#fractured reflection ch 4

[loopstagirl]

Fractured Reflection, Ch 4

TW: Prisoner of war, torture

With many thanks to @scribbles97 for keeping me inspired!

Scott's POV 1 | Jeff's POV 1 | Scott's POV 2 | Jeff's POV 2 | Scott's POV 3 | Jeff's POV 3

Chapter 4 - Scott's POV

It took several days after the debriefing for Scott to find any semblance of balance again. Saying it out loud, putting that room into words, made it real and tangible. It seemed so close, like it was just down the corridor and if they decided they didn’t like his answers, that’s where he was going until he changed his story.

The nightmares got worse. A low-grade fever left him sweating and shaking as he struggled to deal with the shock of what they’d suggested.

Him. A traitor.

Captain Scott Tracy of the United States Air Force, decorated pilot, son of Jeff Tracy, a legendary hero, a traitor.

The worst part was that for a second, he wondered if it was true.

During the darkest moments, he couldn’t remember what he’d told them. He had bargained with them, forcing their attention on him to protect the rest of his team. He didn’t think he was stronger than them, far from it. But they were his squad. It was his duty, his responsibility, to keep them from harm.

The water boarding. The room. The beatings. The humiliation. Scott always believed his family had stopped him from losing his mind: those precious memories giving him a fragile grip on reality. But what if his mouth had betrayed him, betrayed his country, even as his mind drifted away with thoughts of his mother’s smiling face; his brothers’ laughing; his father’s strong arms keeping him safe?

His dad wasn’t enough this time. But by the time the fever broke and they got him back on solid foods again, a therapist had been lined up. The first session left him more wrung out than any of his recovery so far, but it had helped.

Deep down, he knew he hadn’t betrayed anyone, other than maybe himself. It hadn’t taken long for someone to help him reassert his self-belief and shake off the thoughts those Generals had planted in his head.

Of course, it helped that the Generals didn’t come back with any other questions. Scott had a feeling Colonel Casey had something to do with that. She’d been almost as furious as his father at what they’d been insinuating, and Scott knew his ‘aunt’ would’ve have given some higher-ups hell over it, regardless of rank.

But now, things had started looking up again. He’d had another session with the therapist. Then he’d been introduced to a different sort of therapist. Scott had been both looking forward to, and dreading, the start of physical therapy. He wanted to get back on his feet, wanted full motion back again. But he didn’t want to face his own weakness. Never mind his mouth; his body had certainly betrayed him.

It was both better and worse than he had anticipated. But there was one side effect he hadn’t considered.

It exhausted him. More than anything. In fact, it exhausted him so much he managed to sleep without nightmares tearing him from his new reality to his old one.

A week after the debriefing, Scott slowly opened his eyes. It was bright in the room, a natural light rather than the glow of the lamp he insisted was left on. Purely to help anyone coming and going, of course.

But for the first time, he’d slept the night through.

He felt it, too. The blanket was a warm weight rather than the suffocating restraint it had been previously. He hurt, but it wasn’t the agonising stab of memory, more the slightly unpleasant ache of pushing himself too far.

(Apparently, no one told this therapist they’d have a harder job slowing their new patient down than motivating them to take the next step).

Scott rolled his head to the side, and the memory of a smile touched his lips. It no longer surprised him to see his father in the chair by his bed. The man had told him he was going to stay by his side, and he’d stayed true to that. Scott knew he should tell him to go, find a proper bed, get a decent night. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

Jeff was exhausted. Scott could tell by the way he didn’t immediately wake up as soon as his son moved. It gave him a moment to study the man, though. There was no doubt he’d aged in the time Scott had been missing, and dark circles ringed his eyes, making him look drawn and, well, old.

But as he looked, Scott’s gaze drifted to his dad’s hand. It was resting, palm up on his leg, his fingers loosely curled around something. It was obvious he’d been holding it tight, but sleep had made his grip soften. Scott caught a glimpse of something metal.

He shifted again, his whole body moving this time. It was enough to make his dad stir. He instantly sat up straighter, cracking his neck from side to side before smiling at his son.

“Good morning.”

Scott’s lips twitched. He wasn’t quite there yet; his muscles seemed to have forgotten how to form expressions other than fear and pain.

His dad stretched but Scott’s gaze was locked on his hand still. It had clenched as he moved.

“What’s that?” Scott gestured at his father’s hand.

His dad looked down at his closed fist. He went still, knuckles turning white as his grip tightened. For a moment, Scott didn’t think he was going to say anything. When he did, his voice was quiet but hoarse, as if his emotions were constricting him.

“It’s,” he stopped. Swallowed. Came forward and sat down on the edge of the bed. Scott shifted over to give him space, pleased when his body let him move with something that resembled ease.

“They’re yours,” his dad whispered. Slowly, his fist opened. Scott stared.

He remembered all too clearly the day he’d been presented with the tags. Five days in to his basic military training, queuing up with what would later become his squad: going through the process of registering his information and getting his fingerprints taken to give him an active record on the system. Being presented with the two small pieces of metal and the instructions to have them with him, always.

Scott hadn’t taken them off from that day onwards. Even when he was on leave, and his brothers had pestered to see them, he’d unhooked them from his shirt, let them hold the tags in their hands, warmed by the closed contact with his skin. But never once had he slipped the chain from around his neck.

He could remember all too well when he’d lost them as well.

It hadn’t been immediate. Their captors had let them keep them, let them cling on to their identities, for all the good it did them. As far as he could tell, the rest of the squad had been rescued with theirs still on. It was the only way their captors had let them keep any of their humanity.

But not Scott.

It had been that final time they’d dragged him to isolation. Once they’d got him away from the others, two men holding his arms even as they’d forced him to his knees, another soldier had stepped in front of him. With one sharp tug, he’d torn them from his neck. In that movement, he’d also torn away Scott’s sense of self, his hope, and his adamant belief he was going to see his family again.

He’d torn away what had made Scott Tracy the man he was.

“How-,” this time, it was his voice that was shaking. “How did you get them?”

He thought he knew, though. All along, there had been something missing. His father had refused to say how they’d provided proof of life, refused to comment on what had sparked off the rescue mission when everyone higher up the chain of command had written Scott off as lost.

“They sent them to me,” his dad murmured. “A small, unobtrusive package arrived at the office one day. They thought they were sending a ransom. While it was true that sending me your tags was enough to get my attention, they made a mistake. Sending me these was giving me my son back.”

Scott thought he understood. Until then, his dad hadn’t had a reason to believe he was alive. Sending the tags had given him hope, even as it had been taken away from Scott.

“Here.” His dad gently took his wrist, angling his hand until he could slip the tags onto Scott’s palm.

Scott froze. They were warm from the heat of his father’s skin. The engravings glinted in the warm light of the room, providing Scott with information he’d forgotten about himself in that place. All he could do was stare for a long moment.

A gentle hand covered his own, slowly folding his fingers around the tags. Scott let it happen, but he didn’t consciously move. When the hand disappeared, shifting to a soft grip on his shoulder, Scott made himself look up.

“Scotty?”

With a yell he didn’t know he had in him, Scott threw the tags across the room.

They stripped his identity from him when they’d taken those tags. But giving them back didn’t restore everything he’d lost.

“They’re not mine,” he said, breathing heavily.

“Scott, they are.”

“No.” Scott looked away. “That’s not me.”

The man those tags belonged to had been lost in that prison, trapped in the darkness begging for someone to come and save him. How could Scott take the tags back when he couldn’t go back to the man who’d worn them?

He kept his head turned as his father stood up. He heard him collect the tags from where they’d fallen. While Scott was grateful that his dad didn’t try and give them back, he also didn’t know what to do when the man placed them on the bedside table.

“No one is making you wear them,” he murmured in a soothing tone. “But don’t give up on them so easily.”

Don’t give up on yourself so easily is what Scott heard.

He was breathing heavily through his nose, trying to keep the tears at bay. He was so tired of feeling weak and vulnerable, his emotions getting the better of him after so long suppressing them. But there was something about those two small pieces of metal and the chain holding them together that was more of a painful reminder of what he’d lost than anything his dad could’ve said.

The bed dipped again under his father’s weight.

“You think that because of what you went through, you’re not the man you were? Well, you’re right. No one can undo what you experienced, although god knows I wish I could. No amount of therapy is going to get that man back, son. It’s changed you. But it’s up to you to figure out if that’s for better or worse.”

Scott couldn’t look at him, instead keeping his gaze fixed on the bedspread. It wasn’t a surprise when a hand cradled the back of his head and his father pressed a kiss to his forehead before he stood up. No doubt he was intending to give his son space to come to terms with his latest emotional rollercoaster.

“Dad?”

Scott found his voice just before his father walked out of the door. He stopped, looking back.

“Scott?”

Scott sat up straighter, forcing himself to meet his dad’s gaze.

“Help me shave?”

A grin split over Jeff’s face and he nodded.

“Of course. I’ll get what we need.”

He hurried out, as if Scott was going to change his mind in the few moments it took him to fetch everything. But all Scott did was force himself to sit up straighter, flexing his fingers. He wasn’t steady enough to hold the razor himself yet.

His father had made a good point. He couldn’t be the man he was before. But that didn’t mean he had to be the man that prison had made him, either.

Scott wasn’t naïve: it wasn’t as simple as a change in mindset. He was still haunted; still scarred, both physically and mentally.

But as he got ready to take back some control, he figured a change in his thoughts had to be a damn good starting point.

-x-

“Two more beads, then you’re done.”

Mal’s voice was warm and encouraging. Scott gritted his teeth, his hand, no, his entire arm, trembling, as he held the small bead between thumb and forefinger. With his other hand, he held the string as steady as he could, concentrating as he tried to thread the bead on.

It was his fifth physical therapy session, and if Mal was surprised by the strides his patient was taking, he was professional enough not to show it. He hadn’t needed any of his usual coaxing with Scott. Instead, he’d needed to remind the man what his body had gone through and pushing it wasn’t going to make him heal any faster, but the opposite.

Scott threaded one bead, then the second. He saw Mal shift out of the corner of his eye, no doubt prepared to take the equipment away. Before he could do so, Scott threaded a third bead.

“Alright, hot shot,” Mal laughed. “You proved your point.”

He took them away before Scott could do anymore. Scott sat back in the chair with a sharp exhale, surprised when he realised his forehead was damp with perspiration. It should’ve been such a simple task, but it took it out of him more than he cared to admit.

They’d set his fingers, straightening them out after they’d healed wrong from previous breaks. Improving his dexterity hadn’t been quite as straightforward, but Scott was adamant he would get it back. He might not be able to play the piano properly, but that had never been his forte anyway. As long as he would be able to fly, that was good enough for him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Mal said. “We’ll hit the gym.”

Scott nodded. He liked his physical therapist. Mal didn’t treat him like he was broken; didn’t let Scott wallow in self-pity. He treated him like a buddy, challenging him in a friendly way that Scott couldn’t refuse even if he found it hard. He wondered what that said about his pride, whether it was as gone as he believed…

“Mr Tracy.”

“Mal.”

Scott looked up at the voice. As Mal left with a cheerful wave, his father came in with two coffees in his hand. Scott gave a small smile, the action gradually coming back to him with each day that passed. The medical staff had tried to warn him off the caffeine, before realising it was a far greater motivator to make him do as he was told than anything else.

He took the offered cup, but had to put it down. His muscles were trembling from the activity he’d just been doing.

His dad sat on the bed. He didn’t say anything: he’d learnt not to ask how the session had been as Scott would only focus on what he should’ve been able to do rather than what he’d managed.

“I was thinking we could get some fresh-,” he trailed off, frowning.

Scott heard it, too. The sound of a commotion coming from further down the hallway. He glanced at his dad, who shook his head: he didn’t know what was going on, either.

Scott shrank back. He didn’t mean to. But the last time he’d heard raised voices down a corridor, they’d been coming for him.

Whether his father had seen the action or was just curious himself, Scott didn’t know. But he leapt from the bed and stuck his head out of the door.

“Stay here,” he called back. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”

Scott didn’t point out he was exhausted after his therapy session: he couldn’t go anywhere even if he wanted to. But he did force himself to sit up straighter, refusing to be that scared little boy again.

But as the noise came closer, Scott straightened even more. He frowned. This wasn’t a threat. This was something familiar. He knew those voices. They’d got him through the worst moments of his life. Not his team, but people even closer to him than that…

Just as Scott intended to stand, the door opened. His dad appeared, a look Scott recognised from years gone by: half-exasperation, half-fondness.

Four very familiar figures crowded in the doorway. For a moment, there was a sharp intake of breath. Scott stared back just as intently as they were looking at him.

John: paling when he saw his big brother, but the smile uncurling making him look years younger.

Virgil: jaw set, head lifted as he refused to show what he thought about his brother’s appearance and instead trying to be strong.

Gordon: his jaw dropping when he saw Scott.

Alan: giving a small gasp, tears flooding his eyes and turning into John.

Scott didn’t know what to say. Even after weeks of the best care the military had to offer (plus a bit more, given Jeff’s refusal to leave and no one wanting to upset him), he knew he still looked like a mess.

He was wearing a zipped hoodie and tracksuit bottoms. But the exertion of the therapy had made him unzip the top, leaving his chest and torso exposed. Most of the wounds were well on their way to healing, but the scars were still puckered and raw. Scott jerked, quickly pulling the zipper back up.

“Well, fu-.”

“Gordon!” John’s hand shot out, cuffing him over the head.

“What?” Gordon protested, rubbing his head, and looking at John. “He’s not exactly Prince Charming right now.”

“He’s never been Prince Charming,” Virgil said in a distracted tone. His gaze was locked on Scott, his expression serious. Scott wondered if he even realised he’d spoken.

But Scott knew he’d seen what the others hadn’t. The slightest relaxation in his shoulders at Gordon’s words. It was better than pretending everything was fine and nothing amiss.

“That’s because Prince Charming is the boring one. I’d rather be Aladdin,” Gordon shot back.

“A thief?”

“At least he gets to have more adventures.”

“Doesn’t get to fight a dragon though,” John said.

Their dad was shaking his head at their antics. But Alan’s tears had dried up and colour had returned to John’s cheeks. Before Gordon could respond, there came another sound.

One that had been missing for a very long time. Longer than Scott had been gone. As even though he’d been in the hospital for several weeks now, he hadn’t realised he still had this in him. Listening to his brothers’ banter, their utterly ridiculous conversation given where they were standing and what they were faced with, there was only one thing Scott could do.

He laughed.

It didn’t last long but enough to see the startled look on his father’s face relaxing into a pleased smile. John and Gordon exchanged smug smirks and the four brothers made their way into the room.

Scott looked at his dad. “Help me?” he murmured softly.

The man helped him over to the bed, knowing what Scott wanted. Scott then pulled Alan up next to him, wrapping his arms around the boy’s waist. Virgil snagged the chair and dragged it over even as Gordon climbed on the bed, sitting cross-legged on the end. Virgil sat in the chair, also folding his legs up, while John leant against the wall.

Scott looked around at the four of them. Drank in the sight of them. The feeling of Alan in his arms, Gordon’s weight leaning against his foot, reaching out and touching Virgil’s arm, making sure they were all real, all truly here.

There was a lump in his throat, but this time, it was different to when emotions had previously overwhelmed him. This felt… Scott swallowed. This felt positive.

He thought he’d been starting to come to terms with what had happened to him and started to process the emotions that came with that. But this time, it felt like a leaden weight in his chest had moved from his heart to his throat, and was fighting to free itself. He didn’t currently know how to speak, what he was supposed to say, but he felt that maybe he could breathe properly for the first time since he’d woken up.

He couldn’t stop himself, looking from one to the other, mouth opening. He wanted to tell them what it meant to him that they were here, how hard he’d kept fighting to come back to them and how they’d kept him going. But his voice didn’t work and tears flooded his eyes instead.

They were here.

They were really here.

Apparently, his father thought the same thing.

“How did you get here?” There was a firm note in his voice, one that gave away he expected an answer. Virgil flushed, looking at John who was pointedly examining something on the far wall with far greater intensity than a blank white patch needed. Both Alan and Gordon looked at their big brothers. When no one spoke, Gordon did.

“Virgil flew,” he announced. Virgil gave him a betrayed look and Gordon pulled an apologetic face. “What? You did. John navigated and made all those calls about landing rights and flight paths or whatever he was talking about but Virgil was at the controls.”

“Thank you, Gordon,” their dad said in a clipped tone. “I just didn’t realise he owned a plane to bring the three of you over to the mainland.”

“We may have borrowed Tracy 2,” John confessed to the wall.

“And you knew our location how?”

They were in a military hospital, after all. It wasn’t widely known exactly whereabouts it was located. This time, it was John who flushed and nothing else needed to be said.

Their dad pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. “So, you stole my plane and came to a classified military hospital whose location John dug out from somewhere he shouldn’t have access to. How did you get past the guards?”

This wasn’t the sort of place that anyone could just walk into. Not only because it was military, but because of the severity of both the physical and emotional injuries being treated here. Too many things were triggers for the men and women who’d been through hell.

“Oh, that was all Alan,” Virgil said, sounding proud.

“Please, sir,” Alan said in a high voice. His blue eyes went impossibly wide. “Both my daddy and big brother are in there. I have to see them; I just have to.”

“Then I told them I really needed the bathroom,” Gordon chimed in, sounding far too pleased with himself.

Scott couldn’t help it. He laughed again. In a way, he should’ve known. Only his brothers would take entering a restricted military hospital as a challenge and not let anything stop them.

“That’s not exactly how it went down,” a voice said from the door. All the Tracys looked up.

“Aunt Val!” Alan cried, excitedly.

“What do you mean?” John asked.

“You think I didn’t know as soon as you four cleared the flight path? I guessed you were coming here, although I’m impressed that you made it that far. I warned the guards four tearaway kids would be arriving and to let them in.”

“I’m not a child anymore, Aunt Val,” John said. It had been a long time since anyone had called him a child.

“Are to me, kiddo,” Val said. She reached over and ruffled his hair, making John scowl and Gordon laugh. “Now, Gordon, Alan, how about you boys come and help me find some snacks.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. Alan looked like he was going to protest but Gordon slipped off the bed, serious for once and knowing to do as he was told. She gestured them out in front of her, and Scott watched them leave.

“Alan’s grown,” he said quietly, “and Gordon’s got stronger.”

“He’s training hard,” his dad said. “Taking it seriously.”

“Good.”

Scott had been worried his brothers would give up their own dreams when he’d gone missing. He was glad to see that wasn’t the case, although he did wonder if Gordon had seen the pool as refuge rather than thinking about his career.

For a moment, there was silence. Scott looked up to see John and Virgil exchange glances heavy with unspoken meaning. He understood. For six months, the pair of them had been forced to deal with the idea that he was missing, captured behind enemy lines, and then presumed dead. They’d had to process a lot.

Now they were here and Scott knew he was hardly the brother who’d said goodbye to them last time he’d been home.

But with Alan and Gordon gone, he had some space. He shifted up on the bed, motioning for them to both come closer.

“I’m not going to break,” he told them.

Virgil had clearly been waiting for that. With a soft cry, he flung himself forward and wrapped his arms around his big brother. Scott returned the grip, and knew it was the strongest he’d held something in months.

“Don’t do that,” Virgil said against his shoulder. “Don’t ever do that again, you hear?”

“Yes, Sir,” Scott said with a small smile. As John came closer, Scott lent his cheek against the top of Virgil’s head and allowed himself to smile.

[perictione00]

Oops!...I Did It Again

Ch 4: Fuck me like you hate me.

Pairing: Nanami x reader

Warnings: MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, angst, use of curse words.

Synopsis: When life was throwing you uncountable curveballs, an unexpected reunion with your high school friend helped you dodge every single one of them. Coping mechanisms leave you both in a complicated situationship. So what happens when one of you ends up catching feelings? The cliche or the unexpected?

Jujutsu Kaisen Masterlist

Ch 3

Fuck me like you hate me? That particular expression from you conveyed the exact opposite of Nanami's sentiment. The dynamics between you two underwent a noticeable shift after that exchange. Previously, you instigated random conversations with him while sharing dinner, but now you steer clear of interactions and instead aggressively approach him with sex on your mind. Suddenly, that was all it was about. Secret visits to his office evolved into regular and conspicuous events. He wasn't complaining; he enjoyed having you in his arms; however, it felt like there was a wall that kept him from reaching you.

"You're doing it again, y'know." He confronted you as he saw your form entering the room.

"Doing what again?" you inquired, diligently drying your hair.

"Pushing me out-"

"You're just too big for me, but I promise I'll try to make it fit this time." You replied playfully.

Kento audibly sighed at the apparent endeavor on your part to ignore his inquiry with an innuendo. His gaze traced your motions, uncertain if you intended to swiftly segue into intimate matters or address the pending discussion. The predictability manifested as you opted for the former, leaving your bathrobe on the floor, settling onto his lap, adjusting your damp tresses, and drawing him closer, close enough to kiss. Your mere presence proved intoxicating, and despite his earnest attempts to grapple with his dilemmas, the overpowering sensation of your lips meeting his was enough to conquer his doubts and uncertainties. And right when he had started to drown himself in the kiss, you pulled away. It looked like you wouldn't listen to him, so he decided to speak your language and give into you.

What were you doing to him? You pondered as you observed every detail on his face that reflected nothing but his unwavering devotion to you. He was a great person, and yet you could never be the same as him. A lingering feeling of fear, borne of past disappointments and betrayals, veiled your sentiments. You had experienced them far too many times from far too many people you considered close. Your trust was fractured by the scars of abandonment etched by some friends, some endgames, who left you when they were bored. Were you the problem? Were you the catalyst for their departures? You don't know. There's one thing you know for sure, though: you are never going to grant anyone that power over you. You're never going to surrender dominion over your emotions or believe in anyone because people suck no matter how perfect they appear to be on the outside. You are tired of being on the receiving end of pain. Maybe now you'll take your sweet time giving it. Kento appears to be flawless, and that's uncanny because you don't know what you'll do if he leaves you like everyone else. So you have decided to own him without having him—an attempt to possess without being possessed—to lay claim to his heart without the surrender of your own, as yours remains beyond his grasp.

Kento lithely guided you onto the plush mattress, divesting himself of his shirt. A heavy breath escaped him as he traced a path of delicate kisses along your neck. Captivated by the allure of your taut nipples, he indulged in drawing one into his mouth while ardently caressing the other, savoring the sensation of your hands entwined firmly in his tousled locks. Sucking indelible marks on your bosom, he earned fervent moans from you. Intertwining his fingers into yours, he slowly moved down to your pussy. Interlocking his fingers with yours, he moved down to your pussy to bestow his attention upon the realm of your desire.

"Ah, Kento!" Your limbs entwined around his head, where his adept mouth and tongue worked a beguiling dance upon your sloping core, his hands asserting control over your hips. The vice of your thighs clamped down upon his head, giving him an unspoken insistence to continue his abuse, and so he did. Swiftly, Nanami wasted no time, seamlessly immersing himself between your parted legs.

"Don't move," he commanded as his sizable hands encircled your hips, conveying a tacit warning to stay still when you tried to move away due to the overwhelming sensitivity.

“K-Kento, I'm coming.” You whimpered while grinding your cunt against his tongue, riding through your orgasm.

Without a break, he pulled you onto his lap, seating you with your back leaning against his chest and his already-leaking cock rubbing against your bare cunt. Keeping one thick arm around your waist and the other holding your jaw, he kissed you passionately as he entered your warmth.

"Shi-shit, hah-...fuck" Curses slipped out of his mouth as your wet pussy swallowed up his whole length. He started drilling his cock into you at a dizzying speed, snapping his hips against yours.

"Does this feel like I hate you?" He asked in between his thrusts.

There it was again. Why doesn't he understand that the thrill will be lost the moment they commit? Why can't he just continue this no-strings-attached relationship? Why can't he accept that this feeling of love won't last and all that will be left of it will be dispair?

"A-answer me?" He questioned you as he violently rubbed fast circles on your clit and mouthed at your neck, savoring your taste.

"No."

This wasn't the answer he wanted to hear. It frustrated him to no end that you would go to such lengths just to deny his questions. Pounding relentlessly into your cunt, his tight hold on your waist left bruises.

"Umf-yesh...jus like tha..." You arched your back as he started thrusting at an animalistic pace, each stroke greater and more urgent than the last. You were nearing your climax once again. His teeth pulled at your bottom lip, kissing you over and over as you continued bouncing on his cock. You came with a high-pitched squeal, causing his jaw to clench as he felt your pussy spasm around him.

A series of guttural groans escaped his lips as he climaxed within your embrace. Exhaling deeply, he gazed upon you, a glistening sheen of sweat enveloping your entire form. Your disheveled, damp locks clung haphazardly, yet in this disarray, you appeared flawless. The most beautifully perfect being. Why couldn't you view yourself through his lens?

"I can't do this anymore." He smiled softly, his eyes gleaming with tears.

"What? Why? Is the sex not good?" Why was he doing this?

"Can we be something more than this?" He asked hopelessly, almost sounding tired.

"Where's this coming from?" You inquired.

"Answer me."

"What the fuck is this-"

"Why can't you see it?!" His sorrowful voice gave away his dispair.

"I dunno what you're talking about. Y'know what? Let's take a breather." You stated to avoid the matter at hand.

"No... please. I need to know."

"Kento, let's not-"

"I love you."

"No. Don't do this."

"I love you-"

"Stop it!" you screamed, gasping, a tear escaping your eye. "It's not worth it; let's act like this never happened."

"I can't-"

"Why not? What more can you want? I'm giving you everything, aren't I?"

"I want you." Nanami embraced you in a hug. "I want all of you, and I'm willing to wait."

You pulled away.

"There's nothing there for you to wait for. I don't want you if I can't have you like this. I'm sorry, Kento, but I guess you will only ever be just another good fuck for me."

Series Masterlist

[starlightsearches]

Eyes on Me Ch. 4

Masterlist

Modern Armitage Hux x F! Reader Warnings: RC is a sex-worker, discussions of sex, language.

AN: Woah!!! Can't believe this fic is back from the dead. I got a comment on Tumblr for the last chapter a few days ago and remembered I had THIS chapter started. I don't have plans for future updates, but if there's any interest that could change!

Warnings: 18+ only, sex work, piv sex, semi-public sex, jealousy, mentions of child abuse and scars from said child abuse, brendol hux makes a teeny tiny cameo, ren is there, some angst at the beginning, kind of choking but not really, forced quiet sex, language, and I think that's it!!

The tires of the black car glide silently over smooth-as-silk streets, moonlight streaming through the dark tinted windows and pooling in the space between your body and his.

Armitage doesn’t speak, eyes tracking the journey out his own window, hands rubbing absentmindedly over his thighs. You can’t blame him for his nerves—you’re feeling them, too, the sleeves of your coat collecting the sweat off your clammy palms.

Silly. You’ve done this a thousand times. 

“You’re sure no one will recognize you?” Armitage asks the window, his breath creating little circles of fog on the glass.

You hum in assent, although looking over the guest list had been a cursory act. Even if you had already fucked every man at the party somehow, none of them would spare you half a glance.

You frown, the fountain of bitterness that wells inside you bubbling again. It’s an old memory, but a harsh one, and it still stings—despite the years between you and the moment of rejection. 

You had been so much younger then, and more than a little foolish. Your client was older, and handsome, and so romantic you’d have sworn that the feelings he had for you were real. 

You still remember the way it felt, that little flash of light in your chest when you caught a glance of him at some overpriced hotel bar years after things had ended, your heartbeat in your throat. You squared your shoulders, feigning indifference as you brushed by. There was that pleasant spark when your arm nudged his own, and you could see your reflection in the depths of his eyes, feeling so beautiful now, graced again by the weight of his attention. He looked at you, and you smiled, ready for the recognition to come, ready for him to want you like he had so many times before.

And then he looked away. The moment shattered. He hadn’t recognized you at all.

Armitage stares into the black night, and you stare at him, a fracture in your heart. Would he be the same? Would there be a time, years from now, when you’d find him with someone else on his arm and no recollection of you? Would he take what he could get from you—confidence, jealousy from other men who looked your way, a good fuck—and then find someone else to give himself to, wholly and without pretense?

Imagining those years passing by, watching yourself grow a little older, a little less desirable to these men who fed their addiction on young girls . . . left alone.

Your eyes snap shut, firm, breathing rhythmically, stopping any tears before they could even appear. It’s not in your best interest to think that way. Not when your income depends on your charm. 

You reach for Armitage, pressing a hand against his arm, stroking gently over the fine material of his suit jacket.

“Everything will be fine,” you promise him, and it’s a promise to yourself, as well. You will keep him happy, and attached, for as long as you can manage. 

Armitage nods, and—to your surprise—seems to relax a little, shifting in his seat to face you, no longer shocked by or shying away from your touch. 

It’s a good thing, but the same old fear spears through your heart. How soon before he was bored of you?

“I have something for you,” Armitage whispers as he slips a dark box from one of the inner pockets of his suit, and you try to take comfort knowing that the answer is not yet. 

It’s heavy in your palms. Heavy in a way that screams of extravagance, and your palms itch at the feeling of it, of the need that drapes over you like a shroud every time you’re reminded that Armitage, and men like him, could afford to give away the kind of money some people would kill for.

You pop the lid open, breathing in the scent of leather and jewelry polish. There’s a gasp on your lips that you couldn’t have faked, even if you wanted to.

Diamonds, nestled tightly in their gleaming settings, connected by a thin string of gold, glow in the damp streetlights outside the window. It slips smoothly from the case, draping elegantly over your fingers, metal cool to the touch. You’re no appraiser, but you’ve spent enough time around fine jewelry to know what something like this would cost.

Armitage is trying not to smile, as proud as you’ve ever seen him. He had certainly agonized about this choice, the same way he agonized about most things. You’d have to write an apology to the poor store clerk who helped him pick it out. Unless they worked for commission.

He makes no move for that inner pocket again, produces no receipt—not that you could ever return something so beautiful, even if you needed the money. 

“Will you wear it?” he asks, but from the look on your face he must know the answer, slipping the necklace from your shaking hands. 

Your instincts in this area are sharp as ever, luckily, and your body turns away from him out of habit, slipping your coat from your shoulders to make room at the nape of your neck. The chain descends, crossing your line of sight again, and you almost tear up knowing that you won’t get to see it again until the evening is over. 

“A small token of my gratitude,” Armitage whispers the words, low and soft against your ear, “for accompanying me tonight.”

His fingers still at the back of your neck, slipping softly down your shoulders, stopping at your arms, skin bare, goosebumps raising in response to his touch, a shiver in your breath.

“You shouldn’t have,” you tell him, meeting his eyes over your shoulder, smiling softly. It seems like the wrong time to mention that this is what he pays you for. Or a part of it.

Armitage smirks, but it has none of the buoyant pride from earlier.

“You’re about to meet my father. I should have done much, much more.”

Brendol Hux’s estate—it felt wrong to call it a mansion, as large as it was—glowed from every window, bright enough you may have been able to see it from miles away, if it weren’t surrounded by a copse of drooping, black trees. A colossal, stately edifice, gray stone and rippling glass, you couldn’t help but think of all those period piece movies you’d been watching on your evenings alone as Armitage led you up the stairs toward the entryway, his posture rigid and tense, like he was walking onto the battlefield. 

There had been a slew of introductions—a towering, important blonde woman who never smiled, a whole host of scowling, old men who refused to look Armitage in the eye, and then the baby-faced younger ones with their neat hair and puppy-dog eagerness. They practically glowed under Armitage’s regard, although he hardly seemed to notice the worship in their eyes.

And then you had met his father. Not the fire and brimstone event that Armitage had foreseen—the conversation was short and austere, and you spent most of it trying to find a hint of Armitage in the man who stood before you, coming up blank. 

Maybe you had been rude, but who could have blamed you? You’ve seen the scars.

Armitage never spoke about them—the flat burns from the end of a cigarette that dotted his arms, stretched thin over the corded muscle, or the narrow white bands across his back that flexed with each shift of his shoulders. He never said a word, even if his cheeks grew ruddy when he felt your fingers brush against them, his eyes turning dark. 

So what if you had been rude? Armitage paid you for lots of things, but your loyalty came for free. 

All that unpleasantness is over now. A glass of champagne in hand, you’ve found a private corner together, sharing smiles and soft words between sips of the fizzy wine, your head buzzing pleasantly each time Armitage strokes a finger over the chain around your neck. 

“Should we go?”

It’s wrong of you to ask—this is his event, and you’ll stay as long as he needs, even if it means ignoring that pleasant ache between your thighs for a little longer. 

Armitage almost smiles, leaning in closer—much too close, given the way so many eyes catch as they cross your path—his breath hot and damp against your ear, full of illicit promises. A shiver blossoms over your skin.

But you never hear whatever sins Armitage is about to share. You’re interrupted, a dark shadow stepping into your line of sight.

“Armitage, you haven’t introduced me to your date.”

He’s a tall man—taller than Armitage, even—voice low and rumbling, like the tremors before an earthquake. His hair is unruly and dark, long enough it brushes the collar of his jacket. The suit is fine, but stretched taut over his broad shoulders, a little too tight to be considered well-cut. His eyes rake over you, shamelessly, from the hem of your dress to where the necklace rests against your collar bone. Armitage scowls beside you.

“Ren,” Armitage says, but it’s less an introduction and more a warning.

You take the hand Ren offers you, stuttering out your name when he lifts it to his mouth, brushing his lips across your knuckles, eyes meeting yours—dark and intense, like fresh coal on a smoldering fire. 

“A pleasure,” he tells you. The feeling isn’t mutual.

But you’ll try to keep up appearances, offering a faint smile as you take your hand from his barely-loosened grip, fingers brushing against his calloused palm. Armitage stiffens, a hand sliding against the curve of your spine, settling stiffly against your hip before pulling you closer.

“So,” Ren asks, ignoring the gesture and the waves of displeasure emanating from Armitage, “how did you two meet?”

Oh, joy—a quiz. Ren is as skeptical as you’ve ever seen a man, but that only strengthens your resolve.

“Online,” you answer curtly, making your lack of interest apparent, broadcasting it with another sip of champagne and a longing look in Armitage’s direction. You don’t care if Ren thinks you’re rude for it. You could be getting railed in the back of a private car right now if it weren’t for him. 

Ren only hums, a smirk on his lips. “Really?”

You nod, but don’t say anymore. For every client you’d ever had, there were about a thousand men like Ren—suspicious types, hoping to trip you up, or expose you—and none of them were as clever as they thought. You know Ren wants you to ramble out explanations, to stumble into a mistake as he collected the pieces he needed to embarrass Armitage. 

You’d let him choke on your stony silence, instead. 

“I had no idea online dating could be so . . . effective. And what is it you do?”

“Philanthropy.” 

A rote answer—you’d attended enough parties with the upper echelon to know that any interest in your career would die as soon as that word passed your lips.

But Ren doesn’t stumble.

“Charity cases?” Ren’s smirk turns into a smile, teeth bared, “is that what this is?”

He gestures with the hand holding his whiskey glass, pointing first at you, then at Armitage, as if the meaning wasn’t already clear.

Armitage flinches, pulling from your side with a half-step, like he might start shouting at Ren, or maybe skip the formalities and punch him square in the jaw. 

You still him with a hand to his chest. Your eyes stay locked on Ren’s.

“No, not at all!” you assure him, words dripping with sincerity, “I’m more than happy to chat with any of Armitage’s coworkers.”

Ren’s smile falls at the insult, and you feel your own grow wider, wicked and petty. Serves him right. 

Armitage radiates with satisfaction, touch possessive as his fingers press more tightly into your waist. He leans in—closer than necessary, lips just brushing the shell of your ear—but his whispered words are plenty loud.

“Let’s go, love. I’m bored.”

You let Armitage lead you away, sending Ren a sarcastic little wave over your shoulder.

You had thought he would take you back through the front doors and into the chill night air, but you’re mistaken. He weaves smoothly through the other guests, around the edge of the party and into a quiet hallway where the light doesn’t reach.

“In here,” he tells you, grabbing a door seemingly at random and ushering you inside. It’s a bathroom—small, but still glittering with gilt-edges and frames and ornate wall-paper—full of fine soaps and plush towels that look as if they’ve never been used.

Behind you, the lock clicks as it slides into place.

“Armitage, what are you—”

He doesn’t give you a chance to finish, and doesn’t answer either, not with words. There’s the press of his fingers, curling in the chain around your neck, pulling you in close until his mouth meets your own.

The kiss is harsh, crushing, tainted with a need you hadn’t seen before. It has your mouth open, a harsh breath sucked through your lips, but it’s Armitage’s tongue that fills the gap, tasting the wine you had been drinking when it brushes against your own. The fastener for the necklace digs into the top of your spine.

Your mouth shifts from his, but Armitage is undeterred, hot breath heavy against your cheek, free hand gripping a handful of your ass.

“You’ll break it,” you admonish him, forcing the meeting of your eyes.

Armitage is unflinching, his body heavy as it presses your hips into the edge of the marble countertop. You can feel the shape of him through the thin fabric of his trousers, feel the way he aches for you. 

He’s unapologetic, nudging your mouth back where he wants it. “I’ll buy you another.”

Jesus. You had been wrong before, in the car. There are no men like Armitage Hux. 

But he does concede a little, shifting his hand like you had asked, fingers circling your neck instead. Armitage keeps your mouth on his with a firm and unequivocal grip, grinding into you, both aching and persistent and you can feel yourself dripping, panting with need that he’s created with so little effort. The air grows hot around you, a thin sheen of sweat blossoming across your cheeks. 

“Armitage.” 

You want to ask him here? now? But you can’t, your desperation is clear in the pitch of his name, the way it crawls from you, clinging to the hollow of his throat and the flush of blood that creeps over his skin. 

Armitage hears it, matches its feverish want, collecting the silky material of your skirt in both of his hands, pulling it up until your knees are bared, your thighs, the black lace that covers you beneath it. 

You help him, so eager, too eager, even, the fabric almost slipping from your grip. Armitage traces his fingers up the inside of your thigh, fits his hand in the space between. Your hips shift against him involuntarily, a gasp from your lungs when the tip of his finger brushes against your clit.

And Armitage watches with ice-gray eyes, drinks in your body’s reaction to him, to his touch at your sensitive cunt, to the other back on your neck, squeezing slightly. Soft, spattered moans spill from your lips with each breath, and his fingers must be damp now, given the way your underwear clings to your skin.

It hasn’t been like this with him. Armitage is never so demanding, never this sure of himself. There’s always been a sense of deference from him, an apology that preceded every touch. The absence of it has your legs shaking, lungs shallow.

“Are you ready for me?” he asks, and you nod against his hold.

Armitage has to take his hands off you to slip his belt from the buckle, and you miss the feeling, unmoored and shaky, knees hollow, palms pressed into the counter to support your weight. You might fall to the floor if he doesn’t hurry.

But Armitage is methodical in this, and everything else, freeing his cock from the confines of his trousers, slipping the condom from his pocket and splitting the wrapper with his teeth.

You had watched him tuck it into his pocket earlier, embarrased, attempting to be subtle, and had found the gesture sweet. 

There’s nothing sweet about him now, as he approaches you again, places one hand at your hip and the other back between your thighs, slipping the sticky fabric out of the way. Your cunt twitches, met by cool air and his soft, probing fingers. There’s a sob on your lips when he just brushes at your clit.

“You have to be quiet,” Armitage warns, and you faintly remember the party just outside the door—his father, and that dark-haired man, the rude one, although you can’t recall his name.

Armitage slips the head of his cock inside your aching hole, presses the palm of his other hand tight against your lips, and you moan into it, feel the vibrations singing through your cheeks.

“Quiet,” he reminds you, thrusting deeper, filling you more until the stretch is divine, an incomparable ache.

Armitage works his way into you, thrusts measured and even, your body nudging against the counter with each movement until you’re sure there will be a silly-looking bruise across your ass cheeks when he’s done with you. You can’t care about that, though, not with the press of his hand and the smell of his skin, and the thick trail of his cock brushing past that spot inside you, the one that has tears slipping from the corners of your eyes, pooling against his fingers and dripping down his wrist.

And Armitage takes it all, watching you fall apart for him, practically unblinking. His own moans come out sharp through gritted teeth, matching the pace of your own, the crescendoing spark that builds and builds in the pit of your stomach. 

There’s his fingers against your clit, coaxing the spark into a flame, tracing the edges of it until you’re afraid that someone might hear the wet, echoing squelch of your pussy. 

Armitage loses some of his well-maintained discipline at the feeling of it, the tremors just beginning to travel through your cunt, clinging to him, inviting him deeper, asking for more. He falls into you, your chest pressed to his, the damp heat of his breath against your ear, and you can feel the brush of his jaw as it tenses, the way his body fights against its own release, desperate to give you yours.

“Come for me,” Armitage begs, “please.” 

You do, because you can’t think of a thing you wouldn’t do for him, if he asked it. Because you’re finding that there is no limit to your loyalty, and because you want to feel him unravel against you, and he won’t if you don’t first.

Your vision darkens, body spiraling, submerged in pleasure, in the feeling of him—the drag of his cock and the weight of his fingers against your clit. In other things, too. Softer things. His breath against your neck, the kiss he presses to the space behind your ear, delicate and wanting. 

Maybe he thinks you won’t notice, occupied as you are. But you do.

He spills soon after with an unmistakable flood of heat, thrusts slowing until they stop, his cock seated inside you. And it feels right. 

Armitage comes back to himself, dropping his hand from your mouth, and you suck in a heavy breath, filling your lungs until your breathing slows, enjoying the press of his chest against yours. Your legs grow steadier, and so you release your grip on the edge of the table, stroking a hand down his spine, slipping a hand through the hair at the edge of his collar.

His lips are quirked at the edges, when he meets your eyes again, giddy, maybe. Proud, certainly, at his boldness. You can’t resist kissing his beautiful mouth, the feeling of that smirk growing into a smile. 

“Now we can leave,” he tells you, pulling back from your embrace. You’re colder without him, goosebumps dotting the skin of your arms.

He slips the condom off, tucks himself back into his trousers as you adjust your own clothing, checking your appearance in the mirror.

There are tear tracks, glistening against your cheeks, and you brush them away with both hands, flushing at the mess he’s made of you.

Armitage doesn’t seem disturbed by this at all, offering you his arm. You reach for him, and then pull back, hesitant.

“Shouldn’t we leave separately?” you ask, “people might . . . talk.”

They would definitely talk, of course. There was nothing a group of rich people liked more than spitting venomous words about each other when backs were turned. No doubt your absence had already been noticed, and there was no telling how many people had watched you walk into this hallway together. 

Armitage remains unbothered, even if his thoughts mirror your own.

“Let them talk.”

He leaves no room for argument, and so you take the arm he offers, stepping from the bathroom door and into the empty hallway.

Previously empty hallway. You almost stumble into a man, an apology already spilling from your lips before you’ve even made contact.

Oh. Not just any man. The man, the one from before. 

Ren.

He turns to face you, annoyance creasing his brow, morphing into shock when he sees Armitage following behind you. 

“Excuse us,” you tell him, slipping past his wide frame, “we were just leaving.” 

Ren nods, stunned into silence, and you hold back a giggle. Armitage takes your hand in his, trailing behind you lazily. You don’t have to watch him to know that he wears his pride like armor, shoulders thrown back, victorious in every sense of the word. 

It might be wishful thinking, but you don’t think Armitage will ever forget this.

[camarocarfight]

Blissful Ignorance, Ch. 4

Also available on AO3 here! Updates regularly on the archive. Please heed the trigger warnings, as there are mentions of physical abuse and referenced drug use.

The faint tendrils of hope that perhaps Vaughn had returned, a familiar anchor in the turbulent waters of your emotions, dissipated like morning mist the moment Alastor’s sleek, Buick Master Six rumbled into the driveway. The stark absence of your husband's less ostentatious Chevrolet sedan left a gaping void, a raw ache that resonated deep within the chambers of your heart. 

Observing your slumped shoulders and the palpable aura of disappointment that clung to you like the humid air after a storm, Alastor’s usual effervescent charm seemed to dim, replaced by a silent, simmering displeasure directed squarely at Vox. The man was a foolhardy gambler, carelessly discarding a precious jewel, and Alastor had offered veiled warnings, couched in his characteristic enigmatic pronouncements, to shield you from the mire of his self-inflicted troubles. Now, Alastor, the most unlikely of white knights, found himself reluctantly gathering the fractured pieces of a mess entirely of Vox’s own making.

"Thank you, Alastor," you murmured, your voice thick with unshed tears and unspoken sorrow as you forced your gloved hand to grasp the cold, ornate metal of the car door handle.

A peculiar reluctance washed over you, a fleeting desire to linger in the unexpected sanctuary of Alastor’s quiet, albeit intense, presence. Your gaze drifted towards the darkened windows of your two-story Colonial, each pane reflecting the encroaching twilight and the hollowness within, filling you with a sense of foreboding. The earlier deluge had ceased, leaving behind a glistening sheen on the flagstone path, yet Alastor made no move to simply deposit you at the curb. Rain or shine, his manners remained impeccable; he was out of the car with surprising swiftness, his long, elegant strides quickly bringing him to your side to swing the heavy door open for you with a flourish.

"I’ll telephone you once I reach the station, let you know if he’s… if he’s there or not," Alastor said, his honeyed gaze lingering on your downcast face, a flicker of something unreadable – perhaps pity, perhaps something sharper – in his warm, brown eyes before he gently but firmly shut the car door.

Wrapping your arms tightly around your thin wool cardigan, you shifted your weight uneasily on the damp porch steps, your eyes darting around the meticulously manicured lawn, attempting to evade the unnerving intensity of Alastor’s unwavering gaze. "If he’s not there?"

"I'm afraid that ventures beyond my immediate purview, Cher," Alastor breathed, the carefully constructed nonchalance in his tone carrying a subtle weight of deception. Glancing at his pocket watch, a gleaming gold timepiece he always kept meticulously wound, he added with a practiced air of urgency, "I really must be going. Lock the door securely, and don't answer it for anyone."

A weak, humorless chuckle escaped your lips as you slowly ascended the porch steps, watching the taillights of Alastor’s automobile disappear down the long, tree-lined gravel driveway. Utterly alone now, a chilling sense of isolation settling over you, you stepped inside the familiar entryway. Turning the heavy Yale lock with a decisive click, just as Alastor had instructed, you leaned against the closed door for a moment, a wave of listlessness washing over you. But you pushed it aside, seeking solace in the predictable rhythm of household chores. The laundry needed washing and folding, and the remnants of the hasty breakfast you and Vox had abandoned in your hurried departure that morning still sat forlornly on the mahogany dining table. Before tackling either task, you retreated upstairs to the perceived sanctuary of your shared bedroom, the floral wallpaper seeming to mock your current despair. You changed out of your travel dress, the silk clinging uncomfortably in the lingering humidity, and into a simple cotton house frock, the lighter fabric offering a meager physical comfort that did little to ease the turmoil within.

Upon his arrival at the radio station, the tires of Alastor’s car screeched slightly as his polished black shoes slammed against the brake pedal. He practically vaulted from the driver’s seat, his usual languid grace replaced by an urgent, almost predatory stride as he made straight for the relative privacy of his small office. The heavy oak door, bearing a neatly engraved brass plaque that read “Alastor Hartfelt, Program Director,” slammed shut behind him with such force that the leaded glass pane within its frame rattled precariously, a faint, almost invisible crack near the bottom corner spider-webbing ever so slightly. Settling into his worn leather desk chair, the springs groaning in protest, he reached for the black bakelite telephone, his long, elegant fingers drumming impatiently on the polished surface as he waited for the operator to connect him. A thin stream of fragrant smoke curled upwards from the unfiltered Lucky Strike cigarette he’d placed between his lips, the cherry glowing a fierce orange in the dim light cast by the single desk lamp.

"Operator," a cheerful, almost saccharine voice chirped on the other end of the line, the sound crackling slightly through the antiquated technology.

Alastor clipped out Valentino’s name and the address of the cabaret on the less reputable side of town to the operator, then leaned back in his chair, inhaling deeply from his cigarette, the smoke momentarily masking the gnawing anxiety in his gut as he endured the brief but agonizing wait for the connection. His usually warm, chocolate-brown eyes were now hard and focused on the ornate clock on the wall, the ticking seconds amplifying his growing impatience. He had precious little time before his evening broadcast was due to begin.

"Valentino speaking," a smooth, Hispanic-accented voice drawled through the receiver, the faint sounds of raucous laughter and clinking glasses audible in the background, instantly grating on Alastor’s already frayed nerves.

"I know Vox is with you," Alastor began, his voice dangerously low, the charming lilt replaced by a steely edge. "I suggest you put him on the telephone before I come down there and personally ensure he swallows this receiver whole."

"Alright, alright," Valentino chuckled, a low, suggestive sound that hinted at illicit pleasures. "No need for the threats, radio papi. Here, Voxy," he cooed, the sound of rustling silk and a muffled, incoherent voice preceding Vox’s eventual, reluctant response.

Vox had barely lifted the heavy receiver to his ear when Alastor’s sharp, commanding voice cut through the static. "I trust you are acutely aware that your wife is not as oblivious to your… indiscretions as you might believe, and I will not tolerate her being subjected to such unnecessary distress."

"You seem to know my wife remarkably well all of a sudden," Vox retorted, his tone laced with a dismissive nonchalance that barely concealed a flicker of unease. "What transpires within the confines of my marriage is solely between my wife and myself," he warned, his voice hardening with a possessive edge. "She's taken quite a shine to you, hasn't she? Must be desperate for some fresh attention."

Alastor’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek, his grip on the black telephone receiver becoming white-knuckled, the fragile bakelite groaning under the immense pressure. "Bring your painted boy toy anywhere near this station again, and you'll find yourself in the next breadline."

"Listen here, you sanctimonious son of a bitch-!”

Alastor rolled his eyes, a gesture of utter contemptuous dismissal, and unceremoniously dropped the heavy telephone back into its cradle, severing the connection. Vox liked to delude himself into believing he wielded some semblance of authority, but in reality, every significant decision, every ounce of real power, belonged to Alastor. Lately, amidst Vox’s increasingly reckless behavior and the whispers Alastor had begun to hear, his on-air performances had become erratic, his once smooth delivery now marred by a subtle tremor and a lack of focus. Furthermore, Alastor harbored a growing suspicion of Vox’s clandestine involvement with narcotics, a dangerous and ruinous habit in these precarious economic times. A mere whisper from Alastor to the right people, and Vox would find himself facing serious legal repercussions, swiftly joining the swelling ranks of the unemployed struggling to survive the relentless grip of the Depression.

Unfortunately, such a swift and deserved downfall for Vox would undoubtedly plunge you into the harsh realities of poverty, a fate Alastor was loath to inflict, despite his growing disdain for your husband. Yet, if you possessed even a fraction of the knowledge regarding the depth and breadth of Vox’s deceptions, you would likely have severed ties with the cad long ago. However, it was not Alastor’s place to be the harbinger of such devastating truths, no matter how vehemently he disapproved of Vox’s callous and cruel treatment of you. Had he orchestrated the disappearances of men for far lesser offenses? Certainly. But Alastor was not about to invite the unwelcome scrutiny of the authorities into his meticulously managed place of business. Nor could he bear the thought of leaving you a widow, consumed by grief and suspicion, with no concrete answers to the unsettling questions surrounding your husband’s increasingly erratic activities. The grim trajectory of your troubled marriage would have to play out its own sorrowful course, with Alastor only willing to intervene with decisive force should Vox ever be foolish enough to raise a hand against you again.

With a final, deliberate inhale of his cigarette, Alastor stubbed it out with unnecessary force in a nearby cut-glass ashtray, the acrid scent momentarily filling the small office. He rose from his desk, smoothing the creases from his impeccably tailored waistcoat. Exiting his office, he closed the heavy door behind him, the click of the latch a definitive sound, and then donned his most charming grin. His devoted audience awaited his captivating performance, and later in the evening, once his broadcast concluded, he intended to indulge in a thrilling hunt, a primal activity that always served to quell his simmering frustrations and restore a semblance of inner equilibrium.

And as Alastor turned away from his office door and headed towards the recording booth, the hairline crack in the glass pane of his office door inexplicably spread upwards in a jagged, almost deliberate line. To anyone seated within the office looking out across the dimly lit hallway, it would appear as though the fissure was slicing directly through the tarnished brass nameplate affixed to Vox’s own office door across the hall, a silent, ominous omen hanging in the stagnant air.

As the long shadows of the late afternoon began to stretch across the manicured lawn, painting the sky in soft hues of apricot and lavender, you ventured back outside to retrieve your laundry from the clothesline. The air had cooled considerably with the fading light, offering a welcome reprieve from the oppressive humidity of the day, making the simple task a small, almost meditative comfort. Each freshly laundered garment, still carrying the faint scent of sunshine and lye soap, you meticulously folded and placed in the wicker laundry basket while humming a quiet, melancholic tune to yourself. It was the distinct sound of a laboring engine and the subsequent crunch of tires on the gravel driveway that drew your attention away from the mundane chore, and a fresh wave of apprehension washed over you as you could only assume that it was Vaughn’s belated arrival. The familiar knot of anxiousness tightened in your stomach, but you took a deep breath, pushing it aside as best you could, and hefted the now-full laundry basket.

As you walked through the creaking back screen door into the dimly lit kitchen, you heard the metallic click of the Yale lock on the front door disengaging. The heavy oak door swung inward, and Vaughn’s disheveled silhouette filled the doorway of the small mudroom.

“Is that you, Vaughn?” you called out, your voice barely above a whisper as you set the laundry basket down by the worn wooden banister of the staircase leading to the upper floor.

You heard no immediate reply, only the heavy thud of Vaughn’s briefcase hitting the floor. With a hesitant step, you made the few quick strides into the shadowed lounge to see Vaughn standing hunched over his mahogany desk, the single gooseneck lamp casting harsh lines across his drawn face. His brow was deeply furrowed, and upon meeting his bloodshot gaze, you couldn’t help but notice the unsettling dilation of his pupils, dark and unfocused.

“Are you alright, Vaughn?” you asked carefully, keeping your voice low and even, trying to mask the tremor of fear that ran through you.

“You’ve become awfully chummy with Alastor all of a sudden, haven’t you? Considering the utter contempt you displayed for him just yesterday.” Vaughn’s voice was thick, slurred, and carried a faint, unpleasant odor you couldn’t quite place.

“Oh, Vaughn, please,” you wrapped your arms tightly around yourself, the familiar nervous habit surfacing once more in his volatile mood. “I simply confided in a friend. Someone who offered a listening ear in your absence.”

Vaughn gave a short, jerky nod, his eyes still strangely wide as he ran a trembling hand down his stubbled face. “A friend, or has the sanctimonious bastard been whispering sweet nothings in your ear behind my back? Claiming he’s an enemy… a convenient smokescreen, wouldn’t you say?”

“Jealousy becomes you poorly, Vaughn,” you hissed, a spark of defiance igniting within you despite your fear, as the shrill ring of the black bakelite telephone on the wall shattered the tense silence.

“But it’s perfectly acceptable for you to immediately assume I’ve been whoring around after one telephone call?” Vaughn’s voice boomed after you, laced with a self-pitying indignation.

You rolled your eyes heavenward with a weary sigh and picked up the heavy receiver, your voice clipped and devoid of warmth. “Vox residence.”

“He’s not here, Cher. My deepest apologies for not informing you sooner, but I was terribly pressed for time this afternoon.” Alastor’s smooth baritone, so incongruous with the tension in the room, filled your ear.

“That’s quite alright,” you glanced back into the lounge, seeing Vaughn leaning heavily against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, a dark, possessive sneer twisting his lips. “He arrived home just a few moments ago.”

“Very good. Remember our agreement,” Alastor said, his tone carrying a subtle, almost imperceptible warning before the line clicked dead.

You replaced the receiver with a decisive thud and stalked back into the lounge, your arms folded tightly beneath your bosom. “That was Alastor,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “He was letting me know that you weren’t at the station when he arrived.”

“I had… important business to attend to,” he murmured, his gaze flicking away, his slightly trembling hands disappearing into the pockets of his rumpled suit trousers. “I hardly need Alastor acting as my keeper.”

“Apparently you do, Vaughn, since you seem utterly disinclined to share the nature of this ‘important business’ with your own wife.”

“If you ask me,” Vaughn began, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl as he walked slowly toward you, a wild, almost unhinged look in his usually clear blue eyes, that unsettling tremor still evident in his hands. “And any other right-thinking man, it is not a woman’s place to question her husband’s affairs.”

You squared your shoulders, meeting his intense, unfocused gaze despite the tremor of fear that ran through you. He still towered over you, his shadow falling across your face, and the air around him seemed thick with a volatile energy. “It is my place, Vaughn, when you’re running around with some… some painted nance of a pimp!” The accusation hung in the air, thick with unspoken resentments and mounting fear.

The next moment was a brutal, sickening blur. Your head snapped violently to the side as Vaughn’s left hand, the smooth gold of his wedding band catching the dim light, struck your face with shocking force. A searing pain exploded in your jaw and across your lip. You kept your gaze fixed on the floor, your mind reeling in disbelief and terror as a warm, metallic taste filled your mouth, and dark droplets of your blood splattered onto the polished oak floorboards. In those horrifying seconds, the whispered anxieties that had haunted your quiet moments had solidified into a brutal, undeniable reality.

Slowly, you lifted your head, your vision swimming with unshed tears as you looked up at the still-seething Vaughn. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, his fists clenched white at his sides. But as his glazed, unfocused eyes finally registered the sight of your bleeding lip, the raw, visceral evidence of his violence, his harsh expression fractured, a look of something akin to horrified realization flickering across his face.

“Sweetheart…” he whispered, his voice hoarse and thick with something akin to panic, one trembling hand reaching out tentatively toward your cheek. You flinched violently at the near contact, a small, involuntary yelp escaping your lips, and he recoiled as if burned, his hand dropping back to his side. “I… God, I’m so sorry,” sincerity seemed to tremble in his voice, but a deep-seated cynicism, born of too many broken promises, whispered that it was likely just empty words, meant to quell the immediate storm, not born of true remorse.

“I’m going to bed,” your voice cracked, a sob rising in your throat, the coppery tang of blood now strong on your tongue.

You left him no chance to utter a word, a whirlwind of skirts as you dashed up the creaking wooden stairs towards the guest room. The worn latch clicked shut behind you, a meager barrier against his potential fury. Knowing full well a man of Vox's build could easily splinter the flimsy door, you frantically shoved the nearest chair, its cane back rattling against the aged wood, beneath the doorknob. Sleep was a distant luxury tonight. Instead, you perched on the edge of the unfamiliar bed, the rough cotton of the quilt scratching against your skin, your gaze fixed on the trembling door. Each shadow that danced in the periphery of your vision seemed to morph into his imposing figure, every rustle of the old house a potential footstep on the stairs. 

Your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs, a wild bird trapped in a cage, and the throbbing in your lower lip was a constant, painful reminder of his anger. Only when the rumble of his automobile engine finally broke the tense silence, fading into the night as he sped down the gravel driveway, did a sliver of relief pierce through your terror. Yet, even then, you remained a prisoner in the small room, Alastor’s smooth, unsettling voice echoing in the hollows of your mind, his words a haunting melody playing on repeat.

[woso-co-op]

Masterlist

New fics coming soon...

Lucy Bronze:

Fractured Reflections

Alessia Russo:

The journal of secrets Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5

[weishenbwi]

Ambien Amortentia

Serial Killer Jungkook and Detective Taehyung (Dead Dove: Do Not Eat).Ch. 4/5 (ao3 version)

Jungkook slips from bed with the practiced silence of someone who's made this journey a thousand times. Movement requires choreographed silence. Hardwood planks know his weight, each board's potential for betrayal memorized through ritual repetition. The study door accepts his presence without protest, the soft click of the lock muffled by raindrops.

It had been Jungkook's idea to have separate spaces. A healthy marriage needs personal sanctuaries, he'd said, and Taehyung had accepted this wisdom. It's the one room Taehyung never enters. The forbidden space that exists in plain sight, protected by trust rather than locks, though Jungkook has installed those as well.

Wooden bookshelves hold his collection: leather-bound psychiatric texts, medical journals, and philosophical treatises on suffering. His credentials hang on the wall like trophies, each framed degree a testament to his understanding of the human mind, how it fractures, yields, reshapes beneath persistent, patient pressure.

The room maintains a sterile coolness, heating deliberately kept low. Temperature controlled. Environment controlled. Like everything else in his life, calculated for optimal function.

From his desktop, Jungkook opens a concealed directory, buried beneath layers of encryption. Each gate is keyed to an innocuous line of code only he can parse. The directory is a reliquary, housing dozens of meticulously organized folders. Not the kind kept for patients. These are private records, rituals disguised as data.

Jungkook's posture shifts. Shoulders straighten. The careful husband recedes, replaced by something more focused, more precise. He navigates past dated entries, each charting an incident, a deviation, a decisive moment of unraveling. Most are clinical in tone, sterile and spare. Others read like confessions, pathology veiled as love letters. All of them belong to him, born from his mind and nurtured by his hands.

He pauses at the most recent update. The timestamp is from earlier that afternoon, while Taehyung had still been at the station.

Subject: K.T. [Domestic proximity - extended exposure study] Observed response to indirect trauma consistent with prior behavioral profiles—narrative disintegration, dissociative conflict, increasing pharmacological dependency. Evidence of dream residue present (involuntary motor response during sleep). Dosage adjustment: 0.25mg increase in evening compound yielded notable improvement in sleep compliance. 

Jungkook's fingertips hover over the keys. He remembers the weight of Taehyung's head against his shoulder, the way those elegant fingers had trembled around the glass of doctored water. In this space, Taehyung becomes reducible, distilled to his essential components. The clinical framework contains what would otherwise consume.

Outside, the rain hesitates, then resumes with renewed force, smearing the darkness beyond the window into something fluid and uncertain. For a moment, his reflection stares back at him from the screen, features rendered spectral by the monitor's glow, eyes two pools of darkness in the half-light.

Test continues. Identifying facial features was an indulgence. Calibrate accordingly.

The words hang in the digital ether, nakedly honest in a way he allows himself only in these private moments. The cursor blinks—a digital pulse where his victim no longer has one.

In the bedroom, is Taehyung stirring now, his hand drifting across the sheets in search of a presence that isn't there, reaching for the empty space beside him, subconsciously searching comfort from the very hand that orchestrates his torment? Or does he lie motionless, finally claimed by the heavy pull of tonight's compounds, dreams full of crime scenes that smear into memory, where faces blur and blood pools in the folds of his sheets.

Jungkook saves the file, watching the data disappear back into its encrypted tomb. The silence that follows feels warmer somehow, as though the room itself conspires to protect his devotion. He traces a finger along the edge of his lower lip, where a small mole rests, the very detail he'd allowed the victim to notice, to speak of. An indulgence indeed. But the confession had been too sweet to resist; a signature hidden in plain sight, visible only to the one person who could never recognize its meaning.

Reckless. Beautiful. The closest thing to confession he'll ever allow himself.

Outside, the rain batters the windows like desperate fingers pursuing entry, each drop a tiny applause, and Jungkook smiles at the sound.

The storm will pass. His work will continue.

And Taehyung will never know how thoroughly, how beautifully, how lovingly he's being unmade.

The return journey maps itself in muscle memory. Each floorboard accepted in its proper sequence, each shadow navigated with grace. At the threshold, he pauses. Adjusts his breathing. Softens his expression. The transformation is instantaneous and complete. The bedroom door parts like water, admitting him to warmth and floral-scented peace.

Taehyung hasn't moved. Pharmaceutical paralysis holds him in perfect stillness. Moonlight through rain-streaked glass paints him in shifting silver, transforming familiar features into something ethereal, untouchable. Sleep cycle: hour three of projected twelve. Vitals stable. Subject unaware. The clinical assessment lasts only seconds before something else takes over, something hungrier, more personal. 

Jungkook slips beneath the covers, careful not to disturb the sheets. He allows himself this moment of pure hunger—drinking in the sight of Taehyung's defenseless form, memorizing the way shadows pool in the hollow of his throat, how his lips part slightly in a drugged haze. This is his masterpiece, breathing and warm and wholly unaware.

The warmth of Taehyung's body envelops him, and Jungkook positions himself close enough to feel it without quite touching. Even in sleep, physiological responses remain consistent. Exploratory contact. Requiring proximity. Dependency mechanisms functioning as designed.

The temptation to touch becomes unbearable. His fingers hover just above Taehyung's skin, close enough to feel a faint pulse of warmth from his sleeping form, but not quite making contact. The restraint is both data collection and exquisite torture, a dance of desire and control. This delicate space between desire and permission, impulses coexisting without contradiction.

He settles against the pillow and allows himself to study Taehyung's profile in the dim light. Even in his stillness, Taehyung radiates an achingly trusting vulnerability, something that invites protection and exploitation in equal measure. His breathing remains deep, untroubled by the peaceful sedation that holds him.

Jungkook shifts closer and Taehyung's presence seeps into him, a quiet claim Jungkook welcomes. He positions himself to mirror Taehyung's form, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip—like two halves of the same broken thing. The intimacy is suffocating and perfect. They fall into their familiar dance: Taehyung reaching in his haze, Jungkook the anchor he’s been taught to need. The thought sends a thrill through Jungkook's chest— even in sleep, Taehyung seeks him. Needs him.

When Taehyung's hand drifts across the mattress in slumber, Jungkook catches it with careful reverence. He intertwines their fingers, marveling at how even unconscious, Taehyung's grip tightens around his. A reflex of trust so profound it validates every carefully orchestrated moment that led here.

Taehyung murmurs in his induced repose—fragments of cases, half-formed questions, occasionally Jungkook's own name spoken with such tender confusion. His limbs twitch as dreams fight their way through chemical barriers, fingers sometimes grasping at phantoms in his dreams.

Each small movement sends electricity through Jungkook's nerve endings. He catalogues every twitch, every soft sound, every unconscious gesture, filing them away in the museum of his obsession alongside all the other sacred moments.

Outside, the storm continues its methodical work, but here, cocooned in the quiet rhythm of Taehyung’s gentle breathing, there exists only the perfect synthesis of devotion and domination. Love refined to its most efficient form.

The mask fits so perfectly now, he sometimes forgets he's wearing it.

[tabswrites]

7 Snippets, 7 People Pt. 2

I was tagged by @ceph-the-ghost-writer here and @winterandwords here! Thanks to you both :)

I decided to share some snippets from a couple of my sidelined WIPs that I still have some love for, as well as ToL!

Rules: Share 7 snippets and tag 7 people!

1. Ascension (side WIP) Ch. 1

The knight surrendered to him willingly. He stood at the entrance of the fur-lined tent, the torchlight casting shadows on his angular face. His armor, it seemed, had been left behind, leaving him barefoot in a plain blue jacket and brown linen trousers that hung loosely from his hips.

“I’ve come for my men,” he stated clearly, staring directly into the prince’s eyes.

He tilted his head to the side and gave him a crooked smile–indulging the knight’s boldness, for now. “One man in exchange for three? I’m not so sure that’s a fair trade, human.”

The knight seemed to anticipate his reluctance and grinned with ease, two tiny dents becoming visible on each side of his face. “No? What about the location of the Umbra?” He took a step forward and lowered his voice. “What is that worth to the prince of demons?”

2. Ascension, Ch. 3

He watched the crocodile continue to sit there, unmoving, a single green eye staring at him with a thin, vertical pupil. It unnerved him more than he cared to admit–and he didn’t scare easily. “Does she have a name, Madame Kosara?”

“Graisse,” she replied with a bigger grin. “It means ‘fat’, for she is fat and happy.” The amusement slid off her face as she got to her feet, the wooden floor creaking beneath her. “Can you say the same for your people, young prince?

3. Ascension, Creation Myth

It is said that the sun was born first, and lived alone for thousands years in her palace of clouds. This was a time when the land had not yet formed, so as she gazed down at the world below, she saw only the endless blue sea. She took comfort in the monotony of the glittering mirror that reflected her melancholic existence. It was nice to have the world to herself, but it was lonely and unchanging. When she would sleep, sometimes she would open her eyes, hoping to see something new, but all she saw was light. Her light.

4. Ascension, Prologue

Before Lady Itis severed the soul of the woman she loved, she gave her one last kiss. The taste, once so sweet, turned bitter as they parted, and how could it not with all the blood between them? The war had ended, but man’s violence was unforgiving and ceaseless. Itis had grown used to seeing the shadows of grief in Queen Sadira’s eyes, but they had consumed her as of late, leaving a fractured shell in her place. When she came to her and asked to be sealed beneath the earth, Itis felt no surprise, only deep sorrow.

5. Tomb of Light, Ch. 4

“Well, well, well.” A voice said just above his head. He twisted his neck and looked directly into a pair of the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. They were a deep blue, so dark they were nearly black, with tiny starbursts of silver around slitted black pupils. Slitted pupils? They floated above a low-hanging tree branch. As he watched, the branch brightened into a pleasant shade of moss green, revealing an otherworldly creature so strange he nearly collapsed at the sight of it.

It was a cat, he guessed, or a cat with some sort of flesh-eating disease that had left it completely hairless. As it stretched out its tiny feet he noticed it had long, webbed toes that bent back at awkward angles. Upon closer examination he determined the cat was not only hairless, but covered in tiny scales like the snakes he used to find in his backyard, though these scales looked much softer. He watched as they changed color once more, this time to bright yellow.

6. ToL, Ch. 6

It was then he was forced to acknowledge what he had been avoiding–he was disgraced, just like her, and no amount of posturing would convince people to ignore the shadow that had settled over him once his uniform had been stripped away. He was a fool to think he could outrun it. The plain black trousers, gray tunic and black boots were all he had left–even his beloved sword, a gift from his father, had been taken from him. He had nothing left but a bitter taste in his mouth and the looming shadow of the girl he loved.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said finally, lowering his head.

“Then stand aside and wait for someone to tell you.”

There it was–control, just within reach, slipping through his fingers like smoke.

7. What We Long For (abandoned WIP)

“As time passed, I watched the small lines on her forehead become more pronounced and her black hair became peppered with gray before she reached the age of 30. I asked her about it once, when I was nothing more than a bratty high school freshman with poor social skills.

She gave me one of her biggest smiles. ‘Who even cares about wrinkles? One day you’ll realize that all of the marks on your skin, every scar, every freckle–they make up constellations that tell the story of how you lived to see another day.’”

Gently tagging: @writingmaidenwarrior @athenswrites @talesofsorrowandofruin @pandoras-comment-box @mysticstarlightduck @pheita @mthollowell-writes

[drsarthakkadakia]

Dr. Sarthak Kadakia: Leading Spine Surgeon & Orthopedic Specialist in Mumbai

Introduction When it comes to spine care, expertise and precision are crucial in ensuring optimal treatment and recovery. Dr. Sarthak Kadakia, a highly skilled Spine Surgeon (Ortho) and Orthopedist, specializes in Orthopedics and Trauma Surgery. With extensive experience in diagnosing and treating complex spinal conditions, Dr. Kadakia is a trusted name in Mumbai.

Educational Background & Specialized Training Dr. Sarthak Kadakia has an impressive academic background that reflects his commitment to excellence in orthopedic and spine surgery:

Expertise & Services Dr. Sarthak Kadakia: expertise spans a wide range of spinal disorders and treatments, including:

1. Acute & Chronic Back Pain Management Back pain is a prevalent issue, and Dr. Kadakia offers personalized treatment plans that include:

Advanced diagnostics to determine the root cause of pain. Physical therapy & rehabilitation to strengthen muscles and improve flexibility. Medication & pain management strategies for relief. Minimally invasive procedures for severe cases to relieve pressure on spinal nerves.

2. Ankylosing Spondylitis Treatment Ankylosing Spondylitis is a chronic inflammatory condition affecting the spine and joints. Dr. Kadakia provides:

Early diagnosis & medical intervention to manage inflammation. Physical therapy programs tailored to improve mobility and posture. Minimally invasive surgical options for advanced cases.

3. Minimally Invasive Spine Surgery Traditional spine surgeries can involve long recovery periods, but with MISS techniques, Dr. Sartahk Kadakia ensures:

Smaller incisions leading to faster recovery. Less post-operative pain and shorter hospital stays. Improved long-term outcomes for patients with herniated discs, spinal stenosis, and other conditions.

4. Spinal Deformity Correction Dr. Sartahk Kadakia specializes in corrective procedures for spinal deformities, such as:

Scoliosis correction using advanced surgical techniques. Kyphosis treatment to restore spine alignment. Personalized treatment plans focusing on patient-specific needs.

5. Trauma & Fracture Management Spinal injuries and fractures require immediate medical attention. Dr. Kadakia offers:

Emergency trauma care for spinal fractures. Surgical and non-surgical treatment options for vertebral fractures. Rehabilitation programs to restore mobility and function. Patient-Centric Approach

Dr. Sarthak Kadakia prioritizes patient education and holistic recovery. His approach includes:

✅ Detailed consultations to help patients understand their condition. ✅ Tailored treatment plans focused on individual recovery goals. ✅ Emphasis on non-surgical treatments before considering surgery. ✅ Guidance on posture correction, lifestyle changes, and long-term spine health.

Book an Appointment with Dr. Sarthak Kadakia If you’re experiencing back pain, spinal disorders, or orthopedic issues, don’t wait! Consult with Dr. Sarthak Kadakia today for expert guidance and treatment.

📍 Clinic Locations:

2nd Floor, DEVKRUPA CHS, Swami Vivekananda Rd, beside Pulse Diagnostic Shimpoli Signal, Shimpoli, Borivali West, Mumbai, Maharashtra 400092 📞 Contact for Appointments: [9701549701] 📩 Email: [drsarthakkadakia@gmail.com]

Take the first step towards a pain-free, healthier spine with expert care from Dr. Sarthak Kadakia.

[labrats-and-clonetroopers]

Elite Force Universe Masterlist

Lab Rats

"Home" Armida Davenport(OC) Drabble

Armida reflects on her strained relationship with her adoptive father, Douglas Davenport. 

"Special" (A Christmas) Donald Davenport Oneshot 

Donald reflects on how circumstances in his life changed his perspective on the holidays. 

Warning: mentions of neglectful/toxic parenting

"Where the Devils Go" Chase Davenport & Armida Davenport(OC) Drabble 

Chase struggles to move past the avalanche incident, and the choices he could’ve made.

Reader Insert

"Explain" Marcus Davenport x Sibling!Reader Drabble 

The Reader returns home to discover Marcus and Douglas may be lying to them.

Relationship: Platonic

Lab Rats: Bionic Island

"Doubt" Adam Davenport Drabble

Adam reflects on his relationship with his siblings. 

"Allergy" Chase Davenport Drabble 

For: Sicktember 2021 - Day 24 - Sneezing

"Red" Chase Davenport Drabble 

Chase deals with memories.

Warning: blood, injury, traumatic memories

Mighty Med

"Parade" Bridget Drabble 

Playing the role of a supervillain, though theatrical, came more naturally than Bridget expected.

Lab Rats: Elite Force

"Justice" Lab Rats: Elite Force Drabble 

The underlying motivations behind the members of the Elite Force. 

"Fractured" Oliver Drabble 

Oliver reaches his breaking point. 

Warning: depression, discussion of a broken home

"Game" Kaz Drabble

Kaz always knew he was destined to be a superhero. 

"All You Were Meant to Be" Chase Davenport Drabble

Burdened with guilt over Douglas’ fate, Chase considers going rogue. 

"Worry" Leo Dooley Drabble

Miles away at the Bionic Academy, Leo worries about his siblings. 

"Fall" Skylar Storm Drabble 

Skylar is conlflicted about her role admist this war. 

Warning: discussions of death

"Admissions" Bree Davenport Drabble 

Bree had admitted she was wrong to think that the Arcturion would fix everything. So why, now that she has new powers, is she pretending like it did?

"I Won't Bury You Again" Ch. 1 - Leo Dooley & Chase Davenport 

Leo was the one who heard all of Davenport’s confessions in the elevator. He was the one who sought out Douglas, who had been the one to originally break into his and Marcus’ lab. He’s the one who’s been trapped in and escaped from a freaking parallel universe. 

He knows, better than any of them, that all the secrets surrounding their past will never fully come to light. 

But he needs to save his brother. And if that means chasing a ghost from Douglas’ past, then he will. No matter where it leads him. (Background crossover material: The Dark Tower by C.S. Lewis) 

Warning: violence, minor character death, mentioned drug use, mild horror, moderate blood and gore

"I Won't Bury You Again" Ch. 2 - Leo Dooley & Chase Davenport 

"I Won't Bury You Again" Ch. 3 - Leo Dooley & Chase Davenport 

"I Won't Bury You Again" Ch. 4 - Leo Dooley & Chase Davenport 

Character x Character

"Lifeline" Bree Davenport x Oliver Drabble 

In the midst of the escalating war, Bree considers her relationship with Oliver.

"Regret" Skylar Storm x Chase Davenport Drabble 

Skylar reflecting on her relationship with Chase.

"Burn" Skylar Storm x Chase Davenport Drabble

Skylar, again, reflecting on her relationship with Chase.

"Streets" Skylar Storm x Chase Davenport Drabble 

Skylar reflecting on Chase’s disappearance. 

"Balance" Skylar Storm x Leo Dooley Drabble 

Skylar may refuse to acknowledge her crush on Leo, but she knows she can’t stand it when his girlfriend visits.

[ancientwastedlores]

The Support System (Ch: 5)

SUMMARY: The Avengers have managed to collect all the infinity stones across the universe, and are currently keeping them in far corners of the world, only for research and to see if they can improve the planet and its people. Reader is a researcher with Tony Stark and Bruce Banner, as well as a field agent. Loki is currently serving time for his actions in New York City in 2012.

A/N: Find this chapter on AO3 here. Feedback and fic requests totally welcome. 

AO3: The Support System  Tumblr:  Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

Chapter: 5/? Warnings: Rough fighting.   Audience: general.

______________________________________________________________

CHAPTER 5:

Once in the training room, he looks at the wall with all the weapons. You naturally gravitate towards the katanas, which he spots you pick up.

‘Is that…?’ ‘Yes!’ you show him the handles. ‘Odin stealing poetry from the Jotuns’. ‘How do you know!?’ ‘I grew up reading those stories’.

His eyes widen, undoubtedly the possibility of you knowing stories about him as well running through his mind. You figure it out, but say nothing.

‘The katanas are your favourite?' he asks.  ‘I wouldn’t say that, but I do find myself getting really good with these lately. I’ve considered taking these on the mission’.

Loki turns away to inspect the other weapons on the wall. You strap the harness on and place the katanas in. ‘Whenever you’re ready’.

‘Oh, I’m ready’ he walks to the middle of the room. ‘You don’t have any weapons’. ‘I don’t need any’ he gives you a devilish grin. ‘No magic’ you warn. ‘We didn’t agree on that. Come on’. ‘No!’ ‘Are we scared?’

You raise an eyebrow. You will not be challenged. You take your place at the centre as well. ‘Don’t be offended if I stab you’

‘It wouldn’t make a difference’.

With flourish, you remove the katanas from behind you. You charge at him then jump, and you expect him to block you. He merely disappears and you fall flat on your face. You get up and look behind you, where he stands, grinning again.

Oh, it’s going to be like that, is it.  

You charge at him again, jump again, and he disappears. You expect it and promptly take one of your katanas and stab the air behind you. It hits its mark. You turn to see the katana pierce his abdomen. You look at his face, but he’s still grinning. You feel a strong pair of hands grab your neck from behind and choke you and the Loki next to you disappears. You realise it’s an illusion again. You roll your eyes, drop your katanas, and break from Loki’s grip by flipping him over your body so he’s now on the floor. You smirk at him and go to pick up the katanas you dropped, except another pair of hands circle your stomach and pull you back, then throw you against the wall.

You fall, stunned. You didn’t expect him to be so rough on you. Oh well. You know he’s just going to keep using illusions, but at least it will tire you out, something no agent or Nat has managed to do. 

You continue fighting. At some point you stopped using the katanas and resorted to a gun after being frustrated. You manage to corner him and hold him at gun point. A clone comes up behind you to grab the gun, but you expect it now and just throw an elbow behind you, giving the clone a fake bloody nose. You smile at Loki.

‘Oh, there’s more back there’. ‘I’ve fought of three bad guys while still holding onto a baby’ you brag.

He looks amused at that, ‘I still suggest you turn around’.

You roll your eyes and turn around, expecting something ridiculous like a whole room of Lokis. You’re greeted by a frost giant.

‘What the…’ ‘Meet Angr’ he says.

The Frost Giant, Angr, whose height is about the height of the room, moves like a cat. He ducks and grabs your leg, pulls you to the ground and disarms you.

‘You play dirty’ you accuse Loki. ‘You asked me to fight’ he says, and you can hear the arrogance in his voice.

You're actually out of breath and quite tired, also something no agent has managed to do. You stand up and stare down Angr, which is not an easy feat since he towers over you.

‘Size doesn’t matter’ you mutter to yourself.

Behind you, Loki chuckles.

You’re quick too. Your gloves, provided by the kind Princess of Wakanda, are made of Vibranium and have claws. You use these to claw into Angr’s ice skin and climb up; you get to his head and mount it, his neck between your legs, and you position the claws at his neck.

‘Only an illusion, right?’ you ask. ‘Of course’ Loki says.

You take a deep breath, and as a final gesture, you reach forward to grab Angr’s neck, then pull, expecting blood to go everywhere. But Loki has had enough of indulging you, and just makes the giant disappear, causing you to fall. You somersault in the air and manage to safely land on your feet. 

You laugh and lie down on the floor to catch your breath. Loki keeps standing in his corner, now dead silent.

‘Oh god, THAT was a workout’ you announce. ‘That was amazing, why haven’t I been training with you all this time?’ you jump on your feet to pick up the weapons you dropped.

He keeps silent. You pick up the knives, guns, katanas and a few other things you grabbed from the walls to fight. You’ve never felt the need to resort to all of them. You place them back on the wall neatly, while seeing your reflection in the clean metal. You’re actually bruised.

You don’t mind, but hope it clears up before you have to go.

You’re still a bit startled by how rough Loki played, though. You’ve had serious sparring sessions with Natasha and Maria Hill, who both at one point, lightly stabbed you and then told you to walk it off. Even new recruits who didn’t know how to control their strength caused you an injury or too without meaning to, which you recovered from. But with Loki, it felt like he knew exactly what he was doing, and didn’t want to stop.

It somehow it didn’t feel like a good natured fight, now that you think about it.

You decide not to bring it up immediately, though. It’s been about two hours, and you’re drenched in sweat. But you do want to bring it up when you’re watching Doctor Who later in the night.

xx

After sitting locked up in your room for the next few hours, nursing your wounds on your face, arms, and back, showering, and reading a few research papers, you leave your room for dinner. 

‘JESUS kid, what happened to you?’ Tony exclaims, as you walk into the dining room. ‘Well, I finally met my match’ you laugh, pointing at Loki. ‘I haven’t bruised like that since my first month training with Natasha’.

Tony glares at Loki, obviously interpreting you incorrectly.

‘No, I asked him to fight me. It’s not his fault!' you jump to his defense. Well, it is a little bit, but you decide to keep that to yourself and confront him later. ‘Uhuh’ Tony says, not totally convinced. ‘Sure. Sit down, we got your favourite’.

You take your seat across from Loki’s, who is avoiding looking at you and staring only at his plate. Everyone wants to ask about your sparring session with Loki, more out of concern than anything else.

You assure them it was fun, and the bruises don’t hurt that much, and you’ll be fine within the week.

‘We don’t have to have our session tomorrow’ Natasha says. ‘No, I’m good, really’. ‘Kid, you’re going to get yourself killed’ Tony warns. ‘I’m fine, reall…’ ‘You’re taking an off tomorrow. That’s an order’ his tone is final.

You know not to argue with that.

Conversation continues as usual. You keep trying to make eye contact with Loki, who only stares at his plate. You let it go and let your mind wander to the techniques you used to fight Loki’s illusions, trying to store them in memory.

xx

It wasn’t just you who had a rough day. Tony and Bruce got tired of not getting anywhere with the Reality Gem, and moved to a new project for the time being. Bruce didn’t want to share yet what he was up to, but Tony threw himself into upgrading weapons for the extraction mission. Nat spent the day inspecting the S.H.I.E.L.D agents chaperoning them for the mission along with Hill. Sam Wilson was also asked to join, so he spent the day trying out the upgraded weapons for Tony in his lab.

Everyone agreed they wanted a drink, but you decide to just go to bed, since you’re tired. You do, however, take a few beers to your room. Bruce asks you to sit with them, but you really want to just sit in bed and watch TV and drink them. You bid good night to everyone and head to your room.

Loki’s in there with the season 5 DVD in his hand, sitting on a chair. You smile at him and show him the beers you got. ‘Dranks’.

He laughs.

You open a can and set the rest of the cans down on the floor. ‘So now that I have you alone’ you say. ‘What was that fighting all about?' ‘You asked me to’. ‘No, I know, but you went AT it. Like you were actually trying to hurt me’. ‘You’re being dramatic’ Loki says, avoiding your eyes as he gets up to go the DVD player. You grab his arm and make him turn to face you. ‘No, actually, I’m pretty sure I’m not. I’ve had intense sessions, and then there was whatever the hell you were doing. I’m asking nicely. Don’t make me ask again’.

His lips purse, and he studies you. There is no anger in your eyes. It does terrify him a little that you’re keeping calm.

‘Okay, fine, I don’t want you to go’ he confesses. ‘So you were trying to what, give me a fracture?’ ‘I just wanted to show you how dangerous it can be out there so you would change your mind about leaving’. ‘What!’ you start to laugh loudly. ‘You actually thought that would happen?’ ‘I don’t know. I thought it was worth a shot’ he furrows his brows. ‘You don’t have to laugh’. ‘Loki, you could literally kill me and I’d still get up and go’. ‘WHY?’ ‘Because I want to’ you say firmly. ‘You can’t stop me. If it troubles you, I won’t ask you to fight with me again. But don’t try and stop me’.

You let go of his arm, and it drops to his side, his shoulders slumping. He looks at you sadly.

‘Loki... what is it?’ you ask. ‘I’ve only just begun to feel like I belong, I can’t have you leave and maybe not come back’. ‘I haven’t even left, and you’ve gone and assumed me dead?’ this sounds so much like your mother, who had already assumed the worst case scenario before you even sent in your application to S.H.I.E.L.D.

‘It’s purely selfish’ he admits, ‘but I don’t want you to go. Please…’ he grabs your shoulders, ‘…reconsider’. ‘Loki, Tony wants me to go. But you have nothing to worry about. I’ll be fine’. ‘I know you will be’ he lets go of you. ‘I hate to admit it, but you did a great job today, which is why I stopped’.

You inwardly congratulate yourself for impressing the God of Mischief, but a smile does escape you. He sees it.

‘Don’t get used to the compliments’ he chuckles. ‘I’ll put on the DVD. You can get into bed’.

______________________________________________________________

Let me know if you want me to tag you when I post new chapters :) 

[storytime-hoe]

Tough Love Ch.4

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x O/C

Summary: Story picks up during season three as the group goes into Woodbury to rescue Glenn and Maggie from the Governor. However, they pick up another prisoner of Woodbury, Emma (O/C). She is a thief who fears friendships after her hard losses. She stays on the move, studying communities from afar and then robbing them blind. She has stayed alive this way for a while until the Governor catches her in the act. Now she finds herself with the group from the prison in a mission to kill the Governor for what he has done to her. She plans on stealing supplies from the prison group after the Governor is killed, but she might be growing a little too close to the groups members, especially one man in particular: Daryl Dixon.

Warnings: Slow burn, language, usual twd violence, mentions of abuse/rape

Authors Note: Gonna be honest and let you know Daryl isn’t really in this one and I really needed to establish some things with other characters and stuff. But like this chapter might disappoint a lot so I will post the next one tomorrow and not keep you waiting for something good. Thanks for understanding xoxo

Previously: Ch.1       Ch.2       Ch.3 

I swear when I arrived at the prison I instantly cursed myself for spending so much time on Woodbury when I should've been focusing on this place. Sure, the prison was harder to get in and out of, but I could have managed it. I spent a month planning out how to sneak into Woodbury to steal their things, when the prison was a gold mine for me. They didn't have the man power that the Governor had, but their food supply was much more diverse. When Maggie brought me inside, I couldn't believe what this group had managed to scavenge. They didn't have very many people, but the few that they did have were no pussies. They were a damn tough bunch, that was for sure.

And they were currently all tense as hell. Daryl running off with his brother had a negative effect on everyone that knew him. I could feel the collective hate for Merle that bounced around the concrete walls because he had stolen away someone that everyone looked up to. It was a little strange for me to see how upset people were. I wondered if Daryl even knew how much these people loved him. And if he did know how could he just leave them all behind?

I felt uncomfortable joining in on the group. I didn't know their names well yet. There was no formal introductions these days, but I was picking up on them slowly. Carol, with her short grey hair, seemed the most bothered about Daryl. She put a bony hand up to her mouth and sucked in a breath when Rick told her. I felt numb watching her feel emotion for someone. I hadn't had that pleasure since my brother. He was the last person I ever really cared about. The thought of befriending anyone else made me ache. The more people you love, the higher the risks of getting hurt. And I was not getting hurt again.

That's why I started to mentally plan my departure. My mind went to picking out which items I would take with me when I left, that was, after I killed the Governor. Once he was dead I would be taking all I could carry and going on my way. I had no current desire to spend more time here than necessary. I wasn't sure where I would go next, and frankly I wasn't worried about it. I would figure it out along the way.

"Maggie might have some clothes that will fit you," said a sweet voice from behind me.

I turned around to see a young girl with blonde wavy hair. In her arms she held a chunky little baby. I was shocked at the sight of it. I stared at it in half disbelief. The child crooned and held my gaze for the longest time. It looked calm, like it had no worries in the world. I envied that.

"Um," the girl shifted the baby on her hip, "I'm Beth, and this is Judith."

I blinked myself free of my stare and looked at her vacantly. "The mother?"

Her quick glance to the ground told me the answer to my question, but it was a little boy who stalked by and answered me aloud.

"She's dead," he said plainly, not bothering to stop to look at me.

I could tell instantly he was not a fan of me. I was a stranger, it made sense that he was cautious.

Once the boy was out of earshot, Beth spoke again. "That's Carl. His mother died having the baby."

Asking the question was stupid and rude of me in the first place, but my people skills were a little rusty. I should have kept my mouth shut, then maybe the kid-Carl- would not have ended up scowling at me from across the room every two seconds. I had accidentally created an enemy out of the poor kid. But, if he needed a person to hate after the tragic events of his mother's death, then I didn't mind to be that person. I didn't care what anyone here thought of me in the end.

"We have a water trough out back," Maggie said, saving me from the depressing conversation with Beth. "I can show you to it, let you get cleaned up," she said with an attempted grin.

"Afterwards I'll take a look at you. I can already tell you'll need a few stitches on your brow." I turned again to look at the old man who had spoken from his bench beside Michonne. He had introduced himself as Hershel. He was obviously the doctor that Rick had mention, judging by how he was cleaning out Michonne's wound on her leg.

"Thank you," I muttered to them. Hearing the words coming from my lips sounded weird. I hadn't been verbally grateful to anyone in what felt like a lifetime. It was strange having people look out for me again. I almost didn't know how to react to all of this. I was anxious and out of place here, another reason I was eager to kill the Governor and leave as soon as possible.

Maggie took me outside and around the corner where they had a supply of clean water stored in round barrels and low troughs. She left me with a rag to wipe off with and neatly folded jeans and a loose white tank top. I looked down at the worn out clothes that I had lived in for more than I would have liked. It was about time I peeled these from my skin.

I was left by myself outside of the prison. I groaned as I lifted my shirt over my head with much effort, every muscle screaming for me to stop. Looking at my stomach I saw the black and blue decorating my skin that was left over from both Merle's torture sessions and my last encounter with the Governor.

I dipped the cloth in the water and wiped off the dirt layer that rested on my sensitive skin, doing my best to decipher grime from bruise. It took me forever to clean up the mess that I had become, dabbing at the crusted blood that coated my face. I spent a solid twenty minutes just untangling my hair and re-braiding the wet hair down my back.

I took my sweet time cleaning myself up, basking in the comfort of the soft rag against my skin. All the while my mind was wandering off to things I was trying so hard to forget. I don't know why I cared, but I couldn't help but question how Daryl was doing out there with Merle. I barely knew the guy. The only time we spoke was when we were angry and had to speak; it was never under good circumstances. Still, I thought about how he was handling Merle and for some odd reason I felt the urge to need to protect him from Merle, as if he hadn't lived with the man for his entire life.

I shook away my thoughts and stared down at the small barrel of water I had used and turned a dark brown color from rinsing off. I didn't even recognize myself in the reflection of the dirtied water. The bags under my eyes had darkened ten times since the last time I checked and my cheeks looked sunken in a bit. I guess I hadn't got the sleep or nourishment I needed in Woodbury. I looked worn out, like I had been through hell and back, and I certainly felt that way too. Every breath hurt my insides.

I tossed my old clothes away, leaving them behind as the last part of Woodbury. Walking back into the prison, I made my way to Hershel, who was finishing up looking over Michonne's injuries.

"I was hoping you wouldn't be as roughed up as her," he addressed me as I slowly entered. "But by the looks of it you might be making my job more difficult."

His kind smile reached his eyes. The welcoming vibe about him gave me the courage to approach and sit down on the bench next to him. He immediately began with the gash on my eyebrow. It took several stitches to close it up. He put ointment on anything else that I had on my body, but it was my ribs that I was dreading he look at. I lifted up my shirt for him and when his brow drew in in concern I knew it was bad news.

He pressed around on it and I sucked in a breath between my teeth. I didn't even notice that Michonne was staring at my bruised torso until afterwards.

"I don't think any of the ribs are broken too bad," Hershel started as he was getting a wrap ready to put around my mid section. "A few may be fractured. It'll just take time to heal them."

I stood to let him warp the cloth tightly around me, keeping everything inside of me in the right place. While he was still working on me, Glenn had gathered Michonne, Maggie, Beth, Carol, and Carl around so he could discuss going after the Governor. He thought we should attack the Governor before he had the chance to come at us. I noted how he mentioned that the whole front of the prison was not secure. I soaked in all they said about the place for after my job with them was done and I would be sneaking out on my own. They gave me everything I needed to know, all their weaknesses.

"How do we know the Governor is going to attack? We coulda scared him off," Maggie said, crossing her arms over her chest.

Michonne rolled her eyes. "He had fish tanks with heads." My head jerked up to look at her as she spoke. I had known he was a sick man, but I wasn't expecting this. "Walkers and humans," she continued. "Trophies. He's coming."

My heartbeat quickened at the thought of the Governor coming back here and taking me back with him. Or putting all of our heads in tanks for him to take pride in everyday.

"We should hit him now," I agreed with Glenn. The group turned to look at me, as if forgetting I was there.

"What?" Beth looked at me like I was crazy.

But Glenn was quick to support my statement. "He won't be expecting it. We'll sneak back in and put a bullet in his head."

"We aren't assassins," Carol informed him, but he wasn't listening.

"You know where his apartment is," he said to Michonne, walking up to her eagerly. "You and I could win this tonight."

"Don't even think about leaving me out of this." I took a step forward only thinking better of it after Hershel placed a tender hand on me to hold me back so that he could finish his work.

Glenn looked me over, his one eye still swollen slightly from Merle's beat down in Woodbury. "Hershel just said you have fractured ribs. I don't think you can go in there with us."

My temper was quick to rise, especially when people were telling me what I was and wasn't capable of. "You can barely see out of one eye," I pointed out. "And Michonne isn't exactly up for this either."

Michonne didn't agree with me, but she didn't disagree either.

"Rick won't allow it," Hershel offered up as he was cleaning away his bloodied rags and medical supplies.

Glenn turned to face him. "You really think he's in any position to make that choice."

I furrowed my brow. I hadn't noticed the absence of their supposed leader. He looked out of his mind back when he took me from Woodbury, and I must've been right judging by how everyone glanced around at each other. I could only guess how this world had finally messed up another person's mind. That's when I noticed Carl. His mother died after she had her baby, so her death must have been recent enough that people weren't over it yet. Including Rick.

"We know the Governor is coming back, so why are we still here," Hershel said in his mesmerizingly calm voice. "We can't stay here."

"We can't run," Glenn responded firmly and his expression only softened after Maggie stormed away from the conversation and into her own cell.

Glenn ran a hand through his hair and finally decided against going after the Governor, but we weren't running either, thank God. He drew out a map of the prison for us so we could at least busy ourselves with helpful work.

He was taking Carl down to the tombs they called it. It was a part of the prison that was backed up with Walkers. They had managed to get in and it was only a matter of time before they took over. I argued to go down with the two boys, which they finally agreed upon. I needed somewhere to get out my frustration, and killing Walkers was the only solution right now.

I felt fire coursing through my veins when I killed one after the other. I hadn't gotten the chance to take on so many Walkers in a while. And I really missed it. It felt so natural to be swinging out recklessly at a Biter and to finally give zero fucks about the world.

After countless hours of killing the meander-thaws, which was the therapy I needed, we went back up with the group. Glenn made a decision to go on a run alone, leaving us there to defend ourselves if the Governor appeared. I felt the place was vulnerable without any real fighters around. Again my mind went to Daryl. If he was here we could have stormed Woodbury again and easily fought the Governor. But yet again Merle ruins it all by taking him away.

"We don't need you here."

I looked to my side to see Carl was glowering at me still. He had stared daggers at me the entire time we were in the tombs together. I was honestly surprised he didn't try to push me into them in hopes that I would get bit.

We were standing outside the prison building now, watching Hershel crutch his way to the outer fence to convince Rick to come back to planet earth.

"According to Rick, I'm your best shot at touching the Governor," I smiled mockingly down at him. "Sorry kiddo, but you're stuck with me."

"My dad's wrong. He's been wrong a lot lately."

I peered at him from the corner of my eye. "Dad, huh?" That made more sense of why Rick was so upset about the recent death of Judith and Carl's mom. She was his wife too. She was someone he loved more than anyone, of course he was having a hard time coping.

Carl tilted his wide brimmed hat back to get a better look at me. "Why do you want to be here anyways?"

"Why do you hate me so much kid? What did I do to you?"

His jaw clenched before he answered. "I need to protect my family, and you are someone that puts them in danger."

"Just be glad you still have family to protect." I remembered again his mother and stupidly decided to add to my previous statement. "Well, more family than most of us, anyway."

Carl went silent. I felt bad for the wave of grief that washed over his face as he thought about his mother too. I was an ass, I knew that. It's just how I was sometimes. I finally took my eyes form Hershel and Rick and gave the little man my full attention, tipping his hat lightheartedly. "Listen, I am not trying to hurt your family here. Okay? I just want the Governor dead. And I can't do it all by myself, as much as I wish I could. That's why I'm here."

His expression went back to it's sternness in a second. "We still can't trust you. Doesn't matter if we have common goals."

I grinned at him. "You're one smart kid. Stay that way." I looked back towards the prison building where his baby sister was probably taking her third nap of the day. After Woodbury, I understood taking precautions when it came to strangers. Hell, I respected Carl for the way he wasn't being fooled by nobody. But, him not being entirely convinced I was here for the Governor's head only was pissing me off slightly. Because he was entirely fucking right.

Carl would be my number one difficulty when it came down to robbing the prison. I would have to make sure he didn't fuck it all up for me.

***

Tags:

@daryldixonandfrogs

[theashemarie]

Riding Out the Wave Ch. 3 - Pearlina Fic

↪Read chapter 1 here: [Adventures in Babysitting]

↪Chapter 2: [How We Got Here]

↪Chapter 4: [Morning Breakfast]

Crossposted: [AO3] [FFN]

Ch. 3: Gulf Space

The boat is quiet, and that’s worrying. Pearl and Marina sit with feet between them, with backs against the side. Dualies and Brella are huddled together near the front, and there’s a tension that’s strung tight between them, all four of them. The reality of what’s happened is finally sinking in, and Pearl wishes she could read Marina’s mind because Marina is being so, so quiet; she refuses to look at Pearl, and they haven’t touched since they separated from their unfortunately timed kiss. Pearl realizes now that that was probably a bad idea, all things considered—a very desperate (though not very hot and heavy, if you ask her) and sudden kiss in full view of a bunch of cameras—but she’s also not one for thought, especially when it comes to... romance.

(And wasn’t that romantic? Covered in ink, both their own and the enemy’s, breathing labored, Marina with that crazed, battle-look in her eyes. It certainly was hot, but not exactly romantic. Definitely not one of the dozens of ways that Pearl imagined it would happen, late at night when she was lying in bed. No sirree, those were safe, coffee shop affairs, or perhaps stage fever that resulted in a deep dip, Marina’s body cradled by Pearl’s arms. Not... during Salmon Run.)

Marina has one of the cameras that Pearl beaned in her lap and she’s got it cracked open. It looks fine to Pearl, but Marina keeps tutting as she digs around in the wires, searching for the short in order to fix it. She mutters about “unnecessary property damage” every now and then, and it’s pointed, so pointed that Pearl feels defensive. She wants to say that it shouldn’t be surprising, considering how much she used to break in her punk days and still breaks now (accidentally), but she’s also still reeling from the kiss so she just keeps her mouth shut.

There’s no sign of Grizz in their earpieces, so Pearl halfheartedly hopes that maybe the photos are stored locally in a memory card or something, not beamed back to whatever cave Mr. Grizz lives in. That’ll make the next few weeks a lot easier—she doesn’t want to have to bribe Grizz to keep the photos a secret, but she’ll do it if she has to. If Marina wants her to. She imagines that this whole thing won’t reflect on them... in a desired way.

But then, she doesn’t care, she realizes as she watches Marina let out a small aha! as she finds what she’s looking for. She dips those long fingers deep into the body of the camera and Pearl watches her dig around, feeling a bit uncomfortable. She forces herself to look away.

“There,” Marina says, and she screws the back into place with a screwdriver. Pearl is beginning to think that she takes that thing with her everywhere. “Good as new.”

“Any memory card?” Pearl asks, a little petulant.

Marina holds her hand up, and Pearl is happy to see a small black card caught between two of her fingers. “Whoops,” Marina sing-songs as she flicks her wrist, sending the card over her shoulder, over the side of the boat, and into the water.

“Yo, awesome!” Pearl hisses, and her impulsiveness gets the better of her as she jumps up to lay a kiss on Marina’s cheek. Marina, used to this thoughtlessness, quickly cuts her off, pushes her back before her lips can land, and she puts a finger against Pearl’s lips.

“Ssh,” Marina commands, and Pearl pouts her lips out against the finger.

Marina replaces the first camera with the second. Her deft fingers get to work quickly, and as Pearl watches her, she says: “You know that we’re gonna have to do this again, right?”

Pearl is a little too love struck by just how beautiful Marina’s hair is as she leans over the camera, so all she can think to say is, “Huh?”

Marina tuts under her breath and reaches further into the camera, going deep into the wires. “We’re getting rid of the evidence. That includes all the pictures.”

“Tch, whatevs.” Pearl waves a hand. “Like Grizz needs us to advertise. He has so many freelancers he doesn’t know what to do with them.”

Marina doesn’t answer, but Pearl sees her free hand tighten a little around the camera’s spherical body. “We agreed—”

Pearl sighs and puts a hand on Marina’s knee. “And your word is your vow. Yeah, I got it. You’re so stuffy sometimes, you know that? Is it a Marina thing or a...” Pearl glances around to make sure they’re not being listened to. “Y’know, an octoling thing?”

Marina finally looks up from the camera and she lets her head fall back against the side of the boat. “You read my file. You don’t get as high as I did without being reliable.”

“And here I thought it was your good looks. And your huge brain,” Pearl adds when she sees Marina roll her eyes.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Marina declares, and she dips back into the camera. It’s fixed in no time, and Pearl lets the silence sit, mostly because she can’t think of a possible answer to that.

+

They bid Dualies and Brella farewell at the bonus window. Both young inklings agree to keep what they saw a secret, which makes Marina look so relieved that it brings Pearl pause. She hadn’t spared the whole thing much thought after deciding to bribe Mr. Grizz if she needs to, but that would explain Marina’s silence on the boat.

Pearl can’t pretend to completely understand Marina, and that hurts. A lot. Sure, she knows how Marina ticks most of the time, but she also doesn’t understand a lot of her past, a lot of the stuff that put her together and could pull her apart. Pearl is an open book, a simple story: a rich girl from an affluent family, spoiled to the core, but with a heart of gold and a penchant for rebellion. There’s not much mystery to her, other than one small stint with heterosexuality that she doesn’t ever want to talk about, but Marina? Marina is smoke; Marina is a tight, strained smile; Marina is a past that is full to the brim of dark things that she’ll never talk about. No matter how much Pearl dares pry, Marina will never talk about certain things, so Pearl will never know her completely.

And, for the most part, she’s okay with that. She may have grown up sheltered, but she also knows that there are some things you can’t know, some things you can’t push people on. Because, people will bend until they break, but some things cause stress fractures that spread. This is one of Marina’s fracture points.

That makes it so much harder though. They walk toward the studio, where a car is waiting to pick them up, and Pearl wants to grab Marina’s hand. She’s been waiting so long to do it, and now she practically has permission, but she’s also painfully aware of that relieved look, that you wouldn’t understand, the countless times Marina has pressed her headphones tighter to her head to hide her ears, and she realizes just how much attention that would get them. Already, people are noticing them, rushing forward to ask for pictures, and Marina is slowly pulling her face into the public one she uses everywhere.

Pearl keeps her hands to herself, grimaces in the pictures, and tries to ignore the giant hole that she feels between herself and Marina.

+

They need to talk. But, when they eventually get back to the apartment, Marina squirrels herself into her room. She spares a few seconds to say, “I need to think,” and stoops down to press a kiss to Pearl’s head. It’s chaste, like a mother to a child, and Pearl is stricken immediately. Does Marina already regret it? Did Pearl already screw it up? Is the gulf of their pasts too much? Marina’s face reveals nothing as Pearl forces herself not to say anything, to smile a strained smile, and she disappears behind her door.

Pearl plays a violent video game in the living room with the television turned all the way up. She punches and kicks, throws the controller when she dies, hugs a pillow close when she feels tears hot behind her eyes. She’s not sure exactly what to do, but she feels like she needs to do something. She knows that letting Marina think is good, but she also knows that thinking too long is bad; thinking too long leads to second thoughts, second guessing, and she doesn’t want Marina to back out of something they both clearly want.

Pearl wants to do this right. Marina feels like forever, and Pearl doesn’t want to screw that up. Marina is forever—she’s symbolic of a future that Pearl never had before, from their shared music career to their shared home, but more than that, she’s Pearl’s best friend and Pearl can’t lose that. In a life full of excess, she’s become used to having everything, and the idea of losing something so precious makes her sick to her stomach.

She hides her face in her knees. On screen, her character does its idle animation, begging input.

+

In the end, she tells herself that she didn’t cry, and she gets up. Her over-large sweatshirt hits her knees as she walks, and she quickly draws a beeline to Marina’s bedroom door so that she can’t second guess herself. She doesn’t go in, doesn’t knock, just listens. There’s some soft lo-fi music playing and Pearl imagines Marina leaning back against her pillows, headphones off, eyes closed, thinking. Or asleep. She never considered that Marina could have simply fallen asleep after such a long, emotional day, but she still has to try. She can’t just let this sit, not with them so close to the precipice, dangling over what could be the happiest moments of their lives. For once, she’s not the one being talked away from the edge.

She sinks to the floor beside the door, like she’s done so many times before. She lets her head loll back, exhausted both because it’s almost midnight and because of the day they had, closes her eyes like she imagines Marina has, and she lets the words fall out.

She’s always been a jabber mouth, but today it’s something else. She says it all, how unsure she’s been, how she’s been so scared, how much Marina means to her. Gone is the yelling, the limb flailing, the Pearl who has to bigger than life. In her place is a quieter, unfamiliar Pearl, one who is small and vulnerable and has no airs to put on. She says things like “I know you’ve been through hell, but I want to make sure that never happens again,” and “I love... having you here. You’ve... changed everything.”

Marina might be asleep. She might not hear any of this, but it feels good to get it out, to breathe it into the world so that Pearl doesn’t have it all inside her anymore, turning everything into mush. Finally, she can begin to harden again, in case everything goes horribly come morning. She has to build herself up from the inside out, in case this was all one big mistake, in case the battle-hardened warrior that she calls a roommate isn’t ready for all of this. In case the kiss was one giant, glaring misstep in their otherwise brilliant partnership.

Before she departs, she stands, staring at the door, and says, “I don’t want to give up on this, but if you want me to, I will.” It’s a small emission, but she wants to give Marina an out; the last thing she wants is Marina to feel pressured into anything.

There’s no reply. Pearl sighs and sinks into her room. Her bed is big, too big she realizes, but she climbs in, lying with her head on the edge of her pillow. The darkness has no substance to it as she stares out, like there’s too much vastness there, like the space between galaxies, the giant spaces of nothing that she imagines the humans once touched. She thinks about them a lot—the humans and their reaching, reaching arms, how much they destroyed to get what they wanted.

She hopes, desperately, that she doesn’t follow in their footsteps.

[luminaryestuary]

those smoky nights - ch. 4

You were meant to inhale those smoky nights over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches. You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still you end up here.

Joyce copes with Bob’s death and begins to acknowledge her feelings for Hopper.

Angst and Fluff. Post-Season 2. Chapter 4 of 5.

Also on ao3.

Regret none of it, not one

of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,

when the lights from the carnival rides

were the only stars you believed in, loving them

for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.

Her sleep is everything but dreamless.

It’s mostly a series of jumbled images, fractured glass shards of memories.

Will lying in a hospital bed, tubes and wires everywhere.

Baby Jonathan smiling, blowing raspberries and cooing at her.

Her wrist, bruised by anger (look what you made him do), mottled with purple and blue and green.

Hopper’s face, smudged with dirt and grime, between her hands, her name escaping him on a choked breath.

Will, furious and alien, his fingers crushing her throat.

Sunlight streaming through the broken window in the living room, birdsong piercing the quiet of the house.

Hopper’s arms around her the night before he leaves for the Army, hot tears streaking her makeup down her cheeks.

It’s dizzying, overwhelming, she wants to cry out — and then suddenly she’s elsewhere, a place that she’s never seen before.

It’s the strangest thing.

She’s standing on a bridge, utterly alone, surrounded by endless, endless white.

There is no horizon — just blankness, silence for miles in all directions.

She turns in a full circle, trying to gauge her closest surroundings.

Wait a minute.

This bridge…

This is Bob’s bridge.

Joyce steps off the edge of the structure she’s been building in her mind for so many months, considers her handiwork.

Bob would be proud, she thinks.

A shiver travels through her; the air itself seems to sigh, expand, contract.

No.

Bob wouldn’t want me doing this, because he’s dead.

He’s dead, and I’m still here.

She closes her eyes.

“You know, you’re a pretty great architect. I always figured that Jonathan and Will got their talents from you.”

It’s Bob’s voice, clear as day.

Joyce opens her eyes.

Bob stands at the other end of the bridge, grinning, hands shoved in his pockets.

He’s healthy and whole and untouched.

She wants to say something, anything, but her throat is tight, so tight — she can’t make a sound.

“It’s alright, Joyce. I’m doing just fine. You don’t need to worry.”

Bob pauses, weighs his words, nods to himself.

“See, here’s the thing — life is for living.”

His expression softens; his eyes are kind, wistful.

“Do me a favor and live a little, okay?”

Then he’s gone.

You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake,

ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house

after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs

window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied

of expectation.

Joyce wakes up at 6:08 AM, suddenly desperate to brush her teeth. The house is perfectly still.

Outside, the sun is beginning to touch the deep blue darkness of the sky, filling the room with dim light.

She sits up, blinks; looks down at Hopper.

He’d stayed beside her all night, folded slightly inward on himself, his arm tucked under the pillow.

Her heart squeezes in her chest. He’s so relaxed in sleep that he looks years younger. His dirty blonde hair is unruly, longer than it used to be. Strands of it curl around his neck and ears.

She wants to smooth them back from his face, like he’d done to her the night before, but she can’t bring herself to wake him.

She quietly slips out of bed instead, pausing only to grab clean clothing, and goes to the bathroom to take a shower.

The warm water pours over her like a baptism, washing away the sweat and blistering pain of the fever.

It makes her feel human again.

Joyce wraps a towel around herself after she brushes her teeth; looks at herself in the foggy mirror. Steam curls around her in lazy wisps.

She leans in closer to the mirror, inspects her reflection. Her hair is damp, the tips already drying and feathered. She’s lost weight in the past few months and her bones are sharp edges beneath her skin. The hollows of her cheeks are more pronounced than usual, and there are dark circles under her eyes.

There’s no denying that she looks like hell.

Yet after everything she’s been through in the past two years, there’s still something left of her.

Something that’s stronger than before.

The bedroom door opens, and soft footsteps tread down the hallway.

Hopper.

Her heart leaps wildly; she tries in vain to tamp it down, subdue it, that twinge of familiar guilt prodding at her subconscious.

Live a little, okay?

Bob’s voice is so clear, like he’s right there with her.

She almost turns to look for him.

Almost.

[yourlocalyorozuya]

Ask not for whom the bell tolls. Ch. 03

Pairing: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira(its comin i promise)

Rating: T

Summary: A Goro/Akira fic set in the universe of the famous Poe fiction, The Mask of Red Death. The fic in itself is more of an expansion, setting the characters of Persona 5 in the AU.

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || A03 Link || Chapter 4

[[its 3am and im starving]]

[[le’s get a sandwich and also do this]]

Ask not for whom the bell tolls.

Chapter 3:

With the death of half the kingdom, it was only natural that rumors of a greater force, of a conspiracy would start to spread.

He'd first heard from the Charioteer that took him to his new residence.

"It stands over the bedside of the dying!" He says in a voice louder than the Prince would have liked, "And it takes their souls while they die on their cots!"

He gives some kind of placating response, but is duly ignored for more loud theatrics. It provided for a good distraction.

An ironic one.

As he's being led to his coffin for his own demise.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He first sees Death as he slept on his simple bed.

A being made from darkness incarnate.

From the holes in the wall to the cracks on the floor, like slithering serpents, like the chills over his skin.

The prince does not remember much of that encounter.

Only the ice in his lungs, the coming winter.

A mass of shadows by his bed, with soft whispers of words in an alien language.

The pale, dying moonlight that shone in between, a brief respite, did nothing to alleviate.

Rather, because of it, he could see.

See those eyes.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The next person to speak of it was the Lover.

One of the ladies who'd been chosen to accompany the Prince in his stay at the abbey, she was not one to particularly catch his curiosity in any other way. Apart from the initial curiosity over her appearance.

But for some reason, hearing that rumor again tacked on to a noble, it made him pause.

"It is an...abomination of the darkest kind." She says. She's always been painfully considerate of her words and how she spoke, especially among the other daughters of nobles. "It takes the form of man, yet made entirely of shadows."

"Shadows?"

"Supposedly, to cover his own inflictions from the plague."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The second time he sees Death is after their prayers had been said.

Oddly enough, it was during the time that they had kept the plague victims in their prayers.

He vaguely remembers feeling a prickling sensation down his spine. Chills and a quickened heartbeat.

The first pew. Closest to the floral offerings.

At first, he didn't understand what he was looking at. Unlike the last time they'd met, it was bright daylight outside.

The shard-like reflections from the sunlight pouring in through the delicately-patterned mosaics.

Whatever light fell on the shadows...was eaten. He didn't know how else to describe it.

Unlike the cold shine of iron and gold, or the luminosity of light on colors.

A void of darkness in this world of light.

Except.

Just then, the heavens seemed to play a particularly cruel prank on him.

Just then, it turns to him.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The next person to speak of it was rather unexpected.

"How so? You would hardly find a person not speaking of him these days." The Emperor says, barely even lifting his gaze from his canvas. Today too, he hasn't lifted his paintbrush, or touched his palette.

He supposed that was true. But why his interest?

"Partly due to the way those who spoke of him described him."

Described him?

"Maybe it's due to them believing that he is an incarnation of Death. Their descriptions of him wax eloquent poetry." He says, his chuckle hollow. Devoid of mirth.

His fingers twitch on his brush, his hand does not move.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

It was a man, they had mentioned.

A lone, young man, from the depths of shadows.

Contrary to what they had said, though, he appeared in the day as well as the night.

Well, the prince supposed he knew that first-hand.

...

Perhaps the threat of death had made him a bit foolhardy.

But he had to admit. He was curious. Insatiably so.

The prince stares straight ahead.

To his right, sat Death.

Close enough to feel the chills on his skin. The burning in his eyes and lungs.

Self-preservation, perhaps.

But somehow, he forces himself to look.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

...This was an unexpected visit.

She sat in his usual pew. When she saw the Prince approach, she smiled.

"I see that you are well." The tone in her voice is matter-of-fact and her words trail into the silence.

As was she. But what was she doing here?

"...It's so peaceful here." She says by way of explanation.

Her skin was pale, and threw the shadows under her eyes in stark relief.

"I'm almost envious of you, your Highness."

She looks like she's stared Death in the eyes.

"As do you." A mirthless chuckle, "It sounds quite ominous to say that, considering why you were sent here."

Silence, then a pondering look.

"You've heard the rumors as well?"

Even here, it was impossible to avoid them.

"...If he truly does exist...even then, I feel pity for him."

Pitiable?

"Every day, I see them. In the waking world and in my dreams." She closes her eyes, a pained expression, "Every victim that we treat. Every victim that we lose."

Her hands clasped together.

"We only manage to keep them alive for a couple of moons, at most. And even then, we cannot ease their suffering. I can..."

"....."

"I can...only imagine suffering that pain for all of eternity."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Over the course of these days he'd somehow stayed alive, he'd come to realize several things.

The first realization was that Death took the form of a man. Just like the rumors had said.

The second was that he could not look at Death for very long. Possibly an obvious assumption, but he'd come to realize it during the past few days, especially when he'd made the first realization.

The longest he'd lasted was for a few seconds and then the ice-cold dread in his blood would threaten to stop his heart, his forehead burned, his eyes strained. His body couldn't last under that strain, and he was being closely monitored as it was.

Death took the form of a man, covered in a cloak of shadows.

There were shadows under his eyes and cuts on his hands. Rashes beyond his wrist, disappearing into the darkness.

Pale skin. And where his skin was cut, his blood appeared to have frozen. Or congealed.

Frozen in time. Like a corpses'.

Dead men tell more tales than he realized.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Alone and effectively locked away for the rest of his days, one would soon run out of good memories to relive.

A few days after, he runs out of bad memories too. Now, he spends his time, remembering what happened and what could have been.

Some days, he wakes up and forgets which story line he's locked himself in.

But today, a seemingly unimportant memory sticks in his mind.

A memory of a Hermit living on the other edge of Time.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The Hermit was far more apt for a chat than he had heard.

Once he'd gotten over the notion of chatting to someone crouched in a corner, facing the wall, that is.

"..."

And the lapses in silence between words. Then again, he never was one to keep up the flow of conversation that well either.

"I haven't come up with a cure either." Is the petulant admission.

"..."

"Oh, no. The Prince is disappointed in me. Whatever shall I do." She continues, now sounding a mite more sarcastic.

He wasn't.

"Were you expecting failure from the beginning? That's heartless, you know."

Considering the number of failures, it would be downright optimistic.

"Experimenting with the kingdom's subjects should be kept in moderation. Soon, there would be no-one left to keep alive."

A sentiment he shared, but he had no choice.

"How cutthroat." She falls silent again.

When she speaks again, it seems to be of her own ponderings.

“It would help greatly if the dead could speak."

Isn't that what she's supposed to do?

"I am not one of those hideous black birds." She says indignantly, "I don't cut open bodies and examine them for a sick idea of fun!"

They're the ones donating most to the cure efforts.

"Hmph. You're probably going to be the next plague victim."

...

"...What?" The Hermit evidently found something wrong with this silence, unlike the others, "It was a joke."

It was.

"You can't lose your nerve now. Dead men can't speak, the past is the past. And you're a beacon for the future."

The past.

"We can't afford to let you die just yet."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"I cannot die."

He says one day, aloud.

He thinks...he sees Death shift a little.

Once he starts speaking, it's impossible to stop.

His fractured thoughts, words, everything.

"I can't die yet. Not yet. The townspeople are keeping me alive because they need me alive."

"..."

"With all that, my reason for being kept alive should be important. It should be."

It isn't.

"But even then. I'm terrified of dying. Then again, all of them were. And they still did."

Awkward sentences, incoherent thoughts.

"Despite everything I still want to live."

"..."

He stops just then.

So caught up in his train of thought, he forgot just who he was talking to.

So occupied he doesn't realize.

How cold the room felt all of a sudden.

How...dark the room felt all of a sudden. Like the very light itself had been smothered and dimmed, like the breath in his lungs.

Of course...he'd forgotten who he was talking to.

So. Without thinking, he looks into the face of Death.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"Regrets?" The Empress repeats, in slight confusion, "Do I have any, you mean?"

He nods and she seems to think about it carefully as she places her cup back down. Her expression serious, eyebrows furrowed, eyes closed.

Eyes open, now with a steeled kind of expression.

"Regrets...well, I do. Especially considering all that's happened." The Empress says, with a slight, sad smile.

The kingdom collapsing in on itself.

...Oh. And what she's gone through. The prince apologizes, slightly sheepish.

"No, it's alright. You have your own problems to deal with." She says, shaking her head, "I can only imagine what you must be going through at this time."

...

"Why do you ask? Is something wrong?"

He'd been staying, in isolation, for quite some time. Even with the companions he'd brought along, he'd soon ran out of topics to talk about and the circumstances around them always meant they'd invariably talk about what happened around them. Death and diseases and flimsy strands of optimism from their fraying societal masks.

"Do you have any regrets?" She asks. Quietly, carefully. It was strange that word.

The way it reminded him of days where he'd long thought he'd made his peace.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Chapter 3: Regardez vos mensonges aimants démêlez à portée de main.

End.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

[astrxd]

Service With a Smile CH 15

A/N: [Weak fanfare/jazz hands.]

CH 1 | CH 2 | CH 3 | CH 4 | CH 5 | CH 6 | CH 7 CH 8 | CH 9 | CH 10 | CH 11 | CH 12 | CH 13 | CH 14

Quiet, low whistling filled her ears. They were sweet notes--slow, calming...

She didn’t know what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t a proposal. A dance proposal, that is. But…

Either way, Astrid couldn’t find any reason to refuse--especially with the lovely song that was resonating throughout the marble interior of the reception hall. She was almost certain that she detected various parts of the melody that had been interwoven during the wedding march, and though her gaze was momentarily locked on the newlywed couple swaying to the tune of the music, it soon shifted up and towards the space at her side.

Towards Hiccup.

He was regarding the scene before them unfold with something that looked vaguely like nostalgia. The faint gleam in his eye gave her the impression that he was familiar with the song being played, and the quirk of his lips clued her in on his… mixed feelings? She couldn’t tell, exactly, even with their close proximity--what with the suddenly dimmed lights, and all that. The only thing that stuck out to her were still his eyes.

They almost made her own chest hurt a little, actually. There was just an absurd amount of emotion there, and--

It took her a moment to register the fact that they were now staring right back at her, but when she did process it, Astrid didn’t falter. Rather, she stood her ground, and she… She offered him a small, easy smile, not particularly mindful of the way that other pairs started to edge onto the dancefloor once solely occupied by the bride and groom.

“Either there’s something on my face, or…” Hiccup said, both sounding and looking sheepish. She couldn’t help but bite her lip in order to refrain from laughing, though her shoulders did shake the slightest bit.

“You’re fine,” she assures him, prior to gently squeezing his arm and taking a step onto the marble tile. Really, she could have sworn that under the yellow glow of the lights that seemed to freely hover above them, his cheeks flushed slightly--so her smile broadened just a little bit more. (It was the context of “fine,” probably.) “Are we dancing, or what? I didn’t agree to just stand here with you.”

“Yeah, okay, then.” Hiccup breathed out a note of laughter as she lead them both deeper into the loose throngs of couples slowly swaying in time to the music, but he seemed to remain the slightest bit distant while she did so. It was mildly concerning, to be frank--though Astrid did manage to draw him back to the present by gingerly setting her palms atop his shoulders.

At least, she assumed that she did, solely based upon the way he blinked owlishly at her before actually placing his hands respectfully on her waist. She could sense a slight hesitation there, but it was endearing! Astrid didn’t think that tentativeness could be that cute, but it worked for Hiccup.

A lot of things worked for Hiccup--even being a sarcastic asshole when they first met still landed him in among her favor.

It was a little strange, given Astrid was so used to the mouthy, downright sassy ways of Hiccup Haddock that she had grown to known over the course of the past few days. To see him so oddly timid and at a loss for anything smart to say was slightly off putting, seeing as only moments ago, they were exchanging casual snark as if it were their secret language.

...Huh.

So perhaps it was a secret language of sorts, known only by them. It was kind of… cute. In a sickening way that Astrid thought she’d never experience again as a high school graduate. Hiccup simply seemed to have a thing for (pleasantly) surprising her--that night at his house, back in the gardens… The more she reflected upon it, the more rushed and unorthodox their current relationship felt. Astrid knew she was racing against a clock here, but it was only then that she acknowledged it--in the middle of a dance.

“You’re thinking,” he pointed out, snapping her out of her thoughts. Astrid’s eyes widened for a moment, but she lowered them wryly after another.

“No--really? What gave you that idea?”

“Oh, nothing in particular. Just the contemplative expression and look of complete adoration you’re wearing while you stare at me...”

“Shut it, nerd,” Astrid snorted and gently slapped her hand against the corner of his shoulder before re-looping both of them around his neck. “You’re the one who’s distant. What are you thinking about, anyway?” She asked… Even though she already had a semblance of an idea.

Hiccup responded with nothing more than a strained half-smile and the briefest glance over his shoulder in the direction of his parents. Astrid furrowed her brow and pursed her lips, only seconds before opening it again to respond--

Then? Oh, then the beat of the song picked up, and Hiccup started humming. He dismissed her concerns with a rushed “Later; don’t worry about it right now,” then proceeded to move his palms from her sides to hold her hands instead. A strange way to dance with someone, but oddly fitting.

“What are you--woah-kay!” Astrid exclaimed. Hiccup swung her in a wide circle, and she would have tripped, if it hadn’t been for the way he pulled her back in toward him, surprisingly in time to the music. They were chest to chest, face to face--but only for a moment, because Hiccup looped and crossed his arms around her so that he ended up behind her. She had a growing suspicion that he was more than just familiar with the song playing, and when she looked in front of her to see his parents dancing in a similar manner, the fractures he set in her heart got a little worse, all in the very best, crushing way. He twirled her around, and she was at the complete mercy of his lead.

And she liked--no, she was loving it.

Yet again, they stood before one another. They could have kept a penny suspended between their torsos. Or--a magazine, because that’s a little more Princess Diaries. And with the way they fell into the fountain… Everything sort of was unfolding in a fantasy-esque, family-friendly romcom sort of way.

The smile he wore didn’t help either.

“Dancing, obviously. Do I look like I slow dance?” He inquired. Astrid tried not to notice the way his lips quirked up at one and, but she noticed anyway.

She didn’t know why she was thinking about it now, but she realized that she’d miss him--the turns of phrase conversation loaded with sarcasm and dry humor, the particular and unique cadence of his speech, his lopsided smile...

“No, not really,” Astrid admitted, gently squeezing his hands. She was breathless--not because she was winded, but because she hadn’t known that she was holding onto her breath in the first place. “You look like the type to do interpretive dance to the Top 15 in your bedroom when nobody’s watching.”

Hiccup laughed. It was a low laugh, reserved for her, but somehow unreserved in general at the same time. She noticed how his eyes would crinkle in the corners when he did, and she noticed the little slit between his two front teeth, and she noticed how bright his eyes were in comparison to how dull they seemed earlier--

Her heart clenched and her chest cinched around it.

This was so, so unfair.

Unfair to her heart.

Unfair to her head.

Unfair to him.

How could she do this to him? Hiccup looked like he was so… Happy. Finally at peace, despite the rocky waters he treaded with his parents--especially at that very moment. While it wasn’t as if Astrid herself didn’t feel that same swelling joy bubble in her stomach and threaten to spill from her lips in the form of a laugh, she simply couldn’t bring herself to let go again.

That’s what she did in the gardens--let go. She let go of her inhibitions, of her worries and her fears and her hesitations about getting involved with Hiccup. That felt like the right thing to do at the moment, because he was so close and she couldn’t stop staring at forest green eyes slashed with gorgeous gold.

Right then wasn’t any different. She looked at him--really, really looked at him--and felt… Terrible.

Because in the matter of less than a day, she would be gone. She would be on a plane back to her own city, which was an entirely different type of charming in comparison to the little town of Berk. She’d be gone, and Hiccup would be alone again, and he’d be living in a house with his married mother and father without her to be there for him if he needed to get out of a hairy situation. She found comfort in the fact that he still had his gang of friends to back him up, but the more she thought about it…

Was she really going to do this? Make him think that she was capable of supporting him, in the way that she knew he needed to be supported? And then just up and leave town, leave Hiccup. While the modern 21st century made distance much more bearable, Astrid didn’t think that cellphones could fill her absence if she let things continue at the rate that they were.

...The young Hofferson soon realized that she already started down that path. She already made that mistake.

Astrid had been so sure of herself only an hour or so earlier, too. She kissed him, and they kissed again, and then they kissed again. Her lips tingled when she thought about those seemingly endless moments, where Hiccup firmly held her close, as if she’d slip away if he didn’t do so.

It struck her then that he would be right, if that was what he was thinking--

“...Astrid?”

It took her a moment to snap back to reality, but when she did, Astrid realized that Hiccup was pressing his forehead to hers--she realized that he was staring intently, almost concernedly, right at her.

“Astrid,” he began again. She realized that she didn’t even respond to him earlier, and instead went silent. At a loss for words, she searched his eyes and worried expression, only to end up blankly gazing and gaping at him. “What’s wrong? Did... I--are you, are you okay?”

...That just wasn’t right at all. The knife in her chest was just being viciously twisted around at this point.

None of this wasn’t supposed to be about her--making it about her had never been the intention. She knew that, despite Hiccup’s exterior, he was hurting inside… Because, really, how could she not know that? With the way the past few hours played out, it was impossible for him to just be… Okay. An emotional rollercoaster like that had to have impacted him somehow, because it certainly hit her like a truck.

And she was just the wedding planners’ daughter.

Astrid’s gaze briefly strayed from Hiccup’s as she looked over his shoulder again, over at his parents, who were currently beaming at each other. Guilt gnawed at her heartstrings.

He was the newlywed’s son, for God’s sake! The unprofessionalism behind cultivating a relationship with Hiccup Haddock definitely occurred to her, but she elected to ignore it. Now, however, despite her heart, she didn’t know if she made the right decision.

Hiccup furrowed his brow as held her impossibly closer as he pursed his lips, and for a moment, it almost looked like he was going to kiss her.

...So she squeezed her eyes shut, because she couldn’t stand to look at him any longer, and leaned back.

“Stop.”

Her voice sounded unnaturally quiet, lacking its usual volume and tone. She wills it to be firmer, but it proves to be more difficult in execution, what with the way Astrid felt his posture stiffen.

“Astrid.”

“Please,” she says, starting to duck her head and pull herself out of his embrace. “You should talk to your parents,” Astrid further implores him, having succeeded in her endeavors, and also having opened her eyes to look back at Stoick and Valka Haddock.

“Thanks for the suggestion, but I kind of don’t feel like dying young,” he drawled, rolling his eyes. Despite his words, he looked a little lost--a little stunned with her actions. Astrid shook her head at him, almost vehemently.

“Then if you won’t talk to them, then stop,” she implores him further, simultaneously taking one step backward. Her heels hit the floor.

Click.

“I don’t--I don’t know what I did, or--or if I said something, but Astrid, what are you--”

She’s looking through him now, at his parents. At this point, the only pair of people not moving in time with the music--themselves--had caught the attention of Valka and Stoick Haddock. Astrid wanted to pry her gaze away from his parents, wanted to turn to Hiccup and take his hand and explain to him her reasons for believing that a relationship would only end up hurting them more.

He needed someone who’d be there for him. Astrid knew that she was more than capable of being that someone, but Hiccup… Hiccup didn’t need someone like her.

He needed his parents.

“You need to talk to them,” she finally manages, looking intently at him.

“That’s not your decision to make.”

“It’s definitely the obvious one, though.”

A beat of silence.

“...What are you saying?”

“You’ve spent the past day, maybe weeks for all I know, avoiding them. I understand that you’re upset, but--”

Astrid was shocked to find that he gently took her hand again. He held it in both of his palms, in a manner that she didn’t consider inappropriately insistent, but more along the lines of tooth-rottingly sweet.

“My problems aren’t your problems,” he tried to tell her, “so why do you keep worrying about them? Why do you keep trying to fix things that can’t be fixed?” Astrid barely suppresses her scoff as she pulls her hand away.

“Because they can be fixed! Because if this--if we’re supposed to be anything, then they’re going to be my problems.” She winces, because she fails to include that the hypothetical she used was actually…Improbable. “I’m trying to be the rational one here, Hiccup. I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon and we’ll probably never see each other again after I go--”

“That’s what this is about? You don’t think that--”

She didn’t give him a chance to finish.

Astrid eliminated the space between them one last time and pressed a kiss to the slant of his surprise-parted lips knowing that it very well may be the last one. Her eyes were lowered after that, because she knew that if she looked at him, or even his parents, she’d be compelled to stay. Instead of doing such, she whispered an apology, then spun around and walked briskly off of the dance floor, diving headfirst into the crowd of people.

She thought she was doing the right thing--she thought she had Hiccup’s best interests at heart.

So why did it hurt so much?

...Astrid came to Berk for a job.

And it was high time that she got back to it.

[darinb]

Me in the Mirror 1- What Image in the Mirror Do You See?

When you look into the mirror, what Image in the Mirror do you see looking back at you? Is that person the real you, or do you somehow distort or even enhance that person? What I would like to do in this series is look at perception, at the way you see yourself and ask the big question…

Do I like what I see? Do I see myself in a true light? What or who am I reflecting, and what is the Image in the Mirror?

1 Corinthians 13:12 (ESV Strong's) For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.   Ok, we cannot truly see what the Lord wants us to see in ourselves, and we will not know fully until we get to heaven, but we can by faith begin to see things in our lives the way God see, and begin to reflect Him in our lives, not our selfish, self centred, self glorifying selves!   So as I share this message, I want you to imagine you are holding a clock up to a mirror... In other words, it’s time for reflection!  

Image in the Mirror- WHAT YOU SEE ISN’T WHAT YOU GET

  As a Behavioural Optometrist, I specialise in visual perception. The thing is, having 20/20 vision really means very little. Sure, you need to see, but just because you physically have the capacity to see something doesn’t mean you understand what you see.   Many things in life actually distort or affect what we perceive, especially when I comes to ourselves. Lenses or glasses can shape your view of the world, but mirrors can likewise distort your view of yourself.   The devil does not want you to see yourself properly, he doesn’t want you to see yourself how God sees you. He also doesn’t want you to reflect the image of Jesus Christ, so he does his best to mess up how you see yourself, and who it is your life reflects! What Image in the Mirror Do You See?   The purpose of this series is to gain a true reflection of ourselves, undistorted by anything that is not of God!  Let’s let His Spirit guide us into truth. That’s why God’s Word says,   John 16:13 (ESV Strong’s) When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth, for he will not speak on his own authority, but whatever he hears he will speak,   So what things distort our reflection in the mirror? What changes how we see ourselves?  

1.      DISTORTED BY DIRT AND GRIME

  If a mirror is dirty, you cannot clearly see the image in the surface. It does not mean that the mirror doesn’t work, but rather that the mirror is covered in a substance that is not reflective.   Going through your life, you can pick up dirt and grime, which we call sin. Sin separates you from God, covers up the true reflection of yourself, and covers any chance you have of reflecting Jesus to the world. If you constantly live in sin, the dirt and grime builds up until you cannot see God, you are not close to Him and you cannot be the person God wants you to be…   Isaiah 59:2 (ESV Strong's) but your iniquities have made a separation between you and your God, and your sins have hidden his face from you so that he does not hear.   The Hebrew word for hidden is satar, which literally means covered or concealed. A layer of grime or sin conceals the true reflection, and if it is  thick enough or deep enough you cannot see anything!   1 John 1:5-7 (ESV Strong's) God is light, and in him is no darkness at all. If we say we have fellowship with him while we walk in darkness, we lie and do not practice the truth. But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus his Son cleanses us from all sin.   God is light, and if you are disobedient and wilfully sinning, or tolerate sin in your life, you are misting the mirror, and the light cannot reflect properly off the surface.   The Greek word for cleanses is katharizo, which means to purify, wash, to scrub clean.   1 John 1:9 (ESV Strong's) If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.   Harbouring sin in your life, even a hidden sin, tolerating it instead of confessing it covers over the true image you should be. If you are tolerating sin, it’s time to confess it, and allow the blood of Jesus to wash your life clean!  

2.      DISTORTED BY THE PAST

  If a mirror gets old, the inner surface of silver nitrate often breaks down, and gets scratchy, and this distorts the image on the front. This is not dirt on the outside, the inner layer is breaking down!   So many people including Christians allow their past to distort what they reflect in the present. It might have been words spoken to you, situations you have been through, your upbringing, your fears, your pain. But God says this…   Isaiah 43:18-19 (NIV-WS) “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.   The Lord is saying, “Stop dwelling on past failures! Don’t you get it… I’m doing a new thing!”it’s time to make the past past at last.   When the past quarrels with the present, there can be no future. We all need to learn from our past. But we must also stop living in the past, or letting past failures control us, and move on to God’s new assignments and goals. Spiritual renewal involves letting go of the past so that we can take hold of what is in the present and redirect our course toward a new life for the future.  What Image in the Mirror Do You See?   If you had a difficult upbringing, a troubled relationship with your mum or dad, then today is the day you give that to the Lord and let Him carry that burden, not you. If you have something in your past you’re ashamed of, something you still feel guilty for, it’s is time to hand it over to Jesus, not carry the load yourself.   So if you have had a divorce or separation, if you’ve been abused or controlled, if you’ve done something you just hate yourself for doing, today is the day to hand it over to Jesus, and let it stop affecting how you see yourself.  

3.      DISTORTED BY BEING SHATTERED

  If you drop a hand mirror, any mirror, they don’t bounce too well. They shatter, and you allegedly get 7 years bad luck and a distorted, fractured image.   In the same way, hurt and pain that has affected your life, that has damaged or even shattered your life, destroys the image in your mirror. Pain affects how you see yourself, so whether it’s physical pain from sickness or disease, or emotional pain from someone betraying you or letting you down, pain affects how you see and value yourself, and how you reflect God.   It also affects people around you, because hurt people hurt people. You don’t mean to be like this, but that hurt inside you causes you to lash out and hurt the ones you love. What Image in the Mirror Do You See?   But the Bible says this…   Psalms 34:18 (ESV Strong's) The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.   Are you crushed today, are you shattered today? How long have you carried that pain deep inside you? God loves you, God can heal that pain and today, He is willing if you will trust Him. Don’t let bitterness ruin how you see yourself or how you reflect Christ.  What Image in the Mirror Do You See?   Hebrews 12:15 (ESV Strong's) See to it that no one fails to obtain the grace of God; that no “root of bitterness” springs up and causes trouble, and by it many become defiled   If you have been hurt and you haven’t given it over to God, which involves forgiving other people, then it is like drinking poison hoping the other guys dies! Holding onto hurt shatters the image of God in you, and distorts how you see yourself. Today is the day to forgive and give your hurt to God.   Forgiving someone who hurt you dies not legitimise or condone what they did, it simply releases the hold they have on you, and set you free to see yourself as God sees you!  

4.      DISTORTED BY SURROUNDING REFLECTIONS

  The image in the mirror can be affected by external things surrounding the mirror, such as reflections, lights or other images.   In the same way your imagein the mirror of yourself can be affected, even destroyed but the opinions of others.   “Sticks and stones will break my bones but names will never hurt me!” Is not true.   James 3:8-9 (ESV Strong's) but no human being can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison. With it we bless our Lord and Father, and with it we curse people who are made in the likeness of God.   Your value doesn’t decrease based on someone else’s inability to see your worth. What Image in the Mirror Do You See, not them?   If you have had someone speaking negative words over your life, whether now or sometime in the past, you need to recognise that someone else’s opinion is just that. Opinions are like noses… everybody has one, and most of them smell!   Don’t let your Image in the Mirror of who you truly are be distorted or sometimes even destroyed by the word of others. Their words only have power if you let them, if you give them permission to affect your life.   Proverbs 15:4 (NIV-WS)   The soothing tongue is a tree of life, but a perverse tongue crushes the spirit.   In the Message Bible it says this… Proverbs 15:4 (MSG) Kind words heal and help; cutting words wound and maim.   If someone has or is speaking negatives over your life, today is the day we break those curses and they fall to the ground dead, lifeless and powerless. Some of you will need prayer to break this power, but it can and indeed must be done for you to begin to see the image of yourself correctly.  What Image in the Mirror Do You See?   Proverbs 26:2 (ESV Strong's) Like a sparrow in its flitting, like a swallow in its flying, a curse that is causeless does not alight.  

5.      DISTORTED BY UNEVEN LAYERING

  If a mirror has uneven layers of silver nitrate, thin spots appear and these are not as reflective. This can cause distortions or warping in the image. In the same way if our relationship with God is patchy, if we only connect with Him once a week at church, if we skip services or skip quiet times, we will not reflect the Lord the way we should, and this will affect even how we view ourselves.   James 4:8 (ESV Strong's) Draw near to God, and he will draw near to you. Cleanse your hands, you sinners, and purify your hearts, you double-minded.   God longs to be close to you, and all it takes is your saying yes, I want to spend time with you, Lord.  Spending time every day with the Lord, reading His Word and praying, causes layer upon layer to be painted on the glass, and this makes you more and more reflective, more and more like Jesus!  What Image in the Mirror Do You See?  

WHOSE IMAGE DO YOU REFLECT?

  The thing is, mirrors do not create images, they reflect them. They can be distorted by sin, pain, your past, the words of others and stepping away from God. When you look in the mirror, do you see the real you? Do you see the person you are destined to be? Do you see Jesus reflected in your life.   Romans 8:29 (ESV Strong's) For those whom he foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son, in order that he might be the firstborn among many brothers.   God has a plan for your life, and His plan is that you reflect His Son! As you read His Word , as you pray, as you surrender your life to His will, and His care, as you give Him your burdens, you will reflect Jesus, and your life will move into His destiny for you! What Image in the Mirror Do You See?   A mirror differs from a pane of glass in that it is painted by several layers of silver nitrate. But where does refined silver come from? It is not mined as pure silver, but dug out of the ground…   Psalms 66:10 (ESV Strong's) For you, O God, have tested us; you have tried us as silver is tried.   Let me finish by taking you through the ancient process of refining silver, and in this is a great lesson for all of us who want to be true mirrors, seeing ourselves as a reflection of Christ…   As people, we want a great life, we want to be success, we want a great family, people who love us, we want health, wealth, wisdom and blessing. That’s what we want from God, isn’t it? It’s what we pray for, work for and believe for. But the fact is, many of us face tests, trials and hardship.   So instead of blaming God for not giving you what you ordered Him to bless you with, why not step back and see things from His point of view, His Holy perspective?   God tests every believer, both to reveal the character of his or her heart and to lead him or her into a deeper relationship with Himself. We tend to learn more in the valley than on the mountaintop.   Isaiah 48:10 (ESV Strong's) Behold, I have refined you, but not as silver; I have tried you in the furnace of affliction.   God refines us with the trials, tests and hardships of life, because He wants us to be refined and pure. So what was the process of refining silver in Biblical times?   Stage I: The Breaking —The refiner breaks up the natural ore.   In biblical times, a refiner began by breaking up rough ore—hardened rock encased with common minerals such as tin, copper, and zinc. But sometimes, somewhere in that rock was precious metals like silver. He has to break the rock to expose the metals to heat.   Jeremiah 23:29 (ESV Strong's) Is not my word like fire, declares the Lord, and like a hammer that breaks the rock in pieces?   Perhaps you feel broken today, maybe shattered by a family breakup or a business collapse. If you have been broken you are ready for the next step in refinement…   Stage II: The Crucible —The refiner places unrefined silver into a crucible.   The crucible is a special metal pot able to withstand extreme heat. The refiner then places the crucible into the furnace at the precise temperature which separates the metals.   Proverbs 17:3 (ESV Strong's) The crucible is for silver, and the furnace is for gold, and the Lord tests hearts.   Stage III: The Dross —The refiner places the crucible in the heated furnace to remove dross.   As the ore melts in the crucible under the watchful eye of the refiner, a layer of impurities called “dross” eventually bubbles to the top and forms on the surface.   Proverbs 25:4 (ESV Strong's) Take away the dross from the silver, and the smith has material for a vessel;   For us individually, dross represents any sin mixed into our life—any wrong motive, wrong attitude, wrong action, and unforgiveness, unrepentance, or disobedience—anything that keeps us from being all that God wants us to be.   Stage IV: The Heat —The refiner raises the temperature again and again.   The refiner painstakingly skims off the dross or impurities. Then he then turns up the heat and places the crucible back into the furnace, skimming off more dross each time.  Ancient literature tells us he does this up to 7 times. He knows that only certain impurities are released at certain temperatures.   Psalms 12:6 (ESV Strong's) The words of the Lord are pure words, like silver refined in a furnace on the ground, purified seven times.   This process continues and each time the silver is more and more refined. In your life you may find yourself facing trial after trial, pain after pain, and wonder why your testing seems endless. Yet each time a little more dross, a little more impurity is removed. Multiple trials are often necessary to clean out the dross.   So when does the refiner know that the process is complete?   Stage V: The Reflection —The refiner sees a clear image of himself.   The refiner knows the process is complete, and you need to get this, when he looks into the crucible as sees his reflection clearly. When He looks at you, What Image in the Mirror does He See?   Isaiah 48:10 (ESV Strong's) Behold, I have refined you, but not as silver; I have tried you in the furnace of affliction.   When the refiner looks at your life, does He see His own image reflected back? When you look at yourself in the mirror, do you see the Master reflected in your image?   Today is the day we start refining your life. Today is the day we clean out those words spoken over you, the times you were told you’re useless and will amount to nothing. Today is the day we begin to  break their power, we forget the things past and we press on towards the future God has for you.   If you’ve had something in your past that you are ashamed of, or have had negative or hurtful words spoken over your life, even if they were said in jest, let’s start freeing you right now. Let’s stop this distortion of your image in the mirror, and let’s start reflecting Jesus.   Some years ago I was told by another pastor still on the Coast that I would never be a leader, never be a pastor and never have an impact for God. I knew immediately when said that he was wrong, so Fiona and I took that to the Lord, prayed it through and committed ourselves to follow Him into our destinies. I still meet this guy at pastor’s meetings. He doesn’t talk to me, and I don’t care… his words have no power over me! I don’t have to fight him, because God has vindicated me!   If words have been spoken over you in the past, distorting the image of the refiner in your life, stand up.   Proverbs 26:2 (ESV Strong's) Like a sparrow in its flitting, like a swallow in its flying, a curse that is causeless does not alight.   Also, if you have resented the tests that have allowed the Lord to refine your life, it is time to repent and rejoice in the character He is building as He makes you into the image of His Son. What Image in the Mirror Do You See?

https://ignitechurch.org.au/me-in-the-mirror-1-what-image-in-the-mirror-do-you-see/