#were your looking into a series of hollow rods and you can only see the dark center from the rod facing you

[jestersarts]

Getting addicted to terraria again, here's my current PC, Bright!

" Where're did they come from? The Sky of Course! What are they? A STAR of course! Ok but then why are they they walking and talking like a person then? why are you being so fucking nosey can't you mind your own fucking busin- "

[suoyou]

[wip] 一日三秋; one day, three autumns

1633 words, rated t.

a complete chapter 2 in an incomplete series of oneshots titled 一日三秋; one day, three autumns, in which wwx is the autumn king and lwj is the winter prince.

ch 1.

they say that missing someone is the most powerful force of pain a person will know. a pain that can wilt the heart. a pain to carry. a pain that can turn one day into three autumns.

In the middle of Lan Wangji’s left thigh is a scar, round and hollow in the center, like a coin. It had been a burn once, angry blisters deadening into a purple keloid into, now, a little white moon on his skin. 

Of the five floors of the castle, Lan Wangji is only allowed in three. Evidently, little does it matter that he is the only other heir to the Winter Throne should his brother ever be incapable of holding it; he’s often pictured how woefully unprepared he would be should the Kingdom of Summer ever revolt again, or, as the Defectress Luo Qingyang had promised, if the Autumn King showed up seeking revenge. 

For what, Lan Wangji doesn’t know. 

“You don’t need to know,” has always been his uncle’s reply. 

“You won’t need to know if I have any say in it,” is what his brother says, kind, still double-edged.

“You should know,” said the Defectress Luo Qingyang, over her teacup, and jade has never looked so threatening, “that your kingdom is still carrying out the crimes of war right under your nose, and if your family does not wake up, the Autumn Kingdom will leave the decade-long peace treaty in the dust the same way you have.” She said it all like she was simply commenting on the races. The Jin Imperial Family was winning. 

“How do you know? What kind of war crimes?” asked Lan Wangji. He’d spoken too brusquely, but Luo Qingyang hadn’t been fazed. All around them, the Dragon Boat Festival surged on, air humid and painted green-red-blue, an overfull tea kettle of a day. “Why is it your concern?”

“That you think it shouldn’t be my concern is the same line of thinking that got your Kingdom into this mess,” she said, and her words have been ringing in Lan Wangji’s ears ever since, an unwelcome jabber of sparrow song and raven squawks that won’t leave him hours later. The telltale signs of spring. She holds her position well. 

“What kind of war crimes?” he repeated.

She’d taken her time sipping the rest of her tea before placing her empty cup on the table to be taken away. “Do you recall, when the Wen Imperial Family went rogue and the Snowfire Wars tore the lands apart,” she said, “there was a division of mages known as the Core Reapers?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t really believe, do you, that they simply vanished after those wars?”

Lan Wangji had stared at her. 

The Core Reapers had vanished after the Snowfire Wars. They’d ridden through the war-torn battlegrounds after blood had been spilled like red ghosts, gathering the dying bodies of civilians and mages alike to, as Lan Wangji had heard, harvest their cores. Word was that the Wen Imperial Family was creating elixirs, weapons, medicines out of them. Hearsay had it that they were creating monsters. 

He stares at his scar now, where his jade pendant had burned him through three layers of clothing thirteen years ago, and had never lit up again. In the dusk of the evening, it’s almost invisible, as if it had  never existed—vanished, like the Reapers, after the war. 

Lan Wangji stands up and shrugs his outer robe back on. Unthinkingly, he opens the drawer where he keeps that pendant, like it’ll have answers for him. It doesn’t. Jade does not dull with age, but in the red velvet of the drawer it could be leached bone. A small one—a skull bone. 

Lying beside it is its bonded match. Once they had been identical, though Lan Wangji’s pendant was wrapped in blue ribbon. The other is broken on one side and missing a segment, red knotting and tassels unraveled, the jade circle incomplete like a horseshoe. When the Snowfire Wars raged around him, Lan Wangji wore his half of the pair with more attention and care than when he carried his sword.

“Wangye,” his attendant inclines her head when he opens his pavilion doors. 

“I have some personal work to attend to. Can you see to it that, if any of my family seeks me, to let them know I will greet them accordingly when I return?”

“Yes, Wangye.”

So he goes. 

Three of the Kingdom’s floors are aboveground. Two are below. He’s been to three in the middle—never the topmost, never the bottomost, and he’s not sure what he’s looking for. He has to look, to be sure, or else it will be another evening of Luo Qingyang’s voice in his head, jerking him awake long before dawn.

Strange dreams have been plaguing him since the Dragon Boat festival, the sorts of dreams that someone would tell themselves didn’t mean anything. The night of the festival Lan Wangji had gone to bed and found himself in a place where the sun never set, simply bobbing up and down in the sky, turning from green to gold and back again as the days and nights passed. Then, the next night, the scar on his thigh had opened up and begun bleeding afresh, and no matter what magic he used, it would not stop. The more magic he used, the more blood poured down his leg. 

Last night, he dreamed of Wei Ying. Not in the way he’d been in life, so bright that Lan Wangji couldn’t bear to look at him sometimes. 

The Kingdom of Winter had been blanketed in snow for their cycle, and Lan Wangji was in the woods outside the royal walls alone. A dark sweep of Core Reapers had passed by. Their hoods had been drawn over their heads. It looked as if the entire forest was bleeding. 

One of them in the center of their tight pool of red had paused and turned their heads, and under the scarlet, mink-lined hood had been Wei Ying’s face. 

Lan Wangji shakes himself as he greets the guards that stand outside the gates into the Kingdom’s undergrounds. A question floats through their expressions but they open the gates for him without question, bowing again as he passes. 

He picks his way through the first underground level without wasting his time. Here they keep their forbidden texts, their spoils of war, here they hold sensitive political meetings. A damp, sweet smell of soil clutches fat little hands at his robes, happy for visitors, and he raises his hand to upright some of the overgrown vines and planters that line the walls. His hand glows a dim blue, and the drooping foliage picks its flower heads up again. Blooms are coming. 

Even if he’s never made the descent into the lowest floor of the Kingdom, Lan Wangji knows there are two ways to get there—the prisoners’ entrance in the Pavilion of Discord, and the one he faces now. The jailers’ entrance, through the Hall of Justice. 

He doesn’t feel particularly just, facing the round door that he knows will take him down the staircase into the Kingdom’s dungeons.  

Blue fires light his way. 

In times of peace, there aren’t many prisoners to speak of. The few that the Kingdom of Winter persecutes are petty thieves, suspected spies, and the occasional revolutionist, all of which are bent into fearful submission before they ever even make it to the dungeons. Lan Wangji knows it. He’s seen it. 

And he’s right, almost, for at least part of the dungeon. It’s bright and clean, with mainly empty cells, but the blue fires end abruptly in the middle of the long walkway between the rows. There are scuffles, noises of things living, hushed in the gloom. He pauses and strains his eyes. Then he lifts his hand, summoning some of the fires in the torches to his palm to light his way. 

He doesn’t know what he expects to see. Prisoners, perhaps, curled up like hungry mice. 

The icy sheen of his fire falls over the bodies in the cells, and Lan Wangji frowns before he steps back, breath stuttering in his chest. 

They are prisoners. It’s the most human thing left about them. Some of them have lost all their hair, ragged clumps gathering in rolls thick as dead cats beside them. Others have clawed their own backs bloody, as if they’d been trying to dig their own spines out of their bodies, and still others were covered in a thick, tarry ooze, as if blood and lymph had leaked out of them and gained its own sentience. One of them lay in silence with a stained white strip of cloth over his eyes, a line at his neck like his head had been stitched back on. 

Lan Wangji’s stomach writhes, hot and sick, in his belly. 

The end of the walkway widens into a larger chamber where no one is kept, but as he passes his fire over the space he can make out the outlines of odd contraptions—long rods with fluted holes, boards with three holes in them—one larger, two smaller, for a neck and hands. A splintered wooden gurney like a rotting log. Old blades sprout off of it like oyster mushrooms. They blink sleepily back at him, eyes in the night. A bizarre device like a chair, outfitted with two horns on both sides. Anyone sitting in it would have their head position between the mouths of both. 

He frowns. A long skein of red fabric has been tossed carelessly over the back of the chair, wrinkles rounded and warm. A cloak. Someone’s just taken it off. 

“Wangji,” a voice comes from behind him, “what are you doing down here?”

[libradusk]

Touch Starved | Kix

Word Count: 3,683

Pairing: Clone Medic Kix x Reader

Summary: The pain of losing those you love burns harsher than any shot of liquor ever could.

You’re determined to not let Kix face his demons alone.

Warnings: LOTS OF HURT/COMFORT because I live for this trope, use of alcohol as a coping mechanism somewhat, mention of injury and death that results from war, mention of a medical setting.

a/n: This chapter is dedicated especially to @morganas-pendragons​ who is so talented and so kind and helped inspire this chapter - I really hope you enjoy this chapter Kayla!

Also the two other characters briefly featured in this are my two medic oc’s, you can find a visual reference for Eir here with a little more info, if you’re curious.

Thanks for all the love on this series so far! I appreciate each and every one of you.

Tagging: @thatonesakudere​, @kaminobiwan​ and @simping-for-fives​ (Send me a message if you wanna be tagged in any of my future fics!)

When he wasn’t in the mess for supper with the rest of the 501st’s boys, you knew exactly where he was hiding.

That preconceived knowledge turned over itself in your stomach. The feeling was biting, twisting your newly closed stitches tighter until they threatened to knot your rib-cage into black and blue rods of anxiety.

You were woozy, still somewhat unsteady on your feet despite it having been a full 24 hours since you had awoken from the surgeon’s table, bathed in a halo of fluorescent light and with little more than a medical droid for company. But still, despite the stinging in your side and the heaviness of your muscles, you persevered onward, back towards the medbay, back to him - whether he wanted the company or not, you needed to do what you could to ensure he was ok.

For your own sanity, as well as his at this point.

Your stomach protests against your heart’s demand the moment you are hit with the first wave of disinfectant-heavy air, forcing your arm to shoot out and brace your heaving body against the medbay’s entrance. Almost instantly, your knees buckle in response to the flare of pain that shoots over your entire right side. Bile begins to stretch and rise from the hollowness of your stomach, equal parts a reaction to not only the smell and memory of your injury, but also to the agony currently rippling across your hunched form. The force of it makes your heart feel as though it is swelling and threatening to drag itself out of your throat with each breath you take, it takes a good few seconds to recollect yourself and refocus your vision as it stutters. 

There's a quiet sense of mourning draped across the wing. Considering what whispered condolences and murmurings had floated past the lips of the surviving soldiers released the same time as you, you’re not surprised. Through the pain poisoning your thoughts, you theorise that the bulk of the medical staff on duty are no doubt stretched between filing out piles of casualty reports and treating what unfortunate souls were not as lucky as you were. Yet despite all this, it's mere moments before you raise your head to find yourself flanked by a small crowd of medical droids. They hobble around you on weighted, gray tinted limbs with a speed that seemed uncanny to the robotic creatures, a concerned droning manifesting through the air as their vocal modulators begin to speak in unison.

Get away from me, I don’t have time for this! 

The words lock themselves behind your gritted teeth as you inwardly curse your body for collapsing in on itself before your mission was complete. Thinking only in frustration, you fight past the tremor threatening your wrist to shove at the closest droid’s metallic face-plate, silently urging your senses to adapt to the sterile atmosphere so you could continue to force your tired legs towards their goal.

Yet instead of the chill of durasteel or the sharp prickle of a sedative agent penetrating your flesh, all you feel beneath your fingers is….nothing. You flex them around the air as you force your breathing to return to normal once more, the frantic panic slowly uncaging the rest of your senses until you can reach focus. There's a heavy, latex warmth clamped around your outstretched wrist and a symmetrical weight steadying the hunch of your shoulder. You follow the path they offer until your eyes meet with the concerned gaze serving as the final stitch that keeps you frozen in place - pinning you with a tired glare that makes you feel remorseful and relieved all at once.

“...Eir.”

The clone medic continues to stare down at you long after you regard him and shift your weight backwards. The purple tattoos rimming his eyes bleed almost seamlessly into the dark circles bruising the hollow of their sockets. His hair doesn't look like it's been washed properly in days and he's still donning a set of surgical scrubs atop his uniform. He looks every bit as broken as you feel, yet he's still on duty with no sign of rest in sight. Your heart falls at the thought of how many others have been injured as badly as you in the last attack to warrant him being assigned additional duties within the 501st.

A sigh stretches over Eir’s chest as his dark eyes inspect the state of you.

“You should be resting. I had hoped you would have had the sense to stay away from the medbay for a while longer at least. I’ve got my hands full here as it is without you working yourself to the point of reinstatement straight after being discharged.”

Despite the exasperation sinking across his tone, he releases his hold on your wrist, the hand supporting your shoulder slinking back to join it in shooing away the medical droids as soon as he deems you steady enough to stand to full height again. He clicks his tongue as you absentmindedly ghost a hand over your injured side despite the pain having mostly subsided in its throbbing now. There's another beat where you can't quite bring yourself to look him in the eyes, feeling oddly sheepish at the scene you had just made, and continuing to wither under his knowing gaze. He takes mercy on you then, recognising the determination blazing behind your downtrodden expression and greeting it with a knowing smile so tiny, you don’t even have a chance to notice it before it floats away once he returns his gaze to the rows of medical beds stretching like coffin markers down the hall.

“Come on then if you’re going to find him, I can’t have you pulling at your stitches in the doorway. You know you’ll have to face Faera’s wrath if you ruin her handiwork.”

His voice holds a familiar warmth now as he folds his hands behind him and waits for you to follow his march. A sigh of relief leaves you before you can stop it, the force of it irritates your bruised lungs, but you confine the feeling to the back of your mind and concentrate on pushing your legs to a brisk walk behind the tall clone.

“...You know, he almost fought Faera when she was called in to stitch you up.” The words wring out a fresh admission of guilt from you, if Eir notices the heaviness of your silence, he doesn’t comment on it. You can’t blame him, his mind must be engulfed in a war-zone of its own right now.

“I’ve never seen him-” the surgical room doors seem to spin past each other as you and Eir pass them, each identical to the last. You wonder if the way they seem to blur together into a grey-white smudge makes Eir feel dizzy too, as you wait for him to pick up his sentence where he left it hanging under the pale lights. “-I’ve never seen him so terrified to leave a surgery before…”

Eir comes to a graceful halt at the end of a particularly dark stretch of the medbay corridor. A sigh born from concern hisses across the scar marring his lip and creases his brow. He wrings his gloved hands behind his back as his gaze rests on the final door looming in front of you both.

“...Make sure he’s ok will you? For me too.” Another sigh. Long, dark lashes flutter in contemplation as his fingers continue to twist around the apprehension, the guilt, as it spills away from him in the safety of the dark. “We’ve lost a lot of brothers these past few days… I’ve taken him off duty, but he won’t let me-”

The mess of feelings choke him now and he ducks his body away from you, snapping at the bunched corner of his gloves to steel his mind and breathing. Your voice finally finds itself once more as your fingers move to the door’s switch.

“I promise, Eir. Look after yourself too, okay?”

You stand in the doorway just long enough to see the back of his head tip forwards in a nod before you leave him to confront the very man you had set out to locate.

The moment the blast door closes behind you, all the air slips from your throat once more. The echo of hospital equipment set up across the wards finally numbs, and you’re left with little more than the harsh lighting crawling across the room to distract yourself from the sight in front of you. Your heart keeps on rising until you can taste it: nervous and bloody and wretched.

Kix sits with his back to you atop the surgical table in his blacks - no scrubs, no armour and armed only with a bottle of brandy hanging from his deft surgeon’s fingers. The room itself is heavily sanitised and free from gore and death, not unlike the one you had woken up in that same morning, yet it still manages to conjure a feeling that's downright insidious as the atmosphere crawls over your skin.

The entire base stinks of death today, the sickly pallor of Kix’s skin under the lights appears to indicate that he's danced beside its path far too many times now.

The clack of your boots against the floor is soon smothered by the neon as you edge yourself closer to where he sits, motionless in place. Had the arch of his shoulders not been gently rising with each breath he took, you would have been convinced that death had claimed him too.

“Smuggling in alcohol to the medbay, Kix? I would have expected better from a medic.”

You try to keep your tone light as it always is when you greet each other, but the words tumble out sour and tired, scratching your throat and flooding the gashes they leave with guilt the moment that they’re free. They trip forward and tie themselves around your feet, begging you to turn back around and leave. You ignore them, stepping closer into the room. You find yourself tracing the wedding of tattoos and patterns shaved into the back of his skull to calm yourself in the silence. The bottle remains suspended at his side, an all too familiar barrier for you both.

The seconds feel heavier than ever before he finally shrugs them away, throwing you a backwards half-glance over his shoulder, wordlessly beckoning you closer despite the hesitation that clenches across the muscles in his arms. Your attempt at lightheartedness is all a facade and you both know it. The fact that your hands have begun their crawl up the sides of his biceps to massage the knotted stress out of his shoulder blades is revealing enough of your true intentions.

You don’t waste energy with empty inquiries into if he's ok - none of the GAR medical staff are, after all, statistics and corpses cannot lie.

He leans back into your touch appreciatively, taking the utmost care to keep the brunt of his weight off of you. Kix’s gaze is locked on the swirling golden contents of the bottle in his fist now, the expression branded across them reminds you of the one Eir’s face had mirrored minutes prior. Another lump curdles in your throat as you spread your palms a little wider across his back and lean into the warmth of his body from behind him. The table bites into your thighs.

“I wish I could tell you it matters if I drink on the job or not. I’ve lost every one of the boys I’ve touched in the last ten surgeries.”

The world pauses at his words.

He takes another heavy swig of the bottle, hissing at the sting of the liquid against his tongue. The smell of it between you turns in your stomach, but you press your face into the slope of his neck all the same, urging him to continue with a gentle press of your lips.

“... and then when they brought you in from the field, all bloody and unconscious - a little part of me started screaming to run away.” Kix pulls forward, gently separating you both so he can twist to finally look at you from the edge of his table-top perch. His eyes are painted with remorse, but beneath it they’re as warm as they always are when it comes to you. “I was so scared of killing you too.”

His eyes glass over the moment his fingers can’t fight their shiver long enough to hold the bottle anymore. The emotion in them shatters the same time it hits the table with a resounding thunk. 

You rush to gather him up in your arms before the first tears begin to fall, pulling his head to your chest in the hope that your heartbeat could soothe him where your words could not. His fingers are bitten and washed raw, but no amount of scrubbing could ever cleanse his memories of what he had seen, what he was yet to see. They’re blistered around the cuticles, and you press each knuckle against your mouth to try and kiss away the guilt and the pain they carry, anything to ease his burden even a little. You’re not naive, you know nothing short of a miracle would make things better as they currently stood, but you would sooner drop dead than let him be dragged down alone by the weight of it all.

“You did everything you could, you all did.” You whisper the words against the heat of his skin, moving away the bottle so you could coax him closer and away from the table. “You didn’t kill any of them, none of this is your fault. I know it, Eir knows it and so does every single one of the boys in this whole damn army”

He’s carved from solid muscle, yet he’s so beaten down that the defeat aches across his posture and sinks its teeth into his bones as he struggles to find his feet. He breathes in deeply, head lolling heavily in the crook of your neck to ground himself from breaking down and sobbing into you. Each breath is steady, counted, but his heart flutters erratically next to yours as his fingers twitch over where they know your injury lies, too terrified to touch near it in case they somehow unhook each of the stitches and spill your blood across the white room. You dance your own down his spine in drawn-out, fluid movements. Your mind is aflame with the knowledge that though his body may gradually begin to unfurl, as long as he remains planted in this place his mind will be primed to snap again and again, until there is little left for you to reach.

He’s torturing himself by remaining here long after his shift has ended, you note. The realisation punctures something deep and threatens to drag forward fresh tears of your own. You pull back then despite the reluctance of both your limbs and the man tangled between them, gently patting his shoulder once before lacing your fingers against his clammy palm.

“Come on.” It's not a request as much as it's an instruction, one that leaves no room for argument despite the dull pain that throbs across your tone.

Eir is nowhere to be seen when you finally succeed in leading Kix by the hand out of the surgical room, you don't know whether to be relieved or concerned at the fact. The air across the ward still tastes of sickness and fear, it clips you as you push past it and out towards where your quarters are located.

Your room is small and most certainly not designed to house two people, but it's a better place to grieve than on a cold slab of operating table. Perhaps you think, that you’re also a little selfish enough to want him next to you tonight. Just so that you can ensure he isn't falling to pieces in that cold, aseptic cage of a surgical room if nothing else.

Your hands are endlessly gentle as you bundle him into the narrow bed before placing them on the mattress to carefully ease yourself in next to him. He senses your discomfort immediately, shuffling over to help you climb beneath the sheets in a position that takes the pressure off your wound. The care with which he handles you defrosts a little of the sadness freezing your blood, grateful that even when he was hurting so deeply himself, his adoration for you still continued to dapple like sunlight through every action he undertook. You draw him back into your chest again then, engulfing him in the warmth and safety that you extend to him with your entire being. Kix’s eyes shut themselves tightly, lashes fluttering against your pulse as he listens in for the thrum of your heart against your rib-cage. A tiny part of you hopes that it will be enough to lull him into some much needed slumber, but the cynicism dominates and quashes the thought as soon as it bubbles to the surface - its all wistful thinking once again, neither of you will sleep much at all tonight, that much had been foretold the moment you were discharged from the medbay that same morning.

The smell of brandy is weaker on his breath now as he trails his fingers over your torso, having finally found the strength to touch you now that he had been liberated from his self imprisonment. A shudder kisses down your spine at the sensation. It's as though he’s mapping out every little bit of your body, like you will be taken away from him if he doesn’t.

The same bitter cynicism screams in your ear once more, reminding you that in this war there’s no real guarantee you won’t be pulled apart either way.

You force it down alongside a fresh curtain of tears.

His digits halt once they loop towards the medical dressing plastered to your side, it's as if the newfound obstacle has clashed with his memories of your body enough to shock him to an abrupt stop. Slowly, cautiously, his touch withdraws away from the fabric as if it's dangerous.

“It’s proof that I’m alive.” He doesn’t respond outright, but you can feel his shoulders begin to shake underneath your caress, even though his face remains hidden under your chin. “You saved me, Kix, I’m here because of you.”

“My heart hasn’t stopped pounding from the moment they wheeled you in. It only got worse when they called me away to begin another procedure, all I could think about was what I would do if you didn’t wake up - like all the others before you.”

You curl around him tighter, hooking your legs around his own and cupping under his shoulder blades to draw him in even closer, grounding you both as he spills his heart until it bleeds into the sheets beneath you. Tears stream his face, less reluctant now. They veer down in fat streams and look drunk with how they cling to his cheeks and chin.

“...These boys need you, Kix. You would need to carry on, as we all do-”

“I wouldn't want to.”

You let him say it, let it drip like poison from his lips in the hope that it's at least cathartic to the guilt radiating from within him. You snuff out any words that threaten to follow with a kiss to his forehead, prolonged and firm enough to soothe the lump in your throat as much as it is for him. He cranes his head upwards to capture the second kiss with his own mouth. There's nothing gentle about how his lips mesh with your own this time, his kiss is searing with its passion and it steals away what little breath you have left. A hand threads itself behind your nape to pull you impossibly closer in the tiny bed, the other digging into your hip bone as though you would dissolve into starlight if he failed to hold you in place.

His cheeks feel damp as they scrape against your face, dying the kiss salty with tears. They overpower the bite of the brandy on his tongue in the same way they must do to the alcohol burning in his veins. The sheets twist and threaten to slip from the bed frame as you press to turn him onto his back despite the twinge in your side. His eyes snap back open, wide and alert in protest at your overexertion. You shut down the medic side of him with a single finger to his parted lips, a smile blossoming across your face for the first time that day. The thin sheets pool around your hips, binding both sets of the legs beneath it together. He relents with his unvoiced complaint, frown still reluctant, but eyes swimming with golden waves of emotion as he stares up at you. 

“I love you.”

He’s said it before, a few times now - but back then the words were always seeped in alcohol and playful bravado. This is different, it's raw and choked with affection that runs deeper than any liquor could ever reach. It decorates across his face in such detail that it puts his tattoos to shame, and it drags forth another wave of tears that have been collecting behind your lashes. They drip into your smile as it splits wider.

“I love you too, Kix. More than you’ll ever know.”

You surge forward to kiss across his face and neck, relying on the peppered heat of your lips and passion to communicate what mere words never could - to reassure every part of him that you were real, alive, and hopelessly in love with him, that come morning, he wasn’t going to wake up to your body laying there cold and accusatory with his failure to save you.

For the first time, Kix allows himself to be treated for his own wounds, as you stitch up his anxieties with each brush of your lips against his.

[the-melting-world]

Summer Skin

~ In which a secretive barhand takes a traveling musician somewhere special...

Music: “Summer Skin” by Death Cab For Cutie

For @apprenticealec​

Khleo x Alec

Khleo uses she/they pronouns interchangeably 

Here is another contribution to the Soft Alec Project before Dani hits us with more angst. Plus, Khleo’s been wanting to do something sweet for Alec for a while now, so they thought this would be the perfect time to speak up!

~ 1k words

Alec had no idea what to expect for her date with Khleo that evening. All she knew was that they were going somewhere in the Dark Forest outside of the city. As much as Alec tried to get some answers out of Khleo, the barhand refused to reveal their secrets…

The dusky light of the fading afternoon made navigating through the forest very tricky. Alec gasped as she tripped over yet another root. Thanks to Khleo’s quick reflexes, she only stumbled a little. 

The musician met the barhand’s dark brown eyes and huffed, “I love the outdoors and everything, but it’s nearly dark, Khlee.”

Khleo grinned. “I know.” Once they got Alec steady on her feet, they pressed on ahead, tucking their hands into the pockets of their trachten shorts. Their golden brown curls bounced as they moved about on light feet, humming a broken, dizzy tune.

Alec couldn’t rely on the daylight, so she used Khleo’s shimmery pink stockings as a beacon. The barhand guided Alec through the thickening undergrowth until they reached an iron-wrought gate. 

It was not something you would expect to find in the heart of the woods. Alec tried to get a read on how far the gate stretched, but the light was nothing but a peachy haze now and the dark fence was all but swallowed up by the thick tree trunks and pale, wandering moss.

“They store all the floats for the masquerades on the other side of this fence,” Khleo explained as she worked a series of keys into the layers of padlocks that chained the entrance together.

Before Alec could ask where Khleo got the keys, they said, “My boss rents some of the space too. We store the stuff we use for beer festivals here.”

Alec acted on an instinct, sidling up to Khleo as they undid the last lock and dipping her face against their neck. “Does your boss know that you borrowed his keys?” The musician followed up the question by gently tugging Khleo’s earlobe between her teeth.

As expected, the barhand purred and leaned into the affection. “Mm. Get inside.” 

They pulled away from Alec and swung the gate inward. Alec stifled a whine and followed Khleo through the gate. She was relieved to see that the tree coverage was finally thinning out. As they walked together, Alec recognized certain floats from past masquerades. Without lanterns to illuminate them, they looked hollow and even a tad... haunted.

“This way,” Khleo whispered, slipping her hand into Alec’s. “We’re almost there.”

The musician decided to pry a little more. “Almost where?” 

“Where they keep all the stuff for the upcoming masquerade.” Khleo squeezed Alec’s hand. “The stuff no one’s seen yet.”

The structure that Khleo led them to was probably the largest in the park. The more Alec studied it, the more she realized that it wasn’t a regular float. In fact, it wasn’t a float at all. It looked heavy and built from bright metals. 

Khleo let go of Alec’s hand and drifted off toward a lever jutting out of the ground at an odd angle. Alec turned her attention back to the attraction. She noticed that it had a grand circular foundation. Most of the paint was red and chipped but interrupted by stretches of creamy white and ribbons of gold.

There were animals too, of all kinds, crowded together on the platform and locked into place by golden poles.

“Does this thing run on magic?” Alec wondered aloud, still trying to take it all in.

“No.” Khleo said as she gripped the lever. “Not magic.” She pulled the lever, causing the air around them to croak and groan as the attraction came to life.

“Something else.”

Alec’s look of confusion transformed into that of wonder as the bejeweled tones of the rising and falling animals reflected in her bright blue eyes. With a little help from Khleo, Alec got onto the moving platform. Khleo placed her hand on the musician’s lower back and gently encouraged her to choose one of the animals to ride.

Alec shot Khleo a playful smirk as she danced toward a roaring lion. 

“Nice choice,” the barhand said, following up and anchoring herself on the seahorse to the left. Alec laughed, leaned her cheek against the golden pole and looked out at the rotating scenery. The couple bobbed with the floating herd as they watched the forest glow with fireflies in the twilight hour.

“This makes me feel like a little kid again,” Alec sighed. When Khleo didn’t respond, she turned her head to find the barhand staring with a serene thoughtfulness that they didn’t usually express.

It wasn’t the first time Alec caught Khleo checking her out, but all the times before hadn’t caused the butterflies in her stomach to flutter like this.

“What is it, Khlee?” Alec asked as she folded a lock of hair behind her ear. 

Khleo angled her head, keeping her expression as it was. “Nothing. I’m just looking.”

Alec rolled her eyes. “At me. Not the view.”

Khleo shifted a little against the seahorse. “I can look at you if I want to.”

Alec blushed and broke eye contact. “And you won’t tell me why if I asked, will you?”

The musician looked up when she heard the barhand move. They were no longer riding the seahorse, but rather scooting up the golden pole towards the ceiling.

“I don’t.”

Khleo spun around the pole once. Twice.

“Need a reason.”

She locked eyes with Alec, grinning broadly through a sea of freckles.

“To look.”

Then Khleo leaped to the right. For a brief time, she was holding onto nothing.

“At you.”

Khleo grunted as she latched herself to the bright rod connected to Alec’s lion. The barhand swiveled dangerously for a few beats, sliding down as she did.

Alec jolted when Khleo landed suddenly in her lap, their strong, shimmering thighs overlapping her skirt.

“And I don’t have to tell you why either,” Khleo whispered, slightly out of breath. She peeked out from behind the pole wedged between the two of them and winked.

Alec didn’t know if she wanted to tease Khleo back or just kiss her. She decided on the latter, but when she leaned in, the barhand withdrew just in time and ducked her head to the other side of the barrier.

“Hey!” Alec whined. She folded her arms and leaned back, but Khleo caught her by the chin before she could get away. 

This time Khleo didn’t hold back. She kissed Alec. Forward. Sweetly. Until the musician’s head was spinning faster than the lion keeping them afloat.

[choerrypuffs]

the element of power.

pairing: firebender!renjun x avatar!reader

genre: fluff, angst

word count: 5.4k

author’s note: renjun’s chapter to my 00 line x avatar series! i’ve gotten such kind feedback so far and i want you guys to know that your messages never fail to brighten my day and make me smile :’)))) thank you so so so so so much!!! 💕💞💓💗💖💘💝

warning(s): abuse, suggestive content 

additional: check out the art that the lovely and EXTREMELY talented steph ( @aqiaquas​ ) did for this fic here!

There’s just something about the Fire Nation that unsettles you.

Perhaps it’s because you’re from the Water Tribe, making you their (literal) polar opposite. Or because you’re sticking out like a sore thumb with your blue garb in a sea of red. Or the fact that they’re all staring at you and whispering amongst each other. It also doesn’t help that you’re being escorted by soldiers. Whatever the case may be, you just want to get this over with. 

You’re on your way to see the Fire Lord, who had his elite palace guards pick you up immediately upon your arrival. Most people would just see it as a courteous gesture, but Fire Lord Yoo is not a hospitable man. This is clearly a warning, though you’re not really sure what for. You may be the Avatar, but even you couldn’t take on the entire Fire Nation alone.

Honestly, you feel more like a prisoner heading for execution than an esteemed guest. 

The royal palace is exactly as you had imagined it. Tall, grand, and intimidating: the epitome of what the Fire Nation stands for. It looms over you like an ominous presence, and you’re almost a little scared to step foot inside. You don’t realize you’ve stopped in your tracks until one of the guards clears his throat and gives you a small nudge with his elbow.

Gulping, you begin to walk forward again. The entrance is manned by more guards and two giant red doors branded with the Fire Nation insignia in pure gold. The guards escorting you nod at the guards by the doors, communicating only by expressions. Nobody says a word to you as the doors slowly begin opening, making you flinch at the sudden noise.

You expect to see a palace bustling with life, with various staff running around, but it’s completely deserted. The inside is eerier—pitch black corridors lit only by a couple of torches. Every step you take echoes in the hollow interior and it feels like someone is following you.

The throne room is the most nerve-wracking of all. Surprisingly, there’s actual people in it (which only makes things worse). About six or seven men clad in military uniforms sit ram-rod straight around a long, rectangular mahogany table. It looks like some sort of ritual is happening, and you nearly yelp when all of them turn to look at you at the same exact time. Their expressions are neutral and that scares you even more.

“Avatar Y/N.” 

A loud, booming voice not coming from any of the men in front of you announces. Glancing up, you see a shadowy figure sitting upon a dais behind a wall of fire. You can tell by the sheer authority radiating off his silhouette alone that he is Fire Lord Yoo. A war hero known for his ruthlessness, he was a boogeyman of sorts to you when you were a child. Your mother would tell you stories of him to scare you into doing your chores and that trauma seems to still be ingrained into your psyche because you feel yourself trembling.

“Welcome to the royal palace,” Fire Lord Yoo continues, “the Fire Nation is honored to have you.”

“The honor is mine, Fire Lord Yoo,” you quickly say, bowing your head. 

“Your reputation precedes you,” he muses. 

Yours too, you think wryly.

“Some are hailing you to be the strongest Avatar since Wan, the first.”

“Nothing but frivolous rumors,” you say, shaking your head. “I haven’t even mastered all of the elements yet.” 

“That’s more impressive, no? To already have such rumors when you’ve barely mastered two out of the four,” he shoots back. 

“You think too highly of me, Your Majesty,” you awkwardly say, not really sure how to respond.

“I suppose we shall see.” 

There’s something foreboding about his words, and it makes your blood run cold. 

“But I digress. Let us discuss your firebending tutelage,” Fire Lord Yoo finally moves on after watching you squirm for a couple of seconds. “General Huang Renjun of the Fire Nation Navy will be your teacher.” 

The youngest one, by at least a few decades, at the table stands up. Even with that nasty scowl on his face, Renjun’s beauty shines. His features are delicate, like a prince, and you would have never believed that he was the fearsome general of the navy. Though the way he’s glaring at you is just a tad frightening. 

“Hi,” you say dumbly, giving him a small wave.

Renjun gives you a curt nod, barely even looking at you, before sitting back down.

Rude, you think to yourself.

“Your training will begin tomorrow. For now, the maids will lead you to your quarters so you may rest,” Fire Lord Yoo explains. 

“Thank you for your hospitality,” you say, quickly bowing again.

A handful of maids begin to usher you away and though you can’t see Fire Lord Yoo, you feel his gaze (even through the wall of fire) linger on your back. .

It seems your stay here is going to be worse than you’d imagined.

Despite the fact that you felt like someone was going to come into your room and murder you at any minute, you sleep like a rock. It takes a rather hard shove from a frazzled maid to wake you. Barely registering what’s happening, you let yourself be manhandled by the maid. Within ten minutes, you’re dressed and somewhat alert. She leads you by the hand down a corridor, clearly in a rush. She’s mumbling to herself, but you can’t make out what she’s saying, though she does sound pretty scared. 

“Is something wrong?” you finally ask. 

“No, I—it’s just that General Huang hates tardiness, and we are about five minutes late.”

“Five minutes isn’t that bad. I’m sure he’ll understand,” you shrug.

The maid turns and gives you a pointed look. “You have not met General Huang.”

“Well, he sounds like a bit of a hardass,” you say wryly. 

Shushing you furiously, she looks around as if Renjun is going to be right behind her.  “Mind your words, Avatar Y/N. Someone is always listening.”

What she says slightly terrifies you, but you’re not about to tell her that.

When you finally arrive at the training room, the maid bolts. Dumbfounded, you watch her scurry off and awkwardly stand at the entrance, unsure of what to do. Just as you raise your hand to knock, the doors suddenly open. You let out a small squeak as an extremely angry Renjun glares down at you. The height difference between the two of you isn’t that large but you feel tiny underneath his intense stare.

Now you know why the maid abandoned you.

“You’re late,” Renjun says, scowling. 

“S-Sorry,” you mumble. 

“I don’t want an apology. I want you to be on time,” he snaps, stepping aside. “Aren’t you going to come in?”

Every rational fiber of your body is telling you to bite your tongue as you stiffly walk past him, but you just can’t. Whirling on your heels, you turn and look him directly in the eyes. “There’s no need to be so cross, general. It was an honest mistake, and I’ll make sure it won’t happen again. Besides, it’s only five minutes.”

Renjun’s dark eyes narrow, flashing dangerously. “Perhaps punctuality is not as strong a value in the Water Tribe, but we do not take it lightly here.” 

“What did you just say?” you demand, temper finally bubbling over. 

“I said that the Water Tribe needs to teach their benders to be on time,” he taunts.

“Leave the Water Tribe out of this,” you hiss, “Your qualms are with me.”

“Are you not a waterbender?” 

“No, I’m the Avatar.” 

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Renjun raises an eyebrow.

“Maybe not, but I’ve been trying to treat you with respect and I deserve the same from you,” you say through grit teeth. 

“You’ll get my respect when you’ve earned it,” he sneers. 

You’re so angry that you begin to shake like a wet dog, unable to form a verbal response. Instead, you contemplate drowning him in the palace’s toilet. However, Renjun isn’t bothered by your murderous glaring as he brushes past you. 

Rolling his sleeves up, he walks toward the center of the room and waits for you to join him. “Now then, let’s get this over with.”

Reluctantly, you skulk over to him and cross your arms. Despite how despicable Renjun is, it is extremely hard to ignore his beauty. He’s clearly put in the bare minimum—mussed black hair, simple long-sleeved shirt, and linen trousers—yet even you can’t help but admire him for just a moment. Then, he shatters the mirage by opening his mouth. 

“I’m only going to do this once, so pay attention.” 

Renjun takes his stance, left leg bent and right leg straight out behind him. Inhaling deeply, he delivers a swift punch in the air. You don’t even have time to register the dangerously close fireball that whizzes past your face. All you can feel is the lingering hot air against your cheek. Some of your baby hairs have been charred too. 

“Arrogant son of a bitch,” you blurt out, unable to stop yourself in time. 

His eyes widen slightly at the insult, and you brace yourself for some sort of retaliation but it never comes. To your utter shock, he’s smirking, as if your words are amusing to him. “Your turn.”

Smoothing your hair down and tucking it behind your ear, you shoot him another dirty look before taking the stance he showed you. Squeezing your eyes shut and imagining Renjun’s face right in front of you, you punch the air as hard as you can. 

Judging by the total silence that follows, you’re guessing you weren’t that successful. When you open your eyes again, he has his arms crossed and eyebrow raised. “So...did I do it?” 

“What do you think?” he asks, tilting his head.

You sigh, lowering your fist. “Damn.” 

“For starters, you could keep your eyes open. How are you going to know where to aim when you can’t see your opponent?” Renjun shakes his head. “Your form is sloppy too.”

Reaching down for your hand, he balls it back into a fist and yanks it toward him. Gasping at the sudden force, you stumble forward and faceplant directly into his chest. He smells like cinnamon and soap, and it’s making your head swim. Dazed, you slightly step back, trying to regain your balance. “Wh-What the hell was that for?” 

“I was trying to show you the proper form, but your foundation is so weak that you let me pull you around like a ragdoll,” he scoffs. 

Your head shoots up so you can give him a piece of your mind, but your words die inside your throat when you realize how close his face is to yours. There’s virtually no space between your bodies, despite the fact that you thought you had stepped away a considerable amount. You can feel the heat radiating from him and the rise and fall of his chest against your own. It surprises you just how much power you can sense in him. Chi courses through his veins almost more than his blood, and it pulls you toward him like a magnet. Huang Renjun is a live wire, ready to blow at any moment.

He’s watching you carefully, waiting for a response. His eyes are pools of molten gold that you find easy to get lost in. You don’t notice his hand is still holding your fist until he lets go, and you mourn the loss of warmth. Clearing his throat, Renjun takes a step back—a light pink dusted across his cheeks. Now that there’s finally a substantial amount of space between you and him, you snap out of your haze.

“Jerk,” you mumble weakly, too wobbly in the knees to snap back. 

“Again,” he orders, crossing his arms. 

Renjun makes you practice the same drill for the next hour, until you’ve got it down perfectly. Your entire body aches just from that one simple move, but you’re definitely not going to tell him that. You had always assumed firebending was simply pure aggression and brute strength. Oh, how wrong you were. Firebending requires control of every muscle in your body; it’s a delicate balance. 

Despite your attempt to hide it, Renjun notices your exhaustion. Instead of taunting you like you were expecting, he gives you a five minute water break. Your fatigue trumps your pride, and you plop to the ground without a single word. He tosses you a canteen, and you don’t hesitate gulping the water down. 

“Pace yourself,” he says, almost kindly. 

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, it finally occurs to you how much of a mess you must look like right now. Flushed cheeks, ponytail falling apart, and chunks of hair matted to your neck with sweat.

No wonder why he gave you a break. 

You’re not sure what possesses you to say this because you still think Huang Renjun is a total asshole that doesn’t deserve anything from you, but the words are spilling out before you can stop yourself—

“Thank you.” 

He’s equally as shocked as you are when he hears you say it. Coughing, he fidgets slightly and mumbles in the quietest voice you’ve ever heard:

“You’re welcome.” 

You don’t even have time to register his words because the doors are thrown open, making Renjun flinch and you almost spit out your water. Two frantic-looking soldiers rush in, sweating and out of breath. “General Huang!” 

Renjun’s brows draw together in concern, but he stays calm as he walks to the men. “Breathe for a second, and then tell me what’s wrong.” 

His sudden switch in demeanor slightly jars you, and it also kind of pisses you off. Why is he only cranky with you?

“One of our fleets is under attack by a band of pirates, near Crescent Island. They’re requesting immediate backup,” one of the soldiers finally manages to pant out. 

Renjun’s face pales. “Did you already notify the other fleets stationed nearby?” 

“We did, but the closest one is hours away. You’re the only one you can get to them in time and that’s only by speedboat.” 

“Go prepare one for me then,” Renjun orders. 

“Yes, General!” 

Renjun finally turns to you after they run off. “I have to go.” 

“I’ll come with you,” you immediately say. 

“Absolutely not,” he snaps, “you’ll only be in the way.” 

“Don’t you think having a waterbender with you while you’re out on the ocean would be helpful?” you retort back.

“I thought you were the Avatar, not a waterbender,” he mocks. 

“I’m coming with you, and you can’t stop me.” You cross your arms, ignoring him.

“What makes you think I’ll let you get on the boat?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“You won’t be able to let me do anything when you’re tossed overboard.” 

You and Renjun have a staredown, but he eventually relents because he knows he’s out of his element on this one (pun intended). 

“Fine, but stay out of my way,” he warns. 

“You stay out of mine.”

Once you two get on the boat, Renjun stops picking a fight with you. In fact, he goes completely  silent. His grip on the steering wheel is so tight that his knuckles are white, and his jaw is clenched tightly. You don’t say a word either, knowing that his mind must be a whirlwind of thoughts. Despite your dislike of his personality, you have to acknowledge Renjun as a leader. He didn’t hesitate to jump right into action for his men, even planning to take on an entire band of pirates by himself. 

“Why can’t this damn thing go faster?” You hear him curse under his breath. 

The lightbulb finally goes off in your head, and you chide yourself for not doing this from the beginning. Turning and walking to the back of the boat, you hold your hands over the water. You create a wave that pushes the boat forward at a much quicker speed, almost using too much strength and falling backward. 

“What are you doing?” Renjun calls back to you. 

“Making this damn thing go faster,” you answer. 

He doesn’t respond. 

“What were you saying about me being in your way again?” you muse. 

He rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth quirk up. 

With your help, the two of you arrive at Crescent Island in no time. You can hear loud explosions and yelling in the distance. It’s not long before you see two battered ships in the middle of all the chaos. One of them has a tattered Fire Nation flag on it, so you direct the boat toward it. Renjun is already at the very front of the boat, ready to jump onto the Fire Nation ship. 

You’re not far behind him as you two jump over the railing of the ship, abandoning the speedboat for now. Fire Nation soldiers are wildly running around; some trying to take cover, some trying to fight back. There is absolutely no hierarchy of command, which means the attack clearly blindsided them. 

“Stay here!” Renjun yells over all the noise. 

“Wha—” 

“The soldiers don’t know who you are! They’ll think you’re an enemy, so just stay put!”

He doesn’t wait for you to argue with him, running in the opposite direction as he barks orders at soldiers he passes. You’re about to follow him anyway, but you nearly get killed by a stray fireball. The pirate ship has a squadron of benders lobbing fireballs at the Fire Nation ship like cannons. 

Chewing on your lip, you decide you have to do something about the pirate ship for order to be restored on the Fire Nation ship. Taking a deep breath, you lift your hands up, palms facing out. Conjuring up the biggest tidal wave you can muster, you push your hands forward. The wave is bigger than the actual ship, and you capsize it. 

Letting out a relieved sigh, you dust your hands off as you watch the pirate ship sink. However, you don’t get to relish in your work because there’s another loud explosion. It’s coming from the front of the Fire Nation ship, and it was strong enough to rock the entire vessel. 

When you arrive at the scene, you see a standoff between Renjun and his soldiers and a handful of pirates that were already on the Fire Nation ship before you sank theirs. They appear to have stopped attacking each other, since they just now realized you capsized the pirate ship. 

“It’s over,” you announce, “Your ship has been destroyed. Surrender now while I’m feeling nice.” 

“You did that?” Renjun gawks.

“What do you think?” you echo, tilting your head. 

His eyes sparkle as he breaks out into a full-on grin. You feel your breath hitch slightly—

But your moment is quickly ruined when the remaining pirates let out strangled cries, seemingly refusing to go down without a fight. They begin hurtling fireballs blindly, trying to use up as much of their power as possible. 

You’re not in their main line of fire, so you manage to dodge pretty easily, but the other soldiers aren’t as lucky. Since they were in a military formation, they’re much more compacted together, thus making them as easy target. Renjun does his best to redirect as many fireballs as possible, but there are just too many. You quickly trap the berserk pirates in a ball of water, freezing it, then letting it fall onto the ship like a giant boulder.

However, you’re not fast enough.

You hear one of the soldiers cry out. Whirling around, you see Renjun slumped over another soldier—clearly having taken a hit for him. He’s unconscious (which is for the better), face pallor and sweat collecting on his forehead. His shirt has a charred hole in it, and the smell of burning flesh hits you all at once. Renjun’s side is scorched; his skin almost black from how bad the burn is. 

Everything becomes fuzzy after that. You run toward Renjun, nearly falling onto him because of your momentum. Pulling just enough water from a soldier’s canteen to cover the wound, you try your best to at least keep the bacteria out with the limited healing abilities you have. You scream at a soldier to find the speedboat you and Renjun came here on. 

When he does and pulls it over to the side of the ship you’re on, you freeze the water on Renjun’s wound—a makeshift bandage for now. You lower him onto the boat with a stretcher made out of water. 

“Backup is on the way for you guys. I’m taking General Huang back to the palace,” you explain, turning back to the men. Looking around, you point at the most reliable-looking soldier. “Hey, you.” 

He straightens up. “Y-Yes, ma’am.” 

“You’re in charge. Have a plan of defense in case there are more pirates. This ship won’t be able to withstand many more attacks until backup shows up, got it?” 

“Understood, ma’am!” He salutes. “But, um...who are you?” 

“You’ll find out soon enough.” 

With that, you hop onto the speedboat and drive away. 

After creating the wave that capsized the pirate ship, you knew that you didn’t have long until your chi was completely exhausted. Your body is protesting profusely as you continue to use waves to make the speedboat go faster. There are black dots in your vision, and you keep losing your balance. Gritting your teeth, you make the waves even stronger. 

When you finally get to the dock, you barely have enough energy to stand up, but you put Renjun on your back and you stumble toward the gates of the palace. Your limbs feel like jelly at this point, but you trek on. 

The guards manning the entrance of the palace notice you from a distance and rush over when they see Renjun. You collapse onto the ground when you see them coming. One of them picks up Renjun, while the other picks you up. 

“Medic,” you mumble continuously. “Medic, he needs a medic, medic, medic...”

The guard carrying you says something, but it sounds like you’re underwater and you can’t hear a single word. 

“Medic,” you say again. 

Then everything goes black.

You’re not sure if you’re awake or still dreaming because of how dark the room is. You feel sore and achey to your fingertips, and blinking even hurts. You suppose pain means you’re conscious. You lay in the darkness for a little longer, trying to piece together everything that happened before. You’re not sure how long you’ve been asleep, but it feels like years.

Get up. If you’re late again, Renjun’s going to kill you.

Renjun. 

Gasping, you are out of bed and your room in an instant. You dash down the corridor in your nightdress, looking around for anyone to give you information. Luckily for you, the maid that abandoned you the other day is headed right in your direction with a stack of laundry. Judging by the blue, it’s your clothes, but you don’t particularly care at the moment. 

“Where’s General Huang?” you ask, grabbing her by the arms. 

“Avatar Y/N, you need to be rest—”

“Nevermind that! Where is he?” 

“The infirmary, but—” 

“Where is that?” 

“Avatar Y/N, I really—” 

“If you don’t tell me, I’m just going to wander around until I find it.” 

She sighs. “Down the hall, on your right.” 

You quickly thank her before taking off again. Before you even get to the entrance of the infirmary, you are already able to sense Fire Lord Yoo’s presence. The pure terror and authoritarianism in his aura is enough to stop you in your tracks. The door is ajar, however, so you’re still able to hear them talk. 

“Why are your men telling a different story than you are, Renjun?” Fire Lord Yoo asks calmly, but there’s venom in his words. “Did she or did she not single-handedly capsize the ship?” 

“She claimed she did, but it’s not possible. There’s no way a mere pacifist waterbender could conjure up a wave large enough to capsize a boat. My men believed her because she’s a good liar, but she can’t fool me,” Renjun says. 

“Hm. Very well. I shall take your word for it.” 

“Thank you, Fire Lord Yoo.” 

“Injured or not, I still expect detailed reports of her progress from you.” 

“I understand.”

“Do not fail me again, my son.”

“Yes, Father.” 

You don’t sleep that night. You lay in your bed, eyes wide open, until the maid knocks on your door to wake you for training. Sitting up without a word, you don’t miss the surprised look on her face when you get up without protest. You let her dress you in total silence, and you’re in the training room five minutes early. 

Renjun arrives shortly after, also shocked that you’re early. His face has a much healthier glow now, and he doesn’t look to be in much pain anymore. You hate that you feel relieved. 

“The maid said you were looking for me yesterday. What did you need?” he asks, raising an eyebrow when you don’t initiate a conversation. 

“How’s your injury?” you deflect. 

“It’s basically gone, just a scar now. We have great healers,” he replies. “I, um, owe you both an apology and a thank you—”

“Can I see it?” 

Renjun sighs irritably. “I told you it’s fine—”

While he’s distracted, you walk over to him in two large strides and lift his shirt up. The injury from last time isn’t the only scar he has. His entire chest and torso is covered in them. Jagged, tough ones that you knew hurt like hell. Ones that were purposefully inflicted. And you’d bet that he has more. 

Renjun recoils from you, turning away. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“Where’d the others come from?” you ask, even though you knew. 

“That’s none of your fucking business. What the hell is wrong with you today? You’re acting crazier than usual.” 

“I’m trying to buy you time,” you answer simply. 

“Can you please say something that actually makes sense?” Renjun scowls. 

“I’m going to kill you, and I want to see if you can convince me otherwise.” 

There’s a beat of silence as he processes your words. 

“Oh? Pray tell, why are you going to kill me?” He smirks, tilting his head. 

“Because you’re spying on me and relaying information to the Fire Lord.” 

Renjun’s eyes widen and his body stiffens.

“But you lied about me capsizing the boat yesterday, so I’m confused. Therefore, I’m giving you some time before I decide,” you explain. “Let me ask you again. Where’d the others come from?”

He continues staring at you in stunned silence. 

“Actually, I’ll re-word the question. Why did your father do that to you?” 

The cogs finally fall into place for Renjun. “So you were listening.” 

“Yes.” 

There’s no longer anger or shock in his features anymore, just defeat and weariness. “When I fail one of my missions, I receive a lash. They are marks of remembrance for soldiers. It signifies incompetence and the oath to never make the same mistake again.” 

Your insides twist at how sick this all is. “No, it’s wrong. It’s cruel. Soldiers are not livestock that can be whipped into submission. They’re human beings too. You are his son, the most beloved to him. Or supposed to be.”

“Our loyalty is to the Fire Nation first, not blood.” 

“Are you nothing more than sheep? You don’t have any free will of your own? You are your own person first. You have feelings. Those feelings will not always fall in line with your loyalty. There needs to be a line between right and wrong, Renjun. What the Fire Lord is doing to you is wrong. It’s absolutely nauseating,” you plead, stepping closer to him.

“You think I don’t know that?” Renjun whispers harshly. “My mind has been so damn muddy the moment I laid my eyes on you. You’re my mortal enemy. We were taught that fire was superior to the other elements, especially water. Waterbenders were caricatured as weak and feeble, and I believed it. But you weren’t. In fact, you were the opposite: confrontational, stubborn, damn annoying, and strong as hell. And I liked it. You made me question everything I knew. Then, you went and saved my life and made me even more stupefied. I was nothing but a jackass to you, but you still exhausted all your chi for me. When I woke back up, all I could think about was you. Without even realizing, I lied to the Fire Lord. Every fiber of my being wanted to protect you. But I know I shouldn’t have these feelings. You say that I should be able to draw the line, but this—the Fire Nation—is all I know. It’s all I have. Fire Lord Yoo, no matter how cruel, is still my father. What am I supposed to do, Y/N? Tell me.” 

“What do you want to do?” you ask softly. 

“I want,” he swallowed, eyes flickering to your lips. “you.”

Renjun’s hands cup your face, his thumbs brushing across your cheekbones. He places his forehead against yours, shutting his eyes. “Why aren’t you resisting?” 

“Maybe I don’t want to,” you whisper. “Maybe I want this too.” 

“Can I kiss you?” 

“Yes,” you breathe. 

In an instant, his lips are sealed against yours. Your mouths move together in a desperate, frenzied dance. You whimper when he bites down hard on your lower lip before running his feverish tongue across the indent. Your arms wrap around his neck, and you card your fingers through his hair, pulling on it slightly. He moans into your mouth, and his hands slide down to your thighs. Renjun picks you up and presses you against the wall, slotting your bodies together perfectly. You begin tugging at his shirt until he finally gets the hint to take it off. You trace your fingers across the scars on his chest. 

He leans down and kisses your fingers. “You aren’t disgusted?” 

You brush some stray hairs from his face. “Never.” 

You promise yourself that you’re going to kiss every scar on his body when you get the chance.

“You can’t stay here,” Renjun murmurs into your hair, running the the back of his hand up and down your bare arm. “I won’t be able to lie to him forever.”

“I know,” you say, burying your head further into his chest. “But where will I go? I need to learn firebending.” 

“I have an old friend who lives in Ba Sing Se. His name is Doyoung. He defected from the Fire Nation when we were children and the Earth Kingdom granted him asylum. I used to hate him so much, thought he was a coward and a traitor,” Renjun says wryly. “Turns out he was the smart one.” 

“But will he even agree to teach me?” 

“You’re rather persistent. I’m sure you’ll be able to convince him,” he laughs. 

“Come with me,” you whisper, propping yourself on your arms.

Renjun has never looked more beautiful. His pale skin illuminated by the moonlight as he stares at you like you created the universe. 

“You know I can’t,” he says softly, pulling up the blanket that slipped from your bare back. “Get back under the covers, you’ll get cold.” 

“Why not?” you ask, slipping back under the blanket and wrapping an arm around his torso. 

“I can’t leave my men.” 

You already knew what his answer would be, but you wanted to ask anyway. “When I master firebending, I’ll come back for you.” 

He smiles, kissing your fingertips. “I’ll be here waiting for you.” 

You grab his face, squishing his cheeks together. “Until then, you better not do anything stupid. If you get killed, I’ll revive you and then kill you myself.” 

“That does sound pretty terrible.” 

“That’s why you have to stay alive.” 

“I promise.” 

You wished this night would last forever, so you wouldn’t have to say goodbye.

[tarithenurse]

The good Villain - 8

Based on the prompt “You’re the villain and you know that you just want the ‘good guys’ to understand why”

Pairing: Loki x Fem!Reader Content: Mission with all it entails: violence, killing, gore, angst. We also have a bit of fluff going on at some point though it’s paired with a neat scoop of denial. And much more! A/N: Busy day today! Gonna attend a wedding that’s been 20 years in the waiting or so, and it’s Superbowl night which is always fun…though it’s more for the company for me. Thanks for all the loving, reblogs, and likes!

Chapter 8

…   Reader   …

He was everywhere you went. Not just the meetings where you and the Avengers put your heads together in an effort to intensify the search for the last Leech but also when you were going to the kitchen or even at night, Loki would either already be there or appear shortly after. One day Romanoff showed you the gym with all its equipment begging to be used and it took less than an hour before the Asgardian revealed the library, telling you how you could normally find him there.

At first you suspected he was guarding you due to lack of trust. You may not have been a prisoner anymore, there was no cell at least, but you were still a stranger disrupting the natural balance in a group vital to this planet. As time passed, however, and you spent time on scouting missions and at the team’s base it became evident that his reasoning was personal.

This theory was solidified the day Banner announced to have found a potential suspect.

Together with Stark and Romanoff, he had created a series of algorithms scouring the digital records of Terrans within a certain area to compare medical data, and social media, plus changes in their behavioural patterns. The metal-armed Barnes and his friend with the shield had left to verify the suspicion before you were notified.

All you could do was wait. The moment they returned, you confronted them.

…

“Another restless night?” Loki’s voice is a clear chime calling you back to reality gently.

Swinging down from the bar to land on the floor, you shake your limbs out after the exercises without worthying him an answer. Just go. Of course, he does not leave, choosing instead to draw nearer.

Plopping onto a bench along the wall, you feel the restlessness return as an itch in your legs and a chest full of knots of worry. Tomorrow. You have stopped counting the time spent hunting the monsters that killed your crew – your friends – a long time ago. One goal. One all-consuming mission culminating with a plan that you have gotten approved by the Captain. Tomorrow. By this time tomorrow, your hunt will be over. I should be relieved, but I am not.

As if reading your mind, Loki nudges you gently back to the present. “Do not worry, my pet.” He sits down next to you, calm and cool. “Everything will go well…the plan is good.”

“I know.” Being near to him soothes your nerves if only a little.

“Then you can clear your name, live your life.” There is an edge to his voice which you cannot place. “Regain your honour.”

“No.” You can see the answer startles him. “I will return, but not to clear my name.”

“You are innocent! You may have escaped prison, but you got justice fo-“

“Justice?” You barely contain the sarcastic laughter as you round on him. “Do not pretend to think this ever was about justice or honour! It was revenge and nothing more! The leeches are simply a species doing what they must whereas I was the one who brought my crew in danger…th- hrm…the one who brought their end upon them.” Ignoring his protests, you carry on, unable to stop despite a breaking voice now you have started talking. “I shall return home…face the Elders and accept my punishment with peace in my heart.” Fists balled and body shaking, restlessness has morphed through anger into determination.

“You’ve nothing to atone for!” he cries out, a cold hand grasping yours and sending (not unpleasant) shivers along your spine, “y- ‘tis time for you to live.”

“That is not your decision…and why do you even care?”

From what you have learned about the smooth-talking God of Mischief, the sight of him sitting there with his mouth ajar yet nothing to say is rare. A soft blush paints the pale face even as he gathers his wits once more. “At least stay for the celebration. The uh they always mark a successful completion of a mission with a party.”

You hesitate, knowing that it will only be postponing the inevitable. Still, a little chip of your heart is urging you to accept the offer. One night of freedom. Looking down, you realize his hand has not moved but that at some point you have returned the gesture by wrapping your fingers around his. Oh. Gingerly, perhaps not to appear rude, you free yourself from the connection and start to leave.

“…[Y/N]…?”

Why do I hesitate? Maybe the question is unnecessary if only you would accept a new feeling inside your chest. “Fine, I will participate in the revels.”

 …   Loki   …

It is a dreary morning with grey clouds hanging low over the city, shielding it from the beginning day at least until the sun eventually would gain enough power to evaporate the layer. For now, however, it also served as a natural softener of all sounds as the mismatch tea of Midgardians, Asgardians, and a Betan move towards the house in the suburbs.

The entrance is swift and quiet. In groups of two or three, they move from room to room. Loki is among those covering the ground floor and it allows him to see the father of the family rounding on Barnes who only keeps a safe distance between them thanks to a strong hold with the metal arm. By the Norns! What they had expected to be a docile civilian opens his mouth further than humanly possible to reveal a black nothingness where teeth and tongue should have been. A strange sound of air being sucked picks up for a second before a shimmering metal rod flies past Barnes’ face and into the gaping mouth, effectively killing the not-so-human man.

“What…the fuck?!” Barnes’ is clearly shaken as he stares at the corpse.

Everyone else is looking to [Y/N] who steps over to retrieve her weapon.

“Leech.” She wipes off the blood on the dead’s pants with a sigh. “Once the soul is completely gone the feeding Leech can choose to either let the corpse die naturally…or they can multiply by inserting a shard of themselves.”

“So…the others?” Rogers might both be referring to the former victims of the Leeches as well as the rest of the family.

“Doubt it,” [Y/N] shrugs, “does not seem to be possible several times in a row…”

There is a soft sound over the com in Loki’s ear and he knows everyone on the team hears it too when Natasha speaks. “Eyes on kids and mother upstairs, left off the stairs.”

“On my way,” the Betan responds before continuing to the three males around her, “get this one on there.” She motions to the couch.

Rather than helping them, Loki hurries after [Y/N].

Upstairs, the sight is differently gruesome with three Avengers’ weapons trained on a girl of maybe six years and her mother who is cradling a baby in her arms – a clearly lifeless child though the woman does not seem to have noticed neither that nor the intruders. In fact, only the little girl appears to be aware of anything. Blond curls, rosy cheeks, dead eyes staring at the strangers.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” Stark groans, “it’s the kid?”

“Of course…no one mistrusts a youngling. They can get close enough to feed.” The hollow voice of the Betan does nothing to resolve the tension, and it is possible to see Barton’s bow tremble.

Stark simply powers down the weapons imbedded in the suit’s gloves. “I…I can’t do it.”

“Go downstairs,” Natasha offers, “you too, Clint.”

…

Grim faces on everyone. Gathered in the living room, they have placed the entire family in the couch – three of them with lethal wounds as proof of the closest thing to mercy the Betan could grant. Now she is rummaging through the kitchen while the others try to come to terms with what has happened. Words unspoken, yet most of the Avengers clearly shaken.

“Let’s get outta here,” Stark croaks, “clean-up’s coming to deal with…this.” The half-hearted wave of his hand encompasses the entire situation.

The Betan returns with several bottles of flammable liquids and all the paper around. “No rush…”

She barely gets time to open the cleaning alcohol before the remedies are snatched from her by the Captain. “Not this time.”

“We have to.”

“I said no.”

“But in a mo-“

“No!”

Ignoring the order, [Y/N] tries to bypass him only to be shoved backwards into Loki’s arms that instinctively wrap around her. “Not this time, pet, let them do this the Midgardian way.”

Suddenly, he has to fight to hold her back as a panicked anger takes over her mind. Curses and warnings become garbled as she screams out the frustrations, and the rage only subsides once Loki has managed to drag her outside though the woman does not relax. Eyes trained on the door. Body taught and shivering against his chest.

“It’s okay, pet,” he soothes, “it’s over. You can let go of it.”

“Not yet…not over yet…”

As if to prove her right a gun goes off inside. Once. Twice. Moments later smoke begins to billow, herding out Thor, Stark, Clint, Rogers, Romanoff, and Barnes.

“The…the father…” the metal-suited man explains, “he…woke up? He started moving…”

Flames are licking against the windows now and it is possible to feel the heat already. Finally, with a deep sigh, [Y/N] relaxes against the Asgardian’s chest, allowing the years of stress to be replaced with a bone-deep exhaustion.

She is asleep in his embrace by the time they return.

[jadekitty777]

See You Heal

Hey everyone, long time no update, right? Aha!

Alright time for something a little different but still sweet. This entry is a work entirely inspired by @ladyrobiness‘ beautiful Slow Sunrise series. I woke up one morning and the idea just hit me like a truck and well... I had to write it out.

This is a continuation to that series so, reading it first is absolutely required. But why wouldn’t you? It’s a beautiful Fix-It fic with lots of tender moments of healing for Qrow and Clover both along with them just falling in love like the adorable dorks they are <333

Here are the Ao3 links to both:

Robiness’ Story: Slow Sunrise series

My Story: See You Heal

It’s also below the cut!

Rating: K+

Pairing: Qrow/Clover

Word Count: 2800

Summary: Qrow knows ignoring the problem only makes it worse. Unfortunately, dealing with it has its own set of problems too.

~

Sometimes, Qrow wished his standard for dealing with shit wasn’t ‘‘Ignore it until it goes away’.

It didn’t work. He knew it didn’t work – and yet sometimes his traitorous brain thought: maybe this time it’ll be different. So, when the issue of Clover not liking anyone at his six came up, like a scroll that had been factory reset, he defaulted. Hoped in the most ironic ways that the problem would just fix itself or at the very least, never become a problem.

That was why, as he gusted through the air trying to spot the nearest nomadic settlement, all he could see instead was Clover’s dismayed expression.

Really, he only had himself to blame.

They’d been traveling through Vacuo’s unforgiving desert for hours. It was a six-day journey to reach Shade Academy, most of which they had to do on foot as no locals at the city border ever escorted anyone across the desert without a price. Though they’d gotten an early start, beginning their trek even before the sun had peaked the horizon, as the day waned the sands around them began to shimmer as the heat rose to unbearable heights. Add onto that an unstable ground that left them all unsteady on their feet, relentless winds that whipped sand along exposed skin and eyes, and the occasional Grimm or wildlife lying in wait for an attack, and it just seemed like a recipe for disaster.

So, when the Sidewinder Grimm leapt from the dunes they were walking across and struck out at Weiss, all but two of them either didn’t react fast enough, or stumbled when they tried. The first of the two that had was Clover, who had his fishing line around Weiss in an instant and yanked her his way. The second was Ruby, who sped above the field like a shot, petals and dust following her wake as she managed to get in the first blow.

Within seconds, the rest of them recovered and suddenly the snake had ten skilled opponents bearing down on it. It certainly wasn’t a long battle, but enough to get the adrenalin going. The kids seemed to take it as they saw it, realizing the threat was over once the smoke cleared. But more veteran huntsmen like himself kept on guard a little longer.

Or like Clover – who wasn’t expecting Jaune to come up behind him and give him a congratulatory pat on the back.

The reaction was instantaneous. Clover yelped as he twisted and swung Kingfisher right at the boy’s head.

The clang of metal hitting metal seemed to echo the world into silence.

Jaune, shield shadowing his face, looked tense and a little frightened.

Clover just looked horrified.

And then he was faltering back, dropping his weapon into the sand. “I’m- I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to- are you okay?!”

“I’m, fine.” Jaune answered a little shakily, trying to laugh it off. “I don’t think now is the time for a training exercise though.”

Clover tried to meet him, but his own chuckle rang hollow. “No. No it’s not.” He ran a hand agitatedly through his hair. “I really am sorry. I, I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s too hot.” Weiss was the one to offer, turning the attention her way. “I’m having trouble too.”

It sounded logical. Believable. Of course the Atlesians weren’t accustomed to blistering heat like this and would be most likely to succumb to its’ effects.

Only Qrow knew the truth of the matter. Tried not to think how a desert wasn’t so unlike a tundra – open space, unsteady footing, extreme weather.

“We need to get out of this sun.” Blake decided.

Ruby nodded in agreement. “Right. Uncle Qrow, can you scout ahead and see if you can spot something?”

That’s how he ended up in the sky, canting in great big circles like a vulture and looking to every horizon as he tried to make out a camp or an outcropping or a cactus. Anything that might provide shade or water. It took a few cycles, increasing his radius at every turn, before finally managing to see several flutterings in the distance. Upon closer inspection, he knew it was the tarps of caravans, moving southwest. Which meant stable ground and civilization.

He dove back towards the group, morphing just shy of his landing. “Looks like someone’s on the move several miles that way. There’s probably a temporary camp nearby.”

Or if there wasn’t, there would be.

“Right, then let’s move.” Ruby ordered, turning to the robot beside her. “Penny maybe you can try and keep us cool in the meantime?”

“I will give it my best shot!”

Their conversation faded to background noise as his focus instead shifted to Clover who, for the first time since they’d begun traveling together, took lead instead of rear. A silent attempt to rebuild goodwill. But his posture was held straight, an unnatural rigidity to his movements.

Qrow joined him, not quite reaching for his hand, but allowing their knuckles to brush together. The effect was miniscule, but there, just the slightest drop of his shoulders as his face eased into a small, not-quite-there smile.

Okay. He could work with this.

~

It was funny how easy it was to trick a Vacuon when they thought they were the ones playing it. All it took was some altruistic speeches from the kids about wanting to help because that’s what huntsmen did and the words “free of charge” and suddenly they were traveling with a whole parade of people who thought they were getting protection for nothing. Which was mostly true – except of course, now they had a place to stay in and quicker way to the academy.

It also kept them busy, trading off shifts throughout the day to keep watch on their surroundings. Which meant it was almost two days later before he finally had a moment alone with Clover. The wayfarers who they were assisting had a strict habit of bearing down at the hottest part of the day to conserve resources and energy. With JNPR 2.0 on duty and RWBY helping with lunch, Qrow took the opportunity to retire to their makeshift quarters.

As he stepped into the tent, he found his segue into the conversation was going to be more on the nose then he’d planned for.

Clover was seated on one of the various sleeping mats, Harbinger in his lap as he tended to her gears. “Hey.” He greeted. “How’d scouting go?”

“Uh. Fine.”

Seeming to sense his unease, the huntsman paused, looking between him and the weapon. “Oh, sorry! I guess I should do this later.”

“No!” The word burst out of him, startling them both. Qrow cleared his throat, repeating more levelly, “No, it’s fine really. I told you to take care of her.”

To prove his statement, he took the few steps forward to sit directly across from him.

Clover eyed him skeptically for several long moments, perhaps trying to puzzle out if he was trying a backwards form of recovery or just talking big. He seemed to decide the former as he bent back over the sword. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. A lot of grit is getting in-between the gears. But I’m worried about messing up the mechanics.” He offered him a smile. “Harbinger’s really intricate. You did an amazing job.”

“Laying it on a little thick there, aren’t ya Ebi?” He scooted forward just a little, pointing to the correct parts as he spoke. “First loosen the spindle here. Then you can take out the suspension spring and remove this gear.”

They spent the next several minutes just going about the task. Even though he was guiding another’s hands through the motions, the work was so familiar it was relaxing. He even found it possible to keep hold of the small, easily lost pinions as they were removed. All the while, he studied Clover as he worked, the way his brow furrowed with deep concentration or how his strong hands never faltered as he took out each gear with care and reverence. As if the weapon was as cherished as his own.

“Last one.” Qrow announced as the fifth pinion was dropped into his palm.

“You know, before I really was praising you.” The smallest cog came out with a small pop, being added to the growing collection on the cloth Clover had laid out. He finished his statement with a mirthful smile, “But now I’ve determined you went too far.”

He snorted. “Sorry my sword-scythe-shotgun hybrid is a little more complicated than your basic fishing rod.”

He gasped in mock offense. “My darling may not have all your weapon’s fancy little tricks, but it gets the job done with just as much grace.”

“Oh, that’s what you call all that flailing around?”

“Watch it Branwen.”

“What? Am I-” The rest of his words ‘on thin ice’ died in his throat. “Uh-”

This time, Clover misinterpreted his floundering. “What, am I doing it wrong?”

He focused on where the other’s hands were, his own quickly reaching out to catch his, only to abort the motion just as quickly when his fingertips skimmed Harbinger’s surface. That Clover noticed.

He ran the same hand over the back of his neck. “Uh, don’t remove that unless you want her coming apart completely.”

“Alright.” Clover lifted his hand from the center plate obediently. “Are you doing okay or should we stop?”

Dropping the pinions onto the cloth beside the other parts, he tried not to let it feel like too much of a failure. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“Why would I be uncomfortable?” He replied with a frown.

Qrow stared. Was he being serious right now? “You’re kidding. If anything you should be more repelled to be holding her than me.”

“But I’m not. I never have been.”

The frustration broke over like a wave so that his next words flooded out like a tide of turbulent emotions, “Why not? You’re the one who got hurt! Why is it so easy for you?!”

No, no. Shut up.

He slouched over, scrabbling hands through his hair, tugging at the ends as if it would ground him back to the present.

This was going all wrong. He wasn’t supposed to be getting angry.

“I-I mean-” He started to say.

Clover cut him off. “Have you ever considered things were different from my perspective?”

He blinked. Looked up. “What?”

The other huntsman’s gaze drifted, falling down to the blade still in his lap. He ran his palm along the surface. “I never saw it. Or if I did, my mind’s blocked it out. I… remember pain. How hard it was to breathe. But as far as anything I saw in that moment? All I can think of is gray. A dark gray, almost black, but kind of green too?”

Qrow frowned, trying to piece that together. Atlas wasn’t exactly known for its abundance of greenery. The only green thing he could think of was Clover’s own pin. Maybe it was just his body going into shock, making him see things that weren’t actually there.

“Either way,” He continued, idly tracing the intricate patterns embedded in the sword’s metal. “What I’m getting at is, the only reason I know this was the weapon that struck me is because I was told it was. To me, it’s kind of removed from the whole event.” His movements stopped, that same dismayed look from several days ago clouding his features. “Instead, I have other problems.”

Seemed like they were going to have that conversation after all. “Like what happened with Jaune.”

“Yeah. I hadn’t meant to attack him. I just thought…” Clover slumped, trailing off.

“That he was someone else. I know.” Qrow said in the space left behind. “Known for awhile, actually. I knew it was an issue, but I hadn’t said anything. Tch. I should of. Maybe then-”

A flick to his forehead had him jerking back.

“Stop.” Clover’s fingers soothed over the spot, sliding down along the contours of his face to cup his jaw. “You’re not responsible for my problems Qrow. It’s my job to acknowledge them and ask for help if I need it.”

There was a lot of things he thought to say, the most prominent being how Clover never seemed to have an issue laser focusing on Qrow’s problems and addressing them (though, to be fair, those results didn’t always pan out) – but what he finally decided on saying was, “Do you need help?”

Teal eyes went wide and he drew back. The look on his face, vulnerable and lost, was heartbreaking. “I, uh. I don’t know.”

“Would you like to try something?” He pressed on gently.

“Like what?”

“An exercise.” He waved towards Harbinger. “Set her aside and take off your shirt – Don’t smile like that, I’m not gonna do anything lecherous.”

Clover laughed. “Ah, there goes all my hopes and dreams.” Still, he did as commanded, laying the blade to his left before peeling off the green shirt he wore.

Qrow managed not to stare at the metal plating built into the center of his chest, stitching his body together like a broken doll. Instead he reached forward, undoing the red bandanna around the man’s arm – one of the only things he’d kept of his old uniform, besides the boots – and tied the cloth around his eyes instead.

“Uh, Qrow?” Now blind, Clover sounded a lot more uncertain.

He ran a hand through short brown locks. “When I used to teach, I would do this with the students.”

“Lot to unpack with that statement.” He was barely containing a laugh.

It was his turn to flick him. “Shut it and listen.” He got to his feet, speaking as he rounded the other. “It was usually for typical stuff. Figuring out what movements they knew by reflex and what they needed to work on. Keeping an ear on their surroundings when their eyes can’t. But sometimes,” He stopped directly behind him. “It was to help break bad habits.”

Clover was already tense. “Really?”

“Ruby’s footwork used to be terrible. Got worse when she discovered her semblance – she was tumbling all over the place. Taking away her sight made her focus harder on every step she made. Made her more aware of everything she was doing.” Qrow reached out, fingertips brushing along the base of Clover’s neck, the skin shuddering under his touch. “That’s what I want you to do. Focus on the way your body reacts and correct it.”

“This… seems a little unconventional.”

He knelt down behind him. “Sometimes it’s the unconventional methods that work. Now,” He laid his palm flat along metalwork layered over his spine, hearing the sharp inhale. “Let’s get started.”

~

Qrow couldn’t say for how long, exactly, the exercise went on for – but it was certainly not as long as he would have kept one of his students at it. Where he’d push them to continue even just a minute longer, he was more willing to pull back with the brunette, knowing this was taking a mental toll along with the physical one. So, when he noticed Clover’s efforts were turning to frustration, he was quick to call for a break, offering that maybe they could finish up with Harbinger in the interim.

Clover, stubborn man he was, didn’t want to quit entirely though.

That was how they ended up sitting back to back as Qrow polished off the gears and pins and Clover set them into place.

Healing takes many forms, Qrow mused as he handed over the third cog and reached for the next, the anxiety he normally felt completely, blissfully absent.

Felt the stretch of muscles against his own as Clover worked, his erratic breathing and shakes having steadied a while ago.

One day, he hoped they could come out of this without their demons controlling them.

Yet, he knew recovery was a difficult, haphazard mess of a journey; so that day was in a future he still couldn’t quite discern, no matter how hard he looked.

Not that he could say he was surprised. His life had never been simple and that track record wasn’t going to let up a four decades’ long streak so easily – but, for once, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

For the one brightness he could see in all this was right behind him.

Qrow slid down, just enough to rest his ear against the metal along Clover’s back, the reassuring thump-thump-thump of his heart a gift he’d never waste.

For it beat with the promise that he was here.

He was alive.

And, Qrow recklessly dared to believe, he was his.

Another gift he’d never waste.

A devotion he’d never dishonor.

A love he’d forever hold onto.

[sellyripley]

Alpha’s Exceptional Cargo

Fan Fiction: 

Fandom: Crossover between the Robot Trains universe and the Tayo & Titipo universe. 

Genre: Dystopian/Apocalyptic 

Pairings: None

Set around 30 years in the future of the Tayo & Titipo universe, intended as an origin story for the Robot Trains world. A bit dark, a bit weird. Here goes nothing…

                                                            ///

                                     Alpha’s Exceptional Cargo

Hana gazed out the window of the rail office that doubled as her living space while Titipo, Gani and Alpha dawdled along through the rail yard in the distance. Titipo and Alpha stayed confined to the tracks while Gani kept on the road parallel to the tracks, staying as close to his companions as possible.

Alpha could actually leave the tracks, if he had really wanted to.

Alpha reminded Hana of Tayo, back when he and Gani had been young buses. He had young Tayo’s chipper and curious manner. 

Hana had utilized the salvageable components of Tayo’s old memory chips in Alpha’s construction. Alpha didn’t retain Tayo’s memories, but at least, he did seem to retain some of his mannerisms and personality traits.

Now Gani’s red paint was faded and weathered, his voice no longer child-like but tired and wise. He was a patient guardian to Alpha, the rail-yard’s newest addition.

Alpha’s upbeat attitude was a welcome contrast to the perpetual night that had befallen the Earth. The sun was now blotted out by a thick black smog – the consequence of humanity’s wasteful and selfish choices. But it didn’t bother Alpha because he’d never known any different.

It had been years since Hana had left her post at the bus garage along with the remaining buses and relocated to the Choo Choo Town rail station. Teo, the train inspector, had left the rail-yard saying he needed to spend humanity’s final years with his family.

But to Hana, the Trains and Buses were her family.

“Alpha!” Hana called, her own voice sounding aged and tired. “Can you please come here for a bit?” the mechanic stood outside of her quarters on a platform by the tracks.

Alpha pulled up next to her, remaining in his train form. “Please transform into your robot form, Alpha.” Requested Hana.

“Aww, do I have to?” The young train whined. Alpha, the first of his kind as his named denoted, did not like taking on his robot form. It made him stand out.

He’d preferred to imagine that he was just a normal vehicle, like his mentors, Titipo, Gani and the others. It was bad enough being the youngest train without also feeling like an oddity.

Reluctantly, Alpha took on his robot form and stood awkwardly next to the tracks.

“What is it, Hana?” He chimed. “I need to give you one last check-up. And then I need to give you something.”

“Last check up?” Alpha asked as Hana went over him with a scanner. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Said Hana “I need to give you something…something special. And then very soon after that, I’ll need to go away.”

“How long will you be gone?” asked Alpha “And what do you need to give me?”

“It’s…a type of fuel. I designed you so that…with this type of fuel, you’ll have energy that will last for a very long time. You’ll have plenty of energy without ever needing to refuel. And someday, you’ll be able to help other trains do the same. But, I’m going to have to leave here after I give it to you and you won’t see me again. But don’t worry. Gani, Titipo and the others will look after you from now on.”

Hana knew the right moment had come to impart this final gift to Alpha. From Hana’s scans of the area, there wasn’t another human for hundreds of miles. Under current environmental conditions, it wouldn’t be possible for a human being to leave shelter long enough to commute that distance so Alpha now stood no chance of accidentally crossing paths with one.

There were only a handful of humans left on the Earth, and they too would inevitably be gone soon.  

Hana wasn’t as sad about that as most would be. She’d always felt closer to machines than humans anyway. The machines were inherently giving and selfless.

But now there were no passengers left and soon there would be no mechanics or engineers either. If any semblance of society was going to carry on into the future, machines were going to have to be able to use their giving and selfless nature to take care of one another from now on. And Hana was determined to ensure that that was possible.

Alpha’s eyes shined with dismayed sadness “But Hana! I don’t want you to leave!”

She distinctly heard a hint of Tayo’s voice in the young train’s plea.

“Alpha, this world isn’t for humans any more. Humans have not taken good care of it and now we can’t live here any longer. Almost all the humans are gone and now it’s time for me to go to. You vehicles will have to try to do a better job than we did. And in the future, there will need to be more trains like you to help take care of everyone.”

“But no one wants to be a robot train.” Pouted Alpha, somewhat resentful of his creator’s seemly bizarre design choices.

Hana could understand. She imagined, even if humans had developed the technology to modify themselves into some more efficient configuration, they would probably still be much attached to the human form to which they were accustomed. Most would not prefer a phenotype too strange or alien for themselves or their offspring, even if it did afford some new advantages.

Maybe the robot-train design would eventually come to be more accepted. As with human society, advancement would likely be gradual.

But, even a just few robot vehicles among the more conventional models would be sufficient – to look after and repair the others. To be the protectors of society.

As the first, a lot of responsibility would fall on this kid’s shoulders. But, Hana trusted Gani and Titipo to guide him through it. She’d left all of her schematics, all of her research and all of her designs with them. Alpha would eventually grow to be their guardian and caretaker.

Hana finished her exam and tucked her scanner away. She removed her red mechanic’s hat and wiped her brow.

“Everything looks good, Alpha. You can turn back into train form now. I’m going to go get the fuel, but it will take me a minute.”

Hana disappeared down a corridor between shipping containers and returned dressed head to tow in a thick coverall garment along with heavy boots, gloves, and a face shield. She wheeled a large, heavy container on an electric dolly. The trefoil symbol on the container did not mean anything in particular to Alpha.

“Why are you dressed like that Hana?” asked Alpha.

“Your new fuel isn’t safe for humans to get too close to for very long without protective gear. So, you wouldn’t want to get close to any humans, but there isn’t really a risk of that anymore.”

Hana opened the container to reveal within its thick metal walls a series of beautiful luminescent rods.

Hana took her time installing the new fuel source along with the equipment needed for Alpha’s engine to process it.

She then stood up slowly and said weakly “Go on now and tell Titipo that I’ve given you the fuel and that I’m leaving now.”

Even under the heavy protective gear she wore, Alpha perceived that Hana did not seem well.

Alpha hesitated a moment. He wanted to stay and try to help somehow…but then thought better of it and sped off.

He had never felt so full of life and energy.

                                                        ///

                                              Ten Years Prior

“Hana, please. You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this. There isn’t much time left, and people need to stick together. You can come spend these last few years with my family.” Teo pleaded.

Hana turned from her work on the computer to face the train inspector.

“Alone!?” Replied Hana “Of course I won’t be alone! Someone’s got to take care of the trains and buses!”

“Hana, please…” begged Teo. “The trains and buses… are just machines. They don’t really think and feel like you and me. They’re just…an imitation. They were made for people, by people. It’s people who are important.”

Hana stood up from the computer and crossed her arms in consternation.

“Well I don’t think of them like that! And if you’re not going to stick around, then I have a lot of repairs to take care of. So if you’ll excuse me…”

Hana stormed out of the office passed Teo.

Teo stared at Hana’s computer apprehensively.

He knew all about her big plan. To help enable machines to carry on without humanity. The idea unsettled Teo deeply. Machines were made to serve humans. Without humans, what was their purpose?

The thought of machines mindlessly carrying out their pointless tasks for thousands of years in the absence of humans sent a chill down Teo’s spine. As though…his own soul couldn’t be at rest as long as this hollow echo of humanity persisted.

He sat down at the computer and sifted through Hana’s plans.

He knew a thing or two about programming machines himself.

He read through the designs for Hana’s new new train. This affront to humanity’s legacy would not take place on Teo’s watch. He would insert some code of his own. Teo might not be able to save humanity from their own self destruction, but with a little luck, he could prevent this eternal mockery.

A virus.

It had to be well hidden or Hana would detect it, which meant it would have to lie dormant even after the train’s construction. Like a time bomb. But someday, at the right moment it would be released and hopefully put an end to Hana’s machine society. And then humanity would finally be at peace.

[chaniters]

And the winner is...

Next part of @kruk-art‘s Awan Cormac series. 

Complex stories take a long time to plan!!!

Another hospital scene... 

Spoilers ahead for Rebirth

Previous part is here:  8 https://chaniters.tumblr.com/post/188183225024/blood-in-the-water

__________________________

Hospitals. Wards. Infirmaries. 

You hate them all.

Too sterile. Too familiar. 

Yet here you are, mind full of guilt, sitting by the bed, waiting for him to wake up. Your hand goes absently to the plate where the cookies are, fetching one two. 

Idle time is another one of your pet peeves, and thus you brought something to work on. The decryption programs you brought on your phone are top-notch coming directly from the farm and should work on anything, but the Loan Shark’s data-rod on Elyise has proved impervious so far. Still, you’re not giving up and there are a few more tricks to try. 

You’re almost sure it’s not an American encryption protocol, which only raises more questions as to the true extent of Hollow Ground’s connections. Whatever the case, they didn’t want this file to be seen which is all the more compelling reason to break in and see what’s inside.

You keep on trying though, each new variation of your protocols failing after a short while with a monotonous beep from the phone and the sound of crunchy chocolate cookies the only things letting you keep track of time. 

At least that’s so until…

“Are you going to leave some for me, jerk?”

You put down your phone, looking at him. His eyes are open, and he looks pale. Pale, but awake. 

The immediate wave of relief is so strong you feel you’re about to lose it. But you force yourself to keep it together.

“If you think you’re going to get one of MY cookies, you’re awfully mistaken. It’s going to be baby food from now on for you Marsha!” 

“Baby food? Yuck. I’m out of here!” he says trying to move up before stopping with a pained expression. The movement makes his mods go off, sending a zap towards the machine he’s attached to, which turns off and then reboots

“Watch it sparkles! Those things take a lot to reconnect if you break them... “ you sigh while  “You’re might be patched up but you’re still wounded.  Better get used to it too, you’ve got some horizontal time ahead of you”

“Ugh. Ook…  Maybe I’ll rest for a little bit after all” he relents. 

“That’s how things are going to be from now on. You’re staying there as long as you have to ”

“Who made you boss again?”

“Your mom. Also, she promised more cookies if I stop you from doing anything stupid”

“So you sold me out for chocolate chips?”

“They’re really good,” you say taking another. “Really really good” you add with your mouth full.

You monster…” he says with the hint of a smile.

“Yeah, I get that a lot. So, how long have you been awake?”

“Not sure. Didn’t notice you were in the room at first.”

“Do you know where you are?” you ask “Or what day it is?”

He ponders hard for a few moments examining the surroundings before answering “... The HQ?”

“That’s right. We’re at the infirmary”

“How long I was out though.”

“I’d say about two days, give or take.

“That’s insane. Where are the others?”

“Asleep I guess? It’s 3:00 am”

“Whaa… what are you doing here so late then?” he says narrowing his gaze, making you feel a bit uncomfortable. “I thought you hated hospitals...”

“I do. But I’ve managed so far” 

“Didn’t know you cared that much about me”. Bullseye, he got you there. 

“Don’t flatter yourself” you grunt. “It’s bold of you to assume I’ve got a life outside the hero gig anyways,” you say deflecting. “And this isn’t really a big deal. I get free food. And this is just part of your base, not a real -real- hospital anyways... I mean I could do this for any wounded ally” you add averting your gaze. The snort tells you he didn’t buy into that. 

It was a really bad lie, you’re usually better at this, of course, he knows you wouldn’t get into a hospital -even an infirmary- for just anyone. Well almost anyone, you know that now. Are you losing your touch? If you blush right now you’ll have to just kill yourself right here.

“Look, I’m taking turns with your mom, ok? That’s all! It’s really no big deal.” you sigh. “She left at midnight to get some sleep. She’ll be back in the morning.”

“So you met her?  can’t believe I missed that! What did she even say?”

“Oh uh… Not much… really. She seemed to like me I think?” In fact, she said a lot to you. About how Ricardo keeps talking about you and how he’s lucky to have such a good friend that you’d offer to stay for so long… and a whole LOAD of other stuff about Ortega that you didn’t know. “How are you feeling?”

“My chest hurts like hell. But I’m good at keeping up appearances,” he says with another pained smile. His voice sounds tired. Damn him and his unreadable mind… you couldn’t tell it hurt like that.

“Let’s fix that,” you say as you raise from the seat and start fiddling and adjusting the drips attached to his arm.

“Hey hey hey… What are you doing?” he asks nervously as he watches.

“Increasing the painkiller dosage?” you explain matter-of-factly

“But shouldn’t my doctor do that?”

“Fuck him”

“That’s a bit harsh”

You turn to look at him “He took you off painkillers because your sponsors bribed him so they can get a full diagnostic of your mods by the morning. They seem to think the drugs would mess that test’s accuracy.”

“... that does sound like something they’d do, the jerks...” he sighs. “What did you do?”

 “I dealt with it.”

“Dealt with it how?”

“I had him confess what he did, and then killed him”

He looks at you wide-eyed for a few seconds. Wow, he actually believes you could do that.

“Of course I didn’t kill him you asshole! That was a joke. He’ll come back eventually when it’s time to check up on you. I just gave him a time-out”

“Oooh…  It’s just you don’t tell that many jokes. And you were pretty convincing for a moment there. Did I tell you that you look very serious most of the time?”

“Idiot” you groan sitting reassuming your adjustments as he watches, a bit more relaxed now. “By the way I know what I’m doing. I’ve got training as a nurse”

“Really? Maybe I should hire you to do this more regularly. Didn’t know you had medical training”

“That’s me. Big box of surprises. Sadly, you couldn’t afford me,” you say with a smirk. He just snorts, which makes him hurt again. He’s an Idiot and you should probably stop telling him jokes. 

“Ok, doc… Can we move on to the part where you tell me how bad it is?” he says looking at his chest. “Or do we need the real doc for that?”

“Nah, I can do that… It’s really bad right now” you start “Nasty cuts. You went into intensive care, but you’re off now, your surgery was a complete success with no organ damage or permanent injuries. You still had blood transfusions twice from two of your cousins who were here when they brought you.  You’re going to have some new interesting scars. Overall, the consensus is that you’re going to be wearing your Charge suit as soon as they can spit you out of here. Your sponsors have prepared some media things for you while you recover, so you don’t lose the limelight, so you can expect cameras up your nose when they realize you’re awake.”

“Well that’s just…” he starts before trailing off.

“Grotesque? Horrible?”

“Business as usual really…” he says taking in a deep breath. 

“I’ll scare them off too if you want. Shouldn’t be hard.”

“How about I hire you to be my personal spook instead?”

“You don’t need to pay me for that,” you say as you finish adjusting the dosage “Also, you should be feeling better in a bit, and if you don’t we can go for a stronger dosage... Or I can even get the asshole to give you something stronger”

“Thanks, Awan” 

“It ‘s ok,” you say taking your seat again.

His gaze runs around the empty room, the dark corridor outside, and the digital clock by the bed. 3:17 AM. It’s pretty obvious it’s only the two of you right now. 

“Thanks for staying Awan. I know how much you hate hospitals”

“I do hate them a lot. But I told you it’s nothing”

“Not everyone would do this”

“I bet a lot of people would…”

“Nope. Only a really good friend would. “Would you be mad if I told you you’re my best friend ?”

“Wha…? Now you’re just being ridiculous…”

“Because you are my best friend. You know that right?”

“I...” you say averting your gaze. Fuck, you’re going to blush. You rub your face before looking back. 

“Oh. Now you’re mad” he grins. 

“You’re my best friend too, ok?… “ You’re staring right at him, the words somehow escaping your lips very quickly before you can take them back. Shitshitshitshit...Why does this keep happening around him?

He opens his mouth about to say something, before he simply closes it again, giving you a fond smirk before patting your hand next to the bed. He says nothing and neither do you.

It takes a while before he breaks the silence again. 

“Is Elyise alright?” he asks suddenly worried. 

“She’s fine.”

“I just had this feeling of… Did something happen to her?”

“I told you she’s fine. See for yourself” you say with a half-smile turning on the TV. “The news is still raging on about her”

Sure enough the news report show a picture of her at the large screen behind the reporter, with the headlines “Exclusive interview, Elyse”  She’s giving an interview, photo flashes showering her as she answers questions about her relationship with Ortega -which she deflects with some mistery -  and the mess that happened at the docks -which she also deflects-. You’ve got to discuss both of those with Ortega too.

Then a reporter asks her about the death of her mother… she breaks, starts tearing up… one of her PR guys says the interview is over and takes her away. The media is loving her, even if that breaks her apart. 

“Don’t you love Los Diablos Quality TV?” you ask sarcastically. 

“Ugh. That’s my life. I gave her a few hints but you can never be ready for questions like that.”

“What’s the deal between you two?” you ask curiously

“Ehrm… well, we talked a lot after that mess in Sunken Town… She was really sad and needed someone to dump it all on, and I kind of was there, so we started talking about losing parents… And her story was out of this world. We talked all night, and then I was going to go back home and she wanted me to stay and one thing led to another and…”

“Oh” 

“It’s not like that! I mean… Ugh… Crap, I guess it is like that.?

“Sound like it is” 

“But then our PR’s got involved and they loved it. They wanted to make a whole story arch about it, and I was going to say no, but she asked me to do it? I mean she said we should do it, you know, to get headlines”

“So there’s nothing serious going on?”

“Ehrm…” he seems a bit confused by the question. “I don’t know? No? Yes? Maybe?”

“Hey, it’s ok. It’s just me asking” 

“Yeah, I know. Truth is, I’ve got no idea. Never met anyone who’s lost as much as her. The things she endured… And I’d like to help her but I’m not sure if she’s in the right place now.  I guess we’ll have to see where it goes? You know how these things go with other heroes…”

You nod as if you knew what he was talking about, which you don’t. 

“Now with thy dumpster fire love life out of the way… could you….”

“Could I what?”

“Remind me how did I fuck up so bad as to end up here?”

“You don’t remember?” 

“Nope.”

“Not even…?”

“Not a clue pal. Nada.” Crap. “I guess it had to do with the docks mess that Elyise talked about?” 

“It does. What’s the last thing you recall?” you ask

“I think we were at some sort of event, right?”

“... yeah, we were. Hauswald fundraiser for their new facility. Reaper hosted it...That’s when it all started going downhill. You seriously don’t remember a thing after that?”

“Hmm... I think some of it’s coming back… but it’s blurry... “ he goes silent.

“Alright, I’ll try to keep it short…”

“Why? You told me I’m not going anywhere”

“... you just... listen”

___________________________

Hauswald Foundation Charity fundraiser dinner.

 Dodge to the left to avoid the punch… flip away from the kick… 

One of them thinks he has the advantage and attempts to trip you, but you time your jump correctly, and he misses. THey’re all off balance… Now’s the time to take the offensive! 

Leaping forward onto your three attackers, you grapple them all in your arms, lifting them as they scream in surprise before you slam them forward with all your strength. 

Excellent, you tell yourself as the three kids fall off onto the bouncy castle, giggling as they try to stand up and jump. The other kids cheer at you. They really love your Sidestep persona. You’re tempted to jump in yourself, but you’ve been using the bouncy castle far too long and some of the parents are starting to give you side-eye. Stupid rules say the castle is just for kids… Oh well, better quit while you’re ahead.

“Good try, you almost got me there!” You say behind your mask. You didn’t know what to expect when Ricardo asked you to make an appearance with the Hauswald kids, but now all you want to do is keep playing with them. They had this playground built so the permanent residents could spend time with their kids until the new facilities are built.  It doesn’t help that chronologically speaking, you’re probably not too far apart from their current age. 

The thought makes you ponder on how would it have been to have a normal childhood like them and the whole experience suddenly becomes both sad and alien. You only wish you could have…-

“Wow. You’re amazing with kids! What other secrets do you have?” Anathema says interrupting your thoughts.

“I’m a genetically modified monster created in a lab as a weapon designed to pass as a human and take over the world,” you say because the truth is often the better lie. You wave your arms in front of you, walking slowly to Annie, as a monster would. 

“I knew it. You’re one of them eeeevil Snake-people!”

“Ha! We prefer the term Sneeple. We’re not anything like snakes!. We just happen to be poisonous” you grin under the mask. 

“Sneeple” the children laugh pointing at you.  

“Oh no! You’ve got me!” you cry out. “But I will not go down easily! Prepare to feel my poisonous bite Anathema!”

“I’ll defeat the Sneeple guys!” Anathema says doing a slow-motion mock-punch at you. 

You fake a suitable slow-motion fall, and they all laugh it up. 

“Good job,” Anathema says offering a hand

“Giving it a 101%” you chuckle as you take his hand and he lifts you up.

“You should have kids of your own one day man. You’d be great at it”

“Let’s go back into the ceremony,” you say quickly. “I think we made our appearance long enough already,” you’re ignoring his comment and hoping he won’t ever mention anything as scary and confusing as that ever again. 

“Can’t wait for the big awards to be over?” 

“That’s the plan, I’m not staying a second longer than I have to”

“Man you could really use some decent PR for a change, get some sort of message to your fans. There’s a magazine saying you’re secretly a Japanese ninja, coming out all the way from Kyoto in search of the murderer of your father. It’s nuts. You should get closer to the people and get a real story going...”

“Hell no, no one’s getting closer to me. Also, I happen to like that story. I think I’ll sprinkle some Japanese when I talk in public from now on...”

“Wait, you speak Japanese?!”

“Of course I do. Now If only I could find my father’s killer…”

“You asshole!” he snorts following you back inside.” 

___________________________

“And without further ado, we move on to the event of the night,” Reaper says holding the mic with his good hand. He’s in a wheelchair, still with a cast arm, but the combination of an impossibly expensive Tuxedo being worn by a talking skeleton oddly makes him both look distinguished and larger than life. In an eldritch kind of way that is. His mind’s different, there’s a fire in it that you didn’t notice before. Fire. Like the Hospital burning. It’s not really very surprising that he’d get a whole new passion for rebuilding what he loves. 

“We hand over the Hauswald awards to those who have contributed the most in our fight against the epidemic of death that threatens our great nation!” he announces. “The panel of judges has spoken,” he says motioning to a group of people sitting on a large table by the podium, famous all of them, reporters, politicians, artists, writers, and philosophers founding members of the Hauswald along with Reaper himself. While the founder is dead, Amanda Hauswald, his only daughter is right there too, a young blockbuster actress in her 20’s that’s set to play Elyise in her upcoming film. She rises from her chair, adjusting her gorgeous silver velvet gown and climbs to the stage, to pass several envelopes to Reaper.

Reaper thanks her, and prepares to announce the winners. 

“Are you going to eat at all?” Ortega asks beside you, wearing his own white suit.

“The mask stays on”

“You could just lift up the lower part a bit” Anathema comments from the other side.

“The mask stays on” you repeat.

“But these are amazing!!” he says motioning to his plate

“That’s why I brought this,” you say tapping a large piece of Tupperware full of everything you could gather from the reception up to this point.

“You didn’t just bring that to…” Ortega looks at you appalled “You can’t… you can’t do that at  events like this!”

“Just watch me,” you say defiantly. “The mask stays on, and I take my food-to-go” You’re sick of being starved every time you get dragged into something like this. The only compromise you made was letting Anathema add last-minute bowtie to your suit, which looks oddly fitting for the occasion.

“Unbelievable… fine... Just keep it out of sight, and if anyone asks, I don’t know you” Ortega says giving up. 

“I still think someone leaked,” Steel tells Sentinel, from the other end of the table.”

“With half the police being corrupt, it’s not that hard for the Loan Shark to get leaks about us coming to arrest him anyways” Sentinel shoots back. “Or are you saying that one of us gave the raid away on purpose?”

Steel looks at you briefly, before answering. 

“No, no I didn’t mean that… But perhaps if we kept the intel only to the inner team, we could avoid it all spreading and…”

“Let it go, it’s not against you” Annie whispers “He just angry and It could have been anyone. Like Sentinel said, half the police’s on Hollow Ground’s payroll.”

“I know… I just wish he’d trust me a bit at least” you whisper back. “I was the one who came with the ledgers in the first place”

“I’ll remind him”

“Don’t. Let it be, it’s ok” you say looking at the other tables. The raid to arrest Lewie was a bust, he had been tipped off and the office had been whipped clean. Not even a trace of the furniture and the walls had been repainted. And his safe was gone. 

Your attention derails towards Elyise. She’s watching Reaper’s delivery from another table along with her own crew, investigators, photographers, and publicists. After the events with Mother, she’s become the main torchbearer to the Hauswald, possibly overshadowing Reaper himself, and the public relationship with Charge shun even more light over her rising star. Reaper’s provided her every resource, both in her hero duties and with an endless media bombardment that’s working to get her ahead in the hero-game fast. She doesn’t seem thrilled about her life being used and exposed this way, but you can’t really blame Reaper. She’s the perfect poster-child to lead the fight against the madness of loose hero-drugs trough the country, and he knows it. 

Reaper goes to announce awards for artists, media representatives, film-makers, and others. Right after regular every-day hero award, he moves on to the main event of the night. 

The hero awards. 

The Hauswald offers one of the most coveted awards for those who care about that kind of thing. This is the main reason Ortega insisted you be here if the Rangers win, he wants you to share it with them if they win, and he somehow managed to verbally outmaneuver you into coming along. Truth is everyone expects Elyise to win this year, but Ortega’s still hoping for a new trophy. 

The man must control some form of witchcraft to get you agreeing to come to something like this. Or perhaps you’re finding it harder and harder to look for excuses to keep your distance from him. The thought makes you shiver under your suit.

He takes pause as he reads the contents of the last envelope.

“Oh boy… Really?” he says, a boney hand rubbing his face. He looks back at the judges as if to double-check. They all nod at him, and he turns back to the audience. “ Well, this is going to be controversial. Alright, Light up the contenders!” he asks the organizers. 

Ortega stands straight, as Steel frowns when the lights come upon your table. Something similar is happening to your left, where Captain Glory and the Phoenix Rangers are also getting ready in case they win. Elyise’s not on her table surprisingly. You can see her walking to the side, having what looks like a really nasty discussion over her phone. That’d odd… 

One of her team took her chair, waiting to receive the Award for her if she happens to win. 

It takes forever before Reaper finally speaks, probably trying to be theatrical. 

“I am proud to announce the winner of this year’s award of the Hauswald, an individual who’s done more than anyone else to stop the scourge of power drugs. Someone who took it up to themselves to fight back against the endless spiral of death the corporations bring upon our beloved West Coast…”

You can see Ortega’s fists clenching as he looks completely tense. Captain Glory seems just as tense when Aurora takes his left hand, startling him before he smiles at her. They’re such a darn cute couple… 

You end up staring at Ortega’s hand, so close to yours. You can’t stop thinking about how his suit fits him like a glove and how he looks so darn…

You force your gaze to look elsewhere as fast as you can. 

Elyise’s standing by the sidelines, her phone discussion seems worsening and she looks really mad now. There are some stray thoughts coming from her. Someone wants her to do something… and she won’t have it. You can feel her anger. She feels... Threatened by something… ?

“Sadly, the winner couldn’t join us here for the event, but If they are listening, we hope this serves as the recognition they deserve, even if some of us don’t personally condone their methods of fighting the drug epidemic...” he goes on, prompting confusion through the room. 

“... the winner goes by many names, but lately, media has settled on one, and it’s rather a grim one, but then again, I can’t seriously call anyone out on those grounds”

Laughs at the joke… and suspense.

“This hero has single-handedly stopped the largest rings of drug dealers throughout the city! Thanks to them, hero-drug deaths have gone to their lower point in a decade! The award goes to … 

You can see Ortega biting his lip, and CAptain Glory inching at the tip of his seat.

“...Catastrofiend!”

There is a brief moment of silence amongst the crowd before everyone starts voicing their minds. Elyise looks at the stage confused,  she’s clearly not been paying attention at all and trying to catch up. 

“You can’t award a murderer!!!” someone cries out. 

“Shut up, he cleaned up the corporation’s mess in less than a month!” someone counters. The voices start getting heated from there, with two defined sides forming very quickly around the new vigilante, booing and cheering going over one another.  

Captain Glory and his team stand up at unison and start making for the door. 

“We’re leaving too,” Ortega says standing up, as does Anathema realizing the party’s over.

___________________________________

Rangers HQ, infirmary, present time.

“WHAT?!” Ortega looks at you confused. “They gave the prize to that murderer?!” 

“You know that’s the exact thing you said  after we got through the door” 

“Was Reaper out of his mind?”

“Ehh.. he was kind of all fired up, but out of his mind? No. Besides, he didn’t decide, the Hauswald board did. They’ regularly keep tabs on the price of the drugs, and when you crunch the numbers, there’s no question about it, the Catastrofiend killings have really put them on the run. They had graphs to prove it, not that anyone was hearing. Hero Drugs are almost impossible to buy in Los Diablos right now.

“But Catastrofiend’s… massacring people on the streets…!”

“Well, you know what they think of dealers at the Hauswald, especially after the old facility got burned down. They’re not even people to them anymore. And it’s been on the media since… a lot of people in the police force are speaking about how the Catastrofiend’s helping their job more than the rangers or anyone else in fact. Even the governor flirted with the idea of a pardon”

“That’s insane… What do they expect us to do? Start shooting dealers on the streets now? That award should’ve been Elyise’s”

“Rumor is that was the idea, but the board changed it without telling Reaper… They didn’t want to be seen as just pandering to whomever he chose. And perhaps they’re seeing Catastrofiend as the new Reaper”

“Yeah, back when he wasn’t suitable for kids.”

“Yeah,” you say leaning back on your chair.

He takes a few moments to digest it before speaking again. 

“I guess there’s more to the story? Or did Captain Glory and I start a brawl at the exit and that got me decked here?”

“Oh no. Those… “ you say drawing a circle with your finger chest. “... those came later. We got a call right after the event.”

“What was it?”

“Anonymous caller reported there was a huge shootout ongoing at the docks. They gave enough details to match what we found on the Loan Shark’s ledgers.”

“They found him? That’s great, so he didn’t escape after all!” he says. “Wait… so the Loan Shark did this?” he asks looking at his chest again “Fucking Lewie...”

“Lewie didn’t do this.”

“What? Then who?”

“We weren’t the first to arrive...” 

“They tipped him off again?”

“Catastrofiend was already there when we arrived,” you say grimacing. 

He stays silent, your words sinking in slowly. 

“Go on,” he says in the end.

________________________

My fanfics: https://chaniters.tumblr.com/post/181692759294/my-fanfiction-for-fallen-hero

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fan fiction using characters and the setting of the Fallen Hero: Rebirth and upcoming Fallen Hero: Retribution games written by Malin Riden. I do not claim ownership of any characters from the Fallen Hero wold. These stories are a work of my imagination, and I do not ascribe them to the official story canon. These works are intended for entertainment outside the official storyline owned by the author. I am not profiting financially from the creation of these stories, and thank the author for her wonderful game/s, without which these works would not exist.

[bonnie-barstow-of-flag]

The Not So Lonesome Knight: Part 15

Parts 1 X, 2 X , 3 X , 4 X, 5 X , 6 X , 7 X, 8 X, 9 X 10 X, 11 X , 12 X, 13 X ,14 X,

The brunette stares at the door in his wake far longer than she probably should have, his shirt tucked between her fingers. This notion of putting on clothes that belonged to her annoyingly attractive co-worker felt bizarre. Was this crossing a boundary she didn’t even know existed until this very moment? Was it even crossing a line at all because Michael had freely given her the shirt to wear? It would have been different if she had taken it without his permission. Wouldn’t it?

Bonnie haphazardly allows her gaze to falter downwards examining the shirt’s entirety. She supposed wearing it for one night couldn’t harm anyone. It is warmer than she expected. Of course, it had just been removed from Kitt’s trunk but it might as well have come straight off of Knight’s back. It is this thought in particular that propels her towards the shower. The brunette luxuriates under the stream of hot water for longer than she probably should have given Michael’s impending return yet, she doesn’t care.

For someone as observant as Bonnie, it felt strange that she hadn’t discerned the sheer size of Michael’s shirt until the very moment her eyes peer into the mirror. In the glass’s silvery reflection, she can’t help but notice how dwarfed her smaller frame was when it happens to be draped in the cotton material. The blue fabric extends, reaching for the brunette’s kneecaps but never quite makes it. Rather, it falls short by at least four and a half inches, exposing a good length of her bare legs without being inappropriately indecent.

With a laugh, she considers the pair of Michael’s shorts she had discovered folded up inside of the shirt. Feeling exposed given her habit of covering up her lanky legs, Bonnie tentatively slides them on over her own undergarments. The result was hysterical even to her. The cinched elastic of the waistband was scarcely enough to hold the boxers up over the curve of her hips. So much for the extra covering! The ensemble was better off without the shorts. Besides, Michael might be fine with gifting her his shirt but would he really be comfortable with seeing her in his shorts? Michael would probably need to have them back. She isn’t entirely certain he is aware that he handed them to her in the first place. Bonnie slips them off and folds them up, leaving them to rest on the sink’s counter for their rightful owner.

Her sopping dark hair hangs down around her shoulder and she deliberates on pulling the sopping strands into one of her typical ponytails in order to avoid unsightly wet-patches. Imagining his reaction to those same unsightly patches, Bonnie eventually determines to pull her hair back rather than dying of embarrassment later.

Bonnie cringes at the thought of having to use the cheap, pre-selected deodorant sample left by the motel staff. Would it cover-up the pleasant scent of Michel that already encompassed her via his shirt? She hopes not. Bonnie figures she can’t very well share a bed with him without applying some form of antiperspirant. Please don’t smell worse than petrol, gasoline, or anti-freeze, she internally begs, giving the sample a tentative sniff. She is about to put it on when a wrapping noise against the door jolts her. Could the thieves have returned? Her mind races to life. If a sound could be applied to the rapid pace of her thoughts, it might have been likened to the sudden reeving of an engine.

Doing the first thing she can think of, she barricades herself in the bathroom. Bonnie’s heart gives a heavy, painful thump against her rib-cages before beating out a series of SOSes in her ears. Her turquoise orbs seek out a weapon but the only things available to wield in battle were towels, a shady looking toilet plunger, and soap. If she was crafty and quick enough, maybe she could fashion something out of the rod used to hold up the shower curtain. Standing on the thick fiber-glass ledge of the tub, Bonnie finds herself reaching for the rod. The brunette fumbles the second a familiar voice beckons to her. Thank heavens for quick reflexes or she would have ended up falling face flat into the hollow of the still wet tub.

“You okay in there, Bons? It’s just me!” He slips the door shut in his wake. Michael is extra careful to bolt the door. Tonight, he wasn’t going to be taking any chances.

Through gritted teeth she manages, “I’m fine.” Truth was, he could have easily given her a heart-attack. Although, the longer she considers it, the sillier she felt. She had been fully aware that Michael was going to be returning. Why her brain had automatically leapt to the worst-case scenarios, she couldn’t directly say. Maybe, it had something to do with the fears lingering in her mind regarding the previous break-in.

Scrambling downwards, she cracks the door open. “The water should be warm again if you want to take your shower. I’ll be out in a minute and the bathroom will all yours,” she communicates. Her departure from the bathroom, however, is made conditional. “Before I come out, you have to promise not to look.”

Michael places one of his large hands on his hips and flashes a smug grin in the direction of the bathroom door. “Oh?” The pad of his thumb is slowly dragged across his lip as he contemplates rejecting her demand. “Okay. I won’t look. Scout’s honor.” He makes a show of raising his hand in the boy-scout salute. He even turns his back to her and presses his eyes closed as a gesture of good faith.

Bonnie gradually emerges from the bathroom and slowly traipses across the room.

It is a real shame Michael had never really been a boy-scout and so he cast a glance over his shoulder at her. Although his full vision is clouded with his eyelashes, he can still make out her figure. Forgetting himself, he whistles. He can feel a strange glow warming the slopes of his finely chiseled face which, boasts a rare blush. A blush that is worn with pride.

The sound causes Bonnie to spin around on her heels. “You peeked! Didn’t you!” Twinges of indignation seep into the accusation. She should have expected him to pull a stunt like that. Huh?

“Maybe. Just a little.” He motions with his hand. “But can ya really blame me?” Michael cheekily prompts. He turns to face her refusing to conceal the fact that he is gawking at her any longer. Azure hues sweep upwards from her ankles, up the refined clean-shaven curves of her exposed legs, till his vision fixes upon her reddened face. Michael feels confident that his shirt has never better than it did on her far prettier frame. If he didn’t know any better, he was falling harder than ever for her. “You’re prettier than a picture.” Speaking of pictures, he’d like to take about a thousand different ones of her the way she looked in his shirt. The fabric seemed to hang with deliberate ease upon her more curved features and it fell loosely around her middle and legs. How was it he had never taken notice of her legs before now?

“What happened to Scout’s honor?” She laughingly questions. Bonnie hates how aware she is of his ogling. She can feel her entire face burning a horrible shade of crimson.

Running his hand sheepishly through his curls he returns,“must’a forgot all about it. Then again, I never made it outta cub scouts. ” His grin never wavering. “Maybe you should do a tune-up on my memory banks with those special tools of yours?” He bravely suggests.

“You’re incorrigible, Michael Knight!” She plucks the nearest pillow from the bed and swats him with it.

“Would ya want me to be any other way?” He prods. Chuckling loudly, he heads for the shower. He’ll definitely need an arctic blast tonight.

Sitting on the bed she watches his retreat to the bathroom. Was there a cryptic message in what he had said? She figures all of the day’s excitement had to be tainting her interpretation so she elects to drop it.

[oohlovergirl]

When Things Fall Apart: PART ONE [Roger Taylor x Reader]

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader

Summary: You and Roger fall out of love, but could you guys fall back into love? 

Word count: 1269

Contains: Oh, the ANGST 

A/N: This is chapter one in my FIRST EVER multi-chapter fic on this blog! Whoaaaaa! I’m really excited to keep updating it, and I really hope you enjoy! Also, if you want to be on my permanent taglist or this series’s taglist, send me an ask or a message!

“What is this,” you ask your boyfriend as soon as he walks through the front door. You’re holding up a tabloid, on the cover: him with a wide smile and an arm slung across the shoulders of another woman. Underneath, big words flash: Queen’s Roger Taylor Leaves After Party with Mystery Woman! You’ve dealt with this kind of news throughout your whole eight year relationship with Roger, the tabloids always wanting to spin something out of nothing. 

But this time––this time is different. Perhaps it’s different because it’s the final straw to your already strained relationship’s back. Perhaps it’s different because it made you realize something that should have been done a long time ago but didn’t because you were too afraid to admit it. 

It’s two o’clock in the morning. You’ve been up the whole night, sitting on the living room couch while a random show played on the TV in the background. You didn’t pay attention to it. Instead, you waited for your boyfriend to come back from a dinner, letting your anger slowly simmer and build within you.

He makes a confused sound from the doorway. He didn’t hear you as he struggles to pull off his shoes. You stand up, marching over to him. He reeks of booze, making you scrunch up your nose.

“I said, What. Is. This,” you hiss, punctuating each word with a hit to his chest using the tabloid. His brows furrow as he grabs the paper from your hand. He sighs. 

“She was just a fan. I was walking her to her cab,” he says, arms crossed. You scoff, rolling your eyes. 

“Are you actually being serious, Roger? Do you really think I’m that stupid?” 

“That’s the truth Y/N!” 

“Why do I find that hard to believe? Hell, it doesn’t even seem like you believe the bullshit you’re spewing right now,” you snap as you turn around and walk towards your kitchen. You hear him follow you.

“Nothing happened! What do you want me to say? What––”

“I want you to be fucking honest with me!” You scream at him across the island in the middle of your kitchen. Tears begin to pool in your eyes. A beat. He looks down at the ground. You let out a mirthless laugh. 

“I trusted you.” Your voice breaks.

“Y/N––”

“You know what––no––this is actually my mistake. This is my fault. I knew your reputation with girls. I don’t know why––I don’t know why I thought that I would be an exception,” you stumble through tears, and you hate yourself for it. You wanted to be strong. Wanted your voice to snap and sting and hurt. Instead, you sound broken. Tired. 

“What are you trying to say, Y/N?” he asks quietly, gripping the edge of the countertop. You can see his eyes beginning to glisten, most likely knowing what’s about to come next. 

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. You look away, biting your lip hard, focusing your gaze on that little stain on the wall right next to the stove (it was from the time you and Roger were trying––and failing––to make spaghetti for dinner. You guys ended up ordering takeaway).

“Y/N. What are you trying to say?” he repeats. You don’t answer. The only sound is the too-loud ticking of the clock above the pantry. 

“Please look at me,” he whispers. You turn your head slowly, the memory still stuck in your mind. Stuck in your mind because it reminds you of a different time. A time that is definitely not your guys’ relationship anymore. 

“I’m just…I’m just tired, Rog,” you respond, voice cracking. “I can’t do this anymore,” you say, weakly waving your arms around you. 

“So you’re just giving up on us then?” he asks. 

“You gave up on this relationship too––we both did. It doesn’t feel the same, and I know you feel that way too.” 

You’re just tired. Tired of his late nights. Tired of barely talking to him. Tired that you feel like you’re living with a stranger. Tired of sleeping in the same bed as someone who has fallen out of love with you. Tired of sleeping in the same bed as someone who you have fallen out of love with. 

“We fell out of love, Rog.” He winces at the familiar way you say his name. By now, he’s stone-cold sober. 

“We can––we can make this work, Y/N,” he pleads. 

“I’m leaving to stay with my friend,” you say, your voice hollow. “I’ll pick up the rest of my things in the next couple of days.”

“Y/N. Please.” You walk back to your shared bedroom, a small suitcase already packed and ready to go at the foot of the bed. Roger tails close behind.  

“Y/N, please, sweetheart, please don’t go,” he says, his eyes almost frantic. But you know that this panic won’t last this long. That this panic is derived from his fear of change. You were his comfort blanket. And you know the reason you haven’t broken up sooner was because you guys have been together for such a long time. You were safe to him. You were familiar. 

You’re at the door of your house, turning the handle.

“Y/N, please I love you,” he says, desperate. Your lower lip wobbles violently, and you reach up with a shaky hand to cup his cheek. He leans into your touch, holding your wrist to his face.

“I know you do. And––and I love you too. But this isn’t working anymore. It isn’t and hasn’t since a long time ago,” you say, and by his face, you know for certain that he’s going to let you walk out of that door. And so you do. 

You force yourself to not look over your shoulder, your back––rod straight, your jaw––clenched so tight, your right temple begins to throb. Once you get down to the street and walk down a couple of blocks, you let yourself break down. You already called your friend to pick you up, so while you’re waiting, you fold over yourself––squatting down, putting your face into your hands. Your sobs are muffled by your fist. 

–––––––

In the house, Roger stands in the doorway in a daze––still staring out the door where he watched you walk out of his life. He doesn’t know how long he stands there for, but eventually, the cold from the outside becomes unbearable, and he stumbles back inside, collapsing onto the couch. But then he spots that little rip on the cushion from the time you and he agreed to babysit one of Freddie’s cats (the cat did not like you two whatsoever), so he moves to the bedroom, tumbling into the bed. But the sheets smell like you, and so he rips off the sheets, the comforter, the pillows. 

The truth is that he truly did nothing with that woman, but it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter because even though he didn’t, he did seriously consider it. Considered it because he knew his relationship with you wasn’t the same. It changed. He knew––he knows.

He doesn’t know how much time had passed, but he finds himself staring at the ceiling in the middle of the bare mattress. He eventually calls the first person he can think of. Picking up the phone on the bedside table, he dials Brian’s number. His friend picks up at the sixth ring. 

“Roger?” Brian says, his voice groggy from sleep.

“I lost her,” he whispers into the receiver. 

PART TWO

Permanent taglist: @thefirstkillerqueen @hysterical-queen-trash

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

The Way Home, Part 2 of 4 [ARC series]

Their tomb grows hot with their shared body heat, and the flames of fires still burning in the rubble.

When Kara emerged from the dampening field around the Fortress of Solitude earlier that day, she’d been bombarded by voices on her comms.

Widescale attack in Metropolis.

Clark is off world with the League.

Six buildings were hit by explosions of unknown origins, powerful enough to take out several floors each.

The bottom floors of each target are being evacuated, along with the surrounding buildings. Upper levels remain inaccessible.

Whoever the culprits are, they targeted the biggest buildings in the city. High occupancy, high visibility. High casualty.

L-Corp’s still standing, but not for long.

Her thoughts had flashed to Lena.

Please, Kara. Save her.

The echo of Alex’s voice Kara can’t save anyone. She can’t tell how much of the building is on top of them, or how much air they have left before they suffocate. The air feels like soup in her chest. The slightest movement sends showers of dust sifting through the rubble above them, threatening to collapse their tenuous bubble of safety.

She doesn’t know how Lena can breathe around the metal piercing her chest.

Kara imagines it must be as simple as Lena not knowing she shouldn’t be able to. Humans are like that, sometimes. Lena hasn’t tried to look since Kara warned her not to. She must know, even in her state, that any shock from what she might find would only kill her faster.

Unable to move with the weight of the building on her shoulders, she and Lena are closer than they’ve been in over a year. Noses only inches apart, one of Kara’s knees tucked between Lena’s to help take the load, their forced intimacy breeds only one thing-- conversation.

“I asked for a divorce.”

It’s not news to Kara. Even if Alex hadn’t told her, the entire media world knew of Lena’s split, and the seemingly inevitable divorce.

“We don’t have to-- maybe I’m not the best person to talk to about this,” Kara tries to shift out from under it, but just like their tomb, it’s inescapable.

“Why not? You were more important to my marriage than me...” Lena’s voice slurs, another hint of something not quite right. Again, Kara scans her for a head injury, but her vision is cloudy. Maybe she’s the one with a concussion.

Kara closes her eyes. “Alex mentioned she hadn’t signed them yet.” Lena hums, eyes drifting shut. Desperate to keep her awake, Kara quickly continues. “She also says you haven’t taken any further attempts to follow up.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Green eyes blink open, heavy with something besides discomfort. “The divorce was for them. So they could move on.”

The surrender in her voice stabs fear into Kara’s heart. “What about you?”

“They were my happy ending,” Lena murmurs, staring unseeing somewhere into the hollow of Kara’s throat. “I  know better than to expect a second one.”

Lena slips in and out of consciousness. Kara meditates to escape the confines of her body. She envisions her bedroom in Midvale, of the quiet nights she and Alex huddled under blankets to talk of the universe. There, she passes hours until Lena wakes again.

“It’s so quiet.”

By Kara’s measure, they’ve been trapped for more than a day. The strain of holding the collapse has sapped her strength, and without the sun to replenish her energy, she can only just make out the sound of hands and boots at work overhead. Voices call instruction, simply noise without the acuity to discern their words.

They won’t be in time.

Death presses in on them, filling Kara’s lungs as completely as the Phantom Zone once permeated every cell. Behind her eyes, she sees Krypton dying, and the silence that followed, that surrounds her again, broken only by the flutter of Lena’s pulse.

“I’m so sorry!”

Tears blink loose as the words cough from Kara’s chest.

“I should have told you,” she gasps, as precious moisture drips down her nose to splash against Lena’s cheek. “I wanted to, so many times. But I almost lost you once, and I knew, I knew you wouldn’t forgive me and so I clung to what I had, I hoped it would last-- I never wanted to hurt you! I never meant to tear your world apart, Lena, I’m so, so sorry!”

Her voice rings against the steel and concrete around them, bouncing off the confines of their prison. Kara can’t wipe her eyes or dry her oozing nose. She can only hang her head and heave for breath as the universe starts to yawn once more.

“Kryptonians are better than humanity,” Lena breathes, voice straining with exhaustion. “Stronger, faster… even your altruism. It drove Lex mad.”

Kara grits her teeth. She doesn’t feel stronger-- she feels weak, helpless. Her muscles scream from exertion, but it’s Lena who continues to survive when her body is broken. It’s Lena who has yet to acknowledge the fact her arm is crushed between Kara and the weight of the building, Lena who breathes around the twisted rebar protruding from her chest.

“I knew better. Your abilities... make you archetypes. Makes you arrogant. The same gifts that made you gods… would be your undoing.”

Lena’s free hand lifts, presses against Kara’s ribs-- the only part of her in reach. Kara nearly collapses at the gentle touch, and the forgiveness she imagines it means.

“But I didn’t stop to consider… how human you were.”

Lena’s condition worsens, but she clings to every breath as she struggles to stay awake. Kara’s senses have long since faded-- soon, her strength will too. She can only hope the rescue teams are close. Lena’s running out of time.

“Kara…”

“I’m here.”

“I need-- need to--” Her voice gives out, breath too shallow. There’s something in her chest, something Kara can’t see. What she can see is the graying pallor of Lena’s lips, the dust that puffs with every faint breath. Kara bows her head. Their foreheads just touch, and Kara wills it to be enough.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “It’s okay. They’re almost here. They’re almost here, you just have to hold on, just a little longer.”

“Tell-- tell them--”

“Tell them yourself! You can’t give up! You’re going to see your family again. Sam, and Alex, and Ruby!”

“R-Ru--- bee…”

“Yes, Ruby! She’s waiting for you, Lena. She’s watching the news right now, praying you’ll be the next one they pull out. You can’t disappoint her now. Please, Lena…”

“I-- I can’t--! I can’t-- breathe--” Lena squirms, seeking relief from the days of confinement. Something cracks, and the stain of blood surrounding the steel rod in her side starts to bloom, spreading outward

“No! Lena stop-- STOP MOVING!”

Kara sacrifices precious energy to clamp her body against Lena’s, trying to keep her from twisting against the metal pinning her in place.

“Too hot,” Lena pants pitifully. Her eyes, when they blink open, are dull and glassy with shock. Kara’s losing her. “Lemme go... S’too hot.”

“Lena, look at me… look at me!”

Green eyes lock on her.

“It’s going to be okay. Just breathe with me, as deep as you can. Just in and out. In… and out…”

Lena calms, but her breaths are still too shallow. Tears pinch from her eyes, carving tracks through the grime caked on her cheeks. Kara can only watch as Lena faces her own mortality.

“Kara… please. Tell them…”

Kara takes a shuddering breath. “I promise. I’ll-- I’ll them.”

That Lena loves them. That her last thoughts were of them.

Kara focuses so intently on the rise and fall of Lena’s chest that she almost misses the sound of her name drifting down from above.

“Supergirl?”

It sounds like a dream.

“Supergirl, are you there? Can you hear me?”

Alex?

“Alex!” Kara coughs as relief lodges in her throat. “Alex, yes! Here! We’re here!”

“Supergirl!” A new voice cuts in. Male, gravelly. J’onn. “Can you fly?”

Kara shakes her head, staring down at Lena. “I don’t know-- But I can’t move! Lena--”

“You have her?” Alex gasps. “She’s alive?”

“She needs help.” They both do.

J’onn’s calm answers her. “Help is nearly there, Supergirl. Just hang in there.”

“You hear that, Lena?” Kara breathes. “We’re almost out. We’re almost there. So you hold onto that thought. You’re going to see your family again soon.”

“A-Alex.”

“Yes, she’s here. She came for you.” Kara’s throat seizes painfully. ”Don’t you dare let her down.”

Part 1, Part 3, Part 4

[austincitylimitlessworld]

Writing Sample

Back from a long long hiatus with a new blog. I’ve never used Tumblr for profit before, so if anyone sees this and has any suggestions on how to “hook in” please let me know.

Charlotte Brontë’s Caroline, a Heroine’s Journey from Light through Darkness and into Wisdom

The late mythologist Joseph Campbell, in an interview with Bill Moyers discussed The Hero’s Adventure during the segment five of The Power of Myth. His theory is that we all take a hero’s journey at some point.  This journey consists of three links in a chain:  Separation, Initiation, and Return.

Charlotte Brontë’s heroine, Caroline Helstone, takes such a journey, physically but especially metaphorically in Shirley.

A Google search on “Yorkshire rectories” yields a virtual plethora of churches and their residences, from the quaint to the gothic to the downright drab. From various descriptions in the novel, it seems most logical that Caroline would be convalescing in a gloomy, mid-sized rectory.

Presently the niece was enclosed in her small bed-room; the door bolted… (Volume I, chapter VII “The Curates at Tea” p. 99)

And in undiminished gladness she rose the next day:  as she entered her uncle’s breakfast-room… (Volume I, chapter VII “The Curates at Tea” p. 100)

She had taken an early walk in the garden, and she told him that certain starlings were beginning to build their nests in the church-tower (Briarfield church was close to the Briarfield rectory); she wondered the tolling of the bells in the belfry did not scare them.

Clearly, here we see Caroline’s youthful outlook at the onset of the novel—one cloaked in the grandeur of innocence and love, even if her relationship with her uncle is one of partial strain.  Indeed, she appears as a light in a very dark place, where even the

personality of her uncle and the furnishings that inhabit the place are dreary and somewhat stark:

“Caroline,” said Mr. Helstone, bringing his hand slowly down to within an inch or two of the table, and then smiting it suddenly on the mahogany, “understand this:  it is vulgar and puerile to confound generals with particulars: in every case, there is the rule, and there are the exceptions.  Your questions are stupid and babyish.  Ring the bell, if you have done breakfast.”  (Volume I, chapter VII “The Curates at Tea” p. 102)

Her journey begins as a youth of eighteen.  It speaks to Joseph Campbell’s hero’s journey by showing her as a living example of The Fool Tarot card (who represents, according to Campbell, the novice at the beginning of his excursion):

One passage in particular illustrates beautifully the ordeal of transforming from a wide-eyed innocent experienced adult:

At that time—at eighteen, drawing near the confines of illusive, void dreams, Elf-land lies behind us, the shores of Reality rise in front.  These shores are yet distant:  they look so blue, soft, gentle, we long to reach them…Every joy that life gives must be earned ere it is secured; and how hardly earned, those only know who have wrestled for great prizes.  The heart’s blood must gem with red beads the brow of the combatant, before the wreath of factory rustles over it.

At eighteen, we are not aware of this.

Alas, Experience!  No other mentor has so wasted the frozen a face as yours:  none wears a robe so black, none bears a rod so heavy, none with hand so inexorable draws the notice so sternly to his task, and forces him with authority so resistless to its acquirement.  It is by your instructions alone that man or woman can ever find a safe track through life’s wilds:  without it, how they stumble, how they stray!  On what forbidden grounds to they intrude, down what dread declivities are they hurled!  (Volume I, chapter VII “The Curates at Tea” p. 97)

Ms. Helstone lives in the sheltered world of her Uncle Matthew’s rectory.  Her passage from innocence to wisdom begins here, where she was left as a child by her mother.

           Early on in the novel, the other half of Caroline’s world consists of Hollow’s cottage where she is being educated in literature, French, and arithmetic by Hortense Moore.  Also living there is Hortense’s brother, mill manager Robert Moore. It isn’t long before Caroline’s uncle forbids her to see Robert due to political and personal reasons. We do not see how this takes its toll on her immediately, and its severity is not fully realized until later.  Upon Caroline’s return from her Exodus to Hollow’s cottage she experiences what can be called the gift of suffering, the “Experience” foreshadowed earlier in the novel.

           In this case, Experience takes the form of illness and the metaphysical flight she goes on while in its grip:

She felt a pulse beat fast in her temples:  she felt too her brain in strange activity: her spirits were raised: hundreds of busy and broken, but brilliant thoughts engaged her mind:  a glow rested on them, such as tinged her complexion.

Now followed a hot, parched, thirsty, restless night.  Towards morning one terrible dream seized her like a tiger: when she woke, she felt and knew she was ill.  (Volume III, chapter I “The Valley of the Shadow of Death” p. 422)

“Where is the other world?  In what will another life consist?  Why do I ask?  Have I not cause to think that the hour is hasting but too fast when the veil must be rent for me?  Do I not know the Grand Mystery is likely to burst prematurely on me? Great Spirit!”  (Volume III, chapter I “The Valley of the Shadow of Death” pp. 427-8)  

Later on in this same chapter, Miss Helstone makes another crucial discovery by way of a confession from Mrs. Pryor when she tells Caroline that she is her biological mother.  This is what we can refer to as our heroine’s Initiation.

Having fulfilled her quest, (what Campbell coined “Return,”) Caroline is now able to share with others what she has learned.  When she receives word that her beloved Robert has been the victim of an assassination attempt, she strikes a deal with young Martin Yorke in order to see him.

Upon visiting the Yorke estate—where Mr. Moore is recovering, she imparts upon him her new-found understanding of the more difficult aspects of life, and showers him with empathy:

“Do you suffer pain, Robert?”

“Not so much pain now; but I am hopelessly weak, and the state of my mind is inexpressible—dark, barren, impotent.  Do you not read it all in my face?  I look a mere ghost.”

“Altered, yet I should have known you anywhere: but I understand your feelings: I experienced something like it. Since we met, I too have been very ill.”

“Very ill?”

“I thought I should die.  The tale of my life seemed told.  Every night just at midnight I used to wake from awful dreams—and the book lay open before me, at the last page where was written ‘Finis.’ I had strange feelings.”

“You speak my experience.” (Volume III, chapter X “Martin’s Tactics” p. 583)

Now Caroline comes from a position of strength to her darling Mr. Moore.  Through her own grappling with anguish, she is finally able to understand the pain and suffering of others.

It is easy to see, by really absorbing the novel and observing carefully Caroline’s traits and her world, how she takes this Hero’s Journey. She is separated from the one she loves most, yet finds unexpected love along the way (in Mrs. Pryor), and goes from a youngster to a fully mature adult during the course of this journey. Through her trials, she grows from a girl into a woman worthy of marriage, and, indeed, is later on proposed to by Robert Moore.

Among other things, then, this tale is about proving that there is no growth without change; without effort of some sort. That a person builds character and becomes an adult not by age alone, but by the trials and tribulations she experiences.  It also shows that love is not the silly giddy feeling you get when being courted, it is the comfort and security of knowing that the one(s) you love—be they a parent, a friend, a lover, or a spouse—will be there when times become difficult or even unbearable.

Tara Marseglia is a native Minnesota transfer of Austin Texas.  She holds a B.A. in English Literature with a history minor. In the past she has served on the Board of Directors of Lake Superior Writers as well as run the Poetry sub-group. In addition to writing, she has experience in theatre, art film, stage production, and virtual artistry. Currently she is working on a series of fantasy novels which she describes as a cross between Ovid’s “Metamorphoses” and Piers Anthony’s “Incantations of Immortality”. Areas of interest include English and American Literature; English, Italian, and American History; film; 1980s revival; pagan and polytheistic cultures; polyamory and bisexuality.

[surfersofbole]

Going to Fall: What will you do?

This is the fifth installment in my “Going to Fall” series, which is based on Bob Dylan’s “A Hard Rain’s a-Gonna Fall.”

What will you do?

Here, your father must now mention if God has seemed unjust, unkind, then, have you paid him no attention? Our sins are many, of great kinds; punishment ‘s held with retention

not unlike the water vapor within the clouds above the world. All the clouds won’t harm a scraper, but rain upon a cardboard home turns the walls into soaked paper.

I can sense your apprehension, and I can sense your broken pride. Do you have some great dissension? Well, now, just take your small asides to relieve any contention.

Some of us find things enlightening when we must live in heavy dark. Lightning rods control the frightening and brightening flash of the short night. Umbrellas keep th’ tensions tightening.

You would think there’d be prevention - that God himself would take the lead. God wants no Earthly dimension and so he goes ahead, concedes rain must fall without suspension.

What will you do, my blue-eyed son? Somethings are hard to answer. Some… What will you do, darling young one? Think you that I should know this thing? Morning comes now with the bright sun.

Going back out before the rain starts falling

I wake up scared as hell that things are going wrong. Why? I was not quite sure of what was going on. My mind was in a cell. I lie down quietly. The motionless allure of a ceiling, empty...

A day begins anew. Will I ever arise? A thunder I have heard; the skies will be disguised. The rainclouds now accrue. I’m scared to leave this place; though, maybe I’m absurd, and I should go/make haste.

I’ll walk the beaten path; I know it will be short. All the small excursions other souls couldn’t afford... I'll face the wanton wrath because the world will fear I am leading an incursion with my mouth that all’ll hear.

The depths of the deepest, black forest

Electrified air climbs to clustered cotton fluff; screams turn to grumbles.

Some schwarzwald sunshine prawns prowl blister-black water - ice of a night sky.

Sharp whistles whittle brittle branch and bark, bitter for the burning blight.

Hollow trees topple. Then, forests from dying flames born of detritus.

The people are many, their hands are all empty

Xerotic mouths agape, facade of night entreats a dreamer thirsting not the light, "neglect a cleanly state and state that you ordain the rain to fall as it is due."

Disguising no intentions with delight, obsessed with obfuscating appetite, come cumulating nimbus clouds above haranguing with each lightning strike thereof.

In time, hard rains again will lift the plight and everyone will be an acolyte lest all the clouds they see move out of sight.

The pellets of poison flooding their waters

(The vending machine hums softly. A whirring and some clinking kick off a habit, and I press a button. A quarter? I try again. In the mechanism, it moves. Thunk. Mother's approval.)

Someone's swimming in the pool.

Crystalline medium with waving surface dances the light upon the ceiling.

Diving at the deep, he sinks into the bottom for the longest moment until he is diluted by the dark.

I sit beside the edge, staring.

No manacles bind us to the station we submit.

Someone's swimming in the pool, but I've a job to do. "Refill the canister with two chlorine tablets. Lock up and leave."

The home in the valley meets the damp, dirty prison

I walk to where the sidewalk ends en masse, past the concrete's blend with grass and the footstep-muddled pastures.

I found the last spot God had cried: an oasis that has dried in the desert of this life.

The rain is not the coldest where the trees have met the forest and the mountain meets the valley.

The executioner’s face, always well hidden

At mass, the priest, in his white, polyester robes, stood among pink roses.

"I say, precious Lord, look upon us and see not injustice; instead, find hope."

Among the heightened exaltations of the chorus, water came down upon us.

Back when crimes against the Lord and his people were punishable, men like Christ and Beckett, with their deaths, made leaders grovel.

King, bearing a new weight, shouldered a poor people's campaign; in his memory, we hid this struggle. In this new poor people's campaign, shall hidden faces make another man infamous?

"Do this in memory of me."

The word of the Lord makes requisite that we do things in memory of others that perhaps, through us, they could live on. Such a cause as theirs is worth perpetuating; such a love as theirs is the great communion.

"Mass has ended. You may go in peace"

Hunger is ugly, souls are forgotten

Oysters - pried apart with pearls squeezed from their soft flesh - are discarded shells that cleansed murky waterways. Layered nacre anchors banks.

Black is the color, none is the number

For the briefest second, worlds are colorful and palm fronds, like percussion sections, fill the wind with scratching sound. As raindrops themselves drive through darkness into broken asphalt, thunder-crash!                        The crack in night, it vanished while a youth in leather shoes and wetting socks went running to a covered walkway. Hole-filled pockets bore some grimed receipts, old notes, worn cards, and damaged pictures in a wallet that was drawn up. She inserted plastic; as the m'chine slow- processed four fast digits, vehicles blurred past and disappear until, at last, a menu let her check the balance. Black in text, a zero showed up. Buzzing lights then flickered; rain felt bitter/harder.

Tell it, think it, speak it, breathe it

False flags on steel poles; you find their real goals cause hard heads to feel soles as reeled votes steal polls. Loss is a hand that's doled to thoughtless card holders; well oiled, pristine political machines need propaganda's grist cleaned and shoveled on the screens. Greed - democracy's splotch - fills you with the scotch blues; when the night is botched, sit back up to watch news. Feel cold and say burr under a cedar tree, or passover seder with Sam Seder, see his angered, sabered tongue work hard/labor long; hundreds of lungfuls from racist uncles tapered off. Like flaming fungal masses on crumpled paper, scoffed arguments hindered turn to cinder; try not to join the splintered dense blocks of tinder, dry rot. "Freedom isn't free, son..." some person breathes on as a prison's breeze comes; truth in neon: "Freedom isn't free, and it isn't freedom." Jaime Peck 'n' Michael Brooks wait with bridled facts on homicidal cops and Congress' idled acts. The left's best anchors, hosts of the Majority Report, unveil the languor of neofascist authority.

Reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it

Guinness in my system at a Regal cinema; someone said, "I miss him." Liquor mixed with cinnamon makes my throat feel dry; is that why I'm stifled? "On everyone's behalf, when we heard you laughing at Dave Rubin's gaffes, all our sides were halfing." Why am I nervous before the final curtain? "He did the world a service, that I say with certainty." "I want to drink, alright, rather than think all night; pour shots until bar fight hour is a starlight tour." Drink my Tennessee whiskey and Hennessy briskly in backgrounds of dim-lit rooms. As this dim-wit reflects, chances look slim; the future's a grim skit. Pillow to my head and sink in like lead, a stone carelessly embedded in the river bed alone.

Stand on the ocean until I start sinking

When one recollects that the keystone oft sank in the sand before standing aloft among clouds on a mountain so solid of faith and devotion, it's then that a false step compels men, "Recover!" I noticed thrombosis had felled the calm warrior, that saint among saints that is Archangel Michael; the champion of men and proponent of justice inspires l'avant-garde to claim in it's crawling a victory not pyrrhic but won with empiric- al knowledge against an- tithetical sirens that draw men towards hatred with bigotry, envy, and greed. So, surrender your voice, but renounce not your thoughts, and remember the message borne by a colossus that called out to Lazarus, "Come forth."

Know my song well before I start singing

Cantos coming soon to a year near you!

Notes

This is the order in which the poems were written: 2, 1, 4, 3, 6, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12. I plan for poem 13 to be a series of cantos based on my time walking through a park in my home town.

What will you do?

This poem was written months ago while I was still a Tumblr poet and is the introduction to the final section of the Going to Fall collection of poems I've written. The next poem will be posted when I figure out where I saved it.

The depths of the deepest, black forest

I thought I had a poem for this portion of the final section of my "Going to Fall" poetry collection, but I couldn't find it. Luckily, the haiku challenge issued for November prompted me to write this in place of the imagined poem.

The people are many, their hands are all empty

There were two prompts for this poem. The first is an obscure words poetry contest that I volunteered myself, in which I received the prompt "Xenodochial" (which means hospitable or kind to strangers). The second was from a challenge I made [for] myself [...] I had been stuck on this particular portion for months now, so I'm glad to have something appropriate and fitting.

The pellets of poison flooding their waters

Perhaps I put too much thought into a story about a guy closing up after a hallucination. The stuff in the parenthesis was typed last, but I only put it in because I could find no better way to add that the narrator is thirsty. I was going to write a twelve poem collection on this prompt, based on monthly news stories of people making the world a worse place, but the poems were scrapped. I do hope to revisit the idea under a different title.Perhaps I put too much thought into a story about a guy closing up after a hallucination. The stuff in the parenthesis was typed last, but I only put it in because I could find no better way to add that the narrator is thirsty. I was going to write a twelve poem collection on this prompt, based on monthly news stories of people making the world a worse place, but the poems were scrapped. I do hope to revisit the idea under a different title.

The home in the in the valley meets the damp dirty prison

I had the first two lines stuck in my head for a couple of days. This is the result.

Hunger is ugly, souls are forgotten

This is just a poem comparing oysters and people.

Black is the color, none is the number

October 11, 2020 corrections: *line 4 - "And" -> "As" *line 7 - "." -> "," *line 8 - "Thunder-crash!" -> "thunder-crash!" and line split. *lines 13-16 - "Hole-filled pockets - dirty, wet - hold paper/plastic cards and damaged pictures in a wallet. It is" replaced with current version. *lines 18-21 - "plastic; as the machine processed four fast digits, vehicles dove on past and then they disappeared. At" replaced with current version.

Three Poems for the Great Progressive

This poem came together from the following stanza that I spit out a couple of nights ago: Passover seder with Sam Seder under my cedar tree. Say burr, see his sabered tongue labor long. Hundred lungful's hinder cindered minds. The tinder finds a racist uncle's baseless tongueful like dry rot: the fungal waste is erased from space. Try not It includes one line I wrote a few years ago: "I drink my Tennessee whiskey and Hennessy briskly." The poem is basically about listening to the news all the time because you're sick, feeling restless, going out to the movies and bars, and finally going to sleep. July 20, 2020 update: Completed in honor of Michael Brooks. Also, I wrote the following poem soon after I heard the news, but did not put the time into it that I would have liked. The ground is dry and leaves grow thin. When the new moon is out the fuses trip, the grid's offline, and the world stands too still, I look to the sky as the gold flecks fly; ember is ash. A chill climbs up my spine; stomach can't dip lower. I cannot scout a star within the restless sky. August 11, 2020 update: I saw a contest early morning and wrote the first stanza of the third poem. The second stanza was written after I returned from work. The prompt was the first line from the Beatles' "A Day in the Life".

NOTE: This is the title for “Tell it, think it, speak it, breathe it,” “Reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it,” and “Stand on the ocean until I start sinking.”

[what-a-strange-thing]

IwaOi Fanfiction Recs

(all recommended stories can be found on archiveofourown)

Everything by ...

carriecmoney

He reaches out to thumb Oikawa’s upper lip, hand cupping his jaw. The freckle doesn’t feel any different than the skin around it, lotion soft and deep, like he’s got an extra layer of lambsear over it. Oikawa’s breath puffs into his palm. “Okay,” he mumbles, lip moving under Hajime’s callous, “that’s pretty weird.” Hajime jerks his hand away and swallows his third apology of the day. “You had- snow on your face,” he grumbles [...]. (”Sweetshrub”, queerplatonic IwaOi)

loveclouds (if you like your IwaOi fluffy) 

“I wouldn’t be anywhere without you, Iwa-chan,” he says. “I’m only strong when you’re here, Iwa-chan,” he says. “I’d go anywhere you wanted, Iwa-chan,” he says. (”1000 ways to die with you”, Iwa-chan is so lovely that it literally kills Oikawa.)

snoqualmie

“I know you,” Iwaizumi says firmly. “I know you,” Tooru repeats, cupping his face again and pulling him close. Their foreheads press together and Iwaizumi’s eyes close. He takes a deep breath in. “There’s more, though, that we should know. We have to. We have to go other place and do other things.” (”Going”, IwaOi contemplate their future.)

tothemoon (check out her supernatural series, “ad astra”)

All sorts of proud, eyes unable to tear themselves away, Hajime just nods. He leans forward just to get a better look, completely entranced. "He's worked hard for this," he can't help but remark. "Oh? Do you know him, young man?" Iwaizumi would like to think he does. When he watches Tooru toss his hair back, all to giggle and pretend and preen, he notices the way his eyes flick to the audience—just for that one, fleeting moment—because they both know that afraid is something that never leaves someone. Still, as soon their eyes meet, he lets Oikawa tear away in that instant, because he needs to finish his part of the show. All at once, Oikawa Tooru shows everyone why he is a showstopper, grand and like a god. But Iwaizumi knows he is also a boy hiding in houses, looking up at ceilings he might not be able to break. When he decides that someone can be both, and that this is okay, he squints at the sight of his best friend and answers her in full faith. "I do." (And he's sure, at that moment, that Oikawa Tooru is the most beautiful thing he's ever, ever seen.) (”400 Lux”, Iwaizumi and Oikawa come from different dimensions.)

Canon compliant / Post-Canon

“3.5 millimeters” by Anonymous (6.2k) - “There are, after all, no guides for how the hell you’re supposed to handle being in love with your best friend.” Established relationship, first dates and waking up together.

“What is it?” “It’s not scary for you?” Oikawa whispered. Iwaizumi was silent. Oikawa continued, “I love this, and touching you, and everything”—Iwaizumi’s heart stuttered—“but aren’t you ever nervous and embarrassed and—terrified?”

“Aquamarine” by carriecmoney (3.8k) - Graduation looms close and our favorite Seijou third years more or less resolve their gay crises. Funny, sweet, very well written (some great imagery, as always).

“Hey! Matsukawa and Hanamaki are kissing!” Oikawa and Hajime freeze against each other, Oikawa’s nails digging into Hajime’s neck. Some people run to see for themselves, some mutter, but most cheer and raise a glass. Hajime swallows, the lightning rod of Oikawa highlighted against his side. “I guess we should make sure they’re okay,” Hajime says, but doesn’t move. Oikawa nods, but does the same. Hajime coughs, grip tightening around Oikawa’s ankle. “Guess it took ‘em long enough, huh?”

“boat song” by perbe (1.4k) - Iwa-chan helps Tooru sleep. “So pretty, soft and artful”, to quote softsun. (Also, Oiks’ “new” insult for Iwa-chan.. why didn’t I think of this? lol).

You tip yourself to the edge of your bed and tilt your face up at Iwa-chan. It is a long way up, you notice. Somehow this strikes you as poetic. That when you reach up, your hand barely grazes his shoulder and you feel silly, and so, so gay, when he steps in so your hand isn’t dangling over thin air. It makes sense that you waggle your eyebrows at him and adopt the smuggest grin that you can.

“days fall away” by lavendrsblue (17k) - Iwaizumi and Oikawa reconnect after university. The characterizations are spot-on, in my opinion, especially how they both deal with their feelings. A real IwaOi manifesto. The fight is great as well (though angst-y, of course).

The thing about knowing someone for a decade and a half is that they know your every strength and weakness, every insecurity. Even the ones you yourself are not fully aware of, those that haven’t surfaced in years. “Iwaizumi’s so good at everything, where would Oikawa Tooru be without him?” Oikawa’s voice climbs higher in pitch, mocking, but he isn’t shouting. He’s not even at normal speaking volume; he slings words over the futon in near-whispers. “Nowhere, probably, he’s so clingy and desperate—”

“Diluculum” by Moami (6.2k) - Tooru gets a mental breakdown before trying out for Japan’s national team. Luckily, Hajime is there.

“Please.” He never begs, and it makes Tooru lift his head. Hajime stares at their joined hands, darker and pale, warm and bruised. “Tell me. I want to help. Don’t do this shit on your own.” “To lose again.” Hajime stares up at him. The blankets slide off Tooru’s cheeks. His face is hollow. “I’m scared to lose again. To lose everything,” he whispers.

“film reel life” by arsenicjay (8k) - Hajime’s and Tooru’s life after graduation, watched through a camera lens.

“If Oikawa sees this, I think you’ll be too occupied to bother with little old me.” Something cracks with Iwaizumi’s expression: a flicker to the tense set of his jaw, and the subtle twist of his lip. To the left of the picture frame, the tendons in his wrist tighten momentarily, where his hand rests on the table. “Hanamaki,” he says. The microphone manages to pick up the barest tremor to his voice. “C’mon. Turn it off.” A pause. There’s a jarring moment when the camera clatters onto the table, and overhead, Hanamaki says, “Wow, you actually have it bad, huh—”

“(I wanna be) The Very Best” by Hyeyu (3.2k) - Oikawa plays Pokemon Go and IwaOi ensues.

Something flickers lightning-quick across Oikawa’s face. “Ugh, so  dull, Iwa-chan. I’m surprised you haven’t bored her to death yet.” The dismissive statement shatters the lap-fantasy faster than a bucketful of cold water. It sucks to be reminded that Oikawa has probably showered that damned Snorlax with more loving affection in the past few minutes than he has Hajime in months. Hajime and Oikawa are best friends - that’s the status quo, that’s how it will likely remain. “Oh, fuck off, Oikawa. I’m dumb and ugly, I get it. Happy now?”

“mint” by tothemoon (18.8k) - Hajime leaves for New York, says goodbye to and makes promises with Oikawa. Perfection and Oikawa’s desire for it as a theme, a chatroom for Oikawa’s fans (and Oikawa), Mattsun and Makki are there, too. Writing is as eloquent as expected.

[...] the smallest movements arise, and Iwaizumi notes their closeness—legs touching, the shift of Oikawa's head—and Iwaizumi registers these seconds as the longest he's ever had to live through. From there they just wait for the time to run out, three, two, one, smile! and Iwaizumi can’t help but feel something terrible stir inside him. Like having the weight of Oikawa on him is something he'd like to keep.

“old and new” by Mysecretfanmoments (5.4k) - Hajime and Tooru meet for the first time after going to different universities.

“Are you going to be like this for all of break?” “Maybe,” Tooru said. “Depends on how much you distract me.” Hajime’s eyes flew open. That was flirting. It had to be—and yet, he and Tooru didn’t flirt. They were teammates, best friends, and Hajime was nursing something that felt a lot like a crush—but they didn’t flirt.

“summer came like cinnamon” by ohhotlamb (4.1k) - Sweaty-summer-get-together IwaOi.

[...] a part of Tooru is beginning to feel restless regardless of the heat, a little itch that rises up underneath his skin like a swarm of particularly brutish ants. He wants to move, to do something, something that doesn’t involve giving into the urge of rolling over and taking Hajime’s hand, doesn’t involve resting his head on Hajime’s belly and letting himself be gently moved with each inhale, each exhale. The kicker is that that he always wants these things, even when it’s not quite as comfortable as this. (Tooru is so in love.)

“the courtship ritual of the hercules beetle” by kittebasu (66.3k) - Tooru’s girlfriend breaks up with him and Iwaizumi (playing on the national team!) reenters his life. Homophobia is a big one here. I’d call this one a classic, it’s just so good.

[...] Tooru can hear a buzzing in his ears, louder than summer cicadas, and louder than the ocean, when he is unable to tear his eyes away. Hajime turns around, light catching wherever ocean water sits atop the golden brown of his skin, and his smile is easy and carefree, like the Iwa-chan Tooru recalls from middle school summer vacations, back when they were still young enough that being outside with no obligations was the best thing in the world. It's the Iwa-chan Tooru had been miserable without, and Tooru is so--

“the luck of the universe” by themorninglark (1.5k) - Hajime gets Oikawa and himself omikuji before they seperate for university. I love the characterizations in this!

"Do you feel lucky, Iwa-chan?" Oikawa whispers. Ahead of them, a bell tolls. Hands clap together in prayer. Iwaizumi doesn't turn around. "I know I am," he says.

“What He Knows” by hiuythn (1.1k) - Tooru knows Hajime will find out eventually. A little sad, very sweet. Iwa-chan indulging Oikawa’s whims (I love).

“And here I thought you’d agree with me. Aren’t they just sea aliens, if you think about it?” Iwaizumi turns his head and smiles, just a tiny curve of his lips. Oikawa scoffs to cover up the way the warm, happy thing in his sternum that lights up because of that smile. “Don’t distract me with my love for space, Iwa-chan. Atlantis is real.” “I never said it wasn’t,” Iwaizumi holds up his hands, completely relaxed, amusement just rolling off him in waves. Oikawa loves when he gets like this, likes it just a bit too much.

Not exactly canon compliant

“have mercy on me” by hiuythn (10.5k) - Hajime gets the Hanahaki disease, flowers growing in his lungs, caused by (not actually) unrequited love. This has some of my favorite IwaOi (fanfic) moments, especially those showing Oikawa’s softer side.

“If something like that happens to you, you’ll let me know first, right? That you like someone enough to grow flowers in your heart?” There’s a curious sort of tone in Oikawa’s voice. Hajime snorts, not bothering to answer and Oikawa huffs but drops it.

“Mind Reader” by jopling (40.8k) - After being hit in the head by a volleyball, Iwaizumi can read minds and picks up on Oikawa’s warm fuzzy feelings towards him. I enjoyed this mainly because of the vision for their university life (living together, different universities, rivalry...) and the healthy dose of volleyball. Very nsfw.

Iwaizumi moves and rests his head on Oikawa's shoulder, closing his eyes as he takes in deep breaths to calm his mind. [...] He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he tries to think of what Oikawa’s thinking about, but it doesn’t seem like something he can will on his own, so nothing comes up. So he just asks anyway. "What are you thinking about?" Iwaizumi asks, and he realizes he'd bone-tired and sleepy because it comes out softer than he had intended. There's a small pause and he can feel Oikawa swallow. He sees his fist clench tighter on his lap before he answers, "Um. Milk bread."

“put a light on” by seabear (6.6k) - Tooru is confronted with university choices and a rather huge crush on his best friend.

Tooru’s thumbs fly against the tiny keypad. i love him i love him goddammit i love him what the HELL “Hey,” Iwa-chan’s there suddenly, his face so close. Eyes flickering down. “Who do you love?”

“to shore” by perbe (5.6k) - Iwa-chan disappears in the summer before college and leaves puzzle pieces behind  for Oikawa to put together. Lovely, atmospheric writing. Great Oikawa characterization.

Though you are surrounded by thick grass in the middle of May, you forget how to feel warmth. “Why are you so worried?” You expect him to think about it, but his answer is immediate. You wonder if he’s been waiting for this question, and if this is the answer he prepared. “Just a general feeling that things are changing too fast.” You can’t stand it, so you say, “I can give you a constant.”

AUs

“dyspnea/arrhythmia” by carafin (10.8k) - Junior doctor Iwaizumi’s mentor is one Oikawa Tooru.

Oikawa winks, honest-to-god winks at Iwaizumi. ‘It’s just me. I’m irresistible.’ Iwaizumi stares at him, rendered momentarily speechless. For someone whose bedside manners are impeccable, Oikawa seems to have absolutely no working knowledge of workplace appropriate behaviour. ‘I was kidding, don’t look at me like that,’ Oikawa says, and laughs. ‘It just comes with practice.’ ‘Right,’ Iwaizumi says, a little doubtfully, but he does a poor job at hiding his smile.

“Everything You Fear to Lose” by SuggestiveScribe (series, 26.1k) - Star Wars AU. Oikawa is a sith, Iwaizumi is a jedi - an absolute must. Epic, very angsty and emotional.

Tooru's legs were carrying him in long strides next to Master Takeda, gaze tipped slightly downward. "--we've been over this," Takeda went on. Hajime was keeping his eyes forward, lips pursed into a straight line. Tooru's attempts were all in vain, and Hajime was very well aware of it. "Just let me go with him," Tooru said, pressing his hand to his chest. "I can--" Master Takeda shook his head, "Listen, I understand you and Hajime have forged a..." Takeda's eyes slipped off to the side as they walked, considering. "A very strong bond," he eventually finished.

“In Defense of Reptiles (and Other Gross Things)” by rikke (9.3k) - Harry Potter AU. Oikawa is Hogwarts’ champion in the Triwizard Tournament.

Because for all that the school has joked about it since the lake incident, Iwaizumi never considered it a possibility—a real, actual possibility—and then he remembers the way Oikawa’s knuckles were white clutched around his shoulders in the lake, and the expression on his face after Iwaizumi saw him with Ushijima, and oh. Oh.

“In the Subtleties of Certain Colors“ by plumtrees (7.3k) - Oikawa is a painter in love with Dancer!Iwa-chan. The description of the painting and dancing scenes is just so good... ugh.

It always feels so intimate, painting Iwaizumi like this, like he’s bringing the image to life from a few specks of graphite and pigment on paper to the Iwaizumi Hajime that breathes and exudes life through everything he does, from his passion for dance to the way he so earnestly cares for people. I love you he whispers as he crafts the pale imitation, like it will possibly give him the strength to say those exact words to the real thing.

“midnight boy/sunset town” by carafin (10.1k) - Hajime’s new roommate doesn’t sleep.

5 Reasons Why Iwaizumi Hajime's Flatmate Is A Complete Weirdo (An Incomplete List) 1. He's obsessed with that stupid bucket list of his. 2. He's the proud owner of seven truly ugly, criminally hideous movie posters with aliens on them, which he insists on pasting all over the damn living room. 3. He's always stealing Hajime's sweatshirts. 4. Sometimes, he wakes Hajime up for breakfast. At 5AM. On Saturday mornings. 5. He literally never, ever sleeps

“Puzzleball” by carriecmoney (10.6k) - A:TLA AU. Oikawa is a rich kid in Ba Sing Se, Iwaizumi is a Dai Li Agent watching his family. Follows them falling in love with each other and a better life for themselves, very well written and romantic.

Iwaizumi stills, pastry hanging from his mouth and hand on the gate latch, watching Tooru twirl and laugh, head thrown back, fur collar brushing his cheeks. Melting flakes stick to his hair, disappearing into rain like those that hit the too-warm earth; he is both eight and eighteen, a small child’s heart caged by a head too adult for his own good. Iwaizumi’s thoughts are stuck like his tongue to frozen metal.

“you’ll never wait so long” by newamsterdam (13.7k) - Doctor Iwaizumi’s husband Oikawa is a lawyer with troubles he has to keep secret. Married IwaOi, such.. perfection.

Oikawa growls, low in his throat. He grabs Iwaizumi by the collar of his shirt, moving so quickly that Iwaizumi barely realizes he’s moving until Oikawa has him backed up against the wall opposite the sink. Oikawa spends so much time singing odes to Iwaizumi’s physique that it’s sometimes easy to forget how strong Oikawa is, himself. The kiss is powerful and biting. Oikawa shoves Iwaizumi roughly into the wall, attacking his lips with tongue and teeth. Iwaizumi knows every way that Oikawa can kiss him, but this one hasn’t made an appearance in a while.

IwaOi + (polyamory)

“adolescence and all its glory” by pageleaf (20k) - UshiIwaOi. Iwa-chan meets Ushiwaka in his anatomy class and tells Oikawa about it. Falling in love happens.

“Get coffee with me.” Ushijima says. It’s almost a request. He’s still sitting down, so he has to look up at Iwaizumi. Wait. What? “What?” Iwaizumi says, like a broken record. “Coffee,” Ushijima says slowly. Like it’s a perfectly reasonably request, and Iwaizumi is just being dense. Iwaizumi shakes his head. “No.”

“Caravan” by carriecmoney (162.1k)  - DaiIwaOi. A:TLA AU, Sequel to “Puzzleball”. Daichi joins Oikawa, Iwaizumi and the rest of the trade envoy on their way to the Northern Water Tribe, makes some (boy)friends along the way. Don’t forget to take a look at “Minivan”, a sexy/fluffy “behind the scenes” IwaOi Drabble Collection.

“Scared?” Daichi blinked over at Hajime, his arms crossed and dimple deep. Daichi rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t even.” He cuffed Hajime’s shoulder. “You won’t hurt me.” Hajime chuckled. “And I guess after the day you’ve had, you’re used to humiliation.” Daichi gasped, and Hajime threw back his head with his laugh. He had put his undershirt back on when the sun got below the mountain peaks, but his arms were still on display, a source of Ryuu’s envy and Tooru’s distraction since their first drills back inside the wall. He beamed at Daichi, teeth flashing in the dusk glow and firebender torchlight. “I think it’s time to give them what they came for, eh, boss?” “Go suck a rock,” Daichi said with a smile and a flip of the back of his hand. Hajime thumbed his nose as they parted to square off a decent distance from each other. “Everybody ready up there?” Daichi called in his field voice, not taking his eyes off Hajime.

(“Subject A, Subject B” by diamond_skeleton (8.5k) - KurooIwaOi. Kuroo’s a sports medicine student and IwaOi are his test subjects and then... well, you know. not online anymore)

Sexy stuff

“Kissmarked” by Moami (6.2k) - Oikawa gives Iwa-chan hickeys.

“Look” (3.8k) and “Until It Breaks” (2.6k) by SuggestiveScribe - just read them, both are really hot.

“these arms are yearning” by littlelionvanz (6.1k) -  Transgirl!Oikawa’s first time with Iwa-chan. The best trans!IwaOi I’ve read so far (my opinion as a cisperson).

“Tub” by leurauxe (3.8k) - More married IwaOi (yay!), Super Spy Husband!AU.

[pcttrailsidereader]

I have focused several recent entries on John Muir, his legacy and biography.  I have not shared much of his writing.  For those of you who are proud owners of The Pacific Crest Trailside Reader: California, pull it out and re-read “A Wind-Storm in the Forests”.  That is a classic tale of Muir lashing himself to the top of a Douglas spruce to experience a wild Sierra windstorm in the upper reaches of the Yuba River drainage.

Although not located along the PCT, I have had a personal weakness for Muir’s tales of adventures with his famed canine companion, Stickeen. For those of you unfamiliar with Muir’s mutt of the mountains, here is an abbreviated story of their first meeting. It was the summer of 1880 when Muir and Stickeen shared a death defying experience crossing a glacial crevasse.

“In the summer of 1880 I set out from Fort Wrangel in a canoe with the Rev. S. H. Young and a crew of Indians to continue the exploration of the icy region of southeastern Alaska. The necessary provisions, blankets, etc., had been collected and stowed away, and the Indians were in their places ready to dip their paddles, while a crowd of their friends were looking down from the wharf to bid them good-by and good luck. Mr. Young, for whom we were waiting, at length came aboard, followed by a little black dog that immediately made himself at home by curling up in a hollow among the baggage. I like dogs, but this one seemed so small, dull and worthless that I objected to his going and asked the missionary why he was taking him.

Sailing week after week through the long, intricate channels and inlets among the innumerable islands and mountains of the coast, he [Stickeen] spent the dull days in sluggish ease, motionless, and apparently as unobserving as a hibernating marmot.”

From a camp on Taylor Bay, Muir decides, on a stormy day, to set out to explore a large glacier which extended as an abrupt barrier all the way across from wall to wall of the inlet, a distance of three or four miles.

“I took my ice ax, buttoned my coat, put a piece of bread in my pocket, and set out.

Mr. Young and the Indians were asleep, and so I hoped, was Stickeen; but I had not gone a dozen rods before he left his warm bed in the tent, and came boring through the blast after me. That a man should welcome storms for their exhilarating music and motion, and go forth to see God making landscapes, is reasonable enough; but what fascination could there be in dismal weather for this poor feeble wisp of a dog, so pathetically small? Anyhow, on he came, breakfastless, through the choking blast. I stopped, turned my back to the wind, and gave him a good, dissuasive talk.

“Now don't,” I said, shouting to make myself heard in the storm—”now don't, Stickeen. What has got into your queer noodle now? You must be daft. This wild day has nothing for you. Go back to camp and keep warm. There is no game abroad —nothing but weather. Not a foot or wing is stirring. Wait and get a good breakfast with your master, and be sensible for once. I can't feed you or carry you, and this storm will kill you. . . .”

After ordering him back again and again to ease my conscience, I saw that he was not to be shaken off. . . . The dog just stood there in the wind, drenched and blinking, saying doggedly, “Where thou goest I will go.” So I told him to come on, if he must.”

It was a quintessential Muir outing, equipped with his minimal supplies and an overly ambitious route that took them up and across this massive glacier. Muir and Stickeen found themselves in dangerous circumstances, facing yawning crevasses, and long falls, but pressed on.

“Stickeen came on as unhesitating as the flying clouds,” Muir noted.  “Nothing daunted him. He showed neither caution nor curiosity, wonder nor fear, but bravely trotted on as if glaciers were playgrounds.

 Muir found himself talking to and relying on his canine companion for company and emotional support as the going got tougher.

“Again and again I was put to my mettle, but Stickeen followed easily, his nerve apparently growing more unflinching as the danger increased… we doggedly persevered and tried to hope that every difficult crevasse we overcame would prove to be the last of its kind. But on the contrary, as we advanced they became more deadly trying.“

Ultimately after summoning the courage to jump a particularly daunting span with no prospects of return, Muir and Stickeen encountered an enormous crevasse that offered only one avenue across – a slender 50-foot ice bridge. 

Muir would also come to appreciate his time on the glacier with Stickeen as a gift, but not until completing the seemingly impossible crossing that lay before them.

Muir recounts that Stickeen, “scanned the sliver and its approaches with his mysterious eyes, then looked me in the face with a startled air of surprise and concern, and began to mutter and whine; saying as plainly as if speaking with words, "Surely, you are not going into that awful place." …

Muir crossed ever so cautiously leaving Stickeen stricken on the opposite side. “He screamed louder than ever, and after running back and forth in vain search for a way of escape, he would return to the brink of the crevasse above the bridge, moaning and wailing . . . I shouted encouragement, telling him the bridge was not so bad as it looked . . . But he was afraid to try.  I went back to the brink of the crevasse and in a severe tone of voice shouted across to him that now I must certainly leave him. . .

He knew very well what I meant, and at last, with the courage of despair, hushed and breathless, he crouched down on the brink . . . Then, lifting his feet with the regularity and slowness of the vibrations of a seconds pendulum, as if counting and measuring one-two-three , holding himself steady against the gusty wind, and giving separate attention to each little step, he gained the foot of the cliff, while I was on my knees leaning over to give him a lift should he succeed in getting within reach of my arm. . . he was looking keenly into the series of notched steps and finger-holds I had made, as if counting them, and fixing the position of each one of them in his mind. Then suddenly up he came in a springy rush, hooking his paws into the steps and notches so quickly that I could not see how it was done, and whizzed past my head, safe at last!”

Muir found himself rejoicing in their salvation alongside Stickeen, exclaiming, "Well done, well done, little boy! Brave boy!" I cried, trying to catch and caress him; but he would not be caught. He flashed and darted hither and thither as if fairly demented, screaming and shouting, swirling round and round in giddy loops and circles like a leaf in a whirlwind. When I ran up to him to shake him, fearing he might die of joy, he flashed off two or three hundred yards, his feet in a mist of motion; then, turning suddenly, came back in a wild rush and launched himself at my face, almost knocking me down. all the while screeching and screaming and shouting as if saying, "Saved! saved! saved!"

Muir and Stickeen became constant companions after their trip together on the glacier. Although they did not arrive in camp until late that night, they were tired but alive.  Stickeen returned a changed dog. Never again aloof, Stickeen was Muir’s constant and loyal companion.  “And often as he caught my eye,” Muir recalled, “he seemed to be trying to say, "Wasn't that an awful time we had together on the glacier?"

Read the full account in Muir’s book Stickeen: The Story of a Dog.  It can also be found on-line in various places.  What a wonderful storyteller and engaging writer Muir was . . . a big part of what made him such an effective and persuasive naturalist and advocate.