#I am not going to fuck with a cat that could hit an artery

[whereisthedamndaddymanual]

She is over here trying to tell me she has to play mama may i

From the texts she sends she already seems very accepting of it.

As a good husband, I accept they need feminine compassion. And as their husband I reserve the right to reserve all extra honey for all.

[leonisdumbasallhell]

So much Leon, how about Jill?? Can we fuck up Jill?? how about 🦴

🦴 I think it’s broken… - hehehehe I love Jill

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Jill hit the ground in whatever the opposite of running was. She hit the ground like a dead fish. She hit the ground like a tossed brick. She hit the ground and it fucking hurt and now she was trying to come up with reasons not to look at her leg.

On a plus, she was 100% sure her leg was still there. Because she didn't think it would hurt this much if it wasn't. But what did she know. She'd never lost a limb before. Maybe today was the lucky day she'd find out.

"Jill? Jill! Where did you go? Are you alright?"

Chris sounded shrill, and Jill would have laughed if she didn't want to puke. She stared up at the cliff face she'd been tossed over. Didn't this happen to Chris once? He'd said it had. At least there weren't fucked up dogs for her to deal with. Yet.

She cleared her throat, "I'm here."

She could hear him sigh in relief, "Oh thank God, you're okay. I saw you go over the cliff and I--" He didn't finish the sentence.

Jill winced. Yeah. She'd thought the same thing on the way down.

She shifted slightly, stiffling a whimper as her leg screamed at her the way her lungs refused to. Fuck it hurt. Something shifted too, something wasn't where it was supposed to be. Sea salt air in open wounds. She glanced to the side, hoping she wasn't any where near high tide.

"Nope." She grunted, "I'm alive. Mostly."

"Jill, I don't like the sound of that." Chris got dead serious again. "What's your status?"

"I can say with certainty I am not a cat."

"What the fuck does that mean."

"Means if I land on my feet, I will break something."

She heard him suck wind. "Shit Jill, how bad are we talking?"

"Not sure, haven't looked." She really, really, really didn't want to.

Chris hesitated, "Can you look for me?"

She hated him for asking.

Jill lifted her head, the movement making her feel delerious, then the sight of her leg making her nigh on hysterical.

It wasn't facing the right way, bone poking out at wrong angles, having torn skin from the impact of hitting the ground. She was bleeding, but that was probably the worst of her worries, since it looked sluggish and lazy. No bone shards had hit arteries. But the nerves inside her bone marrow were now exposed, and she supposed that was probably what was making them so agitated. Had to be the salt in the air. Nerves don't like that.

Jill laughed at her own joke, if you could call it that. It was a slight laugh to start, but built into something nearly hysterical, making her chest and throat ache.

"Jill?" Chris sounded somewhere far away, and logically she knew he was, even though the comm was in her ear, "What's wrong? What's it look like?"

Jill's laughter tapered off, replaced by a nausea. Her mouth tasted like sour breath and she tried not to gag on it, bile rising up to join the party.

She swallowed it down, hoping to keep it there so she could speak.

"Yeah." Her voice cracked, "Yeah, I think it's broken."

[fics-by-caroline]

Bloodlust

Pairing: Loki x Fem!Magical!Reader

Summary: You and Loki are part of the Avengers, but the pair of you have different ideas of what justice entails than the rest of the group; i.e., more horror, more drama, an eye for an eye. And man, do you two ever look sexy covered in blood.

Category: Smut (18+ only, please!)

Warnings: Smut (blood kink, oral sex -- f receiving), rough sex, porn with some plot), language, graphic descriptions of violence, gore, smoking, alcohol consumption, mention of human trafficking.

A/N: This is my first time writing smut, so please be nice 🥺

   Taking a drag from a cigar in the corner of the dimly-lit speakeasy, your target looked you up and down. Even without tapping into his thoughts, you could tell that he liked what he saw; how the black dress you wore hugged your figure, how you had crossed your legs in a way that allowed him to catch the red bottoms of your heels, red that was reflected in your lipstick and nails. You turned to make eye contact with him, and were immediately hit with hearing him imagine you on your knees sucking him off in one of his fancy cars and afterwards kicking you out onto the street.

   Typical, You thought with disgust, finishing your martini. You could feel his eyes on you, burning into your back. Feeling him get up and walk towards you, you shot a knowing look at Loki across the bar.

   “Can I buy you a drink?” The man’s voice was dripping in disgusting salaciousness. He sat beside you, reeking of the over-application of cologne, whiskey, and cigar smoke.

   You shot him a demure smile. “A dirty martini, drier than the Sahara.”

   The man waved down the bartender before leaning closer to you. “Michael Ashbourne.”

   You suppressed an eye roll, taking instead to lighting a cigarette. “I know who you are, Mr. Ashbourne.”

   “And what is it that you know of me?” Ashbourne stroked your hair with a drunken finger.

   Uncrossing your legs, you turned to face him. “That you are one of the worst Midgardian men alive today. You cheat people out of their winnings in various casinos around the world, making yourself and your friends — no doubt the ones who surrounded you in that corner over there — some of the richest men in the world, while managing to operate under the radars of your enemy governments. You sell weapons and drugs because you always want even more money on top of the billions you already have, not caring about the damage you cause. You drink the most expensive liquors, sleep with all the women you please, and leave people eating the dust in your wake. But what brings you to the epitome of disgusting actions is your engagement in the trafficking of girls, once again, for even more money.” Even though you kept your voice low, you made sure to lace every word with biting poison.

   Ashbourne pulled back in shock, unmoving and speechless.

   You smirked at his silence. “Your cunningness is almost impressive, especially for a human. You manage to remain one step ahead of the mewling mortals who are left to crawl in your fading footprints. Bravo. Unfortunately for you, however, I am not one of them.” You waved a finger, from which a small ribbon of white magic followed.

   “Who the hell are you?” Ashbourne hissed.

   “A hero in the eyes of the people you have crossed, and the villain in yours.”

   Ashbourne scoffed condescendingly. Stupid bitch, you heard him think. “Speaking in mysterious riddles just makes you look stupid, missy. I don’t know how you know what you know, but it’s a bit too much for my liking.” He raised a hand, beckoning over the large men who had accompanied him.

   You sighed, unimpressed. Before they could so much as reach for their belt, you pulled the pistol from your garter stockings and fired silenced shots in between their eyes, before holding a dagger against Ashbourne’s throat. The speakeasy froze in horrified silence.

   With a small chuckle at the sudden shock and fear in Ashbourne’s muddy eyes, you called to Loki. “Darling, are there others?”

   “No darling, not here … but we can’t have witnesses, can we?” Loki sauntered up to you, kissing you on the head. He looked around at the few bystanders in the bar, terror keeping their feet rooted in place.

   “Loki, is that really necessary —”

   You were cut off by Loki launching towards the horrified bystanders like a cat pouncing on prey, his daggers slicing through their necks gliding ease. He finished off by throwing a knife into the bartender’s skull, silencing his terrorized mind that shrieked in your own so annoyingly. Loki looked back at you with an amused glint in his eyes, blood on every surface of the speakeasy, including Loki’s own body. Gesturing around him, he noted dryly, “They were dead in seconds, no suffering.”

   You rolled your eyes before turning your attention back to Ashbourne, who sat with eyes wide and mouth agape. You smirked and applied a bit more pressure to the blade in your hand, drawing small beads of blood. You snuffed out your cigarette and stood up, toying with his bowtie as your heel dug into his foot. You could taste the fear that drenched his mind. “What’s this?” You cooed. “Feeling scared?”

   “Ah, you’re so right, my love,” Loki smiled, looking around the room at the bloody mess he created. “Not using magic is so much more fun. I missed getting my hands dirty.”

   You chuckled lowly. You couldn’t help but stare at him hungrily; there was something in the way the blood splatter stood out against his pale skin that awoke an arousal in you. Shaking your head, you turned back to the man under your knife and cocked an eyebrow. “How do you think I should do this? Stabbing is too classic, going for the neck is too neat.”

   “Unzip him, dear,” Loki hummed. He shot a bolt of green magic towards the man, binding him in glowing ropes that wrapped around his pitiful body. Noticing your dry look, he shrugged. “I want a proper view of your handiwork, and I can’t have that if I’m holding him.”

   “Fair enough,” You said. After a moment’s thought, you waved your hands, making Ashbourne’s shirt disappear in a white flash of your own magic.

   “Wait, wait, stop. What do you want? Money? I have money. What do you want?” Ashbourne pleaded.

   “I want ...” you said coldly, “to hear you scream.”

   You stepped forward and sunk your dagger into his lower abdomen, slicing upwards smoothy, careful as to not sever any major blood vessels. Ashbourne screamed in agony — music to both yours and Loki’s ears. You grinned at the blood that spurted out to meet you, and tossed the dagger onto the surface of the bar. You looked at the open mess in front of you and sunk your hand into the open cavity, making Ashbourne wail.

   Loki smacked Ashbourne’s face with a deadly glare. “Stay awake, you.”

   You reached farther into Ashbourne’s gut, quickly finding the pulsating aorta. You looked up at Ashbourne’s paling face, cheek now sporting a bloody handprint from where Loki had slapped him, and pulled on the artery, which snapped and spurted hot blood all over you. Loki released his magic binds, leaving the body of the man to collapse like a rag doll onto the floor, very much dead.

   You could hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears as you discarded the shred of aorta in your hands onto the lifeless body. You turned to look at Loki, who was smiling back at you with a familiar, blazing fire behind his eyes. He reached over and picked up your discarded dagger from the tabletop. He looked it over once, then swiped his tongue up one side of the blade. You groaned in arousal at the sight.

   “The taste of justice, my dear,” He said, licking his lips.

   He turned his fiery gaze back on you, holding the knife out for your taking. Without breaking eye contact, you licked up the other side, the metallic taste of Ashbourne’s blood spreading through your mouth only adding to the wet ache between your legs.

   “Fucking hell,” Loki breathed, the large bulge in his dress trousers clearly evident.

   You took the dagger, swiping away the rest of the blood that stained it on your finger and licked it clean. A deep rumble escaped from Loki’s lips before he smashed his lips onto yours, your tongues trading the tastes of blood and saliva. With a sharp tug, Loki tore your dress down and pinched your nipples between his bloodied fingers as he backed you up onto the bar. While normally, he would take his time with you, tease you at a torturously slow pace, make you plead and squirm beneath him, he now was fuelled purely by an animalistic flame, his lips and teeth marking your lips, jaw, neck, shoulders, collarbones. You broke apart only for you to render the pair of you naked by way of a flick of the wrist and a flash of white light. You stared at each other, both of you breathless and admiring how the blood that drenched your clothing had stained your bodies in a beautiful pattern of death.

   “I love you so much,” You whispered.

   “I love you too,” Loki said, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip lightly.

   In a flash, the momentary gentleness was gone as Loki pushed two fingers inside of you and curled them. You shouted out in pleasure, then gasped when you felt Loki’s tongue on your clit.

   “Fuck, Loki!” You hissed, throwing your head back and grinding deeper onto Loki’s fingers and tongue.

   The most audacious and obscene sounds filled the speakeasy as Loki twisted his fingers inside your cunt and attacked you with his mouth. You moaned unabashedly and Loki in return groaned against your body. His nips against your clit were anything but gentle, his fingers fucking your cunt so deeply, so gloriously, that your entire body sparked with invisible electricity.

   “You’re going to cum for me,” Loki growled, “you’re going to cum for me and make me drink it as you do.”

   You nodded into the air, gasping, panting, writhing under him. You clenched around his head, locking Loki into place, and came on his face, rolling and thrusting your hips against his mouth. Loki held your hips and drank your release until your orgasm finally finished washing over you.

  Before you could begin to catch your breath, Loki seized your neck in one large hand and pushed himself inside of you in one fluid motion, causing the both of you to moan loudly. He started moving his hips immediately at a quick and relentless pace, splitting you apart in pleasure. You reached up to wrap your arms and legs around him desperately. As he hit that sweet spot that no other could, you brought your nails down his back, no doubt drawing blood. All thoughts had disappeared from your minds, pure animalistic pleasure and arousal clearing everything else out. Your combined energy made the lights spark and flicker, furniture going flying as your grip on your magic became weaker. Loki slammed into you, your walls tight around him, his pelvis grinding in such a way that he moved against your clit. You were only barely registering how you clung onto him for dear life, the most indecent noises pouring from both of your mouths, bodies slick in blood and sweat sliding against one another. Your connection into each other’s minds let you both know that the other was just as close to their climax without speaking. Expletives punctuated your shared groans and screams, Loki’s grip on your body so tight that bruises were sure to follow, your teeth and nails marking his skin.

   “Loki, I — fuck — Loki!” You cried as you felt your body begin to tremble uncontrollably.

   “I know, I — ah! I know —!” Loki groaned, biting your neck.

   You exploded again with a scream and you slammed your hand onto the table, releasing a huge pulse of magic that levelled the room around you. Green explosions set off around you as Loki lost control and spilled into you with a stammering thrust and deep groan. Even though your eyes were both closed, you could see each other in your minds, totally blissful and exhausted, chests heaving. Loki’s lips found yours in a loving kiss.

   “We should ... we should clean up here before the others come by,” You said, still out of breath.

   Loki nodded wordlessly. He pulled out of you, causing you to whimper. We waved his hand, and the speakeasy righted itself in a glow of green light. Tables and chairs fixed themselves, light fixtures hung back up on the ceilings, blood and bodies disappeared, until the only remnant of your activities was the gore that still covered your naked bodies. You stood up and cricked your neck before cleaning yourself and Loki up, and dressing the pair of you in the dress and tuxedo you two were wearing. 

   “What will we say to the others when they ask about the sudden disappearance of everyone here?” You asked slowly.

   “Don’t worry, love,” Loki grinned, “we can tell them the truth. We’re both too valuable for them to kick us out of the group.”

   You laughed and took Loki’s outstretched arm, walking out into the cool night.

[withoutmonsters]

Maybe I’m Too Young (to Keep Good Love from Going Wrong)

tags: implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced child neglect, a little bit of period typical homophobia, pining, so much pining, post s2, pre-s3

link to ao3

The broccoli sizzled when it hit the hot oil. Steve grabbed a wooden spoon and stirred it, getting all nice and coated in oil, before turning back to his cutting board and finishing chopping the florets. He hummed as he did, a Tears for Fears song that he had heard on the radio on the ride home. The sound of knuckles against a window startled him, and he whipped around. Through the cutout on the wall and the sliding glass doors, Steve could see Billy, smirking like a cat who got the cream and looking like a supermodel. Steve cursed him for surprising him, but crossed out of the kitchen and the living room.

He pulled open the door, glaring a bit. “What the fuck, Hargrove?”

Billy smirked. “What, pretty boy? It’s seven, you should’ve been expecting me.”

Steve glanced at the clock. It was, indeed, seven. “That doesn’t give you carte blanche to just startle me out of nowhere, dick.”

Billy raised an eyebrow. “You do realize that your door was locked and I couldn’t get in, right? I wasn’t trying to startle you.”

Steve huffed, not bothering to give a reply. He knew Billy was right, as Billy was in most things, but that didn’t mean that he liked to admit it.

His friendship with Billy was a strange one. It was made up of equal parts aggression and secrecy. There were so many unspoken words between them that sometimes it felt like it was choking Steve, but he was never going to admit that, especially to Billy. He didn’t know a lot about the other boy, but he treasured what he did know. Like that Billy liked eating vegetables with his meat. If there wasn’t something green on his plate, he’d grumble about it until Steve found some. Steve knew that Billy was constantly licking him lips because they were always chapped. He knew that Billy had three freckles stretched across the expanse of his carotid artery on his neck, lined up like Orion’s Belt. He knew that Billy chewed on his cuticles and that his knuckles were constantly bleeding, not because of fights but because he was perpetually working on the Camaro. He knew that Billy liked his coffee so sweet that it puckered Steve’s lips when he tried it and that Billy would always wear the same three shirts over and over and over again. Steve learned that Billy tied his shoes incredibly tight and would always wrap himself up in about four layers of blankets if he came even remotely close to a bed.

The things that Steve didn’t know about Billy were, somehow, much more than what he did. They seemed to fill up the space around Billy, flooding the air and expanding like some sort of invisible gas. Steve choked on Billy’s secrets sometimes, when Billy showed up at 2 am, battered and hurt and looking like he just lost a fight against a grizzly. Those were the times when Steve had so many words and yet none at all, when he felt like he would suffocate on the lack of his reassurances. Billy never asked for them. All Billy asked for, the first time and all the times since, was a bathroom sink to spread out the first aid supplies he kept in his car. The first time Steve had volunteered his own supplies, Billy had pushed him away until Steve got in his face, eyes locked and mouth hardened in an unforgiving line. He had pulled the same expression he pulled when the party decided to go off and do something so incredibly stupid like venture into demodog infested tunnels just because their friend was in danger. He had worn the authority of his borrowed paternal status, like a mantle on his shoulders, chin held high and head canted like a crown rested on it, and Billy had given in, slumping like Atlas under the weight of the world, bags under his eyes and breath in his chest and he looked, for a moment, like a child, young and sad and so tired that Steve had wanted to wrap him up like a lost kitten and never let him go.

It had only been for a moment. Because the next was ruined with Billy’s words spilling from his mouth, because you could never forget that this was Billy Hargrove, a perpetual snake spewing poison, aggressive and angry and so on fire that sometimes it took Steve’s breath away. Billy burned like a bonfire; he was always so alive, like no one else Steve had ever known. Steve’s life had been a ceaseless suburbia, gray days bleeding into dark nights, and he hadn’t realized how much of it he had missed until Billy had blazed into the school parking lot, Scorpions on blast and an engine roaring like some kind of animal. It was like, through his whole life, Steve had been dreaming, lucid eyes wandering under closed lids, with flashes of decisions that usually ended up with him gripping a bat impaled with nails and waiting for a monster straight out of Dante’s ninth circle coming for him with shark teeth and a flower-petal face and in those moments, he wished with all his ardent heart that he’d lived differently, that he’d changed and loved and hoped and wanted but he never could find the energy to lift a finger when all was said and done and he’d gone home, bruised and tired and feeling a few centuries too old for his body. When it was all over, all Steve was good for was sleeping. Sleeping and waiting like some dragon, sitting on his trove with nostrils open and eyes closed.

And then Billy had been there, looking like a predator, and something had awoken in Steve, flaring to life in his chest and blazing a path through his mind until all he could see was Billy Hargrove, bedroom eyes and his sneer curling his lips. That was all, some nights. All Steve dreamed was Billy’s voice sliding through his ears, Billy’s eyes giving him so many mixed signals that they made cocktails in his lungs, gasping and burning and slurring until all Steve felt was an overwhelming exasperation with himself and the boy across from him. And some nights it was a blank panic that blacked out his vision until Billy found him like that, bruised and hurt but still concerned, because under all his hatred, he was just a boy with too big a heart. On those nights, it was Billy taking care of Steve, even if he was limping like a stray dog, like a broken machine. Steve would cling to him because he was real, because he was firm muscle grounded on strong legs attached to feet firmly planted to the ground and Steve felt like he would float away if he didn’t hold on hold tight to Billy’s biceps until he was sobbing crying breaking in his living room with all the lights blazing through the doors and then Billy would scoop him up and sit with him until early morning, when Steve was sleeping the exhausted sleep of a small child and Billy needed to get home before Neil decided that he had more of a problem than normal with Billy’s nocturnal habits.

This was the friendship that these two boys shared, stolen affections under the table, eyes locked and smirks exchanged and elaborate rituals concocted so that they could share one soft moment, because Hawkins didn’t like boys who dared to be soft; because Hawkins would punish boys who dared to be soft.

Nobody knew—not even Nancy, who was, arguably, still Steve’s best friend despite the breakup. He wasn’t doing too well with friends these days, to be honest. He had ditched Tommy and Carol when he’d started dating Nancy, and he didn’t really regret it until it was late in the day and Tommy was still throwing him those glances that were at once hateful and longing, like he couldn’t quite decide if he wanted Steve to be the scum in the storm drains or the king of the school. It was those days that Steve pushed Billy extra hard, meeting him glare-for-glare and shove-for-shove. Because he didn’t want to see those eyes watching hm from across the court, a sneer and tears in the same expression. He didn’t want to see Tommy, the boy who he’d loved and hated in equal measure since he was five years old and starting kindergarten.

And Billy was a nice distraction. A great one, in fact, from everything in his life. From demodogs and gates and girls with too-wise eyes that cut through the armor that Steve wore to the deep dark hole inside of him that ate up all his love, until he was an empty husk and everyone who’d ever made an effort to be his friend was standing six feet away, the same distance a coffin took up. But with Billy, the coffin was already there. Six feet of emotional distance, at all times. Enough space to shove a coffin, skeleton rotting through the body and all, placed like armor, because for Billy, anything that was living was potential to be hurt, and that meant weakness. And Billy wasn’t weak. Didn’t let himself be weak. Steve found it exhausting sometimes, the self-possession that Billy held. He kept it aloft, all the time, in rain or sun, through even his most deranged moments. At first, Steve thought he was wildly uncontrolled, a newborn colt kicking out at whatever he could reach, even if that was the life-giving mare right next to him. But the night at the Byers’ had made something painfully apparent: no, Billy wasn’t out of control. He was always, always in control, even if he was bashing his head into Steve’s like he didn’t care if he got a concussion. He knew everyone’s movements three steps ahead, and took the time to consider all of them and then make his own move; and most of the time, it was the worst move he could’ve made, designed specifically to hurt the most. He drove everyone away, with the careful precision of a surgeon overlaid by the brute force of a battering ram. It was distinctly Billy: strong and destructive and so completely unstoppable.

Billy leaned against the counter, blue eyes taking in too much as Steve fumbled with the broccoli florets. Steve’s nanny had taught him to cook in middle school. She had let him lurk in the kitchen as she moved about like a graceful ghost, hands quick and clever, eyes focused. Steve had asked to help one day, because the nights when she cooked were the closest he had gotten to family dinners in years, and she gave him a smile and showed him. When she was officially unemployed by the Harringtons, Steve kept in touch with her, receiving recipes weekly from her. It was something that endlessly fascinated Billy for some reason, Steve’s ability to cook. The first time he’d stayed for dinner, his eyes had been pinned to Steve the whole night. Steve had shifted, awkward under his stare, wondering if it would always be like that.

Steve added the broccoli heads, stirring until they were coated. After he was done with the broccoli, Steve added the chicken, cut up into bite sized pieces, to brown. Billy went to the fridge and pulled out a beer, silently offering to get one for Steve, too. Steve shook his head, motioning to the bottle of wine that he had opened when he started cooking dinner.

Billy’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Bougie wine mom,” he joked, voice gently teasing, and Steve wrinkled his nose at him.

They sat down to dinner in comfortable silence, forks clinking against plates and the sounds of chewing the only conversation. Steve didn’t mind; in fact, he enjoyed nights like these, where Billy was quietly soft, more focused on his own inner narrative than what is going on around him. The first few nights like this, Billy had swung between awkward and aggressive, until they had actually sat down to eat food and then Billy had dug in like a starving dog and suddenly the bubble of awkward dancing around each other was popped and it felt like they had been doing this since they were children.

“Damn,” Billy had muttered. “This is really good, Harrington.”

Steve’s cooking skills had spawned a slew of mom jokes from him, as well, but Steve weathered them good-naturedly because when Billy was teasing him about his cooking, he wasn’t flirting. And that was sort of the goal, for these nights. To avoid flirting with Billy Hargrove, because it was becoming more and more apparent that Steve was beginning to like him too much for his own good.

And he couldn’t like Billy, because liking Billy meant wanting Billy and if it was one thing that Steve knew for certain, it was that wanting Billy would kill him. It wouldn’t be the demodogs, it wouldn’t be the Mind Flayer—hell, it wouldn’t even be the snowy roads in the middle of bumfuck-nowhere, Indiana, that never got salted after a storm and were always perilous to drive. No, it would be the sheer wanting of Billy Hargrove.

And Steve couldn’t say he didn’t look forward to that day, but he also wasn’t the one who relished pain like Billy. He couldn’t laugh through a punch; he couldn’t make it seem like it was simultaneously all a big joke and deathly-serious at the same time. Steve didn’t like pain despite the number of fights he lost.

But Billy—Billy was the kind of pain he kept poking at. In the early mornings when the sun hadn’t quite risen yet, in the dark of night when the maws of the Demogorgon ate up his dreams, in the bright daylight at school when Steve could see Billy’s face all to clearly, he poked at it. It felt a little like a sore tooth; he could walk on it, chew with it, move with it, but it wasn’t comfortable.

Billy finished all the food on his plate in record time and got up to get more. Steve watched him go, thinking about how that broad back was always turned to him, even when Billy was walking toward him, and it hurt something deep inside of him, but he wouldn’t say anything.

There was nothing to say. There was food to eat, and a hungry boy to feed, and perhaps some bruises to tend. What there was not something between them. Steve could survive this strange friendship with Billy, but he couldn't survive love.

[impulsivelycontentious]

No one reads this or connects it with my other online identities but since I've removed personals involvement from my other social media stuff, and I feel like bitching, I am jsut gonna go ahead and do it.

So I have brain damage. Yeaaaaars ago I threw up so hard I actually ripped open the inside of an artery in my neck, and it threw a clot, and that clot did some nasty shit on its way on through and out.

No doctor noticed for two weeks.

Everyone else did.

Good times.

Anyway.

So now I have a damaged brain. Brains don't grow back. Some areas can regenerate a few cells - notably the prefrontal lobe - but mostly brains fix themselves not by regenerating like skin does, but by rearranging the cells we have to fire to fancy new configurations.

This has been quite the ride. Because shit, it changes things.

I don't even know how much of my personality is consistent. No idea. Let alone everything else.

I have memory loss my nurologist won't akowledge because it falls short of dementia. That was the bar. "You don't have dementia, you know what year it is." Gee thanks there chief.

Anyway.

My brain wasn't too stable to begin with. I have always been prone to logic leaps that occur very quickly and not necessarily in ways other people would make them. My mind is jumbled and a little random and things collide all the time that probably shouldn't.

This has become much worse since the brain damage. See, my brain keeps wiring shit together. Shit it really shouldn't. It changes who I am, what I think, what I can think.

It's actually quite terrifying to realise you're a sack of geletine misfiring lighting at itself.

So anyway. To the point. Yes - I have one of those. Probably. It's somewhere in here.

Oh right, no, another detour. I'm autistic. "Oh yeah, they definatly didn't screen girls when I was a kid because how the fuck did they miss this otherwise" autistic.

Back to the point.

Recently I had this sensory processing ... Whatever the fuck that was. I call them.idssocistive episodes. I don't know how accurate that is. But my mind unhooks from my sensory data. Everything feels muted and unreal - sound, sight, touch, heat. Name it. It's wrong.

I hate these.

It gets particularly nasty because there are nurologicsl consequences. See, my concious mind ramps up it's interpretation of sensory data. It goes all in and leaves the rest of my existence stuffed in this tiny little box without enough space to do dick.

One effect of this is I suddenly become highly obsessive. I think it's a comfort mechanism, I require the same stimulus over and over again or to somehow mentally connect it to the same element. Of course, it could also jsut be that obsessive behaviour towards interests is part of who I am. I am autistic. I DEFIANTLY go all in when something fascinates me. But not... Not like this.

Do you have ANY IDEA how many times I watched starwars 8 in 72 hours? Any clue? Holy fricking ... Something. I watched it fast. I watched it slow. I watched it skipping ahead 10 seconds every 10 seconds. I dissected that thing in micrscopic detail.

It gets better. Because mere hours before I got hit with this episode... I was not a starwars fan.

Nope. I watched it. It was ok. I wasn't going out of my way for it.

And suddenly. Wham. Episode 8. All the time. I watched some 7 and 9 as well but it was like it was entierly because eit was connected to 8.

I cannot even.

And while this is happening, *I know*. I know. I really do. I know this isn't my normal behaviour. I know this isn't my wheelhouse. I know something is deeply, deeply wrong in my brain.

I think it might actually be an ok movie, honestly. But not THAT good. And now it's one of my favourite things. Forever. I have no idea if it's actually good. Did I not give eit a chance the first time? Is my obsessive brain simply emotionally hooked up how? Fuck, I don't know.

So that's why I'm posting today. On this day. May 4th.

I'm seeing a lot of star wars today and it's making my brain tickle with it's own ridiculousness.

Not the whole point though. Because it lasted 72 hours (I watched dit one more time after that and if wasn't near as intense).

But what happened AFTER my 72 hours as an obsessive raylo (oh yeah. I went there. I'm not even ashamed. I am also compeltely content with the end they got, because I do not see that shit working out).

Brains don't regrow. They rewire.

And suddenly, I'm drawing. Like... A lot. I filled pages of doodles. Sketches. I redrew a peice I'd been working on for about a month in a few hours and damnit, it was good. It's not professional quality but I'd never down anything that well before. This goes on for another day. And then I started a story, and I wrote 2000 words all at once.

I'm dyslexic. And words are severely impacted by my brain damage to the point it can cause me phsycial pain to force my thoughts in to words.

And here I am. Going nuts on my phone. The words just spilling out and again - damnit, it was good shit.

My brain was abstracting. Where the concious sort had been shunted, it wasn't directing the abstracting aspect of my mind.

And I was making cognative leaps. My brain was wiring itself together for creativity.

For another 24 hours.

And now, dear reader, we get to now.

I have written 200 words in the last 2 days. They feel wrong.

I started and stopped a dozen images. None of them feel right. And there are objective quality differences.

I can still draw a bit. If I'm not tired. I'm almost always tired - it's neural fatigue, it comes with surviving a brain damage.

I have somehow brain damaged my way in to better skills.

And it's... It's not a good feeling.

Doing it the first time and watching something take place in front of my eyes I don't recognise was like magic. It was euphoric. Amazing. Exciting.

Realising as time wears on that the ability to do this is intrinsically tied in to the way ones brain handles brain damage and sensory processing issues?

Not a great feeling cats. Not at all.

I find myself staring at a document willing words on tot he page that just aren't there anymore and feeling so frustrated I could scream.

Whose idea was this anyway? Why can't I keep my rewiring?

It's so hard dto explain the feeling of loss.

It's not me who did these things. A version of me, yes. But not the one we are keeping.

The one we keep struggles to hold a narrarive in her head and the narrator's tone took 3 rewritten to preserve for a single paragraph.

I don't want to stop. But how do I keep going? I'm not the author anymore and I've always struggled with adopting the tone of others.

So yeah. That's where I'm at. And I wanna talk about it. Because I don't want to be alone. But I can't escape the feeling I'm being dramatic. Terribly dramatic. And so talking about it is hard. How much is my own spin and perception and how much is real?

Did this really happen?

I think it did. But like every story I tell, I don't know. Memory loss. Cognetive issues.

I just wanna tell stories and draw. But the words hurt and the art makes me tired.

It's frustrating is all.

I hate being lighting geletine.

In case you're wondering what kind of cognative leap happened:

That one is april 4th.

And that one April 28th.

🤷‍♀️

Fucked if I know, really.

[il-papa-patata]

Cinnamon Bread

Swiss pretends to be asleep while Mary feeds a stray cat that came in through the window.

Domestic fluff, stray cats, fake-sleep, oh my god they were roommates, Mary is Special Ghoul AU

Rated T for nudity and sexuality

Cut for space

It can't be later than six am, but he wakes up to Mary speaking quietly.

it's a lovely morning -- a Sunday, which meant doing absolutely fuck-all; warm and summery -- you could smell summer on the air, the smell of grass and leaves; and the sun, shining through his apartment window along the now-rumpled bed. Mary wasn't one for making the bed in the morning, but then neither was he.

Mary was... well, more and more, he was a cuddler. And it was kind of sweet, Mary's long foot finding the inside of his ankle at night, hands tucked against his chest so bent Swiss sometimes worries that he'll break his wrists. The soft sound of Mary's breathing, always with its soft, telltale rasp. The more comfortable he got, the more Swiss might expect him to touch during the night, and wake up with Mary draped over him, or even a few times, wake up to Mary kissing him gently and sweetly before smirking and telling him, "I'm hungry."

But today is different. There's something magical in the air, the way the sun shines or perhaps the smell of overnight rain, or maybe the fact that Mary stands at the foot of the bed, absolutely naked, and holding a cat.

Swiss blinks. Doesn't dare move.

Mary's body is long and lean, although the man isn't very tall -- he's got these thighs, though, and these arms, and an ass that fits in Swiss's hands perfectly. He shifts, swaying his hips as he holds the cat to his chest.

"Well, then," he says, in his articulated voice, a voice that hit certain syllables with just a little bit of force, like ocean waves against the side of a boat, "Let's feed you, eh? Bet Switzy has some tuna."

The cat stares up at him, its long face inquisitive. It's a sleek thing, a swirled tabby, warm brown.

It leans up, and flicks its tongue against his sharp jaw, forcing giggles from Mary. Mary sticks his tongue right back out.

That's... adorable.

Mary chuckles, wandering out of the bedroom, bumping his forehead with the cat's, "You look like a piece of cinnamon bread."

The cat meows, and Mary play-bites the cat's cheek, saying, "You'd be good with butter, Mr. Cinnamon Bread."

Swiss doesn't move. Even though he wants to get up, and come behind Mary and kiss his nape, pull out the tuna for him, say good morning. Swiss lies there, under the heavy cotton blanket, and just listens.

"If I were him," Mary hums, "Where would I put... the tuna."

The cat meows, and Mary says , "Oh, you want down, huh. That's fine."

The sound of little paws on their -- er, his -- hardwood floor. Then of cabinets opening -- it's the one beside the sink, down below, he wants to say. The sound of the cat prancing around.

And then the cat, leaping onto the bed and onto his chest.

Swiss panics for a moment, the cat happily kneading at his chest --

Mary runs in after the cat and Swiss just has to pretend to be conked out.

"Cinnamon bread," he chides, voice quiet, a little edge. Swiss hopes his fake-sleep isn't too noticeable -- he's always been a bad actor outside of dancing, hopes it isn't too noticeable that he isn't breathing right. "I know he's comfy to sleep on, but he needs to rest."

Mary scoops the cat off his chest.

"Very rude, Herr Zimtbrot," he scolds, his voice sounding like it's turned away, "You know I want to cuddle him too, but he was out late last night."

"Band practice," he sighs overdramatically when the cat meows, acting like the cat was asking him more. Swiss is glad Mary's facing away because he's pretty sure a grin is plastered across his face. "Didn't even invite me. Said I should 'spend some time relaxing.' Hmph. Then he's got the fuckin' nerve to come home so sleepy it's adorable, and-"

Mary's voice goes a little soft, quieter. "And it was... nice. To take care of him. He's so... nice to me, so... it was- good, to help him shower. Tuck him in."

It was nice. To come home and have Mary cuss him out when he fell into his arms, but still drag him into the bathroom and run the shower over him. Mary didn't ask if he'd fucked anyone, but Swiss had been ready to say -- I didn't -- even though band practice could turn into a bacchanal real easily. Even though he had definitely seen Copia's arm around Aether and Dew's waists.

Mary had cussed him out the whole time, but he had even washed his hair, thin fingers precise, loosing it from its near-permanent bun. It's still loose and damp around his neck, now, drying in the morning sun.

The cat meows again. Mary must settle on the edge of the bed, perched lightly. Then there's a long moment, his face tightly steeled into sleep-blankness, where Swiss doesn't know exactly what happens.

Swiss feels Mary's lips touch his skin -- just lightly, just right above his eyebrow, the barest little touch.

It takes goddamn everything not to leap up and kiss this man silly. It takes a second everything to keep his face, his breathing even.

The cat meows again, a little more insistently.

"Okay, okay," Mary huffs. "Tuna."

Swiss has to let out a shaky exhale, like the moment after getting offstage. Has to touch the place where Mary kissed him -- resist the urge to flutter his feet like an entrechat, grin like a maniac. Mary might have pulled the door behind him but it wasn't closed all the way, and the cat could barge in again and expose his ruse.

Mary finds the tuna with an exclamation of "Aha." Then the sound of the can opener -- the kind of shitty one he has, but it's better than Mary taking one of his knives to the can (Swiss shudders at the idea of a knife wound while naked, Mary's usual blade sunk deep into his femoral artery)

Mary does come back in, and Swiss has to pretend again to be asleep. Relax your brow, people don't usually sleep with their brows clenched tight, you look like one of the kids in the creche when they're playing hide and seek right now-

Mary lingers, again, perches again on the side of the bed. Takes Swiss's hand where it lays -- keep it limp -- and gently strokes his thumb over the knuckles.

"Switzy," Mary calls.

He's not really sure what to do. So he just... lies there longer.

Mary harrumphs gently. Leans in further. "Switzy-baby," he singsongs, still rubbing his thumb against his fingers. Leans in closer.

It's like he's missed an entrance. Like he isn't sure if he should wait until the next measure or just go in, try to catch up.

"Schweizerost," Mary tuts, and then whispers, "If he doesn't wake up in two seconds I'm gonna kiss him 'til he can't breathe."

Well. That certainly decided that.

Mary's lips meet his. Of the many, many attractive things about Mary, his mouth had to be at least top five of the list. He was a good kisser, a little wild -- when they first started kissing, Mary used to leap right into heaviness, but these days he was slowly edging from gentle little pecks to full, open mouthed kisses. Swiss has to admit it got him going more than anything -- Mary's hot breath, how gradually there was more teeth, more tongue, until they were wanton and spit-stained, the both of them.

It's hard to not kiss back, especially when Mary runs his tongue over the seam of his lips, snakes a soft hand under the heavy cotton blanket to stroke at Swiss's bare inner thigh.

Slowly, Swiss allows himself to return the kiss. To respond to that devilish tongue. To place his own hand on Mary's firm ass, give it a squeeze.

Mary giggles, then, and pulls away. When Swiss finally opens his eyes, Mary is there with a smile that twists his face into something young and joyful, the morning sunlight caressing his sharp cheekbone.

"Good morning, Switzy. Are you gonna sleep in all day?"

Swiss swallows, missing the weight of Mary intensely, "What, do you want me to make you breakfast?"

"Mm," Mary hums, stretching his arms above his head, definitely showing off a little. Mary is very elegantly put together, albeit in a way that looks like he's cut out of clay. Swiss worries a little too much about how much of his ribs he can see at any given time. "Nah, if you're up for something, I can make it. You still look tired."

"I thought you refused to get up early," Swiss says.

"Well, if it wasn't for you, I would wake up at ten. But someone forced me to get some rest last night and now I'm wide awake."

Mary puts on a pair of loose pants -- Swiss's pants, ones that were worn and unwashed -- over his bare legs, stretching up again, showing off those arms but still, those ribs.

"What do you want? Eggs? I could get more dressed and go down to the kitchen and see if Aether's made pastries."

"Eggs sound fine. Thanks," he smiles, sitting up. It's weird to feel his hair down against his neck.

"What are you going to pay me, for my loving breakfast in bed?" Mary grins, sauntering over in a move Swiss can only recognize as a burlesque move, lot of hip-shimmies. It looks very good in the soft silk-cotton of his harem pants. Mary perches again, kind of too angular to be feminine but becoming something else entirely.

"I dunno," Swiss says, smiling and pulling himself inwards to rest his head on one of his knees, staring at Mary, "What do you want?"

"Got a lot of ideas," Mary snarls, a grin spreading along his face, exposing sharp canines. It's unfairly attractive, and Swiss reaches out a hand to worry the divot underneath his ear, to which he gives a huffy little laugh.

The cat strolls in, licking its teeth joyfully. Mary notices his eyes shift away, and he turns-

"Shit," he yelps, jumping up from the bed and scooping the cat up, hiding him from view.

Swiss wonders what to say at this point. If he should play very dumb or just a little dumb, or just come clean that he was awake longer than Mary might think.

"You wanna bring that slice of cinnamon bread over here?" He settles on. Better to be truthful.

The color that rises into Mary's cheeks is very cute. "When were you- when did you wake up?" He sputters, brow furrowing. It looks like Mary might really be mad about this. Swiss winces.

"Since you decided to feed him," Swiss admits. The color only redoubles on his cheeks.

"I can't believe you let me do that!" he whines.

"It was nice," Swiss smiles, "Like a dream. I wake up to you talking gently to a cat, your glorious ass nude in the morning light, like- That's a dream! I've had that dream!"

Swiss doesn't miss the way Mary's mouth twitches up, almost - kind of - a smile. "You were eavesdropping."

"On you and a cat," Swiss says, "And you were so sweet."

Mary turns, harrumphing as he strides to the open window and gently sets down the cat. "I'm sweet all the time."

"Mmhm," Swiss agrees, reaching for the hair tie on his nightstand, pulling his hair away from his neck.

Mary whines, "Aw, there goes your pretty hair."

"Still here, just away from my neck," he laughs, "I liked you taking care of me too. Thanks, if I didn't say it enough last night."

"You said it about thirty times, so you're fine," Mary says, scratching the cat's chin as it prepares to depart again, looking back at him, "I'm still mad at you."

Swiss smiles, rests his head on his knee again, "Will you forgive me if I make you those potatoes you like?"

Mary's face brightens. "Fuck yes-" he schools his face back down, "Er, I mean- You're still going to have pay me for the rest of breakfast."

Swiss laughs and finally gets up. He's just as naked as Mary was, and Mary watches him come over with open lust on his face.

"Hi, big boy," Mary says, kissing the cat's head one more time before it leaves, hopping from the windowframe, "This my payment?"

"Down-payment," Swiss says, pecking his lips before going to pull on a pair of boxers and a shirt. "I'm making you potatoes."

Mary laughs, throws his head back. "Love those deliciously fried potatoes."

"Come keep me company, then, if you want them to be the best I ever made." Swiss pulls him close by the waist, coaxing him over to the right answer.

Mary just kisses him again.

[lassostark]

keep me close, love me most

“... and yet, here we are.”

“Hmm.”

It was the beginning of what Jaskier hoped would be a wonderful friendship.

§

Jaskier lies immobile on the four-poster bed, dried blood on his shirt and neck making the sight a bit macabre. He’s alive and healing, and it’s all that matters.

“A friend?” Yennefer asks, voice lilting in curiosity.

Geralt opens and closes his mouth, unable to give voice to an innocent question.

§

The tavern at the small town they’ve stopped in for the night could use a bit of cleaning, but despite the slightly dreary atmosphere makes up for the lively and, surprisingly, friendly crowd.

Jaskier’s been playing for hours, and regardless of the slight cramping of his fingers, he gives into his audience’s pleas and sings ‘Toss A Coin’ for the second time that night. Afterwards, when he’s finished collecting the coin he’s earned that night, he purchases two tankards of ale and brings it to the secluded corner where Geralt has been seated the entire time.

“Such a lovely crowd for a small town!” Jaskier states jovially as he sets down the tankard in front of the Witcher. He takes a long drink of the warm ale.

“Hmm.”

“Come now, Geralt. Even you have to admit that this town’s people are the friendliest we’ve encountered in... well, ever, frankly speaking.”

“Don’t you ever shut up, bard?” Geralt grumbles, even as he lifts the tankard to his lips and takes a long sip.

You’re welcome, Jaskier thinks with an inward eye roll.

Out loud, the bard replies, “As if I have a choice, my dear friend. I speak enough for the both of us. You’re not exactly the chatty type, eh?”

Geralt rolls his eyes and huffs in annoyance, golden eyes focused somewhere over Jaskier’s left shoulder.

“Fuck off.”

§

“Stay here with Roach. I’ll be right back.”

“What? Like hell I am! I’m coming with you.”

Geralt growls. Jaskier scowls.

“No, you’re not. Stay the fuck here, Jaskier.”

“No,” Jaskier draws out the syllable as if he’s talking to a child. “I’m coming with you, damn it. I have that dagger you gave me and I know a bit of self-defense... ish. And I promise to stay far away from the action.”

“What good is a dagger and weak punch against a kikimore?” Geralt snarls. “You’d be dead before you can lift a finger.”

Jaskier scoffs. “Where in ‘I promise to stay far away’ did you not get, you grumpy wolf? What if something happens to you? You’re my friend. You need me to be there to help-”

“For fuck’s sake, Jaskier, I don’t need you!”

Stunned at the outburst, Jaskier gapes openly at Geralt with a hurt expression while Geralt pulls out the Cat potion. He drinks it in one go and then tosses the empty bottle back in the saddle bag.

Before Geralt disappears into the woods, he turns his head over his shoulder and regards Jaskier with a hard look. The bard snaps his mouth shut, a mixture of arousal and hurt and worry and fascination when he meets the Witcher’s black eyes.

“I’ll be back. Stay the fuck here and look after Roach.”

When enough time has passed and he’s certain that Geralt won’t hear him, Jaskier mutters under his breath, “Probably needs a good fucking, that one.”

Roach snorts.

§

“Calm down.”

“I’m sorry but who, of the two of us, got stabbed with a rusty knife? That’s right, me! I get to decide if I want to calm down or not!”

“If you had listened to me the first time and shut your mouth, you wouldn’t have been stabbed in the first place.”

“It wasn’t my fault that man was being incredibly rude! Damn whoreson deserved a beating.”

“You sure did.”

“Excuse me?! I was defending your honour, Mr. Geralt of fucking Rivia! Because you’re my friend! And this all the thanks I get? Sarcastic remarks as I bleed to death?”

“Don’t be dramatic. It hit your thigh, and it looks like it didn’t nick an artery. You’ll live.”

“Oh, that’s reassuring! Just, you know, one tiny thing - how the fuck am I supposed to walk now? You have that contract, after all. Unless you’re willing to let me ride on Roach.”

Geralt glares at the hopeful expression on Jaskier’s face.

“No.”

“But I can’t go with you in this state!”

“I know. You’re staying here.”

Jaskier splutters. “S-stay? Here?”

Geralt nods, looking a tad uncomfortable. “I can’t delay the job by staying here and babysitting you.”

Jaskier’s face turns red in anger and... something he doesn’t want to name right now because -

“Babysit?! I don’t need you to babysit me, Geralt! I’m a grown man.”

Something like relief passes over Geralt’s face before his expression becomes blank once again, much to Jaskier’s disappointment.

“Good. This room has been paid for the next few nights. You can meet me at the next town when you’re healed enough.”

Jaskier’s heart twinges as he stares unhappily at his friend. “You’re really going to leave me behind? Your very best friend in the whole world?”

Geralt exhales loudly as he turns to leave the room.

“Rest. I’ll see you at the next town.”

Jaskier doesn’t see him until a month later.

§

“Are you here alone?”

Jaskier’s in the middle of performing one of his greatest hits at a royal’s betrothal when he hears the simpering voice of one of the noblewomen present. One quick glance to the side confirms Jaskier’s suspicions that, yes, Priscilla is currently flirting (rather poorly, in his opinion) with Geralt, who’s dressed in finer robes compared to the last outfit Jaskier had dressed him in. And to say that his Witcher looks bored would be an understatement.

Jaskier continues to perform, but keeps one ear on the conversation happening. Not his fault it’s within hearing distance.

He hears Geralt hum disinterestedly.

Priscilla asks coyly, “Or are you here with someone else?”

Geralt grunts. “The bard.”

“Oh. You’re with Jaskier?” Yep, that sure sounds like disappointment.

Hah! Take that, you wench. You weren’t even good in the-

“Yes.”

Priscilla’s voice drips with fake sincerity when she simpers, “You’re quite the supportive friend.”

At this, Geralt snorts in amusement. “Not really.”

Jaskier almost missed a chord, but thankfully he was able to salvage it by improvising at the last second. His chest is heavy and constricts painfully after that, and Jaskier could only taste bile at the back of his throat for the rest of the night.

§

“Why is it when I’m in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shoveling it?!”

“That’s not fair...”

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

“See you around, Geralt.”

It was the beginning of the end of what existed between them.

Twenty-two years later, and Jaskier thinks there’s nothing left in his heart to give. Not that he’s not willing. He’s more than happy to give and give and keep on fucking giving. But he’s... he’s exhausted. He no longer knows why he’s held on this long.

That’s a fucking lie. He knows why.

Love is an addictive pill, they say. But when it’s unrequited (or unwanted, unneeded) it can be labeled as unhealthy. Lethal. Destructive.

His garroter, jury, and judge.

In all aspects, Jaskier lets Geralt go. But some twisted part of him, in his heart, he holds on.

§

Ciri eyes the bard singing his last tune for the night with curious eyes. Beside her, Geralt quietly sips his drink. When she glances up at the Witcher, Ciri nearly rolls her eyes at the intense, longing expression in Geralt’s golden eyes.

She hears the applause of the crowd at the tavern, and for a split second Ciri thinks she saw Jaskier look their way. Jaskier, who’s dressed in clothes that has seen better days. Jaskier, whose hair reaches above his shoulders, wavy and perhaps a little greasy.

Jaskier, the bard who left Geralt at the mountain top two years ago; the bard whom Geralt can’t stop talking about and pining over in the past year and a half she’s been traveling with him; the bard who wrote Ciri a ballad when she was a child (she’s still a child, but what innocence she may have possessed then is all but gone in the face of trauma she’s lived through), and one she’s dearly missed hearing.

Ciri’s eating the lukewarm stew when she hears more than sees Jaskier stop in front of their table. Carefully, slowly, she lifts her head up and meets dull blue eyes staring at them. There’s a pang in Ciri’s heart when she notes the lack of spark in the bard’s eyes.

Before Jaskier can open his mouth to speak, Ciri beats him to it.

“Fiona,” she introduces primly with a small upwards twitch of her lips.

Jaskier blinks down at her before he nods and bestows her a wink. “Lovely to meet your acquaintance, Fiona. I’m-”

“Jaskier, I know,” Ciri interrupts him with a grin, dinner forgotten for the moment. “I also know you went as Dandelion when I was still in... well.”

The bard blinks at her again, this time in surprise, before his eyes quickly swivel to Geralt’s. Geralt, who, upon a quick glance, is still staring intensely at Jaskier, jaw clenched and clutching the handle of the tankard with a tight grip.

Ciri observes, fascinated and curious, as Jaskier clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath as if to centre himself before meeting Geralt’s stare with a raised eyebrow.

“Geralt,” he greets stiffly.

To Ciri’s astonishment, Geralt flinches. But it’s such a subtle thing, nobody would’ve seen it unless you know the Witcher as well as she and Jaskier and Yennefer.

Geralt’s response is low, stilted, but laden with guilt. “Jaskier.”

This is the most entertaining thing Ciri’s witnessed, and she holds her breath as she waits for Jaskier to answer. Slowly, she spoons a few vegetables into her mouth as her eyes pass between the two.

Ugh, are men always this obtuse? Auntie Yennefer was right.

When neither speak after seconds pass, Ciri lets out an exasperated sigh and addresses the struggling bard.

“You’re all he could talk about in the past year and a half I’ve been with him,” Ciri starts. She ignores Geralt, whose head swivels to her like whiplash, his eyes wide.

“Ciri-”

She continues to address Jaskier who’s now gaping open-mouthed at her. “Geralt regrets what he said to you at the mountain. He also regrets not telling you that he does consider you a friend. He was just scared because he thought that once he acknowledges the vital role you play in his life, then you’ll decide to leave. I told him it was stupid of him to think that, and Auntie Yennefer agreed with me. Told him that breaking the djinn’s curse would be all for nought if he doesn’t seek you and apologise.”

“Ciri.”

“What?” Ciri almost snaps at Geralt, who looks a mixture of mortified and annoyed and fond. “You’ve had your eyes on Jaskier the moment we entered this place. Plus, you’ve been looking longingly at him the whole time, Geralt. It was either wait for another year for you to make a move, or I help you along.”

Geralt closes his eyes and breathes out through his nose. “Ciri.”

Ciri bites her lower lip, unsure now if she’s done the right thing. She casts a look at Jaskier, and she’s mildly surprised to see the bard fighting a grin, eyes bright with emotion and... tears?

“Sorry,” Ciri mumbles under her breath. Then she speaks at a normal level. “The staring was getting quite pathetic, though. And I felt sorry for you.”

“As do I,” Jaskier interjects gently.

Geralt whips his head to look up at the bard, and Ciri’s heart grows when she sees the sweet, exasperated look in Jaskier’s eyes.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again, hope in his voice. At this point, Ciri is inclined to bang her head against the dirty table top. Men.

“This doesn’t mean you’re forgiven.”

“I know.”

“I’m still pissed at you. Still very, very pissed.”

“I know, Jaskier.”

Despite the the stern tone, Jaskier’s still looking at Geralt with that same soft expression.

“You have a lot of groveling to do, Witcher.”

“I know, little lark,” Geralt says with a small smile.

Jaskier looks like he’s about to melt at the equally soft expression on Geralt’s face.

“You’re an idiot,” Jaskier mumbles.

Geralt’s smile widens. “And you’re my best friend.”

When Jaskier grins, even Ciri can tell it’s the brightest and happiest she’s ever seen the bard.

On another note, Ciri almost whoops in celebration because yes, Yennefer owes her a hundred coins now.

(Read on AO3)

[maviemesregles]

Once I was an Eagle

Thank you all who keeps following this story, who hits Kudos on AO3, likes and reblogs and gives a kind word in the comments. It means a lot <3 I am still genuinely surprised somebody finds it interesting but I DO appreciate each and one of you for that.

This chapter has been much saved by my trusty beta Anne. Thank you! She's been my source of any possible and impossible medical info I need, patiently answering all of my questions, giving me advice and just generally making this story so much better!

Read on AO3.

Chapter I: The beginnings

Chapter II: Sassenach

Chapter III: Catharsis

Chapter IV: Lovestruck. Part I

Chapter V: Lovestruck. Part II

                                     CHAPTER VI: Flecks of sun

Saying goodbye was something Jamie and I were very bad at. The moment we would part with a kiss (so soft that it leaves a lingering tenderness float over the lips) we text or call in a space of an hour again. We were inseparable and I could not even remember anymore how it was to live without Jamie’s constant presence in my life.

Without him making the best coffee I’ve ever had.

Without the heavyweight of his arm over my waist that kept me imprisoned in the mornings in our bed.

Without our hours-long calls when we both were in our beds on different sides of Edinburgh.

Without his solid body and warmth on my couch with a bowl of crisps and Netflix on.

Without his lips on my skin and his hands knowing every inch of my body better than anyone.

Without Jamie cuddling Adso but next moment cursing in Gaelic when my cat decides to scratch him.

Without Jamie’s quiet reassurance and gentleness when my days are particularly hard at work and he’d come with me in the shower, working out the tight muscles in my back.

Without him just being there.

Our absolute inability at saying goodbyes was one of the reasons I was invited to Broch Mordha. After I was away for a week in Boston for a medical conference, Jamie simply asked me to meet his family. So now I found myself in the kitchen next to Jenny who was making dinner. Jamie had gone to the stables to check on the new horse Brian bought before he left for Glasgow. Ian was away at work and all the children were visiting his parents. I was left alone with Jenny and somehow I felt more nervous than I anticipated. She was Jamie’s older sister and nothing escaped her eye. I’ve felt like under the microscope.

* * *

Claire’s cheeks were positively glowing when she realised it was a selfie of her and Jamie snapped on his phone during their hiking two weeks ago. It was a silly one. Jamie was smiling from ear to ear. He looked as if he received the best news ever while Claire gave him a smooch on the cheek. Her hair loose, framing her face. She had the look of a woodland faerie wild and free.

Jenny snorted noticing Claire's face had become a lovely shade of scarlet.

“Jamie put it there right after yer wee hike adventure,” Jenny adjusted a magnet (that she and Ian brought from Greece) that held a small square photo. “This is our fridge of ridiculous family photos.”

A lopsided smile touched Jenny’s lips as she turned back to the salad she was preparing. No longer under the curious gaze of Jamie's older sister, Claire looked at the numerous pictures of the Frasers gracing the refrigerator.

There were childhood photos of all siblings, including William. One captured all three of them playing in a small swimming pool outside on a particularly sunny day. A little girl about six-years-old, with two dark ponytails, was laughing while she was held high up by her father. Her brother Willie, accompanied by his red-headed brother Jamie, seemed fascinated by a yellow ball he held in his hands. Jamie clearly made an effort to relieve his brother of the toy.

Claire’s eyes moved up finding a picture of Christmas day.

In that picture, Ellen Fraser sat with a little swaddled baby in her arms, (it was Jamie, Claire assumed), on a carpet by the huge Christmas tree surrounded by her other two bairns, who proudly held their new presents, with ripped wrapping paper scattered around them.

A black and white photo captured their wedding day showing the happy faces of Frasers standing outside the church in Inverness. Another one of Jamie all dressed up at his High school graduation. One of Jenny holding her university diploma, both parents proud at her side. Ian and Jenny on their honeymoon in Spain, ridiculously tanned. Pictures of all the family members outside the hospital commemorating the birth of Jenny and Ian's first born. Ian looked overwhelmed as he held his newborn son, Jenny drowning in bouquets of flowers with a blue balloon floating over her head that said: “It’s a boy!”.

And now there was a picture of Jamie and Claire. Somehow she felt thrilled by the fact that Jamie decided to put their photo there as she belonged to this family. Showing that Claire was part of their family seemed important to him. As she turned to ask if Jenny needed any help, Jamie’s sister picked up a phone that was ringing for the second time already. Claire never knew that colour from someone’s cheeks can drain away that quickly.

“Jenny?” She tentatively touched her shoulder watching her face become paler and paler. Something frighteningly awful happened to cause a cold feeling to rise from deep within Claire's belly.

“It’s Jamie. There’s been an accident.”

* * *

When people experience sleep paralysis they often describe a feeling of choking, as if some supernatural creature would sit on their chest purposely cutting an airflow in their lungs. I felt that and more. When Jenny slid down the barstool, her hand still holding a phone I stepped closer. Her face became paper white. I managed to compose myself adopting that professional mask I always used in the hospital in spite of my breathing becoming harsh and uneven.

“Jenny, what happened? Tell me.”

She raised her head, eyes fixed on my face but not actually seeing me.

Jenny tried to stand up but shifted and almost dissolved into my arms. “Jamie had fallen from a horse. He doesna move.”

He doesna move.

Each syllable ran through my head as a manifesto cutting deep into the tissue of my brain.

Jenny sobbed, chin quivering.

“Jamie is good with horses but…” She gulped and escaped from my hand that was tight on her shoulder. “Dear God, I canna lose another brother.”

She spoke in a trembling voice and her hands shook causing me to feel the weight of a ton of bricks pressing down on my chest. With each shallow breaths, I thought I could actually feel my sternum crush. Like Jenny, my legs became weak, numb lacking the strength to carry me. My mouth became dry, my eyes burned but no tears came and I gasped for breath like a fish removed from its watery home.

“Christ, what if he’s dead” Jenny whispered flying out the door into the misty evening.

“He’s not.” I tried to sound confident but inside I just wanted to shake her and scream “Of course he’s fucking not!”.

I never knew I could run this fast. I never thought I would feel that terrifying paralyzing fear of losing someone again, not so soon after learning about Uncle Lamb's heart condition. With each meter closer to the stables my stomach clenched and the coffee I had an hour ago threatened to escape, rising up in my mouth. I tried not to imagine all the possible images of Jamie’s injured body. Jenny’s gasps and cries were crawling inside me waking my own fears, making me sick. When my eyes caught the side of Ian’s figure crouched down next to still Jamie the tears snaked down my cheeks. Sniffing, I dried the salty paths away with the back of my hand.

Suddenly I remembered when a young nurse had asked me if I could perform surgery on someone I love, on someone significant. I said I wasn’t sure. In fact, I could not. She asked me if I felt the pain when I lost a patient’s life. My answer was that of course, I did. But not without reason some people call doctors cold-hearted. If we were allowed to show our true emotions it would become a mess. There were times I had to tell that terrible news to relatives and then afterwards in the company of my cat I could allow myself to feel that pain and sadness.

But now it was Jamie. This very moment I knew true fear. The reality suspended around me and the only thing I tried to think of was the severity of the fall from the horse.

Jamie’s skin was pale and there was sweat glistening along his forehead as far as I could see. My heart was beating erratically as my trembling fingers searched and found the carotid artery on his neck. I exhaled feeling the steady pulse at his clammy skin.

“Have you called the ambulance?”

“Aye, I did the second I’d found him like this.” Ian ran his hand through hair, biting his lip nervously.

“Is he alright? He’ll wake up, right? Claire?” Jenny was squeezing Ian’s hand with such force that I was afraid she would break it.

Her voice was a mixture of hope and fear, projecting her worried state of mind and confusion on me. My eyes closed as I willed myself to concentrate pushing my emotions aside.

“First of all, we need to get him to Emergency. He fell from a height and I am not sure whether he hit his head, for that he must have CAT scan.”

Jenny nodded as she clung to her husband.

“He’ll likely regain his consciousness within the minute but if not please, don’t panic. He’ll be alright.” My voice shook at those last words. Slow but steady rising and falling of Jamie’s chest was a reassuring sign of him breathing. And I smoothed his red curls back with my palm. “You’ll be just fine. I'll make sure of it”

And that same moment Jamie’s hand stirred slightly, a little twitch but enough for my eyes start to water again. This time with relief.

His eyes fluttered open. Jamie looked disoriented and the way his lips curled into a tight line I could tell he was in pain.

“Hi there,” I whispered my palm cupping his cheek gently. “You fell off a horse, honey. But you’re going to be okay.”

He made an effort to nod, his eyes closed again.

“Jamie, are you hurt?”

“My shoulder-”

I saw his Adam’s apple bob under his skin as he swallowed.

“Hurts like hell. And I feel dizzy.” It took a great amount of exertion for those words to come out.

“Be still now.” I shushed him seeing the lights of the ambulance arriving, blue lights ablaze.

* * *

Jamie had been put onto the stretcher with me sitting beside him holding onto his hand. Finally, we arrived at the hospital where I was relegated to wait in the hospital waiting room.

The hospital of Inverness was about three times smaller than the one in Edinburgh where I worked every day. The manicured hand of the receptionist pointed me to the waiting room. That room reminded me of a train station with its plastic chairs, grey painted walls, and a sad lonely ficus. The ficus failed at an attempt to brighten and lend some coziness to the room. My imagination seemed to be running wild, as I thought that even the radiators shivered from the starkness of the place.

Picking up an old issue of Elle magazine from the colourful stack I flicked through it without actually paying attention to the content. In about twenty minutes after becoming quite sick of the TV programs playing along with their obnoxious commercials, I heard footsteps coming down the hallway. A nurse, Laura as her name badge indicated, peered at me as she tapped her clipboard with a pen.

“Ma’am are ye a relative of James Fraser?”

“No-,” I shook my head, standing up. My knees painfully jerked on the table that stood in front of me sending pain down my legs.

The nurse quirked her eyebrow in a question and before she made a guess I blurted the first thing seemed logical.

“A girlfriend.”

Laura clicked her tongue as if she did not believe me and after scribbling something down with a blue and white pen she guided me to the hallway. Her hand felt heavy and cold on my back and her accent made me replay her words in my mind at least twice.

“Mr Fraser has a severe concussion. CAT scan hasn’t shown any bleeding but we advise the patient to stay overnight to monitor the symptoms.”

I just nodded walking over the sleek floors in the hallway space where my eyes started to hurt from all shiny steel and bright white walls.

“The dislocated shoulder was treated and we’ve given him ibuprofen for the pain but he’ll need rest and peace. Mr Fraser has asked about ye. Do ye wish to stay over the night, Ma’am?”

* * *

When I entered Jamie’s hospital room he was asleep. Worn out by the accident and all the procedures that followed. Jamie rested quietly in the realm of Morpheus now. Giving my eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness I reached the bed where he laid as quietly as I could. My lips softly brushed over his forehead before I slid down the chair next to him.

Just then I allowed myself to exhale deeply, all the feelings catching up with me.

I sat there in the darkness of a late November evening watching the lights of lonely passing cars draw lines over Jamie’s face.  My previous organised state of mind turned to dust in the revelation of the night creeping in. Tears stained my cheeks sliding down into the valley of my neck and finally creating a damp stain on my sweater.

I wasn’t sure where it came from but the slightest idea of losing Jamie, losing us created a hollow aching space inside my heart. It made me wrap my arms around myself for comfort as I shook my head reminding myself to breathe.

Just breathe.

You can never learn how to lose someone you love.

I’ve lost both of my parents. I was five at the time and maybe I didn't quite understand the idea of death but that evening I not only lost my parents, I also lost my childhood and old carefree self. I never got a chance to say how much I love them one more time. I’ve regretted it all my life. No matter how often I would repeat those words visiting their grave each year it would never fill that endless hole inside me.

I never got a chance to say those words to uncle Lamb. How many times did I let this sense of regret eat the flesh of my heart like a vulture devouring carrion? I knew about the poor state of his health during his last years. And I berated myself for not saying "I love you" enough.

The slightest idea of losing Jamie now slashed a deep, bleeding scar over my heart. The tears burst like a water dam, lashes heavy with dampness, my hand pressed over my lips afraid to wake Jamie with my cries.

The fear was ripping through my heart, my very being, coming out it wrenching sobs, turning my guts out. Everything became a blur as the sounds became muffled leaving me in complete silence with the only echo of my own quiet confession.

“I love you”

* * *

“I love you.” My lips repeated those three simple words again as if I was not sure I’d said them a minute ago. Sniffling into the sleeves of my sweater and smearing the remains of mascara I leaned to Jamie.

“You scared the hell out of me,” my whisper sounded hoarse and raspy. “I know you’d laugh at me. You’d say I’m a doctor and you’re in good hands. But Jamie…”

A nervous chuckle came out as I took his hand in mine, my thumb placing gentle caresses over his warm skin. Maybe I was a coward but it was easy to tell him all this while he slept.

“I can’t lose you. I can’t”  

I kept repeating those words until the rivers on my cheeks dried out and all the sounds around came back to me. Soothed by Jamie’s quiet breathing my fingers caressed his stubbled jaw.

“It’s as if my soul that’s been torn and reborn started breathing from the moment you found me.”

His hand slightly twitched in mine, fingers seeking that contact. But he was still asleep. Bringing his palm to mine I pressed my dry lips to it. The same as he did on our first night together.

“Good God, I know it’s dangerous. To let myself having someone I’m afraid to lose.  But it’s you that I need.”

I smiled.

“You know, when I went to that medical conference in Boston I swear I kept thinking about you each minute.”

After our ‘wee’ getaway to the Highlands life resumed its chaotic rhythm and swayed us away into the depths of it. Joe and I had to leave to the medical conference in Boston for a week. Jamie also had an urgent business he needed to deal with together with his uncles at the brewery.

We said our goodbyes with sloppy kisses at the airport and fifteen minutes rushed sex in the men toilet (where firstly I wiped the toilet seat before Jamie had settled himself down and then me on him). He laughed saying that I am ridiculously hygienic (calling me Dr.Beauchamp as he bit my earlobe gently). After moderately satisfying goodbye sex we parted promising to call each other each evening. In fact, we spoke only three times during that week and I ached for Jamie.

When day six arrived I was so ready to come back to beloved rainy and windy Scotland. Jamie and I chatted on Whatsapp for an hour creating so many plans for when I come back (it included a sex marathon to make up for the time apart, eating our favourite Chinese takeaway, going to see the new Marvel movie, Jamie promising to fix the dripping sink in my bathroom and me coming to Broch Mordha).

It was something I did not expect but something I was no longer wanting to reject. As I folded the last piece of clothing into my suitcase Jamie’s voice message popped on the app.

“Claire, there’s something I wanted to ask ye. But firstly I want ye to know there’s no pressure or anything like that. And ye can say no, I willna be offended. But it is important for me and I would be glad if ye agreed.”

His tone became a bit quieter then.

“I would love ye to come to Broch Mordha. To meet Jenny and Ian, to meet my Da. I could show ye around. Maybe ye could stay for a night?”

I recorded a message back.

“I would love to visit your hometown. Or rather home village should I say? I don’t mind that, Jamie. Especially, when I think of all the things you’d promised to do to me.”

I joked but in fact, I felt the butterflies in my stomach. Though I knew it must mean something more than we both anticipated at the beginning I was nearing that point. The point that I was ready to be in love with him. The point when my heart longed for him so much it hurt. The point where I thought I must already love him.

And when the last day opened its door my phone buzzed with a text that was trying to find its way to John Grey but ended in my jeans back pocket.

“Sorry, man, no pub this weekend. My girlfriend comes back from Boston and we have plans at home.”

My fingers typed back.

“I hope my boyfriend has good plans for me.”

The stupidest smile appeared on my face and I spent an additional five minutes at the airport security control because certain James Fraser called me his girlfriend and I knew he’d be the end of me.

“You should have seen the face of that officer, Jamie. He thought I was mad.” I whispered smiling. “But that’s the most unusual way I’ve become a girlfriend so far.”

I remembered arriving home in Scotland waiting for him to meet me there.

Something was rising in my chest when I saw him through the window walking up the front porch. God, I longed for him. I could almost cry with the want to be held by those hands again, to feel his body move against mine. But mostly I just wanted him near. To simply exist together in one space, to see his face when he wakes up and to listen to his untuned humming in the morning to the radio. To be with him. My breath hitched when the doorbell rang. Suddenly the blush crept in all the way on my neck to my cheeks. When my hands unlocked the door and Jamie entered our eyes settled on each other my heart pounded in my chest so hard I thought it’ll break free.

We haven’t seen each other for a week but it felt like years passed by and I couldn’t live without him any longer.

Jamie moved first, making two solid steps towards me before I myself wrapped my arms around him letting my head rest against his chest.

“A Leannan” He whispered softly pressing a kiss at my brow.

"I missed you”  I confessed quietly, Jamie’s jacket muffling my voice.

“So did I” He smiled when his thumb raised my chin and our lips collided.

I remembered when finally we went to see that Marvel movie but in fact, I had seen only the first twenty-five minutes of it. The rest will be forever be imprinted as a memory of Jamie’s hands roaming over my body and the fact that I could never tell this story to my children.

I remembered watching Jamie fixing my bathroom sink, cursing in Gaelic every now and then. It stirred something sweet and undeniable inside me and I walked over to him pressing at least a hundred kisses to his bare back.

I remembered a time when Jamie waited for me to finish my shift at the hospital and on our way out the new (and very nosy nurse) said with mischief in her eyes that we would have “verra bonnie bairns”.   It made the tips of Jamie’s ears become red and causing me to cough forcefully.

I remembered when it was time to finally come to Broch Mordha.

“Jamie, I know you cannot pick me up, I’ll take a train, it’s fine,” I started scrolling through the timetable of trains on the Edinburgh-Inverness route.

“Let Ian bring ye from the station at least, I’ll ask him,” Jamie wouldn’t drop the topic of my safety.

I smiled chewing on my lip.

“I appreciate it, but it’s not necessary. I don’t want to be a bother. You know that I can fend for myself”.

Jamie snorted but the words came out serious.

“I ken that very well, Sassenach. Yer a fierce one. But I wouldna wish for ye even to try to do that. So just agree. Aye?”

“Aye,” I mimicked him but had to admit my life now was under a guard. In every sense.

I talked a lot to him until I lulled myself to sleep in that chair.

* * *

When Jamie woke his head was spinning and he had to blink several times for his vision to adjust to the darkness of the room. He felt as though his head was splitting in two. Then that nagging pain was running down his neck all the way to his shoulder.

He could feel a familiar warmth. Claire’s hand remained curled over his. She was a fragile figure covered in shadows, crouched on that hospital chair, her head dropped down her chest. The image of her, tired, asleep and so delicate made him want to cradle her and keep her safe inside himself, with his soul being her comfort. The words echoed in his fevered memory and crawled into his heart. Taken away from his dream that was put there by Claire’s voice before.

“Tha gaol agam ort”

Claire stirred and then rose in a swift motion woken up by Jamie’s voice.

“What did you say?”

She blinked still being half drowsy.

“I said I love ye”

[lorei-writes]

Had it happened in the future

Part 2, The eye that would never see

Masamune x MC ( Mizusaki Mai) Modern AU Word count: 2150-ish There is some fluff, there is some angst. I must add trigger warnings for: child abuse, child neglect, mention of injuries, gun violence and being thrown out of the house.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, as Ikemen Sengoku is the property of Cybrid. Anything included in the story is not canon.

The key turned smoothly inside the lock, making almost no sound, and the door to small flat opened before them. They never really had got a chance to hang out at his place, as Masamune claimed it was more convenient if he came to see her. However, he was unusually tired and he did live closer to his workplace than Mai did.

To Mai’s surprise, Masamune rushed her inside and immediately crouched down, the door still slightly ajar. She searched the wall for a light switch, to find it in a couple of seconds. As the light illuminated the room, she noticed a small ball of fur he held tightly. „ Sorry, kitten, should have told you earlier. I forgot how much of a door dasher Shogetsu is”, Masamune said, as he let go of the little creature, now wagging its tail, anger oozing out of the tiny body. Mai lit up in excitement. „ Is that the kitten we found in that dumpster?”, she asked, her gaze fixed on still a bit displeased tabby cat. „ Yep. Ieyasu probably won't admit it, but he stayed up for more than a few nights to care for it. He decided Shogetsu was ready to move here just a couple of days ago, it was all kinda hectic. You have no idea how many pet food brands there are and how many of them are utter shit,” Masamune sighed. Had it been anybody but Mai, he'd try to hide his tiredness, but with her he didn't feel the need to. He stood up and walked into the main part of his flat, only to sink into the sofa bed. „ Fridge is all yours kitten, if you want anything. Just make sure not to lock Shogetsu in there, whiskers tries to get that tail of his into all sorts of trouble. I had to take apart the kitchen cabinets because he got stuck.” Mai sat next to him, giggling. „ What's so funny, huh?” „ You sound like a tired parent, that's all. You're cute,” she answered, giving him a peck on the cheek. „ I am not cute.” Masamune frowned for a moment, only to relax once he recognised the look in her eyes – that loving, unconditional acceptance she emanated. He'd like to say Mai was adorable or cute, yet he knew very well those words were too minuscule, too close to the corporeal nature of things, to ever accurately describe how he saw her – he wasn't sure any words could. Maybe it was because her beauty wasn't necessarily physical, or maybe that's how love made it seem.

Either due to tiredness or the comforting situation, he didn't pay much attention to his surroundings for a moment. Then, he suddenly felt a slight tug and his eyepatch fell from his face, soon being taken hostage by the cat. Instantly, Masamune felt a freezing cold traveled through his body, as he moved his hand to cover the scar on his face. Meanwhile, Shogetsu ran, one of the strings in his mouth – he jumped from the sofa bed to the countertop, from where he accessed one of the shelves on the wall. He knocked over some books, almost sending them all flying to the floor, and in just mere seconds had climbed onto the top of the kitchen cabinets, squeezing in the space between them and the ceiling. He tucked himself in the corner there, his eyes glowing  in the darkness. „ Fuck. I'll need a ladder to take him out of there, just wait a second,” Masamune said, still covering part of his face. „ I'll probably need both hands,though. So, yeah. It's not a pretty sight, you can look away.” He was just about to stand up, when Mai spoke softly: „ Shogetsu doesn't seem to be chewing on it. Maybe we can fetch the eyepatch later?” She moved closer to him, placing a hand over his. „ You don't have to hide it. I don't mind,” she assured. Assuming the tension leaving his posture was a sign of consent, Mai brushed his fingers away, delicately uncovering the scar underneath. It started in his brow, went down and divided the eyelid in half, all to stop at the top of his cheek. “ How did you get it?” a question escaped her lips. „ That story's long and no fun at all”, Masamune whispered back. „ I want to know regardless.”

He couldn't answer her instantly. He just knew he would regret any words he would muster at that very moment. Yet, he couldn't ignore her either. He took a deep breath and closed his only eye, just to reopen it a few, too short, moments later. „ Fine,” he started, looking into her eyes. „ But don't worry about it all too much, okay? Past is in the past.” Mai nodded, a fierce look on her face. „ You know, I had pretty rough start in life. Mother didn't exactly plan to be left alone with a kid and worked two jobs to somehow keep us afloat. She did remarry when I was eight or so and it got much better then, so yeah,” he stopped for a moment, looking for words. „ Well, either way, I was free to do whatever I liked after school and I usually tagged along some older kids. Not really the kind you'd want your son to hang out with, but hey, what was I, six? Something like that. You know, it wasn't nice neighborhood, some buildings were falling apart there and that's were we'd go. The older guys started arguing and a fight broke out, somebody threw a brick or some rubble and it hit me pretty hard in the face. I don't remember much after that, but somebody got alarmed by the noise, came to check it out and called the ambulance. Apparently I got some bones – skull or  just the eyesocket ? – cracked and the eye was damaged pretty bad, too. Well, that's what I was told when I woke up without an eye. Heh, I had to make up for half a year of schoolwork then and barely passed the year.” Mai took his hand into hers, giving it a squeeze. „ It must have been so hard.” „ Kinda? Well, I got pretty depressed then, but I had to go on. I've already been enough of a burden before that. I had to get myself together, especially since mother got married again and had another kid like a year after that? Can't lie, I became pretty irrelevant to her once Kojirou was born.” A shock surfaced on her face. Why was he telling her all the ugly and hurtful things? He wasn't sure. But in that moment, he felt like he should. „ What sort of mother would think like that? It's disgusting.” „ She wasn't exactly a model parent, okay? But step-dad was pretty nice, even if he was a military man. And we did have a house and food in the fridge and I could go to school and study without much worries – what else could I want, right? He didn't discriminate against me for not being his child, so yeah. Bonus points for that, I guess,” he stopped, as his gaze traveled outside the window. Masamune continued: „ It made headlines then: ' A military man shot in his own house by a robber '. I came home late from the party that night. The front door was open wide, so I knew something was wrong. I didn't expect to see the old man in the kitchen with his hands above his head, a gun pointed at him. He got shot before I even got a chance to get to the guy. The rest is all a blur – police cars, sirens, ambulance, hospital. Old man passed a few hours after it all happened, mother blamed it on me, gave me an hour to pack up and kicked me out. I haven't seen her or my brother since then.” Only after finishing the last sentence, he realised Mai was hugging him tightly. He eased into her embrace and she pulled them both to lay down, placing his head on her chest. She stroke his hair tenderly. „ What happened after that?” „ Ieyasu took me in for two weeks. Then Hideyoshi learnt of what happened, started panicking and offered to share a flat with me. He really did earn the nickname „Mamayoshi”. So, I agreed, found some jobs, worked my ass off for the next couple of years, saved some money, borrowed some from  Nobunaga and others, moved out and started my business. If everything goes well, I'll pay them off by the end of the year.” „ Why a diner though? Wouldn't it be easier to join military?” „ It would, but I wouldn't like that. They really do have a tendency to prey on unfortunate people. And in the end, wars don't feed hungry people, but there's more than enough food to do so – yet some still don't have enough to eat. I'd rather work on that.” Mai pressed a kiss to the top of his head. „ Thanks for opening up to me,” she whispered, her hands stroking his back. She was almost sure no words she could muster would uplift any of his burden – but she could be there for him and hold him tight, and so she decided it had to be enough that time. Masamune propped himself up on his elbow. He faced her. „ Now that you've heard my confession, it's my time to ask,” he said, a tinge of curiosity washing over his face. „ I'm listening then.” „ Why did you even step into my diner?” „  I've been working as a fashion designer for a little over two years by that time and... It wasn't really what I expected it to be. I worked with one of the fast fashion brands then and it kinda ate me alive. I wanted to make it easier for others to express themselves with my designs, to make their lives easier, but in the end I was encouraged to steal the ideas from independent creators. Even if my designs came to life, it wasn't the way it should have been – the clothes were made to be cheap, not lasting. And then, yet another workshop incident surfaced, and I felt so, so, so guilty for contributing to that. Fast fashion really is disgusting... And, on that day, I quit my job and just wanted to eat something, anything, so I just stepped in. I half-expected it to be another place serving fried everything, though,” she laughed. „ But the food was good. I felt inspired for the first time in months then. So I decided to come back and just kept doing that.” „Of course the food was good, I wouldn't serve clogged arteries on the plate...” Masamune murmured, as he tickled her sides.  Mai squirmed underneath him, trying to save herself from the sudden ambush. „ What exactly have I done to deserve that?”, she huffed, unable to stop laughing. „ Doubted my cooking. It's punishable by suffocating with laughter. However, there may be another way, just for you.” „ What way?” „ Kiss me”. Without a second thought, she cupped his face and brought it closer to herself. The first kiss was full of hunger, almost desperate in its roughness, as if they tried to wash the old scars away with it. Her hands kept him close, gripping his shirt tightly on the back. However, as a sun comes after a rainy weather, their caresses became gradually sweeter. Her lips moved away for a second, just to come back and place soft, soothing kisses all over his face – on his forehead, on the top of his nose, on his cheeks, his eyelids, along his jawline, just to come to rest at his temple. „ Kitten, you really are the best,” Masamune mustered, a wide smile on his face. He turned his head to look at the clock. „ It's getting late. You want to stay the night, or should I give you a ride back?” „ I'd stay, but I have no idea how we'd fit here. I wouldn't want to wake up on the floor, because somebody moved too much in his sleep,” she winked at him. „ Then we're set, the sofa converts to bed.”

***

A few months had passed. Mai looked up from her sketchbook, overflowing with new ideas. Masamune was waiting for her by the window, the diner already cleaned up for the next day. „ Come on, kitten. We've gotta go home. I'll whip you something up once we are there”. She stood up and joined him, ready for the day to be over. 

[acklest]

Why is your husband the most Iconic and sweetest person ever?! We(I'm confidently assuming that I'm not the only one) need to know more about him.

Oh, you may regret this. 

(If you’re squeamish about blood, you might wanna proceed with caution. I promise I’m not trying to be dramatic. There’s blood in this.)

He is iconic, at least to me. And he’s probably really only “sweet” to me. Also to the cat, but he denies this. To everyone else, he’s just a quiet sort of guy with a permanently “done” look on his face.

What he planned to do from childhood was join the US Navy, because his Dad had been in the Navy. He wanted to be a technician on a submarine.

As soon as he graduated high school, he went to talk to a recruiter, and got sent to take the ASVAB. His scores on that were great and he was willing to enlist for a long hitch. The recruiter was like “it’s not even my birthday.”

But he failed the hearing part of his physical, so his status was “disqualified recommending waiver.” He didn’t know that his hearing had degenerated from type 2 (moderate) to type 3 (severe). The eval was to see if he could hear all the comms with his headset cranked up to max without hearing aids (which he hated wearing anyway). When he missed some of the cues, he was fully disqualified. 

Then he had to figure out what his second choice for the rest of his life would be. Nothing really jumped out at him. He’d never really thought about it. But his family couldn’t pay for college, so he would need a job.

His best friend got him on as a cashier working the graveyard shift at a 24-hour gas station/mini-mart. During breaks, he looked over the course catalog from the local community college. He thought maybe he could do one of those non-degree cert programs, like becoming a welder or a mechanic.

A week before, a dude who had sued that chain of gas stations for damages from a personal injury found out that he wasn’t getting a settlement. He was across the street from the one where my husband worked. I guess lawsuit dude got enraged all over again, thought “I’ll show them”, and loaded the .22 he had in his jacket before heading over. 

My husband was behind the counter, where the liquor was, thinking he was dealing with just another drunk customer at 4-fucking-AM. When he turned to ask if he needed anything else, lawsuit dude shot him in the side of the face from about six feet away. The bullet wound its way through his jawbone and he instinctively reached up to his mouth because he felt loose bits of his teeth on his tongue. (Sort of a dark in-joke, when one of us asks the other about a day that had obviously not gone well. “Bad. Not gargling-my-own-teeth bad, but not great.”)

He would’ve spun around by then to take cover behind the counter, but the sound of the gunshot stunned him because he heard it perfectly. He was born deaf/hearing-impaired, so he’d always heard things a certain way, through a certain amount of… I don’t know, static, interference, fog? But this he heard perfectly and it stunned him. 

(“If their headsets went up that high, I could’ve joined the Navy.”) 

So he didn’t turn in time to miss the second bullet, which hit him in the chest from the same range. As he turned, the third one hit him in the side of his stomach. The fourth one hit him in the thigh, nicking his femoral artery. Then his best friend showed up to tag in for his shift, heard the loud noise, ran in to help like a moron. So the last thing my husband heard before he blacked out was his best friend screaming at the guy to stop, and then a few more gunshots after that. 

If a Jeep full of hard partiers hadn’t pulled up to get gas and ran next door to call 911, he’d be dead right now. Of course, lawsuit dude was hell and gone by then.

He woke up in the hospital ten days later, heavily drugged. He tried to talk but they had done something to stabilize his jaw so he couldn’t speak. He was in and out for a couple of days after that. 

A day or so later, the thoracic surgeon sat down and told him that he’d died a couple of times, and that they tried to get the bullet out of his chest, but it had ended up less than 4cm away from his heart, so it was too high risk. They would have to leave it in. He apologized for how wide the scar was from when they opened his chest, because they had to work so quickly.  When they brought him in, he was covered in blood, all over. His hair had matted together from lying in it until the EMT people got there. One of them told him later, “We saw the booze behind the counter and assumed a bullet had hit a couple of bottles of red wine.”

Not so much. 

His best friend had died in the ambulance on the way. 

There was two years of recovery, facial reconstruction for his jaw, lots of dental work, physical therapy, follow-up procedures, and so on. There was a court trial that dragged on and on. 

It hurt when he breathed in, it hurt if he laughed. It all hurt. He’s a big dude, 5'10, shaped kinda like Wolverine (comic Wolverine, not Huge Yakman Wolverine). His health had always been good. He said he felt like he was being punished for not appreciating it enough while he had it. Up til all that, he’d been a devout Catholic, but that burned away real quick. He says that the 18 year old working at the mini-mart was a different person than the one who got wheeled out of the hospital a couple of months later. He didn’t know that guy.

He spent the next ten years on what I call a Chuck Norris tasting tour, where he was likely suicidal but not aware of it. He survived two terrible motorcycle accidents, a spectacularly failed marriage, he was thrown off a horse and hit the ground with a thud about 30 feet below, and then a drunk driver plowed into the back end of his car at top speed and he ended up ass over tea kettle in a ditch.

A few months after that, he started having terrible chest pains. He thought it was just pain from the impact with the steering wheel, which broke a couple of ribs. But when it kept going even after his ribs had healed, he went back to the hospital. The impact had shook stuff around and now the bullet was moving closer to his heart. Moving very very slowly, but yeah. So they had to open him up again to get it out.

(“Would you like to keep it?”

“…What?”

“Some people like to keep the bullet.”

“Uh. No. Thank you. I think a decade’s enough.”)

Fast forward to ‘98. I was a year or so off of a devastating event/blue screen of death thing of my own. I had a baby that I had never planned to have because I wussed out of the adoption process (I’m not saying I regret that, I’m just saying). I was on a little death-seeking tour of my own, when some mutual friends pushed us together. I do not know why. Maybe because we were the same amount of “over it.”? Maybe to take us both out of the dating pool at the same time, thereby making it safer for everyone? “You know someone who’s a walking disaster? Me too!”

The wheels almost fell off the wagon a couple of times. He told me he loved me and I didn’t talk to him for a couple of months. He sent me an instant message that said, “I am not playing Peter Gabriel outside your goddamn window. Get the fuck over this.” The age gap (22 years) made him pull away a bit there for awhile, but we didn’t need any Peter Gabriel for that shit either.

Nothing really surprises him or catches him off guard. This sort of weird Midwestern Zen thing that I don’t really understand because I’m kind of the opposite. Our communication is weird because neither one of us talks about anything that’s really bugging us, but we kind of talk around it.

I asked him to marry me a few years after we’d moved in, and he said “I don’t know, the last one didn’t go too well.” (A charming understatement.) I was cool with that. I was like… 83% cool with that. Almost a year later, while we were watching a movie, he turned to me and said, “Yeah.“ 

A YEAR later. 

“Yeah?” Like I would fucking know what he was talking about.

“I’ll marry you." 

"About time. Would you say that you were trying to decide the entire year or was it more of an on-and-off thing?”

“Oh, fuck off." 

Anyway – courthouse, Vegas, etc.

What I need you to know about him, more than anything, are these three things: 

1) When one of my family members (an uncle I didn’t know well) showed up to threaten the two of us, he quietly took that man by the arm and walked him out to the parking lot. I was watching from our doorway. I thought I was about to see him rip the guy’s head off and go bowling.

I didn’t see him make an angry face. I didn’t hear him raise his voice. It was a quiet conversation, and then that man backed away, got in his car, and left. That was 15 years ago, and I haven’t seen him or heard from him since, though I got a letter from my biological mother the week after, asking what kind of psychopath I was living with.

Still no fucking clue what he said, though.

2) His idea of asking me to move in with him back in ‘98 was to start replacing the furniture in my apartment with new furniture, but leaving that new furniture at his apartment. "Got you a new desk." 

"I have a desk.”

“Your desk isn’t gonna go with the chair.”

“What chair?”

“The chair I bought you last week.”

“You bought me a chair last week?”

“Yeah, come over and look at it.”

As near as I can tell, his plan was to slowly replace all of my furniture but keep it at his apartment and to slowly move me in a box of things at a time until I was like “Wow, all my stuff’s over there.”

3) When little kids ask him about the inch-wide scar from his collarbone all the way to his navel, with a narrower scar on top of that one from the second surgery, he tells them that he was shaving with a straight razor and suddenly sneezed really hard.

[omnomsauruswrites]

Crimson (Engaged Part 8)

Pairing: Stucky x You

Summary: You were told to not engage unless necessary because you were in fact dead, or at least that’s what the death certificate said.

Song inspiration: Maggie Rogers “light On”; Florence + the Machine “Long & Lost”;  Mumford and Sons “Tompkins Square Park”; LEON “Dreams”

She felt it. The blade ripped through skin, through organs, as she had taken the step in front of Bucky. She hadn’t hesitated, just acted. The gasp escaped her lips, as she felt the piercing pain. “Hail Hydra,” the goon exclaimed, before being on the receiving end of a bullet from Bucky’s gun.

“Y/n,” she heard Steve call.

She crumpled to the ground, her hands going to the knife embedded in her, pulling it out. She bit her lip, keeping her from screaming. The knife fell from her hands as she grasped her stomach, her thoughts going a mile a minute. She looked down. Crimson. “That’s a lot of blood,” she mumbled as her black tac gear became spotted.

She felt strong hands cover her hands. “I got you,” was whispered in her ear.

“I love you,” she muttered as she felt her body hemorrhage. “Love you both.”

Her eyes scanned the blackboard. She could scream. What was she missing? What had Hydra fucked up in Bucky’s serum? She closed her eyes. She was drained. Forty-eight hours in the lab and she was no closer.

She and Banner were back at square one. Erskine’s formula was on a blackboard to the right and she had put what she believed the Hydra version on the left. “What the FUCK am I missing?” she muttered to herself.

She was tired, but she knew the deadline was getting tight. Hydra wasn’t smart, but they’d figure it out sooner or later.

“What if it’s in the genetics?” Banner asked.

“I don’t do genetics,” she replied, turning to the scientist.

“Yeah, but we haven’t dived into it. One out of what 1000 women that’s not serum that’s genetics. What do you have that they don’t?”

She mulled over the question. “Do we have DNA for all three of us?” she responded.

“Of course.”

“Of course,” she nodded as she was handed papers.

She scanned Steve’s, nothing. His DNA didn’t pop in any specific way besides the serum, and it would take a very smart geneticist to figure out to fuse his DNA with someone else’s. Bucky’s was a little more mutated than Steve’s, it showed the bastardized version of the serum. It showed how the serum had increased his healing abilities, his strength, kind of like mutant DNA. She paused. “Fuckity, fuck, FUCK, FUCK!” she yelled, throwing the papers on the table. “HOW THE FUCK DID I MISS THAT?!”

Banner looked at her as if she had finally snapped, but waited for an explanation. However, he never received one, as she whisked herself out of the lab.

Y/n stood next to Fury at the head of the table, folders placed at each chair as they walked in. She was in tac gear; it was time. Time for the last chess piece to fall. “Take a seat,” Fury instructed.

They did as they were told, eyes falling on her, and she tried not to glance around the room. This wasn’t going to be an easy discussion, but it was needed if they were going to do this. They needed a reason.

Fury waved his hand as a sign to proceed. She cleared her throat, then began. “Over the past three years, I’ve been taking out a Hydra operation that is meant to create super babies using serum injected during pregnancy. We know this because of the intel we’ve gathered with each infiltration, the holding cells and the medical utensils, as well.” She paused, hands going to her hips. “We know that they currently do not have the science to know what they are doing won’t work.”

“And you do?” Clint butted in.

She closed her eyes, the hand on her right clenching against the hip bone. “I’m the miracle Hydra’s been looking for,” she explained, opening her eyes and staring at the faces at the room. “Because almost exactly 3 years ago, I became pregnant with Bucky’s baby.”

“That’s not possible!” Tony exclaimed. “Tests show…”

Y/n laughed. “Apparently, your labs are prone to mistakes, just like the real world. Bucky is the one with the super sperm not Steve. Whatever bastardized version of the serum Bucky got made him virile.”

“That doesn’t explain how the serum made you a baby super…” Tony stated.

“Mutant genetics latch on to the serum,” she answered. “I have recessive genes. Our tests show that a recessive gene is more likely a match with the serum. It’s not a 100 percent catalyst, more like 60 percent. But that’s better than the zero Hydra is getting.”

“That doesn’t explain how you received the serum. You weren’t injected with it, like we were,” Steve piped in.

“What Helen and I have figured out is that being stabbed released the mutated blood into my bloodstream,” she wrung her hands together. “If …. if I hadn’t been pregnant I would have died on the quinjet. I should have died. But the baby saved me, as did my recessive mutant genes.”

“So, in essence, you’re super.”

“In essence, yes,” she confirmed, eyes flicking to Bucky's then Steve’s. Their posture was rigid and tense. Bucky had yet to speak. “Helen calls me a baby super soldier. I have the strength and endurance, plus the healing abilities. All things that Hydra wants.”

“You didn’t know if it would transfer from mother to child?” Tony asked.

“Before I was stabbed, there was no serum in my bloodstream according to my weekly tests. Our hypothesis is that cutting through organs, veins and arteries released the mutated blood and genes into my system, but that’s the best we can come up with.”  

“And Hydra knows about this?” Steve asked, eyes full of simmering embers of betrayal and hurt.

Y/n sighed. “There is a long web of lies that each of you know as a version of me. But the truth is, I graduated best of my class in Medicine, early,” she confessed. “I was accepted into a nanotechnology program in Delft, when I was headhunted for this exact program by Hydra.”

She loosened the grip on her hip. “I… uh… came to Fury after I was able to lie and escape after their offer. He set me up with a back story and a means to stay on as an Agent. Since then I’ve helped to try and secure intel on this program and work against it.”

“How do we know this isn’t a lie?” Bucky hissed.

Her eyes flicked right to him. “I get it, you're pissed and probably hate me, and hate I can deal with. Everything pertinent to this next mission is in that folder- entrances, exits... I’ve hacked into the Hydra system, all women currently held will fail.”

“And you want us to do what?” Steve questioned.

“I want to save those women and burn the place to the ground. It’s the last stronghold, the rest have been destroyed. We didn’t want to shut it down until we had the last puzzle piece. We had to know the answer, now we do. Now we go in,” she explained. “You can either fight with me or, stay out of my way.”

She was between them both. Bucky’s hand glided through her hair as Steve held on to her hip. She purred at the attention, causing them to chuckle. “I think our baby girl has turned into a cat,” Steve teased, thumb swiping her skin.

“Doll, have you transformed into a cat?” Bucky asked.

She hummed as his fingers scraped her scalp. Each hand went to touch one of her super soldiers, caressing muscle and skin. One of them kissed her crown and she preened.

Silence settled on the group for a few minutes before Steve spoke again, “What if…”

“What if, what, punk?”

“What if we had a commitment ceremony?” Steve finished.

Her eyes opened taking in the steel blue ones in front of you, as he formed a half smirk. “Are you trying to make us a honest couple, Stevie?” Bucky teased as she snorted.

Steve’s fingers tickled her ribs. “That’s not why I thought of it.”

“You want to get married?” she asked, turning to face the blonde super soldier.

“I just think that’s the next step.”

“Then what? A white picket fence and 2.5 kids?” she teased.

It was Bucky laughing this time and Steve mock glared at them both. “I guess that answers that.”

Steve moved away from them before she grabbed his wrist. His blue eyes looked hurt and closed-off. “Steve…” she whispered, tugging him back. “Bucky and I would love to marry you.”

“Yeah, punk,” Bucky agreed. “We talked about it while you were in Lima. We think it’s the next step too, just had to tease you about it.”

Steve huffed and glared before breaking out with a smile. “You two are going to be the death of me.”

She laughed, pushing him back onto the bed and straddling his hips. Her teeth nipped at his lips before kissing him. Bucky moved closer, rubbing his thigh. “We do try,” he commented, before pulling down his boxers.

Y/n stared at the redhead in the locker room. Nat and her had always been close. She knew how much Nat had wanted to be a mother. “Nat,” she whispered, walking closer.

The green eyes glanced at her as she put on her vest. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Nat asked, tightening the straps.

She stopped right in front of the locker and her friend. “I wanted to…” she paused. “You would be right after the boys, you know that Nat. I was going to tell everyone after the mission and then shit hit the fan.”

“I would have helped.”

“I can’t erase what I did, Nat,” she said. “I can’t… regret it, either. It took me a long time to get here and not be hateful, to not see red, not want revenge. It doesn’t heal the wound of her.”

“Her?” She asked.

You nodded. “It was a girl. A little princess for you to teach Russian.” Tears welled in her eyes as y/n continued, pulling out paper from a pocket. “Natasha Rebecca Rogers-Barnes.”

“That’s a mouthful,” Nat joked, a tear escaping.

Y/n held the paper to Nat. “I’ve been carrying her with me for the past 3 years. After this, I’ll still carry her, but I know I’ll have to let her go,” she choked out. “Don’t fight for me today. Fight for the women who are still in Hydra’s grasp.”

Nat threw her arms around y/n, hugging her close, tears falling down her pale cheeks. “Don’t ever do that again. Let me help next time.”

She nodded, swiping her own tears away. “Never.”

They were arriving under the cloak of darkness to the Hydra base. Steve had watched her the whole time. Her eyes flitted to him or Bucky occasionally during the whole flight. He felt a big gap between them again. A week ago when they had woken up together, he felt at home, like all the pieces were back. Then she had told them, they could have been fathers. Would have been fathers, if a Hydra goon hadn’t stabbed her.

“I shut her out, Steve,” Bucky had said one night. “I shut her out when she needed us the most…”

“It’s not your fault, Buck,” he soothed.

“If I hadn’t…”

“Buck saying what if right now isn’t going to help. She grieve by herself. She expects us to fall apart, to hate her.”

“She should hate me,” Bucky answered.

“That’s not helping!” Steve exclaimed. “Do you want her to walk out of this building again? Do you?”

“No, I never wanted that. I wanted her, and now all I can see is a baby in her arms, in your arms. We fantasized about it and we almost had it.”

“Then we need to show her that we aren’t leaving. That we are going to fight for her.”

Which led them here, to the mission. He watched her as she leaned over Nat’s shoulder before walking back to them. She bit her lip before beginning. “Don’t do this for me or for us. Do it for her,” she murmured, pushing an image into Bucky’s hands.

Steve looked over at it. It was a black and white sonogram. It was small, but you could see the growing fetus. Underneath it read ‘Natasha Rebecca Rogers-Barnes.’ Steve glanced up at her, her right hand on her hip, like it was whenever she was uncomfortable. “Doll…” Bucky whispered.

“Don’t do it for me,” she re-enforced. “Do it for girls like her. For the girls Hydra has taken away. Carry her with you.”

“Five clicks out, y/n!” Nat yelled.

She nodded, moving to the ramp and powering it down. “You need a parachute!” Steve instructed.

“Haven’t needed a parachute in three years, pretty boy!” she smiled, mock saluting as she jumped.

“She’s going to be the death of us.”

@scuzmunkie @cari105 @soldierplum  @valkyrieofsmut @coal000 @xxashy999xx @baebeepeach @dottirose @serpentbaby @xxloki81xx @keldachick @hellaqueerangelofthelord @mypage-myfandoms @fifty--shades---of---fucked--up @jamiedr @colie87@pockettoasian @shannonr2003 @southsiderepresent @persassyismyspiritanimal @futuremrsb-r-main @emilysallysmith @irisweirdness @pomelo-villano @so-not-hotmess @strangersstranger @thefridgeismybestie @stanclub @witchymarvelspacecase @canchuckdyz

[hollowcrovvn]

The Ostensive Fumblings of Being Human (part 4)

Pairing: Connor x female!reader Rating: T  Summary: Set two months after the ending of Detroit: Become Human, androids are living in government created “pop-up” communities while efforts are being made to integrate them into society. You are a grad-student volunteer with the Detroit Crisis Response Unit (DCRU), working to help with relief efforts. 

Notes: Here are links to two articles I referenced regarding the Near Death Experience study and why we build androids in our image. 

Link one  Link two 

The Cadillac Place, for non-Michigan residents, is a very pretty building downtown that houses lots of state departments. I want to dot in more of the cities structures and histories, since I am a Michigan resident myself! My favorite building is the Book Tower.

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7) (ao3)

In 2017, scientists working out of Hadassah University in Jerusalem, concluded that your life does indeed pass before your eyes before death. Graduation, marriage, birthdays and all the things in between… but it wasn’t some mystical spiritual event. It simply was that when you die, the part of your brain responsible for storing memory is the last thing to go.

The study also found, in those last moments, time becomes intangible. Seconds become months, minutes become years. Everything that was ever you or would ever be you existing outside of the limits of time and space for one brief moment, before it all stopped.

When you started at DCRU, you had no enthusiasm, only resigned obedience to your need for health insurance and a dose of cautious fear. It was almost Christmas, barely a month having passed since the androids had won, for now, some resemblance to freedom. Laws take time to change, policies take time to create and meanwhile there were thousands of Androids suddenly conscious and displaced in a city that had, the day before November 11th, been on a population decline.

Employment rates skyrocketed as companies scrambled, desperate to put bodies where there were once android laborers and the people responded with a triumphant roar. Jobs? In Detroit? Any who were able bodied enough to take jobs did so and even if you weren’t, the companies didn’t exactly have room to be picky. There were still androids that were “asleep” as it was now being called, obedient and without freewill who continued to do as programmed. What happened to those androids was an entire other debate and one DCRU was not apart of.

Your first day you were ushered with three other grad students into a cramped claustrophobic modular building set up at the entrance of the construction site. Everywhere there were plain white blocks, the outlines of future homes. The three of you were quickly divided up and you in particular were set before a desk at the front of the room.

Miranda was as immaculate that day as she had been everyday since. She was human, that she assured you and confirmed multiple times a week with her constant order of a London Fog. The name called to mind a dreary, grey drink without personality, but the floral citrus scent of earl grey, darkened with a dash of black coffee seemed to you to match Miranda perfectly. She wore white silk blouses, pencil skirts and shiny black kitten heels. Under her desk however, she kept a pair of well worn steel toe boots which she often replaced her heels for when walking the site.

She was nearing fifty, but maintained her curly brown hair so not a single grey showed. She wore Coco Mademoiselle Classic. You would be lying if you said you didn’t have a tiny bit of a crush on her the first time you met.

“I won’t sugar coat it. We have a whole mess of volunteers because we pay. We have to pay. If we didn’t pay?” she threw up her hand, extending her fingers to symbolize “poof”, “Up in smoke. No one is going to thank you for your services here, especially not the androids, but you’re going to pick up a paycheck and in exchange you’ll do office work rather than haul frames and nails.”

She sipped her coffee, looking at you over pointed black cat eye frames.

“Can you take dictation?”

“Hell yeah.” you said, noting she lifted one sculpted eyebrow in passive judgement.

“I mean uh-- yes. Yeah I can do that.”

“Great. You start right now.”

Clearly, you weren’t dead, because if you were, you couldn’t imagine your last memories being of some article from twenty years ago or your first day at DCRU. That, and you hurt too much to be dead. Josh pushed himself off of you, falling onto his back. His arms were torn and showing inside where metallic parts moved and flashed. Thirium oozed from his neck, smelling heavily of something akin to ozone and cleaning solution. His mouth moved, but the sound was garbled and clipped. He grabbed his throat, panic shooting through his eyes.

“Your voice.” you said, finding your own raspy and pained as you inhaled a lungful of smoke.

He took his hand away and the thirium ooze had turned into a fountain.

“ Shit. ” you hissed, forcing yourself up though your entire body screamed with soreness. Your shoulder hurt so badly, why did it hurt so badly? You forced it out of your mind, clamping your hands around Josh’s neck to try and stop the flow of thirium. It stung the cuts on your hands, but you kept the pressure on.

“Don’t panic.” you said and Josh looked back at you with an expression that said, Are you joking?!

You whipped your head around, looking for someone, anyone and suddenly wishing you hadn’t. Some androids… the ones who had been on the stairs… were now in several places. You felt your gut twist, but swallowed back the sudden salty taste in your mouth.

You didn’t see Miranda anywhere.

“I need to stop the bleeding.” you told Josh, taking your hands away to try and get a better look at where the line was torn. It hurt to move your left arm, but you gritted through it.

He nodded, wincing. Could deviant’s feel pain too?

No time to ask. You, as carefully as you could, slid your fingertips into the slice on his throat and sought out the line that was pushing out thirium. Josh was shaking, but he didn’t stop you, not even when you found the line and forcefully squeezed it closed.

There were several chirps, static and then Josh’s voice modular stabilized.

“Is itttttttttt-- o-o-kay?.” he said, unnatural and robotic.

“I think it’s stopped. I think I have it stopped.” you assured him. His hand came up and you took it with your free one. He tried to shake his head.

“Y...yo-u-u-u.”

He was right to be concerned. You finally could feel now why your hands hurt so badly. Even under the blue stains of thirium, you could see blisters peeling back on your palms, bleeding slowly. When the blast hit, you had put your hands up just long enough to be burnt. Your shoulder felt dislocated. The rest, Josh had absorbed.

“It’s nothing. ” you told him, “Don’t talk. I don’t know if it will make it worse!”

All around you could hear the growing stampede of boots on concrete as the military presence rushed unto the scene. Coms were on, dispensing news that medical personnel and local police were on their way to assist. There was a man, dressed more like a civilian than military who pushed his way through the crowds. He saw you, or rather saw Josh, and sprinted towards you.

“What happened?” he said, more like an order than a conversation. You stammered, meeting his mismatched eyes.

“He pushed me out of the way.” you managed.

Josh had relaxed some, taking Markus’ hand in his own. You didn’t need any introductions to know the android next to you was the leader of Jericho.

“I’m holding the artery shut.” you said, not recalling whatever mechanic speak actually was used for this line, but not really caring anyway. Markus seemed to understand.

“It has to be closed,” Markus said, barely above a mutter as he fished through his pockets, “...or the thirium that goes to his biocomponents in his brain will seize.”

He produced a lighter.

“I can cauterize it. Move.”

You did so, pushing your hand out of the way so he could more easily see.

“I need you to pull the line up and then forward.”

You stared at him, flabbergasted, “What-- you mean like out of him?!”

“Yes.” Markus flicked the lighter open, “Do it.”

“Won’t it ignite?!” you said, but still began to slowly pull the torn line from Josh’s ripped skin. Josh’s eyes were fluttering, closing. You hoped silently he couldn’t feel any of it.

“Only what is exposed to air. But the other internal components should be somewhat fire resistant.”

“I’m not.”  you said, and Markus looked at you again, noting the absence of the signs. Carefully, he covered your hand with his free one.

“Show me where.”

You directed him, a faint spurt of thirium escaping as you switched places. Then, carefully, Markus singed the plastic with his lighter, the line becoming gummy and mold-able. The thirium on his hands hissed and went up in quick bursts of flame. He pressed the line together gently, making sure it was not entirely closed off internally.

Josh’s pulmonary responses were still jagged, but he opened his eyes.

“Diagnostics?” Markus said gently, stabilizing Josh as he sat up. In the distance you could hear the shriek of sirens.

“Bleeding contained. For now.” Josh said, voice still shaky but more like himself, “There are some other wounds. Debris. Where’s Simon?”

Oh fuck. Simon had been directly by the blast.

“North has him. It… it’s not great.” Markus said, Josh’s grip tightening. He looked at you, eyes full.

“Thank you. ” he said and you shook your head.

“No, no, thank you, Josh. You wouldn’t even-- you would have been fine if not for me.”

His other hand found yours and you didn’t even care that the squeeze sent shocks of pain up your arm. Markus left Josh in your care, helping his people who had been caught in the blast. Emergency personal vehicles began to arrive in droves. Fire trucks, police cars and ambulances being ushered through the fence line.

Markus stood from where he had crouched to check on another android, saw what he was looking for and moved towards it. It was Miranda, unconscious and lying at an unnatural angle. Medics descended upon her, so he stopped in his tracks just in time to note Simon as he limped into view, aided by who you recognized as North. Many other androids were injured, but the medics were seeing to the humans first, leaving them to be helped by only their fellows. Simon was missing both arms, one from the elbow down and the other from the wrist. His leg was blasted through and there were openings in his face casings.

“Markus, I’m sorry . I registered the bomb too late.” Simon said through gritted teeth. Instead of anger, Markus only embraced him, pressing his forehead to Simon’s as thirium stained his clothes.

“It’s not your fault... North, get him out of here. We need--”

Their conversation fell out of your ear shot as medics accosted you, directing you away from the scene and to a nearby ambulance. Standing you saw now the extent of the damage. The modular unit was all but destroyed on one half, pieces collapsing into the structure. Flames whipped in the dry cold air, devouring the wooden beams. There was heat though too, like standing too close to a bonfire in summer. It stung your eyes and your throat. There was no telling right now who had lived and who had died, but the crime was obvious. This was a terrorist attack. Smoke rose in giant columns from the structure, darkening the already cloudy day. Your clothes were soot streaked.

An EMT had put your shoulder back in place and set your arm in a sling. The moment the joint had slid back into place the pain vanished. He was asking you questions while blotting your hands clean of thirium with a gauze pad, mindful of the burns. Who is the president? What is your name?

“I’m fine.” was all you would say, letting them finish bandaging up the worst of the burns before you attempted to shrug off the shock blanket you’d been wrapped in and go back towards the carnage, “There are androids who might still be alive over there. You should find them!”

“We should really take you to get checked out at the hospital. You may have a concussion.” the EMT said, but did not try and stop you as you threw off the blanket and headed back towards the fire.

“I don’t need to. I decline medical treatment or whatever-the-hell you need me to say, now go help the other people !”

You moved passed them, heading to where Miranda was loaded onto a stretcher. She had a neck brace on and her glasses were missing. Her eyes were open, lips moving faintly as the head of security listened intently. Markus reluctantly left North and Simon, who were now being aided by the EMT you sent away. You wondered vaguely how one even gave First Aid to an android, but the situation seemed in hand.

You reached Miranda just in time for the EMT’s to load her into the ambulance, the security chief moving off and Markus turning with intent to address you.

“You’ve been promoted.” he said, with no mirth and a lot of disquiet. “... I’m sorry, what?”

“Assistant director of the DCRU, Miranda Stregga has just appointed you to handle this situation in her stead until the director can arrive back from overseas.”

At a loss for words did not even begin to cover it.

“I’m just an intern.” you said, “I get coffee. I--”

“Assist Miranda in her reporting and are present at all her meetings. You draft her correspondence and place orders through Cyberlife to gather parts and thirium. You are familiar with the position then, yes?”

“... yeah.”

“Then until a replacement arrives, you are the assistant director.” Markus sighed, something akin to pity in his eyes as you slowly processed the information.

“And as such, I advise you.” he crossed his arms behind his back, making his silhouette taunt and imposing, “Start an investigation into who did this to my people, or I will .”

Fan-fucking-tastic.

----

As it turned out, you were responsible for more of Miranda’s duties than you originally thought. She showed up, she said “yes” and she strong armed Cyberlife and government officials, but when it came down to the basic running of the office, you realize you were… you were doing a lot more than filing paperwork and grabbing coffee.

Right now, all they needed was that voice box. Someone with appointed authority to say “yes” and “no” and “get me a shipment of android parts and thirium right this fucking second.”

Which is what you did to the Cyberlife liaison without the pomp or circumstance he was used to. Cyberlife agreed to donate parts to the injured androids in this “time of crisis”.

Excellent. How considerate. Thank you so much . Had been your basic mechanic reaction. Exhausted and pained, somehow the day disappeared and once the figurative and literal fires were put out, you were adamant that you were going home and going to bed.

The EMT had warned you your arm would be sore for days and to keep activity to a minimum. But honestly, washing the soot and grime off was your first priority. The thirium had mostly evaporated, leaving just the faintest pale blue discoloration to your skin, turned sickly grayish from the ash. You decided to leave it alone, not wanting to scrub at your hands which were angry and sore. The EMT had given you burn dressings thin liners covered in a medical gel that you were to apply to the wounds before re-bandaging. He’d also given you a good dose of pain medication and warned you on any side effects you might experience as a result of thirium getting into your blood. The effects of that had been very interesting. You felt almost drunk for most of the day, buzzed even hours later.

Carefully slipping on a long t-shirt, you put your arm back into the sling and moved into your living room, quietly speaking, “TV on.”

The little screen on your wall lit up, the news already discussing the events as a pretty blonde woman spoke.

“An anonymous source indicate an explosion at the Detroit Crisis Response Unit emergency housing facility may have been the work of Android extremists. While tensions run high, many Androids have expressed their anger in the slow moving efforts of the United States government--”

Android extremists? Where did they get that source? You hoped it wasn’t someone from DCRU, quietly ordering, “Change channel.”

The TV did so, flipping to a program on how to “detox” from technology. Those kind of programs were becoming very popular, portraying the lack of android help as healthy and a “wake up call” to relearn home economics.

Speaking of which, cereal sounded delicious for dinner. You’d made it halfway through to your kitchenette when there was a chime at the door. Your eyes darted to the clock on the wall.

1:23 a.m.

You had reasons for why you were awake, but why would anyone else be at this hour?

“Display door feed.” you said out loud and the TV flickered and displayed the camera footage outside the apartment complex’s front door. Seeing the familiar face, you issued another command, “Open audio channel.”

You came to stand back in front of the screen, crossing your arms carefully.

“It’s a bit late for a home visit.” you said.

“You left the site of the accident without accepting medical attention or giving a statement.” Connor’s voice came from the other end, “That was a stupid decision.”

That was blunt and quick to set you on edge, but you were tired and not-tired all at the same time and were really not in the mood to debate your life choices. You made a mental note to find out whoever gave him your address.

“It’s one in the morning , Connor.”

He didn’t look impressed at all, the corner of his mouth turning down disapprovingly.

“Correct. If you’d done the responsible thing and cooperated with the EMTs I wouldn’t have to be out here at one in the morning when there are open reports of “terrorist” androids in the area.”

You frowned.

“The desk security has been looking at me quite suspiciously. He may feel the need to respond to my presence violently.”

“... are you manipulating me?”

“My scans read that he keeps a 12-gauge shotgun under the security station as a deterrent for criminals.”

Definitely manipulating, but he wasn’t wrong either. “Fine. Open front door.” you said, issuing the command and watching Connor immediately disappear from view of the screen.

“Hey-- wait, Connor! Ugh. Message security desk., the frustratingly gorgeous android is a guest of resident C-534. Allow entrance.”

You didn’t hear any shots coming from the video feed, so the message must have been received. You disconnected the TV from the front door footage and even the home news program was now showing helicopter footage of the explosion, narrating the events.

“Mute.” you told it, the sound cutting out.

Now you were going to have to put pants on. Which was easier said than done. By the time you had managed to slip on a pair of PJ shorts, there was a curt knock at the door.

You hurried out, went to turn the handle and-- stopped. Because oh yeah, you have first degree burns all over your palms, the pain of which is being barely contained by medication and the thirium that got into your bloodstream from Josh.

You used your elbow to hit the lock, flicking it down.

“It’s open!” you said, wondering back towards the couch to find the damn burn dressings.

“---, even with a security desk, you shouldn’t leave your doors unlocked.” Connor’s voice, usually such a delight to your ears, was slightlyannoying.

“Didn’t! Can’t do door handles. Got Freddie Kruger hands.”

The reference was lost on him, but upon watching you try to pick up the box from the first-aid kick with the backs of your hands, Connor quickly realized what you meant. He took the box from you and dropped it, taking your right wrist in his hand.

“H-hey. Watch it.”

His LED spun, eyes flicking up your hands to your wrists and to your injured shoulder. His eyes scanned everywhere then and you felt your cheeks heat up.

“You have minor traces of thirium toxicity in your blood.” he said, concern evident in his tone.

“Does that mean I’m high?” you said with a just-a-little-bit-in-shock-hysterical sounding giggle, and not in a good way.

“Marginally. Also, it may interrupt your usual menstrual cycle.”

“Oh. I’ve missed you.” you said, the sarcasm in every word so evident not even Connor would mistake it.

“The EMT gave you something?” he asked, clearly already scanning and locating the traces of Vicodin in abundance.

“Oh no. Leftovers from that broken ankle a few years back. Still got some kick.”

Connor gingerly took your forearm, directing you to sit down on the sofa. You wanted to argue, but at this point you were just glad for the distraction. Without asking, Connor took the burn dressings, peeling free one gel liner. Turning your palm up, he placed it on a particularly bad spot, smoothing it down with a feather light touch.

When it was settled in place, the relief was immediate. The lingering pain and tightness around your skin was soothed. He opened another packet and did the same to a burn on the heel of your palm. You took in a shaky breath, having your attention drawn to just how bad this could have all gone had Josh not-- had he---

“Josh almost died today.” you said, “Lots of other people did. And the EMTs were more worried about me.”

You swallowed hard, biting back tears.

“Because I’m a human, and they weren’t.”

You rubbed your nose with the back of your hand, adjusting the sling to reach.

“How’s that for a statement?” you said, giving a weak smile.

Connor's touch was just so heartrendingly  gentle , despite the constant yellow of his LED. This is what you had been afraid of when the EMT worked on you, that the moment someone treated you with an ounce of sympathy or kindness you’d fall apart. You couldn’t think about what happened, it was too fucking awful .

“Did you see who caused the explosion?” he asked, voice calm and quiet.

“No. Someone uh, someone broke in through the fence. Whoever did that probably… ya know. Set off that thing.”

“Who else was there at the time of the explosion? What else did you see?”

“ Connor ,” you said sharply, trying not to remember anything at all about what you saw, “.. do we have to do this right now? Can’t I just come to the DPD tomorrow?”

Yellow. Yellow. Flicker. Blue.

“Of course.” he said, letting his hand rest on your forearm since he could not very well hold your hand without causing pain.

“You need to sleep, ---.”

Your sigh rattled in your chest and you wanted so badly to do nothing more than to crumple into him and curl up. Hide in his arms and feel safe.

“I can’t. I’m scared that I’ll.. just keep seeing it. It’ll just keep running through my head.” you said, “I can still smell the smoke.”

It wasn’t even just that. You could still feel the sudden weightlessness, hear the explosion and taste the metal in the air. The sensations and sounds kept replaying over and over in the background noise of your mind and you knew the moment you laid down it would come to the forefront where you would be powerless to stop.

“I… was going to watch a movie.” you said, “I’ll be okay. I’ll eventually pass out and I’ll call my parents tomorrow and they’ll talk me down whatever ledge I get on. It’s late and I don’t want to keep you from getting home.”

“I am not able to rent an apartment with current laws. I have been residing at the DPD and sometimes with Hank.” Connor said, “Neither of which is important, because I’m not leaving you.”

“I… don’t have a charging station.” you said, at a loss for excuses.

“I’ll be fine.” Connor said, leaning up on his knee to tug a throw blanket free from the back of your couch. You would have taken it, but he instead unfurled it and tucked it around you. “Is that alright?”

You nodded. You were not going to cry. You were absolutely not crying.

He settled back, hands clasped together and resting in his lap. Even sitting, he seemed ready at any moment to receive a command. It must be a hard habit for an android to break.

“Open film playlist.” you said out loud, the screen displaying a row of digital movie posters, “You got a preference?”

“I would say no action, or horror.”

The screen adjusted, removing those genres from the selection.

“Can’t argue with that.” you said under your breath, “Okay then. Play Wall-E, 2008.”

“Appropriate.” Connor said, scoffing.

“I would have gone Terminator , but you said no action.”

You pulled your legs up under you, adjusting a nearby pillow so you could lean up against it. The blanket slipped up over your legs, but Connor’s hand was there before yours, pulling it back down snug over you.

“If you have to leave at some point--”

“I won’t.” he said before you could finish the thought. With his attention focused forward you took the opportunity to look at him, noting even in the pale light of the screen that his epidermis was dotted with freckles. You wondered quietly, why Cyberlife would design their androids with such loving detail if they did not want humans to feel affection for them. In school you had learned about Shintoism, a Japanese idea that all objects, living or not, had a “kami”, a spirit. How could we possibly design such beings, mold them in human images and not transfer into them our own spirits?

How could someone hurt them? How could someone plant a bomb in their homes?

You shut your eyes tight against the thought, which drew Connor’s attention to you. He must have sensed the spike of stress, because he shifted closer.

“Do you pick this film because I remind you of EVE?” he asked, an attempt to take your thoughts out of the dark places your mind kept constructing.

“No.” you mumbled, thirium working its way through your system again and making your eyes heavy, “Wall-E. Because you collect garbage people.”

“Hank isn’t that bad.” he said and through your half closed eyes you could see that smile, turned towards you. Kind. He was kind, but there were times when you swore you saw something sad in those eyes, something veiled with anger, veiled with that temper he said he had.

“Lonely.” you said, his smile fading and leaving his eyes, “Wall-E woke up and then he was lonely because he was the only one.”

You turned your cheek into the pillow, watching the scene play out as the small robot held its own hand, the black and white film shining in its eyes.

“I think Hank was wrong. You don’t need to meet “people”. You need to meet other androids.”

Connor’s jaw worked, bringing his leg up to balance on his knee. He threw an arm over the back of the couch too, sating some need to be moving. He found his coin, smoothing his thumb over the bust of Washington on its front in circles.

He didn’t say anything and soon enough you fell asleep.

When the film was over, he quietly asked the monitor to replay.

You woke up on your still made bed, wrapped in the throw blanket from the sofa. You searched your memory for a moment, trying to recall how you got there and came up with nothing. The door to your room was closed, but through it you could hear the faint sounds of multiple people.

The sun was shining brightly, reflecting off the snow outside and covering your room in its rays. It was strange, normally in the morning your entire apartment was pitch black…

Your heart sped with adrenaline, flipping over and looking at your clock with growing dread.

It was already afternoon.

“Oh my god.” you whispered in horror, rushing to put your feet on the floor and finding the entire room shifted abruptly when you did. Your head throbbed as if you were recovering from the worst hangover of your life and your arm was so tender you gasped when just the act of standing sent a shock to the joint.

Your sling was still on, but looser. You re-tightened it as you stumbled out into the living room, hair messy and disheveled as your eyes fell on--- Connor. Sitting with his jacket off, tie undone and his shirt half unbuttoned on your sofa.

It wasn’t as if you didn’t appreciate the image, but that he was still here was a bit of a shock. Gregory Peck’s baritone drew your eyes to the screen. He was watching To Kill a Mockingbird.

“Good morning.” he said, attention redirecting, “Your office called.” he continued, as if this was the most normal thing in the world, “The housing site is on lock down until further notice and you are to report to the Cadillac Place once you are fit to return to work. They advise you make time to give a statement to the DPD as well. Due to a lack of resources available by the FBI at this time, they are having the DPD assist with this case.”

There was a lot to unpack there, but first things first.

“You answered my phone?!”

“You did allow me to synchronize to your device.” Connor said, “You have several unread messages, but I didn’t open them.”

“Good! Jesus, Connor, when I let you sync to my phone it was for books.”  

He was acting so nonchalant, you did not expect the harshness of your tone to get much of a reaction. His LED flashed, directing the movie to pause. He sat up on the edge of the sofa, clasping his hands together.

“I apologize… I didn’t want to wake you. I realize it was an overstep, but I was concerned you would want to return to work as soon as you woke up.”

“That’s my choice.” you said, granted, you really didn’t want to go in and were feeling fairly relieved right now. That was hardly the point though. Connor seemed to be processing the statement, frowning faintly.

“Yes… that objective did cross my mind.”

But since I’m deviant and can make my own choices, I chose not to watch you make a stupid ass decision -- your mind silently finished for him.

“Connor.” you said sternly, “You’re a good friend, but I’m a big girl. And speaking of ‘work’, how is it you aren’t there?”

Whatever delight he’d taken in being referred to as a friend didn’t diminish at all by your question.

“I took “personal” leave. We have not yet been officially assigned to this case, so I felt your well being took priority for now.”

That caught your attention, the assigning of the case , not the other bit. Well-- a little the other bit.

“Will you and Hank be assigned?” you asked, heading into the kitchen to find a pot of coffee suspiciously full. Weren’t you out of it? There was creamer in the fridge too.

“There is a likely probability. We have worked with the FBI on android cases previously and my skill set is highly valued since I am the only RK800 model in Detroit.”

It hadn’t occurred to your before, but it made sense there would be more of him. Androids were mass produced.

“You have brothers outside of Detroit?” you asked, simplifying.

Connor’s eyes widened, his brows turning up in surprise. His LED flickered only once.

“I had not thought of it that way.” he said, “But it is an interesting metaphor, if not overly simplified. Yes. There are approximately fifty-one other active RK800 models in the United States, stationed at various central police departments in each capital.”

“So there is an RK800 in Lansing?” you asked, pouring yourself a cup of coffee and mixing the creamer.

“Correct. Based on the files available to me, I am the only model to have “deviated”.” he paused, voice modular softening, “Thirty-eight models have been decommissioned or destroyed since November 11th.”

The gravity of that statement was stifling.

Lucky thirteen , you thought, knowing better than to speak it allowed as the “joke” was hardly appropriate.

Connor froze, LED whirling for a moment and then he stood, fingers quickly redoing up the buttons of his shirt. He picked up the shoulder harness that held his gun and his jacket.

“I’m on my way.” he said to the air, “She is stable, yes.”

He paused, mouthing silently to you the word Hank.

“I’m sure she’d be delighted to hear you are thankful for that.” he paused, “Yes, she is here.”

He adjusted the gun harness, pulling his jacket over his shirt with mechanical efficiency. He looked around for his tie and found you had crossed the room and picked it up. It was strange not being able to hear another voice through the "receiver" but given that the call was coming from inside Connor's head that seemed impossible.

“Lieutenant Anderson would like to know if you could schedule time for tomorrow morning to visit the station and provide a statement.” Connor relayed, eyes caught on the sight of you, tugging his tie around your neck and with practiced fingers, forming the fabric into a knot.

“That should be okay…” you said, focused. You slipped the tie off and Connor inclined his head so you could reach to put it over his neck, smoothing the knot into place. You let your hand slide down the tie and consequently, him . The thrumming of his thirium pump was faint, but you swore you could feel it when your palm traced over the center of his chest. Quickly, you smoothed his shoulders, though they hardly required it, trying to appear as business like as possible.

“10 a.m. okay?”

Connor snapped out of his silence, “Yes. That is fine.”

“Tell Hank it’s a date.” you said, returning to the kitchen to pick up your mug, “You heading in?”

“Yes. There has been an update.” he paused, “I am not at liberty to discuss it further at this time, however.”

That was reasonable you guessed.

“Do you know where they took Miranda? Ms. Stregga? Or Josh and Simon from Jericho?”

His LED flashed a bit longer than usual. “Ms. Stregga is in the ICU at Wayne State University, Detroit Medical Center. They are not allowing visitors at this time. The androids harmed in the explosion are being treated at a repurposed Cyberlife supply facility. I can upload you the address.”

Your phone chimed.

“Do you intend to visit?” he asked, somehow more cautious than curious in his tone.

“I want to see how Josh is doing...He was hurt very badly. Least I can do is go and make sure Cyberlife is providing everything he needs.”

“Is he your friend as well?” Connor asked again, not so much just cautious but tense even, “Like me?”

“Yeah, of course.” you said, not wanting him to think you thought any less of Josh or any Jericho android, “Josh was a professor before he deviated, so we have a lot in common. He’s really smart and so-- understanding . If the guy was anymore empathetic he’d be a martyr.”

Connor took this in, expressionless.

“Maybe you two could talk?” you offered.

“Perhaps. We are acquainted.” Connor said, and then seemed to think better of saying more.

“Hank will be waiting for me.” his words were almost a mutter, the way you did when you were hiding something. He crossed the room, taking a moment to reach out and adjust your sling so that it was more snug against your chest.

“ Try to take it easy?” he said, tilting his head to force you to actually meet his eyes, which you had adverted hoping he wouldn’t notice how warm you were getting when he was so close.

“I don’t know, Connor. Might need another movie night.” you said, trying to repress the smile that crept up at the corner of your lips.

“Perhaps Josh would also like that.” Connor countered and you rose an eyebrow at him. His expression gave away nothing.

“Maybe... once he is better. But for now, um-- feel free to drop by whenever.” you said with a noncommittal wave of your hand.

“Rather let you come hang out here than be stuck with Hank all the time.”

Now he smiled, just a small one right where you were trying to keep one from appearing. Everything seemed to just… pause. All the worries and the events of the past day were faint and you felt like there was something more to be said or to do, but you didn’t know what.

So gently, carefully, you touched his arm and standing up on your toes you brushed your lips over his cheek and stepped back.

“Thank you, Connor. For-- last night. I… I’m glad I wasn’t alone.”

You risked a quick look up at him, noting his usually brown eyes looked nearly black in the low light.

Bedroom eyes. Your mind offered, much to your embarrassment. You moved quickly around Connor, heading to the door which you opened politely.

“Haaaave a good day.” you said, slipping oh-so-easily into absolute fuckin’ dork mode. Connor had this look on his face that could only be described as dreamy as he passed by you.

“I’d like to watch more films regarding the Civil Rights Movement. And maybe we can talk about The Prince as well. I have many opinions.” he said, stepping barely into the hall.

“Okay… yeah. Sure, I’ll get a playlist together.” you said, leaning into the frame.

Markus Christ, someone has to go.

“See you tomorrow. I’ll.. try to work on remembering everything I can.”

Connor nodded, “If possible, write down the details. While they are still fresh. Also, call your mother. She just left another voicemail.” Before you could protest that he was still fuckin’ sync’d to your phone, the android turned and disappeared around the corner.

[punishandenslavesuckers]

Mollymauk Tealeaf wakes up in a grave by the road ten years after he died. Things have gone a bit wrong since then and he might be the only one who can set things right… since it’s the Mighty Nein themselves who’ve gone wrong. AU: Where Molly comes back to yell at his super-powered Level 20 friends. (AO3 - part1) (AO3 - part 2) (AO3 - part3) (AO3 - part4) (AO3 - part5) (AO3-part6) (AO3-part7)

Molly falls, hard. He slams into the ground and the ground smells like torn grass and earth. He’s lying face down, grimacing, fingers dug into the dirt at the roots of the grass while he rides out the echo of dying from one plane to the next. He doesn’t hurt, not physically, but the phantom pain shudders through him like hot and cold waves in succession. He lifts his head, hair sliding into his eyes, for a moment just hanging there on his hands and knees, breathing hard and shaking.

A hand settles on his shoulder.

“Mollymauk.”

Molly knows their face before he even looks at them – the raven knight, pale under the glow of the moon and they say, “Are you okay?” 

“Yasha. They killed… did they…?”

“No. She’s the Deathless Storm. She’s fine, Mollymauk. Are you okay?”

“No.” Shakes his head, still bent over with the grass tearing beneath his fingers. “No, that thing is bloody waiting for me. It’s gonna kill me again. It has Fjord and it’s gonna… I don’t know what to –”

“Stop. Just take a moment. You have time here.”

“It so much worse on the other side.” 

The raven knight places two hands Molly’s shoulders. One hand moves to the side of Molly’s head, thumb sliding briefly along his temple tucking longer sections of his hair out of his eyes and behind his ear and it’s such a familiar thing to do that Molly immediately has to bite back this instinctive, animal sound at the sudden comfort. So wildly different from the violence that brought him here.

“But you’re not there right now. You’re here. You’re safe. No one and nothing can reach you when you’re with me. I swear it.”

“But I don’t remember this when I’m alive.”

“The living aren’t meant to remember death. I’m already breaking rules to hold this place for you. Under the eye of the Weaver and the Queen, your soul is allowed to hold its anchor to the material. Gods are watching you Mollymauk.”

“Fabulous. They’re watching me die over and over?” Molly’s mouth pulls in what he meant to be a sardonic grin, but mostly turns a grimace. “They wanna do anything about that?”

The hands tighten in his shoulders. “If you want to stop you can –”

“Fuck you,” Molly snaps. “That’s not true. If I fuck off now, Fjord’s just fucking alone in that hole isn’t he? If I don’t try, they won’t find Jester. They won’t stop whatever Beau becomes. You know I won’t let that bullshit happen.” Molly’s fists knot in the grass, tearing green at the root and then he twists up and slams his fist into the knight’s shoulder. “You knew that when you picked me! You didn’t have to pick me!”

They don’t resist Molly’s blow.

“I’m sorry.” 

“Sorry,” Molly says. “Everyone’s so bloody fucking sorry. They’re sorry I died. They’re sorry I’m alive. They’re sorry to kill me and remember me wrong. They knew me for two months! This is bullshit. Fuck your sorry. You’re not the one dying over and over.”

“No, I’m not. But I have been. It’s okay not to –”

“I don’t care!” Molly is kind of mortified, but his eyes are running over and he’s too tired to stop himself. He grips two fistfuls of the knight’s cloak, dropping his forehead against his knuckles where he grips hold of them. “I don’t care if you did this eons ago. I’m doing this right now and it bloody hurts! I don’t want to do this.” 

“Then stop.”

“I can’t!”

The knight wraps their arms around him, gathers his head in one hand, pulling him close. They’re a little cool to the touch and Molly can’t feel a heartbeat when the Queen’s hand pulls him into a tight embrace, almost a strait-jacket hold, like they’re trying to bind a wound with pressure but there is no part of Molly that is not wounded. They press their chin into the top of his head, gripping him for a very, very long time.

Molly lifts his head a little. His voice is raw when he asks, “Is your name Vax?”

“Yes.” They hold him tighter. “Vax’ildan. And it’s been a long time since someone remembered.”

“What happened to you?”

“I did what you’re doing. I said no to death so I could save my friends.”

“Am I going to become like you?”

Vax freezes a moment, then relaxes, their hand briefly stroking over his hair before stilling. “No. It’s not something that just happens. You would have to ask for this.”

“It’s destroying us,” Molly whispers.

“What do you mean?”

“The other version of me. They don’t remember being here.” Molly grips tighter to Vax’s cloak. “It’s just… it’s just death over and over. There’s no reprieve. This doesn’t work unless we remember all of it.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I can feel him fraying, Vax’ildan. We’re like… like two sides of the same fucking coin, but he’s taking all the hits. He’s alone on the other side.”

“I don’t have domain in the Material Plane. I can’t travel between; I only govern transition. I’m sorry.” 

“That thing has hold of me,” Molly rasps. “What’s it doing to me?”

“There is… there is divine power this thing can feed from. That which bind you to the material plane… the breaking of the thread and the maintaining of it when you return… there’s a ghost power there it can consume with each breaking. It’s feeding off the magic that’s keeping your soul bound to your body against the pull of the Astral Plane.” There’s a pause, then, “Fjord fed his patron on the divinity of an Old God. It’s hunger now won’t be slaked by anything but more of the same. You have a breath of that power on you.”

“Tell me what to do.” Molly whispers. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I don’t know, Mollymauk.” 

“Your gods are assholes then.” 

Molly pulls away then. Getting to his feet and walking away toward the top of the hill. The moon shines silver on the grass and Molly lifts his face into the light like you turn into the sunshine in the summer. The breeze feels warm across his skin, brushing his hair from his brow. He shivers and presses his hands to his breastbone and tries to remember the feeling of metal punching through him, of the final moments beneath the snow-flurried sky on a frozen road so long and not so fucking long ago.

“Well, fuck you too,” Molly whispers. Louder, he says, “Send me back.” 

“Molly, you don’t have to –”

Molly spins around. “Send me back! Send me back right n–!”

   Fjord is staring down at him.

Molly feels a dull hum of magic across his skin, glowing through him and his heart pulses fast in his chest like it’s just come coughing back to life and it’s only then Molly remembers to fucking breathe. He jerks slightly, gasping like someone coming up for air after a deep dive. He coughs at the sudden cold infusion of oxygen. He’s lying in shallow water, clothes soaked, hair soaked. Molly shivers as Caduceus Clay’s final Death Ward breathes across his skin. That last tracery of familiarity dissipates… and then it’s just him and the Leviathan.

Fjord is standing over him, shaking his head slowly, horror in his eyes.

“Fjord?” Molly rasps, too afraid to move. “Fjord, don’t.”

His friend swings one boot over Molly’s body, settles so he’s standing straddling Molly’s waist. Molly raises one hand, palm up as if to ward a blow. He can’t stop the panicked shallow hyperventilation that seizes his lungs or stop the shaking in his hand or the sound of fear that catches in his throat as Fjord kneels down over him. Molly tries to speak again, but can’t get the words out. Fjord grabs his wrist. Effortlessly. Easy. He pushes it aside, forcing his wrist down, pinning it flat in the water over Molly’s head.

“Fjord, listen to me. Or your patron. Whatever.”

Fjord reaches down almost curiously, like you do exploring a new partner’s body, and lays a hand around Molly’s throat. The touch sends a blinding jolt through every dread-sensitized nerve in Molly’s frame. He tastes bile. Feels his eyes going hot, his mouth dry. He can barely get the words out because the thing controlling Fjord is pressing his thumb into pulse of Molly’s carotid artery.

“Wait! Wait, wait. You’re going too fast. If you go too fast I won’t come back. Listen. You have to give me a break. Listen!”

Fjord hesitates. Or rather, the thing staring through Fjord hesitates. His head tilts slightly, like a cat with something under its paw. Molly’s shaking so hard it physically hurts. His entire body aches fear. The possible eternity unraveling before him in a cycle of terror and dying and dark waters.

Desperately he says, “Fjord, are you still here?”

Silence. Just the staring.

“Fjord. Help me –”

Fjord draws his finger across Molly’s neck and opens his windpipe. It’s such a clean cut, so molecularly thin, Molly doesn’t feel it. Just the sudden terrifying sensation of instant pulsing light-headness and liquid warmth. He instinctively grabs his throat with his free hand, fingers sliding over the gaping yawn in his trachea, instantly soaking his hands in blood.

It doesn’t—

He tries to speak, but can’t talk. Fjord staring down at him. Molly closes his eyes and—

  “Stop it!” Vax is kneeling over him. They have their hands on Molly’s shoulders, gripping him so tightly their fingers are digging into muscle. The fear in their eyes makes them young and suddenly Vax’ildan doesn’t seem so immortal or ancient or knowing as they shake Molly angrily and yell, “Don’t fucking do that! Mollymauk, listen to me, the reason I asked for this intermediary space was to give you a rest. Okay? Don’t do that.”

“It’s possessing Fjord,” Molly whispers. “He’s been alone with that thing for years. Years. He’s been alone with—”

“And time is fast there,” Vax snaps, cutting him off. “Wait one minute or ten years here and it will be the next moment for him. Don’t run away from me like that. Don’t put yourself in a loop, Mollymauk.” 

“Help me remember,” Molly says.

“I can’t. I can’t help with that.”

“Then send me back.”

“No! Molly, don’t—!”

  Molly spasms into consciousness, spits blood and for a horrible moment writhes and chokes on warm iron. His spine arches then jolts the other way, and he rolls onto one flank where he immediately vomits red to clear his airway. For a moment he just kneels there coughing and retching. There’s a pair of plain leather boots in front of him, crusted in barnacles and sea life. Molly doesn’t lift his head. Doesn’t move.

Eventually, fingers slide into the hair at the back of his head, slowly, almost gently at first… then closing, twisting into his hair and gripping tight.

“Molly,” Fjord’s voice is shaking. “I can’t stop. You gotta stop coming back.”

Molly shudders. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. You don’t want to stay here, friend. C’mon. Anyone can die.”

“No, I mean I can’t!” Molly cries. His fingers curl against the cold, soaking ground. “I can’t control this.”

There’s a low rumble then. Fjord grabs his collar and hauls him to his feet. He’s too hollow with horror to resist and Fjord gathers his jaw between his hands, fingers digging into the nape of his neck, thumbs pressing into the soft skin beneath his cheekbones. A rough handling that somehow… cherishes. Molly’s had lovers hold him like that and the comparison it like having his ribs split again. Fjord’s face is so close to his, they’re sharing the same breath and it tastes like salt.

And then a voice penetrates Molly’s head. Or rather, it emerges fully formed in the center of his brain sure as one of Nott’s bullets and it says: STAY.

“Fjord. Fight it. Please…”

ALONE HERE, says that voice, the words congealing in Molly’s head like a clot. FOREVER.

“Fjord! Gods, wake up!”

DIE FOR US.

Then Fjord yanks Molly’s head back and with his teeth he tears Molly’s throat out in a ripping red –

  “FUCK!” Molly is on the ground, in the grass. “FUCK! GODS!”

Hands close on his shoulders. He smells the musk of feathers and leather and someone is kneeling beside him on their knees in the grass with him. Molly retches, but he doesn’t quite because he doesn’t have physical form here, so how could he retch? He breathes frantically. Clutches his throat and shudders.  

“Stop,” Vax says softly. “Just take a moment. Okay? Don’t fucking do this to yourself. Please, listen to –”

Molly shoves him away. “Send me back.”

“Mollymauk. You’re not invulnerable. The soul is not invulnerable.”

“Fuck you, Vax’ildan. Send me back to Fjord right now.”

“Molly! I can’t protect you if you –”

  Molly wakes up and he’s still in Fjord’s hands, hanging like a ragdoll held by his biceps. There’s blood still wet on Molly’s shirt, shining on the mithril chain that Nott gifted to protect him. For a moment he just… hangs there, limp, too shell-shocked to do anything but lift his chin. There’s light in Fjord’s fingers and that sick slither of healing magic, like his windpipe just finished knitting itself back together.

Fjord is looking at him and his face is a mask of terror, his mouth and teeth a horror of arterial blood. Molly lifts his arms and grabs a fistful of Fjord’s shirt, fingers sinking into the dark, soaking fabric before he slides his hand instead to Fjord’s jaw, cradling his terrified face and it takes him two tries but he manages:

“Fjord? That you?”

“Molly, m’sorry.” He’s breathing shallow, voice strained and shuddering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I tried to protect –” The words break off as he grips his once roommate tighter. “I tried to so hard to keep all of you away from this. And now you’re here and I don’t know what to do. I can’t do anything. I can’t fucking–”

“It’s… it’s okay,” Molly manages, then laughs. “Well, no, it’s not. It’s terribly fucked up.” Molly swallows hard, heat rising in his eyes. “Are you going to kill me again?”

“Yes.” The syllables come like razors on Fjord’s tongue. His eyes are twisted closed, his expression agonized. “I can’t stop–”

“Hey. Hey, stop that.  S’alright.” Molly tugs Fjord’s head down, gently, like he isn’t covered blood. Like it’s not Molly’s blood. Molly presses a kiss to his friend’s forehead and whispers through a smile that’s a reflex born of instinct, “It’ll be alright. We’re in this together now. Okay?”

Then Molly feels a jolt down his arms, a phantom pull and as he watches, staring openly, some invisible force unzips the veins in his wrists and a painless rush of blood floods down his forearm and drips from his elbows. The voice in his head says, DIE FOR US. And Molly can’t do anything but stand there in Fjord’s grasp until he goes lightheaded, then dizzy, then dark and the last thing he feels his Fjord catching hold of him as he falls.

The last thing he hears is Fjord saying, “Stop it. Just stop it. Don’t make me–”

  “Molly, stop!”

Vax’ildan is holding him from behind, grappled like they’re trying to hold him back from a bar fight. One arm looped at Molly’s middle and one up around his chest like a bandolier. They’re speaking directly into Molly’ ear, gripping him so tight it aches a little. But it’s good. It’s good, because their arms around his body say that body is whole and his heart and lungs and everything are intact inside of him and he can breathe. He can breathe here even if his corpse is laying shredded somewhere else.

“Stop,” Vax is pleading. Their fingers dig into Molly’s shoulder. “Stay here. Just stay for a second, okay? Listen to me. I’ll get you through this but not this way. Work with me. Don’t do this.”

“Send me back.”

  Molly opens his eyes and Fjord is kneeling on top of him, straddling his chest, both hands on either side of Molly’s head like he’s been waiting for him to wake up. He doesn’t say a word. He just takes Molly’s head in his hands, almost gently, thumbs set against his temples – “Fjord,” Molly tries to say, “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s not you.” – then he drives Molly’s skull into the ground with such monstrous fucking force it smashes his head open on the –

Vax is kneeling over him. They’re holding Molly’s head in their hands and they say, “You’re just being stubborn now. You don’t have to do it like this, you idiot. Let me fucking help you.”

Molly give them the finger and whispers, “Send me back, beautiful.”

And Vax looks gutted for a moment and –

  Molly wakes up and the Leviathan is waiting for him, staring at him through Fjord’s eyes and the searing, burning starvation in the gaze is insanity-inducing. It puts Fjord’s hand on Molly’s sternum and there’s a flare of arcane light. Molly screams as a necrotic fire bursts into and spreads through the interior of his chest, searing away flesh and sinew until Molly is clawing, choking blind on the tastes of his own disintegrating internal organs before merciful unconsciousness –

  Vax’ildan is staring down at him. Their face is blank and helpless, framed by dark hair. They just kneel there with their hands folded on Molly’s chest. They have Molly’s hand between their palms and they say nothing. They just wait and –

  Molly wakes up surrounded by a hundred dark specters. The moment he opens his eyes, they seize hold of him. Their touch pulls the life out of him, like a mouth draws blood off a wound and he screams. He twists in their grip, but they hold him fast among them. Their touch absorbs everything. Light and sound and heat. Molly calls wildly for Fjord, for Yasha, Nott, Caduceus, for anything fucking familiar, but there’s just the dark and Molly goes colder and colder and colder until he can’t see or breathe or move and there is darkness on his tongue and then –

  Molly is alone on a grassy hill beneath the moon and someone is saying, “Get out of my way, feather butt!” and before he can think that voice sounds familiar, there’s a tug like a string through his heart and –

  Molly opens his eyes.

His sitting in the water. He can feel his left arm hanging slack, his fingers submerged, his knees drawn up a little like someone pulled him into that position. Someone is holding him tightly. Fjord is kneeling on the ground and he’s got one arm protectively around his waist, the other looped around Molly’s shoulders, pressing Molly in against his chest. Fjord’s curled around him as if to shield him and Mollymauk can hear his heart humming through the cold fabric of his tunic. His hands where he’s touching Molly are warm, almost hot, like he’s staving off cold or… or like he’s just finished pressing healing magic into his blood yet again.

“I’ll do it,” he’s saying but like it’s killing him. “I’ll do it, damn you. Just stop. Stop.”

Molly feels drunk on regeneration but glances sidelong… and sees shadows slithering around them, a black serpentine coil of darkness that consumes all light. Utter darkness nested on all sides of them. Molly looks away from that and up at Fjord instead. He tries a sleepy smile.

“Hey, roomie, what’s happening?”

“Hey, Molly.”

“That sucked.”

“I know. Won’t happen again.”

Molly grins but he feels the fraying panic behind the exhaustion, sliding inside him like a razor down skin. “Gonna make it easy on me?” Molly swallows and turns his face against Fjord’s collarbone, like that will stop anything, like the comfort and warmth is anything but a precursor to what comes next. “Don’t ditch me with your asshole patron again.”

“Yeah. Yeah of course.  I’m here.”

Molly shivers, pulls his arms up and tucks them around his middle for a second.

“You cold?”

Molly laughs ragged. “Really?”

Fjord says nothing, but Molly feels a fresh rush of heat lathe over him, hot as summer and it feels good, but it can’t reach the ice inside him, driven there like a nail through his gut. Shivers begin in his hands, travel up his arms, until he’s shaking so hard he has to clench his teeth to stop them chattering. Fjord grips him more tightly. Wordlessly.

“You know,” Molly mumbles. “If you wanted to keep me away, kissing me in a dream was a really shitty way to do it. Honestly, play to your audience, man.”

Fjord huffs this sound that’s almost a laugh. “Sorry. I don’t remember you flirtin’ with dark specters that threaten to kill you. Must have been between Zedash and Hupperdook or somethin’.”

“Oooh, I’m very open-minded,” Molly says, clenching his eyes shut. “And I told you I thought you were pretty pretty. Didn’t I? Back then?”

“N-no. You never told me that.”

“Eh.” A shrug. “Well, now you know.” Molly shivers. “Uh, can you… can you make this quick, Fjord?”

Fjord says nothing. Molly feels him trying to think of something, anything, any comfort at all… but in the end, he just leans down, his hand sliding up Molly’s neck, to his temple. There his thumb presses, like you smooth a stamp on a letter, and the contact triggers an aneurism and he –

    Jester is staring down at him.  

He stares. The moon halos her head in silver. Her hair is longer and wilder than he remembers, the freckles more pronounced in her dark blue skin and the laugh lines at her mouth so much deeper. She’s got a scar across her nose and there are silver disks the size of a thumb print braided into her hair. She’s wearing a gray cloak that shimmers with all the colors in the rainbow and a few colors that Molly has no words for. She smells of carnival food, like walking past a fair in a childhood he doesn’t have.

“Hey, hey,” she whispers. Her eyes shine brighter than they should. She’s sitting with him in exactly the same way that Fjord was, his weight braced against her chest, her arms around his shoulders and middle, holding him tight. She whispers, “I traveled a long way to find you, Molly.”

“Jester?” Molly touches her hair, rubbing a small section between his fingers. “How are you here?”

“I just travel everywhere now. And your champion put out a call.”

“My champion?” Molly murmurs.

Jester glances sidelong and Molly follows her gaze… to Vax’ildan. Standing a ways off up the hill, arms folded, and looking both deeply annoyed and deeply relieved. But what catches Molly’s eye isn’t that but rather the towering figure standing behind them. Nearly two heads taller than the raven knight, a figure in a dark green cloak, the cowl pulled low over their eyes. They’re smiling just a little and Molly can’t explain the sensation of familiarity. Like he should know who they are but doesn’t.

He has to look away back to Jester. “Who is that?”

“The Traveler is with me,” Jester says. “Wherever I go, he follows.”

“Your god is just standing over there?” Molly laughs a little, voice cracking. “That’s so ridiculous!” He laughs again and hooks his arms around her shoulders, yanking her into a massive bear hug. “But I don’t even care. I’m just so bloody happy to see you.”

He can hear Jester’s throat tighten around her words.

“You too, Molly.” She hugs him so tight it aches and he just presses his cheek into her neck and inhales what feels like the first real breath he’s had in weeks. She rocks for just a second, holding him. “Oh, maaaan, this has been shitty. This has been the shittiest shit for you. I can’t believe they did this to you.”

“Gonna tell me you’re sorry?”

“Never.” She pulls back a little and this time her eyes are shining and wicked. “Because you found him for me.” She grips his shoulders, speaks urgently. “Uk’otoa is too hungry to think, so it can’t see it’s opened a road. It’s been a while since we’ve seen one another, but here’s the thing: a road is all I need now.” Her smile broadens and she whispers, “Mollymauk? Servant of the Moonweaver, the protector of secret meetings. Can you show me the path to Fjord?”

“My god is the champion of lovers and trysts.” Molly, even through his exhaustion, manages a grin. “You think she’s got your back?”

“Yes,” Jester says, beaming. “She sure the fuck does.”

And then she kisses Molly on the cheek and –

  Molly opens his eyes and he’s on fire.

His skin seethes with light, like flame off an accelerant and he burns an endless heatless blue. He stands up. A sourceless wind billows around him, tearing at his clothes and hair while the cyclone of light twists in ribbons of brightness around him. The waters part at his feet and through the fire he can see something in the darkness – something massive and black, a great bristling flank moving across his entire field of vision and every 50 meters or so a great yellow eye passes, staring directly at him.

The serpent, he knows, is wrapped around him, endlessly consuming itself and everything around it.

“Fjord!” Molly shouts into the darkness. “I remember this time! I remember what I’m doing here!”

That voice rumbles through his head again, dark and chaotic but… muted now. Not maddening like before: CANNOT BE HERE.

“Fjord!” Molly steps forward, the waters moving away from his boots with each step. “Fjord, we’re not alone down down here! I’m not bloody leaving you. C’mon!”

HE BELONGS TO THE SEA.

“Fuck you! You aren’t the sea!” Molly shouts, pointing a blazing finger at the shadow. “You’re a snake with delusions of godhood and you won’t hold up to a real deity!”

YOU ARE ALONE.

“You know,” Molly says, sensing he has an audience, “I serve the Moonweaver. Goddess of misdirection. Maybe you don’t know this but in any magic trick there’s three parts.” Molly holds up one finger. “A Pledge. That’s when you show someone something ordinary. Like a carnie that died ten years.” Molly holds up a second finger. “The Turn. You make that ordinary thing interesting. Like maybe you make him unkillable, so a death-addicted demi-god takes a good look.”

YOU ARE ALONE, roars the darkness.

But Molly ignores it and holds up a third finger.

“The Prestige is the good part. Cause you’ve been looking at me…” Molly can feel warm wind at his back, can smell something sweet as kettle-corn on an autumn day, and on a breeze that blows down a road that doesn’t yet exist, he hears a laugh. So he says “You shouldn’t have taken Fjord away from her.”

And Jester Lavorre says, “Give him back to me, you ugly fucking lizard!”

And the darkness ignites.

The pocket dimension tears open and through the howling gap of light and quantum screaming, a blue-skinned woman in a cloak and frilly skirts bursts forward. She lands on two feet, her hands extended in front of her and instantly all around her a thousand motes of light shiver and burst into a thousand-thousand glittering lollipops each the size of a battle shield. They gleam razor sharp against the shadow. She burns with the same blue light that covers Molly and she says, “We’re not leaving without him!”

NO.

“Give him back to us or I’ll tear you apart!”

YOU CAN’T.

“Yes, I fucking can!” The world shudders. Jester’s eyes are blazing suns, burning white and light issues from her throat like starlight through a tunnel of mirrors. Molly feels a hand suddenly on his shoulder and there’s whisper of green fabric though the corner of his eye, a ghost of a smirk in his head, like a fading memory. But Jester is shouting and he can’t turn his head to see if her god is, indeed, standing behind her. “YOU HAVE UNTIL THE COUNT OF THREE, STUPID!”

She points at the dark before her.

“ONE!”

The swarm of lollipops beings into spin, then speed into swirling orbit, spinning around the two of them until the there is a cyclone of spiritual weaponry screaming through the air.

“TWO!”

They’ve moving so fast now that their motion and light is becoming a blur, a dome of light that eclipses the dark. The shadow beyond the cyclone is recoiling from the radiant fire that now burns away the water, the darkness, and the cold. Everything smells like sugar and feels like summer and Molly can feel it like a rush of magic through him the want to just move, to run, to tear through some unknown passageway to a different destination. The light is blinding now. Burning. Jester opens her hand.

“THR—!”

Reality pops.

Molly blinks.

He’s standing in the middle of the road. The roar is gone, the sudden silence almost deafening before the low whisper of the surf comes through and the far cry of gulls beyond the breakers. There’s sunshine against his forehead and shoulders and there’s still blood all over his armor and clothes but the dark is gone. He’s facing the water, the tide lapping at his boots where he stands at the edge of an uninterrupted ocean and he can see where the road at his feet disappears down into the water. It takes him a moment realize… it looks a lot like the road through Port Damali to the Crushing Deep.

But the Deep has vanished.

There is nothing but the ocean and the shimmering of sunlight in the waves.

“Molly?”

He blinks again, turns and looks over his shoulder.

Jester is standing in the road behind him. Beside her, wearing strange leather armor and looking… almost exactly like he did ten years ago, stands Fjord. For a moment, Molly just stands there, covered in blood and feeling the breeze against his face. Staring at his two friends who, he notices, are holding hands very tightly. Yeah,he thinks, that makes sense. Okay.

“This real?” Molly asks.

Jester has tears on her face. She can’t seem to speak so she just nods furiously.

“Okay,” Molly says. He looks at Fjord. “You good?”

“Yeah, Mollymauk. I’m okay.”

Molly realizes his hands are shaking.

“It’s over?” Molly asks.

“Yes, it’s over,” Fjord says. “He’s gone. I can feel it. I know. It’s done, Molly. I can’t...” He looks at Jester, like he’s never seen anything like her before. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

Jester holds out a hand. “You’re okay, Molly. Yasha and the others are on their way. I know it. I promise.”

“Good,” Molly says.

And that’s when Molly’s legs kind of give out.

He falls to his knees and he closes his eyes and the stones under his palms are sun-hot and for a moment there’s nothing but that heat and the sound of Jester and Fjord saying his name. And it’s real. It’s real. It’s real as Jester and Fjord grab hold of him and Jester’s magic breathes burning mint and healing fire through his veins. Fjord is gripping his head, shaking him a little saying, “Hey, hey look at me, Molly. Molly. Stay here. Stay with us.”

The sun is burning hot.

Molly is freezing cold.

He hears Yasha’s voice at a distance, yelling his name and he thinks, Now both of us are Deathless.

Then he passes out.

part 8

[too-cool-for-facebook]

Ghost Adventures!

I had a fun thought experiment while trying to fall asleep.

What if I had “Ghost Powers”?

And not necessarily like Danny Phantom - he could shoot laser beams and stuff, and that’s not what I’m really going for

So what would these Ghost Powers entail?

When I so choose, the ability to:

be invisible

be inaudible

pass through solid objects

fly / float

turn objects & living beings invisible if I touch them; or leave them visible and make them look like they’re floating around on their own

said objects & beings I’ve turned invisible, as long as I’m touching them, retain my power of also remaining inaudible and can pass through solid objects. Once I release them, they return back to normal

*Note on invisibility: What I mean is that photons, instead of bouncing off me, would pass right through me, leaving no shadow. This does bring up the problem of, “But if light doesn’t hit your retina, you won’t be able to see!” Well let’s pretend that’s part of my powers - I can see even though others can’t see me. Also I can hear myself and any object I’ve touched.

What are the limitations?:

If I fall asleep or fall unconscious, I can’t use my powers. Ex.: If I’m invisible and then fall asleep, I will become visible again

If I am startled, I’ll revert back to normal (become visible/audible). (Hopefully I’m not flying in midair when that happens)

My powers are dependent on my energy level. If I haven’t eaten or am not well-rested, my power is diminished, especially my flight, because that takes a LOT of energy

If I touch a person and turn them invisible, they can now see me / hear me, but only as long as I’m touching them

Cats (Felis catus) can always see me no matter what

I didn’t think about this until now, but smell - I don’t think I can cover up my smell, meaning any animals, particularly dogs, would know I’m around

If any part of my body (hair, blood, spit, etc) is no longer connected / contained within the rest of my body, the fallen part immediately becomes visible

I cannot permanently make something invisible/inaudible

I cannot make objects float on their own. I have to physically pick them up, therefore I can only take what I can carry. On that same note - weight does not diminish. Just because something is “ghostly” now, doesn’t mean it no longer is heavy. I can’t pick up airplanes

I can still leave prints on anything I make contact with - footprints, fingerprints, even DNA

I’m still mortal, and still must eat and sleep, and am still susceptible to illness and injury and the range of human emotions

I think that’s about everything I thought of.

So with these newfound powers, what’s the very first thing I decide to do?

TO DISNEYLAND!!!

I myself could fly to California, but that would take a lot of energy. Easier to ghostly enter an airport and get aboard an airplane and let it take me to CA, and then from there fly to the park.

Then I thought about, “What do I do about sleep? I’d have to be somewhere safe because I’m vulnerable when asleep.” So then I came up with: a hotel. For free. All I’d have to do is use my ghost powers to go from room to room until I find one that’s unoccupied and make camp.

But what if someone checks-in to the room while I’m in it? Easy - bolt and latch the door. When they try to get in, it will undoubtedly make noise. And if they’re really frustrated, they’ll probably knock, at which point I’m awake and can turn ghost, grab my backpack, and get the hell outta there.

Now what about the backpack? I was pretty sure (and I just checked and am right) that backpacks aren’t allowed. My solution? Fly up to the hotel’s roof and leave it up there - and then hope like hell no employee is doing work on the roof that day. For added security - putting the backpack in a large garbage bag in case the weather turns foul

Getting into the park is easy: Go Ghost. I could fly in, but that’s not as fun. I want the experience of walking through those front gates.

And as soon as I get in, find an inconspicuous place hidden from view and then turn non-ghost again. Then I can wander the park to my heart’s content. (Def first stop is the Disneyland Railroad. You just gotta).

What about food though? While doing this thought experiment, I concluded that if I can turn things invisible, then easily I can acquire food. If I’m in a gas station and grab a muffin and a bottle of milk, they’re going to vanish and I can just walk through the walls with them and eat them later, disposing of the trash away from prying eyes

That’s a little harder at a theme park. What if I want soft serve ice cream? I could make the bowl disappear, but the ice cream that’s pouring out of the machine would still be visible - and that’s bound to freak some people out. So I’m still going to need money to pay for some things.

So wait, where does the money come from, I wonder? Because if I’m a ghost and can fly, do you really think I’m gonna stick around my job? Fuck no! I CAN FLY! I’m going wherever the hell I want to!

So if I’m not working a job, where do the munnies come from? I guess I could always steal it...

My first thought was just nick it from the nearest cash register, but then I immediately realized, no, that would get the cashier in trouble and their lives are hard enough as it is. So where to get money?

The bank’s always a good place. Just ghost in, grab a stack of 20s out of the vault, and fly away. No more than a stack at a time. Too much gone missing will cause alarm. Also, I could hit every bank in town, grabbing one stack from each. Just make a day out of it.

But then that posed the problem of where to keep the money. If I’m going to my bank and depositing all this cash (while cash has mysteriously gone missing from local banks), I think it’s going to raise a few flags. So maybe only deposit a few handfuls of it at a time, and bury the rest of it in a big mayonnaise jar out back or whatever

But here’s where limitations on my powers could pose a problem. What if I leave fingerprints in the bank vault? What if a strand of hair gets left behind and now they’ve got my DNA? But that’s a long and complicated line of thought, and I don’t wanna ruin my fun, so we’ll act like that doesn’t happen

So back to Disneyland: Money’s not an issue. I can buy food. And I thought, “Ah, you know what? I’ll stop by the Rainforest Cafe!”

But then I realized something that I didn’t even think about - loneliness. I’d be by myself. And wandering around by oneself is relaxing and all, but when it comes to having meals, especially in a place where the atmosphere is the real selling point, I dunno. Eating by myself is just really lonely and makes me sad.

In theory, if I can turn anyone invisible, I could ostensibly bring someone to California with me. Major problem with that: TRUST NO ONE. As soon as my powers are revealed to ANYONE, they risk being exposed to EVERYONE. You ever seen Death Note? That in my opinion was Light Yagami’s biggest fuck up was revealing how people were being killed. Also (oddly enough a statistic from Death Note), the more people involved in an operation, the more likely it is to fail. More moving parts means the easier it is to break. If I just keep it to me, my chances of safety are increased / risk of exposure decreased

So unfortunately I’m going to have to deal with a lot of loneliness. I don’t even think I’d be able to post things on social media, because then I’m leaving a trail. If all the banks in my hometown get robbed, and then I’m at Disneyland and suddenly the experience a rash of shoplifting (because yes, I’m contemplating jacking that giant expensive snowglobe), a clever detective could put two-and-two together. Still, they’d have a hard time figuring out how I dunnit, but why even take the risk?

But again, we’re getting too serious when I wanted this to be a fun exercise

So I wander the park, I ride the rides, I get my Dole© Pineapple soft serve ice cream at the Tiki Room - and the best part is, I can take all the time in the world. There’s no time limit. I can mosey about as long as I want. As long as I can always find an unoccupied hotel room to sleep in, I’m good.

OH SHITBEES! I DIDN’T EVEN CONSIDER! I COULD STAY IN A DAMN DISNEY HOTEL!

IF I GO TO ORLANDO, I COULD STAY IN THE CINDERELLA SUITE IN THE DAMN CASTLE INSIDE THE PARK!

(Of course then again, I get the feeling they don’t have electricity running to the room at all times, only when guests stay there; which fun fact, that room can’t be booked, no matter how much you’re willing to pay. It’s by invitation only. So if it’s dark in there, it’ll certainly be spooky)

ANYWHO...

I guess that’s all that can be said about this trip. I’m not gonna do a play-by-play of my fantasy Disney trip. It’s just a starting point for a very liberating daydream. Food’s not a problem, money’s not a problem, housing’s not a problem.

Really the only problem is if I get sick or injured. But if money’s not a problem, I can afford healthcare now. So yeah.

And who says I have to stop at Disneyland? I could travel the whole world and see everything!

And it’s not all selfish. Who says I can’t drop a stack of twenties in front of a person who’s homeless? Or a crate of food?

Oh what’s that? There’s a person abusing / beating their partner and/or child? Lemme just phase my hand right into your chest and clench you heart artery and give you a heart attack :) I could go full-on Kira given the chance

A child’s been kidnapped? Welp, yoink! SURPRISE! THEY’RE INVISIBLE NOW! And I fly them back home and drop ‘em off

You get the idea.

There’s a lot I could do with Ghost Powers

[hellotinywonder]

ten years later...

[Česká Verze] This has been kicking around my head as of late, I have a dear new friend who doesn’t speak much English, and I’ve wanted to tell him about this weird, terrible moment in my life that fundamentally changed who I am and how I will forever interact with the world (both in good ways and bad). But I don’t know how to.  So I am writing it all down, which is something I have never done. And then I will leave it here, and of course, once a year I will remember and shake my fist at the world for myself and all the other victims of violent men, and then I will put my fist down, and get back to living my life.  It’s that time of year, though...

I’ve been thinking about this a lot.  It comes unbidden in the middle of the night.  When someone is walking too quickly toward me.  When someone says something inappropriate online or in person. When too many of the boxes, of that pattern of violence I have permanently etched in my head, get ticked… I think:

“Ten years ago someone tried to kill you... maybe you should run.” (Obvious content warnings apply, readers: Violence.)

Ten years is so long.  I have adapted.  I have moved past it.  But the parts of that night, those horrific hours in the morning… 4am. 5am. In the ER by 6am… the parts that are left, I feel are going to stay with me forever.

They don’t haunt, so much.  They are just there.  In the corners.  They keep me aware.  So in some ways, they keep me safe.

Daniel Rhinehardt was my housemate.  (How do I refer to him?  There is nothing colloquial about him at all, but since this is going up online, as a statement of public record, as a possible search result for Google, that might warn some poor woman who doesn’t know… Daniel Rhinehardt is his name, and I will refer to him as such.)  We did lots of things together, because I am the type, I have discovered, who likes housemates as community.  I have had many successful versions of communal housemates, who cooked together, or went on mundane errands, that sort of thing.  With no hidden agenda, no sense of obligation… healthy relationships between people.  This was not one of them.  But I was too young and naive to figure that out in time.

I won’t go into too many details, but this man became obsessed with me.  I remember being on tour for a month, bills paid in advance, and I received harassing phone calls from him because I hadn’t called him, or some nonsense like that.  We did our first Dragon Con (major convention in Atlanta, that I performed at or now do puppetry at) that year, and he came with us to sell merch.  I woke up one morning in my band’s hotel room to find him in bed next to me, which unnerved me (I had specifically requested my female friend sleep with me, to keep this weird toxicity I was starting to pick up on away).  I was looking for apartments in September of 2008.  I was looking. I hadn’t said anything, but I knew I had to leave, but I just didn’t pull it all together fast enough.

On September 20th, 2008, at my friend David’s birthday, Rhinehardt got drunk.  At the time I did not drink and was babysitting friend of mine on the roof.  They were a bit touchy feely as they were on some other substances, but I didn’t mind. I trusted them and I knew I was in control of my situation.  When we decided it was time for me to go to bed, we all cuddled a bit and they each kissed me goodnight.  They were a married couple, and there was nothing untoward with silly friendly kisses, but it set Rhinehardt off. He started yelling nonsense and threw a chair off the roof (it was caught by a lower tier, and did not fall to the street).  He stormed off screaming garbled obscenities and was gone.  The night was thrown into disarray.  We tried to call him because we were all concerned.  But I was also starting to panic.  I took a hit of my inhaler and we went back downstairs into David’s apartment.  I sat on her bed while some friends talked me down and told me I really needed to move out. I agreed and told them how I had been looking, but couldn’t find anything at the time.  I don’t know how long we were there in the apartment when Rhinehardt came back in, yelling nonsense, walked straight in at me and stabbed me in the side.

I would like to take a brief moment to mention a memory that I can never shake.  One day, apropos of nothing, Daniel Rhinehardt told me that if he was ever going to stab someone he would make sure to swing in from the side.  That is where all the organs are, defenseless.  It was so much more work to stab from the front or the back because of the ribcage.  He *told* me that once.  Well before, I think, he had any designs of stabbing me… but he told me that.  He thought it was impressive.  This vast knowledge of violence.

“...stabbed me in the side.”  It looks so small to read it back.  Such a small action.  How does it reverberate even now?

Thankfully I had enough reactionary sense to move as much as I could, being seated on a bed, and turned myself away so that his fist, no, knife… both... hit my hip and lodged there 3 inches, (8cm or so), instead of my side.  My organs were spared, and while the scar tissue presses against it, my sciatic nerve and artery were both missed.

I screamed.  He pulled the knife back and tried to stab me again, but was pulled off by someone else.  Matt McCorkle, David Forbes, and Luke Withrow all had a hand in saving my life that night.  Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if they weren’t there, if I had gone home.  Best not to think about it, not now or ever.  It would not have been good.  As fucked as I was, I was still somehow, always, lucky.

Then came the insanity that was bleeding all over my friend’s bed and floor.  Rhinehardt was pushed out of the apartment, the door was locked.  Every time someone knocked on that door I lost my shit, completely terrified.  But at the same time I was in shock and trying to sort out how I could avoid going to the hospital, one seemingly completely logical thought was: Matt’s dad was a vet… so we had access to medical supplies?  My health insurance did not start for another TEN DAYS.  (Thank you for absolutely nothing, America.)  911 was called, because of course it was. I had been stabbed right in front of a group of friends and party-goers.  I was left, lying on the floor, while Luke and Danielle held towels against my hip and thigh to try to stop the bleeding.

That’s how it went for 20 minutes? 2 hours? I could not tell (of course it couldn’t have been 2 hours, but I lost all track fo time).  Eventually paramedics arrived, cut my pants off, staunch the bleeding as best they could (my inhaler I took during the panic attack was working as a blood thinner, so that was miserable) and whisked me away.

Shock is a wonderful feeling.  I mean, it’s horrible, but it does keep you calm.  I “made friends” with them, they were very excited about their new sealing product for puncture wounds.  They whisked me into an ER.  Where I was photographed, documented, scrubbed, sutured, stapled, and asked a million questions I didn’t know how to answer.

Meanwhile everyone was sort of detained at the apartment -now crime scene- to give statements.  More photographs were taken.  I’m told they are available somewhere, public record, but I’ve never seen them.  I’ve asked once, but was unable to track them down.

I was told by the detective on my case, no, *the* case (it would become very apparent that this was not MY case, rather I was the VICTIM in the STATE’s case) that I could not go home.  It was not safe.  Did I have anywhere to go?  Anyone I could stay with?  I didn’t know.  I had friends… but I knew Matt, Amanda, David, Luke, Danielle… but I didn’t know anyone’s last names, didn’t know how to contact anyone… I am not sure if I even had my phone, no… now that I think of it,I think my phone and my bag were left behind on the floor of the apartment.  I was given crutches, scrubs (again, my pants had been cut off), and my shoes, and a voucher for a taxi, and discharged around 9am.

I was given back my shoes.  Little beat up black ballet flats.  I just stared at them.  They were splattered with blood.  I stood there in what must be one of the most cinematic scenes of my life, a mess, leaning on crutches, completely alone in a hospital lobby, as the sun crested the mountain and poured over me.  A man offered me a wheelchair, but due to the location of my wound, I was unable to sit down.  I hobbled to the sidewalk… I had no bag, no belongings, just my shoes in my hands, and as the cab driver came over to me I saw Luke and Danielle turn the corner.  They had come to find me, and subsequently adopt me.  We went back to Matt and Amanda’s apartment, which was in the same building as mine. Rhinehardt was still in jail at the time, so we went through my apartment and grabbed some essentials.  Some clothes, my laptop, The Invention of Hugo Cabret (a book I had been meaning to read), Agatha (the cat I had been cat sitting) and some other items I forget.  We sat around Matt and Amanda’s apartment for a bit, then, exhausted, back to Luke and Danielle’s where I would live for the next few weeks.  Daniel Rhinehardt would be released on bail that night, and he would never go back to jail for this crime.  Because that is how the system works in North Carolina.

When I made it back to Luke and Danielle’s house I remember calling my parents. Calling my friend Tom in the wee hours of the morning, because of the time zone, and leaving a message saying something like “you should call me back as soon as you get this.” I called work and asked to not come in for a bit.  I tried to explain.  

These mundane exercises.

I needed to inform my people.

I started using Facebook for only that reason.  To tell my people from Charlotte, my hometown (no, I don’t claim that often) that I would be back for a short stay, couldn’t drive, needed help.  Needed people around me… I don’t know.  I do know that Erich Moffitt, an ex -but I thought friend- never returned my call.  Just left me out there, drifting in the darkest void I’ve ever drifted in.  So... yeah, a polite fuck you, dude.

Everything went from bad to worse as I tried to recover, but there were still wonderful highlights to cling to.  My friend Tom created a paypal donation site for me, as I was uninsured and would need help covering the medical bills (though in the end Victim’s Compensation would cover them, but not before they went into default and cruel creditors would harass me and call the incident of someone stabbing me an “accident”), I was caught by an incredible network of friends in Asheville, who I am forever overjoyed to see, who I can rely on to this day, and I love dearly.  My birthday, 2 days later on Sept 23rd, I spent in Charlotte, my parents collected me and took me to their home a few hours away for a few days following which made sense.  It was during a gas crisis, but I didn’t know.  My friend Mike Walker and his wife Mary came to my parent’s house, collected me in the back of their car, and drove me out for Ethiopian food on my birthday.  It was truly special.

I bonded so much with Agatha, the cat, who I was cat sitting, in Luke and Danielle’s little guest room.  She was my constant companion as I recovered.  I read The Invention of Hugo Cabret.  It is one of my favourite books to this day.  It is easy, beautiful, densely illustrated, and I would get lost in it.  I would read it over and over, or just open it and look at it.  It’s still a comfort that I can’t quite describe.  Calm, dark, stable.  An adventure, but a safe one. (Fun fact, I buy copies of that book whenever I see them in second hand shops, to give to friends.  I have one now that was just unknowingly claimed by someone.)

I was wearing my punk rock jacket, covered in patches and badges, when I was stabbed, but thought nothing of it.  When I was in the courthouse, filing for a temporary restraining order, I put some coins in my pocket and they fell out onto the floor.  The knife had gone straight through.  I later stitched it back shut in red, and then silver thread over where the staples had gone.  The punkest punk rock jacket.  I still have it, but I don’t wear it anymore.

I came back to Asheville too soon, to do a Hellblinki show.  I was incredibly out of it.  I remember Ian (who I would date for 5 years, much later) visiting that show and hugging me and having no earthly idea what I had been through.  (It should have been a warning, really, I think now, but from a place of happiness, love, and sarcasm.)  I passed out on the couch at the venue.  The bar staff and owner knew what was up and looked out for me, and told me if I ever needed anything, ANYTHING, just come to them.  Just go to The Rocket Club and they would sort it.  The Rocket Club is gone now, but I think to think that the offer still stands with Ken.

I recovered physically.  I used a cane for a while, but eventually, now, I am 99%.  That 1% shows up now and again, excruciating pain if getting a massage, or just weird weather patterns and scar tissue.

Emotionally and mentally I am okay.  I have PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), but that’s not surprising.  If and when I run into Daniel Rhinehardt, and I have the unbelievable misfortune of doing so now and again, I sort of “blackout”.  I go into this incredible fight or flight response moment, and I always choose flight. ��It’s not an option.  It is done for me.  I “come to” as I am running down a street, hiding in a bathroom, or driving away (it’s terrifying to sort of “wake up” in your own body and find you’ve been driving a car.)  These blackouts aren’t black, but I become much more a passenger and my lizard-brain takes over.  I’m mostly aware of what is happening, but I am not the one in control.

Daniel Rhinehardt received no jail time.  He was given probation, required counseling, and is a convicted felon.  It’s not much.  It’s not much, but at least it is not nothing.  He does have a record.  And he’s added to it since me.  That’s the main reason I am writing this.  Because he attacked women after me.

I would later have several women come tell me how he had abused them or been violent, but they were always too afraid to go to the police.  This breaks my heart and makes me incredibly angry.  I would have never been put in this danger if there was some record, if people warned each other about violent men.  Thankfully we as a culture are better about that now, ten years later.  The sentencing hearing at court would be laughable if it wasn’t so goddamn tragic.  Rhinehardt's lawyer claimed he only drank that night because he didn’t want to be rude to his host, then asserting that his drunkenness somehow means his violence wasn’t actually him.  David grabbed my hand.  I could tell she was furious.  I was in a weird state of disbelief and also just acceptance that the NC Court System did not and does not give a fuck about me.

After the court hearing I was dazed.  But I remember we walked out into the gray February day, and got coffees.  What else can you do?  I had gotten knocked about so much over those 5 months that nothing shocked me.  I just accepted it as best I could.  And had coffee.

I got a restraining order, but every year when I went back to renew it some judge behind a desk made me feel like I didn’t deserve it, because if it had not been violated, why did I need it?  One of them, the last one (before I stopped going, not needing to expose myself to that trauma over and over) called me “Miss Rhinehardt”, just truly horrible people who absolutely did not care about me.  Again, North Carolina, I am looking at you with so much contempt for how you treat women.

All of my legal work was handled pro bono by Pisgah Legal, and I am thankful to them forever.  I was terrified I would not qualify or I would have to prove this happened, or I don’t know what, but no, I was firmly supported and told that the 911 call and the photos were terrible, but also incredibly damning in my favor.  An odd benefit, I guess. Also, since my attack is technically domestic violence, I had access to counseling through Helpmate and OurVoice, who are both fantastic resources.

I applied for a passport.  Just seemed the right thing to do. I wanted to leave the country.  I wanted to leave it all behind for just a bit.  The passport came in the mail, but on the same day, a check from Victim’s Compensation reimbursing me, finally, for all the medical bills I had been forced to cover, arrived.  I put the two together and a few months later left the country to go do a festival with band family in London and Whitby, and visit my dear friend Xavi Quero in Barcelona, Catalonia.

There’s more mess afterward as well...  I can never quite write it all, and maybe what is left out will just fade away into obscurity.  But this is enough.  Except it is worth saying: a couple years later a woman reached out to me on Facebook because she was dating Daniel Rhinehardt and he was scaring her.  She heard about me and wanted to know if “it was all true”.  He had told her that he had a record, but said that I had cheated on him or some other nonsense, which is ridiculous for several reasons (we were not dating, gross, and if ever we were- HOW DOES THAT JUSTIFY ATTACKING A WOMAN!?)  lots of red flags on that one, but this woman didn’t see them until too late.  I did warn her, and she got away, or so I was told.  But a few months later he was arrested for assault on a female, and she had a broken jaw.  I don’t know if they are the same, but I’ve got decent powers of deduction.

He was arrested another time as well, as I was informed via mugshot (I don’t ever need to see that face again, thank you, but there it was) for another assault on a female.  I don’t know the story, I don’t want to know… and I probably already know.  It’s a pattern.  I recognize patterns.

I mentioned that I’ve run into him.  That’s god-awful.  I have another friend who looks vaguely like him, which leads to a cute comedy of errors, that still involves a PTSD meltdown for me.  I am getting better about it, and this friend knows what I am really asking if I say “Are you at Restaurant X? Or Hey, are you downtown?” because I am giving myself a precious few seconds hoping for a “yes, that’s me!” and then relief… though usually it ends up with me hyperventilating somewhere else, after having run off, literally without thinking.

But, Valerie!  You’re usually so positive about things!  What is the silver lining of all this?

No. I’m not there yet, but I am getting there.  There is something horrible about having someone try to kill you.  Someone you trusted.  Something that breaks inside you and will never be the same.  It’s strange to have a moment when someone else decided they wanted to control your fate, your life, and by control I mean try to fuck it up horrifically, or just… end it.  Someone tried to end me.  Me.  That damaged my psyche for a long time… maybe permanently, though I have put my own spin on it.

There is something about this incident that left me feeling like less of a person, I was to another human being (no matter how terrible a person): dispensable.  I will always struggle with that, copying it over to other relationships with decent enough people, this disposability.  I don’t have inherently low self esteem or anything, but as I mentioned before, something, some trust in human decency… broke.  And I’ve never been able to put it back together right.

I worry that I give this incident too much weight, but I swear to you, fereverently, it weighs only as much as it does.  But that fluctuates.  Am I digging up the past to make drama? No.  I am trying to explain how I got here, how I became the person I am.  I am always trying to accept this.  Accept the reactions of the people around me. (The local paper referred to me, anonymously, as having been “stabbed in the buttocks”.  This led to a weird sort of dark comedy, because how silly it all sounded.  Some people would latch onto that, I would sometimes try to laugh about it too, a forced laugh.  It was really horrific to have some friends very close to me miss the seriousness of my situation because of one shitty line of reporting.  I laughed along, but I was really, really broken about that for a while.)

Trying to explain to a beautiful new friend that I am fine now, but I was not always fine, and that I fought like hell to be the shining happy blueberry girl that I get to be today. But I, like any woman who has ever stepped forward and said: “Hold on, this man did X to me”, I feel like I am fighting a world that will not believe me, despite as my lawyer mentioned, the overwhelming amount of proof, evidence, the fact that this did happen, is documented, and yet people still turn a blind eye, or make excuses.  It is maddening.  It is soul destroying.

I have people I meet who inadvertently overstep. (I have a creepy neighbour who was following that pattern of violence I mentioned, and I am completely terrified of him.)  I still have trouble dealing with them.  Almost always men.  Men who want to get too close, who miss social cues, who are creepy, who seem to want something from me. I am working on accepting that a man who is interested in me, when I am not interested in him, is not necessarily a threat. They are not all threats.  They are not going to try to murder you just because you turn them down.  But I am not there yet.  I am still working on that.  It’s a work in progress...

My positive spin?  Pragmatism.  I have a deeply ingrained understanding that tomorrow is promised to no one.  So now, while I do so responsibly, I am pretty good about going after what I want, in good ways.  It took me awhile to work back to this, but I have found a healthy balance of being responsible, and chasing after whimsy because who knows, the world could end tomorrow.  My friend, who I mentioned at the top, told me once that I was brave, having caught up to him on a random adventure by myself on the other side of the world.  Bravery never occurred to me.  It was a factor, sure, I’m brave, but it was really: “No, I want to see this friend.  And I could die next week.”  I don’t think like that… not really, that I might die next week, month, year… but at the same time I do, but with different wording.  I just think “I want this experience in my life, and now might be the only chance I get, so I am going to make it happen to the best of my ability.”

Also, I adventure.  I do incredible things, and my life has been pretty spectacular so far.  I am proud of the work I have done, the art I have made, and I treasure the friendships I’ve found and the experiences I’ve had.  That is my revenge.  Daniel Rhinehardt tried to end me.  Tried to irreversibly ruin my life, and he failed.  And, while it took some time to pull my parts back together, I have done more than just survive him, I have thrived.

A friend mentioned that to me after I had a particularly good day recently (I played puppets with my art hero and fairygodfather, who I will not mention here for the same google search result reasons), she said something along the lines of “You’re doing a lot more than just surviving.” It caught me off guard, I forgot she even knew about my whole getting-stabbed incident… I don’t mind people knowing, it is a part of who I am now.  I thought about it, and said “yes.”  It’s true.  That’s my goal.  That’s what I am doing.  And I’m okay with that.

I have mentioned a few times that one of the impetus of this tirade of tragedy is this new friend of mine, who is learning English, so I wanted to have this written down, messy as it may be, so that I am not dumping a bunch of English words on him with a context that is not easily understood with new words, (and made up words as I try to describe messy feelings not found in a textbook)… but also for my English speaking friends, because I’ve never really unloaded the whole story, or even this much of the story to anyone… I am open to sharing it, but really, sharing it is exhausting.  I get a weird surge of adrenaline when I explain it, but that adrenaline is coming from fear, mistrust, vulnerability… and it just vibrates through my system with no outlet until I realize I don’t want it.  I don’t need it.  I’m just wiped out.

But this friend.  I am going to visit him and others in a different location, still on the other side of the world, in a few months.  We met in Japan, so why not continue meeting in far off countries where I have a clumsy or nearly nonexistent grasp of the language?  What could possibly go wrong? I was explaining this to my mother a week or so ago, my trip plans, dates I’m looking at, etc, and she asked me (supportively) a very motherly question:  “Do you trust this person?”

And I answered without even thinking, or maybe I did think, but it was reactionary: “Yes. Implicitly.”  I told her.  And he’s not the first stranger-turned-friend that I have trusted implicitly, there have been several over the past few years.  Like-minded individuals who I am introduced to, or who I stumble upon and I get them, they get me, and I trust them inherently, implicitly, and with all my heart.  This has been years in the works, to get back to this point, where I can just accept a person who is good, who will look out for me, who cares for me without wanting anything in return.  A mutual trust and vulnerability.  I am lucky to have this back.

I am in a good place now.  I have been in a good place for a while.  This series of terrible moments from ten years ago left a mark, and changed who I am, but also changed me into who I am today.  And I am happy with the person I ended up as.  I’m not thanking any horrific person for trying to kill me, goodness no. He’s a terrible human being, and every woman should stay well away from him. 

I guess there is one thing undeniably positive thing I have taken away from this horrific series of events.  I’ve been through some rough times in my life since then, but nothing ever like that.  And to all of it I have been able to say: “I’ve survived worse than this.”  

And it’s gotten me through a lot.

It has sort of changed my perspective, it can sometimes be a comfort or a place of strength.

Also, I quietly know that I would win every argument of “worst housemate ever”.

That’s it, really.  No overarching summary or call to action… maybe “be kind.” Try being a good person to each other, and if you see someone leaning towards violence, stop it.  Call the cops, I don’t like cops either, but you shut that down when you see it.  Put it on their record.  Give them a record.  They’ve earned it. Make them show up in that cursory google search.

Give the next woman a fighting chance.

afterward, another reason why I wrote this, as I explained in my letter to my aforementioned friend:

...and I remember thinking to myself: "oh, scars..." and looking at you and wishing this information was already in your head, but no, I would have to put it there.   So I said something like: "there is not enough time" and I left it there.     But I hope you also know, from having met me, that I'm alright now.  I wasn't for a while.  But I am now.

I hope you all understand.

[blackcat-horror]

Darkness, Pt. 4

This part is longer than the last few, since I really wanted to get it all out before I lost it. Enjoy!

WARNING: Contains horror, gore, violence, body horror, blood, profanity, and anyone who suffers from Nyctophobia, or has a weak stomach should not read this. You’ve been warned.

The house didn't have a single light on when Catherine got home from work, save for the porch light. She paid it no heed as she closed the garage door and went through the laundry room into the kitchen. Everyone was probably asleep, and that worked in her favor. Her feet were dragging, and she couldn't lift her arms after an eight hour shift of scanning cans of pumpkin puree, turkeys, and bags of potatoes. She hated the holidays, and couldn't wait till her next days off. Too bad that was in another three days.

She flicked the switch for the dining room lights, and hesitated when they didn't turn on. She tried again, then gave up and went to check the box in the garage. She didn't find anything wrong with it, except when she tried to turn the power back on, there was no change in the darkness in the house. She swallowed hard, remembering how when she was a child, her brother used to torture her with ghost stories that left her nearly catatonic for months.

She shook it off, then used the flashlight of her cell phone to find the spare flashlight up on the shelves above her dad's workbench. It was where it was left as always. Luckily the batteries had just been replaced. Clicking it on, she went back into the house to find some candles.

As she moved past the dining table, a dark shape darted under it, hiding in a corner, followed by a low growl. Catherine kneeled down, sweeping the beam under the table. It was her cat, Othello. He watched her with flattened ears and his body backed as tightly into the corner as possible. His eyes were huge, glowing yellow from the reflected light. He mewled as he watched her, realizing it was her, and he inched forward, but only slightly.

Catherine frowned as she watched her cat. She'd only ever seen him like this once, and that was when he was a kitten, and he had just become acquainted with the vacuum cleaner. Catherine still had the scars on her leg from where he climbed up her and launched himself onto the fridge and stayed there for several hours. But even then, he came to her when she held her hand out to him, but not now. Now, he flinched away from, and even hissed when she tried to pet him.

“What is wrong with you, baby?” she cooed, then froze when she heard an odd sound come from upstairs. It was the sound of claws catching on carpet, like when she used to have a polydactyl cat, and you could hear him wherever he was, even when he nails were clipped.

Only, this sounded bigger. Much bigger.

Catherine's hair stood up on the back of her neck as she stood and pressed her back against the wall, hiding the flashlight's beam with her hand, which was beginning to shake. It sounded like the noise was moving towards the rooms at the far end of the house, which was away from her. She took the opportunity to try to sneak towards the front door, which was maybe ten steps away from where she stood. Her stomach clenched, and she found her hand going to the crucifix at her throat, a tiny thing she'd been given at her baptism, and kept since, although she'd long since stopped believing that her prayers would ever be answered. Now she was wishing she'd been just slightly more devout, but the cool metal still comforted her.

The dining room floor was risen a few inches above the living room floor, as a way to deter people from stepping on the carpet with dirty shoes, but Catherine had other things to worry about than a little dirt. As she stepped off the landing, there was a soft, wet squelch, which nearly made her whimper. She pointed the flashlight down first, and then she looked down. Oh, how she wished she hadn't.

Her mother's prized plush eggshell cream carpet was soaked in blood. It was dark- arterial blood, her mother would say, from watching too many damn crime scene investigation shows. The blood only filled a small spot, but even that was too much for Catherine to accept.

Smaller spots, but not too much smaller, led away from it, and she followed the trail, across the coffee table, onto the floor again, and then up, across the socks and sweatpants of Catherine's mother, and landing on the bloody mess that used to be her chest. It had been ripped open like a steak and lobster dinner, and most of her organs were partially devoured, or missing altogether. The light flickered as the hand holding it began to shake violently, and Catherine's throat and chest tightened as her body struggled to take in air, and her knees turned to water, folding under her and making her collapse and drop the flashlight.

It bounced slightly, rolling, and her eyes followed it as it came to stop on the strange, hairy form of something she could only think was a grotesque Halloween decoration, except for a couple things. It was breathing, and it was moving towards her.

It lunged, screeching at her, and she screamed in response, snatching up the heavy duty flashlight as it grabbed her, sinking its claws into her shoulders. She struggled and screamed her heart out, bashing it in the head with the flashlight. That seemed to stun it somewhat, and it let go. She kicked at the creature, pushing it off and making a run for the front door.

Yanking it open, she made a start to run, but then she heard Othello screech and hiss. The creature had decided Catherine was too difficult to kill, and was going to go for him instead. It was having some trouble reaching him as he backed into the corner.

“Oh no you fucking don't!” she snarled, then grabbed a lamp, ripping the cord from the outlet, and bringing it down on the creature’s head. “Get the fuck away from my cat, you motherfucker!”

She continuously brought the lamp down on the creature, which yowled in pain the entire time, even managing to slash at her calf, making her stumble, but she made sure the creature was no longer moving before she grabbed her cat, her bag, and her keys, getting in the car and speeding towards the nearest hospital. Unseen by her as she drove away, a limping silhouette climbed up onto the top of her roof, and somehow managed to take off into the night.

“So what are you trying to tell me you saw?” the police officer asked as he took notes in his little book. He looked ready to drop, and definitely looked like he didn't want to be here, taking notes from someone he clearly thought was crazy. The nurse was taking her vitals, and Othello was curled in a tight ball in her lap, unmoving due to shock. It had taken some coaxing, but they allowed it when she flat out refused help if they removed him. If it wasn't for the pain medication going through Catherine's system now, she would've told him to shove that notebook right up his ass. It wasn't like she wanted this to happen in the first fucking place.

“Look, I told you. It was like something out of a 90's vampire movie, okay? It was uglier than balls, hairier than them too, and had big, red eyes and nasty little teeth, and it had bat wings, with opposable claws.” She gestured, gingerly, towards her wounds, which were now stitched up and bandaged. The doctor had said it was a miracle the artery hadn't been hit.

“Are you sure you didn't just see a Halloween decoration, miss? Maybe you imagined seeing this... animal attack you, and the image was impressed on your mind when the real attacker injured you?”

Catherine did her best not to roll her eyes. “Officer, with all due respect, I don't think a normal human being could rip open a woman's chest and devour most of her fucking organs! So no, I don't think it was a fucking Halloween decoration!”

The nurse glanced at the officer, who looked like a deer in the headlights now, and was having trouble finding words. He muttered something sheepishly about protocol, and she scoffed.

“Protocol would be asking me if I was on drugs or some bullshit, but I can prove that I'm not, because my work requires random tests thanks to some of the fuckwits I work with!” He bowed his head in shame, scribbling some things down as he started to tuck tail and leave the room. “You want the paperwork?” she yelled after him, ready to fight despite her sluggish state. “I got it all! It's in my house, but be careful not to trip over the fucking corpse!”

“Please, relax, Catherine,” the nurse, Daniela said, sighing softly, petting her back. “You're going to rip your stitches and hurt yourself more.” She helped Catherine lay back and adjusted her pillow. “There, take deep breaths. We won't let any more police question you until you feel better. All right?” She smiled warmly, putting a blanket over Catherine's legs.

Catherine suddenly burst into tears, clutching Othello as he huddled on her chest. “My.... She... She didn't even stand a chance!” she sobbed, taking in shaky breaths. “I couldn't do anything to help her!” She hiccuped, pressing the heel of her hand to her eye.

Daniela hushed her, rubbing her upper arm. “I'm so sorry, Catherine, I really am... But you saved your cat, didn't you? He's here with you, and that counts for something.” Catherine nodded, sniffling, taking tissues when she was offered some.

“Hey,” a gravelly voice said from the doorway, making them both jump. It was a big, older black guy, dressed in a trucker getup. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he looked down at Catherine. “You said somethin' about a big bat lookin' thing, right?”

“Please, sir,” Daniela began, “She doesn't need this right now-”

“I'm not gonna harass her, Nurse, don't worry.” He turned his attention back to Catherine. “So, that's what you saw, right?” “Yeah, I saw it, but no one believes me.” “I believe you,” he stated with a straight face. Catherine and Daniela felt their jaws drop. Catherine couldn't believe what she was hearing. “You... You actually believe me?” Her head was beginning to spin from the drugs kicking in more, and her eyes grew heavier. “You're shitting me, dude...” “No, I ain't shittin' you. I believe what you said you saw, because I've seen it too.”

That sobered her up real quick. “Wait, what?”

“Yup. I saw it, and I hit it with my truck, and I picked someone up who looked like they went through what you did, but a bit worse. She's in the room down the hall, if you wanna meet her when you're ready.” Catherine nodded, but her head was beginning to loll, and eventually sank back into the pillow.

Daniela tucked her in slightly, then nudged him out of the doorway.  “You can talk to her again in the morning, when it's visiting hours,” she added sternly, closing the door.

The man nodded, chewing the inside of his cheek slightly as he glanced through the small window in the door, watching as Catherine slipped into a peaceful, albeit drug-induced sleep, her chest rising and falling slowly, but he noticed that her left hand was clutching the blanket with a white-knuckled fist.