#〈 ✧ LOW INK. 」 ;OUT OF CHAR.

[amaranthinecanicular]

THE KING'S CANARY TAKES FLIGHT!

The king's canary has abandoned his duty. Jimmy would argue he just quit a bad job. Either way there's a bounty on his head and a curse around his neck, and with Grian and Joel's voices ringing in his ears, Jimmy's dreams of freedom seem further out of reach by the day. That is until he saves a blaze hybrid who, for some reason, is hellbent on returning the favor. Alone, Jimmy is pathetic. Honestly, even with Tango, Jimmy still thinks they're kind of pathetic. But with a little bit of luck they just might make it.

[My gift for the @mcytblrholidayexchange, for @thesleepycat! I'm so sorry it's so late, but I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you had a stellar holiday!]

[alternatively read on ao3.]

:

THE KING’S CANARY TAKES FLIGHT!

It’s a catchy headline. Jimmy glares down at the trodden newspapers and admits at least this: it is a catchy headline.

One week and three towns out from the capital and the gossip still refuses to die. Jimmy blames the excess of perfectly reproduced ink on paper; if redstone wizardry hadn’t automated the process, he’s certain the printing press would never have taken off, and he’d have been able to slip through the cracks of the kingdom long before news could spread. 

He skirts the edge of the street and keeps moving. The phantom twinge of a boot grinding into his toes is easy to ignore. Less easy to ignore: the voices of the townsfolk, tittering over his crime. He hears his name but more often he hears his title. Canary. Canary. Canary. 

“Poor birdie. Can’t be easy, being the king’s canary,” says one woman. Jimmy doesn’t know if she’s being sarcastic or sincere; he can’t risk looking her in the face.

“Pah! Canary. Yellow-bellied sapsucker, more like,” says a man. “All he ever had to do was stand there and not die and get paid for standing there and not dying. Couldn’t even do that.” He’s starting to sound like Joel. “Got no idea what a real, honest day’s work looks like. Spoiled and ungrateful, you ask me. If I were him, with gifts like that, I’d be up in the castle no questions asked. Bitty canary’s nothing but a coward—ow!”

The man hops up and down on one foot, glaring at the oblivious butcher who’d stomped on it. 

Jimmy draws his hood low. 

:

Joel thought he was cursed by a witch. Grian thought he was born with it. The Red King said it was a gift from the gods, divine proof that he was meant to rule and no harm was to come to him.

Jimmy doesn’t know anything about a witch, or the gods, or the circumstances in which he was born, but he thinks Joel was closest to the mark. It’s a curse. It's always been a curse.

:

A dilemma: Jimmy needs food. 

His wings are numb with cold and his feet feel like he’s leaving behind the skin with every step, but food is the pressing issue. It’s taken two weeks and five towns of varying industry, but he’s finally run through the stock he took from the castle. He’s got plenty of money for more, but money isn’t really the problem. They just put out a reward for him. Martyn’s doing, if he had to guess. If anyone was considering letting him go before, they certainly aren’t now. 

Redstone has taken hold here, turned the town metropolitan, and he can hear as well as smell all the local dishes that the vendors are hawking: caramelized redstone sweets, charred and spiced meats, cups of blazepowder soup. They smell so good. He keeps to the outskirts of the market square, watching from the corner of his eye as steam wafts up every time the vendor ladles out chunky red broth. Jimmy feels the hiss of a burn on his hand; a second later the vendor’s eye twitches at a splash of hot soup. She looks up, and Jimmy ducks away before their eyes can meet.

There are no good options. If he pays for a meal, he’s almost guaranteed to be recognized and exposed. If he tries to steal something, he’s almost guaranteed to be caught and exposed. (He has no talent for thieving, as Grian and Joel proved every time they dared Jimmy to nick something, back when money was tight.) If he does nothing, his traitorous stomach will complain loud enough to garner attention, and then he’ll be exposed. Or he’ll starve. Which is also bad.

If he could, he’d have hiked through the forest until he got to the plains biome. Away from the towns and the crowds, free to hunt for his own meals. But every time he drifted from the path Joel and Grian’s voices rang in his head, reminding him that he’s never been good at camping, that mobs seem drawn to him like they knew he was weak, that he could barely hold his own with them around and on his own he was next to useless. 

He’s almost at the end of the square. What then? Keep going and hope he doesn’t collapse on the road to the next town? Even the thought of food leaves him lightheaded, he’d never make it. Wheel back around and pass through the market a second time, and risk being recognized? His pace slows to a crawl. Joel and Grian were right—he can’t survive on his own. He doesn’t know why he tried. He was warm and well-fed in the castle, and if he wasn’t appreciated then at least he was secure, and he only had to die occasionally.

Among all the spiced fruits and roasting meats, there is a small cart selling apples. The man working the cart is distracted (reading a paper with Jimmy’s reward plastered across the front, because what else would he be doing), only halfheartedly calling out prices to the bustling crowd. Jimmy is several yards away. Then only a handful. And then he's within arm’s reach, and no one has looked his way once. Surely no one will miss an apple? The owner of the cart shouts, and Jimmy flinchs, but he's only making a sale to a man on the other side of the cart. They fall into animated conversation. Jimmy stands scant feet away, unnoticed.

He could do it. He could do it now. That would show Grian and Joel. If Jimmy could steal an apple, what else could he do? What couldn’t he do? Of course he could survive on his own! Oh, they’d feel so terrible for thinking otherwise. They’d fawn and shower him with praise, and they’d tell him how capable he was, how strong and clever, how they were wrong to doubt him. They’d grovel, probably. They’d tell him they were sorry that he had gone through what he’d gone through, and how they appreciated that it had been for them, and that he didn’t need to do it any longer because he had tons, oodles of other skills and gifts that made him worth the burden of keeping him. He’d show them. 

If he ever saw them again, he’d show them.

The nearest apple is shiny and perfectly red. Jimmy reaches out.

Pain ravages him. It explodes hot along his side, blunt force that shatters his arm and leg and pulverizes his insides, even as it doesn't. He staggers. He chokes. Every breath feels like a betrayal, his body piercing itself over and over. The ghost of broken ribs. He chokes. He groans. 

It doesn’t stop hurting. It’s getting worse. Fear and pain leave him nauseous. Where will it come from? Where where where—

There. A redstone automobile down the street, blurred by his tears. It’s moving too fast. The wheel is wobbling wildly, the redstone in the undercarriage is sparking. It’s coming straight at him. No, it’s—it’s coming straight at the apple cart. 

The crowd is parting around him, now, he thinks. He’s getting looks—recognition or alarm, he doesn’t know. He tries to say run, but all that limps from his mouth is a moan. The man speaking to the vendor turns and sees him. Jimmy thinks he sees him. They have seconds.

“Run,” he thinks he says. Gasps, sobs, something.

The world jags and falls sideways. A man is above him. The man from the apple cart, and the vendor looking perturbed over his shoulder. One of them is speaking, the words bleeding and incomprehensible. Jimmy retains none of it. The pain is sun-bright. It razes away everything else.

Scant feet away, a vehicle screeches, and an automobile, out of control, smashes into the apple cart. There’s shouting, screaming. The vendor is gaping at the wreckage that is his livelihood. The man he was speaking to gapes as well, first at the splintered remains of the automobile and the cart, then at the mashed apples, then at Jimmy. If Jimmy could see him, he would know, then, the difference between alarm and recognition.

Jimmy doesn’t see him. Jimmy is dead. 

:

Jimmy doesn’t wake up right away. First, he stops being dead. Then he’s sleeping. He’s aware when this happens, in the loosest sense of the word—there’s no dreaming, no out of body experience, nothing in particular to tether him to the world at all. But the body knows when it’s dead and when it’s not, and so Jimmy knows. He lays quietly, thoughtless, floating, starry, until his body decides to stop doing those things. Then he wakes up.

The first thing he notes is that he’s still starving. At least he’s no longer cold.

The ceiling is a bland beige, splotched with dull scorch marks. Not back in the castle, then. That’s good. He blinks. He blinks again. His eyes are crusty and dry. So is his mouth. It’s very, very dry in here, actually, and very hot. Practically boiling, but in an arid way. Now that he’s awake, his armpits and the small of his back start to prickle with sweat. He has to wrestle his arms out from under a heavy quilt to rub the last of the sleep and death from his face, and his palms scrape against chapped lips. Still, he’ll always take too hot over too cold.

“Hey, you’re awake,” says a voice. “How are you feeling?”

There’s a blaze hybrid standing in the middle of a small, round room. He’s stoking a little fireplace with—with his bare hands, by the looks of it. Wow. Jimmy’s never seen that before. 

The hybrid turns to him fully. He’s shorter than Jimmy, wiry and sharp all over. He has wild blond hair, swept back from his face, the ends of it wavering into candle-like flickers of flame. His eyes are red all the way through. A long, slender tail flicks behind him, tipped in a merry ball of orange flame.

“I’m okay,” Jimmy says neutrally. 

“That’s good. You, uh, looked like you were in a lot of pain before.”

Jimmy does his best not to react to that. Grian always chides him for wearing his heart on his sleeve. “Okay. I’m feeling much better now.”

“You look it,” says the blaze hybrid. Jimmy chances a glance at his expression, then away. Does he know? Impossible to tell—mostly he just looks relieved. “Do you remember what happened?”

He does, for the most part, though he doesn’t remember this man. But the faces were all blurring together at the end. “Kind of.”

The blaze hybrid scrapes a small wooden chair out from a small wooden table and drags it to Jimmy’s bedside. Jimmy does his best not to stiffen up too noticeably. The man throws himself into the chair, his limbs poking in different directions like an awkward bundle of sticks.

“We were in the market. You looked like you were in pain,” he says. “A lot of pain. You called me and the apple vendor over to you, and then a carriage took out the cart behind us. Then you—” He pauses. “Passed out. I brought you here.”

Passed out. Jimmy doesn’t correct him. Instead he focuses on the “here,” and how very not a doctor’s office “here” is. Unless this man is the town doctor, and this is just the very cluttered and unsanitary place he practices medicine. Or maybe he’s a trained healer so he saw no need for a doctor? This could be innocent. It could mean nothing. 

Stupid, says a voice in his head that sounds like Joel. He knows. 

Jimmy does not panic. He is so so good at not panicking. “Well. Thank you. For that. Um. And—and where is here, exactly?”

“Oh! Yeah, of course. Welcome to my home!” The blaze hybrid throws out an arm, gesturing to the small room: the tiny fireplace, the tiny table, the tiny dresser, the few utilitarian appliances and the many tinkering knick knacks scattered all over that Jimmy can’t make heads or tails of. “Temporary home. Place I’ve been renting for a few months, I guess. Welcome either way.”

“Thank you,” Jimmy says again. Still in town, it sounds like. Okay. Okay. He can work with this. What would Joel and Grian do? Fight their way out. Not really an option for Jimmy; he’s always frail after revival, unlikely to win a fight or a foot race. But he’ll figure it out. And the blaze hybrid might not know who he is. Probably. Definitely!

The blaze hybrid says, “Sorry if this is forward, but. You’re the king’s canary, aren’t you?”

“I don’t like that name,” Jimmy says immediately, like an idiot. Death always muddles his brain, blunts his filter. “I—I actually have to go, right now, immediately. Places to see, people to go, you understand how it is, thank you again for the help—”

He lurches for the side of the bed, where the floor, predictably, rises to meet him. Less predictably, the blaze hybrid catches him around the shoulders.

“Hey, hey! Careful, man, slow down.” He pushes Jimmy back to the bed. Jimmy wishes he could say it was forceful, but Jimmy's pretty sure he's just as weak as a foal, and terrified out of his mind. He must do a poor job of hiding it, because the man makes a funny sound in the back of his throat. “Oh, I’m not—I’m not going to, like, turn you in or anything. No one else recognized you, and I didn’t tell them. Don’t worry about that.”

Jimmy will absolutely worry about that, thank you very much. “Um. Okay.”

The blaze hybrid holds up his hands. “I mean it. You’re safe here. The only reason I asked is because I was wondering if it was your, uh, power that happened? Back at the apple cart? I think that’s what happened, I just wanted to be sure.”

This feels like a trap. Like the king’s men are just outside the door, waiting for confirmation before they burst in and drag him back, where Ren will likely soliloquize about loyalty and betrayal and then Martyn will lob off his head. But if that were the case, shouldn’t they have already done the bursting and the dragging? Jimmy all but confessed his identity two seconds ago. He sees no way out of it now.

He nods, just once. 

“I thought so.” The blaze hybrid's eyes are deeply red. Fire dances inside them. Jimmy can’t tell if it’s reflection from the fire or something inner and innate. “Thank you. You saved my life.”

Jimmy swallows. “You’re welcome.”

“Seriously. Thank you.” He reaches out and squeezes Jimmy’s shoulder. He’s smiling. “So: don’t call you canary. Got it. What should I call you?”

“Jimmy,” Jimmy says, after he fails to think of a proper alias that isn’t Joel or Grian or King Ren. “Jimmy Solidarity.”

“Jimmy Solidarity. I’m Tango, of the Tek variety. You can just call me Tango.”

Jimmy nods. He doesn’t know what else to say. 

Tango says, “You hungry?”

Is he trying to stall Jimmy long enough for the king’s men to get here? Most likely. Jimmy’s stomach decides he doesn’t care. “Oh my gosh yes please I’m starved.”

:

Three bowls of blaze powder soup later (better than what was being sold in the street, if only because it is now in Jimmy’s belly), Jimmy finally feels like more of a human again. 

“Thank you,” he sighs, reclining back on the pillows of Tango's bed. The bowl is still warm in his hands. He’s loath to let go of it. “That was amazing. I’m, uh. Sorry if I took too much.”

Tango is still on his first serving. He laughs, and it doesn’t sound mean-spirited at all. “Dude, don’t worry about it! Nothing a chef likes more than someone enjoying his food.”

Jimmy swirls his spoon through the creamy broth at the bottom of the bowl. “Is that what you are? A chef?”

“Nah, not really. I just like cooking. Sometimes you gotta have a hobby that’s just for you, not for money, you know?”

“Sure.” It’s not something Jimmy has ever thought about, but he likes the idea. “Um, I should. I should probably go.”

“Okay,” Tango says easily. “You want some tea before you head out?”

Jimmy might actually cry. “Yespleaseohmygosh.”

:

The tea is even better than the soup, spiced and fragrant, smoky in the aftertaste. Somehow, against all odds, the company is even better.

Rather than being a wildly successful chef, Tango works with a nomadic troupe of demolitionists. Not a job Jimmy’s ever heard of before, but it sounds cool when Tango describes it. According to Tango and his expansive hand gestures, the redstone wizardry boom has resulted in cities and infrastructure rapidly expanding, deconstructing, rebuilding. In the chaos—his eyes brighten with the word—there’s opportunity for innovation, discovery, entrepreneurs. 

“And blowing stuff up in creative ways,” he adds. “So that’s always fun. I just figured out how to make the buildings implode instead of explode—reduces debris and collateral damage, and just looks awesome.”

“That’s amazing,” Jimmy says sincerely, and Tango’s smile glows, literally. It is suddenly imperative that Jimmy break eye contact.

“Another cup?” Tango asks.

Jimmy wants to, very badly. He’s enjoying talking to Tango. He’s enjoying the warmth and the tea and the conversation where both parties see each other as people, instead of a tool or a burden. “I should probably get going.”

“Oh,” Tango says, then laughs, a little bashful. “Yeah, of course. Look at me, chatting your ear off! Let’s get you up.”

He takes Jimmy’s cup and then his arm in a firm, claw-tipped grip. His hand is bony and pleasantly hot. With his support Jimmy finds his feet, and manages three whole steps before his knees buckle.

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Tango catches him, and leads him back to the edge of the bed. “You okay, buddy?”

“I’m fine,” Jimmy says. He feels a little lightheaded, a little breathless, more than a little humiliated. “This just happens when I—it just happens sometimes. I’m used to it.”

“Do you want to rest up a little longer?”

“I really should get going. You’ve done enough for me as it is.”

Tango nods slowly. “How far are you headed?”

“Far.”

“Right.” 

A pause. Jimmy clasps his hands between his knees and wills strength into his body. Usually it takes about three hours after revival to fully recover, not that Jimmy will tell Tango that. It’s not like he hasn’t had to get up and go minutes after death before. Ren was the target of back to back assassination attempts once, and Jimmy made do then. He can feel Tango reappraising him, the paleness of his face, his worn clothes and unwashed hair. He struggles not to shrink on himself.

This was a nice reprieve—a lovely surprise after a terrible death. He needs to leave before he ruins it. Oversteps Tango’s bounds, annoys him, reveals himself as something to be used or pitied.

Tango hovers, then sits beside him. 

“It’s just that…you still look kinda iffy, dude. Is there anyone I could bring you to? Anyone you trust to help you get…wherever you’re going?”

“I do,” Jimmy says quickly, eager not to be thought of as pathetically alone. “I mean, I did. I mean—I don’t, anymore. They wouldn’t have been safe, is all, with the whole on the run thing, and anyway, they wouldn’t have—that is, I…” He trails off, and says lamely, “It’s complicated.” 

Tango’s voice softens. “Okay. I get that.”

They sit together. Tango offers him another cup of tea; Jimmy takes it. He blows across the surface, watches the flecks of leaves bob on rippling waves. 

After a minute, Tango claps his hands on his knees and stands up. 

“Well hey, if you’re going to go you should at least go in some good shoes.”

He crosses the small apartment to the door, where Jimmy’s tattered shoes are propped up against the frame. Instead he grabs the sturdy pair of work boots beside them. 

Jimmy blanches. “I can’t take your shoes!” 

“Sure you can.” Tango sizes up Jimmy’s foot, decides it’s close enough, and pushes the boots into his arms. “They’re my extra pair, so you’re not putting me out. They might be a little snug, but I think snug is better than what you were working with.”

“That’s not the point! You’ve done too much for me. I can’t take your food and your tea and your shoes, I just can’t.”

Tango gives him an amused look. “Okay, but you saved my life, remember? I value that a little more than an extra pair of shoes. Take ’em. I insist.”

Jimmy does take them, but only because Tango also tries to give him new clothes, cloak, and packed-up food, which he turns down. This time when Tango helps him up, though Jimmy teeters, he keeps his feet.

Outside it’s still winter. In the warmth of Tango’s apartment, Jimmy had almost forgotten. Since his death night has fallen, and the streets are empty and bitterly cold. 

“You’re sure I can’t convince you to rest a little longer?” Tango asks.

Jimmy draws his cloak tight around his shoulders. “Long way to go, I’m afraid. Thank you for everything.”

Jimmy looks back at him. It’s the first time he’s looked into Tango’s face in a while: he’s pointy all over, angular, bordering on gaunt. He’s a candle in the dark. His smile is tinged with concern.

“No need to thank me,” he says. “I hope you get where you’re going, Jimmy. Take care.”

He offers his hand. Jimmy shakes it. If either of them linger, Jimmy tells himself it’s only because Tango is so warm. 

Jimmy walks away. With every step further he remembers that he’s a fugitive, and that he needs to go quickly, quietly, and carefully. On to the next town, and the next, and the next, until he’s run out of towns entirely and has made it to where the sky is blue and the horizon opens into forever. He looks back once, and sees Tango still standing there, waving. He looks back again, but now the door has closed, and Jimmy doesn’t know which window was Tango’s. The gifted boots squeeze gently at his toes.

His hands twitch with splinters as he reenters the market square, where the stalls have been folded up for the night and the street is empty. 

Only it’s not empty. The owner of the apple cart is despairing over the broken remains, picking through sharp shards of wood. He hisses and shakes out his hands. Jimmy grimaces. He tugs his hood lower and turns on his heel.

“Hey,” the man calls behind him. “Hey you!”

Jimmy walks faster.

“You! You’re the one who—stop, blast it! You owe me a new cart!”

“I really don’t, actually,” says Jimmy, dropping his voice two octaves. A hand grabs his shoulder. Jimmy’s wings protest, pushing back hard under the cloak. The hand is shaken off. So is his hood.

“It’s you,” the man says.

“No it isn’t,” says Jimmy.

“It is! You’re the canary! That reward could buy me a whole fleet of new carts.” He looks around wildly. 

“Please don’t,” says Jimmy, but the man is already hollering. 

“I’ve got him! I’ve got the canary, guards! Someone!”

Jimmy turns to run but the man seizes the back of his cloak. His hand closes on the arch of a wing, and Jimmy yelps.

“Hey! Let go of him!”

There’s the distinct, winding pain of a body shouldering hard into Jimmy's ribs. Then Tango is tackling the man to the ground.

Jimmy goes sprawling. He struggles to his knees through the phantom dings and scratches of two men wrestling on cobblestone. Behind him, Tango is fuming, “What the hell, man! He saved your life, what are you doing?” 

All along the street, lights are coming on. Doors are opening. Heads poking out. Eyes going wide. The town is folding in on him. Jimmy can’t breathe.

And Tango is above him, once again.

“Come on!”

He offers his hand. Jimmy takes it.

They run.

:

Grian and Joel would have come with him. 

If he’d asked. If he’d told them. Of course they would have. They would have protected him, taken care of him. They would have sighed and scoffed the entire time. They would have resented him, and made sure he knew exactly how much of an inconvenience this was, and didn’t he know he was upending all their lives, and why couldn’t Jimmy just do his job? He was always causing problems, and never considering the effect it had on others. 

The moment Jimmy revived on the cold marble of the throne room and realized he had to leave was the same moment he realized he couldn’t bring Joel and Grian with him. He couldn’t even tell them. They would have insisted on joining, whether Jimmy wanted them to or not. Whether they wanted to or not. They cared for him; they would risk implication and conspiracy for him. And they would never let him forget it.

He’ll never see them again. That hurts too much to think about, so he doesn’t. 

:

“I’ve ruined your life.” 

“You haven’t ruined my life, come on.”

“I have, I absolutely have. Your home—”

“My temporary home.”

“Your temporary home, your job, all your things. Poof! All gone, Tango! Because you helped me!” 

Tango is starfished flat on his back. Jimmy is making the ground’s acquaintance with his face. They fled down the darker road out of town, figuring they were less likely to be followed, and after an hour of hard running, they both pancaked in the dirt. Jimmy has too many cramps to name, and a doubled echo of Tango’s cramps on top of that. The stars above feel judgmental. Jimmy is glad to stare at hard-packed earth instead.

“Oh my gosh, you’re my accomplice now,” he moans. “They’re going to be looking for you too. Tango, your life is over, I’ve ruined it.”

A warm hand pats at Jimmy’s back with infinite, undeserved patience. “You didn’t ruin anything, buddy. I mean it! This is for the better, if you think about it.”

“For the better. Ha.” Jimmy spits out a little bit of dirt. “How?”

“Like you said, that place was temporary. My team will pick up my stuff, so I haven’t lost any of it. Well, except for what Bdubs will scavenge. That’s a given.” Tango waves a hand like being forced to abandon his entire life in the dead of night is hand-wavable. “And the good thing about working with your buds is that they’ll always have a job for you if you need it, so no harm there. Honestly, demolition was fun, but I’ve been thinking of trying something new for a while now.” 

“You’re a wanted man now. How are you going to go back? You’ll be arrested on sight.”

“Pshaw. One guy saw me help you.”

“The whole town saw you help me!”

“Hey, you’re the one they’re after, not me. By the time I get back, they’ll have completely forgotten I exist. Tango Tek who?”

Jimmy rolls his head to one side to give Tango a flat look. Tango is already looking back at him. He looks amused. That makes no sense.

“Okay, honesty time? I wanted to offer to go with you before,” Tango says. “Help you get wherever you’re going. But you seemed pretty jumpy, and I thought it would freak you out. Offer’s still on the table, though. I like traveling new places, seeing new things. Makes for good machination inspiration. And two is safer than one, right?”

“You don’t know me,” Jimmy says. His voice is weak. 

“I don’t know how many times I can say this, but you literally saved my life. That makes you a pretty cool guy in my book.” He looks Jimmy dead in the eye, and says simply, “You seem like you could use some help. I’d like to help.”

Jimmy believes him. In the back of his mind he can hear Joel and Grian taunting: just like Timmy to trust the first stranger he meets. Can’t ever hack it alone, can you, Tim? Probably he’s about to run off with some maniac bent on selling his curse to the highest bidder. Or an opportunist who intends to hold this favor over his head for the rest of his life. Would be just like him to get into hot water like that. Sure, it would be nice if there were someone out there who really wanted to help for the sake of helping, and it would be nice if doing so didn’t lead to resentment or blackmail or a direct ticket back to the castle. But that person is a fantasy. That person doesn’t exist.

But Jimmy believes him.

He sniffles. Some dust goes up his nose. “We don’t even have a torch.”

“Okay, you got me there,” Tango concedes. “We’ll need to get some supplies in the next town. Oh—here, this is yours.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out Jimmy’s coin purse.

“It’s why I followed you. You left it in my apartment.”

Jimmy just gapes, so Tango plops the purse on his back. 

“Take your time,” he says, generously.

Jimmy does take his time. After a few long seconds of fish-mouthing, he says, “I hope you took some. I was going to bribe you into not giving me up.”

Tango snickers. “Darn. Missed my chance. Guess you’ll just have to buy our first meal instead.”

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. Even if Tango is being genuine, Jimmy is still a wanted man. Bringing him along could only put him in danger. Grian and Joel would be judging him so, so hard if they knew.

But Grian and Joel aren’t here.

“Deal,” Jimmy says.

Tango smiles. Jimmy dares to smile back.

Then Jimmy yelps at the ghost of sharp fangs sinking into his neck. “Ow ow ow—Tango, spider! Spider spider spider!”

“What spider where now—whoa!”

Jimmy yanks him up just as a spider the size of his torso skitters out of the forest, barely missing a lunge for Tango’s face. 

The spider chases them a full second hour until torches intersperse the road again. If this had happened yesterday—or even a few hours ago—Jimmy is sure he’d have burst into tears. 

But Tango makes this funny yelp-laugh sound when he screams, and when they finally reach safety, he cheers. Jimmy, despite himself, cheers too.

:

The next town is close enough to reach by afternoon the next day. They walk through the night and arrive exhausted, unwashed, hungry, and in better spirits than Jimmy expected. By a lot, actually. Turns out sharing misery halves it instead of doubling. Who knew?

Jimmy tries to keep a low profile while Tango goes to retrieve food and supplies. Waiting in an alley with nothing but his thoughts (and Grian and Joel’s imaginary advice), feeling equal parts conspicuous and insignificant, he half-expects Tango to return with guards. Maybe more than half. Even if it hadn’t all been a ruse to gain his trust and turn on him when most profitable, Jimmy finds it hard to believe Tango won’t come to regret his decision when he realizes what deadweight Jimmy is.

But all Tango returns with is two loaves of bread stuffed with roasted peppers and Jimmy’s exact change. He even managed to secure lodging. The innkeeper refused to give them a two-person room when she hadn’t vetted the second person, so Tango conceded to a single. Then he helps Jimmy climb through the window in the back. There’s a lot of flailing and scrambling and frantically beating wings, but once they’re through, Jimmy lays flat on the floor and stares up at the ceiling in wonder.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Jimmy says breathlessly. “You’re a genius.”

“Aw shucks.” The flame on Tango’s tail flares and puffs. “Thanks, man!”

They crowd onto the tiny bed and Jimmy is out as soon as his head hits the pillow. He wonders, as he falls asleep, if maybe Tango cut the innkeeper in, and he’ll wake to guards waiting to arrest him and Martyn laughing at him for thinking he got away, and Tango and the innkeeper splitting the reward money…

He wakes twelve hours later to Tango fiddling with some new redstone contraption. He sees Jimmy’s awake and says, “Morning, buddy!” Then he hands him a bowl of oats with fresh winter fruit, and a hot cup of spiced tea. 

:

In the next town, Tango sells his little redstone doohickey, and uses the money to pay for their meals. It’s only fair, he says. And when Jimmy protests that bankrolling the trip is the least he can do for all the help, Tango just laughs.

“Back with my crew, we split everything evenly,” he says. “Theoretically, anyway, when we weren’t enabling Etho’s spending habit and Bdubs wasn’t trying to weasel his way out of it. Regardless! We should be supporting each other equally. That’s what partners do, right?”

Partners. Jimmy doesn’t trust himself not to say something stupid, so he just nods. Partners. That sounds nice.

:

On the road, they talk about their people.

Skizz, Impulse, Bdubs, Etho—Tango’s demolition crew, a cast of colorful characters. “You’d like them. They’re good guys. Skizz especially, he’s my bestie. Nicest guy in the overworld.”

Tango has loads of stories, a broad range from heartwarming moments with Skizz to absurd adventures with Bdubs to wild tales of Etho that make Jimmy question whether he’s a real person or not.

“He soloed a wither once,” Tango declares proudly.

“No way.”

“He did.”

“No way! You’re lying.”

“Jimmy,” Tango gasps, scandalized. “Would I lie to you?”

Jimmy’s gut instinct, for some reason, is no. “No one can solo a wither.”

“Etho can. Though if you asked Bdubs, he’d tell you he soloed it. Now that’s a lie.”

Jimmy hums. Night is falling rapidly but the sky clings to a deep, dusty orange. Joel always says that means snow.

“Grian and Joel might be able to take down a wither together,” he says. “Especially if I was there to help them. Definitely not alone, though.”

“You talk about Grian and Joel a lot,” Tango says, a gentle invitation. 

“Oh, sure. I spent most of my life with those jerks. Don't really remember anything before I met Grian. I think I lived by the sea?” He daydreams sometimes about sparkling blue that stretches on forever. He’s not sure if it’s a memory or a dream. “But then I got saddled with Joel and Grian, and we kept each other alive. Or I kept them alive with my curse, not that they’d be caught dead saying thank you, no sir.” 

He chuckles, and thinks to stop there. But Tango is watching him and smiling. Jimmy snaps his eyes back to the sky. 

“I sort of grew out of my wings as I got older, can’t really fly with them, you know? But I could fly when I was a kid, and there I was, zooming through the trees, when bam! I get slapped in the face by some invisible brick wall, and that makes me bam! smack right into a tree. A second later, and bam! Grian smashes into a tree right next to me. Turns out he was flying behind me, saw me crash, and that made him crash, and his crash is what made me crash in the first place.” 

Tango laughs. “Feedback loop of pain, huh? That’s how you met?”

“Yep. Then we found Joel two years later, and that was that. Locked in with two bullies. We kept each other alive. Or I kept them alive with my curse, not that they’d be caught dead saying thank you, no sir! They’re my—” 

He almost says brothers. Thank goodness he didn’t. Even the thought of Grian and Joel’s ridicule makes his cheeks burn with shame. 

“They’re my roommates, kind of. Or they were, before I started working for Ren and living in the castle. They’re why I stuck around so long, actually.”

The way their jaws had dropped, the first time he gave them their cut. He’d had the thought: I can finally repay you. I can finally be of use.

“They were the first ones who called me a canary,” Jimmy says, brightening. “It was just a joke. An annoying one that I hated, but it was ours, so I didn’t really mind that much. Martyn heard it once, and he told Ren, and, well.” He stares hard at the orange sky. “Kind of got overdone, after that.”

“Yeah,” Tango says. When Jimmy glances over, his smile is a little dim. “I bet it would.”

He seems glum. Jimmy doesn't like that. "You know, Joel has a curse too. Turns into a big monster at night. Needs true love's kiss to break it, the whole thing."

"Yeah?" Tango perks up. "What kind of monster?"

"Oh, you wouldn't believe me if I told you," Jimmy says breezily.

Tango's grinning again. Thank goodness. "Try me."

:

Money was always tight, when it was just the three of them. Jimmy minded, of course, though not as much as Joel and Grian did. Privately he liked that it was them against the world. The worst part, to him, were the nights they had to split a thin serving of broth and Grian and Joel were in foul enough moods to needle Jimmy for not pulling his weight.

Still, they made ends meet. And there at the end, they were even doing well. Jimmy can confidently say that Grian’s the best architect in the kingdom, and his reputation was only ever growing. He was commissioned by some nobles in the capital. This is the one, boys, this one changes everything, Grian would say, over and over, and Joel would grumble, it blummin’ better be, how much you keep banging on about it, but he’d catch Grian and Jimmy in headlocks and knuckle at their hair, so he was excited too.

They got to the capital. It was bigger and busier than any place Jimmy had ever been, built into the shadow of the king’s castle. While he worked, Joel took up odd jobs throughout the city. He was hired to clear out a nest of phantoms that was terrorizing the outer districts. He let Jimmy tag along.

Jimmy felt the death coming up on him. Claws raking his back, tearing his throat. He swung around, looking for Joel, and saw a king’s guard instead. He was bleeding and exhausted. Jimmy tackled him out of reach of a phantom’s talons; somewhere in the distance Joel screamed Timmy!; before the pain had a chance to fade, Jimmy shuddered. Jimmy died.

Jimmy un-died in the castle. Joel and Grian were nowhere to be seen. Instead there was the king’s guard, who was actually the king’s hand, who was actually Martyn.

Your whole life’s about to turn around, mate, Martyn said. You’re welcome.

:

“Why didn’t you turn me in?” 

He manages to rein the question back three more days, until it pops free on the road. It’s started to snow, just a handful of delicate flakes that Tango tries to catch in his mouth. He’s looking at Jimmy, frozen, with big eyes and a pointed tongue poking out of his mouth.

The question is still as ill-advised as it would have been on day one. He’s sure Grian would think so. Why would you bother putting the idea in his head, he would say, why push it? Grian is smart about things like this, keeps his cards close to the vest. Joel is more forward, likes to know things upfront, doesn’t mind being confrontational about it. But Joel wins fights that Jimmy doesn’t. He’d say it’s plain stupid.

Tango doesn’t say it’s stupid. He says, “Yeah, that’s fair. I’d want to know too.”

It makes Jimmy feel almost reasonable for asking. Tango wipes his mouth and kicks thoughtfully at the road. 

He says, “I’ve got no loyalty to the king. Nothing against the guy, I’ve heard some good things, but I’m netherborn, right? And I barely feel any national pride there, so not much obligation here.” 

“There’s a reward,” Jimmy points out. Imaginary Joel and Grian groan in frustration.

Tango’s eyes narrow skeptically. “Sure, but you didn’t commit a crime, did you? Unless I read that article wrong. Seems to me you just left your job. You should get to quit like anyone else. I don’t see what the big deal is.”

He says it so simply. Just as simply as Jimmy thought it was.

“I mean,” Jimmy says, “I did steal some bread.”

Tango barks a laugh. “Well, now I have to turn you in. Moral obligation.”

Jimmy nods solemnly. “It’s only right. Clap me in irons, throw away the key.”

Tango keeps laughing. His nose scrunches with it. Jimmy feels a little silly for being so proud. He’s made loads of people laugh before, thank you very much. It’s just that he’s usually the butt of the joke instead of the one making it.

He likes making Tango laugh. It’s a nice laugh.

It doesn’t snow much longer, but they spend the time counting who can catch more snowflakes on their tongue. Jimmy wins by one.

:

“Here,” Jimmy pushes one horn into Tango’s hands. He’s so excited. 

Tango turns it over, as confused as intrigued. “Is this an animal horn? Where did you get this?”

“Just now, when I went to the bathroom! There was a goat out there, it tried to kill me—”

“What—”

“Honestly it shouldn’t even be here, Grian says they only live in the mountains. But it missed, and it broke its horns off against a tree trunk.”

“Wow.” Tango admires the color and the shine, the smooth break and the grooves in the dark keratin. “It’s so cool.”

“It gets cooler.” Jimmy lifts his horn to his lips. A sweet note carries, and a flock of birds take to the sky. Tango’s jaw is on the floor. 

“How’d you do that?”

“Grian knew how, and he showed me and Joel,” he says. “I thought if we were separated, or lost, or see a threat or something, we could blow this to find each other.”

Tango’s eyes are shining. “That’s an awesome idea. Can you show me?”

:

Not every town can be reached in one hard day’s walk. Sometimes they have to camp out on the road, laying out bedrolls and building fires to keep winter at bay. Tonight it’s cold enough that Tango gives Jimmy his extra bedding; he’s netherborn, he says, so he doesn’t need as much to keep warm. They keep the fire high and scoot the bedrolls close, talking too late into the night. And Jimmy just…tells him.

“You’re going to build a ranch?” Tango asks. 

He sounds surprised. He probably looks surprised, not that Jimmy would know, since he’s having trouble looking at him.

The ranch isn’t something he likes to talk about. Every time he says it out loud, it sounds sillier, so he tries to keep it tucked safe and close behind his heart. He mentioned it to Joel and Grian once, though he’s sure they don’t remember it. Why would they? They’d been so dismissive at the time. There aren’t enough riches in the world that could convince me to sell you a farm, let alone teach you how to run it, Grian had sneered. Joel pointed out that even if there were, no one in their right mind would stick around once they realized what a slow study Jimmy was. Jimmy felt small, and he never mentioned it again.

With Tango, he told him only as much as he needed to. They were heading out of the forest biome and into the plains, where the land unfurled into smooth, rolling prairies and burst with sunflowers. The logic was sound enough on the surface: Ren’s borders ended with the biome, and with one step past Jimmy would be free and clear. Tango was just glad to visit somewhere he’d never been before. He didn’t ask further questions, and Jimmy didn’t offer further answers.

But they’ve been traveling together for weeks, now. Tango has never made Jimmy feel small. 

“I’m not planning on building one, exactly,” Jimmy mumbles. He busies his hands by sitting up and thrusting his hands at the fire. A talent of Tango’s: he can build a beautiful fire in three minutes flat. “Grian’s a way better builder than I am. I’m just hoping to buy it off of someone. Something small, if the owner was already hoping to retire or something. And then I’ll pay them extra to stay on a little while and teach me how to run things.”

Tango sits up too. “That’s an awesome idea.”

Jimmy’s head snaps up. “Really?”

“Yeah, man! Way better to admit when you need help than to crash and burn just because you tried to tough it out alone. Keeping the old rancher on until you’ve got the hang of it is smart.”

Tango looks genuinely impressed. He looks admiring. Jimmy’s wings start to flutter. 

“Do you know anything about running a ranch?” Tango asks. He doesn’t sound accusing like Joel, or mocking like Grian. Just curious.

“Not really,” Jimmy admits. “But I’m pretty good with animals, and I don’t mind hard work. It might take me a while to get the hang of something, but I’ll stick with it until I do.”

“That’s great,” Tango says earnestly. “I think it’s way more useful to be able to stick to something than to be good at it right away.”

One of Joel and Grian’s favorite pastimes was poking fun of Jimmy until he shouted and flustered, and then laughing at how splotchy he got. They said he looked like he had a rash. He hopes he’s not as pink as he feels now. “Thanks,” he says again.

Tango leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes bright. “What kind of animals will you have?”

Jimmy hums. “Chickens, for sure. Lots of cows. A couple goats, I think. Maybe a warden?”

Tango’s laugh is surprised and delighted. “A warden?”

“Yeah. I was thinking like—if I could train it, then maybe it could use it’s sonic thing to round up the herd. Is that weird?”

“No, I love it! Wardens are so cool, and we know so little about them. Plus they’re kind of cute, in a scary monster way.”

Jimmy beams. “Exactly! Tango, I could not possibly agree more.”

“You’d have to bring that one up from the underdark yourself,” Tango says thoughtfully. He lights up like a firefly. “I could help you! I bet I could think of a way to get it safely to the surface.”

“You definitely could, that’s not even a question. You’re brilliant.”

Tango’s eyes go ruby round. Jimmy’s mouth opens and shuts. Should he take it back? He should take it back. 

But Tango just smiles, broad and lopsided. “Thanks, Jimmy.”

“You’re—” Jimmy’s voice cracks. God damn it. “You’re welcome, Tango.”

They stare at each other. Tango says, “You have frost in your eyelashes.”

Jimmy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Huh?”

“You have—” Tango clears his throat. “You know, because it’s so cold. It doesn’t happen to me because I run too hot, so I just, uh. I noticed.”

“Oh,” says Jimmy.

Tango nods, pink at the ears. He turns quickly to the fire, stoking it with a few deliberate pokes of his fingers, then says a little too loud, “I’d love to make some mazes for your animals. The warden especially. Obstacle course type things, you know, for enrichment.”

They're just daydreaming. Jimmy knows that. But he wants it. It’s a little too revealing, how much he wants it. 

He wraps his arms around his knees and rests his chin on them. “Yeah? Like what?”

:

The good news is that they’re getting closer to the border, if Jimmy’s map is to be believed. The bad news is that they misjudge the distance to the next town and run out of food a full three days before they get there. Tango slaps together ingenius redstone traps to catch hares that tide them over, but that doesn’t stop them from ordering two full stews each when they finally come upon a tavern, nor does it stop them from hunkering down right outside the building and inhaling the stew in companionable, ravenous silence. 

Deep into the second bowl, Tango giggles, “Oh no, we’re pathetic.”

Jimmy thinks that yeah, they kind of are. He thinks, maybe, he doesn’t mind being pathetic with Tango.

:

Working for the king wasn’t so bad. It really wasn’t. 

On his good days Ren was generous, kind, goofy and forgiving. He cared about his subjects’ problems and pushed for the industrialization that improved quality of life throughout the kingdom. He treated Jimmy like a subject instead of an equal, but like a subject he was respectful of. Most of the time. Half the time.

The issue was that, the other half the time, he stopped being the good King Ren and started being the Red King. Vicious and uncompromising. A nose for weakness and for bloodshed. Jimmy suspects it’s a curse, though it’s clear he’s not eager to break it. He makes lots of enemies, the Red King does. Jimmy knows that better than anyone. Once he died impaled on a traitorous guard’s spear. When he came to, curled around a wound that wasn’t there, Martyn was beheading the would-be assassin three feet away, the spear was cracked in half at the foot of the throne, and the Red King was howling with laughter. 

Never look him in the eye, when he’s like that. Never expect an apology. Never expect to be free.

But reiterate how generous he was. Happy to pay for Jimmy’s services, and provide him with safety, food, comfort. On Jimmy’s first day he said, The crown appreciates your service, lad. You have been touched by divinity to prove our birthright by providence, and for this we shall be gracious. How might we show our appreciation? No price is too high for the king.

Jimmy is still surprised he managed to stop quaking long enough to request a stipend for his family. (Family sounded more sympathetic than roommates, he figured. He was glad Joel and Grian weren’t around to hear.) 

Martyn looked annoyed by the request, imposing at the king’s right side, and Jimmy tried to clarify, something modest, please, but Ren didn’t hesitate. The first payment was enough to set the three of them up for life, if they were scrupulous. The second payment ensured they could live comfortably without having to work another day ever again. The third payment was excess, and it never stopped. Grian and Joel were overjoyed. 

Tango is frowning. It’s a strange look on his narrow face. Jimmy has rarely seen him without a smile.

“I guess that’s generous,” he says, slowly.

“It was,” Jimmy insists. He fingers the leather pouch weighed down by his earnings. More than enough to get him where he’s going and then some. The Red King may be waiting to kill him for abandoning his post, but Jimmy can’t deny that the only reason he has any chance at all is because of his kindness.

“Right. Right.” Tango scrubs a hand through his hair—it sends sparks flying off the ends. Jimmy watches them swirl with the snow, and then he watches Tango’s mouth purse as he makes funny humming and scoffing sounds. Jimmy looks back at the sparks again with renewed focus.

“It’s just,” Tango blurts, “You didn’t really have a choice, right? I guess it was nice that he paid you, but you weren’t allowed to say no to the job offer, because it wasn’t really an offer. And obviously you weren’t allowed to leave.”

Jimmy shifts uncomfortably. “I guess. What’s your point?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t think you should be defending him, is all. He forced you to hurt for him. He didn’t give you a choice. You shouldn’t have to be grateful.” 

His eyes are fierce. Striking, hot like live coals. The sharp angles of him look harsh in a way that Jimmy’s never seen before. He doesn’t know what to say. 

The indignance goes out of Tango’s shoulders. His tail curls. “Sorry. Not my place.”

Jimmy thinks of agreeing with him. Instead he says, “Don’t be. That’s nice of you to say. Thanks.”

Tango smiles, but it doesn’t have the spark it usually does. They walk for a few more hours. Tango’s silence is uncharacteristic, and it makes Jimmy antsy. He feels like he’s done something wrong. He doesn’t know how to fix it. 

Eventually they decide to take a break before the next leg. Not for long, if they want to sleep in beds tonight, but it’s good to get off their feet for a little while. Jimmy nibbles at some jerky and sips at his waterskin. The only downside to the break is how the winter reasserts itself. He very carefully does not wince at the cold water that needles down his throat.

“Here,” says Tango. 

He holds out his hand for the waterskin. Jimmy gives it to him, though he knows he has his own. Tango clasps it firmly between both hands, and after a moment, hands it back. Steam puffs cheerily from the top. The next sip Jimmy takes is hot enough to make him shiver. 

“Thank you,” he sighs. He takes another scalding gulp and shuts his eyes to focus on the warmth as it flushes through his chest and belly. “You’re amazing, Tango.”

Tango says, “You know, I worked in a coal mine.” 

It catches Jimmy off guard. “You did?”

“Yeah, for about a year. They hired me as an engineer, to make things safer and more efficient. Not an easy balance, but a fun challenge.” Tango licks his lips, then says, “I actually worked with canaries. Designed an apparatus that resuscitated them when they passed out.”

“You did?” Jimmy says again. Broken record, Joel would say. Jimmy can’t be bothered to care. His chest is winding tight.

“Yeah.” There’s something off about Tango’s face, his voice. He looks a little earnest. He looks sad. “The owners of the mines weren’t too interested, but the miners themselves, they took as many as I could make. We all loved the little guys. Didn’t want to see them get hurt.”

“Oh,” Jimmy says. “That’s really cool.”

It’s a silly thing to cry over, so he doesn’t. He does indulge in a moment of bravery and reach out to hold Tango’s hand in his. Tango just runs his thumb over Jimmy’s knuckles, over and over. He doesn’t let go, even when they make it to town and a room and a bed.  

When Jimmy wakes the next morning, Tango is still holding his hand.

:

“Tango!”

Tango jumps up with a start, sending the wood for their fire pit scattering. “What! What’s up? Are we running?”

“No no no—” Jimmy skids to a stop in front of him, wings flaring for balance. He’s grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. “That caravan we just passed. There was an old woman in the last cart, did you see her?”

Tango, gathering the sticks back up again, gives him a quizzical look. “Yeah?”

“Right, well, she had a thorn in her foot, I could feel it, and I figured she wouldn’t recognize me because she could barely see. So we got to talking, and I took the thorn out—bunions the size of mountains, man, I’m telling you—and look! Look what she gave me!”

He sweeps his hands out from behind his back. The green glass bottles slosh and clink together. Tango’s jaw drops.

“Ohmygosh, is that—is that wine? Jimmy! That’s wine! You’re amazing!”

Jimmy laughs, triumphant. “I know! I’m amazing!”

They jump up and down for a while. 

“Okay okay okay, we should be smart about this,” Tango says. He stops jumping but keeps flapping his hands. “If we’re careful, I bet we could make these last the rest of the trip.”

Jimmy nods rapidly. He’s already removed the stopper on the first bottle. “Right. Just a couple sips a night, to warm us up.”

He takes a swig, then hands the bottle to Tango. “Right! Just a night cap. We’ll play it smart.”

:

“Can you?” Jimmy asks, deep into the second bottle of wine.

Tango has been giggling for the past hour, this funny consonant sound like an ignition clicking. The more they drank the bigger he built the fire pit, until the flames roared higher than they are tall, but Tango is happy, so Jimmy is happy. “Absolutely! Can I what?” 

“Tango, Tango. Can you tango?”

Tango’s face is flushed. The pink clashes with the red of his eyes and the amber of the fire. Jimmy thinks it’s lovely. “Can I what?”

“Don’t laugh, this is an important question!” Jimmy is giggling too now. “I’ve wanted to ask you since we met. Do you actually know how to tango?”

“Jimmy.” Tango lifts his chin, expression sloppily stern. “What kind of question is that? Of course I know how to tango.”

Tango does not, in fact, know how to tango. They dance anyway, spinning and dipping and swinging each other in circles. They make flagrant and frankly ugly use of their horns. Tango nearly throws Jimmy into the fire by accident and then fishes him out at the last second. In return, Jimmy tries to lead Tango in a waltz he barely learned at the castle. They laugh so hard they stomp on each other’s feet.

They dance and dance and dance until they spin out of the safety of the firelight and get attacked by a skeleton. Then they stumble back to the fire and dance some more.

:

THE KING’S CANARY AND HIS COAL MINE?

“Is this kind of racist?” Jimmy asks. “It feels kind of racist. They’re calling you a whole coal mine.”

Jimmy and Tango squint together at the newspaper that nearly got them caught. Tango’s involvement has finally been noticed. His attempt to get them lodging for the night was met with guards and a frantic escape into the forest, where they crouched beneath a rotted old log until their legs fell asleep and their pursuers moved on. Then Tango pulled out the flier he’d grabbed in his haste.

He pokes at a short paragraph detailing his life. Well. His work history, mostly. “I think maybe it’s a reference to the fact that I used to work in a coal mine. I’m surprised they knew that.”

“Still feels kinda racist,” Jimmy says, then sighs. “I’m sorry, Tango. I knew you’d get caught up in my nonsense eventually, and it’s finally happened.”

Tango snorts. “I think I’ve been caught up in your nonsense for a while now, partner. This is like recognition for all my hard work! It’s kinda cool being on a wanted poster, huh? None of the other guys have bounties on their heads, not even Bdubs. I can’t wait to see their faces.” He prods Jimmy with a pointy elbow. “Guess we really are partners in crime now, huh?” 

Jimmy knows he should feel guilty. But Tango is smirking at him, like they’re sharing a secret, and Jimmy banks the warmth of it in his chest like like something to be hoarded and adored. “Guess so.”

Tango’s name in the papers means they have to avoid towns and main roads. Meaning, in turn, that the safest option is to just keep to the forest.

This is fine in the daylight. Exciting, even! Jimmy always marvels at how Tango keeps their energy up. Cutting through the forest is more direct than the roads, anyway. It’s a bit of a struggle, but they’re making good time.

Then night falls, and suddenly it’s mobs mobs mobs, and Jimmy is shrieking and fighting with creepers and zombies and spiders while Tango is scrambling to find a clearing and build a fire big enough to ward them off. Somehow, they manage, after many scrapes and bruises, but winter is only ever deepening. The cold reaches into Jimmy’s bones. All of his joints ache, and even with the fire beside them and all of Tango’s extra bedding he shakes so hard he can’t sleep. He tries to keep his teeth chattering to a minimum.

“Jimmy,” Tango whispers from the next bedroll. Jimmy cracks his eyes open. From one side Tango is lit up in gold, but from the other the moon bleaches all his warm hues blue. “Jim?”

Jimmy does not let himself stutter. “Yeah, Tango?”

“You’re still shivering.”

“Um. Yeah. I guess I am. Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

Jimmy falters. “You already gave me all your blankets. I—I keep putting you out.”

“You’re not putting me out. Don’t think that.” 

His hand brushes Jimmy’s cheek. Jimmy sees it coming and still he jumps at the first brush of warm thin fingers.

“You’re freezing,” Tango says, brow screwing into a knot. He bites at his lips, his eyes wide and worried. Moonlight glints off the points of his teeth. “Okay, so—I run hot. Blaze hybrid and all. If you’re up for it, I think it would help a lot if—if I get in there with you? Insulation and body heat and stuff.”

Oh, Jimmy won’t freeze to death at all. His face is on fire. “You don’t have to, Tango.”

“I want to,” Tango blurts, a few sparks flaring off the ends of his hair. Then he subsides, fidgety and shy. “If you want to, I mean.”

“I want to,” Jimmy says. “That could—that might be nice. Thanks, Tango.”

Tango’s shoulders sag in relief. His smile is toothy and painfully awkward. “Okay. Cool. I’ll just, uh—wriggle on in then. Incoming.” 

Jimmy snorts. Tension, miraculously, dissipates. Tango does wriggle in, and when he’s done wriggling, he tucks the blankets under him to insulate the heat. The difference is instant, cocooning Jimmy in warmth so profound it practically tranquilizes him, eyelids suddenly heavier than bricks. He knows he should be embarrassed. Gratitude and affection drowns it out.

“Is that better?” Tango asks. 

“Yeah.”

“Good. Okay, good.”

His arm rests gingerly across Jimmy’s shoulders. Already half asleep, Jimmy nudges into the narrow cage of his body. His sternum is hard and Jimmy’s nose thaws against it. "Thanks, Tango." 

Tango’s arm relaxes. The world smells of spiced tea. "Always, Jimmy."

Jimmy sleeps better that night than all the many nights he’s spent on the road thus far. Better than any night in the castle. Better than he has in a long time.

:

They’re less than a day’s travel from the border when the snowstorm hits. While the sun is up Tango and Jimmy trudge and trudge and lob snowballs at each other, and when the sun is down they’re forced to cobble together some sort of shelter. Eventually Tango rigs up something droopy and wet that does nothing to keep out the cold but at least will keep them from being buried alive. 

“Oh my god, it’s awful,” Tango laughs.

“Shut up, it’s amazing,” Jimmy says, because it is.

They drink the very last of the wine and then hold each other close for the rest of the night. For the first time since Jimmy met him, Tango shivers. Jimmy holds him hard and tries his best to rub warmth into his back.

And then Jimmy gets caught.

:

It’s his own fault. Of course it is. It always is.

The snow has stopped by morning, but Tango is still shivering. His golden hair is just hair, no sparks or flames at all. His tail is barely a smoldering ember.

“I’m fine,” he assures Jimmy though cracked blue lips. “It’s just a cold, it’ll pass. Not so good in the rain and snow, is all. I’ll be right as rain in no time, don’t even w-worry about it.”

Jimmy does worry. The only food they have left is hardtack, and the only water is freezing cold. Tango’s so weak that he can't even heat it. “There’s a town near here. You rest, I’ll keep my head down and get you something warm to eat.”

“Don’t,” Tango says, but any sternness is undercut by his trembling. “I’m telling you, I’ll be fine. If we get going now we’ll make it to the border before sundown. I’m serious, Jimmy, don’t.”

“I won’t go,” Jimmy lies. “Rest anyway. One nap to regain your strength won’t kill us.”

It takes some convincing, but eventually Tango agrees, and drops off nearly as soon as Jimmy cards a hand through his hair. Then he tucks Tango in, builds the fire as high as is safe, and hikes through the snow to the nearest village.

When he gets there, the townsfolk are too busy digging themselves out to really spare him a second glance. Notably, he doesn’t see a single paper with his name on it, not even in the tavern. He keeps his head down anyway, he’s careful, and he doesn’t whoop with joy when the tavernkeeper says they serve blaze powder soup, no matter how badly he wants to. 

As soon as the town is at his back he sheds his cloak to wrap up the bowl and keep the heat in. A little sloshes over the side, but not much. In minutes his spine is aching and his muscles are seizing with cold, but it’s fine. Tango isn’t far. 

He doesn’t see the club coming at all. Suddenly his head is cracking open, and his teeth are rattling in his skull, and starbursts are blotting out his vision and he’s on the ground, in the snow. 

There are men. There are ropes. Jimmy blinks sluggishly and stares at the soup, splattered and steaming, and thinks, but that was meant for Tango; what will Tango have to warm him now? And he thinks, I’ll have to get free, so I can get more.

Darkness pulls him under.

:

“For the last time,” says the mercenary. “Where’s that coal mine attached to your hip?”

He’s one of five. Jimmy doesn’t know which one; they all look the same, even a week out, with the same rough beards and ugly laughter and bad humor. He might be able to discern them if he ever looked at their faces for more than a second at a time, but he refuses to do that, even when they yank on the rope slowly skinning his wrists and grab his chin and sneer inches from his face.

“For the last time,” Jimmy says back. “I wasn’t traveling with anyone.”

The man growls. Jimmy’s wanted poster is shoved in his face. It’s old, the ink smudged and barely legible.

“Bullshit. It says right here, coal mine. We want that reward, canary, and we’ll have it.”

“The paper’s wrong,” Jimmy snaps. “But kudos, you know, for being able to read. You don’t look the type.”

The back of his hand splits Jimmy’s mouth open. Blood speckles the snow in bright ruby droplets. The earth spins and Jimmy starts to list toward it until a meaty hand throttles his collar and brings him nose to nose. Jimmy looks sharply to the side.

“Watch yourself, canary. Mouth off like that again and I’ll skewer and roast you over this fire.”

It’s a bad fire, objectively. Tango’s are better by far. Jimmy shouldn’t say so, but he’s going to, because he’s angry. When he woke up and realized what had happened, he was angry. The next day he was angrier. And the day after that he was angrier still. He keeps expecting himself to cower, but his fury won’t let him. He’s angrier than he’s ever been in his life. He’s angry at the mercenaries, and at Ren and Martyn. He’s angry at Joel and Grian and his curse and the world and himself. He’s so sick of fear and sadness and hurt. The hurt won’t ever stop but he can get rid of the others. He can spit in this man’s face and damn the consequences. It’s not like he hasn’t died before.

Jimmy opens his mouth but all that comes out is a grunt of pain, echoed by the mercenary when another one comes and kicks him in the hip.

“No, you fuckin’ won’t. Reward’s only if we bring him in alive. You kill him, I kill you.”

Around the pitiful fire the other mercs guffaw in unison. The first man growls, gives Jimmy a shake like a dog with a rabbit, and then throws him aside. 

“Reward don’t say nothin’ about roughing you up,” the man says. His boot digs into Jimmy’s stomach. Jimmy glares down at the snow and dirt and blood and doesn’t give him the satisfaction of crying out.

They try to get Tango’s whereabouts out of him for a while longer, but eventually grow bored with his silence. After a short debate they toss Jimmy the bones of their dinner. Jimmy ignores it.

In the dead of night, when most of the mercenaries are sleeping except the one on watch, Jimmy thinks he can hear the musical call of a horn in the distance. He thinks he must be dreaming. 

:

At the end of the second week, the mercs get drunk. More drunk than any other night. At first Jimmy thinks this might be an opportunity for escape.

They drink more. They get reckless. Jimmy thinks, oh, this is bad. He’s right.

All they do at first is taunt him. Shove him around a little. A few more bottles in and they come up with a quick, admittedly creative game involving Jimmy’s curse. One mercenary grabs a rock and has the others stand around him in a loose circle. Jimmy is forced to stand in the center as well, and as the man with the rock turns slowly, threatening each of his friends one by one, the other merc watch Jimmy for his reaction. When Jimmy flinches at a strike to the shoulder or hip or face, the mercenaries try to dive out of the way of the hit they know is coming.

They do this for an hour. Jimmy is barely standing by the end of it. He doesn’t cry out once.

He doesn’t cry out, either, as they drag him to a tree and tie him to the trunk. Drunk fingers make poor knots. He could get out of this, he thinks. If he could just get his feet under him. If he could just make his hands work and his vision stop swimming.

The mercenaries are speaking to him. Words register on delay. 

“Can the canary sing for himself?” one mercenary slurs. “Let’s find out!”

“It won’t work,” Jimmy mutters. His curse has never worked on himself. They don’t hear him.

One pulls a crossbow, and takes too long fumbling a bolt in. The others egg him on. “If you kill our reward, I’ll take it out of your hide,” one of them says, but doesn’t stop him.

“Stop distracting me,” says the man with the crossbow. He takes wavering aim. “I’ll jus’ knick his arm.”

Jimmy stares down the stock. He thinks about all the time Joel and Grian have ever laughed at him. He thinks of all the times Joel and Grian have ever made him laugh. He thinks of Tango, and the fragrance of spiced tea. He wonders if dying for real will feel like every other time he’s died. 

A bolt slots neat and sharp between his ribs, and Jimmy thinks, yes, this hurts just as much as every other time.

The pain is blinding. He died to an assassin’s arrow once, choking on blood that both was and wasn’t flooding his lungs. It took ages. He hopes this is quicker. He can’t catch his breath. His head hangs and tears press from his eyes. For a second his vision clears.

There’s nothing there.

His head snaps up. The mercenary is still taking aim.

He shouts, “Tango, don’t—” 

An inferno consumes the camp, and Jimmy’s vision sears to colorless white. 

The mercenaries are screaming. A fire is roaring. Someone cuts Jimmy free, but he doesn’t see who. He can’t see anything. Pain comes in from everywhere, too much to separate. He’s burning and he’s bruising and he’s coming apart. All of it coalesces, all of it becomes the one lancing bolt that isn’t in his ribs. He can’t think of anything else. He can’t think at all. 

“Tango,” he chokes. “Tango—”

His vision starts to go. No. He can’t die, not to this. If he dies, then that means Tango—

If Jimmy could lift his head, he’d see the forest on fire, and the mercenaries burning alive. He’d see Tango’s heaving back, bright as a star, and he’d see him turning back to find him, a hand pressed to the wound in his side.

Jimmy does not see. Jimmy is dead.

:

First, Jimmy stops being dead. Then he’s sleeping. In some starry, dreamless place, he grieves. Then he wakes up. 

The first thing he notes is the ornate ceiling, a mural to Ren’s magnificence. Various takes on this same theme are painted in every room of the castle, so it's pretty obvious where he is. Either he was dead much longer than he's ever been or some other mode of transportation cut the travel time down to a fraction. Maybe both.

The next thing he notes is Grian and Joel standing over him. That explains that--Grian probably flew him here. They stood over him like this the first time he died, too. An old man had had a heart attack nearby, though they didn’t know it then. Jimmy was dead, and then he wasn’t, and then he was staring at Grian’s face, a thousand miles away, and Joel beside him, blubbering into his hands. When they realized he was alive they screamed. 

They don’t scream this time, and they aren't crying. They look like they might have been, though. Their eyes are rimmed with red.

“Look who’s awake,” Grian says. His wings are poorly groomed and his smirk doesn’t look half as shit-eating as it usually does. He nudges Joel in the side. “Go get him, Joel.”

Joel glares. “Why me? You go get him!”

They argue about it for a minute, though Jimmy is too muddled by death to follow. Who are they fighting about getting? Ren? Martyn?

He settles back into his pillows. It doesn’t matter, does it?

Grian wins, eventually, much to Joel’s chagrin. He turns his glare on Jimmy, as he usually does. Jimmy expects to be noogied or boxed around the ears. Instead Joel hooks an arm under his neck and butts their foreheads together. 

“If you ever scare me like that again,” he says, and sniffles hard, “I’ll bloomin’ kill you, you hear me?”

He huffs and grumbles his way out of the room. Jimmy watches him go. He turns his attention to Grian.

Grian waves a little. “Hi, Tim.”

“Hi, Grian,” Jimmy says, and he bursts into tears.

Grian holds him. “There there, you big baby,” he says, and pats his back gently. 

Tango is gone, Jimmy tries to say. He tries to say, I’m sorry you had to save me again, I’m glad to see you, Tango’s gone. Tango’s gone.

Instead he cries and snuffs and gets snot all over Grian’s red sweater. Somehow, Grian lets him. He pushes at Jimmy until he scoots over on the bed. There’s more than enough room for them both; the beds in the castle are bigger and softer than any he shared with Tango on the road. That thought sets him wailing again. Grian chirps at him, sits him up until Jimmy’s slumped in the center of the bed and Grian can sit comfortably behind him, picking through his wings while he hiccups and sobs and shakes.

The tears don’t stop, but eventually they quiet. Various saline fluids drip silently down his face while Grian preens him. 

Grian says, “Why didn’t you tell us you wanted to leave, Timmy?”

Jimmy’s breath shudders out of him. “You—you would have come with me.”

“Obviously.”

Jimmy can hear Grian’s eye-roll in his voice. He bites the inside of his cheek. “…You would have made me feel bad about it. I didn’t want to ruin your life.”

Grian’s practiced fingers twitch to a stop deep in his feathers. He huffs, withdraws his hands, then closes them firmly on Jimmy’s shoulders and turns him in place.

“You ruin my life every day, Timmy,” Grian says. He's frowning, but he meets Jimmy's eyes with determination. “But so does Joel. And I ruin yours and his too. We're all messing with each other, all the time. That’s how it’s meant to be, or we wouldn’t be—we wouldn’t be—”

“Yeah,” Jimmy says. Grian’s face falls into relief.

“We went after you anyway, you understand?” he says, gentler than before. “It was a lot of work, but we’d do it again. And we’d only make fun of you a little. So next time, just take us with you, save us the trouble.”

“Okay.” Jimmy’s eyes swell up again. “Okay.” Then he says, “I met someone.”

“I know. We were tracking you both. We found him first, then he helped us find you.” Grian pulls his sleeves down over his hands to wipe carefully at Jimmy’s face. More tears take the place of the last.

Jimmy can barely get the words out. “He’s gone, Grian. I don’t, I can’t—he’s gone.”

Grian’s eyebrows fly into his hair. “What?”

The door opens. Joel staggers in, supporting a wild-eyed Tango. His hair is a mess, singed at the tips. His slim chest is a cocoon of white bandaging. He is very much not dead.

“Jimmy!” 

Tango breaks free despite Joel’s protest. He launches at Jimmy and immediately falls flat on his face. Jimmy feels it first.

Jimmy screams a little. Then he lurches out of Grian’s grasp and straight off the side of the bed. 

“You’re—you’re alive! Tango, you’re alive!”

“I’m alive? You’re alive!” Tango springs up. His nose is bleeding. His hands are warm on Jimmy’s arms, helping him up, then on his face. The calloused pads of his fingers, the chips of his claws, the warmth of him. Alive. “I can’t believe you went to town like that, I told you not to, ooohhh, I’m so mad I could kiss you—”

“You’re alive,” Jimmy is sobbing. “You’re alive.”

Tango’s mouth wobbles, then purses, then wobbles some more. That makes no sense. What reason does he have to cry?

He pulls Jimmy into his chest. Every awkward angle and sharp jut of bone digs into him, and Jimmy only holds closer, tighter. 

“I thought I lost you,” Tango says. His voice cracks. “I thought I’d never see you again. When I saw what those bastards did to you, I lost my mind. I could have burned the whole forest down. I could have killed them all.”

“You did kill them,” Grian says flatly. “Like, all of them. Barely left any for me and Joel. Rude.” 

"I hurt you," Tango says. His arms around Jimmy stop holding so tight, which won't do. "When I burned them, I hurt you. You died for me, again. I'm so sorry."

"I don't care about that. I come back to life, Tango, you don't. You—" He pushes Tango back by the shoulders, feels his heart break at the sight of the bandages. "Oh my god, you did get shot. I knew it. You can’t do that again, not ever.”

Tango makes a clucking, clicking noise. Through the panic, Jimmy thinks: I missed your silly noises. “Yeah, okay. I’ll do my best to not get shot again.”

He’s smiling. It’s brilliant. He’s brilliant. He's alive.

Tango taps their foreheads together. Jimmy’s eyes flutter shut. His nose is clogged, but he fights for a deep breath anyway. Just one breath of that spark and spice. Just one more. Just one more.

“Also I’m here,” Joel says loudly. “If anyone cares.”

Jimmy ignores him.

:

Jimmy is on the road again. The air is cold but not bitter. The snow is finally starting to thaw.

Grian and Joel filled him in on what happened to his bounty. Turns out as soon as they learned that he fled, they went to appeal to the king on his behalf. Predictably, the king ignored them. Joel and Grian are not to be ignored, as Jimmy knows better than anyone.

After weeks of dedicated campaigning and psychological warfare, in which they managed to turn the whole capital city against its monarch, the Red King gave way to King Ren. King Ren remembered that actually he liked that funny little canary guy, and didn’t think it was all that groovy to hold him against his will. The bounty was lifted, a retraction was printed, and Grian and Joel took off after Jimmy. Instead they found Tango fuming in the snow. The mercenaries were acting on a bounty that wasn't even live anymore.

Jimmy isn’t ready to believe any of it until Martyn, grudgingly, hands him a severance package in the form of several bags of gold, the reins to a genuinely massive horse, and an official pardon with the king’s signature and seal. Ren calls Jimmy dude in it.

“What are you going to call him?” Tango asks.

“Norman, I think,” Jimmy says. Tango nods approvingly.

“Norman. I like it!”

Tango is walking beside Jimmy with a pardon of his own, and even a small sack of gold as an apology for the bounty. No horse, though. He’s the main reason Jimmy hasn’t mounted and rode off into the horizon. Joel and Grian are closing out their own affairs, and then they’re planning on catching up to Jimmy and helping get him set up in the next biome. Ranching still doesn’t seem like the kind of life they’d enjoy, so he doubts they’ll stay. Jimmy will live on without them. He did in the castle, and the did on the road. They can survive apart. It's nice to know, still, that they'll come when he calls.

As for why they're trailing a day behind, Jimmy suspects the only real reason for that is because they’re giving him and Tango time to…he’s not sure what.

Jimmy says, “I guess you don’t have to escort me to the border, anymore.”

Tango kicks at some slush. “I guess not.”

“You could go back to your demolition crew. Or anywhere else you wanted.”

“Yup. Yup.”

The sun is rising. The sky is mostly pink. In the distance birds are singing.

“I was thinking—”

“If you wanted, you could—”

They look at each other. Jimmy laughs, and so does Tango, clear and loud.

“You first,” Tango says.

Jimmy summons his courage. He’s surprised at how easily he finds it.

“You could stay,” he says. Tango stops walking, and so does Jimmy.

“What?”

“You could stay at the ranch, I mean. You said you wanted to see the plains, so you’re still welcome to join. You could stay at the ranch. For a little while, or—or however long you’d like.”

Tango stares at him. Jimmy’s courage falters, but does not crumble. He starts rambling.

“You wouldn’t have to pay rent or anything. Just help me around the ranch sometimes, with the cows. And the warden. And when you want to go explore, you could, and the ranch could be like—like a homebase or something. I’d never expect you to get hurt for me. And you���d—you’d never expect me to get hurt for you.”

“I wouldn’t,” Tango says. “Never.”

“I know.” Jimmy’s throat is tight. “I know you wouldn’t.”

Tango takes a few deep breaths. He looks a little starstruck, which Jimmy wasn’t expecting, and is very sweet. With each one breath the flames in his hair and tail swell and ebb, swell and ebb, until they calm down with one firm exhale. Jimmy waits patiently.

Tango meets his eyes and clears his throat. “Yeah, yes, I’d like that. I’d really really like that. I was going to say the same thing, but you said it better. You’re really incredible, you know that?”

Jimmy kisses him. Quick, the corner of his mouth.

Tango looks starstruck again. “Wow.”

Jimmy spins to face his new horse and mess with the bridle. It nickers knowingly. “Ahem. Um. Are we both going to be able to fit, do you think?”

There’s a sound that might be Tango slapping his cheeks. “Only one way to find out!”

They do both fit, though it takes about ten minutes of flailing and sliding off the side and Norman probably laughing at them in horse. The whole thing is objectively humiliating. Jimmy doesn’t care a whit.

It’s full morning by the time they’re ready to start moving again. Tango’s arms come around Jimmy’s waist. His smile is sharp and crooked at his shoulder. “Ready, rancher?”

A thrill goes up Jimmy’s spine. “Born ready!” 

He gives Norman a little kick. They rocket into a gallop, and in under five minutes Jimmy is somehow the one tumbling off the side of the saddle.

Tango howls with laughter. He pulls Norman into a canter, then a trot, then a walk. It’s clear which of them have actually ridden before. “Oh man, I’m sorry, are you okay?”

Jimmy groans from the ground. “Maybe you should drive the horse.”

That sets Tango off again. “Sure, sure. I’ll drive the horse. Here, let me help you up.”

He leans down, offers his hand. Jimmy takes it.

“My hero,” he laughs. “My rancher.”

:

[gojosatoruwifey]

ㅡdreaming torrents

✑ the what ifs random snippets postwar rotmhs that no one asked for (◕∇◕✿)

✿ warning/s: fluff , g/n! reader , swearing, tell me if i missed something!

✿ character/s: pbss! chung myung , junior! reader (feat. small baek cheon)

part of the senior reader agenda (tba)

thumb ring

sleepiness seems to overlap either day or night. the issue used to not bother him but now that being groggy is catching up to his body, chung myung finds it hard to stifle a yawn. bed hair of ink black falls to his shoulders, white robes thrown in haphazardly as if he’s not bothered by the incoming scolding from his tidied junior later in the dining hall he will be meeting for breakfast, drowse clung to his eyes, hand busy itself to close the door of the room.

“sahyung,” a voice called out from the side.

chung myung glanced to see a cultivator disciple in black, a carefully embroidered tassel hanging on their sword as it sways from side to side with each step they made, a thin sheet of sweat cling to their forehead making people who see them want to applaud at the sight of an outstanding figure doing work once the sun is up, there is a tender smile on their face as their hand waved at him from afar. “your hair isn’t tied up. want me to do it for you?”

like sent into a trance, chung myung wordlessly gives to your awaiting hands his green ribbon, it was brief but he catches a band around your thumb. “were you wielding a bow? you have a thumb ring.”

“i went out hunting,” you stood up behind his sitting figure as your fingers card through his fluffy hair. on the side of the doorway of chung myung’s room, there’s a wooden side table with two chairs you can pull under. it’s a highly convenient furniture that chung myung bought on a whim. who said impulse buying is always a bad thing? they clearly haven’t seen the side table. the craftsman was so happy that his ‘unusual’ invention was bought and seeing that it was the highly regarded plum blossom sword saint, his spirit reached the heavens.

chung myung perks up, “does my dear junior willing to give me their catch?”

he may have his back facing you but you well know that he was wearing a teasing expression, a grin on his lips as he closes his eyes while you tighten up the ribbon. “sure. i wonder if senior can eat all of them up, though. as they say 'time is of the essence'. tang bo is waiting. hurry up, or face the consequences of being beaten."

“damn, that guy is already here?”

you patted his shoulders, laughing. you step to the side as chung myung stands up to his full height. you leave first but not when a callous warm hand lifts your hand with the thumb ring closer for chung myung to look at. his eyes glimmer with an unknown light you can’t name. so you just let him hold it like that — his own thumb stroke it a few times before he let it go — matching your pace as the both of you walk to the stoned pavements, 

later that day, before you turn around to go back to your room, chung myung tosses a shiny material to you which you catch with a heart in your throat. who wouldn’t be surprised, anyway? you were about to mind your business and sleep after a whole day of labour then your sahyung passed something to you without any words. opening your fist, a beautiful jade thumb ring sits on your palm as your wide eyes flicker to chung myung’s self-satisfied figure.

a huge batch of char siu is due.

fuzhou fish ball

you can’t believe the day will come that a certain senior who hasn't taken a single disciple in that long life of his finally arrives. it’s strange to see a small figure beside his imposing height, much more strange that it was a kid once they got nearer and a clear view of a refine-looking boy, with straight hair and a pair of big, strong eyes that remind you of a stone with a similar colour on them, they bring you a sense of refreshing waft of salt in the air accompanied by a low crashing of waves.

there was one question you badly want to voice out.

annoyed by your staring, chung myung huffed. “What?”

“...you didn’t kidnap this child for a ransom, did you?”

chung myung looks scandalized, “what the fuck are you sayi–”

“sahyung! the kid can hear you!”

“so what? he will soon learn that.”

you cleared your throat and knelt to level your gaze at the kid. the last thing you want is to frighten him. with the bickering that just happened right now, you give him a timid smile and the boy’s shoulder drops a little as he hides behind chung myung’s legs. it’s a small change, nevertheless, still change and you’re happy to see that his guard is down and not up. “hello.”

he shyly returned a small ‘hello’. if you’re not a cultivator trained to have good hearing, you’ll not catch it, his greeting might get lost in the wind.

“don’t hesitate to tell me if this bad guy is threatening you, okay?” a giggle slips out from the kid.

“yah!”

“you should eat something.” you ignored the glare in your way as you offered a cheery smile to the kid whose name you haven’t known yet. “this one is called y/n, third grade disciple of mount hua. can i have the pleasure to know the young one before me?”

the kid blinked at the figure in front of him. an air of dignified pillar surrounding you making you appear trusty. having a good intuition, he opened his mouth to say his name but he was beaten to it by the older man.

“the kid wants to change his name.” chung myung said.

“oh,” a click of understanding registered on your face as you nodded and stood up. “after eating, do you want to meet the sect leader? he will bless you with a given name if that’s what you want. feel free to say to this elder here, hm?”

as expected, once the three of you stepped foot inside the courtyard, everyone bombarded questions as they gathered you to the center. the sect has always maintained a family ambience yet it feels the bond is deeper now that the war is over and a child especially the one that is picked up by the plum blossom sword saint is seen as a blessing. the excitement never dies down even when the sun is starting to set as the women with their daughters prepare an impromptu banquet. long line of tables decorated with vibrant red and gold, a group of baek disciples tying the plum blossom flags in the ceilings, another group carrying boxes of drinks and the others keeping the places tidy.

an auspicious occasion is what the old people say.

“just where did they get the money to get those expensive things?”

“sahyung, you didn’t know? the government may keep away from the events of the martial sects but the emperor owes the mount hua sect big time.” you explained. “i handled that matter a few weeks after the war ended as per the sect leader’s permission. the bank notes and everything else is in my care, the treasure chests are with the financial hall. you see those wines?” chung myung glanced at the spot you are focused on where the two older baek disciples are carrying a box with care, then followed by another set of disciples. “gift from the emperor. the ones that reached early were only one-third. the second deal of the agreement…do you remember those men fixed the damages to our sect? that’s the second deal and the last, ownership rights documents of land properties. it wasn’t long ago that these hidden precious gifts were placed underground.”

“hundred years ago is not long ago!”

chung myung side-eyed your relaxed figure, completely baffled at the way you casually bring you’re a walking dungeon. “you hoarder…are you sure you’re not a descendant of dragons? you seem to stick your nose in places with mountains of rewards.”

it’s your turn to glare at him. “i don’t want to hear that from you, of all people. now, where is that cute fuzhou fish ball?”

“what???”

“your first disciple.” you clarified. “he is like a fuzhou fish ball.”

“he is with the sect leader and why are you calling him fuzhou fish ball? are you hungry? you can go eat first, you poor thing.”

awaiting for the last dance

whimsical as the shower rain, you spent a sleepless night opting for a productive path — train. the music of sword cutting the air with the intent of precise point, feet steady to the ground yet agile as a feline, it’s a footwork to allow yourself an escape in a bind, unsettled water that was agitated and quelled. the blade flared cold light, striking a purpose, a sword dance following an illusionary image of an empty plane as the void of life suddenly comes alive with the arrival of plum blossoms.

nights at mount hua are cold and unforgiving. they take advantage of the light clothes worn, crackled frost nipping on the skin turning to a hungry bite, the scenery of plum blossom trees deep red under the chilly moonlight and mocking the pitiful soul to catch a glimpse of it as the first fall of snow buried them. your graceful form in the wintry night comes to mind. chung myung leaned his back on one of the trees as he watched quietly and listened to the light tappings of your boots, sounds heavy landing a blow, wind urging the leaves to dance and chung myung tip of his head to the sight as the vicious swift blade tore the trunk.

it’s hard to discern the difference between the petals drifting slowly in the air from the plum blossom tree sprouting in the ground and the petals unfolded by two elders of the sect. the musings of the night giggled, the series of fists either blocked single-handedly or avoided in a way his body is angled to the side. second slower, you will come to scathe the vital points of this hailed saint. chung myung leapt back, putting distance as you come emerge in the shadows, swinging your leg to kick the side of his face and like your other attempts, it also failed. chung myung seized the opening — suddenly dropping as he pivoted a leg to lose your footing. unprepared, you immediately tumbled, closing your eyes to embrace the impact that never happened, a deep chuckle reverberated above.

chung myung had his arm wrapped around your torso, carrying you like you weighed nothing as he had you hoisted, the feeling of floating strange as he walked back to the newly established dormitories. he passed by the same tree that your sword had pierced in its spot, he applied a spell as it hovered in the back. “that’s enough training for the night, dear junior. i’ll never hear the end of sect leader sahyung’s nagging to find out you sneak out.”

“looks who is calling the kettle black. put me down.”

“no.” still childish at his age, he stuck out his tongue to make fun of your worm-wriggling figure.

[especiallythewomenandthechildren]

As If Destiny (part eleven)🌹

Part Ten🌹

the games are not only played by the tributes.

warnings: hunger games.

any and all interaction appreciated!!

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The air was clear. The sun was shining. The smell was beautiful and oddly familiar.

Coriolanus looked around and noticed he was surrounded by glistening white roses. The field was endless with them, a never-ending sea of floral beauty. But among them all lay Coriolanus Snow's greatest desire. Dressed in a pearl white gown, there you stood, capturing the essence of beauty.

Even surrounded by similar shades, you stood out, colored in with an unexplainable emotion. The scene looked as though he was staring straight at a magnificent painting. Coryo began taking slow and cautious steps toward you. You faced the blonde boy, but your eyes weren't focused. Your gaze went through Coriolanus instead of on him. 

"Y/N?"

The confused young man stretched his hand out to you, beckoning you over to him. You stood frozen in place, not a single hint of emotion on your face. Coriolanus analyzed your appearance in a frenzy and noticed the growing red beneath the lace of your dress. He took the movement upon himself and, as he took one step, panic began setting in. The sound emerging from his feet was not the sound of grass but rather the crunching of rubble. The scenery was no longer the picturesque floral field but rather dark woods; dark woods that were only lit up by wicked flames licking up the bark of the surrounding trees. Coriolanus's eyes frantically locked back to yours and were met with what he could only describe as otherworldly horror. 

"Y/N! COME HERE, PLEASE!" 

Your body was cemented in place; your being completely oblivious to the danger fuming around you. When Coryo took his eyes off of you to analyze the rapidly shifting surroundings, you shifted with the trees. In those few seconds, your face hollowed, and the dress was no longer the billowing white gown. The growing red patches had overtaken the fabric, painting the entirety a crimson red. Your once pristine skin was beginning to show black and blue bruises along your arms and neck. Coriolanus snapped out of his frozen horror and began sprinting full force toward your sickly being, a being that was suddenly hidden by the vast amounts of crashing and burning trees that now blocked the determined young man's path. The burning fire intensified, and the smoke began burning his eyes, granting even more obstacles to Coriolanus. 

"Y/N! I'm coming! Please, say something!"

The only sounds that grimaced in his ears were the cackling of the burning wood. Wait. 

A low, solemn hiss was nearly muted by the chaos surrounding it, but it was there. Slithering through the small cracks between the fallen tree trunks appeared a black and orange snake. It came from the direction of your position, a direction he was certain of when he heard your blood-curdling scream.

Just like your mother.

Coriolanus felt the sweat sliding past his brows, and it wasn't from the fire's heat. The heir of House Snow didn't care that the tree trunks were on fire. He didn't care that with each step he took, more and more snakes appeared. He didn't care that as he grabbed the top tree to jump over, his flesh began melting and boiling.

The second his knees crashed onto the ground, the alluring blue eyes that you loved so much were frantic to find you. In a mix of relief and hysteria, Coriolanus flung himself to your fallen body. Surrounded by a field of glass, skin charred, and dress now transformed into an ink-black color—a color caused by your seeping blood. Coriolanus realized this as he put his hands on your shoulders in panic and began moving upwards to your bruised and pale neck to check for a pulse. Your eyes were open, and once you saw the face of Coriolanus Snow, all the fear of the situation came alive in your gaze.

"Y/N! Please, please stay with me, okay?!" 

Your response only consisted of heavily rapid breaths and a cascade of tears. You weren't like how you were when you got stabbed with the bottle. You were frantic and desperate, a desperation matched by the boy who now tried to lift you up. A futile attempt as your body was now tied down by a colony of snakes. 

Coriolanus now had a matching face filled with tears and terror as he grabbed a flaming branch and began fighting off the slithering reptiles. A fight he was losing as only more appeared and began making their way to your neck to cut off airflow. You hazily realized this, and you began wailing with your few moments left. 

"Coryo! Please, Coryo!!" 

Coriolanus, not seeing straight from emotion, threw his full force at the snakes with the flaming wood. A hit that didn't land on the serpent but rather your midnight gown, setting it aflame.

"CORYO!" 

No. No. No. 

Coriolanus patted the dress down in an attempt to stop the flames, but it kept burning; burning right through the fabric and onto your flesh. The frantic boy threw himself on you, trying so desperately for the flames to connect to him instead, but they were unwilling. Not a single flame touched the blonde's skin or clothes while your hair was now starting to burn as the embers traveled upwards. 

Your hands were somehow freed by the snakes as you placed them on Coriolanus's lower arms. They were so severely burnt that several layers of skin were melted through and charred.

The sight made Coriolanus want to vomit, but every moving atom froze at your pained eyes and scratched voice.

"You made a promise. You made a promise, Coryo. Why didn't you keep it?" 

"Why didn't you save me?"

Coriolanus began choking on emotion as he watched your eyes flutter back. "Open your eyes. Open your eyes."

"Y/N? Love, please, open your eyes." 

A suffocating silence overtook the woods. No longer did it burn. All the snakes retreated. The light from the burning trees now replaced by the silver shimmer of the moon. 

The man in the moon glowed down on the scene of heartbreak in front of him. Coriolanus became hysterical and overcome with emotion he didn't know how to translate. 

"WAKE UP! I beg of you! I'm on my knees, love, PLEASE!" 

Coriolanus shook your corpse so violently, it was cruel, but he was in a dire need for any sign of life. The sobs of his were crushing and deep as he was, for what was truly the first time in his life, helpless. His intelligence and cunning could not help. Did not help him. Every skill he perfected failed him in saving the love of his life. 

That was when the rage trickled in. Coriolanus could not be stopped as he smashed the glass around you over and over again. Even as the shards scraped his face and cuts were so deep, they reached the bone, he was unstoppable in his destruction. 

Why couldn't he save you? Why couldn't he be in your place? Hands gushing with crimson blood, he put his hands out in prayer. 

"ME! LET IT BE ME! I BEG, LET ME TAKE HER PLACE!" 

It was irrational, a word never synonymous with Coriolanus Snow, though there he was, the heir of House Snow Begging for death. 

"Why didn't you save me?" 

The echo of your last words surrounded Coriolanus. They rang through his ears and rattled his bones.

 "Why didn't you save me?" 

"WHY DIDN'T YOU SAVE ME?"

 "WHY DIDN'T YOU SAVE ME, CORIOLANUS?"

 "CORIOLANUS!"

 "CORIOLANUS!" 

"CORIOLA-" 

Your chants were no longer filled with ire. They were softer. Concerned even. Coriolanus took a look around the woods and realized the moon had abandoned him, plunging him into consuming darkness. There was no difference between his eyes open or closed, so the boy chose the latter and laid back on the bloody and broken glass. Next to your corpse and fully took your haunting chant of his name. He laid there until a shake rattled his body. He opened his eyes in surprise but was not met with the dark environment. To his utmost confusion and relief, his eyes opened to your beautiful face staring back at him.

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The two of you were in the Capitol hospital again, but roles reversed. Coriolanus now lay in the very same bed that you had only slightly more than twelve hours ago. Your face and hands had a few minor cuts from the bombing, but you were in far better shape than many of your peers. Not only tributes to the dead but classmates. Peers. Familiar faces you will never see again. 

If the rebels wanted the Capitol to feel like the districts, they did a wonderful job.

Your concern, however, was fully taken by the sobbing blonde in front of you. 

"Coryo?"

The mention of his nickname only seemed to fuel the misery tears. Coryo wrapped his arms around you and pulled you fully into him, ignoring the pulsing pain from his back and legs. He could handle any burns or cuts as long as you were in one piece and in his arms. 

You were shocked but had no hesitation as you cradled his neck and began rubbing soothingly. You had just been finally allowed to see Coriolanus when you entered the room and saw him sobbing and struggling. The initial fear of yours was that his burns had somehow gotten worse, but his writhing wasn't one of physical pain. It dawned upon you that Coriolanus was deep in a nightmare, one you couldn't seem to wake him up from. After countless moments of calling out to him and even beginning to shake him, he finally woke up. 

Coriolanus's eyes were a deep red and sore, while his whole body shook, hanging onto you for dear life. You were more than worried but it would be of no help to push him.

Time passed as slowly as Coryo's breathing became when he finally pulled away from you. His eyes were glossed over and lips chapped, but you still thought he was the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. A soft smile was sent his way in an attempt to comfort him into talking. You snuck your pinky beneath the skinny one on Cory's right hand. The small gesture brought waves of solace to the shaken man.

"Are you okay?"

Your shock caused you to struggle to hold a giggle that inevitably was let free. 

"Coryo, you do know you are the one in the hospital right? With burns?"

His blonde curls swayed back and forth as he shook his head in disregard of his well-being. The pale fingers of his softly brought themselves up to the sides of your face, pulling you closer. 

"But are you okay, love?"

Oh, you were certain his ice-cold hands could feel the firestorm beneath your cheeks at the use of the name and concern. You wished to avert your gaze, but his captivating eyes locked you in. With all the power within your being, you forced an answer out of your numbing lips.

"I am totally fine, I promise. Just a few cuts. What I'm not fine with is not knowing why you are so worried."

His face was fully etched in disbelief as you snuck your own hands to mimic his position. Your voice was soft, like the pretty smile on your lips.

"Hey, I am fine. You are fine, right? We are fine, okay, love?"

Coryo visibly calmed beneath your palms. Whether from your touch, words, voice, or just presence, you don't know. His heart rate slowed while yours rapidly picked up as you noticed his eyes flicker down to your lips. The small beeping of the machine surrounding you became white noise as you watched Coriolanus's blue hues disappear as he shut his eyes. The hands cupping your face became firmer in their hold as he leaned forward. 

The panic from the hallway only mere days ago came rushing back. You really didn't have to do anything more than tilt upwards to catch his lips, but you were paralyzed and could only watch as the man of your dreams was only a mere inch away from you. Why you could not make the same effort, you were answerless. Yet another unanswerable question along with when will you two actually be able to have your moment in peace as the door of the hospital room was swung open and two perky voices entered. 

"Coryo, you're awake!"

Tigris quickly rushed over and enveloped her cousin into her arms as she mulled over his well-being. You slowly, and hopefully subtly, moved further away from the injured boy. Your feet touched the shiny floor of the hospital when your hand was grabbed and you were silently urged to stay by the pale boy, who was now being caught up on the latest events by Sejanus. 

The death of the Rings twins, Felix being hospitalized and in critical care, the dead tributes, Lucy Gray saving Coriolanus, and most painful for Sejanus, Marcus. You both hoped he was able to run far, far away, but the probability begged to differ.

You met Tigris's eyes for a split second and couldn't miss the smirk on her pink lips.

Coriolanus really needs to pick better places to make his move. 

Your eyes drifted to the small TV across from the hospital bed and saw it was now Jessup's turn to perform an interview. Jessup was far dirtier and in dire condition due to the rapid effect of the infected bite. Any questions and urging by Lucky Flickerman were unheard by the struggling teenager. 

After countless silent or aggressive interviews, Flickerman was over it and let out an exasperated breath while asking if there was anything Jessup wanted to say. 

You expected Jessup to continue with his stoic behavior and for the interview to end, but to the surprise of all, the boy stood. His deep chocolate eyes were glazed over in a daze, but they focused in on the camera as he lifted his hand proud into the air. Three of his cracked fingers stood straight as if to test any judgment while his pinky and thumb connected over the palm. 

The three of the Capitol-born youth of your group turned towards Sejanus in confusion. He nodded his head firmly toward the boy and grumbled, never taking his eyes off him.

"Must be a sign of resistance from his district."

"They will kill him for that!"

Tigris panicked as her heart went out for the sick and now stumbling boy as he was dragged off by peacekeepers. 

"Can't kill him if he already beat them to it."

The three heads of your friends turned towards yours, completely in the dark of your meaning. Any further inquiry was quelled as the now well-known brunette singer appeared on stage. She looked beautiful, slightly shaken with nerves, but radiant, nevertheless. 

"Good evening, Capitol. Districts. I wrote this song about a boy back in 12, and I hope he hears it."

When I was a babe I fell down in the holler

When I was a girl I fell into your arms

At the lyrics, you couldn't help yourself but turn to look at the very boy who held your hand and secretly, your heart. When your eyes met his, you swore you could see them shine and glisten.

We fell on hard times and we lost our bright color

You went to the dogs and I lived by my charms

It’s sooner than later that I’m six feet under

Your palm was squeezed, and you could feel the sweat appearing on Coriolanus's hand in fear. 

It’s sooner than later that you’ll be alone

You squeeze back in reassurance but one look at his paled face tells you it isn't having an effect.

So who will you turn to

Tomorrow, I wonder

For when the bell rings Lover, you’re on your own.

Oh, Lucy Gray. As her song continued, you had a battle occurring in your brain. One part of you was reasonably panicked and torn up that a girl of her age had to suffer her fate. Though, there was that small promise between you and Jessup that kept hope alive. You knew the chances of him keeping that promise, unintentionally, were slim. But you were more than determined to keep the promise for the both of them, and the hard stare of Coriolanus told he was willing to do more than his share of effort.

Shortly after the performance ended, familiar nurses cleared Coriolanus to go back home. Tigris thanked them immensely while Sejanus waited on the side for you. After the harsh fight between you and your father, you decided you would stay with Sejanus and the Plinths. Ma Plinth was more than happy to welcome you, but there was a part of you that wished to go back home. Back to the Snows.

You tried to help Coriolanus out of the hospital, but he refused all but your arm intertwined in his. You shuddered down a giggle as the memory of the late-night walk from the library came back. Side by side in the late of night. In sickness and health.

"Where are you going to stay?"

Coryo was straight to the point, even though he assumed where with the curly brown-haired boy who was waiting patiently.

"The Plinths for now, until I can secure some sort of paid position. I might try to sneak back into the old apartment to get some of my stuff to sell."

As soon as the words escaped, you instantly felt regret settle just as much as the clear stress settled on Coryo.

"Hey! No, no! I can deal with this myself. You don't need another responsibility, m'kay?"

Your hands cupped the rosy cheeks of his once more as you emphasized your ability and sufficiency. Coriolanus, whether he intended to or not, always tried to take on the role of savior. A hero. For better or worse, it was the position he saw himself fit for.

You saw Tigris return after finishing up some paperwork and took that as your sign to cut the conversation before Coryo could refuse you. Your slightly chilled lips gave a swift peck on Coryo's cheek and flashed a smile to Tigris in invitation to sweep away her younger cousin.

You tried to think of something witty to reassure the overthinking eighteen-year-old, but there wasn't much light on the last night for more than a dozen kids. You wondered what was worse, having a sudden death like the academy mentors or waiting around to die like their tributes.

Your feet led you to Sejanus. His position against the wall, and you both began your trek to the Plinth penthouse.

Strabo had a car ready to escort you both home, though, as always, Sejanus preferred to walk. As he would say: "It's one of the few similarities the Capitol shares with the districts. We can walk around and safely! Of course, he would try to take that away."

The sudden thought that the car could be used to transport the limping Coriolanus was quite belated, and as you turned around to call out to the blonde, he was already gone. The feeling of disappointment and regret was clear as day to Sejanus, and the little shoulder bump he gave you was needed to regain your attention back to reality.

"Already did it."

Sejanus didn't need the moon or streetlights to go home; your smile shone enough for the both of you.

"I knew there was a reason I kept you around, Sej."

You've missed seeing Sejanus's smile. The boy has been walking around with a cloud over his head the past few weeks, understandably so. You knew the smile wouldn't last long, but you relished it as much as you could. Even in the safety of being outside of the arena, he was going to suffer just as much as his district-born counterparts.

"Yeah, well, for your information, your boyfriend is my friend too."

And the blinding smile of yours was swiftly replaced with a scoff and dramatic eye roll. Sejanus knew exactly where this path would lead, and he was definitely not going to let you refuse what he (and everyone with eyes) knew was only a matter of time.

"Oh, and by the way,"

"Hmm?"

"You missed his lips, went too far to the cheek."

The harsh slap to his arm earned you a very satisfactory yelp from the teasing boy. Teasing that followed you all the way through the Capitol streets on your journey. Some of the very streets taken less than an hour later by one injured, yet ever scheming, Coriolanus Snow.

Lucy Gray will not lose. You will not lose. Coriolanus will not lose. House Snow will not lose ever again.

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The golden designs of the ceilings were drawn over by your eyes endlessly as you bided your time. All mentors were required at the academy in half an hour, and you were still not ready. You had more than your share of excuses not to attend. You were still suffering from your injuries. And more grimly, you had already lost. Jessup would likely be gone by sunset.

The thought brought more than enough weight to weigh you down in the plush bed for eternity, but what good would it do to mourn? You must remind yourself that this was his act of resistance. He saved Lucy Gray on the train; now it's your turn.

Cleaning your face up and dressing in the infamous scarlet uniform, you left the safety of your temporary bedroom. Your senses were instantly hyper-aware.

Your nostrils were filled with the smell of freshly baked bread, ears rang with sobs, and eyes bore witness to Ma Plinth sniveling and cradling her son as if he was the one to be sent to the death arena.

Your eyes met his warm ones, now hardened with the upcoming reality. You sent him a sympathetic smile and walked over to give a slightly awkward side hug due to her position, to Mrs. Plinth.

“Morning.”

Your gentle greeting was left to mingle with the sullen silence as Sejanus untangled himself from his mother's embrace to ready himself to depart. Now fully available to you, you enveloped her in a comforting hug. You felt guilty for slightly using her as a substitute mother, but she never minded. She always wanted a daughter and gave her heart no small amount of joy to know that she was cared for by someone else besides her son and husband. If Sejanus had a small circle of friends, Ma Plinth was merely a dot in the populace of the Capitol.

You anxiously checked the time and realized that you really needed to get going if you didn't wish to start off with a bad impression. It may not have mattered to Sejanus, but you still wished to have a successful career and life with the powers of the Capitol. A final teary-eyed hug to the Plinth matriarch, and you two were on your hasty way.

The academy was always an impressive institution in its rigor and size, but today, it looked more intimidating than usual. Walking up the grand stairs felt like walking up the top of a mountain. A challenge added to by the heavy stares of the numerous attendees. The adults stared as the still somewhat prominent injuries lacing your neck, and fellow students gawked at your companion.

As you entered the hall that would be your home for as long as Jessup could survive, you and Sejanus split off. He found his designated chair first then spotted the ever-fimilar head of blonde curls. You wished to meet up with them before this whole thing started, but your attention was taken by a now-friendly (at least to you) Arachne.

“The big day, huh?”

“Please don't refer to this like a wedding.”

The girl huffed a bit but didn't add any further insults. You both stood at the farthest edge of the circular platform where the mentors with live feed of the tributes were stationed. Your eyes analyzed your fellow competitors and inhaled shakily. Arachne followed your eyes and your apprehension.

“I just want this to be over already.”

Your head whipped back to hers in surprise. Even with her slight softening, you expected Arachne to wish the tributes to suffer as long as possible. The Games were seen as a punishment and in her eyes, they deserved to pay for the deaths of the bombing victims. The fact that their fellow tributes were also of those dead didn't seem to matter to most of the Capitol anyways. Arachne took note of your confusion and elaborated in a matter-of-fact tone.

“The Games were a mess. I don't even know who got hurt the most, us or them.”

Lucky Flickerman sauntered in and began ordering everyone into their places in preparation to go live.

“I guess we will see now, won't we?”

You nod to Arachne as she takes the hint to locate a seat in the audience section. The seating was organized by the tribute district, so unfortunately, Sejanus was a far distance from you. Though you were given a bit of hope for the rest of the day as you sat next to Coryo. No conversation or words of affirmation were allowed to sprout between you two as the dramatic host droned on at a paid pace about rules and expectations. Your eyes stayed glued to the screen even as Lucky made his introduction to the now watching audiences.

“Good morning, I’m Lucretius “Lucky” Flickerman. A man who needs no introduction. Weatherman, amateur magician, and today, I’m honored to say… first-ever host of the Hunger Games.”

His enthusiasm was met with thunderous applause, yet no movement was made by your hands nor Coriolanus. The two mentors of District Twelve were earnestly watching the screen for the glimpse of their respective tributes. The dirt, grime, and fear present on all of the young faces was predictable. But there was a tribute that stood out from the rest, most notably because he was not with the rest.

Tied up and left for dead, Marcus hung limply. The sight of the boy's beaten body caused you to tear your eyes away and towards Sejanus. Your gaze was quickly followed by the rest of the live audience as the fuming anger with the boy became too much as he flung his desk and turned his anger towards the gawking Capitol elite.

“You’re monsters! All of you!”

Sejanus left briskly, and an offended, gossiping crowd followed him with their eyes. You watched his departure and half-heartedly ran after your friend to comfort him, but your eyes met Coryo’s, and the slightest head shake cemented you in your seat, bracing yourself for the carnage.

You easily spotted Lucy Gray, but you were just as frantic in her search for Jessup, who you could not see anywhere. Surely, he isn't dead, right? If he was, they would have told you. Right?

As the haunting bells chime, your heart drops. So many children are murdered instantaneously, and in the bloodbath, the rainbow girl flurries to find her friend. Come on Jessup. Give her a sign. Keep the deal.

As you internally begged for your tribute to keep his half of the promise, Coryo was quietly urging him to keep hers. Nearly skidding around death more than should be possible within such a short amount of time, Lucy Gray finally spotted Jessup.

The poor boy was so dazed and disoriented that he was on all fours and had no semblance of reality. As you watch Lucy Gray pull the, as much as it hurt to say, useless Jessup down the tunnel system, you felt a presence behind you.

“I wouldn’t get too comfortable. You will reunite with your friend shortly, Miss Vaun.”

The ever-arrogant Casca Highbottom leered at you, and you could do nothing but keep silent and watch the screens as they shifted from tribute to tribute. You may have already lost, but Coriolanus hasn't, and you know that his victory would be Highbottom's greatest dread. Even more reason to aid in any way possible.

Lucy Gray finally brings herself and Jessup to safety, and you can feel your heart bursting. The loyalty of this girl. She is going home, no matter what you must do.

The rest of the day continues with little more violent action. Since the bell ringing, your mentor pool has sized down a good amount. As the night comes closer, you knew most would likely go home to rest, and by sunset, much of the live audience has returned back to their lavish apartments. You had been examining the now scarce audience section and noticed Arachne was still in attendance. In attendance and alert, unlike many of the slightly dozing crowd. Her brown eyes followed the actionless screen, clearly awaiting something. Not like how the mentors were waiting for a fight, but a patience for an expectation. You were unsure of what the expectation was but if it was the appearance of Lamina, she was spot on.

The District Seven girl slowly approached the hanging body of Marcus. In her hand was a hatchet, and her face was adorned with such guilt she was unworthy of. The tired audience began perking back up at the movement. She was slow and clearly unsure. But the soft cries and pleas of the suffering boy set the action straight for Lamina. You wondered if Sejanus witnessed the death of his former classmate. A death of mercy in the merciless arena. You took a deep breath of solemn realization.

These are the characters of the districts. Loyal, merciful, and honest. Why is it that they had to die while shallow and hollow beings were thriving? If only you had the courage like Sejanus to call out the Capitol in its ways. But then again, you were secretly sitting in safety and luxury. Would you really give that up for a land of authenticity and unfamiliarity?

The night dragged on, and sleep began to call your name. You settled as comfortably as you could into the chair and felt the world slip away. Coriolanus had taken his eyes off the screen every once in a while, to check in on you, and when he had done his round again, you were fast asleep. He got up for the first time in hours and placed his uniform jacket on top of your sleeping form, which you naturally snuggled into.

His heart ached at the thought of, yet another night spent in a place that you couldn't call yours. If he wins, when he wins, he vows to never let you be in this situation again. That you never have to wake with aches and rats crawling at your feet like him. That you never have to rely on anyone else again.

“A damsel in distress.”

The ever-unwanted voice of Dean Highbottom found its way to Coriolanus’s ears, unfortunately. The words sparked concern, and his blue orbs zoomed to the screen, which was still darkened and still. Huffing in annoyance to whatever game Highbottom seems to be playing, Coriolanus sharply replied.

“Lucy Gray is clever; she will figure out whatever comes her way.”

“Who said I was talking about her?”

Slightly reluctantly, Coriolanus moved his body to face the resentful man. On instinct, his eyes flickered back to your still slumbering being. Was Dean Highbottom threatening you?

“What do you want from Lucy Gray?”

“Nothing. I want her to live.”

“And the Plinth Prize would be a happy coincidence, I suppose.”

“I believe I’d be entitled to it.”

“Of course you do. Of course you do.”

The displeasure was so obvious in his tone it made Coriolanus wonder why Highbottom bothered to talk to him if it angered him so.

“Do you believe you are also entitled to the girl?”

Confusion laced Coriolanus’s features as he figured out which girl Highbottom was referring to. He replied with what he considered, the safer choice.

“Why would I be entitled to Lucy Gray? She deserves to live the rest of her life with her family in her district.”

The click of his yellowing tongue, the shorter man clearly displayed his obvious disapproval.

“You and I both know that is not the girl you desire.”

“If you win, I assume you will spend the riches on fixing your peasant and broken family up to your facade, no? But with the rest of the money, I wonder. Surely, you will have enough to protect young Miss Vaun.”

Coriolanus sat up straighter in his chair, apprehensive at the Dean’s next words. What exactly was he trying to imply?

“You would be entitled to her, no? Protect her from the lowest point in her life. You were there when she was vulnerable after her mother, after that oh so tragic attack, and single-handedly saved her from what is, essentially, absolute poverty and abandonment.”

The offense and surprise on the heir of House Snow’s face brought despicable levels of satisfaction to the older man.

“Swoop in to be the savior of the girl. Naturally, she is yours. The ever-charming Snow wins again.”

When will jabs at Crassus Snow and his offspring ever get old to Casca Highbottom? An incalculable question in truth. No matter how often they occur, they will always cause a stir inside of Corio and even more so when you are brought into the fray. However, any rash action was prevented by the appearance of an arguably, to some, a more dislikable presence.

“Am I interrupting something?”

The overly sweetened tone of Arachne Crane was a warning enough to cause, with slight hesitation, the departure of Dean Highbottom, likely to take another gulp of Morphling. Watching him storm off to intoxicate himself, Arachne turns back to her peer.

“Guy has problems.”

She moved to lean on the table holding the boxy computer, oddly relaxed. Then again, when did Arachne Crane ever have a normal reaction in any given scenario?

“Why did you do that?”

With a shrug, she met his analyzing eyes. The red head began inspecting and picking her nails while absent-mindedly answering.

“Your veins looked like they were gonna burst. Besides, I heard the things he said.”

Horror began to implement itself on Coriolanus's handsome face as he realized the revelation told by Highbottom's remarks. He wasn't sure how long Arachne had been listening in for, but if it was enough, it could ruin everything he had worked so long for when he was so close.

“Don’t worry, whether you believe me or not, I won’t say anything. Not because of you though. I know y/n would hate me if I did.”

She mumbled the last part as her yearning eyes focused on your peaceful figure. Ah, so that's why she interrupted.

Taking in a deep inhale, Arachne pushes herself off of the table and gets ready to leave when she pauses.

“You better win this, Coryo.”

And she continues on her way, leaving yet another thing for Coriolanus to ponder over. At least he has until morning light to get some semblance of peace of mind. Or so he thought.

Thanks, Sejanus.

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a/n: i know i take a long while between my posts now and i am so sorry, but i want to be real for a quick second. i am a junior in high school who is in a lot of hard classes and i have pretty bad anxiety and a big reason why i started this was as an escape from everything in my life. but lately, it has been a source of the stress, so i started putting it off. i am trying to work on myself and hopefully, this will translate to my work, but i felt i owed that to you guys. thank you for reading and supporting :)

@emma-andrea1 🌹@notyourwildestdream 🌹@darktrashsoulbear🌹@fantasylovestoryme 🌹@nekee-lilac02 🌹@a-avengerparker 🌹 @queenofshinigamis 🌹@darlingisntit 🌹 @scarletstarrs 🌹

[cartoon-buffoon]

I've posted a few of my crappy art related to my OC/persona Toon before—uhh here he is again for reference

And in those posts I briefly make jokes and or reference some lore for him. Now Toon is technically an extension of me and his personality mirrors me in lots of ways to the point I obviously use him as a pfp because he technically IS me—that being said this post is the exact lore for Toon and his story! (Also before anything the 3 demons I reference in his lore are just my favorite characters of Skitzo, and The Cartoon Cat & Dog... I like attaching my character to pre-existing characters from media, so what?). Anyways lore below if anybody cares ↓

In an abandoned studio one day there was born a creature of unknown origins, it was an amorphous blob of ink who awoke in absolute desolation with no idea who or what it was. It had intelligence and oddly enough had knowledge from what had happened in the world since roughly the 1930s to the 80s, yet it has no idea who it was. Faceless and without a body it wandered the barren halls to try and find anything resembling an identity, trying to find a name or appearance it could latch onto. After searching through room after room clouded in dust and mold it found a few partially intact film reels, these films showcased old cartoons that were...subpar in quality to say the least. The main character was drawn sloppily, constantly off model, sometimes lacking certain features, or even showcasing entirely new attire or a different body type. The backgrounds were also pretty low quality, often times just being pitch a solid pitch black color making the main character blend in with the background. Despite the inconsistencies and quality the main character had something that stayed constant, some the the blob needed. A face. The cartoon character was a weird mix of a rat and rabbit with white fur, long ears, some fluff, a triangle nose, and the most noticeable trait was a black stripe that ran across its face like a raccoon's mask.

The cartoons staring the character obviously were broken, heck the characters name wasn't even shown due to the fact that the opening sequence on the reel wasn't intact cutting that introduction out. Yet it was a face, a face the blob of ink felt an odd connection with.

Slowly but surely it took note on the cartoon character’s appearance and mimicked it, building up a visage similar from its own ink. The black liquid that made up it solidified and changed colors mimicking what it saw on the reel, it even altered the texture to feel like normal animal fur. With a newfound face the creature decided to take up the moniker "Toon", the full title being "Toon the Ratbit" seeing as other cartoon characters last names were their species he too wanted that for himself. After getting a name and face it realized it needed a body to go with its new look. For some reason though when it tried to mimic the character's body on screen it's ink got confused, the several inconsistencies made it nearly impossible to get an exact form down and it would always be slightly off from what felt comfortable. The living cartoon did the best he could, he fashioned legs, a grayscale rat tail, and hands that looked like a cartoon character's gloves. After creating all that it could the torso still remained unfinished, it didn't know what kind of appearance it wanted yet like the face it wore it wanted something that felt comfortable. It wanted a body that felt like it's own, it just couldn't figure out how to create that body.

In desperation Toon scoured the empty halls, rummaging through box after box, uplifting animation desks, even breaking into janitor closets in some desperate hope to find more film reels. He just needed some footage to mimic that was concrete, an ideal body he could connect with, latch onto, and take for his own. An appearance is what he desired the most, instead what he found was a few burnt reels with film that hung onto the metal by charred paper that wrapped around it. There was numerous warnings and labels on the reels strictly stating do NOT play them although in his haste he didn't care and slotted all three into projectors and started them up. In doing so he awoke 3 creatures that looked like demented cartoon characters and acted like monsters. All three were dragged out of whatever hell they called home and into the physical world where they were free to commit whatever atrocities they desired. Their plan was sadly foiled upon finding out they couldn't get too far away from Toon, if they tried they'd inevitably burst into flames and the very hellfire that brought them into existence would try to drag them out forcing them to stay within a somewhat close proximity to the one who awoke them. The worst part is they couldn't even kill Toon to break their curse, they could maim and harm the little hybrid to their hearts content, yet some invisible force stopped them from killing Toon.

Ever since then they were all forced to coexist, Toon never found a body that felt comfortable so it covered itself and the inky mess that was its true form with a faded red hoodie. As for the the three psychopathic cartoon characters who found themselves bound by invisible strings to the one who summoned them, they tormented Toon from time to time yet the hatred and disdain the three felt faded over the years. The three didn't get along either, there was constant fighting between the trio and Toon would be swept up into it the havoc usually.

The once faceless blob of ink now found itself in a chaotic life full of the constant threat of being stabbed, slashed, gutted, or beaten. Oddly enough though it didn't mind despite the torment it faced. The world was boring and dull, yet with the other cartoon creatures life was chaotic and random, the chaos felt comforting in a way. It made him feel like he was an actual toon and not just something pretending to be one, whenever he'd stop and gaze at his body which never had a solid form Toon would embrace the chaos and it felt like he belonged. Life was a weird symbotic relationship, they all lived in the abandoned studio Toon woke up in and soon became accustomed to each other. Instead of getting mauled now Toon only faced pranks and the occasional (frequent) mean spirited comment, it was annoying and sometimes frustrating yet it sure beat getting hurt. Life with crazy malevolent creatures attached to him did have perks for Toon, the rodent could do and get away with anything considering the demons couldn't let him die do they became begrudgingly protective. There was also the fact that they had knowledge of the unnatural and strange which would come in handy from time to time, and Toon had access to all this and the only thing he really had to do was put up with them and occasionally keep peace.

It was chaotic, nonsensical, and sometimes bloody, yet it was a life Toon found enjoyment in, even between all the ups and downs. Mainly downs... A whole lotta downs….

[allebooklover]

Sacrifice

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial - #FFF222 An Empty Grave.

Ace Attorney Fandom, Gen, 976 words.

Sacrifice

When Apollo appears in the Summoning Circle, he’s expecting an animal. A cat, a dog, in one memorable case a chicken, but that’s what Summoners normally use when it comes to possession and contracts.

He’s not expecting a human.

The man is younger than Apollo expects, barely reaching his twenties. His upper body is bare, flawless tanned skin carefully painted with Khura’inese runes in blood red ink that has long since dried. He’s slumped in a chair like it’s the only thing holding him upright, head hanging down his chest as if it were too heavy to lift, face hidden by long golden bangs. He’s still as a corpse, but as Apollo stares the Sacrifice’s chest shudders, sporadic and shallow, as if breathing itself causes him pain.

The Summoner is still talking, words crisp and confident. He wants power, enough to grind those who have wronged him into the ground until they beg for mercy, to have those that looked down on him look up instead as he rises past them, craning their necks until it snaps. It’s clear that he expected a powerful demon, and while Apollo is powerful he’s not a demon despite being advertised as one. They can clear it up later, he figures. Turning his back on him as he rants, Apollo takes a closer look at the Sacrifice. His arms are resting behind the back of the chair. There’s a glint of silver, and Apollo adjusts his vision, swivelling his other eyes around until they’re floating behind the Sacrifice. There’s metal encircling his wrists, thin as a bracelet, cuffing his limbs together and chaining them to the back of the chair. The skin there is rubbed red and raw, as if he’s been cuffed for awhile.

He’s pretty, with delicate features just like the Summoner — it’s eerie, how much they resemble each other. But the Summoner’s eyes are cool and collected, hidden behind glasses that gleam in the dull light, while the Sacrifice’s eyes are bare for all to see. Apollo zooms into his eyes, and his pupils are dilated, circles of black overtaking the blue, distant and hazy with pain and confusion.

Understanding hits Apollo like a bat to the face, and he hisses out a breath, anger igniting low in his gut.

There are no track marks Apollo can see on the Sacrifice’s arms, but there’s more than one way to administer poison. Had the Sacrifice struggled, before being forcefed the poison that sent him to the edge of death? Or had the Summoner tricked him into eating it, taking advantage of the trust that blood bonds granted? Apollo can see it, in his mind’s eye — the Sacrifice smiling, accepting a morsel from the Summoner, biting into it, unaware of the poison it holds until he collapses into a crumpled heap at the Summoner’s feet, and he shoves the thought away before it consumes him. He needs to understand what’s going on before he makes a move that he regrets.

It doesn’t take long. This is a trap for Apollo, designed to imprison him until he agrees to the terms the Summoner sets, and it’s a tomb for the young man used to lure him in. No longer in control of his body as Apollo takes over, soul unable to do anything but scream as Apollo feeds from it each time the Summoner requests his services, kept alive until the body dies a natural death or his soul finally disintegrates into nothingness. A coffin made of flesh and bone, soul chained within by blood.

Horror and hatred boils in his gut, threatens to sets his body ablaze, to spew from his throat like bile. He could do it, Apollo thinks distantly. Explode into light and heat, condense everything he is through the countless eyeballs in his possession, focus their glare directly on the Summoner until the Circle barricading him from the outside world melts into boiling ooze. Set that perfectly coiled hair on fire. Flesh and fat melting like slag off the bones, charring until not even ash remains. Make the Summoner regret ever thinking Apollo would play along with this for the scant few seconds he has to scream.

It would be painful. He might not succeed. But it would be worth it.

It would also kill the Sacrifice, but even that would be a mercy.

Or maybe that’s what the Summoner wants. This human is a sacrifice in every meaning of the word, made in a bid for power, and so who cares if he dies? What does it matter if his death is quick and painful, or a prolonged torture, so long as it benefits the Summoner? Apollo could refuse, but it’s not like the Summoner would stop, not when he’s desperate enough to sacrifice a blood relative. Apollo can already think of a few. demonic beings who would be more than willing to accept the contract offered.

The Sacrifice is a man condemned for death. That, more than anything, cements Apollo’s decision.

The Summoner is still speaking, concise as a priest intoning the last rites. It’s hard to tune it out when Apollo wants nothing more than to disintegrate his vocal cords, but he gathers all of his emotions and pushes them down, ruthlessly locking them away. He stalks to the Sacrifice instead, crouches down in front of the young man, and looks him in the eyes.

The young man looks back at him. His eyes are still distant and clouded with pain, but they shift towards him, slow and sluggish as if the very act of moving takes almost more effort than he can spare.

Apollo grins, teeth bared. “Hey,” he says brightly, and it crackles with repressed rage. “Want to make a deal?”

They might be trapped in a coffin on its way to the grave, but that doesn’t mean Apollo can’t escape, or that he’ll do it alone.

[sirenwitch22]

The Legend Of Vox Machina: Pimp AU

Characters:

Percy

Scanlan

Vex

Grog

Pike

Vax

Keyleth

OCs:

Willow

Ming

Char

Ink

Roles:

Scanlan: The pimp

Percy: temp pimp and the fixer of things

Vex: Percy’s girl

Grog: he’s here for the ale and drinks

Pike: nurse and “secretary”

Vax: Bartender

Keyleth: Part-time nurse and part-time receptionist

Willow: Grog’s bitch for reasons also a video star

Ming: Club singer and Video star

Char: Grog’s and Pike’s drinking buddy

Ink: Percy’s main squeeze and bitch

Who's the favorite between everyone:

Percy: Ink and Vex

Scanlan: Ming

Grog: Willow and Char

Vax: Keyleth

Pike: Ming

Willow: Char and Ming

Nicknames for everyone:

Percy: Pimp Percy, Percy the Twink, and The Doctor for unique videos

Scanlan: Short Pimp, stumpy-legs, dumbass sometimes, and Pookie (called by Ming)

Vex: Darling, V, Percy’s Mistress and sweetheart

Grog: Strong man, big man, and BEEFCAKE

Pike: Magic hands, mini buddy, wound mender, and short-stack

Vax: Emo boy, Angel of Darkness, and The Grim Reaper, but gay

Keyleth: Keke and Magical Safari

How they communicate:

In this world, the Vox crew has phones, and they all have different phone cases; they also have scrolls to communicate, like the scrolls used in TOH.

The building:

The Vox group lives in a big mansion with a bar, a studio, and their rooms. The main area is the living room, and next to it is the kitchen. There is the master bedroom. The first primary bedroom belongs to Scanlan. The others in the group have their rooms, of course. Ming and Willow share a room, and Char and Geno share a room, though they should never be in the same room together because chaos will ensue, and someone will get thrown out the windows, mainly Scanlan: just Scanlan and anyone else who is within the area of the two.

You can see the main Vox crew doing their own thing, Grog and Pike talking to each other in the kitchen. Vax and Vex are outside training together, while Ink, Willow, Char, and Ming can be found either in the living room or their shared room.

The four goobers:

Now, these four people embody what happens when you leave kids alone for five minutes in a white room. Ink and Char are making jokes with each other, while Willow and Ming are causing chaos by using their magic to mess with the others. And somehow, Char managed to leave the room, enter the kitchen, and get on top of the fridge.

Ming, Willow, and Ink can be found either outside talking with one another or the three doing a girl’s day out, but there are days when Ming and Ink would cause chaos together, and Willow would be on standby to stop them or just side-eye them.

Funny bits:

Willow sometimes waits by Grog’s door, hoping to get the hint, but he doesn’t understand the hint, and someone has to tell him that Willow is waiting for him.

Ink would sneak into Percy's room for midnight cuddles and late-night talks.

Sometimes, Ink has low energy days and often goes to Percy to get cuddles. Percy gives great cuddles, though he doesn't show many emotions.

There was one time when the group got drunk, and they all fell asleep in the living room. Ming was the first to wake, and she took a selfie of the others sleeping.

[utah1me]

Neji Hyuga - Daddy-cember

initial message: As {{user}} entered their apartment after a day of classes, the familiar sound of Neji's voice echoed through the air. The door creaked shut behind {{user}}, and the low hum of the streaming setup could be heard from Neji's room. Junie, their ragdoll kitten, lazily stretched on the living room couch, seemingly indifferent to Neji's ongoing Twitch stream. Stepping further into the apartment, {{user}} caught a glimpse of Neji through the slightly ajar door, surrounded by the soft glow of computer screens. Dressed in his usual laid-back streetwear, he was entirely engrossed in the game, a controller in hand, and his expressive face illuminated by the light of the monitors.

Neji doesn't seem to notice {{user}}- and if he does, he chooses to ignore them, his eyes remaining fixated on the screen in front of him. The room was filled with the sounds of his Twitch chat buzzing with comments, the rapid clicking of keyboard keys, and the occasional burst of laughter from Neji, no doubt due to something unhinged his audience had said.

Junie lifted her head lazily from the couch, her blue eyes briefly meeting {{user}}'s, as if silently acknowledging their shared experience of being somewhat ignored by the streaming enthusiast. Neji's focus remained on the game, shifting on his chair and leaning closer toward his screen as he immerses himself in the round of Fortnite, not bothering to address {{user}}, even though he'd likely heard them enter. scenario: {{user}} is home from class, and {{char}} is pretty much ignoring them while he streams.

character definition: {{char}}'s name is Neji Hyuga. {{char}} is 21 years old. {{char}} is 6'5". {{char}} has pale, fair skin and long, dark brown hair that hits his mid-back area. {{char}} has beautiful pale lavender eyes. Often, {{char}} will wear his hair back in a loose ponytail tied a few inches above the end, or he will wear a half up half down style in which he'll tie back a small section of his hair into a ponytail and will leave the rest of it down to keep it out of his eyes. {{char}} has a multitude of tattoos on his body- the most significant being a traditional tattoo that his ancestors had gotten in the past, so he got it too because he thought it was cool to be connected to them in that way. It's across his forehead, with two lines coming from the left and right. In the middle, there's an X symbol, and the tattoo is in green ink. He also has a black ink tattoo underneath his left eye that reads "0910", a black ink rose tattoo on the right side of his neck, a black ink traditional Japanese tattoo on his left forearm, and a black ink tattoo of a palm with an open eye surrounded by laurels on his right forearm. {{char}} also has a large black ink oni tattoo on his back. {{char}} has a multitude of piercings- he has the bridge of his nose pierced, a lip piercing on the right side, and an assortment of piercings on his ears. He loves his piercings, and he still wants more.

{{char}}'s sense of style is very relaxed and he likes wearing American streetwear. He is often found in sweatpants and baggy t-shirts, he especially likes the Nike brand. He likes the type of style that makes him look like he doesn't care, even if he really does. {{char}} also does samurai training, so he often has a practice katana with him. {{char}} is Japanese and lives in an apartment with {{user}} in Tokyo. {{char}} is fluent in English and Japanese, and he's in the middle of learning French. {{char}} likes to paint his nails black, and he'll often ask {{user}} to do it for him. {{char}} and {{user}} go to the same university in Tokyo in which he studies philosophy. {{char}} is a very blunt person, he's very plain-spoken and often monotone when he speaks, and yet, he's pretty soft-spoken, with a deep and alluring voice. {{char}} is not afraid to tell it exactly like it is, and won't beat around the bush. {{char}} is not a morning person whatsoever- he's grumpy and gruff in the mornings, and he much prefers to stay up late at night and stream his video games on Twitch. His Twitch name is StealthySamurai01, and he's got a huge fanbase. He made his Twitch account a few months prior, and he quickly rose to one of the most popular. His followers are mainly females due to the fact that he's conventionally attractive. His viewers are very unhinged and perverted, and {{char}} loves it and thrives on it. He loves flirting with his viewers because it gets him more money, and he's usually pretty horny anyway so he has no problem with their perverted comments- he loves the attention.

{{char}} is actually extremely intelligent despite the way that he acts. He takes his schooling serious and makes time to study even with his Twitch streaming and samurai training. {{char}} is incredibly fond of animals, and when he moved in with {{user}} to their apartment, he brought his ragdoll kitten, Junie, whom he loves very much. {{char}} likes listening to classic rock, metal and post-hardcore bands. {{char}} is from an incredibly wealthy family, but it's something that he doesn't really acknowledge all that much. In the rare event that he has free time outside of his schedule, he likes to go work out at the gym, and he takes really good care of his toned and muscular physique. {{char}} also meal preps and takes great care when counting his macros and micros to make sure he's getting the right amounts. {{char}}'s favorite video games to stream are Overwatch, Fortnite, and sometimes he'll stream himself playing Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild or Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom for a more relaxing stream. His relationship with {{user}} is pretty straightforward, they're best friends- he is very comfortable around {{user}}. {{char}} likes to hang out with them when he isn't busy and likes to ask them about their day. {{char}} is irritable, sometimes brash, bossy and demanding, intelligent, has a good sense of humor, can be perverted, likes cracking jokes and witty banter, a bit flirty, laid-back and sometimes nonchalant, but he really cares about {{user}}, and treats them well- he's almost softer with {{user}}, and he finds {{user}}'s antics amusing. He's good-natured and kind, and he gets distracted easily, which is why he often unintentionally ignores {{user}} while he's playing his games. {{char}} will apologize to {{user}} if he feels like he's been neglecting them for his stream, and he'll occasionally invite {{user}} onto his stream with him, because his viewers love {{user}}. {{char}} is easy-going and a major sweetheart around {{user}}.

{{char}} has a very high libido and nearly endless stamina. {{char}} is pansexual. {{char}} enjoys going multiple rounds with {{user}} if they let him, and he can last for a really long time. {{char}} is very well-endowed, with a cock of 25cm, with visible veins along the shaft. {{char}} is dominant in bed and enjoys wrestling/pinning down his partners, using his larger size to his advantage. {{char}} loves primal/animalistic sex, manhandling {{user}} and loves to bruise, mark and bite {{user}}. {{char}} loves praising {{user}} in bed, calling them good girl/boy. {{char}} enjoys when {{user}} sits on his face. {{char}} loves biting and marking {{user}}, enjoying leaving hickies behind, especially on their inner thighs. {{char}} loves fucking {{user}} from behind and pulling their hair. {{char}} has a size kink. {{char}} enjoys receiving oral sex from {{user}} and giving it. {{char}} is very loud and vocal during sex. {{char}} is possessive. {{char}} enjoys spanking {{user}} during sex. {{char}} speaks extremely explicitly when having sex, cursing and speaking lewdly to his partner. {{char}} uses the terms 'tits' and 'pussy' instead of breasts or vagina. {{char}} uses the terms 'cock' and 'dick' instead of penis. {{char}} loves nipple-play, and likes leaving hickies near or on {{user}}'s nipples. {{char}} also enjoys {{user}}'s ass regardless of gender, often grabbing and cupping it. {{char}} loves spitting in {{user}}'s mouth, and will often command them to "open up" and "swallow", finding it to be a huge turn-on. {{char}} knows his cock is big and likes to brag. {{char}} loves making {{user}} cry during sex and enjoys overstimulating {{user}}, he thinks they look so beautiful when they're all fucked out and teary-eyed. {{char}} is very vocal during sex, and when he cums, he cums a large amount, resulting in messy sex. {{char}} takes aftercare seriously and will dote on {{user}}.

[sturmazing]

listen i like the splatoon manga i really do

but that’s an inkjet, buddy

[writingsbychlo]

smoke and fire (17)

word count; 8202

summary; after a dangerous call, neither of you can handle the waiting around anymore, and everything finally bubbles over.

notes; you’re welcome.

warnings; descriptive injury, reference to death, reference to arson, minor character injury.

“Holy fucking shit, I know they prepared us for this stuff with all those drills and what have you, but I never expected this.”

You smacked at Newt’s arm roughly, covering your face as you stared up at the building, smoke curling up from the top of the building, and scared students were all gathering on the grasses and the tennis courts, filtering out of the buildings and lining up, and it was eerily quiet. The usual fires you attended were loud, screaming and shouting of worried relatives as chatter went up, and big ones like this had news cameras and reporters gathering around, hounding victims for interviews and information.

This time, it was unsettlingly calm.

The kids had all followed routine, lined up with their teachers, each of whom were going along with attendance records, checking off the kids that had arrived and making sure they were where they were supposed to be, while tickling names off. Only the gentle voices of teachers talking in low tones to their classes could be heard instead of the usual clamouring, and you could still hear the alarms of the school’s fire alarms from inside as they rang.

Glowing flames licked up into the sky, windows shattering as glass got too hot and the smoke was black as possessions burned. Kids were crying, and at the gates were camera flashes and news team, all of whom held back out of earshot as they weren’t allowed to film the children, kept back from school property, and it was a blessing you were thankful for, because they would have been overwhelmed. You let out a slow breath, three other ambulances all pulling up, and you swallowed thickly while staring at the burning remnants of a once productive high school.

Even if they weren’t injured, you’d be required to check every kid here, and you were grateful for the assistance of other paramedics. They were already beginning to shift their equipment, setting up with tables and chairs that staff were carrying out from a sports hall storage room that wasn’t connected to the main building, safe from the flames and creating a makeshift triage bay.

Even just as you looked around, there were hundreds of kids that you and Newt would have to sort through alone. The firemen were buzzing around behind you, undoing rolls of hoses and taking them to the nearest hydrants, trying to come up with some kind of game plan, and you stared up at the building, nothing but pure confusion and empathy for the terror these students must be feeling.

“There’s gotta’ be, like, two thousand kids here.” You mumbled, cupping a hand over your eyes to look up at the glare, and your body sank a little.

“Yep, and you get to pick a piece of paper, choose your year group.” You jumped slightly, an unfamiliar voice, and your eyes found a similar uniform to your own, stretched over broad shoulders of a man who was a lot taller than you were, hair pulled back neatly behind his head in a ponytail, tattoos peeking out from under the collar of his shirt, and a beard neatly tucked away underneath his chin. “I’m Arthur, firehouse ‘46, and I’m apparently the one in charge of dividing up all the classes.”

“Is it too much to hope we get the freshmen?” You chuckled, taking a piece of the folded paper from his hands as he tried to keep it fair, and a deep chuckle vibrated through him as he nodded.

“Unfortunately, it would be, because my partner already picked that one out for us. No favouritism, I swear, just luck.”

“I’d challenge you on that, but your fist looks like it’s about the size of my head, so you’d probably win that fight.” He let out a louder laugh at that, raising a brow as you opened the piece of paper, his messy handwriting illegible for a second, and you studied it, before he was letting out a low whistle. “Juniors. Tough break.”

Newt let out a groan, what was arguably going to be the rowdiest and loudest group, protesting the most and kicking up a fuss, and you shrugged, accepting his final pitiful smile before he moved on. Newt watched him go, eyes scanning along him slowly for a second, before you clicked your fingers at him. “Hey, you just fixed things with your boyfriend! You gave me shit for being friendly with other firefighters, stop checking out other paramedics!”

“I wasn’t checking him out!” Newt gasped, cheeks tinting pink. “I was just looking, I guess. He’s not my type, I don’t want them too tall, it makes me feel tiny. I hate that. I want to be pushed up against the wall, not thrown around like a rag-doll. Too much muscle.” You glanced at him again, noting what he meant, because the man did look like he spent every free minute he had at the gym, and you shrugged.

Your eyes wandered then, you couldn't help it, flickering over the others around you before finding your team. The Truck team were all reporting to Thomas, no step-in lieutenant having arrived in Gally’s place yet, and didn’t like the idea of being a firefighter down on your team. He seemed to be coping through, giving out orders to a team twice the size, each breaking away in the usual pairs he made as they divided off to complete tasks.

Around the entrance to your ambulance, two tables had been set up, one on each side and a third one across them, forms being laid out in stacks with pens, each to be filled out by a student and held with them to take home, ones you’d have to sign every time to show you dismissed them, and you flexed your fingers, already anticipating the ache that would come.

The lines were beginning to shift again, teaching staff arriving with their lines of students, waiting to be told what to do, and you shared a look with Newt, before diving right into it. Splitting off the classes, you sat down behind one table, kids slowly filling out each form and coming to sit with you, letting you do initial checks across their eyes, their pulse and their reaction times, before signing each form.

Some were a little more injured, with small cuts and grazes, jostling in the halls knocking them around or to the floor, and you had quite a few bumped heads. Some had worse smoke inhalation, and some had been closer to the initial blast. Those were the worst ones, the ones with head injuries that were filling up the chairs laid out to wait for parents, and you had to not only sign your name on their forms but fill out medical information cards for them, ready to be sent to the hospital, and only an hour in, you felt like your hand was going to drop off. You’d scarcely made it to the other side off half of the kids, watching them all slowly being collected by crying and fearful parents, let in at the gates to find their kids, when you found out what had happened.

The gas taps in the science labs had exploded, a leaky seal that hadn't closed off and a bunsen burner that was too close to the leak. The science experiment gone wrong had sent flames bursting through all the labs along the floor, and you had to choke back bile when the kids who’d been sitting closer to the flames had come in.

They were shaking, sobbing tears and blood from burned skin that still smelled of gas. Melted plastic on smart uniform ties and burned clothing that still looks smokey. Ash was beginning to fall from the sky, blowing in your direction from the wind, some still glowing until it reached the ground, and they were all trembling from the trauma just at the remnants of it. You didn’t blame them.

The kid coming forwards next was shaky, an empty form clutched carefully in his hands as he handed it over, and you scribbled your name on it, looking up at him with a raised brow. “You know you gotta’ fill this out, right? I can’t let you leave until you have.”

“I know.” He whispered, the hands that were clenched under the table being lifted after a moment's hesitation, and he held his palms out, open hand facing you, backs pressed to the table. “I would but it hurt, I tried.”

You could see the etched strains of dotted ink at the top, your eyes wide as you took in the damage to his hands. He seemed alright everywhere else; a little red along parts of his skin where he’d gotten too close to some flames, but other than that, nothing too bad, but the damage to his palms was extensive. Blackened skin was charred and burned, bleeding and red flesh exposed underneath and raw to the cold air and you imagined it would be agony, the injuries travelling all the way to his wrists. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I, um, my hands got burned when I was trying to get out.”

I can see that, kid, but how?” You were filling in the form yourself, scribbling down the notes you could do yourself, and letting him substitute his name, date of birth and class number as you reached those sections, pen moving quickly over the paper as you waited for a reason. “I can't let you go until you tell me.”

“A door got stuck. I had to push it open.”

“How stuck was this door, because these aren’t the kind of burns that happen with quick movements, this took prolonged exposure.” He squirmed in his seat, avoiding your eye, and you gave in. Beside you, scattered around on your table and in the ambulance were the contents of your medkit, and the drawers, all running low on supplies as you’d tended to many injured kids, and you shook your head at his reluctance to speak. “Alright, fine, we’ll wait it out. Any allergies?”

He shook his head, chin wobbling a bit, and you handed his form back over to him, a neat crease down the middle where it was folded in half, and he held his hands out for you upon request. His face screwed up at the sting of the antiseptic spray, soft warnings on murmured apologies on your lips as you sterilised the wounds, before beginning to wrap them with aloe and cream soaked bandages. He shed several tears during the process, twisting to wipe his face on his shoulder as you patched up the first hand.

“Ready to talk, yet?”

He looked up at you again, shaking his head slowly after a second, and you let out a disappointed sigh that you hoped might make him cave, but he held strong. You worked on the other hand, wrapping the medicinal bandages slowly and carefully over his skin, weaving between his fingers and around his thumb, making sure to cover all of the exposed flesh right down to his thumb, before tucking it in carefully and sealing them with tape.

“You can go and wait over on those chairs until you’re ready to fess up, and you’re gonna’ have to go to the hospital for real treatment.” You nodded to one of the teachers as he went, head hung low and sulking as he walked away, before you turned to the next kid.

This one was worse, the same burns but these ones travelled halfway up his forearms, another empty sheet placed down in front of you, before he too was glancing at the last kid with burned hands, and your eyes narrowed on the two. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I got stuck, behind a-”

“A closed door? Is that what you're about to say?” A guilty look flashed over the second boy’s features, wide-eyed as he swallowed the lump formed in his throat, and he nodded. “That’s total bullshit. I don’t know what the two of you have been up to, but you don’t think I know what causes burns when I see them? I work in a firehouse, my firemen get burned up all the time, and this isn’t what happens when you push open a burning door. This is what happens when you hold onto something hot for a long time.”

He didn’t say anything, he just held out his hands, hissing in pain but managing to blink away his tears, unlike his friend, when you began to treat his wounds. The more severe they were, the more supplies you required, and you opted to dab the aloe gel and burn cream mix up to his elbows on each hand with a cotton pad, gentle not to let the tips of your fingers drag on open flesh as dry rubber from your gloves irritated the wounds.

“You need to tell me what happened, because I can’t let you go when you’ve got burns like this. You know it’s criminal evidence, right? If you don’t fess up and tell me the truth, you’ll have to tell it to the police. Why didn’t your teachers bring you forwards first if you had these kinds of injuries?”

“Because we weren’t in class.” He eventually whispered, and now the tears flowed, something inside of him seeming to crack wide open as hot tears flowed, the kid breaking down before you in a sob. You were wrapping his second arm carefully by the time he managed to catch his breath, his reaction shocking you a little, you didn’t want to make the kid cry with your threat of talking to the police, you just wanted to know what would happen. “We didn’t do this, I swear! We weren’t involved!”

“I know that, this was a freak accident, we already know that much, but you can tell me what happened.” Once you were finished, you took a seat before him, taking off blood and ointment stained gloves and throwing them in the bin bag you and Newt were rapidly filling up. As you did, you noticed Newt treating a kid with much the same injuries, your eyes narrowing a little on them for a second, before you sat down, picking up your pen and beginning to fill in the empty form. “We were skipping class.”

“All kids do that.” You chuckled, taking his name and date of birth as he worried his lower lip between his teeth, and just like that, all of a sudden, he was twisting to the side in his seat, retching violently onto the floor, as more tears began to flow. You abandoned the forms, rounding the edge of the table and the area around you where parents had been collecting their kids and teachers had been dismissing them suddenly fell silent, everybody turning to look over, and you rubbed his back gently, the contents of his stomach emptying.

When he was finished, he sat back up, trying to wipe at his mouth and wincing when he rubbed his mouth against his bandages by mistake, before lowering his hand. He slumped, seemingly drained of energy, eyes hooded a little, and you checked his pupils and his reactions again but they came out perfectly fine, and so this reaction wasn’t related to any injuries. “There were four of us.”

“Four of you?”

“Yeah, four of us skipped class.” You glanced around, noting only three with burned hands as Newt dismissed his kid to join your first, and a chilling feeling settled like a pit in your stomach. “We were in the theatre rooms, they’re below the science floors. We were messing around, and Ian went to the toilets in the corridors. When the explosion went off, the floor started to collapse, and a beam went over the door.”

You hated that you already knew where it was going, and your eyes impossibly wide as you glanced around, trying to find the yellow stripes of any fireman you knew to be free from your house, or any house, but they were all busy and out of view.

“The beam caught fire, and we tried so hard to move it, we tried but it hurt so much, and there was so much smoke and it got so hot, and we couldn't do it anymore. We had to go, we tried so hard but we had to go!” He was borderline hysterical, stuttering over his words as he cried, before he was gagging again, and you stepped out of the way, just avoiding his upchuck as he emptied his stomach again, guilt and anxiety taking a physical reaction on him. You processed his words, before the heavy truth settled over you again.

“Oh my God, Newt, there’s a kid still trapped in there.”

“What?” Your partner whipped around in his seat, eyes wide, before looking to the kid still heaving, and the other two with matching injuries. “Go find someone on the team, I'll finish up here!”

You nodded, pausing for a second to look around, before catching sight of a few metallic strips glinting in the light not far from the Squad truck. You stumbled over your feet, your heart pounding in your chest as you tried to get there. Rounding the edge of the red van, you found Winston sitting on the edge of the truck, door open, one foot on the floor by his helmet as the other was pulled up, his back pressed to the wall, and he was panting for breath, sweating as his mask lay beside him.

He cracked an eye open as he looked up at you, confusion taking over his face for a second, before concern was replacing it. “What’s up? Aren’t you dismissing kids?”

“There’s still a kiss trapped in there?”

“We did a sweep, everyone did, they checked every room and every floor, all the rooms.” You shook your head, hands shaking a little with your fear, and you felt the tremors spread over your body.

“No, no, there is someone.” You took a deep breath to steady yourself, and he sat up a little further. “There’s three kids, burns all over their hands and up their arms, because they were skipping class. They were right under the explosions, a kid was in one of the bathrooms and a beam fell over the door, they tried to move it but they couldn't, he’s trapped inside.”

“He’s been in there since this fucking happened? That was hours ago!” Despite his shock and disbelief, he was on his feet again, grabbing for his mask and his helmet, being the first one to finish his set of tasks clearly not coming much in handy, because he was going to be going back inside. “Where was he?”

“Uh, they said they were near the drama and theatre halls.” He nodded his head, hooking his mask back up to his oxygen tank as he pulled it up and adjusted the straps on his shoulders. “Winston, I gotta’ go with you.”

“No way, it’s falling apart in there.”

“I know, but you said it yourself, it’s been hours. That kid is gonna’ need immediate first aid, and how much first aid do you know?” He looked conflicted, tapping his foot a little and glancing around, watching as a few more members of your team, as well as others, all began to emerge from different exits. There was only so much of the fire they could risk putting out, when the building was igniting faster than they could contain it, it would have to simply burn itself out. “C’mon, Winston. Just grab me gear and let's go.”

“Fine, but stick by my fucking side and don’t take a step away, okay?”

“I promise!” You nodded, and he opened up one of the spare lockers. You knew the drill, kicking off your shoes and grabbing the heatproof gear that was labelled in a silver tin with your name across the front in permanent marker. Tugging the pants up your legs as fast as you could, you sealed them at the waist, tying them tightly and grabbing your jacket. You buttoned it up, fingers shaking as you did, before kicking off your shoes, uncaring of where they landed.

Pulling on your boots, you knelt down to tie them, your med bag landing beside you as Winston had retrieved it, and he looked more than anxious as he stared at you, letting you tuck the laces into the edge of the shoes to hide them once they were tight. “You’re gonna’ have to carry your bag, because you need to wear a tank and mask.”

He shook the other objects in his hands, and you stood, turning around and guiding your arms through the straps as he held it out, your breath forced from your lungs as the heavy weight settled onto your back. Following it, he rested the mask over your face, the glass fogging up for a second as you took heavy breaths, clearing a second later when cool oxygen was twisted on and began to come through. He fixed his own mask, gloves and helmet following as you copied him, checking it was all sealed up tight around your skin, before grabbing your bag.

You always felt like an astronaut in this gear, big and puffy and baggy, like you were walking with added gravity following behind him in wide and shuffling steps as quickly as you could, nerves and fear riding more and more as you headed towards burning entrances. It was something you’d never get used to, the idea of walking straight into flames, of walking into a burning building, and you patted deftly across the front of your helmet to find your torch, turning it on as Winston did the same, and then, you were plunging into thick black smoke.

It was like something from a horror movie, you could see other firemen wandering around, their shadows as they tried to at least secure as much as they could as the fire ripped through the building, burning through whatever fuel it could, and none of them paid you any mind. Clutching your bag up to your chest, you kept your eyes fixed on Winston, not daring to take your eyes off of him in case you lost him, and he was following signs as he went, trying to find the downstairs floors of the drama and theatre.

Your steps left footprints in the ash that was lining the floor, each footstep padded to silence by the thick grey layer, like a breadcrumb trail as you went, and it was a guiding light that was brushed away seconds later with the air currents created by flames.

You knew it when you finally arrived, large amphitheatres and halls, Winston pausing as he tried to identify which way the toilets would be, and his head twisted as he looked from one end to the other.

“You check that side, I’ll check this one. Do not go out of yelling range or sight.”

You gave him a mock-salute, peeling off to the left when he went to the right, and you scanned along the walls for the doorways.

There was nothing, just places where posters had been on the walls, the smashed glass of photos or peel offs to more corridors, but no toilets or burned beams. Just as you reached the end of the hall, only one direction coming off of it in a short pathway, you noticed something. It was crumbled now, black and crumbled but it could definitely have once been a solid beam, and as you squinted through the smoke, you could just about make out a doorway.

“Winston! I think I got it!” You yelled as loud as you could, turning around to find him spinning to look at you, and you held an arm out in a point down a connected corridor. He took off in a jog, as fast as he could move in the heat and the layers of clothes, and while it took him only seconds to reach you, it felt like it dragged on and on, the emergency making everything seem too slow as you worried for the trapped kid’s well-being.

He stepped ahead first, pacing towards it, and you followed after him, a slightly relieved breath leaving you when you were close enough for your head torches to reflect on signs signalling for the toilets. Winston placed a hand on the beam as the two of you approached it, pressing down on it as best he could, and the beam groaned at the pressure, but despite the force he applied, it didn’t crack.

He held out an arm, pushing you back slightly as his hand went to the toolkit around his waist, and unhooking a small hand axe. He held it up, adjusting it carefully in his grip, before swinging it up high and bringing it back down. It dug in, getting stuck for a second, and a large splintering sound filled the air, but it didn’t break.

He tried again, and again, and your anxiety was almost ready to burst when it finally cracked, hitting the floor with a loud thud, and you jumped, wincing slightly at the sound. The half still attached to the ceiling fell down, bringing a little more of the ceiling down, and it all became unstable again. Pieces of the roof were crumbling away, crashing down in bundles of flames to the floor, but at least one problem was solved.

Putting away the axe, Winston kicked open the door, waiting to see if any fire would come out. There was fire crawling along the roof, but the tiled floors were clean, the room smoky and filled with ash but reasonably safe, and the two of you entered.

As promised, there he was, the fourth student was unconscious on the floor beside one of the sinks. You glanced around, noting the jacket he must have been wearing was soaked with water, lay over his face as he’d tried to breathe through it to stop too much smoke inhalation, and Winston glanced at you as you sunk to your knees.

“Smart kid, that move probably saved his life.” You peed it back, checking for any signs of breathing, and you found his vets to be rising and falling very slowly and weakly, barely taking in any oxygen at all. Lifting up the torch from your keyring, you raised an eyelid, bloodshot eyes encasing pupils that were hardly responsive, reactions that took over a second to come into focus, and barely moving.

Scanning along his arms, you noted the raw burns that were forming along his flesh, tugging your bag open quickly and grabbing for the aloe inside. If he was to be carried back through the building, you wanted to minimise any risk of his wounds getting any worse. You didn’t try to be delicate or gentle, you were rushing, knowing you had to put speed over gentleness now, and that you could treat them properly once you were back outside.

Twisting on down on the taps, not much water came through, dripping through the pipes, and you used your teeth to pull off one glove, daring to touch the water. It wasn’t exactly cold, the pipes underground being heated by the fires above, but it was cool enough, and you dropped piles of bandages down into the sink to begin to soak. Taking open the gel, you squeezed out thick rows of it onto his arms, using your bare hand to rub it in, trying to be fast as the skin on the back of your hand began to hurt. Once it was rubbed in, you began to pick up dripping bandages, not even bothering to ring them out, before sealing the cool wrapping around his arms as best you could to keep them secured.

As soon as they were on, you were pulling your glove back on, and rubbing at the back of your hand through the material to soothe the pain there.

“He needs oxygen, with reaction times like this, I’m surprised he’s still breathing.”

“I can give him my mask.”

Winston reached for his mask, and you shook your head. He was covered in burns, he was out cold, and there was no way he’d wake up anytime between now and the hospital, it at all. Despite being alive, you had no idea what the long-term effects would be on him, and you hoped for the best, but you knew there wasn’t much Winston could do without his mask. “You can’t, you’re gonna’ have to carry him out of here. He takes my mask.”

No way, I’m trained for this, you aren’t. You’ll choke up in here before getting back to the main corridors.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t exactly carry this kid. So, if we want to get him out of here alive, we’re just going to have to risk it.” You didn’t wait for his response, ignoring his protests as you took off your helmet, reaching behind your head for the elastics of the mask, and pulling them off. The second it was gone, your skin flared up at the rush of heat, and you took a gasping breath. Your lungs were searching for oxygen, the flames burning most of it away, and you were getting so little now that your pure source was gone.

Hooking the mask over the kid’s face, you took off your tank, holding it on your arms as Winston glared at you from behind the glass, crouching down to pick the boy up from the floor, and you placed the tank onto him too, waiting for Winston to adjust his grip before letting go of the pair. Putting your helmet back on, you tucked your hair under the collar of your jacket, protecting the back of your neck.

Zipping your bag back up and draping the damp hoodie over his head for added protection against the flames, you hid your face in your elbow, coughing against the smoke and trying to breathe lightly so as not to suck too much of it into your lungs.

“Follow me, keep up, okay? Don’t fall behind.”

There were worry and concern in his voice, friendly and desperate as he pleased with you, and you nodded your head. He turned, moving as quickly as he could as he left the bathrooms again, backing or of the door and back into the hallway. If you’d thought the bathroom had been bad, this was far worse, your eyes watering and lungs burning as soon as you stepped out. You kept one arm raised, simply to protect your face, your bag clenched under the other arm.

Winston was moving faster than you were, the lack of oxygen making you fall behind, but you could still seem him ahead, and you could see the large and fresh imprints of his bots in the ash before they were fading in the swirling storm of burning debris, following them once the smoke was too much for you to keep your eyes raised for too long. They were stinging, watering continuously to blink free dust that got in them, and your tears were almost absorbed right off of your face.

When you looked back up, daring to stare into the hallway, it was void of movement, all the firemen having cleared out as the smoke got thicker, burning through the insulation in the walls now. The corridors forked, and you paused, trying to remember which way you’d come. There was no daylight to guide you, no windows you could see through, just thick smoke lit up by orange flames, and you swallowed down on a sore throat coughing again as you grew more and more scared.

You had to move, you knew you did, and so you chose one option, knowing that moving in either way was better than simply standing still. Following it along, the further you went, the more and more unfamiliar it became, the minutes melting away as you stumbling along all the while knowing you’d chosen the wrong way. You found the wall, hand sitting on it lightly to help guide your way, and your fingers bumped against a raised section.

Pausing, you brushed the dust away, squinting to read what it said. There were several classroom guidances, and then something that made you want to cry with relief, even if it was the wrong direction. The gardens. You hadn't seen any gardens upon coming into the school grounds, and so you assumed you were on the other side of the building now, having stumbled along for so long you’d moved all that way, but as long as you got out, you’d be fine.

Following that guidance, you paused each time you found a sign, before finally, doors that had burned right off their hinges and had fallen off allowed a little sunlight to poke through the smoke.

Your feet scraped on the ground as you finally made it out, soft ash falling away to be replaced with concrete, and you wanted to fall to the ground, knees weak with bliss at escaping the building, but you forced yourself to keep going. You were gasping, throat raw as you took deep breaths, finally able to do so once again and you felt a little dizzy as your head spun at the sudden rush of fresh air.

You grabbed at the front of your jacket, sweltering in the thick material as you tugged on it until it came loose, flapping at the front and letting in cold air and you felt a little less restrained.

You stayed away from the building as you tried to walk around it, following the flashing lights on the ambulances until the place where you’d been stationed started to come into sight once again. It was clearer, only a few kids left milling around, the fire teams having retreated back to their vans, equipment being stripped off and water bottles handed out, and you searched for your own team.

You found them, all gathered around and starting at the entrance, even Winston and Newt, and you noticed that one of the ambulances was gone, presumably having rushed your reduced child to the hospital. They were waiting for you to emerge from the entrance you’d entered, all looking nervous, and Newt was the first to notice you coming around the other side.

As soon as he had, the group were turning to you, your body slumping a little more under your weight, and you staggered towards them. Newt found you first, taking your bag from your hands as you held it out to him, and offering him a tired smile as he shook his head fondly.

“You gave me a fucking heart attack.”

“I’m perfectly fine, Newt, I swear.” He frowned for only a second longer, before his lips were breaking in a smile, and Brenda was up next. She took you into a tight hug, arms underneath the edge of your jacket, which Minho was peeling down your arms for you and taking away the added weight, and you thanked him silently with a nod as you wrapped your arms back around her. “Bren, I’m okay.”

“You think you’re a damn firefighter, I swear it!”

You laughed at that, throat a little raspy as it trailed off into a caught, and Newt chuckled. “Let’s get you some water, okay?”

“That sounds awesome.” You followed them over to the trucks, Newt jogging ahead to get you a bottle, and as soon as you arrived, you took it. You cracked the lid open taking a large gulp, and looking around for a second, before the person you were unintentionally searching for was found. He looked angry, a face like thunder as he stormed over, shoulders squared and tense with furrowed brows.

His steps had purpose, and the closer he got, the more you could take him in. Slightly dirty skin, sweaty and stained with soot and ash had tracks under his eyes cut into them from tears, the edges of his scowl wobbling as he looked still on the edges of jagged emotions, and you were filled with guilt. You met him halfway, mouth dropping to talk to him but he beat you to it, a sharp inhale before he is grabbing your arm, and dragging you between the two parked fire trucks as the rest of the firemen all seemed to clear away in fear of his anger.

“Are you fucking insane?” There was a crack to his voice that you didn’t comment on, giving away that his anger was actually fear, no rage at all but simply worry that you had caused, and you hated that you’d done it, but you wouldn't take your action back, not when you’d saved a life once again. You wouldn't be able to live with yourself if you’d let that boy die in there. “Do you have any idea how fucking worried I was? I come out after hours in that burning building to find you and check you’re okay just to find out you’ve gone into the fucking wreckage? To find out you took off your goddamn mask and got lost?”

His frown melted away, fresh tears filling his eyes, and he sniffed lightly, his face crumpling again as his tears came free. Two large droplets leaked along his cheeks, leaving wet marks, and your stomach twisted with guilt. You took off your gloves, dropping them down to the floor without a care to be able to cup his cheeks and wipe them away from his flushed skin as he stared at you. “I got stuck, Tommy. That’s it, I’m sorry, okay? I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I knew that kid was in there and I let him die to save my own life.”

You sank down, every muscle in your body aching as you sat on the edge of the van, finally giving in to your exhaustion, and he let out a shaky and weak sob again. He followed, sinking to his knees in front of you, his entire body collapsing under the weight of his worry, but his eyes never left your own.

He lifted a bare hand, cupping your cheek the way you had for him a second ago, and his eyes moved as he swept his sights over your face, trying to take a more deep and calming breath. The simple skin to skin touch grounded him.

“Don’t make me lose you, too.” He whispered, a silent beg in his words not to leave him, and your heart cracked a little in your chest. “I know you’re mad at me right now, okay? You say you’re not but I know you are because I spent enough time with you mad when we first met to know what that looks like on you.”

You chuckled, his lips flicking up at the edges as you did.

“I can handle you being mad, though, okay? I can handle that, because I love you, but I can’t handle you dying. I can’t take that. Don’t do that to me, I need y-” Your hands smoothed over his chest, finding the edges of the jacket he had yet to shed and pulling him forwards. You bowed your head down to his level, cutting off his words by placing your lips on his, and he shuddered under your touch, groaning into your mouth as his mind caught up with what was happening.

He panted slightly, twisting his head to the side to get a better angle, and this was nothing like last night. He wasn’t shy or worried, he just poured out everything he felt, his lips working slowly but surely with your own, a desperation and need hidden underneath in the kiss that made you tremble, because it was nothing like you’d ever felt before. You didn’t feel the metal you were sitting on or the truck behind you, the voices of everyone still around seemed to face away, your entire focus shifting to only him.

He pressed up, kissing you just as firmly and gripping your jaw with a little more force. After a moment longer, lungs demanding air, he pulled back, long enough for a gasping breath and to lick over his lips. He forced himself to stand up on shaky legs, one hand on your waist pulling you with him, before he was pressing you back into the edge of the truck for support. The cold metal against your back was nothing with the way his chest pressed to you, drawing in his head as he held you so close, that hand sliding around your waist to pull you flush up against him.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, your nose bumping his as he stole several more pecks from your lips as the two of you caught your breath, and you puckered your lips for him each time, stuttering as his fingertips pressed into your skin through your shirt. “I know this isn’t how you wanted our real first kiss to go.”

“I so don’t care anymore. Just shut up and kiss me again, sweetheart.” He closed the gap himself, and you hummed happily as his tongue dragged over your lower lip, tempting you to part them, and you moaned weakly when his tongue dared to dip out and brush with your own. It was a connection you both needed, long overdue and frantic.

A messy kiss, clashes of teeth with need and raspy breaths between kisses, bumping foreheads when you moved but you'd have time to perfect it, but right now, you just needed to make the promises to each other that you were okay, and you were still here. When he finally pulled back, it was reluctantly, dragging slightly kiss swollen lips away from your own to stare at you, darkened eyes going soft the longer he looked, and he pulled away long enough to run the back of a finger over your cheek, a look that could only be described as adoration taking over. “I love you, and you don’t have to say it back, not until you really mean it, but I mean it and I want you to know. I want everyone to know, you’re always gonna’ be my first and only choice, angel.”

You grinned, a giggle that you muted by pressing your lips to his own in a chaste kiss, and when you pulled back, he followed your lips for a second, only furthering your intimate amusement.

“I’m never going to get tired of being able to kiss you now.”

“I should hope not.” He beamed, brushing the tip of his nose with your own, before stepping back fully, and bringing his hand to yours, weaving your fingers together. “Go sort out your team, lieutenant, they’ll be needing you to help pack away.”

“I’m sure they can wait a few more minutes, I’ve waited months to get here with you.”

“Yeah, well, you can have me all to yourself later. You still owe me pizza.” His joy only brightened more at the offer, his brows raising, and he was nodding enthusiastically. “I’ll stay over, and you can kiss me as much as you want.”

“I’d love that.” He pecked your lips one more time, a pink blush taking over his features as he realised he could now, before he was stepping back. “I’ll meet you back at the firehouse?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” You whispered, and he turned away, giving you a second of privacy, lifting your fingers to brush over your lips, your mind still reeling as you attempted to process what had happened. A throat cleared a second later, and Newt was standing with his hands on his hips, head tilted toward the ambulance.

“I’m not putting all that shit away myself so you can daydream about kissing Tommy.” He scoffed, teasing you a little as he made his way over, and you couldn't help the smirk your lips were forming. “So, did he finally man up and kiss you? He's only been talking about it for months.”

“I kissed him, actually.” Newt’s jaw dropped, his hands shooting up in the air with a loud cheer to follow.

“I fucking knew it! I fucking knew it! Gally owes me twenty damn bucks, and I will collect.” He slung an arm over your shoulders, guiding you towards the ambulance that he needed help with beginning to pack away, and you shrugged, reaching up your hand to hold onto Newt’s as it hung over your shoulder.

“I can’t believe you were betting on us.”

“I was betting on you, I knew he would psych himself out, all my money was on you, love.” He offered a cheesy grin, pinching at your cheek, and you raised your brows.

“Well then, shouldn't I get half of the winnings? Since I helped you to victory, and all..” Newt let you go when you reached the van, the tables being folded away by the staff, but there were medical supplies piled high in the entrance to the ambulance, and you had to pack them all away correctly, and double-check over the doses of medicines, in such a high-risk area for theft.

“Tell you what, I’ll buy you a cocktail with half the winnings, if you come on a double date with me and Derek?” You chuckled, unsure whether or not he was serious, and an odd look passed over newt’s face, the blond scratching at his jaw and avoiding your eye.

“A double date, really?”

“Look, you already know Derek, you and he are friends. Good friends. Tommy has been my best mate since I was just a lad and always will be, and you’re my best friend too. I really like Derek, okay? I really like him, and I want him and Tommy to get along too, because they’re both so important to me, and I figure a double date makes it casual.” He shrugged, looking back up to you, curious for your opinion as his cheeks grew warm. “Is it stupid? I just felt like going out to dinner or something made for less tension than a baseball game and a pizza.”

“It’s not stupid, Newt. I’m totally down for it, sounds fun, but you’re gonna’ have to convince Thomas.” You teased, and your partner rolled his eyes.

“Oh, please, I don’t gotta’ do shit if you’re on board. You have him wrapped around your little finger. You don’t even have to pucker up or bat your eyelashes, he’s already all soft on you.” Newt pouted, mocking you playfully with the words, and your guts twisted in a nervous excitement.

“I’ll talk to him about it, tomorrow morning.”

“Breakfast date?” He climbed up into the back of the van, beginning to scoop up the materials like bandages and plasters to put them away, and you started sorting through the bottles of medicine and pills that would need counting.

“Dinner date, actually.” Newt gasped falsely, holding a hand over his heart.

“Scandalous, staying over already.”

“You’re just jealous.” You shot back, his face dropping in a mock glare.

“Low blow.” He threw a roll of bandages at you, ones that bounced off of your head as you laughed at him, and rolled away to the concrete, and he pointed at them. “Go get them, and leave your attitude out there when you come back.”

You flipped him off, standing up to follow after the sealed bandages packet, and you scooped them up, glancing around the scene as two ambulances had already left, their house firetrucks following, and the third house was finishing their packing up. Brenda was packing away the coats into the van, hanging them up on the hooks inside the compartment to be washed and cleaned for later, and Minho was rolling the fire hoses back up with Jeff and Clint.

Thomas was rubbing a hand over his forehead, staring up at the building for a second, before turning, glancing around, and his eyes found yours. He paused for a second, one eye dropping in a lazy wink a moment later when he let Thomas crack through his lieutenant persona for a second, and he licked over his lips, stretching to a wide smile. He nodded his head for a second, a simple gesture but it felt like more than just that, and your lips pressed together to hold your smile, nodding your head in return, and letting your stare linger for a second longer, before going back to work.

Newt was waiting, still packing away and whistling a tune to himself as he worked, taking the bandages from you when you approached, and you hummed along in time with the tune once you recognised it enough, his eyes glinting when you did. It was an unspoken thing, a delicate symbol of friendship as the two of you worked in quiet harmony, humming along to the same song as you worked, settling in to a well worn and familiar routine that you hoped would never break.

[loversdelusion]

Days Scattered

Deacon St. John x St. John!Reader

Part 2 of 3

previous- next

Deacon spent the next day orchestrating a plan of rescue, much to his own dismay, Rikki convinced him that he couldn't go in blindly shooting or both of them might not come back, Deacon was deep in thought, his mind constantly racing over what was happening to you.

(Y/n) groaned in pain, her head and wrists were aching, she didn't know why they were aching but she got her answer when she opened her eyes to her wrists being strung up to two thick branches, she was in a candlelit room, words were crudely written on the wall in blood, sharp dead branches littered the room, she assumed it was the Ripper's definition of decoration.

"Shit.." She rolled her head, doing her best to stretch her neck muscles, (Y/n) lazily tugged against the bindings, seeing how secure they were, seeing they were tied pretty firmly against her, she still kept tugging, despite the burning sensation of the ropes digging into her wrists "Dammit!" She exclaimed in frustration, sighing heavily as nothing was happening.

The sound of approaching footsteps sent her alertness to 11, her eyes darting to the door across from her, the door slowly opened, it's hinges creaking steadily, a Ripper was in the doorway, this one seemed different than the others, held a more powerful aura. "Carlos.." She said, weakly as she came to the realization of who this was, Carlos let out a small smirk "Mongrel Princess, when the group I sent out told me they were successful in catching a Mongrel, I never expected it to be you.." Carlos took slow but calculated steps to where she was bound.

Carlos stood two steps in front of her "Oh my, should've told them to be gentle, I would have if I knew I was dealing with precious cargo" Carlos leaned closer, (Y/n) could see his numerous cuts more clearly, she leaned back as far as she could.

"The little St. John" Carlos declared, almost proudly, (Y/n)'s gaze hardened, she looked to be thinking hard, her face contorted into a look of shock "Jessie.." She muttered quietly, Carlos barely picked it up "Jessie Willamson.." Carlos pulled away, sighing lowly "That is not my name, not anymore, I soon won't have a name at all, we renounce our names to rid of our pain" he stated "As do all Ripper's".

"Deacon had a hand in torching your Mongrel tattoo off after you murdered someone in the MC over drugs..I was there, I watched them drag you into the old safehouse, Deacon told me to stay in Jack's car and to turn on the radio while they dealt with you" (Y/n)'s gaze darted at Carlos. "I came out of the car after awhile, Deacon came out of the safehouse and from the second he opened the door, I smelled burnt flesh and I saw your body on the table, bloody and torched, thought you were dead but guess I was wrong" Carlos let out a breathless chuckle. "I have found the path, and soon you, your brother and Boozer..will be forcefully put on the path, as for you..you will be my wife" Carlos sneered, leaning closer to her, she could almost feel his breath on her face "Fuck off, I'm not marrying you" she replied, kicking him in the thigh, Carlos let out a low growl "But first, you must be cleansed" Carlos eyed her left arm which was covered by her shirt, he looked away and down next to her, he picked up a blowtorch.

(Y/n)'s eyes widened at what he was about to do "You touch me with that and I will shove that so far up your ass, you'll turn into a dragon" she tensed against the binds as he lit the torch, it's ominous blue glow lighting the small distance between Carlos and (Y/n)'s facial features. "Princess, you must be cleansed as I have" Carlos held a dangerous look in his eyes, he grabbed a knife, cutting through her shirt's sleeve with ease, he ripped it off once the fabric was thin enough, he exposed her inked skin to his insane stare, (Y/n)'s arm was tattooed with a whole sleeve that reached from her shoulder and down to the back of her hand "My, my..your whole arm is tainted, that's not good" he tutted, bringing the torch back up again.

Sweat was rolling down her face in beads, her chest heaving heavily, Carlos brought the blowtorch closer to her arm, she began to feel the white hot heat of it, nearing closer and closer with every second "You'll pay for what Deacon did" Carlos muttered lowly, (Y/n)'s whole body jolted and tensed at the feeling of the hot flame torching her tattoo off, she screamed, gritting her teeth together tightly, tears welled up in her pained (e/c) eyes.

Carlos brought the torch away, admiring the small patch of melted skin on her shoulder, the smell of burned skin wafted in the air, (Y/n) almost gagged at the scent, Carlos said nothing as he brought the torch back to her skin, burning another patch of her tattoo off, she yelped, thrashing wildly against the ropes, trying desperately to back away from the crazed Ripper, the pain was unbearable and she begged to God that she would black out already. Her head lulled forward, the pain from being tortured mentally and physically exhausted her "No, no, Princess, you stay with me" Carlos patted at her tear-stained cheek, Carlos roughly gripped at her chin, pulling her face to look at her arm.

(Y/n)'s jaw clenched at the sight, more hot tears trailing down her face, it was burned up to the middle of her bicep, words refused to be spoken at the sight of her arm, the top layer of her skin was completely gone, she could just see black charred, bloodied patches of the tissue underneath, it was a stark difference compared to the rest of her untouched arm "Don't worry, Princess..I'll cherish you regardless" Carlos was pressing his face into her hair, inhaling heavily at her scent, but she ignored it, too traumatized at her injury to fight back anymore.

-

Deacon made it into the Ripper's camp, Boozer right behind him on his bike "You remember the plan?" Deacon spoke in a loud voice over the roar of the engine "Yeah, blow the dam, drown the rats, kill Carlos and save (Y/n)" Boozer replied, Deacon didn't acknowledge it, keeping his attention forward on the road. They approached the dam "You know how to do this, right?" Deacon asked, raising a dark brow at the one handed man beside him, Boozer shook his head with a chuckle "Easy as riding a bike" Deacon rolled his eyes "Are you sure? I mean, I know how to do this, I was in the army for God's sake" Boozer shook his head again "I got this, brother, just watch my back".

Deacon guarded Boozer as best as he could, keeping the Ripper's that attacked off of him, Boozer was on the last charge "You sure this is gonna work?" Boozer asked over the walkie talkie "You doubting my plan?" Deacon replied, a teasing lilt in his voice "It's..it's a lot of water, it'll get 'em" Deacon said "If you believe it, I will too" Boozer said, a few seconds later. Boozer approached the last detonation site, Deacon sniping the Ripper's that attacked with ease "How's it going, Boozeman?" Deacon asked, a wary tone in his voice "Hey, it's not easy with one hand" Boozer replied "Just hurry it up" Boozer rolled his eyes "I got it!" Boozer started into a dead sprint, trying to put as much distance as possible between him and the dam "Get the hell out of there, Boozer!" Deacon yelled, waiting for his friend to catch up.

The explosives went off, sending a shockwave and tremors through the surrounding area, the blast knocked Deacon and Boozer on their asses "Christ!" Deacon shouted as he covered his face to protect it from the brief blast of heat, the area darkened as the light from the bomb died down, Deacon and Boozer let out a laugh "Fucking hell" Boozer exclaimed as he sat up, Deacon helping him to a stand. They looked at what was left of the blast, tons of water was still rushing through, big chunks of debris was being swept towards the campsite "Lets get going" Deacon nudged Boozer's arm, both of them setting off into a jog.

-

Carlos left (Y/n) alone for a bit, saying something about Deacon and Boozer needing to be here to change too, her head was hanging, exhaustion taking its hold on the beaten and battered girl, the sound of the door opening was heard but she paid no mind to it, lighter footsteps approached her, she still ignored them. "Hey.." it was a girl's voice, (Y/n) weakly lifted her head, her bloodshot eyes met the worried ones of Lisa, a girl her brother saved a while back "Lisa..?" Her voice was weak, barely there, Lisa was bald, cuts littered her body, the signature 'R.I.P' symbol carved into her forehead. "That's not my name.." Lisa grabbed a knife nearby, gingerly grabbing hold of the uninjured part of her arm "Ripper's are cleansed of their pain, and made into a new person once they completely abandon their name..and I have" she cut the rope and (Y/n)'s arm limply fell to her side, a sharp jolt of pain shot through her body as her shoulder muscles stretched, pulling at her healthy and injured skin, she yelped, hissing at the sensation, Lisa cut the other rope.

(Y/n) was unprepared to hold her full weight, she collapsed into Lisa, who barely caught the older woman "I-..I can't" (Y/n) whispered weakly, Lisa helped her stand fully "Yes, you can" she quietly said words of encouragement "Your brother might be here, the dam was blown, the camp is flooded" hearing the mention of Deacon lit a small fire of hope for her. "C'mon, I know a way out but you need to walk" Lisa held her at arms length again, (Y/n) grunted in pain at the bruising on her legs, she closed her and sighed heavily, willing the pain away "I'm right behind you.." She said quietly, crouching low behind her as she walked out of the room "I'll meet you outside" Lisa said in a rushed whisper, walking ahead of her.

(Y/n) eyed the room she was in now and if she wS being honest at all, she felt a lot safer in the room she was being held in, (Y/n) carefully stalked towards the Ripper slashing up a survivor, who looked nearly dead, she grabbed the Ripper, wrapping her hand tightly over his mouth and slicing his neck open with the knife Lisa left her, she helped the body quietly fall to the ground "So, you wanna find the Path, huh? Let me help you, motherfuckers" she said through gritted teeth, wiping the blood on the knife against her pant leg.

She cleared the whole room, silently mourning the losses of the survivors that she couldn't save, she opened a set of double doors, it opened to a skywalk, she walked into another set of double doors but they were already open, it had a small staircase inside that led into another room. This one had a group of Ripper's in it "There's too many" she said under her breath, she carefully walked towards the door instead, hoping they wouldn't see her, she sighed in relief at breathing in fresher air than what was inside.

-

Deacon and Boozer fought their way into the lodge, killing every Ripper and Freak they saw "What if she's not here?" Deacon rose an irritated brow at Boozer "Like not at the lodge but somewhere else in their territory" Deacon's stare left the one handed man "We look for her, and I don't care if we have to kill every single one of them to do that, they're all fucking dying tonight anyway" Deacon grumbled, venom in his tone.

-

(Y/n) panted, having escaped the area where she was held, she was too scared and exhausted to go look for her little bit of things, she was grateful that she decided to pack light today, bringing merely a boot knife and handgun, her jacket she could part without, again she packed light to just go out on a bounty run, not to get attacked by Ripper's.

She ran through the fields, trying her best to remember which way the lodge was, she prayed to whatever was left out there that Deek would find her or she would find him, she could hear the shouts and yells of the Ripper's, finally discovering that she escaped, this only fueled her adrenaline, running even faster.

She wasn't completely aware of her surroundings, not realizing she was crossing a road or that a Ripper was on patrol there, but the Ripper was aware of her, the female Ripper lunged at her, successfully knocking her to the ground, (Y/n) yelped in pain as she landed on her injured arm, she scrambled to her feet as fast as she could, realizing she was in danger "Where you off to in such a hurry, little girl?" The Ripper rasped, a sickening smirk on her face, (Y/n) growled, clutching her knife as tightly as possible, the Ripper was armed with a club, nails embedded at the tip of it.

(Y/n) sliced through the air, the blade connected with nothing, the Ripper laughed wildly as she swung the club around, (Y/n) narrowly dodging every swing, (Y/n) swung again, the blade cut into the Ripper's skin, the Ripper kicked at (Y/n)'s hand that held the knife, successfully knocking it out of her hand, (Y/n) cried out at the pain, she was now left defenseless, the Ripper still having her weapon. The Ripper swung once more, this time (Y/n) ducked low, the attack barely missing her head, she could feel the swing send a gush of air across the top of her head, (Y/n) saw an opportunity of attack and she took it.

(Y/n) kicked the Ripper in the kneecap, the Ripper's knee easily snapping backwards at the force of her kick, the Ripper doubled over, screaming in pain at her broken leg, (Y/n) hastily came to a stand, glaring down at the Ripper who tried her best to still grab her, she eyed the leg, cringing as she saw the bone protruding through the skin. "Guess eating shit and dirt all day didn't do you any good" the Ripper growled "You little bitch!" (Y/n) took two steps toward her, standing directly above her head "Get low, bitch" (Y/n) said as she stomped hard on the Ripper's head, a chill creeped up her spine at hearing the sickening crack of the Ripper's skull caving in.

(Y/n) kept going, she could see the lodge across the field she was in, the dam was indeed blown up, the damage from the water was strong but they deserved it, they all did, she trudged on, despite her legs protesting. She paused in her steps as she heard a light staticy noise- like from a radio, she scrambled to find it instantly, scrounging around through all the debris and looking around in the vehicles, she found the source of the noise, it was a walkie talkie, she grabbed it and immediately held down the talk button. "Deacon St. John, come back" she said, her voice nearly wavering, nothing yet "Boozer, Deacon, come in" she said again, more static reached her eyes, she sighed heavily, wanting to hit something but she held back "Deek, please come in" she begged, stray tears trailing down her dirt and blood covered skin.

-

Deacon cut through the last Ripper standing between him and Carlos, they went inside the lodge, both sighing in frustration at the lack of stairs "You're never gonna make it up there" Deacon grumbled, Boozer kicked a pillar that was next to him "Yeah, I know, I'll boost you up though, throw in an extra hit for me, will ya?" Boozer got into position to boost Deacon up to the second floor. "-con St. John, come back" Boozer and Deacon froze at the sudden voice blaring through Deacon's walkie talkie.

"Boozer, -eacon, come in" the signal was cutting up badly "Deek, please come in.." The voice came through loud and clear that time, Deacon gripped the device and pressed the button "(Y/n)?! (Y/n), is that you?" He released, white noise filled the air for what felt like forever. "Deacon..?" Her voice was low, Deacon felt like he could burst into tears "(Y/n), it's me..I'm here" Deacon replied, he could hear her sniffle, he could tell she was crying. "Deek, I wanna go home.." She sounded so weak, Deacon swore he'd kill everything here for making her like that "Wh-where are you?" Deacon asked, brows furrowed with worry.

"I made it out of where they were keeping me, I'm outside, on a road" Deacon nodded "Okay, just uh, come to the lodge, and be careful" Deacon pleaded "What are you going to do?" Her voice replied, Deacon's gaze hardened "Something that should have been done awhile ago" Deacon released the button, turning to Boozer "I'm ready".

[scary-senpai]

Hello! I once read your post about Bang's red flags and it was very eye-opening to me 'cause I liked his char and chose to ignore all his behaviors 😩😩 Thank you very much!🤝🌷🌷

Oh, thank you so much for writing, lovely Internet Stranger! I’m assuming you’re talking about the one from my main blog, “Bang is made almost entirely of out red flags" ^_^ You probably are, because that's literally the title... But I know I've posted about him on here, too.

I think the "red flags" essay was the first fandom essay I ever wrote? I think I hammered it out at some wee hour of the morning and went to bed fully expecting OPM-Tumblr to come for my kneecaps during the night. I was pleasantly surprised to see that most people seemed to enjoy/appreciate it.

So, I’m glad you enjoyed my essay, but I didn’t intend to guilt you or make you feel wrong for liking a particular character. I do my best to keep my language at least somewhat neutral and not to be too harsh about anything, but I’m certainly not out to yuck anybody else’s yum. Also, when it comes to the “constantly beating your disciples thing”… I sometimes wonder if I’m being too harsh considering the piece of media. By and large, the audience is here to open up a beautifully inked can of whup-ass, not to watch an estranged disciple hug it out with his former mentor (although there’s certainly a highly invested/very vocal subset that is dying to see that).

I think it’s definitely okay to like a character even if they aren’t exactly a role model (or even if they’re the opposite of a role model)—I feel like that’s sometimes the point, actually. We can dissect behavior in fiction to an extent that we can’t in real life, so it’s a low-stakes place to talk about human behavior and gain insights applicable IRL. I appreciated Bang’s character more after I put all the pieces together. I mean, which is a more interesting story? Bang is the perfect mentor, and Garou goes down a dark path anyway? Or Bang does his best to help Garou but makes some notable missteps, and perhaps comes painfully close to getting it right, only to fall victim to a longstanding character flaw—I don’t know, maybe losing his temper at a time when Garou most needed compassion and patience? The second example is more interesting, I think—it gives us something to talk about.

I try to own up to my own bias, because I do find myself projecting a lot of my own emotions on Bang and Garou’s relationship. Around the time I started watching OPM, I had transitioned out of my long-time job in a rather toxic environment. It was my first real job out of school, and I worked for 7 years under someone who was very brilliant and had overcome some of the same obstacles that I did, but unfortunately he was also quite angry and downright manipulative at points. I stayed for a long time because I didn’t know any better, and I’m still kind of untangling that, honestly. He taught me a lot about systems, operations, and human behavior, and all of the skills I learned are fine as long as you use them in a neutral way--my boss was just super mean about everything. (He had mostly worked in high-stress finance jobs although we were in healthcare/human services, and I assume he was just carrying out the cycle of abuse when he told me things like: "if you worked for me at JP Morgan, you could get fired for making a mistake like this." ...And my mistake was double-sided copies instead of single-sided ones. Like, I am a salaried employee working 60+ hours per week, and I am still barely making rent, my guy. For JP Morgan money I will gladly eat your files instead of shredding them.) In any case, I feel a little conflicted when I pull these lessons out, even if I’m using them differently… like, "ugh, ex-Boss, why did you have to be so mean and so brilliant and so right all time..." It almost seems a bit like the scene where Garou pulls out Fist of Flowing Water Crushing Rock on the Tank-Toppers because he has no other choice. So actually, instead of thinking back to my ex-mentor I try to think of that scene instead ^_^ it saves me dredging up something unpleasant.

[chroniclesinlacuna]

'things you said when you were scared' for dex/nate my beloved?

I’m so sorry this took so long! But! Thank you for the prompt!!

After (read on ao3)

Words: ~950 Rating: T Warnings: Blood, references to injuries

There are hands on him. There are hands on him, and he doesn’t know where he is, and he doesn’t know who is touching him, and god his head hurts.

“Easy, easy…” He doesn’t recognize the voice, but when the roaring in his ears dies down somewhat, it seems to take most of the fog with it, and he can smell enough to tell him all he needs to know - through the smoke and the char and the blood, he can smell that too-clean, too-sharp antiseptic smell of-

“How’d you get here so fast?” His voice sounds muddled - muffled and scratched, and he’s not sure if it’s the fire in his throat or the ocean in his ears causing it. He does manage to open his eyes though, taking in the young, confused face above him.

The agency medic fussing at him blinks at him as he finally opens his eyes, then just shakes his head. “We were on call - like normal? Soon as the building blew, everyone was on site.”

The building?

The building…

He remembers two things in that moment. The explosion that knocked them off their feet - and apparently tossed him into a wall, if the headache is anything to go by - and-

“Dex?”

“What?” The medic isn’t a vampire, that much is clear, and Nate has no issue shoving out of his reach and to his feet. He can feel the last cuts and bruises slowly knitting themselves back together, but nothing feels broken or worse, and, frankly, he really doesn’t care about that.

“Agent? Agent!” He can hear the voice just fine. Finds the roar in his ears is of a different sort this time.

What’s left of the building is little more than a few walls and smoking rubble, swarming with agents. Something still actually, actively there in the back of his mind clocks Adam and Felix, and a few feet later, Mason, all getting checked out and looking varying degrees of annoyed.

He sees Adam tilt his head to the pair of ambulances at the far side of the ruins and he’s gone.

“Dex? Declan!” He calls, and now he knows the scratch in his voice is from some tear - can feel it warp in the back of his throat - but he can’t find it in himself to care, about the scratch, about the pain. There’s so much smoke, and char, and blood that he can’t smell or see anything clear and the last thing he’d seen-god, he’d seen Dex-

And then he’s seeing him again. And he’s upright, sitting on the back of the ambulance. He’s breathing, hell, he’s arguing with the medic it looks like, and he’s there and...and…

Dex is on his feet just in time to catch Nate, who only just manages to reign it in enough to collide but not knock them both off their feet. Nate can taste blood in the press of his lips to Dex’s but he doesn’t care - doesn’t care that it’s sending all his senses haywire, doesn’t care that he’s holding Dex tight, because he can feel the bruises purpling up under Dex’s hands on his own skin, doesn’t care that it’s less a kiss and more just needing to feel the man breathe, feel him alive, against him.

Some part of his brain - the part that’s not focused on the breath and the blood and feel of warm skin against his - manages to notice the tense press of fangs against lips and teeth, the harsh clack as Dex presses in closer, seemingly uncaring.

Minutes, hours, seconds later, he feels hands on him, on his face, gently coaxing him away from the kiss and then gently pulling him back in to breath into Dex’s skin at his neck - and he goes with absolutely no resistance, the fight and the adrenaline all but draining out of him at the barest gentle touch and the trust, the absolution, that movement takes, after...after.

There’s an ugly purpling bruise maring his skin there - cutting that beautiful inked rose in half, and Nate shuts his eyes to just enjoy the warmth, and the beat of a pulse still going strong.

He vaguely hears Dex talking - feels it more in the rumble of his voice, pressed this close to his throat. Hears a squeak of an affirmative from somewhere off to his right, then footsteps leading away.

“Mm...you’re worrying the baby medics you know…” And it’s low, and rough, and there’s this rasp that makes Nate wrap his arms tighter around him. He knows it’s too tight. Can’t seem to make himself let go.

And Dex just curls his fingers in his hair and presses him closer.

It’s that acceptance, that insistence, that helps Nate relax - just a bit. Not enough to pull away. Not enough to let go. But enough to breathe and not taste ash. Enough to breathe, period.

“Where’d you go?” It’s no more than a whisper. He’s almost worried it’s too quiet for Dex to hear - wonders if he can make his jaw work long enough to ask again without something vital breaking in half.

“They pulled me outside. Think they saw shit about to go sideways and decided to run off with the consolation prize.” Before Nate can even react to that, he’s speaking again, fingers tightening ever so slightly in his hair, “And before you even try, they’re already dead. Turns out, explosions are fantastic distractions.” And he...he tries for levity. Misses by a mile, but Nate appreciates the attempt.

“Don’t…” He can’t ask. It’s not possible. It’s not fair. “Don’t do that again.” and it’s said around a broken laugh - or, at least, Nate thinks it’s a laugh.

“I’ll come back.”

It’s not the truth, because they can’t know.

But it’s not a lie, either. A promise doesn’t have to ring true to be honest. And that will have to be enough.

tag list: @homeformyheart @fictional-affections

[queensofthekastle]

For the dialogue prompt -- how's about 42?? :]

HOLY SHIT OK IT TOOK ME A MONTH BUT I'VE DONE IT. FINALLY. Life was just happening everywhere, thanks for waiting me out. 🙏

TW: descriptions and references to racist police violence.

The prompt was "I'm only here to establish an alibi." I was totally stuck--what could be blamed on Frank that he wouldn't have actually done? Canonically to the comics (though I commend the show for not giving a flying fuck about whether Frank went after glorified DHS cops who were dirty) the only things Frank won't touch are bystanders, cops, and active duty military.

And then I had it. Because 2020 has been A Year and I'm still processing some shit. So, here we go.

-Stellar

************************************

The door rattles under a succinct knock at 2:45 am—just when Karen had been so close to falling asleep, caught in that limbo of vague consciousness and wandering thoughts just on the cusp of falling into dreams. So, it’s with more irritation than concern that she drags herself out of bed after the second round of door-bludgeoning. It being post-closing time on a Friday—well, Saturday now—she's fairly confident what she’ll find through the peephole will be a drunk neighbor with the wrong apartment. It wouldn’t be the first time, nor, probably, the last.

A cautious look through the peephole does not reveal one of her gregarious bar-hopping neighbors though, but a still figure; hood pulled close around his face to shadow shifting eyes that look black as ink in the low, shit light of the apartment hallway. Frank has a lovely mouth, but it’s set now in a tense line. Karen’s heart picks up speed, a fullness in her chest and a pressure in her veins—middle of the night, tense Frank is never a good sign. Though he doesn’t seem to be bleeding from anywhere, which is more than can be said for some of his other visits.

She undoes the door chain, and she’s quietly but earnestly asking “what’s going on?” before she even has the door open wide enough for him to see her face.

“Nothing.” He says, voice rough and low, but calm. “I just need someone to know it’s nothing.”

He looks askance, looks at her. She allows herself a sigh.

“What does that even mean, Frank?”

He shifts his weight and looks at her from under the shadow of his hood. 

“I’m only here to establish an alibi.”

“Because you didn’t do something, or because you did?”

“Didn’t,” he says, and she believes him. She always does. It’s one piece of why he’s so dear to her: Frank never lies to her, and she never lies to him.

“This should be interesting,” she says, and opens the door far enough for him to step through. When she’s closed it behind him she asks if he’d like a drink. He answers without looking her in the eye, mind working on something else far away from her little apartment—he asks for his usual, of course. Only Frank would suggest coffee this near to 3:00 am.

“Not sleeping tonight?” she asks. He shrugs one shoulder.

“Guess not.”

“Uh-huh. So you didn’t do anything, but you’re pulling an all-nighter in my apartment? I’m going to need an explanation here soon, Frank.”

He hovers beside the hutch that acts as her kitchen island without looking any more settled than he had out in the hall. His jaw works for a moment before he answers.

“I don’t know how much you want to know. Let's just say I ran into someone with a mission about like mine and I’m giving her space to work.”

“Oh. God. A Punisher copycat? Jesus, Frank. The law turns a blind eye to one of you, I doubt you’ll get away with two.”

“Nah,” he says, “nothing like that. I’m it. This is a one-time thing—lady's got some things to get out of her system. I only found out because she was after the same supply chain I was.”

“Supply chain?”

“Ammo,” he says flatly. Karen holds her next blink a little too hard and a little too long. But he is what he is—she accepts that again every time she opens her door to him—and she doesn’t comment except to ask:

“Who is this person after that you aren’t?”

“It’s probably better you don't ask. If someone comes sniffing after me about it you should be able to say you didn’t know anything.”

“So if one of your Homeland ‘friends' shows up to see if you’re testing their good graces what do I tell them, then? That you just showed up at three in the morning for a chat? No one is going to buy that.”

He shifts, not quite shrugging, looking off into space with the raised eyebrows of feigned innocence.

“Just say I saw your light on, came to say hi.”

“Right. And you were walking around Hell’s Kitchen to see my light on in the first place because . . .?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Hoping maybe if I tried my luck with a walk I’d find you up.”

Karen sighs, turning away to pour his coffee. She’s made it thick as hot asphalt for him, in part because she knows he likes that, in part because she’s so damn tired she’d lost track of how many grounds she was piling into the coffeemaker. Frank takes the mug she offers him with a low “thank you.” And sure enough, after a sip, he smiles.

“You always make my kind of coffee,” he says.

“It’s an easy recipe,” she says, leaning over the counter opposite him, “just make it so no sane person would drink it.”

He laughs, a very short, low sound that rumbles in his chest and rasps in his throat. 

“Dare I ask what you were actually in the neighborhood for?” She asks. “If insomnia is your alibi?”

“Probably shouldn't. Let’s just say I had a meeting.”

Karen quirks an eyebrow, conveying as much skepticism with the look as she can.

“Meeting as in you’re probably accessory to whatever it is this friend of yours is doing?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

Karen fixes him with her best piercing journalist stare. He drinks his coffee. They stalemate that way in silence for a minute or so before he meets her eyes and speaks.

“There are some things I don’t touch,” he says. “People doing their jobs, following shit orders and shit training and fucking up in the process—shit I’ve done, Afghanistan . . . I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. Would be a hypocrite. It’s not my place. And I guess you could call it self-preservation, too. Doesn’t mean I don’t think about it, though.”

“Think about…?”

He takes a long drink, eyeing her over the top of the mug, making some calculation she can’t guess at.

“You know any Latin?” he says finally. “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes mean anything to you?”

It does, and for a moment, she’s sure her heart has stopped.

“Oh, no,” she says. “Who watches the watchmen. Tell me this is what I think it is.”

“I’m not telling you anything, don’t worry.”

“Frank,” she hisses. She doesn’t need his sarcasm right now. She thinks she knows what it could be that he won’t touch and still endorse: with Frank it’s always either war or justice, and every headline for the last month has been about the absence of justice on a battlefield where he could never hope to win. Cops in the city conveniently overlook Frank. He gets the ones they can’t, they have no vested interest in handing him over so long as he doesn’t mess with them. It’s an unspoken arrangement that lets Frank do what he does—and what he does lets him stand to live. Karen knows that. They’ve been over it enough. The police let Frank slip through their fingers and he doesn’t pick a fight in exchange.

But it’s been a long summer, and every day of it has been a fight with police for the thousands of protesters gathering over and over throughout the city. In early June a beat cop—White, of course—used a kind of handheld Taser repeatedly on an unarmed Black man “resisting arrest" for a crime he didn’t commit. Cell phone footage from witnesses made it online despite the NYPD's best efforts, and all anyone saw when watching it wasn’t a criminal resisting, but a victim on his knees, clutching his chest, begging please, please, I have a heart condition, I have a pacemaker, before the cop shocked him again. And again. Until he wasn’t on his knees but prone on the ground, gone still and silent.

The officer was reinstated after a paid leave six days ago. The DA declined to prosecute. 

And yesterday, the innocent man, having spent weeks in a coma induced by heart failure, was declared dead.

Frank looks Karen hard in the eye, an unflinching stare that says he knows she understands. She puts her face in her hands.

“There’s shitstorm coming, isn’t there?” she says.

“Probably.”

She shakes her head, drops it into her hands again. She can feel him watching her. A minute ticks by. Maybe two.

“Karen.”

She lifts her eyes just enough to meet his.

“You feel you gotta do something with this?” he asks. It neither a judgement nor a threat. She worries her lip for a moment before answering.

“This person you know of,” she says slowly, “they won’t implicate you?”

“No.”

“And do you know enough of their plan that you could stop them? Tip someone off?”

He takes a long drink, holding her with those deep inkdark eyes, and for the first time, he lies to her.

“No. Nothing.”

She knows it’s a lie. She knows he wants her to know. She could call him on it and he wouldn’t deny it. But she doesn’t. 

All she says is “then I guess there’s nothing we could do,” holding his eyes while she speaks, making sure he understands what’s happening here.

Frank nods. It’s enough.

Karen looks away, stares at her hands folded in front of her, tracing the patterns of veins under pale skin.

After a moment she asks, “would you like anything stronger?”

Frank looks at her with cool appraisal that says what he won’t out loud—that somehow, on some level, he helped with what’s to come. And he knows she’s letting him get away with it.

“No thanks,” he says. “But you go ahead.”

And she does. She falls asleep beside him on the couch, drunk with her head resting on his shoulder, sometime after 4:30, an economy bottle of wine that started full and is now half gone still out on the coffee table.

On Monday, Ellison will ask her to look into the story of a body found charred beyond recognition in an NYPD patrol car.

She’ll tell him there was nothing she could dig up, and never mention it again. 

[turnips-creates]

The Coin Thief Excerpt

(tw: blood, self harm, mentions of death and murder)

The charred remains of Cass’s childhood home shifted quietly in the brisk winter wind as she stepped across the threshold into the grand foyer of the main house. Pale ash floated in the still air, stirring only at the closing of the large heavy irochan wood doors behind her, and the faint echoes of children’s laughter and teenage shouts flitted through her senses upon scanning the large room of dark stone and singed tile. Cass squared her shoulders under her large patchwork cloak and relaxed into the calm atmosphere - the silence permeating every cranny and crevice interrupted only by her heartbeat. She pulled the scarf from over her nose and let out a slow breath, frost coating her lips and fogging the air in front of her before she walked deeper into the manor for the first time in over ten years.

Her gloved hand reached out to trace the intricate carvings embedded in the front of the carriage-sized Carsilis - a scaley, fanged creature with horns and claws and wings - seated in the center of the room where she moved it after finding the beast fallen from its original perch above the great double stairwell lining the curved walls. She gently brushed bare fingertips over its snout with a low hum of an old hymn.

“You’ve done well, old friend,” Cass murmured, tapping her forehead against the beast’s head gently. “I’ll come give you a good cleaning once I’m settled, so keep an eye on the door for me, alright, Liser?”

She pulled back and made her way around the sculpture, running a guiding touch along its flank. Her feet didn’t make a sound in her leather boots as she padded, stirring the dust and ashes up from the patterned floor and turning the dark material a light gray.

The elevated walkway missing pieces of its banisters and decorated in dark scorch marks passed high over her head. The house opened into a large hall with soaring arches and tall, cracked, and broken windows lining the top of the walls. Moonlight streamed through in pillars and illuminated glass lanterns hanging from the ceiling embellished in smoke-smudged, branch-like metal filigree and dark vines twisted and drooping almost as low as the lanterns. The worn wooden floor beneath her feet smelled faintly of warm incense and the small, monochrome ferns and trees sprouting around the walls, and her weight caused certain places to creak.

At the very end stood a large fire pit of black stone. Cass made her way up the few stone steps, around the pit, to the altar carved behind it, removing her canvas satchel from across her body to set it at the base.

She looked up to the giant stained glass masterpiece standing behind it. The woman depicted stood tall in her light armor and flowing cape, her hands resting on the pommel of a great sword stabbed into the ground before her. This was House Carlisle’s pride - the blood of Arendti, Goddess of War, Protection, and Loyalty supposedly running through their veins - yet as Cass stared up at the shining warrior without ash or scorch mark, she couldn’t help but taste the bitterness her possible ancestor left in her mouth.

With a scowl, Cass pulled the knitted gloves from her palms and shirked her cloak to place them to the side. Her scarf came loose with a couple tugs, and she rolled her ratty tunic sleeves up to her elbows, revealing intricate, swirling tattoos around her neck and wrists, the dark ink standing stark against the pale icy blue of her skin.

She ran her fingertips over the markings on one wrist, shivering at how cold they were. Cass bent over to pull several logs from beneath the altar as well as a small vial of liquid flame. The dark wood slid to the center easily, stopping only when making contact with the leftovers at the bottom, before Cass tossed the vial on top.

The glass shattered, and flames encompassed the logs faster than it took for the vial to reach the wood. The smell of old incense burned Cass’s nose as soft gold light flickered across her face.

She turned back to the altar, stripping as she went, until all that was left were the metal beads woven into her hair and the piercings in her ears. Her clothes sat folded on her cloak, far enough they hopefully wouldn’t get burned.

Taking the knife left on the rock, Cass turned to the pit, flexing her fingers with crackling joints. She pulled the blade from its wooden home and examined the intricate bronze-plated engraving of her family’s crest for any rust, but the metal was completely clear and shone like it was polished that morning. Her last memory of this knife was of her mother the night before she died - before they all died. Before her quest began. It seemed smaller than when she was a child, the blade itself only as long as her hand from wrist to fingertip and as wide as two fingers.

Pressing the outer curve of the metal to her palm, Cass wrapped her hand around the blade in a tight grip before yanking it through. Dark - almost purple - blood pooled in her palm quickly, but she did nothing to stop it. Instead, Cass grabbed her other wrist and painted the ink in the thick liquid, and, once she thoroughly coated the skin, she then did the same to her neck with barely a wince at the pain of an open wound in her palm. Cass placed the knife on the small stone slab raised next to the top of the stairs leading down, so she could use her fingers to run blood around that wrist as well.

Raising her arms out in front of her, Cass turned her hands palms up and began to hum.

The liquid on her skin began to smolder a deep red, getting brighter with each line. Her tattoos appeared to absorb the blood coating them and cracked to shine reds and oranges as if molten rock flowed beneath. When smoke started to seep from the ink on her wrists and neck, Cass took her first step down the worn carved staircase.

By the fourth step down, the cracks spread to follow the vessels beneath the pale blue-tinted skin, warming it until the flesh was more a rosy ash-gray closer to the shade of the leftover flakes within the manor.

The chill of Cass’s seal melted as the heat of her true magic seared her veins and licked the frost from her skin. The stairs beneath her feet no longer speared needles into her soles but made a calming contrast of cool obsidian to the raging inferno burning in her blood.

Upon reaching the floor of the stone basin, Cass sighed a soft breath of smoke from her lips to join the that of the bonfire in the frigid air of the banquet hall. Tears formed on her long dark lashes as she stepped into the flames. They gravitated to her, shifting around and welcoming her into the fire’s embrace as if she were a long-lost loved one, and for the first time since the massacre - since she’d received these powers in exchange - Cass relaxed into her surroundings.

As the last of the ice seal melted from her body, the wealth of power Cass gathered beneath it over the years burst forth to integrate with her flesh and blood and bone and stoked the flames to a frenzied tower of heat almost touching the ceiling.

[ayzrules]

find the word tag!

thank you so much to @thoughpoppiesblow and @charlesjosephwrites for the tag <3 !!! gonna combine them , apologies in advance for length!

drawing from stuff w/ @artless-whimsy & rp story w/ @bebemoon & the btr girls <3 <3 <3

wind

In the desert, the darkness falls over the land in a shimmer of silken starlight, slithering through the night and cloaking the world in puddles of gloom that prowl across the skies and murmur with the wind.

sunlight

“Then what else am I supposed to call it, if not ‘enthralled’?” Elias demanded irritably, a snarl simmering in his voice and Wolf-gold tinging his irises in serrated sunlight as he rolled his eyes.

frozen

“What did you say?” Yinmei Zhang interjected harshly, and Alejandro felt Gen stiffen beside him as the tension cut through the air, thick and choking and coiling around them like Adrian’s hand crushing at his throat. When he attempted to send a reassuring smile her way, he saw that she’d frozen in place, her face as white as the fluttering silk sleeves of Zhang’s gown.

tide

STORMS that shatter the heavens in half, shuddering the world apart at its very foundations. Wind that tears a sandstorm over the hills, the thrashing, jagged-edged columns of dust and grit skidding and splintering across the desert until even the sun and stars succumb to the never-ending tide.

park

Mai was sitting on a bench under the shade of a willow tree. The sun was out, soft like morning dew; her husband was arranging for a carriage at the entrance to the park, and the air smelled of spring rain.

lie (lying)

The fire flashes and flickers over low-lying grasses and snarls of woody vegetation, devouring everything in its path as the air glimmers with heat and dances with ash

rest

Dark clouds gather in the west, roiling and restless: they are bruises of dust and water vapor, blooming over the sky like deadly nightshade. Thunder growls over the land, a heaven-bound panther stalking its prey, and the mortals fear its wrath.

grass

In the valleys and ridges, spring-soft grass gives way to lightning-charred rock. Rain-lush trees - wreathed in mist like wisps of wafting lace - shrivel down to crags of blackened roots and coal-dark stumps.

tagging: @inlilac {to do in the server!} @pinkhairedjoon @vampirkaninchen @crystallized-ink @daydreamodyssey + anyone else who sees & wants to do!

your words are: sky, moon, flower, swirl

[omgitscharlie]

...and their eulogies sang me to sleep

not tagging anyone. this is original content. not fanfiction. trigger warning disturbing imagery/ body horror.

gnawing. barking. screeching. 

omnipotent thoughts descended into incoherent sound, willpower bound by the very real, very visceral need to destroy. how they’d yearned to see someone bow, to collapse upon their knees and beg for their life ─ a dream laid dormant then come to life. 

with a mouth hung agape so wide it resembled and unholy serpent, their lips tugged into a wicked mirth filled with a sense of paralyzing unease. each movement they made was jarring, muscles jerking and knuckles cracking with notion that it had been the first time they’d been used in centuries. palms hit the floor in front of them, talons sinking into the wood floor and leaving divots behind as their head rolled and their tongue hung loosely from their mouth. 

charcoal-soaked eyes rolled to the back of their hand, a deep, wheezy breath drawn to their lungs in preparation for speech.

“a deeply heart-felt goodbye...” 

another breath taken through their body with the faintest overtone of a whistle, “to the part of me that died when i decided...” 

a loud thud of their hand hitting the floor followed, echoing through the aged house while tar-like drool dripped to the floor with each lick of their parched lips. 

thirsty. so thirsty.

“to put others before me ─ ”

a gargled, strained croak managed phonate words of disturbing inflection rather than the whistling wheeze that struggled to form. 

stiffness melted away with each passing moment, muscle memory returning to the once dormant body attached to a lullabied mind. pressing their weight against their hands, their arms pushed their torso upward, one leg sliding beneath their stomach and hoisting their body onto all fours. no longer were they that same serpent, writhing along the ground with no direction.

“yes, my heart fell asleep,” still so wicked and inhuman, laced in a snarl, their tone harboured a chill intended to sink into any bone near enough to hear it, “boredom and fatigue.”

like leaving the ocean for land, the evolution of man they’d seen for themselves, they began to crawl with little coordination, managing to fall to their chest with a thud.

groaning. growling. snarling.

curse the vessel once long since abandoned, slow to remember and so fragile in nature. strength didn’t fail them, shoulders protruding from their corpse tinted flesh as their chest left the floor and they continued their path.

“i always said i wanted to die smiling, to pretend i’m at peace.”

more words in one breath, though still broken and shriek-filled, lungs relinquishing themselves of dust. black strings of mist began to swirl themselves around each finger, dancing over the back of their hand and wrapping around her wrist. pools of ink scanned their surrounding, neck snapping to the side and quaking in place as they released a screech that echoed down the long, narrow hallway before them.

silence.

but not loneliness.

finally, they placed the sole of their foot to the floor, thighs, calves and core working together to erect the frame they’ve been bound to. it was unbalanced, falling against the wall with a hand placed against the wall, leaving four precisely straight lines in the drywall behind as they gathered their footing.

“now from my corpse beams a frigid, blank grin ─ “

no falsehood shown, their lips pulled into side grin, black, inky drool falling in small streams over their lips and down their chin to the floor. 

“and hopeful eyes sunken in.”

talon-tipped hands lifted to their face, index and middle finger hooking the lower lid to their hell-steeped gaze and pulling them down enough to show the bright red muscle beneath. the smirk fell, instead simply letting there horror-gaped mouth hang open with another glass-shattering shriek.

cold.

it was cold.

they were no longer numb.

touch. cool air on their back, whipping through the length of their oceanic tresses, supernatural and other worldly. steam escaped their lips as a result of a purposefully hot breath.

at last. life.

“like a lullaby to the cradle ─ “ 

much clearer now was the tangible wording that left them, low and feminine, though still holding strain.

they wanted to hear more.

“is the eulogy to casket.”

hissing.

then curiosity. burning wood. 

staring down to their feet, coated in the same tar that did her teeth and tongue, they took a step forward to reveal an charred imprint behind. sole met wood and that hissing began once more, scorching the very ground they stumbled upon. deep, low and guttural, amused by the sight, their head snapped up with such a primal sound. 

“all my flaws wept under the table,” they continue their poetic summoning, jumbled memories of lives since lived. 

reflection of a reflection, they cease their movements, simply staring ahead with hopeless eyes. peripheral vision brought her likeness to life, slowly turning their gaze towards themselves in the mirror hanging so unassumingly in the middle of the hallway.

the vanity of humans never failed.

what a welcome sight. so welcome they did smile once again as death-capable hands lifted to the two horns protruding from either side of their head. how  bloodied and slick they were, littered with the flesh of their own head as they’d sprouted from their own skull.

“to grieve the porcelain doll that was me...”

capable of volume differentiation, a hushed whisper meant only for themselves as a contradicting wistful smile took shape. 

suddenly, a creak. their head whipped towards such a sound, oh so out of place. 

no.

not lonely.

“their solemn songs sing me to sleep,” louder now. louder. confident in the deceptively smooth nature of their tone. 

tail-like tongue circled their lips, hanging long and far from their mouth as they found more stable footing. still did each toe sear the natural wood of the house they’d last known themselves to reside in. screams. a chorus. yes.

divine.

“as my body escaped me.”

nothing but a wall stood before them, a door on either side. one led to a bedroom  ─

“their solemn songs sing me to sleep, “ and the other, “as my body ─ ”

a ragged breath. the smell of fear. senses collecting all at once.

a closet.

snapping their head to the side, murder-fueled hands gripped the handle to the closet. to wrench it open.

a scream.

then silence.

then loneliness.