth. Karen, Roxy, and the Beast dropped into the hole, stretching across the desert a kilometer wide.

The location they were in was alien to Karen, but strangely familiar to her at the same time. Three kilometers below them was a desert, sand and dirt stretching off in every direction. Nearby was a lake, and a fortified military base of some kind, every building ostentatiously build out of pure gold, it appeared. While the design was different from the one she knew, the relative locations of landmarks meant it could only be one place: Groom Lake, Nevada, AKA Area 51. Off in the distance, on the horizon, she saw the glittering of a gold-plated city. Again, based on the relative locations, it would have had to have been Las Vegas.

Roxy grabbed Karen by the collar of her shirt and jacket, and when the portal they had fallen through closed, stopped falling. Karen craned her neck to look up at Roxy, and saw the faint outline of wings emanating from her shoulders, and stretching hundreds of meters in either direction.

She is an angel, after all, Karen thought.

“Meet you at the bottom,” Roxy said, releasing Karen and letting her continue her fall.

Karen teleported towards the distant ground, landing on her feet at the peak of Bald Mountain, just to the north of Groom Lake.

Compared to the one she was familiar with, this Groom Lake region looked like it had been been dug up and redistributed, and hit with a couple million artillery impacts, or something of similar nature. It was a superhuman warzone, Karen realized, having seen many in her life. A battleground where powerful beings often opposed one another.

And now she was watching an instance of such a fight before her very eyes. She looked up and saw Roxy stretching her arms and shoulders, and saw the ethereal wings flutter and flap, and then, suddenly, she disappeared.

No, she hadn’t disappeared. Where she had previously been, there was now a stack of sonic vapor rings, pointing downwards towards the still-falling Beast. Below the rings, descending at a meteoric pace and surrounded by a vapor cone, was Roxy, claws pointed downwards.

Roxy intercepted the Beast in the air, and without slowing drove it into the Earth, creating an additional great crater with the impact.

A group of figures emerged from Groom Lake, flying with jet boots and packs the like Karen had seen many times before. The swarm of them flew around the Beast, with swords and guns of various types drawn.

Karen teleported closer, and watched the soldiers as they surrounded The Beast. Whenever the Beast struck out at one of them, they would strike back at him.

Roxy all the while was hacking away at the Beast, carving him ever smaller. After 15 more minutes, the Beast was lying limp, in thousands of pieces of various sizes, none larger than a car.

The largest piece started shrinking, and slowly reverted to the form of Jeremy, and Roxy quickly snatched it up and flew off towards Groom Lake with it.

Karen blinked after her. She flew into a massive excavated shaft in the center of the base, and down a few miles until they hit the bowels of the facility, a maze of corridors.

Karen had difficulty teleporting fast enough to follow Roxy’s angel wings’ speed, but was able to keep up until she flew into a cell and slammed a set of golden chains onto all of Jeremy's extremities, head and neck included.

Jeremy stirred to life after a moment. “Which number was this? 1305? It has to have been whereabouts of that.”

“Including the Fall of Babel, 1306,” Roxy answered.

“Ah, to think I almost forgot our first time.”

“I’ll never forget.”

“Don’t try to make what I do special by pretending you could do anything but remember every second of your long, miserable existence.”

“I’m not the one spending most of mine in a cage.”

Jeremy looked past Roxy and saw Karen. “Is that one yours, or the other one?”

“You know the difference. You haven’t had a chance to mutilate this one.”

“This one’s tougher than yours. You should trade up.”

Roxy visibly strained not to smack him so hard his neck snapped. “We’re done here.” Roxy flew out of the cell, and Karen followed her. Roxy shut the cell door, and then crushed the lock so the door would be unopenable by anyone else but her. “Let’s get you home,” she told Karen. She led her through the hallways, and into an elevator. The Elevator took them up to the near-surface, and opened into another hallway. That hallway led to a control room, filled with technicians.

When Karen entered the room, they all stopped and stared.

“Open a portal back to the Astraverse,” Roxy commanded. “This one doesn’t belong here.”

The technicians got to work, and a handful of seconds later the far wall of the room was replaced by a view out into the desert of Eden.

“Go on,” Roxy said to Karen.

Karen blinked to the threshold of the portal, and felt the warm desert breeze on her face. She stepped through the portal, and as she did she heard the door to the control room open. She looked back and saw...

Herself, except, not. She had the same short black hair, and the same heterochromatic eyes: grey-blue in the left and grey-green in the right. But aside from that, they couldn’t have been more different. Her left arm was gone, replaced by an advanced magitech prosthesis, as were both of her legs. Her face was covered in small, faded scars, excepting the two on her cheeks, which visibly stretched from the corners of her lips to her ears. On her throat was another large faded scar, across the left jugular vein. Though she was wearing a tight t-shirt, more scars on her chest peeked across the neckline. The arm that was still flesh and blood had scars up and down it, with a tightly packed row of them on the wrist under all the rest.

Karen stared at herself, and the other her stared back, until the portal closed and separated them.

Karen stood in the Iraqi desert for a long moment.

She blinked to her home, the edge of her bed. She stumbled back into it, and slumped onto it. After a while she brought her right arm up to be examined. Her skin was superhumanly flawless, but if she was still capable of scarring, her wrists would be just as crisscrossed as the other hers’ had been.

That was the only evidence that Karen needed to be convinced that the other one really was her. Karen Reis, at her core, was a depressive girl who cut herself when she was low. No amount of degrees of Multiversal separation would change that.

Karen’s mind raced, reflecting over what she’d seen today.

[fantasyelffanfic]

Star Wars: Thief in the Darkness (Kylo Ren/OC Fanfic) - Chapter 1

                                                  Chapter 1

                                                   -o-o-o-

"You must be ready at any moment, to sacrifice what you are, for what you will become..." - Eric Thomas

                                                     -o-o-

(Planet Jakku)

I sat there, lounging across the beam of a market tent. A barely tangible breeze drifted across its fabrics, making it flap under its caress. One of my legs dangled as I watched the villagers below move about with their daily activities. The small village was awash with various people of mixed races, both human and non-human. There were those that bought and those who traded. It was the way of the world here, survival at its highest peak. The bright golden sands of Jakku were vast and empty with little signs of life beyond the small town. Though it was a peaceful place, it was also a dangerous place to live alone, unprotected and young. I learned that the hard way.

Grit and dust blew up into my face, but the cowl wrapped around my face and hair protected me. Not far away, I caught sight of a familiar lone figure. A woman with dark hair tied back behind her head. Tattered pale cloth adorned her shape. Though young and slender in size, she lugged a heavy net of shrapnel across the area and headed straight for the exchange counter.

"Rey." I whispered the name.

My eyes followed her movements as I stood and began to make my way across the beams towards her location. The twin blades at my hips swung against me, hidden, but there. My legs were steady as I leap my way across the marketplace. Unseen. Unnoticed. A ghost amongst the crowd.

A huge Crolute stood behind the counter and spoke to Rey. Unkar Plutt, junk boss of Jakku, was a beast of male to deal with. Though I knew his tricks well, others were not so lucky. Thuggish, unfair and lawless, he took from the desperate and paid little in return. His grotesque personality matched his equally grotesque appearance.

I paused above the container that was his trading block and listened closer, peering down at the girl and brute with interest.

" What you've brought me today is worth," came his raspy gruff voice that set my teeth on edge, "hmm... One quarter portion."

I snorted and shook my head. Old habits never died with Unkar, it seemed. The idiot that he was. From my position, I could see Rey's expression, twisted with turmoil and struggle.

I sprung and twisted, leaping with the agility of a cat to the sandy ground directly between Rey and booth. I rose up from my crouch and turned to glare at the Crolute.

" Bollocks, Unkar." I pulled down my cowl to reveal my face as I glared up at the mangled-fleshed waste of space behind the counter. The blistering hot air drifted across my scalp, ruffling my short hair. Both the woman and Unkar turned to look at me with surprise at my sudden appearance. I couldn't help it, a grin drifted across my lips.

"Freya?" Rey whispered, taken aback. Her young suntanned face frowned before she nodded to me in greeting.

I grinned back her, before turning to Unkar once again and leaning a hip casually against his workspace. I peered up through the bars up at him. Despite his gigantic height, I was not intimidated. Far from it.

" Are you really gonna do this again?" I asked him, giving him my most dazzling smile. " Come on, you know it's worth more than that."

"You again!" He grunted. "I'm sick of seeing your face around here. Always mingling in business that has nothing to do with you."

I sighed dramatically and shook my head at him like a mother would a disobedient child. "Now, now, blobby-" he gave a deep growl as I called him by his favourite nickname. "I saw you take less than half of what this lass is offering you for half a portion earlier. A bit unfair, don't you think? Where's your integrity?"

A meaty fist slammed down hard upon the counter, fury flashed across his hideous features.

"What would you know about integrity? You dirty thieving scum!"

"Ouch, careful blobby, you may just hurt my feelings." I gave a sardonic laugh, "I guess that makes both of us then, huh? You take from the poor for little payment. That sounds like theft too in my book. And I steal from people who are greedy, lazy bastards-" I gestured a hand towards him nonchalantly, "-like yourself."

I barely had time to finish my sentence before a thick, heavy hand thrust between the bars and wrapped itself into the front of my jerkin. My whole body weight lifted with alarming strength until I was inches away from Unkar's sneering face.

Perfect... Set the bait. Lure them in. Distract, And then swipe the goods.

Blobby was breathing hard against my face, practically glaring daggers. Oh, if looks could kill. But it was perfect. His focus was entirely on me. His anger was in full control of his senses. He did not notice the sly smile that crept across my mouth. He didn't notice my hand slide across the package of portion and drag it into my pocket.

He'd fallen for it again. What a moron. I couldn't help but appreciate the rush of satisfaction that flooded through me.

"I'll have your guts for decorations if you don't clear out," he grumbled. "I'm warning you now."

I lifted my hands in an innocent gesture, trying to look as placid and appeasing as possible.

" Alright, Alright, I give up. You win." My feet were slowly lowered to the floor again. The hand holding me loosened and disappeared. "Don't shit your knickers," I mumbled under my breath before stepping to the side.

"Go," Unkar grumbled, "Don't let me see you around here again."

I shrugged, "Ok, fine. Hurry up and give her the payment and we will get out of your hair."

"What?" An ugly snarl twisted across his thick protruding lips.

Rey glanced between us, confusion shining through her bright eyes. I winked at her, gesturing with a lift of my brow for her to follow my lead.

"I want my payment," she finally said after a brief pause.

Unkar slammed a fist down in anger once again, "I just gave you it!"

Rey shook her head, her face still as stone. "No, you didn't."

"Come on, blobby, don't be playing games with us now." I joined in, giving him a stern look. "Don't forget to pay your clients, otherwise it will look bad of your reputation."

We watched him struggle for a moment. His flabby cheeks puffing angrily as he looked around his container.

"Fine!" I heard his draw open and close with a solid bang. His thick-fingered hand slammed down upon the counter, revealing another sachet of portion.

"Half a portion for the goods. Now get out of here!"

We didn't need telling twice. With a brief nod, Rey and I turned and walked away towards her chunky red speeder.

" One day Freya, he's going to catch you doing that and have your head on a pike," Rey said.

I chuckled at her. My boots crunched across the sand, kicking up dust with each step. I reached for my belt and untied a canteen of fresh water. I took long, much-needed swallow before passing it to her.

"Maybe," I wipe at my mouth with the back of my sleeve, "but his ass is too fat to be able to catch me. So I highly doubt it."

There was a moment's pause between us. A short time in which we simply stood there looking at one another. Rey looked drawn, tired. There was a shadow within her eyes. Something that echoed back to me, something I recognised, but could not name.

"It's good to see you, Freya." She said finally, "It's been a while. Where have you been?"

I shrugged at her, "I've been here and there. Keeping alive."

Rey took a heavy swig of the cool water and sighed before handing it back to me with thanks.

I pushed it back to her. "Keep it, you're gonna need it." I pulled the stolen portion from my pockets and threw it to her. "Take this too."

She caught it easily and looked at me with uncertainty. "But, what about you?"

"I have extra. Take it."

The hidden message behind my words was loud and clear between us as though I had spoken them aloud. I stole what I wanted. I wasn't an honest working person. If I wanted it, I took it.

"Thank you," was her reply. So deeply sincere and heavy with appreciation. Something inside my chest twinged in response.

I shuttered my expression and buried those unwanted feelings deep. Hiding them from myself and the rest of the world. I bid her a brief goodbye and began to wander back into town.

I pulled my cowl back up around my head. Troubled thoughts rolling through my mind like turbulent waves.

Thinking back, I could not recall at which point Rey and I had become known to each other, even friends of sorts. Over the years we had become aware of one another. I knew little about her, yet I knew she was like me. A woman, alone, struggling to survive. But I never loitered. I never got involved or close to others, no matter how much I connected with them. I would not face that pain again, not like before. The pains of the past were too much to bear. So like a lone wildcat, I travelled from place to place. Never settling or belonging anywhere. I stole what I needed. I lived a life of unscrupulous means. A life drowning in uncertainty, blood, sweat and loneliness. There was no such thing as home for me, or family, or friendship. It was how things have always been. It was survival, it was life.

In a world of uncertainty, fear and war; I was a warrior.

I stood there looking around with emptiness at the empty sands around me. The sun beat down on me without me without mercy. The ancient sands beneath my feet offered no comfort to the longing in my heart.

I wish, silently, but for a brief moment, that things could have been different...

I wanted more from life.

... -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o- ...

The following few days went by in a whirl. The baking heat made me lethargic. I found myself snoozing most of the time, sometimes watching villagers go about their daily lives. I laid across the roof of one of the vegetable stalls, staring up at the bright sky. Boredom clawed at my insides, making me restless. I found myself daydreaming about a beautiful sunset across a vast and open sea of water. I imagined cool grass beneath my bare feet, instead of burning sand. To be in another time, in another world, another place, sounded heavenly.

"One half portion." I heard a familiar gruff voice sound from not far away below me.

I let my head loll to the side and found the rather deja vu sight of Rey standing before the exchange counter. I frowned. What was she doing here again? I knew her schedule, like many others who came here. I knew her habits. I watched people closely, ever observant. It wasn't like her to come twice in the same week.

"Last week these were half a portion each." I heard Rey argue, followed by a strange beeping noise that made me sit up to attention. I leaned forward, peering down at the situation unfolding beneath me.

Sure enough, Rey was there arguing with Unkar again, but beside her was a very strange little bot. A droid of sorts. It was like a sphere, rolling around animatedly, making noises like it was actually having a conversation.

"What about the droid?" Unkar retorted, I could hear the slyness in his voice. The treacherous snake that he was.

"What about him?" Rey responded. She cast a steady look down upon the little ball-shaped machine by her legs.

"I'll pay for him. Sixty portions." He slammed the packages across the counter and even I felt my eyes bulge at the generous offer.

Holy shit balls, sixty portions was a lot! Even for a droid, it was enough to feed a single person a good month or two. I watched Rey curiously, interested to know what she'd do.

" Actually... the droid isn't for sale."

Was she nuts? I shook my head slowly. I would have gladly sold that bundle of metal for that amount of food. I had never seen it with her before, so I couldn't understand what value it must have had to her.

Rey walked away, the droid rolling in tow behind her. I could hear Unkar's frustrated grumbling. His large shadow moving beyond the bars of his container. His voice reached me from across the short space.

"Follow the girl, and get me that droid!"

Shit. This wasn't good. A heavy sensation drop like a rock into the pit of my stomach. I leaped up from my spot and began to follow Rey. I stalk her, vaulting quietly from one roof to another. All the while keeping a distance, ever vigilant.

Something was going to happen. I could feel it. She was in danger.

It didn't take long for me to figure out what. I saw them coming straight away, approaching from the side with a purpose in their step, heading directly for Rey and the droid.

Unkar's thugs...

I picked up my pace, leaping across the space with ease. Years of experience and practice gave me the advantage and speed that I needed. I reached them quickly. One thug attacked, grabbing for Rey as the other tried to throw a blanket across the droid. Rey kicked and fought against them.

I sprung into action dropping down amongst them with my twin blades drawn and activated. They surged with a heady electric pulse, glowing a dangerous blue. One of the thugs whirled towards me, surprised by my sudden appearance. I twisted, leaping into a spin, my leg swung out connecting soundly against the imbeciles skull with such force that I heard his neck crack. I pivoted on my feet, my arm swinging out. The blade in my hand flew from my fingers, spinning dangerously, before lodging itself deep in the throat of the attacker who held Rey.

Both bodies fell to the floor with a thud. Silence filled the atmosphere as my adrenaline began to fade away into calmness.

"Freya." Rey sighed in relief, pulling herself to a stand.

"Are you ok?" I strode to her, grabbing her arm gently to look her over for injuries. "Did they hurt you?"

"I'm alright. I was just taken by sur-"

The droid chimed into action, beeping animatedly. We both turned to it with confusion. It seemed to be trying to tell us something. And while Rey seemed to have some idea of what it was saying, I, however, was completely clueless.

"What's up with him?" I asked, sliding my blades back into their holders.

They both ignored me, deep in conversation with one another. A panicked expression fell across Rey's face and they were both looking in the direction of one of the tents.

"Who?" Rey asked, looking directly at a lone figure watching them from the shadows. "Him?"

A frowned at the person in question. A dark-skinned guy stood there, observing us. He wore a lot of clothing, including a tanned leather jacket; he clearly was not a local around these parts. A foreigner? From a distance, he looked tall and athletic, but there was something strange about him. Suspicious even. He shuffled uneasily, looking directly at us before spinning around and darting in the opposite direction.

What a weird guy...

I barely had time to process what had happened before Rey was up and running after him, disappearing amongst the crowd.

What the fu-

"Woah, Rey. Wait!"

My legs sprung into action and I began to follow them.

[gumnut-logic]

Not So Alone (repost)

This is a shameless repost because I haven’t written a thing today. So I poked around in my archive and found some fluff. I chose Alan fluff cos that is what I’ve read a bit of today :D I think this may have been one of the first times I wrote Alan’s POV. I know I remember being a touch terrified :D

Apologies to those who have already read it, I’ll try to write some new stuff tomorrow ::hugs:: My brain has just been mush today :(

-o-o-o-

Title: Not So Alone Author: Gumnut 21 Jun 2019 Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go 2015/ Thunderbirds TOS Rating: Teen Summary: Alone time is sometimes better shared. Word count: 1767 Spoilers & warnings: None. Timeline: Standalone Author’s note: This is for @ak47stylegirl​ who wrote me the first part of this little fic, Alone Time, which can be found on her profile on Ao3. She wrote Virgil, so I stepped out of my comfort zone a little and wrote her some Alan to keep her Virgil company :D I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it :D Disclaimer: Mine? You’ve got to be kidding. Money? Don’t have any, don’t bother.

-o-o-o-   

Alan was bored.

It wasn’t often that he found himself with a lack of things to do. Life was generally busy with Thunderbird maintenance, rescues and backup duties.

Of course, he could always kill some zombies, but he was feeling restless. Gordon was off the island with Grandma so that didn’t help. Scott was buried in paperwork and John was still hiding on Five. Virgil had disappeared.

Wandering out onto the balcony, Alan eyed the pool a moment before throwing the idea out. Without Gordon it wouldn’t be anywhere near as much fun.

Maybe he could go for a walk. Scott had been nagging him to get into a more regular exercise routine and, hey, he hadn’t seen the other side of the island for a while.

Darting up to his rooms, he threw on some loose clothes, decent shoes and a hat. A quick note to John to say where he was going and he was out the back door and crunching gravel up the side of the mountain.

While he had no objection to the great outdoors, Alan had no particular preference for sun, surf or bush walking. Not that he didn’t love a splash in the ocean with his brother, or even a jog around the island with Scott, it was just that many of his interests lay in the confines of the virtual world.

Or space.

Part of him didn’t want to admit he was like Johnny, but he was in many ways, but where John adored seclusion, Alan loved people. Basically, Alan was happy doing pretty much anything as long as it was with someone, preferably someone he loved.

So, he would really be lying if he said he took his route at random. It wasn’t a conscious decision, more just what he knew was going to happen regardless.

Virgil had some favourite places on the island to sit and just be. Alan didn’t quite get it any more than he got John’s love of solitude, but he knew his brother liked it and he stored the information for when it was needed.

Today Alan wanted company, so he used the information he had at hand.

Clambering around on the rocky island was not for the faint-hearted. There was no doubt that he was getting a good workout just by going for a simple walk. His first stop was a small cliff beyond Thunderbird Two’s runway. It was Virgil’s favourite, just on the other side of the mountain. He could often be found here just staring out into the ocean thinking who knew what. The scene had been painted, scribbled and, in one case, mosaicked onto a table. This was definitely Virgil’s favourite place.

He wasn’t there.

But Alan still had his list.

Two more Virgil spots proved empty and Alan had managed to work up quite a sweat. He was beginning to wonder why he was even bothering when he caught sight of a figure almost completely hidden in a grove of palm trees.

Virgil sat on a rock, his sketchpad on his lap, completely absorbed in his art. He was up a cliff overlooking a good chunk of the island, the twin peak at an angle even Alan could appreciate.

Alan eyed the climb and with a deep breath began the trek to reach his brother. He kept quiet. The last thing he wanted to do was disturb him. That would be a good way to get his head ripped off. But if he approached from just the right angle, he should be able to see what Virgil was actually drawing.

It took actual rock climbing in a couple of places, but Alan eventually found himself situated behind his brother on top of the cliff, and as expected the view was breathtaking.

It was late afternoon and the entire side of the island was lit up by the sun. Gulls were wheeling in the air above the forested slopes, catching rising air. Far below, raw Pacific collided with the rocky shore in places and wrangled with reefs in others.

Virgil had certainly found a spot.

Quietly Alan made his way closer to his brother. Virgil drew on, showing no sign of knowing Alan was there. The cliff was a slope that had Alan descending towards his brother. Virgil was facing away towards the scenery, slightly hunched as he drew. Because of that slope, Alan was actually able to see his brother’s hand, this time his right, sketching pencil lines on the paper.

For a moment Alan was content to simply watch, but if he was honest with himself, he hadn’t come all this way just to spy on his brother.

“You do know it is rude to stare.”

Virgil’s voice was always soft yet possessed a strength that could be startling. Alan stiffened, annoyed at being caught so easily.

“What? Do you honestly think all that rock clambering would go unnoticed?”

“Dunno.”

His brother had yet to look up at him, simply continuing to sketch as he spoke. You gonna come and sit down?” Virgil held up a hand. “Just be very quiet, I don’t want you to disturb them.”

Alan frowned. “Who?”

But that hand didn’t answer, just beckoned him over.

Alan did what he was told and found himself sitting on that rock beside his older brother.

Virgil was scratching lines furiously onto the page, but the subject wasn’t what he expected. All that beautiful scenery and Virgil was drawing a haphazard pile of sticks?

Whispered. “They’re sea eagles. I’ve never been so close.”

Alan’s eyes darted from the sketchpad to a slither of rock a stone’s throw away from the edge of the cliff. The pinnacle stood alone and defied gravity almost to the point of disbelief. On its very top sat a huge nest. From this angle he could see the two chicks waiting for their parents to return.

Breathed out quiet. “Cool.”

Virgil was sketching madly and under his practised hand, one of the chicks slowly came to life. Simple line instinctively placed, shaded and shaped. It was a little mesmerising.

Alan, of course, had watched Virgil draw before. Amongst all the other things. His brother was usually fiddling with something. He had to have something in his hands, whether it was a pencil or paintbrush, piano or Thunderbird, Virgil tended to always have something playing between his fingers.

When Alan was little there had been many a Kansas winter night snuggled up by the fire, curled up beside his brother watching him draw. Sometimes he would dare him to draw outrageous things like Pedro the Peanut-Killing Pickle. There had been odd stories and scribbled down comics. Alan had even tried his hand under a little encouragement from his brother, but he didn’t have the enthusiasm that Virgil had for the art.

Besides, Alan was quite happy to just sit and watch. Rare quiet moments shared with his artistic brother.

They had been getting rarer and rarer.

“Can I sit with you, Virg?”

A brown eye with an arched eyebrow peered at him. “You’re already sitting.” The curve of a smile. “But sure. Just be quiet and don’t make any sudden moves.”

Respectfully whispered. “Okay.”

So, they sat for an unknown length of time. Virgil drew the second chick, and as one of the parent birds landed with the evening meal, its strong wings, talons and beak appeared on the page. Alan watched as the pencil lines grew darker, surer. Virgil switched pencils and they grew darker still, the birds emerging out of the page into three dimensions.

Down below the two chicks guzzled food from their parent.

A loud, awkward screech from above and another eagle was circling overhead, likely the other parent.

In the corner of the page, the bird quickly appeared, wings spread wide, soaring.

The quiet was amazing. Alan wasn’t one to sit still for any length of time, so perhaps he was missing the obvious, but the sound of Virgil’s pencil, the tease of the breeze and the call of the eagle above had only to compete with the waves far below and the rustle of the scrappy forest.

And a pair of squawking, complaining eagle babies.

Gordon would probably have loved this. His fish brother loved the sea, but he loved all the creatures contained in it even more. Despite this preference for water breathers, if you shoved a puppy or a panda in front of him, the man melted into a gooey puddle. Eagle babies would definitely be on the goo list.

“This is nice, Allie.”

“What?”

“Bit like old times, you sitting and watching me draw.”

Alan shrugged. “I’ve always liked to watch you draw. Guess we haven’t had as much time lately.”

The pencil paused. “Yeah.” His brother turned to look at him. “Well, it is good to see you out here. Nice to have your company.” A gentle smile.

“Anytime, bro. Kinda nice out here anyway.”

That smile grew a little before softening. “Well, unfortunately we have to head back now.”

“What?”

“I’ve got to pick up Gordon and Grandma.”

Alan checked his watch. Where the hell had the time gone? He’d been out here…three hours! “Wow, didn’t expect it to be so late.”

Virgil didn’t comment, just smiled a little more as he packed up his sketchbook and pencils.

Alan stood up and stared out across the ocean. A flicker on the surface of the water and he caught sight of a pod of dolphins frolicking in the swell. He stared.

“It’s amazing what you can see if you stop and look.” His brother’s soft voice so close to him made him jump.

“Virg, personal space.”

His brother snorted and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “I don’t think such a thing exists on this island.” That smile again. “Probably why John hides on Five.”

Alan grinned. “You’ve got a point.” And despite his earlier protest, he dropped his head against Virgil’s shoulder and for just a few more moments, they both tracked the dolphins as the cavorted past the Island.

“Can we do this again?”

“Sure.” Virgil slung his pack over his shoulder.

“Great.”

Silence fell, and they stood there a moment longer until Virgil squeezed a little and let go. “C’mon, sprout, time to clamber down the mountain.”

Virgil took the first few steps and Alan followed, throwing one last glance back at the nest now full of the entire family of sea eagles. A sharp beaked head turned in his direction and glared at him.

Alan couldn’t help but smile at the bird before he hurried after his brother.

-o-o-o-

FIN.

[lynchgirl90]

#TwinPeaks Star Kyle MacLachlan Promises "Everything Will Make Sense"

Before embarking on Showtime's new Twin Peaks, fans were ready to sip on some damn fine coffee once again. They were ready to return to the Black Lodge and the dark mythology surrounding Dale Cooper's last known whereabouts. Indeed, they were ready for more Cooper, full stop.

They were not ready for Dougie Jones.

Eight hours into David Lynch's return to the world of Twin Peaks, Kyle MacLachlan's eternally optimistic federal agent remains at arm's length. Sure, he's returned to the mortal realm after spending the last two decades and change stuck inside the Black Lodge, while an evil doppelgänger (also played by MacLachlan) was running around causing carnage in the real world. But that Agent Cooper you liked has not yet come back in style. Instead, he's inhabiting the life of yet another lookalike named Dougie Jones, wandering through casinos, corporate culture and domesticity with childlike wonder. He is showing signs of the old Cooper, slowly but surely — albeit a little too slowly for some viewers' tastes.

For his part, MacLachlan knew that Dougie would be a difficult pill for fans to swallow. "Many people wanted the nostalgic return to Twin Peaks that they remembered," he tells The Hollywood Reporter. "And that's not what we're representing here." Instead, the new Twin Peaks is representing the duality between two extremes: darkness and light, largely through MacLachlan's own opposing roles as Cooper's doppelgänger and Dougie Jones.

Read on for the actor's take on the new Twin Peaks and its "challenging" nature, what went into playing two different versions of Cooper and more as the season approaches the halfway point of its 18-hour run.

Twin Peaks was shrouded in so much secrecy before its return. Now that the cork has been popped, at least to some extent, what has been your reaction to the reaction?

It's really fun to see. I think we all knew it was going to be a challenging journey for the audience, simply because it is 18 parts of one giant piece, and it's sequential, so people really have to stay with it. And also that David's storytelling is filled with imagery and different perspectives and characters and things that may initially be confusing to people, but ultimately everything will come back together and make sense. It will be clear. But it's challenging, you know? The other part of that is there has been a real, complete love from a large part of the audience for this new direction of Twin Peaks. No one has ever seen anything like this on television before. That's some of the excitement, I think.

You can apply that idea just to Part 8 on its own, an episode that's so hard to define, but makes sense within its own context.

There's definitely a cohesion there. It's just things you haven't necessarily seen before. In some ways, I think of it as moving art. David is first a painter. What he's created is this moving canvas. He pretty much tells you how long you're going to be looking at a scene, and he dictates that by the editing. While you're looking at that scene, he's also infusing it with music and sound, into the visual element. He's the maestro at giving you this experience. You just have to go along for the ride, if you're up for it.

Twin Peaks was shrouded in so much secrecy before its return. Now that the cork has been popped, at least to some extent, what has been your reaction to the reaction?

It's really fun to see. I think we all knew it was going to be a challenging journey for the audience, simply because it is 18 parts of one giant piece, and it's sequential, so people really have to stay with it. And also that David's storytelling is filled with imagery and different perspectives and characters and things that may initially be confusing to people, but ultimately everything will come back together and make sense. It will be clear. But it's challenging, you know? The other part of that is there has been a real, complete love from a large part of the audience for this new direction of Twin Peaks. No one has ever seen anything like this on television before. That's some of the excitement, I think.

You can apply that idea just to Part 8 on its own, an episode that's so hard to define, but makes sense within its own context.

There's definitely a cohesion there. It's just things you haven't necessarily seen before. In some ways, I think of it as moving art. David is first a painter. What he's created is this moving canvas. He pretty much tells you how long you're going to be looking at a scene, and he dictates that by the editing. While you're looking at that scene, he's also infusing it with music and sound, into the visual element. He's the maestro at giving you this experience. You just have to go along for the ride, if you're up for it.

You have so much on your plate in this show, even more than we could have imagined coming into the series. Before the series started, what aspects of your performance were you most curious to see how people would react?

I've never had the opportunity to play these extreme characters. The evil dopelgänger is of course a remorseless killing machine, basically just going around consuming. It's what he wants. He moves through the world in that way. That was challenging and exciting to play, to get into that character, to find his look and his feel and his energy and his drive. I was also very fortunate to have David as the director, so we could work together to move this character through this story. The other character of Dougie is not too dissimilar to a character I played in The Hidden years ago. It's just a further degree of someone who is new to the world and is discovering it as he goes along. There's a veil that he's not able to get through. I watched Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man, Jeff Bridges in Starman, Peter Sellers in Being There; that was a big influence. Those were influences in terms of how to tackle this character. It provided a lot of opportunity for comedy, too. We were mining that. The comedy of timing and exasperation for those around us — particularly Naomi [Watts, who plays Dougie's wife, Janey-E Jones]. She carries the lion's share of the load.

These two extreme characters really embody the tonal dissonance that's at play in the new Twin Peaks. There are monstrous moments of haunting imagery, shots of New York City skyscrapers, or even the actual town of Twin Peaks — often without music, which makes this familiar world look almost like a graveyard at times. On the other side, you have Dougie, with "Take Five" playing in the background as he discovers coffee for the first time — a moment of joy and whimsy. Was this something you felt while you were filming the project, this tug-of-war and push-and-pull between light and dark, not just in terms of the content of the story and the characters, but tonally as well?

That's definitely there. It was in the script and I recognized it. The genius of David Lynch is that he builds all of that in as he edits and lays in the music and the sound. But even in the process of filming, there are certain lengths of time for a take, and extra pieces he wants, and timing. It's all rhythmic with David. I've worked with him enough to know it's really important he feels that what he's getting on the day is going to fit with what's going on in his head. I certainly felt those very things. Tonal dissonance is a really nice way of describing it.

How did you react when you first learned that Agent Cooper had been trapped inside the Black Lodge for all of these years since the original finale? Was it as heartbreaking for you as it was for the audience?

I knew that the audience was excited, just based on social media, for the return of the Cooper that they remembered. I couldn't say anything about that — that there was a process that had to happen before the ship could right itself, let's say. I also like to say we're basically ... my take on it is that the world is out of balance, and we're trying to take it back into balance now. We have 18 hours to do that. But I knew it would be difficult for people. Many people wanted the nostalgic return to the Twin Peaks that they remembered. And that's not what we're representing here. There are a lot of new stories going forward.

It's certainly not something you're getting easily. You have to work for those moments, like when you see Bobby Briggs (Dana Ashbrook) gazing upon Laura Palmer (Sheryl Lee) again for the first time in years.

Exactly right. And you see Kimmy Robertson and Harry Goaz together again as Lucy and Andy. There are reminders. But there are also reminders of just the passage of time. Shooting it was one thing, but seeing it, I was just reminded that it's been 25, 26, 27 years. We've all gotten older. You just acknowledge the fact that we're all mortal and time moves on. I also say, a lot of the time, Twin Peaks has continued on in its way. Now we're revisiting Twin Peaks after all this time, but the town itself never stopped. All the action and activity there never stopped.

Speaking of the passage of time, one of the biggest questions heading into the new version of the series was how would it handle the fact that some of the castmembers who played essential characters had passed away since the original run. We have our answer now: archival footage being used in compelling ways, like Frank Silva appearing as Killer BOB in ethereal spheres, or Major Briggs' (Don Davis) disembodied head floating through space. It's powerful to behold as a viewer. What is it like for you, as someone who worked with these actors, watching them live on through this work and remain such an important part of the narrative?

I think it's beautiful. As actors, this is how we stay around. To see even Catherine Coulson, who was able to work as the Log Lady [shortly before she passed away in 2015]. It's bittersweet. There's a sadness there. I think it's intentional, and a recognition again that we are mortal. We have had some real tragedies with the show. Losing Miguel [Ferrer, who plays Agent Rosenfield] and losing Catherine ... it's not easy. It was challenging to David. But he has done an amazing job remembering, appropriately, I think, and with impact. The characters are still making an impact. As an actor, that's what you want.

There are a lot of new faces as well, and the most prominent one as it relates to your world is the arrival of one of the most iconic characters in Twin Peaks lore, who we had never seen in the flesh until this series: Diane, played by Laura Dern.

That was fantastic. I remember hearing about it for the first time. I had a big smile on my face, and I said, "Of course. It's perfect." Because I didn't even know about it until it was announced. That was brilliant. That was also one of the secrets that I had to hold onto, knowing people were for the most part going to be stunned and excited and happy and all, "Oh, my lord!"

Before, we would only see Cooper speaking to Diane through a recorder. Now, she gets to speak back, and she swears like a sailor. It's almost hard to imagine this Diane being so simpatico with the Cooper of old. What were your thoughts about Diane during the original run of the show, and how did they match up with the reality of the character?

I deliberately left it sort of without any definition. In other words, when I was speaking, I wouldn't think of a certain person sitting at a desk somewhere back in Langley taking all of this down for whatever reason. I thought it was more about Cooper expressing his thoughts in a soothing way. It was a way for him as a character to make sense of what was happening around him and focus himself down. It was less about the person and what that relationship was or wasn't, and more about me working through my stuff as the character. It's gotten much richer now, knowing Diane is being played by Laura Dern, of course, and also to see her personality, which I wasn't thinking about when I was working 25 years ago. It's really funny. It's kind of reminiscent of Albert, Miguel Ferrer's character. She's a little bit on the rougher side.

What was it like becoming the bad Cooper for the first time, seeing yourself in the wig and the leather jacket?

It was really helpful. That character was developed over a period of time where we would find one part of it, and then another part of it, and then another part, and finally we put it all together. I'm really pleased with what's happened with the character. He's a real, pure definition of evil. It's really what I wanted. It was a layering of things. When I saw him and I walked out, I was still not sure. But the beauty of working with David Lynch is if David sees it and feels it and is right with it, then I'm right with it. His confidence in what he saw gave me confidence to go with what I had.

How about Dougie, and stepping into his plus-sized neon green suit? Was that helpful to get your head around Dougie?

(Laughs.) The idea that he went from that one character who we saw briefly, to someone who resembles Cooper a little bit more ... I knew it was going to be tricky. But I knew it wasn't up to me. It's going to be up to the people around me to make that work. The character of Jade [Nafessa Williams], the character of Janey-E and the people at work — they were all going to have to look at him and go, "Why has he changed? What's happening here?" As an audience, we have to go with that. I knew it was going to be a bit of a challenge. But it's also a reflection on Dougie from before. He probably wasn't that memorable, either. People probably didn't look at him too closely: "Oh, it's you. You look a little different. Did you change your hair or something?"

Never mind losing 20 pounds in a night.

Exactly. (Laughs.) "What? Did you go on a diet?" I can only imagine people weren't paying that close of attention to him from the beginning. That's how I justified it.

How was shooting the casino scene, and the "HELLO-OH-OH" of it all?

We were working outside of Los Angeles at a casino, and I remember playing the reality of what was happening with the character. I didn't think too much about it. It felt organic and real and kind of awkward and slightly inappropriate. That was all perfect. The little things, like when you sit down, and the process of learning from watching people. I would watch, and then I would repeat, and then something would happen, and I would react to that. I would then go onto the next thing and the same thing would happen again and again. Trying to keep that as believable as possible was really the goal.

I spoke with Robert Broski recently about playing the Woodsman, and he was an incredibly nice man. You're a very nice man yourself. By your own account, Frank Silva was "a lovely guy." What is it about good people that make such compelling monsters?

Well, from my experience, it's a new place to go. The nice thing is, it's not who I am. I guess it's a part of what I could be, but it's not how I choose to live. It's fun to be able to explore, in a controlled environment, what that feels like, I think. I'm able to put him on in the morning and then I can take him off in the evening when we're done filming. I'll tell you one thing it does: It makes you think about the people who can't. The people who are closer to this than not. That's a horrible place to be as a person.

Almost two weeks have passed since Part 8 aired. The feeling of watching it for the first time won't wash away anytime soon. What was your reaction to that installment, an hour that all on its own stands out immediately as one of David Lynch's seminal works?

I think this whole journey is going to be that. I think Part 8 was the culmination. It was an extraordinary sequence. It was certainly challenging to the audience, but just an amazing piece of work to sit there and absorb. It almost makes me feel that this is not a show you can necessarily binge-watch. I felt that after I watched the first two hours: "I need some time to process this and think about what just happened, because this is much more complex than just a show you would watch and forget." It's very challenging and stimulating, I think. In a way, it was probably great that there's been enough time for people to really think about what they saw and process it and figure it out. It's very complex.

That's an interesting perspective, because you have said that you sat down and read the entire script for the new Twin Peaks in a single sitting, a couple of breaks notwithstanding. How does that experience measure against seeing what David had in mind with the finished product?

It's one of the most fun things about being an actor. You read the script. You visualize everything as you go through. Then you film those pieces, which is different again. Then they edit it, and we see it, and now it's a third film. So it's a process of three, I think, and it changes each time. It continues to evolve. Because it's David, it continues to get richer and more interesting. Certain imagery he uses over and over again, variations of that imagery ... I'm coming to the show now just as an audience member, because I haven't seen any of the [upcoming] sequences yet. I'm experiencing this the same as the audience. It's a gift.

Link (TP)

[ramajmedia]

Outlander: 10 Rules Members Of The Fraser Family Have To Follow

Ever since we first saw heroine Claire Fraser, born Beauchamp, stomp across our screens straight into the arms of Scottish man Jamie Fraser, watching Outlander has been a full-blown adventure. With romance, heartbreak, action, and political intrigue, Outlander has managed to do it all, and with extreme grace. This includes tackling extremely heavy topics in a way no other television show has done before.

RELATED: Twin Peaks: 10 Storylines That Were Never Resolved

Of course, one of the best parts of the series is the everlasting romance between Jamie and Claire, and their decision to start a family and have their daughter, Brianna. These two are the epitome of couple goals, and anyone would be quick to volunteer in taking the place of any of these two star crossed lovers. But what exactly does it entail being a part of the Fraser family? Does everyone have what it takes to be a part of it? Let's find out. Here are 10 rules that members of the Fraser family have to follow.

10 Be Brave

It's very hard to imagine anyone belonging to the Fraser family who doesn't possess this particular trait. While it might get you into a lot of trouble (you need only ask Jamie), it's also one thing that both him, his wife, and their daughter have in common. Let's look at the facts. First, Claire was a war nurse before she even went to Scotland. When she time traveled, she showed more bravery than most people would be able to, given the circumstances.

Related: Outlander: 10 Hilarious Lord John Grey Memes That Are Too Funny

Her hubby, of course, is so brave is name might as well be Jamie Courage Fraser. Well, maybe that's a bit of a stretch, but the man doesn't hesitate when it comes to saving someone he loves or doing what's right. This is true even if he has to face some serious adversities.

9 Family Comes First

Don't even think about belonging to a family like the Frasers if they wouldn't be your number one priority in this life. Looking back at every single episode of Outlander, pretty much everything that Jamie and Claire have done during the course of the show has been for the good of their family... which is to say, each other or their daughter.

They are extremely selfless people (we'll get to that in a second) but if they have to choose between doing what's right and doing what's good for their family, they'll choose the latter. This is perhaps the only instance where they would show any trace of selfishness.

8 Do Good For The World

No hero or protagonist is complete without a good old dose of selflessness. If we exclude the one instance we've mentioned above, the Fraser family can pretty much be considered a blessing to the people who cross their path... unless, of course, any of those people just so happen to be intolerable, inhumane villains.

Related: Outlander: 10 Hilarious Season 1 Memes Only A Sassenach Would Get

These two actually went as far to try and change the course of history in order to prevent thousands of deaths. And they did so at great personal cost. The Frasers are far from being saints, but there's no denying they have a heart of gold. Helping others is simply in their nature and seems to run in their blood.

7 Be A Good, Compassionate Leader

As Laird and Lord of Lallybroch, and as important figures back when they were still in France, both Jamie and Claire carry a lot of weight on their shoulders. Back in the 17th century, it was up to the owners of the land to collect taxes and care for their people. But of course, things were a bit more complicated, since the weather pretty much determined how the harvests would go.

The Frasers always managed to bring their golden hearts every time it came down to running their own place and land. They forgive debts, procure birth control for the maids, and respect all who are below them. These are true traits of good and compassionate leaders, who the people look up to.

6 Follow Your Heart

The Frasers tend to think with their emotions a lot more than they think with their heads. And in many instances, this means that they put themselves into situations that aren't exactly ideal, and many times, they are borderline dangerous. But that's just the way of Jamie and Claire, passionate lovers and emotional gangsters of sorts.

Related: The Brady Bunch: 10 Rules Members Of The Family Have To Follow

Of course, they have more to be grateful for than anything else. If it wasn't for Claire following her heart, she wouldn't have chosen to stay with Jamie way back in season 1, and there would be no Fraser family to talk about. Follow your hearts, kids. Just make sure you throw some rationality in there... at least sometimes.

5 Communicate

We don't hide our emotions in this house. Seriously, one of the best things about Claire and Jamie's relationship is the fact that these two are brutally honest with each other. Sometimes that's a good thing, sometimes that's a bad thing. But as humans, we all know the secret to a healthy relationship is to communicate.

These two might take it a little bit too far sometimes and get way too intense, but it works for them, and no one gets hurt for too long. As they are quick to pour out their whole hearts to each other, they're also very quick in coming to each other's rescue if feelings were hurt.

4 Show Your Emotions

We weren't kidding when we said that Fraser family members are very vocal about their emotions. And as they are vocal, they are also extremely physical. The show wouldn't be as well known as it is without the hot, steamy, romantic love scenes between Claire and Jamie, and that's a beautiful and healthy way of expressing love.

Related: Parks & Rec: 10 Rules Members Of The Swanson Family Have To Follow

These two are clearly head over heels in love with each other, and they often show it through kisses, caresses, and hand-holding.

3 Know How To Defend Yourself

You don't get to make it alive and thriving in the 17th century Scotland unless you have some serious fire in you. Being brave here isn't enough, especially when you're a Fraser and bad luck just seems to follow you around in the form of some seriously disturbing villains. We're looking at you, Jack Randall.

Knowing how to fight won't keep you from suffering a fair share if you're captured or find yourself in war, but it sure doesn't hurt. The Fraser family obviously knows this, and they have no problem throwing some punches and pushes, and drawing their swords when need be. Maybe sign up for kickboxing classes?

2 Trust Your Kin

If communication is one of the essential pillars of healthy relationships, then trust is sure to follow suit. Love alone isn't enough to build and sustain strong family bonds, whether that's between husband and wife, father and daughter, or mother and daughter. No matter what happens, everyone needs to trust each other.

Related: Gilmore Girls: 10 Rules Members Of The Gilmore Family Have To Follow

Outlander has been known for putting its characters in very sticky situations. They're often confronted with hard scenarios, and this is particularly true for the Fraser family. This is why they soon learned that if they want to survive in hostile worlds, they need to not only love but also trust each other.

1 Let Love Be Your Strength

Last but certainly not least, we reach the number one rule one must follow in order to fully belong to the Fraser family. There are very few actions and decisions made by either Jamie or Claire throughout the course of the show that weren't motivated by love. Love for each other and love for their daughter.

Sometimes this meant they had to be apart, which is not an easy decision to make. But being a Fraser means that, above loyalty, and trust, and bravery, is love. Loving each other and Brianna so deeply it hurt them sometimes. But that's who they are at their core: two people who fell madly in love and created a life together.

NEXT: Outlander: 10 Hidden Facts About Geillis Only True Fans Noticed

source https://screenrant.com/outlander-rules-fraser-family-follows-tv-show/

[obsidianonslaught]

At The Speed Which Mountains Move

Death stared at him from across an empty, hollow place. Not maliciously, not greedily--but intently. Honest, brutally honest, the way footprints fade beneath silent, soft rain. Saying nothing, for the dead do not speak--there was nothing left to say, and nothing around him, just blackness. Not the blackness of night, but the blackness of outer space, infinite, timeless. Expanding.

He looked around, blinking steadily, his neck craned over his shoulder, gazing into the vast and vaster stretch of darkness dull as gravestones and split ends in old hair. He knew no road, no sign in the distance, there was no gravity to bind him, and no air to breathe. There was no light, no moon, no stars, no where to go. But he was not dead--death could not touch him, would not take him, and he squinted through tears in his eyes that became seaside storms, heavy, black, pouring to the only sound he could make out from the empty place. A heartbeat in his chest. Softly, slowly creating the pace for the rivers that ran over top of his skin, into nothing. There was no direction, no here nor there, no now and then.

Then he was standing in a broken world, the streets he had known as a child, in the dark, staring up at a clouded, choking sky. He wandered down to the end of the block, through the dust, through the vivid stench of poison gases and coal, through small shards of glass arranged like teeth across the corner. A canvas of rubble where the factory used to be, laying lopsided and disfigured, scattered and toppled and layered with dust and the faint smell of smoke and flame. There was fire coming from the seam between his lips, blue in color, and thin--it was cold to the touch and did not burn him--and crumbled into handfuls of earth where it snared and smoothed his hair.

There was a mountain in the distance--out of place, out of reach. A mountain that did not belong, a great welt against the horizon--burning copper and bronze. The ruins before him smoked, rotted, crumbled. He made his way slowly into the center of it, into the shadow of the mountain peak that had not existed in that faraway place. Something cut at him, sharp and small, shards of glass or jewels or metal, glinting softly, saying nothing. His blood ran in thin lines into the earth from the shallow cuts, softening it, saturating barren strips. There he knelt with his open wounds in the swell of stones and wooden beams and scraped at the ground, his nails sheathed with grainy soil, long and uneven, digging, hollowing out a small hole. He dug until he could not see the mountain over the edge of the ditch and everything was black again. Then he woke.

The sun had not yet risen, and he squinted into the shadowy shapes that lingered within the walls of the room. Familiar things. The curtains, the desk, his body crumpled on its side, loose strands of his thick, dark hair. He sighed deeply, quietly, parting his lips where the fire had slipped out in his dreams.

Slowly, he crossed the floor with bare feet and turned on the light. He blinked away the weight on the lids of his eyes, dragged his fingers over his face, feeling nothing. The clock in the corner read quarter past four, and he cursed beneath his breath in his mother tongue. Caught half-way between a dizzy spell and the chill of knowing too many city secrets.

Run, river, run. For there is blood welling up in the water. Swimming through the torrents spilling out of his mind, choking down the air in the apartment room. Troubled, troubling, troublesome.

He had, again, a vision of a mountain top, a fleeting thought, til the minute hand on the clock jolted forward. Tick. Tick. Then the rivers again, flowing water, carrying eras, carving pathways through granite and leaf litter and clouded lanes and fog banks that had settled alongside the oldest of his memories. Split lips and seeping blood, small secrets, the corridors of inner city streets... Things he tried hard not to remember.

... Tick. Tick.

He knew the mountain in his dream was a sign--Omega was contacting him, calling him. He’d no choice but to answer, and he did so gently, reaching out across the boundary line with a tightening sense of uncertainty. His throat was knotted but he answered without a voice--how the dead do. It hurt him to breathe, but he knew what must be done. He showered and changed and then opened the window, leaned his head out into the darkness over the asphalt and the grungy figures of painted lines and parked cars. His heart skipping beats. Lollygag emerged from the nestled heap of shadows and smog and pressed his forehead to his own. They talked, silently, skin on metal and a fog bank concealing their empty jaws and pointed teeth. With his bruised hands he stroked the Gale’s snout and nodded towards the great, old Forest.

There they met the god where the mountain once stood.

Morning had not yet come. They settled together among the rubble and watched the stars turn over the treeline for awhile, hinting at charts and other ancient directions. The lights of the city bellowed graphically in the distance, another sea of stars below the veiled deck of sky, golden and blue and just out of reach. Waiting for the sun to shine.

But he was ever wary of the light. His eyes were tired, the color of ash, the color of storms, open wide and looking between the spaces of earth and shadow, into the stars, into the ether that was Omega’s giant, sacred face. The Seismos made a moaning sound at last, as if ze were sighing, turned into the rush of thunder clouds and wind. Ze sat down surely in the place where the mountain once was, greater than it, taller, stronger, curling zer tail like a wire fence in the dip in the earth.

“I saw a sign from over the Ocean,” ze said, very slowly. “From the West, from someplace in-between, where dreams come from, Jed. Where there is no night or day.”

“What do you mean?” Burton had undone his harness and was leaning out of the open cockpit, his chin in his hands, a cold chill glazing through him.

“A dying place,” said Lollygag softly.

Omega nodded firmly. “A dying place.” Ze tilted zer head towards the coastline hidden far beyond Blue City’s skyline. “Far away. Far gone. One like me, made by the minds and the hands of your people--humankind. We are the gods of a new and horrible age. The both of us created to kill. But he is being killed.”

Burton curled up his lip, “You aren’t talking of war, are you?”

“Oh, there will be a war,” said Omega. “But not now. Not yet. No, it is time and neglect and rust that kills him slowly. He is powerless, dormant, weak. As I once was. And shackled in place, to something greater than gravity--what I could not tell, nor where. There was a Great Divide between us. I could only make out broken pieces, born of split seconds. It was only an instant, a single ripple in a rising tide. I tried contacting him again, sending a message of my own, but there is no signal to retrace... As if it never were.”

Ze spoke with tremendous weight, as if trying to balance capacities of both land and sea, unmaking and unrelenting. Deciding how to hold zer neck and zer shoulders, like vast pillars and roots that held up the lungs of the world. The Gale crooned softly, deeply tuned to the stiffness of the god’s posture, zer locked joints, the pattern of ambivalence painted in zer tone, zer clenched and sharpened teeth. He read the symbols, then gestured and sung to Burton quietly, and Burton understood.

“We will help you find him,” he said in his quiet, mortal voice--carefully, tenderly. He held his chin in his hands still, leaning out into the lengthy Forest. He watched Omega’s twitching tail, a great bridge over darkness sloped over stories of hope and of pain. “But then what?”

For a while, Omega did not stir--ze sat in the dirt, deep and dark, statuesque and throwing tapered shadows over the tangled growth of shuddering trees. Eyes blazing, beacons of untold might, seeing all, spilling a different kind of light into the clustered clouds, the scent of summer rain on the wind. Zer face was rugged and sharp, as if etched in black stone, burned forever into the path of the stars, of brilliance, of night. Not once did ze attempt to probe Burton’s mind.

“I am a god of nothing,” ze said at last. “A god of devastation, of dread. Once powerless to my power. But you brought me back into this world, back up to the Surface. I think of my prison, my refuge here, where this mountain was once, where I rested while you waited, and you gave life to me again, word by word, piece by piece, peaceful peace. In the darkness, in the silence, in the earth beneath. I thought I was alone--but I was wrong... I am stronger, I am the fate that falls all living things. That promise of nothingness that awaits in death.” Ze laughed briefly, an untamed and deep laugh that came out like the unison of music and ceremonial flame--Burton’s laugh--the laugh that ze had learned in the darkness of the underground caves. “I am going to steal him back from the dying place.”

“Ah,” said Burton.

Lollygag bristled, his horns and tail and wings rocking in the wind. The trees seemed to follow his lead, shaking and bowing their dark, crowned branches, while twin moons shuffled into the banks of massing clouds, shy and ready to surrender their realm to dust and dawn. Quietly, time turned over the smallest of stones...

“I do not know how long the journey will take,” said Omega, with a brutal sort of honesty. “I have never been over the Ocean.”

“Not long,” said Burton, who could recall the distances and the directions from his various books and charts, “If you Cast yourself there. It’s the search itself that will take the most time. You have no other leads?”

Omega shook zer head slowly, side to side, a tower shifting into distant realms of make-believe and recent years. Some silver threads of light lay timidly over the armor of zer neck, playing with the thought of permanence. Lollygag rose up slowly, above the treeline and to where the breeze began to part ways, his bronze wings stretched wide.

“I know where to look, I think,” he said, with a clearness to his voice that transcended the boundary of the air and aged woods.

Burton understood, he knew Lollygag wanted to search whatever records they could find for clues, answers, explanations. Perhaps the remnants in the old army bases... They’d been there before, briefly, over foreign lands and withered ruins. Swiftly, the Gale sifted through the files from those trips, and his own mines of military coding.

“There were countless weapons built during, and after the war,” he said, “even in peace-time. There are mentions of joint-projects. And rogue projects. Republic and Empire and those unaffiliated with either.” He tilted his head to one side. “Including building, and cloning, ancient Zoids. There are mentions of different attempts. Death machines. Destroyed or disassembled usually. I don’t know much else. But Richter Scale was not the first to experiment with these processes--making and un-making. Though I think... they better stream-lined the technique utilizing the BLOX technology and morphology. Forcing copied Cores into certain forms and frames...”

He stopped for a moment, parsed through some impossible amount of data, and continued. “Operation Genesis applied new battle data and diagnostics to a militarized-method of creation and control. To make you, Omega, within such a short period of time--”

“--they had blueprints,” Burton whispered.

“Exactly. And they must have obtained them from some outside source.” The dragon hummed like the wind through the mountain range. “Those schematics exist somewhere.”

“If they weren’t already destroyed,” said Burton. “Richter Scale was set on keeping tight control over all of their assets, facilities, their personnel...”

“You worked on the project, did you not, Jed?” said Omega. “How come you know so little?”

“I mostly oversaw the production of the Chimera drones,” he replied, flatly. “I wasn’t informed of your existence until much later on, closer to the rebellion. My job was mostly to keep an eye on... on other parties, to collect information on people. When Pierce went rogue, the plan shifted slightly--but he was expendable, in the grander scheme of things. Most of us were. I was. But Lollygag was not. Not until they created you, and reproduced in your biology his ability to control other Zoids. The data exists still, and they’re making use of it, I’m sure--Exodus is proof of that. In its original state, perhaps not, but Lolly is good at repairing and restoring anything corrupted, deleted...”

“It leaves a trail,” said Lollygag, “like footprints.” He wriggled his claws as the stars and clouds reeled above him. “We’ll find him. We just need to start somewhere.”

The god leaned towards them, slowly like ripples and tides.“Then lead.”

----------

Burton returned to his apartment as the sun was rising over the skyline and repainting the city a rosy blood color in patches, creeping into corners like teardrops and ink. The smell of storm drains and sediment and exhaust from still traffic crept about his hands, his feet. He tidied his work-space and made his bed, packed lightly, brushed his hair. Humming songs that he’d learned from long, long ago--Lolly hummed with him, in his mind, and reminded him to shut the curtains. Some semblance of dreams circled about him, dipping, diving, diluting. He left a message on the phone: simple, resolute, honest, in his soft and shadowy voice, saying things in words that could not quite be said in words...

He was skeptical still. Richter Scale had likely disposed of the original source, keeping secrets to themselves, heavily guarded, spirited away. He no longer could access the various facilities within the Blue City limits--he’d a target on his back, blood smothered on his name. But there was a chance--a slim one, a risk he’d have to take to appease Omega, to search the world for the dying calls of another troubled god.

He closed the curtains and tied back his hair, locked the door and left. Lollygag was waiting for him on the asphalt and helped him up into the cockpit again. Morning staggered on, pushing him closer to the edge of consciousness, testing the weight of earth, of stone, of the unbridled might of the city. The dragon rose, into the golden light, above the skyline, and off into the wilds once more.

“Small steps,” said Lollygag, stretching his wings wide and escaping the Blue City noise. “You’re worrying too much--worries are like clouds, sometimes.” He pointed out with a claw, into the distance, shrugging. “Gathered together tight they can obscure the sunrise.”

He considered it for a moment, looking at the color of the sun as it lit the desert, the forest, the brow of Blue City. Far, far away on the water’s edge, it turned to liquid gold. There they flew, faster than the wind and unseen above a waking world. Omega was there, impatient, towering over the sea like a cliff made of anger and metal and the crushing sound of thunder trapped deep in sealed caverns below.

Together, they looked out into the water, over wavecrests reaching up at the hills, tamed by sun and the patient pull of seconds sacrificed to the delicate song. Of the seasons changing, of the tide coming in. Salt stinging, irrelevant, ordinary. The three of them turned west and reconsidered.

“You’ll want me to stay hidden while you search,” said Omega, sharp but quiet. Ze knew it because ze knew him, his guilt, his honor, his careful way of working things.

“It’s for the best,” sighed Burton. “You keep out of sight,” he glanced upward, vaguely, “and we’ll be in touch.”

“And if Exodus finds you?”

“We’ll be ready this time,” said Lollygag, with his head bowed, adorned by the hours of day. He spoke with tremendous energy--gravely, precisely, how the tide turned in and out and cleansed the stains and scars along the coast, taking everything to sea.

The god grumbled something, bellowing into the atmosphere, where space and sky and gravity intertwined and tumbled elsewhere, between, beyond, owing and owning nothing. Eventually, ze took zer second form, ascending, claws and jaws clenched, the size of shackles that could cover snow-swept summits and every slope in between.

“You know it, don’t you, that you will have to fight,” ze echoed, zer back to Blue City, facing out against the waves. It was a deep and ancient sound, from darkness, into thin air. “Many more fights. More times than you can count--the faces will not stop, not here, not on the other Side, strangers or strangeness. They’re looking for us, you know who I mean. One day, again, we’ll meet them, face-to-face, sooner or later.” The sound of zer core pulsing, seething, caused Burton to shudder with a sharp stab of pain. He curled his lip, looking out the cockpit up at the giant, sulking creature. His dragon, too, shuddered and shifted, for the connection among them was strong.

The god heaved a heavy sigh. “Jed.”

“Yes?” Burton’s voice was a gentle whisper across the coast.

“If you humans are good at anything, it is claiming gods for your own and waging wars. Creating and killing and creating and killing, both yourselves and your servants--all masters and slaves to some cyclical cause. Of hate. You will teach me how to fight too. Not from code, not from the battle data, nor from the reactions programmed into my system. From experience. Of my will. And of that hate.”

The words stung more than the wind and the salted water. Burton was quiet and motionless at the Gale’s controls. Lollygag made a shrill and awful noise, which drifted away from them all.

“Think about what you’re saying,” he whispered, pained, jaded. “Something burning in his throat. “We will teach you--but nothing of fighting with hate.”

“I feel often-times that I’ve nothing left,” Omega rumbled. “That nothing else matters. It fills, the mind, Jed--it knows no bounds.”

“It’s powerful.” Burton spoke gently. “But you mustn’t hold onto it so tightly--very rarely does anything worthwhile come of it, after all. Oh yes, small victories, seconds of success, but beyond that? Misery. Powerlessness to its power. It’s like a virus, it infects and destroys and decays and duplicates until there’s nothing left. Nothing but the hate. Trust me, it’s better left untouched--let it go, Omega. Control it. Do not let it control you.”

“Ha! You’d know, wouldn’t you?”

“I’ve seen it. I’ve seen myself turn into something else--something I never want to be again. Living like that, it wasn’t much of a life at all, becoming very broken, and breaking everything around me. All else lost, in a daze, in a dream. We were... changed by it. I saw the people around me contorted and caught in that cycle, over and over again. I’m not saying it’s easy, you know, but you’ll be better off keeping away from it. And forego the hate that you have."

“We’ll teach you to fight against it instead. It’s a terrible weapon,” said Lollygag, troubled, but steady. “But you must wait. One thing at a time.”

They said nothing more, for there was too much to think about, and too much pain to drown. No path to take. The ocean told them of sunken treasure, heavy storms, the sacred spell of undisturbed sleep, for the time was right, the time was now--time trickling by beyond the face of shoals and sand and strangely-shaped shells scattered into separate tide-pools. The wind seemed to lean on their backs, the sun was slow and rising higher to the top of the world. Cleaving with claws of golden heat. They turned to each other, silent, free to wander, free to choose, not knowing what secrets laid buried away past the point where sea and sky met up together, never letting go. It was the Seismos that shifted first, seeking something, seeing sunlight sparkling off the crests of the tallest waves. And then they left that hallowed place, the great scar in the earth, and started to the other shore, at the speed which mountains move.

[j0sgomez-blog]

Todd Arndt on the Observation Point Trail in Zion National Park.

By Michael Lanza

What adventures did you take in 2018 that inspired you? I hope you enjoyed at least a few. I did. The 12 photos in this story are favorite images from some of the trips I took over the past year. They included hiking in Zion (twice) and Bryce Canyon national parks; backpacking off the North Rim of the Grand Canyon in spring and returning in fall to dayhike the canyon rim to rim to rim over two magnificent days; rock climbing in Yosemite; backpacking and scrambling peaks in Idaho’s Sawtooths; and putting an exclamation point on the year with a 90-mile traverse of Glacier National Park on the Continental Divide Trail.

Scroll through these photos, each of which is accompanied by a short anecdote from the trip and links to existing stories at The Big Outside. I hope they help inspire you to start planning your adventures for 2019. After all, these are the experiences that give meaning to our lives.

Watch for my upcoming stories about some of the places in these photos to be published in coming months at this blog, each with numerous images and my expert tips on planning those trips.

I’d love to hear what you think of any of my photos or the places shown in them, or upcoming plans you have. Please share your thoughts in the comments section at the bottom of this story.

  Joanne Lanza (me mum) on the Canyon Overlook Trail in Zion.

Hiking in Zion National Park

En route to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon for a backpacking trip (see below), three friends and I spent part of a day in Zion, dayhiking the Observation Point Trail with the side trip to Hidden Canyon, where we explored as far as hikers can go up that slot canyon—at one point walking beneath an owl napping on a tree branch. I’ve been to Zion several times now; these days, each return feels like a visit with an old friend whom I don’t see nearly enough.

An owl in Hidden Canyon, Zion National Park.

While Angels Landing, The Narrows, and the Subway, and other trails in Zion may be better known, the Observation Point Trail delivers classic Zion scenery as soon as you step onto the trail. It passes through a narrow side canyon with water pools and soaring walls on an ascent of over 2,000 feet in four miles (one-way) that culminates at a point on the rim high above Zion Canyon—even Angels Landing looks small from up there.

I was fortunate to return a second time to Zion, in October, to spend three days hiking with my 81-year-old mom (whose hiking resume includes climbing Mount St. Helens and trekking hut to hut in Norway’s Jotunheimen National Park—both in her seventies). She and I made it nearly to the top of the Observation Point Trail—not bad for someone who’s 81—dayhiked partway up The Narrows, and hiked the half-mile Canyon Overlook Trail along the Zion-Mt. Carmel Highway to a stunning view from the rim of a broad tributary canyon of Zion Canyon. Those hikes featured sightings of about 10 bighorn sheep.

See a menu of the many stories about Zion National Park at The Big Outside.

  Click here now to get my e-guide The Complete Guide to Backpacking Zion’s Narrows.

  Hi, I’m Michael Lanza, creator of The Big Outside, which has made several top outdoors blog lists. Click here to sign up for my FREE email newsletter. Subscribe now to get full access to all of my blog’s stories. Click here to learn how I can help you plan your next trip. Please follow my adventures on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Youtube.

  Jeff Wilhelm at a waterfall on the Deer Creek Trail in the Grand Canyon.

Backpacking and Dayhiking in the Grand Canyon

Any year with two trips to the Grand Canyon is a good one, and I managed to pull that off in 2018. In May, three friends and I backpacked for four days on the 25-mile Thunder River-Deer Creek Loop off the North Rim. While the heat was a constant challenge and the hiking is tough, we got to explore a unique corner of the Big Ditch, with rare desert oases along vibrant creeks and some of the canyon’s prettiest waterfalls. One, the spring-fed Thunder River, erupts from the face of a cliff.

Read about that trip and see more photos, a video, and my tips on how to plan and pull it off in my story “Backpacking the Grand Canyon’s Thunder River-Deer Creek Loop.”

David Ports hiking the Grand Canyon’s South Kaibab Trail.

I returned to the canyon in October, this time to the South Rim with my wife and another couple to dayhike from the South Rim to the North Rim and back again over two days. On our first morning, we descended the South Kaibab Trail—one of the 20 best national park dayhikes in America—as glorious dawn light spread across a vast sweep of the Grand Canyon splayed out before us. (My advice: Hike down the South Kaibab in early morning—at least once in your life.) The hike up the North Kaibab Trail to the North Rim is twice as long as the South Kaibab, but more varied, going from the narrow canyon of lower Bright Angel Creek to the trail’s upper section in Roaring Springs Canyon, where you walk a footpath blasted out of the face of a cliff. Little wonder that I list it among “My 25 Most Scenic Days of Hiking Ever.”

See my “Photo Gallery: Hiking the Grand Canyon Rim to Rim” and scroll down to Grand Canyon on my All National Park Trips page for a menu of all stories about the Grand Canyon at The Big Outside.

  Click here now for my expert e-guide to hiking the Grand Canyon rim to rim.

  My son, Nate, atop Eichorn Pinnacle in Yosemite National Park.

Rock Climbing in Yosemite

My teenage son, Nate, and I arrived in Yosemite for a few days of rock climbing the day after the Ferguson fire blew up in mid-July. While that fire grew, choking Yosemite Valley in smoke—forcing us to abandon plans to climb the Snake Dike up the Southwest face of Half Dome—we had some smoke but stunning scenery nonetheless while climbing domes and cliffs in the Tuolumne Meadows area. The trip highlight was climbing the Southeast Buttress of Cathedral Peak.

We climbed several hundred feet of beautiful granite, getting increasingly more expansive views of Yosemite as we got higher. In calm air and comfortable temps on the pointed summit of Cathedral, at nearly 11,000 feet, we felt on top of the world—and it was pretty darn special to be up there together. Given the good weather and abundant daylight left, we climbed Eichorn Pinnacle, the dramatic spire on the shoulder of Cathedral. I nabbed the photo above of Nate atop Eichorn, minutes after I had rappelled off.

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  My 17-year-old called it the best day of alpine rock climbing he’s ever done. Yuh, I’d say.

Read my story about that climbing trip, “When Your Kid Gets Better Than You.” And see my stories “Roof of the High Sierra: A Father-Son Climb of Mount Whitney,” “Backpacking 150 Miles Through Wildest Yosemite,” “The 10 Best Dayhikes in Yosemite,” and a menu of the many stories about Yosemite National Park at The Big Outside.

  Yearning to backpack in Yosemite? See my e-guides to three amazing multi-day hikes there.

  Robert Elliott on Horstman Peak in Idaho’s Sawtooth Mountains.

Backpacking and Climbing Peaks in the Sawtooths

Since I moved to Idaho 20 years ago, it has come to feel like a year isn’t complete until I’ve walked through the Sawtooth Mountains. Fortunately, I made 2018 very complete with a few trips there, starting with backcountry skiing in late winter, followed by a pair of August hikes: backpacking with my family and various adult and teenage friends, and a long, mostly off-trail dayhike to scramble a pair of 10,000-foot peaks with three friends.

On that four-day backpacking trip of a bit under 30 miles, from Redfish Lake to Pettit Lake, we hit some of the nicest valleys, passes, and mountain lakes in the Sawtooth Wilderness: the Redfish Creek valley (which always looks to me like it belongs in Yosemite), Cramer Lakes and Cramer Divide, Edna Lake, and personal favorites Toxaway Lake, Twin Lakes, and Alice Lake, plus the magnificent pass that separates them.

  I can help you plan a Sawtooths trip or any other trip you read about at my blog. Find out more here.

  My son and two buddies backpacking in Idaho’s Sawtooth Mountains.

Two weeks after that, I was back to hike-scramble the highest peak in the Sawtooths, 10,751-foot Thompson, and a neighbor a few miles to its south, 10,470-foot Horstman Peak. Both involve steep hiking and exposed scrambling on rock that no sane person would describe as stable—especially Horstman, which has very complicated route-finding and a summit ridge that’s both thrilling and unnerving. Both summits, cold and windy that August day, gave us vistas spanning most of the Sawtooth Mountains, the bucolic valley of the Salmon River, the White Cloud Mountains to the east, and the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness to the north. We made that long day even longer by descending off Horstman into the bushwhacking-and-swampy hell of Fishhook Creek—a mistake I’ve made in the past and vowed never to repeat, and this time I mean it.

Watch for my upcoming stories about both of those trips at The Big Outside. Meanwhile, see my stories “The Roof of Idaho’s Sawtooths: Hiking Thompson Peak,” “Ask Me: What Are the Best Hikes in Idaho’s Sawtooths?” and all of my stories about the Sawtooths at The Big Outside.

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Todd Arndt at Pitamakan Pass in Glacier National Park.

Backpacking Glacier National Park

After wildfires forced three friends and I to abort plans for a roughly 90-mile, north-south traverse of Glacier National Park on the Continental Divide Trail in September 2017, we returned in September this year with a permit for the exact same itinerary. And once again, wildfires threatened to nix our plans—an annual threat to backcountry plans anywhere in the West under the new normal of climate change (and as you’ve read, wildfires affected three of the trips I’ve written about in this article).

Backpacking the Piegan Pass Trail in Glacier National Park.

But snow and rain right before our arrival tamped down the flames and smoke, and we pulled it off this year in bluebird late-summer weather. We hiked for six days from Chief Mountain Trailhead at the Canadian border to Two Medicine, mostly on the CDT, but adding on the wonderful, high traverse from Pitamakan Pass to Dawson Pass above Two Medicine, overlooking a sea of icy peaks in the heart of Glacier.

The trip gave us the complete Glacier experience: glassy lakes reflecting jagged peaks, mountain passes with panoramas of endless chains of rocky peaks and soaring cliffs, plus sightings of bighorn sheep and one grizzly bear that refused to politely yield the trail to us. After almost three decades of wilderness backpacking all over the U.S. and around the world, rarely does a new trip immediately leap onto my list of all-time top 10 backpacking trips—but this one did just that.

Watch for my upcoming feature story about this trip at The Big Outside. Until then, see my short blog post about that trip, “Photo Gallery: Backpacking the CDT Through Glacier National Park,” and all of my many stories about Glacier National Park at this blog.

  Click here now for my e-guide to backpacking the Northern Loop in Glacier!

  My mom hiking the Peek-a-Boo Loop in Bryce Canyon National Park.

Hiking in Bryce Canyon

In October, after our three glorious days of hiking in Zion, my mom and I moved on to the higher and chillier terrain of Bryce Canyon National Park for a dayhike that, in my humble opinion, is the best one in Bryce.

The Wall of Windows on the Peek-a-Boo Loop in Bryce Canyon.

Bryce may not have the scale, area, or diversity of scenery and experiences that’s found in Zion, Grand Canyon, and other Southwest parks.

But going back there reminded me just how inspiring it feels to walk amid that stone skyline of multi-colored hoodoos—especially once you venture beyond the busier (but still very pretty) Navajo Loop onto the Peek-a-Boo Loop, which sees fewer hikers even though it has some of the finest scenery in the park.

See my blog post “Photo Gallery: The Best Hike in Bryce Canyon,” and a menu of the numerous stories about hiking and backpacking in southern Utah at The Big Outside.

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