#threads: ethan wood.

[kianajanae]

"I said all that and that was all you heard..." Pinching the bridge of her nose, she let out a laugh of annoyance. "It's for your benefit, not mine," she reminded him. "And don't get cute," her nose scrunched at him, "you're clearly a total dickhead with the ladies." It wasn't shocking. Ethan was a pretty boy. Most pretty boys she knew were assholes and playboys. He was just adding to the long, long list. "The least you could do is make your intentions clear from jump."

Smiling softly, she shrugged. "Nothing is set in stone yet." She wasn't the type to get her hopes up about things. She wasn't a pessimist, she was a realist. There was no use of getting all giddy about something, just for the possibility of a let down. "I'm excited but not too excited." Laughing as she watched him pose, she stepped to him, taking his chin and turning his head to the left and to the right. "Hmm, I don't know. I think that jawline is built for a sculpture." Now why she was paying him a compliment she'll never know.

Ethan's forehead puckered as he considered's Kiana's advice. Sure, she was probably right. Communication was key and letting someone down clearly was probably better than leading someone on. Blah. Blah. Blah. But it just wasn't Ethan's style. He was a man of few words, and didn't get attached. He sure as hell wasn't going to talk about his feelings and shit. Besides, he didn't always get their number afterwards. "Hey, I'm not the worst." Ethan finally piped up. After all that tough love, this was the sole fact that Ethan zeroed in on. Eventually his expression let up, and he met Kiana half way. "Fine, I'll leave a note next time."

A grin grew slowly across Ethan’s features and his eyes flickered from the artwork back towards Kiana. "Atta girl. Always rootin' for you, Ki." He was genuine. Of course, the athlete didn't know shit about the art world, but could recognize talent when he saw it, and he thought Kiana had talent. "And I got the best idea for your next master piece." Ethan added, a mischievous glint in his eye. He posed next, flexing his bicep from beneath his cut-off sleeve in all its glory. The worst part was he was dead serious.

[nxttheendxfthestxry]

1 for @wxnter-time :3

Send me 1-100 for a starter based on the song on my wrapped. #1 - "Love From the Other Side", Fall Out Boy

"Well, sending my love from the other side of the apocalypse did not deter interaction the way I thought it would," Wynn sighs and shakes his head, smiling just slightly. "Hello, Ethan."

@wxnter-time

[surfscraped]

STARTER : CLOSED @ewoodxx​ ! LOCATION : go-karts !

                    kai had been slowly and systematically making her way through all the rides, mostly managing to avoid having to wait in too long of a line. unfortunately, the strategy was no match for the completely predictable popularity of the go-karts. with a sigh, she stalked up to the end of the line, about to pull her phone out to entertain herself for at least the next 20 minutes. it was then she realized exactly who was standing in front of her.  ❛ well if it isn’t mr. pretty boy, ❜  kai snarked, immediately crossing her arms as she narrowed her eyes at him.  ❛ didn’t expect to see you here. i have a feeling a carnival isn’t your usual scene. ❜

[stephstars08]

I Don’t Wanna Lose You

Spiderman!Ethan Landry x Reader

Warnings: Adult Language, Blood, Gun Shot Wound, Mention of Weapon, Needle Mentioned, Ethan getting stitched up, Angst, Fluff, Emotional Breakdown, Anxiety, Mention of Dying, and Maybe some Grammar Errors.

Description: Y/N is used to patching up her Superhero Boyfriend but she never knew that one night she would have to actually stitch up a wound that is pouring out blood.

Word Count: 1,249

Author’s Note: Sorry that this is so short! I knew I wanted to write something where Ethan is Spiderman and this is all I came up with! Also sorry if I forgot any warnings! Hope you all enjoy this short story!😊

Y/N was peacefully sleeping in her comfy bed till she heard a tapping noise on her window. She ignored it at first since she thought it was just the rain, but the tapping started to get louder. She sat up in bed and turned on her lamp that was on the table next to her bed side. When she looked over at the window, she saw her boyfriend wearing his superhero suit.

“Shit!” Y/N hissed throwing her blanket off her body. She quickly stood up and ran over to the window. Right when she opened the window her masked boyfriend fell inside and onto the hard wood floor. “Ouch!” Ethan hissed in pain. “Fuck! Ethan!” Y/N said in panic as she kneeled down next to him. She carefully took off his mask that was soaked from the rainstorm happening outside.

“What the fuck did you get yourself into this time?” Y/N asked him putting one of her hands onto his cheek. She saw the pain in his brown eyes, and it was making her heart ache. She hates seeing the boy she loves in so much pain. “You know that robber that has been stealing money from all of these small stores on the avenue?” Ethan asked her with pain in his voice. Y/N gave him a nod remembering him mentioning that his dad was the one that put him on the case. “Turns out he had a gun on him.” He told her taking his gloved hand off his arm that was oozing blood. “Oh fuck!” Y/N said still in complete panic looking at the bullet wound in the side of Ethan’s arm.

She knew she had to stitch up the wound quickly, so he doesn’t lose any more blood that he’s already lost. “You stay here! I’ll go get my first aid kit!” Y/N told him quickly standing up and ran out of her bedroom to the bathroom. This isn’t the first time she’s had to patch her superhero boyfriend up, but this one is different since this time he’s going to need stitches. She got the first aid kit out from under the sink and ran back to her bedroom as fast as she could.

It’s a good thing her roommate Mindy is staying at her girlfriend's apartment tonight. The only ones that know about Ethan being Spiderman is his dad who is a detective, his big sister Quinn, and of course Y/N, but Ethan’s dad doesn’t know that. Ever since they got together, his dad has lectured him about not telling her since it will keep her safe, but he had to tell the girl he loves that he’s the masked hero protecting the people of New York City.

When Y/N got back to her room with the first aid kit she saw Ethan trying to take off the top part of his suit, but he was having trouble because of the pain in his arm. He already took off his gloves. “Stop, let me help you.” Y/N told him sitting down next to him and setting the first aid kit next to her. She carefully lifted the shirt off his body. “Okay, let me see it.” Y/N said carefully holding his wounded arm and examining the wound. “How does it look?” Ethan asked her. “The bullet is still in your arm.” Y/N said opening up the first aid kit. “I’m going to use these tweezers to get the bullet out.” She said picked up the pair of tweezers. Ethan just gave her a nod letting her know to do whatever she has to do.

After she carefully got the bullet out of the wound with the tweezers, she cleaned the wound up and then started to stitch it up with a needle and some thread. Every painful groan Ethan let out she apologized. She was being as gentle as she could. It was making her heart ache since she hasn’t seen Ethan in this much pain before. After finishing up with the stitching she wrapped up his arm so the stitches won’t get messed up or infected. It’s a good thing her major is nursing.

“Thank you, Y/N.” Ethan said when she was completely done patching him up. “Yeah.” Y/N said in a soft voice as she started to pack everything back into the first aid kit. “What’s wrong?” Ethan asked her with concern in his tone. “I don’t want to lose you!” Y/N cried out finally letting her emotions pour out of her body. She didn’t realize she was holding it in till he asked her that question. “Y/N, you aren’t going to lose me.” Ethan reassured her taking one of her hands into his. “How do you know that?” Y/N asked as tears streamed down her face. “You got shot in the fucking arm! What if next time the bullet goes through your chest!” She cried as she started to have an emotional breakdown.

Since the day she met him, she couldn’t see herself anywhere without him. She knows that they are both just nineteen, but she knows that Ethan is the one. He’s the definition of her dream guy. When he told her he is Spiderman she knows every time he puts on that suit, he is putting his life at risk,but seeing him hurt this bad just brought that thought of losing him in her brain.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Ethan said in a soft tone. “Come here.” He said pulling her towards his body. He used his good arm to hold her. She had her head resting on his chest as her tears started to stain her cheeks. “Listen, I know the job I do is ruff, but I do it to keep people safe.” Ethan told her as he gently rubbed her back in comfort. “I know it’s just that I’m scared that when you get hurt, you won’t come back to me.” Y/N said avoiding his piercing brown eyes. He carefully used his patched-up arm and lifted her chin up, so that she was looking at him in the eyes. “I can’t promise you that I won’t get hurt, but what I can promise you is that I will always come back to you.” Ethan told her cupping her cheek and wiping away her tear-stained face. “I love you.” He told her resting his forehead against hers. “I love you, too.” Y/N said back in a soft voice. They shared a kiss on the lips that was filled with all the love they have for one another.

“C’mon, let’s get some rest.” Ethan said to her. She saw it in his eyes that he was exhausted. Y/N didn’t even realize how late it was till she looked at her clock. Both have classes tomorrow morning, so Y/N agreed. She helped him stand up and have him sit on her bed. She got out a pair of clothes he always leaves in her drawer for nights like this. After Y/N got Ethan out of his wet pants she helped him change into a pair of nice and warm pajamas. After she turned off her lamp, they laid down next to each other under her warm and comfy blanket.

“Goodnight beautiful.” Ethan said in a sleepy voice as he wrapped his good arm around her body and gave her a soft kiss on top of her head. “Good night handsome.” Y/N said with a giggle wrapping both of her arms around his torso and rest her head onto his chest.

[xlostparadise-a]

She smirks. "Where's the axe? I sure could give that thing a couple of swings right about now."

"What do you say we go cut ourselves down a tree?" @xlostparadise

[painsandconfusion]

Ship in a Bottle

Whumping the Whumpers - Part Twenty-Five

(tw: child abuse, bad caretaking, broken nose, broken glass, character death, alcohol consumption, mourning, loss of parental figure, homicidal compulsions, hallucinations, blood, corpse mention, knife, a very unhealthy outlook on handling emotional pain)

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“There- n-n-n-no no no- not quite like th…..YES - right there. That’s perfect - hold it exactly like that and I’ll do the glue…”

Ethan bit down on his tongue, eyes beady and focused on the little rope and the narrow piece of wood between his fingertips that held it in place. Every breath, heartbeat, and thought shifted it from position - but he was determined to prove to David that he could do this. That letting him help wasn’t a mistake.

David grins. Warm. His fingers pinch the piece just above Ethan’s to give the glue a little testing tug as it sets. “Perfect - I think that’ll do it.” He twists it away again, and picks up the minuscule bottle, looking over the fine details and the line of thread they’d just run from the foremast.

Ethan smiled too - smiling came easy with David. His was infectious - Caroline always said so. When David was gone, the little foster family was mundane if anything. They kept to themselves and kept quiet. Just the constant thrum of reality tv buzzing through the house and down to Ethan’s room in the basement.

But then David would come. And the tv would turn off. The house would light up - Caroline would smile, giggling even, when he kissed her. 

David’s workshop made up the second room of the basement - right next to Ethan’s. Ethan usually just lingered in the doorframe, watching him work - but this time, David let him help. He couldn’t afford to mess it up.

-

The car door clicked shut behind him, muffled further by the snow that crunched under his feet.

It was a small cemetery. Rural. 

Evidently David’s family had some kind of plot.

It had taken Ethan weeks of searching for David when he finally escaped. After all those years of running and bleeding and screaming, all he wanted was to sit in silence next to the man and watch him build a boat. Even just one more time.

It took weeks because that’s how long it took Ethan to cave. To check the obituaries.

And there he was.

-

David ruffled Ethan’s hair. And for once, Ethan didn’t mind. The touch didn’t seem to be malicious or self-serving. Just absentminded affection and affirmation.

He handed the little bottle to Ethan to look over. The glass was warm at his fingertips, retaining light and that extant goodness that poured from David’s skin. Like a little of his life seeped into the boats he made.

Maybe that’s why they looked so real.

A three-beat stomp from upstairs made the little thing flinch at his fingers; it was quickly followed by a voice- “DAVID IT’S ALMOST TWO IN THE MORNING GET THE KID TO BED”

David blinked rapidly, and turned incredulous eyes to his watch. “Ah shit-” He knocked back the rest of his tumbler of whiskey and stood up, “YEAH- ONE SEC-” He sucked air in through his teeth, shrugging a ‘whoopsie?’

Ethan bit down on a laugh, setting the bottle carefully back on the tabletop as David snapped off the light. “Thanks for letting m-”

“No thank-yous, just get your ass to bed before she beats mine.” He nudged Ethan playfully toward the door.

Ethan squeaked, but moved easily, heading toward his room. “...tomorrow can we-”

“-oh yeah, I’ll be here when you get back from school. I won’t start without you.”

Ethan turned a grin to him as he reached his door, ducking inside. “Sweet - I’ll see you then.”

-

Graves lined up in only semi-reasonable rows. Some were off. Some were big. Some small. Some rusted over or draped in lichen. Some pearly and grand.

Ethan knew the name of the cemetery. 

He hadn’t gotten the time or the heart to check it - so he had no idea where it was. 

The cemetery was small, but not that small. There were hundreds of headstones here. 

And he had to check them all. 

Air pressed against his tight throat, elbowing its way inside. 

It pressed out again as Ethan’s phone buzzed.

He flicked a glare up to the dry, grey sky. Anything to put this off a little longer…

He slipped it out, scanning the message - then shooting back a reply, ignoring his quickly-numbing fingertips.

Bestie 😘: when r u coming home?

Me: I literally just left.

Bestie 😘: that doesnt answer the question

Me: Idk like an hour or two? 

Bestie 😘: cool, I got time then

Me: Time for what.

Bestie 😘: making soup

Me: What kind?

Bestie 😘: butternut squash

Me: Haven’t had it.

Bestie 😘: well ur gonna and ur gonna like it

Me: Optimist.

Bestie 😘: realist

Me: Again. Optimist.

Bestie 😘: whats wrong with a little optimism?

Ethan didn’t answer.

He just tucked the phone and his fingers back into the warmth of his pockets, finally starting his search in earnest.

-

Ethan bounded down the stairs with the ghost of a smile lingering on his lips long after he’d bitten it back. Time to finish the model. Add the last touches of stain and shading. 

It was going to be done.

Ethan was going to finish making something.

Something in his own hands that he could be proud of.

He dumped his backpack on the ground and rounded the corner into the little workshop. “I’m here! David, I-”

He saw the wreckage before he heard Caroline’s choked sob.

Splinters of boats littered the ground, haphazardly strung together with bits of rope and string. Frays of stretching glue that refused to let go.

Stomped to crumbled lumps of pieces.

The whole collection.

Ethan just…gaped at her as she swiped the little bottle off the table - the smallest piece yet, trying to process what he was seeing.

“N-no don’t! Don’t that one’s n-” his voice choked out into nothing as the glass shattered against concrete.

He lurched forward, a sob catching in his throat. 

He was barely in range as her elbow threw up to block his advance.

Whitehot embers exploded behind his eyes as his nose crunched back. It dazed him - sent stars sparking across the air.

Still, he scrambled forward, ignoring the warm wet spreading sensation as he scrabbled for the tiny ship stranded amongst the wreckage of its brethren.

-

There it was.

He’d missed it the first pass. The stone was small. Almost flush with the ground. The name, engraved in metal and bolted to the small rectangular stone. 

The world seemed to stop completely. Any remnant of a breeze ceased. Birds stopped chirping. Squirrels ceased their chases.

He just stared at the stone, feeling the burn of the nonexistent wind ripping the moisture from his eyes.

-

“Wh-why- what are you doing!? David’s gonna-”

“Do NOT say his name - cheating fucking bastard-!” An invisible string jerked him to a stop as her food crunched down on the tiny thing.

Ethan stared as her foot pulled away to punt some other bit of scrap - already torn asunder, though evidently not enough for her. 

Bits of glass and wood pressed into his jeans, pricking at his knees as blurred, bony fingers scooped up the precious tiny thing from the floor. 

The foremast was snapped completely off. He plucked it up, vibrating with the force of a sob he kept swallowing as he tried to pinch it back into place - but the ship was crumpled. Sideways and wrong.

Then was snatched out of his hand.

Ethan stared up at Caroline, tears spilling down his blank face. “Wh-where is he-?”

“It doesn’t fucking matter.”

“Pl-ease lemme see him-”

Ethan didn’t recoil as the slap snapped his head to the side. He just let his face turn, eyes dead on the ground as the pain wrapped around his head.

“Are you kidding me!? You’re never seeing him again. I don’t want to hear another word about that disgusting drunk.”

She stepped past him, pausing at the door to look back on his kneeling form.

“..don’t you dare cry over that piece of shit. You’re sixteen goddamn years old. Act like it.”

Then she was gone.

The creaking footsteps pulling a flinch from him every stair. 

He stared down at the tiny foremast between his fingers. Barely a sliver of wood now. 

He didn’t move for hours. His mind wouldn’t let him. He just stared at the little splinter, rolling it between his fingers as the blood ran from his nose. Gradually stopped. Dried. 

Then the puddle of it started to film. Fray at the edges. Crack.

Finally, numb, he tucked it into his pocket, stood, and grabbed a broom to clean up this mess.

-

Cool earth seeped into his jeans, chilling the skin at Ethan’s knees. It sent pinpricks of acid shooting up his leg - he ignored them. The pain was fake. Just cold. 

He swirled the little foremast between his fingers. Rain and decay has softened it a bit. Cracked it. Made it more akin to cork than mahogany. 

Still. It was David’s. Its condition didn’t change that.

Ethan didn’t want to have some dramatic fucking graveside speech. He didn’t want to pull the ‘I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you can…’ bullshit. 

David wasn’t there. He couldn’t hear a thing. His ears were probably close to rotted off six feet under where Ethan stood. He hoped to hell that ghosts weren’t real. Ethan didn’t believe in heaven, so no good there. And if reincarnation was a thing, then David wouldn’t be here anyway.

So he didn’t say anything. There wasn’t a point.

He just set the little sliver of wood in front of the stone, tucking it a little under so it couldn’t blow away.

They’d keep each other company, these two dead, broken things.

They belonged together.

-

Ethan pressed the door open with half as much force as a breath, letting it slowly push away from him in a wide arc. 

Silent.

He stepped inside the room.

In the moonlight, everything glowed white. Caroline always liked white.

White shag rug on dark floorboards. White sheets. White blankets. 

White pillowcase stained with her smearing mascara and darkened by a puddle of tears.

White walls.

White sheer curtains that let in white moonlight.

But all Ethan could see was red.

Deep, thick, oily red splashed across the perfect, pristine room.

Red seeping through the blankets. Melding through her nightgown.

He could see it spreading dark and smeared across the floor, soaking into the rug as she dragged herself across the floor. Gurgling. Desperately reaching for the door.

Red splattering the walls.

Red pooling through her whiteblond hair. 

Red on his hands. 

On the knife.

It twitched between his fingers. Beckoned to him. Begged him.

But Ethan didn’t obey its call. 

He just walked back out of the room, closed the door softly, felt its weight between his fingers as he pressed it - still clean - back into its place in the knife block.

He didn’t sleep that night, riddled with woken dreams of what he might have done.

-

Ethan didn’t linger. Only a moment of silence marked his grieving before he pushed up off his knees.

Stood.

He turned back toward the car, leaving the graveyard without a word. Without a backward glance.

David was dead. There was no point dwelling on it.

Still. The tears were stubborn, skittering hot down his cheeks anyway.

He brushed them away as fast as they came.

Time to move on.

.

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.

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(tags: @prisonerwhump, @whumpawink, @mabledonut, @heathenwhump, @paleassprince, @happy-little-sadist, @wormwriting, @distinctlywhumpthing, @whump-cafe @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @azayta @wibbly-wobbly-whump @batfacedliar-yetagain @there-will-always-be-blood @siren-of-agony @whumpworld @bandages-andobsessions @deltaxxk @whumpasaurus101 @michaeltalks @pickywhumpreader @whumpberry-cookie @morning-star-whump @shelfsdesires @throwawaywhumper @the-mourning-stars @d-cs @suspicious-whumping-egg)

As always, lmk if you want to be added to the tag list!

[peonierose]

Once (3/5)

Book: The Nanny Affair & Open Heart Crossover / AU

**This story takes place before it was revealed that Addison would come back/is alive **

Part III of IV / Miniseries

Characters mentioned: Sam Dalton (M!MC), Addison Dalton (F!MC) and Ethan Ramsey (M!MC)

Words: 2,000+

TW: Cancer, character death, mental illness

Rating: Angst / Mature

Summary: Addison has stage four ovarian cancer. So Sam and Addi seek a consultation with Dr. Ethan Ramsey at Edenbrook. Will they make it in time?

Part III

Hours passed. While doctors in white lab coats and green scrubs rushed by. Yelling out commands.

Steering in patients on gurneys. Every time a door opens I look up. Hoping against hope, that this is the person who will deliver news about Addi.

But no one does.

Everything is a blur.

It’s almost as if I was standing in a massive group of people. Everybody is moving and or running to get to their destination. Getting shoved to the side and shouted at. Standing in the middle not knowing which way to go. Feeling completely lost.

The hard plastic of the hospital chair dug into my skin, making me aware of my surroundings.

Damn these chairs are uncomfortable. Moving from side to side to find a comfortable position. No luck. I lean forward, staring at the blue and white linoleum floor as I hear footsteps approaching and stopping next to my chair.

A slender woman in green scrubs stands next to me. With brown hair and exhausted-looking brown eyes. She takes off her surgical mask. I get up from my chair.

“Mr. Dalton?“ She speaks in a soft, lilting voice.

“Are you the surgeon who operated on my wife? I’m sorry I don’t remember your name…“ I ramble on. My head and heart were only filled with worry.

She smiles gently and puts a hand on my arm.

“I’m Dr. Emery. Under the circumstances, it’s okay not to remember names. Your concern lies elsewhere,“ she smiles sweetly. Though I detect a thread of pity and sadness in her voice.

I just nod.

“Is she…I mean…Did she make it?“ Hearing her answer will be harder than anything I've had to face, but I have to know. I exhale roughly, draw in a new breath, and square my shoulders. Not letting anything on my face show how I am feeling inside.

She takes a look at me and I can see worry and sadness in her kind brown eyes.

“We did everything we could. All we can do now is wait. Her injuries were severe, but she got here just in time so that we could help her,“ she explains.

Oh god. When I hear those words. It’s as if a weight has lifted from my shoulders.

Overcome by emotions I hug her. Probably crushing her. But I couldn’t help it. She just saved her. That’s all I needed to hear.

“I don’t know how to thank you.“

I’m at a loss for words. Smelling disinfectant and lavender help me to calm down for some insane reason.

She takes a step back and just smiles kindly.

“She’s not out of the woods yet. Her state is still critical. We will keep her here for observation so that we can monitor her and detect any changes,“ she says.

I nod again like an idiot.

“Can I see her?“

My eyebrows drew together in concern. The worry and anxiety must have shown on my face, as she seems to debate that for a second, drawing in her bottom lip, sighing, and then nods.

“Alright. Though she’s in ICU. So only a couple of minutes,“ she pats my shoulder.

“Try and get some rest, Mr. Dalton. You won’t help her if you fall apart,“ she nods one last time and leaves on tired feet. The hallway was emptier than I thought. Eerily quiet.

For a couple of seconds, I stand there. Like I’m frozen. Trying to calm my rapid heartbeat and sending out a prayer to whoever gave her another shot at life.

I head in the direction of the ICU. Feeling anxious about entering the room.

Halting before her room I take in a slow and deliberate breath and push down the door handle, feeling the cold metal press into my hand.

Upon entering her room I see Addi lying in that hospital bed with all those machines and tubes attached to her body. She seems smaller than her 5’10 feet would suggest. The only sound is the beeping of the machines.

As quietly as possible I drag a chair next to her bed. I sit down, take her small hand in mine, and bring it to my lips. Closing my eyes and just breathed in her scent of jasmine.

That sort of always clings to her. Shuddering as if suddenly cold. Realizing with a start that I didn’t take a jacket with me when I rushed out.

I squeezed her hand but there is no response. As if she already moved on to the next life. No. I refuse to let that happen. ______________________________

Disoriented and with blurry eyes I wake up with a crank in my neck and a stripe on my cheek from my uncomfortable sleeping position. I lift my head and open my eyes further, realizing I fell asleep with my head on the hospital bed.

Checking to see if she has woken up. But she’s lying still. She looks so young. As if all the pain just left her body.

Her soft breathing fills the air, together with the constant beeping of the monitor. My mouth dry I look around for a glass of water. Not finding any I get up and stretch myself. Feeling older than 32. About to open the door when I hear soft moaning. I turn around sharply.

“Sam…“ I was never more elated to hear her say my name than at this moment right here. I walk over to her bed and cup her face in my hands to brush her lips softly against mine. Like the feathers of a butterfly.

I look at her my eyebrows drawn together. Her eyes were unfocused and her pupils dilated. That’s when the heart monitor starts beating loudly.

“I don’t feel so good…“ her head rolls to the side.

“Addi!“ I shout her name in a panic and touch her cheek but she doesn’t respond.

“Where is everyone? I need some help.“

That’s when the door bangs open and some nurses and a doctor I don’t recognize rush in.

I try to rush to her side but I’m being pushed away. All I can do is watch my wife lying there and the doctors trying to bring her back.

“Sir, please let us do our job,“ the nurse says firmly but resolutely.

“What is happening to her? She was fine a minute ago, I don’t understand…“

Words seem to fail me.

Struggling to make sense of this whole scenario that’s unfolding in front of me. Like this is a horrible dream I can’t wake up from.

Suddenly they stop and stand on her bed. Their grim faces all say the same thing. She is dead.

“Death occurred at 6:32 a.m.“ a deep male voice says from the bedside.

Looking from one person to the other I say.

“She’s not dead. If you won’t help her I will.“

I roll up my sleeves and start with chest compressions. Remembering this from my first-aid-course.

“Come on, Addi.“

Sweat coating my forehead. My breathing ragged.

“Don’t leave me like this, please come on. Mickey and Mason need you. I need you.“ Not even noticing the tears running down my flushed cheeks.

Wanting to continue, when strong arms pull me away from the bed.

“That’s enough.“

A voice says. Turning my head aside looking into wild blue eyes.

“Enough? Are you fucking kidding me? That’s my wife. I’m trying to help her. Why aren’t you doing your job? Huh?“ My voice getting louder, eyeing everyone.

“Dr. Ramsey, should we..?“

A nurse hesitantly speaks up.

Dr. Ramsey doesn’t bother looking in her direction. His eyes are focused solely on me.

“I’ve got this, Hannah. Leave me and Mr. Dalton alone.“

When nobody makes a move to leave.

He turns his head.

“I said leave. Don’t you have other patients to look after?“ He says through gritted teeth. His eyes were stormy like the deep blue sea.

With those words, everyone files out of the room. Exchanging nervous looks with each other.

Leaving me alone with that prick of a doctor who, instead of helping Addie just stands around.

When I realize he’s still holding me by my elbow I shake off his hand.

He puts his hands on his hips and hangs his head.

When he looks up, his expression is neutral except for his eyes, who reveal a pain I’m not prepared for.

“Mr. Dalton…I…“ He lets out a deep sigh. Lost for words he starts anew.

“There’s nothing we could have done to save your wife. I’m deeply sorry.“

When I see pity, that’s when I start seeing red. I grab him by his white coat lapels and bring his face close to mine.

“She’s not dead. We can still save her….“ I say pleadingly.

He shakes his head resolutely

“If there was a way. Do you think, I and everyone else wouldn’t have already done something about it?“

His lips spread into a thin line. My hands fall off.

That’s when reality sets in and the fog I was walking through lifted its dark and depressing veil, to reveal what I didn’t want to see.

I absently rub at my heart. As if someone ripped it out, and left me bleeding. Creating a wide gaping hole.

Searing pain slashing through me. My shoulders sag. All the fight left my body. I cover my mouth with my hands. Shaking my head several times. Not wanting this to be true.

I walk back to her bed. Trying to imprint everything into memory. Closing my eyes I drop a soft kiss on her forehead. Stroking her cheek feeling colder to the touch. Turning my head away.

I stand up straight and school my features into revealing nothing. Sensing Dr. Ramsey's gaze at my back I turn around and say

“I’d like to take my wife home, and arrange for her funeral.“ I swallow.

He just looks at me, seeing far much more than I’m letting on. He’s probably had his fair share of outbursts like these. If he thinks I’m cold-hearted for saying this, he doesn’t let on. If he’s surprised, he covers it well. He nods.

“Of course. We can arrange everything.“

He stops outside and offers me his hand. I stare at it and take it. He has a firm grip.

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Dalton. I wish we could’ve helped your wife, not just now, but with her cancer.“

I look at him, surprised that he remembered her.

He smiles at that.

“What? Did you think I was some heartless asshole, who doesn’t care about his patients?“ His tone almost dares to contradict him.

I ruefully shake my head.

“No. Of course not.“ I reply

Rubbing my neck, feeling the embarrassment rising in my cheeks. Realizing I’m still holding his hand and letting it go.

I look at him as if I was seeing him for the first time.

“I…I don’t think that. I mean I don’t know you. But like you said if there was anything that you could’ve done you would have. My only regret is that I took it out on you. You were trying to help and I was a dick.“ I say facing him full-on.

“Is that your way of an apology? Because that was a shitty one.“ Ethan smirks.

I smile despite myself.

“You’re right that was a poor excuse,“ wetting my lips.

He waves his hand.

“If I had a penny every time people called me names. Well let’s just say I wouldn’t have to work as a doctor anymore.“

That is all he says before sobering up.

“Again I’m sorry. I know that won’t do any good but it’s all I can offer.“ He squeezes my shoulder.

“It means a lot. Under different circumstances, I’d offer to buy you a drink…“ He perks up.

“Hopefully not the cheap stuff.“

He raises an eyebrow.

I laugh.

“Of course not.“

“I’ll take you up on that next time you’re here.“

With that, he walks away. His tall silhouette getting smaller and smaller in the dimly lit hallway.

I make my way to the reception area to make all the arrangements for the….I try to swallow past the lump in my throat.

Funeral. For Addie's funeral.

[queenclaudiabrown]

Jurassic Wildflowers

Content warnings: mosquitoes, mentions of killing animals, mentions of Ethan’s violent tendencies

Word count: 737

     The Jurassic heat was sweltering and humid, even in the middle of the night.  Early mosquitoes swarmed around the camp, dissuaded only by some horrid-smelling plant that Ethan had found and encouraged everyone to slather themselves with.  It was nearly impossible to get off when still wet (the jury was still out on whether or not soap- which they didn’t have- would have helped), and it took ages to dry.  When it did, it had to be peeled and scraped off, leaving the skin underneath irritated, itchy, and often unpleasantly exfoliated.  It had a vaguely yellowish tint to it, an echo of the petals of its flowers.

     It was these flowers that Charlotte Cameron was collecting now, their stems too.  Mercifully, they didn’t smell so terrible until they were ground up.

     Charlotte wasn’t a hunter or a fighter- more of a gatherer and mender.  She didn’t like killing, but before she met the others her only companion had fallen ill, and she’d resorted to killing and cooking a rabbit to get some protein into him.  It had worked, and Aaron had lived.  But when she had finally found her place among many others, she had been happy to step back from that role.  She did her best to patch people up, and she and Emily often sewed the repairs in clothes or makeshift tents, as long as there was a substitute for needle and thread available.  She helped cook as well, and she was generally regarding as the most soothing presence.  She had been the first person among them that Ethan Dobrowski, when he’d joined them, had trusted.

     He made her feel safe like no one else quite did.

     He was their best hunter, with a disquieting proclivity and aptitude toward killing and violence in general.  If he couldn’t kill something, he usually split wood with their one axe (one of their companions had lived alone in the woods before getting chased through an anomaly by what he believed to be a raptor of some kind.  He’d been splitting wood when it happened).  Still, they didn’t pry, and they tried very hard not to judge- when it came to survival, it was difficult to determine where uncrossable lines could be drawn.

     He was out hunting now, along with Emily and another of their member, a dark-skinned woman with short-shorn hair named Maya.  She was as tall as a man and as quick and cunning as a snake, yet she had earned their trust time and time again.  She had made bows and arrows for those that hunted, and she certainly knew how to use her craft.

     Charlotte finished collecting the flowers and returned to the camp, where she was greeted by the sight of the three hunters returning with their bounty.  Ethan’s crocodile-green eyes swept over the ramshackle collection of tents and lean-tos before landing on her.  His mouth twitched pleasantly, and he deposited the creature on his shoulders onto the ground before striding over to her.

     “Hey.”  She greeted.

     “Hey yourself.”  He returned.

     A pleased smile morphed her features as her eyes flitted over him.  “I see you made it back without getting clawed this time.”  She noted.

     He chuckled.  “You know I only got hurt because I was staring at you.”

     She blushed and looked down, her gaze landing on the horrible flowers in her hands.  His eyes flicked down to see them.  “Not these again.”  He groaned.

     Ethan surprised her by plucking them out of her hand, and as her head lifted in surprise, he reached into his pocket and produced a makeshift bouquet, their stems shoddily tied together by a strip of leather she recognized as belonging to one of the dinosaurs they’d killed and eaten a few days before.

     Some were purple and some were yellow, some were red and some were blue.  Some had four petals and some had nine, some were round like carnations and some were pointy like poinsettias.  They were all utterly alien to her, nothing like any she’d ever seen, but beautiful in their own strange way.

     She lifted her head, her mouth in a sweet smile.  “I love them.  Thank you, Ethan.”  She leaned up onto the tips of her toes- a difficult but impressive feat in her stiff boots- and pressed a kiss to his unshaven cheek.  He smiled, the warmth of it a rare thing, and his eyes softened.

     “Anything for you, my Charlotte.”

[peaceful-melancholia]

The Worry (part 2)

The second week passed without event, though Jake did pretend no one was home as Adrian came knocking at one point. No one else was home, so it wasn’t too hard to do. Now, though, it was Saturday, late afternoon, and Ethan had yet to come back from his coffee date with his cousin. It had been a few hours, so it was strange that he wouldn’t have come back yet. Max and Jake were sitting at the kitchen table waiting silently, both imagining how things might have gone, and what might be keeping Ethan so late.

Max’s mind, from the state of his shaking leg, was likely conjuring images of the government snatching Ethan and questioning him in a dark, steel room. Jake’s mind was conjuring images of a silversmith being astounded by the request for a silver bullet, Ethan coming home and deciding to hunt and kill the original wolf to reverse the curse. Of course, Ethan had said it was technically a supernatural disease, and had no reversal process. Jake’s mind easily changed course to Ethan busking on a street corner, scatting to get the money for enough silver to make chains. Of course, they had already ruled that out, but it was fun to imagine it.

Their reveries were finally put to rest when they heard the door open, and they tried to seem more casual than they were about rushing to hear what Ethan had found out and why he’d been gone so long. When they got to the door, though, they found the answer to why he’d been gone late.

Ethan’s arms were full of different bags, each from a different store, and none of them a store that Jake recognized. From peaking into them, Jake couldn’t figure out what the common thread was. There were herbs and spices, crystals, chalk, and deodorant, among other things.

“What happened?” Max asked. “What is all this?”

“Well, my cousin can talk for quite a while when you get him started. He told me all kinds of things to try. So I got them all, and we’re going to try them,” Ethan said.

“Walk us through the conversation as you unpack,” Jake suggested. He was incredibly pleased with this turn of events. Nothing would make him happier than attempting to prove or disprove every legend ever recorded about werewolves, using Max as a test subject.

“He’s been taking a course on the history of herbalism as it relates to witchcraft, so several of the things he mentioned are plant based. One of the first was wood from the rowan tree, which used to have all kinds of relationships to magic and the supernatural. Witches were supposed to use rowan wood to make wands in order to increase their magic, but it was also good for weaving, and more importantly, warding off evil. A tree planted in a town would steer away the supernatural beings trying to enter the town. But more than that, supernatural creatures, including werewolves, were believed to be unable to cross a barrier made of Rowan wood.”

Ethan took out several sprigs of wood, placing them all around Max where he stood with Jake’s help. They both looked at Max expectantly, who looked back in confusion for a moment before getting the idea. He stepped out of the circle of the wood without issue and looked back at the other two.

“Not surprising, it sounded like no one could agree on what the tree actually does. It’s probably only wood. None of this is scientifically proven, you know, or at least, most of it isn’t. There have been a few experiments with silver, but really not all that many of that, either,” Ethan said. “Well, then he mentioned this man who was tried for witchcraft for using this plant,” he pulled a conical sprig of yellow flowers from another bag, “agrimony. It’s got an old rhyme essentially positing that if you sleep with agrimony under your pillow, you won’t wake up until it’s taken away. We can test that one tonight, but I was thinking if you went to bed early before the full moon, that might be useful.”

“So a person would never wake up if someone didn’t take it back out from under their head?” Max asked. “That’s kind of creepy. If that works, you had better not make me stay asleep any longer than you need to to test it.”

“That’s up to our interpretation, right?” Jake asked.

“Up to my interpretation, maybe,” Ethan said. “Don’t worry Max, I’m not going to let Jake use this willy-nilly. Next one was easier to find, given it’s December. Mistletoe, which was sacred because it grew from the sky. This one was just kind of a catch all to ward off evil, and some stuff about future husbands, which isn’t relevant right now.”

Jake took the mistletoe from Ethan, which was in plastic. Jake unwrapped it from its protective covering in case that would affect how it worked, then he held it out at Max.

“What is being repelled supposed to feel like? Also, I’m not evil. Maybe that affects things. Maybe it only wards of werewolves who are evil.”

“Well, just get really close and let me know if you feel anything,” Jake said, and he watched Max take a step towards him and the mistletoe. When he got close enough, Jake placed the mistletoe on Max’s head, watching for any reaction.

“I don’t feel anything. Except a little bit awkward because I have mistletoe on top of my head, but other than that, nothing,” Max said.

“I don’t think you would be okay with it sitting on your head if it really were going to repel you. Maybe these things don’t work properly unless you’ve already changed, so we can’t rule anything out, but so far this is disappointing,” Ethan said. “Rituals next, then.”

“Oh, this is going to be the good part, isn’t it?” Jake said.

“Well, not all of the rituals he mentioned are viable, but I took some notes to make sure we’re trying them correctly. But some of the ingredients really weren’t possible to get. Human blood, for one, and another requires that it be the blood of the werewolf,” Ethan said, looking at the notes he had. Due to his focus on the notes, he didn’t see Jake leaving the room, and Max was busy looking through the other supplies in the bags.

“Ow!” Max said after Jake sliced open his arm a bit using a knife from the kitchen. He pressed the edges, getting plenty of blood to well up, then wiped it with a cotton ball. By the time he’d finished, the cotton ball was half-stained red, and the wound was already closing up.

“Got the blood. What’s the next step?” Jake asked, holding the cotton ball out to Ethan.

“Dude. I didn’t take notes for those rituals,” Ethan said, frozen in confusion and a small amount of shock.

“Do you think you could remember them?” Jake asked.

“I don’t know why you thought you were allowed to do that,” Max said, also frozen in confusion.

“You’ve already healed, it’s fine,” Jake excused.

“Even if I could remember them, one of them was to bind and kill the werewolf. I think the other was about locating a werewolf, and I don’t think that’s especially relevant in this context,” Ethan said.

“Well, that’s disappointing. I guess I have to just throw this away now,” Jake said, and did, in the kitchen trash.

“Now there was no point in cutting me without asking,” Max said.

“There wasn’t a point to begin with. We have some much more realistic options here. Now, take this sage,” Ethan said, handing Max the sage.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Max asked, holding the sage like a wedding bouquet.

“We’re going to light it after I draw this circle,” Ethan said, holding up colorful chalk.

“Where was this side of Ethan all my life?” Jake said in an aside to Max. “All it takes is an academic interest and practical causes to get him to do rituals in the living room. You should have turned into a werewolf ages ago.”

“Remember how it wasn’t intentional? Don’t know how you would do it intentionally,” Max trailed off.

“Oh, there were rituals for that, too.  Some people think that the origin of werewolves was rituals where warriors would consume the flesh of dogs and wolves to make themselves better hunters, and ended up gaining the ability to transform,” Ethan said, drawing a circle until he hit the edge of the couch. “Jake, can you move the couch, please? Thank you. Similar to how the origin of vampires was supposed to be early alchemical experiments, but there haven’t been any modern sightings of vampires, so either they were all killed or they were never real to begin with.”

“Do people hunt werewolves? I just realized I don’t know if that’s, like, a legal thing that people can do,” Max said.

“Well, they used to. That’s over half of what my cousin talked about. They had werewolf trials just like they had witch trials, though werewolves predate the concept that they’re evil,” Ethan said, finishing the circle. “Not now, though. The only ones who are allowed to deal with werewolves are government folks. And not the one secret branch, that’s just a rumor. So I wouldn’t call that ‘hunting’. What they do with werewolves isn’t public knowledge, though.”

“Can you go a day without making it obvious the government is going to hunt me like I’m bin Laden?” Max said. “It’s bad enough my murder will be unsolvable because I won’t even have dental records.”

“The only reason I decided against trying the teeth ritual is because you’re obviously too obsessed with them already,” Ethan said, handing a lighter to Max. “Light that bundle and hold it just like you were. Don’t burn your clothes.”

“There’s a teeth ritual?” Jake said in awe. “How are the teeth involved?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ethan said. “This ritual is about to be finished, so focus on that.”

“What’s this one supposed to do?” Max asked, holding the smoking bundle like he wasn’t sure how it ended up in his hands.

“Well, the one inside the circle is supposed to be stuck there until someone on the outside of the circle breaks it. Try stepping out,” Ethan said. Max stepped out, towards the kitchen, sage still burning.

EEEEEEEEEET. EEEEEEEEEET. EEEEEEEEEET.

Jake tried to turn off the fire alarm, but with the sage still burning, it wouldn’t shut off.

“Take that thing outside,” Jake shouted over the noise as he repeatedly pressed the button to silence the fire alarm.

Max obeyed Jake, going and opening the front door to a surprised Adrian, fist raised as if he were just about to knock. Not knowing how to react, Max held the smoking sage out to Adrian, who took it automatically, confused at the sight of a chalk circle and sticks on the ground, furniture moved out of the way, fire alarm going off nonstop. Max panicked then, shutting the door on Adrian and running back into the kitchen.

“What did you just do?” Ethan said quietly.

“The fire alarm finally shut off,” Jake said, exiting the kitchen without understanding why Max had so suddenly entered it.

“Jake, Max just gave that burning sage to Adrian,” Ethan said.

“Adrian is here?” Jake said in alarm, rushing over to the door. He looked out the peephole to see the situation for himself. “Oh, he’s leaving. He looks a little out of it.”

“I can guess why. He just realized he has crazy neighbors,” Ethan said. “Look at all this.”

“All of this was your idea,” Jake said. “For once, being the crazy neighbors isn’t my fault.”

“Well, it’s a good thing he’s leaving. We will probably have to convince him that this never happened, or else make a good cover story,” Ethan said.

“We could say it was for Lent,” Jake suggested.

“This has nothing to do with Lent,” Ethan said exhaustedly.

“Then we really should convince him it never happened,” Max chimed in. Anyway, he’s gone now, so it all worked out. Are there any other rituals?”

“No,” Ethan said. “Not right now, at least. There are some that are dependent on time of day, and a couple that we can only try on the night of the full moon.”

“Hey, why was I the one holding the sage? Doesn’t it make more sense for the people trapping a werewolf to hold the sage? I mean, how many werewolves would be aiding with the ritual to get trapped?” Max asked. Ethan furrowed his eyebrows in thought, rechecking his notes.

“I definitely wrote that the werewolf holds the sage. Maybe my cousin got it wrong? Maybe we should try that again the other way around.”

“We lost the sage,” Jake said. “And besides, I don’t want to set the fire alarm off like that again. Hey, if we’re going to be trying out rituals, can I try some if I can find any?”

“If Ethan’s aren’t working, why would you have a ritual that works?” Max asked.

“Well, maybe I can find something a little more current. His are all muddled by the time gap and false reporting and all that kind of thing. But there are werewolves around now, so there are probably some more current sources out there,” Jake argued. He didn’t want to admit that he was only arguing this because it would justify his knowledge of several odd forums in the depths of the internet.

“If you can find a good source, then why not?” Ethan said. “We don’t have anything that works yet, so we can’t go limiting our options too much.”

“Is the rest of this for rituals, too?” Max asked.

“Most of it, yeah. There’s some holy water and salt for barrier creation, though I’m less sure of those, but we might as well try them on the night.”

“And the deodorant?” Jake asked.

“I needed deodorant,” Ethan replied.

[julian--wood]

For The First Time In Forever: [ Ethan | Julian ]

“Oi! Clear the courtyard—or I’m pulling points from all your houses!”

But only a few students really shuffled out of the way. Julian wasn’t allowed to use his wand on the students even if only to move them to the side, so he was wading past Gryffindors craning their necks to watch his brother arrive. Julian hadn’t announced that Ethan was visiting, except to McGonagall herself; no one else needed to know.

And as Ethan approached the castle, word spread quick of a new visitor coming on broomstick. The visibility in the spring time cleared the sky and students and staff alike were eager to enjoy the sunshine. Julian, with his arms outstretched, finally managed to push some of the students back to make room for his brother to land in the courtyard.

“Merlin, could you make an even less subtle entrance?” Julian was the first to greet his brother, throwing an arm around his shoulder and dragging him to the grounds. He tried giving a glare to the small crowd that had gathered, with a few students prepared with parchment and quill. Ethan’s visit was a first; Julian never talked about his more famous siblings and after answering so many times that he doesn’t know anything about how his brothers were doing, a lot of people just put the topic to rest.

“Come on, I gotta go to the broom shed first.”

@ethanwoodx​ 

[trickstertravelerthief]

Okay pinned post time! I'm Saturn (he/him and fae/faer) and I made this blog for my fic!

Link to Trickster's Thread (the fic)

So the fic summary for Trickster's Thread is: After Luke Castellan rebelled against the gods in 1973, Hermes swore an oath on the River Styx to never have another demigod child. Unluckily for Percy, it seems like not only is he a child of Hermes, destined to be hated for being a liar and a thief, but he’s also being accused of stealing Zeus’s master bolt, which he would never do! Well, he might steal it if given the chance, but he hadn’t even known the gods existed until his friend Grover almost fell down the stairs, leading to a terrible chain of events at the end of which his mom died. So, it definitely wasn’t fair that he had to trek across the country to try and get the bolt back.

Sumarry for Traveler's Trials: Percy Jackson is going back to camp, and this year, he's promised his mom he won't go on a dangerous quest. He's got his best-friend-Ethan-who-he-has-normal-feelings-for beside him, and his older brother Luke hiding in the woods, what could go wrong? Annabeth Chase has been at camp for a year without the gods finding out that she's back from 1973 when she rebelled against the gods (along with her friends Luke and Thalia.) But, when Percy finds out Grover has stumbled into the Labyrinth while searching for Pan, and Annabeth and Luke learn that Thalia is in a hotel across the country, well, it's only natural to fake a prophecy for a quest so they can get their friends. After all, nothing goes wrong for demigods.

Trickster's Thread is the first in a three part series (Trickster, Traveler, Thief) which will be updated every other Monday probably around 5 EST. The full update schedule can be found here

I would love it if you commented, shared thoughts or questions, anything really!

Okay have a great day!

[lilycarvalho]

Her grip had tightened around the fabric of the towel as she tried to make sense of it. While Ethan put it together in under 10 seconds, Lily's mind snapped into it with two seconds. Playing the part of Ethan's girlfriend meant they were going nuclear, an option that wasn't possible before due to Ethan's pattern of never being seen with the same woman more than once. And now? He'd been caught with Lily on a handful occasions and coming from the car wash in unity.

There were never any lines to read between, a man and a woman couldn't simply be in business or just (barely) be friends. They had to be an item, with the internet already sweeping the boards saying that maybe her background had attracted the star, that the power they could hold if he got his shit together would be Posh Spice and David Beckham levels. All within a matter of an hour, everything had changed.

"It means the public has swayed opinion on you just like we planned, but on a different term." Lily finally began swatting at the residual soapiness on her body. "It also means that this is going to be a very intricate needle we'll have to thread through. They think I'm your girlfriend, and from most angles the public say you losing it as soon as that asshole threw a sponge at me. Empathetic rage, my protector," She continued flatly, "My hero."

The last bit she had interpreted with quotation fingers to really sing the point home. "If you play the empathy card, more media stories push about this private affair and we play them right into your hand. Ethan Wood, soft protector, had the power to change through love. They'll eat that shit up with their Sunday dinners." Lily laughed sardonically. "You may not do girlfriends, but that's your choice. You either stick with the option or I place my statement out, say that it's a baseless rumor and you go further then square one. There might not be any coming back if they don't think you have finally leaned on a crutch." She sighed deeply then, "Besides, we should be thankful they didn't want us to get hitched."

Ethan spent most of the ride home in silence, brooding over recent events and eavesdropping on Lily's calls trying to piece together just how much damage had been done. When the phone calls ended and they had nearly arrived, Ethan met Lily's gaze as she rattled off a new set of directions putting things into sports terms for him. He raised a brow at the analogy, half-impressed, then nodded, "A little pressure doesn't scare me."

It's exactly what Ethan needed to hear, having played with yellow cards on his back on many occasions before. It was a warning, and it meant he had to proceed with caution which is exactly what Ethan did. He dodged questions from nosy reporters, half listening to their rubbish about defending honor and girlfriends until he got them safely inside, ushering his publicist in first and then closing the door tightly behind them.

After a couple of minutes, Ethan returned with the towels Lily had requested, almost immediately regretting it. If only he had known what nonsense was to come out of Lily's mouth next. “What? No.” was all he could say at first as if it was absurd to even ask such a ridiculous question. He was Ethan Wood after all, exstar footballer and notorious ladies man, never one to get too attached even if he was getting with someone and nine times out of ten he was. It had practically become a part of his brand at this point. And that was exactly the problem.

“What the hell does that have to do with anything? And who's my— wait—” Ethan nearly choked on the words. He may have asked Lily the question, but he already worked through the answer for himself, pointing between them as if to say you and me. The scoff that followed was a loud one, riddled with sudden realization at how exactly his team intended to spin this. “You're shittin' me right? I don't do girlfriends."

[laviexenrose]

𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝒶𝓈𝒾𝒸𝓈

NAME: isabelle marie allard NICKNAME(S): is, izzy, belle AGE: most verses - age 29 SPECIES: human

𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑜𝓃𝒶𝓁

MORALITY: lawful / neutral / chaotic || good /  gray / evil  RELIGIOUS BELIEF: born-again christian  VIRTUES: chastity / charity / diligence / humility / kindness / patience / justice (all of them lol) PRIMARY GOALS IN LIFE: spreading as much good and love to humanity as possible (through her wealth) but also getting married and having a family  LANGUAGES KNOWN: french, english, spanish, italian, some portuguese  SECRETS: not exactly a deep dark secret per say but isabelle won’t go around telling everybody she’s well-off; and if anything, it's more like there’s secrets being kept from her asdfdjf QUIRKS: doesn’t need lots of sleep, 5 hours is good. detail-oriented !! super organized with labels and everything. remembers important, significant dates but also the most random events in her life and some history ones too. i don’t want to say she has a photographic memory but she can read things pretty fast and then recall them, sometimes verbatim, later on. that helps/helped so much when she is/was doing her studies aka she’s a super nerd.  SAVVIES: knows probably way too much about plants, like the medicinal properties and which can be consumed or not - but i think based on that alone she has a pretty good chance of survival, if she were stranded in the woods or something. maybe not.

𝓅𝒽𝓎𝓈𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓁

BUILD: slender / scrawny / bony / fit / athletic / herculean / babyfat / pudgy / obese / other   HEIGHT: 5′4″ SCARS/BIRTHMARKS: no scars but she has a small, circular pigmented birthmark on her lower abdomen, left side, just above her hip. she has freckles too but they’re not very noticeable unless you’re up close and personal ABILITIES/POWERS: N/A RESTRICTIONS: trusts too easily. always patient, even when she’s frustrated. wants to believe everyone has good/can be good??

𝒻𝒶𝓋𝑜𝓊𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒𝓈

FAVOURITE FOOD: bread, cheese, chocolate - what else do you need? FAVORITE DRINK: raspberry tea, lightly sweet FAVOURITE PIZZA TOPPING: cheese  FAVOURITE COLOR: technically pink but not bright or light, it’s like a rusty rose  FAVOURITE MUSIC GENRE: classical FAVOURITE BOOK GENRE:  historical and/or romance FAVOURITE MOVIE GENRE: doesn’t watch many movies but if i had to guess it’d be the same as the book genres  FAVOURITE SEASON: spring  FAVOURITE BUTT TYPE: doesn’t have one? haha i’m crying FAVOURITE CURSE WORD: does not curse, ever !! there was like one time in a thread, and it was in french but it's very very VERY rare if it happens  FAVOURITE SCENT: vanilla, honeysuckle or just anything floral 

𝒻𝓊𝓃 𝓈𝓉𝓊𝒻𝒻

BOTTOM OR TOP: this one’s too obvious  LOUD BURPER OR SOFT BURPER: okay but just imagine isabelle loudly burping? lol !! she’d still be rlly cute about it, but she does it softly when she does, of course  SINGS IN THE SHOWER: maybe not like full on, powerhouse singing but humming some words or lyrics that are stuck in her head LIKES BAD PUNS: yes! laughs at anything punny, whether it’s good or bad THEIR OPINION ON THE MUN: i probably remind her of her grandmother, for being a cruel and wicked woman. i’m horrible, especially to her. i can’t imagine why she would like me v much XD

TAGGED BY: @honorhearted

TAGGING: @xbless-this-broken-roadx , @ericbrandonrp  , @kit-just-kit  , @lavishbylaw , @marimelwrites ( do jameson pls + for any muse of yours you want ♡ ) , @richardxoliverxmayhew , @secretscost ( for ethan or zander! or anyone you feel like doing:) ) , @skyler-bane , @wintcrstcrfall ( tagged for matthew but honestly anyone you’d like to do! ♡ ) , @withinkandquill ( for anyone else you wanna do !! ), @wynterlanding​

[alovesongshewrote]

Injuries! | Karl Heisenberg HCs

ok, here’s some angst, there will be multiple follow ups

Taglist: @blixeon​ @mxcheese​ @prismarts​ @valentimmy​

Headcanons 

Ok, right, so

Here’s the thing

Heisenberg 

And i say this with all the love in my heart

Is kind of dumb 

In a 

Hey, why don’t I ask this father if he’ll join me in using his only child as a weapon?  What could possibly go wrong! 

I am going to tell the big ass vampire lady to shut the fuck up to her face, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me

Yeah, why not turn into a giant monster to fight Ethan Winters, who has already killed all of my siblings, two of whom were giant monsters at the time.  That sounds logical!

Kind of way

And

He’s a wee bit arrogant 

He’s very used to being a nearly invulnerable, all powerful lord

And he is, but sometimes, those assholes get hurt, too

And

Because of the arrogance, pride and general dumbassery 

Heisenberg is kind of set up to get severely injured 

And when that lovely event comes to pass

You’re the one who takes care of him

Which is a bit of a struggle, because the man is prideful

He “doesn’t need anyone to take care of him” 

And besides, he’s almost immortal, he’ll probably live either way

Probably

Yeah, he doesn’t need you to take care of him, he’s got it covered

He’s totally fine

100%

never better 

Yeah, so whenever he comes stumbling through the door, bleeding out, you help him out

walk over to him 

get him to sit down on something

For the sake of this, im saying it’s a couch

You take off his jacket, hat, shirt and/or whatever else you need to in order to see the wound

All the while you’re asking him what the hell happened 

And 

Well, depending on what state he’s in, he either mumbles a brief explanation about whatever shenanigans he got himself into

Ex. he wasn’t paying attention to a chainsaw 

He pissed off Lady D until she sent one of her maids after him, and then didn’t pay attention when the maid attacked

He ran afoul of a soldat going through their rebellious phase (he wasn’t paying attention to the soldat, either)

Or he can’t speak intelligibly 

Because he pissed off moreau until he got bitchslapped by a wave right into a inconveniently placed plank of wood, which stabbed him

Or he pissed off whatever the fuck lives in Donna’s basement

Or he really wasn’t paying attention to a chainsaw 

So

You either sigh at the story of tomfoolery 

or you panic slightly and push him over so that he’s lying down

Whatever happened, you’ll have to stitch him up

You’ve gotta clean the wound (probably with alcohol)

Sterilize a needle (easier, bc he’s a metal man)

Get thread (thank u donna)

And start sewing the man back together 

Haha, frankenstein parallels 

Sew the man meat back together

… i’m so sorry

ANYWAY, of course he Takes It Like A Man™, which would make you roll your eyes if you weren’t focused on taking care of him

Which he appreciates more than he can put into words

Because, like

Shit, man

He’s never had this before

Someone taking care of him

Someone caring about him

His well being and general health 

And emotional state

It just

Makes him feel things

Loved, mostly 

Though, i don’t know if he realizes it

so 

You finish up

Stitching, bandaging, etc

And your hands are covered in blood

And you’re tired and a little shaken

But you don’t care about that

Karl will be okay, so you’ll be fine, too

I mean, you always knew he would be, but

It’s nice to know for sure

You put everything away and then you just

Crash

Probably in/on something that is Not a bed

Heisenberg watches you fall asleep, and he’s actually kind of sad that he isn’t strong enough to move you somewhere else

Though if you’re awake enough, he’ll tell you to go sleep in his bed because it’s closer to where you are than your bed is

In that case you’d probably get up and go into his bedroom, but then you’d come back out a minute later with a ratty blanket you found in there, and you’d spread it out over him 

Before wrapping his jacket around your shoulders and falling asleep in it

I mean, you’re still sleeping in, like, a chair or something

But eh, it’s cute, so it’s ok

And, from the chair, you can watch Heisenberg fall asleep

And after he does so

You bring your chair a little closer to him

Maybe brush his hair out of his eyes

And then you fall asleep

and after that, you keep taking care of him for the next week, at least

because the man will work himself to death if you don’t stop him

None of this happens too often, though

Heisenberg may be dumb, but he isn’t stupid

He planned a whole ass revolution, learned how to make machine-man hybrids and then mass produced them

The man is literally a genius in terms of engineering 

Also, he is, in fact, a very powerful lord

And he’s got that mold thing

Plus power over metal

So

He’s usually fine

…

…

…

YOU AREN’T, THO

YOU MIGHT BE HUMAN, YOU MIGHT NOT BE, BUT WHATEVER YOU ARE

YOU ARE MUCH MORE FRAGILE THAN HEISENBERG IS

Which doesn’t say much, he’s very hard to kill

BUT IT’S STILL TRUE

It totally doesn’t worry Heisenberg tho

Noooo, not at all

He’s never concerned for your safety

Never

Not once in his life

He totally didn’t rearrange the factory so that your chances of getting hurt went way down

He didn’t make sure the soldats stayed in their places either

And he absolutely did not make sure there was always at least one lycan looking out for you whenever you left the factory

Nope

He didn’t do

Any of that

And he totally doesn’t take care of you when you get hurt, either

Nope

Not at all

That’s a lie, he does.  He does all of those things

And it’s because of his actions that you generally don’t get hurt too badly

but sometimes you just

Fall onto some metal

or walk into a door at the wrong angle

or fall down the stairs

or accidentally slice your hand with some metal

or fall and hit some metal with your hands on the way down

or fall down the stairs and into some metal

A lot of these involve metal

But yeah

Anytime that kinda thing happens

You just kind of

Walk in bleeding

Not bleeding a lot

but a little

little bit of blood

You’ll have, like

A bloody hand, or a scratched up arm or leg, or a nosebleed

And he’ll just fuckin

Look at you

And go

“God, what th’ fuck’d you do this time?”

And you explain

Annnd he rolls his eyes

Which is fair, you can also be dumb

And then 

He pushes you onto the couch

Goes to get the first aid kit (which you put together, btw)

And then he helps you patch yourself up

Why doesn’t he do it himself?

Because he has no fucking clue how to patch up anyone that isn’t him

(whenever he patched himself up, it hurt a lot, and he didn’t want to inflict that upon you)

Either way, you greatly appreciate that he’s there at all

It means a lot to you

So, anyway 

when you’re done patching yourself up, he helps you stand

And he asks if you’re alright

which you usually are

alas

not all injuries are minor 

Sometimes

Sometimes you get badly hurt

Like

If you run into a rebellious soldat 

Or a rebellious lycan

Or if you don’t pay attention to a chainsaw

Or

And this one is my favourite

If Mother Miranda tortures you, probably in front of Heisenberg, because he pissed her off

When that happens

When you get seriously hurt

He doesn’t really have a choice but to take you to someone who knows what they’re doing

Meaning Lady D

Despite her contempt for heisenberg, Lady Dimitrescu does have a fondness for you

So, she makes sure you live

And then, while you’re recovering 

Karl pulls a bit of a you

As in

He sleeps in a chair

By your side

And he brushes your hair out of your eyes

And then

When you wake up

And you see that he’s there

You just

Feel a lot of things 

Mostly loved

Then when heisenberg wakes up, he also feels a lot of things

Mostly relief over the fact that you’re alive

It’s a lot of emotion

but it’s

you’re fine

you’re both fine

totally not terrified of losing each other, no

noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

anyway, yeah

heisenberg does his best to take care of you until you get better

he isn’t the best at it

at least in his opinion 

i mean

he has rough hands, and he isn’t the most gentle person

but he tries

and you

you think he’s amazing

you always do

[spencer-reids-adventures]

it's just a shadow you're seeing that he's chasing - chapter 14

Warnings: Depression, disordered eating, self harm

Summary: Weeks go by and he feels himself deteriorate, feels the thread he’s hanging onto begin to split and fray, and he starts to wonder how this is going to end for him. At what point enough will be enough.

or,

The one where Spencer goes to the psych ward.

Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 1.8k

Status: COMPLETE!

AO3 Link

Chapter 1 - The Enemy Within

Chapter 2 - Errand of Mercy

Chapter 3 - Dagger of the Mind

Chapter 4 - Where No Man Has Gone Before

Chapter 5 - The Galileo Seven

Chapter 6 - This Side of Paradise

Chapter 7 - The Man Trap

Chapter 8 - And the Children Shall Lead

Chapter 9 - Mirror, Mirror

Chapter 10 - A Private Little War

Chapter 11 - Wink of an Eye

Chapter 12 - That Which Survives

Chapter 13 - The Empath

Chapter 14 - Let That Be Your Last Battlefield

They share a bed that night, and Ethan wakes up before sunrise to find Spencer missing. He turns on a lamp and walks around the apartment, getting more and more anxious as he goes, until he finally finds Spencer curled up on the floor beneath a shelf in the pantry. He almost smiles - it reminds him of college, when Spencer would always seek out the smallest areas to cram himself into. Between bookshelves in the library, under his bed in his dorm room.

“Hey,” he says quietly, sitting down on the floor next to Spencer, who is obviously awake. “What’s goin’ on?”

“What if I came home too soon?” Spencer asks, in a voice that tells Ethan he’s probably been ruminating over this for hours. “What if I’m not better yet?”

“You didn’t, and you are,” Ethan says immediately. “‘Better’ isn’t a destination, Pen. It’s a journey. You’re always going to be getting better. Even when you feel worse, you’ll still be getting better. Because you know how to take care of yourself. You know it’ll pass.”

“But what if I’m not ready to be out yet?” Spencer whispers. “What if I was so sick of being there, I convinced them I was ready to go home before I actually was?”

“They wouldn’t have let you out if you weren’t ready,” Ethan says patiently. “I promise you. And I promise you’re not the first person to feel the way you’re feeling after leaving a place like that. It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to be nervous. It’s okay to still need help.”

“Why do you always know what to say to make it better?”

“Because I know you. I know what makes you tick, and I know what comforts you. I know you better than anyone, I think.”

“I think so, too.”

“I’m really glad you came, E. It-- it really means a lot.” His voice catches. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too, baby.”

“What is this? What are we doing? You and me?”

“Well, I’m here taking care of you, because you’ve been sick,” Ethan says carefully. “And we’re not going to make any life altering decisions right now, because you’re fragile, and don’t you dare argue. And we’re going to remember that I live 1,000 miles away from you--”

“1,050,” Spencer interrupts.

“I live 1,050 miles away from you, and you have a chaotic job, and I’m just a starving musician. And we’re going to remember that none of that is conducive to a relationship, but we’re also going to remember that we’ve always found ways to comfort each other, and those aren’t off the table while we’re together. Basically - the same as it’s always been. Does that sound fair?”

“It does.”

“But nothing happens until you’re less…” Ethan holds his hand out and wobbles it from side to side.

“I know.”

“Good. Now, why don’t you come back to bed, and I’ll wrap myself around you like an octopus so you don’t feel like you have to go squishing yourself into weird places on the wood floor. You’re too old for that shit.”

“I’m barely 30!”

“Just come here,” Ethan says, laughing, and he holds out a hand for Spencer as he stands up. They walk to the bedroom together, and Ethan doesn’t let himself fall asleep until he’s sure Spencer has.

---

Ethan stays for two weeks.

He’s there when Spencer doesn’t want to eat breakfast, and gently distracts him until he’s ready. He’s there when Spencer wakes up with nightmares, kicking and flailing and screaming, and he soothes and rubs and holds Spencer until he falls back to sleep. He’s there when Spencer realizes the meds are actually working, and there’s a light at the end of the black hole he’s been stuck in. He’s there when Spencer locks himself in the bathroom and won’t come out until he can hear Ethan crying on the other side, and Ethan cleans and bandages his wounds and promises that Spencer hasn’t failed.

He’s there when the rest of the team stops by to see how Spencer is doing, and he helps Spencer fake it when he has to, because sometimes hovering and concern aren’t what Spencer needs. He’s there when Spencer has a panic attack over the wrong kind of applesauce, and helps to remind him that everything will be okay.

He’s there when it’s too bright, too loud, too much for Spencer, when his clothes hurt so he lays naked wrapped up in a fleece blanket, and he brings Spencer gum and peach rings and other things to chew, and he gently tugs his hair and squeezes his feet until he can relax, and when Spencer needs to scream, Ethan gets him a pillow to scream into.

Ethan knows Spencer, knows what he needs without even having to ask, and Spencer dreads the day he has to leave.

---

The day of Ethan’s flight home, he presents Spencer with a stack of seven binders.

“You can burn these if you want, but I thought you might find them useful. I hope it’s not overbearing or voyeuristic or, you know, weird. I just want to know you’re safe and cared for when I’m not here.”

Spencer frowns and reaches for one of the binders, opening it up to find color-coded sections, each organized and labeled. There is one binder for each member of the team, plus his mother. Each is full of bullet-point lists, charts, even some pictures - Spencer had forgotten how good an artist Ethan had always been.

The title on the cover of each binder says:

Each binder is full of the things that make Spencer feel better, in a variety of different scenarios. They’re grouped by trigger, by situation, by condition - there are sections for depression, autism, cravings, stress, and more.

The Care and Keeping of Dr. Spencer Reid:

A guide to kindness, compassion, and help for those who may need a boost or a reminder

On top of that, each is tailored to one member of Spencer’s support system - to their strengths, their personalities, their own comfort and ability to give and receive support. Ethan has been listening this whole time, getting to know the team through Spencer’s words.

He’s created a guidebook, so that when Ethan leaves, Spencer won’t be left alone.

“I know it’s a lot,” Ethan says quickly. “I’m not trying to infantilize you or objectify you or anything, I just -- I know you don’t like to talk to people about things, and I know it’s hard for you to reach out, and I thought maybe it would help if they could reach out to you instead, if they knew what to do. And I know your mom knows those things already, but I thought we could send hers anyway in case it would help her remember on days when she’s feeling a little foggy. But if you feel violated, if you’re mad, just tell me and I’ll destroy all of them, I promise. I just--”

“Ethan,” Spencer breathes, putting a hand on his forearm to stop him talking. “I can’t believe you did all this for me. I-- Thank you so much, E. I can’t even-- How do you do this? How do you always know what I need?”

“I just love you, that’s all,” Ethan says, shrugging. “I want you to be okay. I want you to know you’re not alone. I don’t ever want you to think you have to do this on your own, because you don’t. You’re surrounded by people who love and cherish you.”

“Don’t go,” Spencer whispers. “Please, E, don’t go. I want--”

“I know,” Ethan says softly. “Look, I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future. I don’t know where I’ll end up, what I’ll be doing. I do know you’re my best friend, and you always will be. And maybe, someday, if the timing’s right, and we’re in the right place… who knows. For now, though, you’d better get used to using my phone number. I know you have it memorized.”

“Maybe Garcia can teach me how to video chat.”

“Maybe she can,” Ethan says with a smile. “Baby, I’ve gotta head to the airport. I’ll call you when I get home, okay?”

Spencer nods, then reaches out and hugs him.

“I miss you already,” he says. “Thank you for everything.”

---

Penelope’s binder is hot pink. It has tips like, “Give hugs, but squeeze hard, so hard you think you’ll break him. That’s what calms him down. Let him hold and touch your fuzzy things. Cuddle with him. Call him sometimes, just to say hi...”

---

JJ’s binder is orange. Her tips are more along the lines of, “If it’s not bothering anyone, let him talk as long as he needs to. It helps him relax. Give him time with that son of yours - Henry makes Spencer so happy. Play with his hair sometimes, if he says it’s okay...”

---

Derek’s binder is blue. It says, “Remember that sometimes Spencer just doesn’t want to talk about things. Don’t force it - he’ll come to you when he’s ready. Distract him with games or stories or pranks. Remind him that you care for him. If he initiates a hug, go for it...”

---

Rossi’s binder is black. “Talk to him about your books,” it says. “Get him focused on something other than what he’s feeling. Let him play your piano sometimes - it’s a nice stim for him, and he’s actually pretty good. Provide an ear to listen if he’s closed himself up...”

---

Emily’s binder is purple. It reminds her, “He loves you so much - don’t let him forget you love him, too. Practice languages with him. Take him out for meals sometimes - somewhere fun. Sometimes tapping on his bones helps him to feel safe, as weird as it sounds. Hold him...”

---

Hotch’s binder is charcoal gray. “You know what to do,” Ethan writes. “He reached for you, and you saved him. Stay with him. Let him see Jack. Remind him that he’s worth more than just his brain. Give him a place to stay if he doesn’t feel safe at home. Don’t ever stop being you...”

---

Diana’s binder is pale yellow. “You know exactly what your son needs, but just in case you need a reminder: poetry, reading, stories, kisses, hugs, love, hope, letters, swing sets, walks in the sunshine, purple things, fuzzy things, singing to him. He loves you more than life itself. He knows you love him, too…”

---

Spencer Reid is not “all better.” It’s not “over.” He isn’t “cured.”

But right now he’s safe, and he’s loved, and he’s hopeful.

And for the moment, that’s enough.

[littlefreya]

The Way to Hell - Part 13

Summary: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escaped Ethan Hunt with his face intact and just won himself the title of being the most dangerous man on earth. Brooding as he is, August is unwilling to back down on his murderous agenda he plots to continue where he was stopped.

Series Completed: Previous Chapter | | Chapters Masterlist | Next Chapter

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild) 🖤

Word count: 5k

Warnings: Mentions of sexual encounters, child neglect, betrayal, hinted physical abuse,  foul language and lots of angst.   

A/N: I thought chapter 13 will be the last one, but I didn’t want to rush the ending or have a chapter too long. So for those of you still waiting, hang in tight! Many thanks to @agniavateira​ who’s my muse and my editor, to @raspberrydreamclouds​ for this amazing cover and to those who’s been asking me about the chapter, means a lot to me. I am going into my usual Way to Hell posting panic attack. So bye for now.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Please comment, review and reblog.  💖

Title: Paradise lost

There cannot be peace before first a great suffering.  There cannot be love without first a great tragedy.

~*~

Opaline droplets of sweat form on his forehead. In his ears, a constant buzzing rings wretchedly as if an angry hornet is caged inside his skull. What was long buried abruptly awakens, stabbing at the back of his head. Red flashes sear through his eyes while images of Ingvild dissolving to ashes play in his mind, her bloodsoaked feathers crumbling to the ground.

“Why did you go?” August mutters under his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He crumples the little yellow note with sheer frustration before throwing it on the bed. 

‘I told her not to go, I commanded her!’

The air in the room grows thick like the pit of a stygian forest. Tentacle-like branches appear behind his eyes creeping closer, clutching his limbs. Even though lost and abandoned in the thicket of his mind, her angelic scent still lingers on his skin, impossible to wash off. Sniffing at his biceps, he inhales the mixture of their union on his flesh;  what begins as euphoric mirth quickly meets the sharp edge of rage and hatred.

She’s gone and it gnaws at the dark matter of his brain. 

He hates it. 

Hates her for being absent.

Frowning deeply, August reaches a rigid hand for his clothes, forcing himself to get dressed. The very first memory of her hinges on his mind: An icy woman with silver-moon eyes who refused his pursuit. 

‘Did you think the two of you are going to ride toward the sunset together? That’s not you.’

Letting out heavy gasps, he shakes his head. “She’ll be fine,” he whispers dismissively, pulling on his trousers and hastily buckling his belt. 

The new world order awaits, so close he can feel the fresh sun sitting on his open palm. It is his vision, his legacy: bigger than whatever it is Ingvild and him have together. 

There was no her in his plan, to begin with. 

The Devil never had a queen. 

‘You know what they’ll do to her…’

Another ray of daytime terror cuts through his thoughts: her wings plucked from her back, threads of flesh tearing from her naked body. Her screams die in silence.  

“She chose to leave, I asked her not to!” August yells into the empty room, frowning at no one but himself as he grabs the used shirt which hangs from the tall mirror. Turning to his reflection, he tenses at the sight of his body. Crimson valleys lead down his back, courtesy of her claws branding deep into soft tissue and toned muscles.

‘Do you know what is the probability of finding someone like her? A woman who wants to see the world burn with you? Who believes in your cause of building a new one?’

August swallows hard and combs his fingers through his hair with haste, attempting to act normal through the intensifying drumming in his ears. Being completely methodical, he pulls his long trench coat over his shoulders and collects his belongings into his black duffle bag on the bed. With a heavy painful breath, he forces his thoughts away, zipping the bag with urgency and reciting in his mind everything necessary for his trip. Time is scarce, the end and the new beginning are nigh; the smart thing to do is to forget her, erase her existence from the chambers of his heart. 

He doesn’t have one anyway. 

His hand secures the gun in its holster and harsh fingers lace around the black straps of his bag as he stretches himself straight, ready to leave this bedroom. That’s when his eyes fall again to the crumpled yellow note. 

‘You’ll never see her in Kashmir, you’ll never see her again.’ 

~*~

‘Amazing,’ the silver-haired wolf muses while scratching his bristly jaw. For 13 years the evil spawn’s eyes remained exactly as they were the day he picked her from the orphanage. Grey crystal orbs so naive, clueless, and oh so hungry for validation. A child desperate to prove herself worthy to someone, anyone. 

It was her single flaw and his greatest advantage.

Even now in the bloom of adulthood, the pale, scrawny thing standing before him is nothing but a lost little girl who wants someone to hold her bony hand. 

‘How can someone be so smart yet at the same time so blind?’

The cheap motel room smells like mildew and rotten wood. Speckles of dust float between the handler and his prodigy, cascading over his glance that seems rather alien and naked as glass. It pierces through her muscles - this sudden sense of peculiarity and estrangement.     

She chews the inside of her cheeks and sways slightly on her spot, arms hanging loose at her side. Ingvild lifts her chin to look at Liam, her eyes round with what can only be guilt. It makes her look like a child who broke an antique vase. 

“Thank you for answering my call,” she begins, wrapping her fist around a disposable phone before throwing it on the tidy bed.

Liam scoffs and shakes his head, ridicule spreading on his face. “You’ve gotten yourself into trouble over a boy, child?” He stares up and down the young woman, noticing the obvious change in her posture.

‘So, she truly is a woman now; how did I not see this one coming with her constant chatter about how handsome he is when I handed her the dossier?’

“Please don’t tell me you need money to get an abortion.” 

Ingvild frowns with disgust and shakes her head right away. “Never. No, it’s not what I’m here for.”

Displeased as always, Liam emits his usual grunt. He slowly shakes his head at his asset while running his fingers through his lanky grey hair. This is not how he imagined this mission to end. Her lack of emotions was a key element; Ingvild could have had a few good years running several missions for him, but what tipped the scale was for her to run into the wrong psychopath.

“Then tell me Ingvild, why should I listen to a failed assassin such as yourself? You’ve been weird about this mission since day one. Acting discreet, irresponsible, and reckless,” the old man’s Adam's apple bobs up and down in his throat as he speaks. Taking a small stride, he moves closer to get a better look of her diamond irises. So sharp and so strange, they’ve always irked him. As a child she downright looked like something out of a horror movie. 

“You’ve had 445 successful missions, not even 30 years old. Yet here you are a failure, and for what? For a boy?”

Shame traps her tongue and her glance drops to the floor. Failure stings like a rod of hot iron piercing her beating heart. Yet her mind races to the night at the pit where August finally claimed her, the memory of his lips sets glowing embers through her veins. On her skin remains the evidence of his embrace. Microscopic cells, tinted by his DNA. 

She doesn’t want this feeling to go away. 

Liam clears his throat, tearing her away from memories that turn from tar to honey the longer she dwells on them.

“You know why your mother gave you away, Ingi?” Liam asks, giving her a ghastly sardonic smile while cocking one eyebrow.

‘Liam never smiles.’ 

A small frown sets creases above her freckled nose. “I asked you many times before and you always said you don’t know.”

The Dane scoffs at her, his smile widening, exposing cigarette-and-coffee-stained teeth. The rot around his gums makes her curl her nose slightly and flinch as he leans closer. 

“You were a rape baby.”

The words send a pang through her muscles, like stepping on glass. She shakes her head with protest and steps back, yet Liam nods knowingly, standing in front of her.

“You’re lying.”

His small hazel eyes burn holes through her skull, his smile sinister and impish. “Your father was a savage, a rapist. He left your poor mother half-dead and impregnated in the forest you love so much. Who knows, maybe that’s why you kept going there as a child, reconnecting with your true nature.” 

Refusing to listen, she shies from his piercing glare. Liam reaches a coarse hand to cup her jaw, forcing her face back to his. “Your mother hated you. Your very existence reminds her of the most terrible thing that ever happened to her.”

For a child with such a limited emotional range, Liam finds that the muscles of her face are capable of stretching thoughtfully with spite. Pent up hatred creases her brow, her silver eyes turning to hot, molten gold. She bites on her tongue, keeping a vow of silence but he can read her face just the way an assassin would. 

“Nothing but a mistake, disowned by your own mother. So why would this man, this... mass murdering psychopath love you?” Liam shifts her head from side to side, inspecting the healing cuts and bruises that decorates her pale skin. “He saw an opportunity and seized it, used you…”

He pauses, moving away from a stare colder than icy lake water, “just like they will.”

Ingvild parts her lips with wonder, glaring at the person she knew all her life with disbelief. In the glossy reflection of Liam’s honey-brown eyes, she sees several black, long rifles pointed at her head.

Liam curls his thin lips with an utter lack of remorse and shrugs indifferently.

“She’s yours.”

*~*~

If colours had sound then the pale blinding white would be a continuous high-frequency hum. The tunes and shades of death. Like angry flies feasting on a corpse. 

‘Is this Valhalla?’

A small groan escapes her mouth, her eyes hurting from the sickly radiance of the narrow fluorescent lamps hanging from the ceiling. Her wrists feel numb as they’re pulled behind her back in restraints. 

“No,” she opens her mouth to speak, her throat burning, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Definitely not Valhalla...” 

‘You need to be a hero to enter Valhalla, stupid girl.’

Stupid didn’t even begin to describe it. August would never let her hear the end of it.

Loud, angry steps tap on the white marble floor, growing louder as the person approaching enters the room. Ingvild blinks, peering at the silhouette when a smile of comfort paints her drowsy face. Like a god, her lover strides toward her with his usual confidence. His ocean-blue eyes beam at her sight, his palm spread open to embrace his tiny Valkyrie. She chuckles at the mischievous, charming grin on his face as it reminds her the day they first met. 

Oh, she wishes to nibble his stupid chin right now and brush her fingers along his thick moustache.

But as she blinks again, large brown almond-shaped eyes replace the ocean-blue. A panther of a woman stands before her: confident, strong, and impossibly beautiful. Her dark, succulent lips are pressed together and concern shines through as she observes the small woman who has her arms cuffed behind her back and her feet shackled to the metal legs of the chair. 

With her head still heavy, the assassin turns her face from side to side. She quickly observes the armed guards at the entrance, the tall, greying agent standing nonchalantly against the wall awaiting orders, and lastly the sickly-looking, lean man who is positioned at the fore of a metal desk with his fingers laced together. Anticipation is written all over his line-riddled face. 

“Erica Sloane,” Ingvild calls knowingly, the ghost of a wicked smile dancing on her chapped lips as she turns her head to face the CIA director. Dressed in a black power suit and crimson pumps, the director is drenched with big dick energy.

“August told me so much about you, but he didn’t mention how fuckable you are.” Ingvild drawls, fluttering her lashes as she scans her from head to toe. 

Tilting her head, Erica grabs a white plastic chair and places it in front of Ingvild. She then takes a seat, crossing her long smooth legs together. Kindness and motherly concern pours from her dark eyes, expressions Ingvild never received from anyone in her life.

“Poor child, I imagine August Walker filled your head with many stories.”

“No…” Ingvild swallows, trying to dampen her sore throat. Noticing her struggle, Erica snaps her fingers and the greying agent rushes to bring her a plastic cup of water like a loyal dog. Focusing on the translucent beads around the cup, Ingvild flicks her tongue over her lips. “August was too busy filling other parts of me.”

The intrepid woman begins to laugh at her own joke, her voice dragging groggily while Erica rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“I imagine so.” She answers and then carefully tilts the cup to Ingvild’s lips, offering the drink to the girl who sips with desperation as if she walked the desert. “August was my best agent,” she explains, watching the stream of water that rolls down Ingvild’s chin as she gulps with an incredible thirst, “a really proficient assassin, ranked high in every mission I sent him to. My golden boy. Even though that shit-eating attitude of him was something else...”

Withdrawing the cup, she looks into Ingvild’s cold silvery stare. “Those snarky, arrogant remarks and him going through the whole department like a fox in a hen coop I could overlook. But that fucker had us all fooled, Ingvild, as he fooled you.”

Ingvild flutters her dark lashes and tips her chin up. Her defined cheekbones sharpen even more as a snake-like arrogance poisons her face. “August told me what you did,” she utters sincerely, while Erica commands the agent to refill the plastic cup. Loathing melts her beautiful sullen glaciers as she focuses on Erica. 

The CIA director narrows her eyes at her in return, and curls her lips downward as disdain fills her mouth. “I am not the one who made Walker murder Agent Hartmann, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“You deceived him,” Ingvild retorts calmly and sucks in her bottom lip, collecting the remaining droplets of water onto her tongue. “That’s what you and your little agencies do to people like us. Set up traps for predators and pretend to act surprised as they eat the bait.”

Holding the cup, Erica stares at the young woman thoughtfully, the burning hatred in her eyes reminding her so much of Agent Walker: An entitled spoiled brat, thinking he can wind the world to the direction only he sought to be right. 

“You can’t blame a predator for following its nature, and you can’t expect him to behave otherwise.” 

“Is that how you see yourself?” Erica asks, moving the cup away, though she can see the thirst on Ingvild’s gaping bottom lip. “August poisoned your mind but I assure you, you are not the monster he is. You never had the choice that he did.”

Erica’s voice suddenly becomes soft, and her big brown eyes become round with care that only a parent can express. But the only form of parent Ingvild ever had was Liam, and he was never much of a father, was he? It took less than a few hours for him to give her away. 

She wonders how long it took for her real mother.

Her gaze drops, peering at Erica’s shiny crimson shoes as they counter the lifelessness of the floor like blood in the snow. Memories whisk her away again, a man in pursuit of a woman deep in an icy forest. She should have died that night and yet here she is, shackled to a chair. The voice of the man who saved her echoes through her head with a fair warning: ‘Liam never gave a flying fuck about you.’

Sharp as a needle, it pricks her heart.

“I know what Icarus did. Moulding you into the perfect assassin, depriving you of the childhood and the life you deserved.” Erica’s voice cuts into her trail of thoughts, making her raise her gaze back to the beautiful woman. “Now, I don’t know what twisted fantasies August may have offered but I can assure you, they are empty just like him. You read his file, you know what he’s capable of. Looking at your scars and bruises I assume he hurts you for his own sick pleasure, taking advantage of a woman who only wants to be loved.”

‘She doesn’t know him like I do, the way he drank my lips and called me his angel, the way his fingertips beat the warm blood in my arteries.’ Ingvild shuts her eyes, soaking in the remnants of his touch as it still ghosts across her body.

Erica’s kind, tepid hand wraps around the young woman’s jaw, lifting her pale face with the cautiousness of a human tending a wild creature. Grey and dark-brown collide at the seams as they share a silent stare.    

“If you’ll give us his location, we can arrange for your freedom and protection.”  

Ingvild breaks away from Erica’s grip, pushing herself back in the chair as much as she can. The screech of metal against marble makes the guards cringe. Slow and cold, a sardonic chuckle begins to burst from Ingvild’s lungs. The laughter echoes off the walls while she shakes her head with disbelief. 

“Do I look like a dumb bitch to you? Even if this was true, do you think I’m willing to be a slave to another government? Kept ignorant and tabbed? I’d rather rot in this cell while my beautiful monster dismantles your old world order.”

Drops of water splash at her face as Erica squashes the plastic cup in front of her, sulking with fury. Her eyebrows knit together and she purses her lips as if this young woman is something sour on her tongue. 

Evidently, Liam was right; the girl is far too gone, living in the little fantasy world August built for her. 

“If you think he ever cared about you for a split second, then you are a dumb bitch. No matter how this plays out, you and August are never going to end up happily ever after.” Erica spits, holding her finger at Ingvild’s childlike frown. “He’s never going to come for you. You were nothing but a toy, a plaything for him to pass the time.”

Ingvild scoffs and rolls her eyes, refusing to let these words cut into the beating muscle in her chest. 

`Stick and stones may break my bones...’

Solid, slender fingers wrap around her jaw, squeezing around her cheeks like a big spider. She is met with Erica’s long lashes, while those deep brown eyes slice into her soul. 

“You might think you know him, but I’ve worked with August long enough to know that he never loved anything other than his precious ego. So I would consider this as your final chance little girl, because if you don’t talk right now - this nice fellow here...” Erica pauses and gestures her head to the scrawny man who begins to hum a blissful tune while cracking his knuckles. Twisted excitement shines through his beady eyes as he glances at the set of sharp surgical tools lying on the desk.

“He’s going to make you sing like the precious bird you are.”

Fear shies from Ingvild’s stoic, icy face. The well-lubricated gears in the labyrinth of her head begin to work, observing the possible escape options and scanning every cavity, crease, and man in Erica’s lovely torture chamber.  

The door suddenly bursts open. A man in his mid thirties with bright red hair and a freckle-covered face rushes in, huffing heavily. His pink skin glistens with sweat, the strands of his fiery hair sticking on his large forehead while his hand holds onto his chest with distress. 

“Sloane, there is something you need to see…” he opens his mouth breathlessly.

“Not now!” Sloane snaps at him, looking at Ingvild with contempt. There is nothing she wishes more than to avoid torturing a young woman, especially someone as misguided as this poor porcelain doll. All she needs is to make her see the truth, that August never cared for her, that she was just another pawn in his grand scheme. 

“Director, I am sorry, but you really need to come and see this.” 

Agitated, Erica snaps in her chair to look at him. “What is it, Agent Louis?”

“It’s John Lark’s manifesto, ma’am…” he sighs, shoulders slumping, “it’s… it’s everywhere.”

A shivering hiss escapes her mouth. The shiver that graces the rail of her spine is like a shower of icy water, making her slowly rise from her chair. August’s harmful “poetry��� is released into the air like toxic gas, contaminating every fragile little mind in an already unstable world.  

“Do you like my little surprise?” Ingvild asks, making the baffled woman turn to gaze at her. There’s a malicious little smile dancing across her eyes, her brows lifting with an arrogance that strongly resembles Agent Walker. 

Swallowing hard, the CIA woman takes a step back, tugging her jacket straight and looking at the torturer who lifts a small hammer between his pliable fingers. 

“Break her, until she talks.” 

The harsh tapping of her heels dies down and her silhouette becomes smaller until it disappears behind the shutting door. 

“Pretty girl...” The man’s voice is brittle and thin as he is, every word ending with a slight snake-like hiss. He moves to scrutinise her from head to toe, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip with a prying nature. 

“You know August used to mock me…”

“I can see why,” she spits out, looking back at him with both fearlessness and utter disrespect. She killed men bigger than him, hell, August’s kneaded her to submission and his torture was nothing but sweet. 

She can take him on, she can take all of them on.

The lean man beams at her, holding up the small shiny hammer and running his finger over the rim pervertedly. The dead skin around his nails rouses disgust in her gut, yet she rolls her eyes and fakes a yawn.

He chuckles at her theatrics and kneels in front of her with one unstable hand pressing onto her thigh. His revolting fingers scratch gently at her denim, making her shiver. If August knew another man was laying his finger on her… 

But August is not here.

“Well… shall we begin, little bird?”

***

‘When this world ends and the new one begins, what will be of your little Valkyrie? Merely bones and rotting flesh laid in an unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere and mourned by no one. Won’t you be jealous of the insects feasting on her narcotic tissue?’

Cold air seeps through his nose as sharp bullets of hail hit the ground with the fury of angry gods, shattering onto the ruins of an old bridge with a loud, clattering noise. Sheltered from the rage of the heavens, August stands beneath the wreckage, facing the men who came to make the final exchange. 

Blue and green ferns have grown over the decaying surroundings, climbing over rusted metal. Nature reclaiming its place over man’s occupied space. Justice and beauty in decadence and rot. 

‘Memento mori.’

“The plutonium,”  August demands, his thick brows shadowing his eyes in a battle to remain composed. Those same parasitic visions of sheer terror burden him like a daytime nightmare: pale as porcelain, she sinks to the bottom of a lake thick with blood. His hand reaches out for her, fingers trying to grasp whatever he can but she slips away. 

‘How far do you think Erica will go this time?’ 

A rogue droplet of sweat glides languidly down his temple, crossing over a bulging tendon. Unfortunately quite apparent to the three men who scrutinise him with wonder: two well-paid bodyguards and a slimy-looking slug, wearing a dark business suit that does nothing but emphasize his fragile masculinity. 

“The money first!” The businessman whines, attempting to make a tough face.

‘A cock and two balls.’ August jests and does his best to remain indifferent while anxiety threatens to claw its ugly talons in his throat. The seller’s receding hairline is thick with dandruff, his dull green eyes attempt to mimic confidence, as a beta male would do when facing a pure alpha, trying to compensate for lost dignity.  

‘I don’t have time for this,’ August huffs, his chest puffing and the immense shoulders stretching even wider, exhuming his natural overpowering dominance. His patience runs brittle as a dry twig. A restless throb thunders between his ears like a scab, latched inside his brain. 

The slug pries his mouth open to speak, yet his voice becomes dull as if the world just went underwater.

‘Do you think she’ll go as far as to let her men touch her? You know, not just the usual torture they put interrogated suspects through, but the type of touch only you are allowed to.’

‘She doesn’t have the balls, she won’t do that to another woman.’ 

‘Won’t she? It’s personal this time. Erica knows what you are capable of. And your Ingvild, she’s an apostle too now, an enemy of the world…’

Fever burns at his sweaty forehead and his lungs gradually collapse. Visions he can’t even bring himself to imagine attempt force their way into his mind. The yapping of the man who stands in front of him goes on and on; while August can feel himself speak in response, the words spouting from his lips are on autopilot. 

All he can think of is her, stripped naked, torn to shreds by dark shadows.   

‘She holds back a lot, but when she slips, aren’t her screams so beautiful? Her pleasant little voice, stretching so melodically, like skin over bone, thin and light.’

“Shut up!”

All eyes lift to August in silent bewilderment. His fists tighten, nails digging into his coarse palms as the will to rip someone to shreds beats through his blood. These men will be no more than a casualty. 

“Do you know who I am?” He asks in a deep, menacing tone, his hand but a second from reaching his holster. By measured calculation, he already anticipates how quickly he would shoot them one by one without so much of a scratch on his cheek.

“I’m John, fucking, Lark. My apostles are awaiting orders this very instance,” he reaches for his phone, ignoring the flinch in their posture as he draws it from his pocket and shakes it in his hand on display, “and you want to stand here in this shit weather and measure dicks? Spoiler alert,” he takes a stride in front of the little man, careless of his bodyguards who reach for their weapons, “mine is far bigger.”   

The seller peers at him silently, noticing the icy crust of rage in August’s glare. His pale eyes cut like diamonds while the shadow of his brooding figure falls upon the small man’s face. 

“You will get your money once I get to see the plutonium and confirm it’s authenticity,” August calls out assertively, each word distinguished, each syllable emphasised and sharp as a blade. Death is no longer an enemy to August Walker but an old friend, and those trolls under the bridge are a mere joke to the inferno he’s been basking at his entire life.

‘Limb by limb, feather by feather, while you waste your time...’

‘She wanted me here, she wanted me to secure the plutonium. If I don’t do this, it will all be for nothing.’

‘So now you are doing this for her?’

Not saying another word, the seller nods and snaps his fingers. Agitation is evident on his face yet the violence emanating from August forces him to bite down his pride. One of his henchmen approaches with a suitcase and opens it up to show August the orbs.

Thunder rips through the sky and the hail turns into a symphony of wrath. Icicles break across the construction site above, splashing water everywhere around them. Staring at the platinum spheres, August sees his own reflection dulled by the dirty silver curve. 

A dormant thing. But when set into motion, ever so deadly. 

He presses the beryllium rod to test the authenticity of the material and a sigh of relief pipes itself through his nose at the sound of the radioactive note on his testing device. Celebration blooms in his weary heart but the festivity is deemed achingly empty and dies out right away. 

‘Stop thinking about her, she’s gone. Focus on the cause, you’re almost there, just keep pushing through the doors.’ 

~*~

The blizzard melted into shy rain. The soft little drops dampen his hair, perming his large curls with the assistance of the cool winter breeze. Standing with the suitcase on the side of the rural road, August awaits his ride taking him to the helipad to proceed to Kashmir. It has been so long since he last met his true colleagues, since his departure from Lane in Norway. Avoiding any risks, contact was kept only necessary for the last stages of their tasks.

Doom’s day.

Securing the plutonium should have brought him relief, yet his chest continues to sink into his spine as if it’s being filled with coals. August Walker threaded through life alone, yet this sudden solitude is suddenly harrowing, making him feel like a gutted fish. Looking to his empty side he the ghost of her appears, giving him a bratty smirk. 

“Go away,” he chides, refusing to think of her. Of that stupid mouth talking back, tormenting him with sweet saccharine and cinnamon-like kisses. In his reminiscences, the softness of her lips still hinges. Tenderness meeting the bristle of his neck as she lay gentle wet markings up his coarse jaw. 

His fingers press to his mouth trying to harness the memory. 

A large car drives into the side of the road, speeding up and braking right next to his legs, missing August’s foot by an inch. Frowning at the careless driver, he grunts and brushes his hair before opening the passenger door.

“Took you awhile,” he grunts as he slips into the seat and peers at the driver. A bulky man in his early 40s with dark short cropped curls and thin lips. He shoots August a glance and turns back to the steering wheel.  

“Not my bad, you made a fucking mess, Lark.” The man answers and begins driving right away, careless of the fact that August didn’t put his seatbelt on and that he is holding radioactive material. 

Throwing the seatbelt over himself and fastening it, August growls and carefully secures the case on the side of the driver seat, his index finger remaining on the brim. He gently caresses the hard black leather. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

The driver peers at him oddly before looking down the road, driving fast and passing a large log truck. “Releasing the manifesto. MI6 and the CIA are all over the place,” he says and turns the radio on, letting August hear the news on his own. “I get why you did it now, it’s brilliant to cause another distraction but you’ve made shit a bit harder with those cunts running around. They tracked it back from London and have been surveying the entire area.”

“I didn’t release the... “ 

August stills, his muscles shriveling up as realisation quickly hits him. 

‘Oh angel, what have you done?’

Drawing out his mobile phone, August immediately begins to search the newsite, his eyes an ocean of panic, fluttering back and forth. It’s everywhere, news about an anarchist manifesto, spreading like a virus through every social media outlet, leaked by codename “Jane Lark”. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, reading his own written word as he goes through an article posted on the BBC’s newsite. But she changed the last verse, added a little piece of her own:  

“Valkyries mounted onto beasts,  We will ride eternal to the sun. The blazes will sear us but we will not back down,  United by our cause of just war, Unflinching we will scour the earth, Until humanity comes together in tranquil and harmony.”

‘She loves you, you see? The way she lets you bleed her, use her, spill all your pain inside her. The way she held onto you just a night ago, your name falling from her lips, her body pressing into yours to take all of you. She’s the only one. The only woman who did and ever will. 

And you left her to die.’

________________________________

Disclaimer: I don’t own Mission Impossible and August Walker