#and other protesters try to stop you from becoming violent you should just kill them bc 'peace police are still police'

[captainjonnitkessler]

Sometimes I wish we would start calling out the performative radicalism on this site for the poser bullshit it is. "Remember, it's always morally correct to kill a cop!" "Don't forget to firebomb your local government office!" "Wow, it sure would be a shame if these instructions on how to make a molotov cocktail got spread around!"

Okay. But you're not killing cops or firebombing government offices. You are posting on a dying microblogging website to a carefully-curated echo chamber that has radicalized itself into thinking that taking the absolute most extreme position on any subject is praxis but that anyone discussing the most practical way to effect actual change is your sworn enemy. You do not have the street cred OR the activist cred to be talking about killing cops, babe.

[lepurcinus]

Probably the strangest take I ever read about Watership Down was:

"Someone made a story about rabbit which he gave emotions to, but claims to accept controlling them (here it means when Adams said he accepted that rabbits could become a problem), made them suffer just to entertain the evil viewer with their suffering."

Man, what the fuck? Nobody enjoys the violent scenes in Watership Down, at least not in a sense of pleasure or fun. It's like the main reason why people dismiss the story as violent or scary. The descriptions are meant to make you feel pity and pain for them, to make you understand them. I don't understand what the hell you were getting at with that.

Anyway, no one, not me or anyone else can know how animals would really think or react to their environment if they could think or feel the same way we do. It's all a subjective view, subject to an author's own ideas.

If they are anthropomorphized, it is in many cases so that you can better understand them as if you were in their shoes, I think xenofiction is one of the best ways to make you see empathy towards animals, although certainly those that try to see it in a more focused way in a real view of a non-human being without going so much to sentimentalism are more powerful. Those that add emotions are the ones that open that window the best.

On the other hand, that you do any of this but are in favor of things that involve "harming" an animal (let's ignore whatever ethics there are in this because by the same token these people don't do it) like hunting game or the meat industry. It is not easily "discarding" the life of another living being. It is knowing how to separate fact from fiction and that the world is much more complicated than it seems.

You can love rabbits and still be okay with them being hunted by people. Because one can know that in many places these animals have no natural control that allows things to flow well. Killing an Australian rabbit means giving other mammals and birds a chance to live after the mess man made. But it does not mean not appreciating the life of the rabbit, it does not seek to torture or make the rabbit less.

What it does is that you SEE THE RABBIT AS A SENTIMENTAL BEING AND THEN LOOK FOR A WAY NOT TO CAUSE IT LONG TERM HARM WHEN A CONTROL IS MADE.

Probably these animal stories are the best proof and love letter of humanity towards the beings that live with them, some of them simply denote the author's LOVE AND PASSION towards nature and what is in it.

Anna Sewell was grateful to the horses for helping her and so she made them a story that was one of the pillars for animal rights.

Ernest Thompson Seton was a hunter, but when he met Lobo he never wanted to hunt a wolf again in his life and in his later works he showed his aversion to the hunting of his time.

Felix Salten was a hunter, but his novel brought about one of the pillars for legal hunting as we know it.

Richard Adams claimed to agree to control rabbits, but when what was written in his work was to become reality, he protested. When his work of two dogs suffering at human hands ended in an ambiguous and tragic ending he was not satisfied and changed it to one where a man who loves them made them happy forever.

Don't let them be dismissed so easily people, if you succeed, your work is all the reflection of who you are, your intentions in the most honest way. Let that message come through, however you can, let that reflection be noticed.

God, I should stop worrying about the opinions of unknown people on the internet. I'm still frustrated Yes? This might be understood for the shit but you know I'm not good at explaining things.

[erikacousland]

Tank Man photographer drops TRUTH bomb on MSM - YouTube

In this 2019 interview with the "tank man" photographer, Jeff Widener, some massive truth bombs were dropped which expose how much we've been lied to about the Tiananmen Square protests. Ironically enough, in the interview, Jeff and the anchor make it sound as if the Chinese people haven't a clue what went down in '89 when it fact it's the rest of the world that have no idea what really happened and how violent some protesters really were.

It's funny how they say "this photo“ should be the most important thing in the world just because the West and its criminal media have made it to symbolize the Tiananmen Square protests. There are millions of powerful photos from that crisis and there is no reason why this one picture should symbolize what happened nor should it be worshiped. In fact, when I see the "tank man" photo to me it says that the Chinese gov't didn't want to kill people as the tank stopped and tried to avoid this man.

*

calicocat * It's been 34 years this year, I think the tank guy was identified (saw on TV in Japan), late middle aged now, lives in Taiwan. BTW, professor Gregory Clark of Akita International University, now retired, has been saying for the last 30 years that the version presented by the Western media is false.

Taiwan is too busy talking about the other thing about it: one of the SA/SH perpetrators of the recent “#Taiwan MeToo” is a Tiananmen Square “Student leader”, who been taking money from their government for 30 years.

*

James Bovt * The interview be like: - And then he was killed by Chinese military right? - Well umm...  no? - And you felt so angry because China has no freedom and democracy? - Well uhhh... - Oh these poor protestors... - Well, uhh...  actually, they killed some soldiers... - So the meaning of this picture is how bad China is? - Bruh, it's just some strange guy standing in front of tanks.

*

ABC * What remains in my mind over all of these years is the incredibly brutal violence these students have done to the soldier who was the same age as them, they hang the soldier off the bridge and burn him.   That image has been carved in my heart forever since I was nine and will never be eliminated.

My uncle was in Beijing at the time, on his honeymoon travel. It is exactly what he talked when he got back to home.

*

MultiplierFX * In westerners' minds these points are held as sacred truth: Point #1: Chinese government bad Point #2: Chinese PLA soldiers bad

Even when you have an eyewitness here on TV telling you that the PLA soldiers were the victims of the Tiananmen incident, the average westerners would still think those 2 points are 100% valid.

No point in trying to change their perception. Being anti-China is an integral part of their coping mechanism to feel that last bit of fleeting comfort amidst their collapsing unilateral western world order. As multipolarity takes hold and mature, their opinion becomes irrelevant along with their diminishing purchasing power.

*

China Chicken Soup * Political memes and iconic political photos are the same type of things, they give people an impression. People that don't care would need this impression to know and remember, but since they don't care, they wouldn't care enough to research about the truth or think about logic, and they wouldn't even change their minds even if they are presented with more solid logic and proof. That is why people are easy to manipulate.

[writingpracticetime]

Interactions with other villains

From the notes of Mitchell Newman:

Let me set the scene.

First, the Discreet Entrepreneur’s Network, or the DEN as it is appropriately titled, is a loosely organized guild of sorts for villains to meet and exchange illegal goods and services. It’s members are vicious, super-powered criminals of all stripes--master thieves, serial killers, unethical scientists, the whole spectrum. They’re dangerous, violent, and not at all kind to non-members, or even new members.

Second, we have Constructor. A famous hero and  goody two shoes who only ended up in prison for protesting a mass eviction. More to the point, an (admittedly, not self described) pacifist who at the time was famously bad at combat.

The DEN should have torn Constructor to pieces, and this whole problem should have ended there. Instead our goody two shoes swipes dozens of members and eventually breaks the whole network into pieces.

How?

---

You have always been bad at public speaking.

You don’t stammer.  But seeing lots of eyes on you makes you freeze and all of the words you planned slip away. It doesn’t help that at least half of the people in this room are murderers, but they would have the same effect if they were third graders.

You wish Sandy was here again. She was always good at coaching you through these things. The only reason you ever made it through interviews or press talks was because of her prep work.

"The pipeline," you try again.

The Organizer quirks an eyebrow at you. For a second he looks to his assistant, a pale woman whose eyes are fixed on, and then he motions at you. "Go on."

"the pipeline they're building," you try again. "Its damaging to the environment. The people don’t want it there. And it’s. Illegal."

The crowd actually bursts into laughter.  You’re too used to talking to politicians.

---

Afterwards, Bonfire nods sympathetically at your grimace on your way out.

“There’s a reason I’m not a member,” she tells you.

“Did you hear? Did I…?”

Did I do good? It’s the sort of approval you used to seek from Sandy. You stop yourself, because you already know the answer regardless. Not a single person in that room approached you to join your next operation.

“There’s still the two of us,” Bonfire shrugs. “Best not to work with too many, anyway. That’s how snitches worm their way in.”

“Yes but…”

“Wait!”

A reedy voice calls after you. You don’t recognize the stick figure man who darts after you, eyes darting.

“Wait, okay okay okay okay,” he says, quickly. “Constructor. I’m--Cyberscout. I, your pitch, I mean--”

You wait. You hear a flare of irritation at your shoulder.

“Okay, your pitch sucked,” Cyberscout says. “Didn’t you used to go on TV? Man. N-not to down you or anything, what I mean to say is, just… I can help you with that. Not with your speaking skills, but getting the word out other ways, and doing some information gathering for you. So I’ll sign on. Pay back the favor.”

“Favor?”

“Yeah, uh. You jailbroke me,” he says. “I don’t work for nothing, normally I’d ask for a favor or cash but… since you already did me a solid… just this once.”

You hold out your hand, and like that you make your second ally.

---

Your second venture into the DEN goes better. You practice with Bonfire and Cyber ahead of time, so your voice is stronger. When you enter the latest venue, you nod at the Organizer and the silent pale woman next to him, taking a deep breath and refusing to feel intimidated.

Again, you  describe what you’re opposing as wrong. Again, you talk about the people’s wishes. Again, you call it illegal, and again there is snickering, but instead of falling silent your voice booms.

“Are you going to pretend you all don’t care?” you ask, and you hear yourself echo from the back of the hall. “How many of you have been thrown into solitary Akonite cells for store robbery, for having? How many of you got beaten by guards? Now CEOs are lining their pockets with medications they got from experimenting on prisoners just like you have been, and they go completely free. This is illegal, against the public good, all of the things they say about your own actions--and yet the men doing this go free.”

Dead silence.

“If the hypocrisy doesn’t make you furious,” you say. “That’s because you have no fight left in you.”

---

When you leave the conference, you know Bonfire heard because she’s smirking.

“Better?”

“Better,” she agrees. “Still no takers?”

“They’re probably worried about losing face,” Cyberscout says. “I mean, I was. But after a talk like that, just wait. They’ll trickle in.”

And they do. Days after, a greying old woman approaches you. She seems hesitant to meet your eyes or speak at first but when she does his tone is cold, brusque, and to the point.

“You may have heard of me, you may not have,” she says. “But to the point, I know a few things about unethical experiments, how they are run...and how to help the subj--victims. If you are willing to look past my past indiscretions, I can be an asset.”

“I care more about what you’re willing to do now than anything you’ve done in the past,” you tell her.

She holds out her hand stiffly.

“Call me Asag,” she says. “Dr. Asag.”

---

At your third DEN meeting, the Organizer’s lips thin as he sees you. He once again exchanges whispers with his assistant before glowering at you. You brush him off, and stand to explain your next venture.

“One more thing,” you say. “Before anyone here thinks of joining, this is going to be a no-kill operation.”

“What?” booms a hulking figure in the back. “Are you fucking serious?”

“No interrupting,” the Organizer drones, but you speak up.

“Wait,” you say. “Let him talk.”

The man steps forward, and you have an instant flash of recognition. It would be impossible not to recognize him, actually. You don’t think you've met anyone else that big.

“You don’t know shit about what it’s really like out there!” the giant says. “You really expect anyone to go out and not defend themselves?”

“I didn’t say you can’t defend yourselves,” you explain. “I said you can’t kill anyone.”

“You can’t get shit done if you’re not willing to kill,” the man says, darkly.

“Really. And how has that worked for you? Wait--” you make a show of trying to remember him. “Oh wait, I know. It got you in prison. Where I broke you out, without killing anyone.”

There is actually some laughter. In your favor this time. It makes you grin.

“Hobbes, right?” you ask. “It’s possible to fight and neutralize someone without killing them, and it’s usually better that way because then the feds can’t justify using as much force against you.”

“Then I’d like to see you try to neutralize a real super,” Hobbes spits.

“Alright,” you say. “Come at me then, and I’ll show you.”

“Absolutely not!” the Organizer shouts. “There will be no fights during conventions!”’

You don’t even spare him a glance. “Outside, then”

The Organizer hisses at the entire crowd follows you both, eager to see blood. “This isn’t--the rules--”

After a fight that admittedly takes a lot more out of you than your previous efforts neutralizing low ranking heroes, Hobbes grumpily becomes your next ally.

---

More and more come to you. Some asking for monetary compensation, some asking for prison breaks in the future, and some who seem to be as drawn to your ideals as you are, deep down.

With each venture, the Organizer seems less and less happy to have you appear, until one day when you are about to come to another gathering you find yourself barred.

“You’ve broken enough rules,” the Organizer says, darkly. “You aren’t welcome in the DEN anymore.”

“What rules?” you ask.

There are a few, of course. Some minor things here and there, but nothing that got anyone else banned. He tells you, and you are about to object but someone else cuts in first.

“You’ve been cutting into his profits.”

It’s the pale assistant. Her voice is weak and thready, like she can barely speak up.

“What are you talking about?” the Organizer sneers. “I never--”

“He’s been working with some of those corporations you’ve been undercutting with your, um, stuff,” she says, her voice getting higher. “B-both sides. Always got to work both sides, he thinks. Get some villains to help, sell out the others.”

Other people inside are listening, murmuring. The gathering of villains are getting agitated--clearly, this is news to all of them, as well.

“Please,” the assistant says. “I have proof. I’m a--I read minds. I can tell you everything, just get me away safely and I’ll--”

He turns on her and attacks, hands around her throat. You don’t even have to think about it. You slam concrete into the Organizer’s face, and all hell breaks loose. Someone grapples you--and then Hobbes wrings them off you. Bonfire, always drifting at the edge of the event, darts in and jerks the coughing assistant out of the fray. And with that, your last venture at the DEN becomes an all out brawl.

You decide it’s still better than public speaking.

---

---

MN: So, real talk for a moment. How did you do it? Money? Threats? Brainwashing? I know there were a few mind control types in your group.

#4598: Hm?

MN: How does a hero go to a bunch of violent crooks and end up leading them?

#4598: The only way you can. With their consent.

[study-coffee-chicago]

Seasons of Med: Season 1: Glad I Didn’t Make it that Far (A Halstead brothers + Halstead sister! imagine)

Trigger warning: Talk of eating disorders

As always, I do not own any quotes from Chicago Med 1x04 that show up here!

Your age: 14

Jay's age: 28

Will's age: 30

"We should go to a movie," your best friend Emma suggested when you were sitting on the playground of Central Chicago's elementary school one summer day.

You had been coming here since it was pretty close to your house to be able to read without worrying that your dad would show up drunk. He wasn't violent, he was just rude, asking why there was no food and when you explained it was because he wasn't going shopping, he'd scoff and tell you to get a job if you wanted to eat. It wasn't your fault; you'd tried to get a job, but no one would hire you because you were only fourteen. Most places required that you be at least sixteen and the occasional place would let you start at fifteen, but only with very limited hours. And, the places that let you start at fifteen were too far away for you to walk to. You'd have to take the El...and that would turn out badly if Will and Jay found out, even though your dad wouldn't care in the slightest.

"Em, I don't have any money. I'm literally rationing out my feminine products at this point."

"Hey, just tell me if you need any. Me or my mom can get you some. Oh, and some neighbors of mine run a little kettle corn company. They're looking for some extra help on the weekends and they'll pay you under the table. I can give you their number if you want."

"Really?" Emma smiled and nodded. "Yes, please! And, you're the best."

But, what you didn't tell her was that you hadn't eaten since yesterday since there was barely anything in your house and that your cramps were killing you and because of all this, you were feeling nauseous.

"Let's go to the movies. My treat."

"I can't let you pay for me."

"Yes, you can. Best friends help each other out. Now c'mon, let's go." You sighed and closed your eyes as you stood up. "You good?" Emma asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just dizzy."

"You wanna go home?"

"No, no I'm fine. Just seasonal allergies from all the pollen," you lied.

"Okay, let's go."

You started to slow down as you got closer to the movie theater. "I'm so excited to see The Longest Ride!" Emma squealed. "Scott Eastwood is just mwah!"

"Yeah, but he's- he's a lot-- I gotta, I gotta sit down," you stuttered, starting to feel more lightheaded and seeing your vision become blurry at the edges.

"Okay, let's get to the front where you can sit on the curb."

You slowly started to make your way there, but it was too late. "Em- Emma," you slurred as you tried to reach for her as your legs gave out underneath you, and then everything went black.

"Y/N!" Emma yelled as she squatted down next to you and pulled out her phone.

Just then, everyone started running out of the theater shouting something about a shooting.

***

Will's pager went off as he was eating with Natalie and the rest of the team from a taco truck outside of Chicago Med. And, everyone else's pagers were going off, too, making it sound like alarm clocks that were all set for the same time. Then, Maggie ran outside.

"Shooting in a movie theater! Mass casualties! It's about to get crazy!" she yelled to the doctors and other nurses. "EMTs are four minutes out!"

Not even a second after she finished her sentence, an ambulance pulled up with lights flashing and sirens blaring.

"Check that!" Will yelled as he threw his food in the trash can. "They're here!"

Then, all of them sprinted into the hospital, their main focus now being saving as many lives as possible.

"Another maniac gone crazy in a theater," Will said as he put something over his scrubs to keep them from getting blood all over them. "Is this the world we live in?"

***

You slowly opened your eyes to be met with the white ceiling and an IV in your arm. You groaned. "Where am I?" you asked as you rolled over to see Emma sitting on a bench. "Are we in an ambulance?"

"You don't remember?" Emma asked.

"You passed out, sweetie," a female paramedic told you as she put a blood pressure cuff around your arm. "Luckily for you, we came pretty quick after hearing about the shooting."

"The shooting? There was a shooting?"

"In the movie theater," the paramedic answered you. "You were lucky you didn't go in."

"Guess so."

Your eyes widened as you realized they were probably taking you to Chicago Med. You couldn't let your brother know that the most likely reason for you passing out was that you hadn't eaten since yesterday. They'd freak out.

"Am I good to go when we get to the hospital? I feel fine." You were still nauseous, but that was better than being passed out.

"You passed out, we need to get you checked out at the hospital."

"But I feel fine," you protested.

"I understand that, sweetie. But you need to get checked out anyway to make sure that there wasn't something that made you pass out other than the heat."

"She's right, Y/N," Emma said. "You need to get checked out."

You huffed. "Fine." Maybe Will would be too busy to even notice you were there. And, you figured your dad wouldn't pick up his phone, so you could just sneak out undetected when the doctors and nurses weren't watching.

When you got in, you were met by Natalie. "Y/N?" she asked. "What are you doing here?"

"It's nothing. I just passed out. I'm fine, really."

"Shoot," Emma said. "My mom's here to pick me up. Said she doesn't want me here because of all the press since I'm not hurt. I'm sorry."

You waved your hand. "It's fine. Hopefully, I'll be getting out here soon, too. See you later."

"Bye, Y/N."

"If you passed out, you're not fine, Y/N," Natalie said.

As you were wheeled past a trauma room, you saw your brother. Luckily for you, he was too focused on his patient that he didn't notice.

"Want me to get Will?" Natalie asked when she saw you glance in there.

"No! I mean, he looks really busy and I'm not dying. They should be the first priority."

"Okay, well I'll have Maggie call your dad because after all the standard tests, if I need to do more, I'm going to need your dad's permission since you're still a minor."

"Okay."

"Hey, Maggie," Natalie called, "Do me a favor and call Y/N's dad for me. I just might need permission to run some additional tests."

"You got it."

You got on the bed in the treatment room and allowed Natalie to listen to your heart and lungs. "Were you part of the crush?" she asked. "Did you get the wind knocked out of you? Is that why you passed out?"

"No, I got dizzy before we could get inside. I felt nauseous, too, but I think that was just from period cramps."

"The paramedics said you were dehydrated and that they had to administer an IV. Have you been eating and drinking properly? I know it's hot and that can cause you to pass out. Other than that factor, have you been eating and drinking normally?"

"Yes," you lied.

"Okay, I'm just going to need to get your height and weight and other vitals before we continue."

You nodded and followed her to where she took your height and weight. She wrote it down and you started to walk out, but she stopped you. "Uh, Y/N, come with me."

You followed her to the doctor's lounge where she handed you her sweatshirt. "Why are you giving me this?"

"You bled through your shorts. There's free pads and tampons in the bathroom if you don't have any on you."

You nodded. "Thank you."

"Meet me back here once you're finished."

"Okay."

When you got into the bathroom, you took all the pads and tampons you could fit in your shorts pockets after you had finished changing your dirty one.

Now, it was time for your great escape. No one would see you; they were all too busy treating other patients and worrying about the press.

You were almost out into the waiting room, but then a voice stopped you.

"Y/N?"

Shit. Jay.

You stopped in your tracks but then continued walking.

"Y/N, I know you heard me. Come back."

You sighed and turned around, hoping you wouldn't have to spill all the secrets about what's been happening at home.

***

"Poor guy," Erin said as she and Jay exited Sharon Goodwin's office. "He thought what he was going was right."

"I probably would've done the same thing if I were in his shoes," Jay agreed. "I mean, if I thought I saw a guy with an AR-15 in a movie theater and then thought the shots from the movie were coming from the gun, I sure as hell would've acted. Not that my service weapon can shoot bullets off as much as my sniper, but I'd try. Try and save civilians."

"Jay." Erin placed a hand on his arm. "You're not in Afghanistan anymore."

"I know. There's just some sick and twisted people in this world. Why would someone go into a theater with a leaf blower anyway? With all the mass shootings that have happened, that's probably the stupidest idea I've heard."

"I agree with you. But he's just a kid. He didn't ask to get shot. But, if I were in that teacher's shoes, I'd probably do the same thing and draw my gun."

Jay furrowed his eyebrows as he saw someone walking towards the exit of the ED and towards the waiting room. She had shorts and a t-shirt on with a burgundy sweatshirt tied around her waist. Jay wouldn't have given it a second thought, but he knew you had the same gray beat-up Converse because he had gotten them for you for a birthday present two years ago and you always wore the same polka dot scrunchie when you needed your hair to be in a bun and needed it to be tight.

"Is that?..." Erin trailed off.

"I think so," Jay answered, quickening his pace to catch up with you before you got out of the ED and he lost sight of you due to the number of people in the waiting room. "Y/N!" he yelled.

The girl he thought was you froze for a split second and then continued walking, this time at a faster pace. That was all the confirmation he needed. "Y/N, I know you heard me. Come back."

You sighed and turned around.

"I was going to tell you," you mumbled once you were in front of him.

He scoffed and crossed his arms across his chest. "Yeah? And when were you planning on calling Dad? You know you're a minor so a parent needs to be notified."

"Y/N!" Natalie yelled. "I thought you left, I was so close to getting security to look for you. We couldn't get a hold of your dad and were going to call Jay since he's your secondary emergency contact, but he's here now, so if both of you could follow me then that'd be great."

"You got it from here, Erin?" Jay asked.

"Yeah, text me if you need me to pick you up and bring you back to the district."

"Will do. Don't let Voight bust my balls because I skipped out."

"I'll tell him Y/N had a medical emergency. He'll understand."

"Thanks."

You, Natalie, and Jay walked back into the treatment room where Natalie had been previously treating you.

"First of all, let me just say it was not a medical emergency," you told your brother.

"Oh yeah? Then why are you here?" he asked.

"I was feeling nauseous."

"And you came to the ED just because of some nausea?" He raised an eyebrow. He so knew you were lying.

Meanwhile, Will was walking out of a trauma room after Rhodes brought a victim up to surgery.

"Hey. You hear?" Reese asked as she walked up to the doctor. "The kid at the theater, the one who got shot, he didn't have a gun, he had a leaf blower."

"What?" Will asked, stunned. He had worked on that kid and knew that it wasn't good.

"Yeah, turns out it was some kind of prank." She was about to turn around to leave, but then stopped. "Oh, and your sister's here. Treatment one."

"What? Why?"

"I think she passed out or something. Dr. Manning's in there with her right now."

"Thanks, Reese."

Will barged into your treatment room. "So, she comes into the ED and nobody has the common decency to even notify me?" he asked rhetorically.

"You were busy treating other patients, Will. I was going to get around to it eventually," Natalie said.

"Natalie, please just finish explaining what happened. Or just start from the beginning because Will's here now," Jay suggested, not wanting to have to break up an argument between the two doctors.

Now it was Will who was the one who crossed his arms over his chest.

"So, Will, what happened was that Y/N passed out. She was almost inside the movie theater, but she passed out, so she didn't go in."

"The movie theater where the shooting happened?" Jay asked. You nodded. "Jesus, kid, if you would've gotten inside, you would've given both me and Will heart attacks."

"Sorry. But, I'm glad I didn't get that far."

"Yeah, us too," Will agreed. "So, why'd she pass out?"

"Can I talk to you two for a minute? Outside?"

They nodded. "Be right back," Jay told you.

"So, what's going on?" Jay asked once the three were safely outside of the room and out of earshot from you.

"Have you noticed anything strange with her eating habits lately? Any skipping meals? Going to the bathroom right after meals? Not wanting to eat?" Natalie asked the two brothers.

"No, nothing," Jay answered. "Granted, we don't eat with her a lot because she lives with our dad and we both live on our own."

"Okay, because since her physical check-up a month and a half ago, Y/N's lost fifteen pounds."

"Fifteen?" Will asked, flabbergasted.

"I thought she looked smaller, but I just thought I was hallucinating from lack of sleep because of all the crazy cases we've had," Jay said.

"No, she's lost fifteen pounds since her last check-up," Dr. Manning reiterated.

"So, what are you saying?" Will asked. "Our sister's anorexic? Bulimic?"

"I'm not saying any of those yet. But, I talked to Dr. Charles while Y/N was in the bathroom and she said to try and have her eat something, like the greasiest thing you can find in the cafeteria, and see what she does. We'll even leave the room after to chat and I'll have Maggie keep an eye on the bathrooms to see if she goes in there. If she refuses to eat or freaks out over it, then we might be dealing with anorexia. If she goes into the bathroom after, we might be dealing with bulimia. Or, it could be a combination of the two or just possibly her trying to lose weight. Has she ever mentioned wanting to lose weight to either of you?"

"No, not all," Jay answered. "Even when we went out after her last day of school, which I think was about two weeks after she had that physical, she ate a ton and she didn't go to the bathroom right after."

"But you did go home right after," Will pointed out.

"Yeah."

"But, with some bulimics, if they know that the food has already been digested, they won't try to purge. And, it sounds like the food had time to digest."

"Alright, I'll go grab her a bacon cheeseburger."

"And a side of mac n cheese," Jay suggested. "She loves that stuff." Will started to walk out, but Jay stopped him once more. "Can you pick me up a bacon cheeseburger, too? I'm hungry."

Will rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but just so you know, you're paying me back."

"I know," Jay said and then went back inside the treatment room.

"Where's Will?" you asked.

"He's getting you some food. How does a bacon cheeseburger and mac n cheese sound?"

God, your mouth watered just at the thought of the bacon cheeseburger alone. The juicy patty, melty cheese, and crispy bacon, yum. And, you hadn't had a burger in who knows how long.

"That sounds amazing honestly," you answered.

"Okay, good because that's what Will's getting you." He paused. "Is everything okay with Dad? Everything good at home?"

"Yeah, everything's fine," you lied.

"Did someone tell you that you were fat at all?"

Shit, he knew I'd lost weight. "No," you answered. "I guess I'm not just mindlessly snacking when I'm doing homework anymore. It's not like I'm trying to lose weight."

No way were you going to tell him that there was rarely any food in the house, not here anyway.

"Okay, good," Jay answered. Then, he looked out of the room to see Will talking with Natalie. But, they were close enough that you could hear them, so you turned your attention to the two as well.

"Hey, Nat," Will said, carrying a bag with three cheeseburgers and a side of mac n cheese.

"Yeah?" she asked.

"I'm thinking, I only live a mile from you. So, when you go into labor, call me. I'll drive you here."

"Thanks, but...you know it could be three in the morning, right?"

"Sleep's overrated anyway."

Then, Will made his way back into your treatment room. "I wanna take you to the hospital," Jay mocked. "Very smooth, Will, very smooth."

"Will's got a crush, Will's got a crush," you said in a sing-song voice.

"Would you two knuckleheads keep it down? And no, I do not have a crush, I was just trying to be helpful."

Jay scoffed. "Yeah right. You totally have a crush on her, man. Now, give us the food and we won't say anything."

***

"Everything seem normal?" Natalie asked Will as Jay was still sitting with you after the three of you had finished your food.

"Yeah, she ate a little faster than normal, but we waited an hour and she didn't even get up to go to the bathroom, so I don't think that's the issue. She told Jay she wasn't trying to lose weight. She said she just wasn't mindlessly eating anymore when she was doing homework. But, I don't think that could make her lose fifteen pounds. Do you?"

"No. But unfortunately, given her height and age, she still has a normal BMI, so we can't do anything."

"Yeah, I get it. Me and Jay will keep an eye on her. It was around this time when our dad just kind of checked out on parenting us."

"What do you mean?"

"He wouldn't cook or really help us with anything. But, it was okay because our Mom was still around, so she'd cook and help us with things. He just thought we were old enough to deal with stuff on our own."

"Things that a teenager without another parent still needs help with."

"Exactly."

Jay poked his head out of the room. "Everything good? Y/N's asking when she can leave."

Will rolled his eyes. "Wonder where she gets that from."

"Shut up."

"I'll grab you the discharge papers," Natalie said and then walked to a nurse's station.

Just then, Will's pager went off. "I gotta go." He fished into the pocket of his scrubs. "You can take my car home and then just come pick me up from work and we can drive back to the district to get your truck. That way you don't have to bug Erin."

"Thanks, man. Go save some lives."

Natalie came back and handed him the discharge papers.

"Thanks, Nat. Me and Will will be sure to keep an eye on her, maybe have her over for dinner once or twice a week to monitor her eating habits."

"That's a good idea. Good luck with all this. Will told me that this was around the time that your dad clocked out on you, so maybe pay him a visit when Y/N's not there and check? I don't know if that's something you'd want to do or not."

Jay nodded. "I'll keep that in mind. Thanks."

"No problem."

Jay signed the discharge papers and then walked back into the room. "Good news."

"We can leave?" you asked excitedly as you sat up.

"We can leave," he confirmed.

***

You got out of the car and stood on the stoop of your house, Jay right next to you. "Jay," you started, "I have to tell you something."

"Okay, what is it? You can tell me anything."

You opened your mouth to tell him that there was barely any food in the house and that your dad refused to buy you feminine hygiene products because, by his logic, if he had another son, he wouldn't need to buy them, so you should buy them yourself.

But then, the door opened, revealing your dad.

"I was just going to say thanks for staying with me at the hospital. I would've left if you didn't stop me."

"You're welcome."

"Care to tell me where you've been?" your dad asked.

You knew he was just putting on a show because Jay was there.

"I was at the park and then me and Emma were going to see a movie and then--" your phone buzzed, alerting you that you had a text message.

"I've got it from here, Y/N. Dad, can I come inside?"

Pat Halstead nodded and you walked inside followed by your brother. "I'm gonna go upstairs and change," you said.

As you walked past the kitchen, you noticed a bunch of grocery bags, all of them full. He must've gone grocery shopping. At least you didn't have to worry about food for the next few days. But, you didn't know if he just did that because he finally listened to his voice mails and heard that you were in the hospital and were worried that they were going to find out that he was an unfit parent or because he finally came to his senses and realized that he was still responsible for you because you were a minor, which meant he needed to have food in the house.

As you walked upstairs, you checked your phone. It was Emma's neighbor asking if you could start helping her with kettle corn this Saturday. You responded with a yes because now, if your dad went back to not buying groceries, at least you'd be able to buy some for yourself.

A/N: Sorry this one was so short! It's kind of just to foreshadow the next installment of this. And, in the next installment, I will probably combine Seasons of PD: Season 4 and Seasons of Med: Season 2 because the storylines kind of go together. Anyway, thank you for reading! Please reblog/like and comment and tell me what you think! As always, if you want to be added to the taglist, just tell me and I’ll be happy to add you!

taglist: @theambracer88 @virtualreader @kelelas-life @celyndavies @brookerz122493 @musicismyescape27 @anotherfan07 @thexplosivegirl @dreamingwithlens @xoxmariaxox @onechicago18 @iamasimpingh0e 

[miss-tc-nova]

Events Unchanged - Xehanort x Eraqus

So THIS is my final piece for the @checkmate-zine. I had a blast writing it and it’s probably one of my favorite pieces I’ve ever written. Please check out the other creators on this project because they are all absolutely amazing.​

Music Inspiration: End In Tragedy and MIssing You by Set It Off

Art by my queen @kingdomcarrots​

~~~~~

               The castle looms over the young man. This being his first stop, he’s not entirely sure he’s in the right place, or rather, the right time. The description of the place matches up, but he could be anywhere from minutes to decades off with no idea how to tell. Additionally, if he’s jumped even a minute too far, that complicates the whole plan.

               With really no other choice, he climbs the steps to the front door, letting himself in. He’d heard a little of this place, seen a few paragraphs in books, but the Land of Departure is such a small world compared to Scala Ad Caelum. However, this is very obviously an off-shoot of the Scala training school; the only real difference lies in the missing inhabitants. Such spacious halls lack the chatter of students and staff despite the well-kept appearance.

               “Identify yourself.”

               He stops. That gruff voice rumbles with the faintest hint of familiarity. Curiosity piqued, the young man turns back.

               It has to be him; it couldn’t be anyone else. Aside from that traditional style and the Master’s Defender prepared to strike, Xehanort could never mistake those eyes and no amount of hostility could mislead him. There’s no doubt now that Xehanort is far into the future, not while he stares at the aged face of the man Eraqus is to become.

               He looks worn, as if the years have been long and hard and those scars prove nearly as much. That welcoming cheer from their very first meeting has been replaced by sheer apprehension, likely caused by his arduous life. It seems he’s become the soldier his parents always pushed him to be; and yet, surely, he can’t have forgotten his beloved.

               Cautious hands lift to push the hood back and reveal the face hiding beneath.

               Shock takes over the old warrior’s expression. “Xehanort?!”

               “Eraqus.” It’s all Xehanort can come up with in his uncertainty.  

               “How is this possible?!” Resumed suspicion reaffirms that fighting stance.

               First and foremost, Xehanort has a mission, one that could potentially fix everything that went wrong in their lives. They could have everything they lost, including the happiness stripped from them far too soon. Additionally, this is Eraqus, the one who saved Xehanort from self-destruction and gave him the motivation to do all these incredible things. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to ensure Eraqus’s happiness. However, the stubborn blueblood often disapproved of Xehanort’s methods as of late and perhaps that’s only gotten worse as the years passed—perhaps plans should be kept quite even from one’s most precious. Having been caught here in the future, Young Xehanort must pick carefully which truths to divulge.

               A soft exhale calms the nerves. “I’m from the past,” the traveler confesses. “Brought here by the version of me from this time.”

               “How? What for?” Eraqus demands. “What proof do you have for any of this?”

               “I can’t say how or why but…”

               A well-seasoned Master Eraqus is probably not a fight Xehanort wants to pick, but he’ll need something personal to convince this man of the truth. He knows just the memory, but it’s not pleasant.

               Xehanort’s gaze drops to the floor. “You once caught me on the roof of the citadel. You told me…that if I couldn’t find a reason not to step off, then you would make one.”

               Eraqus’s mouth presses into a thin line; they never told anyone of that incident.

               “So what are you doing here?”

               Shaking off morbid memories, Xehanort replies, “Like I said, I can’t tell you that, but I need to find myself from this time. Is he here?”

               Eraqus wears a heavy pity that agitates Xehanort—he may still be young with much to learn, but he’s never taken kindly to pity.

               “You don’t know anything. You just left, didn’t you…”

               “I left Scala several hours ago,” the youth says. That empathy grows. “Why?”

               “You…Your older self doesn’t come by often.”

               This is unexpected. Even as he left, Xehanort fully intended to visit his significant other once he got things set in motion. Besides, Xehanort is greedy—he knows it. He’s got only the sparsest restraint when it comes to indulging in his partner’s presence, so this statement by the man at the heart of that avarice makes no sense.

               “Why not?” Xehanort is not going to remain calm if that look of condolence continues. “When does he come by?”

               There’s a solemn shake of the old man’s head. “He doesn’t.”

               “What do you mean he doesn’t?!” Xehanort barks, leather creaking with tightened fists. “He has to come visit you! He wouldn’t leave forever—not when you’re the person most important to him!”

               The outburst does nothing against Eraqus’s empathy. “I’m sorry. Once you left, we started to view things differently. There were things we simply couldn’t agree on.”

               “Then why didn’t you stop me?!”

               “Nothing I said would’ve convinced you to stay.”

               “No!” he shouts. “There’s no excuse! You should have stopped me! If me leaving made you so miserable, you shouldn’t have let me go! You should have cried or begged or even beat me over the head—whatever it took to make me stay!”

               Tears form in the man’s eyes and that unwanted compassion pushes Xehanort past his threshold. With renewed determination, he stalks past the elder to resume the search for his future self.

               A strong fist catches around the young man’s wrist. “Where are you going?”

               His answer is short, sharp. “To do what I came here to do.”

               For the third time, Eraqus presses, “And what would that be?”

               Xehanort glowers. With a vague restraint in his voice, he spits, “I’m a time traveler; what do you think I’m doing here?”

               “You can’t do that! There must be consequences to meddling with the timeline!” protests the elder.

               “YOU THINK I DON’T KNOW THAT?!” the young man roars. “YOU THINK THIS IS JUST SOME STROLL IN THE PARK FOR ME?! OF COURSE I’M TRYING TO CHANGE WHAT HAPPENED AND I DON’T GIVE A FUCK WHAT IT COSTS! IT COULD COST MY LIFE AND I WOULDN’T GIVE A DAMN! THEY DESERVED BETTER! YOU—” Fury falters as the words catch in his throat and the edges of his vision blurs. “You deserve better.”

               Guilt resonates on that marred face; this is why Xehanort never told him. Eraqus had said a million times over that what happened wasn’t Xehanort’s fault, but a deep sadness settled in Eraqus’s heart that was clear to the Seeker. For Xehanort, the loss of his friends was already unbearable enough, but to have the love of his life stuffing down his turmoil behind a flighty façade tipped the scales. So now he’s here.

               With a look of defeat, Eraqus pleads, “Don’t do this. Please.”

               “I’m doing this for you.” Again, the older master begins to argue, but the younger has had enough and pulls away. “You couldn’t stop me then, and based on what I’ve seen today, you can’t stop me now. Take care of yourself.”

               With that, Xehanort leaves.

                 It’s been a few hours since the confrontation, but Xehanort still hasn’t found a single clue to the whereabouts of his present self. He’s hopped a few worlds and even double checked those he’d been drawn to in the past, but nothing comes up. Worst of all, something is pulling him back to the Land of Departure. He can’t shake the feeling that, no matter what Eraqus says, Xehanort would return to him eventually. They must still love each other or else he wouldn’t be here.

               His arrival is noiseless and unnoticed, but with each step closer to the castle, he hears the escalating sounds of a battle. Peering around a pillar across from the castle steps, Xehanort sees Eraqus squaring off with a young, brunette man.

               As he watches, Xehanort notices enough between the two to speculate that there’s a clearly straining relationship. Considering the use of darkness by the younger man and Eraqus’s violent abhorrence of it, Xehanort assumes that’s the cause of the clash. The winner would be an easy call if it were a simple fight, but that boost of darkness significantly closes the gap; so it comes as a surprise when the younger warrior rushes past Eraqus, causing him to stumble. It takes every bit of self-control Xehanort has not to act on protective urges as the Master’s Defender falls from its wielder’s hand.

               Terra, as named by Eraqus, is upset with his success. He cries over it, but his master is the one to apologize, admitting that his own heart is full of darkness. That declaration plays in the gray area of Xehanort’s mind. He already knows Eraqus is a good man with his heart bound to the light. What he doesn’t understand is that light, too, can make mistakes—mistakes which may beget darkness. Xehanort has tried explaining this before, but the noble would have none of it.

               A dark figure at the top of the stairs catches Young Xehanort’s eye too late. A blaring ring fills his ears seeing that man aim a familiar weapon. There’s no time to react; he’s too far away to do anything. Before Xehanort’s very eyes, the man he loves, and should have always loved, fades.

               With the reality of what happened beginning to sink in, his eyes focus on the man strolling down the steps. Anger ignites in his heart until he hears Terra question the stranger.

               “Master Xehanort! Why?”

               Master Xehanort—that man, the very person who killed his beloved Eraqus, is Xehanort himself.

               A dark storm swallows the sky, mirroring the wrath churning in the young man’s chest. With nothing but that rage guiding him, he rushes after the assassin into the dark portal. This new land is empty and barren save the mass of foreboding keyblades strewn about, but Xehanort has other concerns right now. Waiting just outside his attack range is the murderer.

               That man’s voice is filled with the gravel of age, but no remorse can be detected. “I wondered when you would arrive.”

               “You killed Eraqus.” Fists tremble at the young man’s sides, that quivering creeping into his chest.

               “I did.” Only a man scorned like Young Xehanort could withstand those chilling yellow eyes.

               Furious, he yells back, “That’s it?! That’s all you have to say?! How could you?! He was the only reason I didn’t throw myself off the citadel! HE’S THE REASON YOU STILL EXIST!”

               “Ah, the foolishness of my youth.” His casual dismissal drives the young Seeker’s heart rate up.  “It’s true he’s the reason I exist today, but Eraqus’s departure was necessary. You know firsthand how loyal his heart is to the light.”

               The response tears from his throat. “AND THAT’S JUSTIFICATION TO MURDER HIM?!”

               “He just didn’t understand that this is all for him, to create the life that he should’ve had. You knew there were consequences to meddling with time.”

               With no comeback, the young adult sneers, but the old master has one last remark that cuts to the quick.

               “As you said: they deserved better—he deserves better.”

               The words spoken just hours ago, shoved back in his face, incite the anguish burning in his heart. Rationality devolves and Young Xehanort charges his future self.

               All his life, Xehanort let his mind dictate his path. Moves were not made without thought to the consequences, but this—this is something beyond even the purpose of this mission and everything in him is screaming for revenge. Grief and anger cloud his judgement and spur attacks too straightforward to connect, however, that sloppiness doesn’t discourage him.

               Old Xehanort swipes, successfully disarming his younger self, and with the same ruthlessness shown to his former love, he eliminates the man from the past.

               Golden eyes meet gold; even as he’s being dragged back into his own time, the young man emanates his fury.

               Unbothered by the turn of events, the victor simply states, “One day, you will understand.”

~~~~~

               The elder watches his past self disappear among the shadows. It’s unfortunate how naïve he was, but this was to be expected—he and Eraqus had been so in love. Xehanort still possesses those feelings, which is why the decision had been so difficult. There’s a hole in his heart but he understands that sometimes things must be broken for them to become better and that’s the sort of thing the Seeker is betting on.

               In lieu of these unfortunate circumstances, he’s going to have to prepare a backup—to persuade his young self into venturing into the future a second time.

               As the thought occurs, darkness flares from the ground, creating a portal from which steps the young man that just tried to smite him. He’s more prepared than he gave himself credit for. He beckons the young man to follow to discuss the details of their plan. Even as they speak, the senior can see a spark in the new master’s eyes. There’s a curiosity that he will no doubt seek answers for.

               “How is Eraqus?”

               He should’ve known.

               Enacting his hard-earned skill of smothering his emotions, the old man answers, “Eraqus is dead.”

               The youth freezes, clearly distraught. “How?”

               A deep breath conveys true sorrow while concealing the lie. “The same as the others.”

               Hard determination grows on the young man’s face. Knowing that look and knowing himself, old Master Xehanort has ensured his ignorant self’s unquestionable devotion to the mission.

~~~~~

               Despair shakes his heart, waking the young man. Opening heavy eyelids, Young Xehanort finds a room illuminated with soft moonlight. Although this is not his room, it’s still familiar. Normally this place would bring him some solace but the discomfort he feels is intense.

               Whatever this is, it’s akin to a nightmare, slipping from his grasp as he tries to remember; it’s confusing and upsetting and damn near painful. Xehanort has had days where getting up for training was hard, he’s been injured so badly he’s been unable to stand, and he’s suffered unending fatigue at the hands of depression; but none of that compares to the sheer heartache of this moment and he doesn’t even understand why.

               Gentle humming draws his gaze lower and he immediately chokes down a whimper. Pressed flush against him is the love of his life, peacefully snoring away. Even with his messy hair and a little drool, he’s absolutely beautiful. No sight could be more stunning and yet, it’s also the most painful. Whatever vice is clenching down on Xehanort’s heart has to do with Eraqus.

               Of course, Xehanort’s always had those fears that maybe he can’t make Eraqus happy or that maybe he’s not good enough—as quoted by the noble’s parents—but even those feel so trivial compared to this dread. It breaks him more than anything ever has.

               His quivering is impossible to stifle and sniffles begin sneaking past his defense. To make matters worse, his sleeping partner stirs.

               “Xehanort?” Such a sweet sound worsens the turmoil. “Xe, what’s wrong?”

               There it is: the first hiccup that destroys the weary dam holding everything in and he breaks down right there.

               Eraqus doesn’t press for an answer but instead holds his sweetheart tightly. With the unknown sorrow flooding his system, Xehanort sobs into his boyfriend’s chest, desperately hoping to get this misery under control before he has to say goodbye to Eraqus in the morning.

[queenofcats17]

The Ink Demonth 30

So, after seeing this post, I wanted to write it. 

I have just realized that @hello-im-not-a-possum is the originator of this AU idea, so this is for them.

This is old and I decided to repurpose it for the “Partner” prompt

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

Henry…honestly wasn’t sure what was going on.

He’d left the infirmary after getting the valve wheel and had been greeted by…a sight he hadn’t seen before. It was a Boris wearing pants, suspenders, a shirt, and a Bendy mask on the side of its head. And it was holding a dustpan.

Henry couldn’t help but stare. He wasn’t sure where this Boris had come from and where it had gotten a shirt of all things. He was assuming this was Sammy. Mostly because of the dustpan and the mask, as well as the fact that this was where Sammy usually popped up.

“….Hi,” Henry said slowly. 

The Boris raised its dustpan menacingly. Henry took an instinctive step back.

“Hey! Wait!” He put his hands up, scrambling to find something to appease the irate music director.

This was a change, so maybe he could pick Sammy up as a companion. Maybe he could save him. But he had to act quickly. Sammy in this state wasn’t exactly the patient sort.

He held up a can of soup. “D-Do you want some soup?” He asked with a shaky smile. 

The Boris slowly lowered its dustpan. 

“You would offer me sustenance?” It asked with Sammy’s voice.

“Yeah, sure.” 

For a moment, Sammy stared at Henry. Then he dropped the dustpan and sunk to his knees. 

“My Lord,” he gasped, lowering his head. 

Henry grimaced, kneeling and rolling the soup can to his former friend. This was weird, but he could work with it. 

“Do you…want to come with me?” Henry asked slowly.

“I would follow you anywhere, my Lord,” Sammy said without a hint of sarcasm or insincerity.

“Okay. Cool.” Henry nodded and turned away. “Well, let’s get going.”

Sammy discarded his mask and followed without another word.

Henry hadn’t been entirely sure how they’d get from the Music Department to Boris’ safehouse, but luckily for him the Ink Demon still triggered to chase them. It seemed generally displeased that Sammy was with Henry now, and grew especially displeased when Sammy tried to attack it.

“Sammy, no! We gotta go!” Henry yelled as he dragged Sammy through the hallways. “We are not fighting it!”

“But I must protect you!” Sammy protested, waving his ax in the general direction of the quickly gaining Ink Demon.

“While I appreciate that, I’d rather have you alive!” Henry responded. “I’m not going to lose you again!”

Hearing this made Sammy abruptly stop swinging, which made it considerably easier to drag him. Henry only noticed how much Sammy’s tail was wagging once they had successfully escaped the Ink Demon.

“Sammy? Are you alright?” Henry asked.

Sammy didn’t respond, just staring ahead with a dreamy look while his tail vigorously wagged.

“My Lord values me,” he whispered to himself.

Henry couldn’t help but sigh. This was going to be a thing he would have to deal with, huh? At least Sammy was alright. And the tail wagging was pretty cute.

It was at that moment that the bacon soup can rolled into view and Boris poked his head around the corner.

Sammy jumped into action, getting in front of Henry and brandishing his ax.

“Speak your name and state your purpose!” He demanded.

Boris whimpered and moved away, ears drooping.

“Sammy, it’s alright, he’s a friend,” Henry said, getting between Sammy and Boris. “He’s going to help us.”

Sammy narrowed his eyes, pausing for a moment before slowly lowering his ax.

“Very well,” he said. “Rejoice, hound, for my Lord has chosen to spare you.”

Boris looked over at Henry with an expression that radiated confusion.

“I know, he’s kind of weird.” Henry smiled apologetically and patted Boris’ head. “But he’s on our side this time.”

Boris nodded, although he still regarded Sammy warily on their way back to the safe-house.

.

It didn’t take long after they got to the safe-house for Sammy to become incredibly attached to Boris as well. The majority of this was because Boris had provided them both with bacon soup. It also helped Sammy to see Henry interacting positively with Boris. Seeing how much Henry cared about Boris convinced Sammy that the wolf was to be trusted. And more importantly, protected.

This meant when the time came for Alice to steal Boris away, Sammy fought her off tooth and nail. So when Henry woke up, he was greeted with two cartoon wolves, ready to continue helping him on his journey.

Even before that, though, Henry found himself incredibly glad to have Sammy around. Yes, the former music director tended to throw himself into dangerous situations with no regard for his own personal safety, but he was also incredibly helpful with dealing with the corrupted Butcher Gang members and Searchers.

And it was really nice to have someone else to talk to, even if Henry did still have to deal with Sammy’s prophet talk. He hadn’t realized the toll it had taken on him to have to go through all of this alone and almost completely silent.

“You know, I’m really glad you’re here, Sammy,” Henry remarked as they headed down to level 14.

They had finished with all of Alice’s errands except for the one on the Projectionist’s level and Henry wanted to express his appreciation now in case the Projectionist killed Sammy. Because Henry was almost certain Sammy would immediately try to fight the Projectionist.

Sammy blinked, clearly surprised by this comment, and quickly looked away. “I’m glad I can be of service to you, my Lord.”

“It’s not just ‘being of service’,” Henry insisted. “You’re a good ally to have and I’m glad me and Boris have you to help watch our backs.”

Sammy said nothing, although his tail began to vigorously wag.

Boris made a noise that might have been a laugh and hugged Sammy. The relationship between the two of them had improved even further since the safe-house, which made Henry happy to see. 

“I am…glad that you both enjoy my company,” Sammy said slowly, tail wagging even more vigorously at the hug. “…Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Henry smiled and patted Sammy’s shoulder.

The elevator reached level 14 a minute later, and Henry and Sammy got out.

Henry approached the railing, scanning the ink flooded level below. If they were lucky, maybe they could avoid the Projectionist.

Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to be in the cards.

“Ssh…There he is.” Alice’s voice came through the speakers as the Projectionist walked out of one of the doorways. “The Projectionist. Skulking in the darkness. You be sure to stay out of his light, if you don’t want trouble. Just bring me back the pieces I need.”

“Alright. We need to get the ink hearts and avoid him,” Henry whispered. “So don’t go fighting him, okay?” He looked over to make sure Sammy understood, only to see that Sammy was already jumping over the railing to go attack the Projectionist.

“Fuck!” Henry all but sprinted down the stairs to where Sammy was attempting to defeat the Projectionist.

Thankfully, they were able to take him out before Sammy was killed, although Henry did die at one point. But, as usual, he was resurrected at a Bendy statue.

“The monster has been defeated!” Sammy proclaimed proudly once the Projectionist fell.

For a moment, Henry just stood there, catching his breath. Then he grabbed Sammy by the shoulders and all but slammed him against the wall.

“M-My Lord?” Sammy’s eyes widened, taken aback by Henry’s sudden violent gesture. Henry had never behaved like this toward him before.

“Stop doing that!” Henry yelled.

“S-Stop doing what, my Lord?”

“Stop just running into danger like that!” Tears were welling up in Henry’s eyes.

“But I…I must protect you,” Sammy said.

“Then don’t try to die!” Henry’s grip on Sammy’s shoulders tightened slightly. “If you want to protect me then stay!” His voice dropped in volume as he began to quietly sob. “Please. I can’t lose you again, Sammy. Please.”

Sammy paused, unsure how to react. On one hand, he felt he needed to defend his Lord from whatever threat might arise, taking preemptive action if needed. On the other hand, it was clearly upsetting his Lord that he was putting himself in danger. But why did it matter? Sammy was but a humble servant of his Lord. His life was of no consequence.

Still, if his Lord wished for him to cease these actions, he should obey.

“Very well,” he nodded solemnly. “I will…Try not to behave so recklessly in the future.”

“Thank you,” Henry whispered, pulling Sammy into a partner. “I…I know you don’t think of yourself like this but…I consider you my friend. And my partner.”

Sammy’s tail began to vigorously wag once more, which got a laugh out of Henry.

“Alright.” Henry pulled back with a tearful smile. “Let’s, uh, let’s go get those ink hearts and get back to Alice so we can get out of here.”

Sammy’s tail abruptly stopped wagging and his ears drew back.

“I still don’t see why we must play her games,” he grumbled as he followed Henry into the labyrinth.

“I know I know.” Henry nodded as he scanned the corners for ink hearts. “But she controls the elevator.”

Not to mention, they needed to follow the script, even with this change.

Sammy grumbled under his breath, but said nothing more on the subject. Instead, he began to sniff the air. Before Henry could ask what he was doing, Sammy was off like a shot.

“Hey! Sammy! Where are you going?!” Henry scrambled after him.

It turned out Sammy could sniff out the ink hearts. Which was unexpected (even though Sammy was currently a canine), but not unwelcome, and ended up cutting the time Henry usually spent searching in half. This skill also helped them get out of the labyrinth since Henry hadn’t picked up the ink heart on the platform in his hurry to save Sammy.

As they grabbed the last ink heart and got back in the elevator, Henry once again thought about how happy he was to have Sammy there with him. He wouldn’t be alone this loop. Not even for a second.

[nimsajlove]

Brother Wolf

Some things about Ahsoka and Wolffe between the passing of time.

Brothers-AU         Ao3

Edit: What the actual hell did tumblr do to my teeny tiny stars? Or is this just me?

*~*

„Hey, who does this cadet belong to?“, a voice rang through the hangar, Jedi General Plo Koon and Commander Wolffe interrupted their conversation to raise their heads. A clone in gleaming white armor made its way through the men seated on the ground. He had grabbed a young girl by the wrist. She watched with amazement as hundreds of soldiers covered their armor with paint. Then she grinned broadly at her, obviously involuntary, companion and tried to pull her hand away from him. „I can manage on my own.“, she protested and Woffe was tempted to roll his eyes, when the general's low chuckle threw him a bit off. „Thank you very much, I will take over from here.“, assured General Koon and held out his big hand to the girl. Wolffe was fascinated, he had never really seen a togruta and he had not expected that the color of the lekku could darken that quickly!

„Sir.“, the man in white armor responded to the command and released the girl from his grasp. Hastily she reached out and clasped General Koon's fingers in hers. When she smiled, the snow-white markings on her cheekbones lifted with it. „‘Soka, how long did it take you to get here?“, asked the General and the girl grinned even wider, if possible. „It took me 10 minutes.“, she boasted. Oh dear, Wolffe only had needed 5 on his first day on Coruscant. But he also swallowed the thought, later when he was alone he would allow himself to grin a little. But not now, not in front of his Jedi.

General Koon did seem to be smiling, however. „Commander Wolffe, may I introduce you jedi youngling Ahsoka?“ She pouted! She didn't seem to like the addition of youngling at all... „‘Soka, that's Commander Wolffe.“ Wolffe bowed his head in greeting and the girl, Ahsoka, looked at him with slightly narrowed eyes. Was she studying his helmet? „Are that supposed to be ... teeth?“, she asked critically and General Koon seemed to smile again, where had Wolffe got into? A jedi cadet who eyed him with a predatory look and a jedi general who seemed to be having a lot of fun. If he told Fox that, it might even make his brother laugh.

Before Wolffe could answer, the General's comlink blinked. „Ah… Commander, I'll leave little Ahsoka with you. I'll be right back.“ Great. Wolffe looked after the General for a moment, would it be beneath his dignity to just send the kid home? Sighing softly, he turned his gaze back to Ahsoka and when he watched how she already followed Boost every step of the way, grinning broadly and with amazed eyes, he actually had to smile.

*

Wolffe was tired, so infinitely tired. But grumpy too, and that was exactly what he needed to mask his exhaustion as best he could. Still, he couldn't find the energy to get up when the ship jumped into hyperspace. His stomach was sure, however, that General Koon hadn't been behind the wheel! Rex spoke well of Skywalker, but Wolffe was very happy to serve under another jedi at moments like these.

Soft snoring made him open one eye, Boost and Sinker leaned together slumped against the wall opposite him and slept leaning against each other. They were still in a pretty good shape... What would become of them now? It only seemed logical to split Boost and Sinker among other battalions and assign him, Wolffe, to another unit as well. That would mean less paperwork, right? Kark! This wasn't fair! But he would pull himself together for his last two men. And for the General.

Soft steps made Wolffe blink again, when did he close his eyes again? Ahsoka crept cautiously through the ship, armed with a couple of blankets. One more reason to pull himself together. Rex's tiny Commander-sibling didn't have to see any more suffering than she already would see in this war. Why hadn't General Koon spoken out against her being a padawan? She was a child! Just a little girl who, just a few months ago, had stood in his hangar with wide eyes. And now? Now there was that sad look she gave Boost and Sinker.

Ahsoka gently wrapped two blankets around the two men before she straightened up and padded over to Wolffe with the last one. Wonderful, now the little thing had to take care of him! „It's okay, I'll be fine.“, he growled and got up a little, Ahsoka looked at him. Her gaze was far too serious for her small, round face. Then she clicked her tongue miserably and threw the blanket over the clone anyway. „I'm sorry.“, she muttered and when Wolffe rolled his eyes it was just a reason for her to crawl closer to him. Finally she sat on the floor too, pressed close to his side. That wasn't so bad... „Cody asked about you. And Rex too“, Ahsoka mumbled softly and Wolffe rolled his eyes again, but leaned back against the escape pod again, puffing. „Of course they did...“, he muttered softly and the girl laughed softly into his uniform. „I told them you are fine...“, she added and then fell silent. No, she shouldn't worry her tiny head over all of this. „We will be.“, Wolffe assured her quietly. Ahsoka cuddled closer to him and even if he neither hugged her nor wrapped the blanket around her, she felt his head sag a little in her direction.

*

Rex hadn't returned yet... Cody next to Wolffe glanced at the door again, the mood of the two commanders had clearly sagged. And not just theirs, Wolffe could see some of Rex's men in a corner. Their heads were huddled together and they were whispering to one another. The ARC, Fives, had its arms crossed and leaned against a brother's hand. Cody looked at the door again. „Kriff, that is no longer bearable. I'll go and look for them.“, Wolffe grumbled and got up.

Cody didn't try to stop him, just nodded and got to his feet as well. Well, they seemed to agree this time! With great strides Wolffe made his way outside, if Ahsoka was really there again she would never stay outside that long. Or would she? After all, she belonged to the family... Oh, all of this sucked! Really, the whole thing was just completly unfair! He had believed Rex. Ahsoka Tano would never kill clones, not with those big eyes and grin. But she had been together with Ventress and what should he think of that?! He would have shot the witch on the spot, if Ahsoka hadn't been standing in front of him. She had defended the enemy.

But at the same time she had tried to protect him and the men. Wanted to talk! He should have just stunned her right then and she would never have gotten even close to that damn warehouse.

The evening air was cold and cleared the many thoughts from Wolffe's head. That was all behind them, Ahsoka was alive. She was innocent. That counted. He had reached his goal and had brought her home when Rex and Skywalker were unable to. Even if he had expected more ... backbone from General Plo. But he didn't owe Plo an apology, they all owed it to Ahsoka. Hardly thought through, he discovered two huddled figures. So that's where Rex had been! The Captain sat leaning against the wall of the barrack in the darkness and that on his lap was a violently trembling Ahsoka. Kriff, maybe Cody should have gone looking for them after all? Too late now, Rex looked up and caught Wolffe's gaze. All right, going back was no longer an option. So he came closer with careful steps. Ahsoka had turned her back on him, he could see as she tensed when he came within earshot. Rex had an arm wrapped around her, his free hand gently rubbing her back. A low growl escaped the girl and while Rex looked worried, Wolffe had to smile against his will. What a cute attempt to chase him away again. But she had mastert the art to ignore his grumbling, so he would return the favor.

Also, he had come here on a mission and he still had to apologize. That would be difficult enough... „Your men are getting annoying in there.“, Wolffe muttered and Rex snorted, of course his little brother knew immediately which men were meant! „Fine. Ahsoka, I'll go and talk to the others. I'll be right back, okay?“, he muttered and the girl shuddered before she nodded and slipped off Rex's lap. When he got up, he gave Wolffe a questioning look. „I'm staying.“, confirmed Wolffe.

That seemed to move Rex to give Wolffe another sharp look. Hey! He didn't even have a blaster on hand and he was sure that Ahsoka would bite off his hand anyway before he could draw a single blaster. She certainly could. Rex went back inside and Wolffe sat on the floor next to Ahsoka. There was a low growl and she shrugged her shoulders protectively. „No reason to be rude.“, he grumbled and Ahsoka's head jerked up, with tear-stained eyes and bared teeth she looked at him. „I trusted you!“, she spat, ouch. That ... maybe he deserved that. But that's not how things would work here, he already felt guilty and she wasn't going to talk it any bigger! „And I trusted you too. And yet you were with Ventress.“, he replied chilled, quietly. Then her lower lip started trembling. Kriff.

Ahsoka angrily wiped her face with her hands and hastily tried her body to get herself back under control. She wanted to be mad! She wanted to bite and scratch. But there was just that deep fear inside of her. The back of a hand on her shoulder almost made her jump in the air. Then she tried to avoid the touch. No chance, Wolffe's hand stayed on her shoulder. Like glued on. „I hate you.“, she sniffed tired and angry and sad. This was too much for one day, just too much. Wolffe watched her make a face and then carefully turned his hand, now he gripped her shoulder tightly. „I'm sorry. It wasn't fair.“, he admitted quietly and Ahsoka slumped, she just nodded. „I never believed you could have done any of this. But Fox and the others couldn't be talked into anything diffrent. I wanted to bring you back home.“ She nodded again and Wolffe took a deep breath, he had said what had to be said. It wouldn't hurt to go back inside now and get Rex! He was just getting up again when Ahsoka suddenly slumped to one side. With a thump, her head landed on his shoulder and he froze. It had been ages since she'd gotten that close to him. „I'm sorry I hit you.“, she muttered and Wolffe could feel her shaking again. Kriff. Slowly he raised a hand and squeezed her shoulder. „It's okay, it's been a strange day.“, he muttered and she nodded. Tears still shone on her face. There were dark circles under her eyes and she trembled violently with every breath. Were she cold? „You should get back into the warmth.“, Wolffe decided and got up, with one hand he pulled her to her feet and supported her. She looked pathetic, absolutely drained. And like she needed a hug.

He didn’t hug her. Instead he led them slowly back into the building, across the hallway to the 501st quarters. Inside, voices could be heard. What were these laser brains arguing about this time? Sighing, Wolffe knocked on the door and the voices fell silent. Then the door opened and several hands grabbed Ahsoka. The girl sagged weakly against her other brothers and Wolffe withdrew a tiny bit when she suddenly grabbed him. „I forgive you, it wasn't your fault.“, she mumbled and the others froze again, Wolffe smiled. „And not yours either. It will be okay.“

*

„It will be okay.“, Ahsoka mumbled softly to the wriggling bundle in her arms. Little fingers reached out to her face and grabbed the tips of her lekku. The little girl was beautiful. The fact that Padme could already be seen in Leia after a few months only intensified the effect. But maybe that was just Ahsoka perspective...

No one had protested when she had come into the creche and picked up Leia. No one had stopped her when she had went out with the child and just stopped at the steps of the temple. Even the remaining guards avoided them. Leia patted Ahsoka's cheek with one hand and she blinked hastily, her cheeks were wet. But today was supposed to be a good day! Today Master Plo would come back. And even if she could do without a meeting with her father figure, she just didn't want to miss her brother! Since the battle in the temple, Plo Koon had been out with his men to track down Tamboa. Something Ahsoka would have liked to do herself, but the healers and her brothers found her to be too unstable. Pah...

Before her frustration could swell further and mix with her depressed mood, Leia turned her little head and Ahsoka followed her gaze, Plo Koons presence could already be felt before the speeder stopped and two figures emerged from it. The Jedi Master led the way, Wolffe followed. As they climbed the steps, Ahsoka cocked her head a little, they looked tired. Nevertheless, she decided her meeting with Wolffe would not be able to wait, and waited until the two of them had reached the top. „Ahsoka.“, Plo greeted with clear reluctance. Briefly he reached out his fingers to her arm, Ahsoka winced as he brushed her skin and Plo withdrew hastily. „Good evening Master.“, Ahsoka muttered and quickly averted her gaze, she didn't want to give her old friend a reason to linger any longer. He sighed. „I'll see you tomorrow, Wolffe.“, he said his goodbye. „Good night, General Plo.“, Wolffe replied and when Ahsoka looked up the clone was already looking at her. „You look tired.“, he stated and Ahsoka's lips curled into a small smile. „Have you ever looked in a mirror?“, she asked and Wolffe grinned. He seemed happy, his presence so much easier to take than the jedi. All clones were more welcome to Ahsoka than the Order at the time. The twins were the only exception.

The twins, whom Wolffe and many others of Ahsoka's brothers had never met! As if on command, Leia held out her hand, gurgling, and clenched a fist in Wolffe's direction. Hel eyed the little girl with a raised eyebrow. „I wanted to introduce you to Leia.“, Ahsoka smiled and Wolffe rolled his eyes, it was almost a loving gesture. „The girl from Skywalker?“, he asked quietly and hesitantly held out his hand, Leia immediately grabbed his index finger and cooed with satisfaction. A tiny smile appeared on his face and Ahsoka breathed a sigh of relief. The two seemed to be able to develop a positive bond, untroubled by the actions of the children's father. „Yes.“, Ahsoka grinned and held out Leia to Wolffe. „Oh no, keep it!“ „Don't be scared like that.“, she teased and gave the child to Wolffe. He held her a little clumsily and looked as if he was afraid of crushing her. And then suddenly she laughed. The little thing with the dark hair and open eyes looked at Wolffe and laughed. „She will be so much trouble.“, Wolffe muttered, but his grin belied him.

*

„Give it back!" Ahsoka grinned and turned her gaze forward, just fast enough to avoid a laughing Clone Commander. Rex was less fortunate, Cody practically ran him over. Leia threw herself at the two clones without hesitation, Luke next to Ahsoka hastily made a few steps of space between himself and the scramble on the ground. „Children, does this have to be in the hallway?“, Cutup teased, Jesse and Droidbait laughed softly when Rex threw them a less nice gesture. „Why don't we just go on, we have a hunt to prepare after all.“, Jesse grinned and Luke's eyes lit up, he nodded eagerly. „We can kidnap your padawan for now, right vod'ika?“, asked Droidbait and Ahsoka grinned and pushed her shoulder against his, she was a tiny bit taller than her brothers and had it not been for the first gray hairs, she would have been greatly amused. „Off with you, I'll see where Wolffe is. He will be able to save our brother.“

Satisfied, the others left and Ahsoka quickly left the curses in the hallway behind. She didn't have to look far, Wolffe came up one corridor to meet her. Like the other clones in the temple, he was civilly dressed, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his trousers. He didn't seem in a hurry. „Do you know why Leia is trying to kill her favorite brother?“, Ahsoka asked and Wolffe grinned broadly, he looked like he had just received the greates gift of all. „Cody snatched her belt while sparring.“ Oh dear. „The gray one?“, Ahsoka asked, she knew exactly which belt was talked about. Finely woven, light gray and embroidered with a wolf's head at the ends. Who would have thought that Boost had that much talent! Leia loved this belt, almost as much as the wolfpack and the 212th.

„Then maybe we should save Cody and Rex, because I still need my brother and Obi Wan comes back in-„ A quick look at the crono. „-three hours again. He's going to want Cody back in one piece and I'm not going to be the one covering up a murder for his padawan.“ Wolffe laughed, but quickened his pace. „We both know that you would be the first to cover up the murder.“, he grinned and set off to separate his siblings from each other.

[satansjit]

Reflections on the Color of My Skin

By Neil DeGrasse Tyson

Wednesday, June 3, 2020

My colleague had other encounters with the law that he shared later that night, but his first story started a chain reaction among us. One by one we each recalled multiple incidents of being stopped by the police. None of the accounts were particularly violent or life-threatening, although it was easy to extrapolate to highly publicized cases that were. One of my colleagues had been stopped for driving too slowly. He was admiring the local flora as he drove through a New England town in the autumn. Another had been stopped because he was speeding, but only by five miles per hour. He was questioned and then released without getting a ticket. Still another colleague had been stopped and questioned for jogging down the street late at night.

As for me, I had a dozen different encounters to draw from. There was the time I was stopped late at night at an underpass on an empty road in New Jersey for having changed lanes without signaling. The officer told me to get out of my car and questioned me for ten minutes around back with the headlights of his squad car brightly illuminating my face. Is this your car? Yes. Who is the woman in the passenger seat? My wife. Where are you coming from? My parent’s house. Where are you going? Home. What do you do for a living? I am an astrophysicist at Princeton University. What’s in your trunk? A spare tire, and a lot of other greasy junk. He went on to say that the “real reason” why he stopped me was because my car’s license plates were much newer and shinier than the 17-year-old Ford that I was driving. The officer was just making sure that neither the car nor the plates were stolen.

Among my other stories, I had been stopped by campus police while transporting my home supply of physics textbooks into my newly assigned office in graduate school. They had stopped me at the entrance to the physics building where they asked accusatory questions about what I was doing. It was 11:30 p.m. Open-topped boxes of graduate math and physics textbooks filled the trunk. And I was transporting them into the building, which left me wondering how often that scenario shows up in police training videos.

We went on for two more hours. But before we retired for the night we searched for common denominators among the stories. We had all driven different cars—some were old, others were new, some were undistinguished, others were high performance imports. Some police stops were in the daytime, others were at night. Taken one-by-one, each encounter with the law could be explained as an isolated incident where, in modern times, we all must forfeit some freedoms to ensure a safer society for us all. Taken collectively, however, you would think the cops had a vendetta against physicists because that was the only profile we all had in common. In this parade of automotive stop-and-frisks, one thing was for sure, the stories were not singular, novel moments playfully recounted. They were common, recurring episodes. How could this assembly of highly educated scientists, each in possession of the PhD—the highest academic degree in the land—be so vulnerable to police inquiry in their lives? Maybe the police cued on something else. Maybe it was the color of our skin. The conference I had been attending was the 23rd meeting of the National Society of Black Physicists. We were guilty not of DWI (Driving While Intoxicated), but of other violations none of us knew were on the books: DWB (Driving While Black), WWB (Walking While Black), and of course, JBB (Just Being Black).

None of us were beaten senseless. None of us were shot. But what does it take for a police encounter to turn lethal? On average, police in America kill more than 100 unarmed black people per year. Who never made it to our circle? I suspect our multi-hour conversation would be rare among most groups of law-abiding people.

As I compose this, about 10,000 chanting protestors are filing past my window in Manhattan. And because of the intermittent looting and related violence, the curfew for this evening has been pushed earlier, to 8 p.m., from 11 p.m. in the preceding days. The most common placard was “Black Lives Matter.” Many others simply displayed the name George Floyd, who was handcuffed face-down on the street with a police officer’s knee on the back of his neck, applied with a force of at least half the officer’s body weight, resulting in his death. Curious irony that NFL star Colin Kaepernick offered a simple demonstration of care and concern for the fate of black people in the custody of police officers, by taking a knee during the Star Spangled Banner before football games. (One media outlet mangled the moment by describing him as protesting the national anthem.) The outrage against his silent act of concern for a national problem persisted through the 2017 season when, as a free agent, he went unsigned by any team to continue his livelihood.

So, we went from a peaceful knee to the ground to a fatal knee to the neck.

The way peaceful protesters and the press are being shoved, maced, tear-gassed, pepper-sprayed, and tackled in the streets of our cities (when the police should have focused on arresting the looters) you would think the protestors were doing something illegal or un-American. But, of course, the U.S. Constitution has something to say about it:

Congress shall make no law … abridging the freedom … of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

Which amendment was that? The First Amendment. So, the founders of this nation felt quite strongly about it, empowering one to declare that protesting for redress of grievances is one of the most American things you can do. If you are the police, pause and reflect how great is the country whose Constitution endorses peaceful protests.

What do we actually expect from our police officers? To protect the peace and arrest the bad guys, I presume. But also, to be armed with lethal force that they can use when necessary. That part clearly requires training on how and when to use (and not use) the power of your weapons. The rigorous Minneapolis Police Academy training lasts 4 months. The slightly more rigorous NYC Police Academy lasts 6 months.

Yet to become a certified pastry chef at a prestigious culinary academy requires 8 months. The perfect croissant demands it. So maybe, just maybe, police recruits could benefit from a bit more training before becoming officers.

In 1991, Rodney King (age 25) was struck dozens of times, while on the ground, by four LAPD officers, with their batons, after being tased. The grainy 1990s video of that went media-viral, inducing shock and dismay to any viewer.

But I wasn’t shocked at all.

Based on what I already knew of the world, my first thought was, “We finally got one of those on tape.” Followed by, “Maybe justice will be served this time.” Yes, that’s precisely my first thought. Why? Since childhood my parents instilled in me and my siblings, via monthly, sometimes weekly lessons, rules of conduct to avoid getting shot by the police. “Make sure that when you get stopped, the officer can always see both of your hands.” “No sudden movements.” “Don’t reach into your pockets for anything without announcing this in advance.” “When you move at all, tell the officer what you are about to do.” At the time, I am a budding scientist in middle school, just trying to learn all I can about the universe. I hardly ever think about the color of my skin—it never comes up when contemplating the universe. Yet when I exit my front door, I’m a crime suspect. Add to this the recently coined “White Caller Crime,” where scared white people call the police because they think an innocent black person is doing something non-innocent, and it’s a marvel that any of us achieve at all.

The rate of abuse? Between one and five skin-color-instigated incidents per week, for every week of my life. White people must have known explicitly if not implicitly of this struggle. Why else would the infamous phrase, “I’m free, white, and 21” even exist? Here is a compilation of that line used in films across the decades. Yes, it’s offensive. But in America, it’s also truthful. Today’s often-denied “white privilege” accusation was, back then, openly declared.

The deadly LA riots associated with the Rodney King incident are often remembered as a response to the beating. But no. Los Angeles was quiet for 13 months afterward. Everyone had confidence, as did I, that the video was just the kind of evidence needed to finally bring about a conviction in the abuse of power. But that’s not what came to pass. The riots were a response to the acquittal of the four officers in the incident, and not to the incident itself. And what is a riot if not the last act of helpless desperation.

The 1989 film by Spike Lee “Do the Right Thing,” which explored 1980s black-white-police tensions in Brooklyn, New York, ends with a dedication to the families of six people. Eleanor Bumpers (age 66), Michael Griffith (age 23), Arthur Miller (age 30), Edmund Perry (age 17), Yvonne Smallwood (age 28), and Michael Stewart (age 25). All are black. One was killed by a white mob. The rest were unarmed and shot by police or otherwise died while in police custody. All deaths occurred within the 10 years preceding film, and all occurred in New York City. None of the police-induced deaths resulted in convictions, as continues to be true for 99% of all police killings.

We know of these events because they each ended in death. But even so, back then, it was just local news. Was this just NYC’s problem? I asked myself. But for every police-related death anywhere, how many unarmed victims are shot by police and don’t die, or are wrongfully maimed or injured? Most of those cases didn’t even make the local news. But if you lived there, you knew. We all knew. For what it’s worth, NYC now has the lowest police-caused death rate per capita among the sixty largest cities in the US. Is it that extra two months training in the Police Academy?

The corrosion and ultimate erosion of our confidence in the legal system in cases such as these, even in the face of video evidence, has spawned a tsunami of protests. With sympathetic demonstrations across the United States and around the world. If the threat of prison time for this behavior does not exist—acting as a possible deterrent—then the behavior must somehow stop on its own.

Some studies show that the risk of death for an unarmed person at the hands of the police is approximately the same no matter the demographics of who gets arrested. Okay. But if your demographic gets stopped ten times more than others, then your demographic will die at ten times the rate. I suppose we first have to get the bias factor down to zero, but then there’s still the matter of police killing unarmed suspects, white people included.

I talk a lot. But I don’t talk much about any of this, or the events along this path-of-most-resistance that have shaped me. Why? Because throughout my life I’ve used these occasions as launch-points to succeed even more. Yes, I parlayed the persistent rejections of society, which today might be called micro-aggressions, into reservoirs of energy to achieve. I learned that from my father, himself active in the Civil Rights Movement during the 1950s and 1960s.

In a way, I am who I am precisely because countless people, by their actions or inactions, said I could never be what I am. But what if you don’t have this deep supply of fuel? What becomes of you? Who from historically disenfranchised communities, including women, LGBTQ+, and anybody of color, are missing—falling shy of their full potential because they ran out of energy and gave up trying.

Are things better today than yesterday? Yes. But one measure of this truth is a bit perverse. Decades ago, unarmed black people getting beaten or killed by the police barely merited the local news. But now it’s national news—even breaking news—no matter where in the country it occurs.

So how to change all this? Organizations have surely assembled demands for police departments. Here, I offer a list of my own, for policy experts to consider:

Extend police academies to include months of cultural awareness and sensitivity training that also includes how not to use lethal force.

Police officers should all be tested for any implicit bias they carry, with established thresholds of acceptance and rejection from the police academy. We all carry bias. But most of us do not hold the breathing lives of others in our hands when influenced by it.

During protests, protect property and lives. If you attack nonviolent protesters you are being un-American. And you wouldn’t need curfews if police arrested looters and not protesters.

If fellow officers are behaving in a way that is clearly unethical or excessively violent, and you witness this, please stop them. Someone will get that on video, and it will give the rest of us confidence that you can police yourselves. In these cases, our trust in you matters more to a civil society than how much you stick up for each other.

And here’s a radical idea for the Minneapolis Police Department—why not give George Floyd the kind of full-dress funeral you give each other for dying in the line of duty? And vow that such a death will never happen again.

Lastly, when you see black kids, think of what they can be rather than what you think they are.

Respectfully Submitted

Neil deGrasse Tyson — trying hard to Keep Looking Up.

Copyright © 2018 Neil deGrasse Tyson

[bellygunnr]

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[Previously...] [Next]

Chapter 2: Profit Margins

PILOT ORVILLE FREEBORN MCS JAMES MACALLAN // TITAN BAY 4 EN ROUTE PLANET TYPHON, IMC-CONTROLLED SPACE

The simpod's indicator light winks green. Orville watches it, lulled slightly by the deep hum of the egg-shaped machine while his colleagues talked around him. They were clustered together, talking freely about the two men semi-unconscious in front of them, though he had long since lost the thread of conversation. He never paid much attention to gossip and he wasn't about to start now.

Besides, the rifleman wasn't that interesting. He seemed quiet and never looked anyone in the eye. What Lastimosa saw in the man, Orville didn't know. But Lastimosa had only told them what he was doing-- not why he was doing it.

The kid could be his son, for all he knew. At the end of the day, the lone notion of the kid simply became the Marauder Corps's worst-kept secret.

"Say, Freeborn," Shaver says, nudging his shoulder.

Orville starts, dragging his gaze away from the 'pod to focus on his mate, Crane. He raises an eyebrow.

"You think Anderson and Grenier are even alive by now?" Crane asks.

His tone is light and conversational. Orville hums, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Sure, right? Why would they be dead?" Orville says.

He glances up at the crouched Titan behind them, BT-7274. It's focused intently on Captain Lastimosa, but he hasn't any doubt it's eavesdropping on them. Captain Cole has taken to opening and closing an electric lighter repeatedly, filling the space with anxious clicking.

"Apparently, the SRS outpost we had here went dark," Crane explains.

"So? That's just standard protocol. We've had ops like that more than once, Shaver," Orville says, gaining an edge to his voice.

"But this one just seems weird, y'know? Some backwater IMC planet, a mystery testing facility... Very hush-hush, I've heard."

"El-Tees Shaver and Freeborn," a deep, smooth, but still clearly synthesized voice erupts, "you are in violation of confidentiality codes regarding Oscar-Two-One-Seven."

Crane has the good sense to wince and Orville crosses his arms over his chest, rolling his eyes. For a second, he wanted to retort, but...

BT wasn't wrong. With Cole and the rifleman in the hangar, they really shouldn't be so loose-lipped.

"Sorry, BT," Orville says.

There's a pause as they both wait for a response from the Titan. Predictably, he says nothing, but the shutters in his optic suddenly twist, that blue pinpoint of an eye leveling on the 'pod. Orville, Crane, and Cole all turn their gazes to it, curious.

The green light was now blinking. It turns solid amber.

"They must be finished," Cole says.

BT-7274 draws itself to its full height with an abrupt scrape of metal. At the same time, the lights in the hangar stutter, plunging them in a half-realm darkness. Orville reaches for the pager at his belt, tapping the screen on, his chest already tight with alarm.

There's nothing on the pager. The lights flicker again.

"I thought they fixed this shit back at Harmony," Crane says.

Tai jerks to life with a start, the same instant the simpod beeps and pops its latch open. Orville turns to stare at a dazed Jack Cooper.

Alarms start blaring. Five pagers go off at once, shrill with the sound of a non-standard alert. The intercoms crackle, but it's not the ship's AI that speaks. It's the captain.

"All hands, abandon ship."

"Abandon-- but we haven't--?" Crane stammers, shocked. "What?"

"Get off your ass and go, pilot," Tai snaps. "Prepare for Titanfall, everyone. Rifleman--"

Orville hurries after Crane, where his Titan resides, already crouched and open for embarking. He jams his helmet on and flops into her palm.

He had a bad, bad feeling about this.

BT-7274 MCS JAMES MACALLAN // TITAN BAY 4 IN ORBIT PLANET TYPHON, IMC-CONTROLLED SPACE

The faux field BT-7274 finds itself in is reminiscent of the prairie surrounding much of the Militia's HQ back at Harmony. He takes it in cautiously, scanning the horizon for threats despite being fully cognizant of the simulated war fog obscuring the distance. A considerable distance away, Tai and the rifleman stand, both excited.

"That's my partner, BT. He's a Vanguard-class. Homegrown Militia technology... "

BT-7274 pushes himself upright.

"The first Titan chassis we designed ourselves. One we didn't have to steal from the IMC. Now, go ahead, Cooper. Call in your first Titan."

He flicks his gaze skyward to witness the sky ripple, a pixelated rift bubbling and expanding, spitting the under-rendered silhouette of a Titan-- a mere copy of himself-- to the ground, high-speed.

Before it can land, that rip in virtual reality explodes. The system error that rocks the simpod flashes in the corner of BT's own HUD. Quietly, he detaches  itself from the program.

Titan Bay 4 is in chaos. Pilots and ground crew run between his legs, shouting orders and clambering for their gear. BT-7274 checks his own inventory compulsively.

"They're killing us down there, rifleman. Trying to, anyway," Tai says.

SHIP AI UTAH to ALL UNITS: ABANDON SHIP. REPEAT, ABANDON SHIP.

BT-7274 splays his massive hand out flat for Tai to step onto, cockpit already open, obscuring its vision. It would take them fifteen seconds to return to their ejection stall. In a few ticks, he was pulling sensitive information from the ship's AI and the MacAllan's internal systems reports.

"We're going to see a new planet today, Cooper. Maybe even die on it. I'll see you down there, alright?"

Tai settles down with a grunt that's lost in the din. He shuts the hatch before BT can get to it, but pauses, allowing the neural link to wash through them both.

"Transferring controls to pilot," BT-7274 says. "You know I do not like it when you say that."

Tai chuckles. "But it's the truth, BT."

"Again, I ask-- do you want to die on these planets?"

The conversation keeps its nerves, so to speak, steady, as they move with haste to their stall. The platform dips beneath BT-7274's colossal weight, groaning in protest as it carries them into position.

"The 9th Militia Fleet has encountered a formidable screen of orbital defenses. Apparently, two of our own have already been lost," BT explains, summarizing the data he'd just pulled. "It seems our intel from Anderson was wrong."

The ship shakes violently.

UTAH to BT-7274: GET OUT OF THESE CHANNELS.

BT-7274 to UTAH: I will soon be out of effective range.

Odd, that it's now that Utah chooses to stop BT from looking where he shouldn't. He extracts himself from the MacAllan's diagnostics.

Tai and BT-7274 hunker down and lock their joints for impending Titanfall. The automatic ejection system rotates them outward, even as another hit jostles the mechanism. BT shutters his optic against rapidly strobing lights.

"Please wait," intones a modulated, cheery voice. "Titanfall in 10... 9... 8-- 8--"

The hydraulic frame holding BT-7274 and Tai in place shudders, then appears to fold in on itself, collapsing the floor and pushing its chassis through. Coordinates, speed, and other targeting information flies through BT-Tai's head, coalescing into a single point.

"Well, that wasn't normal," Tai says cheerfully.

"Planetside in 17 seconds," BT states, splashing a timer in a corner of their HUD. "Expect heavy IMC forces."

CLAY NGUYEN CICHLID SQUAD, 34th DIVISION JUNGLE CANYONS TYPHON, IMC-CONTROLLED SPACE

Clay wipes the sweat off his hands and compulsively triple checks his station, useless as it was in the deep, suffocating darkness of the jungle-like canyon. He could see nothing beyond the loose perimeter his team had setup, a consequence of the moonless nights that had been become the new norm, as well as the lightning storms that started around the same time. But who was keeping track, really?

Not him, surely.

"The Militia should just hurry up and get here," his partner grumbles.

"Why? So you can watch the drones do all the work?" Clay shoots at her.

It wasn't like they were going to be doing any fighting-- not against ground forces, anyway. But they'd been here for hours already, since the sun went down, and had nothing to show for it.

That was fine with him. His team? Not so much.

A bright flash illuminates the darkness. Clay looks around for the source before finding the good sense to look up-- where a web-like pattern had flared to life, suspended and writhing miles above their heads.

"The anti-ship cannons," Clay breathes. "Jesus."

"Look alive, Cichlid," crackles their radio. "There's reports of Militia drop pods starting to enter Typhon. Look out for ships, too-- it's quite the fireworks show above our heads."

Clay can sense his partner starting to move, but he's fixated on the sky above. Pinpricks of light were rapidly exploding into white streaks that descended into obscurity.

"Archer's showing potential targets," Suvia announces. "Would you get off your ass already?"

She shoves his shoulder. He pushes her back, momentarily rankled, but hurries to where the second rocket launcher stood. The tiny digital screen offered several potential targets, but no locks.

"I think it's just--" Clay starts to speak, but a colossal, bone-shaking boom drowns him out.

His teeth chatter, then his world turns over, as four distinct booms impact the earth. It's all he can do to keep his grip on the Archer despite the hail of rock and soil raining on his position.

"Suv, you okay?"

"I've got dirt in my mouth!"

When the initial spray clears, Clay sees fire, smoke, and the battered, conical frames of drop pods. He has to remind himself that they're Militia. The IMC war paint was from capture and thievery, but only two had met the ground levelly.

The other two had smashed against the jagged rocks hard enough to ignite something in their internals.

"Some of the pods hit the rocks," Clay says tightly. "Shit,  they're firing."

"They don't know we're here," Suvia says. "Here comes our birds."

He watches the Archer's targeting system instead of the evolving battlefield. He wasn't interested in the slaughter. He wasn't interested in facing a Titan, either, but...

The Archer chirps. Clay adjusts his grip on the launcher as it automatically adjusts itself on the tripod, tracking a blue blip in a sea of red and yellow.

"Titan," Clay calls. "Tone's good."

"Tone's good," Suvi repeats.

Clay searches the sky briefly. It's difficult to make head or tails of what he sees, but the enemy Titanfall attracts his gaze by triggering its Distortion Brakes. IMC technology again, a little voice reminds him.

The enemy Titan unfolds itself and sticks the landing gracefully.

Two Archer rockets zip toward it, trailing smoke.

[bonjour-rainycity]

Double Heart | Chapter Seven ~ Haldir

|previous part|

Pairing: Haldir x OFC

Rating: PG-13

Word count: 2738

Warnings: Canon-level violence, injury, blood

**Read on Ao3 under the user “bonjour_rainycity” if you prefer!**

A/n Happy Monday! I’m so thankful for each and every one of you <3

We rise with the first rays of the sun. As much as I hate to admit it, I feel refreshed after a full rest. I slept soundly, trusting my brothers to do their job well. They did spend the whole night awake though, so I make a note to ensure that they sleep tonight, even if they will need to get up for second watch. As helpful as it would be to have two others on the watch rotation, I can’t risk putting the humans to the job—their senses are so inferior. I’ve snuck up on them nearly ten times by now, all without meaning to.

Rumil brings Roch into line behind Faervel. Farther on Roch’s back sits Cosima, her arms wrapped around my brother’s middle. She’s much more comfortable on the horse now, and if the mountains weren’t so rocky and full of steep drop-offs, I would suggest that she lead the horse—the experience is important. Alexander has expressed zero interest in learning how to care for or ride a horse, or learn anything about Arda, really. I will allow him the journey to adjust, but if he decides to return with us to Lothlórien, he will have to acquire skills to become more self-sufficient. Though, I have a feeling Alexander will attempt to leave this realm, or, at the very least, seek out a human settlement. I just don’t know if Cosima will go with him. She seems to have accepted our world and has taken steps towards making it her own, but she is tied to her human friend. The hold he has over her concerns me, though I do understand it. They’re each other’s only tie to the world they left behind. It would be hard to break that bond.

The sun rises above one of the higher peaks, blinding me for the brief second it takes for my eyes to adjust. Looking up, I see the morning sky is decorated with thick stripes of pale pink and brilliant gold. I take a second, and only a second, to enjoy it, then return to scanning my surroundings. This level of vigilance used to exhaust me, but by now, it’s as natural as breathing. Even when I am off duty, taking my leave in Caras Galadon or vacationing in Imladris or elsewhere, I never fully relax my surveillance. It is better to be prepared. Advanced warning can mean everything.

I hear the sound of a canteen rattling and Cosima clears her throat. “Hey, Haldir?”

“Yes?”

“When did you say we would reach that stream?”

I stretch my eyesight as far I can. It’s difficult in the mountains, where boulders and peaks and valleys hinder a proper line of sight, but I make out a slight glimmer on a rock far ahead of us—sun glinting off the surface of water and casting light on the boulder. “By tomorrow morning, I’d wager.” Then, the pieces click together. I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

I can hear the forced nonchalance in her voice. “No reason.”

I sigh. She really should have been more careful with her rationing. “Rumil and I will share water with you.”

Rumil protests at the same time Cosima calls out her thanks. I leave them to their good-natured bickering and return my full focus to guiding my horse and my company.

A slight movement registers in the corner of my eye. “Draw arms!”

I unsheathe my sword and swing it to the right just in time to stop the arrow finishing its flight to my youngest brother. I block another one aimed at my neck. I hear Orophin and Baranor free the swords at their hips, as well as Rumil hurriedly instructing Cosima to take the reins. She protests, likely not yet fully registering the attack, and I cover them as they argue. “Cosima, do as he says,” I call back. I need Rumil and his bow to take out the attackers on the hillside to our right. Orcs, likely.

My suspicions are confirmed when twelve of them descend from the peaks to our left and right, converging on us in the middle. Rumil has evidently persuaded Cosima to take control of Roch and has put his bow to good use, killing the orc that focused its fire on us from above. Sharp clangs and the shouts of battle create a chaotic cacophony that is all too familiar. I urge Faervel forward, cutting through the middle of an orc as I go. One chances a blow to my leg but before it can carry out the act, I sever its head from its neck. By my count, ten more to go.

Arrows rain from above, this time coming from our left. Alexander shouts, and I risk turning around to see if he’s been hit. Thankfully, he hasn’t — an arrow had only come relatively close to him. I have to remind myself how frightening this must be for humans who have never experienced an orc ambush, or even an orc. While unpleasant, an attack like this is part of the job for myself and my wardens — even Baranor, who frequently heals others on the battlefield. With that in mind, I cut down another orc and bring Cosima into view. She grips Roch’s reins with an intensity that turns her knuckles white and whips her head around, trying to keep all the beasts in her line of sight. It pleases me to see that she’s attempting to be observant, even if her already weak senses are untrained and thus dilute her efforts.

While Rumil focuses fire on the orcs attempting to fell us with arrows, an orc in the infantry rushes Roch. Cosima jerks the reins to the right, spurring him into movement. The motion catches Rumil’s attention, and, with deadly accuracy, he hits the orc in the eye. He turns his attention back to the skies, attempting to locate those that still assail us with arrows.

Concussions sound to my left — the beasts have dislodged a pile of rocks, trying to crush us. Faervel is an intelligent steed and dodges the boulders skillfully, allowing me to keep my attention on beheading one of the orcs who jabs towards my middle. As I kill another, the arrows cease falling from above—Rumil’s done his job, then.

Six orcs left.

Those remaining attempt to surround us. Can’t have that. I guide Faervel past the furthest beasts and then turn, swinging my sword, forcing them to fall back. From the rear of our line, Orophin follows my lead, blocking an orc’s blow and returning it with a fatal one. Baranor rears his horse to narrowly avoid being knocked off by an axe. I tighten my jaw. It is risky forcing the orcs into the middle when four of our company must share that space with them. I shake my head, firm in my original decision. It is less risky than allowing the orcs to encircle us.

Alex yelps and directs Baranor to an orc approaching them from behind, having snuck past Orophin. They keep coming. They must be hiding in the rocks. My youngest brother recognizes the urgency building at the back of our line and concentrates his close-range fire on those that attack there. He has also noticed the threat hiding in the rocks and kills the beasts as quickly as he can identify them.

The noises of battle are loud, but any experienced warrior knows it’s the quieter sounds—the ones out of place—that are the most important. A boot scuffs against stone and I raise my sword just in time to meet the massive orc that throws himself from the rock above me. We collide, falling to the ground. The impact knocks the breath from me and the colossal weight on my chest definitely doesn’t help. With my left hand, I retrieve my dagger, slicing towards the beast’s neck. He stops me with his sword, pressing the blade to my own throat. He’s strong, but I’m stronger. I push against him, using the leverage from my movement to flip us over and, before he can register the change, I plunge my blade into his gut.

A fiery sting shoots up my leg and I kick my uninjured foot, knocking the newcomer in the head. He falls to the ground, stunned by the blow, and I draw myself to full height. His rotting flesh squelches when I stab him in the chest. In the second I have before another beast attacks me, I check the weapon that sliced my leg. Not poisoned. Good.

A scream pierces the air.

Cosima.

I whip around, locating her quickly. She gasps, gripping below her left shoulder, staring at the blood between her fingers in shock. I switch my dagger to my dominant hand and throw it forward. Within a second, it is buried to the hilt in her assailant’s chest, and he falls to the ground with a thud.

A blow from behind sends me sprawling, and I catch myself just before my face collides with the dirt. Coughing violently, I twist, jabbing my sword under the orc’s chest plate and in between his ribs — a fatal strike. Mentally, I reprimand myself for getting so distracted, and let my eyes wander around our surroundings, checking for any enemies we have yet to eliminate. Only one remains, and Orophin ends its life with a deliberate slice to the gut. Everyone is alive and accounted for, thank the Valar. I run to them.

Cosima’s face contorts in pain — she’s gone sickly pale. Panic I didn’t feel during the attack sears through my chest. How much blood can humans lose before it is fatal? “How badly are you hurt?”

“It’s just her arm,” Rumil answers for her, looking quite distressed himself. “It’s deep. I do not think the sword was poisoned, though.”

“You don’t think or you know? How sure are you?”  My voice is harsh—harsher than it needs to be, probably, and I try to de-escalate. I’m likely still fired up from battle.

Rumil sets me with an even gaze, nothing but honesty in his eyes. “I know. The sword was not poisoned.”

I nod, feeling my breathing begin to slow. “Good.”

Alexander calls worriedly from the edge of the group. “What happened? Is she okay? Cosima!”

“I’m fine,” she grits back. Her voice is scratchy, strained, so obviously speaking through the pain that it makes my stomach hurt.

But the pain will pass, I remind myself. But for now, I can’t say for sure if the threat has. And I need to be sure.

“Baranor,” I gesture to my friend. “Bind her wound so it is secure for travel. Orophin—search back and make sure we are not being followed. I’ll scout ahead.”

Before turning to leave, my eyes seek Cosima’s of their own accord. Hers are tight, squinted against the pain I’m sure she’s not used to feeling. In them I see so much fear—terror, even—and I feel resolve settle within me. An attacker won’t get an opportunity like that again.

I pull my gaze away. There’s still work to do.

{***}

Thankfully, no orcs hide ahead. Though I am reluctant to leave the group for long, I spend a handful of moments retracing the trail our attackers took. It leads to a shallow, empty cave and an abandoned fire pit. Just to be safe, I stomp the pit under Faervel’s hooves. That will discourage other orcs from sheltering here.

In this rare moment of privacy, I roll up the edge of my right legging, assessing the injury to my leg. It’s shallow, just a slice, really, and the sting is minor enough that I’ve nearly forgotten about it. Satisfied that it’s not serious, I decide to wait to have Baranor look at it until we’re settled for the night. Right now, my top priorities are Cosima’s wound and getting moving again. Now that we’ve encountered a pack of orcs, I am even more eager to reach the safety of Imladris.

I ride back to where I left the others, arriving not long after Orophin. No orcs on his end, either. Good. I dismount, leaving Faervel in Rumil’s care and join Baranor where he crouches on the ground next to Cosima. Behind her, Alexander paces anxiously.

Baranor smoothes a salve over the torn skin. It seems he’s already cut away the excess cloth of her tunic sleeve and cleaned her wound. Part of me is grateful I was gone for it—by the haggard look on Cosima’s face, it can’t have been a pleasant experience. Like Rumil said, the wound is deep. Orcs don’t typically use well-crafted weapons, and this one was no different—a jagged blade had been used to injure Cosima, possibly an old knife or a scrap piece of metal fashioned into a rudimentary sword.

I raise my eyes to hers and find her already looking at me, watching my expression intently. Looking for signs that she should be worried, probably. I say a quick prayer of thanks to the Valar for my natural stoicism that gives nothing away and for our safety. Then, I address my obviously shaken friend. “Baranor is one of the best healers in Lothlórien. The cut looks frightening and hurts, but it will heal.”

She nods, keeping her jaw tightly clenched.

My heart aches. I look to Baranor, at a loss. His bedside manner comes much more naturally, and he gives an easy smile as he wraps a clean bandage around Cosima’s upper arm. “There, that will do the trick until we reach Imladris. I want to redress it tonight though, and again in the morning. I’ve used some of my power to aid the healing process begun by the salve—we’ll see where it’s at tonight. Don’t you worry my dear friend.”

Cosima bobs her head again, murmuring her thanks to our healer. The look on her face—stricken, fearful, pained—both hurts me and draws attention to the steadily growing guilt. I should have been faster. I should have looked out better. I should have—

I jerk my head to the side, trying to free myself from these thoughts. As leader of the group, all faults are mine. But dwelling on that now won’t keep us safe, so, for the time being, I stand, gesturing for the others to do the same. “We should get going. I don’t want to lose more time.”

Rumil nods and hands me Faervel’s reins, reaching down to help Cosima stand. I hear him whisper a heartfelt apology to her, sounding as if he feels just as much guilt as I do.

She waves it off, wincing when she moves her injured arm. “It’s not your fault. I’m okay.”

But her voice sounds fragile, devoid of the liveliness that characterized it this morning. Rumil also notices the change in our friend and is extra gentle when he grips her foot to lift her onto Roch’s back.

Something pricks at the edges of my mind, bothering me. “No.” I hear my voice ring out over the silence. I’m met with five pairs of questioning eyes. I clear my throat, hastening to gather my thoughts. “Rumil, I want you to guard the back with your bow. I’ll take Cosima on Faervel so you can focus on shooting if there’s another attack.”

Seeing the logic in this, Rumil nods, releasing Cosima and mounting Roch alone, leading the horse to the back of our company. As Alexander passes to join Baranor, he takes Cosima’s hand in his, squeezing. She gives him a tired-looking smile then walks to join me at the front of the group.

Automatically, I kneel, locking my hands together as I wait for her foot.

She hesitates. “No orcs in Imladris?”

I hold her gaze, wanting her to see the honesty in my eyes. “No orcs in Imladris.”

She swallows and places her boot in my hands. “Good. Let’s get going, then.”

I help her up, taking the opportunity to assess her face. The fear remains, but it is now eclipsed by a hardness, a determination. She’s putting up a wall. I know. I’ve been there.

But there’s nothing we can do about it now. We’re still in the orc-infested mountains and we need to reach safety. So, I grip Faervel’s mane and pull myself in front of Cosima. I give the order and we continue our journey.

A/n Thanks for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs are the best :) Let me know if you would like a tag! And if you’re having trouble being tagged, try subscribing on Ao3. That will notify you automatically when I post there!

|next part|

|masterlist|

Tolkien tag list: @anangelwhodidntfall @eru-vande

Double Heart tag list: @lainphotography @fangirl-nonsense @themerriweathermage @thophil2941btw @kenobiguacamole @wishingtobeinadifferentuniverse @from-patroclus-with-love @boywivlove @tolkien-apologist @ordinarymom1 @sam-was-the-true-hero @sweet-bea-blossom @moony-artnstuff

**Strikethrough means Tumblr won’t let me tag you**

[jadepetals]

so this is part 4 of the fics that i've read and have stayed with me for a looong time. hope you feel the same way.

the beginning of everything / 30532 words

Harry is a struggling artist, in more ways than one, and Louis is a successful theatre critic and a failed writer, more or less.

Where I Should Be / 31324 words

Harry is getting married, Louis is in love with his best friend, and they only have this life to get it right.

From Eight Until Late, I Think About You / 35227 words

After finding out that his University of Brighton roommate has a YouTube channel, Harry starts up his own channel, on which he posts videos of himself doing weekly challenges. He strikes up a friendship with Louis, a popular youtuber in London, that starts in the comments on their videos and progresses to texting, skyping, and talking about each other in their own videos far too often. They fall for each other long-distance, but put off meeting face-to-face as long as possible, too nervous that they'll screw it all up.

all that remains / 40159 words

Harry has always written too many songs about him.

Breakable Heaven / 44594 words

“What do you think?” Louis gets captured by Harry’s green eyes, unable to look away or even take a breath.

“I think you’re the most magnificent creature I’ve ever met.”

“You must not have met many creatures then.”

Harry’s eyes glance downward to Louis’ lips and his tongue darts out to wet his own. “None like you.”

just a flicker in the dark / 57200 words

Louis is a struggling witch desperate to prove himself after yet another magic disaster and finds a calling in the haunted house of client Niall Horan. Things get more complicated when he’s assigned a case partner: acclaimed medium and ex-boyfriend, Harry Styles.

Like Real People Do / 58469 words

Harry is Louis' soulmate but Louis isn't Harry's - it takes Harry a while to figure it all out.

try not to remember (rather than forget) / 59602 words

Harry hadn’t left, not really. He had been right there the entire time. And that’s what had made it worse, knowing that his body was within touching distance but his mind, everything that made Harry Harry, was lost somewhere Louis wasn’t able to reach.

He hadn’t left, but that’s what it had felt like most of the time. Just as if one day Harry had up and left him.

Know I Think You’re Awesome, Right? / 60113 words

Louis is a hippie, very good vibes activist and Harry is a punk, anarchist that always gets involved in violent protests.

Such Good Luck / 66205 words

Harry is a young aristocratic lord and Louis is a working class dairy farmer. Secrets are a necessary part of their relationship, but Louis has one that could topple their whole world.

sleeping on our problems / 67426 words

Louis sleeps with Harry and they have more than just catching feelings to worry about.

From What I’ve Tasted of Desire / 71557 words

When Louis moves to the small Scottish town of Fortrose to spend some time with his father, he thinks he's come to terms with the fact that the next two years of his life will be rainy and dull. That changes when he meets the ever-elusive Harry Styles in his Biology class and he makes it his goal to find out the big secret surrounding him and his family. Louis unexpectedly finds himself in the eye of a storm of secrecy, age-old myths, friendship and romance.

We’ll Cast Some Light (You’ll Be Alright) / 74409 words

There’s a standard procedure for this. Scan, track, kill. But with a solar eclipse and a Greater Demon with unfinished business looming, the path to keeping England safe from harm becomes complicated and shadowed by mystery and secrets. For Harry and his team, times have never been harder, especially when a few old friends turned foes show up. Harry is left with just over forty days to overcome the hurdle of tension between them and reconcile their past, and figure out just what Louis is hiding from him before it’s too late.

 My friend lost a bet / 74975 words

Louis ends up on the list of potential fake-boyfriends for Harry Styles because Stan really sucks at football bets.

Swallow The Knife / 76178 words

“You came,” Louis says, still breathless, clinging to Harry, uncaring that his sweat is getting all over Harry’s presumably clean dad shirt, or that he’s making Harry hold up all of his weight.

“Of course I came,” Harry says. He shifts, one arm curled underneath Louis’ arse, the other spreading wide in the middle of Louis’ back. “If I ignored you every time you pissed me off we would have stopped being friends a long time ago.”

Louis already knows that, of course. It doesn’t do anything to stop the pleased squirm in his belly every time Harry proves it, though. They fight like nobody’s business, both of them too stubborn to pull their punches when they’re arguing, and it used to get them in trouble, but they always make up.

Adrenaline makes Louis loose-lipped, and they both know it. He tightens his arms around Harry’s neck, buries his face in his hair. “I missed you,” he confesses, quiet. “Doesn’t feel the same up there by myself.”

Black with Autumn Rain / 93468 words

Harry is a journalist, Louis has lots of secrets and the moors aren't exactly the ideal place to rekindle a lost romance.

Runaway Land / 103610 words

Louis is sure he’s stumbled upon a secret, underground nightclub, though that is far from the truth. He’s also pretty sure he’s stumbled upon Apollo, which… isn’t very far from the truth, actually.

Next to your Heartbeat (where I sould be) / 130821 words

All it takes for them to fall in love is one night. All they have to do is wait one year to see each other again.

Yet, when Louis returns after his year abroad, the boy who's got his arms wrapped around Harry isn't him. It isn't a stranger either, which should make walking away all that easier. After all, friend's don't lust after their mate's boyfriends.

Technically, doing the right thing should be easy - but when has Louis ever been known to taking the easy way out?

Run Like the Devil / 139152 words

Louis hunts demons; Harry's the strangest demon he's ever met, and he keeps fucking meeting him.

Three Days in February / 187964 words

Louis is cursed after a night out with the lads and the five have just three days to figure out what happened and how to break it before Harry and Louis both lose their sanity and maybe something more. Louis can hear everything Harry thinks and Harry isn’t sure he can keep his feelings for Louis a secret from his own mind.

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5

[littlefreya]

The Way to Hell - Part 11

Synopsis: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escapes Ethan Hunt with his face intact and is currently the most dangerous man alive. Unwilling to back down from his murderous agenda, he plots to continue where he stopped, unaware of the trained assassin who is sent to bring him down.

Chapters:  Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10| Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Completed.

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild)

Word count: 6.2k

Warnings:  Explicit smut, violence, gore, cutting, angst, manhandling, choking, foul language, bondage, breath play, unprotected sex. 

A/N: Assuming my usual panic attack positions! Ok, so there are about 2 chapters left and I fear this story is about to conclude... 😰 This chapter put me through an emotional turmoill! Many thanks for my editor and muse @agniavateira, @yespolkadotkitty for the cover art and @dancingwendigo and @wondersofdreaming who’re helping me through my panic attacks and providing tips

Please comment, review and reblog.  💖

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

Title: Hold me, thrill me, kiss me, kill me

Pearly tendrils of light shine through the creases of his lids, waking him from a dreamless sleep. A mixture of iron and dream-like mellowness tugs at his nose, like death and fresh roses. It’s so close he can nearly taste it on his parched tongue. Swallowing the scorching dryness in his throat, the fallen man attempts to move but a leaden warmth defies him, hugging softly onto his upper torso and embracing him in the foreign fog of solace. 

A delicate heartbeat murmurs against his, so frail it virtually feels as if it melted into his own ribs. 

As if she dissolved into him.

Cold sweat layers his forehead. Snapping frantically he shoves the girl off of him, curling against the headboard with a crazed neurotic look on his face as if he was touched by a blaze of blistering fire. 

“What the fuck do you want!?” August yells, his voice hoarse and cracked. His glare shoots through her across the small bedroom, his mind rapidly trying to grasp any recollection of the messy chamber. This location is strange to him; the walls feel like they’re closing in, withdrawing the air from his lungs in a place that seems like a warzone. The light-carpeted floor is soiled by a long path of the darkest red, the trail leading back to them.  

The porcelain valkyrie is pushed to the edge of the bed, seemingly like a rare mythological creature. Her long hair drapes her face like a dark veil, pierced by two shiny diamonds that glimpse through, imbued with naivety. Still drowsy, she tries to collect her own senses, rubbing her heavy forehead and releasing a soft groan.

“Relax, stop shouting.” she pleads with lids half shut. Her slender arms spread in the air, suggesting a peace treaty. 

August scowls, his airflow becoming short and quickened. He lets a hand rave over his chest with panic, finding it bare and sticky with dry blood and sweat. A clean bandage is wrapped around his left pectoral and crossed tightly around one shoulder. While the aching sting still bites into the wounded muscle, his energy has slightly renewed, as well as his sanity. 

Or so he believes. 

Making another hasty survey of the room, he finds his belt and armed holster scattered on the floor. He makes a dash for it, immediately aiming the gun in Ingvild’s direction, refusing to fall to whatever game this may be.  

She stares at him motionless, remaining seated with her knees folded and her feet nestled below her behind. “Feels nice doesn’t it?” she provokes, her lips breaking into a faint grin as if the muscles of her face are still learning the concept of smiling. “To wake up with your tits out.”

Looking back at her unamused, his hand waves the gun. A glower shadows his face, painting deep lines in his forehead. The attempt to greet her with an onslaught of insults results in nothing but a painful wheeze as his throat sears. 

“Don’t move,” Ingvild commands lightly and climbs off the bed, completely ignoring the click of the gun and August’s arm that follows her every movement. Her legs nearly float through as she moves gracefully, rushing to the bathroom nearby. She grabs a glass and fills it from the tap before quickly returning to sit on the bed, offering the tall glass to August.

Wary of her peace offering, he hesitates, scanning her for any signs of wickedness and finding none. Something else glints through her big irises instead. The deep lines that dot those beautiful greys seem so brittle, immersed in emotion he can’t define or recognize at all. 

It makes him feel attacked.

Snatching the glass violently, he swallows its content in one gulp, feeling a thirst he never sensed in his entire existence. He places the glass on the nightstand, slamming it so harshly it shatters.  

Ingvild peers at the light sparkling onto the broken shards and averts her eyes back to August’s profoundly ragged face. He glares with blazes of fury, evidently less than inclined to trust her despite her efforts to make amends, and the fact that she nursed him through a stormy night. 

It pricks her heart, more than it ever did when she tried to gain Liam’s affection.

“I could have killed you at least three times in your sleep,” she murmurs and then pauses, attempting to smirk again. “You should really lay off the snacks, I nearly fainted trying to get you to the bed.”

Unphased, he carefully gauges her appearance. Soft, pale light shines through the window, showering her skin with a mellow haze as she sits holding a hand over her forearm, squeezing it nervously. Her glance is filled with rain clouds, the cynicism and the hatred he grew so accustomed to is untraceable. 

A piece inside her shifted, deeming her fragile all of the sudden. In his heart of tar and stone, he knows she speaks the truth, yet the spirit of vengeance won’t let go. Bile rises in his throat, fingers twitching as the constant hunger to touch her prickles his skin. The woman is a natural prey to him, making his mouth salivate. It’s enough to see her defenceless to make him want to gnaw fresh cavities in her flesh. 

But something else boils in his veins. More than just a primal need.

“Why can’t you just let me be?” he asks sharply, teeth gritted and jaw strained tightly. A slight tremor runs through his bones, his body dominated by anger and despair. 

“You came here,” she answers, staring fearlessly between the barrel and his furious gaze. A small frown forms between her eyebrows, the grey clouds inside her lustrous eyes beginning to take wind. “You wanted to retaliate.”

Fragments of the other night begin to slice into the black matter of his brain: her tears, her lips moving slowly, whispering his own words of a vendetta in her angelic voice. 

Like a dream, nebulous and virginal, how beautiful she was surrendering her will to his. 

‘Fight it! She betrayed you.’

“Oh trust me, princess, I still very much want to see you die.” he retorts, the gun beginning to feel heavy in his hand. He reaches to hold his own wrist, giving a fierce glare. “You should have ended it, darling.”

“Yes, I should’ve killed you,” she agrees, her lower lip slightly quivering as she looks at him with desperation. Her chest begins to heave through the cleavage of her top, the same tarnished one she wore that night. It still smells like his sweat. His musk is so stubborn it lingers. 

“I should be a good girl, for Liam, for Icarus. But I have so many thoughts going through my head over and over again, splitting my mind in half. I don’t want to do this anymore, I don’t want to kill for them, I don’t want to kill you. It hurts.”

Shuffling in a swift movement, she crawls toward him, her muscles flexing inward. Her slick manoeuvres remind him of a majestic feline. August’s pupils dilate as the lines of her face sharpen in his sight and the warmth of her body returns to caress him like a pleasant autumn breeze.

Ingvild reaches her slender arm for his wrist fearlessly before he can even muster any protest. Ignoring the gun aimed at her throat, she forces his palm flat onto her chest and inhales sharply. Her heart thunders against his touch, making his own beat accelerate.  

“Right here,” she says, gazing deeply into his eyes as if trying to enchant him. “I have killed close to 470 people since I was 14. I don’t remember their faces, but I do know I never felt this before, not for any of them.”

The azure ocean in August’s eyes gushes with alarming gusts. The scarce physical contact ignited a spark inside him, driving him to withdraw his hand aggressively, putting down the flame before it begins to spread again. 

“What do you want? What do you think this is?” he asks furiously, boring a frenzied look into her eyes. He feels a certain heat rising in his chest. He reasons with himself that it’s just the gunshot wound festering, burning his lungs to cinders.

“I want you,” she answers, her gaze dropping to his lips, admiring the fine shape. A sharp cupid’s bow hidden beneath the coarse hair of his thick moustache. Her hands dream of stroking his sculptured jaw and feel the bristle of his untamed stubble. 

“I want to follow you on your mission.”    

‘She is lying. Don’t trust her, remember what happened the last time you’ve placed your faith in a woman?’

August’s nostrils flare, his mind scouring frantically, bargaining for a reason why she would be different. Twice he spared her, his murderous will weakened by her manipulative spells, clawed by whatever it was she had on him. The voice in his head warns him gravely, yet the fact that here he is, still alive by her merciful hand spikes his doubts, meddling with his thoughts the way only she could do. 

Ever since she stepped into his life he’s been spiralling into a cataclysm. Something that he always gripped with zeal was no longer in his control.  

Leaning closer, he narrows his eyes with spite. The muscle of his jaw contracts, clenching tightly. He grazes the cold barrel of the gun against the supple skin of her cheek. “Why should I trust you?” he spits out, tracing her face further with the hard, crude metal.  “You think that because I broke you in, I actually care about you?”

Ingvild studies his face, not showing any sign of fear as she nods to herself. “You need proof.”

The young woman looks around her, searching for something in the room thoughtfully. Her eyes rest on the nightstand beside August and she leans to it, brushing her entire figure against his broad body for a split second as she reaches for the broken glass. 

“What do you think you’re doing, princess?” he asks cautiously, his eyes following her every move.  He crooks his eyebrow as she sits in front of him with her legs bunched beneath her bottom. Displaying her left arm with her elbow resting on one knee and her palm facing upward, she presses the shard against her wrist. 

August frowns in a mixture of confusion and agitation, alarm bells ringing at the back of his head. Yet no rational thought makes it to his mind as he watches the glass tear through her skin. 

Silence befalls the room. Abruptly so quiet he can hear the buzz of the electric cords running through the walls. Even her breath pauses as her right hand drops the shard on the bed, her eyes remaining poised, darting onto his. Overcome with disbelief he wonders if she actually did it, scrutinizing her flesh which seems intact.  

Suddenly, a spout of blood emerges through her open wrist. 

Dark red liquor licks down her arm, sensually dripping onto her worn jeans and pooling onto the blanket. August’s heart stirs with shock, yet he attempts to force his emotions away. 

“What the hell do you think you are doing?!” 

Keeping her sight on his, Ingvild remains still, not flinching a muscle as the blood pumps out of her severed artery. The pain is excruciating yet the chants in her mind continue to tell her to hold her groans inside. 

‘Show no weakness, prove your strength.’

“You want loyalty.”

“Won’t mean a thing if you’re dead,” he answers coldly, waiting for her to stop the blood, to show any fear or regret. The thick liquid continues to flow down her arm, tarnishing her porcelain skin that begins to turn paler as the blood drains from her body. He gathers the torture must be unbearable yet she won’t even make a whimper.

‘What is she waiting for?’

“I’m not going to save you,” August warns. 

Ingvild shrugs lightly, trying not to move her arm too much. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll die one way or another, by your hand or Icarus’. At least this gives me a choice.”

The drops staining the bed sound like rain tapping against a window ledge, heavy and dull.

August’s brows knit together, his eyes running back and forth between her arm and her face, watching her lips turning light blue, triggering disturbing memories in his mind. “What on earth does that mean?” Heavy frown lines paint his forehead as he recalls her words before she shot him. 

“I have to kill you.” 

“You’re a slave?” he reckons, looking at the colour vanishing from her face as she nods. “How very disappointing, Ingvild.”

“A tool, controlled by men whom I’ve never seen to manipulate the world and sustain the old order, as you wrote in your manifesto.” she shuts her eyes for a mere second, trying to push back the throbbing twinge in her vein as her body screams with panic. 

“They stole my freedom…” she pauses, finding it suddenly hard to speak. “They stole me... what did they take from you?”

“It’s none of your business,” he snaps, aware of how her voice slows down along with her breath. He swears he can hear her heartbeat getting louder as if begging to be rescued. 

“But I am bleeding for you.” she provokes, offering a small weak chuckle. Feeling the euphoria creeping to her mind. “You should tell me your plans like villains do in the movies. I’m dying anyway.”

August snarls. Shaking his head, his eyes hold a rageful ocean, washed with concern. The image of her dying corpse lying beneath him flashes into his memory. A dead angel in the snow, lips frozen in time. He should have left her there in the frozen lake. But for a split second, she was Lacey and then she wasn’t. 

As she slowly dives into her own death, he still wonders why he couldn’t let her drown.

‘For fuck’s sake.’

Ingvild closes her eyes accepting the shadows that seduce her to join them, the pain dwindling as her body gives in. But she’s quickly pulled back by August who holds her hand, covering the bleeding slit with his tattered shirt and pressing into it. His voice comes as distant thunder, vibrating gently in her ears before words begin to make sense again.  

“Hold it up, like this,” he commands her, folding her arm and fisting her wrist tightly. “Where are the bandages?”

Ingvild tilts her chin, her sleepy eyes gesturing onto her bag on the floor where a pristine white pack of badges lies. 

“Keep the pressure on,” he orders her again. His voice is calm as if once again he follows protocols. Yet something stirred, hiding within the silent sea of his eyes which snap at her for a split second. 

They’re tainted by fear. 

Ingvild watches with hushed admiration as he hurries to grab the bandage and returns to her. A small wrinkle rests between his brow, focusing intently on wrapping her open wound. He makes such a beautiful, neat work dressing her injury, she almost feels sorry for making a mess out of his.    

“Have I proved myself?” she taunts, peeking at him through her lashes while he makes work of tying the dressing tightly at her wrist. His elegant hands wrap a piece of medical duct tape around the bandages, twirling the long thick bands ceremonially as if they were silk ribbons.

His stern gaze rests upon her face, noting every flake of her long lashes, watching the different colours shift like thick liquid as daylight breaks onto her glassy irises. Awe plays with the strings in his chest, mesmerized by the innocence in her that refuses to die even after he desecrated her. 

The craving in him seethes. Like a thirsty man in the desert who stumbles onto an oasis.    

‘You can’t let her go, can’t let her slip between your fingers.’

With her wrist still in his grasp, he allows himself to stroke a thumb over the white cotton of the bandage, brushing the suppleness of her skin.

“This is not the devotion I need from you, princess.”

Ingvild flinches like a scared animal, shivering at the foreign tenderness of his touch. No one ever touched her with kindness. Soft, feather-like caresses embark further up her milky skin, making her moan at the pleasant new sensation. Light and careful, his fingers ascend to her neck and press around her chin.  

“Angel,” August murmurs, low and sonorous. His bulky body looms closer, whilst the grip around her jaw becomes tense, drawing her closer until his lips are a mere inch away from hers. “Do you want to be devoted to me?”

“Yes,” she answers, voice still lingering either by blood loss or the passion that begins to cloud her mind.

Consoled by her answer, a small growl builds in the pit of August’s diaphragm, accompanied by a lustful grin that edges his chiselled face. 

“Then show me your devotion.”

“No…” she protests lightly, finally breaking into a true little smile that glints brightly in her eyes. The radiance almost makes him want to take it from her by force. “I’m not a toy.” 

August smirk widens at her response, exposing his sharp fangs that beam at the faint hint of rosy hues that circles her cheeks. 

“Did I stutter?” Authority paints his voice, his grip putting pressure on her nape and pressing her chin up with the pad of his thumb. The patience in him wears thin, greed weaving in his gut yet he vows to hold back as much as possible, unwilling to tear down her wings. 

She must submit freely.

Fallen by his power, she watches the darkness pour into his eyes, his lips pulling apart slightly, anticipating the moment when he can steal the air from her lungs and nibble into the plumpness of her lips. Whatever strength in her wanes, bending to his will. She meekly takes his lips into hers, suckling him above and below, feeling the rough graze of his moustache. 

It’s nothing like the violent kiss they shared in the pit, yet something in her quickly awakens: a hunger like no other, turning the kiss more demanding. Like fire spreading, their tongues quickly engulf each other, dancing feverishly. August’s growl vibrates all the way down her sternum, his hands roaming down to grope every patch of skin. 

A mewl of protest breaks from her as he leaves her lips, followed by a deep sigh as he begins to kiss down her throat. The scruff of his coarse facial hair makes her blood rush and her heart pumps with exhilaration, nearly halting from the bliss of his touch.

“I want everything.” August blurts out, tugging her shirt over her head and then biting her breasts over her bra. The canvas of her skin is tainted by deep-grey and purple shades. Flicking the clasp of her bra, he wonders briefly which were from their fight and which formed as he fucked her so aggressively. He feels nothing but pride in knowing he will make new ones right now. Brand her as he claims her his own. 

Sharp teeth sink into her tender breasts, coaxing yips of pain, marking her with wet little cavities while his fingers fiddle with her jeans, urgently huddling it down her legs along with her underwear. Impassioned, she shifts from her position, kicking away the last remnants of her clothes. The chill air tickles her wet flesh, making her exhale with ghastly need. More wolf than a man, August leans back, his torso layered with sweat that glistens of the dark fur of his torso. The fabric of his trousers is stretched painfully over the massive bulge and mindlessly she reaches out to feel him, kneading the outlines of his erection through his pants. 

‘Fuck, her touch...’ 

Fervent groans tremor through his sinew as she squeezes him harder. She frees him from his trousers, running a hand up and down his shaft, astounded by his vastness and the correlation of smooth velvet skin over rock-hard muscle. 

Still sore, the pounding heat of need rocks at the centre of her cunt, possessing her into swaying her perky breasts against his cock. Pearly beads of precum exude from the tip, coating the erected peaks of her nipples.

“Fuck!” August pants and swallows hard, as the battle over his self-control drains him. Patience has always been his virtue in bed, his power over women. Release in control by sodomy that inflicted true pleasure. 

But not with her. She strings different tunes, singing seductive hymns to the animal in him. 

He wants her. He needs her. He must have all of her.  

‘I deserve her.’

Drawing back against the headboard, his hands snap at her hip, lifting her with ease to stand on her knees right above his cock. Ingvild nibbles at her bottom lip, her eyes falling onto his hardened shaft which lies heavily against his abs. 

If not for all the injuries she caused him, the large man’s Adonis-like form would have looked like a renaissance statue cut out of marble. 

“Come here,” he commands, removing one hand from her to seize the base of his huge cock which towers with glory amidst the dark bundles of curls. “Take me in”

A stream of arousal rushes inside her, making her quiver as she lowers her soaked crease onto his erection ever so gingerly. Cries of overwhelm break from her lips. His girth splits her apart, whilst his wolf-like glares bore into hers with the triumph of conquest. 

Every push stretches her wider, forcing her body to succumb and accept him despite the painful effort. August is too big, his vastness tears whatever innocence is left to her, and he is not even fully within.

Shivering, she halts, hearing August’s snarl of protest when realizing she has her nails cleaving crescent-marks on his pumped shoulders.  

“All the way in, angel,” he commands, and then bucks his hips into her and snaps her down onto his pulsating shaft, giving no notice to the scream she lets out as he sears her. 

He drives himself in until her ass slams onto his thick thighs. She can feel his hot flinching cock buried within the dark pit of her gut while his sack strains against her clenched cavern. 

“Good girl.” August praises, pressing her against his chest as they both pant and groan in harmony. Calls of pleasure and cries of pain mingle into a sinful symphony.

But suddenly he stills, and his hand snaps at her neck. Thumb pressing at her artery, he makes a small thrust, causing her to whine as little sparks kindle in her cunt. 

“August, please.” she whimpers, trying to ride him to ease the aching despair that boils in her cunt. He fills her to the hilt yet gives no friction but the thundering throb of his thick veins. 

“Devotion.” he replies, his free arm fishing for the leather belt perched on the floor. With one determined wring of his wrist,he wraps it around her neck, giving her a nice little collar with a leash made of the thick strap. 

His finger brushes up and down the leather erotically, staring at the girl’s hazy grey orbs to see if he can find a drop of protest.   

Instead, she presses her hands on his furry torso and desperately begins to mount him with teetering gasps. The noose tightens with the sway of her body yet the tension and the grind within is far too agonizing to stay still; the need to have him sunken in her depth of her soul defies any will to breathe.

August gapes his mouth with awe, groaning loudly as he feels her drenched cunt gripping around. She’s impossibly tight, his fresh little flower, crying out so hopelessly as if it hurts, as if being fucked by his large cock is so pleasurably unbearable yet her life depends on it.

“Poor little tight cunt,” he taunts, urging her to fall faster back on his thighs while bucking his hips into her with deep slams. “you missed this?” he asks with a groan, tying the strap around his fist and pulling her closer to meet his hooded gaze, “You missed me fucking you, angel?”

Unable to make more than strangled sobs, she nods with glassy eyes, feeling the squeeze around her arteries while her cunt convulses and blazes with ecstasy. Flames bloom in the pit of her womb, every assault of his cock inside her pushes the heat further through her nerves. Desperate, she is reduced to nothing but her pursuit of forgotten euphoria. 

The fervent flames lick up her spine, darkness whispering in her mind. Yet she leans back, letting the noose devoid the oxygen to her heart and brain as her body falls lost into a delirium.

August feels her pussy tensing around his cock as the belt halts her airflow; through the heated waves of pleasure, an alarm blares. “Careful,” he rasps, reaching his fist to her throat to replace the belt and pulling her until her chest grinds into his own. “Don’t damage what’s mine!”

Her reply is a cracked wheeze, her body jolting as he fucks her into a punishing rhythm. Hot and burning, stoking inside her, balls thudding and battering her hole, the chant of their wet skin colliding in a violent dance accompanies the chaotic symphony of their moans. His angel latches onto him, wrapping tighter and tighter as her body accepts his offering of rage, sucking and milking him dry.

August pulls her face against his, fingers flexing around her jugular, lips grazing her own and then hovering to rob her of her feeble exhales. 

“You want to breathe?” he snarls.

Ingvild nods, feeling the storm of fire about to erupt inside her. Her canal gripping him so tightly she can feel every tendon and ridges of him grazing her walls. Tears well in her raincloud eyes, her heart shrinking as she feels him, all of him, consuming her with his existence.

“Then come for me, angel.” 

With his words, she arches back, letting the fire implode in her loins and sweep her into a rapture so intense her entire body shakes around him. All she can feel is August, filing her soul, seeping in deeper than her thoughts. 

Tears spring down her cheeks, emotions and pleasure whirl at her heart at once.

“August!”

Hearing his name on her lips spikes the savage spirits within. Reduced to a beast, he takes hold of her hips, flipping her over and riding between her thighs. His hands pin her down by the neck and he ravages her through her climax. He can feel the flinch of his cock, swelling larger inside her narrow space. The innocence of her essence devours him. All the hate and pain diminishes and for a brief moment, he is allowed into heaven, feeling nothing but bliss in his chest. His shouts of pleasure echo into the room, his body jerking into her as the hot, white ribbons of his thick seed sprout into her womb.

Falling down to earth is always the hardest part.

Taking a hard swallow, he leans his sweaty forehead against hers, rolling it slowly and listening to the silent hisses from her mouth. Still basking in the afterglow of his orgasm, he pulls himself to his elbows fighting the spasm in his muscles and their will to collapse. His brow suddenly crumples at her sight: her eyes shine with a wide spectrum of emotions that glisten sadly down her temples. Shivering sobs escape from quivering lips, trying to find words that never make it to her tongue. 

August observes her carefully, removing his grip from her neck gingerly and reaching out a thumb to dry her tears. The crystals in her eyes were broken to dozens of many pieces that reflected the light back in various shades. A look of a lost child that carries an oddly familiar sensation, something that makes him cold and warm, as if Ingvild is inside his blood and he is inside hers. 

They had killed each other after all and then brought one another’s hearts to beat again. In his twisted mind, it made for a more profound intimacy than sex.

“Easy, babygirl.” he speaks unusually compassionate, dipping a finger in the wetness beneath her eyes and then slips it into his mouth, tasting the salt onto his tongue. “That was intense for you, wasn’t it?”

She nods silently, the emotional release tingling through her aortae, making her skin prickle with goosebumps. She never felt like this: whole, vulnerable, and belonging. She never felt anything at all, all her life. Her body tries to control the jitters in her muscles yet her body seems suddenly inexplicably cold.   

“Sh... it’s okay,” August whispers, capturing her lips into a chaste comforting kiss. “I’ve got you.” he murmurs and allows his lips to trail lower, pressing soft butterfly kisses over every patch of skin and bone, descending through the plains of her naked flesh, tasting the mixture of their sweat. His fingers find the large crescent scar in her lower abdomen, tracing the withering stitches in a sick memory of their first night together.

He feels no remorse. Had he changed his action, she wouldn’t have been his right now.  

Ingvild finally manages to release a sound, moaning with exhaustion as she eases into his care, her lungs and heart catching up when her body begins to float. With whatever strength left in him, August holds her the way a groom holds his bride, and carries her in his firm arms. 

~*~

The bath is filled hot near to the brim. Mountains of foam edge onto the water, looking like fluffy little clouds. This bathroom is not as nearly as luxurious as the one he had in Bergen. It’s painfully plain, like something out of an 80’s film, yet right now it looks like the most outrageous, spoiling delight. 

Sitting on the stone, his hand whirls the water, testing the heat before stepping in.   

“Come here,” he beckons, reaching toward Ingvild to join him as he sits down, releasing a deep sigh of relief as the hot water soothes the pain. The bath is hardly big enough for a man of his size, his knees buck up, peeking above the water. 

Ingvild takes his hand, stepping to sit at the spot between his thighs, making sure not to wet the bandages on her wrists. August’s arms guide her to melt back against his broad chest carefully, avoiding friction with the gunshot wound that begins to ache more and more as the last of the endorphins dwindle. He breaks into a small groan and lands his chin atop her head while glaring into the water with rising concern.  

“They will come for us.” Ingvild finally manages to find words, her voice still husky as her jugular strains. “Once they know you’re not dead, they’ll hunt us. We need to move, fast.”

August weighs her words. He muses over the sacrifice she made, and for whom? The man who stabbed her and nearly left her to float in a frozen lake? ‘She chose, you didn’t force her.’

 Indeed, it was her free will that brought her to him.  

“We should,” he answers, rinsing some water onto her torso and rubbing her forearms clean. “Just relax now, you won’t do me good all broken.”

“You care about me,” she teases, a small smile creeping on her lips.

“We will make for my safe house from here, and then we can take the train to Manchester,” he answers, ignoring her comment.

Ingvild catches some foam in her palm, squeezing the dissolving material between her fingers lightly and then blows it with the weak airflow that comes from her lungs. Little specks of bubbles fly into the bath. August watches them with her silently.    

“For the plutonium,” she utters.

“Yes.”

Tilting his head slightly, he looks down to see if there is any disgust or fear shadowing her face, yet finds none. The girl continues forming little abstract shapes in the dwindling white hills, twirling her fingernails on the tiny bubbles. The edge of her spine peeks between the thick strands of her hair, while hues of purple, nearly black, hug her nape. The girl is forbearing, enduring as she was taught; he wonders if it’s to please him, or if it pleases her as well.

Cupping water in his hands, he begins to wash her skin, pouring onto the back of her neck and her shoulders. He brushes his fingers through the brown waves of her hair while she leans her head back and closes her eyes.

It’s as if years of tension peel off from her, uncovering truths she fought to hide. August was right, and so was Liam; no one ever loved her. But now in the arms of a monster, she suddenly senses what she imagines would be care and affection. His touch is no longer clinical and it feels as if vines are growing onto her limbs, twirling around her and pulling her to become one with him. 

In her mind, she can’t help but start picking into the not-so-distant past, recalling being his hostage and the conversations they had when they still hated one another. The anguish that resonates in his eyes didn’t speak of hatred individually toward the world, the specks of brown held a fair amount toward himself as well.

“What did Sloane do?” she asks curiously. “In Bergen, you mentioned she did something to you.” 

She feels August’s sudden halt, his long digits entangled in her hair, pulling slightly while his chest sinks inward. His inhale takes into a heavy suction and his nostrils flare. He didn’t think of Lacey since he woke in Ingvild’s arms. 

“She tricked me.” his eyes focus onto nothing and his fingers resume their course through Ingvild’s wet strands. He becomes slightly agitated, unlacing the small knots that formed at the edge with force. “She suspected me and never liked me- for a reason, of course. She knew someone was distributing secrets and weapons beneath her nose, so she sent a spy. In my case, it was my partner.”

“A woman,” Ingvild continues, the realization hitting her softly. “Lacey.”

Her name on Ingvild’s tongue sends a shiver creeping from the base of his spine. 

“Yes,” he answers dryly and clenches his jaw. “We were partners for months. She got close. She... was loyal, she understood me or so I thought, but then I found out, she wasn’t.”

Ingvild hears the shift in his tone again, in their reflection on the water she sees him staring forward with grim shades painting his eyes. The corners of his lips tugged down as he broods.

“It sounds like you loved her.”

August remains silent, giving no answer. It resonates in her right away - betrayal burnt hotter than the wound itself. In their carnal twist, August burned her, but it wasn’t her carnal devotion he sought for. 

“Where is she now?” 

“Dead.” he answers, releasing a deep sigh of silent rage, not even bothering to shy from the truth this time. Ingvild was bred into a world of monsters; she breathed them, she killed them and he was just another beast for her to slay. Yet she chose to stroke her hand on his snout regardless of what she knew.

“I killed her.” 

In his mind Lacey walks away, her blue heels tapping on the floor, echoing before she gives him one last glance. She turns away, her golden curls dulled by the lack of light as she vanishes into a mist of smoke and shadow. 

Ingvild feels a slight relief at the thought of Lacey being dead, for some reason she can’t explain to herself.  August returns his gaze to her again, removing his hands from her hair. His hand wraps around her jaw, pressing her head to look into his piercing glare. He looks for fear but finds none.

“Try to rest,” he commands and then wraps his arms around her possessively. “Long days are ahead.”  

“Will you read me your manifesto?”

August looks down on her face once more, wondering for a moment if this is another hallucination. A terrible thought crosses his mind and his heart flinches; what if in these moments he’s actually bleeding to his death in the pit, his mind playing tricks as he breathes his last breath?

But the softness and warmth of her body feels more vivid than ever. Stronger than the doubt that creeps into his mind. 

“There has never been peace without first a great suffering. The greater the suffering, the greater the peace. As mankind is drawn to his self-destruction like a moth to the candle...” he chants, accompanied by Ingvild who also recites his words in her gentle voice. 

_________________________________________________

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

[my-brothers-corrupted]

Blue, while like with fighting Anti anger and hate can give you motivation to defeat great challenges, anger like this that makes you forget your purpose, makes you forget who you are and what you want, is no longer an essintial part of your life. No longer anger that helps you live, not anger that helps you fight, but anger and hate for the sake of being angry. You have to find a way to break the cycle you've created for yourself, and learn to redirect the hate into a healthy outlet.

"You're angry, my dear?"

Blue can't stop crying. He clings to the knee of Henrik's sweatpants like a little kid.

"Poor Blue," murmurs Henrik, petting his hair. "Come, now, I know your brothers have been trying to comfort you. That the cameras have good advice. What's so wrong?"

"I hate the cameras," sobs Blue. "I hate the others, sometimes. I hate my own face. Everything just reminds me of Anti!"

"That doesn't mean you can take it out on everyone else, my Blue."

"I know, I know. I don't mean to, I just - I feel bad all the time! I hate this!"

"Tell Doktor everything that is wrong, my brother."

On his knees in front of the heart of his revolution, Blue spills like a cracked vase. If you stay to watch, you will hear them talking for long hours, but much of this stays secret between the pair of them, words Blue has not dared to say aloud to anyone until now - words about violent desires, fear of everything, and the way that his own relentless fury feels so much like Anti's hatred, and so much like that knife going into his chest while the others screamed. Outside, Chase kicks rocks and builds houses for mice out of rubbish. At the end of it all, when Blue is sitting with his head on Henrik's shoulder, their hands still clasped together, it comes down to this:

"Is not your fault if you're being triggered by the others and by all these little things," says Henrik, still soothing at his hair. "But the way you respond cannot be with all this hatred for everyone else. The cameras are right. You're still in fight-or-flight mode all the time, Blue. And Anti is gone. So you attack what you see of him around you. Like your little brother..."

Henrik plays with a leaf of a root growing out of Blue's pocket.

"And Jackie trying to be your big brother..."

Blue sniffs and hides against Henrik's shoulder.

"And yourself, my dear."

"Yeah," whispers Blue. "Because he does remain in everything."

"Because you have triggers now?"

"It's not just the trauma, Schneep. I - I didn't... I didn't save any of you."

Tears come dripping down his face again. He covers his eyes with his hands.

"Oh, perle," protests Henrik. "Why do you say this?"

"I thought you wouldn't come back, Henrik... I thought you wouldn't talk again, and you were gone...."

"I am here, though, Blue."

"But everyone's so unhappy. And I was supposed to make them happy. I killed Anti and I was supposed to replace that life with something better. But shit, Schneep, we're broke so all Red does is work, and Chase is just quiet and sad, and I had to take JJ to the hospital because he can't manage without Anti around, and - everything, I didn't - "

He's going to break down into crying again. Henrik cups his face and washes tears away with his thumb.

"Your head is full of air," says Henrik sternly, and Blue snorts despite himself, shaking his head. "Not better? Blue. You're crazy."

"They're not happy. Things were going to be good once he died. They were going to be good because I was going to make them good for them."

"That's not your job, Blue," Henrik hushes him, shaking his head. "What, you have just been waiting for the others to become all sunshine and rainbows before you could be satisfied?"

"I just don't want them to be miserable! I have to make things better than they were with Anti."

"Blue, Blue! Better? Do you know what happened this morning when I awoke?"

"No... what?"

"JJ was sleeping beside me," whispers Henrik. "He rose a little and wiped at his face and went back to sleep. He was calm. No one was touching him. There is color in his face again. And when he awoke later, he went with Jackie and left the house, Blue."

Blue brushes at his tears, taking deep, shuddering breaths.

"And Jackie, he let me talk him down from his anxieties... he let me help him make a decision. He is upright and strong these days. No one makes him cower anymore. He was gentle with Jameson... they are helping each other heal.

"Meanwhile, look at yourself. You can walk, you do not doze off so much, you are not in so much physical pain, apparently you are even working? You have your magic back. No one is taking you away every night. What a blessing.

"And then, Blue, my Trickshot called himself by his real name. His real name, Blue. Do you not understand?"

Henrik's eyes water. He presses his forehead to Blue's and closes his eyes.

"You have given my family back to me."

Blue clutches at his jacket. His eyes flutter shut too. His heart shakes in his chest.

"My friend," sighs Henrik, stroking his beard. "This is all the goodness possible in the world. I think if we are one day rich and all our health is perfect, still I will not be any happier than I am today. Free from my chains... yes, we will all be haunted, my brother. That is the way that wounds heal. But this does not mean it was all for nothing. It just means we must keep striving, a little while longer, to recognize what safety and happiness are. Blue... you killed the monster. You rescued us. Thank you."

Blue holds on to him. His eyes do not open.

But a little piece of his aching heart has settled in a way he had long forgotten.

"You're welcome," he whispers back.

They rest together in that torn-up bus. The bus, though, doesn't matter. Just your brother's hand in your own. That's all.

"So what now?" asks Blue, his voice raw from crying. "How are you going to fix your fucked-up brother now, Schneep?"

"I can't fix anything, Blue, though I wish I could," he murmurs, truly sorry, his hand brushing over his heart. "So you must find an outlet for the anger, and you must come to terms with some truths about the world. If there is anything you need to do that, we will all help you. Take you to doctors, comfort you when you are sad. We would be happy to do these things. Why don't you start by coming back home?"

Blue looks up at him, trying to smile for his sake. His chest hurts; his eyes are red. He meets Henrik's gaze and sighs.

"No... no. I don't think I can. And trust me, it's fucking me up a little bit that I'm away from all of you. But Schneep, I've been acting like such an ass, and I really just - I think I just need to figure out some parts of this on my own. Honestly, right now I'm pretty sure that if I saw that cut on JJ's eye I would fall apart permanently. Tell him I'm sorry, okay?"

"How long, though, Blue?" asks Henrik, and after all the wisdom and comfort, Blue smiles to hear a little of a whine in these words. "You should be with us."

"Just give me a few days," says Blue softly. "I... I needed this. I think maybe I feel ready to try working on things a little bit. Henrik... I really thought you were gone."

"Even if Anti had taken me from you all forever," says Henrik. "I'm always with you."

"Too soft," whispers Blue.

"You're a motherfucker," Henrik offers, to counteract the sugar, and they devolve into giggling there in the booth of that bus, warm in each other's grasp.

[nebraska-is-a-myth]

Who lives and who dies - Part 11

Angst, nothing but angst here, sorry folks but no soft hugs today. Slight trigger warning for self sacrificing thoughts and lots of mentions of death so make sure you take care of yourself when reading. Slight title changes to the previous chapter might be made because this chapter, the previous chapter, and the next chapter are going to be sort of a 3 parter. Also all relationships in this are strictly platonic unless I specify otherwise. Comments and asks are always welcome :)

Masterlist 

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“Four, Five, Six.”

Dream doesn't want this. He can't kill Tommy, he can't. Despite the young boy's protests, Tommy’s only a child, he’s got his whole life ahead of him. He’s supposed to grow up and go to college and have a good fucking life away from all of this violence and chaos. He’s supposed to have a family and a home and find somewhere where he feels like he belongs, because god knows Dream wants those things. He wants to have a life that isn't threatened by someone elses greed or power hungry revenge plots. He wants to have a home for him and his cat where he can watch movies and grow plants and not have to worry about being shot in his sleep. He wants friends that care more about his well being than what bank they're going to rob next. He wants to go back to before any of this ever happened, when sapnap was kinder and didn’t carry a gun with him every time he left the apartment, when George and him would sit up on the roof until 3am stargazing and talking about George's dream to become a streamer. But now he feels like those people he knew are gone, replaced with violent and destructive tyrants that he can't even recognise.

Dream wants to turn around and give Tommy the biggest hug, he wants to comfort his friend brother and just let Sapnap and George rip him to shreds with their bullets and words. He wants to choose Tommy, he wants to punch George in the face and scream at him for hurting someone he considered family.

But wasn't George his family at some point?

It feels like a lifetime ago, but he knows that they are supposed to be close, closer than they have been in months. The stress and pressure forced a divide between all three of them, with dream on one side and George and sapnap on the other. They haven't had a proper conversation that didn't end in a fight in weeks, let alone actually be nice to one another. Dream can barely remember the last time any of them said they loved one another.

No, that's a lie.

Dream remembers the night perfectly, he thinks about it every time he storms off from another one of his and Georges fights. All three of them were together, sat in a comfortable silence with bellies full of fast food and blankets draped lazily over themselves. Dream is sat in the middle of the other two boys after a super intense pillow fight that Dream had been forced to put a stop to. Sapnap has his feet in Dreams lap, his head is rolled back and every now and again little snores escape from his mouth. George jokes about how much of a child Sapnap is and it makes Dream chuckle. They sit in silence for a while, just letting the movie George chose entertain them for a while. George's head sets itself on Dreams shoulder and Dream shuffles so he can lean into George more. 

“I’m tired.”

Dream laughs and tugs the blanket he and George are sharing further up their body's.

“Go to sleep then stupid.”

George minorly attacks Dream for the comment, but it’s a very lazy attempt.

“Don't wanna.”

“Go to sleep George.”

“Fiiiiiiiiine, goodnight Dream, Love you”

“Love you two moron, g’night.”

George moves slightly so he can get more comfortable before raising his voice slightly.

“Love you sapnap.”

Sapnap gives a small snore in response and the two boys fall into a hushed fit of laughter.

But as Dream looks at his best friend ( Can he even call him that anymore ) he doesn't even know who he’s looking at anymore. Sure maybe Sapnap was always a bit unhinged, a bit too trigger happy, but when everything's said and done, when everyone goes home and tries to pretend that life is normal for a short while, Sapnap takes off the mask ( Quite literally ) and Dream can see that he’s still the same Sapnap underneath it all. But as he looks at George, he can only see his own reflection in the tainted glass of his goggles. Maybe this is God mocking him for what his friend has become. Maybe this is his fault, his fault he dragged George into his own twisted fantasies. Who was he to catapult an innocent person into this life, George had barely even learnt how to shoot a gun on their first heist. He wishes he had just let George stick to hacking, there was no need to bring him into the limelight. He could have stopped this. He could have stopped George from becoming this monster. He could have

Fuck

Dream considers what would happen if he just let Tommy kill him. Sure he would be dead, but other than that was there really a downside? It sounds so morbid when he thinks about it, in any other circumstance maybe he would be worried about his self sacrificing behavior, but maybe this was just what he had to do. If Tommy shot him and he died, then yeah Tommy would be devastated, he would be sad for a while but at least he would be safe. The boy would finally have a home, somewhere he could be safe. He thinks he trusts Wilbur enough to take care of Tommy, he’s done okay so far in Dreams books anyway. Who knows, maybe one day Techno would return and put a stop to all of this nonsense, he would scoop Tommy up and take him away from all this, away from this wretched place. 

But he knows that’s just a fantasy. He doubts George would just willingly give the l’manburgians the eastside, if he thought George would have been that kind then Dream would have stepped down a long time ago.

Fuck why is this so hard

He should let Tommy kill him. It’s the easiest option, he can't kill Tommy, he doesn't want to. Nothing will be fixed if the kid is dead. So why is he hesitating? Maybe it’s because he knows that no matter what he does, Tommy will be hurt. If Dream dies George will take over and make everybody's lives a living hell, Tommy will most likely be killed anyway and all of his friends will either follow down the same path or be run out of their homes with a target on all of their heads. Maybe, if he...

Shit

Maybe if he did kill Tommy, he could make it up to the kid some way. He could make sure his friends are taken care of, make sure George doesn't go anywhere near them, give them independence. He could make sure Tubbo grows up to be smart and make something of himself, if he wanted to go to college then Dream could fund it, make sure he went to the best school, or whichever one Tubbo liked best. He could help Wilbur with his music career, Tommy said he had always wanted to become a musician, so maybe he could rent out one of those fancy recording studios people like The Beatles had. He could help Fundy when he gets into trouble coding and help Eret set up an lgbt youth center or something like that. He could bring Tommy flowers every other day, and then every weekend if he really couldn't make it. Maybe he could get a bouquet of some of those wildflowers he said were pretty when they went out adventuring that one time. 

What the hell is he talking about

This is insane

He needs to focus

Come on dream, focus

“Seven, eight, nine.”

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It’s almost sunset and Tommy is barely thirteen. He hasn't had a warm meal in weeks, not that anybody else knows that, but the glowing light on his face makes him feel full. It’s nice being away from the city like this, just looking out across fields of wildflowers and long grass that makes his nose itch. Nobody knows he’s out here, but then again is there really anyone out there to care? Maybe he’s just destined to be alone, to roam through places like this and drift off into the wilderness never to be seen again. If every moment was like this one then maybe it wouldn't be so bad, if it were then at least he wouldn't be so pale. 

He sits there for a while, just letting the light blanket his body. It's...calming. Tommy misses this. What he misses exactly he’s not sure of, but the feeling of being embraced makes him nostalgic, and it hits him with a wave of overwhelming sadness. The saying ‘Tommyinnit doesn't cry’ is rarely actually the truth. He misses being around people, actual people that don't want to try and mug him or steal his spot in the alley with the least rats. Sure maybe he speaks to Technoblade every now and again, but it's not like the anarchist actually cares about him. Tommy only speaks to Techno when he wants something from him, like if he needs the blond to squeeze into small spaces or spray paint some symbols on a corporate building. Tommy always gets a cut of whatever profits they make that day and then he gets to sleep in a warm bed at the shitty motel for a day or two. It’s fine though, like he said, maybe he’s just destined to be alone. He basks in the light for a little while longer, until suddenly theirs a voice behind him

“It’s late.”

Shit, shit, shit.

Tommy quickly wipes away his tears and hunches over on himself.

“Uh yeah um, I guess I lost track of time.”

“Do you even know what time it is?”

“Uh yeah it's like seven ish.”

“Nine.”

Nine! Shit, all the god spots by the fast food place are bound to be taken by now.

“Shouldn't you be getting home.”

Home, what even is home anymore. The alleyway sure doesn't feel like home. But what else has he got. Phil probably hates him by now, he took that home for granted. None of the other foster families before that had even come close to becoming a home, and he can barely remember what life with his parents was like. So what is home?

“Tommy.”

“Oh uh, yeah sorry Technoblade. I’ll just be going now.”

Tommy gets up to leave but Techno grabs his arm firmly and holds him in place.

“About today.”

He's going to get shouted at, he can feel it. It was his fault they almost got caught, he just couldn't shoot that man. He’d never been in the action directly before, only ever doing menial tasks from the sidelines. But today Techno wanted help in the field and who was he to say no to the blade. It was his fault, he couldn't kill someone and now Techno is going to abandon him and he’s going to starve to death in the shittiest fucking alleyway know to man.

“It's okay if you're not ready.”

“What?”

“It's okay if you're not ready to kill people yet.”

“I- It is?”

“It’s okay to not want to kill people Tommy, but sometimes you don't always have that choice. When the moment comes, and it will come one day, you have to decide in that moment who lives and who dies, you or them."

"W-what if I don't want to die."

"Then make sure the other person does."

Tommy waits for a while, and lets a breath escape from his lips. Maybe there's still time to find a good spot for tonight, if he leave now he can-

“Now come on, I’m making pasta.”

Technoblade turns to leave and Tommy just stands in place, his mouth agape and eyes wide.

“Hurry up child before I change my mind.”

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Tommy gets a warm meal and comfy bed that night, and the night after that, and the night after that, and every night leading up to his sixteenth birthday before there's no one left to cook him pasta or pay rent. Before he meets the next criminal willing to give him a home and keep him safe, before he finds friends and a family and a home. Then someone else cooks him pasta and keeps him company, until he starts a war and gets people killed and all of a sudden Tommy realises that the moment Technoblade had warned him of was coming to a head. 

He has to decide in this moment who lives and who dies, him or dream

And he has to do it now.

“Ten paces, Fire!”

[mikauzoran]

Lukadrien: Among the Wild Things: Chapter Eight

Read it on AO3: Among the Wild Things: Chapter Eight: Friends

“Nino! Marinette!” Adrien shouted, grinning like a madman as he darted across the study and threw his arms around his two closest friends.

“Adrien!” they chorused, wrapping him in bear hugs of their own.

“I can’t tell you how much I missed you guys,” Adrien whispered into Nino’s neck, squeezing them both tighter as he remembered how he had longed for his friends while he’d been away.

“Not as much as we missed you,” Nino assured.

Marinette gave a snort. “Speak for yourself. You just had to guard him. I had to dress him. Do you know how hard it is to keep this boy looking presentable?” she laughed. “He either rips or stains everything within a week of owning it. He’s impossible.”

Nino clicked his tongue. “You think dressing him is hard? You should try keeping him from getting himself killed. How do you think his clothes get ruined so regularly?”

“…Point,” Marinette conceded.

Adrien pulled back to pout at his friends. “Complain all you want, but I bet you’ve both been bored with me gone.”

Marinette and Nino shared a conspiring glance and burst out laughing.

“Guilty,” Marinette admitted. “The break was nice, but I’m ecstatic to be back in work…starting with your wedding-slash-coronation outfit!” she squealed in delight, colours and fabrics and patterns beginning to flow through her head.

“Speaking of which…” Nino tipped his head in order to look past Adrien at Luka. “I’m guessing this is your kelpie heartthrob ‘Orpheus’?”

Marinette smirked, breaking away from the boys to slowly approach Luka. “Hi. I’m Marinette. I’m sure he’s mentioned me.”

“He has,” Luka chuckled, standing and going to meet the enchanting seamstress. “It sounds like he mentioned me too.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “Please. I only had to listen to him whine and mope about his supposedly ‘unrequited’ love for you for two months.”

“Marinette,” Adrien groaned, releasing his hold on Nino to go stop Marinette from further embarrassing him.

Luka quirked an eyebrow at his husband. “Two months, My Love? You sure fell for me quickly.”

“Like, the second he saw you,” Nino snickered, coming over to join the others.

“Et tu, Nino?” Adrien hissed accusatorily.

Nino shrugged.

Adrien turned his pout on Luka. “I was a mess.”

“You’re still a mess,” Luka chuckled, leaning in to give Adrien’s cheek an affectionate lick. “And I love you.”

“Aww,” Marinette cooed. “See, Adrien? I told you he was into you.”

“I told him that first,” Nino grumbled. “I’m the one who told him to go for it.”

Marinette waved Nino’s protests away. “I’m the one who helped him practice confessing because it made you too flustered when he practiced confessing to you.”

“Nette,” Nino hissed. “Stop. You’re going to give the guy’s husband the wrong idea.”

Luka snickered. “I actually came to the wrong conclusion all on my own when he told me he was in love with someone. I thought he was talking about you.” He tipped his head to indicate Nino.

Nino turned to glare blandly at Adrien. “Dude. How did you screw up the confession that badly that he didn’t even know who you were talking about?”

“We spent hours practicing, Adrien,” Marinette added, putting on a miffed, disappointed expression.

“In my defence, I was kind of distraught because my father had just told me I had to marry a woman I didn’t love,” Adrien whined as his friends ganged up on him.

Nino and Marinette both shook their heads unsympathetically, not letting up.

“That’s no excuse,” Nino sighed, hands going to his hips as he clicked his tongue in feigned disapproval.

Adrien crossed his arms over his chest, turning up his nose and looking away. “I don’t know why I missed you two so much. You’re both mean. My new fae friends are a lot nicer.”

“No, they’re not,” Luka snickered. “Kim and Alix regularly bully you. That’s why they’re your favourites.”

“Rose is my favourite,” Adrien corrected with a fond smile. “But, yeah. Giving each other trouble is how Nino, Marinette, and I show that we love one another, so Alix and Kim reminded me a lot of the things I missed from my old life.”

“Well, we’re glad that we count among the good things,” Nino replied, giving Adrien’s arm a pat.

“And we’re glad things have been going well for you since you left too,” Marinette added. “We kept hoping that you were happy wherever you were.”

Adrien’s face fell as a realization struck him square in the stomach. “…I didn’t say goodbye. …I didn’t tell you where I was going. Guys, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think…” He looked away. “Well, I mean, I did think about it after the fact when I’d been gone a few weeks, but…I didn’t dare come back. I—”

“—Adrien,” Nino cut him off gently. “It’s fine. We kind of figured where you’d gone.”

Adrien looked back and forth between his two friends. “You didn’t worry?”

“We did,” Marinette confessed. “A little bit, but not much. Like Nino said, we guessed that you’d run off with your Orpheus, and, wherever you were, we knew you’d probably be happier than you were here.”

Adrien blushed, looking down at his feet in a mix of guilt and shame. “I was. I’m really, really happy with Luc and his family. I feel like I’ve finally found the place I’m meant to be…the person I want to work towards becoming. I’m really happy in the enchanted forest.”

“Good,” Nino responded warmly, giving Adrien’s arm a supportive squeeze. “Maybe send us an ‘I’m not dead’ message next time…but good. I’m really glad that you found your place, Man.”

“Me too,” Marinette seconded.

“I’d love to show you my home.” Adrien perked up. “And introduce you to my new friends.”

He turned to Marinette. “You’ll love my sister-in-law Rose. She’s the sweetest, funniest person. And Mylène and Max and Ondine. And Alya.”

He looked to Nino. “I have got to introduce you to Alya. She’s a fox spirit who’s really fascinated with human affairs. She comes into the city a lot to people watch. I bet she would love some humans to talk to and ask questions.”

Adrien stopped abruptly, turning to his husband. “Orpheus, would it be okay for Marinette and Nino to visit me, or would they just wind up getting killed? Everyone back in the woods is perfectly civil with me, but…”

Luka pursed his lips as he considered the scenario. “I’d have to consult with Maman, but I think it might be okay if it’s just a short visit. Maybe a few hours tops. And they’d have to be chaperoned at all times.”

“Is it really so dangerous?” Nino inquired, quirking an eyebrow dubiously. “Adrien’s not in danger, is he?”

“No,” Luka quickly assured. “Adrien is fine. He’s protected, and the people mostly adore him. He’s a member of our community now. The forest is deadly to outsiders, though, so it would be unwise for either of you to waltz in unaccompanied. My people can be cruel and senselessly violent.”

Nino hummed curiously. “…Sorry if this is rude, but you don’t really look…threatening.”

“I was actually thinking the same thing,” Marinette sheepishly admitted. “You just look like a regular person.”

Luka snorted in laughter. “That would be the glamour you’re seeing. …Shall I drop it?”

Nino looked to Adrien. “Is he scary or something? I thought you told me he was the most beautiful man you’d ever seen.”

Adrien shook his head. “Beautiful doesn’t even begin to cover it. He’s ethereal.”

Marinette addressed Luka tentatively. “Do you mind, Luc? Sorry. We don’t mean to treat you like a curiosity. We—”

In the blink of an eye, Luka’s black hair was replaced by pale blue, and his eyes seemed to give off a Caribbean teal glow. The entirety of his being seemed to shimmer a bit, like sunlight reflecting off of a lake.

“Oh, wow,” Marinette gasped. “You…wow.”

“Yeah,” Nino gulped. “Wow is…” He turned to Adrien, whispering sotto voce, “Do all fae look that pretty?”

“Not all of them,” Adrien chuckled, amused by his friends’ reactions. “I’ve met a lot of attractive people in the forest, though.”

Luka’s eyes narrowed in displeasure and suspicion. “Like who? Kim?”

“Easy,” Adrien snickered, turning to face Luka and looping his arms around Luka’s waist. “No one is even half as attractive as you.”

Luka smiled into the kiss as Adrien pressed his lips to Luka’s in a vow of fidelity.

“Yeah, it’s highly unlikely Adrien will stray,” Nino testified. “He’s very loyal and takes matters of the heart incredibly seriously.”

“And he doesn’t fall in love easily,” Marinette agreed, nodding along to Nino’s points.

Luka arched an eyebrow at a blushing Adrien. “He doesn’t? I thought you two said he fell for me on sight.”

“Yeah, but that was the first and only time in nineteen years,” Marinette explained, waving away any concerns Luka might have. “And it’s not like it was for want of suitors. He grew up around plenty of pretty young nobles.”

Adrien’s face burned redder as Luka looked at him in astonishment, whispering, “I’m your first love?”

“First, last, and only,” Adrien mumbled, averting his gaze to help himself feel less transparent.

Luka wrapped his arms around Adrien as he gave him an affectionate squeeze. “I may have had other loves, but you’re the first person to turn my world upside down and wreck me. I had to update my definition of the word love when I met you.”

“I accept your attempts to butter me up,” Adrien chuckled, turning his head to press a kiss to Luka’s cheek.

“Aww,” Nino cooed. “Why can’t I meet someone who says sweet crap like that to me?”

“Maybe things will take a romantic turn between you and Adrien’s fox friend,” Marinette snickered.

Nino hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe. All I know is that I need to find someone to be that disgustingly cute with as soon as possible.”

“You two are adorable,” Marinette confirmed. “I can tell you’ve been really good for him,” she informed Luka with a tone of gratitude. “Just seeing him talking in that meeting earlier was a positive change.”

Luka arched an eyebrow, looking back and forth between Adrien and Marinette. “Really? He didn’t seem any different than usual to me.”

“Mec, the way he shut Viscount Raincomprix down when he was disrespecting you?” Nino had to try hard to contain another giggle fit as he called up the memory. “Nice spine, Your Majesty,” Nino chuckled, giving Adrien’s arm an appreciative punch. “It suits you.”

Adrien rubbed at the back of his neck. “As much as I’ve wanted to put those three blowhards in their place my entire life, I think I may have gone a bit too far. Viscount Raincomprix has been kind to me in the past, and I think I owe him an apology. He really looked shaken when I told him off.”

“I think that was mostly due to your eyes glowing like that,” Marinette weighed in.

“Yeah,” Nino agreed. “That was, perhaps, a bit much. It was super cool, though.”

Adrien blinked at his friends dumbly. “What are you guys talking about?”

Nino and Marinette shared a look.

“When your eyes were all molten and glow-y,” Nino clarified slowly, looking at Adrien expectantly.

Adrien turned to Luka. “Do you know what they’re talking about?”

Luka bit the inside of his cheek, avoiding his mate’s gaze. “…Your eyes may have started to glow whenever you’re experiencing intense emotions,” he reluctantly admitted.

“What?!” Adrien demanded, gaping at his husband incredulously. “Since when?! Why didn’t you say anything?!”

Luka winced, shoulders rising up to meet his ears as he shamefacedly confessed, “It started a couple months ago. I asked Maman, and it’s completely benign, and I thought it would only upset you, so I didn’t say anything.”

“I feel like…this is the kind of thing you mention?” Adrien choked, voice high and tight as he collapsed back down onto the couch.

“Dri, I’m sorry,” Luka cooed, sitting next to Adrien and tentatively cupping his cheek. “I should have said something, but I didn’t want to upset you when there was nothing we could do about it and it wasn’t hurting anything.”

“Well,” Adrien responded quietly, “I’m upset now…sort of.”

He took a deep breath and turned his gaze on his husband. “I’m more upset that you didn’t tell me than anything. Since when do we keep secrets from one another?”

Luka looked away, cowed. “We don’t,” he whispered penitently. “I’m so sorry, My Little Prince.”

Adrien leaned in to give Luka’s cheek a lick of forgiveness. “Don’t do it again.”

“I won’t. I promise,” Luka swore.

Satisfied, Adrien nodded, looking to Nino. “Does it at least look cool, or am I just terrifying?”

“I thought it was cool,” Marinette volunteered, going to sit in the armchair that Nathalie had recently vacated.

“Totally cool,” Nino affirmed, taking the other chair. He looked at Luka. “Can he do anything else?”

Adrien’s eyes narrowed at his mate.

Luka laughed, shaking his head. “Not at this point. Just the glowing eyes. Maybe in a few years new powers will manifest. I don’t personally know any other humans who have lived long-term among the fair folk, so I’m not quite sure what to expect, but this is hardly a unique situation. My people have been adopting mortals for centuries, so Adrien is hardly the first.”

“Something to look forward to, I suppose? Random new features,” Adrien sighed. “I mean, if these changes aren’t going to hurt anything, that’s fine, but…” He shifted uncomfortably.

“You’re upset,” Luka surmised, his mood plummeting.

Adrien shook his head, trying to reassure his mate. “No. Not really. Just…I felt like I had finally found my place, like I was getting my feet underneath me. …But since learning of my father’s death, it’s like I’ve been on shifting ground, and this is just one more thing to get used to. I’ll manage, but…I’m feeling a little overwhelmed today.”

“Understandably so,” Luka replied, slipping his arm around Adrien and resting his head against his mate’s. “Just tell me what you need, and I’ll move heaven and earth to make it happen.”

“Maybe just a break. A little joviality?” Adrien suggested, looking around at his spouse and his friends. “Nino. Say something funny.”

Nino balked. “What? On command? Adrien, I’m not the court jester. I can’t just say witty things at the drop of a hat.”

“I don’t know,” Marinette snickered. “You do a pretty good job of playing the fool any other time.”

Nino gasped, feigning indignation. “Adrien, do you hear what this mean, spiteful woman is saying about me? Defend my honor or something already.”

“Marinette, it is rather mean to say that to his face,” Adrien attempted to admonish with a straight face but ended up chuckling, ruining the effect.

“What can I say?” She grinned. “Real friends stab you in the front.”

“Thanks,” Nino replied dryly. “I really appreciate that….” He perked up after a beat. “…Say, why don’t we talk about Adrien’s adventures in fairy land? That should be fun, right? Tell us about all the weird stuff,” Nino urged, turning to Adrien with wide, hopeful eyes.

Marinette started to bounce in her seat in excitement. “What are the clothes like? Tell me all about fae fashion.”

Adrien acquiesced, sharing his impressions of his experiences as Marinette and Nino asked probing questions for nearly half an hour.

Luka mostly just listening, fascinated by Adrien’s perspective on things. He did, occasionally, field a few questions himself or add some clarification on things that Adrien was unsure about.

They eventually came to discuss Luka and Adrien’s fae wedding ceremony, and that led Marinette (after she had pumped them both dry of information) to remark, “You know, I should really get to work on the outfits for tomorrow’s wedding-slash-coronation. I have less than twenty-four hours, and, even if I pull an all-nighter, it’s going to be intense.”

She pursed her lips and studied Adrien. “Your father had actually instructed me to begin preparations of your wedding clothes before you left, and he had me continue work in the hopes that you would be found in time to marry on schedule, so I already have an outfit prepared for you. I just need to make alterations…unless you want a new outfit specifically for your marriage to Luc? Either way is fine.”

She tipped her head to the side and awaited his response.

He waved the idea away. “I’m sure that whatever you already have made is perfect, Marinette. We’ll just need something for Luc.”

Marinette hesitated before inquiring, “Would it be okay if I took your measurements, Luc? It’ll be real quick.”

Luka shrugged nonchalantly. “Whatever’s necessary. Did you mean now, or…?”

“I actually have my tape measure with me, so…” she informed, smiling sheepishly as she pulled it out of her belt.

Luka shrugged again, untangling himself from Adrien and standing up. “Let’s do it, then. How do you want me?”

Nino snorted, muttering, “That’s what he said.”

Adrien rolled his eyes at his best friend. “Stop thinking indecent thoughts about my husband.”

Nino put his hands up in a placating gesture. “Hey, Man. It’s not my fault that your husband is hot.”

“He is, isn’t he?” Adrien purred, admiring the view as Luka walked past.

Marinette motioned for Luka to come over closer to the fireplace where the light was better. “…Nino’s thinking it, so I’m just going to ask: Who tops?”

Nino clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from bursting out in astounded giggles.

“Marinette,” Adrien whined, face going phoenix red.

Luka smirked puckishly. “Mostly him, but we experiment according to whatever feels right in the moment.”

“Orpheuuuuus,” Adrien hissed in mortification.

Luka clicked his tongue even as he held still so that Marinette could take her measurements. “No need to be embarrassed, My Love. Is it not acceptable in your culture to talk about one’s love life?”

“Adrien is just sheltered,” Nino assured. “Please go on.”

“Is he a good lover?” Marinette inquired, sticking her tongue out at Adrien who let out a horrified squeal.

“Very,” Luka snickered. “In all the ways that really matter. He’s enthusiastic but attentive, adventurous but—”

“—Luuuc,” Adrien wailed. “Please stop. This really isn’t funny.”

“Speak for yourself,” Nino cackled. “I’m having a great time.”

“I hate you,” Adrien informed sulkily.

“Hey, Marinette’s the one over there pretty much begging for a demonstration,” Nino kindly threw his friend under the bus.

Luka choked on a laugh, the convulsion interrupting Marinette in the middle of her measurement so that she had to restart that portion.

“Be nice, Nino,” Marinette grumbled, suddenly losing her good humor.

Nino immediately sobered, backing off with a muttered, “Sorry, Nette.”

Marinette nodded mutely, pointedly focusing on the work at hand.

There was a tense silence hovering in the air until Nino got up and went over to sit on the sofa next to Adrien. The two cuddled up like puppies, and Nino recommenced catching up with his friend, sharing details from his own life that Adrien had missed in his absence.

Luka was content to listen as he watched Marinette at her work. He caught her looking over to the couch several times, a warm, affectionate, and yet melancholy quality to her gaze.

Luka’s eyes narrowed as he determined that she was sneaking looks at Adrien, and a cold realization turned Luka’s blood to cement.

“Forgive me for asking,” he whispered so softly that Nino and Adrien couldn’t hear over their own conversation. “but there wouldn’t happen to be something between you and Adrien, would there?”

Marinette gave a start, her fingers slipping, losing their place on the measuring tape.

“Sorry,” Luka quickly backpedaled. “It’s none of my business. It’s just the way you were looking at him, I…”

“O-Oh.” She nervously cleared her throat, trying to regain her composure. “No. No, it’s fine. I…It’s nothing, honestly. Nothing you need to be concerned about, anyway. It’s all in the past,” she confessed in a whisper. “You’d be hard pressed to find someone who hasn’t been in love with Adrien at some point or another. I fell for him when I was thirteen, but…”

She paused, shaking her head and remeasuring from Luka’s hip to his shoulder. “I long ago came to terms with the fact that even if I had been born of his social station and become his wife, he would never feel for me the way that I used to feel for him. I was the first person he told about his attraction to men, and, after that, I promised myself that I wouldn’t allow myself to be miserable because of him. I also promised to do everything in my power to help him find happiness, so…”

She looked up at him, meeting Luka’s heavenly blue eyes with her marine ones, a fierce determination glowing from within. “I have never seen him as happy as he’s been since falling in love with you. Looking at him now, it makes my heart almost want to burst. I’m feeling a little nostalgic,” she admitted with a soft smile as she went back to taking measurements, “but I’ve moved on. I have someone wonderful in my life, so I have my own happiness. I don’t begrudge you yours, even though you have something I once wanted.”

“Good.” Luka breathed out his nerves. “You’re a very important friend to Adrien, and I wouldn’t want to be a cause of tension between you. You and Nino are extremely precious to him, and I don’t want to cause problems.”

Marinette shook her head, assuring, “You have nothing to worry about on my account.”

She raised her voice and added, “Nino is the one still hopelessly in love with Adrien. He’s the one you should worry about.”

Nino’s head snapped up, and he glared at his friend. “Nette, are you trying to make the king’s kelpie husband jealous so that he kills me or something? I am not in love with Adrien. Things are strictly platonic between us.”

Luka couldn’t help a stifled snicker. “Says the guy with my mate half in his lap.”

Adrien pressed the heel of his hand to his lips to keep in his own giggles at Nino’s expense.

“This is platonic snuggling,” Nino insisted, affronted by the accusation. “Do the fae not snuggle with friends?”

“Yes,” Luka conceded, “but are you trying to tell me that there’s nothing sexual about two guys on a couch with their limbs all entwined like that? This feels suspect to me.”

“Completely platonic,” Nino reasserted.

“Come on, Nino,” Marinette teased. “You know you would die for him.”

“Platonically!” Nino denied. “I’m his guard. It’s what guards do.”

Marinette turned to Luka with a cat-like smirk. “Nino was Adrien’s first kiss.”

“False!” Nino exclaimed, tan complexion going latte light as the blood drained from his face.

“Actually, Marinette was my first kiss,” Adrien finally spoke up in Nino’s defence.

Luka cocked an accusatory eyebrow at Marinette who grinned nervously.

“I told her about my suspicions that I was gay and asked if I could run an experiment to see if I felt anything when I kissed her,” Adrien explained, his cheeks colouring in shame.

“He told me that if there were any girl he could come to have feelings for, it would be me,” Marinette snickered, shaking her head. “The silver-tongued snake.”

Luka whistled, shooting Adrien an incredulous expression. “It sounds like my little prince was quite the cad as a youth.”

“Guilty,” Adrien groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I was confused, and I didn’t know who else to turn to. And I wholeheartedly believed what I said. I just didn’t realize yet that being gay wasn’t something you could ‘fix’ like my parents insisted, so… I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“—Shh,” Nino interrupted, gently prying Adrien’s hands away from his face. “No one’s mad at you. Nette and I both enjoyed helping you out with your experiments. No harm done. We’re all just joking. Okay?”

Adrien looked from Marinette to Nino to Luka, and they each nodded.

Adrien blew out a slow breath, beginning to nod as well. “…Okay. Good. I just…still feel bad about that period when I was trying to figure myself out. I did some things I’m not proud of.”

“Shhh.” Nino pulled Adrien in closer for a hug as he called to the others, “You two get over here and snuggle too.”

Marinette tucked away her measuring tape and went at once to squeeze in on the sofa on Adrien’s opposite side, wrapping her arms around Adrien and Nino, assuring, “There’s nothing to feel bad about. No one’s hurt. Nothing’s broken.”

Luka came up along the back side of the couch and leaned over to nuzzle Adrien’s hair. “Listen to your friends, My Love. They’ve already forgiven whatever needed to be forgiven.”

“Thanks, guys,” Adrien whispered, letting go of his worries.

They remained in their cuddle pile in comfortable, warm silence for nearly a full minute before Marinette spoke.

“Wanna hear a secret?”

“What secret?” Adrien responded curiously.

“I’m seeing someone,” Marinette confessed tentatively, a giddy excitement bubbling just under the surface.

“Ah. Her imaginary boyfriend,” Nino snickered. “You’ve been on about him for years, Nette. Does mystery boy finally have a name or something?”

“Be nice,” Adrien chastened, giving Nino a light smack on the arm before turning his attention back to Marinette. “Is this the same guy you’ve mentioned before? Your mysterious nobleman?”

Marinette nodded shyly, taking a breath before announcing, “Her name is Kagami.”

Nino and Adrien’s jaws dropped.

Luka arched an eyebrow. “Is this the same Kagami that Adrien fences with?”

Marinette smiled nervously and nodded. “Yep. We’ve been together officially for three years now.”

“Holy crap,” Nino finally got out. “Nette, how the hell did you keep this a secret this long?”

Marinette shrugged. “People really aren’t as suspicious of two women spending a lot of time alone together as they would be a man and a woman. We used the pretext of me making clothes for her a lot in order to meet.”

Adrien blinked, still stunned at this revelation. “Wow…that’s…I’m really happy that you’ve found someone. That both you and Kagami are happy. I mean, besides my mothers, there’re no women I esteem higher than you two.”

“Thank you,” Marinette breathed in relief, feeling lighter now that she had the secret off of her chest.

Adrien bit his lip. “I just wish you had mentioned… I never suspected that you… Why did you never say anything? When I was busy lamenting my cursed fate to be alone and not know love my entire life, you could have said something,” he pressed, unable to hide the twinge of hurt in his voice.

Marinette shook her head. “I’m like Nino. I can be happy with a man or a woman, so no one ever had to know I wasn’t quote-unquote ‘normal’. My situation wasn’t like yours, so I didn’t feel I had any business making things about me when you were hurting so deeply.”

Adrien studied his friend intently for a long moment before sighing and resting his head on her shoulder. “…You still should have said something.”

She looked back and forth between Nino and Adrien before bowing her head, suitably chastened. “You’re right. I should have said something. There was never a good time, though, and then it felt like I couldn’t say anything because I’d waited too long.”

“Well, at least you’re telling us now,” Nino reasoned, giving Marinette’s arm a supportive pat. “Congrats. We’re happy for you.”

“I’m going to have to get to know Kagami better now,” Adrien hummed thoughtfully. “I thought I knew her, but I was obviously wrong.”

“She definitely has layers,” Marinette giggled.

Adrien tipped his head back and looked at Luka, still standing behind the sofa. “You’re not feeling left out, are you? I feel like we’re being exclusive.”

“You’re fine, My Love,” Luka chuckled, giving Adrien’s hair a loving pet. “I’m enjoying getting to see you with your friends. You know I’m an introvert and don’t necessarily need to be the center of the conversation.”

“Just let us know if we’re being too in-group-y,” Nino urged, giving Luka an amicable grin. “You’re family now, and we want you to feel welcome and comfortable with us.”

“What he said,” Marinette seconded.

“Thank you,” Luka replied earnestly, making his way over to the armchair closest to the fireplace. “But I promise you that I’m very low maintenance. Please continue your conversation. I don’t need to be included in everything so long as I eventually get my husband back from you to cuddle with him myself.”

“Cool,” Nino chuckled. “We can definitely agree to those terms.”

Silent snuggling continued for a few minutes until Marinette spoke up once more.

“Adrien, did I hear right? Did you make a royal decree legalizing same-sex marriage?” she inquired, holding her breath in anticipation.

“Uh…yeah. Yeah, Nathalie took care of that earlier. She said that people would start announcing it right away, so the news should be getting out by now,” he confirmed.

Marinette gave a trill of joy. “I’m going to ask Kagami to marry me.”

“Dude, wait,” Nino insisted. “We haven’t even vetted her yet.”

Adrien elbowed Nino in the stomach. “That’s awesome, Marinette. You’ll have to let me know when the wedding will be so I can come back for the ceremony.”

Nino and Marinette blinked in tandem and then shared a look.

“Wait. What do you mean ‘come back’?” Nino asked slowly, a feeling of dread knotting the pit of his stomach. “Aren’t you…like…already back?”

Adrien winced.

Marinette’s joyful expression abruptly diminished as her forehead furrowed. “You’re not staying here, are you?”

Adrien shook his head.

“You’re going back to the forest,” Nino whispered as understanding dawned upon him.

Adrien nodded.

There was a heavy moment of silence.

“…How long do we have?” Marinette inquired, voice sounding brittle as she tried to mask her sadness and pain at the thought of losing her closest friend all over again. “How long before you go back?”

“I don’t know,” Adrien confessed. “Not long. I only returned because I feared that the kingdom would descend into chaos and dictatorship in my absence after my father’s sudden passing. I’ll stay until I see a peaceful transfer of power and feel confident that my people will be okay without me.”

“It sounds like we’ve still got some time, then,” Nino remarked, trying to be optimistic. “We should…We should make the most of it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Marinette whispered, snuggling in closer to Adrien.

“Yeah,” Adrien agreed, squeezing his friends tighter.