#because I think of the desperation of Knives trying to get the cube

[trigun-archive]

Omg, I just realized something that’s not gonna add much to the narrative or if anyone has noticed it.

Here we go.

So basically in episode 12, Vash did his girlboss move of flinging himself and Nai over the ledge.

And as they’re falling, I noticed something:

To me, this reminds of the Yin Yang symbol:

Then I remember that one post where someone mentioned where Vash in episode 12 wore the colors of ‘evil’ (black and purple).

Knives wore the colors of ‘good’ (white and blue).

They’re polar opposites of one another.

And that got me thinking more in depth with their relation with Yin Yang.

Obviously everyone is familiar with two sides of the same coin. It’s the same idea with Yin Yang, they’re polar opposites but they complement each other.

As part of the Naruto fandom (*groans*, I know I know). But hear me out, lots of symbolism that is related to Naruto and Sasuke is their relation to the sun and moon respectively.

Naruto is the sun. The Yang per say, because he is bright, aggressive and masculine. His respective color is orange.

While Sasuke is the moon. The Yin, because he is with the shadows, silent and feminine. His respective color is purple.

If you read the Naruto manga, then you would see how much Kishimoto bashes your head in with their respective symbolism, it’s in the cover art, the parallelism in the panels. It even showed up as their respective symbols on their hands after the ceremony for the final battle.

Back to TriStamp.

I believe they put Knives as Yang. He is aggressive and very in your face with his conquests of taking back the Plants. He is very muscular, and it’s shown through his tight bodysuit.

Then they would put Vash as Yin. He is way less aggressive with his morals than his previous counterparts. Obviously he still has them, but he is less forthcoming. His entire character design has changed, as everyone says with his non-binary haircut.

But in certain scenes, he still has those broad shoulders and managed to lift a fucking ion cannon enough to break his prosthetic arm. So, my babygirl is still fucking strong, hmph.

It’s even mentioned that the director of TriStamp has said Vash is both the female and male lead.

Same thing with Sasuke, some Studio Perriot staff has stated that he is the heroine of the story.

Obviously Naruto and Sasuke’s relationship heavily implies they’re in love with each other and soulmate coded to the max.

(Ha, get it? Trigun MAXimum??)

(. . ., I’ll see myself out).

But they did a different relationship of Yin Yang:

Twins.

Knives wanted desperately Vash to be the ‘perfect’ version that he envisioned. Taking away Vash’s bodily autonomy.

Vash just wanted to have ‘love and peace’ in the world. He didn’t want to fight Knvies, but he would defend his loved ones.

Until during episode 12, when he was ready to go in guns blazing to take down Knives.

With the color palette of black and purple against Knives’s white and blue.

Purple is the combination of red and blue. Vash’s red jacket and part of Knives’s color palette.

But also in the end, when Vash wanted to shoot that cube up in the sky.

He still wanted to save his brother, even though Knives was rejecting it by reaching to the absolute power of the cube and what it would bring him and Plant kind.

An Icarus-esque trope per say.

But yeah, anyways, this was just a jumble of thoughts I had to immediately write this down.

[mynumberfivethings]

I Heard A Rumor...

They land back in 2019, which is a relief, of course, until it’s not. 

“What the fuck even is the Sparrow Academy?” Diego grouses. “Lame ass bird fucks.” he chucks one of his knives across the cramped motel room they’re currently occupying and watches it get lodged firmly into the tacky wallpaper. 

Allison grabs the second knife Diego’s about to fling out of his hand and glares  daggers at her brother. “We’re staying here for free, because I rumored the motel staff into not noticing we exist, so maybe don’t wreck the place?” 

Luther nods in agreement. “Allison’s right, we need to be as inconspicuous as possible right now.” 

Diego rolls his eyes. “Whatever. So Five, now what?” the siblings all go to turn to Five for the answers they’re so desperately seeking, only to be met with the sight of the pseudo thirteen year old laid curled up on one of the beds, sound asleep. 

Luther frowns. “How in the hell can he seriously sleep at a time like this?” 

Allison leans over Fives still form and not so gently shakes his shoulder, jarring him awake. She feels a little guilt upon seeing the initially panicked look on his face as he comes to awareness once again, but damn it, she just wants to see her kid again, is that too much to ask? 

“We need to figure out a way to get back to our timeline.” she tells him, arms folded over her chest.

Five scratches the sleep from his eyes, unaware he’d even passed out in the first place, wincing as he sits up fully on the mattress. “This is our timeline.” he informs all of them, his voice coming out scratchy and thin. God, he’s exhausted. And practically everything aches. 

“What do you mean?” Klaus shakes his head. “In our timeline Ben is very much dead-not some weird emo douche who flocks with a crew of birds-so please do explain how the actual hell this makes any sense.” 

Five sighs, “We changed the linear time of events and the order in which they were supposed to originally occur when we were in the sixties and now this is, for all intents and purposes, our timeline.” 

“Screw that. We need to reestablish our actual timeline.” Allison counters. “I’m not staying in this weird alternate bullshit dimension any longer than we have to-we still have the suitcase, right? Let’s go back to the sixties and fix what we broke. Easy.” 

Five looks at her like she’s lost her mind. Which, she very well may have, he thinks briefly. “Look, I know you want to see Claire again, but you need to consider-”

“No.” Allison interrupts angrily, tears starting to fill her eyes. “You don’t understand at all. How the hell could you? You haven’t had anyone for years, but me? I’ve had people, people I care about-which might be a foreign concept to someone like you, but-” 

“Right,” Five cuts her off in turn, unwilling to linger on the sting her words have caused. “I just need time to-” 

“Time? Haven’t you had enough of that, already?” Suddenly the room is engulfed in complete and utter darkness and the Hargreeves go into high alert, trying to figure out where the hell that voice is coming from. 

Could it be one of the Sparrow Academy heroes? Could they have followed them to the outskirts of town? 

“Show yourself, you coward!” Diego shouts, knives at the ready to attack their intruder. 

A flash of thunder illuminates the room for only a split second before the lights come back on and the Hargreeves find themselves frozen in place, unable to move even a muscle, try as they might. 

Save for one: Five. 

“What the hell...” he mutters, as he watches his siblings struggle to try and move from their positions. 

“Now, Allison.” that same disturbing voice commands. 

Allisons eyes go wide as her mouth begins to move without her permission and out come the words, “I heard a rumor you killed your brothers and sisters.” 

They watch with dawning horror as Fives eyes roll to the back of his head and turn an off shade of blue before he seamlessly plucks Diegos knife from where it was embedded in the wall earlier and faces his family, where they stand, helpless. 

“Shit!” Diego curses, trying in vain to move even a single digit. 

Vanya tries to conjure her own powers but finds that she can’t for some reason. “Five...” she calls out, knowing it’s futile. 

Five blinks over to Klaus first, who yelps in surprise, he barely has time to beg Five to reconsider when Five brings the knife down-

There’s boisterous screaming and panicked yelling and general chaos and Klaus is so sure this is it, that Five has plunged the knife straight into his heart and done away with him, until he opens his eyes and realizes nothing is protruding out of him...

Instead, Five has thrust the knife into his own leg. He’s breathing hard, his trembling fingers still hovering over the hilt of the weapon. 

The disembodied voice booms, “Allison!” 

And Allison curses, but she can’t stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. “I heard a rumor you stabbed me in the jugular.” 

Fives eyes go pale blue for a second time and without even flinching he takes the knife out of his upper thigh and blinks so that he’s facing Allison this time. 

They can all see him struggling, perspiring, fighting against the rumor as he brandishes the knife in one hand, raising it up above his head slowly. 

Allison tries to let out another rumor, a contradicting rumor, perhaps, the way she had done when Five had been in front of Klaus, but again, the words get stuck in her throat. 

Whatever being is in the room is in total control of her powers... 

Allison feels something collide with her neck but it’s not the sharp sting of a knife she’s expecting. It’s Five’s forearm against her, protecting her from his own attack as he shoves the knife directly into his flesh. He’s panting now, with the force that it’s taken him not to obey her mind control. 

“Kill them.” the voice demands angrily. 

“Fuck you.” Five bites out through clenched teeth. 

As if those were the magic words, the voice departs and the Hargreeves can feel their limbs and move about once again, the tense atmosphere dissipating. 

“Holy shit!” Klaus gasps out, “What the fuck, Jesus!” 

Five grunts as he removes the knife from his forearm and wields it threateningly. “Allison,” he practically begs, his voice strained. “Unrumor me. Now.” 

Allison is more than happy to comply, hurriedly saying, “I heard a rumor you didn’t want us dead.” 

The knife clatters as it hits the floor and Five collapses next to it a second later, exhausted and hurting something awful. 

“Shit,” Diego grabs a bunch of hand towels from the bathroom and kneels down. “We gotta stop the bleeding.” He presses two towels against the stab wound on Fives forearm and Vanya grabs the rest to press against the one on his thigh. 

Five tenses up beneath them, his face scrunching up in pain. “Fuck!” 

“I saw a first aid kit in the lobby by the front desk, I’ll go get it!” Allison calls out, already halfway out the door in her haste. 

“Should we move him to the bed?” Luther asks, hovering over his siblings, concern and anxiety eating away at him. 

Diego curses. The hand towels are drenched in blood already. They need to stop the bleeding and soon, or else. “Elevate his leg.” he orders, letting Luther help Vanya try to stem the bleeding there. “Klaus, go get more towels from one of the maids if you can.” Klaus scurries to obey while the others continue to put pressure on Fives multiple injuries. 

Klaus and Allison arrive back at the motel room almost simultaneously, one with a stack of clean towels in their arms and the other with a giant red box in hand. 

With the extra towels and the supplies from the medical kit, they’re somehow able to stop the bleeding long enough to move Five up to the bed. Luther’s extremely gentle as he transfers him from one spot to the other. 

When it’s time to stitch him up, Vanya and Klaus volunteer to do it. Five is too exhausted, both mentally and physically to pretend to be stoic about any of this. He throws his good arm across his face, shielding his eyes from the light. 

“What do you guys think that was?” Luther asks the room at large, when the silence stretches on too long. 

Klaus doesn’t look up from where he’s threading his needle on Fives thigh, replying dryly. “Yet another person place or thing that wants us dead?” 

Diego scoffs. “It’s gotta be one of those Sparrow fuckheads. Who the hell else? I bet it was that goddamn cube-I still can’t believe dad adopted a fucking cube-Christ.” 

“Whatever it was, it was in control of my powers.” Allison frowns deeply. “When I tried to unrumor Five nothing came out-even when I tried rumoring one of you into being able to move again, so that at least we would stand a fighting chance against our little serial killer over here, nothing.” 

Vanya nods, “Same here. I tried to use my powers but it was like there was some kind of a block or something? Like when I was still taking those prescription pills.” She looks at Fives pale face-what she can see of it, from underneath his forearm-and risks the question, “Five, how did you manage not to....you know...?” As someone who’s had first hand experience being unwillingly rumored by their sister, she knows it’s not something one can easily brush off. 

Quite frankly, it’s a miracle they’re all still breathing... 

“Yeah, I thought for sure we were dead.” Diego walks over and playfully ruffles the top of Fives messy hair. “Good job not making yourself an only child.” he jokes, freezing entirely when in response to his teasing Five lets out what can only be described as a faint whimper. 

“Five?” 

“I almost killed everyone.” Five struggles to get the full sentence out, his breath hitching. “Fuck.” he curses, unable to stifle a sob. It’s a pathetically sad little noise, but it brings the rest of his siblings to his side immediately. 

“Hey,” Allison kneels down beside the bed and places a careful hand on his knee. She feels him flinch underneath her. “You resisted my rumor-twice. Do you know how rare that is? You saved us.” 

Five scrubs his face with the sleeve of his white button up shirt and finally uncovers his eyes. They’re red and puffy from crying, eyelashes wet with his tears. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.” he admits brokenly. “I can’t lose you guys again.” 

“Shit Five,” Diego leans down and briefly touches their foreheads together, the palm of his hand cupping Fives head. “You’re not alone, we’re right here. Not going anywhere.” 

Vanya nods determinedly. “That’s right. You’re stuck with us.” 

Luther towers over the group with a faint but genuine smile. “You know, I always figured you loved us, but I guess I didn’t realize the extent until today.” 

Five sniffles, wiping away more tears he can’t seem to stop from coming. “I would trade you all up for a decent cup of coffee.” he lies, feeling more exposed than he has in literal years. 

Klaus smirks. “Nuh uh, no take backs, Fivey. You loooooove us.” 

Five rolls his eyes but it doesn’t have quite the same effect it normally would, considering the fact that he is still very much crying. 

Allison clears her throat, squeezes his knee again, this time to get his attention, and says, “And we love you. I’d ask if you know that, but honestly I think the answer would make me too sad.” she sighs. “Five, I’m really sorry about what I said before-I was taking all my frustrations out on you and I spoke carelessly, without thinking.” 

Five shakes his head, overwhelmed. “It’s ok.” 

“It’s not.” Allison insists. “Five, I don’t know if anyone’s said this yet, but I think it’s long overdue. I’m so happy to see you again. I missed you, you know. A ton.” 

Five didn’t think he was childish enough to still need to hear such silly sentimental things. He’s not the type, he’s tried to convince himself. It’s not as though he was expecting some big tearful family reunion upon his arrival, after all. So he wasn’t crushed or anything when his return was met with little more than perhaps confused contemptment. He had things to do, apocalypses to stop and all that jazz. 

That’s what he told himself, of course. 

But it doesn’t ring very true now, not when he can’t help but let out another sob. 

He’s too old for this, he thinks, as Diego pulls him gently to his side and Allison grabs hold of his hand. 

He doesn’t need them to love him back, he thinks, as Klaus finishes taping up his wound with a tenderness only reserved for those he loves, as Vanya wraps gauze around his forearm with care. 

He’s been fine all this time, he thinks, even as Luther says, “Good to have you back, Five.” 

It’s good to be back, he thinks, turning his head so that it’s buried against Diego’s shoulder when he lets out another sob. 

.

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

“SHOULD I TRY?”

Gilly Lopez x Reader

Serie Index. Chapter 5.

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: NSFW 'cause maybe has a little of explicit violence.

Thanks to my lovely beta reader @chibsytelford 💘

Author Comments: I hope you all enjoy. The gif isn’t mine.

Tag list: @starrynite7114 ​ @chibsytelford ​ @dazzledamazon ​ @mara-mpou ​ @sammskellington ​ @gemini0410 ​ @1-800-imagines ​ @briana-mishell24 ​ @sassymox @whyisgmora @aquamento @sadeyesgf @viviansafizada @samcrobae @jade770 @losolvidad0s ✨ (if you wanna be tagged, send me a message!)

Something unexpected hits your nape hard, making you fall to the floor bumping it with your head. All you feel is pain shaking your body with your eyes filled with tears. You want to fight, you want to get up, but the coup have get you knock out. Your eyelids are falling till the darkness envelops you and the last face you can see is Gilly's. 

┅┅ ┅ ┅ ┅┅

Your breath is calmed, starting to feel somewhat awake with the throat dried and a metallic taste between your teeth. You cough moving your head slight, opening your eyes slowly. The grief is back shaking your body with little lashes. Everything is blurred, trying to focus your gaze and find out where you are. But everything you can know is that your hands are tied, finding it when you're about to rub your forehead. You look at both wrist, with black esparto ropes wrapping them on a rusted headboard. Wooden walls around you, furniture full of cobwebs. There's also a skylight at the end of the room, on the ceiling, almost covered by a dirty blanket. You don't have to be so smart to know that you're in an attic. But, where?

Your pulse accelerates when you're able to hear some heavy steps going upstairs, opening the door with a screeching sound too annoying for your ears. Then, you see him. Carrying on his lips the same smile that one day made you fall in love loudly. You can't believe this is truly happening. Every single inch of your body contracts in tension, feeling the rage running through your veins when he takes a seat on the edge of the bed. You want to hit him, but then you also figure out that your ankles are tied too.

“This is the part when you beg for your life”. He says with a jocular tone in his voice.

And when he thinks you're about to reply something, you spit his face. Bad move. The man slaps you with the back of his hand, breaking your lower lip by the left side because of the impact his ring makes on it.

“My brother will cut you into pieces to feed his dogs”. You chuckles, 'cause even if you're terrified, you're not going to show him.

“My back is well covered, mi amor”. He laughs loud, shaking his head for a second. “And you're gonna pay for betraying me”.

His right fist goes straight to your temple, provoking you an incessant and painful buzz till you finally lose the conscience again.

(Meanwhile at Mayans Clubhouse)

“We will find her”. Marcos says full of anger, narrowing Gilly's shoulder trying to stay calm.

“Is there any place he could go?”

“We asked to the cops of Tijuana. That son of a bitch has a property close to the east border, between the mountains”. José runs to the crew, with a record on his hand with all the information he received from Mexico.

“Let's fuck up that cabrón”. Angel says throwing away his cigar to get ready to ride his bike.

Gilly went this morning to bring you some breakfast and spend your day off together, but when he came to your house Alex told him that you went to throw the trash and she never came back. Your house-mates thought that you went to Gilly's house. Of course, he suspected that something was wrong, walking next to the trash cubes, finding there your keys. The first thing he did was call Bishop.

━━━━━━ ﹅ ━━━━━━

Mayans and Coyotes aren't stupid. The play smart leaving the bikes almost half a kilometer away, to not call the attention with the roar of his engines. They're all carrying different weapons. Shotguns, smalls hand guns, knives, even an AK-47 Marcus gave them. Dressing with dark clothes and bulletproofs vests, the bikers are more than ready to storm the house. Their steps become slow, hiding between the woods to have a look of the rustic house in the middle of nowhere, with a sport car parking next to the porch. Bishop looks at Marcos, who is rolling his eyes 'cause he knows how foreseeable he can be. That's why they never accepted in Los Coyotes de Tijuana.

Gilly wants to take the first step, but Coco stops him. If he goes inside first, everything could go wrong. Miguel walks bent over towards the windows having a quick look, to indicate that no one's on the first floor. Everything clean. 

“Jorge, Tano, back yard” Marcos whispers then. “Mayans, with me”.

“Gilly and Tranq, you stay here, watching if someone else is coming”. Bishop indicates.

“You're gonna have to put a bullet between my eyebro', if you want me to stay here, man”. Gilly says pushing his chest, before getting up to walk outside the woods following his brother-in-law.

┅┅ ┅ ┅ ┅┅

“Despierta, mi amor”. 

A cascade of cold water falls into your face and your mouth, making you drown for a while coughing with some difficulties, shaking your head and stirring your whole body. Your temple still hurting, as your wrists and ankles with the ties pressing and burning slightly your skin with every move, trying to get free. You can see Antonio leaving the empty glass of water on the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking your chin with two fingers.

“I know you still love me, but your dear Marquitos turned you against me”.

“He did nothen' and I don' love you anymore, you fuckin' bastard”. You spit him again, without worrying about the fact the he can hit you another time. But he laughs, so loud that terrifies you more than the silence.

“You just had to learn how to love me properly”.

“How? Ah? Punching me till almost kill me? You're fuckin' sick, Antonio. And you're gonna pay for all of this”. 

“When your new friends find this place, we will be so, so, so far away, mi amor”. He says then, caressing your swollen cheek with the back of his fingers. “And you will also carrying my child”.

“The fuc' are you talking 'bout?” You try hard to not show the tremble that shakes your voice.

“Sh... Relax, mi niña. You're gonna enjoy, for the old times”.

┅┅ ┅ ┅ ┅┅

“House clean!” Coco yells, being reunited with both crews at the hall.

“Shit!” Alejandro curses exhausted.

“Where the fuck he can be?” Taza asks facing Marcos with somewhat calm.

“I don' know... Did you register the car?”

“It's clean too, presidente”. José says shrugging with a gun in his hand.

“Another house, another property?” Bishop asks then desperate, trying to figure it out.

“I think... (Y/N) said something about... a cabin close to Mexico, the night at the hospital”. Jaime is trying to remember your words, not knowing of who could be the owner. 

“What about Sancho?” Alejandro turns to Marcos.

“Who's Sancho?” Gilly takes another step closer to the mexican charter.

“His boss. That perro has somewhat like a house in surroundings Mexico DF”.

“How much time?”

“Two and a half. Maybe two hours if we're fast enough”.

“Then run for her fuckin' life!” Gilly shouts, keeping his gun behind his back.

┅┅ ┅ ┅ ┅┅

The tears are falling down running your cheeks and your neck. You can feel the stabbing pain in your low belly because of his bites, dragging his teeth over your skin wetting it. He didn't touch you yet, he's enjoying torturing you and laughing at your terrified gestures and your begs to him for stop. You claimed for help, believing that someone could hear you, but nobody came. 

Antonio pulls down your pajama shorts, licking his lips with burning lust inside his orbs. He's ready to enjoy your body, even if you're praying him to not hurt you, trying to gain some time with the hope you can break free somehow as your brother taught you, when you were younger. Maybe dislocating your thumb, so you can strain a hand by the tie. Painful, but successful.

“I could never get tired of your body, mi amor”. 

He sighs placing himself between your legs, arching your back when he surrounds your waist with both arms. You can feel how hard is he, turning your stomach, making you want to vomit. You can't understand why you fell in love so loud with him, or why the hell you felt so lost without him the first months in Santo Padre. Now you see it. You were blind. He made you think you never could be good enough for anyone. Neither your family, nor your friends. He absorbed you in a toxic loop, romanticizing every punch, every hit, every drop of spilled blood, every bruise. But then, you met Gilly. You met the love, the self-care, the laughs for nothing, the warm his hugs bring you, the hours in silence looking at each other, the dearly smiles, how good it's feels smell your shirt and find his scent. 

And you know it's time to fight. For him. For your family. For your friends. For new life. For you.

For him, it's an unexpected scream full of pain. It hurt much more than you expected, feeling the agony running through your forearm up your elbow, flowing into your neck. But before he can reacts, your fist goes to his nose, with a soft crunch behind your knuckles. You have broken it. You know it's one of his weak points, after take so much cocaine that it made him a hole inside the bridge. That gives you some seconds, enough to take the empty glass of water to broke it against the floor and use a piece to cut the tie wrapping the other wrist. He gets up with the shirt soaked in blood as his lips and neck, and you can see he's furious, but you're not gonna give up pointing him with the glass.

“Cuando el coyote predica, no están seguras las gallinas”. (When the coyote preaches, the chicken aren't safe). You say, spitting every word, listening a high-pitch howl coming closer. You know it well, so he does. “Run, chicken, run”.

As he did two years ago, challenging your gaze with the difference that you're not drowning in your own blood but in pain and tears, he runs away. Antonio knows well what Marcos will do to him. But he doesn't know how much you have changed, and that your brother will be the less important problem. You hear him going downstair, giving him some seconds of advantage. Cutting the other ties, and placing on well your thumb with a crack and a growl, you stretch your numb legs and your arms. 

“(Y/N)! (Y/N)!” You can hear your brother's voice breaking the wooden front door, before some shoots and screams of pain.

The prey has been hunted after all this time hiding.

“(Y/N)! Where are you?!” Then you hear Bishop's.

You're trying to go down every stair step, supporting your weight over your palms in the railing. You find yourself crying. But you're not sure why. Pain, horror, sadness, but also happiness, relief, alleviation, run through your veins and your mind making you feel confused.

“Baby! Say something! Where are you?” Gilly is there. Your shaky legs fail, falling apart over the stairs, having a sit whilst your cry gets louder, enough to listen a lot of heavy steps coming to you. “(Y/N)!”

He runs towards you going upstairs, kneeling in front of you before hugging your body between his strongs and warm arms. And the world get paralyzed. You're at home, even if it's not your house, nor even your town. But it's him. It's all about Gilly. 

“The kid is here! We foun’ he’!” Coco shouts to the rest, from the beginning of the stairs.

“Give them a moment, now she's safe”. Alejandro says, pushing him away to the living room where they caught Antonio.

You need your time to wrap his back, feeling that your arms doesn't reply to any move tired of being in the same position for more than eighteen hours. He's trying to comfort you with gently caresses all over your head and back, sinking your face on his neck. You know he's blaming himself about what you said, about that you were scared that he could find you if the Coyotes traveled to Santo Padre. But at least, you caught him and he's gonna pay for all the pain he provoked you.

“Are you hurt?” He asks almost in a whisper, pulling you some inches away inspecting your face, with the desperation consuming his soul.

“I love you”. You answers, still drowning in your own salty tears, licking your lips. He laughs bittersweet, before helping you to get up, raising you on his arms. 

“You’re safe now, baby”. He mutter in your ear, resting your face on his chest.

“She will do it”. Marcos talks whilst Alejandro is nodding drawing a silver dagger, when the Mayan comes to the living room supporting you.

No one says nothing, while Gilly is helping you to put yourself on your feet. They’re kinda sleepy, but without letting go one of his hands, you raise the free one to the knife with a cross engraved on it. The both prospect of the charters are holding Antonio’s arms, kneeling above the wooden floor with his gaze filled by wrath. 

“Listen, if you don’t wanna do’et…” Bishop walks towards you, twisting his face, so only you can hear him.

“This is my job”. You deny with a scratchy tone in your voice. “This is what I used to do, and this is what I’m gonna do”.

Setting yourself free, you bend next to the man who tried to ruin your life and almost killed you. There’s no expression on your countenance, but he’s starting to look scared. Ripping off his shirt, pulling away both apertures and gently sticking the tip of the sharp knife into his chest, enough to draw a shallow slit to write the name of your charter on it. Yes, maybe you’re enjoying every shout wrapped in grief, while Antonio stirs under the grip. Mayans must be freaking out behind you, because your family have seen you so many times dealing with this kind of situations that they don’t even get surprised. 

“You wi—”

“I will nothen’!” You yell at him, hitting his mouth with your left elbow to make him shut up. “I told you that night, when the blood collected in my throat. One day I would find you and I would make you pay for every tear, for every bruise, for every time you raped me, for every time you hit me for no reason. And now, here comes judgment day, pinche perro”.

You’re feeling strong than never, maybe because of the adrenaline invading every inch of your anatomy, dragging every word you spit above your tongue. And his blood splashes your face, your neck and your shirt, when the dagger blade pierces his skin ripping it completely. A guttural growl comes out from his throat when your hand falls down holding the knife, cutting his chest till you reach the belt on his jeans. The blood bathes the carpet, taking away his last breaths while the prospect letting him go, making Antonio drop half dead. 

┅┅ ┅ ┅ ┅┅

Your back is against the wall, sitting on one of the bed of the Mayans clubhouse, in the last room. You have been alone for the past three hours, after convincing your brother to come back to Tijuana. He wasn’t in accordance with your decision, but the fault wasn’t theirs. And you were calm because of that man was already dead. Although your mind was remembering everything that happened once and again, you knew that night you could finally sleep peaceful.

Bishop comes to the room, closing the door after his steps, sitting on the edge of the bed with some distance between both. He isn’t the Rey de los Mayas because of his age, but because of his intelligence. And you played smart when you told him you never were an active member. But you don’t need it, if you're somekind of nomad or hired assassin. 

“You ok?”

You nod slightly, raising your eyes at him.

“So… That was your job, rai’?”

You nod again. No words needed.

“Was it one of the reasons why he did all that to you?”

“He did it ‘cause my brother never wanted him to be part of Los Coyotes. Taking me to hell and teaching me that it was the only life I could have, it was the way to be close to them”.

Bishop puts his gaze away, having a deep breath by his nose, to let go the air by his lips.

“Gilly blames himself”.

“I know, but it’s not his fault, nor yours, nor anyone. I allowed Antonio to do it, it’s only because of me”.

“He wanna see ya’”. 

You nod a third time, in silence, letting know that you want to see him too. The president gets up of his seat, walking towards the door to let him cross it, leaving you two alone. He doesn’t know what say to make you feel better, or to make you feel safe. Without knowing, that you are already feeling this way. This was like another job, with the difference that you killed the man who pushed you to the limit of your capacities. Your knees are placed against your chest, surrounding them with both arms, when he takes the same seat Bishop had. His head down, his forearms supported on his lap and both hands on his nape. Gilly sets free a heavy snort with closed eyes, without moving an inch when you hug him laying your chest on his back, surrounding his neck.

“I’m so sorry ‘you have to see me doin’et”. You whisper leaving some kisses on his head. “I’m so sorry for everything that happened in the last weeks. I just… turned your world upside down”.

“You stabilized it”. He replies shaking his chin, turning to look at you. “I should listened you, and I di—”.

“Take me home, Gilly”. You ask him, making the reference to his house and the safe-place you two built there.

[nightofthemeteor]

Uchiha clan/Senju clan

(Also here on AO3)

Izuna was blindfolded. He hated being blindfolded.

Alright, so he’d made a little bit of a mistake. Maybe he’d been just a tiny bit too reckless, sneaking around the borders of the Senju camp, trying to gather some information the Uchiha could use in their future attacks. His Sharingan should have given him an early warning, but Izuna supposed the Senju clan must have grown sneakier with their traps lately, because he hadn’t seen this one coming – probably the work of that tricky asshole Tobirama. Now Izuna was stuck here, blindfolded with a cloth covered in chakra seals, hands tied with more of the same to prevent him from weaving signs, waiting for Butsuma Senju to decide what to do with him. From the reputation of the Senju clan, Izuna had actually expected to be executed immediately – he wasn’t certain what had stayed Butsuma’s hand, but by logic, they had to be keeping him only long enough to interrogate him. Which meant that, at fourteen, he might be spending his last night on earth alone and tied up in an enemy camp. But it was fine; it was all fine; he was just going to wriggle out of these bindings and be on his way, no problem. Just as soon as he could loosen this stupid blindfold.

“Quit moving,” hissed a sudden voice in the darkness.

Izuna went still, just for a second, his heart pounding in surprise – and then, just to be contrary, resumed his squirming with renewed vigor. The voice above him sighed. Abruptly, Izuna’s wrists were seized and held still despite his thrashing; in an instant Izuna felt the cords binding his hands tighten and then go slack. Before he could fully register his freedom, his blindfold was torn away as well to reveal a face in the murky darkness in front of him. Brown hair cut to the shoulders, brown eyes and an anxious expression: Izuna recognized him instantly as the Mokuton user Senju Hashirama, oldest son of Butsuma and one-time friend of Izuna’s brother.

“Put me under a genjutsu so I can talk to you,” demanded Hashirama in a whisper, and Izuna immediately activated his Sharingan. Once inside his genjutsu, Hashirama would be under Izuna’s control – no matter the Senju boy’s intentions, he would be powerless in Izuna’s world. Just to confuse him, Izuna shaped the genjutsu world to mirror the real world, making use of the bare glimpse he’d be afforded in the darkness – and as a final touch, Izuna replicated himself until the room was packed with Izuna clones, all armed with kunai pointed at Hashirama’s throat.

“That’s much more comfortable,” said the real Izuna, twirling an illusory kunai in his hand.

Hashirama held up his hands to show he meant no harm, though they both knew he could do no harm to Izuna now even if he wanted to. “Relax, Izuna,” he said. “I’m here to help you escape.”

“Thanks,” Izuna replied, and held his kunai idly out in front of him. The clones surrounding them all leveled their kunai in unison, Sharingan spinning in myriad pairs of eyes. “But I’m not interested in walking into any more traps today. So tell me – why, exactly, would you help me?”

Despite the thicket of knives surrounding him – fake knives, of course, but their bite would feel quite real – Hashirama looked serious but unafraid. “I’m betraying my father to do this,” he said. “But I don’t want the conflict between our clans to escalate the way it would if we killed Tajima’s son.”

“Please,” scoffed Izuna, “You’ve already killed my younger brothers. What would killing me matter?”

Hashirama actually flinched visibly at this, but held his ground and replied steadily, “I’ve lost brothers to the Uchiha, too. I know how it feels. That’s exactly why I want this killing to stop.”

“So you’re sparing me out of pity? Is that it? Try a better lie, Senju.”

“I’m serious,” said Hashirama, eyes fixed on Izuna amid the throng of clones. “It’s the right thing to do.”

Izuna snorted in disbelief and directed his army of clones to move in closer; Hashirama didn’t react, even as the nearest kunai blades began to gently brush his skin. “Let’s say I believe you,” Izuna said, watching Hashirama with Sharingan-enhanced eyes for the barest hint of a tell, anything that would reveal his true intentions. “Letting me go buys you nothing from me. I’m your enemy, and that means once I get back to my clan, I’ll get right back to trying to destroy yours. You let me go now, and one day I might kill your father, or your brother.” He jabbed his kunai out, stopping a hairs’ breadth from Hashirama’s eye. “I might kill you. So tell me, why would you do this?”

“Don’t be so sure of yourself,” Hashirama breathed, and for a moment Izuna could feel his chakra pressing against the genjutsu, not quite enough to break it, but enough to let Izuna know he wasn’t as fully in control as he had thought. Feeling dizzy, Izuna backed up a step, and his line of clones lowered their weapons. Then, in the blink of an eye, Hashirama was back to normal, looking as harmless and placid as ever. “You’re right,” he told Izuna. “If I let you go, you might kill me or my family, one day. Or, if I don’t let you go, your father and brother might come here and kill us all in vengeance. All these things might happen, or they might not. There’s only one thing I know for absolutely certain: if I let you die now, Madara will lose his last remaining brother.”

“And what do you care if he does?” demanded Izuna, shaken.

“He doesn’t deserve that,” said Hashirama, simply.

So it was about Madara – and really, Izuna could have guessed that. He didn’t understand what kind of strange obsession Hashirama had with his brother, but he also couldn’t spot a lie anywhere in Hashirama’s insane reasoning. “Fine. What did you want to tell me?”

“You have about ten minutes before the next guard shows up. There’s a gap in our patrols due east, so head that way until you’re out of the trees. Sunrise is in two hours. Think you can make it?”

That probably meant Izuna should head due west instead, and avoid whatever trap was laid for him – but as if reading his mind, Hashirama said, “If they catch you, they’ll make you tell how you escaped, and then we’ll both be dead. You can trust what I’m saying. Oh, and you’d better punch me in the face or something on your way out.”

“Sure,” said Izuna, relishing the thought. “I’ll make it nice and convincing.”

Hashirama grimaced – it probably wasn’t hard to tell what Izuna was thinking, that time. “Leave me in a nice genjutsu at least, will you? And…give your brother a message for me. Tell him – ” He paused, biting his lip in thought. “Tell him: ‘we’re still the same’”.

“Whatever,” Izuna muttered, having absolutely no desire to get in the middle of whatever was going on between his brother and the obviously crazy, unfairly powerful heir to the Senju clan. He was going to have to keep a closer eye on Madara after this, that was for certain. Izuna saluted lazily, threw out a casual, “See you on the battlefield, Senju,” and melted away, back into the real world.

Hashirama’s instructions turned out to be legitimate, and though Izuna did manage to make it back to his clan, he never did deliver Hashirama’s message. But years later, on a cratered battlefield, when Izuna felt his life draining slowly through the ragged wound in his belly and watched Hashirama extend a hand to Madara, he would remember this conversation and answer his brother’s desperate look with a single nod of assent.

---

Tobirama thought he’d concealed his presence perfectly. But had had to grudgingly admit, as he held his hands in the air in surrender, that the bodyguard of the Tsuchikage – Mū, he remembered – put him to shame on that score.

“Don’t try anything, Konoha spy,” said Mū, from behind the wrappings covering his mouth. Tobirama wondered if those wrappings had anything to do with the way he disappeared so entirely, fooling even Tobirama’s finely honed sensory abilities.

“I’m not a spy,” Tobirama protested tiredly, knowing as he said it that it was probably futile. Alright, he’d been sneaking around the outskirts of Iwa territory, but only to make sure the newly-formed village wasn’t trying to do anything stupid – like collecting additional tailed beasts to add to their arsenal. “There’s no need for us to fight; I’ll leave of my own free will.”

Mū’s eyes, practically the only part of him left uncovered by the wrappings, narrowed in suspicion. “Your presence here is in violation of the agreement between our two nations.”

“A mistake on my part,” Tobirama acknowledged. “Won’t happen again.”

“No,” said Mū, “It won’t.”

A tiny dot of bright white light appeared between Mū’s hands, and in the blink of an eye expanded into a glowing white cube… and Tobirama finally recognized the deadly Jinton wielded by the Tsuchikage. Shit, he thought, trying to keep his panic at bay – had he known that Mū could do that? – and in the instant he had before the jutsu was released, he cast his senses out, searching desperately for a Hiraishin tag near enough for him to reach. There was nothing, nothing for him to jump to – he reached for one of his tagged kunai, knowing that by the time he managed to throw it, he would already be reduced to dust – there was a bright flash of light, and Tobirama had only enough time to regret that his life would end in such a stupid way –  

The next thing he felt was the sensation of being suddenly and violently lifted into the air. Surprised to find himself alive, Tobirama realized he was inside of a bright blue, gigantic fist, suspended in the air; directly below, a perfectly square crater now marked the spot where Tobirama had been standing a moment before.

“Mū of Iwagakure, I believe,” said a voice from above him.

Tobirama groaned inwardly. Relieved though he was that he’d been rescued, he was less than delighted to find that his rescuer was none other than Uchiha Madara.

“Uchiha Madara…-sama,” said Mū, looking as though the honorific tasted bad in his mouth. Tobirama immediately felt a little better: the upside of being rescued by Madara was that now Mū had to deal with him, too. Tobirama knew from bitter experience it wasn’t easy to stare down an enemy when said enemy was towering over you from inside of a glowing, blue, half-skeletal Susano’o. Nevertheless, Mū tried his best. “You’re trespassing on our territory!”

“Trespassing? Me?” said Madara, almost completely deadpan. “I was simply on my way back from the peace negotiations I was conducting with your Tsuchikage. Negotiations we all want to succeed – isn’t that right, Mū? So,” he continued, giving the Iwa shinobi no chance to reply, “You will overlook this little incident, and Konoha will overlook the fact that you tried to kill the Hokage’s younger brother.”

He couldn’t quite tell, but Tobirama thought Mū was grinding his teeth behind those bandages. Still, there was nothing he could do; no shinobi in their right mind, aside from his brother – and there was honestly a debate there to be had about whether Hashirama really had a right mind – would cross Uchiha Madara without very good reason. Eventually, Mū dipped his head and said grudgingly, “…Very well. But if I catch you in Iwa territory again, I won’t be so lenient.”

“Yes, yes. Run along, now,” Madara replied. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Mū.” Not that Tobirama knew for certain, but he was pretty sure whatever concealment trick the Iwa shinobi had been working earlier was enough to fool the Sharingan. However, the abilities of the Uchiha were still mysterious to the clans outside of Konoha – and even Tobirama, who had been fighting against the Sharingan all his life, really had no idea what kind of grotesque jutsu Madara could perform with that Mangekyō of his. In any case, Madara’s veiled threat seemed to work: Mū leaped into the trees behind him instead of melting into his surroundings the way he had before, and Tobirama could feel his chakra moving rapidly away.

Before Tobirama could do or say anything, the blue fist holding him up abruptly evaporated, dumping him unceremoniously on the ground. Dusting himself off, Tobirama looked over at his rescuer in annoyance, only to see Madara down on one knee, clutching his eyes with one hand, the remnants of the Susano’o dissipating around him. Tobirama took an uncertain step in his direction. “Are you…alright?”

“I’m fine,” snapped Madara, though he certainly didn’t look it. He managed to get to his feet, unsteadily, and when he finally brought his hand away from his face, Tobirama could see both hand and face were smeared with blood. A chill ran down his spine: more confirmation, as if he needed it, that the Mangekyō was as poisonous to its users as it was to everyone else. Although, on the other hand…that jutsu had just saved his life. Tobirama had his beliefs, but before all else, he had to acknowledge the facts.

“…Thanks for your help,” he managed to grit out.

Madara looked as uncomfortable to be thanked as Tobirama was to be thanking him. “Yeah, well. I only did it for your brother, so don’t go thinking you can count on it. Can we just get out of here?”

“By all means,” said Tobirama, relieved, and jumped into the trees, Madara following closely behind. They headed in the direction of Konoha, but it was slow going, with Madara still shaky on his feet as they leapt through the branches. Ordinarily, Tobirama would have ignored him. Even with the founding of the village, it was difficult to forget the injuries Uchiha and Senju had done to one another in the past – and Madara had never been able to overlook the fact that Tobirama had nearly killed his younger brother. But Tobirama’s curiosity overcame his better judgement and made him ask, “Did that jutsu always take so much out of you?”

Madara, concentrating on his footing, only grunted in reply. That was all Tobirama had expected to get, but to his surprise Madara told him, “It gets worse every time. Eventually I’ll go blind from it.”

“Huh…and you wasted one on me?” Antagonizing Madara like this was a bad idea, but…it was also pretty entertaining.

His travel companion spared a moment to shoot a bloody glare in Tobirama’s direction. “Like I said, it wasn’t for you,” and then added almost to himself: “I don’t want to find out what losing his last brother would do to Hashirama.”

Now that, somehow, was both completely out of character for Madara and also completely what Tobirama would expect from him when it came to Hashirama. And with that thought, a large number of anomalous observations suddenly clicked into place, forming a satisfying but also entirely horrifying conclusion. “You must really love my brother,” Tobirama said, before he could think about what he was saying.

He was treated to the sight of Madara completely missing his landing on the next branch and plummeting ungracefully through the canopy. Tobirama, one hand over his mouth to stop himself from laughing, peered down to see Madara standing sideways on the trunk, glaring at him. “Tobirama, if you say one more word about that, especially to your brother, I will trap you in a genjutsu until you die of old age!”

Tobirama had to force down laughter again, and wondered if this was what it felt like to go insane. Much as it turned his stomach to think of an Uchiha – particularly this one – pining after his brother, he was deeply enjoying this new leverage he suddenly exerted. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he called down, trying unsuccessfully to keep the amusement out of his voice. Really, he should be considerably more horrified – but then, he’d already more or less come to terms with the way Hashirama was around Madara, the ridiculous lengths he was willing to go to for his childhood friend. Discovering this was almost a relief; in some ludicrous way, it made a lot of sense.

While Tobirama was pondering this, Madara gained the high branches again and set off towards Konoha, not looking at Tobirama or waiting for him to follow. Trailing behind him, Tobirama considered something completely novel for him: voluntarily helping Madara. On the one hand, it would destroy his new leverage; on the other hand, watching his brother and Madara trip over themselves trying to figure this out would probably be unbearable. It was going to happen, inevitably, of that much Tobirama was certain; he could at least hasten the process. And – well, Madara had just saved his life.

“Hey, Madara,” he called ahead of him. No response. “You know he’s in love with you, too.”

At that, Madara’s shoulders stiffened, a little, but he didn’t turn around, and his only response was a gruff, “I told you to shut up about it.”

He’d probably just made things worse – oh, well. Tobirama wondered if Izuna had already come to the same conclusion as him; Izuna, of all people, would definitely share this mix of revulsion and amusement. Tobirama resolved to have a chat with him when they returned to Konoha. If he had to deal with the inevitable fallout of this disaster in the making, it would at least be nice to have a cup of tea with someone while watching the whole thing unravel.

[seokjxnnie]

Stitches | Yoongi

genre: angst, smut, badboy!au warnings: oral sex, light teasing words: 4k summary: She knows what he does. She doesn’t like it, but she knows she will still pour him a shot and get the first aid kit when he comes home after a bad fight, no questions asked. But, everybody’s got their breaking point.

Her tired eyes shifted to the pivoting door knob at the sound of keys clattering on the other side. A delicate noise, yet it rung loudly against the backdrop of a vacant silence. Her gaze redirected to the clock on the wall whose hands read just past 3AM, eliciting a hefty sigh from her. She jadedly returned to the face appearing behind the door that quietly creaked open.

“Oh, you’re still awake,” a muttered comment fell from bruised lips, a discoloured patch on the cheek to pair.

She grudgingly eyed the ribbons of dried blood on his collar. Peeking from his jacket that he seemed to have indifferently draped on was a bare shoulder underneath a frayed cuff where his sleeve used to be, contrasting his other fully clothed shoulder.

“How can I sleep?” Aggravated murmurs rustled past gritted teeth. She rose from her slump on the couch.

Yoongi grimaced at the bitter atmosphere. Nonetheless, going through the muscle memory motions of a familiar routine, he took a seat on the chair she pulled out for him without another word.

The girl returned to his side, setting a shot glass down on the table next to him and tipping the bottle of whiskey in her hands until it was filled to the brim. Its sharp smell, although well acquainted, unsettled her just as much as the last time, and the time before that. She remembered a time when purchasing a bottle of whiskey was intended for her satisfaction too. Now, associated with an unpleasant situation, it was no longer a drink she could enjoy. She rested the cap back on the tip of the bottle’s neck, not quite spinning it closed knowing that a refill will shortly follow.

Retrieving the alcohol meant retrieving the first aid kit as well, as they were stored adjacent to one another on the same shelf. Nights like these has made the two a complementary duo. And so, reflexive hands unzipped the package and laid out its contents in a preferred order.

He only gained her low stare when he produced a hiss of pain to accompany the discomfort that twisted his face upon rigidly peeling off his jacket. Forced to slow the sharp hitch of a breath that dried in the back of her throat so that her dismay wasn’t as audibly brash, her eyes traced the band of crimson that trailed under his torn-off sleeve. The gash had stopped bleeding now, meaning that in a dark alleyway somewhere must’ve laid the now abandoned, red-stained fabric. She swallowed and bit her tongue to maintain her withholding speech.

By the time Yoongi had thrown back another shot, she had left and come back with a few ice cubes swaddled in a damp towel. She hovered the makeshift ice pack over the bruise on his face. “Hold it.”

A look of nonchalance played on in his expressions while he took the cold bundle, only to place it down on the table. “It’s fine, I don’t need it.”

He hadn’t a second to register the unforgiving click of her tongue before flinching when the icy sensation crushed against his purpled cheek without warning. “Hold it,” she repeated, introducing venom in her emphasis this time.

He sighed, replacing her hand with his over his cheek with a glower. A quiet huff later, she heaved down onto the corner of the chair pulled out next to him.

The accustomed routine that she was forced to call second nature manufactured itself as a new skill to her. She had gotten good at this. Hence, taking one begrudging look at the slash on his arm, the girl concluded that it required a stitched closure. She wouldn’t have had any notion that she would come to know her way around a suture kit quite well if it weren’t for him. Yet, she was far from grateful.

After briskly cleaning the minor scrape on the corner of his lip with a dampened Q-tip, she held a towel under the laceration on his bicep, her other hand drowning it in water from a squeeze bottle. She remained uninterrupted and unwavering when he flinched in response to the jolt of stings that followed. The knitted brows and clenched jaw were dismissed, and it was a fluid transition to the needle and thread for her.

Yoongi took another swig straight from the bottle to stifle the hiss that threatened to surface on his tongue as the needle pricked and weaved. She worked proficiently, quietly – too quietly. The silence was so dense and engulfing that it forced him to confront the palpable antagonism she was mutely emanating. He could’ve sworn her hands were working a little more crudely, that every harsher jab might have been intentional. Even if she refused to meet his eyes, he recognized that all light in her irises were extinguished by criticism. And despite her unmoving lips, it was as if she spelled out her resentment with every breath she took.

The exhaustion, the tattering ache that burdened every one of his limbs might’ve impaired the filter that meant to stop his irritation before it left his throat. “What?” he snarled, “What is it? Just come out with it.”

Her digits paused and shrill, strict eyes flickered up to him. Her mouth remained taut.

He scoffed, “Don’t look at me like that. I already know you’re mad. For what? None of this is new. We’ve been over this again and again and again. You already know what I do. You already know this is me.”

Yoongi always had a talent in delivering words severe with callousness without needing to raise his voice.

She straightened, her eyes narrowing with vexation. “I know, how do you think I got so good at this?”

The ice pack in his hand unsympathetically tossed onto the table. “Then what’s wrong?” he spat, and although low, he supplied the same mercy as a slap across the face.

Mirroring her escalating fury was her throbbing temples within a heated head. “Well fuck me, sorry I worry over someone I care about,” her words clawed out from behind gritted teeth. “Does it ever occur to you that you’re hurting me too?”

Taking a sharp inhale, he looked the other way before he could see the expression that must’ve accompanied those pained words. “Don’t lose sleep over me. I am completely capable of taking care of myself.”

His eyes fell shut in regret as soon as the words left his lips. He had meant that he didn’t want her staying up to see him like this either, but his undisciplined frustration twisted his words out to be more wounding than intended before they were prevented.

Her jaw went slack in bleak disbelief. A hefty huff of exasperation heaved from her now wrenching chest. Welling, stinging dews were inspired by the recollections of all the late nights she spent worrying and hurting, only for her to push it aside so she could tend to him. And then, the cycle would repeat without or a shred of penance, hesitation, just like it is now. So, it wasn’t worth anymore of her words, anymore of her time in this moment, because the same scenario will unfold again maybe even just weeks from now.

Swallowing down the discord of angry obscenities and spiteful disputes, she refused to spend anymore of her energy and yanked away from the last tied stitch on his arm. She threw down her tools and shot up from her seat, only allowing the stream of tears to fall once she stormed off the other way for the isolation of the bedroom.

“Shit,” Yoongi cursed under his breath, “wait.” Jolting up from his seat, he rushed to swing for the capture of her hand, but she departed too quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that!”

With an ungraceful hurry, he jerked his shoulder towards his mouth to clasp the stem of the remaining thread that had the needle holder still entwined at its end, dangling and swinging from his sutures. Cleaving it off with his teeth and lobbing it aside, he stumbled after her.

Her strides gained in haste and length as she was resolute in denying him the opportunity to talk his way out of it, like he’s always had before. It wasn’t enough, however, as he caught up to her just before their bedroom door and claimed a firm grip on her arm, not quite reeling her in yet certainly not letting her go.

“Let me explain,” he sighed with his tone softening to a pleading quality when registering the sight of her stained cheeks under shattered irises.

“No need, I heard you loud and clear. I’m not needed here.” She bit her tongue, hearing the vulnerable breakage in her voice that meant to deliver an unwavering antagonism.

He heard her tremors too, and a smothering weight collected in his chest. “I meant I hate you seeing me like this too.”

Her head spun away from him to keep him from watching the rest of her guard evaporate. “Then let me go. I’m going to bed.”

Yoongi’s clutch slackened only to immediately glide down to her fingers, securely tangling with them instead. “I don’t want us to go to bed mad at each other like this,” he persisted.

“Funny you’d think I’d even let you come to bed with me,” the girl scoffed belligerently before her wrists snapped in an attempt to loosen from his hold.

She gasped, plunged into disorientation when he lurched her towards him before she could escape. Other hand clasping onto her shoulder, he pushed and pinned her up against the wall behind her.

“I’m trying, can’t you see that? Is that not enough for you?” he contended, inches from her face and swathing her in his desperate, frustrated insistence. “Fuck, of course I know you hate what I do, all of this. But I do what I do so I can keep you as far away from it as possible. I would never let anything happen to you.”

His unfiltered, vehement expressions painted an image in her mind of all the knives he took to the hand, all the fists he took to the jaw, and how he’d do it over and over again if it meant she was never on its receiving end.

The consequent anxiety and grief collapsed in on her, and bringing her cupped hands to her mouth, she wept into them. “It’s not me that I’m worried about, you fucking idiot!” The surplus of erratic emotions translated into an unhindered tongue, and she winced at how foreign and bitter it tasted to demean him. She tremulously heaved in a breath to order her heated series of thoughts. “I know you’d do absolutely anything to keep me safe, but it’s you I’m scared for. You don’t call, you don’t text, nothing. You’re gone for hours on end into the night and I have no idea what kind of trouble you’re in this time. I can’t gauge at what point I can be sure that you have things under control, and at what point I should call the cops. And then from there, it’s a constant battle between the fear that I get you arrested and the even bigger fear that I’m too late and you’re already dead in a ditch.” Her eyes flowed even more irrepressibly to imitate the swelling passion in her tone. “Every time you’re gone without a warning, I have to sit alone and fight off the terrifying thought that tomorrow just might be the day your name and face is plastered all over the news. But they don’t paint you as the good person that I know and love; they’ll reduce you to a deviant, a criminal, who deserved everything that came for him. And I just can’t swallow that thought.”

The heavy sobbing left her breathless. Taking a pause to slow her respirations and gain some remnant of steadiness, her fingers glided up her face to wipe the torrent of tears. The outpour of hurt and anguish battered at him and withered the restraint he had on her shoulders. His palm planted above her on the wall now, and his head wilted low.

“I don’t know if I can take it anymore. How much longer can I handle this loneliness?” her voice had diminished to frail, wispy whimpers. “I’m so lonely, Yoongi.”

He swallowed, and down with it her projected distress and fright. An agonizing remorse colonized his extremities as he found himself in a setting of desolate isolation that her pained words illustrated. Being so determined in protecting her from getting hurt, he was sightless as to how he’s been hurting her. Just the thought of her blemished by gashes and bruises threatened to tear his chest open, how could he have not empathized with how she’s been feeling all this time. Over and over again did she have to stomach his endangerments and woundings, while biting her tongue as it continued to happen again and again. Without knowing, he’s been gradually eating at her strength. And now, all he wanted to do was embrace her tight and apologize to her endlessly.

“I’m sorry,” Yoongi pleaded. His head lifted trying to find her gaze, only for it to be clouded with a sorrowful and angry mist while directed the other way. His index and thumb travelled to caress her jaw and petition for her to look at him as he repeated, “I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry.”

Her face jerked away. “Don’t touch me,” she weakly muttered in between choked sniffles.

He implored once more, softly calling her name, fingers cradling the side of her face now. One word, but she felt the compelling sincerity and desperation for forgiveness that his tone packed. Tears welling once more, she shook her head in refusal, yet acknowledging that her defences were already dwindling. She didn’t push him away.

“Baby, look at me.”

“Yoongi, don’t—”

Digits nuzzling until they reached the nape of her neck, his other hand planted on the small of her back and drew her in until his nose grazed hers. “Look at me.” He guided her sight to lock with his. “I’ll be better,” his whispers were hardly audible, but the assurance and commitment echoed vibrantly in her ear. “I won’t hurt you anymore. I promise.”

Frustrations dissipating, she couldn’t find the strength to pull away from his gentle breaths that fondly tickled her skin. His touches were so soft yet enthrallingly warm, and anxious for the intimacy she’s been deprived of, she found herself leaning into his hold. She shuddered, tantalized, when his lips scarcely swept against hers. “I don’t ever want to lose you,” the girl feebly mewled.

He fully encaptured her in a kiss this time. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” Consumed by his longing to convey his infatuation for her, he was eager to remind himself of her intoxicating feeling and taste.

His husky voice was engulfing, and swimming in a heightened desire, her fingers zealously hugged his jaw to deepen the kiss. She sighed with bliss against his tongue when he murmured expressions of passion and infatuation.

“Ah,” Yoongi hissed in pain and pulled back, the pads of his digits gingerly dabbing the bruise on the corner of his mouth. She gasped an apology, to which he lightly chuckled in response, shaking his head in reassurance and quick to close their distance again.

“Mm, wait, Yoongi,” she tried to break away from his lips, only for him to press right back in. Between his caresses, she sighed, “It’s late and you’re hurt. You should get some rest.”

“Come here.” A keen growl and impatient hands had her thrusted back against the wall again. Lifting her leg, he guided her thigh in a hook around his hips to further dismiss their distance. A sharp breath carrying his name hitched in the back of her throat as he laid kisses and nips down the outline of her neck. “I want you so bad,” his low-ringing demand inspired quivers coursing throughout her entirety. “I want you so fucking bad. Right now.”

With his lips and teeth handling her roughly, the girl knew to desert any mode of resistance – Yoongi always worked tirelessly to get what he wanted. Consequently, when he avidly hiked up her nightshirt, she obliged by elevating her arms for a smooth glide off her figure and onto the floor.

Both hands grappling her thighs, he lifted her and set her weight on his waist as he carried her over to the couch. He threw her down, and before her vision could settle from the abrupt movements, he was already tearing her panties down her legs. Tugging his shirt over his head and abandoning it aside, he then immediately dipped down to clasp his mouth around her pebbling nipples. Gaze flicking up towards her, he dragged his proud smirk across her mounds at the way they fitfully fluttered up and down in rhythm with the trembling billows of air that filtered past her clamped down teeth.

His teeth continued raking down her abdomen. Gaining sight of her sex painted with trickling desire, he clicked his tongue with a sweltering eagerness. He latched onto the underside of her thighs and shoved her knees towards her chest, his rough clutches keeping them there. Wasting no time, his face closed in on her warmth, his mouth enveloping her slick lower lips and tongue snapping against her clit.

Quickly, he found himself inebriated, lapping at her taste with the knowledge that he made her as sopping as she was. The blended mewls of his name and moans of pleasure stringing from her throat heightened his hunger. “Fuck, kitten, you taste so good,” his husky growl shuddered off his lips and vibrated against her skin. He smugly chuckled at the twitching hips he earned in response. It didn’t inhibit him from continuing to abuse her slit with riveting strokes and her throbbing bud with relentless flickers. Fingers burrowed into the suppleness of her legs to hold them down as they thrashed, the consequent dragging fashioned red bands across her skin.

An escalating pressure pooled in her core. Her digits got lost in the locks of his hair, anxious for register. “No, wait, I’m close,” she whined, hardly coherent and more so relying instead on tugging his hair to stop him.

Despite grasping exactly what she wanted, to be filled by him, Yoongi teased, “Tell me what you want, baby.” Straightening up, he hovered over her yet continued baiting her with his two digits that he inserted and curled.

The girl whimpered in protest, thoughts in an exhilarated haze that she could only assemble a muttered “together”.

“Use your words. Beg,” he demanded, now pumping at an intensity that threatened to push her to climax.

She frantically squealed, “No, please. I want you to fuck me.” Desperately reaching up to claw at his collarbones in a plead, she gasped her words, “I want to come on your cock. I want you to fuck me so I can come on your cock, please.”

Yoongi hissed with a searing impatience, hand pulling away from between her thighs and grabbing at her hips to harshly lift and position her. A yelp fell from her lips in surprise as he threw her down once more and she found herself kneeled on the couch with her face flat on its back ledge. The clanging of his belt unbuckling and the rustling of his pants behind her as he hastily peeled them off made her swallow with an overwhelming yearning. Before she could raise her head to look back at him, his palm held her face down as he lined up the head of his shaft to her entrance. Easing in, a gratified groan threw his head back in elation to finally feel her wrapped around his pulsing member. There wasn’t much of a buffer before the consuming thirst had him hammering into her. She screamed with bliss into the cushions.

The warmth and slickness of her walls made for an easy pounding. Jaw slackened with heavy pants pushing in and out, his tongue swiped across his bottom lip as he was hypnotized by the sight of her in front of him. Her ass slapped with every one of his thrusts, her hips stuttered in trying to keep pace with him, her limbs quaked and jolted as they dug into the cushions. He basked in the resulting whines of his name, punctuated with curses and begs that warned of her oncoming climax. The clenching of her pulsating core made him fuck her harder, keen to see her completely unravel under him.

He claimed a fistful of hair at the back of her head and pulled her up as he continued to lunge into her, deep and quick, so he could hear her shriek as he grazed the bundle of nerves that sent waves of euphoria crashing through her.

Yoongi leaned down to cradle the shell of her ear with kisses and praises of how pretty she is when she comes. He pumped a few more times to let her ride our her high before he felt the onset of his own.

“Come in my mouth,” she entreated between choked breaths, “please.”

He smirked at the thought her drinking his cum. “On your knees, kitten,” he commanded, pulling out.

Obediently and quickly, she moved, descending to her knees in front of him as he sat on the couch. Stroking her hair and collecting it behind her head, he hummed with enjoyment as she took the crown of his dick onto her lips, tongue drawing generous spirals. Palming the base, her mouth moved down its length, tongue flattening on its underside now. She moaned softly enough to drape his shaft in invigorating vibrations as she sucked, splaying his taste across her cavity. The pleased hisses and hip jerks she was rewarded with stretched a smile on her lips as she continued bobbing up and down. His hand fisting her hair guided her to an amplified speed. Relishing in his furrowed brows, his parted lips that called her a good girl, and his thrusts off the couch to reach an unventured depth, her clasping fingers followed along the intensifying maneuvers of her mouth.

Pleasure engulfing his entirety and igniting his nerves, he chased his high. Muscles tensing and twitching, his rhythm staggered. A euphoric concoction of sounds wrenched his jaw open and she found it absolutely entrancing. One last powerful lunge sent ribbons of his cum across her tongue and dribbled down her face when she drew back to catch her breath. She giggled quietly, elated at the mess he made on her chin and her instilled lust that glazed over his irises.

Yoongi grinned amidst hefty pants at sight of her face being marked as his as he combed back the strands of hair matted to her forehead. He stretched to the side of the couch where a coffee table stood and drew a tissue from the box sitting on its surface. He dabbed the mess off her face before drawing her up to straddle him on the couch.

Wordlessly, he conveyed his praise and affection with the palm that cradled the side of her face and guided her closer until she was inches away. His thumb traced shapes against her jaw. He gazed at her in silence, as if to drink in the lingering bliss that she exuded, and to soak in the electrifying sensation of their bare, damp skin against each other. His gestures alone demonstrated of the gratitude he was immersed in to have her in front of him like this. He reaffirmed so as he spread delicate, tender pecks across her lips, making sure to nuzzle his nose against hers more frequently as they kissed.

“I’m not going to worry you anymore,” he whispered to confirm what his eyes already spoke of. “I’m not going to hurt you anymore.”

[sserpente]

A/N: Due to popular demand, finally, here is Part II! You can find Part I in my masterlist but you should be fine reading only this one as well.

Words: 2363 Warnings: implied smut

There were many definitions of the term ‘pain’ and there were even more definitions of the term ‘agony’—and agony was what you were in right now. It must have been around three in the morning, a cold and foggy night; pale moonlight shining through your open window. The low temperatures, however, did little to cool down your body.

You were on fire. Not literally, of course. Not since Loki had started to train you but now, the hot flames that used to lick over your skin now seemed to boil its way through your blood, melting you from the inside out. Your powers fought to break free again like a caged tiger, ready to pounce on anything inflammable.

What you needed was an ice cold shower, a bathtub full of ice cubes, sweet ice cream and a blanket of snow coating your limbs like a piece of clothing. Your heart was beating like a steam hammer, your breathing shallow and rough. Your whole body was covered in sweat, glistening on your skin and sticking your hair to your shoulders when you stood with shaking limbs and blindly tumbled towards the door.

Loki. You needed Loki to help you now. Usually, you could deal with your occasional hot flushes yourself. They had begun to occur a few days after your regular training sessions and they took your breath away every single time. Thus far, however, they had been bearable. But this, now… the urge to give in to the heat grew, your palms burning hot to the touch. You were sure that if you were to touch the door knob for too long it would fizz.

Without any orientation, you stumbled through the dark hallways, grateful for once that Tony had decided you were ready to roam free around the compound as long as you were supervised by FRIDAY. The way to Loki’s room you knew by heart already, you had walked it countless times. By this time, it was unlikely for him to be awake though—you hoped, sincerely, that he would not be upset.

You had grown fond of the Frost Giant. Loki had a soft, warm and caring heart once you got past that nearly impenetrable hard shell he had hidden himself behind to protect his tainted soul—and there was much more to him than just a villain whom the Avengers had fought in the past. Much rather he was a broken man who had shown you his true colours—and made you fall in love with him. You couldn’t tell if he knew. Loki was perceptive. He knew when you were unfocused, knew when you were depressed and knew when you were angry. He read you like an open book all the while you were desperate for him to open up to you. After some time… he had, more or less.

“L-Loki?” A gentle knock was all you managed when you finally reached his door and then carefully turned the door knob to enter. Tiptoeing into the room, you attempted to breathe quietly, to control your teeth from clattering too much. How was this even possible? You were not freezing, quite on the contrary.

“Loki, please, wake up!” You whispered; and yet your words sounded more like an angry and hot hissing, like a beam of fire.

Eventually, the God of Mischief stirred. He was shirtless, so you realised, when your eyes had finally gotten used to the dark and he sat up with sleepy eyes to face you. For only the fraction of a second, anger flashed in his blue eyes—upon seeing your dishevelled and downright pathetic state, however, his expression immediately softened.

“What happened?” He began calmly. So calmly, in fact, that he instantly infected your body with a wave of peace. It only lasted for a second.

“I-I’m burning u-up. I-it hurts. I’m s-so hot… I feel l-like I’m g-gonna die!” You choked out, never noticing the singeing hot tears rolling down your cheeks as you spoke.

“Do not give your powers control over yourself. You are not burning up. You only think you are.” His voice, smooth, dark and seductive as ever, was sleepy. Well, of course it was. You had woken him up in the middle of the night. You were grateful he reacted so compassionately instead of throwing you out screaming obscenities in Old Norse.

“I am… I’m sweating, I’m shaking… I don’t even k-know why I’m s-shaking! Loki, p-please, help me!”

Loki eyed you for a moment, considering his options. You were a mess—and even though he trusted you to overcome those inner demons yourself, he wished to help you.

Help you… you were about the only person he would do this for without expecting something in return or figuring out his own advantage, not since a long time.

Sighing, the God of Mischief threw back the covers and pointed at the empty space next to him.

“Lie down.” His tone allowed no contradiction, even if his voice was still soft and tired.

Your initial frown disappeared quickly. Right, Frost Giant. Sleeping right next to him… nodding obediently, you approached the bed with trembling legs and hesitantly crawled on the mattress. Loki mutely offered you his arm as he lay back down himself but that was when you had already cuddled up to his cool body, draped one of your legs over his and wrapped your arm around his middle. Lastly, you rested your head on his chest, making him part his lips to object. But then again, he didn’t want to.

Your hot skin against his… it felt marvellous, even more so that you appeared to calm almost instantly. The sweating stopped, so did your shaking and your breathing evened out. Absentmindedly, he let his cool fingers stroke your upper arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps wherever he touched you. Within moments, you had fallen asleep again—and Loki, for the first time since Odin’s confession—welcomed the thought of being a Jötun.

Your first thought the next morning was how you didn’t wake up in your own bed. One night stand? Unlikely, you were trapped with the Avengers. Rough night out, setting forests on fire? Still trapped with the Avengers. Blinking, you growled at the first sunbeams tickling your warm skin and sat up, looking around yourself only to remember you were in Loki’s room. The memories of last night came back like a hard blow.

The God of Mischief himself was already up. Still shirtless, he wandered about the room, reaching for his armour diligently to get dressed all the while you eyed him down like a delicious piece of meat.

“Uh… morning,” you murmured quietly.

“Good morning.” Loki replied with a smirk.

“I’m sorry about waking you up last night. I panicked. I mean, you can’t blame me. But I didn’t know what to do.” Your mouth snapped shut. You knew what to do now—namely to shut up and stop him from being amused by you.

Lucky for you, however, he elected not to comment on it.

“I was thinking that after breakfast, we should start working on your combat skills. You cannot always rely on your powers and, having witnessed the wrecked state you were in last night, you might need a break from them anyway. Your body is still coping with the changes you are inflicting on the chemistry of your body, it will take a while for it to adapt.”

“So this means I’ll just have to deal with those hot flushes?” They felt terrible for sure… the more you thought about it though, the less they bothered you—not if you could sleep next to Loki next time they happened.

“For the time being, yes. But if I can identify the cause, I shall make sure to find a cure.” It sounded like a promise. Smiling wildly at him, you stood and approached him, pressing a tender kiss on his cheek before a sudden fear of rejection washed over you and you quickly left his room to get a cup of coffee.

About half an hour and a delicious fried egg with herbs and tomatoes later, you made your way to the training room. You were unsure whether Tony (or any of the other Avengers, for that matter) still monitored your every move down here. To be honest, you couldn’t care less. You must have proven to them by now that you were changing for the better. After all, who said you couldn’t be an angel with little horns?

Loki was already waiting for you, busying himself with the shiny little daggers in his hands. The way he flung them around and flipped them made your eyes widen.

“So… you said something about combat fighting. Are you going to teach me how to throw those knives? Because I really want to learn how to throw those knives.”

The God of Mischief chuckled. “No one is going to throw these knives today. I want to test your agility, your reaction time and your perception.”

“That doesn’t sound like combat fighting.” You frowned.

His smirk grew even wider. “Not as of yet…. Let me introduce you to some of my powers.”

Unimpressed, you raised an eyebrow. Perhaps, indifference was the key to keep Loki in the dark about your true feelings for him. It was worth a try.

“You can control ice, that’s all. I know.”

“Oh, quite on the contrary, my little firebug…” There wasn’t any time to let your heart skip a beat over the fact he had just given you a sweet pet name, for suddenly, somebody tapped your shoulder from behind. Turning around, you faced Loki… turned back around… and faced Loki. Illusions.

“You might end up in a situation in which you are unable to use your powers… but that does not mean that you cannot channel their strength to help you fight. Attack me.” He ordered, shooting you a challenging glare that made you want to kick him. Oh, Loki sure knew how to infuriate you.

“Hang on… I am not allowed to use my powers but you are? That’s not fair!” You exclaimed.

“Nothing is fair in life… not really. Now, attack.”

Scoffing, you shrugged, forcing to keep your inner fire in line and then lunged at him, ignoring the illusion behind you. It was too late you realised Loki had switched. You grunted when your fist never met his face and you lost your balance. But before you could turn on your heel to glare darkly at the real Loki, he had already kicked you from behind.

Another illusion appeared and then another and another and another until you were surrounded by a small army of Lokis. Oh, the thought did things to a part of your body you most certainly did not have to train. You lunged again—tumbling right through another illusion and then another and another and another.

“Use your head, (Y/N). If you keep attacking me this blindly, you will tire within mere minutes. I can keep this up for quite a while. You are trying too hard.”

“That’s easy for you to say, you barely even move…”

“You are trying too hard to keep your powers at bay.” He went on unfazed. “Make use of them instead of locking them away like an enemy would. Your subconscious will take care of the rest. Now attack.”

You tried. You really tried, for hours on end. Loki granted you a small break to drink some water but there was neither success nor an ending in sight.

Not until you realised that he was getting negligent with his illusions. Now, it was flattering to think it was your wet tanktop sticking to your sweaty body that distracted him. Anyhow, the light in the training room mainly came from the ceiling a few feet away from the mats. Naturally, everything underneath would cast a shadow.

You did. But so did Loki.

Glancing down inconspicuously as he circled you once more with his illusions, you picked the one Loki who cast a shadow. Then, you lunged. And the God of Mischief was so surprised that he didn’t manage to duck in time, causing you to crush right into him and knock you both to the ground.

“I’m impressed.” He stated with a pout.

You grinned, extremely pleased with yourself as you looked deep into his blue eyes that returned your gaze with pride and… was it affection? You couldn’t help it. Your mouth was so close to his you could feel his cool breath on your lips. So you kissed him, eyes falling shut with relish upon feeling the softness of his mouth.

It was brief. You did not wait for him to reciprocate the kiss. Alarmed, you pulled away, realising with horror what you had just done.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

In return, Loki had the audacity to smirk. Your lips parted. You were about to complain when he wrapped his hand around your neck and pressed his lips on yours once more, more passionately and eagerly this time. With a silent moan, his tongue sneaked into your mouth, deepening the kiss all the while his free hand travelled down your chest and cupped one of your breasts over your sweaty sports bra.

By the time he broke the kiss, you were panting, eyes widened like those of an innocent and terrified little doe.

“What do you think, my little firebug? Perhaps… as a precaution, you should sleep in my bed every night from now on.”

Giggling, you let him roll you over so he was the one on top.

“Who says we need a bed?” You replied smugly. Loki opened his mouth, clearly amused, yet before he could properly react to your proposal, you were both interrupted by Tony’s voice echoing through the hall through some hidden speakers on the walls.

“(Y/N), Loki, can I have a word with you two? I am absolutely not going to tolerate sex in my training room.”

You rolled your eyes. “Can you make another illusion?”

The God of Mischief smirked. Next thing you knew you were already naked.

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, I’d be flattered if you supported me on KoFi! kofi.com/sserpente (or hit the “Support me” button on my blog) ♥

Check out my masterlist for more Loki stories, for Tumblr has been swallowing a lot of my posts lately…

[kuroko26]

WHITE ROSE WEEK 2018-DAY 1

Once again, I’m participating in White rose week, almost late likle always but better late than never (because I’m still sore about missing Bumbleby and Freezerburn week)

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DAY 1: PARTNERSHIP/TEAMWORK

“I can’t believe I’m being obligated to take this class at all!”

The white haired girl muttered angrily to herself as she took her place in cooking class. When she enrolled in Beacon High, she did because of their high standards in education would allow her to achieve her goals or more specifically, what she thought was expected of her.

Headmaster Ozpin saw fit to create this subject for the school as a way to provide his students with some skills for the life outside of home and a way to relieve some stress and encourage creativity. The idea had been successful so far as many students even discovered their vocation in gastronomy thanks to these classes.

But to the heiress, this wasn’t the case. Never in her life, she had held a knife or prepared a meal, given that they had chefs to prepare food for them; hell, she barely had stepped into the kitchen in her short life and was promptly shooed out of it.

“Why would I need to learn how to cook when I could basically order take out or just eat on a restaurant? I have the means after all…anyway, father expects of me that I excel in my studies, so I better make sure I get and A on this”

Weiss finished her mental rant and took the first place she saw available, only to find besides her was a younger girl whose most outstanding feature was a pair of silver eyes which the blue eyed girl found quite beautiful even if she would never admit it to anyone who asked.

Given that the teacher hadn’t arrived, the white haired student opted to remain silent and wait but her plans were suddenly interrupted.

“Pssst, I’m Ruby. What’s your name?”

Weiss really didn’t want to reply at all and ignore her apparently chatty neighbor but ended up conceding that piece of information.

“Weiss. Weiss Schnee”

“Weiss? That’s a pretty name, it suits you perfectly and I think I’ve heard it somewhere hmmm. Well, it doesn’t matter; tell me, do you like cooking?”

“Why does she keep talking to me!?” The heiress thought desperately but couldn’t herself to stay quiet.

“I don’t think so. I do have a certain fondness for haute cuisine though”

“But haven’t you been curious about the way your favorite dishes are made? The desire to try and replicate the food that brings you joy?”

The read haired girl insisted much to the white haired one’s annoyance.

“I must say I haven’t. All of my life, the food we eat at home has been prepared by the best cooks we can afford so I don’t see why should I care about things like that”

“But, what if you live on your own?”

“I have the means to procure food for myself now if we could finish this conversation at this point, I would appreciate it”

In that very moment, the teacher finally arrived and all the conversations stopped and every student went to their respective place.

“Good afternoon students, I’m professor Peach and I’ll be teaching this class for the year. Given that some of you may not have any experience cooking we will start with some basics”

Saying that, Peach handed some peeled potatoes along with knives to teach the students how to cut the food in different ways and as expected, Weiss was struggling to even hold the knife properly.

When the white haired girl was trying to cut one of the potatoes into little cubes, she cut one of her fingers but her partner acted swiftly to patch her very flustered partner up.

“You have to hold the food in a way you don’t expose your fingers to injury so easily and if you put your index finger on the blunt side of the knife along with a firm grip to control the knife better. Here let me show you”

And so, Ruby took the knife and showed her classmate how to cut the potatoes into pieces in an efficient and safe way. Weiss had to give credit where it’s due, especially when she was nothing but a neophyte on this subject.

“There, why don’t you try it once more?”

“I…”

The bell ringed signaling the end of the class, which the heiress used as her ticket out of her current conundrum, for the time being at least.

Xxxxxx

Unfortunately, Weiss still had one more class before finishing school for the day, which was math. The subject itself was never a problem for the haired girl; what was troubling her was the fact that the girl with the silver yes was also her classmate at math class.

She tried to be as subtle as possible when she couldn’t help but to stare at her seat neighbor who was staring at her with this big smile plastered on her face.

“A smile that I find very cute but I’d rather come to class in pajamas before admitting it out loud”

“Say” the crimsonette whispered “Would you be interested in a partnership?”

“A partnership? Why would I be interested in one with you?”

“Well…I’m not exactly good at math but you are and you’re not good at cooking class but I’m quite experienced at the kitchen so I could help you get better at it and even enjoy cooking! What do you say?”

“Sounds a tad naïve about me enjoying cooking but she does offer a sound argument about us teaming up”

“I find your proposal coherent, therefore, I agree. Now, please be quiet and let’s pay attention to class”

And so, both girls were quiet during the reminder of the lesson and the bell ringed once more finalizing the end of classes for the day.

Since they had homework for the next class, Ruby used it as an opportunity to invite Weiss to her home and put the partnership on the act. They did homework first, with Weiss having to explain certain parts multiple times but they managed to get the job done, then, it was time to help with dinner which Ruby used as an opportunity to encourage the white haired girl to do what she left unfinished by cutting some vegetables. Weiss did a bit better than at class and felt that satisfaction one person can get when they accomplish something.

“Maybe this will prove more interesting than I thought. Thank you Ruby and see you at school”

With those words, Weiss said good bye to Ruby who waved while the car started the trek back to the Schnee mansion and stayed there until the car disappeared from her view.

It eventually became part of their routine. Weiss would help Ruby prep for math assignments or other school related activities and Ruby would do the same for Weiss when it came to cooking and other school related activities. They really had become best friends.

“So, why do you want to be a cook Ruby?”

The blue eyed girl finally decided to ask knowing for a while that Ruby’s dream along with her sister’s was to become chefs and open a catering service. She just thought it was a very personal question but Ruby didn’t seem bothered by it.

“Our mom was a chef and quite skilled at that. She even won some cooking contest when she bothered to participate in them. She always took time to teach Yang and me everything she knew and could, use it as a bonding activity.

She always imparted on us her belief that food could bring people closer and made their day a little better if done with love and care. One of her dreams was to open either a restaurant or a catering service for special events but unfortunately, she died thanks to cancer…*sniffs* we were 10 and 8 when that happened…

*sobs* we just want to make her dream come true and make the world a better place in our own way. Though we chose catering business because we both love a challenge”

Weiss promptly hugs the girl in front of her tightly.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I think is very noble of you to try and achieve that dream.”

“Thank you Weiss for making me feel better”

“You’re welcome” was the only reply the white haired teenager managed to muster.

“Unlike me, you actually have a goal you can call your own...a defined purpose in life…”

Anymore thoughts were blocked by the need to console her partner, one she had come to cherish dearly and even love...

“Love!?” Weiss pondered surprised for saying that. “LOVE!? I…love Ruby!? But I can’t deny it, I really love her and would do the impossible to make her happy; now, if only I had the guts to confess my feelings...”

Getting out of the hug, albeit reluctantly, Ruby wiped the remaining tears from her eyes and smiled once more.

“Now, about our big project for cooking class: are we still on with the meat pie for it?” the silver eyed girl inquired getting a nod of approval from her blue eyed partner.

“Of course. I have made the list of ingredients already, found a supermarket where we can find all the ingredients in great quantity, quality and to an affordable price so we can buy enough for test and the day of the assignment”

“You really know how to organize your stuff Weiss! So, when do we go to buy them?”

“Is okay if we go tomorrow in the afternoon?

“Sure”

One again, saying their respective goodbyes for the day, Ruby embraced Weiss once more and thanked her for being there for her.

“You really mean a lot to me Weiss, never forget that” the red haired girl muttered before letting her bestie/love interest go back to her home.

Xxxxxxx

One weekend was spent buying the ingredients and making test so that they would replicate the recipe flawlessly to Professor Peach and when they least expected it, the day finally came.

“Let’s do this Ruby!”

“Yeah! You start with the potatoes and pre heating the oven. I’ll take care of the ground beef and pork for the time being!”

They swiftly put hand into work. Working in perfect synchrony, anticipating what would their partner need in a certain moment.

And the pie was a success! Getting quite the congratulations from Professor Peach and the highest grade from all the students of their group. It was worthy of celebration.

After finishing the packing of their instruments and the leftover food, Weiss requested Ruby to accompany her to her locker where she had something stored she needed to retrieve.

To the crimsonette’s surprise, it was a Crème Brule which the snow haired girl proceeds to hand over to her.

“Ruby…Meeting you was a life changing event; one I don’t regret at all because it opened my eyes to something new and most importantly, it lead me to find love in the most unlikely of places”

“Weiss?”

“What I’m trying to say Ruby is that I love you; I have had feelings for you for a long time and only recently, I’ve managed to think of a way to confess my feelings to you through the very thing that led us to meet each other: food.

I just want to say that my feelings for you are real and I put all my heart into making that dessert to help demonstrate that so…would you like to be my girlfriend?”

Staying silent for a few seconds, Weiss started to fear the worst when suddenly a pair of lips touched her own in a short but sweet kiss.

“Of course I would love to be your girlfriend Weiss”

Seeing those silver eyes shine made Weiss’s heart flutter uncontrollably but seeing that her feeling were reciprocated to the highest level, it made her feel bold enough to make one more request:

“Could we seal this evolution in our partnership with a longer kiss?”

“Of course!”

And both girls proceeded to do so.

Xxxxxxx

Time flew fast and the girls finally finished high school with great honor and achievements. Weiss announced that she would pursue a career in gastronomy along with Ruby but that was not the most surprising action of the moment. Jacques Schnee of all people gave Weiss his blessing to study her career choice saying that at least now she would do something she was truly passionate about.

Weiss and Ruby’s relationship grew up stronger by the day and when the time was right, they married with their wedding being one of the most spirited celebrations until the date according to friends and family of the couple.

But the time to reminisce was over. Today was an important day for all of them because the “Rose of Summer Catering Service” was hosting its first event.

[murphystartedthefire]

Memori Appreciation Week, Day 2: canon-divergence

(guys, I’m sorry, this took the NO GOOD VERY BAD TURN from canon at “God Complex” although there’s still some room for hope in the end. heed this Content Warning for angst though.)

He keeps yelling until they come back and drug him too. It's a relief at first, that they might take him instead, but he wakes up still tied to the ladder. Immediately goes back to screaming and cursing and demanding to see Emori. Clarke has sad eyes and he knows they've done it. A lot of people are telling him to Listen and calm down. What Roan says is behave, and Murphy tries to bite him so they drug him again. The last thing he's saying is sorry I'm sorry I'll stop-

He wakes up the second time and breathes through his nose. Doesn't scream. Waits for them to open the door. It's a long time before someone does - Clarke again - and she actually jumps when she sees him awake and staring back at her.

He can do this, keep himself still and his voice even. Trembling but even. "Where's Emori?" he says. "I'm calm. Is she dead?" (His voice rises a pitch on the word, he hates it.)

"No," Clarke says, fast, too fast, and he doesn't believe her, her eyes are too sad. "No, I told you, she'd- she's fine."

"Untie me," he says without cursing. Already feels defeated, like he's calling her bluff. Why lie about her being alive, unless they've already decided he's next?

"All right," she says uneasily. "Murphy, she's not doing well, but she'll get better. We started the test-"

"Stop it," he blurts, panicked.

"We did. She's sedated right now. You can see her if-"

Anything, he thinks. But also fuck you, and also, still, I told her we were safe here. She wanted to go. I told her we were safe. If you killed her, I killed her. Do you get that?

He’s calm.

When they finally let them see her, she's not sedated anymore. She is spitting black blood into a can and can't sit up on her own and has sores down her arms and her forehead and.

He forgets he said he wouldn't run. He runs to her and stops. Afraid he'll hurt her if he grabs her too hard. Finds a piece of her head where her skin isn't breaking and kisses her there, puts his arms next to her, clutching the table at both sides, like a shield. This is better. He grabs the table so hard his hands hurt.

She says, "John," in a labored breath, sinking onto her back. Then something softer he can't hear.

"It's okay," he's saying. "It's okay. I'm sorry. We're okay."

She collects as much of her voice as she can and tells him, "You need to run." He doesn't, he said he wouldn't, and she doesn't protest more than that. He lifts her enough so she can sit up, and then she lies into him, and now he can't go anywhere. They've both accepted that.

----

It's a while of her leaning into him, finding places he can touch and hold her, before he hears anyone else, but starts to get snippets of what they're saying.

("We give her the pill, we don't have any more meds left here-" )

("There's more at Arkadia.")

("She might heal on her own." )

("Clarke, we don't know that-" )

("At least we'll find out that much.")

Their voices trail off then, and he realizes he was murmuring shut up shut up out loud and didn't hear himself.

"Murphy?" someone says gently, and it's Raven two feet away from him. Her eyes are locked on Emori.

"Stay there," he says, and she nods and doesn't come closer.

"Emori, I'm gonna get you some more water," she says. Then, "Murphy'll give it to you." She comes back with a cup of ice, not water. This is bad. This is bad. He thinks about Luna and the little girl, and he has no idea where Luna went or if they killed her too. Who knows?

"So I'm clear," Roan says in a low, firm voice, "it doesn't matter if she gets better or not. We only know she went as far as the first one."

"Not as far," Clarke admits quietly.

"I'm not doing this again," Abby says, seemingly from nowhere.

"So I'm clear," mimics Murphy - calm, calm - "this got you fucking nothing?" Clarke flinches. Good. She's the only one meeting his eyes.

"You should have finished it," Roan says in a voice like he's agreeing with him, and Murphy decides right then he's going to watch him die first. He’ll make sure they all die, but him first.

Roan is stronger than him, and Miller is armed, and he knows they will be the hardest people to kill, but he doesn't care. He'll wait until they're asleep. He'll wait until Emori's asleep.

(She won't mind the killing, she'll mind the danger. She'll tell him not to in her cracked voice but he will, he wants to. He'll come back to her when it's over and place more ice cubes on her lips and then...)

Then he doesn't know. Take her to the lighthouse and wait to die there. Away from everybody, like she wanted, like they were supposed to.

Abby and Clarke are talking quietly, tensely. Then Clarke's closer than two feet to him and he laces his fingers into Emori's hand and she squeezes, with as much strength as she has, even though it probably hurts. Don't say you're gonna kill them, he tells himself. But you are gonna kill them, like a reassurance.

“4000 REM is Praimfaya,” Clarke tells him, gesturing to a monitor. Then to the machine, which makes Emori shiver harder against him. “2500 is what killed... whoever that was. Emori was around 1800 when-" she doesn't finish the thought.

She woke up is the thought, and she was distressed, and they made a choice, and it's supposed to make them grateful. Murphy bites his cheek. Don't say you're gonna kill them, just do it. Like her.

"She might- she will get better," Clarke lies. "But we don't know what that means for everyone else."

"I hope it means you die," he spits. He's bad at this. He's bad at this.

Next to him Emori whimpers "please" with the voice she has. He's never heard her say that before. She told him once, she hadn't let anyone make her beg since she was a kid. He feels knives in his stomach.

"I promise," Clarke is saying. "Emori, I promise we're not putting you back." And then, in a tentative voice, in a hating-herself voice, "Murphy won't let that happen."

Abby is staring numbly into the wall. Emori's hand doesn't loosen around his, and for a second her eyes say I told you so before something more desperate and frightened takes hold. She mouths "Run" again. He can't go anywhere. Catch up, Emori.

"Okay," he says. “Yeah.” Calm. Good. He'll be good until they take the needle to his arm, and then he'll hit Clarke in the face and stab her with it.

They don’t trust him enough for that, though, which is smart. "I love you," Emori croaks, and then he gets drugged again.

----

When he wakes up he's not sure if he's dead or not, or a nightblood or not. He knows he's not throwing up or bleeding. He's on the nice bed in the mansion and Emori is too, and she's able to sit up but not really able to stand. Her left arm’s draped over him. She has bald patches through her hair he didn't notice before, without her scarf on. They're supposed to be grateful or something.

He goes downstairs and finds his backpack and the kitchen knife. Cuts his hand and it's black. There's a note on the table that says I'm in the lab. Radio. -Raven. like it's a grocery note. He goes back upstairs and takes the knife with him.

Emori says, "Let me listen" when he tells her about the radio. What he gathers is they gave him the needle but didn't put him in the machine, and then went to check out a bunker in Polis because all this got them fucking nothing.

He puts the knife into his bag and tells Emori, "I'm gonna kill them."

"Who?" she says, swallowing each word slowly. "Everyone left but Raven."

"When they come back," he says.

Emori almost smiles at something he doesn’t understand, and takes in a slightly-less-ragged breath than before. "Stay with me," she says sadly. He does.

----

They go back to the lab later. He's sure Emori won't want to but she agrees -- "We can't stay here" -- and so he carries her. He wants to make sure the machine is still there, because he's been thinking of putting Clarke in it, or Abby, or both of them, depending who he decides he wants to suffer more.

But they’re not here anymore. They left them only with Raven, which sucks because he doesn't really care about killing Raven. They've got him there. The knife sits in his backpack waiting, and Raven putters around the lab talking to herself. And she looks after Emori sometimes, when he falls asleep, when he has to pee, and Emori never cringes from her. So that's okay. He doesn't want to hurt Raven just for being there, not again anyway. He's waiting for Jackson or Miller to come back, so he can kill them instead.

"They're not coming back, John," Emori says eventually, quietly.

"I should've killed them."

She says nothing. She doesn't say no.

They could go back to the mansion, or try the lighthouse. They'll live longer at the lighthouse. Maybe the nightblood really works and they live forever.

----

He lifts Emori again, one step at a time, and Raven almost doesn't notice them leave. "Hey. You're supposed to help me," she says. "I'm supposed to keep you here."

"For what?"

"So they can take you back to this bunker. Five years underground, hydroponic farm. It sounds nice." It's weird she's not saying us. "Nicer than burning, anyway."

"And where are you going?" She gestures up, trying to be flippant. Her hair is a mess.

"Rocket."

He tries to find the space in him to care. Emori looks like she cares. "They're not coming back," Emori explains, to Raven this time. "I'm glad you have somewhere to go." Her voice is too flat to tell if she means it or not, but he thinks she does.

"Wait," Raven says, taking a breath. And it hits him that if it wasn’t the pill Raven gave her, the stuff might be working on Emori, and Luna's not here, and maybe they need their blood now. At least Raven might. He's still deciding whether he cares. Raven touches Emori's forehead and she doesn't move away, so Murphy doesn't shove her.

"If you need her blood, you can take mine, right?" he says, an edge in his voice. "But you didn't test it all the way."

"It's too late for that," Raven mumbles, but he's not sure if he believes her. "That's not what I-" she cups Emori's face and sighs with something like relief. He exchanges a look with Emori. Can they go or not? They can go either way. He has a knife.

Emori touches John's neck where it meets his shoulder. He's already straining from carrying her. "I can walk. I'll just be slow." He sets her down, still resting all her weight into him. It didn't hurt. He could've kept doing it.

Raven's still hovering like she wants to say something else, forcing something back. Finally she says, "Abby's giving you her spot, Murphy. I'm giving Emori mine."

"Keep it," he says automatically, without thinking. He doesn't have to look at Emori to know she doesn't trust it. He trusts it a little, even now, which is... stupid. He's already feeling less like killing everyone, and he just wants to lie down somewhere. But that's dangerous. She wanted to go, I told her we were safe here.

Even if they’re telling the truth, and there’s no catch to it... it feels different, that way, surviving on charity (it won’t last), on deaths of people who want to die. It’s not spite, he wants to live, but either way feels like a door slamming closed.

"What do you want?" he asks Emori softly. Anything. She looks at Raven, shakes her head. That makes it easier. Raven looks like something deflates inside her.

"Don't die like Luna," Raven begs, and he doesn't really know what the hell that means. Probably something like on your own, bitter, but they've always been that. They barely pretended to be anything else. "We're all screwed-up. You don't have to be alone."

Which is honestly hilarious coming from someone taking a one-way rocket trip, and she probably gets that, but he doesn't say it to her. Instead Emori says, "We won't," two small arms around one of his.

"We won't," he repeats. He’s less alone tied to her than the ladder. He was never that alone in his life. And Raven seems to get it then, and glances off at something they can't see.

"I know, I got it," she says to nobody. She's different when she looks at them again, decisive. "Good luck," she says, sniffling, voice hard again. "Set a timer on the locks, just in case."

He hadn't thought about that. If it works, they'll miss the worst of the death wave, they could walk right outside. If it doesn't, they're dead in a couple months anyway. "Thanks," he mumbles. The knife's still in his bag. He could wait for Miller to come back. Take Abby's spot. Five years to kill the rest of them any time.

Emori sways weakly next to him, and the thought fades away. They’ll survive or they won’t, away from everybody. like they were supposed to. Not alone. He doesn't care about the rest of it.

[wildandrunning]

08: The Calm Before the Storm

Will handed Andy a crystal glass filled with an amber brown liquid and ice cubes. The singer hesitated before bringing it to his lips and sipping it. He had to stop himself from wincing, this shit was intense... 

“Good isn’t it? Costs me a pretty penny but you’ve got to treat yourself right?”  “It’s good.” Andy nodded, taking another small sip. 

He couldn’t fathom why anyone would pay so much money for such an awful tasting thing. He didn’t like it at all, but he was desperate to stop the shaky feeling that was taking him over. Will sat down next to him, leaning back against the leather couch.  

“You feeling alright tonight? You look kind of shaken up,” he commented. 

“Just.. anxious.” “About what? The show? It’ll go fine. Those kids adore you.”  “Just about life I guess.. getting used to touring isn’t easy.” 

Will looked down at his glass and sighed. He knew how the kid felt, he was a tour veteran at this point, but he still remembered what it was like those first few tours. It’s hard being in the public eye and there is a lot of pressure to not fuck up. 

“I know it’s tough starting out man, but it’s worth it. You’ve just got to get used to the life is all.” 

Andy took another sip of the whiskey. There was so much inside of him that he wished he could confess to. So many insecurities and thoughts that tortured him. There wasn’t anyone he could trust his secrets with though. He was afraid that speaking them would only make them more real, and the thought of anyone know just how fucked up he was scared him. 

He just wanted to be confident, like the person he pretended to be for the fans. He was so tired of the constant anxiety, the constant loneliness, the depression that seemed to consume him, the constant dieting and hunger pains, the hatred of every inch of his body, and the nagging knowledge that he was living a lie. 

Will took notice to Andy’s silence, refilling the boy’s glass and patting him on the back. “I know we’ve only really just met but if you ever need advice from someone who’s been there before just ask..” 

“Thanks,” Andy said, forcing a smile. 

---

Andy closed his eyes, taking a long drag from his cigarette. The blissful feeling from the previous night had taken hold of him again. Will and he had ended up finishing half the bottle of whiskey off. The singer’s body felt heavy, but his mind was free. 

“So what made you start?” the older man asked, nodding towards the pack of cigarettes on the table. 

“Smoking? I was sixteen and thought it was cool.” Andy had lied, he’d started because he knew that was what the girls at school did to keep from overeating. Nicotine killed his appetite. 

“It’s such a nasty habit, isn’t it. God, I’ve been smoking so long. Everyone around me did so I figured why not, now it just helps keep the edge off.” Will laughed. 

“Well it’s almost stage time, we should probably make our way inside before they think we’re missing or something,” he added, standing up. 

Andy pushed himself off the couch, his legs felt like noodles under him. His head spun from getting up too fast and drinking on an empty stomach. “You must be a lightweight.” Will commented, helping the boy steady himself. 

The younger boy looked up at Will, he was quite the attractive guy. Andy had to admit he didn’t want to go on stage, he wanted to enjoy this feeling some more. He felt alive and... happy? 

“Probably shouldn’t have let you drink that much. Whoops.”  “No, no, I’m fine.” Andy insisted, slurring his words slightly. 

Will helped him down the steps off the bus and into the venue. Inside it was already hot and muggy from the hundreds of people packed in. Andy could hardly hear himself think as he made his way into the green room. Will was on next then them.

Ashley knew Andy was drunk the second he walked through the door. This thin legs almost gave out from under him every few steps as he walked over to the couch. He had no idea where the kid had been for the past hour or where he’d gotten the booze from, but he was furious. They were on in less than 45 minutes and here he was barely able to stand. 

“Andy. Are you drunk?” Ashley asked, walking over to the boy. 

The singer smelt heavily like whiskey, and his crystal blue eyes were bloodshot. Andy smirked and shook his head, “Don’t worry I’m fine.” 

Ashley tried to hide his anger and disappointment in the boy, he didn’t want to get into it before the show. Hopefully, the kid would be able to get out there, sing for all of a half hour without incident. He didn’t understand why Andy was acting this way. For as long as the older man had known him Andy had always been completely sober. Now here he was drunk off his ass for the second time in a matter of a few days. 

If this was his way of solving his problems, he was heading down a hazardous road. “You’re drunk, don’t lie to me.” 

“I just had a few drinks with Will, calm down.”  “BEFORE the show? Look if you want to drink fine, but can you not wait until after the show? Did you learn nothing from the last time?” 

“Hey don’t yell at me. You drink before shows all the time.”  “And? I’m older than you, and I know my limits. You however clearly don’t. This isn’t a good look on you. What happened to the kid that had self-control around alcohol?” 

Andy was done being lectured. Ashley had no idea what it was like for him. If he did, he wouldn’t blame him for wanting to escape for a few hours. Artists perform drunk all the time, it wasn’t exactly a huge deal. Besides, he’d drank twice that was far from the problem Ashley was making it out to be. 

“Fuck off.” 

Ashley mumbled something about him being a ‘goddamn bitch’ before storming off. 

---

The entire show was a blur to the singer. He vaguely remembered forgetting the words to Knives and Pens and begging the crowd to sing for him. He was pretty sure he sang an entire song laying on the floor, and he was also pretty sure he’d almost puked during their encore. 

Ashley, on the other hand, remembered the shit show perfectly. By the time they went on stage Andy was wasted. He kept slurring the words to songs and completely forgot the words more than a few times. Ashley thought things couldn’t get worse, but of course, they did. Andy ended up on the floor, borderline in tears begging the crowd to sing for him. All the other guys were mortified at the display, but the fans still ate it up. In fact, they seemed to have gotten a kick out of Andy’s drunken display. 

Several of them had recorded parts, and Ashley knew clips would be up online by the next morning. Fucking great, here they were trying to prove to everyone they were serious, and now there would be videos of Andy drunk off his ass. Not exactly the image that producers and investors want to see. 

Ashley grabbed Andy by the arm, yanking him down the hall to the dressing room. Andy stumbled, almost falling and bringing the bassist down with him. “Get your ass up and walk,” Ashley growled. 

“Why are you fucking acting like this?” Ashley demanded, pinning the younger boy against the wall. 

Andy didn’t respond. “Fucking answer me. You think that shit out there was cute? You think that’s how we’re going to make it? Do you realize how much of a goddamn embarrassment you were out there?” 

Andy was starting to sober up, and the words hit him like knives. Was he really that bad? “I drink two times, and you act like I’m a fucking alcoholic?” 

“Andy tonight was unacceptable. If you want to fucking drink, then learn how to do so responsibly. And do it after the fucking show where you can’t embarrass the band!” Ashley’s yelling was making Andy’s head throb. 

“Can you not yell at me? I’m fucking sorry okay? I didn’t think I was going to get drunk. It just happened.”  “Bullshit. You wanted to get drunk, so you could fucking ‘feel free’ like you said the other day.” Ashley said, using the singer’s words against him. 

That was why Andy knew he couldn’t confide in anyone. They’d just end up using it against him. Andy had been honest with Ashley about how drinking had made him feel. Only one little comment and now it was being used against him. 

“Stop yelling at me.” Andy groaned, his stomach starting to churn. 

“Then don’t pull this shit again,” Ashley said, letting the singer free. 

Andy pushed past Ashley in time to make it over to the trash can before getting sick. His throat burned and his chest felt like it was on fire. Ashley sighed and walked over, holding the boy’s long hair back out of his face. 

“Promise me you won’t do this again?” Ashley asked softly, a hint of concern in his voice. 

“I-I won’t,” Andy said, not knowing if he was telling the truth or not. 

[theetherealearthling]

~The Bone Tree~

She’s dreams she is in an opulent hotel. Night after night she dreams this dream. Seven years have passed.

Reflective dark oak paneling flows with watery images of smoke rising from archaic, gold leafed sconces that throw an anguished liquid light through the blood red room. A curved staircase with a shimmering polished brass banister melting into the shapes of willowy naiads, writhing and flowing up floor after lavish floor, their fluid robes and lush hair swirling around their bodies as if gliding through silken, molten gold.

Hand blown venetian glass vases, unearthly bright, on blinding glass pedestals, filled with rare antediluvian flowers, wriggling, tentacled, carnivorous things, reaching, grasping... gasping for thin air. Towering, emerald eyed thunderbirds carved from pearl white marble, wings splayed wide, staring motionless into churning nebulae within the expansive, silver flecked mirrors. Overstuffed red velvet chairs, claw footed monstrosities, tables shaped like mermaids, shaped like dolphins, shaped like phoenixes… depending upon the angle at which she looks.

She is holding a key hanging from a heavy leather strop. A skeleton key made of druid gold, as big and as thick as her hand.

Looking around, dizzied, bewildered, she sees his reflection in a shattered mirror as he climbs the stairs. Hundreds of him, thousands of him, one in each infinitesimal piece. No, it can’t be him. Is it him? She thinks it is him. Yes, she is sure of it. Climbing, climbing, climbing.

Her daughter sees him too, but not as often as she did at first, not always in his old human form, and never climbing stairs. Sometimes as a shooting star. Sometimes as ephemera, solid one moment, evaporating particles in the next. Sometimes as a traveling scent. Sometimes, just a voice whispering her mother’s name into the void. They have long conversations, these two. Conversations she never had. She hurries after him as he reaches the top of the curving staircase and turns the corner. Gone.

Again, she sees his reflection in a shattered mirror, sharp, tinkling silver snowflakes, landing in her hair. Mounds and mounds of silver flecked reflections slowly turning to dust.

He continues up the next flight of stairs, caressing the cold banister as he walks on.

He suddenly stops, seeing her reflection in the same mirror in which she is observing him. He looks confused, shakes his head imperceptibly then lowers his head into a sprinkling of silent tears. She holds up her hand as if to wave, as if to comfort him, desperately wanting to reach him.

She never reaches him. Always another mirror, another set of stairs. Always climbing higher.

She finds herself standing in her her childhood backyard facing another sunrise, arms held wide. She hears a piercing, desperate scream and realizes her sister is down in the pasture, where she almost never goes. The scream is hers, something is wrong. Now this may be part of her dream, but it is also true. She flies over the fence, barely touching the top with her hands, she flies down the hill to the bone tree near the pond. She sees her tiny body lying motionless on the earth. Pale, pink white. Long, long blond hair splayed over the grass. So small. So fragile. So broken.

She gathers her into her arms and begins walking up the hill, still she is unconscious. As they near the top of the hill, she opens her wild eyes. “Did you see it?” ~No, what happened? Through dry, cracked lips she tells her it was a shadowy spectre with long clawed hands. Sinking into the earth, pulling her down for the winter, lonely and bereft. “I was trying to get away!” she says. She holds her tighter. She believes her, but she feels deep despair for the spectre too. Ghostly and alone. They have reasons for why they do what they do.

She doesn’t remember what happened after that, but this type of thing wasn’t an unusual occurrence in that lonely place in the country. No, nothing out of the ordinary. Just another scorching, summer day.

She called it the bone tree when she was growing up, because of the large cow bones scattered beneath it, home to her best childhood memories, and it’s where they still play out to this day in her dreams, old memories caught in a time loop.

It is where she would sneak off with her neighbors horse, no saddle, no halter. They would meet at the fence under a full moon, her hands filled with corn stalks, her pockets full of sugar cubes she’d steal from her father’s laboratory when he wasn’t looking. It is where she took her .22 to shoot mistletoe from the trees for her Christmas bouquets. She would tie them up and hang them from red satin ribbons in the doorways for kisses, an unbreakable rule. Beautiful, perfect parasites with snow white berries. Poisonous, alien things. Magickal plants. This was how she learned to shoot when she was 9. All kids had guns back then.

It is where she caught sun perch by the bucket full. She’d gut them, scrape off the scales, and skewer them on a branch to roast over a small fire she would start right there on the rocky bank with the tiny magnifying glass she carried in her pocket along with her scout knife. All kids carried pocket knives back then.

She would sneak off at midnight with a flashlight and her brothers homemade gig. She would impale the bullfrogs that called to her in the blackness, so she could have frog legs for her breakfast. It is where she skated in the bleak, frigid winters while macabre visions of unknown creatures writhed under the cold, dark ice. Snapping turtles that could take off a finger, orgies of two headed water moccasins…. Slimy, slithering, deadly things.

It is where she threw broken treasures, shattered during rough tumblings with her brother, terrified, so they would never be discovered by her mother... but they always were. Eventually. Sometimes kindly, sometimes not. The amber depression glass bowls she loved, ornate antique hand blown lamps, matching delicate candle holders on long slender crystal stems…gone.

It is where she scoured the creek for her treasures. Tiny antique medicine bottles from the old hospital, so long gone that it was hardly a memory to anyone, even the oldtimers. Indian arrowheads by the hand fulls, half buried dinosaur teeth in the banks of an ancient, long dead river, little white button mushrooms to eat with her sun perch, and once, an abandoned, rain soaked marmalade kitten that snuggled into the palm of her hand. She felt him calling, could feel his desperate cries over the lashing rain, the wild wind, and thunder fracturing the air of the world. His name was Solomon, he said. He was a wild, vicious thing who grew into a giant marmalade monster. He loved her ferociously, and her alone.

And always, always more bones.

The stars were something else down there, seen through the bare winter branches, a giant ogre childs splatter painting. Sparkling pinpricks in an indigo blue black cloth, a velvety cloth heaven close enough to touch. And the sounds! The animal sounds! She would tell him about the sounds, and he would say “DO NOT go out there alone at night!” But she always did. Chilling, otherworldly, deliciously frightening, strangely filling old voids within her while creating new ones.

Over the years, anytime someone has said to her, “Close your eyes and imagine yourself in your own special place...” That is always, always where she goes. Not her beach. Not her forest. Not her river. But that tree. That pond. The wind! The tornadoes! The storms! Electricity streaking through the boiling clouds!

She hasn’t been down there in over 40 years. It is where she first learned to soul travel. She kept these secrets to herself, back then. She was a solitary, wildwood creature.

True Story ~The Ethereal Earthling~

[writingcommons-blog1]

“Techniques for Home Sutures” by Ellis P.

Things they don't tell you: the piercer will look like a flabby Salvador Dali scented with tobacco, and when you walk in he will be shirtless and halfway through getting an immense tiger tattooed across his back.

He speaks as awkwardly as I do, but he is a professional. His tone, in emails and in person, is unobtrusive but adamant. I am sixteen. He refuses to pierce anyone younger.

The piercing room shines, painted cream-yellow, with sketched tattoo designs in dark frames along the ceiling. It smells clean. Not disinfected, but scrubbed. Someone likes lemon floor cleaner.

The effect is an atmosphere, in some nonspecific way, of queerness--this is a tattoo parlor, a place for rebellion and revolution, but it loves its patrons with the fierceness of motherhood and scours itself clean for their protection. No space has been carved for us in the world of glass and bleach and cotton swabs and stainless steel, so we make do.

(Things they don't tell you: caring for the piercings will be the first way you've ever loved yourself.)

(I am young, and in my head lives the image of the woman I intend to grow up to be. She smiles like the Mona Lisa; me, but thin, with elegant near-invisible glasses, in a dark red velvet dress--a real Medieval princess. Her hair is long and sun-bleached to honey brown, and wound around her head in a crown of braids. She probably has a garden and an ankle-length skirt, a gym membership and a chicken coop.)

(I slip farther and farther behind her the older I get. She should be effortless. She should be easy-breezy-beautiful. She should laugh like a running stream.) (I can't find the energy to shower.)

(I sleep too late and care too little. I keep my head down and my voice quiet. I can't bear to get up in class and throw away a tissue, can't bear to feel people's eyes on me for even that long. I buy sports bras. I wear them every day, I sleep in them until I get rashes and I keep sleeping in them. I'm not old enough to be a woman. Please, please don't make me be a woman.) (I think this is normal.)

I sit sideways on the rickety padded chair. The piercer and I avoid eye contact as he dabs dots of green felt pen on my lip and lets me check the placement. He secures a clamp around my lip, tight enough to hurt, and unceremoniously shoves a needle through it.

It is a religious experience in the length and depth of its discomfort. The needle, stuck through the holes in each pad of the clamp, tugs at me while the piercer wiggles the clamps out from around it. He turns away to prepare the jewelry and leaves me with the needle resting against my face like a toggle closure and pulling my lip out.

I try not to breathe through my mouth. The piercer slips the needle out and follows it with the stud. Solid metal scrapes through the newly-opened flesh, and my breath goes shallow with the exquisite strangeness of the pain. He fits the end onto the stud. Pinches too hard and scratches my skin. I narrowly avoid biting him.

(Things they don't tell you: you don't owe anyone anything.)

(I am sixteen, and this morning I looked in the mirror and recognized myself in my own eyes. Young, certainly, and imperfect, unformed in a way I can't verbalize, but me. I hear the word "transgender" and my stomach flips with my desperation to own it--I'm bigger than my body, still; clumsy in my enthusiasm, a colt stumbling over its legs from its longing to run.)

(I am eighteen, and I am leaving behind the name that has been mine all my life. My father is helpless and his hurt invades me--he gave me this name when he first looked at my small and malleable scarlet face in his arms. I catch the edge of the studs with my tongue, worry them, twist them like I always do when I'm nervous. A reminder of what's permanent, what matters. What I choose. Who I choose to be.)

The other piercing goes faster and hurts more. Then it's finished, and I can't close my mouth. I hang off to the side, lip swollen and hot and throbbing, while my mother pays with my hard-earned hundred dollars and chats with the piercer. I should thank him, smile, something, but any movement that stretches my lip hurts too much to bear.

At home, I suck on ice cubes until my lip feels as numb as a chunk of rubber stitched to my face. Then the adrenaline runs out, and I sleep for the rest of the day.

(Things they don't tell you: you must cut the disease out; it will not heal by itself.)

(I have come to understand that this path of mine requires me to take knives to my flesh; not to hurt it, but to heal it. It is a strange rite of passage--we lace our skins with scars and ink and metal, and make ourselves cocoons, suits of armor. We were given too-soft bodies. We must build defenses. We must bleed for them. If we do not suffer purposefully, with glad consent, we will be made to suffer against our will.)

The week passes in a blur of saline soaks and mouthwash and careful chewing. I catch the ends of the studs on my teeth every time I open my mouth, and every time the jolt of pain makes me worry I've torn something. Halfway through the healing process, once the swelling has gone down, I go back to the piercer to get shorter studs put in, and again experience the bizarre intimate pain of metal on raw flesh.

I shock myself every time I look in the mirror. I need to look again, and again, to be sure of what I'm seeing--my face, no doubt about it, the one I've lived behind all my life, but changed. Changed irreparably, by my choosing. It makes my thoughts skip and stutter.

(Things they don't tell you: the only way out is through.)

(I am nineteen. The steel-toed boots I love have found a new way to pinch. Despite the slight limp, my stride lengthens when I wear them. In these boots, I walk like I own the street. My feet eat up miles with every step. Marina wails through my earbuds three notches too loud. I go to rub my eyes and remember the makeup half a second too late.)

(I feel like a chimera, a fusion of elements. As if the abstract boy I used to want and the abstract girl I used to want to be came together, tempered each other into something stronger than either of them. I am whole and sufficient--my self ends with my body, my will suffices to keep me standing.)

The tiny silver studs are my signature on my skin, proof this face, this body belongs to me. This is not an empty puppet I control, not a mask I wear. It is me, mine, and I can change it. I am real. I am part of this world, and I can impact it.

I will own my skin and my voice. I will see and speak and act with power, because this life is a gift without strings attached and I will make it mine. Things they don't tell you: when the needle goes in, it will feel like victory.

[readbookywooks]

15. Having been through prep with Flavius, Venia, and Octavia numerous times, it should just be an old routine to survive. But I haven't anticipated the emotional ordeal that awaits me. At some point during the prep, each of them bursts into tears at least twice, and Octavia pretty much keeps up a running whimper throughout the morning. It turns out they really have become attached to me, and the idea of my returning to the arena has undone them. Combine that with the fact that by losing me they'll be losing their ticket to all kinds of big social events, particularly my wedding, and the whole thing becomes unbearable. The idea of being strong for someone else having never entered their heads, I find myself in the position of having to console them. Since I'm the person going in to be slaughtered, this is somewhat annoying. It's interesting, though, when I think of what Peeta said about the attendant on the train being unhappy about the victors having to fight again. About people in the Capitol not liking it. I still think all of that will be forgotten once the gong sounds, but it's something of a revelation that those in the Capitol feel anything at all about us. They certainly don't have a problem watching children murdered every year. But maybe they know too much about the victors, especially the ones who've been celebrities for ages, to forget we're human beings. It's more like watching your own friends die. More like the Games are for those of us in the districts. By the time Cinna shows up, I am irritable and exhausted from comforting the prep team, especially because their constant tears are reminding me of the ones undoubtedly being shed at home. Standing there in my thin robe with my stinging skin and heart, I know I can't bear even one more look of regret. So the moment he walks in the door I snap, "I swear if you cry, I'll kill you here and now." Cinna just smiles. "Had a damp morning?" "You could wring me out," I reply. Cinna puts his arm around my shoulder and leads me into lunch. "Don't worry. I always channel my emotions into my work. That way I don't hurt anyone but myself." "I can't go through that again," I warn him. "I know. I'll talk to them," says Cinna. Lunch makes me feel a bit better. Pheasant with a selection of jewel-colored jellies, and tiny versions of real vegetables swimming in butter, and potatoes mashed with parsley. For dessert we dip chunks of fruit in a pot of melted chocolate, and Cinna has to order a second pot because I start just eating the stuff with a spoon. "So, what are we wearing for the opening ceremonies?" I finally ask as I scrape the second pot clean. "Headlamps or fire?" I know the chariot ride will require Peeta and me to be dressed in something coal related. "Something along that line," he says. When it's time to get in costume for the opening ceremonies, my prep team shows up but Cinna sends them away, saying they've done such a spectacular job in the morning, there's nothing left to do. They go off to recover, thankfully leaving me in Cinna's hands. He puts up my hair first, in the braided style my mother introduced him to, then proceeds with my makeup. Last year he used little so that the audience would recognize me when I landed in the arena. But now my face is almost obscured by the dramatic highlights and dark shadows. High arching eyebrows, sharp cheekbones, smoldering eyes, deep purple lips. The costume looks deceptively simple at first, just a fitted black jumpsuit that covers me from the neck down. He places a half crown like the one I received as victor on my head, but it's made of a heavy black metal, not gold. Then he adjusts the light in the room to mimic twilight and presses a button just inside the fabric on my wrist. I look down, fascinated, as my ensemble slowly comes to life, first with a soft golden light but gradually transforming to the orange-red of burning coal. I look as if I have been coated in glowing embers - no, that I am a glowing ember straight from our fireplace. The colors rise and fall, shift and blend, in exactly the way the coals do. "How did you do this?" I say in wonder. "Portia and I spent a lot of hours watching fires," says Cinna. "Now look at yourself." He turns me toward a mirror so that I can take in the entire effect. I do not see a girl, or even a woman, but some unearthly being who looks like she might make her home in the volcano that destroyed so many in Haymitch's Quell. The black crown, which now appears red-hot, casts strange shadows on my dramatically made-up face. Katniss, the girl on fire, has left behind her flickering flames and bejeweled gowns and soft candlelight frocks. She is as deadly as fire itself. "I think ... this is just what I needed to face the others," I say. "Yes, I think your days of pink lipstick and ribbons are behind you," says Cinna. He touches the button on my wrist again, extinguishing my light. "Let's not run down your power pack. When you're on the chariot this time, no waving, no smiling. I just want you to look straight ahead, as if the entire audience is beneath your notice." "Finally something I'll be good at," I say. Cinna has a few more things to attend to, so I decide to head down to the ground floor of the Remake Center, which houses the huge gathering place for the tributes and their chariots before the opening ceremonies. I'm hoping to find Peeta and Haymitch, but they haven't arrived yet. Unlike last year, when all the tributes were practically glued to their chariots, the scene is very social. The victors, both this year's tributes and their mentors, are standing around in small groups, talking. Of course, they all know one another and I don't know anyone, and I'm not really the sort of person to go around introducing myself. So I just stroke the neck of one of my horses and try not to be noticed. It doesn't work. The crunching hits my ear before I even know he's beside me, and when I turn my head, Finnick Odair's famous sea green eyes are only inches from mine. He pops a sugar cube in his mouth and leans against my horse. "Hello, Katniss," he says, as if we've known each other for years, when in fact we've never met. "Hello, Finnick," I say, just as casually, although I'm feeling uncomfortable at his closeness, especially since he's got so much bare skin exposed. "Want a sugar cube?" he says, offering his hand, which is piled high. "They're supposed to be for the horses, but who cares? They've got years to eat sugar, whereas you and I ... well, if we see something sweet, we better grab it quick." Finnick Odair is something of a living legend in Panem. Since he won the Sixty-fifth Hunger Games when he was only fourteen, he's still one of the youngest victors. Being from District 4, he was a Career, so the odds were already in his favor, but what no trainer could claim to have given him was his extraordinary beauty. Tall, athletic, with golden skin and bronze-colored hair and those incredible eyes. While other tributes that year were hard-pressed to get a handful of grain or some matches for a gift, Finnick never wanted for anything, not food or medicine or weapons. It took about a week for his competitors to realize that he was the one to kill, but it was too late. He was already a good fighter with the spears and knives he had found in the Cornucopia. When he received a silver parachute with a trident - which may be the most expensive gift I've ever seen given in the arena - it was all over. District 4's industry is fishing. He'd been on boats his whole life. The trident was a natural, deadly extension of his arm. He wove a net out of some kind of vine he found, used it to entangle his opponents so he could spear them with the trident, and within a matter of days the crown was his. The citizens of the Capitol have been drooling over him ever since. Because of his youth, they couldn't really touch him for the first year or two. But ever since he turned sixteen, he's spent his time at the Games being dogged by those desperately in love with him. No one retains his favor for long. He can go through four or five in his annual visit. Old or young, lovely or plain, rich or very rich, he'll keep them company and take their extravagant gifts, but he never stays, and once he's gone he never comes back. I can't argue that Finnick isn't one of the most stunning, sensuous people on the planet. But I can honestly say he's never been attractive to me. Maybe he's too pretty, or maybe he's too easy to get, or maybe it's really that he'd just be too easy to lose. "No, thanks," I say to the sugar. "I'd love to borrow your outfit sometime, though." He's draped in a golden net that's strategically knotted at his groin so that he can't technically be called naked, but he's about as close as you can get. I'm sure his stylist thinks the more of Finnick the audience sees, the better. "You're absolutely terrifying me in that getup. What happened to the pretty little-girl dresses?" he asks. He wets his lips just ever so slightly with his tongue. Probably this drives most people crazy. But for some reason all I can think of is old Cray, salivating over some poor, starving young woman. "I outgrew them," I say. Finnick takes the collar of my outfit and runs it between his fingers. "It's too bad about this Quell thing. You could have made out like a bandit in the Capitol. Jewels, money, anything you wanted." "I don't like jewels, and I have more money than I need. What do you spend all yours on, anyway, Finnick?" I say. "Oh, I haven't dealt in anything as common as money for years," says Finnick. "Then how do they pay you for the pleasure of your company?" I ask. "With secrets," he says softly. He tips his head in so his lips are almost in contact with mine. "What about you, girl on fire? Do you have any secrets worth my time?" For some stupid reason, I blush, but I force myself to hold my ground. "No, I'm an open book," I whisper back. "Everybody seems to know my secrets before I know them myself." He smiles. "Unfortunately, I think that's true." His eyes flicker off to the side. "Peeta is coming. Sorry you have to cancel your wedding. I know how devastating that must be for you." He tosses another sugar cube in his mouth and saunters off. Peeta's beside me, dressed in an outfit identical to mine. "What did Finnick Odair want?" he asks. I turn and put my lips close to Peeta's and drop my eyelids in imitation of Finnick. "He offered me sugar and wanted to know all my secrets," I say in my best seductive voice. Peeta laughs. "Ugh. Not really." "Really," I say. "I'll tell you more when my skin stops crawling." "Do you think we'd have ended up like this if only one of us had won?" he asks, glancing around at the other victors. "Just another part of the freak show?" "Sure. Especially you," I say. "Oh. And why especially me?" he says with a smile. "Because you have a weakness for beautiful things and I don't," I say with an air of superiority. "They would lure you into their Capitol ways and you'd be lost entirely." "Having an eye for beauty isn't the same thing as a weakness," Peeta points out. "Except possibly when it comes to you." The music is beginning and I see the wide doors opening for the first chariot, hear the roar of the crowd. "Shall we?" He holds out a hand to help me into the chariot. I climb up and pull him up after me. "Hold still," I say, and straighten his crown. "Have you seen your suit turned on? We're going to be fabulous again." "Absolutely. But Portia says we're to be very above it all. No waving or anything," he says. "Where are they, anyway?" "I don't know." I eye the procession of chariots. "Maybe we better go ahead and switch ourselves on." We do, and as we begin to glow, I can see people pointing at us and chattering, and I know that, once again, we'll be the talk of the opening ceremonies. We're almost at the door. I crane my head around, but neither Portia nor Cinna, who were with us right up to the final second last year, are anywhere in sight. "Are we supposed to hold hands this year?" I ask. "I guess they've left it up to us," says Peeta. I look up into those blue eyes that no amount of dramatic makeup can make truly deadly and remember how, just a year ago, I was prepared to kill him. Convinced he was trying to kill me. Now everything is reversed. I'm determined to keep him alive, knowing the cost will be my own life, but the part of me that is not so brave as I could wish is glad that it's Peeta, not Haymitch, beside me. Our hands find each other without further discussion. Of course we will go into this as one. The voice of the crowd rises into one universal scream as we roll into the fading evening light, but neither one of us reacts. I simply fix my eyes on a point far in the distance and pretend there is no audience, no hysteria. I can't help catching glimpses of us on the huge screens along the route, and we are not just beautiful, we are dark and powerful. No, more. We star-crossed lovers from District 12, who suffered so much and enjoyed so little the rewards of our victory, do not seek the fans' favor, grace them with our smiles, or catch their kisses. We are unforgiving. And I love it. Getting to be myself at last. As we curve around into the loop of the City Circle, I can see that a couple of the other stylists have tried to steal Cinna and Portia's idea of illuminating their tributes. The electric-light-studded outfits from District 3, where they make electronics, at least make sense. But what are the livestock keepers from District 10, who are dressed as cows, doing with flaming belts? Broiling themselves? Pathetic. Peeta and I, on the other hand, are so mesmerizing with our ever-changing coal costumes that most of the other tributes are staring at us. We seem particularly riveting to the pair from District 6, who are known morphling addicts. Both bone thin, with sagging yellowish skin. They can't tear their overlarge eyes away, even when President Snow begins to speak from his balcony, welcoming us all to the Quell. The anthem plays, and as we make our final trip around the circle, am I wrong? Or do I see the president fixated on me as well? Peeta and I wait until the doors of the Training Center have closed behind us to relax. Cinna and Portia are there, pleased with our performance, and Haymitch has made an appearance this year as well, only he's not at our chariot, he's over with the tributes of District 11. I see him nod in our direction and then they follow him over to greet us. I know Chaff by sight because I've spent years watching him pass a bottle back and forth with Haymitch on television. He's dark skinned, about six feet tall, and one of his arms ends in a stump because he lost his hand in the Games he won thirty years ago. I'm sure they offered him some artificial replacement, like they did Peeta when they had to amputate his lower leg, but I guess he didn't take it. The woman, Seeder, looks almost like she could be from the Seam, with her olive skin and straight black hair streaked with silver. Only her golden brown eyes mark her as from another district. She must be around sixty, but she still looks strong, and there's no sign she's turned to liquor or morphling or any other chemical form of escape over the years. Before either of us says a word, she embraces me. I know somehow it must be because of Rue and Thresh. Before I can stop myself, I whisper, "The families?" "They're alive," she says back softly before letting me go. Chaff throws his good arm around me and gives me a big kiss right on the mouth. I jerk back, startled, while he and Haymitch guffaw. That's about all the time we get before the Capitol attendants are firmly directing us toward the elevators. I get the distinct feeling they're not comfortable with the camaraderie among the victors, who couldn't seem to care less. As I walk toward the elevators, my hand still linked with Peeta's, someone else rustles up to my side. The girl pulls off a headdress of leafy branches and tosses it behind her without bothering to look where it falls. Johanna Mason. From District 7 Lumber and paper, thus the tree. She won by very convincingly portraying herself as weak and helpless so that she would be ignored. Then she demonstrated a wicked ability to murder. She ruffles up her spiky hair and rolls her wide-set brown eyes. "Isn't my costume awful? My stylist's the biggest idiot in the Capitol. Our tributes have been trees for forty years under her. Wish I'd gotten Cinna. You look fantastic." Girl talk. That thing I've always been so bad at. Opinions on clothes, hair, makeup. So I lie. "Yeah, he's been helping me design my own clothing line. You should see what he can do with velvet." Velvet. The only fabric. I could think of off the top of my head. "I have. On your tour. That strapless number you wore in District Two? The deep blue one with the diamonds? So gorgeous I wanted to reach through the screen and tear it right off your back," says Johanna. I bet you did, I think. With a few inches of my flesh. While we wait for the elevators, Johanna unzips the rest of her tree, letting it drop to the floor, and then kicks it away in disgust. Except for her forest green slippers, she doesn't have on a stitch of clothing. "That's better." We end up on the same elevator with her, and she spends the whole ride to the seventh floor chatting to Peeta about his paintings while the light of his still-glowing costume reflects off her bare breasts. When she leaves, I ignore him, but I just know he's grinning. I toss aside his hand as the doors close behind Chaff and Seeder, leaving us alone, and he breaks out laughing. "What?" I say, turning on him as we step out on our floor. "It's you, Katniss. Can't you see?" he says. "What's me?" I say. "Why they're all acting like this. Finnick with his sugar cubes and Chaff kissing you and that whole thing with Johanna stripping down." He tries to take on a more serious tone, unsuccessfully. "They're playing with you because you're so ... you know." "No, I don't know," I say. And I really have no idea what he's talking about. "It's like when you wouldn't look at me naked in the arena even though I was half dead. You're so ... pure," he says finally. "I am not!" I say. "I've been practically ripping your clothes off every time there's been a camera for the last year!" "Yeah, but ... I mean, for the Capitol, you're pure," he says, clearly trying to mollify me. "For me, you're perfect. They're just teasing you." "No, they're laughing at me, and so are you!" I say. "No." Peeta shakes his head, but he's still suppressing a smile. I'm seriously rethinking the question of who should get out of these Games alive when the other elevator opens. Haymitch and Effie join us, looking pleased about something. Then Haymitch's face grows hard. What did I do now? I almost say, but I see he's staring behind me at the entrance to the dining room. Effie blinks in the same direction, then says brightly, "Looks like they've got you a matched set this year." I turn around and find the redheaded Avox girl who tended to me last year until the Games began. I think how nice it is to have a friend here. I notice that the young man beside her, another Avox, also has red hair. That must be what Effie meant by a matched set. Then a chill runs through me. Because I know him, too. Not from the Capitol but from years of having easy conversations in the Hob, joking over Greasy Sae's soup, and that last day watching him lie unconscious in the square while the life bled out of Gale. Our new Avox is Darius.