#was able to wrestle my art block down with my bare hands with this and it gave me the confidence to do some actual shading

[kill-vonkarma-again]

don't look too deep into those angel eyes, crazy 'bout those angel eyes

[stratiotis-nth]

Castiel has been able to see Glimpses of people’s future when he meets them for the first time—specifically when he first makes eye contact. It’s the big family secret and Castiel hates that he’s the one stuck with it. It’s infuriating—Gabriel asks if Castiel could make eye contact with some hot guy or girl to see if he’ll get lucky, and Castiel ignores him every time.

He doesn’t see the person’s entire life when he looks like them. It’s more like…a tsunami of information. Sometimes it’s images or feelings or sounds. Usually, Castiel can’t make heads or tails of what he experienced, so he stopped trying to interpret them a long time ago.

At this point, the flood of information is an annoyance, and he’s done his best to just avoid eye contact altogether.

Maybe that’s why Castiel is so quiet and keeps to himself. He doesn’t like meeting new people if only to avoid the data dump of another person’s future. He’s thankful he doesn’t get Glimpses when he looks at anyone he’s already Glimpsed, because he’s never be able to look Gabriel in the face. And anyone who Castiel had accidentally Glimpsed before have long since disappeared from his life, and Castiel is such a recluse that he hasn’t had a new friend in years.

Until Gabriel was an annoying asshole.

His older brother practically wrestled Castiel out of the house they shared to go clubbing. It had been a close fight and Castiel had gotten damn well near to biting Gabriel’s arm—but he eventually lost because Gabriel threatened to trample Castiel’s carefully cultivated garden in the backyard.

For the sake of his plants, Castiel reluctantly ducked into Gabriel’s obnoxiously bright red Camero.

“This is a stupid idea.” He grumbled, crossing his arms and keeping his hands tucked firmly against himself. “I’m just going to be standing there staring at the floor like an idiot.”

“No, you’re gonna keep that chin up and meet some people, Cassie.” Gabriel said briskly as they drove to Downtown. “Glimpsing a few people isn’t gonna change your life. You need friends, my bumbling, weirdo brother.”

“I can live my life just fine without friends, Gabriel.” Castiel snapped. “I have you, my cat, and my garden. I work from home and can support myself if needs be. What else do I need?”

Gabriel sighed.

“You’ll always have me, Cassie.” He said. “But have you ever thought about what you want?”

No. Of course he hadn’t. Castiel hadn’t had the luxury of knowing what he wanted since he first discovered the Glimpses.

“Your Glimpses shouldn’t be what stops you from having a life, little bro.” Gabriel continued firmly. They were in Downtown now, string lights lighting the two way street and neon signs making the air gleam in multicolor. Castiel’s chest clenched with anxiety, carefully avoiding the stream of bodies moving up and down the sidewalks in case he made eye contact with as passers by.

Gabriel pulled into the VIP spot of his nightclub, Sugar+Spice and grinned at Castiel.

“C’mon, brosky, time to swim amongst the fishes.” To complete Gabriel’s inspiring speech, he slapped two condoms into Castiel’s hand and ducked out of the car before he could throw them back.

Grumbling under his breath about invasive brothers, Castiel begrudgingly followed Gabriel through the back entrance of the club.

It was loud, hot, and chaotic. Despite not having made eye contact with anyone yet, Castiel’s senses were immediately overloaded with noise and light. He could barely hear Gabriel over the din, risking a glance up in an effort to read his lips.

This way. He seemed to be shouting. Gabriel grabbed his hand and tugged him along anyway. Castiel allowed himself to be dragged, bumping through a crowd of people with his eyes fixed on their passing feet.

Gabriel took him up to a slightly quieter, less crowded second floor and sat him down at the bar.

“Alfie!” Gabriel called to the bartender, rapping his knuckles on the glass bar top. “Dirty Shirley for my fruity brother!”

“Gabriel!” Castiel hissed. He didn’t necessarily care if people knew he was gay, but he didn’t want Gabriel going on trying to get him laid.

“Coming up, boss.” Alfie called, already moving nonstop and smoothly as he tended to the other patrons lining his bar top.

“See ya, Cassie.” Gabriel clapped his shoulder. Castiel’s heart seized with terror.

“Gabriel, don’t you dare—“

“Sorry little bro, I’ve got club owner responsibilities to attend to.”

And then, Castiel was alone. Alfie’s slim hand set a red-pink colored drink in front of him and moved on before Castiel could think he would wait a second for a thanks. He was probably too busy to care for social expectations like please and thank you.

Castiel didn’t know how long he had sat there, hunched over his drink and staring at the bar top resolutely. Gabriel could drag his ass into public, but he couldn’t make him talk to people.

People seemed to catch the hint to leave him alone, or maybe Alfie had warned them against it before Castiel could sense their presence. Some tried, though, but Castiel just shook his head. That was usually enough to leave him be.

It was well after 1 AM when he’d finally had enough sitting around and staring at his drink to ward off horny one nighters. He stood, determined to find Gabriel and force him to take him home. He was tired, anxious, and terrified of this place and of people. He didn’t like Glimpsing—it was like intruding into their privacy and instead of doing it intentionally like how a burglar would invade a home, it was hurled at him when he didn’t want it. The last time Castiel had Glimpsed, the images and noises had been too much. It had overloaded his mind and nearly made him pass out from the onslaught.

The last time he had Glimpsed was the first time he’d met a future serial killer. One could imagine why Castiel didn’t like Glimpsing anymore.

He pushed his way through the crowd, trying to find Gabriel’s recognizable white dress shoes amongst the writhing sea of legs and lower bodies.

Castiel finally reached the stairs, the door swinging shut and blessedly blocking out the din of the dance floor. The peaceful silent lasted for only a moment, though.

“Whoa, Jesus!”

Castiel slammed into a very solid form and went tumbling backwards, his back hitting the bottom staircase with a painful thud before he toppled back onto the concrete floor.

“Shit, shit, shit! I’m so sorry! Jesus fuck, here, lemme help—“

The person he collided into was scrabbling down the last few stairs, kneeling over him and grabbing his arms.

“Hey, man, you okay?”

Castiel’s entire body was ringing with the aftershock of his fall. His back throbbed painfully, already promising a nice purpling welt.

Maybe it was the pain, or maybe the ringing in his head muted out higher reason, or maybe just fate, but Castiel drifted his gaze to stare at the person who had run into him.

The moment he met the pair of green eyes the color of matcha and wild grass, he was assaulted with an onslaught of Glimpses.

Warm, comforting yellow and orange, the color that light up a home on a cozy, winter night.

The sizzle, pop and bang of fireworks in a dewy field, ringing with a pair of laughter. Bursting, bright colors lighting up a starry sky.

Metallic, greasy smell of an auto shop, the sharp chemical scent of acrylic paint, the words Winchester Auto in neon lights on the top of a busy garage and art studio.

But the main image, the one that always came through crystal clear when he had a Glimpse—

was Castiel himself.

He couldn’t force the image away, or what followed after.

It was Castiel, looming over the man’s point of view with his arms braced on either of his vision. His own face was slack with pleasure as his entire body moved up and down in a very obvious thrusting motion. His eyes were bright and wide and so full of something warm and gentle and careful that Castiel didn’t believe he could ever really do that.

He closed his eyes, willing the main image and surrounding flashes of senses to fade.

“Dude, please tell me you’re okay.” The man fretted, his hands now cupping Castiel’s face and shaking slightly. The way the man was leaning over him looked so much like how Castiel was leaning in the Glimpse that it brought him back to himself.

He sat bolt upright, smacking foreheads with the man and immediately making himself dizzy again.

“Ow.” They both mumbled. The guy scrambled back to give Castiel some space.

“You okay, man?” The guy asked again, staring at him with wide eyes. Castiel’s first reaction was to advert his eyes, but this time for an entirely different reason than the Glimpse. His cheeks burned with the embarrassment of what he had just witnessed.

“Yes.” He managed, but it sounded strained. The man, apparently took that strain as pain instead of mortification.

“Oh shit, you’re probably all banged up, shit. Did the stair hit your back? Did it break the skin?” Suddenly, warm hands were gingerly touching his lower back, feeling for the welt already swelling. Electrical shocks rippled under his skin despite the layers of clothes between him and the hand, but Castiel hissed sharply when the pressure of his fingers hit the welt.

“Sorry, hang on. Don’t move too much, not until I can be sure you didn’t break anything.” The guy was completely unfazed by touching Castiel. It was a gentle touch, but definitely clinical. Was this guy a nurse? Doctor?

“I used to be a paramedic.” The guy answered Castiel’s unspoken speculation. He gently pressed around the welt. “Anything hurt?”

“No.” Castiel managed faintly, his brain already providing unhelpful scenarios where the man’s hand drifted lower and suddenly his last Glimpse was coming true right then and there—

“Okay, I don’t think anything’s broken.” The guy said, sounding relieved. “Can you stand?”

“Yes. It’s just a bruise.” Castiel said, his defenses rising with the determination to never allow that last Glimpse to come true. There were too many risks, too many dangers associated with having friends, let alone pursue a romantic relationship. For this man’s sake and for Castiel’s sanity, he would do everything in his power to stop that Glimpse from happening.

“I’m alright, thank you.” He said quickly, stepping back to allow an acceptable amount of space between him and the man.

“Okay, uh, good.” The guy said, ducking his head sheepishly.

Please don’t. Castiel begged helplessly, staring as the man glanced up at him through his lashes. He was undeniably gorgeous. Light brown hair styled lightly and freckled, tanned skin. Those enrapturing green eyes that made Castiel want to smother himself in that very shade, framed by long lashes. Plush pink lips and a little scruff that Castiel wanted to feel on his skin. Broad shoulders filled a worn leather jacket over a flannel and Henley. Oil-stained jeans and scuffed boots. Rugged and beautiful.

What the hell did future Castiel do to secure a night with this man? How did an awkward, nobody with a fear of people manage to have sex with this perfect, gorgeous man who could get anyone he wanted?

“Sorry about that, man. I swear I don’t go running into hot guys as a pick up line.”

Castiel’s jaw dropped, and the man went very red when he realized what he’d said.

“Ah, fuck. I-I didn’t mean, that’s n-not—shit, I didn’t mean for it to come out like that—“

“It’s alright.” Castiel cut him off hastily. “I’ve actually got to go. I’m supposed to meet my brother and he’s probably worried that I haven’t shown up.”

The man looked embarrassed but startled by Castiel’s hasty retreat. But he moved to let him up the stairs.

He was already a few steps up when the man spoke again.

“Sorry again, man.”

It was a mistake to turn back around, but Castiel did, perhaps selfish enough to indulge in the man’s beauty one more time.

Then something happened that never happened before. Castiel had another Glimpse when he met his eyes.

It was gentler than the first, like an aftershock after an A-bomb.

Deep, sweet spices mixed with buttery pie dough and tangy apple.

A warm, soft red that enveloping his entire body like an embrace to protect and cherish.

The man’s deep, rough voice murmuring “Cas” with such profound affection and care.

Then, Castiel’s voice answering in the same low, gentle caress of soft happiness—“Dean”.

This could not be happening.

[supremeinlilac]

Greiving for something not lost

Sally Mckenna x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: Canon death, mentions of suicide, grief, slight mention of nsfw activities but it’s literally nothing.

A/n: Here’s the exchange gift for @cissa-calls , and I hope it’s not too dark for you :/ I researched a lot of Greek Mythology because you said you enjoyed it so it’s based around a myth, although as always I got carried away so it ended up only being a small portion. I hope you like it :))

Instead of taking the direct route to the Cortez, you idled down the backstreets of LA, one hand stuffed deeply into your pocket as you scuffed feet against stones on the path. It did little to clear the fog in your brain after yet another argument with Sally, it was always too loud in the city and you seemed to never be able to silence it enough to think.

Sally had promised you, time and time again that the next job would be the last, and you clutch at the hopes that each time she’d be telling the truth. Each time you’d fumble with fingers against the hem of her jacket and beg her to stay, and she’d pry them off and tell you not to follow her.

“The Hotel Cortez is not a place for you babe,” she’d say, and then she’d be gone.

Usually, you’d accept that, and would wait by the window for glimpses of her silhouette along the street when she’d returned. Your heart would thrum in protest against your ribs almost painfully until you’d see her safe again. This time, you’d both cried and fumed. Neither understood the other, neither wanting to admit that they feared what that meant.

Your other hand held a small spray of white anemones, and an apology scribbled on paper. You had to rehearse it before you met with her again, she seemed to be able to sense when you weren’t genuine. You’d wanted flowers of a darker colour, they were more Sally, but had had to settle with that of purity and innocence. Not Sally at all, but you were still too proud and stubborn to stalk around more shops to find the perfect gift for her when you’d both been in the wrong.

The detour meant you’d probably find your girlfriend already high, stumbling aimlessly around rooms with that grin on her face that always made you want to kiss it off her. No doubt that tonight would end as it always did. Possessive and passionate in your shared bed. Sometimes you wouldn’t even reach it. Sorry with Sally was always spoken through sex.

The thought of apologising through kisses and softly idle fingertips had your pace quickening, and the guilt heating up within you. You didn’t like fighting with Sally, and you sure as hell didn’t like what you fought about, but you loved to bribe her back to you this way. But as you turned the corner to the hotel, the guilt in your stomach dropped into that of dread, and a lump formed so quickly in your throat that you felt you would choke on it with what you saw.

Aphrodite had warned Adonis about the dangers, just like you had Sally, and yet, here they both lay. It was as if her body blurred into two with your tears, two lovers, separated by the cruel twist of deaths knife in a hollow chest.

You seemed to be able to do nothing but stagger towards her, vision smoky and you prayed it was a dream. That you may stir in the sheets beside Sally, and she’d reach to still your tremors like the silent hand of a god against the rumble of an earthquake. Be still my love, do not fear what can not hurt you. I’m here, reach for me.

Now, you wished for something as merciful as a dream.

Her face paled to grey as you neared, and the world seemed to fall away. Passers by seemed unaffected as hurried feet carried them home, anxious to block out the city with thick blinds and gentle music. Your despair willowed to nothing, a commotion simply on the other side of the road wasn’t a rarity. The city had seen it all before.

It turns out the Hotel Cortez wasn’t a place for her either.

You felt like throwing yourself to the ground beside her, bare knees scraping against the harsh pavement, yet you’d welcome the pain beside your lover. White noise filled your ears, and only the blaring of car horns could cut through its insistent ringing. You couldn’t even hear yourself crying for help to anyone who might listen.

Her eyes were wide, glassy and pleading, but you saw no life in them. The glass gave way to murky water and it was clear you’d reached her too late. Defeated, you crumpled beside her, flowers forgotten in leu of pressing lips to her temple and whispering the apology as if it may be heard by her soul and it might return to her body. To you.

You wanted to close her eyes with gentle fingertips but feared that if she stopped seeing you then it would be the end. That it would mean she was gone.

A flower sprang where he lay, hours after Adonis’ death, a deep crimson anemone that bore the shade of his blood. Born from the sweet nectar from Aphrodite’s hand, the wildflower bloomed. Beautiful trauma.

The flowers on the ground by your side seemed to wilt, sensing the sour odour of deaths passing, they hung their heads in mourning and shrank into their petals. Heavy with grief. White anemones turned red under the suns dying love, its light bowing behind the buildings so it may pretend to have not bared silent witness to souls divided.

Aphrodite pleaded for her lover’s life in the underworld, so he could be with her once again in life. You would have plead as she did, knelt and sold your soul for Sally to be returned. You would have done as Aphrodite did, if you thought it would help. If you thought that someone could see your pain and render it pure enough to grant the impossible.

In the real world, there are no gracious second chances for such a fickle thing as love.

And now, it seemed that the Hotel Cortez would be her place, tied to her always in death.

You stayed by her side until the coroner arrived to take her away. You couldn’t cry, instead just watched through eyes of steel as the back doors of the van were slammed obnoxiously, ringing in your ears long after it had pulled away and been lost to the traffic. You vaguely registered someone’s hand on your shoulder, a soothing motion, talking as if underwater, muffled and unintelligible. You felt like you were barely clinging to driftwood on an unsettled sea, each swell of a wave bigger than the last.

In shock- you heard someone say. Suicide. That broke your haze.

When you’d got home that night, the silence had screamed at you. It had been too quiet to sleep, and you ached for the way she’d blast music loud enough to warrant the neighbours complaints the next day, so you’d have to bake horrendously in the kitchen cookies as apologies. Or when she’d strum against her guitar and the gentle tones would pull you from your work and into her lap to watch her fingers manipulate the instrument into art.

You craved the shrill laughter of Sally when she’d prank you childishly, how she’d pull you towards her and you’d see how joy creased her face beautifully. You’d always want to make her laugh and brush the pads of curious fingers over the dimples formed and make her shy away.

You’d never hear her song again, you realised, blinking away tears when the guitar propped in the corner caught your eye. Chest heaving painfully, you half wanted to grasp it by the neck and slam it against the ground over and over until anger diffused and you could cry into its shards. The other half, the winning half, wanted to pick it up and set it against you, ghost fingers over its strings so the thrum was barely audible. She’d played this tune, taught you this tune, and you vowed you’d never forget it. Fingers in her shadow, you ran them over the smooth wood, eyes closed and head back on the sofa.

She was everywhere in the apartment, and it only served to remind you that she was also nowhere.

The suffocating hands of her absence pressed against you, a ribbon of blackened ash around your ribs, until they threatened to crack under its pressure. Was it possible to miss how she hurt? Your lover, with her wild hair and glassy eyes, you could see her as she was, you would drunk in how she would move. Dancing slowly in an empty room, as if the world were watching her.

Wild hair was born to writhing snakes, and you feared to look directly into her eyes now. Death had claimed her as its own, and you refused to accept her insistent fate. She’d return. You’d look into her eyes and see that of your lover, and not of Medusa. Lungs of stone, how could they swell to receive the gift of a breath without her beside you?

Now you drowned the guilt, drunk in its depths instead of in her eyes.

Stuck in endless loops of questioning what if. What if you hadn’t taken the detour, what if you hadn’t argued, or if you had made her stay instead of letting her leave the apartment? Would she still be alive?

It wasn’t your fault but oh, how that option seemed so sweet in this moment. To be swarmed with an actual reason to hate, how it would be easier than the reality. You’d rather have yourself to blame than have no one. Responsibility for actions you weren’t even sure of. Questions unanswered by police, that would remain unanswered because the only person with the solution was gone. What had happened?

The pressure seemed to build up in your head, an unbearable thickness of thoughts that had nowhere to go but to force themselves down your throat so you’d choke on them, and the feeling of sickness would resurface. They’d swim in your gut like parasite and never still.

It was worse at night.

Distractions were less and your emotions ran so far above you on blackened clouds, so out of reach that you doubted you’d ever be able to wrestle them back into submission. Would they eternally be dancing in mockery and pulling at marionette strings in your limbs? A shell of your former self, only held up by unpredictable emotions that could burn you with their ice just as much as their fire.

After your first day back at work after the incident, you’d returned home exhausted, wanting nothing more than to collapse into yourself on the sofa and cradle one of her jackets. You forgot the lock the door on your way in, and remembered hours later, after the sun had drooped once more that you needed to lock yourself with your thoughts again for the night.

You reached into your handbag, searching for something that seemed menial now, and instead your fingers curled around her packet of cigarettes. You stopped, hand still in the bag, and your breath caught painfully in your throat.

It had been the first since that night, raw and salty tears that burned your eyes red and blurred your vision. The kind of crying that wore you to nothing within minutes and had you clutching bony fingers to your chest as if to pry open ribs and reach your lungs. You couldn’t breathe.

Everything caught up with you, and you felt as if you were falling alongside her, scrabbling to find purchase against nothing. The rational side of your brain knew that you wouldn’t crash to the ground, but you couldn’t help but be brought back to her side in that moment, a whirlwind of emotions that you couldn’t control, circling your head in a way that made you dizzy with your grief.

Her pale face, mottled with the tears of her death invaded your mind, the blood staining the pavement. Suddenly you felt hot with it, as if the sticky blood was covering you, pulling you to drown. You could smell its invasive metallic scent, almost taste its musk in your throat with every breath. It was thick, and you were clawing at your arms to try and wipe it away. It was everywhere, and then it was nowhere, and you wondered why you’d been tricked by grief in the first place.

Shaking, your fingers had flipped open the packet and picked one out. You didn’t smoke, yet trembling hands found the lighter and lips found the filter which already had a smudge of red on it. Almost as if Sally had gone to light it but changed her mind, discarding it back for later use. She never used it again, now it was you that drew in an unsteady breath, drawing the panel door to the side as you took the rest of the cigarettes onto the small apartment balcony you both shared to smoke them, alone.

There was really only room for one person out there at a time, yet you and Sally would huddle together on the nights when the city would keep you awake, and she’d wrap pale arms around your waist and nuzzle her chin into the crook of your neck. Passing her cigarette back and forth you’d overlook the streets below and watch the living.

You’d both used to wonder what it would be like to lead the lives of those people below, those on their way to work before the sun even surfaced over the horizon and set its path for the day. Working before the pair of you had even been asleep. The banality of their routine, oh, how you both pitied them. They’d work boring jobs to pay the rent for the whitewashed walls they’d come home to each night, eat the same meals at the same time, prepared by wives wearing lines of age, deeply set in valleys on their faces. These people always looked older than their years, tired and worn from work and children born to save a marriage already lost.

You’d used to pity them, yet now, you craved the intimacy of a boring life with someone you loved. You’d rather the predictability of this life than the one you had now. Nothing.

On the balcony, you smoked all the remaining cigarettes in the pack. Usually, you didn’t smoke, but you did, just to feel close to her again. Curling your fingers around the butt the way that she used to, and blowing the smoke out, watching it furl and twist into the cold night. You craved the warm roughness of her hands.

She’d kiss you with the lingering taste of those cigarettes, and you’d grown addicted to it. Still, once you’d finished the packet, you’d found yourself unable to rebuy them.

Slowly, you forgot its essence. You felt like you were forgetting her.

In the news, you waited for them to show a photo of Sally, one detached from everything she’d grown to be, beside a headline of death. The low hum of the city news was background noise to your grief, and you ached for someone to care enough to tell about her passing. For weeks, there was nothing. There was nothing and then there was everything, all at once, and in that moment, you knew that you would’ve preferred the nothing.

They said she’d jumped.

They hadn’t known her, and they said she’d jumped.

How dare they when you’d screamed at them until hoarse that she would never, that she promised she would never? The quick solution, one that wouldn’t raise questions, or demand the precious funds of the very system she’d been cheated by, to fork out for justice. She was an addict, they’d said. Painting the sky above her head an angry black, with clouds that swirled with viscous intent. She was a junkie, and therefore the answer was simple.

Death had been an inevitability with a life like that, habits like that. A person such as that.

You wasted grief on your anger, long nights where you’d clutch the phone to your mottled cheek with whitening knuckles, cursing everyone who’d rendered your love unimportant. You’d fall asleep on hold to police that had no more answers for you, no more pitied excuses and apologies for a loss they knew nothing about.

And it was on one of those long nights, when you sought for comfort that could be not offered by the living, that you reach for the memory of the dead. Running fingers deliberately slowly over the clothes that hung in the wardrobe, fingering through her dresses on the railing before slowly closing the door again, leaning against it and sinking to the floor.

You’d opened all her drawers that night, some for the first time. Spritzed her dresses with her perfume that still stood on the mantle, revitalised Sally in the apartment with her smell. It was as if you were back to then, when she’d return from work, stroppy and tired, yet still reach for her perfume and generously sprayed the air that she’d then dance into.

Picking one of her band shirts out of the drawer, you slipped your shirt off and replaced it with hers. It was soft cotton, the one she’d most frequently sleep in, and it brought you warmth like her hugs used to, arms enclosing you and grounding you in moments of fear.

You slept in it that night. Telling yourself that that would be it and then it would return to the drawer. But one night stretched painfully into three, and you found yourself unable to sever the small mercy you’d given yourself in wearing her clothes, the attachment to her that only you would know when you walked the street. No one else knew the chain you wore were hers, the boots, the dress. No one knew sally because there was no one left to know.

It had been a year since that day.

You’d woken with a headache and turned over in bed, wanting to shelter yourself from the day with blankets, sleep until the moon shone and the day turned into the next. You knew you could do that, but guilt had you pulling on the covers and groaning as the sunlight poured like liquid through the slit in the curtains.

It was going to be a long day. You already felt tired.

Pulling one of Sally’s band shirts over your head, you traipsed sluggishly through the apartment, purposefully ignoring the mess, like she would after a night of drinking. Not that it mattered today. You unhooked Sally’s oversized jacket from the peg and slumped it over your shoulder. Today was the day, you’d decided. You were going to visit her grave.

In the past year, you’d planned to visit her grave on several occasions, but avoided it at the last second. You couldn’t stand the thought of Sally trapped there, tied to the soil when she should be dancing upon it with you.

Sally couldn’t be tied down to a single place, she moved freely, without reign. It was how she liked it, and how you’d learned to love her. Labels had never been her thing. And now she was labelled on stone, with a corny phrase that she’d hate, with a date too early, a life too short. Sally deserved to be free.

She was the wind, unpredictable and changing and wild, she would go where she pleased and return on the breeze. Sally would’ve hated being buried, and yet through the selfish need to have a real place to visit her, she had been. You can’t capture the wind in bare hands, can’t collar it or tame it and make it beg. It controls you and you have no choice but to concede to it.

That was Sally.

Even now, a year later, you found yourself faltering. The gates of the cemetery loomed ahead of you, and your hands bunched at the material of your pants nervously. You could feel it calling, begging almost, for you to simply reach out and push the gate open with a metallic creak of protest. To visit the place you’d always avoided.

But just as you always did, you lost your nerve, sighing and peering down the road for a reason to be drawn away. For a distraction, even just for a moment. An excuse to gather your thoughts just enough to face your lover.

A corner shop caught your eye, with the newspapers in the windows just begging for customers. How convenient. Stuffing hands into pockets, you strode over the road with new purpose.

Dragging yourself down the claustrophobic aisles in the store, you distracted yourself with exited colours on packaging, picking items of shelves and replacing them further down the aisle. You didn’t care for tidiness today.

When a shop attendant asked you if you needed any help, you gave him a sad smile in appreciation and picked up a small bunch of white anemone flowers, her flowers. Last year, they’d been a peace offering, this year, an apology. The employee shuffled along again, and you set your eyes down to the floor.

Flowers in hand, you made your way to the till, placing them delicately onto the counter and fiddling for coins in your coat. You hadn’t planned on buying anything, so neglected to bring your wallet. Luckily, this was a coat you’d not worn since Sally’s death, and she was a fan of keeping loose change in the deep pockets.

“Is that everything for today?” the woman behind the till chirped with the voice of someone with long experience in public services. It cried out in tired falsity, in ‘how long have I left on my shift?’ It was a line well-rehearsed and overused.

Just as you were about to nod in answer, your eyes caught the tobacco cabinet behind the bored check out assistant. “What brand?” She asked pointedly, and you stared dumbly past her. Had Sally ever bought cigarettes from this store? Shaking out the thought from your mind, you answered her, asking for Sally’s brand and quickly paying and leaving.

Outside the shop, you held the package tentatively in your palm, fingering at the packaging as she used to when she was nervous. She’d wrap a tune with her chipped nails against the boxes edge, and you’d coax it from her, and dip her under the moonlight in your arms. Now, holding the cigarettes held no comfort for you, feeling both foreign and familiar, it left you aching for her.

Still, you found yourself unable to visit her grave. It was all too real to see where she lay. You needed something tying Sally to you that wasn’t so physical. You laughed to yourself. How ironic it was, to force her into a grave for something so trivial as to have a place to call her resting place, only to find yourself too weak to face your choice.

Instead, you took a left, and then another, and then a right, and continued until you could no longer smell your own fear in the air with the concept of her grave. Deeper into the city, where the pollution stained white houses grey, you could breathe clearly again. Guilt will consume a person, clog their lungs with it until their breathing is laborious and the weight drags them down into their thoughts.

You’d walked this route before, one year before, with white anemones and an apology in hand. You’d never gotten to tell Sally what you’d wanted, but perhaps you’d take her the flowers, and smoke her cigarettes in the window where she’d fell. You’d tell her what you didn’t get the chance to.

The hotel was just as you remembered it, flickering neon 34w`lights that read ‘Hotel Cortez’, and the eery alleys and parked cars that seemed to be in the same position as the year prior. It was as if time had paused, hotel residents left their cars and had never returned to them.

You weren’t really aware of yourself in that moment, feet leading a silent path as you found yourself stuck in a memory. When you reached the place you found her, your feet faltered, and you couldn’t tear your eyes from the paving.

The pavement was clear, physically untainted, and any normal pedestrian would question your loitering. But although it appeared to be clean, you know because you’ve seen, you’ve remembered. The pain that would still remain, deep in the cracks of the paving stone, no matter how much scrubbing the clean up team undoubtably did after Sally’s body was removed, they couldn’t remove. They couldn’t fade the scarring, or the feeling of death that overcame you when you stared at the place she’d laid.

Someone bumped your shoulder as they passed on the street, muttered remarks about people standing in the middle of the street, and you raised your eyes to watch them walk away. When you looked back at the stone, the connection to it had been lost, and you found yourself unable to re-enter the trance you’d been in.

Pressing through the hotel doors, you left the light of the sun behind, left the living, and joined the death of the dusky lobby. Wondering through its room, you imagined Sally doing the same, with confident strides and a purpose. It was a nice place for downtown LA, you had to admit, but you couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that came with it, of being watched by invisible eyes in the walls. The feeling one gets when you visit a place where death rules over occupants.

You looked up to the next floor, and swore you saw a flash of an animal print coat moving behind the barriers. No. Must’ve been the lighting change from coming inside.

A woman pointed you towards the bar, and you nodded towards her. Did all visitors come for the hotels bar? She seemed to know exactly what you needed, tired eyes searching for something not quite there.

In the bar, you drank and you smoked and spoke with the woman behind the bar who must’ve noticed the void behind your eyes. She didn’t question you, why you were alone, just slid extra drinks across the table with a wink and a smile. You didn’t return it, opting for a grateful grimace instead.

All of a sudden, the smell of Sally’s perfume seemed to melt into your senses, overpowering that of the cigarette, and the liquor, until your head swam with memories linked with its scent. You didn’t remember spraying it this morning, and it confused you. It was so strong, and real. It didn’t seem like your brain was tricking you with its musk, like it so often would with a silhouette against the apartment window.

Suffocated by Sally. You drowned in its poetry.

Searching for its origin, your eyes roamed the bar. It was real, you figured. Turning on the bar stool, your eyes met those that you thought you’d forgotten, and you found they were exactly like you remembered. Sally stood, leant against the wall opposite you, arms folded at her chest yet wearing cheeks stained with tears and widened eyes. You scrambled out of your chair, and the world fell away from you. You didn’t even try and catch it when she was next to you.

You palmed at your eyes, begging yourself to wake up from what must be a dream. Despite knowing she wasn’t real, you ached for your mind to stay in this fantasy so at least you wouldn’t be alone. Removing your hands, you felt yourself lighten. Sally remained still, unmoving yet she was closer that ever. You could reach and brush against her cheek if only your arms would cooperate.

“Y/n?” she breathed, in that choked up voice, and you were falling again.

As if trapped in a dream, you startled awake with the feeling of cool fingers massaging against your scalp. The room was foreign, and it smelled like her. Foreign, yet startingly familiar as if you’d been there before.

Sally was curled into your side, and your breathing laboured again. You didn’t understand how she was here, you- you buried her. Sniffling broke your doubts, and Sally adjusted her head atop your chest. When you wiggled beneath her, her sniffs turned to coos, and her fingers in your hair and clutching your top were soothing at your cheeks.

“I love you, I’m here,” she flustered, worrying her lip between teeth, and you could see the moon in between buildings outside the window. It watched you with bated breath and shone onto her pale skin until her tears seemed to shine. “Say I love you Sally.”

Sitting up against the pillows, you caught her face in your hands, cupping it so she couldn’t move away as you remembered the outlines of her eyes, lips, the curve of her jaw and cheekbones. “I love you,” you found yourself admitting, tears welling in eyes that couldn’t believe what they were witnessing, “are you real?”

“I’m-” Sally started, faltering as if she didn’t quite know the answer either. “I’m here.”

You wanted to apologise anew, whisper the memorised speech that you’d spoken to her that night, but the words seemed to catch in your throat, sharp like the barbs from barbed wire were caught against the delicate skin. Instead, you pulled her in to brush lips against hers, testing slowly if they actually would meet and not melt through what your mind was making up.

They did meet, and you muffled a wail against hers, all the pent-up grief for the woman you were now kissing resurfacing. Fingers clung to her coat, which was still soft beneath your touch, and you pulled her closer to you. She cried, and you cried, and hands met to brush them away.

“I missed you baby.”

You didn’t stop to think about what it meant that she was here. Focusing only on her hands linked firmly in yours, and how she deserved to feel the taut string of a guitar again. You’d bring it to her, and she’d play her song. You’d hear her voice and feel the vibrations of her throat against your lips as she sang.

You’d do it all again.

Time you thought was lost was now frozen, suspended in a single heartbeat. She hadn’t aged a single day, and yet her eyes showed more trouble than you’d ever seen. You couldn’t wait to return and kiss away her worries, reintroduce yourself and love her and be loved like you both deserved. But for now, you were content to simply exist in her presence again.

You wouldn’t take her for granted.

taglist: @pearplate @pluied-ete @billiedeansbottom @okpaulson @mckennamayfairgoode @lilypadscoven @extraordinarilycelestrial @mssallymckenna @magnifique-monstre @magnificent-paulsonn @darling-dontforgetme @commanderspeach @grilledcheeseandguavajelly @shineestark @amethyst-bitch @ninaahs @bluesxrgnt @germansarechill @d14n4ol @sarahp-stan @natasha-danvers @its-soph-xx @imgayandmymomdoesntknow @lovelypeasantjellyfish @rainbow-hedgehog @paulawand @saucy-sapphic @delias-bitch-craft @loverofallthingssarah @music-addict @citizenoftheworld-stuff-blog @in-cordelias-coven @cordeliass @peggycarter-steverogers @stayeviildarling ,, if you want to be added, give me a shout :))

[undercoverwizardfanfiction]

Mud is Thicker then Blood: Test

Verse: ROTTMNT Fantasy Verse

Summary: Being a father is one thing, but also being a teacher is another matter entirely. Especially with a son as stubborn as Donnie

Characters: Leonard, Donnie, Mickey, and Danny

Pairings: Why are you like this?

Rated: G

Dedicated to: @star-boy-blue for all the amazing art you made us!

“Focus Donnie”

The fourteen year old in front of him rolled his eyes, but as a parent he’s used to that. Donnie brought up his bo staff again. “I am, Dad.” As he expected, Don responded with an attack. Whenever Don got frustrated, he’d always respond with physical retaliation. Len took a step back, avoiding the blow before forcing his way into Don’s space. The teen immediately got a flustered look on his face before doing a corkscrew dodge away. Len could see Don’s eyes shift to his left. The teen started charging to move past him when Len swept his hook staff out, catching him around the ankle. With a squawk, that Len struggled not to laugh at, Don hit the ground on his plastron.

Len couldn’t help but wince. ”You ok?” He stepped closer, kneeling down looking over his son's form with a critical eye. Other than some dirt on his clothes, there didn’t seem to be anything wrong. “How’s your leg?”

“It's fine.” Of course Don wanted to do things the hard way. He rolled away and back to his feet with his training staff in hand. A part of Leonard is proud, but he can’t help but sigh as he stood up. “Dee, you don’t have to do this. If you need more practice and training it's fine. No one will think less of you.”

The teen looked at him with what can only be described as exasperation. “No, you don’t get to decide when I’m done. After how many times you made me try ‘just one more time’. No, I’m not done till I say I’m done.” He spun his staff for a moment, probably to vent some anger before slamming the end into the ground and settling into a stance.

Len studied him for a moment. He knew that Donnie is determined not to fail today. He knew what’s at stake. “Then listen. When you bottle up your feelings you get clumsy. You lose your advantage. Just breath and you’ll succeed.” He slid back into a ready stance.

A moment later, Donnie was on him again. The two deflected each other’s attacks for a few moments before Don pivoted in his step. Bringing his staff up to swing at Len’s head. With more defense then necessary he brought his shoulder up to shove Don away before taking several steps back. Without breaking eye contact he reached up to test his ponytail to make sure it wasn’t undone. With that, Len couldn’t help but grin. A surge of energy went through him as his hand caught the incoming bo, his hand now traced with an almost translucent black flame that made Don give an offended noise. “No fair, you didn’t say we could use magic!”

“Come on, rule number one is sometimes you gotta make up your own rules.” Len freed his hand, allowing his kinetic magic to flow through his body. Don, who knew better at this point, bent his knees and jumped backwards. Len could see the gears rolling in his son’s head as Don decides his next move. Len shot forward to retaliate, causing Don to jump again with a furrowed brow when his levitation kicked in and allowed him to float further away and try to stay out of his reach.

Len was on him the minute he hit the ground with an almost inhuman speed. His son was able to deflect his blows but was forced to take several steps back till his shell was up against a tree. Len brought the hooked staff down from above as Don quickly blocked with his own. Len can see his brow is furrowed in frustration, struggling to come up with a solution to the problem. The part of him that is Donnie’s father, silently begged him to surrender. They can always try again later. The teacher in him begs his son not to give up.

Don suddenly released his bo staff and ducks away, the staff snapping to the ground causing Len to stumble. Before Len can move, Don twisted his body and gave him a kick in the ribs. The blow broke his concentration and he lost his kinetic magic as he held his ribs with one arm hand. “Nice hit,” he commented, even though he didn’t have a broken rib or even a bruise, it was enough to knock the air out of him. “It’s not enough to beat your old man though.”

Don grinned. “You said I didn’t have to beat you though.” In his free hand Don held up a familiar blue headband with a gold coin held between his fingers that made Len blink rapidly. He reached for his ponytail again, only to find that the headband he used to tie it back was replaced by a cheap, frayed string, that fell apart at his touch letting his hair fall in his face. He could only stare in surprise for a moment before grinning. “Yeah, I did say that.” He stood up. “When did you realize that’s where I hid the coin?”

“This morning I saw you putting product in your hair, which you wouldn’t have done unless you were worried something might fall out.” Donnie held up the coin. “This counts as a win right? I found the coin, stole the coin, all without you noticing.”

Len’s proud smile sank into a slightly sadder one, one he hoped donnie wouldn’t notice. “Yeah kiddo, you win.”

Barely a moment later, Mickey burst out of the bushes, flailing his flippers in the air “WOOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO go cookieee!” He shrieked with glee before sliding over and wrapping the teen in a hug. “Your Uncle Mickey is so so proud of you baby Deeeeeeeeeeeee.”

Don gave a loud gasp as he struggled to free himself. “Yeah I know Uncle Mickey! Air, turtles need air! Gah!” He squirmed around but Mickey’s hugs are a power all in themselves and they both end up in a somewhat escape/wrestling match (escape for Donnie, wrestling for Mickey), Len grinned as Danny approached him. “Well, he won.”

“Only because you went easy on him.”

Len glanced at the wrestling nephew and uncle, thankfully too enraptured in their wrestling match to notice them. “Don’t tell him that. He’s my kid, I’m not going to go all out on my kid.”

“I know, you big softy.” Danny wrapped his arm around Len’s neck and pulled him into a side hug for a moment before Len gave him a playful elbow to the ribs and steped away, he brought down his hook staff hard enough to catch the two wrestlers attention (though Mickey had Donnie in a nonlethal head lock, Donnie had a grip on either side of Mickey’s cheeks and was now trying to stretch his face out), Len snapped his fingers with his free hand and pointed to the ground just in front of him. Mickey squirmed free and went to his side while Don stood up.

Hesitating long enough to take a deep breath and move closer, readjusting his hood as though it were a safety blanket. In almost a blink the confident teen who wanted to challenge the world around him was again wracked with insecurity. But, as Donnie stepped up, Len knew his neverending courage would never fail him. “Um,” Donnie started quietly, “I did what you asked. I haven’t snuck out, I’ve listened to everything you said, trained with you everyday, and I got the coin without you noticing.” Despite the anxiety in his eyes, there’s a glimmer of hope. “Do I pass?”

Len had always waited for this day with dread and excitement. He let out a breath through his nostrils before putting on a brave smile. “Yeah you pass. You can be a Mud Dog now.” Don’s eyes filled with excitement as he curled his hands under his wide smile, a strangled squeal started emitting from his throat that sounded sorta like that time Mickey drank that bottle of rainbow liquid that made him radioactive for three days before he stood back up again. Seeming to understand there was more Len wanted to say.

“You’ve earned it. I always knew this day would come, but-” he reached out and cupped the side of his son's face. An act most sons would have detested but Don gently tilted his head into the touch with a smile “-It seems like yesterday I found you, a tiny little child with not even a name. I’ve seen you grow, get better, get stronger, smarter. More stubborn.” He used his thumb to rub his cheek, “You grew up too fast for me kid.”

“Are you saying you’re old now?” Don said with a wicked grin, trying to alleviate the swelling of Len’s melancholy. But Len responded with an equally wicked grin.

“Not too old to put you in a corner you brat.” He reached up and pulled down Don’s hood, causing him to let out a loud laugh before adjusting it to his standards. Len gestured to Danny and Mickey, “Alright, these two softies said they wanted to give you something in case you passed today. So I’ll let them at it.”

The teen blinked and looked in between the two, “Wait, no you don’t have to-“ but Danny waved him off. “Come on kid, I promise it isn’t vegetables this time.” With a dark blush, Don ducked his face into his scarf, save for his dark pink eyes but didn't protest further.

Danny went first. “From me.” He dug into his pocket, and drew out a familiar silver old pocket watch that he held out. It was probably twice Danny’s age and the only thing on it that had been replaced in its time was the fine dark purple cord that would hold it to the user's form. Don took it with both hands, eyes widening. “Recognize it? It’s the same one you fixed for me when we first found you. Been running ever since. Took care of it so when this day came you’d have something from your favorite Uncle.” Danny ignored Mickey’s offended look in his direction. “And see?” Danny pointed to the outside of the pocket watch, “it even has our initials.” Referring to the giant D on it. “It’s the closest thing I can give you to a family relic.” Danny gave a shrug that he probably hoped to seem nonchalant but failed at the slight quiver to Danny’s breath. “Hopefully you’ll think of me every time you use it,” he said rubbing Don’s scalp over his head.

With that he stepped back and turned away for a moment, probably hoping no one would catch him quickly dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve. If anyone but Len noticed they gave no indication. Don looked at the pocket watch with a smile and glint in his eyes before putting it back in his pocket and looking over to Mickey as he squiggled forward. “Well from your ACTUAL favorite Uncle,” Mickey made sure to give Danny a pout (who had collected himself to turn back around) before turning back to Donnie, “I made this a while ago, and figured you’d make good use out of it.” He held out a dark purple bag. That, to an observer may have looked like a terrible gift but Don’s eyes widened showing how valuable it really was. “It’s an infinite bag, you can load it up with a ton of stuff and carry it with you like it was nothing!” He flailed his tentacles excitedly. “Just like what we have!”

Don took the bag with both hands with a look of awe before he smirked weakly, “There’s not a criminal in this right? I don’t want another Registration Day fiasco-”

“IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!!!” Mickey cried loud enough for nearby birds to take off, flailing his tentacles again dramatically. “An accident! I didn’t know Heinous Green was in it, I didn't!” He probably would have spent another hour defending himself had Danny not reached out and pulled Mickey back. “I know buddy, I know.” Danny said, pulling off his fedora and setting it on the eel’s head as a way to appease him. Which you wouldn't think would have worked except Mickey immediately deflated, his head sinking into his neck as he let out a sigh, feeling the brim of the silk fedora with a giggle.

Donnie let out a chuckle at his uncle's antics before tying the bag to his waist. He opened his mouth again, probably to thank everyone when Len held up his hand, “I got you something too. It’s not exactly new but I think you’ll enjoy it.” He swung his hook staff around. The moment Don’s eyes set on it he gave a loud gasp.

“I-No-Dad I can't, I can’t!” he protested immediately, taking a physical step back. But Len gave him a stern, but warm look that made him move back into place. Len let the staff rest in the palm of his hand as it returned to its handle form with a flash. “The Dragon Claw staff has been in our family for generations. Only a few of us have been able to use it to its full power. My mom, your grandma, was the first to use it fully in three hundred years. Then me, then you. The staff accepted you as part of the Yukimura family ever since it formed in your hands when you were five. When you wield this staff, it’ll be like me and your grandma are always protecting you.” He extended it out to him.

In that moment, he remembered watching his Mother train with this same staff. He remembered learning how to use it under a bridge, his only shelter from the snow and the only distraction from his hunger. And finally, he remembered a small, green hand, far too curious for his own good, reaching out and touching it, only for it to flash and form. Scaring the poor child for a good day in a half. It had only been when it formed again at Don’s touch (days later under the protective eye of him and Danny) that Len knew it had claimed Donnie.

Donnie looked up to him, only when he saw Len’s affirming smile and nod, did the fourteen year old take it. Cradling it in his hands like a sacred treasure. Len could see the tears form in Don’s eyes and was in a way grateful that his son understood how important a moment this was. He’s about to step up and console him when Donnie scrubbed his eyes on his sleeve

“Th-thanks you guys. Thank you dad. I know I wasn’t always the easiest kid in the world, but you never laid a hand on me or gave up on me. Even though we aren’t blood, I never felt like we weren't….” He took a breath, “Family.”

At that moment, the tables are quickly turned and suddenly it's Len with rapidly filling eyes that he can’t blink away. “Aw hell,” he said, wrapping his arms around his son. He could feel Donnie hug him back just as tightly, his smaller hands gripping the back of his jacket as though terrified Len would disappear from his grasp. “I’m so damn proud to be your dad,” he said, pressing his face into Don’s scalp after giving it a small peck.

Don’s muffled voice broke out from its place in Len’s chest. “Are you crying?”

“No!” Len quickly rubbed his face with his free arm to hide his lies before rewrapping it around Don. “Of course not!”

“Oh, definitely, he’s barely keeping it together,” Danny said with a grin that made Len promise to burn all his romance novels later.

“He’s going to cry big time,” Mickey added.

Len glared at them both, “You two are assholes you know that!?” He used this thumb to wipe his newest stream of tears away. Despite what he said, and despite the laughter, the two Uncles joined in the hug, holding them together as close as they could. The world saw them as thieves, as criminals. Wanted posters said three of them were unreformable monsters. But in that moment, and in so many more, he was a father. The luckiest Dad in the world.

They were a family.

They would always be a family.

[concussed-to-pieces]

To Tell You The Truth Part Three

Fandom: Prospect [2018]

Pairing: Eventual Ezra/Prospector!Reader

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Good morning, good evening! I hope you're all doing well. Enjoy!

Tag List: @huliabitch @renegademustelid @wrestlingfae @zombiexbody @sporadic-fics @rzrcrst @lackofhonor @the-feckless-wonder @arrowswithwifi

Part One

Part Two

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains graphic depictions of gore and allusions to previous abuse. Stay safe!]

Bakhroma loomed massive and pinkish-tan on the horizon ahead as you bent double, hands on your knees while you struggled for breath. No doubt you had pushed your filter carbon far past its limits with your headlong sprint heats through the Green. A quick look confirmed your suspicions; the indicator blinked sluggishly at the bottom of the red lines.

You bit your lip, barely reining in the panic threatening to engulf you yet again. You had no idea where you were. Damon was the one with the map, and Ezra...he was the only person alive who might be able to help you. Your heart dropped as you realized that all your running had really done was prolong the inevitable. 

You sank to the ground, staring up at the planet that dominated most of the sky in front of you. The hazy atmosphere around it was bright orange, fading into the navy blue of the cosmos backdrop. Checking your watch, you saw that the first cycle had kicked into the second several hours ago, though the light level didn't seem to have changed at all. The cloying, overbearing vegetation around you abruptly made sense. This moon was not only humid, it was also bathed in light for much longer than the standard twenty-four cycle. 

Moving robotically as your legs began to protest, you lumbered stiffly back to the treeline to suss out the spring you had passed by. You would need water. Even if you weren't in the right headspace to be thirsty, dehydration was not something to sneeze at.

You knelt in the mud alongside the spring, the coolness welcome on your overworked knees even through your suit. Pumping and purifying water always took longer than it ought to, and you found yourself staring blankly off into the distance as you filled your first jug.

You were working on the second when your helmet earpiece suddenly crackled to life with a shrill whine of static. 

"-llo...hello to the Green."

Ezra?

You swiveled your head wildly to look around and the static increased with the motion, making you slow to a stop. It was a stationary transmission, then. Your helmet must be picking up a long range somewhere nearby.

You rose to your feet while rushing to stow the jugs of filtered water in your day pack, tilting your head and mentally begging Ezra to keep talking. He did not disappoint, his drawling voice and the bursts of intermittent static your compass through the tangled overgrowth.

"...one or two pearls...that I will be willing to part with for well under the peakest commercial rates. Nothin' funny." 

It sounded like he hadn't managed to get what he needed to fix the drop pod. Your eyes burned with tears. 

"Just a desperate man tryin' to make a bad deal with the right holdout."

Brick red flickered through the Green's lush verdancy and you realized after a moment that it was canvas. A tent solidified out of the thick brush as you advanced, the roof coated in a generous layer of amber-yellow dust. 

"...anyone is out there...don't hesitate to click on." The signal was nearly free of static at this point. This tent was the obvious origin of the broadcast. But now the question was...whether that message was prerecorded or not. 

You hid beside a large, gnarled tree and pondered your next move. Sure, you had the pistol. If it did you any good was an entirely different animal, but you definitely had it. 

It felt sturdy in your hand compared to the flimsy Boscelot thrower rifle. Solid. 

Maybe...maybe you could reason with Ezra at gunpoint. Strike some kind of new bargain. You had nothing to put on the table this time, however. Everything had been in that pack, and you highly doubted the other prospector was interested in your sketchbooks. It would have to be at gunpoint. He had the resources, but you had the gun. 

Just like Damon. 

You hated yourself in that moment, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. Then, you darted across the space to the tent, ears straining to catch any noise from inside the structure. You couldn't hear much through your helmet to begin with.

After a quick prayer, you unzipped the tent and cautiously ducked your head to enter, leading with the thrower pistol clutched in your hands.

Someone seized your arm like a steel trap and you were ripped through the doorway, the pistol getting knocked out of your grasp in the process. Your plan effectively destroyed, you succumbed to panic, thrashing and attempting to claw at your assailant even with your gloves on. You twisted your head around to try and catch a glimpse--

And those bloodshot blue eyes seemed to loom up at you from the dimly-lit interior, making you scream out in terror, "No, no, Damon please!" as you struggled to get free. 

He all but wrestled you bodily into one of the tent bunks, grunting in pain when you beat your gloved fists into his ribs. You weren't sure if it was just because of the adrenaline or if it was due to how long you had been separated from him, but you had never fought him this hard in your life! You had always just accepted, given in, bowed to his demands. Where had this tenacity even come from?

"Not again, not again!" You sobbed, futilely kicking your legs to try and throw him off of you. "P-Please, please, please--!"

"Gentle soul, if you do not cease tenderizin' my ribcage in this most belligerent and unneighborly manner," a familiar drawl met your ears through your thick helmet, "I will have no resource but to employ far more drastically militant tactics. Be still."

That voice! You froze, your hands still bunched up to tear at the fabric of his exosuit. Ezra. 

His large form seemed to solidify in the exceedingly-dreary tent lighting now that you weren't fighting for your life, and you realized with a rush of embarrassment that it hadn't been Damon's eyes you saw, but the distorted reflection of the whites of your own in your helmet's dome. That, coupled with your imagination...

Damon was dead. How could you have forgotten? Damon was dead. It was just Ezra.

Does that make it any better?

You released him without a word, scrambling back as far as you could and drawing your knees to your chest in a defensive stance. Ezra stumbled upright, reaching overhead with his left hand to press a few buttons. The tent's air scrubber rattled sluggishly to life. "You can take off the helmet." He muttered.

You did so almost immediately, taking a greedy inhale of the dubiously-clean oxygen. A bit bar hit the threadbare bunk webbing by your feet and you ripped the colorful wrapper open, tearing chunks out of the crunchy substance with your teeth. As you devoured the bar ravenously, you realized that Ezra was utterly silent. 

You dared to flick your eyes up and found him studying you, his expression pensive in the sickly orange twilight of the tent. You gulped down the bite of Calori-paste that now threatened to choke you. "I...I'm sorry." You apologized thickly. "I shouldn't have-"

"Be quiet and finish the bar, gentle soul." Ezra instructed softly. He sounded unsettled, of all things. Like he expected you to turn on him any second. "I believe I have unfortunately deduced the answer to the mystery I had pondered earlier, though I wholeheartedly regret opening that proverbial Pandora's box." He shook his head.

The Calori-paste sat in your stomach like a block of lead. You struggled through the last few bites, washing them down with swigs of plasticky water from your canteen. You held out the other bottle that you had filtered as a sort of silent peace offering and Ezra accepted it without hesitation, the older man proceeding to gulp half the bottle in one go.

"I know you may not be overly inclined towards listenin' to me at the moment," he gasped out, wiping the moisture off his mustache. "But I'm afraid my situation has grown even more dire than previously implied." He raised his eyes to meet your own. "I...I need your help." He confessed.

You took another drink of water to give you the time to collect your thoughts. You were certain your disbelief was plain on your face; you had never been gifted in the art of hiding your turns of expression.

Ezra snorted, lowering his body to sit on the far end of the bunk. "The Saders were not exceptionally keen on barterin' with me once you made your timely departure." He held his arm, wincing and no longer looking at you. "I managed to convince them to swap me some of their ambrosia for supplies, instead of-" He halted, his shoulders going rigid before he carefully continued, "I cannot excise the infection without assistance, and if I do not remove it with an exceedingly low degree of error, I will lose the whole arm."

You swallowed hard, clenching your fist so tight that the handle on the water jug creaked as you asked, "Were you going to give me to them?" 

You knew that all Ezra had to do was say exactly what you wanted to hear. But you could live with the prettier lie if it got you off the Green. You could pretend to trust, pantomime the partnership.

His eyebrows drew together in a dark frown and you watched his jaw work sporadically before he finally exhaled a singular, monosyllabic, "no."

You waited for the rest of the sentence, the emphatic declarations of I would never! or what kind of man do you take me for?, but he remained silent, staring at the tent floor. Weirdly, the lack of long-winded antics made his answer feel more honest somehow. He was obviously a gifted liar, tailoring his technique to his target. 

You sighed heavily through your nose. "Okay." 

You told yourself that the bewildered gratitude in his eyes must have also been part of his ability to tell falsehoods.

Ezra prepared the sparse surgical supplies from your kit with a somber, almost funereal air. He seemed to be already convinced that his arm was a total loss. Maybe he knew better than to put much stock in the abilities of a battered floater. 

You were seized with the uncanny urge to prove him wrong. Your need for validation was what had landed you in this mess with Damon all those stands ago, you reminded yourself, but you couldn't shake the habit so easily. "Did I hurt you? When I...when I hit you?" You asked before you could think better of it. 

"No more than the average lighthearted dig dust-up would, gentle soul. Do not trouble yourself on my behalf." Ezra replied dully. "I offer my most sincere reparations for givin' you a fright."

"I spooked myself. I...I saw the reflection of my own eyes in my helmet and I thought…" you trailed off, nervously sipping your water.

"That man, Damon." Ezra hesitated, struggling to secure the band around his upper arm. "I know it is rude to ask after personal affairs, but did he-"

"Don't." You said softly. 

To his credit Ezra stopped immediately, busying himself with the tourniquet. After he had completed that arduous task, he bit the cap off of one of the porta-surge syrettes, spitting it out to land neatly in the lid of the field kit. He jabbed the needle home in his shoulder with a poorly-muffled gasp of pain, nearly crushing the tube with the force of his motion before dropping that into the kit lid as well. "The lid is for sharps." He informed you. "We lack a tray or a proper sterile environment, so keep your hands clear."

"I'll cap that once I get gloved up." You assured him. "I'm not leaving a sharp in the field kit. Knowing me, I'd forget it was in there and wind up accidentally pricking myself or something." 

Ezra nodded, swallowing convulsively. You took the Ralon scalpel from his slightly-shaky hand. "You ever used one of these?" He asked, his voice gone a bit reedy. His breathing in general seemed poor, off-tempo. He was afraid. The knowledge that he was just as scared as you were made you feel more sure of yourself, for good or ill. 

You shook your head in reply to his question, explaining, "I've never used this model before. The one I have for harvesting is much older."

Ezra reached over, flashing you a disingenuous smile. "It's easy." 

He pressed down on the side of the scalpel battery pack, activating the laser blade. The whole handle buzzed in your grip, feeling uncannily like your handheld stitcher.

"There's five levels of intensity. Use two for flesh. Four for bone." Bone?! You jerked your head up, meeting his terrified gaze. "You got it?" He choked out after a second.

You nodded stiffly. If he wanted you to know the bone setting, then by Kevva, you would.

His eyes softened and for a split-second he looked like he might cry. "Thank you." He rasped, blinking rapidly and then glancing away. 

You rummaged around in the porta-surge for the tiny, standard-issue penlight, immensely thankful that the battery still had enough power to work. The tent was poorly illuminated, outside light barely able to filter through the thick material. "Will this...when I start, is it going to hurt you?" The sterile glove packet made an ungodly amount of noise, crinkling and crackling in your hands as you fought to tear the seal.

Ezra scoffed, demonstrating the sensation that his right arm currently possessed by slapping his limp hand a few times. "I won't feel a thing. Hack away." His breathing was still too fast even as he continued to prattle, "quick, confident strokes are best. Try to go full circuit on the first cut."

You nodded again, one-handedly scooping the syrette and pushing it against the side of the lid to shove the cap back on. Then, you disposed  of it in the trash bag by the door. Holding the penlight between your teeth, you smoothed your gloved hand down his arm to pin it securely in place. You were really going to do this. Well, if he wasn't able to feel it...

You had peeled multitudes of aurelac gems in your mining career. You were exceptionally delicate when it came to skinning the pearls. You couldn't recall the last time you had punctured one of the blisters and ruined a pull. Surely...surely this wouldn't be much different. 

"I've never had to use these syrettes before. Kinda' nice. Tingly." Ezra commented as the scalpel buzzed to life. "Almost like it's…" With something that might have resembled quick confidence, you began your excision. The laser blade whirred through his epidermis with enviable ease, smoking slightly. "Oh shit. Oh shit." The older man muttered over your head, his whole body gone tense.

"What?" You asked around the penlight. Ezra started panting, his chest heaving violently underneath his threadbare waffle thermal layer. "Does it hurt?"

"No. N...h--I-I don't know. Keep goin'." He stammered. "You're doin' great, k-keep goin' until you think you've got it all." His left hand was clenched so tightly that his knuckles had gone nearly stark white beneath the layers of ground-in dirt. "Once y...once you finish, dump the juice into the wound and th-then cream it a-all sh-iiit, shut, shut." He continued to instruct you through gritted teeth. 

You nodded, wholly focused on your task. At least it wasn't difficult to spot where the infection had reached. It turned the tissue and muscle it consumed to a sinister purple-black. You tried to keep your brain separated from the fact that this was a human arm you were methodically carving a chunk out of, a human arm attached to a living person who, despite his incredibly convincing big talk, could definitely feel what you were doing. You deliberately narrowed everything down to being as rapid and thorough as possible, like when you had to harvest in a poor environment. Every extra second you spent was a precious resource you could ill-afford to waste, literally. Thank stars that he had the tourniquet wrapped so tightly, even if the blade did it's damnedest to cauterize as you cut.

Once you were as certain as you could conceivably be that you had removed all the infected matter from the wound, you sloshed some of the Sader's juice from Ezra's canteen onto the exposed area. It hissed and steamed like boiling water and Ezra buried his face in the crook of his left elbow, biting down on his sleeve and screaming into the fabric. 

Your hands finally started to tremble as you loaded the patch gun and listened to him dry heave, but you doggedly kept at it. Just a little more to go. It felt like it took an eternity for the stupid cream to expand. The reload was probably years past its expiration date. 

And then it was over. 

You carefully gathered up the grotesque little pieces of your handiwork that had fallen on the floor, balling everything into your fist. The gloves squeaked wetly when you stripped them, turning them inside out as you did to keep the blood and organic matter contained. They dropped into the waste bag by the door, plopping sadly down next to the spent syrette on a bed of bit bar wrappers. 

You shakily switched off your penlight and took a step back, reaching for one of the tiny antiseptic wipe packets. Despite your best efforts, the skin of your wrists was spattered here and there with blood. You scrubbed at the rusty fluid silently. 

Ezra's whole body was shuddering with every groaning retch, saliva hanging in thick strands from the bottom of his slack mouth as he rocked his way through the pain and clearly fought down the urge to vomit. Moved by the admittedly-pitiful sight, you tugged loose your bandanna and wiped off his chin. "It's done." You informed him softly.

He caught your wrist before you could pull away and you were shocked when he pressed a sloppy kiss to your knuckles. "You are Kevva-sent, gentle soul, never let anyone t-tell you otherwise." He grated, "Divinity incarnate; a damn valkyrie in floater's clothing, decidin' my fate on the battlefield."

You squinted at him, down at the grisly mass of expanded foam and then back at his face. "I don't know if I would count this as a battlefield, Ezra." 

"Martyr's malfeasance," he swore, his voice cracking, "you can attempt to dismiss it but I will never forget this kindness, gentle soul. Not even in the next life." 

"Don't...look, let's just hope I did everything right." The insanity of the task you had just performed struck you anew and hysteria bloomed in your chest. At the same time, his heartfelt proclamations of gratitude settled low in your belly, a flickering flame of pride that you wanted to shelter and nurture. You sat down hard on the bunk, pulling your knees up again. The still-smoking scalpel gleamed at you in the dim light of the tent. "I'm probably gonna' be sick." You warned him faintly.

"You are far from alone in that camp, gentle soul." Ezra replied dolefully. "We'll be spewin' in the same trough shortly, I imagine. I have always been a man...afflicted by the trials of sympathetic vomiting." 

"Oh no!" You found yourself caught between laughing and gagging, settling for a retching little snicker. "Come on, don't say stuff like that, you're gonna' make me hurl."

After several queasy moments had passed, he spoke up again, "I know you are just as eager as I to continue on to that mercenary camp, but I must insist on a short reprieve. A burge...burgeoning cloud of exhaustion is relieving me of what little sensibility I possess." He tucked his wounded arm against his chest as he curled up in his bunk. "And I will need time for the syrette to wear off, lest I be rendered an incompetent, staggering buffoon."

"We have to go to them, don't we?" Your voice was tiny.

Ezra sighed. "It would appear so. We will have to throw ourselves upon their proverbial mercies and hope that they are willing to acquiesce in exchange for our harvestin'." He cocked his head to look at you curiously. "Do you actually believe that it's the Queen's Lair they've stumbled upon entirely by chance?"

"Does it matter?" You asked. "Damon thought it was legitimate enough to throw the both of us across the universe in a trashy rental pod. I would say that must count for something, but…" You shrugged, propping yourself up against the end of the bunk.

"I understand. Still though, we will need rest if we are to successfully tackle this conundrum." He drowsily watched you as you dug around in your suit pockets to locate your sketchbook. The current iteration was a beaten memo pad from the pod rental company, each page stamped with the letterhead of Dasha Landcraft Rental. 

This was a familiar ritual to you. Turning your brain off whenever you needed to rest was a difficult thing to manage. In your mid-teens you had begun sketching before lights out and found that for some reason, the activity emptied your thoughts enough to allow you to sleep much easier than you had ever managed without it.

You unwound the twine that kept the pages closed and flipped to a fresh one. Trying to recreate the scenery you had witnessed earlier, sketching Bakhroma hovering imposing on the Green's horizon. 

"An artist, now that I did not anticipate." Ezra commented. You flinched, realizing how close he had leaned in to watch you. "What else have you drawn, gentle soul? Might I peruse your work?" He requested, his hand extended.

"I'm not--!" You floundered, tilting away and clutching the pad protectively to your chest. "I-I'm not...I'm not an artist. I just…I can't sleep without um, doing. Something like this." You tapped the notepad nervously. "It helps me relax." 

Drawing is a waste of time, you should be spending that time cultivating skills relevant to your field.

"No harm in that." Ezra replied agreeably, his words striking a sharp contrast against the echoes of Damon's belittling in your head. His hand remained outstretched, patiently waiting. 

You let out your breath slowly, rooting around in your hip pocket for the previous pad you had filled. That one you had pilfered from the Jata Bhalu processing facility, it had an actual hard cover and a loop for a writing implement. You tugged it free and hesitantly passed it to him, stammering once again that you weren't an artist, this was just something you did.

Ezra was devastatingly silent as he leafed through your tiny sketchbook. For someone that you had come to expect to talk, the stillness that permeated the tent made you unnaturally fearful. Your fingernails dug into your memo pad. What if...what if he was judging you? Some of the sketches were tired and messy, some of them smudged from your environment. Tea and coffee and tears blotted the pages. What if he didn't like them?

This was why you didn't show anyone your drawings, you-

"Have you ever considered acquirin' one of the draw-pads? I am no artist myself, but I know that the digital method saves precious space in pods." Ezra suggested. "And a single rainy day could ruins months of this hard work you have stockpiled."

"I...I want one, of course. It's just...they're so expensive and I could never justify it." You murmured, a little sad as you thought back to standing outside the pawn shop of the last freighter and gazing down at the battered box in the window. Out of date models alone were well removed from your price range. You could only imagine how much a brand new one would set you back.

"Puggart Bench West! I'd recognize that dock anywhere." Ezra exclaimed suddenly, wiping his hand off on his leg before he tapped on the page. "West dock is a real hive, isn't it?"

"Oh, y-yeah." You stuttered. 

"And this one...a deep space miner? Thing looks at least Fringe kestron grade." Ezra continued, squinting. "Not quite Testin, but it'll do in a pinch. I had a few stands on one of those. Food was shit."

"That was...um, it was just a ship that went by the transport freighter that I was on. Out in the Fringe." You shrugged, grimacing. "I didn't know what kind it was." You reached over with your pencil. "How do you spell 'kestron'?"

"K-e-s," Ezra paused, his brow furrowing, "t-r-o-n. If I'm not mistaken. Hell, it might be t-r-e-n." He admitted. "I'm uncertain, gentle soul. It has been so many stands since I've...since I've seen…" he yawned widely, then set off on another tangent. "In the Pug, there was this...vendor, you follow me, in this mercado." He rolled the 'r' in the unfamiliar word, like he was luxuriating in being able to say it. "They had--shit, it was some sort of...treat, the name is eludin' me. Drizzled honey, cinnamon, that fancy sugar dustin'…"

"Little pillowy things?" You supplied. "When the place made them fresh you could smell them all the way down the block?"

"Kevva, yes, now you got my stomach beggin'." Ezra groaned. "What were they called though?"

"It started with an 's', so...pa-"

"Sopaipillas!" He erupted, his eyes lighting up. "I swear, gentle soul, my heart just skipped a beat." He chuckled dreamily, "As much as I bemoaned the drudgery of it when I was there, I'd love to be back on the Pug right about now. Bench was a eternal shit hole, but at least I could breathe." He lolled his head to the side, looking at you once more. "When you and I escape this Green hell, I insist that you give me the pleasure of your gracious company on an expedition to that hallowed mercado." The older man slurred, his eyes sliding closed. "We will devour countless treats in safety and stroll the docks. A heavenly concept, you must admit."

"That does sound nice." You replied wistfully.

"It is settled, then." He held out his left hand to shake yours and you obliged, feeling childishly hopeful about the whole thing. "Now, set the alarm on that platinum chronometer of yours. Maybe...four hours or so? Kevva knows I'd love longer, but if we hope to arrive with adequate harvest time, we'll need to manage ourselves with caution." Ezra squeezed your hand, his smile weary. "Rest well, gentle soul."

Part Four

[thesetrashimagines]

The Man Pt.4

A Peaky Blinders Imagine (reader insert)

Warnings: Fighting, blood, broken bones, losing of teeth, swearing, and a very vivid description of a bullet wound.

Illustration is from here. Creds to Jonathan McGonnell for the concept art.

Pt.3    Pt.5

Summary: The fights have begun.

AN: It’s another long one, sorry! Hope you like it though :)

“Welcome ladies and gentlemen!” You heard the microphone squeek to life then Peter’s voice boom through it. “I am so glad to see all of you here tonight! And look at all of those familiar faces!” Peter was the announcer tonight, said he didn’t want to go home to the missus all bruised up.

He went on his usually spiel about boxing and threw in some jokes here and there. You ignored him. Taking another look at yourself fully dressed, you were filled with anxiousness. Hercules was a lot bigger than you, but so was every man you fought. Most of their arms were the size of your head. You hopped from one foot to the other, to shake the feeling off. A series of knocks came from the door, “Adi? Nik is about to start.” You tossed everything back into your bag and went for the door. “Wanna go watch Nikki kick some arse?” Cal had the biggest smile on his face, “Yeah let’s go,”

Both of you walked to the front and saw a row of seats with some faces you recognized. The Shelby’s took up one end of the row, Finn sat next to the woman you saw at the store, ‘should’ve guessed she’d be here.’, then it was Polly, her son, the capped man, Tommy, and lastly Arthur. Sat beside Arthur was Theo and beside him was Dante. “You took long enough Adi.” “Bite me Dante.” He chuckled while you took the seat next to him and Cal planted himself in the unclaimed seat.

“Your lucky shorts?” Dante flicked his head to your shorts, “Yep.” You crossed your arms and leaned forward, “‘ello Theodore!” The large man shifted your way, and so did the Shelby’s along side of him. “Adi! Glad you joined us!” You smiled, “You know I wouldn’t miss one of Niks fights.”

Arthurs’ head poked out from behind Theos’ arm, “Ya think Nik will win?” You shrugged, “Can’t say. Don’t you want to keep it interesting?” “Why you know something we don’t?” Flashing a toothy smile you answered, “You’ve never watched Nikolai Elis fight?” He blinked, “That’s the Nikolai Elis?” Theo clapped a hand on Arthurs back, “Yes lad who’d you think we were? Amatuers?” Cal laughed and leaned over you, “Come on now Arthur you didn’t think Peter would be friends with just anbody?” The man stuttered, “I knew you lot were well known boxers but-”

Tommy interrupted, “Adonis, Cal. You haven’t met the rest of the Shelby’s have ya?” Looking to him you shook your head. “this is Pol, Ada, and John.” He pointed to each person, with a tight lipped smile you responded, “Hello.”

Cal waved, “Hi!” but your introductions got cut short by Peter jogging up to the mic. “Is everyone ready for a fight?” Cheers and whoops filled the arena. “That’s what we like to here! Alrighty, bring ‘em up.” Nik entered from the left side of the ring, you and the boys cheered for him. Dante called out, “You’ve got this one Nik!” He winked in your direction as a response. Then Isaiah entered from the right and most, if not all, of the Peaky Blinders stood up and cheered. “Kick his fucking arse Isaiah!” Finn shot a fist into the air which Isaiah returned. Then both Nik and Isaiah were called to the middle of the ring by Peter.

“Lads listen here now. I want a clean fight, this ain’t no backwater bullshit alright?” They nodded, “Okay so no hits to the groin, no stomping on each other, and no biting. Got that?” They nodded again. “Good! Ladies and gentlemen we have in the right corner, Isaiah Jesus!” Isaiah faced the crowd and rose both arms, “And in the left we have Nikolai Elis!” Nik waved an arm. “Okay let’s tap gloves boys and get on with it.” Both men stepped forward. Isaiah hit Nik’s hand and jumped back.

People started yelling immediatly. Isaiah jumped around for bit before taking the first plunge, almost as if he knew, Nik blocked the outstretched fist. They went in a circle, Isaiah went for another punch. This time Nik turned slightly and took it to his shoulder. Planting his feet firmly, Nik threw his first hit; punching Isaiah square in the face. The boy staggered back a bit, arms low to his side.

“Raise them arms Isaiah!” Arthur yelled. Isaiah’s arms came up to block his face, seeing his bare torso, Nik took his chance and hit Isaiah 3 times. Then he swung his arm back and delivered a left hook to the side of Isaiah’s ear. This time Isaiah jumped back and bounced on the balls of his feet to shake himself off. He watched Nik stand there in a defensive stance and stare at him. Isaiah ducked down and got underneath Nik’s arms. He punched over, and over, and over. You could hear Nik’s breath come out in puffs.

“The legs Nikki!” Dante added to your advice, “Fold him Nik!” Isaiah’s hits were getting weaker so Nik dropped his elbow into his shoulder. Then, while Isaiah had his back arched, Nik took a step and hooked his foot behind Isaiahs knee and pulled. The ring shook from the impact and the bell rung. Nik waited for Isaiah to get up before going into his corner. Cal stood and walked over to him, you could see them talk to each other then share a fistbump. Cal came back over and whispered to the 3 of you, “He’s gonna take him out this next round. Said he’s done playing nice after that kid tried to beat his kidneys to a pulp.” You all chuckled and focused back on the fight.

Nik stuck to his word. In the first few minutes he let Isaiah tire himself out, every punch Isaiah gave, Nik blocked. Then in just seconds Isaiah was out. Nik hit Isaiah in the gut causing him to hunch slightly, a right hook to his jaw, and an uppercut to finish him off. Isaiah rolled over onto his stomach and his blood dripped onto the floor. Not wanting to waste anymore time, Nik grabbed Isaiah’s leg and bent it towards his head. The sound in the arena was deafening but you could still hear the pained groans coming from Isaiah. He slapped the ring floor. Nik dropped his leg and stepped away from the boy as people came into the ring to help him stand. “And we have a winner! Nik Elis!” Peter raised Nik’s arm into the air. You all shot up clapping and cheering.

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Finn and Dante stood facing each other as Peter went over the same set of rules. Then bumped gloves. Right off the bat Dante hit Finn with a round of punches to the stomach. The quick attack took Finn off guard but he recovered and swung at Dante, hitting him in the face. You could tell that Finn had more of a ‘prefessional’ way to his fighting style. His throws were more thought out than Isaiah’s. Though his defense against kicks needed to be brushed up on. Dante saw this and went with everything he had. “He’s kicking the shit outta that kid.” You turned to Cal, “That’s gonna get him in the end.” “Good we’ve told him enough times to conserve his engery in matches.” Theo grunted in agreement and folded his arms, “ ‘e’s gonna get a good one to the face in a minute.” On que Finn hit Dante with a left hook to the jaw. Dante spat out blood and smiled. He was riled up now. The two of them dodged and blocked, their speed was almost equal, almost. Dante took a step to the left and Finn mirrored but as soon as Finn settled into his stance, he dropped. Dante had roundhouse kicked Finn in the face, Cal stood up and cheered, “Atta boy Dante!” At the call of his name Dante looked up and gave another bloody smile. In his moment of distraction Dante failed to notice Finn getting ready to kick his feet from under him.

Now both men wrestled on the floor trying to get the other into a lock. In the end Finn was able to secure Dante arm behind his back. Dante hated tapping out, you could see his mind go through every possible way to get out. 

“Don’t let go of his hand Dante!” Theo called out.

While laying on the floor Dante held out a thumbs up. And with whatever strength Dante had left he used and got out from under Finn. Moving quickly, Dante put Finn into a headlock and gave him 2 punches to the face. Finn twisted himself out of Dante’s hold and threw a fist to the side of his face. Dante took a few steps back and Finn followed, he didn’t stop until he was against the ropes; he jumped backwards into them and allowed them to send him forward into Finn. Knocking both of them down, Dante put Finn into a leg lock. They lid there on the floor for a bit with Finn trying his hardest not to tap. Eventually he did. “Winner by forfeit, Dante!” You all stood up again and celebrated.

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There was a small intermission before the next match. “Cal!” Bonnie Gold came bounding over to your small group, “Bonnie!” Cal jumped up and hugged him. “We’re fighting next,” Cal nodded, “Yeah can’t wait to see what new tricks you’ve got” Bonnie said hello to the rest of you and began talking. His father came shortly after and said they had to get go. “I’m gonna get my arse handed to me.” You giggled at Cal, “Yes you are and I have front row seats.”

Nik and Dante came back to join you. Theo looked over and smiled at Dante, “Look at that lip.” Dante smiled back the best he could, “What you want me to give ya a kiss Theo?” He pouted his lips out, “Yeah Theo give us winners a kiss.” Nik joined in and started to make kissing sounds. “Oi piss off you!” Theo put his arms out to hold back the two of them.

From the microphone, Peter cleared his throat.

“As most people know these next two fighters have versed before,” Almost as to prove they knew each other, Cal and Bonnie climbed into the ring and wrapped their arms around one another. “You’d guess these two were married. Look at ‘em!” The audience laughed. Peter broke them up, “Get in your corners now, can’t spend the whole night holding each other.” He went over the rules again, “I gotta add an extra special rule for this one. Bonnie, you cannot go pulling Cal’s beautiful ‘air okay?” Cal secured his hair back and yelled out ‘thank you!’ while people laughed and Bonnie nodded. With both men in their corners, Peter stood back and signaled for the bell to ring.

They began side stepping around in a circle. Cal took the first jump forward and threw a punch towards Bonnie’s face but his fist made contact with Bonnie’s forearms instead. Cal went for the torso next, he landed a few shots before Bonnie swung and hit him in the jaw. The force of Bonnie’s hit almost made Cal’s head spin. Bonnie got him good. Cal took a few steps back and shook his head, a few hairs coming loose. 

Then as Bonnie went to go for another hit, Cal stepped to the right and hit Bonnie with a combo; two punches to the ribs and one to the side of the head. Bonnie spun around quickly and threw up his arms in defense, Cal tried to kick him in the stomach but Bonnie grabbed his leg and shoved it forward, sending Cal onto his back. Cal didn’t stay down for long though, he threw his bottom half up and jumped once his feet touched the floor. Standing to his full height, he faced Bonnie again. Bonnie kicked Cal a few times in the ribs and Cal made sure to keep his hands high. While Bonnie was winding up for another kick Cal stepped forward and landed a hard punch to Bonnie’s cheek. This time Bonnie’s head swiveled. Cal took a moment to laugh but it was short lived because Bonnie punched him in the eye. He hit the floor like dead weight.

“Fucking hell Bonnie!” Everyone watched Cal curl up and cover his face, “Why’d you go for my money maker!?” Bonnie keened over in a fit of laughter. Cal scooted over to Bonnie and grabbed his arms then rolled on top of him, throwing as many punches as he could before Bonnie put up his arms. Bonnie did put up his arms but not in the way people were expecting, he put his hands onto the back of Cal’s neck and shot his knee up. Cal fell to the side and lid down on his stomach then shot a hand out and slapped Bonnie hard on the pec three times.

Peter ran over to see if Cal was really tapping out, “And the winner is Bonnie Gold!” Bonnie helped Cal up and then they patted each other on the backs. Cal was passed off to the medics and Bonnie hobbled along after them.

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“How’s Theo as a fighter?” Tommy’s voice made you jump, “Theo?” You turned yourself towards him and Arthur. “He’s as good as a guy that’s 226 centimeters tall.” Nik leaned forward to add on, “He’s light on his feet too.” Both men nodded.

“Isn’t Goliath Solomons’ nephrew?” Tommy looked a little surprised, “You know Alfie?” You scoffed, “Who doesn’t?” You mentally winced at the slip up, it probably wasn’t the best idea to tell Tommy that you’ve worked for Alfie before. Ignoring the look Tommy gave you, you turned back to Peter as he took to the middle of the ring again.

“You lot are going to enjoy this one. To make it simple, these men are giants.” Goliath climbed into the ring, “Goliath and-” Theo stepped over the ropes, “Theodore!”

Theo isn’t a agressive, or even violent, man. But watching him box would make you highly doubt that he wasn’t.

It didn't take long after tapping gloves when Theo threw his first hit. It was an uppercut and he landed it. There was a small space of time where Goliath was getting into his stance, and that's when Theo struck. The unexpected hit really threw Goliath off. He was stumbling a bit before finding his footing. He swung aimlessly at Theo, which Theo easily avoided.

Coming back from the dodge, Theo gave Goliath a left hook to his ribcage then another to his right side. Theo bounced back, ready for whatever was thrown at him. Goliath stepped forward, he seemed a little more in the moment now. Theo noticed and raised his arms and hunched, being taller than most of his opponents meant he had to crouch down more to limit the unprotected space of his torso.

Goliath jabbed at Theo's sides and even threw a few punches to Theo's forearms that were blocking his face. Wanting to tire out Goliath, Theo gave a quick succession of easy to dodge hits. Taking note of the shorter man slowing down, Theo knew his fist would be able to break Goliaths defense. So shifting his weight to his back foot, Theo swung his dominant arm forward straight into Goliath's forearms. And just as he predicted, his hand went straight through and made contact with Goliath's face. His entire head shot back from the force. Not letting the moment go to waste, Theo threw another left hook to Goliath's face.

You watched the tooth fly out of Goliath's mouth, "Knock his fucking teeth out Teddy!" You looked up to see Cal standing and hollering at Theo.

"Hey look there's the tooth," Nik nudged your arm and pointed down at the ground where the bloody tooth sat. "Should I pick it up? You know as a souvenir." You shook your head with a laugh, "By all means, go for it." Nik kneeled down and grabbed the tooth.

Looking back up to the fight you saw Goliath swaying. He wasn't gonna last much longer. Theo's light blue gloves had dark red smears on them and when he flicked his wrists, the blood went everywhere.

Theo's next few moves happened fast. His fist hit Goliath's stomach, which sent the boy waddling backwards. Then with another big wound up, he gave Goliath the winning blow. And like a sack of potatoes, Goliath dropped to the floor.

"Knock out!" Peter ran into the ring and put his hand on Theo's back, "And your winner is Theodore!" You and the boy were freaking out. While cheering you looked to the side and gave Thomas a wink.

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

You were up next, the last fight of the night. You versus Hercules. The crowd was yelling both of your names, you tried not to let it get you worked up. Being nervous about these kind of things was bad ‘Come on YN you’ve done this thousands of times.’ Maybe it was the thought you might go too far in this fight, that you might hurt Hercules more than intended. ‘Stop thinking like that, you’re not gonna kill him.’ You slapped your face a few times to snap out of it.

“This has been the fight we’ve all been waiting for, Adonis versus Hercules! The fight between gods!” You cringed.

“Hey kid you’re up.” You smiled in thanks to the man opening the door and walked into the arena. Making sure to keep your shoulders back and head held high, you hopped into the ring and not too long after Hercules joined you. He had to be a little over six feet tall. With his strawberry blonde hair styled in a fashionable way and a stupid smirk on his face, he raised his arms to greet the crowd. 

You looked around till your gaze fell on the row filled with your friends and new acquaintances. Cal, with his bruised face, hollered while Dante and Nik laughed, Theo smiled and nodded towards you. You gave them a smile and shifted your gaze to the Shelby’s. Ada and Polly were grinning, Finn and Isaiah were looking at you and talking to one another, John was leaned back in his seat with a smug look on his face, Arthur was grooming his mustache in thought, and Tommy just stared at you like he was trying to pick you apart. ‘The fucks his problem?’

“I’m sure you both have heard me go over the rules enough times tonight but-” Peter dragged on about the rules, “Now let’s have a good clean fight.” Hercules nodded and you looked at him expressionless. Peter gestured with his arms for you two to tap, then the bell rang.

You knew Hercules was going to go for the first hit, the confidence oozed out of him. You raised your arms in defense and danced around on your feet, you heard Hercules laugh before he followed you around the ring. You could tell that the fact you weren’t saying anything or showing any emotion was bothering Hercules. He let out a grunt then shot his arm out. Seeing his fist coming towards you, you ducked and went underneath his arm, ending up behind him. He turned to face you again and took another swing, you went underneath his arm again. You waited to see if he would pull the same move again or change his tactic. He didn’t. When his third attempt came towards you, you leaned to the side and gave a right hook to his head then, a straight punch from your left hand to his stomach. He let out a burst of air and hunched over slightly. You bounced around him then sent a swift kick to his back which made him take two steps forward.

You backed up to the other end of the ring. Again you watched and waited.

Hercules stood up straight and turned to look for you, his eyebrows rose when he noticed you were a few feet in front of him. He bounced on his feet and rushed to you, taking a step to the left you hit him in the ribs. Hercules stuck out his arm and turned around fast. His forearm smacking you in the face, your head whipped back and you could hear a few people let out an ‘oooo’. Going with his momentum, Hercules threw a punch to your stomach. You keened over and stumbled backwards, you stayed hunched as Hercules’s thundering steps came at you, he threw another hit to your side. You felt your stitches pop. But you ignored the pain. Hercules put a hand in your hair and went to hit you in the face but you pushed yourself back, out of his reach, and kicked the back of his knee. Now a good foot shorter, you put Hercules’s in a headlock and punched him the face. Two, three, four times you wailed on him before Peter and a few other men came to separate you from the bloodied Hercules. People were yelling at you saying how you were cheating, ‘How am I cheating by using his own move against him?’ You scoffed a laugh and stood in your corner. Nik came rushing over.

“Good play Adi!” He was smiling from ear to ear. “What’s the plan?” Meeting his eyes you shrugged, “Maybe knock the fucker out.” You picked up your water canister and took a gulp, “Well you got him good” Nik had his arms up on the rope leaning against them. “I know.” You watched his eyes widen, “Your side’s bleeding!” You put the canister back down, “I know. I already told the medics it’s just a small scratch.” Nik put his head on his folded arms, “I shouldn’t be surprised.” You ruffled his hair and smiled, “Stop worrying, I’ve got a fight to win.”

“Let’s get our lovely fighters back in the middle!” At Peter’s words Nik patted your shin and smiled back, “Good luck YN.” You stared at the back of his head as he walked back to his seat. 

You stalked forward and looked at Hercules in the eyes then glanced up, his left eyebrow was split. “Alright we had a good first round, keep it up.” Peter dropped his hand between the two of you and got out of the ring. Hercules immediatley threw a punch at your face, no doubt trying to get you back for splitting his brow. But his fist smacked into your arms as you raised them to protect yourself. Hercules then threw a hit to your unprotected torso though before he made contact, you swung a right hook into the side of his face, making his head turn with it. He took one step to the right and you landed another hit to his jaw. He finally put his right arm up to block you. You could tell he was a little dazed so you jumped backwards as he swung about blindly. You wanted this to be a fair fight, you wanted everyone to watch you knock him out with nothing but pure skill.

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

“He’s like a snake,” Nik looked to his side and saw that Polly had taken Theos seat. “Huh?” She smiled, “he reminds me of a snake. Sitting back and watching for his prey’s next move, and when the moment is right, he strikes.” Nik chuckled, “I guess so.” Cal looked at Polly in confusion, “Adi? a snake? Noooo, if anything he’s a puma. Stalks his food when he’s hungry and when he’s full, takes a nap in the sun.” Cal and the rest of the men laughed, “Yes cause if it’s anything that Adonis enjoys, it’s sleep.” Nik turned back to Polly, “If we’re being honest with you here Polly, Adonis has this, sixth sense almost. It’s like he knows what his opppenents are going to do. He can read anybody like a book.”

Polly raised her brows, “He can read people?” Dante leaned forward, “He’s like a dog, he knows when somethings up. It’s like his senses are heightened.” Next to Polly, Tommy spoke. “By the sounds of it, Adonis is an entire zoo.” Dante laughed and shook his head, “Now you’re getting the hang of things Tom!”

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

You studied Hercules while he came back from his dazed state. His jaw was starting to get develope a welt and blood trickled down his face from the split in his brow, and his eye were deadset on you. There was anger in his eyes, you could see that from a mile away, he was mad you were beating him so easily.

The taller man got back into his stance and started walking in a circle which you copied. You started closing the circle and Hercules followed, now you were standing a few feet away from each other. Hercules smirked at you and in return you stared blankly. His fist shot forward and hit you in the cheek, you quickly put up your arms and tried to stand your ground but with the force behind Hercules’s punches, it was getting harder. You had to think fast. So you dropped to the floor, you weren’t near anything so Hercules couldn’t trapped you, it seemed like a good idea in the moment but of course something had to go wrong.

When getting to the floor your foot slipped, making you land on your back. The bottom of Hercules’s boot was all you could see. You raised your arms and blocked the foot, in the distance you heard the bell ding and people yelling. Wrapping your hands around Hercules’s leg you pulled him down and tossed him to your side but before you could get on top of him, arms pulled you back. “Adi I’ve got you mate, I’ve got ya.” Peter. You spun around, “If he fucking does that again Peter, I swear to God I’ll-” Peter put his hands up to calm you down, “I know what you’ll do Thomas told me and Nik what happened in the Garrison.”

You blinked at him a couple of times, “Oh...”

“Yeah oh. You have some explaining to do after this.” You laughed, “Of course dad.” You touched his arm and went back into your corner. You could hear the harsh whispers being thrown at Hercules. He diserved it after all, making an illegal move like that.

“One sitation to Hercules.” Peters voice was strick in the microphone. “In the middle please,” Peter looked between the two of you. “Kicking is off the table because apprently someone can’t follow the rules.” Peter was talking only to the two of you now. “You make that move again and you’re out, got it?” Hercules sighed, “Yeah I got it after the first ten fucking times you told me.” Peter’s jaw glenched. “Fight!.” He dropped his arm and left the ring.

You didn’t wait this time. You threw 3 quick hits to Hercules stomach. Then an uppercut when he bent over. With his head tilted back, you shot punch after punch into his ribcage. At some point you felt a bone snap under your gloves. Hercules shouted out in pain. 

He grabbed one of your out stretched arms and bent it behind your back. He was gonna try and get you to summit. Thinking 5 steps ahead of him, you slipped your hand out of his and slid it up to just above his elbow. Your back was to his chest and then you bent your knees and started to pull. You put your other hand onto his neck when his head came to the side of yours and just like that, Hercules was flat on his ass in front of you with his arm twisted up.

He tried grabbing you with his opposite arm but with every move you would step just out of reach. You leaned down the tiniest bit and spoke into his ear, “If you move anymore you’ll dislocate your shoulder.” He scoffed and went to grab you again, “A small thing like you couldn’t do shit.” He started to get up.

You twisted his arm a little further and he screamed and grabbed at the shoulder joint, “You’re gonna break it!” You rose a brow, “I remember saying if you moved anymore you’ll be the one to break it.” He let out another yell, “If you think I’m tapping out, you’re fucking wrong!” You shrugged your shoulders, “Alright.”

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

“What’s he doing?!” Cal was freaking out, “I don’t know...” Theo answered, “maybe he’s waiting for him to tap?” Dante let out some air, “After his boot nearly squished him? No he’s gonna break his arm.” Nik rubbed his face, “Adonis won’t break his arm.”

“You sure about that?” Nik looked to his right, past Polly and Tommy, to see John. “It’s a pressional fight, Adonis knows the rules.” John nodded slowly then looked back to the ring, Nik stared for a bit longer then followed suit.

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

Guess you had to go with your first plan. ‘Knock the fucker out’

Hercules was on his feet but in a crouched position and still holding onto his shoulder. You felt the arm in your hold try to bend forward, ‘Maybe I should let him.’  You thought to yourself.

If you let go right now he could only do one of two things: Spin around and try to get at you, or, Stand up and try to get at you. You sighed, pulled back his arm just the smallest amount then dropped it. Hercules let out a yelp and held his sore shoulder. You didn’t move. “Get out of there Adi!” It was Dante, you felt the sides of your mouth curl at the thought of the 4 men sitting together and worrying over their ‘little brother’.

Hercules’s shadow pulled you back into the fight, he was standing up. It didn’t take long for him to throw a punch to your face. You knew he split your lip when it felt wet, ‘fucksake.’ You brought your hands up to your face and dodged the next swing. You noticed Hercules was only one of his arms to punch and was using the other as a blocker, this gave you an idea. Leaning away from his swing, you planted your foot behind you and used the power of your legs to throw a hook to the vulenarable part of his face. He staggered to the side. You stepped with him and threw another hook, his arms lowered a little and that’s when you hit him. Right in the center of his face, a sickening crunch filled the air and blood poured down his face. He started to fall back and you hit him again. Hercules eyes crossed and he slumped to the floor.

Peter slid into the ring and raised your right arm, “We have our winner! Adonis!”

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

You were sitting in the changing room staring at your bruised face, “Could’ve been worse I suppose...” Just as you were about to pull off your shirt, knocks and yells sounded from outside your door. “Adi you bastard!  Let us in!” You sighed, “Okay! Don’t get your panties in a twist Cal.” Opening the door you let the bodies flood in. Strangers were first to enter. Then the boys stumbled in; Theo, Cal, Dante, and Nik. Then some of the Shelby’s followed, Arthur, John, and Finn while Tommy, Ada, and Polly hovered around the doorway.

Next thing you knew you were being lifted in a bear hug and shook around, “Ahaha our little Adi knocked that fucker out!” You let out a wheeze, “Theo I can’t breath.” He dropped you and clapped a hand onto your shoulder, “You wrecked him mate!” You smiled, “That was the plan I guess.” Words of congratulations were said by mostly everybody.

Dante was sat on the counter, “I swear to God you were gonna break his arm.” You laughed, “It’s funny you say that cause Hercules said the same thing,” You squeezed through the crowd, getting patted on the back while doing it. You reached the mirror and looked at yourself again then to Dante, “I told him if he moved anymore he’d disslocate his shoulder. Then the cunt said I couldn’t do shit to ‘im.” You turned on the faucet and washed the blood, Hercules’s blood, from your face and neck. “Showed him didn’t I?” Dante chuckled and shoved you, “You did more than that Adi.”

You could hear Nik shooing people out of the room. “D’you know any of them?” You looked to the crowded hall, “No.” Nik pushed Ada, Polly, and Tommy into the changeroom, “Can’t have you lot fending for yourselves out there.” Ada laughed, “I don’t think anyone has said that to a Shelby before.” Nik put his hand on her back as he walked around her, “Well theres a first for everything huh?” John was glaring at him, “What’s that suppose to mean?” Nik was beside you looking over your injuries, “It means that not everyone has to be alone and fight against the world by themselves.” He turned your face towards him, “So philosophical Nikki.” He slapped your cheek lightly, “You don’t even know what the word means.” You pulled back in shock, “I do so!” Nik leaned on his hip on the counter and rose his brows, “What’s it mean then?” Theo opened your bag and dug around for a bit. “Don’t answer him Adonis, you’ll just embarass yourself.” Your jaw dropped, “Aren’t you suppose to be on my side?” Cal and Dante looked at each other and busted out laughing, “What’s got you two cackling?” Cal’s head was tilted back and Dante was holding his stomach, “Adi...” Dante gasped, “Adi...you should know,” Another wheeze, “We never listen to you.” Theo chuckled and walked over to you with a clean shirt in his hand, “Awe don’t pout little brother,” He pinched your cheek, “I’ll knock you on your fucking ass Theodore.” You swatted his hands away.

“Are you always bickering?” You all looked at Polly and Nik answered, “Only sometimes.” You broke eye contact and snatched the shirt out of Theo’s hands, “Do you think you could steal a med kit for me?” Nik pinched the bridge of his nose while Cal spoke up, “Do you want me to just go get one of their medics?” You shook your head, “No I don’t like ‘em”

“Why don’t you like ‘em? They’ll fix you up for free and you can stop stealing shit.” You looked at John, “They’ll half ass it and for your information I only went to the hospital in the first place because-” Peter opened the door. “What’re you yelling about now?” Nik faced him, “Adonis wants to snag a kit from one of your medics.” Peter groaned, “Adi we’ve been over this, they are qualified-”

“I don’t care! I couldn’t give a flying fuck if they’re qualified.” You turned to John and pointed a finger at him, “I also don’t have to explain shit to you.” Your fist clenched the fabric in your hand. “I need some fucking air.” You shoved Peter out of the way and left.

“Adi!”

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

“Look what you’ve done now.” Dante said. “Me?! The fucking kid knows my team is legit!”

“Yes but you know how he is!” Dante had his arm out in the direction of the door, “And hows that?” Dante looked to Ada who was sitting on a chair across from him. “He’d rather do things himself. Trust me it took him forever to even let Nik come near him in a 100 mile radius with a fucking dishcloth.” Nik slouched on the counter, “He doesn’t have the best track record with doctors.” Peter huffed a laugh, “He doesn’t have the best track with fucking anybody apparently,” Peter looked to the others, “Did he tell you he broke into their pub?” He jutted his head to Tommy and Arthur. “Peter-”

“No Nik he’s hiding shit from us and I’m done with it.” Cal groaned, “Peter we know he’s into some dodgey stuff.” Peter gawked at Cal, “Dodgey stuff? Cal he killed three men and left on the fucking floor!” The room was silent for a moment. “Did he really?” Tommy looked to Theo’s hazel eyes, “Yeah.” He shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck, “I guess it makes sense.” Peter put both hands to his face and took a deep breath, “Please Theo, mate, elbrorate.” Theo pulled his shoulders back and spoke, “He leaves for weeks on end with no communication, he doesn’t own a single thing except for whats on his back, and the every growing list of shit he can just do. I don’t know how you never put two and two together Peter, but it’s pretty obvisous Adi isn’t just a boxer.” Peter seemed to calm down when the rest of the group nodded, “I guess I never thought of it like that.” Cal walked over to him and put his arm around Peter’s shoulders, “We never want Peter McFought to think to hard or you’ll blow a casket old man.” The room dissapaited into quiet chuckles.

“So he is an assassin?” Nik glanced at Finn, “Hes a handy man and we’ll leave it at that.” Finn nodded.

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

You wanted to yell, you wanted to punch something, you wanted to break down. But you couldn’t, you wouldn’t do that to yourself.

The cold outside air burned your heated skin. You were at the back of the building in the small alleyway, it was quiet except for the rumble of cars in the distance. It was nice.

You leaned against the wall and ran your hand through your hair, taking a deep breath. ‘I need to leave soon.’ You pulled at your sticky red stained shirt and scoffed a laugh. ‘All I asked for was a fucking med kit. A med kit! And he acted like I told him I slept with his wife!’ You let out another scoff before the firey rage came back and you turned around to punched the wall a couple of times. The air stung your open knuckles, you watched the blood crawl down your fingers and drip onto the pavement.

“Adonis?” Your shoulders stiffened, “Yes Polly?” You heard her heels click on the concrete then felt her hands cradle your own, “Now there was no need for this.” You ripped your hands out of hers, “Don’t fucking tell me about what I need to do.” You looked down the alleyway, “I didn’t mean to snap at you.” Her hand touched your chin lightly and turned your head towards her, “I know love.” She slid her hand down your neck and settled it on your chest. “How ‘bout we go and get you all fixed up hmm?” You grabbed her wrist and dropped her hand then nodded, “Ladies first.” She smiled at you and walked back into the building, she looked over her shoulder once in awhile to make sure you were still following her.

She opened the dressing room door and waltzed in, “He’s alright now.” Everybody was sat down at this point. You could feel their eyes all on you as you walked up to the sink and started washing the dried blood away. “You okay Adi?” Nik had his head tilted trying to catch your gaze, “I didn’t mean to yell at all of you.” He smiled kindly and put a hand on your shoulder, “It’s alright mate we shouldn’t have over stepped.” You finally met his eyes, “No Peter was right,” You tuned to face the rest of the room, “I’ll just go see one of your guys.” Peter’s eyes widened, “Adi you don’t have to, I know how you feel about doctors,” You put up a hand, “Yeah well I’m gonna have to get over it at some point, so let me put on my big boy pants and get this fucking thing over and done with.” Peter stood up slowly and left the room.

“So why are you afraid of doctors?” Ada let out a groan, “Arthur you can’t just ask that!” He turned to face his sister, “Why not?” She glared at him, “Because it’s rude.” You attention was caught by the flame lighting Tommy’s cigarette. He took a long drag and let the cloud of smoke out.

“Adi?” You looked to Dante, “Hm?” He looked to the floor surrounding you, “You’re hands are dripping blood everywhere.” You flexed your hand, “Yeah they are. Hope you don’t mind a little blood Tom.” He let out another cloud, “It’s not like I haven’t cleaned up blood left by you before.” You laughed, “Yeah I guess not.” You sat on the floor, “You wanna know something? I still haven’t been paid for that yet.” He let out a chuckle, “No?” You shook your head then lid down with your arms propped behind your head, “Nope. Imagine that, getting sent into a gun smugglers barn, full of armed men, then getting chased and shot at, just to end up in a little pub with the fucking three musketeers trying to kill you.” You shook with laughter, “I couldn’t even keep the nice car either cause you lot shot it up.” John laughed, “What’d you expect? Just to leave?” Before you could answer, Peter and a man with a large bag entered the room.

“Mr. Adonis?” The medic looked around the room for you, “Get up off the floor!” You put a hand out and gave the ‘gimme’ fingers, “Help me up please?” Nik grabbed your hand and hauled you up, “Excuse me Mr. Adonis, I’m gonna have to ask you to please take off your shirt.” Nik froze, “Could we go somewhere else and do this?” His head whipped around to look at you, “Uh well sir there isn’t any better place than here.” He saw you clench your jaw then smile, “I’m gonna keep my shirt on thanks but, do you have any morphine in there? My stitches ripped open in the ring,” Everyone watched you pull up your shirt to just above the wound, “Oh shit. Yes, yes I have morphine.”

The wound was terrible. Just like you said the stitches were ripped open and the skin that once held the thread, looked torn, almost shredded. Blood was crusted around the wound in a weird oval shape while some was still wet and began to trail down your side slowly. You could tell that all the moving you did ripped the edges of the wound, making it longer horizontally.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.” You looked up to Cal, “Feeling woozy?” He closed his eye and flipped you off. “Can I ask how you got this?” The medic handed you a small bottle of morphine. “It’s a gun shot wound.” He knelt to the floor and looked closer, “Are you sure? this doesn’t-” You finsihed the bottle and tossed it to the ground with a clank, “I’m pretty fucking sure yeah, cause I pulled the bullet out myself. It looks like that because of the fight. You know the stitches tried to keep it closed but then I got hit and it all tore open again.” You looked down at his head, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Adonis,” Peter growled out your name, “knock it off.” You looked to Nik and then jumped back, “Ow fuck! Don’t go sticking your fucking fingers in there you twat!” The man pulled back, “Sorry! Just tryna to make sure there isn’t anything else in there.” You glared at him, “I told you I pulled the bullet out myself. There isn’t any of it left. It was a clean shot from behind, the gun was shit so that’s why it didn’t blow all the way through.” The man on the floor nodded, “Okay I believe you.” You squinted at him, “Just stitch it up and get out.” Peter was about to say something but Nik put a hand to his chest and gave him a look that said ‘don’t’

The morphine had kicked in when he started to thread the needle through your skin, “Since the skin is ripped, the stitches are going to be fragile. Meaning no more fights.” You nodded. “No more fights, got it.”

“All done.” The medic stood up, “Good now leave.” You dropped the edge of your shirt and faced away from him. The door closed, “You’ve got some nerve.” You picked up the discarded shirt you threw in your earlier rage, “Yep.” You tossed the shirt into your bag and then you reached for your water cannister and did the same. “Arthur, Tommy.” You stopped yourself and looked at them, “Your money's over there.” You pointed to a briefcase that was under the counter. “It was nice to meet the rest of you,” You tipped your head towards the rest of the Shelby clan.

“I’m going home now.” You hoisted your bag onto your shoulder and left, still dressed in your boxing gear

“Why is he being so dramatic.” Cal scratched his beard, “He’s pissed off.” Dante scoffed at Nik, “Yeah no shit.” Theo stood up, “I’m going with ‘im” He left out the open door.

“Oh for fuck sakes.” Peter lifted his arms up and then back down. He crouched down and picked up the briefcase. “I hope this can help you forget about the last few minutes.” He handed the case to Tommy, “It’s alright Peter, we all have our moments.”

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

When you got home you stripped out of your gear and put on a clean tank top and some briefs. You felt tired so you went upstairs and lid down in bed. After laying there for what felt like hours, you couldn’t fall asleep. 

There was a thud downstairs then there was some harsh whispers. ‘Are they back?’ You stood up and walked down the steps. At the bottom of the stairs, standing in your livingroom was 4 men all dressed in dark clothing. 

“Can I help you gentlemen?” Their heads shot up to you, then one of them held up a pistol to your head, “You’re the one who fucking killed my men.” He gestured his gun to the side, “So this is how it’s gonna work, you come with me nice and quietly and tell me who you work for or,” He cocked his gun, “I blow your fucking brains out right now.”

‘Fuck.’

And that’s part 4! I really hope you guys enjoyed this one, I sure did lol. I apologise if things are a little messy in some parts, I was sorta rushing the writing a little bit. Also I know that the Shelby’s are so out of character but I feel the need to tie them in every chapter so please forgive :( 

In the next part though there will most likely be a lot of backstory for the reader (that do be you). Just thought I’d let you guys know so you have a little bit of an idea what’s to come next! As always, thank you so much for reading! <3

Tags: @finallyforgotten​

[snowbellewells]

A Birthday Gift for @itsfabianadocarmo

So I have been LOVING @itsfabianadocarmo​‘s CSR Aesthetic Picsets, and especially the ones telling the story of an alternate S7 in Hyperion Heights, but where Emma was also present as a waitress named Eva Cygnet.  Then, as @itsfabianadocarmo​ and I began to chat on here more, I learned we share the exact same date of birth! (What are the odds?!?) So, my birthday twin, I began plotting a little surprise for you. I hope you’ll like it. It’s just a little one shot to go along with your first picset in that series (which I have hopefully attached so those who haven’t seen it can do so HERE).  I hope you’ll enjoy this - and maybe, if I get a few more WIPs finished, more will accompany this one!

Anyway, I hope you have the very best birthday!! I’ve so enjoyed getting to know you!! :)

“Marmalade and Tea”

by: @snowbellewells​

“What about this place, Tilly?” Rogers questioned his jittery passenger with a sidelong glance as he eased his classic Chevelle into a parking space along the sidewalk. “Looks cozy, hmm?”

Though making a valiant effort to remain patient and upbeat, the vagabond sprite he’d taken into his home and his affections had already shot down every dining establishment in a two block radius and he had begun to fear none would suffice and they’d run out of options. Not for the first time, the worry struck him that he was ill-equipped for the needs and wishes of a young lass such as Tilly. But she was so lost, so vulnerable - scrappy and resourceful as she might first appear - that he hadn’t been able to leave her fending for herself. She tugged at his emotions more than he could understand. All he knew in that moment was that he was far too hungry to get by on the toast and marmalade Tilly usually wanted for supper.

His young companion cocked her head to the side, staring out the passenger window to study the kitschy little diner her detective had indicated. She bit her lip in concentration, and Rogers held his breath, hoping this one might be a winner, until finally she bobbed her tawny head, light-brown waves of her hair rustling as she did so. “Yep! Let’s check it out!”

Without further hesitation or doubt, Tilly flung her door open and hopped out onto the sidewalk excitedly. Shaking his head at the quick change in disposition, Rogers found himself hurrying after her as she practically skipped up the walk toward the diner’s entrance, humming cheerily to herself. For all her deliberation of moments ago, once Tilly made up her mind, he had to admit she threw herself into any given course of action with gusto and commitment.

Catching up to Tilly at the door, Rogers playfully bowed to her with a crooked grin and raised eyebrow, “After you, milady,” he teased in his lilting voice, as he held the door open for her to pass.

To his delight, she giggled, just as he had hoped, her face lighting up with glee at the simple moment of playfulness. Lifting her chin regally, she preceded him into the diner with a haughty toss of her hair, “Why thank you, good sir,” she returned.

As she spoke, her shorter form brushed past him in the entry, and Rogers felt a current of recognition run through him - freezing him in place. It was as if he had spoken those very words, heard her exact response, lived the entire moment before. He blinked, trying to shake his head clear of such impossible nonsense. Not only had he only known Tilly for a few months, but before that he had been utterly alone, no one in his life to joke around with - or even to enjoy a pleasant lunch with as he and Tilly were doing now. He had to be mistaken, and yet…

He glanced to the young runaway, now living in his spare room and filling it to the brim with her colorful, splashy paintings and sketches as well as the trinkets and treasures she picked up on her daily rambles while he was at work. She too appeared startled, wide-eyed as though she were trying to process something which had flashed across her mind’s eye before vanishing again.

For a second, superimposed upon his vision of Tilly before him, he saw a younger version of her, dressed in a pretty dress and pinafore, a much younger iteration of her face gazing up at him in adoration. It was all he could do to hold onto his breath. What was happening to him?

Afraid to share what he had seen, knowing Tilly’s grip on reality could already sometimes be fragile, Rogers tried to push the strange near-reminiscence and the image aside, gesturing toward the counter in question to see if TIlly would prefer a seat there in the tall stools rather than a booth. She too seemed to shake a dazed expression from her face, and nodded, hopping onto the nearest seat quickly. He noticed her agitation though as she softly drummed her fingers on the countertop and swiveled in her seat. 

Rogers wondered briefly if he should ask her what was wrong or let her pretend. Should he find out if she had seen something odd as well, and if so, what? He hated to disturb the equilibrium she had recently found; dreaded upsetting her or encouraging flights from reality. So he bit his tongue with effort and held back his questions. Instead, he asked what she had been working on in her latest art piece, and Tilly launched into a detailed and enthusiastic description of the enchanted setting of some Wonderland in a book she’d read.

Just as he was drawing in a breath of relief and feeling normalcy return, their waitress arrived before them. “Hello, welcome to Ruby Red’s! What can I start you off with today?” The voice was welcoming and pleasant, but lower and less gratingly perky than often assaulted one’s ears in such small, cutesy restaurants. The detective had hardly even picked up his menu, much less perused his choices, and he flushed, embarrassed to the very roots of his dark hair, scruffy cheeks pinking and even the tips of his subtly pointed ears taking on the hue. Tilly noticed, and elbowed him with a snicker, causing Rogers to fumble with the laminated sheet of their offerings and bring up his stiff, gloved hand as well to keep from dropping the menu. He’d been too busy pondering over his strange reverie and observing his younger companion’s disquiet, but she seemed to have thrown that aside and resumed her jovial nature once more, so he attempted to do the same. 

“Ah, hello Lass,” he offered awkwardly, reaching up to scratch behind his ear uncertainly and wishing for at least the hundredth time that he were a bit more suave and self-assured. “Sorry about that, haven’t quite made up my mind yet.” Looking to offer her an apologetic smile, Rogers nearly swallowed his own tongue at the sight before him.

Their waitress was stunning. Surely the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on. She was dressed simply in a sleeveless chambray button-down top and khaki skirt that came to mid-thigh toped with short red apron. Yet, even with her bright fall of blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and dark, plastic-framed glasses on her nose, she was dazzling to his senses.

“That’s quite alright,” she assured with an easy smile. “Maybe just your drink orders while you decide?”

“Right you are, Miss…” he paused, stumbling over his words and inherent politeness when he realized he didn’t know her last name. “Ah... Eva?” he finished sheepishly as his eyes found the small plastic nametag she wore.

Not seeming in the least put off by his nerves or fumbling manner - in fact, if Tilly, who was watching the exchange with a deviously pleased grin and avid interest, were any sort of judge, their pretty waitress seemed decidedly charmed. Nodding, the woman hurried to answer him. “Yep, Eva, that’s right. Eva Cygnet.” She reached out to shake his hand only to find that he hesitated to offer his, leading her eyes to fall on the prosthetic she had failed to notice. Rogers’ eyes fell to the countertop, lips pressed together in a firm line, but his head shot back up in surprise when she laid her hand atop his gloved replacement appendage, kindly adding, and holding his gaze until it was clear she meant her words and that the false hand didn’t bother her at all. “Glad you decided to visit us today, Mr. …?”

“Rogers,” the detective spoke up, confidence growing in his voice as he marveled at the woman’s simple kindness and understanding. “Joel Rogers, Hyperion Heights detective.” His cheeks flushed again, not sure why he’d added that part, but holding her gaze all the same.

Tilly, however, was now completely won over. Seeing the change that had come over her friend and benefactor in the short exchange with this Eva Cygnet, and just how amazed he seemed by her mere presence, Tilly was practically beaming. With a bounce of enthusiasm, she chirped, “Best on the force, that’s him!”

Ms. Cygnet chuckled easily, flattering laughlines crinkling the corners of eyes that might have seemed a bit tired when she first reached their seats, but now appeared friendly and amused. “Good to know,” she said seriously, turning her attention to Tilly then. “If we have any trouble here, I’ll know just who to call.”

Tilly nodded smartly, reaching out to shake Eva Cygnet’s hand readily and then adding, “And you don’t have to wait on my order, either. Could I just have toast with butter and orange marmalade and a glass of milk?”

Eva’s head tilted as if uncertain, and possibly even trying to decide if the younger woman was playing some sort of trick on her.  She scrunched her nose in a thoughtful way that made Rogers want to reach out and tap the tip of it with his finger, an urge he barely managed to wrestle down. Finally, the waitress seemed to make up her mind, and with a shrug, jotted Tilly’s order on her pad. “If you’re sure that’s all you want, you can certainly have it. Our bread is baked fresh right here in our kitchen every day - and Granny makes the preserves herself as well - best I’ve ever tasted.”

“Granny?” Tilly repeated curiously as she looked at their server.

“Oh yeah, sorry,” Eva offered. “Mrs Lucas, the owner. Most of us have worked here forever, so it’s almost like family, and that’s what we all call her. She told me her name was Granny when she hired me.” Shaking her head, she leaned in closer to Tilly in a conspiratorial whisper. “We just finally got her to take a two week vacation for the first time in years. She went to Colorado to see her granddaughter and her husband and great-grandkids. He’s some sort of woodsman, forestry officer, something like that, and they live in a national park basically. Granny’s been thinking about it for ages, and Ruby - this place is named after her - keeps begging her to, saying she and Pete would love to have her stay with them. And so she finally did it!”

Tilly’s eyes were shining, looking as thrilled with the happy story as if she too knew the people Eva spoke of so fondly. “Wow,” she commented. “That sounds amazing.”

“Yup,” Eva confirmed, with a bob of her head, “but look at me gabbing on when you’d probably like your food sometime today!”

She turned to Joel then, a patient look on her face and pen poised to take down his order as well. He would never have assumed it had anything to do with him (it did) but she looked flushed and more than a bit apologetic, and he wanted to tell her that he would listen to her stories all day. She could read them the entire menu word-for-word, and he would welcome it if that was what it took to keep her near.

“What would you recommend?” he questioned instead, brow furrowing in consternation as he almost added “Love” at the end of his request.

Eva grinned, offering her pick without hesitation. “This may sound crazy. I’ve been told more than once I’ve got the palate of a 10-year-old, but I’d have the grilled cheese club. The bread’s all crisp and buttery and there’s this secret sauce and bacon in the cheese. It’s just melty, perfect goodness.”

Winking at her, badly, both eyes seeming to close as if unable to work independently, Rogers took her at her word. “Sold! That does sound delicious, maybe with a side of - “

“Onion rings?”

“Yes, exactly! Brilliant, Lass.”

“You have good taste,” Eva Cygnet offered sagely. “I’ll always pick onion rings over fries myself. And to drink?”

“Iced tea, please,” he concluded, handing his menu to her as Tilly did the same.

When she had taken off to place the order, assuring them it wouldn’t be long, Tilly nudged him repeatedly, looking all-too-excited. “Was that flirting?!?” she half-whispered, half-squealed in a tone that felt entirely too noticeable to Rogers’ ears. “Ohmygoodness! Adorable! I’ve never seen you like that, Detective!” More nudging and giggling followed, even after Eva returned with their food, until Joel honestly wanted to slide under the counter and out of sight. However, the food was as delicious as promised, and he found himself happy in a way he hadn’t been in some time - despite any lingering embarrassment.

Tilly seemed to feel the same satisfaction, even asking Eva when she returned with the bill and to hear what they thought of the food, if they sold the marmalade by the jar.

“Not yet, I’m afraid,” Eva laughed good naturedly as she rang them up. “Though I’ve been telling Granny she should.” She paused for a second as Joel offered her a twenty and her fingers deftly made change. “You’ll just have to come back often to have more.”

Her words were spoken to Tilly, but her glance darted over to take in the handsome dark-haired detective as well, hopeful as they studied his face quickly before flickering away again. 

“That we will,” Tilly affirmed, her look bouncing back and forth between her friend and the waitress mischievously. “Don’t you worry.”

“Aye,” Rogers added with his own crooked smile, reaching out to take his receipt. “I’ve no doubt we’ll be returning often.”

His words cut off abruptly when he and Eva’s fingers touched. The thin cash register paper crumpled as their fingertips met, and his calloused fingers brushed her soft palm. Pictures flashed behind his eyes - of her golden hair cascading loose from her ponytail and his hand tangling in it, of her in a pale pink dress and his favorite leather jacket draped over her shoulders, the two of them sitting by the water somewhere passing a flask of rum back and forth, her fingers clutching at his collar desperately while she hauled him to her for a kiss, surrounded by green leaves and sticky humid air. It was all the more shocking for his having so recently experienced something so similar with Tilly, but if possible this with Eva Cygnet was even more intense. There was no way to deny what he saw - or the way it made him feel.

Eva said nothing, but was similarly arrested by pictures in her own mind: this man before her running his tongue along his lower lip as he flirts with her shamelessly, opening an old-fashioned spyglass with his mouth and then offering it to her as well, brushing her hair back over her shoulder with a hook at the end of his arm in place of the prosthetic, him standing with her by some sort of well, holding out a ring on a necklace chain.

Both of detective and waitress stumbled backward with similarly stunned gasps for air. Their hands fell to their sides, Rogers’ flexing unconsciously as if he had been shocked, and the receipt falling forgotten to the floor between them.

Neither were able to speak, until another customer behind them cleared his throat impatiently, and Tilly linked her arm through the detective’s, propelling him toward the door. “Thanks! We’ll see you soon.”

Eva moved to ring up the next tab, but her fingertips danced over her lips briefly, as if feeling the tingle of a kiss that didn’t happen. “Good,” she thought to herself. She could only hope those words were true.

Tagging just a few others who might enjoy (or have seen enjoying the aesthetic inspiration!) : @kmomof4​ @searchingwardrobes​ @jennjenn615​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @tiganasummertree​

[redwritinghood]

for a lamen writing prompt maybe something like enenmy secret agents or assassins

YES. ngl though kinda gets soft rather than action/adventure-y 

—

A shadow fell over Damen’s desk and he knew he was about to get bad news. Nikandros never loomed behind him to ask what bar they were going to after work.

“What’s up?” Damen turned in his chair and looked up at Nik’s dark expression.

“You’re being taken off field duty,” he said and folded his arms, guarding against Damen’s objections.

“Why?” Damen asked standing.

“Intel has discovered a hit was put out on you and an assassin has already accepted the job.”

“That doesn’t mean I should be taken off field duty,” Damen said.

“Yes,” Nik emphasized his words, “it does.”

“That’s what the person who put the hit out wants. I’m obviously on to something with my case. Besides, I have to go outside at some point, you can’t keep me locked away in the building.”

Nikandros stood firm in his decision, staring Damen down with no chance of relenting.

“Nik—” Damen began.

“Don’t even start.”

“Just let me—”

“No. Desk duty.” Nik ended the conversation by marching away.

The threat was bothersome but Damen determinedly went about his daily schedule. Only under scrutiny did he realize how predictable his routine was. Particularly the mornings. After the gym, he went to the same cafe and made an excellent target when he sat outside to eat his breakfast. There were even tall buildings across the street, an ideal place for a sniper to nest and take him out. This was where Damen would set his trap.

“Damn it, Damen, you aren’t even trying to be careful.” Nikandros’s shadow loomed over Damen’s desk and he turned in his chair to look up at the grumpy expression.

“You said desk duty and I’ve been here, at my desk, for over a week.”

“That doesn’t matter if you’re just going to walk around the city unprotected.” 

“Exactly,” Damen agreed, “I’m more likely to be shot outside of work, so you should probably just let me back on my case.”

For a moment, Nikandros was speechless. “You’re unbelievable. I’ll start having you escorted to and from work in an armored vehicle if that’s what it takes.”

“No thanks, I’ll handle this myself,” Damen said.

“Handle what yourself?” Nikandros asked. His face was darkening to an unhealthy color.

“My assassin,” Damen said. Nikandros opened his mouth then closed it, a vein prominent on his forehead. Damen had mercy, and said, “As in I think after Friday I’ll be working from home.”

Nikandros recovered enough to say, “Fine,” before he stormed off.

Damen had been certain to follow his same routine for a week, most importantly taking his breakfast outside the cafe. Everything else he let vary to be certain the assassin considered the cafe was the best place to strike. Now he just had to force the date and time. Only two days until Friday and Damen continued his morning routine, but was careful when he visited the cafe. One morning he’d been purposefully late so his breakfast went with him to the office, the next day he was fortunate the forecast had been reliable and ate inside to avoid the rain. 

His assassin had to know Friday would be their last chance. The night before, Damen prepared, packing his gym bag differently than normal. His body thrummed with nervous energy. He was excited.

At the cafe, Damen had to plan his moves carefully. His pulse was loud in his ears as he stepped outside claiming his usual table. After setting his breakfast down he re-entered the building hoping it appeared like he planned on returning to his meal and the sniper would wait. Instead, Damen went out the back, pulling his hood over his head he bolted across the street far enough from the cafe to go unnoticed. The schematics for the buildings had been obtained through work and he had used them to memorize the quickest path to the place a sniper would likely set up camp.

The gun came out of the shoulder holster when he was close to where he predicted the sniper would be. The top two floors were empty, closed off for construction until someone bought the office space. The area was plywood walls, with multiple trip hazards, and plastic flapping in the breeze. It was exactly where a movie or tv show would depict a waiting assassin. 

He turned the corner and aimed the handgun at nothing. The space was empty. Damen could barely hear over his heartbeat. His stomach had dropped with disappointment. Carefully he approached one of the open windows where the hot summer air blew in uninhibited. The cafe was easily visible, he could even see a pigeon attacking his breakfast sandwich. This was the best vantage point for a sniper. 

Unless. 

Unless the person he was looking for never did the expected. Damen thought quickly. Where would there be another vantage point? 

There was another spot. The adjacent building had its large industrial AC units on the roof. They would hide a person easily, but the line of sight would be a different angle. Even an experienced marksman would have some difficulty lining up the shot. 

It was loud. The flat rooftop vibrated. The large units and giant exhaust pipes created a maze. Gun still in hand, he approached the probable sniper spot. There wasn’t a clear view, he couldn’t tell if an assassin waited only a few feet away. 

A sharp beam of sunlight reflected into his eyes. He threw up a hand seeing a singular bright spot near the ledge. It was a small mirror. 

Damen’s heart was in his throat. The assassin had been able to see him coming. He turned in time. A figure dressed entirely in black rolled out from behind a vent pipe, rifle braced to the shoulder. Damen dove for cover barely fitting between the metal units. The assassin was swift and nimble, leaping onto the platform above Damen. He grabbed the attacker’s ankle and the body hit with a metallic hollow thump. On his back, he aimed the rifle at Damen’s face. Only a foot away, Damen was able to catch the barrel and redirect it away from his body. Black boots kicked off Damen’s chest, he slid backward off the unit and ripped the rifle from Damen’s grasp. 

There was a glimpse of the figure as the assassin disappeared into another row. Smaller than Damen, he hid easily. Whereas Damen had to crouch down to keep from being seen. The motors from the ACs masked most sounds and unable to rely on sound or vision, Damen had to trust his instincts. 

Just a flash of black was seen from his peripheral, but it gave him enough time to turn and block an assault. Too close to use the rifle like a gun, the assassin had swung it as a club. The blow had landed on Damen’s forearm. It stung but he reached out to catch the black figure. He would undoubtedly have the upper hand in wrestling or hand-to-hand combat. 

His arm was kicked aside, the movement grounded in a martial arts stance. Damen squared-off, a balanced position. The assassin’s face was hidden beneath a black hood so Damen wouldn’t be able to read the expressions and interpret the next move. It came with speed and agility, using the rifle like a bo staff. Damen had to block both the gun and another kick. He tried to snatch the rifle but still held his own gun and only had the one free hand. The assassin was skilled, more acrobatic, using the varying heights of the units to his advantage. It made Damen have to evade spinning kicks at head height. 

It was very impressive. The ninja-like skill of the assassin was a contrast to Damen’s sturdy defense. The only advantage was speed, there wasn’t enough power to do serious harm, and Damen was mostly concerned with the rifle. The enemy was smart, knowing to stay out of reach and use the gun like two separate weapons. It had to be blocked when used as a club and avoided when the barrel pointed at him. All of this was done while fending off the distracting barrage of attacks. 

Damen moved backward, careful of tripping hazards, and eventually stepped into a clearing where he thought he would have the advantage. Damen took the offensive, also experienced in martial arts. His opponent was skilled even without the help of the varying terrain. He moved deftly, skirting the edge of Damen’s reach. He caught the rifle and only had the one hand to hold on with. The assassin tried turning the gun to dislodge Damen’s grip, but he held on. Quickly, he pushed forward, walking the assassin back into a corner, and trapped him against the brick. Damen’s body held him there, unable to escape, the rifle a hard line between them. 

Damen ripped off the hood. Blond hair spilled out into piercing blue eyes. The pale face flushed from exertion. Their bodies pressed together, Damen could feel him trying to catch his breath.

A golden brow lifted, “You’re getting slow.”

“You put a hit out on me?” Damen asked.

“Now you look more important. How many agents can boast an assassination attempt?”

“Laurent,” Damen groaned.

“If I were actually here to kill you, you’d be dead. I know I’m the best but you should be more careful.”

“I was fairly certain it was you.”

“And what if it wasn’t? What were you going to do with that unloaded pistol?”

“You’re carrying around a paintball gun.” Damen released the rifle and so did Laurent. It fell and there were only clothes between them. “There’s a clip in my pocket,” Damen stated.

“That’s something I suppose. Now about your schedule—”

“I know,” Damen said, “I’ll work on that. What else am I doing wrong?”

“You haven’t kissed me yet,” Laurent said, blue eyes bright.

The handgun clattered to the ground. Damen pulled him close with a strong grip on the slim waist. Laurent’s lips parted and eyelashes dipped in anticipation of the kiss. Damen stroked a thumb along his jaw, briefly cementing the moment in his mind before he leaned in to take Laurent’s mouth. Laurent went to his toes, hands traveled up Damen’s arms to circle his neck and bring him closer. 

There was an urgency. A need. It had been too long. Damen couldn’t seem to hold Laurent close enough. He pressed him back into the wall and lifted him with hands beneath his thighs, bouncing him once for a steadier hold. Laurent assisted by wrapping legs around his waist. Damen reclaimed his mouth and Laurent made a soft sound, body arching into Damen’s.  

“I’ve missed you,” Damen breathed, his face turned into the slender neck. 

Laurent’s hands tangled in his hair, the grip almost painful with his fierce hold. “Fuck me,” he said.

“Here? On a rooftop?”

“Yes.”

“We can go to the apartment—”

“Now,” Laurent said, desperation roughening his voice.

“What about—”

Laurent moved his hips, just so, and the air escaped Damen. Leaning in with mouth against his ear he said, “I’ve already prepared.”

Damen nearly fell over. “Okay,” he choked.

—

As an internationally wanted assassin and government secret agent, they tried to not be seen together. Damen took a cab to the apartment. Laurent got there somehow. He was climbing through the window as Damen unlocked the door.

“Perhaps we should hire a maid.” Laurent swiped his fingers across the dusty desk. The apartment was only used when they were both in town, which wasn’t often, it could be a financial drain but was a more reliable hiding place than a hotel.

“Hey, get over here,” Damen said, throwing the blankets off the bed. Laurent complied, smiling as Damen pulled him down into the sheets. It was clumsy at first, with the same rushed need as the rooftop, but this time clothes were coming off. Laurent’s outfit was convoluted and frustrating like always.

“Do you think you’re Batman or something?” Damen grumbled after struggling with knee and elbow pads only to discover wrist sheaths complete with six-inch blades.

“I’d probably look good in a cape,” Laurent said, watching with amusement as Damen fought the buckles and straps. 

There was a pile of weapons when they were finished. Damen knew they would have to sort through them later. It would be very hard to explain how his government-issued firearms had ended up in the hands of an assassin.

—

“I missed you too.” Laurent languidly rolled onto his back, his voice thick with satisfaction.

“How long are you staying?” Damen asked, moving to kiss his bare shoulder.

“I have a plane tomorrow night.”

“That’s not long enough,” Damen groaned, dropping his head into Laurent’s neck.

“I know,” Laurent said, stroking Damen’s hair. “We have Paris in two months.”

“You’re not going to forget?”

“I didn’t forget about New York, I couldn’t make it and I’ve apologized a hundred times. Besides this is our anniversary.” Laurent lifted his hand into the sunlight filtering in through the window. He wore the gold woven band shaped to look like a laurel wreath. Damen's matching ring was worn on a chain around his neck. He wished he could wear it on his hand but no one knew he was married. 

“What’s the gift for five years?” Damen asked.

“Wood,” Laurent replied, still admiring his ring.

“I have that now,” Damen said, rolling over on top of him. 

Laurent snorted, unamused, “While I envy your stamina, you are lacking in wit.” He sat up pushing Damen off. “I need food.”

Once dinner was ordered and delivered, Laurent explained the new pink scar on his bicep and told of his recent adventure in Iceland. Damen suspected he downplayed the violence and danger.

“Where are you going after this?” Damen had settled in behind Laurent, hugging him to his chest face resting against the back of the blond head.

“Home. Briefly.”

“I haven’t been to France since—”

“Since you arrested me?”

“I was going to say since we met,” Damen said. “I didn’t technically arrest you.”

“No, you just cuffed me to a bed.”

“You were being a pain in the ass,” Damen laughed, absently running his knuckles along the naked pale thigh. 

Five years ago, Damen had been given the task of gathering evidence against a corrupt politician, only to constantly have Laurent in his way, even appearing as a waiter at a fundraising event. Threats of incarceration hadn’t frightened him away. At the time if Damen had known who Laurent really was he wouldn’t have simply used threats, but instead thought he was a lackey being used to distract Damen from his case. At the party, the mini-feud had escalated to Damen tying Laurent to a bed, which had escalated to something else. Laurent then shared a partial truth that the corrupt politician was his uncle and he was after him for personal vengeance. A tentative partnership had been formed and from there the chaos had only escalated, ending in a marriage.

For the agency, it was still an open case, and for Laurent, it was his main mission. He had even claimed he would retire afterward and made a joke about becoming a trophy wife. Damen wasn’t optimistic, Laurent liked his adventures and he secretly worried he couldn’t keep him entertained. 

They had fallen into a comfortable silence. While Damen petted Laurent, he removed the chain from Damen’s neck and slipped the ring onto his finger where it belonged. Laurent held his hand next to Damen’s comparing the bands while on the appropriate finger. Endeared by the quiet reverie, Damen held him a little closer.

Laurent turned in his arms, kneeling, face above Damen’s. The cool hands held his face, thumb caressing cheekbones. He looked into Damen’s face the same way he had admired the rings together. Gently he pressed a kiss to Damen’s forehead. The tenderness and adoration of it made Damen’s heart ache.

“I love you,” Laurent said it in his language before he kissed him.

Neither wanted to sleep when they’re time together was so brief, but it went by too quickly anyway and Laurent left the next evening.

—

Damen was sure he remembered there being a newspaper stand near the Eiffel Tower. When he found it, he bought the day's paper and flipped to the story he wanted. A few weeks ago it had been on the front page around the continent. Plane crash over the Meditteranean. Twenty-one dead, thirty-four survivors, six missing. Pictures of the six had made it into the media. After a time, three had been found alive, one dead, with two still missing. The images were still in circulation and Damen found them on page seven. He put a finger over the blond head printed in black and white. 

The face next to Laurent’s was also recognizable. It had been over five years now but Damen knew the flat-nose face of Govart, one of the uncle’s henchmen. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Two months ago, 4am, and wrapped in Damen’s arms Laurent had told him it was almost over, that he was close to finding his vengeance.

When the news first came out and Damen had seen the headline and photo of Laurent on the front page he had quit his job. Laurent was alive. Damen was certain and he would find him.

[getitinbusan]

Jungkook's first love. Angst and smut, inspired by the song California.

It was a rare rainy August day in California. The heavy drops created a sad melody on the window as you put the dishes away. Tired and lonely, the feeling in your gut kept nagging at you, maybe it was time to give up. 

It was the second month of not making rent and it was only a matter of time before your roommates would stop exchanging house cleaning duties for money. 

Standing in the kitchen feeling stupid, It had taken you way longer than it should have to realize in LA you were nothing. Not pretty enough, rich enough, skinny enough or talented enough.

Gathering up the mail that was strewn across the countertop, you shuffled through to sort priority. Junk mail, bills, personal… one standing out in particular. The penmanship was nice, black ink, unassuming envelope, but it was the stamp that caught your attention, it was sent from Korea.

The top had already been torn, the letter having been read, was cradled back safely inside. Addressed to your roommate a frown crept onto your face, why wouldn’t he write to you?

It was a ridiculously  hopeful notion but you widened the envelope and inhaled trying to find his fragrance, something, anything to trigger a happy memory. How many times had you borrowed his sweater just to have his smell on your skin? Cool California nights were the best excuse to wrap yourself in his scent.

You missed him, it had been a year and a half since he’d last come around.

It was too tempting to resist, your fingers pinched the paper inside of the envelope and pulled it free. 

I’m feeling low, I don’t know who I am, only who I’m supposed to be.

What would life be like if I had stayed in California? We could all be roommates, hanging out and having fun, going to the beach on weekends.

Does she even think about me?

It sounds greedy that with how much I have right now, it’s not enough. I would give anything to wake up in bed beside her everyday. I want more than anything to be able to talk to her about these things but I can’t. I've made the mistake of trading her for fame and now I’m destined to keep her at an arm’s length so she’ll never know the price I paid.

How does she even see me now?  Just an Idol? Has she forgotten the days we spent together?

I’ve been wrestling with myself, whoever that is. I wish I could be the teenage boy from that long ago summer again. I wrote this song thinking about it…

~When I see you smile in the screen

You’re good at everything

You’re just perfect

Feels like I've never been you

Do you even see me?

Do you know who I am?

Or how do I look now?

You don’t like me like that

I want to be your decalcomania~

I’m afraid I may not get back for a while, please write. Your friendship and thoughts of Y/N are the only things that are keeping me tethered to some semblance of reality.

JK

Clutching the letter to your chest, your mind took you back to that day. 

“Decalcomania, the art or process of transferring pictures and designs. Making a copy of the original on a different medium"  

You’d both laughed at the strange name, reading the description of the art on the museum wall during your visit so long ago.  

California had lured you into its promise when you turned 14. Having been accepted to an  intensive dance program at The Movement Lifestyle Studio you packed up and headed West for the summer. 

It was July and it was hot, the dancers stepping off the bus one at a time took their places in the studio.

Looking around there were so many older kids, you were probably one of the youngest. Calling out names they put you into groups, it appeared to be by age so you made your way to the tiny gathering of four.

Shy introductions were made as one more member was ushered over to where you had congregated. "This is Jungkook.” 

He had the cutest smile and barely spoke english but his eyes twinkled like the constellations. Immediately drawn to each other you became fast friends.

Absolutely exhausted at the end of the first few days he’d knocked at your door.

He was homesick and lonely, used to being surrounded by his six members, he couldn’t sleep well without someone beside him. You let him crawl into bed with you, you were 14 and it was innocent. 

Inseparable, days and nights were spent side by side, the others began referring to you as the twins. It was the best summer of your life but like every boy meets girl summer story, it had to come to a close. Promising through tears to keep in touch and stay friends you went your separate ways. 

Jungkook would send silly videos of his practice sessions, goofing around with the other members.  He’d facetime and text but he always loved to send handwritten letters.

They lived in a box under your bed and contained stories of how hard he was working to become an idol. He always signed off with, "I miss you" and a few lines of lyrics he’d written.

You didn’t know then how important they would become, the only tangible piece of him you could still hold on to.  

Whenever he came back to America you did everything you could to see him. You went to the small tour stops when they came through in 2015, KCon in 2016, but 2017 was different.

Facetiming you with the news that they were bringing the Wings tour to NY, Chicago and Anaheim, he asked if you’d be part of the dance crew. How could you turn down two weeks with Jungkook? They were getting bigger, more popular and their lives were changing rapidly.

Jungkook would sneak you into his hotel room so you could spend your nights catching up. He had strict rules. Girls were not allowed and even though it was just friendship, it could be easily misconstrued by the fans. Everything had to be done in secret. The boys would bring in food and cover for him while you both stayed locked away out of sight.

While happy to be with him, you could tell there was an underlying sadness he was holding on to.

“I wish I could go and explore the city with you like we used to,” his voice trailed off.

You were laying in each other’s arms cuddling on his bed.  Leaning over he kissed the top of your head.

“All I really want is  to take you on a proper date."

Your head moved on his chest as he inhaled deeply.

"I’ve been waiting so long to become someone, to become a man worthy of your affection. Now I’m stuck, I have everything and I’m not allowed to share it with you.”

His arms gripped you tighter, “I’m sorry, this is a terrible confession. I don’t expect you to love me back, not under these circumstances, I just need you to know, you’re the only girl I’ve ever loved and there won’t be anybody else, ever." 

You remembered every word of his confession, every moment of that last night in the hotel room. The words of a 19 year old boy whose life had become bigger than the feelings of two people.

He left in the morning without knowing. You were too afraid to tell him, you loved him too.  

LA became home right after the they left Anaheim. Focused on dancing, if you became good enough maybe you could join the tour with him. 

A letter with a big bouquet of flowers arrived a few weeks later. 

"Congratulations on your new house in LA!

I hope that all of you are getting along as roommates, it’s hard living with others sometimes.

Last night I dreamt that I was there with you and all our friends, we were having a party on the beach and we sat together and watched the sunset.

Remember after practice we would skateboard as fast as we could to the ocean so we wouldn’t miss the colors?

Maybe one day my toes can feel the sand there again.

I miss you, I miss me… the me I am when I get to be with you.

We are coming back in November for a few days and I’m hoping I can see you, I’m lonely already.   

Jeongguk

~Won’t you please stay in dreams

I can hear the sea from far away

Across the dream, over the bush

Go there where it becomes clear

Take my hands now

You are the cause of my euphoria

When I’m with you, I’m in utopia~

When The AMAs came, all of your friends in LA were involved with the production. Your roommates helped organize the coup to steal Jungkook away so you could take him on a real date.

Having enlisted Namjoon to help, the boys would cover for his whereabouts. The day before the awards they were only scheduled for styling, as long as he wasn’t late for the press rounds the next afternoon your plan could work.

It was Namjoon’s job to get him out of the building. Telling him to follow his lead, Joon convinced the managers that Jungkook must have eaten something bad for lunch. Claiming to not feel well, he was whisked away to meet you at the hotel's back receiving door. 

Sitting in the shiny red rented convertible you tossed him a pair of sunglasses. What you wouldn’t give now to see that smile again.

Barely giving him time to get in you’d sped away heading straight for In And Out Burger.

"Kookie, I hope you're ready for the best day of your life! We’re going to eat until we explode, drink and party at the beach and then, instead of returning you to your fancy 5 star hotel you’re staying the night in my crappy little house with a tiny uncomfortable bed!!” 

He laughed, so pure and happy, thinking about it now made you sad. Was that the last time he got to be his true self, Jeongguk the man not Jungkook the personna? 

Knowing you only had one day to give him everything, one day to show him you loved him, you tried to make the best of it.

Picking up the food Jungkook held onto the red and white bags in the passenger seat, sneaking his hand in to steal fries when he thought you weren’t looking. If you weren’t sure you were in love with him before you you certainly were now.

Pulling up beside the tree on the beach he was stunned, “Ahhh Jagi, I can’t believe you brought me here.”

Happy that it meant as much to him as it did to you, you both sat on the branch and ate. Two blocks from the old studio this used to be your escape. Every break you’d make your way to the tree for time alone, together. 

With the burgers done he turned to you and smiled. It felt like he wanted to say something, cutting him short you pulled him up and back towards the car.

Making your way to the Movement studio the students were starstruck when he walked in. After insisting that he teach some choreography, he reluctantly led the class.

Your eyes were glued to him as he moved in front of the mirrors, no longer that awkward teenager but a full grown man mesmerizing you with every move.

Getting back to the car he stopped you before you reached for the handle. Putting his arms around you he pulled you in close, “You stink Jungkook, I think our next stop is the ocean.”

You remember pulling away, how stupid you were, you should have held on to him longer. Reaching into the back seat you revealed a pair of swim shorts and a towel. He looked disappointed that you kept interrupting his attempts at intimacy, but you had a plan and limited time to execute it. 

The Ocean was cold but the wind was warm, he came out of the change room with the shorts on but was still wearing his shirt.

“Kookie, this isn’t Korea, you don’t have to be so modest here. Plus, you should grab some sun, you may not believe it but when your skin is sunkissed… you look really good.” 

He raised his eyebrows and quickly removed the shirt at your request.

Running into the water you splashed and played and he took great pleasure in picking you up and throwing you as far as he could.

The sun was getting ready to set and you wanted to dry off before the cooler air set in.

Leading him out of the water you both laid down on the towel. He put his arm around you under your neck and you cuddled into his side.

“My god Guk, look at your abs!”

He blushed like crazy as you traced the muscles on his stomach.

“Stop, it tickles,” he giggled.

But you didn’t, you kept tickling him until he held you so tight you couldn’t move. He had you pinned, flipping you on your back he shook his wet hair flinging water droplets all over you. Pleased with himself he leaned in closer to you, his eyes asking for permission to kiss you. As the gap between you got narrower you could hear his name being shouted and footsteps running closer. He flopped onto his back and sighed as your roommates and friends piled on top of him.

Eating, drinking and catching up with everyone you watched each other from across the bonfire. Moving from person to person he slowly made his way back to your side.

“Welcome back,” running your hand through the back of his hair, it was now or never. 

Pulling him closer your lips finally met in the way they were destined, soft, slow and full of love. His hands instinctively moved to cup your face as the world stopped around you.

“I love you,” you whispered.

Nose to nose he smiled at you and it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

It didn’t last long, his phone started going off incessantly. The managers knew, you'd been careless, photos and videos of him from the studio had been posted online.

“I’m so sorry Jungkook, I didn’t mean for you to get in trouble.”

His eyes turned hungry as he grabbed your hand.

“Let’s get out of here, you promised I wouldn’t be going back to my hotel tonight.”

If he was going to get in trouble anyway, why stop now?  

The drive back to your place was quiet,  adrenaline and hormones flowing like electricity through you both. The time for smiling was over as the seriousness of the situation hung in the air.

It wasn’t just being in trouble or being caught, but the fact that you both knew what was going to happen when you stepped into your bedroom. One act that would change everything between you, holding the power to change the dynamic of your relationship forever.

Leading him to your room you closed the door and stood staring at him as he sat on your bed. He raked his fingers through his hair before he spoke, “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life than to be able to make love to you. BUT I also know that when I leave I’m not going to get to see you again for a very long time. Management is going to do everything to keep us apart and that won’t be fair to you. I think that maybe we should just let our happy memories of today be enough, I don’t want you to get hurt." 

Walking closer you stood between his legs and he wrapped his arms around your waist.

"The only way I can be hurt is if I never get to experience all of you. I can’t live not knowing how it feels to be totally yours if only for the night.”

He rested his head against your chest, “You’ll always be mine.”

His hands traveled to the hem of your shirt and his fingers ran over the soft skin of your stomach. Undoing the button of your jeans he slowly slid them down your legs and you stepped out of them. 

Standing up he lifted the thin fabric of your shirt over your head and you stood before him waiting as he took his off too. Unclasping your bra he sighed as he looked at you taking in your shape, his fingertips hovering over your hard nipples.

“I’ve never done this before,” he confessed.

“Me either,” you whispered, “So, I guess the bar's pretty low.”

His giggles cut the tension before he pulled you on top of him onto the bed. More relaxed he let his mouth start exploring your body. You were goosebumps and shivers beneath him as his tongue found it’s home between your legs.

He was soft and careful, placing his lips over your clit sucking it in delicately until your moans couldn’t be contained any longer. You could feel his eyes burning into you as he watched in awe as his finger slid inside you.

“It feels good Kookie, please…”

He sighed as his mouth picked up speed and another finger slid in. Moving your hips to meet his mouth you were unravelling quickly.

“The way you taste is better than anything I had imagined.”

Devouring your clit in sessions  between his words you came hard on his tongue.

“I made you so wet,” he said, impressed with himself.

Moving up to where your head lay on the pillow he pushed the dampened hair off your face, “Are you ok? Do you need anything?”

He placed his forehead against yours.

“Just you Kookie, I love you so much… I want you so badly.”

Moving slowly he lined himself up with your wet entrance.

“Tell me if you need me to stop okay?”

He pushed slowly and you could feel yourself stretching around him. He watched your face and froze when he saw the tear roll out of the corner of your eye.

“I’m so sorry, let’s stop, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He thumbed away the tear.

“No, baby… I’m okay… I’m just so happy, so overwhelmed with how much I’m feeling right now.”

He smiled down at you, pressing his body closer as he gave another push until he was fully inside. Your bodies fell into a beautifully choreographed rhythm until Jungkook was so lost in pleasure he began to move at his own pace. Quicker and deeper he moved until he finally spilled into the condom. 

You kissed, and kissed, and kissed until you fell asleep wrapped around each other.

Every few hours he’d wake you up, checking to make sure it wasn’t a dream, you'd made love each time, everytime better than the last.

It was 9 am when he caressed you awake once more.

“I have to leave soon. I don’t want to,” he spoke nestled into your neck just under your ear, “Please tell me to stay.”

Your heart broke at his words, “If I ask you to stay, I’m selfish, you’ll always wonder if you made the right decision. If I tell you to go, your dreams come true… ” your voice trailed off...

“And I’ll always wonder if I made the right decision,” he finished. 

Your phone started ringing and you knew time was up.

It was Joon, “I’m outside, sorry, I held them off as long as I could. I told them I’d come get him so you could at least have time to say goodbye.”

Your tears fell out in heavy ugly sobs, “Okay, five minutes… and Joon… thanks, I know you’re probably in trouble too.”

Hanging up you turned back, Jungkook was already out of bed with his clothes thrown on. He stood with open arms waiting, 

"Thank you for yesterday.“

Laying your head against his chest you took a moment to listen to his heartbeat. You could hear him sniffle, and knew he was crying.

You flashed back remembering that night long ago when he came to you homesick, holding you so he could sleep while he tried to hide his tears. There was a knock at the door and Namjoon’s voice broke through the moment.

"We’ve got to go Jungkook.”

Stepping away you’d left his shirt soaked in tears, handing him his sweater he pushed it back towards you, “You keep it.”

He kissed you one last time and turned the handle opening it to reveal Namjoon. His Hyung put his arm around his shoulder and led him to the car.

Turning one more time his eyes were filled with tears and he gave a small wave before getting in the back of the big black sedan. 

For months you pretended that management was the only thing keeping you apart.

You held onto your silly notions until May when they were coming for the Billboard awards. For weeks leading up you waited for a message, a secret meeting arrangement, but you got nothing. His image was all over the TV and his voice echoed through you empty heart and then he was gone again. 

Now, here you stood in your kitchen, his letter bringing him to the forefront of your mind,  opening old wounds.

He was just as sad as you but what could you do? Picking up a pen you began writing… 

I shouldn’t have done it but I read it in your letter

You said to a friend that you wish you were doing better

I wanted to reach out but I never said a thing

You don’t ever have to be stronger than you really are

And honey, you don’t ever have to act cooler than you think you should

You’re brighter than the brightest stars

You’re scared to win, scared to lose

I’ve heard the war was over if you really choose

The one in and around you

You hate the heat, you got the blues

You’re changing like the weather, oh, that’s so like you

I’ll pick you up

I’ll catch you on the flipside

If you come back to California

We’ll do whatever you want, travel wherever, how far

We’ll hit up all the old places

We’ll have a party, we can dance till dawn… 

Y/N

October came and a chill was in the air, the smell of winter hit your nose and you stopped to take it in.

Bundled in Jungkook’s hoodie you threw your bag over your shoulder and began your walk to work. Movement had hired you on for a new intensive program and today you were going to meet your students.

So many memories flooded your mind as you made your way through the familiar neighborhood. It still hurt but things were beginning to feel happy again. Writing the letter had given you closure, he knew how you felt and beyond that there was nothing else you could do.

Opening the heavy door to the studio you caught a familiar reflection moving in the mirror writing something on the glass, It couldn’t be?

Hearing the door click back into place he turned to face you,

“Hi.”

He walked towards you slowly, unsure of what your reaction would be, he approached with caution.

“Hi.”

You were breathless, in the months of not seeing him he’d grown more handsome.

“I can’t change what happened… and for the rest of my life I’ll be sorry for all of the time we missed.”

He was getting closer.

“But I can’t take another day not knowing if I can fix this… somehow…”

He reached for your hand but you pulled it away. His head fell in disappointment.

“Jungkook, I can’t listen to this… look at me.”

Reaching for his chin you pulled his head up until he was facing you again.

“I refuse to listen to you apologize for something that was out of your control. Your life was decided before you met me and I can only be grateful that I got to appear in some part of your story.”

He tilted his head and pressed a small kiss into the hand that was still holding his chin.

“God I’ve missed you” he said as he wrapped his arms tightly around your waist.

“How long are you here? I’ve got to teach class.. It’s my first day but I’d love it if we could catch up?”

He laughed at you and your knees buckled at the sound of his happiness.

Taking his chance he pressed his lips to yours and you could feel the smile forming on his face.

“I’m your private lesson Jagi, I’ve booked you for the next two weeks”

Taking a step back you had to ask, “How Jungkook? What will you be giving up?”

Pulling you back to his embrace he began to dance with you.

“There is no more giving up… on anything. Our contracts were over and I only had one thing I wouldn’t negotiate on…that’s you." 

Holding you tightly he moved you to look at the mirror.

"I wrote you something”

Please call my name one more time

I’m standing under the frozen light, 

but I’ll walk step by step towards you

Still with you

“Y/N, I promise I’ll never let you go again"

[backandimbamon]

yes i spontaneously wrote a bamon drabble because i can never get their dialogue out of my head (:

Damon knew Bonnie.

In fact, he knew her so well that he could paint her with ease on an intimidatingly large canvas, blindfolded, holding the paintbrush behind his back.

They spent an aggressive amount of time together, plus he was a vampire so his Bonnie experience was intense- not one detail went amiss.

Like for instance, she liked her natural nails to have length, and never chose nail polish outside of flesh tones; her go-to was a sandy nude but it had to be just translucent enough to reveal a bit of her cuticle.

And the fact that she wasn’t a perfume girl, but more of an earthy oil type. If he could bottle her up in a fragrance it’d be a concoction of patchouli and vanilla, a hint of citrus zest and a bit of a floral scent because whenever she couldn’t sleep at night, she’d sprinkle lavender oil on her pillow which eventually would embed itself in her hair.

Oh, and when he fixed her breakfast she never failed to complain about his pancakes but she would always do an exciting finger wiggle before grabbing a fork and digging in.

The prison world did something to her. To them. He had ample amount of time to observe and truly see the little witch for who she was, an opportunity never granted to him before. In the strange case of forced matrimony, Damon was able to fully see Bonnie Bennet sans overbearing, attention-seeking friends, even if one was his beloved girlfriend.

There was always Elena and after that, Elena’s shadow, and after that, Vampire Barbie but in the prison world there were none and he saw elements of himself attach to Bon Bon like friction particles during traction. And even stranger, Bonnie was completely unaware, behaving in a very Damon-like manner as if she had always done so, like she had coined the phrases, prolonged the banter, carried the stichomythia all along. Like he himself was the imposter.

Seriously, all Bonnie needed was a black leather jacket and a Camaro and she’d be his own personal mini me.

And even when his hope of returning floated away like a stray balloon, forever with her didn’t seem that bad.

To say the silent truth didn’t make Damon’s heart warm would be a lie. Developing a strong eventual friendship with someone who wanted you dead years prior could heat even the iciest of hearts.

So he had positively known her. He had seen her face, day in and day out for months on end; clay brown skin, leaf green eyes, a smirking mouth (another habit she picked up from him, he noticed proudly,) with a bone structure a model would envy, Damon hadn’t thought of any other equation that personified Bonnie Shelia Bennett.

She was very pretty in a way that snuck up on him over the years, he became accustomed to her beauty because he could accept it, it was manageable and tame. Not a loud or demanding beautiful but a sacred and layered one.

Bonnie was basically sugar, spice, everything nice, with chemical x as her magical witchy woo woo.

But who knew something as simple as a new hairstyle could change someone so drastically.

“So what do you think?” She asked, brimming with a poorly contained excitement.

It was a quiet day in Mystic Falls, no monsters to fight, or talisman to acquire. She had just entered the boarding house as Damon grabbed a Bourbon from the kitchen, tumbler held by a lazy grip. His eyelids lowered.

Gone was the modest brown bob, the one that allowed her to be pretty but not intimidatingly so. The hairstyle that he had expected from her; the witch’s default to not draw too many eyes for fear of being unnecessarily seen.

Gone was the beauty that was also his because she shared it with him like a secret gift. Only Damon Salvatore could witness the depth since he was always too close, always too invasive and she had trusted him just enough to let her guard down. It was theirs but now it was hers.

In the place of the brown bob was silken chocolate roots blended into caramel-colored barrel curls that tumbled down her frame. Her face was more intense, skin browner, eyes moodier, lips no longer smirking but pouting instead. She looked more mature and not like the sweetheart that he had come to adore but more like a bombshell, a sex symbol- hot...

It was odd.

He was captivated by her face, how different she looked, an effortlessly sexy appeal that was so un-Bonnie-like that he probably would’ve hit on her if she wasn’t his best friend.

Damon was drinking in her appearance with veiled appreciation but she couldn’t know that. He contorted his brows in thought and brought a cocked hand up to his chin quizzically.

“Hmm...” he said walking closer and examining, if only to buy him more time to stare at her, study her, secretly admire her.

She narrowed her eyes, crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head in annoyance.

“Damon it doesn’t take this long, you either like it or you don’t.” That excitement had digressed to something else as she ran her fingers through her long hair self-consciously.

He stepped up to her, invading her space as he normally did, and pinched a few strands of hair between his thumb and forefinger.

“You’re right Bonnie, I don’t like it.” He said cavalierly, just to get a reaction out of her, just to make her feel a little less gorgeous because it was making him uncomfortable.

She stuck out her chin, arms still folded, “It’s not like I did it for you.”

The statement hung in the air like she had options, almost as if meek Bonnie Bennett had men standing in lines to take her out. Like her excitement to show him her new look only moments before didn’t exist because his opinion was no more important than the dust particles in the air.

“It’s okay if you don’t like it.” She stated, mouth certainly pouting now. He could see her defenses activating. “You’re entitled to your own opinion. This new look has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me and what I want. I think it’s-“

He rolled his eyes. “Save the women-empowerment speech for someone who actually cares, Bon Bon. I love it.”

“What?”

“Your new hairstyle. I don’t like it, I love it.” He over-enunciated.

That bubbling excitement returned, “You do?”

“Yeah. You’re blonde now,” he smirked and stepped even closer if that was possible. He circled her, eyes sliding up and down his Bon Bon to reassert that only he could be the sexy one in their duo, not her. No one else could master sexy the way Damon had. It leaked from him, she couldn’t compete with him for such a title. But Bonnie was barely bothered. Impulsively, her eyes rolled as he continued to walk around her as if he were critiquing an art display. He stopped in front of her.

“Little Miss Blondie Bennett.”

“How original.”

“I know, I put a lot into that nickname.” His hand was in her tresses before he could even register what he was doing, fingertips at her scalp, gliding to the tips of her hair with a light pressure. He released, then swept up the wisps of hair on the nape of her neck and tugged gently. Loose curls fell around his grasp.

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to touch a lady’s hair?” Her eyes were foggy when she gave him a weak glare and gooseflesh rose on her skin.

“Do I look like I listened to my mother?”

He still had her hair in his grip and he tightened it a bit for emphasis before dropping his hand abruptly.

There was something that stretched between them, like maybe it was cruel to have a stunning little witch and an eerily handsome vampire only be friends. Like maybe Damon should keep his hands to himself because other thoughts could arise like why hadn’t he noticed Bonnie like this before? Out of all the women he’s crossed paths with, why was it impossible to imagine the witch as a sexual being? Why did she seem above carnality? And Bonnie could think why she hadn’t allowed herself to be noticed, what made her decide to hide herself, to keep walls so high that it would take years to cave in? She could ask herself what it was that made her a supporting character of her own life; who would she be if she allowed one misstep, had made one wrong move? Would Bonnie Bennett still be Bonnie Bennett if she put herself first?

Blonde hair was a baby step.

The presence of Elena was there and not, omnipotent as the sun between the world of Bonnie and Damon because there was no way they could see each other in any other light outside of friendship. And Damon was seriously questioning why he couldn’t possibly fathom, could hardly bring himself to whisper the phrase, sex with Bonnie.

Bonnie was his first best friend ever. In his multitude of years, he hadn’t blurred that line like he did with the long list of women he met before. He could think of not one platonic friendship in his history of friendships that was with a woman. She really was his first. It was like there was a block in his mind that prevented him from seeing her that way.

It was... strange.

The silence was stretching, as thoughts blossomed between them about themselves and one another. But of course the duration wasn’t too long.

“You went to a salon?” Damon asked, attempting to rid the moment of that gentle intimacy as he held her eyes.

“Yeah, it was this guy from Atlanta. He said a caramel, slightly ash blonde color makes the green in my eyes more intense.” She paused. “Caroline’s gonna flip,”

“Yeah she’s not the only blonde in town now.” His eyes widened. “You’ll probably have to mud wrestle to fight for the official title.”

“How classy of you, Demon. I mean Damon. I think.”

“Ha, ha.”

He could feel himself staring at her in a weird, pensive way, despite his lighthearted banter. She looked like the exact opposite of him bottled up in a human being. She was stunning.

“I’m guessing you didn’t listen to your mother when she said it’s impolite to stare either.” Bonnie chimed smugly.

Damon didn't laugh, his eyes grew sincere as he held eye contact with her in a way that used to make her feel uncomfortable before she became accustomed to it.

“All jokes aside, you are beautiful, Bonnie Bennett."

Those words had never fallen from his lips before. Especially never with such a seriousness. It was a fragile phrase, profound and evocative because she couldn’t recall the last time someone told her that.

Her face grew rosy with flattery and maybe embarrassment. “Thank you, Damon.”

She could see how Elena could have fallen for Damon, regardless of Stefan Salvatore and his handsome, chivalrous nature. Everyone warned you against men like Damon because they could get anything they wanted out of you and the world. A wolf in wolf’s clothing. Somehow frightening and irresistible at the same time. He was the shiny apple, red as sin in the garden of eden, plump and juicy and ready to be eaten. It was only natural for Elena to succumb. Most women would if the apple was dangling so dangerously low to their lips.

But sometimes, like then, he wasn’t so predictable. He took you by surprise when you least expected it. Because he wasn’t just enigmatic, he was flesh, bone, almost human. He had feelings and reactions and even he could be taken aback by his best friend with blonde hair. And even he could appreciate a beauty that wasn’t just Elena’s without feeling guilty.

“Little Blondie Bennett. I could just eat you right up.”

He really could.

[just-another-romantic]

How To Date a Broken God

Chapter One: Unfamiliar Faces and Uncomfortable Situations

Series Summary: A mere mortal teaches an almighty god how to be human

Warnings: nothing besides Loki being slightly depressed and having really bad issues, domestic avengers

Notes: GET READY FOR A SLOW BURN KIDDOS

“what is more unfair than having to choose between being a monster or being a hero? (-when you have to be both.) when you learn that the road to hell is paved with more than just good intentions.” -@dvoyd

Loki was having a really bad day. It barely ten in the morning and within the span of two hours of his waking - he spilt his coffee, managed to piss off Thor and cause a thunderstorm, got caught in the freezing May rain, and was now late to an Avengers meeting. Great, just great, he thought. They barely trust me enough to have me as a member of the team, and I’m already late to the first meeting.

The streets of Manhattan were mostly cleared due to the sudden storm, most people ducking inside whatever building to seek shelter, but the few unlucky pedestrians still on the street steered clear of Loki.  The whole New York incident still didn’t sit well with people, even with it being a good ten years (or five for some) in the past. The god couldn’t blame them, he hated himself for it too.

In the middle of an almost abandoned Manhattan street, Loki held his arms outstretched, trying to remember the way it felt to fly. Hundreds of years ago, when he was just a boy, he’d run across the bank of the lake outside of the palace, “flying.” He yearned for that time all over again - when he was young and innocent, unaware of the ways of the world, when nobody hated him and he didn’t hate himself. He longed for his mother’s touch and soft voice, and the wrestling matches between him and his brother. He missed the adrenaline coursing through his veins in the midst of a battle. He was a god, still is, but oh, did he feel so small. His hands that once helped forge the universe seemed powerless now.

The moment his foot crossed the threshold of the tower,  Loki was bombarded by no other than Agent Maria Hill. “Jesus Christ,” she exclaimed, grabing his wrist in a tight clasp and leading him through the building, “we let you out for one hour. One hour. And you turn up late.”

He swallowed his pride. “I’m sorry. I got caught up.” Loki was earning some interesting looks from the workers, most likely due to his appearance similar to a wet dog.

“Caught up reeking chaos, no doubt,” she seethed, reaching the end of the hall and pressing the elevator button. If the god didn't have a sliver of dignity left, he would have winced.

Instead, he coolly tossed, “You actually think that low of me, Agent?”

They stepped inside of the elevator, immediately beginning to rise to the fifth level where the conference rooms were located. Agent Hill turned to him, with a tight lipped smile. “Yes, actually,” she said. “After you destroyed half of New York, tried to take over our world like a maniac, and killed thousands of innocent people in the process, I believe I’m entitled to hate you, God of Mischief.”

Loki snorted. “There’s a line Miss Hill, and I’m the leader.”

The elevator dinged, cutting through the annoying music that Loki all but failed to realize, and opened its doors. He let Agent Hill lead him to the conference room, tracking water through the hallways behind her. After many twists and turns and passing too many doors to count, the pair arrived at the double French doors. Beyond them, sat the rest of the Avengers.

Once the door had opened, all eyes were on Loki, making him gulp. They were pleasant enough people, but he still hadn’t earned all of their trust. He had been their mission to take down for years, a villain to put in chains and shackles. Even after Ragnorok and the Blip, Loki doubted he’d ever be able to win their trust.

There was a new face at the table of superheroes, however. A woman of exquisite beauty, hair pulled into a simple ponytail, eyes vibrant and shinning, skin fair and clear. She was as gorgeous as any Asgardian woman Loki had ever met, perhaps even more so. Even in a plain blouse and jeans, she surpassed every beauty standard. 

Her (y/e/c) eyes locked with his and Loki felt...odd. He felt his insides turn to warm mush under her stare, electricity sparked in every nerve, and his heart seemed to have doubled in size. Oh no, that can’t be normal.

“You finally found him,” Director Fury said to Hill from his place at the head of the table, somehow managing to look annoyed and pleased all at once - an art. “Took long enough.”

“I apologize, Director,” Loki said, tearing his gaze away from the girl and to his boss. “It wasn’t my intention to get sidetracked and arrive late.”

“I don’t think that’s ever anyone’s intent, yet it still happens.”

Silvertongue remained quiet and Hill directed him to the only available seat, the one next to the woman. His hands felt clammy and for the first time in the past hour, he was almost thankful to be soaked in rain because he’s sure he’d be sweating otherwise. Why was he so nervous?

He lowered himself in the rolling chair next to her, and she looked him up and down through the corner of her eye, face flashing with...disgust? The woman stiffened, crossing her legs and positioning herself furthest away from Loki. His hear ached for the first time in a millennia. No, no, no, no. Stop that - stop that at once.

“You all may be wondering why I called you here today,” announced Hill, taking her place beside the director. “And why there is a new face.”

The woman’s cheeks turned pink under everyone’s gaze and she forced her lips into a tight smile, bashful.

Hill continued. “I would like to introduce to you all Agent (Y/n) (Y/L/n). Our newest addition to the Avengers team.”

There was an uncomfortable beat of silence before the sorcerer from across the table asked, “Pardon me Miss (Y/L/n), but Agent Hill, is a new member really necessary?”

Loki sensed (Y/n) practically sinking into the leather of her rolling chair.

With a deep breath, the Agent explained, “First of all, Doctor, she is ‘Agent’ to you. Second, its been a year since Thanos.” 

There was another pause as all of the avengers allowed the painful reminder to sink in. Loki’s eyes flitted over to the west wall, where the memorial was in place. Three huge portraits of the fallen heroes, framed in gold, with a matching broken avengers symbol above them. Underneath the first portrait of a red-headed woman was a plaque, reading, ‘Natalia Alianovna Romanoff, Black Widow, died for it.’ She was laughing in the picture, emerald eyes bright and dancing.

The picture in the middle was a man with a disheveled dress suit on, tie loose and hanging around his neck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he worked on a laboratory table. Despite the grey hair’s sprouting in the thick brown locks, the man looked young and at ease. His smile flashed at the camera, teeth a pearly white. ‘Anthony Edward Stark, Iron Man, who died with it in his grasp,’ read an identical plaque.

The final picture was a handsome blond, looks so divine he could have been sculpted out of marble. His baby blue eyes sparkled with intelligence and a bit of mischief, a smirk to mirror it as well. He sat with a sketch pad in his lap and a charcoal pencil in hand. ‘Steven Grant Rogers, Captain America, died peacefully because of it.’

One larger block underneath read in bold print, ‘ALL DIED FOR JUSTICE.’

“We’ve been lucky to not run into any major issue so far, as it seems the universe itself is trying to get back in order. But what we cannot do is be naïve in thinking that it will last any longer. We need to face facts, we are down in numbers, and Agent (Y/L/n) is the only agent that has proven to me she is worthy of being a member of the team over the years I have worked with her.”

There was a loud crunch, coming from non-other than Scott Lang himself, munching loudly on pringles with his feet on the table. “So what,” he said through a mouthful of food, “does she have any powers?”

“What training does she have?” said one.

“In what ways is she qualified?” came another.

Finally, the new agent spoke. “I cannot turn large or small, nor can I fly or have a metal arm, but I have enhanced senses. Acute hearing and more than perfect vision, along with strength and agility. As for my qualifications, I’ve been trained as a skilled marksman and I’ve worked for S.H.E.I.L.D. for many years. I can take down a moving target from 250 yards away and I’ve been stationed on every continent for over six months.”

“Not to mention, in the past five years I gave her a medal,” cut in Fury, “And I wouldn’t give that to any wimp.”

“Most importantly, she has the character,” finalized Hill, leaving no room for discussion. With a sad smile and blank eyes, she gestured to the portraits on the wall. “I miss them too, guys, but we need to fill in the gaps. Thor and the Guardians are off world, Carol is doing who knows what, Clint will put an arrow through me if I drag him out of retirement again, and T’Challa has duties to his country. (Y/n) is not replacing our beloved friends, but we need more numbers for when something does happen.”

“So I’m assuming the Sokovia Accords are just gonna be disregarded now?” asked a witch.

“There really is no need for them anymore after the Snap. Today and over the weekend, Agent (Y/L/n) will be moving in and getting situated, but she begins training with you all Monday. Please for the love of God don’t scare her away.” Hill locked eyes with a certain god. “I’m talking to you Loki.”

He chuckled, crossing his arms, and in a fake promising voice said, “I would never! But a little prank never hurt anyone.”

“What about the time you stabbed your brother?”

“First, I was eight. Second, my brother and I are gods, madam. He’s survived much worse. I would never fatally impale a measly mortal.”

Agent (Y/L/n) huffed a laugh, rolling her eyes. “Two can play at that game, Silvertongue.”

He glanced at her, unnerved by her confidence. “Are you willingly throwing yourself into a prank war with the god of chaos and mischief, petal?”

In the blink of an eye, a dagger that seemingly appeared at of nowhere was poised at his throat. Loki could see her smile behind the hilt. Her voice was sickly sweet, “No. I’m just willing to prove I am no delicate mortal, Lord of Chaos.”

“God.”

“Same thing.”

Loki bit his tongue, raising his hands slowly in mercy. As quickly as it came out, (Y/n) sheathed her weapon in her boot, looking all too pleased with herself.

Hill clapped her hands together to draw back the attention, plastering on a smile. “Proof enough?”

-----------

(Y/n)’s day had been going well. First thing in the morning, she got called into her boss’ office and got a promotion to work alongside the literal Avengers, was introduced to the team shortly thereafter, proving her skills to the ones that doubted her by holding a dagger to a god’s next, and clicked immediately with some lovely people.

Wanda Maximoff, the Scarlet Witch. Compassionate, sassy, and didn’t take any bullshit from anyone. Her room was adjacent to hers and she offered to help unpack. Then there was the sweet Peter Parker, the Spiderling (Spider-Man). Innocent, lovable, and too intelligent for his own good. It only made sense to befriend him as he followed Wanda around like a puppy.

So the trio sat splayed out in (Y/n)’s room, out of energy from hours of unpacking, but laughing non-stop, nevertheless.

(Y/n) was wheezing. It was the type of laughter that made your stomach hurt from laughing so hard; she hadn’t felt it in awhile. “Oh God,” she gasped, “then what did he do?”

Wanda sat perched on the newly made bed, wiping a tear off of her check with a polished finger. “Nothing! You wouldn’t believe it, he just stood there with a horrified look on his face. I thought he was about to shit his pants!”

(Y/n) smiled. “Your brother, Pietro...it sounds like he was a good man.”

The redhead twisted one of her rings around her finger, looking suddenly downcast. “He was. Really was.”

“Jesus Christ, does everyone here have terrible family issues?” piped Peter from the windowsill, laughing in hopes to lighten the mood. 

“It might as well be a requirement to be a hero,” Wanda said with a sad smile, before abruptly turning to (Y/n). “What about you, new girl? What’s your tragic hero story?”

The new girl looked down at her bare feet, a bashful smile on her lips, but before she could open her mouth to say anything, F.R.I.D.A.Y. made the announcement that dinner was ready. Saved by the bell.

“To be continued,” declared Peter, hoping up from his seat and taking off towards the dinning room. “Hope you like pepperoni pizza, (Y/n)!”

She did, in fact.

The scene was incredibly domestic, nothing she would've imagined as a normal night for the almighty Avengers. Stacks of pizza boxes and liters of soda lined on the bar counter - plastic utensils, cardboard plates, and Styrofoam cups close by. Those who lived permanently in the tower sat on the variety of sofas and cushioned seats, chowing down on classic American food. Unfortunately for (Y/n), permanent residents also included Loki.

She grabbed two pieces or pepperoni, a cup of cola, and a napkin, and took a seat next to Wanda on a love seat, Peter chilling on the floor at their feet with a stack of five slices in his lap. Superhuman metabolism?

After a few minutes of silence (minus the munching of food) Sam piped up, “So Agent (Y/n), where are you from?”

She smiled, wiping the grease from the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “(Y/n), please. I’ve been all over the world, but I’m originally from Brooklyn.”

“I like her already!” exclaimed Bucky through a mouthful of cheese and sausage.

She giggled, giddy like a child. Is this what home felt like? She hadn’t had a home in years.

“So how’d you get hired at S.H.E.I.L.D.?” asked a very green Banner, his plate of food actually an entire pizza box. “That’s no small feat.”

“My parents were actually Agents as well. I kinda grew up around here.”

Below her, Peter choked on his Sprite. “That’s so sick? Were they spies? Assassins? Snipers? Oh I bet they’re were snipers!”

(Y/n) ruffled the boy’s honey curls. “They were spies. My dad just had good aim, he taught me everything I know about guns and shooting.”

Peter chuckled immaturely, “Hehe...good aim...uh - Ow!”

Wanda had backhanded him upside the head.

There was a snicker from the far side of the room, where Loki stood emerged in the shadows. His pink lips were curled upward in a genuine smile, yet (Y/n)’s heart felt as if it had taken a bullet.

“What do your parents do now? Are they retired or do they still work?” Wanda asked from her side, but the new agent barely heard it.

Her face turned to stone, eyes now icy and cold as she stared at the God of Mischief. Of chaos. Might as well add murder to the list as well.

“They’re dead,” she stated, her voice spitting with venom. The room fell into an awkward silence, and Loki’s eyes met her own.

“In New York...the attack...the building collapsed on them.” Her nose scrunched in disgust. “All thanks to none other than the God of Chaos.”

---------

How to Date a Broken God - Taglist

@cosmic-souls-and-stardust​ @rinthehufflepuff​ @electroma89​ @madshelily​ @ultracolorfulnerdcollection​ @daddylouislittle @fanartdom​

[inmyownlittlecorner5]

Rota Fortunæ

A “Missing Moment” from Moonlight+ la-topolina

Rated for All Audiences

Unstoppable Force/Immovable Object Masterpost+

I know that Aunt Electra was mad as a hatter, but I am glad that she taught me to play the piano. I’ve found it to be a very useful skill during my time here at Hogwarts. You see, I’m not very pretty and I’m not very clever. I am a pure-blood, of course, but otherwise I’m quite average. It seems to me that everyone in Slytherin house is jockeying for position all the time, and I’d rather stay out of the fray. So, I sit over here in the common room, playing the piano while everyone else studies and talks and laughs. They’re so used to me by now that I overhear the most interesting things. Everyone assumes that I don’t pay attention to what’s going on around me when I’m playing. And if I’m hearing something I’d rather not—well, I can always play a little louder, can’t I?

Playing the piano has won me a bit of respect, too. I know a decent amount of classical repertoire, but I also know popular tunes and dances. There’s a reason that everyone in Slytherin house could dance so well at the Yule Ball last year. The older students have been teaching the younger ones since I first started school here and everyone appreciated having live music to practice with. I think the idea of Professor Snape coming in to teach us terrified everyone, so we made sure that we wouldn’t have to bother him with something we could take care of ourselves. He likes it when we manage things ourselves.

It was Sunday evening and the common room was full of my lethargic housemates. Everyone was trying to deny the fact that we had classes the next morning. It had been, well, an eventful time at school to say the least. The discovery of Dumbledore’s Army, followed by Dumbledore’s escaping arrest, followed by the installing of Headmistress Umbridge, followed by the chaos of Fred and George Weasley’s escape from Hogwarts—and we fifth years still had O.W.L.s to study for. It was a wonder that anyone could concentrate at all.

I was halfway through Rondo alla Turca when Pansy Parkinson walked up behind me and set a note on the piano. I could tell from the cramped handwriting that it was from Professor Snape, even though it only said my name, Cassandra Borgin, on the outside of it. And I already knew what it was going to be about. I already knew that I was going to be expelled.

As I hit the off-set octave section of the Rondo, I played as loudly as I could. Pansy’s voice was pitched annoyingly high as she informed everyone in the common room that I was in trouble. I fairly pounded on the keys through the fanfare at the end of the piece, striking them so hard that my fingers hurt. I knew I shouldn’t care what Pansy said. I knew she’d already told everyone anyway. After all, she was there when the D. A. meeting broke up that night. I had managed to slip away, but Headmistress Umbridge had the list of the members and my name was on it.

I finished banging, snatched my note, and shot off the piano bench, hoping to escape from the common room. I thought it was reasonable to want to open the thing and endure my shame in private. But Pansy and Millicent were there, blocking my path. I have never hated being short so much as I did in that moment. I briefly considered trying to dart between their legs to escape, but thought better of it. Millicent would probably sit on me if I tried, and then I would be expelled AND dead.

“Open it here, Cassie,” Pansy said with a cat-like grin. “We all want to know what the punishment for treason is.”

I glared at her, but I opened the note. I knew they would wrestle it away from me if I didn’t.

Miss Borgin,

I expect you in my office at six o’clock Monday evening.

—Professor Snape

“It just says I have to go to Professor Snape’s office tomorrow evening. Nothing exciting,” I said, trying to move past them.

They stayed where they were and Pansy taunted, “You’d better pack your little trunk tonight so that you won’t have to show your face back here after you’re expelled.”

I tried to look as though I wasn’t worried. “Then how would I be able to tell you what the punishment for treason is?”

She seemed mildly confused by that and I took the opportunity to slip past her and away to the dormitory. Maybe she was right. Maybe I should pack.

*****

It hadn’t been easy for me to convince Harry Potter and his friends to let me join the the D. A. I wouldn’t have known anything about it except that I happened to overhear Marietta and Cho talking about it as they came out of the Hog’s Head that day back in October. They didn’t notice me following them and I heard enough to realize that Harry Potter was starting a secret club to practice Defense Against the Dark Arts. I was sick of Professor Umbridge’s classes by then and the fact that we weren’t learning anything in them. I knew that Draco, Pansy and most of Slytherin house was sucking up to her, but I thought it was stupid that she refused to teach us anything. I mean, even if she just gave private lessons to Slytherins that would have been something. But we were being kept just as ignorant as everyone else, and I couldn’t stand it. Uncle Orestes was holding a job for me in his shop in Knockturn Alley, and I knew he wouldn’t like it if I didn’t do well on my O.W.L.s. And how was I supposed to do well if no one would teach me?

I also thought it was stupid of Draco and his friends to alienate Harry Potter and Gryffindor house, although I made sure to keep such thoughts to myself. Draco had been doing it since day one. It seemed now that Slytherins were in the ascendancy, but that wouldn’t always be the case. No matter how secure your power seems, eventually the wheel will turn and you’ll be on the bottom again. And you can be sure that your enemies will remember every slight you ever did them and pay you back when that happens. Better to maintain a cordial relationship with everyone as much as possible. Then they won’t notice what you do behind their backs. But maybe that’s just the apprentice shopkeeper in me.

I approached Harry, Ron, and Hermione in the library one Tuesday not long after that Hogsmeade trip. They didn’t remember my name and I saw them all exchange an unhappy look when they saw my Slytherin colors.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m Cassandra Borgin.”

“Wait, as in Borgin and Burkes?” Harry interrupted.

“Yes. Mr. Borgin is my uncle.” I swallowed hard as they frowned at me, clearly wishing I would leave. I decided it was best to cut to the chase. “Listen, I know there’s a lot of bad blood between our houses, but I want you to know we don’t all agree with Draco Malfoy on everything.” I smiled at Harry and added, “I think you were just brilliant last year in the Tri-Wizard Tournament.” He shifted uncomfortably and I rushed onwards before they told me to scram. “The thing is, I want to join your secret club.”

Their eyes widened and Harry said cooly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I expected this. “You can put whatever jinx on me you think necessary. I’ll even take the Unbreakable Vow that I won’t reveal any of the secrets if you want me to. I just want to learn this. I need to learn this and you’re the only one who can teach us right now.”

The golden trio exchanged a look and Hermione said, “We’ll think about it and let you know.”

I nodded. That was probably the best I could hope for at that point. It took a few more weeks, but I wore them down and the let me join. And, when they did, they didn’t ask me to do anything more than sign that jinxed parchment.

The D. A. meetings had been brilliant. We were working together, learning together without any teachers at all. It felt so liberating, to take matters into our own hands in that way. After a while, the fact that I was a Slytherin didn’t bother anyone in the D. A. anymore. I was one of the secret group—learning even when the teachers refused to teach us. But, when we were caught, Headmistress Umbridge certainly remembered that I was a Slytherin. And Professor Snape obviously remembered too.

I sighed and decided I would hedge my bet and pack half of my trunk. Part of me still hoped that I would be allowed to stay, but if my trunk were half packed then it wouldn’t take me very long to escape if I were expelled.

*****

My hands were sweating the next day as I approached Professor Snape’s office. I was trying to put on a brave face. We all knew he hated it when members of his house acted like sniveling cowards in front of him. He was fair to us, most of the time, but he expected a certain amount of decorum, too. If he saw me shaking or worse—crying—he’d have me on the train home tonight. I had to keep myself under control.

I reached the door and my hand only shook a little bit as I knocked on it. The door swung open and I saw Professor Snape standing by a shelf, eyeing a jar of bat skulls. I took a deep breath and walked into the office. The door slammed shut behind me and I stood there awkwardly in the dim light.

“Sit down, Miss Borgin,” he said quietly.

I climbed into the chair across from his desk. I had to perch on the edge of it and still my feet barely touched the ground. As much as I had hated being short the day before, I think I hated it a lot more today. I felt like a little kid about to be read the riot act by my father. Except that Professor Snape was a lot scarier than my father.

“You are, of course, aware of the reason I have called you here,” he said, still not looking at me.

“Yes, sir,” I muttered, my eyes on the ground.

“Speak clearly, Miss Borgin,” he snapped as he stalked to his desk. He sat down at it and stared at me with that look that made everyone think he could read their minds.

“Yes, sir!” I repeated. My voice cracked a bit, but at least it was loud enough to hear this time. He said nothing, just kept staring at me over his steepled fingers. Finally I added miserably, “You want to know why my name was on the D. A. list, sir.”

“Very good, Miss Borgin.” How could his voice be so quiet and so frightening at the same time? “I find it most disturbing that a member of my house was involved with such nonsense.”

I gulped. I had hoped that I could convince him to at least let me take my O.W.L.s. I thought that would be enough for Uncle Orestes. But the way Professor Snape was staring at me, I knew I was done for.

“If you have some sort of an explanation, now would be a good time to give it,” he said lazily.

I’d been dreading this meeting ever since the D. A. was broken up that night two weeks earlier. Now that I was actually here and about to be expelled, I felt a sudden surge of courage. After all, if I was going to be expelled, it didn’t matter so much what I said. Maybe I should just be honest.

“Well, sir, I….I wanted to learn,” I said slowly. “That’s why I came to school, after all.”

“You are aware that you have been provided with teachers and classes for that purpose.”

I flinched. “Of course, sir, that goes without saying. It’s just that….well…..our DADA classes weren’t terribly helpful this year. Not that I blame Headmistress Umbridge at all.” I was starting to feel very exposed and my voice trailed off as he raised an eyebrow at me. But, in for a knut, in for a galleon. “It’s just, well, Harry Potter was the only one offering us an option to be ready for our O.W.L. practical, and I wanted to do well. You see, I’m going to work with Uncle Orestes in his shop when I’m finished with school, but he won’t take me if I don’t do well on my O.W.L.s, especially the DADA one.”

“You seem oddly confident that you will be here to take your O.W.L.s.”

“I didn’t mean to assume, sir.” My eyes dropped back to the floor and I could feel his cold stare boring into the top of my head. He was silent for so long, that I just started talking again. “I know that Harry Potter is an arrogant prat, but he knows his Defense. I wanted to learn, so I took the option that was available to me. I know it was against the rules, but I’d do it again if I were faced with the same choice. I’ve always thought it was a bad idea for Draco and his friends to be so openly antagonistic to Harry and his friends. We’re all just students and making enemies when you don’t absolutely have to seems like a bad idea to me. I know we’re on top now, but someday we might not be.”

I suddenly realized that Professor Snape’s stare had become more of a glare. I had obviously said something very wrong.

“But that’s just my opinion, sir. I’m probably wrong,” I finished lamely.

“And what did Potter teach you?” He spat out the name Potter as though it tasted vile.

I wracked my brain, trying to figure out the right answer to this question. This was my last chance to prove that I was justified in my actions. My last chance to stay at Hogwarts. I had to think of just the right thing, but what was it?

I lifted my eyes from the floor, trying to get a hint from him. His face was as stony and unreadable as a statue’s. I chewed on my lips, desperately thinking. And then, suddenly, it came to me.

“May I just show you, sir?” I asked humbly.

“Very well,” he said, his tone implying that he did not expect to be impressed.

I got up slowly and took out my wand. I closed my eyes and imagined the summer sun on my face. I was in a field of flowers with Aunt Electra. We were weaving daisy chains and she was sending them careening through the air like flowery eels. We were laughing and shouting and we hadn’t a care in the world.

A wide smile spread across my face and I shouted, “Expecto Patronum!”

A silvery robin flew gracefully out of the tip of my wand. She circled around the room a few times and disappeared through the door. I watched her, smiling proudly. Maybe it wouldn’t matter to Uncle Orestes if I wasn’t allowed to take my O.W.L.s. I could still study after all. There were accomplished witches and wizards in my family—I could always learn from them. And I could read, couldn’t I?

After my robin patronus flew away, I turned back to Professor Snape. He was giving me a calculating look. His hand was in front of his mouth, but I thought it was possible that he was smirking. It was a look I had seen him give Draco and Pansy many times when they had done something clever. It was a look he had never given me.

“Sit down, Miss Borgin,” he said and whatever smile might have been there was gone.

I sat and waited for my sentence. He was silent again for a long time. I assumed he was doing it to make me nervous. He had probably made up his mind about my punishment before I had even set foot in his office today. I guess I should have packed after all.

“I believe that detention on Fridays and Saturdays for the rest of term are called for in this instance. You will report to the potions room at six o’clock in the evenings and juice flobberworms.”

I blinked. Did this mean I was going to stay?

“Yes sir,” I said hopefully.

“And I expect an Outstanding in Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“Yes, sir!”

“You may go, Miss Borgin.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

I stood, feeling as light as air, feeling like my robin flying through the sky. I almost skipped to the door, I was so relieved. But I knew that Professor Snape might change his mind and expel me after all if I did that, so I restrained myself.

When I reached the door, I paused and turned back to him.

“Sir, there was something I have been meaning to ask you, if it wouldn’t be too much of a bother.”

“What is it?”

“Sir, I was just wondering, why are some magics called dark magic at all? It seems to me that any spell could be dark or light, depending on how you used it. If I transfigured someone into a mouse and let a cat eat him, that would be dark, wouldn’t it? But transfiguration isn’t considered dark magic. Or what if I used Petrificus Totalus on someone when he was crossing the street and he were hit by a Muggle car? Wouldn’t that be dark magic? Or what if a Healer used Imperio to force an unconscious patient to take a potion he needed. Wouldn’t that be light magic then? I just don’t understand how these distinctions are made. It seems to me that anything could be light or dark—it just depends on how you use it.”

He gave me that calculating look again—and this time I could see his smirk.

“My thoughts exactly, Miss Borgin,” he said.

“Thank you, sir. Good night, sir.”

I was about to open the door when he added, “Miss Borgin?”

“Yes, sir?”

“The next time you decide to take matters into your own hands, see to it that you do so without being caught.”

I smiled. “Yes, sir.”

I went out into the hallway and saw my robin still circling. I was able to watch it for a few seconds before it disappeared completely. Then I headed back to my part of the dungeons, skipping and humming Rondo alla Turca all the way.

*****

End Notes:

I take my hat off to Mr. Zingarella, who beta-ed this story. He also occupied the little Zingarellas while I banged out the draft of it. And it was a conversation we had a while ago in which he expressed his opinion that dark magic in the HP universe didn’t seem very different from light magic in the HP universe that sparked my idea for this story in the first place. I’m a lucky lady to have him.

Rondo alla Turca is the third movement of Piano Sonata No. 11 in A-Major by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

*****

Unstoppable Force/Immovable Object Masterpost+

[momtemplative]

One-Act Play

1.

It was the summer of 2004. I was living at 940 North Street in Boulder, in the strange kind of rental property you can only get away with in your twenties. It was dilapidated and half-swallowed by shrubbery, but also rustic and quaint, a slice of woods in the middle of town. (A raccoon had babies in my ski boots out back.) It was few blocks from the mountains and a few more blocks to Pearl Street. I used to ride a hand-me-down bike that was heavy as wrought-iron down to the Trident Coffee Shop on Pearl Street and pretend I was a “real” writer. 

(I parked and tripped over the very same bike during the very same summer to greet my buddy, Lisa, and her friend, Jesse, who were enjoying a drink at an outside table at the Corner Bar. That was the first time I met Jesse, and the summer of 2004 is when our romance began. But that story is for a different day.) 

I had just quit my job after a year of working as a receptionist at a chiropractic office. I’d had it with a passive-aggressive boss and no growth potential. I was living with my former African drum teacher and his girlfriend. They ascribed fully to the phrase you-only-live-once and they buzzed with a sort of free-spiritedness that would make my mom cringe. So when I quit my (responsible if people-pleasing and self-sacrificing) job, fate had it so I was living with them, with their input that said, Good Riddance. Now what do you really want to do?

In a bold act of maternal generosity, my mom wrote me a check that covered tuition for the entire month of the Summer Writing Program at Naropa’s Jack Karoac School of Disembodied Poetics. (Naropa, a Buddhist college in Boulder, CO.) I signed up for one week with artist /dancer, Michelle Ellsworth, and used the extra on rent and groceries. (I’d been in Colorado for all of two years and I was barely able to make ends meet even before my new status of being unemployed.)

I picked Michelle randomly;  I liked her picture in the brochure. I can envision her now, as clearly as if I had a Fotomatic print of her in my hands. Clear blue eyes like crystals you hang in the window to shoot rainbow-slivers into the space. A wide, shiny smile. She spoke to our crowded class with a quick, giggly cadence, like the tick of a wound-up clock. Any details blur into the oblivion of non-essential memory, but her imprint, like that of a fossilized leaf on a river stone, hasn’t faded in the slightest.

2.

Our assignment was to write a one-act play about anything.

940 North was entirely furnished in one afternoon from the Habitat for Humanity Thrift store, and its décor was mostly provided by an old lady’s estate sale. I had emptied out the closet in my bedroom to make a writing nook. I had an ancient laptop and a borrowed printer. We definitely did NOT have Internet; I had to use the computers at the college for that. This was still an era where Internet could be used intermittently and intentionally—for checking email and other specific to-dos that required only a finite amount of time. This was before Internet was available and necessary for us to receive continuously and at a heavy drip.

I had not slacked. I didn’t procrastinate. To the contrary—I cleared my calendar for this assignment, took it way too seriously and tried WAY too hard. I wanted so badly to be awesome at this, but after two complete afternoons, I could barely pinch out a coherent sentence.

On the due date, Michelle said, “Ok, let’s go around and have everyone tell us about their play.”

Bla, bla, bla, blur, blur, everyone did their assignment, no problem, until the spotlight landed on me with, it seemed, the sound of brakes coming to a screeching halt. I cleared my throat and shifted in my chair.

“I didn’t finish it.” I said. I felt a clenching desire to fold up and hide. The back of my skull droned like the sudden onset of a fever.

She smiled without a fleck of irony. “Then tell me what you did instead.”

Okay...? So many eyes on me...”Honestly? I re-organized my closet. Then I stared at a blank screen.  Then I ate a bunch of potato chips. Then I typed a few words and printed a page, tossed it into the trash, hung out with my roommates and cleaned my toilet. It went on like that for hours, two full afternoons.”

“Well then that’s your play,” Michelle said, giddy with the proposal. “Anyone want to help Heather out with this one?” Four hands from four complete strangers shot up.

3.

Low, behold, later that week, the five of us lined up on stage like human-cogs in the grand machine that was to be our performance.

I, PERSON ONE: typed furiously on a typewriter, then I pulled out the paper and handed it to the person to my left. Then I started again, and it went on like this.

PERSON TWO: crumbled up the paper and threw it into a bucket of water, then put a hand out my way for another paper to crumple and dunk. Our movements were stiff and mechanical.

PERSON THREE: pulled the paper out of the bucket, squeezed it then smoothed it flat on a towel. Then she looked up to pretend-talk to an invisible person, while pulling another paper from the water.

PERSON FOUR: grabbed the wet paper from the towel and handed it to the next person.  Then he shoved a handful of potato chips from a bag open directly in front of him into his mouth, before grabbing and passing another one.

PERSON FIVE: placed the wet paper overtop a balloon that was held steady onto a table with tape, and then another wet paper and another.  

It went like this, a factory line going going going through at least six cycles, each of us doing our part to assemble a visual-thought from beginning to end, without fighting or judging—just reporting.

When the last piece of paper whizzed out of my typewriter and was handed to the next person, I froze. Then, each of the four remaining performers did their respective actions and froze, until PERSON FIVE was the only one moving. He plastered the final wet paper to the balloon and held it up for observation. Then the scene went dark, and, applause.

The idea that there is information (dare I say wisdom, creativity) in the non-doing, the over-doing, and everything in between, shattered my archaic notions of black-and-white thinking. It created grand pockets of space for curiosity to germinate. Curiosity— the grand antidote to perfectionism.

4.

I could not undo this teaching even if I tried. 

I pull it out now as a sort of valuable overlay to everyday life. It breathes oxygen into the mundane moments, and works as sort of a salve when shit doesn’t go as planned, which is the New Normal. Let the record show, I’ve had young kids in my life for the passed decade-plus, so I’m accustomed to lack of control. And yet, I’ve always also had certain chunks of the day when I was guaranteed some sense of command over my own actions. While Ruth was in preschool, 12 hours a week, I worked and did adult life, making choices that actually happened. At a bare minimum, I had that.

Now we are dwelling in the land of a thousand distractions, with no reprieve. There is no boat off this island. No departures in the near future. It often feels like the how the day unfolds is entirely up to some larger sources that I have utterly no influence on. Is Ruth in the mood to play independently for any stretch of time today? Is she up for watching a TV show while I do a little writing? Will she spend more than five minutes on an art project without descending into coloring her eyeballs with face paint or covering an entire palm in glitter glue? One never knows. One can only pray.

Truth: It took me an hour to write and send a three-line email this morning. The staggering disruptions became almost comical. Ruth fell down FOUR separate times. This is an extreme example, almost as if her nervous system could sense my focus was elsewhere and ran a smear campaign against Mom Completing Any Singular Task. But, if perhaps a lighter version, this is a typical day.

Before Michelle, I may have regarded these off-script moments as those of non-doing, small fails to wrestle with until I can get my “actual shit done.” But today I can see there is so much more there. Choices, aggravation, empathy, my physical body, the body of my wild-puppy preschooler, suppressed laughter, expressed laughter, suppressed annoyance, expressed annoyance—all are contained in these moderately priced moments.

Then you add a blizzard. In the last four days, we’ve gotten multiple feet of snow. The world is covered in a suffocating wool blanket, itchy and hard to breathe underneath. The snow outside—higher than the dog’s belly!!—squeezes us between the walls of this house, everything inside seems tighter and louder because of the outside’s sound-deadening insulation.

So there’s my one-act play for today.

[upstartpoodle]

The Art of Destruction

Rating: G

Pairing: George x Elizabeth

Summary: Just a short fluffy one shot in which Elizabeth is amused, George is exasperated, and Valentine, as per usual, is an utter menace. I literally have no excuse for this.

Warm summer sunlight was filtering through the gap in the heavy drapes covering the narrow windows of the bedchamber when Elizabeth opened her eyes to the realisation that her husband was no longer beside her. She stretched out, stifling a yawn with one hand, and turned on her side, reaching for the empty space where George had been when she had last awoken some time in the small hours of the morning. The rumpled sheets were cold under her touch, and she frowned at the sensation. It was true that George often rose before her, but it was a Sunday, and of late she had been able to persuade him to remain abed with her rather later than usual before they were obliged (rather unenthusiastically in her husband’s case, whom she suspected had not been the most regular of churchgoers when he had lived at Cardew) to head out to St Sawle Church for the morning service. Yet as far as she could tell, he must have been up for some time already, and she wondered if she had perhaps slept so late that he had elected not to wait for her.

She propped herself up on her elbows, glancing around the room. George’s nightshirt and dressing gown were draped neatly over the chair beside the dressing table. Turning her attention to the clock on the mantelpiece, she saw that the face read a quarter past eight. Her frown deepened. That was not so late, even though they were both inclined to rise earlier during the week. So where had he gone? Perhaps, she considered as she pushed herself upright into a sitting position, there had been some matter which he simply could not delay affording his attention to. He was very busy nowadays after all, with the demands of the Bank, the pressure put on his business interests by the war with France and, of course, the responsibilities of his position as magistrate taking up more and more of his time with each day that passed. Still, he usually informed her when he had some particularly pressing task which he needed to complete. Maybe he simply did not wish to disturb her, she supposed as, with a soft knock on the door, their maid, Polly, entered the bedchamber carrying a tray stacked with food and a steaming pot of tea before her. It was remarkably quiet in the corridor outside, but hungry as she was, she disregarded the thought in favour of breaking her fast.

She ate with relish, and once she had dressed, she headed along to the nursery, intending to check on her son. Pushing the door gently open, she saw that it was empty, Valentine’s bed made neatly up by the servants. Well, that would explain the quietness, she thought with a wry smile. At three years old, little Valentine was a very high-spirited boy, and one who was not at all inclined to stay in bed when he was ought. George must have been woken by him, and had taken him downstairs so as not to disturb her—an increasingly common occurrence now that the little boy was not only often highly excitable in the mornings, but also showing all the signs of becoming a proficient escapologist. She smiled at the thought, half in amusement at Valentine’s mischief, half in affection at George’s consideration for her, and headed downstairs in search of her husband and son.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she heard the sound of childish laughter coming from the entrance to the parlour. Her shoes clipped lightly on the floor as she headed over to the half-open door, lingering in the hallway so as to peer into the room. She had been correct in her assumptions, she saw. Sitting amid what seemed like a veritable battlefield of wooden skittles, soft puppets and the toy animals that George had brought home from London, sat Valentine, giggling and clapping his small hands together excitedly. Beside him was George, sat cross-legged on the floor with a look of intense concentration etched on his ever-serious face as he straightened out the rather impressively high tower constructed entirely of wooden toy blocks that stood before him.

“This one!” Valentine cried, bouncing up and down on his little bottom as he held out one of the few remaining blocks to his father. George took it with an expression that was a peculiar mixture of weariness and fondness. Elizabeth couldn’t help but smile at the sight—she remembered that particular expression from her own father’s face as a little girl.

“As his lordship commands” George replied drily as he added the new block to the tower, and Valentine fell about laughing.

They continued in this manner until all of the wooden blocks had been piled up on top of the by now rather precarious looking tower. Still watching silently from the doorway, Elizabeth was quite sure that the entire thing would topple over as George very cautiously let go, but despite a rather dangerous wobble as he drew back, it somewhat miraculously remained upright.

That was until Valentine shuffled forward and poked it enthusiastically.

“Careful! It will fall down if you do that.”

“Fall down!”

And with another shove, he sent wooden blocks scattering across the floor as the tower that George had been so careful to keep steady tumbled right over in a heap. For a moment, Elizabeth half expected the little boy to cry, but instead he laughed harder than ever and, seeing the resigned look on her husband’s face as he stared down at the remains of the tower before him, she had to bite her lip to stop herself from joining in herself.

“Again!” Valentine cried, kicking his small feet excitedly.

George sighed.

“Oh, very well,” he said, his lip quirking as if he were fighting to suppress a smile. “But only one more time.”

At his words, Valentine leapt up and began gathering all the scattered wooden blocks into a messy pile. With a soft chuckle, Elizabeth decided it as time she made herself known to them. George turned around at the click of her shoes on the floor, sending her a small smile in greeting as she approached them. His eyes, however, looked a little tired, and she suspected, not for the first time that morning, that Valentine must have awoken him very early indeed.

“Ah, my dear, I trust you slept well?” he asked her warmly from his position on the floor.

“Well enough, thank you, George,” she replied, unable to keep a hint of mischief out of her tone. “I, at least, do not seem to have been up with the birds this morning, which is more than can be said for some here.”

George huffed a laugh at her words and opened his mouth to reply, but whatever he had intended to say was cut off by a jubilant cry of “Mama!”. Valentine, having been intent on collecting all of his wooden blocks, had only just noticed her arrival and, upon doing so, dropped his prize possessions in an instant so that he could hold his arms out to her imploringly. Gathering up her skirts, Elizabeth lowered herself to the floor between her husband and son and, reaching out to him gently, pulled the little boy onto her lap. He beamed up at her, cheerful and mischievous as ever.

“Good morning, my love,” she said. “I see that you have been keeping your papa on his toes this morning. Have you been having lots of fun without me, hmm?”

“He certainly has been,” replied George drily. “As you can see, he has become very adept in the art of destruction. He has been wreaking havoc on my masterpieces for the best part of an hour.”

Despite the fact that Valentine very likely had no idea what a masterpiece was, he quite clearly determined his papa’s meaning from the tone of his voice, and had deemed it to be a cause of utmost hilarity, for he once again collapsed about in delighted giggles from where he was perched on Elizabeth’s lap. George sighed once again, though his chagrin, clearly not intended in all seriousness, only served to make the little boy laugh harder.

“Again! Again!” he cried, pointing to the pile of wooden blocks on the floor.

“Only one more time,” George reminded him patiently. “Perhaps Mama can help us this time as well?”

“Yes!”

They worked together under the command of Valentine, still perched on Elizabeth’s lap like a king issuing orders to his subjects, and soon enough, George was placing the final block atop his latest construction, Valentine practically bouncing up and down in excitement.

“Shall we knock it down together?” she whispered to him, trying in vain to suppress a grin as he nodded enthusiastically. There was something oddly satisfying about pushing it down, not least because of her husband’s indignant squawk of “Elizabeth!”, which had her fighting not to join in with her son’s mischievous cackles.

Valentine was, naturally, disappointed by the end of the game, but a suggestion of a walk in the grounds was enough to divert his attention, and he was soon running off, harried nursemaid in tow as she tried, in vain, to wrestle him into a coat. George watched him go from where he sat beside her with a shake of his head.

“It is the way of little boys,” Elizabeth said with no small degree of amusement as he moved to stand and held out a hand to help her off the floor. “Geoffrey Charles was much the same at that age.”

George raised his eyebrows at her, brushing off some imaginary specks of dust from his tailcoat and glancing down at the mess surrounding them.

“Perhaps so, but I certainly don’t recall being so intent on creating carnage as a child” he said wryly, and Elizabeth, suddenly confronted with an image of a blond, very serious toddler making neat, perfectly aligned pyramids out of wooden blocks, could barely hold back a snort. His eyebrows shot up further, and this time she did not try to suppress the little laugh that escaped her.

“Perhaps next time, we might hope to give Valentine a sister” she replied airily.

George blinked at her.

“Next time?” he asked. There was a hint of uncertainty in his voice, and with a jolt, Elizabeth realised what she had just said. They had never openly discussed the possibility of having another child after Valentine, but the older her two boys grew, the more she found that she longed for a girl to join them. George, too, she suspected, would not object to the prospect—he doted on Valentine, after all, and she was quite certain it would please him to have more children to spoil.

“Yes—I have found of late that I should dearly love to have a daughter,” she admitted, turning to him with soft, hopeful look in her eyes. “Would that not be wonderful?”

He regarded her watchfully for a moment before that small, familiar smile that she had come to so cherish spread its way across his face, and he took her hand in both of his own and brought it to his lips.

“A daughter,” he said. “Yes, I think I should like that. I should like that very much indeed.”

[50funny]

Mage- Chapter 13: Test The Third (Part 2)

Written By 50Funny

Part 1- Master And Student 

There are two exits to my arena, the one to my left leads to a short and easy path to the end. On the right, a long arduous journey. You will fight each other in one on one battles, the exact nature of each battle will be chosen by the team victorious in the last. The first team to rack up three victories will win. Alright now enough talking, let’s see some carnage, hehe,” 8 giggled.

A thick tension filled the air as Alex and his group waited to see what their next challenge would be.

“I would like to nominate myself for the first duel,” said the elderly gentleman wearing an elegant dark blue robe.

“Huh, no objections here,” replied the scrawny man next to him.

The elderly man began to stride across the bridge, his hands locked behind his back in a proper manner. He stopped as he reached the centre of the arena.

“I am relatively new to this whole magic thing; I would like to test the skills I have obtained so far. I propose a battle of pure magic, no other weapons or tools allowed to pervert our magic skills,” explained the man. “Now, who is willing to face me?”

“Let me do this,” Tobin said, his voice thick with determination. 

“Be my guest,” said Alex.

Tobin strode out into the arena, confidently facing off his opponent.

“Ahh, so you are to be my opponent then. I look forward to our battle,” the man said bowing to his opponent.

“I look forward to our battle as well, however if I may, I would like to suggest a change to the parameters of our duel. I would ask for an axe on axe battle.”

“Hmmm, a battle of the axe. I am willing to accept your proposal, however I shall give you a chance to reconsider,” the man said reaching his arm out to the side.

A silver cloud began to swirl around the man’s hand. The cloud grew thicker and deeper in colour as it began to solidify into a long axe.

“I have trained in the way of the axe my entire life. I am the founder of the Tarkan Axe Arts and have trained many master axe wielders. I am the Legendary…”

“Ramond of Steel Lake, I know who you are,” Tobin interrupted. 

“Oh, and you still wish to duel me in this manner?” Ramond responded in surprise.

Tobin began to roll up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing a tattoo of a battle axe with a head on either end of the shaft facing in opposite directions.

“Oh I see, you’re a student of the Tarkan Axe Arts,”

“That I am. While I am willing to battle your way, I would be remiss if I didn’t take this opportunity to test my skills against a true master,” Tobin said bowing in respect.

“Haha, as I said I’m here to test my magical skills, but who am I to deny a fan.”

Ramond spun his axe around his head catching it in his other hand taking up a battle stance. Tobin reached behind him, unclipping his axe from his back taking up a similar stance. 

Part 2- Clash Of The Axes 

In the blink of an eye, Ramond sprung forward through the air towards Tobin. He slammed his axe down with all his might towards Tobin’s head. In the nick of time, Tobin raised his axe up blocking the attack with the shaft.

“Good reflexes,” Ramond congratulated.

Ramond pulled his axe away from Tobin winding up a swipe. He swung his axe at Tobin’s arm. Tobin quickly ducked down rolling to the side underneath the head of the axe.  He stood back up letting out a swift swing of his own. Ramond jumped up high above Tobin’s blade, back flipping behind him. Ramond sent his palm flying into Tobin’s back at full force before, he had a chance to react, sending him Tobin flying across the arena.

“Not bad. Not bad at all,” said Ramond.

Tobin pulled himself up from the ground and looked over to his axe laying on the ground next to him. He reached out grabbing it as he stood. Tobin launched himself towards Ramond at full speed his axe wound up for a strike behind his head.  As he drew closer to he let his axe loose. Ramond slammed his own axe down towards Tobin. Suddenly Tobin changed the trajectory of his axe hooking Ramond’s with the arch arched underside of the blade. 

“Huh what? Raymond exclaimed.

With a hearty pull, Tobin sent Ramond’s blade flying through the air landing firmly in the stone wall surrounding the arena. 8 looked down from her vantage point on the wall above the arena. She lifted her gaze from the axe back to the battle continuing on below.

“Hehe. This is simply delightful,” 8 said smiling devilishly.

Tobin continued letting loose an unending flurry of blows at Ramond. He ducked and dogged between the swings, narrowly avoiding Tobin’s axe. Ramond reached out his hand grabbing Tobin’s axe in midair as it came crashing down towards his head. He sent his leg flying into Tobin’s chest sending him crashing to the ground. Tobin’s axe dropped from his hand as he hit the ground. Ramond spun his axe around in his hand before sending it flying down towards Tobin’s head. Tobin clenched his eyes tightly as he prepared for the end. A long silence filled the arena as everyone looked on. Tobin opened his eyes back up seeing the head of the axe mere centimeters away from his face.

“Huh… what,” Tobin exclaimed in confusion.

“Haha, good fight, you gave me quite the run for my money for a moment there,” Ramond chuckled.

Ramond lowered the axe to the ground and extended his other hand out to help Tobin up. He looked down in shame as he reached out his hand and began to stand.

“I… I failed,” huffed Tobin.

“Oh no, don’t think of this as a failure, think of it as the gateway to future successes.”

Tobin’s ears perked up as he heard Ramond’s words.

“Wh… what are you talking about?” Asked Tobin.

“I can sense the makings of a great axeman. Given time I may even be able to mould you into a master.”

“Are… are you saying you’ll make me your student,” Tobin said, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

Ramond turned around and began walking back to his group.

“I expect to see you at the Steel Lake Dojo, after I’ve become a mage of course,” Ramond smiled.

“Yes... Of course master,” Tobin bowed, barely able to hold in his excitement.

Part 3- One / Zero

8 looked on as the two fighters crossed the bridge returning to their groups.

“Wonderful, just wonderful,” 8 said, raising her hand into the air.

8 let out a loud click. Suddenly a small chalkboard with the two team’s names written at the top each half of the board. A small piece of chalk appeared in her hand. She reached out drawing a vertical line on the board.  Ramond arrived back at his group.

“Alright, good job , way to go guy. You beat that dumbass down,” congratulated the scrawny man at the front of the group.

Ramond stopped and turned around to face the arena again.

“That boy has more honour in defeat than you ever will,” Ramond said.

“Ha, whatever,” the scrawny man scoffed.

Tobin Made his way back to his group, heaving deep breaths as he walked.

“What the hell man, you lost us the match!” Timothy yelled.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Tobin said, propping himself up against the nearby wall.

“Hey, c… come on he tried his best,” Cecilia muttered.

“Yeah whatever,” grumbled Timothy.

From across the room came a thickly accented voice.

“I am next,” bellowed the voice.

 The group looked across the arena at the large, wide, muscle bound man stomping across the bridge. The bridge buckled and swayed under the weight of the massive man. He arrived on the other side, stopping as he reached the arena.

“I am Irwan. In homeland, we settle disagreement with wrestling. So we wrestle. So who is brave enough to face mighty Irwan,” bellowed Irwan.

“There is no way I’m going out there,” stated Timothy.

Puffs lifted his puffer to his mouth and took a deep breath as he began to approach the bridge.

“Umm,” Alex said reaching out and grabbing Puff’s shoulder. “No offence but I don’t think this battle is the right fit for you.”

“Although,” Alex thought as he looked around his group. “None of these guys really seem all that capable. Do we even have a chance at beating these guys? Should I take this guy on and guarantee us one point? Or can I trust these guys and save my involvement for later.”

Cecilia raised her hand into the air, breaking Alex’s concentration.

“Umm, if it’s alright with everyone, I’ll take him on,” Cecilia murmured.

“Yeah right. Like you could take that monster on,” Timothy hissed.

Alex looked at Cecilia intently, trying to gauge the extent of her ability.

“Cecilia… do you really think you can do this?” Alex said in a serious tone.

Cecilia awkwardly shifted her gaze down.

“Well… um,” Cecilia stuttered before clenching her fists tightly. “Yes, I mean, yes I think I can.”

“Ok then.”

Cecilia nodded before walking off down the bridge towards the arena.

“Huh… what, no way man, you’re going to let her take him on?” Timothy gasped his mouth agape. agape seems odd?

“Yep, unless you wanna do it?”

Cecilia walked out into the arena staring down Irwan.

“Haha, you want to fight me little girl? I give you chance to reconsider.”

Cecilia looked on at Irwan, unfazed by his words. Irwan set himself firmly on the ground. He raised his foot up before sending it crashing down again.  The ground shook underneath Irwan’s foot. A small lip of stone began to form encircling the pair. Cecilia continued to look on at Irwan unfazed by his display. 

“You leave circle, you lose, understand,” Irwan stated. “Unless I crush you first. Enough talk!..”

Part 4- Immovable Object 

Irwan suddenly kicked off the ground running towards Cecilia, shaking the ground with every impact. Cecilia stood completely motionless staring down Irwan as he ran. 

“What the hell are you doing?” yelled Timothy from the sidelines. “Move, run… Do something!”

Cecilia continued to stand unmoving in the face of her oncoming foe. Irwan tucked his head into his arm ?? as he charged, preparing for impact. Irwan made contact with Cecilia, sending a loud thud echoing through the air. The two teams looked on in disbelief at the fight unfolding in front of them. Irwan shifted his gaze up to Cecilia.

“Impossible!” Irwan exclaimed.

Irwan backed away from Cecilia. She stood undamaged, still as a statue staring back at Irwan with unblinking eyes. Her body and clothes had turned a light grey and had gained the texture of some sort of stone.

“Huh, what the hell just happened?” Timothy exclaimed.

“Oh, I see. She has the power to change her body into some sort of hard stone,  increasing her weight and hardness,” Bip explained.

8 stared down at the unfolding battle from her vantage point.

“Hmmm, this could be interesting,” 8 murmured.

“Come out little girly!” Irwan shouted.

Cecilia continued to stand motionless. Irwan growled, enraged by her blank, taunting stare.

“Arghhhh! I will crush you little girly!” Irwan screamed.

Irwan stomped quickly over to Cecilia, winding his fist back preparing to strike. He let loose his blow, landing square on her face.  There was a brief silence before it was suddenly broken by Irwan’s loud screams of pain. He gritted his teeth in anger as he began to growl ferociously.

 “Face me like man, little girl!” Irwan shouted out before unleashing a frenzy of mindless blows.

Irwan continued to pummel Cecilia’s stone tomb, ignoring the pain his body was experiencing.

“This is perfect, at this rate he’ll get too exhausted to keep fighting,” Timothy said. “Go Cecilia! Whoop this punk’s butt!” he cheered.

Irwan let out a series of heavy deep pants as he stoped his onslaught.  He looked down towards his bloodied and broken knuckles.

“Arghhhhhhh!” Irwan shouted in frustration, stomping his foot down to the ground.

As Irwan’s foot made contact with the ground the arena began to quake. Irwan raised his other foot before stomping it down, sending out yet another quake. As the ground shook beneath them, it began to tilt. Irwan continued to stomp tilting the arena more and more. As the ground tilted, Cecilia immobile body began to slip down. Her body passed over the stone lip marking the boundary of the arena.

“Damn it!” Timothy yelled.

Cecilia continued to slip down the arena towards the edge.

“Hu, What? He’s not stopping,” Tobin yelled in shock. 

Irwan continued to stomp, smiling fiendishly as he watched Cecilia slip towards the edge of the platform.

“Haha… bye bye annoying girly,” Irwan taunted.

Cecilia’s body teetered on the edge over the abyss bellow before falling down into the depths. The group looked down in shock as Cecilia’s body fell.

“That’s enough!” came 8’s voice as she jumped down into the arena.

 8 held her arm out towards Cecilia’s body. Cecilia began to hover up from the abyss flailing around and panting heavily with a blue glow around her. She began to hover towards the rest of the group. The blue glow suddenly dissipated dropping Cecilia gently to the ground. 8 looked over to Irwan, a serious expression burnt on her face. 

“You’ve won. Get back to your group.”

Irwan stared down at 8, letting out a furious grunt before turning around and stomping back across the bridge. 8 let out a loud huff.

“Now to fix this up.”

8 lifted up her foot, sending it crashing down to the ground. The arena began to once again flatten out.

“Wow, good job big boy,” yelled the scrawny man. 

The man looked across the arena towards the other team.

“Scores getting pretty tight there, we won’t blame you if you just give up now,” the man taunted.  

Tobin gritted his teeth as he locked eyes with the man across the arena.

“Shut up,” grumbled Tobin.

“I… I’m sorry… I really thought I could beat him,” Cecilia stuttered.

“Yeah whatever, I knew we shouldn’t have trusted you with that,” Timothy snarled.

Alex looked on at his group as Timothy stormed off into the corner.

“At this rate, we don’t have a chance of getting through this,” thought Alex.

Part 5-  Coming Night 

The scrawny man looked up to the sky as the sun began to set behind the mountain. He let out a slight hum as he thought. The man stepped towards the edge of the platform looking across the arena.

“I have a proposal for you!” the man yelled.

Alex’s team shifted their gaze across the gap to the man.

“I’m sure we're all tired, plus those two losers you got could use the time to heal up. How about we continue this in the morning?”

Ramond walked up to the man grabbing him by the shoulder and turning him around. 

“What the hell are you doing, we need all the time we can get,” Ramond scold.

The scrawny man looked with distain at Raymond’s hand resting on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry old man, I know what I’m doing,” the scrawny man replied as he removed Ramond’s hand from his shoulder. 

Tobin raised his injured body up from the ground.

“We need to get a move on, we don’t have time to waste resting.”

Alex looked over Tobin’s injured body before glancing over to Cecilia who seemed even quieter and more timid than usual. Timothy stood by himself, his back to the rest of the group stewing In his own anger.

“I don’t like it either, but I think we could all use the rest. If we keep going tonight we don’t have any chance of beating them,” said Alex.

Tobin looked down to the ground before raising his gaze to Alex again.

“If that’s what you think is best,” Tobin said before turning around and limping back to his resting spot.

Alex looked back across the gap, nodding back at the scrawny man.

“Wonderful, we can finish you off in the morning then,” the man taunted turning back around to his group.

Alex group began setting up their area for the night, the strain of their defeats weighing heavily on the group.

 Part 6- Growing tensions 

Liz and Es stood lit by the dim twilight, once more looking up at the long elevator shaft leading down into the maze.

“This is insane, they must be using magic or something,” Liz exclaimed.

“If they were using magic we would be able to sense it. We need to go around again,” Es replied turning around to walk down the path.

“Are you serious, we’ve been around five times already! And I don’t know about you, but I didn’t see any secret exit?”

Es clenched his fist tightly before turning around and stalking towards Liz.

“We aren’t gonna get anywhere discussing it!” Es snarled.

“Oh yeah, cause your plan’s working a charm,” Liz growled back.

Es stared down Liz, holding back his anger. He looked up to the sky as the sun continued to set.

“It’s getting dark, we should get some rest.”  Es hissed turning back away from Liz.

“Rest? Are you kidding me?” Liz exclaimed. “We haven’t made any progress yet, we’ve wasted the entire day and you wanna rest?”

“Look It’s already cold at this altitude, and once that sun's gone it’s just gonna get colder.”

“Is it really that cold?” Liz said in surprise.

“Are you kidding, it’s freezing. We’re not gonna get anywhere if we’re frozen and exhausted, we should rest now and continue in the morning.”

Es raised his hand up towards the nearby wall. Suddenly a small tent appeared in front of Es. He unzipped the front of the tent before walking inside.

“For once would you just listen to…” Liz’s words were cut off as Es zipped up the tent.

Liz growled at the tent before turning around and walking to the opposite side of the path. Liz laid on the rocky floor staring off into the sky for a moment before closing her eye’s and drifting off to an uneasy sleep.

________________________________________________________________ Thank you for reading chapter 13 of mage. If you like what you see consider checking out my AO3 at this link https://archiveofourown.org/users/50Funny to see all new chapter 3 days early. If you feel so inclined please consider following my tumblr for all updates and other tid bits. Until next week, have a good day.

[quickeningheart]

Eleven

     Naturally, the mice did not take kindly to their Charley-girl’s life being threatened, and they showed their displeasure by promptly storming Limburger’s tower and blowing it up.

    When the city shook from the impact of a hundred-thousand tons of steel and brick meeting the ground head-on, Alley shrieked and dove for cover under the desk. Charley, in the midst of replacing her damaged brake line, just rolled her eyes and kept right on working. "It's not an earthquake," she said blandly. "It's just the guys showing Limburger their appreciation."

    "By taking out half the city?" Alley crawled out from under the desk, frowning at the smears of grease now staining her skirt.

    "Don’t worry. Over the years, they’ve turned toppling that tower into something of a fine art. The destructive radius barely passes a hundred feet in any direction anymore.”

    Alley blinked at her. “I don’t know if that should impress me or make me run screaming for the hills.”

    Charley laughed. “Better go throw some dogs on the stove. And pull a few packs of root beer out of the fridge, will ya? They'll be completely hyped when they get back."

    “And feeding them carbs and sugar is your solution to calming them down, huh?”

    Charley just smirked and flipped a wrench in her hand, laying back on the platform dolly and scooting under the truck. Alley sighed and shook her head. “Call me a nut, but wouldn’t destroying Limburger’s property sort of … I dunno … royally piss him off?”

    "Definitely,” came the muffled reply. “But it'll also keep him busy and out of our hair for at least a week.” She reappeared and sat up, holding the ruined brake line tubing. “It’ll buy us some time to scout around and find out what he's up to.”

    “It only takes a week to rebuild an entire skyscraper?”

    Charley pressed her palms flat against each other and bowed her head. “As blowing up the tower has become an art form, so has Limburger turned rebuilding it into one.”

    Alley tipped back her head. “It’s the ciiiirrrcle of liiiiife!” she sang dramatically, throwing out her arm and gliding to the stairs, earning a bark of laughter from her cousin.

    “Go boil some hotdogs, you nut!”

     ~*~*~*~*~

   True to word, the boys were practically vibrating with adrenaline when they roared into the garage fifteen minutes later. Vinnie screeched to a stop with his signature howl of victory, hurling his helmet across the room. It sailed dangerously close to Charley’s computer, slammed into a nearby stack of tire rims and sent them crashing to the floor in a cacophony of scattering steel.

    “Vinnie! Dial it down a notch, you macho lunkhead!” Charley snapped, throwing the wrench she was holding at him. “You almost took out my computer! And pick those rims up!”

    “Eh, sorry, Sweetheart. Got a little carried away.” He offered a grin and a sheepish chuckle, hastily moving to clean up his mess.

    A few seconds later, Alley skittered down the stairway, holding a pair of tongs and looking around with wide eyes. “What the hell is all the racket? Are we under attack?”

    “The boys are home.” If Charley’s voice got any drier, she’d start spitting sand.

    “I see that.” A pause. “Was someone howling just now?”

    Modo snickered. “Nah. That was just Vinnie.”

    “His way of showin’ the world what a bad mammajamma he is,” Stoker added with a wicked smirk.

    “Oh.” Alley pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Because, for a second there, I thought maybe the garage was being overrun by feral dogs or something.”

    Charley put a fist to her mouth, unsuccessfully trying to stifle her amusement. The other three mice didn’t even attempt to try, and Vinnie glared at them, readying himself for an old-fashioned throw-down.

    “Don’t you dare,” Charley warned before the white mouse had a chance to pounce. “My garage is not a wrestling ring. Take it outside!”

    “Ah, forget it.” Vinnie deflated, pouting. “I’m starvin’! Where’re the dogs ‘n beer?”

    “They’re cooking upstairs.” Alley turned, then hesitated, shooting him a questioning glance over her shoulder. “Do you really howl like that every time you take out Limburger’s tower?”

    “And for any other reason he can think up,” Charley snorted.

    “It’s my battle cry!” Vinnie sniffed, brushing an imaginary speck of dirt from his arm. “Every superhero needs a battle cry.”

    “And ‘cowabunga’ was already taken,” Throttle quipped.

    Alley nodded, her expression serious. “It’s just … you know … the guys who yelp the loudest, Vinster,” she reminded him with a sigh, continuing on her way.

    Vinnie’s jaw dropped. He sputtered uselessly for a comeback, gaping at her retreating back. Modo and Stoker guffawed, Charley buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.

    And Throttle just stood there looking confused, wondering what the hell was suddenly so funny.

     ~*~*~*~*~

    The rest of the week passed in relative peace.

    Well, as peaceful as it ever got around the Last Chance, anyway. Alley soon learned that the mice never seemed to be happy unless they were making as much racket as possible. “Quiet as a mouse” did not apply to the Martian variety. While Charley seemed perfectly content to let them cohabit her garage, blaring the rock stations at levels that could only be described as “deafening”, Alley took it upon herself to invest in a bottle of aspirin and some good ear plugs. She wondered at first how they didn’t go deaf, what with ears as large and sensitive as theirs, before chalking it up to their overall weirdness.

    Since the guys were always at the garage more than they weren’t (well, the trio was; Stoker came and went as he pleased, and Charley didn’t appear to give a hoot about that, either), it gave Alley a good chance to observe them. While Vinnie was always flapping his mouth and up to no good, the other two mice were far more reserved in their behavior. Especially Throttle. While they all joked around and roughhoused a lot, he tended to be a little more careful and reigned in the other two when they got too carried away. He must have been their leader of sorts, since they always deferred to him and fell in line when he told them to. Unless Stoker was around. All three of them deferred to Stoker, and it was clear the older mouse was well-respected as a mentor and a war hero.

    One thing Alley could say about the guys; they all had a very well-developed sense of self-preservation. At least when it came to females, and Charley especially. They seemed able to tune in to the times when the mechanic was extra stressed trying to finish a particular job, and her patience was close to the snapping point. That was generally the time they herded each other out the door to “patrol the city” for awhile. Which Alley suspected was code for getting out of the way before her cousin could strangle them with their own tails. Either way, she certainly did appreciate the rare times of peace and quiet their absence bought.

    Unfortunately, this particular Friday morning was not one of those times.

    Almost an entire week, and she was still trying to get the mess of Charley’s paperwork sorted out. A job she’d thought would only take a day or two was taking a heck of a lot longer than that. And the blaring hard rock that was slowly driving a small railroad spike through her skull certainly didn't make it easier to concentrate.

    The cordless phone on the desk rang, and she answered it while making a beeline for the large boombox sitting on its makeshift shelf beside the garage door. Ignoring everyone's protests, she turned the volume down to a more reasonable level before returning to the desk to arrange customer's appointment. From the corner of her eye, she noted Throttle sneakily reaching for the volume control. "Excuse me for one moment, Sir," she said politely into the receiver. Covering the mouthpiece with her palm, she mustered her fiercest glare and snarled, “Throttle. If you touch that dial, so help me, I’ll rip your fingers off one by one and stuff ‘em up your ass.”

    The others chortled loudly as Throttle raised his hands in surrender, slowly backing away from the radio with a raised eyebrow. “Sorry, princess,” he muttered, giving Vinnie a swat with his tail when the white mouse cheered, and staggered a little as Modo gave him a “friendly” clout across the back.

    “Having some problems there, Alley Cat?” Charley teased, eyes sparkling with humor.

    Alley took a deep breath and pasted a saccharine smile on her lips. “Thank you for holding, Mr. Anderson,” she told the waiting customer sweetly. “To confirm, your car will be brought in for inspection at nine AM this coming Wednesday. Are you planning to drop it off, or do you wish to wait?” She paused. “No, sir, the Last Chance doesn’t provide shuttling service, but a taxi can be called for you. There is also a bus route three blocks away. Yes. That will be fine. Thank you for choosing the Last Chance Garage. We’ll see you on Wednesday.” She hung up the phone and sighed, shooting her cousin an exasperated glance. “Did you get all that?”

    “Yep. State inspection. Wednesday. Nine o'clock,” Charley grunted, struggling to loosen a nut from part of an engine. “There’re some Post-its in the drawer. Jot it down for me, will ya?”

    “Oh, hell no.” Alley glared at her. “The jotting of appointments on sticky notes stops now, you hear me? It’s unprofessional and half the notes end up falling into the garbage anyway! You are, without a doubt, the most unorganized computer genius I've ever known. How have you managed to not tank your own business in all these years?”

    "What can I say? It’s a gift." Charley pulled a face at her.

    "Well, here’s a much better gift." Alley waved a brown leather book in the air. "See this? Say hello to your new best friend. All of your appointments are sorted and logged into this ledger. Your assignment is to actually use it."

    Charley’s brow furrowed. "I do have an appointment ledger, you know."

    "If you’re talking about that greasy, torn up notebook I found buried in the bottom of your desk drawer, I threw it out. You haven’t written any actual appointments in it for the past six months, anyway.”

    Charley shot her a dry look. “I don’t recall making you the supervisor. When did you get so bossy?”

    “I’d say during the week I just spent attempting to salvage your pitiful excuse of a business practice,” Alley deadpanned.

    “Oooooh. Burned!” Vinnie sang softly under his breath.

    Charley shot him an irritated glance. “Don’t you have something to go blow up?” she grumbled.

    “You shouldn’t criticize her, anyway,” Alley added. “You’re all part of the problem.” She raised a hand to halt the immediate protests. “Charley, when is the last time you tried to organize your finances? I mean, have you even looked at the balances in the past year? Hell, the past three years?”

    “Of course I have! That’s the one thing I did keep up with. I’m not a complete moron, you know.”

    Alley pursed her lips and folded her hands atop the desk. “Then you’re fully aware that the Last Chance is just barely keeping afloat. You’ve managed to keep your finances in the green, but you hardly pull in enough extra for basic living expenses. The only thing saving you is that you own this building outright. But you still have property taxes, the highest electric bill I’ve ever seen, you’re making payments on some of this equipment yet … and every month that line between success and bankruptcy is narrowing further and further. I see you’ve had to dip into your savings on several occasions just to make ends meet.”

    “Is this true, Charley-ma'am?” Modo wanted to know. All three mice were listening, concern etched on their faces. “You in trouble?”

    “No!” Charley protested, while at the same time Alley stated, “Yes.”

    Charley rubbed her temple, looking irritated, and just a little defeated. “I guess … things are a little tight, financial-wise,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “It doesn’t really concern you, though, so don’t worry about it, okay?”

    “Except it does concern them.”

    “Alley!” Charley glared at her. “Stop it.”

    “No. Let her talk.” Throttle’s voice left no room for argument. “Are you sayin’ it’s our fault?”

    “Partly.” Alley shrugged, rubbing the back of her neck. “And Limburger is at fault, too,” she added. “He's the reason this part of the city is all but abandoned. I don’t imagine that’s helped business, any. But he’s not responsible for a lot of the damage and repair that’s been done on the garage in the past few years, is he?” She tapped the computer monitor. “The garage doors had to be replaced how many times? I mean, not just worn-out parts, the whole, entire doors. Who kept putting giant holes in them?”

    “Um…” The trio glanced at each other, uneasy.

    “That’s why I had the automatic sensors installed,” Charley cut in.

    “And there’s also the matter of all the … upgrades done to your bikes. Specialized parts to be ordered in and … I don’t even know what else.” Alley fixed the mice with a questioning glance. “Has it even once occurred to you to ask where those upgraded parts come from? Or did you just assume she farts 'em out her ass on command?”

    “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Alley!” Charley threw her hands in the air. Her face was suspiciously red. “It’s not their problem, so don’t involve them! I volunteered to take care of their bikes. It was entirely my decision.”

    “And it’s costing your garage way more money than you can actually afford right now. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how often they just help themselves to stock off the shelves when they’re maintaining those bikes, either. More money out of your very shallow pocket.”

    “Can I see the figures?” Throttle asked, stepping forward. Charley started to protest, but he ignored her as Alley scooted away from the desk to let him look at the spreadsheet. He studied it for a few minutes, face expressionless.

    Charley glowered at her cousin. “You’re fired,” she muttered.

    Alley waved a dismissive hand. “Fine. Fire me. But it would've caught up to you eventually. I don’t get what you were trying to accomplish by keeping it from them, anyway. Why shouldn’t they know?”

    Charley sighed heavily, perching on the end of the desk. “Because … they’ve done so much for this city. And for me. I told you, without them, things would be going a lot worse with the Plutarkians. Chicago owes them a huge debt, and doesn’t even know it. I’m just … doing what little I can to repay them for their efforts. There was no need to let them in on how much it was costing me.”

    "Did you think we'd be happy if we ended up tanking your business, or mad if ya told us we were eatin' yer profits?" Modo scolded. "You oughta know better 'n that."

    "Yeah, Sweetheart, we woulda paid ya or somethin'," Vinnie put in, sounding hurt.

    "And how would you manage that, huh? Go out and get yourselves a nine-to-five?" Charley snorted. "You guys ain't exactly rollin' in cash."

    Nobody could argue with that. Alley shook her head. “You could pay her in physical labor, you know. Help her out with the garage, take some of the workload off. If she had more than just herself to finish jobs, she could take on more customers, and bring in more money.”

    “Yeah, but … we’re no wrench jockeys,” Vinnie grumbled. “An’ Charley-girl won’t let us near the equipment, anyway.”

    “That’s because you always blow up anything you touch,” Charley snapped.

    “So, teach them,” Alley said with exaggerated patience. “Start them off with simple stuff. Like motorcycles. They’re always tinkering around with theirs. An Earth bike isn’t that different, is it? Start with that and go from there.”

    Charley sighed. "I'll think about it, okay? But even if they did help, it's not gonna bring more customers or money in any faster, you know."

    "That's because you don't advertise."

    "Last I checked, advertising costs money, which we've already established I don't have."

    "Well, how have you been getting business?" Alley asked.

    "Mostly through word-of-mouth. And most of my customers have been with me since I opened the place. The ones Limburger hasn't managed to drive out of the neighborhood, anyway."

    “Which is great, but new business would be even better. We’ll have to think up some advertising schemes. Maybe print out some cheap fliers and post them around the city? Coffee shops, grocery stores; places like that usually have notice boards where you can tack stuff up, and it doesn’t cost anything. Maybe a small ad in the Sunday paper, or, I dunno, those paper place-mats they use to advertise in diners and stuff. There are ways to get more business.”

    “Great,” Charley sighed, defeated. “Just what I need. More work.”

    “You do need more work. And you need more help. And you’ve got three perfectly able-bodied me—um—mice who can give you some, if you’re willing to let them.” Alley considered. “Four, if you count Stoker. Where is that guy, anyway? I haven’t seen him since Wednesday.”

    “Probably in one of his secret labs,” Throttle replied, straightening up, finished with his perusal of Charley’s files. “He prefers to work alone.”

    “He has secret labs? What is he, a mad scientist?”

    He chuckled. “Something like that. Don’t ask us what he’s cookin’ up, though. He’s pretty hush-hush about the whole thing.”

    “Sounds like him, all right.” Charley smiled fondly. “Always the lone wolf, that one.”

    Throttle fixed her with a look. “You sure aren’t one to criticize, Miss My-garage-is-going-under-but-damned-if-I-ask-for-any-help.”

    “Okay, okay. No need to rub it in,” Charley grumbled. “I just didn’t want to make you guys worry about me, that’s all. You tend to get all protective and you hover. It’s annoying.”

    “Biker Mice do not ‘hover’,” Vinnie sniffed, crossing his arms.

    “Oh, you so hover. Like a little mother hen.” Charley shot him a teasing glance.

    Vinnie looked to Alley for help, but she just shrugged. “Hey, leave me out of it. She’s right. Don’t think we haven’t noticed how one of you guys followed us every time we had to leave the garage this week. We even made fake trips just to see who’d be next in line to tail us. You were totally hovering.”

    “Oh, yeah, that reminds me. You owe me five bucks.” Charley nudged her shoulder. “I said Throttle would be the one to follow you to the bank yesterday, and he did.”

    “Damn. Thanks a lot, Throttle.” Alley pulled a wadded bill out of her wallet and tossed it to her grinning cousin while the mice gaped at them.

    The bell went off just then, effectively bringing the conversation to a halt. The mice quickly scattered, heading back to their bikes to don protective helmets as the huge door slowly rolled up, revealing a very beat-up Chevy Caprice idling on the other side. The classic car was painted two-tone blue, at least where the large spots of rust didn’t cover the body. After a moment, the engine turned off, the doors opened, and Christopher Archer unfolded himself from the driver’s seat as his sister hopped out of the passenger’s side. “Uh, is there an Alley Davidson around?” he asked uncertainly, looking highly doubtful.

    “Guys!” Alley hopped up from the chair and trotted to them, grinning widely. “What’re you doing here? Come for some service?”

    Chris relaxed, tossing her a lopsided grin. “Actually, we came to kidnap you for the day. Got plans?”

    “Uh…” Alley looked at her cousin, who smirked and shooed her off. “Guess not. Great! I need to go phone shopping, and I thought you guys can help me out, yeah?” She turned to Chex, who had spotted the trio of gleaming bikes a few feet away and had honed in on them and their furry owners with predatory interest. Alley watched her watching them. “Hey, you okay?”

    “Yeah, sure,” Chex mumbled, taking a few steps closer. The mice looked at each other, fidgeting nervously under the unexpected scrutiny.

    “Don’t mind her. She’s got a major thing for bikers,” Chris snorted, rolling his eyes.

    Chex ignored him, reaching out to trace a finger along the mouse-shaped headlamp gracing the front of Modo’s bike. The big mouse drew himself up, prepared to defend his precious ride … but she didn’t give him the chance.

    “Holy shit!” she suddenly shouted, startling everyone into jumping and Vinnie into dropping the wrench he’d been holding. “Holy shit, holy shit!” She gave a few excited little hops, turned to slug her brother in the arm. “I told you!” she exclaimed over his pained yelp. “I told you they were real!”

    “What’s real? What the hell’s wrong with you, you psycho?” Chris snapped, rubbing his abused bicep.

    “It’s them!” Chex gestured wildly. “You know, them! I told you! They’re real! I didn’t make it up, those alien mice dudes really exist and they’re standing right over there!”

    There was a moment of stunned silence. And then Vinnie, in two words, said exactly what everyone in the room was thinking.

    “Aww, cheese.”

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