#and secure. But with a myriad of choices out there

[it-la-technical-support]

Introduction The advent of home automation systems has transformed our living spaces into dynamic environments that adapt to our needs. The rise of smart home automation has made our daily routines more streamlined, energy-conscious, and secure. But with a myriad of choices out there, how do you craft the ideal smart home system that caters to your unique needs? Let's navigate the fascinating world of home control and automation to help you make an enlightened choice. Decoding Home Automation Systems At its essence, a home automation system empowers you to control various aspects of your home environment - from lighting and temperature to security systems and appliances - all through a unified interface. This could be a dedicated panel mounted on your wall, a smartphone app, or even voice commands via devices like Amazon Alexa or Google Home. The Advantages of Smart Home Automation The benefits of smart home automation are extensive. For starters, it offers unmatched convenience. Picture adjusting the temperature, dimming the lights, or monitoring your security cameras, all without having to move an inch. Furthermore, home automation systems can significantly boost your home's energy efficiency. With features like automated lighting, intelligent thermostats, and energy-efficient appliances, you can cut down on energy usage and reduce your utility bills. Crafting the Ideal Smart Home System When it comes to crafting the ideal smart home system, it's crucial to consider your specific needs and lifestyle. Are you looking to focus on security, energy efficiency, convenience, or a blend of these? Begin by selecting a reliable and user-friendly home control interface. This could be a smartphone app, a voice assistant, or a wall-mounted panel. Next, choose the devices and systems you wish to automate. These could range from lighting and HVAC systems to security cameras and smart locks. Remember, the ideal smart home system is one that integrates seamlessly with your lifestyle, enhances your comfort, and caters to your specific needs. Conclusion In the age of intelligent technology, home automation systems are not just a luxury but a valuable asset for enhancing our daily lives. By understanding your needs and exploring the available options, you can craft the ideal smart home system that offers convenience, security, and energy efficiency. Welcome to the future of home living.

[aryawartapackers-blog]

The Importance of Choosing Reliable Packers and Movers in Dharamshala

Aryawarta Packers and Movers, a beacon of reliability in the bustling town of Dharamshala, stands out for its unwavering commitment to excellence in the realm of relocation services. With a steadfast dedication to customer satisfaction, Aryawarta goes above and beyond to ensure a seamless transition for individuals and businesses alike. Leveraging years of experience and expertise, the company employs a team of trained professionals who execute each task with precision and care. From meticulously packing belongings to navigating the intricacies of transportation, Aryawarta's meticulous attention to detail sets them apart as leaders in the industry.

At Aryawarta Packers and Movers, the pursuit of excellence extends beyond mere logistics to encompass a holistic approach to customer service. Recognizing the unique needs and concerns of each client, the company offers personalized solutions tailored to specific requirements. Whether it's providing additional packing materials for fragile items or accommodating last-minute changes to the relocation plan, Aryawarta prioritizes flexibility and adaptability. With a reputation built on trust, reliability, and integrity, Aryawarta Packers and Movers emerges as the premier choice for those seeking unparalleled service in Dharamshala's bustling relocation landscape.

How to Choose the Best Packers and Movers in Dharamshala

In the scenic town of Dharamshala, nestled in the picturesque Kangra Valley of Himachal Pradesh, the process of relocating can be both exhilarating and daunting. Amidst the breathtaking vistas of the Himalayas, one seeks the seamless transition of moving homes or offices, a task that necessitates the expertise of reliable packers and movers. In the quest for the best packers and movers in Dharamshala, meticulous selection becomes imperative. Understanding the nuances of this selection process, from evaluating reputations to assessing services, is crucial. Discerning individuals embark on a journey of research, weighing factors such as experience, customer feedback, and pricing structures. Equipped with this knowledge, they navigate through the myriad options, ensuring that their chosen movers align with their specific needs and expectations.

How to Pack and Move Efficiently with Packers and Movers in Dharamshala

Efficiency becomes paramount in the endeavor to pack and move belongings swiftly and securely. With the assistance of proficient packers and movers in Dharamshala, individuals embark on a journey of streamlined relocation. From meticulously packing fragile items to efficiently loading and transporting possessions, every step is orchestrated with precision. Techniques for optimizing space, safeguarding delicate items, and expediting the process are employed, ensuring a smooth transition to the new abode or workspace.

How Do Packers and Movers in Dharamshala Ensure Safe Relocation?

Central to the concerns of those entrusting their possessions to packers and movers in Dharamshala is the assurance of safety throughout the relocation process. These reputable service providers prioritize the protection of goods, employing stringent measures to safeguard against damage or loss. From employing trained professionals to utilizing high-quality packing materials, every precaution is taken to ensure the integrity of items during transit. With a commitment to excellence, packers and movers in Dharamshala adhere to industry standards and best practices, instilling confidence in their clientele.

What Services Do Packers and Movers in Dharamshala Offer?

The spectrum of services offered by packers and movers in Dharamshala encompasses a myriad of offerings tailored to meet diverse needs. From residential relocations to commercial moves, these versatile service providers cater to a broad clientele. Packing services range from basic to comprehensive, with options for customized solutions based on individual requirements. Loading, transportation, and unloading are executed with precision, utilizing specialized equipment and vehicles to facilitate the process. Additional services such as storage solutions, unpacking assistance, and furniture assembly further enhance the convenience offered by these professionals. With a commitment to customer satisfaction, packers and movers in Dharamshala strive to exceed expectations, ensuring a seamless transition to new beginnings.

[slyandthefamilybook]

...And here we come upon a problem as basic as the nature of knowledge itself: all of our prodigious cognitive and computational abilities are inadequate to a full comprehension of our complex world. As humans, we remain heavily dependent on certain tools of perception and conception that our cultural and biological heritages have taught us are useful. These tools–such as language, causal logic, religion, mathematics–are indeed powerful, but they are powerful precisely because they reduce complexity to intelligibility by projecting our mental concepts onto the world. One consequence of this is that our recognition of significance is always what some philosophers call "theory laden," meaning that it is shaped by what our theoretical framework and cognitive tools encourage us to recognize as meaningful. Anti-Judaism, as I have argued throughout this book, is precisely this: a powerful theoretical framework for making sense of the world.

...

After all, no matter how overrepresented the Jews may have been among the European "bourgeoisie," they remained a tiny minority of that class. How could that tiny minority convincingly come to represent for so many the evolving evils of the capitalist world order? More broadly, how could untold millions of Europeans (and not only Germans) come to believe–or act as if they believed–the claims of the Nazis (and not only the Nazis) that Jews and their conspiracies so threatened the security of the world that they needed to be excluded, expelled, or exterminated? According to Horkheimer and Adorno, the liquidation of the Jews of Europe was not grounded in "reality." It took place in the vast gap between and explanatory framework ("anti-Semitism") that made satisfying sense of the world to a significant portion of its citizens, and the complexity of the world itself.

They set out to explore that gap in a philosophical history of modern thought they drafted in 1944 and later published as Dialectics of Enlightenment. Their final chapter, "Elements of Anti-Semitism: Limits of Enlightenment," suggested that what gave anti-Semitic ideas their power was not so much their relation to reality, but rather their exemption from reality checks–that is, from the critical testing to which so many other concepts were subjected. "What is pathological about anti-Semitism is not projective behavior as such, but the absence of reflection in it." In their terms, the problem is a heightened resistance to reflection about the gap between our ideas about Jews, Judaism, or Jewishness, and the complexity of the world. From their point of view, anti-Semitism provides adherents with a cognitive comfort: the fantasy that the gap between our understanding of the cosmos and its fearful complexity does not exist.

...

...[A]cross several thousand years, myriad lands, and many different spheres of human activity, people have used ideas about Jews and Judaism to fashion the tools with which they construct the reality of their world. The goal of my project, like Horkeheimer and Adorno's, is to encourage reflection about our "projective behavior," that is, about the ways in which our deployment of concepts into and onto the world might generate "pathological" fantasies of Judaism. And my choice of method owes something to Auerbach's conviction that the study of a given moment, problem, or even a single word in the distant past can teach us something about a much longer history, extending even to our own.

Selected excerpts from Anti-Judaism: The Western Tradition (2013 Nirenberg, David)

[leth-writes]

yandere CEO x reader

Summary: Your boss has never been anything like the rumours suggested. Maybe you should've listened sooner.

Warnings: My blog is 18+, though this piece is not explicit. As well, usual yandere content warnings apply.

So this is actually an original character I'm workshopping, and I wrote this piece to get the character down. If you'd like more, just let me know!

“Shh, shh, it’s going to be okay, my love…” he said, running a hand down your face gently, cooing quietly. You struggled, shifted, trying your hardest to break free, but you were stuck, locked in place by the soft leather straps keeping you tied to the bed. You were gagged with a silky slip of fabric, cushioning your teeth and preventing your cries from reaching even into the rest of the ornate room. You were trapped, completely unable to so much as shift, kept in place without the ability to set yourself free.

You hadn’t ever expected it to end this way, working for one of the best companies in the world. All you wanted was to be safe, to be able to pay your bills and finally enjoy some stability; working as his secretary was supposed to be a well-paying gig. Turns out that his behavior with you was unlike that of the myriad of people who had once held the position.

He had a reputation for being harsh and cold, incredibly analytical, with high standards and higher expectations. When you first met him, however, you’d seen a man with kind brown eyes and a bright, soft smile, staring at you as though you’d lit the room up just by walking in. Your work had been unexpectedly easy, and he’d paid you incredibly well. Now you suspected he’d done all of it just to prevent you from trying to leave.

He’d lulled you into a sense of false security, after all, building up a relationship and getting you to trust him. He’d been so kind, so loving, and you’d fallen for it. It started with the small things. First, he’d always brought you coffee in the morning, then breakfast, then he was always taking you out for lunch. Then he’d started taking you out to dinner, until every meal of every day was spent with him, including the times you weren’t even working. He started invited you over to his house, you were more of a personal assistant than a secretary at that point, and you started spending more and more time there. He loved cooking for you, making you delicious dinners you knew you wouldn’t be able to afford otherwise, ingredients costing more than a month’s rent for you. Then you started staying over in a guest bedroom, more and more, until you were barely ever even going home. You couldn’t help it, being around him was just so relaxing; the stress seemed to melt away in his presence until you couldn’t picture your life without him.

That’s when he first kissed you. It was soft and sweet and it made your heart pound, your feelings swelling until it felt they couldn’t fit in your chest anymore, until all you wanted was to be with him.

So, the two of you started dating, and the true gift giving began. The gifts grew more and more extravagent, clothing and jewellry costing more than a house being dropped in your lap, and something started to seem… off. But he made you so happy, and he was so nice! So, you buried your worries under layers of tulle and started enjoying the luxury of it all. After a lifetime of barely scraping by it was nice to be able to sample some of the finer things.

After only a month, he asked you to move in. At first, you refused, but soon you found your lease abruptly ended with your landlord; with no where to go, you had no choice but to stay with your gracefully accepting host. You should’ve guessed that was all his planning, it was too convenient, and it wasn’t like he didn’t have the money to make your landlord kick you out. Hell, even a threat would be enough to justify serving you up to him on a silver platter.

But then, the dynamic started to change. You felt bad, not contributing, and you started trying to insist on paying him rent or contributing in some way. He refused, you’d barely make a dent and he had more than enough, but you still felt off-balance. Eventually, he started giving you less and less work, until you mainly spent your days just reading in his office as he came in and out. It didn’t feel fair, not doing anything, and the two of you had plenty of fights just about work.

It all came to a head when you decided to move out. You wanted to be independent, to be able to support yourself, and you couldn’t justify leeching off of him anymore. of course, he didn’t see it that way, and the two of you got into a little spat. It worsened and worsened until suddenly, without even thinking, you blurted out that you wanted to see other people. Maybe you should’ve considered your words better.

Like a switch went off, gone was the bright, cheerful man you were used to, the analytical businessman emerging from the dust with a graceful smirk. He’d warned you, told you not to continue the sentence. You wouldn’t want him to think you were cheating, would you?

So, you doubled down. You insisted on a break-up. You couldn’t be around someone who could switch so drastically, who wouldn’t let you work, who was so… controlling! You felt it deep in your gut that this was a bad situation, and that you needed to leave. And just like that, the analytical version of himself was gone in a snap, and the gentle gleam was back, though it didn’t quite fit, like was wearing a too-big mask.

He’d agreed, smiling brightly, that you needed some space to think. You didn’t bother correcting his assumption. He implored you to at least stay for dinner, he wouldn’t feel right letting you walk out into the cold night after such a big fight… So you agreed. Maybe this way the break-up would be amicable, and you wouldn’t have to constantly look over one shoulder.

Halfway through dinner, he’d fired you. His face had been a facade of pity, lips slightly pouty as if to mock your shocked tears. Then, you’d started to feel a wave of exhaustion, and before you knew it, you were out.

It all led to this moment, him sitting beside your prone form as he smiled down at you. It was then you saw that crazed gleam, the one everyone had always described but that you’d never seen before. He’d informed you that you would be staying with him, that you could finally just be together without the pretense of work, and that you didn’t have to so much as lift a finger. He’d do everything for you.

You were starting to worry he was being literal.

[unholyhelbig]

im in love with werewolf!kate

Title: Once Bitten, Twice the Idiot [5/?]

Summary: After reader is attacked by a strange animal in the woods, her world is flipped upside down. Now she must navigate a new life filled with strangers and myths.

Trigger warnings: Talk about werewolf transformations, crying, group interventions [?], and definate spelling/grammar mistakes

[Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five]

Main Masterlist | Ao3 | Request Prompts

The compound seemed impersonal upon your second visit. It was nothing compared to the shitty apartment you had left earlier in the day. There were leaky ceilings and college students that would blast their music until dawn- but it had been home. It had been home, and this was anything but. This was an overwhelming smattering of scents that aggravated your already tepid nerves.

Without Kate close by panic began to bubble up in your stomach. Then anger. That anger that she had mentioned outside of your building was there too and though you didn’t want to admit it, you had to. Kate Bishop had ruined your life and the fact that you sought her out so heavily filled you with white hot rage. So why did you need her so badly?

In an attempt to ease your nerves, they had separated the two of you two seconds after you’d walked back through the doors. Word seemed to travel fast around here, and you took a mental note to keep your mouth shut in all situations. It had been over an hour since Kate was dragged away by Clint and that ache in your chest grew malicious.

“There’s an electrically charged fence around the bulk of the property but it’s 165 acres of pure natural land. There’s a lot of space to run, but there’s not much way to escape.” Wanda Maximoff explained things to you like a recipe.

She had taken you on the grand tour, though the house was mostly cleared out. It was clear that they were trying not to scare you. There was an array of smells, and each was distinct, though it was behind closed doors. There was an in-house gym and a myriad of offices and bedrooms on the second floor. There was a library too, one that had more books than the location on campus.

Wanda seemed like the best choice to give you the grand tour. Though, you had yet to meet more than Clint and Natasha, and a few others distantly. There had to be a reason that she was the one easing you into this. She smelled of cinnamon and that sharp metal scent that seemed to accompany them all.

You now.

You had stopped walking in the middle of the lush green yard. In turn, so had she. Her gaze was on you and sympathetic. There was a buzz to the fence, one that you could hear from the spot that you were rooted in. Leaves rustled and small critters made noises that you were not supposed to hear, but you could.

“Not much?” You let out a burning breath that you had been holding in. “Pardon me for being rude, but if it’s so secure how did Kate… get out?”

Wanda swallowed hard and closed the distance between you. She had a pitying look in her stare that somehow didn’t enrage you. Instead, it reminded you of your mother. Of course, she’d been the right choice. You could see that a mile away.

“Kate is an extremely powerful and reckless individual. She has an incredible amount of heart but sometimes that gets her in trouble. When you change, and you will change, you’ll understand the yearning a bit more. Usually, your wolf will be satiated with just feeling free- hence all the land. But sometimes there is an emotion so strong that there is no option other than to obey.”

“There’s an emotion strong enough to make her break through an electric fence and attack me?”

She snorted out a laugh, glancing up at the fading blue of the sky. There was a stronger chill to the air as the sun dipped behind the horizon. A fishbone moon was hanging in the air. It was never something that you paid much attention to before. But you were quite thankful that it wasn’t full. That wasn’t something you could handle anytime soon.

“Y/n, did Natasha mention that the two of us are together?”

“No, she didn’t.” You frowned, testing the waters “You’re so… and she’s so…”

“Oh, she’s an absolute hard ass. I’m well aware. She’d dumped her coffee all over the front of my shirt when we first met and apologized by paying for a new one. Natasha wrote her number on the side and wee dated for nearly a year before she told me her secret.”

The two of you started walking again, this time along a carved path that rested at the mouth of the backyard. Soon the grass devolved into underbrush and large stretching oak trees. Gravel crunched under the soles of your shoes. The rage shifted it’s way back into the small of your mind.

“I was taken aback, understandably. The woman I had fallen in love with sat me down and when I thought she was going to break up with me she told me she was a mythical creature instead. And I was mad. I thought she was lying and making excuses instead of being honest.”

Wanda let out a shaky sigh, one that was wracked with memories of what seemed to be a simpler time. There was a fondness in her stare that you craved in a selfish way. Because you wanted to feel that fondness for Kate, but it hadn’t quite bubbled to the surface yet.

“For almost a month, I didn’t speak to her. But on the night of the full moon, my curiosity got the better of me and I showed up at her house unprompted. It took some convincing. Natasha isn’t one for vulnerability, especially when that vulnerability is something that could cause me physical harm but I’m persistent.”

“You uh, I don’t know the terminology” there was a pause “you watched her become…”

“I did. And I’m not going to sugar coat this for you because it is not a pretty sight, and it is far from painless. But I believed her. Finally, I believed her and though I wanted to run there was a moment between the bones breaking and the screaming, where that honesty seeped out of Natasha like blood. I was her one. I was her person.”

Wanda laughed and shook her head. You’d made it a good way through the path and the sun had fully set behind the horizon, but it didn’t impair your vision one bit. You could see just the same, everything having a gray fuzzy tinge to it.

“Subconsciously, there is a pull in what we are. Natasha told me she knew I was her destiny when she spilled a caramel macchiato on me. And I love her, but I didn’t know just how strong that feeling was until I made the decision to change. To let her change me.”

“You willingly chose this?”

The question had slipped past your lips before you could stop it and you immediately felt guilty about the phrasing. Wanda reached and squeezed your palm with the coolness of her fingers. Comfort shot up your elbow and your shoulder until you felt all the warmth in the world.

“I did. It took a lot of conversation, a lot of planning but I was sure that Natasha was the only one and she was equally sure about me. So yes, I chose. And I am truly sorry that that liberty was stripped from you.” She gave your hand another squeeze. “The wolf that’s inside of you, that primal side is what took Kate over. It’s no excuse, her young naivety isn’t an excuse. But I know you feel it, and what you’re feeling right now is only a fraction of what she felt that night.”

That burning sensation in the pit of your stomach was utterly unbearable. It hadn’t gone away since Kate had bitten you. Not when you shoved cold lasagna into your mouth or swallowed three glasses of water. Nothing dulled the pain except your proximity to Kate.

“You’re saying that we’re destined to be together?” You scoffed, breath forming in a cloud.

“That’s for the two of you to decide.”

Wanda stopped in the middle of the path. She grasped your other hand and her solemn energy crept through her touch almost as if she transferred it directly to you. That burning ache in your stomach threatened to calm.

“This is a lot to take in, leaving everything behind and being thrown into the deep end of a world you don’t understand. But I am here for you and Clint is here for you, and so is Bruce and Peter. All four of us… all four of us were ushered into this life instead of born into it. Some by choice and some by chance. And regardless of how we got here, we know the struggle that it carries. We’re here, y/n.”

The room that was given to you was set up in the same beige colors as the rest of the house. Wanda had the same kindness that she seemed to always exude as she explained that you could paint and decorate however you wanted. It was yours, and despite this being a fancy prison, you could always make it feel a little less like a prison.

It was when you were left with your thoughts, did you become wracked with discomfort. The house was mostly silent. Wanda had explained to you the purposeful thickness of the walls. They were meant to dull sounds and form privacy. That- you were thankful for.

There were minimal scents in here and if you tried hard enough, you knew that you could relax. As long as you didn’t think about the fact that you had given up your scholarship, and your life with your friends and your family and your heart was pounding unforgivably in your chest until you were forced to sit up on the wrinkled comforter.  

It took a few moments before you realized that someone was knocking on the door. You stood, opening it despite your better judgement. Maybe it would be Wanda with her soothing nature again, or even Natasha to slap some sense into you.

Instead, it was Kate Bishop. She looked like a kicked puppy, her stormy gray stare boring into yours with enough apologies to last a lifetime. But you didn’t want to hear it. Not at the moment and probably not for the foreseeable future.

Though, you had to admit, everything seemed to simmer down with her familiar clove scent. Her hands were in the pockets of her pajama pants, and she held up a brown bag filled with fast food. The grease had soaked through the paper in dark splotches.

You hadn’t eaten since yesterday and embarrassingly, your stomach growled in response. It gave you away. Whatever was in that bag smelled absolutely divine. Kate tried to stifle the smirk on her lips in a comical expression. She had won.

The door opened wider as you stepped aside. “I know we talked about Italian on the bus ride over here, but the only place within sixty miles is a burger joint and I’m helpless in the kitchen.”

“This is perfect. Thank you, Kate.”

The two of you sat on the floor close to the double windows that led to a small balcony. At first, you were tempted to pull the curtains in front of them. It was easier to ignore the eyes that stared back in the reflection. Your own eyes but something different and carnal about them that you weren’t ready to confront.

Kate had supplied you with one of the messiest cheeseburgers that you had ever eaten and a basket of equally as damp fries. It was the best thing you had ever tasted. You were admittedly starving and had been since the moment you woke up.

“God, this is,” you used your thumb to wipe a bit of ketchup “This is good. Not enough to forgive you yet good, but fucking delicious.”

She cleared her throat “I didn’t expect one burger to get me in your good graces. But I figured you were hungry. It’s been a big couple of days.”

“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘I’m sorry’, don’t you dare ruin the bliss this burger brings me.”

She laughed, a beautiful sound. Kate moved from her spot on the floor to one that was next to you. She still gave you distance, a good couple of inches. Her back was against the side of the bed and the two of you sat in a comfortable silence for a few moments.

Your reflections were distorted. Between you rested the moon. The real moon that you had noticed outside with Wanda. It was brighter than it had been, or maybe you were just closer. It’s pale light vibrated against your skin and filled you with a tingling sensation.

It wasn’t fondness exactly. It was like pulling a cozy blanket around you and basking in it’s effects. Like the room around you is cold, frost creeping up the windows, and the only solace is that small piece of fabric. The moon warmed you. You wanted to swim in it.

“How long do I have?” You whispered; Kate scrunched up her face into a half-frown. She looked at you. “Wanda told me about the first time she saw Natasha change. She wouldn’t go into details, and I don’t blame her. But it sounded… painful.”

Kate crossed her legs and picked at the fuzz on her socks. She successfully plucked two balls of lint off the pattern before she spoke. “My family is rich. It’s uh, it’s generational. They’ve always had the best in everything. The biggest homes, the fanciest clothes, the best cars. The strongest cellars.”

You weren’t quite sure where she was going with this. Part of you stifled your anger. You had worked your ass off through high school to just get the vague chance of a college education. All of that was shattered because of the girl next to you. All of that was something that you were starting to understand. That dull ache was thrumming in the pit of your stomach, ever eased by Kate’s presence.

“I’m sticking my foot in my mouth. None of that matters. Growing up with generations of lycanthropy and having it treated like a prize. It’s disjointing. My father believed that that pain made you stronger, and that embracing that rage instead of commuting it was the way to go. And I thought the same until I met Clint.”

Kate let out a wavering breath. She played with the rings on her fingers, twirling them around until there was a little red mark on her skin. It seemed to dissipate just as soon as it had appeared.

“I was thirteen the first time that I turned. And I begged, pleaded with everyone around me to do something, anything, that would ease the agony of that first transformation. I was met with the silent treatment. And… I was a child. I was a scared child that wanted comfort.”

You reached forward and placed a hand on her knee. There was an electricity that flowed through the both of you, a specific energy that buzzed in the same way it had with Wanda, but different somehow. Stronger and all-consuming. She placed her hand on top of yours.

“The night of the full moon, my father locked me in one of those strong cellars. There was no light, no comfort. Nothing but a musty prison that had a small window out of reach. It was just big enough to let in the moonlight. The walls, they were torn up and bloody. It was all I could smell and think about.”

Kate paused to pull in another breath. “For years, I was convinced that was the only way to do things. Embrace the pain and let it harden you. But things are done differently here, y/n. It’s not going to be easy, but you’re not going to be alone. You won’t be locked in a cellar to feel that pain. And I have no quarrels if you don’t want me there-“

“Kate,” you interrupted her, “I want you there. Because despite everything, your presence is reassuring and I think that’s what I’m going to need.”

She gave you a sad smile, yet somehow it was still endearing. There was an exhaustion that settled over you in the same moment. Your stomach was full, and your eyes were feeling heavy. Tentatively, you rested your head against her shoulder, embracing her scent and her comfort.

For a half a second, she tensed but melted just as you had. The silence was far from uncomfortable and you drifted into her protection, dropping into sleep with the sound of her heartbeat in tandem with your own.

The living room, despite it’s size, was filled to the brink with people that all turned their eyes to you upon arrival. You knew that this was coming, the introduction phase. It reminded you of college orientation without the stifling June heat that made it impossible to pull in a proper breath.

You still couldn’t draw in one correctly, not with this many eyes and this many smells. It was like ripping a band aid off and you were incredibly thankful that they had let you get a full nights sleep before springing this on you.

At some point, you had crashed on Kate’s shoulder on the plush carpet of your room. She’d moved you to the bed and you woke up there alone but well rested. It took you a few moments to gather yourself and shove the sadness of leaving your life to the back of your mind. There were things to do, people to meet.

Kate was next to you. She leaned on the edge of the closest sofa and let you take in everything- everyone- that lingered. One man stood at the forefront of it all. He was massive, well built in a way that his strength commanded the attention of the room. There was a kindness in his stare too, one that you admittedly admired right off the bat.

“Hello,” he said it so simply, reaching his massive hand out “I’m Steve.”

“Y/n” You took his hand and shook it timidly.

Steve glanced at the waiting faces around the room. Each one watched with bated breath for him to speak. You even found yourself entrapped by his mere stance. “Everyone, y/n is going to be staying with us for the foreseeable future. This is a situation that we have yet to encounter, and I expect each and every one of you to treat it with the respect and care it deserves.”

There were a few faces that you didn’t recognize, but they seemed to accept the decree. Kate’s hand found its way to the small of your back out of view of the others. It steadied you, though you didn’t know you were unsteady in the first place.

It was explained to you that you were quite the exception to the house. Wanda was clear about how this group had formed and nowhere was it stated that someone who had never turned before was here. Each and every person had a solid grip on who they were- what they were.

“Should we play an ice breaker?” A man that was spread across most of the middle seat on the section asked. He had darkened eyes, black hair that was spiked with an obscene amount of gel. “Two truths and a lie?”

Natasha smirked wolfishly “I like this game; Tony Stark is a humungous ass, Tony Stark is so full of himself he has six mirrors in his room, and Tony Stark wears sunglasses inside like a douche.”

“Second one is the lie; I have eight mirrors in my room and each and every one of them is necessary.”

You pursed your lips to stop the smile from spreading across your face. Natasha tossed a throw pillow and nailed him in the face. He shifted it into his lap, settling there with an eyeroll. Your view was blocked by a man that towered over you.

Steve was big. Tony was big. Clint was big. But this man was an absolute giant. He radiated a warmth that was unmatched and crunched you into a hug. Your cheek was pressed against his chest, and you gave it a pat.

“Don’t suffocate her,” Kate urged gently.

“My apologies Katie” He pulled back, keeping his massive hands on both of your shoulders “I’m Thor, you know, like the God of Thunder.”

“It fits,” You said with a smile.

There was a level of trust about him. Maybe it was his sheer size, or maybe it was his beaming smile that was nothing but genuine. He eased you more than most in the room. When he stepped aside, you were met with the last stranger in the room.

A man that seemed to draw within himself but still shook your hand with a practiced confidence. His button-down was wrinkled, his hair messy. He wore these thick rimmed glasses that enhanced his stare. There was a gentleness about him, a timidness.

“Bruce Banner, it’s great to meet you, y/n.”

They fit together like a family. All of these strangers that each had their individual quirks but were more than comfortable longing around, just existing in the same area. They’d all come from different backgrounds and chose to linger in this large house. They chose to be a group. A unit. A pack.

For a long time, America was the only one that was in your life, the only constant. Your parents were in the background; one worked too much and the other drank too much and neither cared all that much. Watching the way these strangers interacted, the community they created for themselves, made you feel like maybe it would be okay. Maybe all of this would be okay.

Steve cleared his throat and the room stilled, all eyes leading back to him. He scratched the back of his neck, uncomfortable with the attention for only a millisecond before he smoothed back into himself. “The full moon is in two weeks’ time. We know the drill, but y/n doesn’t. It’s going to be difficult and different, and we’re going to have to prepare.”

“I have drugs,” Yelena said. There was a silence that shrouded the room as everyone blinked dumbly at the woman. “What? Not anything heavy. But enough to sedate her!”

“We are not sedating her, we’ve been through this” Clint responded.

They’d spoken about this? Truthfully, from the accounts you had gotten from Kate and Wanda, you would be more than happy to take something to knock you out. Though it seemed important to feel the pain too. Almost like a right of passage.

“That is y/n’s decision to make.” Bruce said. He addressed you, making you feel less like an observer to your own fate. “One that you don’t have to make right now, might I add.”

Steve held his hand up, quieting everyone once more. “There are natural ways of doing things too. And trust us, y/n, we will break down every single option you have until you find a comfortable solution to the predicament. Don’t be afraid to ask questions.”

Your tongue was tied at the prospect, and soon the meeting was dismissed. They were weekly, you learned, and part of you didn’t mind. A house this size with that many people could get messy quickly without some sort of pecking order.

The library on the second floor was home to bound leather books that recounted the history of lycanthropy. It was warm up there, large windows letting in enough sunlight to show the particles of dust as they float in the air.

Not many people use this place. It was kept tidy but the scent that hung in the air was mainly aged paper and wood polish. You’d pulled one of the leather books from the shelf and curled up in the window seat. The pages were yellowed and brittle but filled with invaluable information.

This was the first moment in the last few days where your mind felt quiet. Your world was quiet.

Hours passed as you worked your way through literature, through Norse mythology of a curse, and pelts that would let men roam the countryside as wolves until they gained their lucidity again. There were diary entries from families that were descended from lunacy; the Bishops and Rodgers and Odinson’s and many more that you could not recognize.

You’d made it through two and half books before the light bouncing off the pages shifted to a vibrant orange of the sunset. You’d been left to your own devices for the day, and you rubbed your eyes, tired from the constant strain.

There was a quiet knock at the door and the scent of turkey filled your lungs. You blinked a few times. Steve leaned against the doorframe, holding a plate filled with a pile of potato chips and a sandwich. You’d again, forgotten to eat.

“I come in peace,” He said, entering the room and setting the plate of food on the table in the center of the room. He gestured to the other end of the window seat. “May I?”

You nodded, pulling your feet back and tucking them under yourself. “This is the second time in the last twenty-four hours that I’ve been bribed with food.”

 “It’s a love language around here. Learn anything interesting?”

“That a lot of werewolves are French and it’s much easier to be a one in the twenty first century.”

He chuckled and the sound was nice. It made sense that he was in charge. Being around him made things feel like they were solvable. The many answers floating around in your mind, the fears, could center into one concrete thing.

“The French gave us a bad name, I’m afraid. But you’re right about the second part. I wasn’t lying when I said that there are multiple ways to go about this.”

“Like drugs?”

“That’s one option, yes. Clint told me that one of the first things you were concerned about was keeping everyone around you safe.”

You nodded, pulling your legs up to your chest and resting your chin against them. The only reason you had gone along with all of this was to keep the people you love safe. That combined with the deep seeded feeling that all of this was real had lured you here, had kept you here.

“I’m trying not to be angry.” You admitted in a small, weak voice. “There is this deep rage that I could blame on whatever emotional distress these books outline. But nothing will change the fact that one minute I had a chemistry quiz due at midnight and the next I was waking up in a filth of rotted leaves and my own blood. And the only thing I can think about is that I have every right to hate her but I… I can’t.”

Steve was patient, silent in his ministrations. He turned a gold band on his ring finger around and around, much like Kate had. It was a nervous habit, something that soothed him, you supposed.

“I have always been able to handle anything that’s thrown at me. Always. Life has a mass of problems and those problems can be solved but this doesn’t feel real. It won’t feel real until I’m there but I’m- I’m scared. I’m so scared.”

You tried to smother the bloom of emotions in your chest, but it wasn’t working. There was an immense shame in cracking in front of Steve that you couldn’t quite explain but he seemed to have no quarrels about your tears or wiping them away with a calloused hand.

“This shouldn’t have happened.” He said with a shaky breath “And you have every right to be angry. I would be angry. No one expects you to forgive and we certainly don’t expect you to forget. What’s happened is unfair. But we can ease that fear.”

You swallowed hard, throat dry “how?”

“Well, drugs” He gave you a weak smile, and you snorted out a laugh. “But if we want to do things old school, that’s possible. It’s recommended, really. This place is built for people like us, and even though right now it feels like a curse, like a burden, maybe fate intervened.”

Your head thud softly against the bookcase behind you, “Fate carries the last name Bishop.”

[icarustypicalfall]

midnights

johnny soap mactavish x f!reader

summary: soft gazes, small talk, secrets spilled under breaths between stations, is this his idea of fun?

note: sorry for the inaccuracy, i don't speak the Scottish Gaelic, neither been to Scotland. love soap though <3

warnings: sfw, fluff, no yn just you, kinda funny, kinda awkward, litterly my mind is empty for renting.

"but i think i am falling so what can i do?"

23:30 pm

Your thoughts were abruptly interrupted as the final train arrived at the station. Your feet throbbed from standing, though you could have sat down. Glancing back at the plastic seating which didn't appear any less unclean or discomforting.

Swiftly, you secured a seat near the front of the train, close to the conductor's cabin.

You didn't own a car, you struggled to secure employment and housing in this foreign city. Lately, your life seemed dull, and this realization hit you with great force—were these the overhyped twenties?

Escaping a toxic household was a good thing, you left your hometown, starting a new life somewhere in Scotland. Relying solely on yourself, you faced myriad challenges, working tirelessly day and night, sacrificing sleep for brief naps during college breaks. Amidst this sea of responsibilities, your social life withered away. Night shifts at the mall, traversing college hallways by day—you embraced this life fearlessly. Despite the exhaustion, you cherished every moment.

The train resumed its motion, the slow yet rapid movement causing you to stumble slightly as you made your way towards the front. This was your sole means of transportation, and you had memorized which spots were worth fighting for and which ones to avoid like the plague.

23:35 pm

As you entered the cabin, a sense of relief washed over you; it was nearly empty. Although this did not always bode well, you refrained from complaining, grateful for the chance to sit during the 45-minute journey back home.

At this ungodly hour, the train car was considered vacant. A woman, a typical "Karen" in her mid-thirties, appeared disgusted by everything, casting a disdainful glare your way. Two mumbling teenagers, an elderly homeless individual, and... a man.

This man was unlike the usual commuters you encountered on your journey home. He seemed out of place yet strangely familiar amidst the others. Wearing a military uniform and sporting a unique mohawk haircut, its ends loosely falling onto his forehead.

The man's head snapped up as you stepped onto the platform. His eyes locked with yours for a moment, his lips curling into a tired yet awkward smile. Sensing your arrival, he moved his large gym bag from the seat beside him, as if he knew you would choose him as your travel companion on the way back home.

Whispering a quiet thank you, you collapsed onto the seat while checking your bag. You were well aware of the cunningness of thieves, having once had your ice cream snatched from your very hands.

Discreetly, the man stole a glance at you, that awkward smile still lingering on his chapped lips. Neither of you knew what to say or do, and the silence hung heavily in the air. Engaging in conversation seemed tempting, yet the weight of the silence prevailed. You preferred it that way, not wanting to embarrass yourself with ill-chosen words, especially in the presence of a military man—one who happened to be rather attractive.

23:42 pm

You checked your phone, scowling slightly. Only seven minutes had elapsed? It felt as though a decade had passed while both you and the stranger coughed and fidgeted in your seats, unable to shake off the peculiar sensation in your chests.

It was warm, almost tempting. And, for the very first time, you got courageous, opting for the somewhat risky choice; you decided to sleep.

Your head felt slightly dizzy, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts as you observed the flickering light bulb in one of the train cars.

00:09 pm

"Hey... Bonnie? Wake up! We're almost there," a soft voice laced with a Scottish accent murmured into your ear, jolting your eyes open.

The man with the mohawk cut smiled at you, whispering something in Scottish Gaelic that eluded your comprehension. Still groggy from your impromptued nap, you found yourself captivated by his bright eyes, paying little attention to his words.

The man seemed to invade your personal space as he continued to babble, yet you felt no offense. It was then that you realized you had slept through the entire ride, your head carelessly resting on his shoulder.

You quickly recoiled, straightening your posture and murmuring a wave of apologies while avoiding his gaze, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

The man stared at you as though you had sprouted a second head. Expecting the worst—insults or annoyed glares, as most people would respond—you were taken aback when he burst into laughter.

"No need to apologize, lass. Ya look like you've been through the wringer. Hope my shoulder was comfortable, eh?"

You nodded, slightly perplexed. Despite living in this Scottish town for two years, you had never quite grasped the local accent.

"My name is Johnny, but they call me Soap," he introduced himself.

"Soap? Like the dove bar?" you mumbled, raising an eyebrow.

He chuckled and patted your head, underestimating his own strength in an endearing gesture that almost squeezed your skull. It seemed as though he was used to roughhousing with his military comrades rather than interacting with civilians.

"Quite funny, lassie. Truly... What might be your name? I haven't seen this face around before," he asked with a nod of curiosity.

The man, Soap, appeared to be either having an unmedicated ADHD case, under the influence, or simply a huge ray of grins and laughter. He acknowledged your name with a wide smile before whispering.

"Would you be interested in joining a military task, lassie?"

Your horrified expression seemed to amuse him greatly, as he continued to laugh heartily and slap his knee until the train reached its final destination.

"Just kidding, don't worry, lassie."

You nodded, rising from your seat as the doors swung open. Soap swiftly stood up, effortlessly hoisting his hefty gym bag onto his shoulder while grinning at you. He casually rested an arm on your shoulder, displaying an unexpected amount of affection and energy.

00:23 pm

Stepping out of the station, Soap let out a loud yawn, pushing his mohawk back before beaming at you. Were his cheeks blushing, or were you now hallucinating?

"Well, lassie, it's unsafe to walk alone at this hour. Mind if I accompany you home?" he asked, his shyness suddenly evident.

You smiled and nodded, appreciating the sense of security he provided. It was remarkable how at ease he made you feel, as if the two of you shared an unspoken understanding. Feeling emboldened, you intertwine your arms and began the walk home together.

Soap seemed thrilled, almost bouncing with excitement as he walked beside you, rambling on in his cheerful manner. He patted stray dogs, laughed boisterously, shared tidbits about his Captain, and even vented about a certain Phillip Graves.

You struggled to follow the intricacies of military life, but decided not to mention your confusion, content with observing how passionately he spoke about his hometown, his upcoming vacation and his family.

01:00 am

You arrived at your home, settling on the doorstep to catch your breath. Soap gazed in awe at you before plopping down beside you, accidentally jostling your feet with his bag which he tossed carelessly on the floor. He sighed, looking up at the dark sky with a contented smile.

"You know, Bonnie, this has been quite an fun night for me. It's been a while since I've met a charming lassie like you," he confessed.

A blush crept onto your cheeks as you returned his smile.

"I'd love to see you again. Perhaps I can show you around... if you'd like?" he added, restraining himself from sharing that he had developed a small crush on you, finally finding someone with whom he could share countless stories and laughter on their doorsteps.

You, too, wrestled with the fluttering feeling in your stomach gently nodded in agreement.

Soap beamed with relief, looking at you intently, his eyes sparkling.

"Can I sleep over? My mom prolly waiting for me with a flip flop at home. I forgot to tell her about breaking grandma's vase before my deployment..."

note: if there is any timeline faults or granmar, ignore it or tell me in the comments, im 2 tired to reread 🫶🏻

(this was pretty longer than the usual, kinda hate it cuz i made the reader a stone with no actions.. sorry for my soap fans next time will be better, m quite exhausted from the week 😭 gonna try to write for rudy tmr morning 💗)

[matchstick-if]

Matchstick's IFs

While investigating the patron of the party you stumble head first into an ongoing heist. Will you team up with the charming grifter, the prickly muscle, or the excitable thief?   

Mingle with party guests, climb through vents, and fight against security as you traverse your way through the mansion and steal back from the rich.

Play Extempore (WIP)

A short exploration of the relationship between the Player Character (customizable), and Harper (male or female pronouns). Strengthen your bonds with Harper, and begin a romance, or grow deeper in friendship. 

The game takes place in a university setting. It contains 4 chapters, and a myriad of choices for you to interact with Harper and the world around you. 

Play Relationships 101 (Complete)

You’ve completed your mission. Your only remaining task is to make it home alive. How hard could that be?

Turns out, it’s a lot harder than you think.

Play Recurrent (Complete)

[novantinuum]

Fandom: Steven Universe Rating: Teen Audiences (CW: Description of attempted suicide) Words: 5.4K~ Summary: There’s more to this story, Lars can feel it brimming in his very bones. He can feel it squirming around in the tangled coils of his guts, a primal, virulent rot that threatens to consume him from the inside out. Something is off with Steven, something is distinctly wrong. And oh, does he hate being right. - When an unexpected visitor tumbles through the magic portal in his hair long after hours, breathless and bright pink, Lars must amass the courage to weather one of the most difficult conversations of his life.

Hey folks- this is a really heavy one, but it's a story I've been sitting on in my WIPs for a good four years and am very happy to finally set loose. A lot of personal experience has been poured into this particular fic, and I hope you enjoy.

Please take care and mind the content warning given above. If you're curious on what else this story entails, you can click through to see the AO3 tags as well. Love y'all!

__

Advocate

The Sun Incinerator’s bridge is unusually quiet tonight, with almost everyone spending the evening in their quarters. As such, the only sounds greeting Lars’ ears right now are the dull buzz of their FTL-drive and the gentle chimes of one of the ship’s secondary consoles in the back. (Padparadscha’s making some adjustments to the mainframe parameters, hoping to secure them more malleable control over each system’s energy output.) It makes for a rather meditative scene… focusing on these lulling, almost formulaic bits of white noise as he peers through the glass and watches entire stars and solar systems zip by as nothing but razor thin tendrils of light, the very fabric of space warping and folding around their ship in a myriad of hypnotizing colors. Content to simply be in this peaceful silence, he stretches back in his captain’s chair, allowing a wide smile to rejuvenate his countenance. There’s genuinely nothing more relaxing in all the universe than this.

Though, as he begins to muse upon today’s chaotic ventures of choice, it occurs to him that he hasn’t logged anything down for a good few cycles. And that really, really needs to change, he thinks. Keeping thorough audio records of their whereabouts and activities could prove useful if they get into any more legal scrapes with disgruntled Gems. Plus, it’s great for personal posterity— for when he and the fam want to kick back with some mixers and reminisce about old times.

He activates the mic embedded in the armrest of his seat with a single tap, and clears his throat.

“Logging… stardate one-three zero-five twenty eighteen,“ he begins, rhythmically tapping his fingers against the cool metal. “Or, uh… however that’s supposed to work,” he tags on with a bemused mumble, his nose wrinkling in personal annoyance as he realizes he might have completely jumbled the date format again. At this point, half of his logs are month first, then date, and the other half are date then month. Ugh, what a mess. Perhaps one day he’ll standardize the captain’s logging procedure, but that future is definitely not now. 

And knowing him, it’s probably not gonna be tomorrow, either.

He’s unable to help his exhausted yawn as he kicks back and unwinds, throwing his legs over the side of the armrest as he pushes ahead with his recounting of the last few hours.

“Today’s travels once again had us come face-to-face with our favorite frenemy Emerald, who claimed that her latest star cruiser had the booster technology to easily outperform all other Era 3 ships and challenged us to a race across the Stellaris Astroid Field in sector 9. We won, of course,” he says with a smug lilt to his voice. “The Rutiles’ savvy piloting saw to that, as well as Fluorite’s last-minute engine modifications. I think we hit like… a record cruising speed?” He presses his lips into a thin line and turns his head towards his friend working at the rear of the main deck. “Hey Pady? D’ya happen to remember what our top velocity came to during the final stretch of that race?”

She pauses in her self-appointed duty and hums in careful thought, sorting back through her eidetic knowledge of the recent past like it’s nothing but child’s play. “I believe… 181 klicks per second, nearing the speed of light.”

“And that was like… a record, yeah?” he asks, a sudden hair-raising twinge of… well, something settling deep at the pit of his chest. He ignores it for now. Such phantom pangs aren’t uncommon these days. He’s not exactly sure what causes it yet, and chalks it up to more ‘pink zombie’ weirdness.

“For our craft, yes,” she nods. “For all Gemkind, no. I was curious, as well. As far as I’ve read from Homeworld’s databases, the current non-FTL cruising record is 186.1 klicks per second.” 

Lars can’t help the scoffing chuckle that bubbles within his throat. “Ugh. Good grief, that’s basically light speed as it is. Like, leave some room for competition for the rest of us, yeah?”

Padparadscha gives a faint snicker of agreement as she turns her focus back to the ship’s mainframe interface. Right, right… she’s got work to get done. Which really reminds him, he needs to get back to his point too, or else this log’s gonna be stuffed with nothing but meaningless chit-chatter and asides. He sighs, leaning his cheek against the seat’s edge again.

“But in any case,” he continues into the mic, “our latest victory over Emerald seems to ha—”

With zero warning whatsoever that hollow pang at his core intensifies, its thrall pulsing louder and louder until it’s a thunderous cascade of static rippling through his very veins. He hisses in alarm, jamming his hands over his ears out of pure bodily instinct. This doesn’t help, of course— as this cacophonous feeling (not a sound, not some external input he can mute or modulate, but a feeling—) seems to be emanating from within, from a place all but intangible to the physical realm, from— 

He spies that oh-so-familiar glow emanating from the fringe of his hair just a split second before his surprise visitor tumbles through and throws off his center of balance, unceremoniously toppling both of them to the floor in a ridiculous tangle of limbs. 

Lars’ exhales become laborious as he extracts himself from under the teen and clambers back up to his knees, heart pounding with more fervent intensity than it has since he up and died a few years back.

And right on cue, about fifteen seconds too late:

“Captain Lars, Steven is about to cross through the portal in your head!”

“Yeah, I noticed, thanks,” he snaps in the shock of it all, feeling guilty for this snide remark the second it passes through his lips. (Because Padparadscha can’t help her compulsive ‘predictions.’ He knows this. Everyone knows this. He’ll have to find time to pull her aside and apologize.)

But not now.

Not yet.

Because the alarm bells rung by Pady’s next comment are enough to slap him right out of his brooding contemplation and back to the troubling here-and-now.

“I also predict that Steven won’t be in a very sound state of mind when he arrives,” she says, a noticeable tension building in her tone.

His eyes blow wide as he shifts his full attention to his friend, clad in a pair of sweatpants and a thin sleep shirt.

Steven is… oh, geeze. It seems Steven can’t even manage coherent speech right now. His cheeks are blotchy and raw with recent tears. He’s doubled over on the floor with one hand clutching at his center as he heaves for breath, glowing bright ass pink and looking halfway to hyperventilating. One thing’s for sure: it’s really, really hard to watch. His own chest growing insufferably tight in sympathy, Lars leaps to action, unwilling to let the poor guy wallow in the thickets of whatever the hell this breakdown is about any longer than he has to.

“H-hey…” he begins, edging towards him with the same slow deliberateness he always has to use with the rescue dog his parents recently adopted. And like, yeah— a part of him feels really rude for comparing his own friend to a skittish, fretful animal— but it’s a comparison that seems all the more apt the longer he drinks in the realities of this situation.

Because just like ol’ Maru, Steven is jumpy, horrifically on-edge, and ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. 

Lars frowns, considering what few options he has.

Realizing his friend’s not likely to calm down very well so out in the open like this, he turns towards his fellow Off-Color. 

“Pady, I’m taking him to my quarters. Can you let the others know, and uh… tell them not to disturb us for a while?”

“Yes, right away,” she chimes, hopping off her seat.

“Thank you,” he breathes, expression softening. “I mean it. And sorry about— well, I’ll talk with you later, all right?”

Her mouth falling into a perfectly neutral line (even if she’s incapable of reading the future, he’s sure she’s intensely aware of what he wishes to speak to her about from mere context clues alone), the Gem serves him a solid nod of acceptance and spins on her heels, striding down the hall with a level of confidence he envies. The bridge’s door slides shut after her, leaving him and his glowing, pink hued guest entirely alone.

Alone, and incredibly, incredibly vulnerable, like a live wire flailing about atop a damaged Earth power line.

(The last thing anyone on this ship needs is him having one of his infamous explosive episodes here and compromising the bridge’s airlock system. Which is why his quarters— below deck and fully enclosed— is a far more ideal locale for them right now.)

“O-okay, Steven,” he says, holding out his arm in aid as the teen struggles to clamber back to his feet. “Let’s go somewhere private to cool down, yeah?”

~~

A few minutes later, Lars has Steven situated on the one plush sofa he keeps in his quarters. Since he no longer possess any biological need for sleep and thus doesn’t keep a bed, his room on the ship is pretty sparse— just a desk for journaling or gaming and some shelves with a number of sentimental knick-knacks he brought with him from Earth— but he did find it important to keep a couch. Even if he doesn’t need to sleep, curling up for a quick hour of shut-eye still feels quite rejuvenating sometimes. Plus, it’s handy to have whenever he hosts visitors. Like now. 

Lars sits himself down right next to the distressed teen. He’s still flushed bright pink, but has regained a fair bit of emotional stability compared to how he was right after tumbling out of the magic space portal in his hair. It might take a while until the glow fades away entirely, but it’s progress, at least. 

He sighs, rapping his fingertips against his jeans as he gives his friend some time in silence to cool down. The last thing the guy needs right now is for him to wave half a dozen questions in his face. He’ll talk when he’s ready. Or, hell, maybe not at all. That’s okay, too. Maybe he just wanted a place to have a quick little freak-out away from his family or girlfriend. Who’s he to judge? Sometimes a man’s just gotta be alone for a while. 

Of course, he muses, if Steven really wanted to be alone, then he wouldn’t have crossed through Lion’s mane over to him, now would he? So this visit can’t only be due to a desire for solitude. Steven sought out him— specifically him— for a reason.

That churning, hollow pang at his core radiates even stronger, pulsing at the same interval as the dull tick of the clock he has hanging up on his wall, the one he keeps set to Earth EST as an everlasting reminder of his humble human roots and all the people who care about him back home.

Finally— some ten or so minutes later— the seventeen-year-old stops glowing, that unnatural, otherworldly pallor fading into obscurity. The kid (sorry, but Steven will always be a ‘kid’ to him at this point, don’t matter his age) deflates in exhaustion, cupping his face in his hands.

Now a little more confident that his expressions of concern won’t rile him up to destructive levels of stress, Lars makes a gentle inquiry as to what brought him here. 

“‘Course, you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” he tacks on quickly when he sees Steven’s expression widen with an almost grief-stricken apprehension, “but since I’m here an’ all, I figured…”

His guest sucks in a deep, shaky bout of air.

“N-no, I wanna talk,” he says, voice painfully hoarse. “I came here to talk, but I— it’s just so, so much, I-I’m—”

Lars’ eyes soften. “Dude, it’s okay. Take your time.”

And take his time he does. Another minute or so passes whilst Steven continues to reel himself in on the emotional side of things, breathing slow and heavy as he levels a dead-eyed stare at the blank section of wall flanking the doorway and his desk.

“Connie and I had a fight,” he begins eventually, his tone streaked with embarrassment. “Over the phone.”

Lars’ brow shoots up. Huh. All right. This is absolutely not the opener he expected.

“Really? You two fight? About what?”

“It doesn’t even matter anymore. It was nothing,” Steven mutters, clenching and unclenching his fists against the soft fabric of his pajama pants in a markedly uneven rhythm. “Just me being an idiot, as per usual. I’m sure we’ll make up over it tomorrow. But the problem is that we hung up mad. And when I’m mad about something, it just… makes me mad at myself. A-and then it’s like—” anxious, clawing hands migrate to his head, gripping at his hair— “w-when I’m mad at myself I just spiral? And it’s so, so scary how fast that can happen.”

Ever so slight, his lip presses into a tense frown as he listens. He doesn’t interject, not yet. Steven’s not finished with his disclosure— there’s more to this story, he can feel it brimming in his very bones. He can feel it squirming around in the tangled coils of his guts, a primal, virulent rot that threatens to consume him from the inside out. Something is off with him, something is distinctly wrong.

And oh, does he hate being right.

“I just… couldn’t stop thinking about it,” Steven admits.

The aching hollowness etched into the contours of his friend’s face intensifies, if that’s even possible.

Lars swallows.

“It?”

“—about killing myself,” he rasps, “and finally being done with all this.”

…

So, he’s not gonna lie.

While— much like himself— Steven’s never been the sort of person to prefer wearing his most turbulent emotions on his sleeve, he’s long suspected something like this was going on with him.

He suspected (because he’s been right there in those trenches himself), but he never said anything. 

He never mentioned these worries to any of his guardians.

And he never asked.

‘Cause like, how could he, right?? What a horrible, triggering inquiry that would be. ‘Hey Steven, hah, so random question— you don’t happen to casually fantasize about your own death or anything sometimes, do you?’ Fucking hell, what an asshole he’d make. What a disgusting, disgusting breech of boundaries. He always hated it when his parents violated his trust by butting into his own personal business unprompted, so how could he ever turn right around and do that to Steven? To one of his most cherished friends in the whole galaxy? To the guy who— despite years and years of putting up with all his toxic bullshit and daring to see the good in him anyways— literally brought him back to life?

Thus, with him never volunteering any information himself, all that was left for Lars to do was watch. 

To watch, and to listen where he can.

But still.

He’s not gonna lie.

Even if he always kinda suspected, even if so many of their interactions this past year only acted as fuel for all his constant, silent worries, hearing the kid actually say those words hurts like a bitch.

…

“Steven…” he utters with widened eyes, extending his hand.

To no avail, though.

“And that’s stupid, right??” the teen blurts out with a broad sweep of his arms, either ignoring or plain not noticing his offer of comfort as he rants onwards, his demeanor growing more and more unstable with each and every syllable. “That’s just… stupid! Normal people don’t think like that! Normal people don’t make mistakes and instantly leap to the worst possible punishment and spin that little thought around, and around, and around in your head until you’ve considered a thousand different scenarios that all end the same way.”

He pauses for breath, his chest heaving in and out— probably amidst the exertion of being so damn honest for once. Lars doesn’t even make a sound within this brief span of quiet. A part of him is a little terrified at what else might spill out of his friend’s mouth now that the cork of his anxieties has thoroughly been popped off, but he’s even more terrified at the thought of derailing him, of unintentionally stopping these truths from ever being spoken.

“And it’d be so easy, too,” Steven says, his once manic tone dropping a little lower, into something that’s worryingly more akin to numb acceptance. “I already know exactly how I’d do it! All I’d have to do is smash my gem so I don’t heal, and slit my wrists, and let myself just—” his voice cracks— “drift away, b-but—”

Lars’ brow hardens with a sudden rush of understanding as the trajectory of the teen’s sentence trails on off. “But something’s… holding you back?”

He nods, swallowing so hard that he can see the resultant lump move along the center line of his throat.

“The problem is,” he says, voice raw and vulnerable, “I’ve already seen how my family would respond to that. To… to me trying to kill myself. When I turned into that monster, I— I don’t actually remember much about it, but what I do remember is that the last thought I had before I changed was eerily similar to what I’m feeling now.”

Momentary lull. He’s rotating a thought in his head with the same intensity of a set of steam engine gears grinding against each other, that much is obvious.

“I think… for me,” he continues with marked hesitation, “corruption was a form of suicide. Which means—” he grinds his fingers into the soft fabric of his pajama bottoms as if seeking out an anchor, any anchor at all— “I already know what that would do to them. And I hate that I do, b-because… ‘cause I’m just so tired. Of all of this. I just want everything to stop. I want to stop.” 

Lars can’t help but wince as he listens to the developing theme of this admission, to how each and every new word his friend weaves into existence falls into such dissonant harmony with the gloomy, directionless version of himself he’s worked so hard to let rest in the past. Hell, he might as well be looking straight into some weird, warped mirror of his own teenage years. His lungs seize tight upon this revelation. Instinctively, he extends his hand towards the guy’s shoulder, sobered by the understanding that he’s possibly the sole person in this entire quadrant who’s capable of conveying even an ounce of sympathy or comfort for what he’s battling through right now.

“Hey, man. It’s okay. It’s over, now, you’re here with me. Those are just thoughts, y’know?”

Steven shakes his head, the motion swift and drenched with the dread of all his unaddressed self-loathing.

“But they’re not, though…”

“Wait, what are you even—?”

“Because… this time I almost carried through with it.”

His expression crumples upon the advent of this spoken revelation.

Fuck, he thinks, wishing with every last brittle nerve in his body that this conversation didn’t just swerve in the exact godawful direction he always feared it might. What the actual fuck.

He is so not equipped for this. 

With literally nothing else in his arsenal but the drive to bite his lip and listen, Lars motions for him to continue.

Sniffling, the teen backs his story up to provide what little context he feels comfortable with sharing. 

“After Connie and I’s fight… well, my dreams were really, really bad. So I woke up. Alone. And I started spiraling real bad again, an’… and then before I could even process what was happening, I—”

Sweet stars, is the poor guy trembling as he struggles to push this admission out. With a brief waver of hesitation (‘cause in normal circumstances, he’s not huge on all this touchy-feely stuff), he reaches over, angling to rest one of his hands over Steven’s.

“I had the knife in my hand,” he says. “And a pestle from the kitchen, to smash my gem. B-but I just… I just couldn’t do it! I’m just a coward, Lars! A stupid fucking coward who can’t even—”

He doesn’t utter a single syllable. 

He doesn’t even think. (How could he, in such fraught circumstances?) 

Limbs trembling in an outright terrifying cascade of adrenaline he hasn’t experienced since the day he finally found something worth existing for, Lars surges forward to wrap him into what’s gotta be the tightest, most sincere hug he’s given in his whole twenty-one years of life.

And thankfully, such an impulsive interjection is all it takes.

The walls his friend’s erected around himself this past season topples like wayward dominos. They smash against the ground, crumbling into vulnerable, vulnerable fragments. 

Steven sobs into his shoulder with a raw, shattered fervency that stretches leagues beyond any outpour of emotion he’s ever witnessed from another living person. It’s messy. It’s visceral. And in the precise context of this intensely specific turn of events, it’s a damn cathartic relief… because when it comes to training your brain out of a deep-rooted death wish, feeling anything— literally anything at all— is step number fucking one.

“I wanted to die so badly,” the teen warbles, his ugly mixture of snot and tears staining his shirt all the while. “B-but… I’m just such a worthless, pathetic failure that I can’t even do that right!”

He can’t help but cringe at this admission, but resolves to remain silent, not wanting a gentle pushback to such brutal self-loathing to spook Steven away from showing any shred of vulnerability whatsoever. He’s been there plenty of times himself. After all, when a person who’s caught in such a void of hopelessness and despair makes a last ditch appeal for help, they’re usually not looking to be told ‘everything will get better in time, you’ll see’ or ‘don’t be so hard on yourself, you’re not a worthless failure at all,’ or whatever other empty attempt at reassurance someone who doesn’t have such intimate experience with depression and suicidal ideation as he does might come up with. In many cases, such people are simply vying for their bleakest, most private feelings to actually be heard for once in their lives. 

The moment’s sanctity unhindered, the boy continues to cry against his shoulder for a good long stretch of time. Lars barely even breathes as he sits perched at the very edge of that couch, consigned to nothing but a statue as he holds him within what’s gotta be a record for the galaxy’s most awkward and stiff embrace ever shared.

A miniature eternity passes within this space before those sobs finally begin to lighten up.

“‘M sorry,” Steven mumbles through a face full of snot, pulling away from his offered comfort as a flicker of shame wrests control of his features. 

Lars shakes his head in a vehement refusal of the habitual guilt spiral he’s sure the guy’s a split second from slipping right into. “Dude, don’t be. Stars, I— I’m just glad you came over to me, okay?”

Then, swallowing… and doing his upmost best to consider the most respectful way to broach such a sensitive topic, he continues:

“I… I don’t mean to pry, but… are you… taking anything for this?”

Steven’s glassy expression scrunches into a configuration that screams nothing but blank confusion. “What?”

“Like… medication, or—?”

A bright understanding dawns within his gaze like the glow from a passing star system, before immediately collapsing inwards into a bitter, shadowed singularity. 

“No… no,” he protests, gesticulating all the while, “I keep telling everyone— my therapist, my dad, the Gems— I don’t wanna take any medicine! I’m not sick, I’m not, I don’t need drugs in my brain, I just— I just need to stop acting like this, just need to do better, to be better, I-I need—”

“Steven, no offense, but it’s called mental illness for a reason,” Lars says in the most deadpan tone he can muster, crossing his arms as he leans back upon the plush of the couch cushion. “Your brain is ill. That’s literally what this is. If you had the flu, you’d be taking flu medicine to help yourself get over it, right?”

“I’ve never had the flu,” he says in miserable contradiction.

“Yeah, well— come on, man, just work with me here,” he half-snaps, throwing a hand up for emphasis. “You agree that someone who is ill deserves medicine to feel better, right?”

The teen merely shrugs, his features growing cold and sullen. And good golly does he super want to smack all this noncommittal, self-sabotaging bullshit out of his stupid fucking system right this instant— because it reminds him so damn much of himself, and he hates that it does— but… aughhh. He’s gotta be more mature than that, doesn’t he?

As the older of the pair, he’s gotta be the role model here. 

“Then, don’t you think you might benefit from the same thing?” he presses.

Steven responds in the negative, swiveling his head from side to side. “I don’t know how it’d interact with… well—” 

He flashes a sharp gesture towards himself. More specifically, towards his very center, where his gem sits. Lars has no need to live inside his thoughts to pick up on the tricky little issue he’s hinting at here… he’s worried about how human medications would interact with the complexities of part-Gem physiology. And to be fair, it’s a reasonable concern to have.

But then again…

“That’s how it is with humans, too,” he shrugs. “It takes some people a lot of trial and error to find a drug and dosage that works for them. For once, you wouldn’t be any more an unusual case than anyone else. Do what you want, but—” deep inhale— “if it were me, I’d really consider talking with a psychiatrist about this.”

The teen issues a dull huff through his nose. It’s the sort of response that makes it clear he reluctantly agrees with Lars’ logic, but should he actually follow his advice— and stars, he hopes he does— won’t be doing so with a willing heart. That’s fine, though. Sometimes, being the most supportive friend one can be means that the other party won’t always like what you have to say. He knows this from intense personal experience… from being the person on the other side of this kind of conflict. Sadie was never afraid of serving him the tough love and cutting perspective he needed when he opened up to her about his own experience with suicidal ideation, and he’s forever grateful for that. Thus, the least he can do now is try to be that kind of advocate for Steven, too.

Which brings him to the next vital topic rattling within his brain.

“Oh, and one other thing,” Lars says, folding his hands in his lap and looking him directly in the eye. “This is important, so please be honest with me. Have you told anyone else you’ve been struggling with these kinds of thoughts?”

“Not really,” he mumbles, his own gaze slipping aside amidst the turbulent throes of his clear shame. “I just… I wanted to deal with this myself. I don’t want them to be disappointed. They all think I’m doing so well these days, but then—”

“Steven.”

There’s no acknowledgement of his call, at first. He’s just too damn tangled within his own thoughts— expression glazed over and restless fingertips drumming in an endless thrall against his thigh.

“Steven, come on. Look at me,” he implores, interrupting his manic fidgeting with the reassuring solidity of a hand over his. “Please. Promise me, when you go back through my head, you’ll call someone else— anyone else— and tell them. Tell them, and then have them contact me. I want to hear you promise.”

“Lars…”

“Promise me,” he repeats with an even stronger fervency, his normally sluggish heartbeat surging halfway to its old full-strength status quo. “Listen, I don’t want to invade your privacy any more than you want me to, but if you don’t do this by the end of tomorrow… if that very clock—” he jabs a finger towards the so-mentioned object hanging upon his wall— “hits midnight and I don’t hear anything from your family… then I’m calling your father and telling him myself.”

Steven’s expression twists with a sharp jolt of dismay, his mouth falling ajar. Lars cuts off any pending protests with a swift flash of his hand and continues undeterred.

“I’m not joking. I’m like, a billion light years in space, man. You need someone closer to home in your corner, too.”

Unable to ignore the hard hitting truth of this statement, his friend finally acquiesces to his request, his shoulders slumping inwards.   

“Fine,” he mumbles, folding his arms to his chest. “I promise I’ll tell Dad.”

“Thank you,” he breathes in sheer spine tingling relief. And by golly, does he uber mean it. 

Because holy shit, have the past fifteen or so minutes of conversation been an absolute stress-soaked ordeal. He doesn’t know if he’s ever felt so emotionally exhausted in his whole ass existence.

“In the morning, though,” Steven adds. “I—” the kid heaves a long, exhausted sigh— “I really don’t think either of us are prepared for that kind of conversation this late.”

“Absolutely fair enough.”

His friend sniffles a little, gaze averting once more. “Can I— can I stay here, for tonight? I really, really don’t want to be alone right now.”

“Of course,” he nods. In his mind, Steven’s request was never a matter up for debate. “Always. I’ll… I’ll go get some blankets.”

Hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans, Lars pushes himself off the couch and slowly shuffles his way to the door. (The storage closet he keeps all his extra personal elements in is a short distance down the hall, past Rhody and Padparadscha’s shared room.) He keeps his expression as blank as he can muster… at least until he’s moved well out of both visual and auditory range. And then… once he’s absolutely positive that Steven can’t overhear… all that built-up worry and emotional strain simply overflows.

He’s not outright crying— not in the way that others might— but damn if he’s not real close to it.

Lars’ whole body shudders with a burst of delayed grief as he braces himself upon the closet door. He clamps a hand over his mouth, stifling the impact of the shaky exhale that spills from his lips otherwise unhindered. Just… fuck. What the fuck. All of this feels like a horrible nightmare. When the hell did things get so bad for him? Who let things get this bad? Is he at fault—? Like, geeze— he always knew something felt awry with the kid (and that’s half the issue, isn’t it? He’s not just a sweet little kid with simple lil’ problems anymore, and in many ways he never was), but should he have said something? Confronted him about it? Told his guardians about his concerns, privacy be damned? 

He grits his teeth as he muddles over all the infinite complexities of this problem.

Ugh.

What if, what if, what if.

It’s all useless conjecture.

The bottom line is, Steven doesn’t deserve any of this. Not then, not now, not ever. He shouldn’t have to be dealing with any of these horrid, horrid thoughts. Stars, if anything had happened to him— if he actually did follow through with his plan, then—

Lars drops his head against the door panel, doing everything within his power to will the thought to evaporate from his mind.

No.

No…

He doesn’t even want to consider that possibility. Steven’s like a brother to him at this point. It’s not gonna happen. Not now, not ever. Not on his watch.

He’s not sure how yet, but he’ll make damn sure of it.

…

Once he’s cooled himself down, Lars returns to his quarters with a couple of blankets in hand.

Upon passing through the doorframe, he’s met with a somewhat reassuring sight: Steven already sound asleep on his ratty old couch, curled up against the armrest and snoring softly. Heh. He sure doesn’t blame him for tuckering out so soon. Poor guy must’ve been exhausted after such a rigorous emotional outpouring. Moving with calm intent so as not to disturb him, he quickly lays the blankets across his slumbering form before retreating to the far wall to keep watch for the night. He stretches back against the metallic panel, inhaling as deep as he can muster to erase the quavering tension staining his countenance.

Standing vigil over a soul in need… just in case.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

London Will Burn - Chapter Ten.

Sorry it's a day late, bambinos! Normal posting schedule will resume as of Friday. I wanted to give everyone the chance to catch up since I posted last week's instalment late, too.

Previous chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine

Tag list - In the comments, please DM to be added/removed

Words - 4,000

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Minors DNI.

Absorbing the shock, it was all Sean could do not to storm over to where Rin and her family were gathered and demand she give him answers. It added up, undoubted was the maths in the equation that the child with eyes that exactly matched his own, who would have been about six, meaning she’d been conceived on that weekend he’d spent with her, was in fact his daughter. It fitted. It explained why she’d vanished.  

Why the fuck had she kept it from him?  

Why the fuck did she still continue to keep it from him? 

He knew why, but his anger got in the way of logic. The only thing to penetrate it was the sudden feeling of a wet nose at his fingertips, followed by a familiar miffed grunt. Looking down, he saw Butch, ball in mouth, ready for it to be thrown once more.  

As the rage in him subsided, a myriad of emotions began to swirl, taking the ball and throwing it once more, finally tearing his eyes away from the child, dressed in her school uniform beneath a thick, winter coat. His child. He dropped his head and sped up while walking past where they were congregated, hoping the distance from one side of the path over to the small playground area meant he wouldn’t be seen.  

That did not mean, however, that this would be something he’d easily let go of. Rin would feel every ounce of his ire, once she’d actually confirmed to him if the child was definitely his.  

Setting off over the grass to meet his dog en route back, he took the ball and clipped Butch back onto his lead, being greeted by a look of indignance that playtime was seemingly over. “I am certain that fucking tooth of yours sticks out even further when you’re pissed off.” he spoke, reaching to scratch his forehead wrinkles. “If I sported a snaggletooth, mine probably would be right now, too.”  

He took the long walk back to his car, loading Butch in the rear and clipping his seatbelt fastener onto the back of his harness, the dog lying down with a soft snort. The comfy ride of the Audi Q5 meant he was asleep ten minutes into the journey home, only stirring when half an hour after that, the car pulled up in the parking garage back in Canary Wharf.  

For the duration of the drive, he’d mulled over how to handle the sight he’d been presented with at the park, wanting to actually make the right choice for once. Good choices and Sean Wallace didn’t always go hand in hand. In fact, more often than not, his impulsive nature dictated that they were the furthest from good.  

“Catherine, I need to speak with you. Would you be free for lunch on Friday?” 

Civil, to the point, adult like. He was proud of himself. While waiting on a reply, he took a shower, sorting Butch his food before ordering the usual Thai delicacies to satiate his own hunger. 

“I’m busy.” 

“Next Monday, perhaps?” 

“Busy then, too.” 

“Any fucking time before Easter, Catherine?” Trust Sean to not take her rebuffing well.  

“Can you not just call me to have this discussion?” 

“No. It must be face to face.” 

It was while he was mid-way through eating a Thai red curry when she finally replied. “I’ll check my diary when I have a moment and get back to you.” 

He waited a week for her to do this alleged diary consulting, hearing nothing. The proverbial bull appeared to need taking by the horns, it would seem.  

The gates to Mulford Hall’s private driveway still required a check in with security, but the large, middle-aged man who had sat within the small booth the last time Sean had pulled up beside it was now replace by another. A large, Kenyan other, to be exact.  

“And you are?” he rumbled, lifting his chin. 

“Sean Wallace, here to see Miss Cavanagh.” 

The man reached for the telephone, eyes flitting over Sean. “I’ll be the judge of that.” Pressing a button, he waited, leaning back while letting his fingers skim over the semi-automatic holstered at his hip, dark eyes returning to Sean for a second and narrowing. “Boss, hello. I got a Sean Wallace here to see you.”  

There was a pause. “She say you must wait for her call and to go home.” 

“Tell her that unless she lets me up, I shall start making noise over the identity of her child’s father. Loud noise.”  

Marcus relayed the message with a huff, waiting. “Okay, you may go up.” 

He smirked, shifting the car into drive as the gates began to slowly open. “I thought she might say that.” Driving through, he reminded himself over and over to keep calm, that losing his temper was the last thing he should resort to, that no matter how enraged he was, calmness was the more conducive approach.  

Pulling into the courtyard, he saw Rin exit the house and stride over to the car. The defiance she carried herself with immediately sent his irritation up by a few notches.  

“I think we need to talk,” he began, getting out and shutting the door with a heavy clunk, turning to face her. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” 

“How did you even find out?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes. “Who the hell told you?” 

“Nobody, I saw you both in the park just over a week ago. She looked right at me, and it was my eyes I saw. Doing the calculations over her age, and it points a very definite finger to the fact that I’m her father. If I hadn’t, your lack of a poker face and need to discover if you’ve been betrayed just sealed it nicely for me.”  

The sneer in his tone set her on edge, Rin wanting nothing more than to punch him in the face for it. For much more, in fact. Her nostrils flared in annoyance, Sean continuing. “Now, why didn’t you tell me?” 

She shrugged, sniffing. “It was none of your business back then.” 

His lips tightened, his shoulders squaring. “I fathered your child, that makes it very much my business.”  

“Not when you were set to sell out her mother’s dignity for a business deal. Honestly, do you truly think I wanted a man like that near her at the time? Can you honestly blame me for keeping it from you?” 

“Yes, I fucking can, because she’s my fucking daughter and I had a right to see her, to know her!” There went his cool, flying far from any tentative grasp. 

Her features twisted, fury beginning to pulse. “You had no right at all, Sean! Not after what you did to me!” 

“I had to, Catherine. By the end of that weekend, I didn’t want to, but I had to, because...” 

“Because if you hadn’t, you’d have lost the capitol you needed to buy a new location to launder through, and the safe port for the fuck load of heroin that needed an alternative dock to port in. Yeah, I know why you had to. You could have just let me talk to him, you know. I’d have convinced him, but no.” Her eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening. “You fucked me over because you wanted to. Get off on it, did you? Taking advantage of an eighteen-year-old, hmm?” 

“Don’t give me that shit,” he spat angrily, cracking his knuckles in agitation. “You were far from naive. You were raised by a man just as cutthroat as the one whom raised me.” 

Swallowing down her desire to match his anger, she took a breath, sniffing as she thinned her lips between her teeth. “My heart was.” Pausing, she saw it in his face, the very thing she was looking for, but had no real care over whether she received or not. Remorse. It was a few too many years late in the coming. “I suppose I should thank you really, for the lesson you taught me, one that I will pass onto my daughter when she’s older, too. Never let your emotions be swayed by a man who shows all the hallmarks of such deeply entrenched psychopathy.” 

He looked accepting of her assessment, shame seeming to veil him as he looked down upon her, sighing sadly. “I am truly sorry for what I did to you. I am. It was a mistake that I haven’t ever not regretted.” He paused for a moment, in her silence of absorbing his apology. “She’s the reason, isn’t she? The other reason you returned me to my former status, the one you said I didn’t deserve to know, back when I first saw you again three months ago.” 

“That’s correct,” she confirmed, “but on my terms. I want my daughter to know her father, but most certainly not the man who I watched you become from afar. God fucking knows, I’m probably bordering on mental myself, but I thought maybe, if I could sort you out in the midst of ironing out the fucking mess you and half the other fuckwits left London in, then maybe the old Sean might return. The Sean you might still be capable of being.” 

He felt his chest tighten in an instant, that no matter how badly he’d hurt her, hurt himself, pulled apart the threads of his own life, she still had hope he could redeem himself. “Perhaps if I’d known about her, that might have come sooner. My priorities have always been centred around the health of my family. Surely you knew that?”  

“I didn’t know what the fuck I knew about you, after that weekend, and then you turning on me!” 

“I told you I didn’t want to.” 

“But you did!” Her temper flared beyond her need or desire to control it, her jaw flexing as she ground her back teeth together, her fury literally biting. “You hurt me, Sean! I let you in, more than I ever had with actual boyfriends, and you fucking hurt me worse than anybody ever has! We could have been something, but you just threw it all the fuck away, didn’t you?” 

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he turned away from her for a second. “I did. There isn’t a day that passes where I don’t regret that, either.”  

“Why?” she scoffed, folding her arms. “It got you everything you wanted.” 

He reached for her, thumb skimming her cheek. “And lost me something I truly needed.”  

She felt her heart quicken, enjoying the comfort of his touch for a mere second before knocking his hand away. “Don’t. No. I’m off the table forever to you. Her? Maybe, if you continue to behave yourself.”  

He nodded. “Do I at least get to know her name?” 

“Tiger Lily.” Her favourite flower, he remembered. “We just call her Tiger for short mostly. Believe me, it suits her personality.” 

He smiled at that, imagining her to be tiny and mighty, much like her mother. “When can I see her, Rin? I want to be there for her, provide for her. I have lost so much in the way of family, and the life I am attempting to rebuild very much has a place for her within it.”  

His earnest softness stirred her, hearing his pledge to be involved in his daughter’s life, but not enough that she’d ease up on him. “When I see fit, and not a moment before.” 

Indignance at being rebuffed rose within him, but he knew the more he demanded, the further she would dig her heels in. His continued commitment to not making bad choices borne of his impulsive nature had to be applied here, too. “Okay. I shall await you getting in contact, then.”  

He turned to his car, Rin beginning to twitch in discomfort, resting her weight from foot to foot a couple of times as she swung her arms down from folded. “Sean?” He turned back, eyebrows slightly raised. “St James Park, 2pm next Sunday. We’ll meet you by the playground. You’re just my friend, though. You shan’t be revealed as her father until I decide.” 

His mouth flickered, upturning. “Thank you.”  

She had to give him something, she realised, no matter how much the scar tissue from his burns still ached within her chest. Since her reinstating him three months prior, he’d been flawless, utterly faultless in the way he had resurrected both himself and the Wallace Corporation. He deserved something, although as she walked back into the house, she wasn’t sure whether her lenience had been too swiftly delivered.  

“I heard most of that from the window.” Her mother’s tone told a thousand more words than she actually spoke.  

Rin sighed, moving to the fridge and pouring a vodka, feeling the weight of Sokoro’s hand press supportively to her shoulder. She paused, covering it with her own for a moment, leaning into his wide chest. “You handled it well, boss. I leave you with your mother now, it is not my place to be in a family talk.”  

She smiled thinly, the Kenyan giant leaving the kitchen, Rin wishing he’d have stayed. “I take it you’re about to detail that I was wrong for allowing him to see her?” 

“I’ll flippin’ say you were!” she began, one of the stools at the island being pulled out rapidly, the legs scraping across the floor. “Pour me a drink, too. I need it after that. You should have stuck to your guns and made him work for it a little harder. Then again you were never very competent in making that man work for anything, were you?” 

A better relationship they might have had, but Diane still had her predisposition for making snide remarks. The point she was making was not lost upon Rin at all, who viewed her with incredulity as she turned with the vodka bottle, slamming the fridge shut as she paced to the cupboard containing the glasses. “I had sex with him, mum. Deal with it. I’m not as precious as you over the act of pleasure, and I never have been.” 

“You might have avoided this whole fiasco if you were.” 

Oh, she just couldn’t help herself. “And if I had, I wouldn’t have Tiger. I wouldn’t trade the outcome of me being careless over contraception for anything. Not even a better outcome. And to Sean’s credit, in the last few months he’s worked his arse off. The Wallace Corporation is in the process of three new builds, two more in the works. We’ve expanded construction to Birmingham and Manchester, too. For twelve weeks, that’s good going.”  

“You’re going soft. I knew you would, as soon as you saw him again.” 

Her grip upon the Stolichnaya bottle tightened, her lips pursing. “I have not gone soft. I want Tiger to know her father, and so far, he’s done a good job of proving himself to be capable of being just that; her father. Me? As you probably overheard, I am not a part of it. This was always my intention, mum. I want her to know him.” 

Diane was nothing if not persistent in her stance. “But so soon? You really should have made him suffer for longer.” 

Pouring the drinks, Rin returned the bottle to the fridge, adding ice and pushing a glass across the counter to her mother. “Just because I am allowing him limited access to his daughter does not mean I am softening. It is still my proverbial boot upon his neck, still my line he toes, still my weight he operates beneath. He shan’t ever forget that either.” 

Diane sniffed, raising both her eyebrows and glass. “Just as long as he never does, Catherine.” She departed the kitchen, leaving Rin standing there for a second before the weight of it all bore down, flopping onto the shiny, lemon disinfectant-scented marble with a sigh. The next weight she felt was of two warm hands grasping her shoulders, kneading softly.  

“Am I being too soft, Sok? Is she right, or is she being a huge shit bag?” She didn’t think her right hand would have moved too far away.  

“Hey, hey,” he chided softly, pulling her up to stand straight, “she is still your mother, eh?” 

She sighed. “I know, but is she?” 

“You know as well as my boss, you are my close friend too, eh?” 

She smiled. “I do.” 

“And you know I always tell you how it is, yes?” 

“Yes.” 

“You could have made white man squirm for a little longer, eh, but I understand why you did not. You know how it is to be without a father, and you do not want that for little Tiger. You do this for her, I see. Not for him.”  

At least Sokoro understood where she was coming from. “Thank you, for seeing things how they are.”  

His eyes narrowed a tiny fraction, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Maybe a little for him, no?” 

“No.” 

“Sure?” 

She avoided his dark eyes, taking a gulp of the chilled, neat vodka. “Definitely not.” 

He had the respect to leave it there, but he knew. “Do you want me to come with you to this meet, eh?” 

“Yes. Wait in the car for us though, so you’re nearby but not looming over us.” 

He nodded. “Understood, boss. Now, my stomach is rumbling, eh! Where is the chef? I would like to be fed now, yes.” 

He was getting very used to a life with people to do things for him, her dear Sokoro. Back at home, he happily pitched in to assist (or hamper) Anna, his wife of nine years, a German backpacker who had arrived in Kenya and then never left after meeting him. They lived in a house upon the reserve, Anna’s background in zoology meaning she was a perfect choice to work with the animals there, working her way up to managing the breeding program. She had called only five hours ago to joyfully inform Rin that the four pregnant lionesses had all birthed a healthy litter of cubs the night before.  

Stretching her arms out to ease the residual tension of the last twenty minutes, Rin walked to the phone, calling for Roger to come down and begin preparing their dinner. After eating a delicious meal of griddled salmon and vegetables (and chicken for Tiger, who couldn’t stand that particular fish) she saw to bathing and dressing her daughter ready for bed, heading back downstairs to her office. 

It had once been her father’s, the space now drastically changed from how it had looked before. She had intended to keep it exactly how it was, but it proved much too painful, to see such reminders of him everywhere. The solid oak and dark red walls had been replaced for pastel green, bird and floral print wallpaper, and white and light oak furniture, giving the space an airy feel.  

Her father often liked to intimidate with decoration, the oppressiveness of the office very much in keeping with his personality. She used to coin it the belly of the dragon for good reason. 

Taking a seat at her desk, she jiggled the mouse until her computer came out of standby, ready to continue organising her current project. She was arranging a charity dinner in aid of her wildlife reserve, one of those very fancy, three hundred pounds a head affairs in aid of raising money for the African wildlife she now solely presided over, despite no longer living out in Africa.  

Of course, with Rin, there was another goal. The funds derived from the night’s hopefully generous contributions from London’s elite would be matched with injections of cash needing to be laundered. It made sense, since the CWR (Cavanagh Wildlife Reserve) was a charity, for all intents and purposes. The deals she was in the process of making with people in South America needed a fund to be run through, her reserve being the chosen destination.  

After completing the guest list of a total of two hundred and seventy-three people, she sent the details to the printing firm to send out invitations, knowing most of her associates were such old school types, a well-appointed, neatly printed invitation arriving by post would be more appreciated than the more modern method of an e-invite.  

Once done, she poured herself another drink, sitting back and resting her bare feet up on the desk, getting a small pang of annoyance when remembering her mother’s earlier words. “Then again you were never very competent in making that man work for anything, were you?” 

“Slut shaming. So very you, mother darling.” Oh, how she’d really, really come down hard on her at the time, Rin remembered, when she’d revealed the news of her pregnancy to her and her father. They both had, Rin not knowing which way to turn, having her usually on side, protective father roaring in utter outrage at how she could be so stupid.  

“You fucking open your legs to that scumbag in the first place, and then don’t have any bloody sense to use protection? Fucking hell, Catherine! I thought we raised you with more brains than that, girl, I really did!” 

They had, too. In the midst of dealing with the heartbreak of his betrayal, obtaining the morning after pill had been the farthest thing from her mind. So far, in fact, that it wasn’t until her period didn’t arrive that it smacked her square in the chest, what she had forgotten to do in the aftermath of a weekend being shagged ragged by the man of her dreams. 

Remembering it, him, the way his skin felt against hers, the heat of their connection, the fact that she hadn’t ever, or since felt a dick as perfect as his, she let herself be transported back to each moment he’d ever been inside her, just for a few seconds. God, the way that man fucked. He was unlike all others, and she hated him for it.  

Coming back out from where her daydream had led her, she tried to shake the thoughts of Sean from her mind, but they clung on. Sleeping in his arms, chasing him around the house with a bow and arrow as they’d laughed. She’d never heard him laugh like that, and it made her chest flutter still.  

“Bastard.”  

Switching off her computer, she tidied her desk, finishing her drink. She’d be up at five in the morning to go for her usual six-mile run, Rin loathing any form of gymnasium-based exercise, but loving to pound her feet to the terrain in order to stay in shape. An early night was definitely in order.  

Her childhood bedroom was still her destination, although changed in decoration from pale yellow to a pastel blue, the furniture remaining the same but furnishings a little more befitting of a grown woman. After cleansing her face and brushing her teeth, she crawled beneath the duvet, closing her eyes. Falling into dreams, she was eighteen again, her bed occupied by the man whom she’d tried in vain to cease thinking about, lying with her head on his chest as they’d talked. Well, talked, and...  

“You’re going to make it fall off, you know,” he’d told her, eyeing his cock after she’d begun playing with it again.  

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she’d purred, moving to sit astride him, kissing the centre of his chest. “It isn’t going anywhere, other than back inside me. I think I make it very happy.” 

The way he’d looked at her, pulling her into a kiss, his gaze had told her strongly that it wasn’t just his cock that she made happy.  

Waking with a start, she grumbled with agitation. 

“Get out of my head, you fucking twat.” 

It had been seven years. If he hadn’t left it by then, then much to her indignation, she had to admit he likely never would. 

[alicedopey]

💐Send a whole bouquet!💐Write a surprise drabble or create a moodboard for them.

+++++

"Lady January," the young man interrupts your looking at the art. "I'm sorry but your presence has been requested by security."

"Oh, may I know why?"

"I'm afraid I was only told to bring you to our head of security. Please follow me."

The young man turns before you can argue further. You follow him to the back offices where the security team works. The looks you're getting are making your face heat up with embarrassment. You feel like a child being sent to the principal's office.

He opens the door to the office for the Head of Security and gestures you inside. The second you're in the room he closes the door behind you.

"Lady January, so good to see you again."

"Did you really have to make such a public display, Nick?"

"Ah ah," he tsks. "We're in my office."

"Apologies Mr. Fowler," you grin. "But I still didn't appreciate the public embarrassment."

"Anyone says anything they'll answer to me," he promises. "Now what say we take advantage of this office being private?"

+++++

Zombie

Thank you for this lovely bouquet !

I don't know what came over me....light smut ahead people. And angst, I'm sorry for the angst. @thezombieprostitute

“I don’t know, Mr. Fowler.” You replied in the same playful tone. “I wouldn’t want to distract the head of security from his work. Those pieces of art are priceless.”

Nick gently pulled you against him and rubbed his nose against yours. “Don’t tell me you are afraid of getting caught. Thought you liked the thrill…”

You did. It was one of the many kinks Nick had unlocked during the year the two of you had been together, although you would not describe it as a real relationship. Nick often took you out, you even went on vacations together but each time you tried to get know to him, he evaded your questions and turned to sex. As painful as it was, you made the choice to settle for what he was willing to give you between the sheets. And he gave. A lot. On the other hand, getting caught in a place where you knew most of the people was different that fucking on the backseat of his car or in a changing room.

“Nick…” You weakly put your hands on his chest to evade his touch even though the kisses he left on your neck were starting to turn your legs into jelly. “Anybody could barge in.”

“They won’t, don’t worry. They know I am with my favorite girl.” 

The term made your heart clench. Favorite girl. Implying that he might have others on the side, that you were just another notch on a belt until the next one. 

His lips sucked your neck and you let out a sigh. Take what he gives you, Lady January. This is enough. 

Fighting back the tears that were threatening to escape, you closed your eyes, and pulled him closer.

Spurred on, Nick lifted you up and you let out a squeal as he carried you to his desk. He pushed the files and the keyboard with the back of his hand and put you on it. His hands softly ran over your body and undid the buttons of your shirt. He groaned at the sight of your lingerie, a thing you knew he was very fond of, and attacked your chest with a myriad of kisses. 

You pulled on his suit jacket, wanting to feel him as well but Nick’s hands joined his lips on your breasts that he eagerly kneaded. You let out a frustrated sigh and Nick chuckled against your skin. He straightened up and got rid of the fabric. Your hands ran up and down his shirt and you managed to undo a few buttons as well, reveling in the fact to feel his muscled chest under your hands. Taking advantage of your exploration, Nick hiked up your skirt and sneaked a hand under it until he reached your panties and impatiently tore them down.

“Nick, I liked those!”

Nick just laughed and kissed the tip of your nose while his digits started to tantalize your flesh. “You know I like to have an easy access.” His thumb pushed against your clit and you whined. “You like it too.” You felt his fingers entered you and he started a slow back and forth motion. One finger, two, three…slowly, so slowly. His eyes never left yours as he watched the frustration getting worse on your face. He softly kissed your lips. 

“Ask me what you want, Lady January.” He whispered against your mouth.

You groaned “You perfectly know what I want, Mr. Fowler.” You lifted your hips and hooked an arm around his neck, pulling him closer.

“Ask me.”

You tried to catch his hand but he stopped it with his other one before you could reach your goal and growled. 

“Go faster, damn it!” Once again, Nick laughed at your frustration but he sped up his rhythm and pushed once again on your clit. Your breath quickened, getting ready to welcome your impending orgasm but the moment never came. 

Nick retracted his fingers and before you could protest, you felt his cock replace them. Your head fell back and you let out a loud moan. Nick helped you lie down on the desk and pulled back before thrusting again. Another loud moan slipped through your lips and you tried to put a hand over your mouth, not wanting anyone to hear you. Nick seemed to have caught your train of thoughts and he stopped your hand, the same way he had done it a few minutes before with the other one. He trapped both wrists in his large hand and used the other one to catch your waists.

“Let me hear you sing, sweet Lady.”

He pulled out again before thrusting back deeply. You bit your lip and Nick tutted, giving a sharper thrust. You yelped and he leaned over you, stealing another kiss.

“None of that.” His deep blue eyes were on you once again and it made you shiver. “I want to hear you. Let me hear you.”

He gave another deep thrust and you finally caved, letting him hear what he wanted. Your moans grew louder as you felt your orgasm approaching and Nick kissed you a little more deeply. 

“Cum for me, Lady January”. Your legs tightened against his waist as an almost torturing orgasm hit you. You babbled incoherently and heard him groan before feeling his release inside you. 

Nick fell on you. He left several soft kisses on your face before pulling out. He straightened up, zipped himself up and your heard him buckle his belt. Breathless, you let him button you up and help you stand up.

“You okay?” He asked, before kissing you again. 

“Yeah...yeah I’m okay.” You were not. But you nodded, rearranged your hair and straightened your skirt, feeling his eyes on you. “Guess now they all know how your favorite whore sounds.”

You heard Nick’s sharp intake of breath and he took your chin in his hand, making you look at him. “That’s absolutely not what you are.”

You freed yourself and made your way to the door, opening it. “Really? Next time don’t summon me like one, then.”

You let yourself out and closed the door gently behind you.

Nick frowned and thought about the velvet box waiting in his bedside drawer. Maybe it was time to let you know you were not a whore. Far from it.

Tagging: @naaladareia

[labgrown-diamond-ring]

Round accent ring 💍 https://www.etsy.com/shop/PureStarDiamonds?ref=seller-platform-mcnav&section_id=48330515

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[theuntoldoriginsoftheportmafia]

Part Ⅰ The War - Chapter 4.1

⚐ The End of The Great War ⚐

2,316 Words

~ Three weeks later ~ 

Fukuzawa and Mori sit at a tall, chipped wooden table looking over a map of the battlegrounds. The improvised base they're in is, in actuality, nothing more than a glorified tent. But it hardly matters as they prepare the ambush.

"Wouldn't it be amazing if there was some way we could take the guilt off the soldier's shoulder, to make them fight harder?" Fukuzawa muses that he feels less guilt than he should and scolds himself for trying to find ways to eradicate it.

"Money and bribes have done little in the way of removing guilt. Soldiers will be human. There is no way around it other than to make ourselves as inhuman as possible."

"Yes, but what if there was? If there was something, say giving them amnesia, or even controlling them, taking away the choice and thus the guilt. If someone is controlling them they will cease to blame themselves and blame the person above, as they should. It is politicians and officials that make the war go round after all."

Mori chuckles at his partner's far-out ideas. He agrees with him but knows there's no hope of achieving such a thing. "Mind control? It's an excellent idea, creating one order where everyone is following the same orders and knows what to do would remove the chaos of war. But how would you propose to do that, unless, of course, we find an ability user capable of mind control."

Fukuzawa is about to answer when the strike happens.

An enemy bomb hurtles into the improvised base.

Fukuzawa is thrown across the space, flung away from Mori. If nature had its way his course would have led him to land directly on the spike securing the tent to the earth. But something changes, he feels he's almost being lifted as he's brought, albeit a little roughly to the ground.

The cement blocks around the base of the tent have been tossed up into the air by the bomb's force. Fukuzawa can see the grey cube coming closer.

But strangely enough, it doesn't hit him. It's not a miracle, there isn't a divine thing about it. A young blond girl stands in front of Fukuzawa, blocking large debris from further wounding him, with her own hands, and yet she seems unharmed. Her silver butterfly clip gleams. Elise . . . the small girl who was supposed to be back at the barracks.

At the sight of her one thought fills him: 'Where is her father? Where is her father? Where is Mori? And Where is Akiko?'

Sore and aching, he lies there while the dust settles, and through the clearing dust a man walks over to him, ruby eyes still shining. 

Elise returns, dutifully, to Mori's side as he kneels beside Fukuzawa, helping to his feet. The older man staggers, dazed and dizzy, a myriad of slices, deep and shallow alike, all over his body from his path through the air. He stumbles, Mori, supporting most of his weight.

'If I had been a second slower . . .' Mori shivers at the thought.

"I'm tired." Fukuzawa slurs, "End this war, Ougai. Let's just go home."

Mori's step falters at the sound of his given name.

'It means nothing, he'll forget all this before we're back to the barracks.'

But it means everything to Mori, his stomach twists uncomfortably at seeing Fukuzawa in pain. However, it's better than the thought of losing his only friend.

-

Back at the barracks Fukuzawa is kept barely conscious by Mori in the medical bay. the young doctor is shaken, it's the first time Akiko has seen him look like this. No longer confident of things going to plan. Worried, scared, and not for himself but for someone else. She wonders about the two older men but does not let herself think too much. She has bigger things to worry about

"Can't I just heal him?"

Mori looks at his wounded partner and shakes his head, Fukuzawa's words about the officials echoing in his mind. The sight of Fukuzawa, still and bloodied in the hospital bed stirs something in Mori. How had he allowed someone so close, so important to him, to the war effort, to be hurt? 

No one is winning here.

This war has gone on long enough. Mori knows what needs to be done to end it.

"No! What do you mean no? Do you want him to die or something? If you do, I'll heal him myself and he'll cut you to itty bitty pieces."

"Be calm. His injuries are minor, he will be fine with standard treatment, and there's no need for him to be cut apart further. Now fetch me my surgical supplies and I will stitch him myself."

Akiko stays for a moment, surprised, then dashes off, quick to return with the few remaining supplies. After she'd arrived the officials, knowing they were no longer needed, let the surgical supplies run out and didn't refill them.

"Thank you, Akiko. Go and rest."

She takes the hint.

Meanwhile, Fukuzawa's eyes are fluttering closed. "Stay awake, you may have a concussion."

"Your daughter!" Fukuzawa bolts upright, then hisses in pain, blood seeping out of his wounds.

"She is fine, now stay still or you'll worsen your injuries." In his fear, Mori has returned to his cold demeanour. Fukuzawa notices, and notices the tension in his shoulders.

He stills himself, "Akiko is not going to heal me?" he's relieved, but confused.

"No, I'm having you returned to the mainland. We've implemented all the strategies we can. There is no other course or ideas to be had, no reason for you to stay here. You can go home." 

Fukuzawa's hands search for his sword, unsatisfied when he doesn't find it.

Mori nods to the broken Katana, pieces laid out on a folding chair. Both men sigh.

Defeat. The worst kind of defeat, when you've been beaten but still are forced to carry on.

"There are cuts and slashes all over your body. I'll start with your arm, you can roll up your sleeve, but it would be easier if you would simply remove your shirt." The statement is factual but for some reason, it makes Fukuzawa more alert, he nods.

"Ah, right." Slowly he tries removing the torn, blood-stained shirt, but the pain is too much.

Wordlessly, Mori helps him, cringing when he sees the cuts covering the older man's chest.

'Even all cut up like this, he' maintains his good looks. I'm sure he'll find a wonderful wife when this is all over. . . . I will most likely never see him again, and I shall be glad for him, yes. I will.' Mori shakes the thought away.

"There are more cuts than I thought. Most can be cleaned and bandaged, but I'll need to stitch a few."

Fukuzawa nods, gritting his teeth as Mori begins applying disinfectant. "What about Elise, she's really alright?"

Mori knows he must tell him. "Yes, Elise is fine."

"How? How did she even get there?"

"Because . . . I summoned her."

"Summoned?"

"Yes. Elise is . . . not my daughter. She is the manifestation of my ability, an offensive and defensive one. She saved you because I made her incorporeal and summoned her."

'So I was saved because of his reflexes. I owe him my morality and now my life. The one thing I could give back to him he'd hardly want. What am I going to do?' Fukuzawa sighs, not displeased with his situation.

"Why . . . is she a little girl, if I may ask?"

Mori closes his eyes, he doesn't need them open to do the work he's so familiar with. Behind his eyelids are memories of simpler times. " . . . She takes the form of my younger sister. She died when we were young."

"How?" Fukuzawa regrets the question as soon as it leaves his mouth but he would like a distraction. 

"She was playing catch with some of her friends. I was on the balcony watching over them. The ball rolled into a dark alley. She was always braver than I was. She was so young she did not yet know to fear the dark. She chased after her ball, not knowing there was a gang deal going on. The criminals must've turned on each other, and then they started shooting. She was caught in the crossfire. I miss her dearly. Her carefree, emotional spirit was something I've always admired. I want it for myself, but instead, I've doomed myself to a life of logic. So I keep her with me to remind me of what it is to be human and why I myself must remain logical so I can direct and lead others."

Fukuzawa is completely still at this, barely feeling the needle as Mori works.

'That explains it then, why she's so mature and aloof. He made her an adult in a child's body, a version of his sister he knows won't be hurt.'

"I'm so sorry."

"Everyone is. My mother always wanted a girl, you see. She was devastated after Elise's death. I just felt . . . numb, and it was easier to keep feeling that way."

'But when I'm with you, everything feels so real, so beautiful, all this war and destruction. I can see beauty in the blackness, so real, and it's like a drug to me.' Mori says none of this to Fukuzawa, instead continuing to stitch in silence.

When every wound has been cleaned and stitched Fukuzawa looks like a child's old doll. Stitches on every limb. Mori bandages the cuts until he looks more mummy than a man.

Bandages are at the centre of this story.

Two government agents dress cuts from their latest mission. They will go on leave soon so the wife can have her first child. 

A 13-year-old bandages his wrist with a splint, sore and strained from honing his assassination skills.

A 12-year-old gets his scuffed knee bandaged by his father, a famous detective who does so while telling him all about blood spatters at crime scenes.

An 11-year-old girl with red hair contracts her ability to help wrap her right foot in bandages to play the part of an injured girl in a play.

A 9-year-old bandages his shin where another child in his school kicked him to the ground. He regrets going out and is afraid to leave his house again, but he has not yet given up completely.

Somewhere back on the mainland, a 4-year-old boy wraps himself almost completely in bandages to hide his already too numerous scars. 

Another 4-year-old is bound by bandages holding electrodes on his body as scientists poke and prod him. Who am I? Where am I? Why? He wonders, and an ancient voice whispers answers back to him. He is too young to understand it. He won't remember this later.

Yet another 4-year-old has his hands bandaged by his mother because he wouldn't stop scratching them, frustrated that he can't write like the other children.

A black and white-haired 2-year-old is rocked to sleep beside his infant sister, by his uncle who carries a shotgun in case ability traffickers or the police try to come for the two young children. The boy dreams of his mother dancing in sunflower fields.

Another 2-year-old sits in a rickety moth eaten crib and cries over his parents whose faces he can't clearly picture. Unbeknownst to him, there is a beast inside, a beast made of not one ability, but two. The last gifts his parents could give him.

For these children, the war must end.

Neither Mori nor Fukuzawa know any of these children yet, but they know the war has carried on for far too long.

When it's determined he has no concussion Fukuzawa is allowed to sleep. 

"Good luck, Yukichi" and Mori allows himself the shortest of kisses on the man's forehead.

-

Fukuzawa is sent to a hospital on the mainland where he spends the rest of the month recovering. When he is well enough to move comfortably he visits the children's ward and helps the nurses read them stories.

"Orphans of the war." a kind nurse tells him, "We work with the church to try to keep as many as we can but some end up in other seedier facilities."

Fukuzawa's most constant companion though, is a calico cat. A male calico, which makes him even more rare. The cat, Fukuzawa notes, seems oddly intelligent. But he's glad to have the furry companion.

-

Back on Tokoyami Island, Mori has had enough. Enough nights of Akiko's tears and soldiers trying to die so they don't have to return to the battle. He forms a plan for surrender. It's a good plan, an elegant plan. The officials are hearing none of it. 

"The immortal regimen is working, why quit now?"

"Can't you see?" he asks, "We are getting nowhere."

They reject his proposal. 

-

As the month ends Fukuzawa grows restless. There is only one way to end this war. He knows what must be done.

On the first morning of the new month, he discharges himself, giving a last head pat to his furry friend, and heading out.

With his back to the rising sun, he heads to the government building.

-

In two weeks he knows every one of their schedules by heart.

And one by one he slays them, disappearing in the fall fog before anyone knows they're dead. And he remembers the thrill of the blade, once again. 

When the news breaks from official after official falling dead no one suspects the kindly gentleman in the blue haori. Why should they?

-

Well, to say no one would be incorrect, there is one man, a simple army surgeon, who knows the truth.

When the news reaches Tokoyami a week after the killings begin, Mori knows exactly who is responsible. But he says nothing. And he thinks that Akiko knows as well, but she makes no mention of it. This is how she gets to go home.

When the last key official and their backer fall, the superiors, with no one to take orders from, are forced to surrender, recalling what few troops are left.

The war is over.

They can all go home, Mori, Akiko, . . . and Fukuchi. But Fukuchi will never truly leave the battlefield.

[republicsecurity]

Guardians of Unity: Forging the LifeGuards

As the young nation grapples with the need for consolidation and efficiency, disparate entities such as the volunteer Life Guards, elements of the Navy, Public Swimming Pools, Maritime Rescue, and Harbour Security converge to give birth to a singular force – the LifeGuards.

The film meticulously unravels the threads of history, weaving a narrative that explores the intricate dance between conscripts, volunteers, and dedicated staff. This fusion results in an organization primed for a myriad of responsibilities crucial to the nation's safety and well-being.

Aesthetics take center stage as the documentary delves into the conscious decision to cultivate a uniform identity. The iconic yellow shorts become a visual manifesto, a symbol of unity amidst diversity. Proudly displayed ID tattoos, etched into the skin of conscripts, serve as both a mark of allegiance and a testament to their vital role in the security framework.

The evolution of attire doesn't stop at the shorts. The film chronicles the transition from traditional uniforms to the cutting-edge yellow Armour Suits that emerge as a symbol of resilience and preparedness. This evolution mirrors the societal shift toward a structured and disciplined existence.

Through a seamless blend of archival footage, insightful interviews, and expert commentary, "Guardians of Unity" paints a vivid picture of a nation forging its path. It offers a glimpse into a unique societal structure where conscription, volunteerism, and a disciplined security force become the pillars upon which the Republic stands tall.

The documentary places a significant emphasis on the aesthetic evolution of uniforms within the LifeGuards, underscoring the visual language that shapes the identity of this formidable security force. From the iconic yellow shorts, a distinctive symbol of the LifeGuards, to the bare chest proudly displaying ID tattoos, each element of the uniform contributes to a powerful visual narrative.

The yellow shorts, worn with pride by conscripts, volunteers, and staff alike, become an unmistakable emblem of unity. Striking in their simplicity, they evoke a sense of collective purpose and shared commitment to safeguarding the Republic. The decision to pair these shorts with a bare chest serves a dual purpose – not only does it provide a canvas for the display of ID tattoos, but it also symbolizes the openness and transparency of the LifeGuards' mission.

On formal occasions, the documentary highlights the transition to yellow sailor suits, adding a touch of ceremony to the uniform repertoire. This shift signifies a seamless blend of discipline and tradition within the organization, showcasing a commitment to both contemporary efficiency and historical continuity.

However, the pinnacle of the LifeGuards' aesthetic identity is revealed in the yellow Armour Suits worn during ship duties and shore patrols. These high-tech suits, embodying resilience and preparedness, become an imposing symbol of the force's capability to adapt to the evolving needs of national security. The contrast between the simplicity of the shorts and the advanced technology of the Armour Suits encapsulates the dynamic nature of the LifeGuards' role.

Interviewer: "Mr. Johnson, as the chief designer behind the iconic yellow sailor suits for the LifeGuards, could you share the rationale behind choosing such a bold color?"

Mr. Johnson, with an air of authority: "Certainly. The choice of yellow was deliberate, a departure from the more traditional blue or black sailor suits you might associate with naval forces. Yellow signifies visibility and clarity, traits we deemed essential for the LifeGuards. In a sea of challenges, they stand out as beacons of vigilance and strength."

Interviewer: "And the decision to maintain a youthful, almost boyish appearance with these suits?"

Mr. Johnson, confidently: "Indeed, it's about creating a distinctive identity. The innocence associated with a boyish look is intentional. It projects an image of purity and dedication to duty, reminiscent of the youthful vigor that propels the LifeGuards forward. It's a visual reminder that behind the formidable force lies a sense of duty that's untainted and unwavering."

Interviewer: "The yellow shorts, coupled with a bare chest to display ID tattoos – what message does that convey?"

Mr. Johnson, with a hint of authority: "This combination serves multiple purposes. The bare chest symbolizes transparency – an openness that aligns with the LifeGuards' commitment to the Republic. It also provides an ideal canvas for the proud display of ID tattoos, reinforcing the individual's identity within the collective. In essence, it's about making a statement, visually and symbolically."

Interviewer: "How do you see the impact of these design choices on the overall perception of the LifeGuards?"

Mr. Johnson, decisively: "Our design choices aren't arbitrary; they're strategic. The aesthetic elements contribute to a narrative that goes beyond mere appearance. The visual language we've crafted communicates strength, unity, and tradition. It reinforces the LifeGuards' unique position as both a contemporary force and a custodian of the Republic's history. The impact is undeniable – a visual representation of duty, sacrifice, and an unwavering commitment to safeguarding the ideals we hold dear."

[kirnet]

Don’t Wake the Ancients - Epilogue

read on ao3 | previous chapter |

-

The days dragged on in endless monotony.

At least Dorotea was starting to get used to being underground, as much as she could. The whole Agency seemed to buzz around outside her door, writing reports and drawing her blood and spreading rumors on how Murphy had been brought down. Elidor, thankfully, never let the brunt of it pass the threshold of her room. They talked a lot, the fae humoring her every question and thought as she tried to distract herself from all the pinching needles.

“What’s in this, exactly?” she asked one evening, Elidor rubbing some ointment on her wounds while he changed her bandages.

His hand glided over the myriad of burns and cuts on her arm. “A collection of things. Yarrow, mostly.” The balm was cool on her skin. “Echo-touched. We harvest it from around portal sites, which enhances its natural properties. A necessity, since I can’t use spellwork to speed up your recovery. Imbued with magic yet still non magical, yes?” He thought for a second, and then added morosely, “I imagine they are the closest thing in either world to you now.”

They sat in silence after that.

Rebecca visited often, and for once, Dorotea didn’t pick a fight over it. Not yet, not while her very flesh still wanted to slide off of her bones. Their conversations steered professional, Rebecca updating her on her station and the comings and goings of Unit Bravo. They didn’t talk about Murphy, locked in a cell floor below her, trapped in some waking nightmare, just like they didn’t talk about the mist in Rebecca’s eyes.

“The results from your blood test came back,” she said after a length of silence. Rebecca stood in the center of the hospital room, a healthy distance from anything to lean on. “We… In truth, we have nothing to compare it to. You are something entirely new. But our best guess is that you are now truly immune to any supernatural effects, not just resistant.”

Dorotea struggled to sit up in bed. The click of Rebecca’s heels echoed through the room as she rushed forward to adjust the pillows. “So I’m a vampire now? Or some sort of mix?” It was a stupid question, but Dorotea had rubbed her tongue raw against her teeth, constantly searching for any changes. 

“No, no. You are still plainly human. And that’s what frightens me.” Rebecca’s hand came to rest on her daughter’s shoulder, her gold wedding band gleaming under the harsh lights. She chewed on her lip as she considered her next words. “The Agency will do its best to keep your condition under wraps, but that doesn't mean that supernaturals won’t be able to scent you. The majority are benevolent, but a few…” Her expression darkened as her finger brushed the bandages on Dorotea’s neck. “I don’t need to tell you that. I’m scared about what might happen to you.”

“It’s…” Dorotea didn't know how to answer. Instinctively, she angled her shoulder away, allowing her mother’s hand to fall. She wasn’t going to comfort her, not when she didn't know how to comfort herself. The first reaction was to say that it was fine, that it would figure itself out, but it wouldn’t. It wasn’t fine. Not Murphy’s invasion or Rebecca’s lifetime of secrets. “I’ll just have to learn to deal with it,” she said instead, jaw set. “I don’t have a choice.”

Rebecca drew her hand back to fold her arms. “I suppose that brings me to our next issue.”

“Surprise!” The door banged open with so much force it was a miracle the wall didn’t crack. Dozens of balloons entered before Farah and dozens entered after. She tried to wrangle them to one side of the room, pulling out one that read “Congrats!” and dragging it to the front. Nate sheepishly followed, a box of chocolate covered strawberries securely in his hands.

“I don’t think she’s actually accepted it yet,” he sighed with a shake of his head. His expression brightened when he set the box on Dorotea’s lap and sat on the edge of the bed. “But we hope you will.”

“Accept what?” Dorotea asked, not so confused that she couldn’t pilfer a berry. Morgan and Adam entered, clearly not as pleased to be here.

Wrinkles well beyond Rebecca’s age formed on her face as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “I was just about to get to that.” Farah backed into the cloud of balloons to hide from Rebecca’s glare. “The Council has come to a decision.” Something like a cough rattled around in her throat before she spoke again. “The Agency wants to extend you an offer for the role of Human Liaison.”

Dorotea leaned forward. Council? Since when has there been a council? She pushed that thought to the side and grasped one of the thousands of other questions swirling around in her mind. “Liaison? What exactly would that entail?”

“A middleman, essentially,” Nate clarified. “Wayhaven is awash in Echo World energy, this whole mountain range is, hence the need for an Agency outpost here. You would act as a mediator between the supernatural and human elements of your town.”

“Under Agency direction, of course.” Adam had found his usual spot in a corner. “Since you know of our existence we might as well make use of it, especially since you will need constant guard now.”

“I wanted them to offer you a position here, maybe in our science division, somewhere where you would be protected.” Rebecca shook her head before Dorotea could speak. “I know you would never accept it. You should feel honored that the Council sees such potential in you. It’s been some time since Wayhaven had a liaison of its own.”

“Do I get actual resources in this position? Actual power to push for what is best for the town?” Dorotea eyed Rebecca wearily. “Or is this just an attempt to placate me?”

She swore the sound that scraped against Adam’s lips was a laugh. “Is that even possible?”

Morgan popped her gum with disdain. “You’ll get use of agents, tools, research, anything you get clearance for. But you’ll be independent.” She gave her a peculiar look, though the meaning was clear as day. You’ll need to follow our lead, but you’re not owned by us.

Rebecca cleared her throat. “I’m sure this is overwhelming. We’ll give you time to consider-“

“I accept.”

A glimmer of pride shone in every vampire’s eye, even Adam’s, while Rebecca seemed to deflate. She quickly recovered, stoicism masking any minute emotion. “I’m not leaving my people defenseless, from outside threats or from you.”

“I see.” Rebecca clenched her jaw at the clear accusation. “I’ll inform the Council.” She strode out the room, Nate getting up to follow.

He dusted invisible lint from his pants. “She’s just trying to juggle her duties to the Agency and her duties to you. Perhaps there is no need to be so harsh.”

Dorotea was too tired for justifications or explanations. “Stay out of it,” she said tersely.

Nate frowned and slid from the room, Morgan on his heels. She gave Dorotea the slightest tilt of her chin before she disappeared into the hall.

“Congratulations, seriously.” Farah punched Dorotea in the shoulder. “But are you gonna make a habit of making things so awkward?”

“I’ve been told that I excel at it.” Dorotea smiled and half-wrapped her arm around Farah’s waist. “Thank you for all of this. It really livens up the place.”

Farah left, leaving only Adam. He approached the bed with slow, strong steps. “You will do well in your new role,” he said, looking at the wall. I have full confidence in that.”

“Thank you. For everything.” There was a beat of silence, Dorotea fiddling with the edge of a bandage and Adam remaining inhumanely still. “Though I’m sure you’re glad to be rid of me. Do you know who your replacements will be? You mentioned constant guarding.”

“There are no replacements,” he said, an edge to his voice. “Agent Langford requested a permanent transfer. We are to become Wayhaven’s resident unit.”

“Oh.” Really? These were supposed to be highly trained agents, not standard bodyguards. Surely their talents were much better suited somewhere that wasn’t sitting on her couch as she slept. Then again, that hadn’t worked the last time. It didn’t make her feel any safer. “I’m sorry.”

Adam’s gaze snapped to her. “What for?”

“You despise Wayhaven. I’m sorry for keeping you here.“ She shrugged. “I understand it can be hard to love, especially if you’re used to more grand places.” Dorotea had hardly ever set foot out of the state, never mind the country. Even her exotic choice of college had been located within the mountains. Wayhaven was too rural and plain for a man with Adam’s rich accent. 

“A place is just a place. Wayhaven is one of many.” In an all too-human gesture, Adam scratched the back of his neck, probably itching a stubborn patch of skin still blistering from the explosion. “My personal distaste has no effect on how I perform my duties.”

Dorotea lifted a bruised brow. “I don’t need a comment,” Adam grumbled, closing the gap. He stuck a hand out, his palm like smooth porcelain, unmarred by any of the toil of human life. “Shall we try this again?”

Trembling from pain and disuse, Dorotea stuck her bandaged, blistered hand out, slid it into Adam’s, and shook. 

-

Farah wasn’t the only one to surprise Dorotea with balloons.

After long weeks of healing where her ectoderm finally remained attached to her skin without reminding, she returned to the station. It wasn’t a total surprise, not with Tina around, but a few grateful tears pricked the corners of Dorotea’s eyes nonetheless. The largest miracle was that Tina had managed to whittle the guest list down to only a few handfuls that Dorotea could actually relax around. “I had to tell most people you’re due back next week,” she giggled, looping a party hat under Dorotea’s chin and placing it on top of her cattleman.

And she was thankful for it. The bandages had come off, leaving the two jagged scars that ran down her throat in full display. The official story was a car accident. Dorotea had caught Dr. Murphy - the real killer, the one who had planted any and all evidence incriminating Lance - with the help of Unit Bravo. She had followed the escort to the city to be processed by whatever government entity the town thought the Agency was. Her bravery was rewarded by a t-bone at an intersection, the other driver distracted by a text. She had barely gotten out alive, her neck sliced open by the shards of her window. No one asked for further detail, all just relieved that she was walking now. Some, like Verda’s husband, Eric, pretended not to eye her as she cut a slice from one of Hayley’s cakes.

They were ugly scars. She’d have to get used to the looks.

Beer bottles were opened and the food table was devoured. Even Captain Sung chimed in, resting a firm hand on her shoulder. “Good work,” he said, pride beaming from every word, before his expression shuttered close. He turned to Tina. “I want every piece of confetti cleaned up by noon tomorrow.” He took a plate to go.

Douglas and Tina filled her in on every coming and going of what had happened in her absence, Verda interjecting when the tales got too hyperbolic. A coal plant deep in the woods had exploded, they raved, kicking up a black toxic haze before it had been put out. This was treated with equal importance as David Arbuckle tripping and landing into yet another woman’s lap.

“Not having fun?” Dorotea asked when she finished her rounds.

Spots of whipped cream from the cake still flecked the corner of Lance’s mouth, rising as Dorotea pulled a chair over to sit beside him. “Nothing of the sort.”

“Really? ‘Cause usually you would have thrown Verda’s girls into every available soft surface by now.” For a giant, Lance knew how to hide. He had spent most of the party in Dorotea’s office, occasionally shuffling out only to grab more food or another beer. Dorotea leaned her elbows on her knees, groaning when every part of her body protested. “What’s wrong?”

Lance chewed on a piece of tri-tip for a long while, his glassy blue eyes fixed on the party just outside the door. “You don't wanna ask me that. Go enjoy your shindig.”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.” She caught Lance’s hand before he could bring the beer bottle to his mouth. “I am so, so sorry for ruining your reputation, Lance. I was fooled by that bastard like a God-damned idiot.” Dorotea curled her fingers around his as they watched Verda frantically wipe frosting from his youngest’s hands before she could reach for Tina’s desk. Just because he had been cleared didn’t mean that people wouldn’t talk and suspect. This would stain his character for the rest of his life.

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for. He was the one who tried to set me up, not you. You were just doing your job,” Lance rumbled, casually brushing her betrayal aside. He rolled his shoulders as his hollow gaze swept to her. “People will talk. It ain’t nothing I’m not used to.”

“What I did was wrong. I’m still sorry.”

He offered a weak smile. “And I appreciate that. More than you know.”

“I’m…” Lance hunched forward, and for a horrible moment Dorotea was down the hall, trapped in the closet they called an interrogation room, Lance melting right in front of her. He snapped back to himself, his toe tapping against the floor. “I’m having these dreams.”

Dorotea stilled as he continued. “Dreams about the woods, and you, and those agents.” He winced, a muscle feathering in his jaw like Adam had just shocked him with the stun gun again. “About that Greenland woman. Awful things.” Palms up, he looked down at his hands, his voice quivering. “Did I hurt her?”

It would be kindest to lie. Lance was as much of a victim as Kenny or Garret. Whatever terror Janet had felt as she thrashed against him, screaming into the night, her camera ripped from her shoulder, was not his fault.

But he had hurt her. And Dorotea had never been a liar. “You didn’t have a choice.”

Lance nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He didn’t ask how she could possibly know, nor what that meant. He wrapped his arms around Dorotea and buried his nose in her shoulder. “When did you get older than me, missy?”

Dorotea ignored the wet spots growing on her shirt collar and hugged him tighter. 

-

Lance wouldn’t let her go alone, not after she had been jumped by Kenny and was still recovering from her wounds, so Dorotea brought him to the graveyard with her. But she wanted privacy, so he agreed to stand a few yards away, his breath fogging the air as he stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets.

The snow crunched under her boots as Dorotea hobbled Garret’s gravestone, careful not to drop the beer or the piece of cake in her hands. 

She had missed the funeral. They had laid him to rest the second the Agency gave the all clear on Dorotea’s behalf. It was for the best; Kate, and everyone, needed closure. She could imagine the whole town draped in black, Kenny and Paul standing in silence for the first time in their lives, noses upturned, as the casket lowered beneath the ground. 

God, Garret would have hated it. He was too young for such reverent morbidity. He should be arguing with Douglas about whether Batman or Ironman was the superior comic billionaire, his squeaky, seldom loud voice echoing through the station.

Dorotea knelt down and then awkwardly fell to her bottom. The cake bounced on its paper plate, Hayley’s beautiful icing work smearing. When she had shuffled into a sitting position that was decently comfortable in the snow, she set her items down. “I know this isn’t the happiest reunion,” she said as she pulled the party hat from her head, her voice thick from the cold. She set it on top of the gravestone. “But I didn’t want to leave you out of the festivities.”

She talked about everything and nothing while she picked a cake slice apart with a tiny plastic spoon she had pocketed. Her second piece of the night, but she had almost bled to death, so she felt she earned the extra sugar. She told him about the agents, how annoying they were, how much she was glad that none of them had been seriously hurt. She updated him on his mother, on his friends, on the changing of the weather as winter took hold and tumbled into spring. “We caught him,” she finally grasped, her plate full of crumbs. “He won’t hurt anyone else. And I’m not gonna let anyone else get hurt like you did. I promise.”

Dorotea forced out a low laugh. “There, all that serious stuff is over now. Since you were complaining about not going out to the bar-“ she fished the bottle opener on her keyring and popped the beer cap off, “- I thought I might bring you something.” She took a swig before clearing some snow away and pouring what remained onto the dirt. “Your first drink. Don’t tell your mother.”

She stood, eyes and nose burning, her wet jeans sticking uncomfortably to her skin. With stiff joints, she picked up her trash and shuffled back towards Lance, pausing only to brush some snow from her father’s headstone.

-

While she felt leagues better than she had only a few days ago, Dorotea’s body protested as she hauled herself up her steps.

The Agency had completely repaired her apartment, Rebecca had told her, patching drywall and replacing windows, and much to Mr. Brian’s delight, he hadn’t had to pay for any of it. A freak gas leak and resulting explosion, they had told him. Despite the lack of signs of any actual fire, Mr. Brian agreed and told anyone who would listen about the terrifying blast and the great savings he had managed to negotiate. 

Dorotea had to admit that they did a wonderful job. Every single thing was back in its place. The couch had been replaced with a newer one, the upholstery clean and vibrant. Her knickknacks lined the shelves, pieced back together with museumlike quality, the glue seams only apparent when she ran her fingers over its surface. The guitar seemed to bear the brunt of the damage. All of the strings had finally snapped, and its surface was covered in gouges and soot. It was the only thing not repaired or replaced.

Good, she thought. It had been placed lovingly back into its spot, proudly facing out to the rest of the apartment. 

Dorotea limped towards the kitchen but stopped when something caught her eye. It was the only thing out of place in the entire apartment.

The package left on her table was flat and wrapped in plastic. No postage or shipping address was on its front, but there was a note taped to it, written in a looping script.

We found no evidence of the supernatural in these. A copy has been sent to Greenland’s family as well. I know you’ll appreciate the beauty, even in their damaged state.

Thank you for everything,and looking forward to workingwith you further,

-UB

Brows knit together, Dorotea undid the plastic and moved a piece of thick cardboard to the side. She pulled a sheaf of glossy papers out, gasping as she leafed through the contents.

Janet Greenland’s photographs had been intended to be black and white captures of the Appalachian landscape, transporting the viewer back into a time of horse-drawn buggies and oil lanterns, the ancient forests remaining nearly unchanged for all of human history. But days at the bottom of Wayhaven’s lake had altered them completely. Entire swaths of some of the images were erased to white, while spots, swirls of ink, and other damage marred the other bits. Some were completely unintelligible, reduced to abstract shapes that left Dorotea guessing at their origin. Many, however, kept the ghost of their previous shapes. She could spot the outline of trees in between the wreckage, or a glimpse of a boat pulled onto shore, or the uneven slats of a rotting wood cabin. 

The focus was clearly on the natural world, on the flora that surrounded them, but the last image was different. To someone unfamiliar with Wayhaven it would have looked like another mess of ink spots and smears, but to Dorotea it was clear as day. 

The town square was largely faded and pulled apart into abstraction, but Dorotea had stood in this very spot enough times to know what every shaky line meant. That was Hayley’s bakery, the window decorated with painted-on snowflakes, willing winter to come on time. And there was Paul’s car, with his bent side view mirror that Dorotea had reminded him of countless times. There was the little library, the librarian’s shadow in the window, and the post office, the tiny grocery store.

It was Wayhaven in all its messy, ruined glory. Dorotea put the other photographs down on the table, keeping the last one in her hand. She held her arm straight out, switching from squinting at the photo to the wall behind it as she slowly spun around. At last she found a spot that satisfied her. Yes, it would be perfect. 

She’d clear that section of wall tomorrow, after a shower and a meal and some heavy sleep. And she’d have to get it framed before she could hang up.

Dorotea shucked off her boots and went about her tasks with a soft smile, ready for whatever tomorrow might bring.

[ledmyplace]

The Bright Future: Exploring the Benefits of LED Corn Bulbs !!!

In recent years, the lighting industry has undergone a revolution, primarily driven by advancements in LED technology. Among the various LED products that have emerged, LED corn bulbs stand out due to their unique design and exceptional efficiency. Named for resembling an ear of corn, these bulbs quickly become a favorite for those seeking energy-efficient and long-lasting lighting solutions. In this blog, we will explore the myriad benefits of Cab Corn Lights, shedding light on why they are a bright choice for residential and commercial lighting.

A Glimpse into LED Corn Bulbs

LED corn bulbs are characterized by their cylindrical shape, covered with rows of small, light-emitting diodes (LEDs) that resemble corn kernels. This design allows for 360-degree illumination, providing a uniform and extensive light spread. Unlike traditional bulbs, which often focus light in a single direction, LED corn bulbs ensure that every corner of the space is brightly lit, making them ideal for various applications.

Unmatched Energy Efficiency

One of the most significant advantages of LED corn bulbs is their energy efficiency. LEDs, in general, consume significantly less power than traditional incandescent and even compact fluorescent lamps (CFLs). A typical LED corn bulb can provide the same light as an incandescent bulb while using up to 80% less energy. This substantial reduction in energy consumption translates to lower electricity bills, making LED corn bulbs an economical choice for homes and businesses.

Long Lifespan

Another compelling benefit of LED corn bulbs is their impressive lifespan. While traditional bulbs tend to burn out after a few thousand hours of use, LED corn bulbs can last anywhere from 25,000 to 50,000 hours. This extended lifespan means fewer replacements, reducing the hassle and cost of frequent bulb changes. Switching to LED corn bulbs can result in substantial long-term savings in commercial settings, where lighting maintenance can be a significant expense.

Superior Light Quality

LED corn bulbs offer excellent light quality, characterized by high color rendering index (CRI) values. The CRI measures a light source's ability to reproduce colors accurately compared to natural light. LED corn bulbs typically have a CRI of 80 or higher, ensuring colors appear vibrant and accurate to life. This feature is particularly important in retail stores, art galleries, and other environments where accurate color representation is crucial.

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Environmental Benefits

Switching to LED corn bulbs also has significant environmental benefits. Traditional incandescent bulbs and CFLs contain hazardous materials like mercury, which can harm human health and the environment if not disposed of properly. In contrast, LED corn bulbs are free of toxic substances, making them a safer and more environmentally friendly option. Furthermore, their energy efficiency means reduced carbon emissions from power plants, reducing overall environmental impact.

Instant Illumination and Dimmability

Unlike traditional lighting options that require a warm-up period to reach full brightness, LED corn bulbs provide instant illumination at full intensity. This feature is particularly advantageous in settings where immediate lighting is essential, such as security lighting or emergencies. Moreover, many LED corn bulbs are compatible with dimmer switches, allowing for customizable lighting levels to suit different activities and moods. This flexibility further enhances their appeal for both residential and commercial use.

Reduced Heat Emission

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Cost-Effectiveness in the Long Run

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Conclusion: Lighting the Way Forward

As we continue to seek sustainable and efficient lighting solutions, LED corn bulbs emerge as a frontrunner in the industry. Their unique design, exceptional energy efficiency, long lifespan, superior light quality, and environmental benefits make them an ideal choice for a wide range of applications. Whether for residential or commercial use, LED corn bulbs offer a bright and sustainable future, illuminating spaces with both efficiency and elegance.

In a world increasingly focused on sustainability and energy conservation, embracing LED technology is a step in the right direction. With their numerous advantages, LED corn bulbs exemplify the potential of modern lighting solutions to enhance our lives while reducing our environmental footprint. As more people switch to LEDs, the future looks brighter and more energy-efficient than ever.