#he has bricks for brains and sand for shoes

[blinkysadventure]

ladies and gentleman

the bad guy

[glitterdeerswritingblog]

To those who wanted that sneak peak at my progress on my HiredAssassin! Sophie × InsuranceFraudPrince!Fitz, here it is:

The Moonlark crouched behind the edge of the sandstone wall, making sure no one was coming before slipping down the dark corridor.

She referred back to the set of instructions that had been delivered to her via raven the night before—the lines concerning her disguise and entrance earlier that morning crossed off like a checklist—squinting to make out the loopy lettering in the moonlight that filtered in through the barred windows. Another 20 steps, and on her left… There.

As she reached for the handle, she heard footsteps and hastily retreated around the corner before walking around the bend as if she worked here and certainly wasn't infiltrating the palace to assassinate a member of the royal family.

The man—if someone of his age should be called a man—came into view: light brown hair, the color of cinnamon, skin a shade of honeyed bronze, eyes sparklingly teal, broad shoulders inside of a white tunic with a purple and blue embroidered jerkin, his long legs covered in purple pants of silk, and his look completed with a pair of blue studded dress shoes.

The Moonlark swore internally. Of course she ran into Prince Fitzroy Vacker. Her very target.

"My lord," she said in a bashful tone, bowing into a curtsey. "Out to stargaze?"

"Evening, miss," he responded in his royally crisp accent. "I'm simply out to smell the roses."

The Moonlark's brain stalled. How had he just accidentally spoken the code phrase? She stared at him as she replied, "I hope the scent is worth the thorns."

Prince Fitzroy gave her a small smile. "Right this way." He pulled open the door the Moonlark almost entered, letting her in before shutting the door and leading her down the steps of the narrow staircase. At the bottom, he opened another door, this one heavy and oaken, with thick metal hinges and a metal knocker.

He and the Moonlark enter the room, and Fitzroy shuts and locks it behind them. The Moonlark realized it was a wine cellar. The barred window took up the size of the back wall, and the Moonlark could see barrels of alcohol and liquor lined against the sand brick walls.

"Sorry about all of the formalities. I am aware that the pass code was not the greatest, but it was a line from this truly awful book I had been reading and I figured it'd be a funny little thing before I die."

"So, to clarify," the Moonlark said, "You hired me."

"Yes," Prince Fitzroy said.

"To kill you."

"That is correct."

"Okay," she said. "Do you just need someone to talk to?"

"Nope, I'm all good. I don’t really mind, I just need to be dead."

"No offense, but it feels wrong to kill you."

"Because I want you to?"

"Look," she said. "I've been around the marketplace for a while. There's always someone looking to have someone else killed, even royalty. I've seen plenty of hits for your dad, or even a few for your mom out of jealousy, but never have I seen a hit for any of their children. In fact, everyone has always seemed to adore you guys. So I figured when I saw the hit for you—the people's prince and the royals' declared heir—that you were secretly a tyrant. So I came figuring you were going to end up being a dickhead as royals usually are, except… you aren't. You know all of the guards and staffs' names, you ask them how they are and actually listen, you help them out when they need it by having them take breaks and checking if they've eaten or drank, you clean up after yourself so that others don't have to, and you overall treat them like they're human. They all truly love and respect you, even the ones who don't like anyone like grumpy Sir Faxon."

The prince was blushing. "I try my best to make sure they're all safe and happy."

"That's my point. They don't want you dead. No one does. So I'm trying to figure out why you do."

"You know, for an assassin, you seem to care a lot about other people."

"Well, killing someone is undoable. I make sure that my client truly wants the target dead, and not out of a slight or pride. I always give them options for less irreversible revenge. Currently, I want to make sure it isn't out of despondency."

The prince sighed. "I'm not despondent. I will miss my family and my people, but it is for their good." He didn't meet her eyes as he said, "My father is a good king. For the most part, he is fit to rule Eternalia. However, he does have lapses in judgement. Recently, he butted heads with the royal family of Lumenaria. The easiest way to fix the conflict is for my father to apologize and admit he was wrong, but instead he decided my sister should marry one of their brood. Biana has only just turned 19 and I don't want her shoved into a political marriage to fix what she didn't break. When I die, my will gives her all of my money and my life insurance goes to my mother so that Biana can get out and have a normal, happy life."

The Moonlark stared at him until he looked back up to her. "So you mean to tell me you hired an assassin to kill you for insurance fraud in order to protect your sister?"

"Essentially," the prince breathed.

"Well then, why don't we just fake your death?"

Prince Fitzroy blinked at her. "What?"

"Let's fake your death. Honestly I've never killed anyone—"

"I knew it," the prince interjected.

She rolled her eyes. "Well, I'm not an actual assassin. I took the job for the cash because I figured you were a dick. But you have a good heart from what I can tell, and you're trying to sacrifice yourself even though I can practically smell the fear because you're determined to save your sister. I can get behind that. Faking your death means your sister gets away safe and gets your money, and you don't have to die. And bonus, I still get my money at a reduced price, seeing as I don’t have to actually kill you."

"Well, I like not dying," the prince said. "But how does one fake their death?"

The Moonlark gave him a grin. "Now that I do have a lot of experience with. In order for this to work, you have to trust me."

"Okay. But can I bring my horse? I don't want to leave her alone."

"Absolutely." The Moonlark clapped the prince on the shoulder, though she did have to stand on her tiptoes to make the top of her head come to his nose. "Alright, Pretty Boy, if we wanna be out by sunrise, we have to start 20 minutes ago. You have your paper and ink?"

Prince Fitzroy nodded, and the Moonlark said, "Good. I need you to write your letters now. One of them should be a letter addressed to your family saying that you went for an evening stroll and not to worry if they wake up and you aren't at breakfast. To do this right, we're going to make it look like you were eaten by a bear. If that's all you want to say, then that's good enough, but if you want to tell your sister and mother so they aren't too upset, you can write them each notes to explain it, but do your best to use caution and use codes so that someone on the outside won't realize that you're lying to commit insurance fraud, or find out youre alive and try to drag you back."

"Does it have to be that?" Fitz asked.

"Sorry, it's the best I can come up with that doesn't require a witness or removing part of your body for proof. Unless you want to write a note saying that it's all too much and you're committing suicide by jumping off the cliff."

"I'll get eaten by the bear," Prince Fitzroy said with a sigh.

"Alright. In that case, I'll be back in a moment."

The Moonlark navigated her way back to the hall and then to the laundry room. She grabbed two sets of clothing in black, including hoods. She also grabbed a laundered saddle bag and sprinted through the Kitchens, throwing in rations of food and a couple water canteens.

"Put these on," she said, throwing him one of the black outfits once she made it back to the wine cellar. The prince opened his mouth, and the Moonlark said, "I'm not going to watch, but I need the clothes you're wearing right now."

She stared at her feet, and after a few minutes, his old clothes were at her feet. "I am terribly sorry about this, and I really hope these weren't your favorite clothes," the Moonlark said.

"What are you—?" Prince Fitzroy started, but the Moonlark nonchalantly took the knife she'd grabbed and slashed through the clothes. For added effect, she cut a line on her arm and waved her bleeding arm around to stain the cloth.

"You just cut yourself open on our dinner knives," Fitzroy said, rushing over. "Are you alright?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm fine, Your Majesty. I stopped by the Infirmary on the way here and grabbed some medical supplies." Indeed she had, and she pulled out antiseptic fluid and a gauze roll. she quickly stitched it up, taping it on the cut, and said "All better."

"Please don't call me 'Your Majesty' or 'Prince Fitzroy.' It's always made me uncomfortable, and within a few hours I won't be a prince anymore."

"Are you going to change your name then?" the Moonlark asks.

He shrugged.

"You don't have to decide now if you want to," she said gently. "You have a whole new life to live. But in the meantime, we have to go set those letters where they need to be, you need to pack anything you can't live without or you want if you think it won't be noticeable, and then we have to place your clothes somewhere they'll be found but also not somewhere super unusual, and then we grab your horse and hit the road."

Together, they ran back through the darkened palace. They entered his bedchambers, and the Moonlark said, "Alright, I see you have a bag—great—so take your time packing. I know its a lot and that it probably hasn't hit you yet so just… hang in there. Meanwhile, I'm going to get dressed into my own black monstrosity, and I'll be right back."

Fitzroy nodded, and the Moonlark went into his bathroom. When she came back to the main room, Fitzroy was staring at a drawing of himself with his parents, his brother, and his sister. He folded and tucked it into his breast pocket, the tears on his cheeks reflecting the moonlight. He heard her step closer and jumped, quickly wiping at his face.

"All set?" the Moonlark asked him cautiously. He nodded, and she impulsively grabbed his hand and gave it a quick squeeze before letting it drop.

"Letter time," Fitzroy said, his voice slightly hoarse.

They walked across the hall to another bedchamber, and when they opened the door, a young woman was sitting on the edge of the bed. Her hair was a darker brown, and her skin was lighter by a few shades, but she had the same teal eyes as her brother. "I could hear you two next door," Princess Biana said.

"Hey," her brother said, his voice croaky.

"So, what's happening?" The princess asked, looking at the Moonlark. "And who are you?"

The Moonlark bowed. "Princess. Your brother here hired me as an assassin to execute him."

Princess Biana glared at her brother. "You did what?"

Fitzroy looked sheepish. "She's not killing me anymore, she talked me out of it."

The Moonlark explained how she'd arrived that morning and followed the instructions he'd sent to her before meeting him tonight to discuss plans. Biana listened intently as she relayed their earlier conversation and their plans to fake Fitzroy's death.

"So," Princess Biana said, "You tried to look out for me once again by almost getting yourself killed? Most assassins wouldn't have bat an eyelash. You're very lucky you picked a woman, and a smart one at that."

"I've already had this discussion," Fitzroy sighed. "But when you get out of this place, send Alvar's raven. He'll find me, and then I'll find you."

"Of course,' the princess said. "Are you guys prepared to leave? Dawn is coming quickly, the sun will be up within the hour."

"We're all set," Fitzroy said. He hugged his sister. "Be safe, I love you."

"Love you too," she said. "I'll be fine, you two take care of each other. Is there anything else I can do to help?"

"Don't find the clothes," the Moonlark said. "If you do, it'll look suspicious and put some light on you, especially since the will is in your favor. But when you find out he's 'dead,' be genuine and don't overdo it."

The princess nodded solemnly. She gave Fitzroy one last hug and pulled the Moonlark in, whispering "Take care of him," giving her a kiss on the cheek before taking her letter from the prince and shooing them out.

"Where should we put the other letter?" the Moonlark asked.

"My dad's placement at the table," Fitzroy said immediately.

They went back to the dining room, and the prince took a deep breath before putting it down.

"What's next?"

"I think we head toward the stables. We don't have much time."

Fitzroy nodded. "Right this way," he said.

They walked out a secret entrance on the side of the palace and ended up by the forest. Sophie took out his bloody, ripped clothing and tossed them on the ground five feet off the path. She reopened her bandage and squeezed out as much blood as she could, dripping it around the area.

Fitz looked at the pile of clothing, and the Moonlark saw something inside of him break. She caught his arm and eased him sitting onto the path a few feet further away as he breathed sharp breaths.

The Moonlark wrapped her arm around the prince as he took gasping, panicky breaths. Eventually they slowed and evened out, and the Moonlark said, "Do you feel… better now?"

The prince nodded. "Yeah. I just… yeah, sorry."

"Don't be. I know the feeling. I get if you have some second thoughts, but—."

"Not at all," the prince said. "It's just…"

"Surreal," the Moonlark supplied. "A lot to take in."

"Yeah." The prince stood and pulled her up. "I'm ready."

"Alright. To the stables."

The word "stables" seemed an understatement. It was a large building of wood with a tiled floor and roof. The sides had plenty of spaces for the horses to put their heads out during the day, though the porticos were covered in a satiny curtain. There was an abundance of hay, straw, and grass for the horses as well as treats of crab apples. The water troughs were large enough that the Moonlark could bathe in them no problem. There were all sorts of horse equipment as well as some gardening and hunting tools.

"Mind if I take a bow and a quiver for the road?"

She gave him a wide grin. "Neat."

"Sure," Fitzroy said. "Grab a shield while you're at it as a souvenir."

She plucked one off the wall and studied it. "Good timing, too. I used my old one for target practice and hit my last shot too hard. Broke the shield and snapped the bowstring in one go." She put the shield on her arm and slung the bow and quiver around her. "Which horse is yours?"

"Verdi," the prince said.

The Moonlark and the prince stopped outside the horse's enclosure, and she let out a whistle. "She's a beaut," the Moonlark breathed, studying the majestic creature. She was white with cream patches all over her powerful body, her eyes the color of honey.

"I've had her since I started learning to ride when I was fourteen." the prince said. He opened the latch to her gate, and she sauntered out, stopping in front of them. "Where exactly are we going?" he asked.

"I'm assuming you don't have family outside the kingdom, and you need to lay low for a bit, so I'll take you to where I call home, and when you get into the routine of normal life and get on your feet, you can go wherever you want. Sound like a plan?"

"Yep," the prince said.

"Alright, give me one moment," the Moonlark said. She undid her hair from the bun she had it in, pulling it back in a high pony instead. "That's better. I was getting a headache from that bun. You ready, Fitz?"

The prince nodded at her. "After you."

The Moonlark clambered up, quickly followed by Fitzroy.

He leaned forward. "Actually, I like that. Do you mind… calling me Fitz from now on?"

"No problem," she said to him.

"And… if it's not prying?" he asked, leaving the question open.

"What's my name?" The Moonlark supplied. "I'm taking you to my house, with my parents and my siblings, so you may as well know. But trust me, if you ever slip to someone and tell them who I am, I will hunt you down and murder you." She took a breath, turned around on Verdi, and stuck out her hand. "Nice to meet you Fitz, I'm Sophie."

"Nice to meet you too, Sophie," Fitz said with a grin, shaking her hand.

[jinmukangwrites]

Day 5 (6-17): Aged-up | Mother and son | Brothers

Warnings: near death experiences, drowning, canon typical violence, kidnapping

Note: I felt like I've written a lot of Dick and Damian bonding this week... So I'm switching it out with Jason. I had other things I wanted to write for this prompt, but it got too late at night to write something long. Enjoy this short, hurt/comfort Jason and Damian bonding instead <3

-o-o-o-o-

Damian's only been captured for a few hours... and already he feels more miserable than he has in a long time.

None other than the Penguin stands before him, sneering cheek to cheek as his associates finish tying the knots around chest and the damp wooden pole his back leans against. The sand underneath him is rocky and sharp; he can already feel the curious laps of the returning tide against his tailbone. His hands are restrained behind the pole as well, while his legs are tied by his ankles. He's sitting, and stuck sitting thanks to the rope around his chest.

His head aches, which isn't very surprising considering the thing that got him in this situation was a well placed hit to his skull via a brick.

He didn't mean to get caught. He simply wanted to blow off some steam after getting fed up with Jason while on patrol. Of all people to be paired up with, it had to be Jason. It couldn't have been someone Damian gets along with like Richard, Duke, or Cassandra. It couldn't have been Timothy where they at least know when boundaries are being pushed with their banter. It couldn't have even been Stephanie, where she's at least funny.

No, the entire family was there, and Damian got paired with the one he doesn't know how to deal with. He got annoyed by the constant, demeaning tone Jason would use on him, and after one too many backhanded insults that only Jason found funny, Damian snapped. He doesn't even remember what exactly was said, he just knows he yelled at Jason to go on without him, and Jason didn't stop him when he turned the other direction.

Thinking back on it, Damian probably insulted him back, and the reason he let Damian go was because he was just as annoyed as Damian was.

It doesn't matter now. What matters is that he didn't intend to stumble upon the Penguin and his goons in some warehouse by the coast. He was just going to take down a few classic muggers or something of similar nature and go back to Jason and act like the argument never happened.

He intended to go back and tell his father about the Penguin's actions, but he didn't notice a pigeon until he almost stepped on it. Startled, it flew up at his face and he fell backwards right through the already broken skylight. He barely managed to slow his fall with his grappling gun, but he still hit the ground pretty hard. Hurt and surprised, he didn't have time to even stand up before the brick was smashed against his skull.

And now he's here, under Gotham's docks, being tied to a poll while the Penguin laughs to himself.

"I'll just let the tide kill you for me," he says to himself, yet his idiot goons still cackle. Damian glares at them, but they only laugh harder, sending down their own insults until the ocean water begins to pool up to Damians toes.

The Penguin makes a remark that it's time to go, and that he doesn't want to get his new dress shoes messy, and then they're gone, leaving Damian to attempt to tug on the ropes holding him against the pole. He tries to reach for the small blades he keeps in the compartments of his gloves, but his fingers come away empty. Curse Gotham's Rogues and their ability to actually use their brains and disarm their captives when they get their hands on them.

He strains harder on the ropes now, twisting and trying to reach any knots with his fingers, but all he succeeds in doing is cutting off the circulation to his hands and pressing the rope into his chest.

He relaxes with a frustrated huff and glares at the water that's already risen a few inches to ripple close to his hips. He knows that not long from now, the water will be above his head.

For now, it's freezing, and once it reaches his fingers, escape will become all the more impossible thanks to numbing appendages.

He tugs on the ropes, then tugs some more, and he keeps going until he has to stop and let the blood come back to his fingers.

The water continues to rise, seeping through his suit and into his bones, rising to his fingers, then his arms, then his shoulders... It's when it finally touches his chin when the despair and terror finally settles.

He can't get out. He can't get out. The ropes feel no more loose than what they were when he began trying to undo them, and his fingers are so numb now they must be turning blue under his gloves. His jaw aches from his chattering teeth, and his nose is beginning to run.

He pulls desperately on his bonds now, his attempts to escape becoming more and more reckless the longer he sits here. He's hyper-aware of the movement of the water around him, and his panic is making it difficult to breathe.

Through his terror, he hears something. The motor of a bike. He hears the engine cut out nearby. He can probably shout for help.

It's his last hope. He can only pray that whoever came to the docks at this hour of night, that they are friendly. He opens his mouth to yell for assistance, but he chokes when sea water enters his mouth. He scrambles his bound feet against the rocky sand, attempting to lift himself up the pole just a little higher, but he doesn't go anywhere. The ropes are too tight.

He's not sure if the water near his eyes is from him flailing in the water, or if it's because of frightened tears. Either way, he can feel the water tickling his nose, and he only has a split second to suck in one last breath of air before the water rises above any means to breath.

"Robin?" A deep voice shouts, and Damian could sob at the irony of it. "You here?"

Someone came looking for him, but they don't know where he is. He's going to drown under the feet of someone who could have saved him if they had come just minutes before.

The water rises over his head now, and he can no longer hear anything besides the racing of his heart. He can't feel his fingers or toes anymore, and he's sure he will drown with bruises under the ropes on his chest.

He's going to drown. He's going to die. His lungs hurt, already his oxygen is running out. He's panicking and it's cold and he's going to die-

He doesn't know how much longer he holds his breath, only that eventually, his mouth opens against his will and sucks in water that may as well be fire going into his lungs.

Black creeps into his vision... and with the last sight of dark bubbles erupting around him, he loses consciousness.

-o-o-o-o-

He wakes up vomiting. A strong hand wraps around his arm and holds him on his side so he can empty his lungs and stomach of salty sea water. It feels like his insides are being torn apart, but eventually it calms down a little so he can finally suck in a gasp of air.

The hand on his arm becomes two, snaking around his shoulder blades to sit him up and squeeze him against a broad chest.

"Holy shit," a familiar voice gasps, "Jesus fuck."

"J'son..." Damian murmurs, trying to make sense of what's going on. His throat feels abused, and his head pounds like drums. He's so tired, his eyes begin to drop.

"Nah don't you fucking think of it," Jason growls, pulling him away from his chest and giving him a hard shake. Damian blinks, trying to focus. Jason brings a hand up and brushes his dripping hair from his face.

Then, it all comes back to him. The tide... The water... He was drowning...

He thought he died.

But here he is, untied from the pole and on the docks, looking at Jason's bare and dripping face with his helmet castaway on the ground. He must have given him mouth-to-mouth... And his chest aches like he's taken a beating. Must be the combined bruises of the ropes and from chest compressions.

He's suddenly overwhelmed with emotions, all of his fear slamming right into him.

"You came," he croaks, not sure if it's because of his abused respiratory system or if it's because of his rekindled tears.

Jason's face twists, then he pulls Damian back in to squeeze him tightly once again. The hug is a surprise, and it hurts, but Damian doesn't fight it. He's too relieved and scared and confused and ashamed to fight it.

"When you didn't answer the comms, I thought you were still mad," Jason explains. The rumble of his voice in his chest against Damian's cheek is oddly relaxing. "But then it started getting late and I didn't feel right, so I asked Babs for your coords and- fuck- I thought I got you killed."

"How did you know...?" Damian asks, not willing to go further into the sentence and endure the pain of his throat.

Jason gives a laugh, and it's almost hysterical. "A lucky guess? I don't know, I guess it's just habit to look in the water when something goes wrong at the docks." There's a pause. Then Jason releases Damian once again. "I'm sorry. I said some things I shouldn't have. This wouldn't have happened if I kept my cool."

Damian shakes his head. It doesn't matter now. "You came."

Jason's lips twitch. "Of course I did. We're... Brothers. Even if we don't get along all the time, I still don't want anyone beating you up other than me."

Damian let's out a laugh, though it dissolves into a fit of coughs. Jason rubs his back during all of it, then once he calms down he helps him to his feet.

"C'mon," he says, "let's get you back home so Alfred can check on you. The sooner we get back, the sooner I can get getting yelled at out of the way for letting you go off on your own."

He helps Damian up to his feet, and Damian gratefully clutches to his jacket to steady himself. "I am to blame too. Once we tell father you helped save me, he will be less angry."

Jason snorts. "You think I'm worried about the old man? It's Dick I'm worried about."

"Ah," Damian grins, all the fear finally ebbing out from his system. "I'm afraid I cannot help you there."

Jason helps Damian onto the bike and returns his helmet so it's over his head. He holds Damian in front of him with one arm securely around his chest as he drives. He feels safe nestled against Jason like this. It's strong and unyielding. His relationship with the older man has always been strange, considering they weren't always on the same sides when Richard was Batman.

But this? This is safe. It's warm. Is careful and gentle. Normally he'd be embarrassed to be so vulnerable like this near Jason, but like Jason said... They're brothers.

He cannot help but feel a little disappointed once they finally make it back to the cave. Yet it seems he's misjudged Jason once again, because after he was rushed to the med-bay and Jason got an earful from Richard... he fell asleep and awoke the next morning with Jason still there.

Things may not be perfect with Jason, and they argue a lot, but Damians sure things have a chance of becoming better.

They're brothers, after all.

[writeforfandoms]

Merry Go Round of Life 9

Find my masterlist

Part 9! I’m only a day late, it’s fine. We’re meeting another character in this chapter, and I hope y’all like who we meet. I’m super excited to see how you guys like this chapter. 

This will be Din Djarin x f!reader eventually. Don’t hold your breath folks, this one’s a slow burn. Sort of.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: People being Dramatic and Irritatingly Vague. 

Chapter nine: In which there are more wizards

You and Djarin stayed quiet around each other for the next few days. He hadn’t returned from his outing until the next day, as far as you saw. By that time, the child was awake and normal again, devouring practically his weight in breakfast. Peli, for once, didn’t offer an opinion and stayed low in her logs. 

Just as you thought you were going to break down and actually apologize to the wizard (if only to break the tense silence), he surprised you by speaking first.

“I need to go see my mentor tomorrow. You two are coming with me.”

You coughed as your tea tried to go down the wrong pipe. “Beg pardon?” 

Djarin sighed. “Please come with me,” he said, completely monotone.

“Not what I meant, but I appreciate being asked,” you told him primly, setting your cup down. “Where is your mentor?” 

Djarin hesitated for a moment before he sighed. “Mandalore.” 

“Right,” you drawled, watching him. “Why are we going with you? I’m not disagreeing. I just want to know.” 

Djarin sighed again, louder this time. He also tapped his fingers against the table briefly. “I need her opinion on something,” he spoke slowly, looking over at Peli instead of you. “And I’d like you two with me.”

“Alright,” you acquiesced easily. “Tomorrow morning?”

“Yes.” Djarin’s shoulders relaxed slowly when he realized you weren’t going to put up a fight about it. “I’d like to leave early, before the markets start.”

“You’ll have to wake me, then,” you told him. “I’m not normally up that early.”

Djarin huffed something that might have been a laugh and inclined his head to you. He stood, presumably to leave, and you spoke up again.

“Your mentor. Do they wear a helmet too?”

Djarin nodded. “This is the way,” he agreed. The words sounded like more than just words, though. Like something he’d said thousands of times. You felt a little ripple down your spine at the words. 

“Okay. Do I need to… do anything?” You waved vaguely at yourself. You’d cleaned up, of course, since the creature so you were no longer covered in mud and sand. But you didn’t exactly have anything better to wear.

“No,” Djarin assured you. “She won’t care.” He picked up the kid and headed back upstairs.

“Do you know who his mentor is?” you asked Peli, starting to feel a little anxious.

“How would I know?” Peli grumbled. “It’s not like I can leave here.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” you said, frowning at her. “Maybe she’s been here before? Or he’s talked about her?” You paused for a moment. “Well. Maybe not the second option, actually.”

Peli spluttered a laugh, sparks flaring bright as they drifted up and away from you. “Nope. No other helmets have entered the castle. Trust me, I’d know. Bad enough dealing with one, I’d have to quit if there were two.” 

You sank back into your chair, murmuring enough encouragement to keep Peli ranting while you tuned her out. Well, you weren’t exactly surprised that Djarin’s mentor wore a helmet too, but you were surprised he was taking you to meet her. You had no idea why he would. 

But you’d already agreed to go, so there was nothing more to be done about it now. Honestly, you were curious. This was the first time the wizard was going to show you anything more of himself and where he came from. Maybe, if you were lucky, you’d even get to know him a little better. 

Maybe.

True to his word, Djarin woke you early the next morning, and made tea while you hobbled about getting ready to go. The child was still half-asleep, cuddled into Djarin’s shoulder watching the two of you with sleepy eyes. You had to grin at the sight. Djarin was an excellent father figure, clearly. 

The two of you left, emerging onto the streets of Mandalore. It was early enough still that there wasn’t much foot traffic around the two of you. A few people here and there, really, but no more than that. You struggled a little to keep up with Djarin’s longer strides, and were quickly completely turned around in the city.

“Almost there,” Djarin told you after several minutes of walking. The kid peered over Djarin’s shoulder at you and cooed. You pretended it was encouragement, and not outright amusement.

“Wizard,” you huffed. You’d remembered to bring your walking stick along this time, and it thumped gently on the cobblestones as you walked. “I could clobber him,” you muttered to the stick. “If he’d slow down a little.” 

Djarin finally stopped in an alleyway, turning to look at you. You puffed up next to him, leaning a little more heavily on your walking stick. “This way,” he said, waving two fingers at the end of the alley. The brick shimmered and vanished, leaving an opening. Your jaw dropped. Djarin might possibly have chuckled before he stepped into the opening, heading down the narrow staircase revealed there. You followed him a little more slowly, your eyes taking time to adjust. 

You heard her before you saw her. The rhythmic clang of metal on metal echoed down the flat corridor you emerged onto, and Djarin pulled you up level with him as he walked down the corridor. You had no idea how far underground you were, but it was chilly. At least, it started out chilly. The temperature slowly rose as you approached a doorway. Djarin stepped through first, holding the curtain for you to enter after him.

The room was circular and mostly open, but largely dominated by a forge in the center. Tending the forge was a woman with a golden-bronze helmet, her back to the two of you. You sat where Djarin ushered you, and he sat next to you to wait, the child now perched in his lap, bright eyes surveying everything. 

“You brought them?” the woman asked. She set down the hammer and plunged the piece of metal she’d been working on into a bucket of water, which hissed and steamed. 

“Yes.” Djarin didn’t say anything else or move. 

The woman set the piece of metal aside and finally turned, looking at your little group. Her helmet was different from Djarin’s, and not just in color. The visor was different. And there were little… horns? Maybe? On her helmet. She took a couple steps closer to Djarin, looking at him. Or possibly the child. It was a little difficult to tell through the helmet.

Then the helmet turned to you and you froze, feeling abruptly like prey. You went very still, hardly breathing, eyes wide as you stared into the visor. This lasted for long enough that your heart started to pound against your ribs.

And then whatever it was passed, and the helmet turned back to Djarin. You swallowed hard, hiding your shaking hands against your legs. 

“You were correct,” the woman told him simply. “You were wise to bring them here.” 

Them? Wait, what? You had a feeling you were missing something.

“I brought the rest, as well.” Djarin nudged a bag you’d failed to notice earlier, and the bag clinked when the woman picked it up, looking through it. She pulled out a reddish crystal, holding it to the light and examining it for several moments. The child cooed, and for a moment you could have sworn the crystal started to glow. Then the woman put it back in the bag. 

“Well done,” she said. “These will be greatly beneficial.” She set the bag down by the back of the room before turning to look at the three of you again. “You know the king has been asking after you.”

“I know.” Djarin sounded like he was grimacing, voice a little tighter than normal. 

“Nothing from Viszla?”

“No.”

The woman nodded slowly, seeming to consider something. Her helmet tipped towards you again, and you swiftly looked away. Just in case. You weren’t keen on feeling that again. She was silent for several long moments before she nodded, seemingly to herself. “You are to find Viszla.” 

“And the king?” Djarin rasped.

“You will have some time before he becomes a problem.” 

Djarin nodded. “Anything else?” 

“You are lacking your heart, not your brain.” The woman stepped over and rapped her knuckles on Djarin’s breastplate. Djarin flinched but made no retort. “You have everything you need, Djarin.” She stepped away again, over to the forge, and started working. 

Apparently that was all the signal that Djarin needed, because he stood, still holding the kid, and assisted you to your feet as well. He stayed quiet as he led the way back out of the room, down the corridor, up the stairs, and back into the alleyway.

Enough time had passed that you could hear the markets opening, the calls of the vendors and the tapping of shoes on the stones. It was odd to think - you were in Mandalore, near one of the big markets. But the entrance to the castle wasn’t far, and back in the castle you would be roaming the area around Kalevala. And if you really wanted to, you could pop out to Kamino for an afternoon stroll. 

You tried to stifle your laughter. You really did. But a squeak escaped you. 

“What?” Djarin turned to look at you, giving you an obvious look over.

“Nothing, nothing,” you tried to tell him, waving him off and biting your lower lip.

“Tell me.” He wasn’t afraid of using his height to his advantage, looming over you. But far from feeling intimidated, you felt protected. 

“I just… never thought this would be my life.” You shook your head, incredulous. “A greater adventure than I could have dreamed, and all I had to do--” The words caught in your throat. Right. You weren’t allowed to talk about the curse. You shook your head again, this time to dislodge the magical blockage. “Well, all I had to do was get old, I suppose.” 

“Hm.” Djarin looked at you before he huffed a laugh of his own and shook his head. “We’re making a detour on the way back.”

“We are?” You scrambled to keep up with him, thumping your walking stick along. 

“Only a brief one.” Djarin didn’t turn to look at you again, instead leading the way straight into the market.

The market was incredible, unlike anything you’d seen in Kalevala. The vendors were varied, clearly from all over. There were vibrant colors everywhere, from clothing to awnings to fruits to spices. The whole place was a mess of scents that you tried to decipher - spices here, fish there, fresh bread off that direction. It was very nearly sensory overload, and there weren’t even that many people about yet. 

The only reason you didn’t get overwhelmed and stop at every other stall to try something was Djarin. He carved a determined path through the market, simply trusting you to keep up with him. And you did, although it pained you to go past a few of the stalls without even a look. There was one that you very nearly abandoned him for, full to the brim with colorful cloth and trims, ready to be shaped and created into something wonderful. 

Finally, Djarin stopped at a fruit vendor on what had to be the far end of the market. He passed over a few coins, and took a bag in return. With a nod to the vendor, he turned to you and held out the bag.

“Try one,” he offered, shaking the bag a little to help entice you.

You peered inside. The fruits were unlike anything you’d seen before - small and red and plump. You picked one carefully, examining it.

Djarin huffed at you again. “There’s a pit in the middle,” he told you. “Careful of that.” 

“Thank you.” You bit into it cautiously, and your eyes went wide at the flavor. Sweet and a little tart, juicy, delicious. You very nearly made an indecent sound, covering your mouth with your free hand as you chewed on your unexpected treat. 

“Come on,” Djarin told you again, ushering you along with him. This time, he stuck next to you, keeping close even as the market got busier and busier. “I have an idea where to look for Viszla.”

“That’s good,” you said, smiling. “I’m sure that will be helpful. Where are you going to start?”

Djarin was quiet for a moment, leading you now through side streets and back towards the entrance to the moving castle. “Kalevala.”

--

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[imaginesmai]

Tony Stark - Things we don’t mean

Requested by @snoopy3000​ a while ago, I hope you like it!! Mistakes was about make up after a fight. I tried to do it as good as I could, but I always I ended up doing something a bit different. Anyway, here it is!

Plot: a mission gone wrong, and Peter gets hurt. It hits Tony where it hurts the most, becuase he sees the kid as a son, and he blames it on you. Hard words are exchanged and apologies are muttered.

There was a clock, on the wall.

It was one of the few things that was old and broken in Tony’s penthouse, and it brought you a sense of comfort. It showed that not everything had to be neat and perfect in his life, and that he had space for common things like an old clock.

The clock didn’t work, but was stuck on the same minute.

It sounded, when the big, long needle hit the sides of the number. On a normal day, you wouldn’t notice it, because you didn’t visit the guest’s room too much; and even if you had noticed it the first time he gave you the tour through the house, you hadn’t thought about it more than a few times. The week where you made the plans of remodelling the penthouse some years ago, when your mom came to spend the weekend the first year you moved in with Tony, and a bunch of times where you had decided to clean for a bit.

The thing was it wasn’t a normal day. It had been anything but normal, from the moment the police department had called on the Avengers to cover up a huge guy, that seemed a brick stone and could dissolve into sand. There weren’t much ‘Avengers’ left, but Tony, Rhodey, Vision, Peter and you had gone.

You wondered if things could have gone different, if they had been there. The rogues, the other avengers. But they hadn’t been, and Peter, that sweet kid, had been thrown to the ground from a building, and which neck had been crushed by the monster’s rocky hand.

From what you had seen, there were thick, black bruises on his neck, and they were going to have to shave half of his head to evaluate the possible brain damage, because he wasn’t responding. You had wanted to see more, yet Tony had sent you outside the guest room with hard cold words.

They couldn’t take Peter to the hospital without risking his identity, so Cho was working the best she could with him in the guest room. Tony was there too, worrying over the child that he thought his son. And you were outside, because you knew he blamed you for inviting Peter over.

“What the hell were you thinking?!”

Everyone in the quinjet turned around at Tony’s scream. It was followed by the sound of the mask of his suit hitting the other side of the place, rolling now destroyed a few inches back.

Until that moment, he had been sitting on the edge of a chair with Peter’s hand on his grip. You hadn’t thought he was in any condition to move, so you had let him be there while you evaluated the damages on the city. Then, Tony was up and looking at the fallen part of the suit.

Rhodey put a wary hand on your shoulder, knowing Tony could get pretty temperamental when someone or something he cared about got in the way. Dismissing him softly, you walked towards the man.

“Tony, that’s not –“

“Why did you thought it was a good idea to bring a kid, my kid, into the fight?” Tony turned to you, and you were met with the most hateful eyes you had ever seen on him. “No, I’ll answer that. You weren’t thinking”

“I was thinking” you answered calmly. You kept walking until you were in front of him. “I was thinking about all the people who were going to get hurt if we didn’t stop the threat. Peter is not a kid, he’s Spiderman. And he can handle himself in a fight”

“Yeah, I see how that has turned” Tony took a step forward, his nose almost hitting yours, and pointed a finger at your chest. “Next time, you listen to my rules. Only mine. No side decisions like that”

“I can’t believe you make everything about you, Tony”

You were angry, because Peter meant a lot to you too and, in a way, you felt the guilt of having him in the battlefield in your gut. You were tired and mentally exhausted, covered in wounds, bruises and Peter’s blood, since you had been the one to stop the bleeding of his head. And you wanted to get all of that off you as soon as possible, so an argument with Tony seemed the best option.

That was what you got when two headstrong people dated.

“Your rules, your kid, your mission, your plan. We’re a team, and we work like that” you sneered at him, and watched him grew angrier. “Peter is going to be fine, the guy is out and nobody else got hurt.”

“The team is broken!” Tony screamed, and you heard Rhodey sigh in the back. “It broke with the accords, and it won’t ever be back! So we’re not a team. We’re just –“

“We’re superheroes, people that have a higher chance of helping other than normal humans” you cut him off. “And we take responsibility for it. Peter knew what he was signed for when he became Spiderman”

“There won’t be any more Spiderman if you keep taking that kind of decisions” Tony crossed his arms, his voice lowering. 

“You’re the one who aren’t thinking. Get your head out of your butt and - “

“And what, let you take control?” he scoffed a laugh. “There is no way I’m letting someone who can’t remember her own name control everything”

There was a twitch in your left eye, and you knew Tony had hit low. Because of some pain meds you had to take from the wound of the last mission, you were much less sharper during two or three hours after the pill. It hadn’t been bad, but a bad twist in your knee had made you tear up a muscles on your thigh. The pain had been so bad, that Cho had given you a meds for two months.

It made you insecure, that you were so forgetful and distracted meanwhile, and you had confided in Tony with that. You hadn’t expected the sweet understanding man, that left you notes every now and then to help you remember, would use that argument in a fight.

“You’re on thin ice” you muttered. “Peter being hurt isn’t my fault, get that into your iron skull”

“Well, you were the one letting you come. So I don’t see any other responsible people around”

Tony finished the conversation by himself when he turned around and sat with his back facing you in front of Peter. You heard the kind reassuring words he whispered into his hair, and got stuck there until Rhodey pulled you away by your arm.

Without saying another word, you jogged out of the main part of the quinjet to the piloting part, where you could share your tears in peace.

Minutes, hours, maybe days later, you were still sitting on the hard cold ground in front of the broken clock. It tickled, and with each sound, you let another silent tear roll down your cheek. There was an instant when you thought there wasn’t much more to share, but you discovered that your backpack for tears was as big as your guilt. The tears kept falling, and the intrusive thoughts filled your head. You wanted to get up, to move and to walk away from the guest room. You didn’t think you could stand another round of disapproving-Tony; yet you couldn’t move.

Distantly, you heard the door clicking open. There were voices, hushed voices; or maybe it was you who heard everything underwater. You swore you heard Rhodey with his scolding voice, and Tony tearful one accepting everything he said. There was a curse, and then a hand was touching you.

“Y/N. I’m – It’s… It’s me. Come on, get up”

Tony helped you to stand, trying to put an arm around you; but you jerked away, stumbling down the wall away from him. It was because of the anger at him for his words, the worry for Peter in the room, and the hate for yourself because of the result of the mission.

He tried again, and you didn’t have the strength to fight him. His arms, on the contrary of what everyone thought, were pure muscle. He had been lifting big parts of machines and cars since he was four, and the first suit of armour weighted at least his whole weight. So you just hung there in his arms as he carried you through the corridors. Tony smelt like grease, an horrible smell you hated until you met him. There was too the ridiculous amount of Axe, which he sprayed you with after the shower, and the coffee that always seemed to accompany him.

You zoned out until you were in your room. The clock was gone, but the feelings that the old piece of furniture had created by being the only sound for hours weren’t. Suddenly, you were more aware of the clothes you were still wearing, and Tony couldn’t stop your shaking hands from trying to rip the clothes out of you.

“Wow, wow!” Tony tried to lock your arms with his. “Hey, none of that! You’re gonna hurt yourself! Y/N – Y/N!”

“The blood, Tony” you whine, feeling the tears coming back. “There is – Peter’s blood – I-“

You kept babbling a mess between words and apologies, and when you came back again, you could hear the water running. Tony was in front of you again, with your stained shirt on his hands and the jacket on the ground. He helped you out of your shoes and socks, took out your trousers and finally your underwear. All of it while talking softly to you, as you sobbed and cried to him that you were sorry.

The hot, almost burning, water made your muscles relax. You clung to Tony as he lowered you fully into the bathtub, that filled slowly, and almost dug your nails into his arms when he attempted to move.

Sighing, he used one hand to take as much clothes as he could, that were his shoes and socks, and his jacket. Then, he pushed you forward and got into the tub with you. The water fell out of the bath and hit the floor, so Tony closed the faucet and sank down.

“It’s okay” he mumbled into your hair. He had intended to have you between his legs, but you quickly dismissed his thought and turned around to wrap yourself around his torso. The clothes stung to his body in an uncomfortable way, but he accepted it as a punishment for his hard words. “I’m not leaving, ciccino. I love you”

You nuzzled your nose against his neck and hiccupped at the nickname, that he so fondly had given you since the first moment he met you. Tony did something behind you, but you were too tired to care about it. Instead, you fidgeted with the end of his t-shirt.

A few seconds later, the familiar coconut bath salts hit your nostrils, and you cuddled closer to him. It took you a while to finally calm down, and occasionally you scrubbed with your nails a part of your body where Peter’s blood had been. Tony was there every time, to stop you and caress it softly.

“Peter – is” you started, stopping to hiccup. “Is he… Peter is f-fine?”

“Yeah” Tony whispered, and kissed the line of you hair. “He’s fine. Kid knows how to take care of himself”

You listened to Tony rambling about Peter. Cho had taken care of the swelling of his brain and had stitched up the cuts on his neck. There wasn’t any permanent damage anywhere, so with a couple of weeks in bed rest and his healing power everything would be back to normal. Tony’s voice almost guided you to sleep. When it came to Peter, or to any matter he loved, he talked with such a passion and care that his voice became thick, deep and happy.

Eventually, the water became cold and your fingers became wrinkled. Tony was shivering and trying to hide it, so you decided to move and to stop him mid-sentence about the pros and cons of hiring a sitter for Peter.

He stopped talking and just watched as you moved away, the water moving and falling onto the ground with each one of your movement. There were a few inches between you, but you knew there were much more; and one of you had to jump.

You decided to start.

“I’m sorry” you whispered. Tony was quiet, and raised a brow. “For bringing Peter into the mission”

“Yeah, for the next time maybe listen to me” he gave you a half smile. “But it wasn’t your fault. Kid is reckless enough by himself. It isn’t on you, Y/N”

“It feels like it”

Tony grimaced and shifted. He moved closer until he was on his knees in front of you, the t-shirt clutching to his skin and revealing the scars of his collarbone. You decided to focus on the hem of the clothe, until Tony brought your chin back and forced you to look at him. You weren’t ready to listen again to his rambles about being right, and usually, the arguments between you two always ended up with Tony being right.

But that time there wasn’t any pride on his face. His chocolate eyes were kind and gentle, and were searching for you attention. So you gave it to him.

“I’m sorry for screaming so much” he smiled. “I don’t blame you, no one does. And I hope Peter doesn’t hear about it, because last time I felt guilty for him being hurt he spent three days here trying to convince me otherwise”

“Apology accepted” you tried to copy his smile. “And I’m sorry too, I don’t think you’re egocentric”

“Apology accepted” he copied you. Tony brought you closer until you were sitting against his thighs. Hugging your waist close to him, he leaned forward. “I said some things that weren’t true. You’re always thinking about everyone, and I know you’re doing your best. I’m proud of you, more of what I’m proud of myself, ciccino. I love you”

“Me too, Tony”

Tony smirked and finished closing the distance. His lips were cold, as everything in the bathroom since it had been nearly an hour, and when you reached your hand to cup the back of his head, you felt the small bump of a hard hit.

You didn’t mind it, neither did Tony when you moaned in pain and he let you stretch your leg behind him. It wasn’t the type of kiss you two had when you made up after a fight, where everything was solved with sex, sex and more sex. It was slow, loving and gentle. It was a way of pouring everything you were sorry for in the kiss.

Tony moved his lips against yours like reading a partiture, knowing exactly how to work to fit perfectly. His hands roamed through your body, erasing the guilt and the shadow of Peter’s blood.

Soon, you were lost in each other, and you could almost see again the clock in front of the guest room. It wasn’t stopped, it was working and it was sounding on a normal beat. As the clock needed the battery, you needed Tony to live.

There were moments where you two had your fights, where you said things neither of you mean, and when you suffer because of each other. But in the end, it was him what kept you going, through good and bad.

Too lost in your thoughts, you didn’t notice that Tony was carrying you out of the tub. He leant you against the sink and positioned himself between your legs. His kisses travelled down your neck until his lips were only resting against your pulse point, hot breath giving you gossebumps.

“I’m really sorry for earlier” he whispered, and you knew that he was the one that needed comfort then. “I don’t think you’re not… thinking. I promise”

“It’s okay, Tony, I know” you assured him, and started to run your fingers through his hair. “There’s –“

“Mrs Y/L/N! Mr Rhodey told me you were blaming yourself!”

Peter’s voice came behind the door with a thin lay of panic, and you could hear Cho screaming in the back for him to go back. The handle moved and only then you realised that you were very, very naked and that Tony was too, between your legs and in a full view. Before you had time to warn the spiderling, that was too fast and strong for his own good, Peter broke up the handle and stumbled in.

“Peter, no – !“ Tony started.

“This wasn’t – OH MY GOD MR STARK WHAT ARE YOU DOING!”

Probably, Peter getting hurt wasn’t neither of your fault. But the screaming kid that couldn’t cover his eyes fast enough, was.

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[writingsorrantings]

Friends Don’t Look at Friends That Way Pt 3 (jj x reader)

(Final chapter)

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: Alcohol mentions, light mention of abuse, angst 

Music Rec: Mean It - Gracie Abrams (OOF not a perfect fit but damn)

Part One  Part Two

Recap: “She reached into the backseat and handed you the bottle you had snagged earlier and after spinning the top off you took your first of many shots that night. “You deserve to have a good night. Without JJ. Let’s fucking do this.”

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

After a week of feeling nothing but stress and hurt, you were more than happy to take a break from feeling anything at all, including all of your limbs. You had never been as drunk as you were tonight, but you wouldn’t consider yourself trashed yet. You and Kie had only been at the beach for about a half hour, staying regulated to the mob of dancing people, yet you still hadn’t run into any of the guys. Although you missed John B and Pope you were in no rush to see JJ tonight. That being said, you couldn’t wait for him to see you. At this point most of the anger you had felt had dissipated and you were focused solely on having a good time no longer needing the help of the boy you thought was your best friend. 

Another song had started and it was one of your favorites. The lights hung up around the beach were blurred as you spun, hands in the air and hips moving. You had ditched your shoes a while back and you sunk your toes into the still warm sand smiling because you felt great. The thoughts that had been plaguing you were replaced with nothing but the lyrics of the song booming from the speakers and the hope of food soon. Vodka and beer had done their job tonight. You were brought back to reality seconds later when a tall body pushed against your back and an arm was secured around your shoulders. You tensed up, but kept dancing. Hell, you were drunk and maybe the guy was cute.

 “Hey (y/n)! Where’ve you been? We missed you!”

 The drunken words of John B. floating into your ear made you soften into his embrace gently hitting his chest for getting your hopes up. You both remained arms around each other as you made your way to get another drink. Leaning on each other for balance, the only way you could describe it was blind leading the blind, but it felt nice to stumble around with your friend clinging to you.  

“Livin’ and breathing babe, just livin’ and breathing.”

“And drinking apparently.” John B. chuckled at his own joke stopping only to continue his questioning. “What’s really going on? I mean you went AWOL, JJ’s been tripping shit, and even Pope is weirder than usual. Is it something I did?” John B. knew what it was about, but even with a mind clouded with cheap beer, he knew that you would confess to him before you ever let him blame himself. 

“No, no! B. it has nothing to do with you, I’ve missed you soooo much.” You cringed at the prominent slurring of the words. “I love you John B. you are the greatest…I just...JJ has an issue with me and I don’t know what to do. I mean he won’t talk to me and I… I wish I was mad, but honestly I just miss him.” 

“JJ is a dumbass, (y/n), you know sometimes he just gets like that.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just never with me.”

John B. started to get frustrated. He loved you because you were a part of his found family. It was complete bullshit that JJ’s stubborn ass had not only separated you from the group, but also had deeply hurt your feelings and John wouldn’t stand for that. 

“C’mon let’s go dance. We can have fun.” he said as he pushed your hair back smiling. You both downed your freshly filled drinks and  made your way back to your previous spot.

JJ was the polar opposite of you, his mood worsening by the minute but he wouldn’t let that stop him. He decided to stay towards the edges of the crowd, finding a girl every so often that he would begin to flirt with. He had already talked to about four girls, but each time proved less fruitful than the last. The latest tourist he had sat down with was talking to him about something, but JJ could not be less bothered with it. It wasn’t that he was trying to ignore her, but when he saw you and John B. dancing in the crowd all he could hear was a ringing in his ears. After a week of doing everything in his power to compartmentalize his emotions for you, pandora’s or in this case JJ’s box went flying open and all of the feelings and memories came back. The tourist noticed he wasn’t listening and huffed carrying herself over to another attractive boy and JJ didn’t even flinch. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He wanted nothing more to replace John B. and dance with you. Shit he’d even settle for just sitting on the beach, no words, just enjoying each other’s presence. He couldn’t deny it, you looked great. Oh god, his eyes made their way to your almost bare back, only a small string tied holding the top around you. Continuing his gaze downward, he focused on your ankle to find that you were still wearing the anklet that he stole for you about two years back. His eyes flitted back up when you flipped your hair, the loose beachy waves bouncing back into place below your shoulders and his fingers itched to go over and push the one stray behind your ear so he could see your smile better. Braces had corrected your horrendously crooked teeth when you were younger, but one tooth on the bottom shifted ever so slightly. No one could see it unless you were truly smiling, not just faking it. JJ was the first to notice the tooth and quickly figured out this secret. He decided to keep his little discovery to himself. Next he admired your subtle freckles that dusted your cheeks and nose. You were practically glowing. And that hurt like a bitch. It just proved his point that you were better off without him. Yet, before he knew it his feet were carrying his alcohol riddled body towards your dancing figure unsure of what he was planning on doing once he reached you. 

Out of nowhere you feel someone’s eyes on you and you quickly glance to see JJ is staring at you from where he is seated and you knew that your plan was working. His face was soft, jaw slack and he had a hand tugging at his hair.  You quickly put your focus back on Kie and John B., but not even a minute had passed before JJ was in front of you an unreadable expression on his face. You felt like you were going to shit yourself(not really but frankly you were looking for any way out of this situation.) 

“hey”

Your brain was going a hundred miles a minute but you wouldn’t let him see that.

“hey”

JJ couldn’t will his voice to be steady so he settled for a head gesture to a quieter place outside the crowd and put out his hand for you to take. You glanced at his hand dumbfounded, but your composure remained steady as you pushed past his hand to head outside the dancing mob. He hurt your feelings. You’re talking to get closure. Answers. Nothing else. You sat down on a log and JJ carefully sat down next to you, neither of you looking at the other, instead focusing intently on the waves in front of you. Gave you a feeling of dejavu, but the pit in your stomach reminded you it wasn’t.

 “How are you?” JJ said, taking the lead in the conversation.

“What do you think?”

“I...I’m sorry (y/n)--”

“--Don’t be sorry, I’m fucking fantastic actually. Life gets a lot better when people stop pretending to give a shit.”

“(y/n), come on that’s not fair. You know I care.”

A memory of JJ consoling you in the middle of the night hit you like a ton of bricks. You had gotten into a fight with your parents over the immense pressure they put on you to perform. They were so intent on you being successful, the need to be perfect was always present in your mind and JJ was very understanding. He was one of the few to check up on you, the girl who was always there for everyone else. That night he held you while you were sobbing and crumpled on the floor. He never told you but that night his dad had hit him a few times, yet he still took care of you physically and mentally. Despite the aching in the bruised shoulder you were leaning against, he stayed still only moving to slightly rock you and kiss your head. After you had calmed down and helped onto the bed, he grabbed your pj’s for you to change into while he snuck downstairs to get you a glass of water, an Advil, and ice cream. When he came back up, your head was propped up on his shoulder while you ate and watched Netflix.

Ouch... how could two people go from that to this? No! No. Don’t let him do this. Care?! No he cared! Cause if he still did he would at least talk to you!

“How would I know? You haven’t talked to me.” 

JJ didn’t know how to respond. You were right. No questions asked. God he loves you so much but he can’t risk hurting you anymore than he already has.

With no pause, his response came out in a whisper, “I’ll always care about you (y/n). No matter what.”

“So then what happened? Why…I just don’t know... Did I do something?” you said, the alcohol pushing you to form incoherent but honest sentences. At this point you had shifted your body to face him and all bets were off. Tears had filled your eyes as you prepared for the worst. 

JJ mimicked your body language and grabbed your hand as if to make sure he got his point across while saying “no” forcefully. He wasn’t aggressive, rather he was just intense and his eyes bore into your own matching that energy. At this point you were frozen. It just doesn’t make sense. How could he ignore you for a week with no reason, but look at you like that. 

“JJ. Just tell me. Whatever it is, I’m here and you know that.”

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. It would mess up everythi-- “I love you.”

Your lips parted and your eyes grew wide. You and JJ were always close, but even as friends you guys had found your way to maneuver your way around those words, so you knew what he meant. You couldn’t take your eyes off of him, but his eyes were darting around focusing on anything other than your own. 

“Fucking hell JJ…Wait is this why...You ignored me because of this?” you chuckled. Before he had time to misinterpret it you continued, “JJ I love you too. I was going crazy without you. I was so scared you had found out and were never gonna talk to me again.” 

“God (y/n) you just.. I mean I just didn’t--don’t want to hurt you.”

“And you thought this was a good idea?” At this point you were both laughing and leaning against each other. 

JJ sat back up facing you and then glanced down at your lips and then back up at your eyes. For once he was afraid of making the first move. He would only do this if you wanted to. You wouldn’t wait a second more slowly bringing your lips to meet his own and dove your fingers into his hair as he held your hip under your shirt gently squeezing. As you pulled away all you could do was smile and JJ was the same.

“Can’t tell you how long I’ve waited to do that. I mean tonight you looked so good I couldn’t---” JJ was interrupted by John B. as your three friends approached.

“---Can’t be much longer than we waited. Shit, you finally made a good choice.” 

JJ tossed an arm around you pulling you to his chest as you all laughed.Your friends joined you on and around the log passing a cup around laughing and singing happy to finally be together again. JJ leaned closer and put his lips right next to your ear and whispered.

“Yeah, I think I did.”

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And that’s a wrap!! Thank you so much everyone who left notes and comments it really inspired me to write more so I really do appreciate it. The quarantine has been difficult, but getting kind messages from you all has been so helpful. Hope you are all doing well. Let me know if you have any requests. Thank you guys!!!

@ ashhh27, @sarahsmaybank​, @tempestades-de-verao​

[meterokinesis]

Stars as Sharp as Knives

Read it on AO3

Prompt: stabbed

TW: Violence, PTSD, Disassociation

Summary: Tim remembered getting stabbed in vivid detail. The images were horrifying on their own, but together they formed a sick film that played on loop in Tim’s mind. Even after waking up the next morning, and the morning after that, he kept wondering: why am I alive?

Tim remembered getting stabbed in vivid detail.

In a job like this, where you either saved the day or ruined it all, he was used to cuts and scrapes and wounds. He anticipated them even, which the first aid kid he kept in his utility belt could attest to. But getting stabbed that night in the desert was something else.

The sound of steel through flesh. A cruel whisper. Blood, warm and sticky. Sand in his nose and eyes. Cool near-winter wind that ruffled through his hair. Dirt under fingernails. The weight of a body dragged behind him. Brick walls with metal stairs. A soft bed, with downy pillows stained rust.

The images were horrifying on their own, but together they formed a sick film that played on loop in Tim’s mind. Even after waking up the next morning, and the morning after that, he kept wondering: why am I alive?

This was a question he’d been asking himself for longer than he cared to admit. He was alive because no one had managed to kill him yet, and no more. If the universe had its way, he would be dead eight times over. Tim was just lucky, he supposed. But not lucky enough to escape the nightmares.

He remembered while attempting to sleep in the lavish jail cell Ra’s al Ghul concocted for him. He remembered while training with high level assassins, every time they went for a jab at his stomach. He remembered when Tam hugged him, and his reflex was to make sure she didn’t have a knife. He remembered on his first night back in Gotham, when he had to update his medical records to say “Patient has no spleen after a traumatic injury to the abdomen.”

The nightmares were the worst. They played out the scene in gory detail, each time with a new sort of reverence for Tim’s suffering. It wasn’t always the Widower who stabbed him; sometimes it was his father, or Jason, or Damian, or the mugger that killed Bruce’s parents. On bad nights, it was Bruce. On worse nights, it was Stephanie.

The nightmares persisted long after he defeated Ra’s al Ghul at Wayne Enterprises, long after Bruce finally returned and Tim was welcomed home with open arms. No, they lasted for months--every night a sick remembrance.

                                     ____________________

The first time he sparred with Dick after ending Ra’s plot, he used the new skills he picked up at the Cradle. At first they traded blows lazily, wearing down the floor by walking the same steps of a familiar dance. Then Tim dared to spin out--try one little move--and the game was afoot.

Tim didn’t pretend that he was better than Dick--he knew he wasn’t. But he had more range and was the better strategist, so at least their spars were interesting. They danced around the mat, neither submitting. Like all of their practices, it went until someone gave in or passed out. The Waynes never called out.

Dick went for Tim’s shoulder with his escrima sticks, which Tim blocked with his bo staff. By the time he registered the other stick moving toward his stomach, it was too late.

Forgoing all sense of etiquette, Tim roared and swung out with his staff, trying not to relish in the feeling of it connecting with Dick’s head.

“Jesus, Tim, what was that?” Dick’s voice floated from somewhere above. “I know we didn’t specify ‘no headshots’ but it seems like a giv- holyshitareyouokay?” It was then that Tim realized he was sitting on the ground, his head between his knees and his hands protecting his neck. In a way, he looked like the tornado drills they made him do at school, even though Gotham never had tornadoes. His body didn’t feel entirely real, like instead of inhabiting it like always, he was merely borrowing it for a second.

Dick’s voice, no doubt saying something reassuring, murmured in his ear. The words all blended together in a soup of pleasant sounds, one that Tim didn’t even attempt to decipher. Somewhere in the haze, he heard the telltale click of the comms, followed a few minutes later by heavy footfalls.

Bruce’s gruff voice took over for Dick’s soothing one, asking him questions that he didn’t know how to answer. Even if he could, he wasn’t entirely sure his mouth was still a mouth, let alone one that could form words. Instead, his brain gave him a front-row seat for the premiere of his least favorite movie in existence, where Dick stabbed Tim in the abdomen, his face contorted into something evil and totally unlike Dick. The Not-Dick didn’t stop after the first time, of course. Instead the scene rewinded over and over again, like a broken film from a museum about the tragedies of war.

Tim didn’t remember anything past that.

                                      ____________________

Tim woke up in his bed at the Manor, his heartbeat thunderous but slow. He opened bleary eyes to see Bruce sitting in the armchair near his window, reading a copy of the Wendy the Werewolf Stalker comic tie-ins Bart had given him last year for Hanukkah.

“Good morning. Or, should I say, evening. You almost slept for a full day,” Bruce said warmly, closing the book.

Tim didn’t return his tone. “Why are you here?” He demanded, clutching his blankets where they fell on his lap.

“Do you remember what happened last night?” Bruce avoided the question with trained ease, something Tim saw much too often in himself.

“I- Yeah. A little.” He remembered Dick stabbing him, but that couldn’t be Dick, right? They were in the desert, and it would take at least a day to get from the Syrian Desert to Gotham. His hand wandered over to his stomach. No open wounds or bandages, but there was a long scar.

“You disassociated. Do you know what that means?” Bruce asked, and Tim nodded mechanically. “We think that something during sparring practice triggered a trauma response.”

Tim heard the words, but he wasn’t sure his brain was following all the way.

“I’m fine, B. I just freaked out a little. No big deal.”

Bruce leveled his dad-stare at Tim. “Tim, with all due respect, that was not ‘freaking out a little.’ You were curled up in a ball on the mat, refusing to speak to us. When we managed to coax you into a sitting position, you attacked me. We had to put you in a safe hold until you calmed down.”

Tim opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“I think we need to talk about this. I understand if you don’t feel safe yet, you’ve been through a lot over the past year. I love you and I want to be here for you, but if a professional would help, we can do that too. Dick knows this guy in Metropolis-”

“No!” The word was out of Tim’s mouth before he could stop it, followed by a torrent of others. “I don’t need a shrink. I’m fine. Can I leave now? Or are you going to keep me prisoner like he did?”

“Of course not,” Bruce said, his voice heartbreakingly gentle. “This is your home, Tim. You can come and go as you please. However, I think we need to talk about-”

“Cool. Later.” Tim rolled out of bed and tugged on shoes and a jacket as Bruce tried to reason with him. They both knew that he could try to keep Tim here, either with logic or the threat of getting grounded, but neither would work. At his best, Tim was tenacious. At his worst, he was stubborn.

Tim traipsed down the grand staircase as Bruce followed behind him. Damian glowered at him from the sitting room, but at least he didn’t say anything. Dick was nowhere to be found. Tim pushed his way out of the manor, a small smile of satisfaction crossing his face when the door slammed and cut off Bruce’s pleas. It reminded him of every bad teen movie he’d ever watched, except the exhausted dad and pushy mom were replaced by Batman. Wasn’t that every kid’s dream?

                                       ____________________

He wandered through Bristol township, avoiding the spots he knew the paparazzi liked to frequent. Wouldn’t that be a million-dollar picture: Bruce Wayne’s high-school-dropout-turned-CEO son walking through the sea of McMansions in converse, a kid’s tracker bracelet, pyjama pants, and Cass’s purple NorthFace.

He was on some cul-de-sac where every house looked the same when he heard the telltale swish of someone following him. He didn’t turn around, just kept up his leisurely pace. Either they’d announce themselves, or they wouldn’t.

He got his answer when a hand snaked over his chest and a body pressed against his back, stopping him in his tracks.

“Hello, Detective,” Scarab whispered in his ear, and Tim’s veins turned to ice. Her hand cupped his face, and she slid around to his front. Tim didn’t believe in God, but he had no doubt that she was Satan incarnate.

“I have a gift for you,” she purred, her hands tracing his sides and back. He didn’t dare respond. “It’s from your friend.”

Tim swore his heart stopped. Ra’s al Ghul didn’t send gifts, he sent warnings. And threats. And death. Which is why he wasn’t entirely surprised when Scarab drove a knife into his chest with a sort of tender ruthlessness. She guided him to the ground, left a ghost of a kiss on his temple, and stepped out of view.

Tim lay gasping on the pavement, trying not to bleed out. His fingertips brushed the bracelet, weakly holding down to send out a tracking signal. If he was lucky, they’d see it. If not, then he’d die. It was that simple.

The stars here were dimmer than the ones in the desert. It was all the light pollution, he knew. Same stars, but an altogether different sky. There was a metaphor there somewhere, but he had lost too much blood to focus enough to find one.

His eyelids felt heavy, and it took everything in him to keep them open. Bruce would be here soon. He had to be. He was Batman, that’s what he did.

As Tim staggered through each breath, he couldn’t help but remark the irony of it all. He’d spent all this time worried about one old wound that he hadn’t seen the next one coming.

[toxic-lucky]

Little Winter Stroll

Warnings: Hypothermia, Abuse, Implied abuse, let me know if there’s anything else!

Summary: How Fred met Taylen

He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing outside at this time of night, at this time of year. His recollection swam and swirled in his head similar to a washing machine. Fred’s face felt warm, and the snowflakes felt as if they were leaving burns against his face. His hands and feet felt as if they were filled with white and blue spikes as he shuffled down the street. Nothing seemed to make sense by now, as the warm glow of the street lights ran cold. The snow flitted by the spotlights quickly, and the wind howled angrily. Fred flinched at the loud whistle, continuing to trudge alone. He wasn’t adverse to being alone though, it was comforting— the silence, that was— even if it was regularly disrupted by the wind and the buzz of dying lights. He could recall loud voices, though he wasn’t sure how long ago that was. Everything in his head was overlapping at this point. Yelling, screaming, crying, arguing, and apologies all seemed to play at once in his head, encased behind a thin fragile crystal case. Ready to break at any moment, the case was. The squabbles within was already cracking it, and Fred wasn’t sure what would happen if the metaphor shattered. Perhaps blood from the shards? For it to be unleashed? Forgotten? He trudged along.

He remembered peeking through a doorway, far too late for a child to be awake but he didn’t care. People thought he should care, but he simply didn’t know how. Nothing clicked. Like there was another crystal case over the term “care” and “love” and “empathy” blocking them permanently from his reach. He figured “guilt” would also belong in the case as well as a hum left him. It was the living room and he hid in the shadows, listening carefully. There was a soft conversation at first— nothing above a whisper or murmur as two figures huddled together on a couch close. Love, Fred remembered being told, makes people do crazy things. He figured that’s what happened as the conversation slowly started gaining anger and volume. He didn’t find himself feeling anything strong, watching it similar to how people would watch birds. With interest, no emotional attachment to the creatures viewed. He watched as his mother picked up a vase and threw it at his father, screaming all the while. Eyeliner, mascara, and tears smudged down her cheeks. It seemed muted to Fred, he couldn’t remember the words spoken or the tones that slipped off their tongues. Frank stumbled, closing his eyes and taking a breath of cold air that burned his lungs. He knew the tone was a bad one, just from the context of the scene sloshing around in his head. He remembered the vase smashing right by his head at the doorway, glass shards bouncing off of him. The glare his mother casted his way in that moment was burned in his brain, just as cold as the rest of him, and he left the room. It rushed away like autumn leaves falling down into a fast paced river, being torn up by sharp rocks and the current, spiralling deeper and deeper until it was out of view or unrecognizable. He felt his arm hit something, or maybe it just went numb. He didn’t know exactly what he hit for when he opened his eyes everything has gotten many shades darker and a bit blurry. He probably should have worn contacts or his glasses at least, but he figured he shouldn’t be regretting that by now. 

Fred figured the strange feeling in his limbs was him adjusting to the cold finally and not, instead, his skin going numb. He felt warm though, oddly enough, tottering down the street in a similar manner a drunkard would. His brain gave him memories of kneeling over a toilet, people watching what he was doing— he recalled the intense feeling of hatred curl up along his gut, how those worthless creatures thought they had a right to watch him work. He didn’t know where the idea he was superiour stemmed from, but he knew he was. The idea that perfection was just out of reach, he just had to jump higher. His fogged breath escaped his mouth, shaking. He wandered under a golden spotlight, wondering why the light didn’t give him the warmth it looked like it should. He felt as if his body was filled with sand. He felt like a sandbag. The snow dripping into his shoes not fitted for this weather was no longer felt as he left the comforting light and ventured further into the storm. He forget where he was going, but he figured he should keeping going the direction he was starting to walk in. The winds picked up and he felt himself stumble along with it, as if he was being picked up by it similar to the manner a puppet gets picked up by it’s strings. He closed his eyes again, not understand his eyelid’s weight. He figured they should be light due to them being thin layers of skin but instead they felt heavy like his arms. He continued to shuffle along, stifling a yawn. He was vaguely aware of a voice, though he couldn’t understood what was being said as he stumbled and tripped over his feet. Luckily the snow managed to break his fall, so his body didn’t feel much pain as his brain happily slipped into the black abyss of unconsciousness.

He wasn’t awake, not by any means, but his dreams felt like a distorted reality and he was inclined to believe it as his reality. The face of his mother, something always absent in her eyes. A mirror of his own, really. He’s seen his eyes before. In mirrors, in reflections, in hers. They were the same. The same colour, the same shade, the same absence of something everyone else seemed to have naturally. It made him mad, jealous even. He knew he had the same thing, whatever the thing was. Fred and his mother were just so similar, something Fred couldn’t break away from. Same eyes, same hair, same mannerism, same emptiness. Unlike his mother, though, Fred knew that being violent would not bring about what he needed— nor what he wanted. So he adapted. He made friends even if he felt nothing towards any of them. He was polite even if his brain wanted to exert his power. He obeyed even if he wished to lead. He was not like his mother even if his brain screamed at him that he was. 

Then he was the one holding the vase, screaming at his cowering father whose face was tainted with the purples of bruises that should have long faded away. Hair grey with stress, and eyes full of something Fred longed to know what. He didn’t know what was going on, his body being guided by some unseen force. The vase shattered on the floor by him, glass hitting his face despite the fact that it was laying all on the floor. Then he was on the floor, a shadow over him. He couldn’t recognize the silhouette but his eyes closed again with the feeling of arms around him. As quick as it came, it left, and he was now wandering down an alley. It was as if the alley was being filled with black fog, and the bricks of the walls opened up occasionally and blinked at him, bright yellow eyes following his every movement. There was a girl there at the end who seemed out of place in this dark and dreary dream with a brightly coloured tie dye shirt.

“You’ve been sleeping for a while…” she yawned, approaching Fred who was confused. He was awake, wasn’t he?

“I think it’s best you wakeup soon. This isn’t quite my domain, and I don’t think you want to get a deity in trouble, do you?”

Fred merely gave the girl a strange look, “what do you mean? I- I’m not-”

“Don’t make me loose my wager, Mr. Kendrick.” She shook her head and waving a finger in his face, a playful smile on her face before she walked up to him and pulled him down by his shirt collar for a kiss on one of his eyelids. “Consider this my parting gift.”

He startled awake with a gasp, his entire body in sharp pain as he tried to sit up, heart beating rapidly as his recollection of his dream quickly drained from his head. As disoriented as he was, taking a quick look around he knew he wasn’t home. Looking down, he figured out he wasn’t in his clothes either, but clothes that were a few sizes too big. He was warmer than he last remembered, but a chill still remained in his bones as he started to relax into the bundle of blankets he was in. Yawning, he laid down, not all that concerned about all the unknown variables in how he got into this house that was not his. The door to the room creaked open, and in walked someone with yellow and blue hair. Fred mentally wondered who wanted both colours in their hair at once, and why they would do it in such a bad dye job. Clearly he hadn’t noticed the yellow and blue facial hair and eyebrows marking it as their natural colour. It seemed as if they had yet to notice that his eyes were open and watching him as he walked into the room quietly, setting down a mug of something. It was soup, for those who were wondering. A spoon was set in it and it was steaming. They went to fix the blankets around him and Fred let out a whine, causing the stranger to jump.

“O-oh! You’re awake, that’s good,” they mumbled softly and it was hard for Fred to hear them, “how are you feeling?”

“…Cold,” he admitted, “and tired.”

They nodded, a small smile on their face. “You did faceplant in the snow… I’ll sit you up. Think you can try to eat some soup?”

He squinted as the person did as they said and shuffled him around until he was in a sitting position. “Uh… Yeah. I can try.” 

“That’s good to hear.” They nodded, grabbing the mug of soup and offering him a spoonful of the beige liquid. “I’m Taylen by the way.”

Fred hummed as if to show them that he heard, reluctantly accepting his fate of being fed soup like a baby. It was humiliating, but he put up with it. It wasn’t like there was another option since his hands still tingled with cold needles.

“‘M Fred…” He grumbled, hating how weak and slurred his voice was. Now he didn’t know the symptoms of hypothermia but he was pretty sure nothing he was feeling was any good. 

Taylen nodded, putting the mug down when Fred shook his head at a spoon. “I’ll go tell Mam you’re awake.”

Fred gave them a confused look though they offered no clarification as they left the room. Well okay. Fred was back alone with his thoughts, enjoying the quiet in the room as he stifled a yawn. The dream from mere moments ago had slipped away into the unknown, and Fred didn’t bother trying to grasp at the fading images. He also couldn’t quite recall what he was doing last night besides leaving work without a jacket because it wasn’t even snowing. Yet he was told he faceplanted in the snow? The dots weren’t connecting for him as he pulled the blankets tighter around himself as a shiver tore through him. Right, cold. He was cold. At least he could vaguely feel his extremities this time, that was always a relief. He could hear a muffled conversation from outside of the room, though unable to make out any words from it. There was silence, then a tall woman entered the room. She had her hair done up in a bun, some coils escaping and framing her face in hues of dark blue and white. She had an air of authority flowing around her despite a gentle smile on her face.

“Hey, how’re you feeling sweetheart?” The lady asked softly, sitting on the edge of the bed as she faced Fred. The boy whined as if that was an appropriate answer that everyone understood, and she nodded as if she did. “You gave us quite a scare, we’re all thankful Taylen decided to take a walk and managed to find you. May I know your name?”

“…Fred Kendrick.” Fred nodded, so it was that strange kid that found him. Okay. He hated the fact he know had someone to pin this on, now he owed them something in return. How do you repay someone basically saving your dumb ass from death? Fred wasn’t sure he wanted an answer.

“Do you have anyone we should call?” She asked gently, “a guardian, a friend?”

“Dad…” Fred mumbled, internally cursing for not having thought of him prior. “He’s probably worried.”

She nodded, taking out her phone, “are you alright to handle him or should I just tell him where you are?”

“I can… I’ll talk to him.” Fred reached for the phone the lady was holding out, typing in the number with only a few mistakes. She only nodded, watching him silently.

Then the phone was ringing, and he held it by his ear waiting for it to be picked up. The dull tone continued a few more times before a voice broke the momentary silence.

“Chester Kendrick speaking, who is this?” The voice was strained, as if worry had taken over the body of Chester and inhibited other emotions from coming through. Soft though, as if wherever he was would be shattered from a loud enough volume.

“Dad?” He smiled faintly at the familiar voice, “hi, I- uh- I’m sorry I didn’t come back last night, I got caught in the snow. I stayed with a…” he paused, taking another look at the woman. She had a calm smile and he could tell that her eyes were obscuring whatever thoughts she was having. Windows to the soul, much? He knew he wouldn’t be able to tell what she was thinking.

“I stayed with a friend and my phone went dead. Sorry.” He finished the lie quietly, noting no change in the woman’s expression. He didn’t feel sorry, though that wasn’t unusual. He just hoped the woman couldn’t tell, her expression wasn’t giving anything away to him and it was unnerving.

“Oh thank god!” His father replied quickly, sounding relieved. “I was so worried! You should have called earlier! Where are you? I’ll come pick you up. Have you told me about this friend before? Have we met? You could have called me after work, I would have come-” he continued to prattle on, occasionally asking questions but never giving the silence needed to answer before continuing on. Fred let him, figuring he needed the space to ramble and get out all his anxious feelings. So the child sat, silent, feeling the urge to go back to sleep slowly grow.

After a few more minutes of his dad’s ramblings, the woman motioned for him to give her the phone. Fred complied, laying back down in the bed. He fell back asleep to their conversation, not comprehending the words spoken between the two adults in the slightest. He doubted it would be important for him to know anyways, it wasn’t like he could do anything of importance currently either.

He could vaguely recall being woken up again and walked down to his father, passing flower decorated walls adorned with scratches. His father cried when he laid eyes on Fred, and kid didn’t know why. He was asleep the entire car ride home, and woke up in his bed.

[puutterings]

not only unnecessary but also of little or no immediate importance

  Puttering, in case you didn’t know, is our North American word for what the English call pottering. In my dictionary, both words mean occupying oneself in ineffectual or trifling ways, or dabbling. For instance, my wife says I spend too much time dabbling in the garden. If our weeds could talk, they would confirm that I act ineffectually.       I first encountered puttering just after the war when I was a resident in the late F. W. Wigglesworth’s pathology lab in what was then the Children’s Memorial Hospital in Montreal. Wig ran a tight ship. As the director, he took charge of tissue pathology and supervised Eleanor Mackenzie (now Harpur), who ran biochemistry, Frances Prissick, who supervised bacteriology, and Ron Denton, who took time from his clinical practice to oversee the hematology services       It was the ebullient Eleanor who christened Wig “the putterer” because of his obsession with the minutiae of lab operations. “The Putterer's Club is now in session,” she whispered to the rest of us when Wig entered the lab.       We were all members. When Wig was on a roll, pursuing some bit of trivia, we had to drop whatever we were doing and pitch in. It might be a sudden need to reorganize the files, to search for a pickled specimen that he had a sudden urge to review, or to launch a scavenger hunt in the storage room for an ancient piece of equipment. Most often they were "problems" that did not need to be solved or, at best, could have been delegated to a secretary or hospital orderly.       However, when Wig discovered such a problem, work came to a standstill: we all downed tools to putter along with him. While doing this we’d often stare off into space, dreaming of other things. I was slower than I should have been in recognizing that in this lay the hidden treasure of puttering.       Since those long-ago days I have come to know and respect a great many other putterers, and to cherish the tranquillity and wisdom that often come to the world’s truly dedicated fusspots.       Successful puttering has few rules. It is most important that the primary activity be not only unnecessary but also of little or no immediate importance. For instance, Brian Mulroney is not puttering when he meets Canada’s premiers to discuss constitutional reform, but he is if he wanders into those famous closets at 24 Sussex and begins counting Mila’s shoes.       Somehow I can’t imagine him doing this, and that is a great pity: as any putterer knows, great and noble thoughts often come to those who engage in tedious, repetitive tasks. Who knows what earth-shaking ideas came to Winston Churchill while he was “pottering” about in England, laying bricks, or smearing paint on a canvass.       This illustrates the second essential of puttering. It must be the sort of mindless activity that frees the brain from concern over the consequences of your actions, making it possible to range freely through the endless vistas of untrammelled imagination.       I, for instance, have often found it easy to arrive at simple, plausible and entirely practical solutions to the problems of free trade, national unity, abortion, terrorism and violence in the streets while mowing the lawn, painting a wall, or sanding a board.       Puttering seems to loosen the synapses that bind us to our biases and preoccupations. It frees us from the bonds of conventional wisdom and releases the mind to soar to the new and grand thoughts that are so desperately needed if we are to save this poor old world.       Wig was on the right track, I now realize. More of us should be following his lead.

— Douglas Waugh, MD, “Puttering around,” in his Vista column, Journal of the Canadian Medical Association 145:7 (October 1, 1991) : 849

—

Douglas Oliver William Waugh (1918-97), pathologist, medical educator; boat builder and sailor; writer. Memorial at Pathology News (Department of Pathology, Queen’s University, Kingston, Ontario), (May 1997) : 7  

[strandsofgold]

Excerpt from the 1970′s mercenary au bom fic I’m writing:

Chapter ? - Moon River

The car ride was silent, save for the occasoínal directions from Nabulungi. Kevin looked at her out of the corner of his eye. A pleasant smile had laid itself upon her lips, curled upwards towards her eyes that spoke of nothing but pure, unadulterated anticipation and joy. It was contagious and Kevin, despite his previous unease, found himself loosening up and allowed himself to smile as well. Nabulungi seemed to have that effect on people.

“Turn left here,” she said.

Obeying, Kevin pulled into a small parking lot surrounded by trees. He had no idea where they were, merely a suspicion, and said suspicion was confirmed once he stepped out of the car. The smell of salt and seaweed hit his senses, not like a brick, but in a soothing, quiet way that made his chest feel heavy. He had only been to the beach once in his life.

“Are you coming?” Kevin had almost forgotten Nabulungi’s presence. He turned around and found her standing barefoot, shoes in hand, waiting for him. He had not even heard her close her car door. “It is okay if you do not want to go down there-” she motioned towards what Kevin could only assume was the beach- “but it is nicer than here. I do not like the shadows.”

There were, in fact, many shadows, cast by the trees and the moon and dancing in the gentle breeze. He did not want to stay here alone. With Nabulungi? Maybe. Without her? No.

“Should I take off my shoes as well?” he asked. She nodded.

Kevin felt the same ease as he had in the car as he knelt on the ground to work on his shoelaces. He felt good in Nabulungi’s company, a silent flutter in his chest at the admission of that to himself. This was the first time in forever he had let someone take him to an unknown location alone, and he mused why Nabulungi, of all people, was the person to do so. More than anything, he concluded, it was because he did not feel threatened by her - Nabulungi was peaceful in a way he had never experienced a person before. Everyone always had an ulterior motive, but not Nabulungi. Nabulungi simply was and Kevin appreciated that more than he let on.

Once he too stood with his shoes in hand - the expensive oxfords - Nabulungi extended a hand towards him, palm open and flat - inviting. “Will you walk with me?” she asked, her visage illuminated by the moonlight. She looked at him with warmth and a quiet impatience. Swallowing, his throat suddenly dry, Kevin took her hand; it was dry and a bit rough, calloused from work. She was gentle with her touch, cautious as if she was afraid holding his hand too hard would break it. Normally Kevin would have taken offense to that, but he did not. He found that he enjoyed holding her hand - it brought a certain form of stability he could not name with words, but it was cathartic in a way that made the heaviness in his chest lighten and the corners of his lips quirk upwards. She squeezed his hand and he squeezed back. He did not say anything, but let her guide him through the terrain, the ground beneath their naked feet switching from gravel to grass to sand.

He was trailing behind her, let her take charge - she was familiar here and she knew the way better than him.

On the beach, soft waves were lapping at the shore, going back and forth in an endless cycle of a fruitless attempt at swallowing the earth. “This-” Nabulungi said, letting go of Kevin’s hand and pointing towards the dark water- “this is my favorite place in the whole world.” Kevin’s eyes widened. She was showing him her sanctuary, was she not? He already missed the warmth of her hand in his. “I like to be here when I feel down because then I can look at the ocean and remind myself that I am not the only one who is blue.” She giggled a bit at that and Kevin’s did not know what to say.

It was overwhelming for Kevin, foreign in a way that made it difficult for him to decide whether it was pleasant or not - he did not understand her willingness to expose herself for him, her admission of the weakness Kevin knew sorrow brought. She was letting him see the edges beneath her softness.

Softness was not something people had ever let Kevin see.

His eyes dropped to the ground and watched himself bury his toes in the white sand. He could never do the same. He would never return such a gesture. He had promised himself. “Why did you bring me here?” was all he said. He licked his lips as he felt her gaze on him, but did not lift his eyes to gaze back.

There was a pause, hesitance, and that was strange for Nabulungi. He turned his head and watched her face: a small, sad smile had taken place on it. It did not belong there. Then she closed her eyes and turned her face towards the moon, letting its rays dance across her face.

Nabulungi was, well, breathtaking, Kevin noted. The way she stood in her simple dress and bare feet, face turned upwards towards the dark, starlit sky, and her hair gently swaying in the wind, the shadows of her eyelashes cast upon her cheekbones - she was elegant and delicate. Then she opened her eyes and stared back at him, her bright, brown, honest eyes leaving Kevin’s mind blank as she turned ethereal and intolerably beautiful. When she spoke, it was with a calm, even voice.

“You seem lonely.”

His answer was immediate. “I like solitude.” He hesitated, then continued. “It brings clarity.”

“Yes, well- you are so clear I am afraid you might disappear.”

Kevin did not know how to respond to that. Maybe it was true - maybe he was starting to disappear, flash between reality and some other abstract concept. That would not be out of character for him at all.

Then Nabulungi started to shed her dress.

It took Kevin aback and he averted his eyes, the heat in his cheeks betraying his embarrassment. He hoped it was too dark for her to notice. “Are you going to swim?” he asked, licking his lips again.

“Yes,” she replied, “You do not have to join me, but it is so lovely at this time of night. The water might be a bit cold, but once you duck under it is very comfortable.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, her breath grazing his ear, but he still did not look up. “I think it would benefit you. The ocean, too, brings clarity, but it clears your brain, not your being.”

With that, Kevin heard the soft thuds of her feet in the sand as she walked towards the water. He stood for a few minutes, watching his feet and feeling uncomfortable. He did not like nudity, never had, but then, some - and Kevin certainly hesitated to call it divine - power willed him to look up and at her.

She looked celestial. She stood with her feet faced towards the ocean, but her back was twisted so she could look back at him, smile animated and bright, body exposed and vulnerable, laid out for Kevin to gaze upon. She wore the moonlight like lingerie - the stars had threaded themselves into her hair and she glowed with vigor. Then, she turned to the water again and slowly let it envelop her; for every step she took, more darkness swallowed her skin. Kevin watched in fascination as she reached a point where everything beneath her waist was gone, saw how she did not shiver even a bit, and then ducked under.

She was gone, then.

And then she was not.

“It is really nice,” she yelled. She was smiling a ridiculously large smile.

Kevin started to shed his clothes, then - how could he not - until he stood in his underwear and white shirt. He did not want to strip completely like Nabulungi. He could not.

He had taken his time, but she was waiting for him, hair wet and unruly, drops of saltwater dripping down her face and chest, patience palpable in her eyes as he made his way to waves of coldness. And it really was cold; Kevin shivered almost violently when the first wave washed over his legs and Nabulungi laughed at that, loud and clear. That made it worth it, Kevin thought. Then, he threw himself in. He let the water embrace him, cover him from head to toe, ruining his hair and drenching his shirt and leaving him gasping for air as he resurfaced.

In the meantime, Nabulungi had stepped back towards the shore and gotten closer to him. Now, as Kevin breathed for air, goosebumps blossoming across his skin and making his hair stand on end, she lifted a cautious hand before letting it fall to his hair and ran her fingers through it. Kevin did not resist it. It felt good.

“You look lovely.” She sounded like his mother. “And it is okay to cry.” She sounded all too much like his mother. “When was the last time you let yourself cry? Kimbay told me you thought crying was a weak thing to do.” Her eyes turned sad and Kevin did not want that at all. Then, Nabulungi embraced him, much like the water, except she was warm and insistent and loving and kind, ridiculously so, and Kevin did not recoil because he wanted her embrace. Because she would never hurt him. She whispered in his ear, “It is okay to cry. It is a sign that you are alive. It has been so since you were born.”

Kevin did not cry. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Nabulungi’s shoulders and held her tight, burying his face in her shoulder, reveling in the intimacy she provided. Her chest was pressed against his, and while this should make him feel repulsed, it did not. It felt right like their bodies were shaped specifically to intertwine - like two puzzle pieces. They stood like that for some time. The gentle waves were not disruptive. Kevin had not been hugged like that - ever.

Then, Nabulungi’s shoulders started shaking and Kevin did nothing but hold her tighter, trying to ignore both the quiet sobs that left Nabulungi and the quiet ache he felt in his heart.

“Why are you crying,” he asked and felt her shake her head. That seemed to be the only response, until-

“I miss my mother.”

“Yeah,” Kevin said, “I miss mine too.”

“Did you miss Arnold?” she whispered.

“No. No, I didn’t.”

“Did you miss McKinley?”

“...No. Miss is not the right word.”

“Long?”

Kevin blinked. “What do you mean ‘long’?”

“Is long the right word?” Nabulungi’s voice broke and more sobs were torn from her throat, still quiet and cautious. Kevin tried to soothe her by running a hand up and down one of her shoulder blades, rubbing it like his mother would do after a particularly cruel evening.

“No, longing is not the right word. I don’t think the right word exists.” She did not say anything. “McKinley doesn’t matter, though. I didn’t come back for him.” He hesitated. This was it, he could either show the same vulnerability Nabulungi had gone out of her way to show him the entire night, or he could shut himself down - say he did it for himself, come up with a flimsy excuse and wave anything resembling emotion off. God. it would be easy. It would be so easy. “I came back for you.” But Nabulungi was worth the potential heartache and exposure.

For a long time, she said nothing, and Kevin became acutely aware of the rising and falling of her chest against his and how their breathing had synched up. She was so beautiful. She lifted her head, then, and stared up at him with watery eyes and streaks across her dark cheeks. With a calloused hand, she held his jaw and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you.”

And as they stood in the ocean, illuminated by the moon, Kevin knew nothing but one thing for sure: heaven was empty, and the only angel was there with him.

[stormears]

Modern AU Sakura as a kid

A fic scene I don’t think I’m going to use, about 2.5k words long. 

The fic has been stuck for years as I wrote and re-wrote the opening scene 7 or 8 times, maybe more. I just started a new one tonight, so this here is the most recent “failure” scene attempt. Never satisfied. The act of capturing all I want the scene to capture and my brain and fingers never succeeding just drains and disappoints me. The notes document I have for the story is 24 pages long and 5 years old. 

This scrapped scene could just be seen as a day in the life of Modern AU Sakura when she’s about 11 years old. An immigrant in an obviously American school because it’s my choice and nyehh. She wants to be cool and accomplished and becomes a brat when even slightly ruffled or annoyed. These ideas are slightly-kinda-meh explored here, but that’s a characterization of tween Sakura I am very set on.  

She’s red today, like she often is. Red is her favorite color and incorporated into many of her outfits and ideas and wants, which make up most of the things she has at this age. The day was warm, like her. It was sunny, the way she wanted it. Her mother was leaning against the top, metallic bar of a fence nearby while Tenten’s mom walked one of the horses towards her by a lead hooked to the black halter. Sakura stood on the sand, wearing one of her best red tops, hardly containing her excitement while she waited to be shown what to do.

The beast was huge. His shadow covered most of her but it was his real and physical girth that gave her shoulders that gentle rattle of fear. Sakura realized that in her attempts to learn something about horses online, she’d only learned how tall they could be compared to an adult, not a kid her size. He was fifteen hands, average, but so tall to her. He was at least an arm’s reach away but she felt his breath on her face and neck. He had dots of dark brown and white like a mocha latte mist.

“So this is Giovanni,” said Miss Ama. She was a woman with braids and boots and big hands that held the lead with easy strength Sakura knew she did not have. “You know what breed he is?”

“Yeah, I know,” Sakura said. “He’s appaloosa. He’s so pretty.”

“He’s won some awards just for being pretty,” Miss Ama said.

“Cool, he totally deserves those.”

“Let him smell you first. Then you can pet his nose, but be gentle.”

“Sakura, turn around!” called Mebuki from the fencepost. Giovanni turned his ears towards her. Mebuki’s bright blue, obnoxious camera faced them. “I’m zoomed in, I want a good photo of you all.”

“Wait till I’m touching him first!” Sakura called back and then swiftly put her attention back to the horse. Her left hand went up first and Giovanni made a few sniffing noises, but did not acknowledge her further. Sakura laid her knuckles a few inches above his nostrils and her jaw dropped a ways down. His nose was softer than ten kittens put together. Twenty feet back, the camera went clickk! And spat out a square photo immediately. And so was documented Sakura’s first experience touching a horse. Her mother had paid a suitable sum for a one-on-one visit with one of the trainers, after Tenten offered up the chance at her own family’s farm, and some videos convinced her daughter that it might actually be cool.  

Miss Ama patted Giovanni’s neck and let Sakura do it, too. She told Sakura things that a novice with no experience would need to know about horses, or would find appealing. She showed her Giovanni’s shoes and how it did not hurt horses to have shoes nailed into the hooves. She fingered the bridle and the lead and showed that it gave her a means of control without harm. She pointed out withers, fetlock, forelock, croup—“top curve of the booty!”—and congratulated Sakura when she memorized and pointed the parts out herself. She wanted to walk Giovanni herself, but Miss Ama only let her walk beside her while she led Giovanni around the little paddock. Sakura kept her hands on him and felt that he was so warm and so much of him rippled and swayed beneath the skin. She understood that he weighed almost half a ton through her hands. So much of him moved underneath her touch.  

“He’s so, so cool. I wish I could ride him to the fair,” she gushed. Miss Ama laughed but did not entertain that. “But just riding, period, would be great. Mom, can we come here again? For actual horseback riding?”

“We’ll see,” Mebuki replied, and her daughter scowled.

That it was an issue of safety did not occur to her, as her mother’s job set her so beyond the realm of safety that Sakura considered herself the only mentally stable person in their house. So it had to be a money problem. Those were the two chief adult concerns, but sometimes asking her parents nicely and showing them evidence that what she wanted was totally reasonable would shove those problems away. She could come back here and ride a horse if she really wanted to.

Much too soon, the walking ended and she and Giovanni were led back to the fence where Mebuki stood with her sandals half buried in dirt, and the talking started. Husbands, houses, jobs, anything except horses or cool things. Sakura gave them patience she didn’t think they deserved and when that wore out, left them. She walked around them to keep petting Giovanni, who attended to her with his ears only. She passed minutes looking at him and thinking things: he was so gentle and must be great to actually ride, he had insane hammer feet at the ends of his legs, she could ride him into a battle like a knight if she had any battles to do, and her mom as making them late for dinner. When it was done, she pet him on his nose to say goodbye, and said goodbye the regular way to Miss Ama, and asked her to say hi to Tenten, please.

The group parted. Sakura wasn’t watching Miss Ama lead Giovanni out of the paddock towards the open stable doors. She watched her mother’s car sitting on the opposite side of the gravel driveway and wished that she could drive. She opened the door as soon as the unlocking click sounded for her.

“Sooo, riding lesson?” Mebuki said, pulling gum out of her purse.

“I’m gonna need something to do this summer. Or, I mean, before summer.” Sakura stammered a bit, suddenly. Her first tactic was out of her mouth already and already unnecessary, somehow. “Wait, you mean I can do it? I can sign up?”

“Don’t see why not,” Mebuki replied. She tossed her purse to the backseat and settled herself at the wheel.

“You said ‘we’ll see’ and that means ‘no,’ most of the time.”

“We’ll see mean’s we’ll see, and now I see that I don’t see why not.”

“I’m totally signing up! I’m so telling Ino!”

“But just so you know, if you don’t like it in the end, please tell me. You don’t need to drag it out, or hide it you changed your mind, okay? You can change your mind.” Mebuki broke eye contact and pressed the backpedal, pulling the view of the farm away from them. Sakura ignored it to grin casually at her mom.

“I mean I don’t think that’ll happen, but okay.”

Sakura did tell Ino the next day. It was a Thursday, which was almost Friday, and sunny again. She rode the bus to school like always and sat with her backpack and her iPod since Kiba wasn’t there that morning to talk to her, nor Mara or Emily. Her bus mostly carried younger kids, and she was mostly past the point of relating to the third graders’ jokes and how they insipidly whined and kicked at the seats in front of them. She squeezed past two of them when the bus stopped by the front of the school.

The school was large, made of brown brick and white stone trim. There was a long lane in front of it for buses to gather in the mornings and the end of day, and stone structures above each door to shade anyone entering from heat or rain. Preschoolers dropped off for the early morning daycare dominated the playground that early, so no one else was allowed in, and any remaining children milled on the concrete outdoors or were herded away by the morning chaperones. Sakura passed all these things by and only observed the four front doors. Two young kids were going in ahead of her, and moving at half her pace, so she opened the door next to them to bypass them. One of them laughed, but she ignored him.

Inside was the main entryway and the office next to that, and then a four-way intersection of halls. She looked around.

“We’re watching Harry Potter today, and the second one tomorrow!” someone shouted in her direction, and Sakura had turned towards the voice after the first word.

She yelled back, “So what, I’ve already seen both of them! Our class gets to bring our own movies for spring break anyway.”

“No you don’t,” the boy scoffed as he neared, but he grinned at her. He slowed his pace and pivoted to face her more, but Sakura walked past him without stopping. “Hey!”

She half-turned to look at him again. “Have fun at your grandma’s! If I don’t see you at recess,” she said, and then was finished with him. She turned into her own classroom, leaving the clingy fourth-grader behind and turned to fifth-grade concerns. Ino had actually gotten here first today. She was at her seat in the second row, sitting on the desk, kicking her legs, wearing purple bracelets again. Sakura rocketed towards her. She almost flipped her backpack off her back and it and her shoulder accidentally bumped into Gina.

“I’m gonna start horse riding!” she gushed to Ino.

“You’re what?” Ino said, stopping her kicks.

“Horse. Riding,” Sakura said, emphasizing with her hands. “Hi, Gina, sorry, didn’t mean to push you—”

“Do you have like, twenty books in there?” Gina hissed, rubbing her shoulder.

Sakura eyed the not-wounded shoulder and then eyed Gina. “There’s three. And they’re small, so chill out, you’re not even hurt. I’m gonna get more horse books before school ends tomorrow, though.”

“Since when do you ride horses?” Ino asked. “Did you buy one? For real? Oh my god, is your mom gonna jump out of a plane on a horse now?”

“Oh my god! No!” she replied, but she was cackling already. “It’s not—geez—for mom! Tenten let me go to her place and she has horses. And I really loved the one that her mom showed me, so I wanna try riding, too. He was a big old guy named Giovanni, spotted all over. He was an appaloosa.”

“I thought that was a food? Like a kind of a quiche?”

“No, it’s a horse, moron!” Sakura settled on the desk opposite Ino. Her backpack was nestled in her own seat one row down. The strap with her keychain on it had flopped onto Jeremy’s desk and he shoved it off once he noticed. Sakura did not notice. “So anyway, I’m gonna be doing that for a lot of spring break, but we can still hang out most days! The latest you can do a lesson is like 5 p.m.”

“I mean I won’t hate you for it if you take pictures while you’re there. They have to be good ones. I don’t want to see you picking up its poop or whatever barn people do.”

“Gross! I’m not doing that part. They have the horse all ready for you when you get there, and I’m not gonna do the cleaning.”

“Good, I’d disown you if you came to my house smelling like poop. Anyway, my mom’s doing a flower arranging class for old people now, and she says if I help I can keep some of the tips.”

“Really? How much?”

“A lot,” Ino preened. She crossed her legs. “If I stick around for a whole class..five bucks each time.”

“Like, each week?”

“Twice a week.”

“What? That’s a whole movie ticket. Or more. Like, you’d never need to get a job.”

The bell rang, and students still in the halls outside began to move. Ino spoke over the sound, “Jobs are for old men! And barn people!”

Mrs. Eastland came up from from where she’d been talking with another student and whisked around to face the class, swirling her massive skirt. Sakura scrambled to her seat to sit at attention, Ino floated into hers, and Gina eyed them both. Mrs. Eastland bid them all to look at the board for just one math lesson before they picked the movies they’d watch for tomorrow, the day before spring break. The rest of the day moved just as it should. There was even chicken nuggets for lunch.

The hours of the day moved and then settled in the evening, when Sakura was home from school. She left her room, leaving the door open and went downstairs with the whiteboard that she kept hanging on her wall. She held it in front of her as evidence. Her mother, sitting on the couch with a magazine, doing nothing, looked like evidence, too. She approached and pushed the blank board towards her mother’s face. Mebuki did not acknowledge it.

“Who erased my board?” she said.

“Santa, probably,” her mom chose to say.

“I wrote all my spring break plans on it! I wanted to keep that!”

“It fell down when I was vacuuming in there, it got kinda scuffed on the floor. I thought you could rewrite what was on it.”

“I liked the way my handwriting looked on it,” Sakura grumbled. And glared.

Mebuki looked up from her magazine. “You do have great handwriting. Not sure where you got that from.”

“Me neither. You and dad write like serial killers. It’s embarrassing.”

“God, we do.”

“How can your customers even read what you write? Like, maybe you say a lesson cost a hundred bucks and they think it says three hundred or something?”

Her mother’s gaze returned to the magazine, and Sakura’s with it. It looked like a travel magazine, one of the nicer ones with smooth paper and wide photos taking up two pages. An outdoor market, somewhere she didn’t know. “Well, we print out the invoices, so nobody has to read my crap writing. And if that situation even happened, then they’d pay me three hundred and I’d be like, psyche, I’m keeping your money.”

“You should give some of that to me, so I can buy a magic board that keeps grownups off of my stuff.”

“I was about to put a magic spell on the oven to make it cook some shepherd’s pie.”

“Oh. Is it in there? I can turn it on.”

“It’s preheating already. Hey, come look at this. This is Santorini, Italy. Just look at this place.”

Sakura sat down, nestled her board in a crack between cushions and looked. One turn of the page showed her buildings uphill and down, red and blue and bright, sunny ocean and people and hair moved by the wind. She listened to her mother read the captions and watched her turn the page. An eye looking down through the ceiling watched her breathe.

-

Giovanni is a leopard appaloosa.

Thank you for reading. 

[twelvesignsrp]

congratulations logan, capricorn is now luca yamada with the faceclaim ryan potter ! 

Character Sign: Capricorn

Character name: Luca Yamada Birthday: January 19th Sexuality: Fluid Gender: Cis-Male Moon Sign: Aquarius Faceclaim: Ryan Potter Power:

MATTER ABSORPTION; The user can absorb matter, while removing it from the source, into their body and use it in various ways, gaining some form of advantage, either by enhancing themselves, gaining the drained power, using it as power source etc., either temporarily or permanently.

   Luca’s ability is complete earth based, meaning he can’t absorb matter that isn’t naturally made or largely complied of earth base compotents. Items like clay, stone, metal, sand, and even gemstone can be taken from and used. How it’s used? Think of it like a layer of armor, in some ways, as Luca can absorb the chemical or atomic makeup of a substance—it’s matter—then reincorporate that matter into his own genetic makeup. Basically his skin and to some point his muscles or organs completely shift into the matter he absorbs. Whether that’s taking in a concrete wall creating his arms to be as heavy and dense as stone or absorbing metal railing, to coat his knuckles to be as strong as steel. His ability doesn’t give him abnormal strength, endurance, or durability—but depending on the composition of the matter he takes does change him. Imagine you punching someone’s face and then imagine punch a stone face…the matter is what makes him “stronger” but he’s still human, and has his limitations.

LIMITATIONS; Firstly proximity is needed, via touch. Luca can not mentally or psychically absrob matter. Like the element of earth it is person and physical. Luca’s limitations grows via  science. Magic might be able to bend many rules in the world but never can absolutely break them. The porpotion to which the material Luca is absorbing is equally porpotion to how much he can collectively transform his body. If he absorbs a pebble or a stone the size of a brick, he can only spread that to about the size of his forearm or less… Walls, metal railings, or solid desk leave him more than enough material he let his body manifest into the element he’s absorbing. Secondly, as his powers grow stronger, Luca can have a slight chance of destroying the material he’s syphoning. Taking an objects matter is one thing, but if he takes too much he can destroy the integrity of it. As most stone objects, like rocks or bricks, have chances of disintegrating. So far most walls or metal objects don’t fully break down but might be structially more weak or it way rust. Lastly his limitations are that he’s still human, not inhuman. Luca can still feel the weight of his ability, almost as if he’s lifting weights. He must train himself physically and must work hard to withstand the physical demands of his ability. He might be able to take more hits, be denser or stronger, but that all fades once the matter does too.

SUB POWER, FERROKINESIS; Shape and manipulate metal, a solid material (an element, compound, or alloy) that is typically hard, shiny, and features good electrical and thermal conductivity. Metals are generally malleable—they can be hammered or pressed permanently out of shape without breaking or cracking—as well as fusible (able to be fused or melted) and ductile (able to be drawn out into a thin wire

Since Luca has absorbed large amounts of metals ranging from steel, iron, alluminum, and copper—when his power boost came into effect, his body developed what they know best. Metals. Luca is able to shape or manipulate metals, never create them from thin air. His ability is also weaker than if it was a main gift, as he often can only dismantle, twist, or destroy metal than truly shape it to much. His ability is normally heightened if he has recently absorbed metals or alloys.

LIMITATION; Luca’s limitations are practice and understanding. Chemistry was never Luca’s first choise, so understanding the softness of metals and their strengths and weaknesses have been a learning curve. If he tries to manipulate or form metal too sharply or outside of it’s scientific properties it can shatter or grow weaker than he’d want. As a weaker manipulation, he isn’t able to mess with heavy ammounts or large pieces of metals, much like his brain is too weak to mentally lift such a mass. Emotions can help him push pass that but as of now, he is limited to the largest thig he’s manipulating being a street lamp.

What do they study: Criminology

Biography:

self-con·trol

   You were precision in perfection, a graceful force biding your time. As a child your chaos was order; neatly stacking your toys in the spaces they held, to coloring in the lines—dazzling your parent’s with your “skills”. However those skills or talents they’d dote on you for, felt nothing but natural. You like having a plan, a goal to reap pride and glory from. Your bones were etched with method and reason, your muscles woven with patience that rivaled most your age; truly you aged faster than others. By ten your ballet shoes would be trade for kickboxing ones—as the control that ballet offered grew boring. The older you got, that graceful force churned and brewed needing an outlet that wasn’t just lines and beauty. No, your hands ached with a soreness you indulged in. You were learning to become a soldier of your own pursuits.

re·spon·si·ble

    Time moved on and your maturity produced your most remarkable trait. Your sense of duty. Martial arts only were steps to your goal, learning to protect yourself but a seed of virtue would bloom into protecting others. You, like all sixteen year olds, played your hand against Fate—tempting the laws of the world and breaking what you could, yet you never treaded too far across the line. You had patience for the things that so many around you eagerly wanted. You were a catious driver, a conservative when you partied, and above all else a studious boy. Your parents goals for you were lofty, but you worked towards them. Your dreams would stay on the back burner, as they would speak of being a doctor or becoming a lawyer…you held your tongue. Being dutiful to them meant everything, but you wanted nothing more than to be the opposite. For your heart was that of a lion, big and bold, beating to a rhythm of one thing; to become an officer.

pes·si·mis·tic

   Graduation had came, you walked the stage with your canary colored sash, being first and the best among your peers. However you found a part of you that you never expected. Doubt and fear, a trait you fought hard against with grit and horns. You pushed past a lot; your sexuality, your parents plan for you, physical struggles, test, college acceptances…etc. You should feel the weight you are feeling before you fly off to Durham. You’ve made it, you are pursuing your dreams, you are free from your past—yet with your future open to so much your doubt festers a colder side of you. Judgement and sharp words become your mask you slip on with ease, while your eyes hide a mind that is softer than you know. You never forgot your virtue, to uphold and protect the law and it’s people, yet you forgot how to be yourself. More comfortable to be hardhead than vunerable.

stub·born

   It’s been years and your life was on a track to success; everything you’ve wanted. However Fate is a fickle bitch, and you’ve found yourself butting heads and grinding your teeth for over a year now. Your life has shifted, to a plane or reality that has no control or understanding. That irks you. Your dreams are being put on pause, your finish line was so close but you and eleven others are being hijacked to something else. Part of you wants to run, to fight another day, to return to your life…yet deeper than that, a part of you that wants to serve and to be apart of something bigger keeps you there. Even if you rather not corroborate and feeling like you are being dragged along instead of leading it. You are here, you are now a witch, you are apart of something larger than the law.

Patrouns: Luca’s patronus would be that of a Heron, white with black tipped wings. Herons represent wild determination and inteligence. The grace of these birds are known for their adaptablity and diversity, since they tread between three elements—that of water, earth, and air. They are crafty creatures, fidning new ways to hunt and survive which for me describes Luca. His whole life has been polishing himself to be better, pressure and focus he puts on himself to hopefully be able to withstand it and become a diamond in the end. Not to mention his mother has a traditional Japanese painting that has a Heron in it; which Luca grew up loving and appreciating more and more.

Five interesting facts about your character:

Luca is tri-lingual knowning Japanese, English, and French. Most people find it surprising that he knows French as he’s American and attending a British school but his aunt is from Bordeuax, France—which he visited often as a child.

Luca is trained in martial arts, almost 11 years in Judo and Taekwondo. He doesn’t brag about how good he is, saying he does it to stay in shape and is just a agression reliever but really he is good. At seventeen he was nationally ranked in the top five, and a small ranking around the world. His coach thought he could work into trying out for the Olympics but Luca was more focus on college to do that.

Is secretly an HGTV lover and is a big fan of Property Brothers. He just loves watching people decorate and creating a space, which reflects as his apartment is very true to him and his aestehtic.

Most people are shocked to learn that Luca hates sushi, even most fish. His mother being more dissapointed about that, but still loves other Japanese dishes and is a bigger fan of rolled omlettes than anything. He still fakes liking it when his dates taking him to sushi places, just to be polite.

Luca owns a pet Husky named Opus, that is just 3 years old. The little guy (who isn’t that small anymore) is Luca’s pride and joy. They two are a perfect match between master and friend, as Opus is as loyal and trained as Luca is particular and ridged. He often shows Opus off by letting him perform tricks like getting him a soda or letting him open his bedroom dorm for him.

Character Quote: “Just because you are soft doesn’t mean you are not a force. Honey and wildfire are both the color gold.”

WRITING SAMPLE

    Have you ever have déjà vu? That overwhelming feeling of familiarity; well think of that times ten and add a wicked head high to it and you can imagine Luca’s reaction to watching the scene in front of him ‘return’ to normal. His eyes flickered images of predictions, rapidly fliping ontop of one another like a frame by frame photo—like if stop animation had become his state. He watched a women that was about to drop her bag, drop it four different ways, each trailing like a streak of light with how the apples would fall (which was 80% more likely to fall over into the road than not). His brain felt short circuited, shaking his head. Each person or thing, whatever was in movement, spliced into several things…several decisions being produced. Watching birds fly to three different points on a tree, to seeing a car stop infront of an oblivious teen girl to then watching the chances of it hitting her too all in the matter of moments.

   He moved out from the street and into a little vintage shop, hoping to gain clarity and solitude for a moment. His head felt less dizzy after he rubbed his eyes a few times, wondering if he was drugged or not. It wasn’t until the clerk asked him if he needed help, which he swiftly dismissed with a shake of his head and off to a rack to breath. “What the fuck?” he thought, before wondering what had happened. He’d spend several hours after that wondering more and more, but simultaneously worried about why it felt so comfortable too. It didn’t feel like a drug, like a blanket you borrowed from a friend to use—it felt apart of him, like he spend days and weeks making a blanket only to use it intimately.

ANYTHING ELSE?

Favorite colour is probably slate but recently I’ve been digging forest green a ton.

Also more so I’ve missed you all and this RP a ton, and stoked that I have the time now to devote to it than I did last summer. I have my own computer, myown place, and a better work schedule (even if I’m still gonna travel more and camp more)

[rhetoricandlogic]

I Met a Man Who Wasn’t There by K J Parker

“Apparently,” I said, “you can teach me how to walk through walls, stop the flow of time and kill people with a single stare.” I waited. He didn’t say anything. “Is that right?”

The cuff of his left sleeve was frayed, but had been expertly darned. His eyes were pale blue. He had a disappointingly weak chin. There was a book lying closed on the table in front of him, but I was too far away to read the title. And only a leaking roof makes that pattering sound. “Yes,” he said.

“Really?”

“Really.”

I didn’t believe him. “I’ll go for that,” I said. “When do I start?”

He frowned ever so slightly. “I’m afraid it’s not as straightforward as that,” he said.

Not what I’d expected. “There’s a problem?”

“Oh yes.” There’s a certain sort of calm serenity I find extremely irritating.

“Well?”

He hesitated; not from uncertainty or doubt, but because he was choosing exactly the right words. “I could teach you,” he said. “I have the ability. I also have the ability to jump out of the window and kill myself. I don’t choose to do the latter, but I could.”

“You don’t want to teach me?”

The frown was still there, as if I were the words of a familiar song he couldn’t quite remember. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve only just met you. Also, you may not be able to learn from me.”

Ah, I thought, here we go. The let-out clause. He will now proceed to give me some plausible but spurious reason why I turn out to be the one student in a hundred who won’t be able to do it. Only after I’ve finished the course, naturally.

“In order to learn from me,” he said, “there’s something you need to do. Most people won’t do it. A great many people simply can’t. Unfortunate, but there it is.”

“I see,” I said. “Do what, exactly?”

His face was blank, open and totally sincere. “You need to pay me one hundred and seventy-five thalers,” he said.

#

Well, he’d annoyed me. We’d played a game of body-language chess, and it had been checkmate in four. And besides, you don’t need a horse if you’re living in Town. So I sold mine—two hundred and six thalers, fifteen more than I paid for it—and turned up the next morning with the money in a faded red velvet bag. As before, he was alone, sitting in the one chair behind the chipped-and-scratched softwood desk, reading a book; no lecture in progress, no enthralled students sitting at his feet eagerly taking notes. And I still didn’t believe him.

“Here you are,” I said, dumping the bag heavily on the desk. “Count it if you like.”

He sort of squinted at it; if I hadn’t known better I’d have sworn he was counting the coins through the cloth. “I don’t know,” he said. Under the desk I could see where he’d tried to stick the uppers of his shoes back onto the soles with fish-scale glue.

“Excuse me?”

“A man walks into a cutler’s shop,” he said. “He wants to buy a knife. The cutler says, what do you want a knife for?”

“Not where I come from.”

He didn’t seem to have heard me. “Why does the cutler ask the question?” he went on. “Because, unless he knows what the customer has in mind, he can’t sell him one that’s suitable for his purpose. Or perhaps he suspects the customer wants to kill his wife.”

“I’ve got a knife,” I said. “Several.”

He smiled. “And,” he said, “if you wanted to kill someone, you’d have the means to do it. Therefore, teaching you the basilisk stare would not be an irresponsible act on my part. Fair enough. But, the cutler replies, if you don’t want to kill someone, why do you want to buy a dagger?”

I shrugged. “In case someone wants to kill me.”

He sighed. “Indeed,” he said. “And the customer could quite properly say, if you’re that concerned, why do you make and sell daggers? To which the cutler could only reply, because that’s what I do.” He clicked his tongue, a surprisingly loud and vulgar noise. “A hundred and seventy-five thalers?”

“Cash money.”

He looked at the bag. He seemed to find an answer in it. “Plus,” he added, “fourteen thalers for materials and other incidentals.”

“Incidentals?”

“Bits and pieces,” he said. “I could explain, but until you’ve started the course you wouldn’t understand.”

“Ah,” I said, and gave him three five-thaler bits. They seemed to disappear into his hand, like water poured on gravel. “I’ll owe you the change,” he said.

I still didn’t believe any of it. “So,” I said, “do we start now?”

He shook his head. “The introductory class is tomorrow at noon sharp,” he said. “Don’t be late.”

I hesitated, then headed for the door. I looked back; he was reading his book, slumped back a little in his chair, frowning, in the exact centre of a large, empty room. I went back down the stairs into the street. I got a splinter in my hand, from the banister.

#

So, you may well be asking, why did I want to learn how to walk through walls, suspend the passage of time and kill people with a single stare?

Well. Wouldn’t you?

All right, but you wouldn’t sell your horse. Unless your reasoning was; if I could do all that stuff, I could stroll through the walls of the King’s Vault, fill my pockets, take out the guards with a single well-directed glare, I could buy all the horses I could possibly want; and I’d have the perfect alibi when the kettlehats came to arrest me—I was in the Integrity Triumphant playing shuttlejack with the regular crowd all that evening, ask anyone, they’ll remember me. Also, I couldn’t have killed those guards, didn’t you say there wasn’t a mark on them? You could be the greatest criminal ever.

Yes; but so far, nobody was. Put it another way; if the capability existed, surely by now someone would’ve got hold of it and misused it (because that’s what people do, whenever some powerful new thing comes along. If we’d all been born in darkness and someone invented the Sun, the first we’d know about it was when someone used it to burn his way into the First Consolidated Bank) But this hadn’t happened. The strange man sat there all day in his room over the cordwainer’s shop, purporting to teach the art, but so far there were no reports of inexplicable burglaries and impossible deaths. Therefore, it didn’t work.

And I’d paid the man a hundred and seventy-five, belay that, a hundred and ninety thalers; presumably non-refundable—do you walk up to a man who might just be able to stop your heart with a frown and ask for your money back? I don’t think so. Not unless you’re totally convinced. And I wasn’t.

I know; I haven’t answered my own question. Be patient.

#

In Cornmarket there’s this clock. Well, you know that. It’s what the city’s famous for. Ten kreuzers buys you the view from the top of the clock tower. For half a thaler, they show you the mechanism; it’s this crazy room, twelve feet by fifteen by ten, crammed full of cogs, wheels, pulleys, camshafts, escapements, huge restless circles cut with hundreds of thousands of tiny sharp teeth—for eating time with, presumably. This machine, they tell you, makes all the time used in the whole Empire. You’d think that seeing the mechanism, how it works, would take the magic out of it, but no, quite the reverse. I think it’s because the power train moves so slowly you don’t notice it; therefore, all the belts and wheels seem to be turning and spinning of their own motion, powered only by magic and some invisible sympathy with the inherent forces of the Earth.

At any rate, if you’re in earshot of Cornmarket, you have no excuse for being late. I ran up the stairs just as the chimes were sounding. On the tenth out of twelve, I knocked on the door. As the twelfth chime died away, I heard him say, “Come in.”

He was sitting exactly where I’d left him. “You’re late,” he said.

I blinked. “No I’m not.”

He shook his head just a little. “The clock is slow,” he said. “Three minutes.”

I wanted to say, that’s not possible. The clock is the time, the Emperor made a decree. Also, how the hell would you know? I didn’t. I said, “Sorry.”

He shrugged. “Try to be punctual,” he said. “After all, it’s your money you’re wasting.”

He made a sort of vague gesture, which I interpreted as, sit on the floor. I sat.

I was just starting to wonder if I’d become invisible when he coughed awkwardly and said, “I can only teach you what you already know. You do appreciate that, don’t you?”

I thought, one hundred and ninety thalers. “I don’t understand,” I said.

He sighed. “Let’s start with some breathing exercises,” he said.

#

My father, you see, was a thief. Not a bad one, because he never got caught—not once, in fifty years in the profession. Not a particularly good one, because he never made any money. He was in the bulk-stealing end of the trade. He stole high-volume, low-value—sawn lumber, bricks, firewood, sand, pit-props, that sort of thing. If there was a big heap of something anywhere in the City, waiting to be used or shipped, Dad would roll up in the early hours of the morning with his cart, load it up and take it away. It was relentless hard work, but Dad didn’t mind that, he was a grafter, a willing horse. As soon as I turned thirteen I had to go with him; I’m not a willing horse, and I take after my mother, not physically strong, so I had to compensate with extreme effort. I used to tell him; Dad, you could make just as much money—more, probably—just hiring out as a carter; you’ve got the rig and the horses, where’s the difference, except we could do this in daylight, and you wouldn’t have to punch out night-watchmen. He’d just look at me.

No money in it; not after he’d paid for feed for the horses—bloody things lived better than we did most of the time. Back then, remember, they still hung thieves. Hell of a way to make a living.

So I grew up thinking; everything is difficult. Everything; even stealing, for crying out loud, is backbreaking, merciless slog. The world is so hard, so absolutely unyielding, all human life is basically quarrying stone, millions of little chips, and each one jars your bones and makes your brains rattle, until you’re worn out, shaken to bits, steel on stone every minute of every day. Unless—ah, the dream—somehow, somewhere, hidden from the sight of all us losers, there’s an easier way, a hidden door in the rock face that leads to the perfumed palaces of the nobility—

Ever seen a blind man looking for a door? He gropes the wall, methodically, inch by inch. That’s me, looking for the easy way. Of course, I put more effort into that than I’d need to expend if I was digging coal. Just like Dad.

That’s one reason, anyhow.

#

“There now,” he said. I took that as permission to breathe out. My vision was starting to blur. “I’ve taught you something you already knew.”

The evil sadistic bastard had made me hold my breath while he counted to a hundred. What was that supposed to achieve, for crying out loud? “Quite,” I croaked, trying not to let him hear me gasping. “I’ve been breathing for years.”

“Of course you have. All living things breathe, by definition.”

I looked at him. Holding my breath hadn’t conferred on me the gift of the basilisk stare. Pity. “So?”

He gave me a sad smile and stuck his hand into the wall.

Into. Fingers, knuckles, wrist. I tried to see what the boundary looked like, the interface, the point where his arm disappeared into the pale yellow plaster, but I was too far away.

“Happy now?” he said.

“Intrigued,” I managed to say. “Hallucination. Brought on by lack of air.”

He grinned and pulled his hand out again. “Of course it is,” he said. “Now you do it.”

I really wanted to, just in case I could. But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to try. I could already feel the juddering halt as my fingertips didn’t pass through the plaster and the brick, as they bent back under pressure. You could break a bone so easily. The thought made me feel slightly sick.

“I can’t,” I said.

“Ah well.” He picked the book up off his desk and opened it. “Same time tomorrow,” he said. “That’s assuming you want to continue.”

I stood up and headed for the door. As I passed him, he must’ve stuck out a foot to trip me. I fell sideways, awkwardly, against the wall.

Into the wall. Through it.

#

My mother was a silversmith’s daughter from Scona. I have no idea why she married my father. She made no secret of the fact that she intended me to atone for her mistake. I would go to school, get a good education, join either the Imperial civil service or the Studium; I could be, she told me over and over again, whatever I wanted to be. Trouble was, I believed her.

Also, I was in a hurry; and I knew, from observing my father’s losing battle with the universe, that if you play it straight you’ve got no chance. You have to cheat, and even then it’s a long, dreary, miserable slog just to stay in the same place, let alone move forward. My way out of that was to follow my mother’s advice, to the letter.

I began—Now, let’s see. I was seventeen, almost, and we were living in a sort of shed beside the main road into Ap’ Escatoy (that was before some idiot burned it down, of course). Every day, just after dawn, this fancy carriage used to trot past. It was lacquered black, with huge spindly wheels and two armed coachmen, and inside was this kid, about my age, always with his nose in a book; thin, wispy, sad face. I thought; what’s he got to be sad about? So one day I followed him, running after the coach (nearly killed me; I was sure I’d cracked a rib just panting for breath) and saw him get down outside a rich merchant’s house on Riverside. Then, quite suddenly, I knew all about him. To this day, I have no idea if any of it was true, but it was such a thoroughly plausible, convincing picture that it didn’t matter.

I saw him as the younger son of some good but slightly impoverished family in the City, sent out to the sticks with a letter of introduction to a friend of the family, given a place (not too strenuous, not too demanding) in the merchant’s house, with a view to working his way up and eventually becoming a minor merchant princeling. And then I thought; I can be anyone I want to be.

So I wrote a letter. Actually, I copied it out of one of those books—the complete epistolary, letters for all purposes and occasions. A little research, mostly in inns and cockpits, gave me the names of a few leading merchants in BocBohec (thirty miles away, where nobody knew us), and there were books in the Cartulary library that told me who was related to who among the people that matter. I gave myself a suitably poncy name—Thrasamund, I think I was—and luck gave me helping hand, six kreuzers on a scrawny little Perimadeian gamecock at fifteen to one, and it shredded a bird nearly twice its size in the time it takes to blow your nose. Nine thalers bought me two outfits of decent second-hand clothes. All I had to do was the easy bit. I had to be Thrasamund.

And it really was so easy. By the time I came to knock on the merchant’s door and hand over my letter to the porter, I knew Thrasamund perfectly, I was him, and being Thrasamund was simply being myself. After an awkwardly polite conversation over weak red wine and seed cake I got a job, junior clerk. I knuckled down, paid attention, applied myself, very quickly learned how to make myself useful; three months later I was out of the clerks’ room and on my way to Beal Bohec with a letter of credit for nine hundred thalers, to buy seasoned rosewood boards and ebony dowel for my masters. I did a splendid job, though I do say so myself. In fact, if I’d gone back to Boc and carried on with my career there, instead of selling the lumber the next day at a thirty per cent profit and shipping out to the Vesani republic with the money, I would almost certainly have been a great success and made something of myself.

#

Unfortunately, it was an outside wall.

Also unfortunately, his rooms were three stories up. It’s true what they say; as you fall through the air, time does seem to stand still, and you do get to revisit crucial scenes from your past life—rather depressing, in my case. At any rate, I managed to solve one mystery that had been bugging me for years; how do they know that?

Answer; because at some point, someone must’ve fallen a very long way, and yet somehow survived to tell the tale. That’s what I did. I fell three stories and landed in a cart full of straw that just happened to be drawn up outside the stables which just happened to be directly underneath the room I’d just fallen from. Wonderful.

Straw is marvellous stuff to fall on, but it’s still a thoroughly unpleasant experience. I hit the cart hard enough to smash through the plank floor. I’d landed on my backside, so I was kind of sitting in the hole, supported by the insides of my knees and the small of my back, when he came bustling up, looking scared to death. He grabbed my wrist and hauled me out.

“Are you all right?” he said.

“I fell through the wall,” I said.

Apparently I’d stated the obvious. “Yes,” he said. “Can you move your hands and feet? Are you feeling dizzy?”

“Through the wall,” I repeated. “I just—”

“Well, of course you did,” he said, with just a hint of irritation. “You’re my student. I taught you.”

“No you didn’t.”

He was looking over his shoulder. “Let’s continue this discussion inside,” he said. “People are staring.”

He had a valid point. The owner of the cart would probably be along in a minute. Even so. “All you did was make me hold my breath. And that wasn’t it, because I looked at you and you’re still—”

“Inside,” he said. “Please,” he added.

I’m a sucker for good manners. We went inside.

“I thought I’d had it then,” I said, as I wheezed up the stairs. My back was killing me.

“Oh, you weren’t in any danger,” he said blithely. We’d reached his landing. I went in, taking great care to stay away from the walls, which I no longer trusted. And if you can’t trust walls, what can you do?

“Yes I bloody well was,” I felt constrained to say. “You might have warned me.”

“What, that you were in danger of succeeding? If you didn’t want to pass through walls, why did you enrol in the first place?”

“You might have warned me,” I repeated, but it came out sounding merely petulant.

He sat down. I did the same, only much more slowly. “You were in no danger,” he said. “You weren’t falling fast enough for that.”

Oh really, I thought. “Yes I was.”

“No you weren’t. It took you twenty-seven seconds to reach the ground.”

Bullshit, I thought. Less than a second, surely. Of course, it had felt much longer than that, but that was because of the well-known psychological effect—“You what?”

“I was counting,” he said, “under my breath, as I ran down the stairs. I got there before you did. Twenty-seven seconds.” He laughed. “For heaven’s sake,” he said. “You don’t think that little bit of straw—”

“I broke the cart.”

“You passed through the cart,” he said. “Like you did with the wall. That’s a common thing with novices, they don’t quite know when to stop.”

I wasn’t having that. A man is entitled to lie in furtherance of his fraud, but not to the extent of playing serious games with someone’s head. “Come on,” I told him, as I jumped up and grabbed his arm. He didn’t resist. We went all the way back down again. The cart was still there.

Its plank floor was, of course, intact.

#

For our next session, he’d said, meet me under the clock at noon.

I was there, bang on time. No sign of him. As I stood there, leaning against one of the columns of the New Revelation temple—I still wasn’t happy with walls, but I figured columns were probably all right—part of me was thinking, one hundred and ninety thalers. The other part was thinking; I can pass through walls.

Qualify that. I had passed through a wall, and a plank floor; accidentally, not deliberately. I didn’t know if I could do it again. I hadn’t tried. I didn’t want to try—or at least, not on my own and unsupervised. I can only teach you what you already know. Yes, well. Con artists’ mysticism; I’m quite good at it myself, when I’m on form. But novices don’t quite know when to stop. Suppose I tried it on my own and I couldn’t stop. Suppose I started sinking down through the earth. No, thank you very much. Just because I can do something doesn’t mean I have to do it.

Ten minutes past the hour, he eventually turned up. He came out of the saloon bar of the Veracity & Trust. He was eating an apple. “You’re late,” he said.

I glanced up at the clock. “I’ve been here all the—”

“Noon precisely,” he said. “Follow me.”

He moved fast for a small, fat man. “If it’s dead on noon,” I said, jogging to keep up with him “how can I be—?”

“So,” he said, without looking round, “have you been practicing?”

“No.”

He made a tsk noise. “Poor show,” he said. “You really do have to practice, you know. Innate ability is all very well, but you have to learn how to use it. Ah, here we are.”

I wanted to ask him about a number of things, starting with innate ability, but he darted into a doorway, one I happened to know quite well.

“We can’t go in there,” I said.

I couldn’t, anyway. I’d been left in no doubt on that score the last time I tried, about eighteen months earlier. “You can’t come in here,” the man on the door had told me, and since he was six feet eight with a chest like an ox, I believed him.

One of those ridiculous misunderstandings, of course. I’d gone in fully intending to pay the asking price, not to mention a generous tip. It was only when I put my hand in my pocket and found it empty that I realised there was a hole in the lining, through which my twelve thalers forty must have fallen. I explained. I turned the pocket inside out and showed them the hole. They threw me out.

“Now, then,” he said. We were in the front parlour, or waiting room, or whatever you choose to call it. Nobody about. “We’ve done walking through walls and freezing the passage of time. That only leaves—”

“What are we doing in here?” I asked him in a loud, hoarse whisper. “You do realise this is a—”

He smiled at me. “Last time you were here,” he said.

I caught my breath; and then I thought, well, he’s been making enquiries, hasn’t he? I suppose I’m reasonably well known in some quarters in this town. He’s found out about my embarrassing history in this place, and he’s using it to try and make me think he’s a mind-reader or something. Sort of thing I’d do.

I smiled. “They threw me out,” I said.

He nodded. “There was a hole in your pocket,” he said.

“That’s right. Expensive hole. Twelve thalers forty.”

“No.” He gave me a mild frown. “You made the hole yourself, with a very sharp knife. You made the hole just slightly smaller than a six-thaler coin. The idea is that the coin gradually works its way through the hole. That way, when you come in through the door, you make a show of jingling the coins in your pocket, to let everyone know you have money. Later, when it’s time to pay, you turn your pocket out and show them the hole. But the coins have slipped through, into the little trap you’ve sewn into the lining.”

I looked at him very hard. He didn’t drop dead. I don’t know. Maybe he’d worked it out from first principles, or maybe someone else had done that, and told him. “I make no admissions on that score,” I said.

He gave me a doesn’t-matter shrug. “The doorman,” he said.

“Well?”

“You don’t like him, do you?”

I grinned. “I think he may possibly enjoy his work a little bit too much,” I said.

“You were humiliated. People you knew saw you getting thrown out into the street. It made you ashamed, and angry. You wanted to get back at him for that. You wanted to hurt him.”

I wasn’t sure I liked this. “Wanting’s not a crime,” I said.

“Of course it isn’t.” His smile widened. I wanted to hit him, to make him stop grinning at me. “And, by the same token, neither is being in the same room when a man dies from a heart attack. Not even,” he went on, “if the man in question was someone you had cause to dislike.” His voice was getting softer and softer. “They’d never suspect it was you. If they did, they couldn’t prove it.”

I did my best to give him a horrified stare. “I don’t kill people,” I said.

“Of course you don’t. You’re afraid of getting caught, and strung up. Quite properly, you argue that it’s not worth the risk—the brief moment of satisfaction, against your life. Common sense. Like not walking straight at a wall, hoping it’ll let you through.”

“I don’t want to kill him,” I said. “I don’t want to kill anybody.”

He nodded; sharply, precisely. “You just want to be able to.”

“Yes.”

#

I could be whoever I wanted to be, my mother told me. By the same token, presumably, I could do whatever I wanted to do—walk through walls, stop clocks, kill people. The key word, of course, is want.

Ricimer’s paradox (that hoary old chestnut); political power should only be given to those who don’t want to exercise it. Apply that principle to—here comes the M word—magic. Behold, I give you the power to do anything, anything at all, so long as you don’t want to do it.

Neat trick.

At any rate, a wonderful way of gouging someone out of a hundred and ninety thalers. I had a shrewd suspicion that he’d magicked me through the wall and slowed down my descent onto the bed of the cart. Upshot; I believe I now have the power to do it, but I won’t put that belief to the test, because You Can Only Use Magic To Do Stuff You Don’t Want To Do. So, I can’t prove I’ve been cheated. So, I can’t have my money back.

Fine. Except; why is someone who can do that sort of stuff reduced to swindling people out of relatively trivial sums? Answers, anyone?

(Because he doesn’t want to make his living that way)

I could have been anything I wanted to be. Instead, I made my living by cheating people out of relatively trivial sums. I started out by embezzling the money I was entrusted with by my kind and generous employer in Boc. Using that as a stake, I went to the Vesani republic, where I discovered (a bit too late) that I was way out of my league. Not long afterwards, I left the republic in a tearing hurry, half a jump ahead of the law, found guilty in absentia of a crime I didn’t commit (no, really), and ended up on Scona, which is where the ship I was on happened to be going. On that ship, I’d undergone a transformation, the way caterpillars turn into butterflies. I metamorphosed from a penniless fugitive into the accredited representative of the Symmachus brothers, the biggest manufacturers of woollen goods in Boc. I got lucky. I found a sheet of paper and a pen in the captain’s cabin. I have neat handwriting. Incidentally, there’s no such firm as the Symmachus brothers. I called them into being, out of thin air. Of course, I didn’t really want to. Still, a man has to eat.

#

“You again,” he said, peering at me over the top of his book.

“Me again,” I said.

He marked the place carefully and closed the book. “But we’re all done. I taught you, you learned, you’ve had your money’s worth. That’s it.”

I’d thought long and hard about the mechanics of it all. A hundred and ninety thalers; let’s see. Average weekly wage of an ordinary working man, say, ten thalers. A man of austere habits could last out a long time on a hundred and ninety. He’d only have to pull the scam three, four times a year. The rest of the time he could devote to his own interests; scholarship, research.

“I’m not satisfied,” I said.

He sighed. “Sue me,” he said. “Oh, sorry, I forgot, you can’t. The law wouldn’t recognise a contract to teach magic, since there’s no such thing. A contract to perform an impossible act is no contract. Look it up,” he added kindly.

I stayed where I was. “You didn’t teach me anything,” I said.

I could see I was turning into a nuisance. Good. “Strictly speaking, no,” he said, “since I can’t teach you anything you don’t already know. But I made that clear from the outset, so it’s effectively an essential term of the agreement. You have absolutely no legitimate grounds for complaint. Please go away.”

I smiled at him. “No,” I said.

I knew that look. I’m used to it. “All right,” he said. “What do you want?”

“To annoy you,” I said. “So you’ll make the floor disappear from under my feet. Like you did with the cart I fell on.”

He looked confused. “I didn’t do that. I couldn’t.”

“Because you want to?”

“No, because I can’t.”

I believed him. He was annoyed enough to be credible. “So it wasn’t you,” I said. “You didn’t make me fall through the wall.”

“That would be impossible.”

“So the magic—”

The word made him wince. “You did it all by yourself.” He gave me a pained look; why are you doing this to me? “I thought you’d understood all that. I can’t teach you what you don’t already know, remember?”

I gave him my special smile. “You’re under arrest,” I said.

#

It’s not something I like to talk about.

It was my own stupid fault, needless to say. Sooner or later, everyone in this line of work gets careless. One little slip is all it takes. Sometimes I wonder where the hell we get the courage from. It’s like being a soldier, except that every day we’re on the front line, that one little slip away from disaster. If I thought about it, I wouldn’t be able to do it.

Anyway, they got me. It was, what, ten years ago now. I remember sitting in a cell about a mile down under the Prefecture, telling myself that if ever I got out of there, that was it, the end, no more bad behaviour from me; but I couldn’t conceive of a way out, even with my amazingly active imagination. And then the prefect came in—the man himself, not a deputy—and he offered me this deal. Get out there, he said, and scam the scammers. You know how they think, where to find them, how they operate. In return, you get a pardon, immunity, we may even pay you. Of course, we’ll be watching you like hawks, and the very first hint that you’re playing us for fools, you’ll wish you’d never been born. But—

Time stood still. And then I said, yes, please, and the most amazing thing happened. I got out. It was like magic, as though I’d simply stood up and walked through the cell wall like it wasn’t there.

Since then, I’ve been such a good little soldier. Seventy-six convictions. Jail for most of them, and twelve got the rope, due to aggravating circumstances. Quite right, too. If there’s one thing I can’t be doing with, it’s deliberate dishonesty.

#

I went to see him in his cell. It might just possibly have been the one I was in, all those years ago.

“Still here, then,” I said.

He gave me a sort of sad smile. “Of course,” he said. “The door’s locked.”

“Ah,” I replied. “But you can walk through walls.”

He sighed. “If I could do that,” he said, “which I don’t admit, naturally, then it would prove that I am indeed a sorcerer. I believe that’s illegal.”

True. Although the official position these days is that magic doesn’t exist, there’s a fistful of silly old laws on the statute-book prescribing the death sentence for witchcraft. Nobody can be bothered to repeal them; after all, the argument runs, a person can’t be convicted of witchcraft unless he’s proven to have performed magic. Magic doesn’t exist. Therefore, it’s impossible that anyone could be convicted.

I beamed at him. I can be horrible sometimes. “Nobody takes that stuff seriously anymore,” I said. “What you’re in here for is fraud. To be exact, fraudulently professing to be able to walk through walls. If you demonstrated you could walk through walls, you’d prove you’re innocent.”

“And then they’d hang me.”

“And then we’d hang you, yes. In theory,” I added. “Unless we could do a deal.”

If looks could kill. “Go on,” he said.

“Quite simple,” I replied. “Plead guilty to the fraud, and we’ll forget about the witchcraft.”

He frowned. “You want me to lie. On oath.”

“Yes.”

“That’s perjury.”

I shrugged. “I’ll throw in a free pardon on the perjury.”

He rubbed his chin. “Let’s not forget,” he said, “you can do magic too.”

I laughed. “They’d never believe you.”

I could read his mind (which was my mind, essentially, from the time when it was me sitting on the bed hearing the terms of the deal). “You’ll drop the sorcery charges.”

“If you plead to the fraud, yes.”

“What will I get?”

“For the fraud? Two years in the galleys. I’ll put in a good word for you. Say you cooperated.”

“That’s a good deal?”

“Yes.”

#

After that, I managed to put him out of my mind. I have that gift; I can forget about people sitting hopelessly in jail cells, because I put them there, because I tricked them. Now that’s magic.

I forgot all about him, until a captain of the watch came to see me. No cause for alarm, he said, thereby scaring me to death. One of yours has escaped.

They’re required to tell you, so you can be on your guard, in case the fugitive comes after you with a knife or something. As soon as he said it, I knew. “Little short guy.”

“That’s the one.”

I felt that twitch in the stomach. “Don’t tell me,” I said. “The prison authorities are baffled.”

He looked surprised. “Yes, actually. One minute he was in his cell, the next he wasn’t. Door still locked on the outside, no hole in the wall, nothing. Not a clue how he got out. But he did.”

“Maybe he walked through the wall,” I suggested. The fool laughed.

#

Under the terms of my parole, I can’t leave town without permission from the prefect. I made an appointment.

“No,” he said.

“Oh, go on,” I said. “I haven’t left the city for ten years, and I’ve been good as gold.”

“Quite.” He gave me a big smile. “You’re the best thief-taker I’ve ever had. I’m so proud of you. Which is why you can’t leave town. Sorry.” He actually looked sorry, the liar. “I’m afraid I don’t trust you to come back.”

“There’s an escaped convict on the loose. I have reason to believe he wants to kill me.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “That’s different. In that case, I definitely don’t trust you to come back.”

“But if he—”

“Rest assured,” he said, and gave me that sincere, reliable look that the voters keep on falling for. “We’ll catch him and we’ll string him up, and that’s a promise. Even if I have to put the noose round his neck personally.”

I sighed. “You don’t understand,” I said. “He’s a sorcerer. He can walk through walls. He can stop clocks. He can kill you just by staring at you.”

The prefect looked at me. “Now that’s just silly,” he said.

#

He came to see me.

He came in through the wall, though the door wasn’t locked—why bother? I was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, which was empty apart from one other chair, which I’d left for him when I cleared out all the rest of the furniture. I’d also taken down the wall-hangings, exposing the bare red brick. The room looked like a cell.

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” he said.

I looked at him. It didn’t work.

“Sit down,” I said. “Please.”

He glanced up at the ceiling, then sat down. “I’m assuming there’s no hidden trapdoor,” he said.

I had actually considered that; even went so far as to get a quote from a carpenter. Seventeen thalers forty, just for cutting a simple hidden trapdoor in a floor. For that money he can damn well kill me, I said. “What can I do for you?”

That seemed to amuse him. “You could beg for mercy.”

“Would that do me any good?”

“No.”

I nodded. “Would it help if I apologised? I really am very sorry for the way I treated you.”

He sighed. “All this,” he said, “the melodrama. It really isn’t me, you know. All my life, all I’ve ever been is a scholar, a researcher, a scientist. Do you really think I’ve come here for revenge?” He made it sound so utterly absurd.

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, I’m not. I’m here to conclude my experiment, that’s all. Once I’ve done that, we’re finished. Over, the end. Really.”

In spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, I persist in thinking I’m smart. Just shows how dumb I am really. “Experiment,” I said.

“Quite so.” He smiled at me. “An experiment to ascertain whether paranormal powers can be acquired and exercised by someone with no innate paranormal ability.”

“Meaning me.”

He shook his head. “Meaning me,” he said. “That was the first phase. The second phase was whether I could then pass on those abilities to another equally untalented subject. Meaning you,” he added helpfully.

“So you weren’t—”

He shrugged. “You were my first student,” he said. “I guess nobody else was gullible enough to believe they could actually learn magic, for only a hundred and seventy-five thalers.”

“A hundred and ninety.” I stared at him—not like that, which was probably just as well. “You used me,” I said. “You took me for a mark.”

“Ah well.” He smiled again. “Actually, of course, no, I didn’t. There was no confidence trick. I really did teach you to do magic.”

“Just the once.”

“Indeed,” he said. “Which is why I’m here. Now, then. I’m going to count to five. On five, I’ll give you the basilisk stare and kill you. Assuming,” he added pleasantly, “you’re still here. If you make good your escape by walking through the wall, I shall go away and never bother you again. One.”

“Screw you,” I replied and tilted my chair back, thereby triggering the secret trapdoor I’d had installed under his chair. Well, quite. But I’d managed to beat the bloodsucker down to eleven thalers fifty.

The trapdoor swung open and the chair vanished. He didn’t. He just carried on sitting, on nothing, eighteen inches off the floor.

“Two,” he said.

Oh for crying out loud, I thought. Still, what can you do?

I walked through the east wall. The west wall was the outside, and I’m seven stories up. The east wall connects with the stairwell. I didn’t hang about. I ran down the stairs, burst through the front door and rushed out into the street, where four kettlehats from the Watch arrested me and charged me with witchcraft.

#

I did a deal.

I am no longer a thief-taker employed by the prefect. These days, I work directly for the Duke. I go where he sends me, and I look at people he wants looked at. Sometimes these people are hard to get to, which means I have to walk through various bits of architecture first. Occasionally, I look at guards, though I do try hard not to have to.

I frequently wonder why the hell I do this stuff, which is hateful to me. With my abilities, which long practice has perfected, I could simply refuse to carry on; I could go away, and make myself very hard to find. But I keep on doing it, because the Duke has a terrible power over me. Each time I go and look at someone for him, he pays me an obscene amount of money. You just can’t fight something like that.

My mother once told me I could be anybody I wanted to be; meaning thereby, I could be rich, buy anything I wanted, never have to do hard, grinding manual work, like my father did all his life. Having considered all the facts in the case, having given them a great deal of careful and objective thought, I’m inclined to the view that she was wrong. I think I could’ve been anyone—anyone at all—I didn’t want to be; which is how it seems to work, for some reason.

[eurusholmmes]

Fantasy || Leo Fitz

Requested by @marvelfanlife : Jemma tries to convince you, the reader, that you and Fitz are a couple outside of the Framework. She tries to make her remember the real world but much to her displeasure, you can’t find it in yourself to believe what Jemma has told you. Reader is also the co-director of the Resistance with Mace and is Inhuman. 

Reader is Inhuman and Maces sister! Italics are Daisy’s POV in the Traskelion. I really hope I did this justice!

You stared at Jemma in disbelief, pinching the bridge of your nose with your thumb and index finger. “You.. You’re trying to tell me that in this real world you came from, I’m the girlfriend to the man my brother and I are trying to overthrow?” You deadpanned, turning your body as another child ran past you. “I’m sorry Jemma, I just find that incredibly hard to believe. There’s no way in any world I would fall in love with the head of HYDRA.” 

Jemma Simmons gaze flickered between you and Mace, who had just reentered the room in his Patriot uniform. Your brother wrapped his arms loosely around your shoulders and settled his chin on the top of your head as you patted his hands. “We’re best friends in the real world, y/n. I would and will never lie to you, especially about something like this. Leo is desperately in love with you.” 

  “The Doctor? Psh.” Mace retorted. “My sister would never fall in love with the head of HYDRA.” 

Everyone in the Resistance knew that you and your brother were bonded together like sand-paper; you almost never did anything without the other. Not to mention that Jeffery was incredibly protective of you because not only were you younger then he was, you were also just as brave which meant there was more likely of a chance for you to sacrifice yourself. 

And he would never let that happen.

You turned away from Jemma and lightly kissed his cheek, causing a wide grin to spread from ear to ear on his face. The amount of happiness that radiated off of The Director made your heart ache. He hadn’t always been that way. “You taking a team to the Traskelion?” You asked. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you? The more powered people, the better. Jeff.. I can help you.” Your older brother smiled warmly at your fierce determination and bent his head to kiss yours before stepping away to chase on Jemmas heels. 

  “I’ll see you on the other side, y/n!” 

Part of you knew that your last snippet of memory with your brother, that single forehead kiss and that ridiculously stupid smile, was going to be the last time you ever saw him. 

Because that was who you were - The Maces. The most sacrificial people on the entire freaking planet.

Daisy Johnson let out a shrill gasp as she attempted to lift herself up from the ground. Despite the lacerations and open wounds and aching bones, she was determined to get him to remember you. Even if you were on opposite sides of the worst war she’d ever been apart of. “Tell me where the Patriot is” Fitz demanded, shining his shoes with the pad of his thumb. 

  “I don’t know.” 

  “Did he from your world too?” He asked. 

She stared up at him in disbelief. “Our world? Yeah.” His dark eyes, those eyes that were so different from the geeky scientist she’d grown to love, bore into her own so deeply it made her stomach curl. 

  “And the other leader of the Resistance, y/n Mace?” Fitz asked calmly. 

  “She’s not a subversive. And if I knew where she was, I would tell you because she is probably the only one who could get you to wake up and tell you that this nightmare isn’t real. You want to hear a secret, Fitz?” Daisy replied, lifting herself up higher using the heels of her hands so the two of them were eye to eye. “You’re in love with your worst enemy.” 

A rough slap followed by a piercing scream echoed through the cell; so painful and so heartbreaking that the air chilled at the sound. 

Daisy knew it was hopeless to try and force his memory. There was no possible outcome where Leo Fitz remembered the woman he loved.

You paced the length of the underground base, fingers dancing against your temple to tap on your earpiece if the need came for you to rendezvous with the team as their rescue. Despite your growing anxiety, you couldn’t help but began to ponder the details of Jemma Simmons story. That in the real world you had fallen in love with the very man who was the essence of your hate.

  “People ask me all the time if I’ve ever been in love. I haven’t. But it took me so long to figure out what real, pure love looked like. I’d never seen it in anyone until the first time that Leo Fitz laid eyes on you in the SHIELD HQ - like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life. The way he gazes at you.. like he could never love anything or anyone else more. You’re his hand to grasp when he’s drowning. His reason to live.. You’re his constant.”

You were oblivious to the people milling around you, murmuring to one another as they passed down the halls and went to their quarters or to the mess hall for a meager dinner. Hunger wasn’t your priority. Your priority was figuring out if everyone had survived. 

From underneath the pile of fallen rock and dust, Jeffery Mace moved his gaze to Jemma Simmons before his thoughts fell on his sister. His selfless, humble, compassionate, beautiful sister who he had left behind to lead the Resistance. To lead their journey to a better world. 

His knees gave out one by one as The Patriot struggled to hold the beam that was keeping the entire building in tact, his muscles on fire and his lungs screaming for oxygen. He let out a scream of frustration as he swiveled his head far enough to look at Jemma, who had not moved from her spot. “Tell my sister I love her.” 

  “NO!” 

Your head snapped up as the doors to the base slid open only to reveal Ward, who was leading a group of people you didn’t recognize inside. Your e/c eyes flickered between all five of them before settling on Jemma, who was nearly beside herself with hysteria. 

That was when realization hit you like a brick. “Where’s my brother?!” You snapped, pushing past the older man with the glasses and the woman wearing the HYDRA uniform. “Trip! Where’s Jeff? Where-” Your chest constricted as you gripped his forearms, your fingernails digging into the skin of his forearms as Triplett held you steady with his arm around your waist. “Where is Mace?” 

  “They sent an air strike out to destroy the building.” Ward said quietly. “There were a bunch of kids inside.. Mace was holding up the main support beam that was keeping the building up. He sacrificed himself to save a childs life.” Hot tears ran down your face as you buried your face in the junction of Trips neck. “He died a hero, y/n. Your brother died a hero.” 

Everything you’d been keeping pent up in your system dissipated as your entire body slumped; your heart beat slowing drastically as your adrenaline wore off and pain settled. “My.. my brother didn’t deserve to die at all.” You whimpered, lifting your head off of Tripps shoulder to look back at Simmons. “I have-I have a resistance to lead.” 

  “No.. you have a brother to mourn.” Jemma snapped, her voice unintentionally dripping with anger as the rest of the team dispersed except you, Jemma and Antoine. “We don’t know who called the airstrike y/n... but I have reason to believe it was Fitz.” 

With the catastrophic tragedy you’d experienced in the past day, it took your brain several minutes to comprehend the depth of Jemmas words. Your eyes darkened as you lifted your head to stare at Jemma, your hands trembling with fear.. rage.. grief. 

  “And you’re still so desperate to convince me that I’m in love with the psychopath that killed my brother?!” You snarled, motioning for Tripp to set you down on the ground. Jemma swallowed thickly as you stood eye to eye with her, fueled by your want for revenge. “I will not stand to believe I fell in love with a psychopath that thinks killing The Patriot is okay. You can believe whatever the heck you please but I will never fall in love with the man who took my brother away from me!” 

  “What are you going to do about it?” 

  “I’m going to lead the Resistance to a better world, and then I’m going to kill the man who broke mine.” 

[numberxix]

{ ityasaarii } 💓 for Kyungri and Jaehwan... oops ^^

‘SEND A HEART FOR A SPECIFIC KISS. ‘sent by ( @ityasaarii / @lxtent )status: open !!

( 💓 for a heated kiss )

It was impossible to keep it logical when her mind was filled with thoughts of him, now more than ever. His hands on her didn’t help, but it was how he kissed her that got the mermaid crumbling down; if he was the wave, then she was the castle made of sand. Ever since the moment she confessed her love for him, and his for her, that it has been difficult to keep her hands from him. In one second, she wanted to run her fingers through his hair and observe as he’d take her hand closer to his lips; in the other, she wanted nothing more than to love him, worship him and the temple that was his body. It was true, the mermaid didn’t know much about love nor desire; but she knew that she was helplessly in love with him and that more than anything else she desired him.

Her emotions frightened due to her inexperience and in consequence she held herself back. But for Poseidon it was difficult something back when she found herself trapped between him on top of her and the mattress of his sofa under her. This was dangerous. If Kyungri was not careful, she…she…

What was she talking about again?

His jacket laid forgotten on the floor near the sofa together with their shoes, only being kicked off once they tripped and fell into the couch, chuckling between kisses at how they must’ve looked. Yet their concerns were immediately erased the moment their lips met, turning the world outside into nothing worthy to worry about. Her heart pounded inside her chest and she was sure that her cheeks and ears were as red as cherries; he was not better than her, she guessed, but she wouldn’t open her eyes to check it either. Not when his lips moved tirelessly along with hers. He was taking her breath away with the slowness of his movements, having her growing eager and anxious. If she could think clearly at the moment, Kyungri would say he’s doing it on purpose; teasing her, having her thin things that would make her old nannies blush but young mermaids giggle.

He held her close, wrapping himself around her like ivy and turning every movement of hers painfully evident for both. Every time he moved over her, she felt it on her frame; and every time she squirmed under his weight, the mermaid was certain that he could feel her too – unless his shirt was as thick as a brick was. His dominance, however, didn’t last long. In what later she’d call a moment of pure insanity, she wrapped her arms around his torso, one hand resting over the back of his neck and the other at the end of his back, and they rolled to the side. Thank goodness the couch was not high enough to provoke any kind of injuries, otherwise their little moment would’ve ended there.

“Sorry.” She breathed a quick apology. But that was it. In one moment, she was under him; in the other, she rested on top of Jaehwan, hands now gripping onto his shirt and her legs on his sides. Later, the mermaid would ask him if he got hurt and apologize to him. As for now, however, she eyed him as she had never eyed someone before. “You are beautiful.” He was marvelous not only in a physical way, but he also had a soul that captured her. “I love you.” What once presented itself as a challenge, now rolled out her lips with a loving easiness. The mermaid could feel the thousands butterflies dancing in her stomach, her heart ringing in her ears and the blurriness that took over her brain – she gave up on being guided by reason and prudence, only to give place to her instinct.

She loved him; she loved him so much that there were times when she wondered she was going nuts. Albeit young and with half of the world to explore, she knew from the bottom of her heart that she’d never find another like him. Neither did she want to. He was the only one for her, and it was with that thought in mind that she let go of his shirt and leaned forward. Soon her torso rested over his and her hands had traveled their way to his shoulders. Just like before, she could feel him moving under her; his heart beat, his breathing, everything. Albeit that was utterly satisfying for her, it was the way his lips kept on tempting her that incited her into doing what she did.

Kyungri closed her eyes and took a plunge.

Half hesitant, half wanting to make him wait for what was about to come, the mermaid closed the gap between them. With her hands at each side of his head supporting her weight, she kissed him with a passion that she didn’t know she had in her. If at first her kiss was slow and focused on his lower lip, it gradually started to change as she became more confident. The kiss grew deep, sucking and then nibbling on his lower lip first and then doing the same to his upper one. If he squirmed under her or moved, she was quick to make him stop by pressing her body against his, molding it as if it was clay and him the one shaping her. Soon her hands were tangled in his hair and she was starting to run out of breath; every break she’d catch from loving him, from kissing him would be used to breath (not that she thought she needed it). Even though she wasn’t sure of how to proceed from there on, she ran the tip of her tongue over his lip, asking him for permission to let her in; they made this look so much easier in the movies. Yet if he gave her enough room to explore, she didn’t take advantage of it.

When she came back to her senses, she was sure that the color of her cheeks matched the color of her swollen lips. The mermaid pulled back from him only to stop once she got a clear image of his face. If he was beautiful then, now he was dazzling. If fate proved itself to be as cruel as she thought it was, then she’d cross every single ocean to be with him; a love that not even the sea could tear apart.

[cramlingtono0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0-blog]

V__--__--___---

This is not a Sci-fi novel, this is an experimental short story.

  Take all notion of time or possible dating out of it!! IT should just be, time has become timeless, no more history. Fukyama.

 This story is about 9/11, this story is about conspiracy, collective unconscious, genetics, memetics, humanism, nihilism, the universal, neo liberalism, primeval regression, death drive.

 Add segment about the solar economy ( bataille), this is absolutely necessary, linked to the two collective unconscious segments, one relatively recent, 9/11, and one thee deepest of primeval, the sun, the universe etc.

 9/11 is the main point of this story. The deep trauma, the sleep walkers, turning up outside peoples houses, realatives of those involved, relatives of victims and perpetrators. Their young menstruating daughters then taken under hypnosis, their psyches filtered and deciphered, fragments of 9/11 found in them. All of them menstruate at the same time, all try and walk to 9/11, all walk to different clues in the lie. WRT 9/11 the subconscious just knows something’s not right, because the people that perpetrated the killings are still alive and thus are still effecting the group collective consciousness. Without being able to control it a guilty partys unconscious will project it to those around him, and they in turn will know that something is not right, they will then pass this message on, until it eventually travels from human to human. The lie is known, we unconsciously know the truth. That is why we cant stop making the 9/11 memes, cant stop revisiting the trauma , the scene of the crime. The perpetrators start to try and avoid society, kill off any unnecessary members of the group, lead line their clothing, lead line their house, use special creams to interfere with the collective unconscious transferring from person to person.

           This could also be linked to the collective unconscious of all people in all time and more specifically ancestors in your own lineage. My grt grt grt grt grt grt grt….. caveman grandfather was a passionate killer and his conscious will cannot stand the idea of such a bastard thing happening, so much so he causes these unconscious take overs of the self .

           Perhaps people who want to uncover the truth, drug themselves, hypnotise themselves to find out what the collective is trying to tell them.

 Perhaps these sleep walkers become more and more aggressive, start to have the characteristics of zombies.

 Free will needs to be fully explained as in where it stands right now, peter watts. should be pushed more, Varley should be more representative of the madness of humanity, its obsession with dominance over collective unconscious, genetics, memetics and eventually even consciousness itself.

 Varleys character should be unrecognisable perhaps? Unhuman, everything that we think of as human is gone, cut up, sectioned off. All that’s left is a slither of conscious thought, which is then useless on its own, what could be the purpose of life after that?

     The guttering woke Varley, water spilling over the edge, louder and louder. It had been coming away from the brickwork, it spilled out onto the dustbin 2 floors below.

 All the fastenings coming loose form the house, mortar now rotten, just sand, washed away by the heavy showers. 400 year old house, polymer upgrades would be expensive, and none of the tradesmen would want to touch it. The display systems flickered, audio splitting with cracks and stutters. The bricks glowed slightly, something about the clay, about the nature in them. It seemed to effect the wattage to pieces of hardware, increasing in areas, only a fraction, seemed to change the way things were processed, things take the long way round, a certain unpredictability within the cores.

 Not a bad time to wake, Varley prayed, forearm fizzed, leaped out of bed, the bedding, completely shocked, flung itself across the room. Its materiality, suddenly becoming strange as it crumpled against the wall, falling to the floor it resumed its regular physical properties. Stopping in the landing, placed their hand on the wooden balustrade and felt its vibrations. There was noise, the bin room, back of the building, the sound drifted up, stillness now, right hand against the plaster board wall, resident moisture met the specks from the skin.

 Varley switched on the Articles, started where they’d left off, volume 569, 4.5 billion years of natural, cosmological, cultural history shuffled and on loop.

 Article 8437:3894.1 Birdsong deciphered, 17 year research programme at the U.C.L.A COMA Institute of Animal Welfare. 97% of their language is directly translated as verbal abuse (bigoted, racist, death and rape threats), 3% is used to talk about shitting and the colour of shit. Their social structures seem to be some of the most bigoted and brutal to have been discovered. The Common Sparrow inspects its young within 3 minutes of birth, checking for ‘weak’ or ‘disloyal’ features. A male with the wrong shade of brown, the father will scream ‘Faggot’, the mother will push her beak into its soft chest to crush its heart. The father will scream ‘Faggot’ again before tossing it out the nest. Females deemed ‘un-sexy’, the mother will scream ‘Cunt Faggot’, the chick’s eyes gouged, raped by father, womb ripped out by mother before being thrown out the nest. The sparrow community is enraptured by these birthing rituals, adult females are raped repeatedly, and many males are killed in a frenzy of fights.

 Varley pushed off wall and banister, padded down the stairs, information was arriving, the monitor clicked on, messages piling up. Varley sat, chair towards the glass, a plane passing, 8 miles out. Its image starting and stopping.

 Second monitor clicked, dimmed as they focused. 1 pending job, Governmental, Financial, Swansea Council, Welfare and Pensions, 60mb/s, a Latency of 478, CPU share of 17%, a minimum 25% partition and an hourly of £73. Accepted, share was high but money was good, sat back to adjust to the new measures, prayed to account for increased latency, skin in between fingers itched. Via Sydney took a look at the work, data transfer, 7,643 seeds, so boring it had to be legitimate, disconnected and burnt the trail through the proxy. Head lolled from side to side. Four hours was worth it, you don’t even notice.

 Tingling in the groin and gut, designated a subconscious porn loop to restrain, tingling stopped, looked for nutrient levels, all fine, a spluttering hiss as the plankton paste regulated itself.

 Closed eyes, shallow in the animal brain, echo of an orgasm and breakfast, barely started. Gone now, pray, face washed in basin. Ever soft features. Neat teeth, tongue soft purple, gums grey. Micro genitalia, a clitoral penis, vaginal opening, universal anus. A prayer, tingling in the belly, soft colours around the tips of the ears, left eye shaking.

 The universal arsehole, the cosmic leveller, the purity of the squirting little squid in your pants, make me some putty now. Come brother come sister, stare at the sun, clean your retinas. Crouch, bend forward and shit, heels lifting out of our shoes, hands clasped to one another. The democracy of the arse hole, the point at which we can all meet, I know you a bit better because I know my own arse hole. Our best kept secret, we’re all the same, we all have a horrid little squirmer in our pants, let’s hold hands now.

 Noise from the bins, swivelled towards the doorway, palm up, sends a push down the hallway. Push loped round the corner, down the passage, through the larder and hitting the back door, dissipating in ripples through it. A cat, the cat pushes back, Varley prays, the cat pushes again, this time softer, watching as its colours tumbled and died away in the hall.

 Varley closed both eyes as the sun broke through the clouds, irritated at first, then thankful for the warmth and the delicate pink light making its way through the lids. Each nano second an eternity, you are here forever. An ever-dying eternity of the sun. Eternal entropic existence, warm and fuzzy. The solar economy, one way in, one way out. In between things, between states of entropic dissolvent, no fighting.

 Self cauterising laser surgery. Swivelled, legs outstretched, Stood, pulled a length of tissue from the roller. Covering the mattress with it, pulled the wheely from the corner. Laying down, starting scan, 0.25% growth, minor subcutaneous tissue near hip. Awkward ruptures between Tibia and Fibula on right leg. Display stutters, showing a helix of calcium spiralling up out of the bone, Varley could suddenly feel it. Fatty growth around the liver as usual.

 8.40am, a third of the way though the Swansea seeding, Varley paused the Governmental partition, always recommended full CPU when self cleansing.

 Room temperature boosted 5 degrees, undressed, reached for wipes and prepped the work areas. The wipe dissolving the hair and colouring the skin bright white, white for clean and white for display pickups. Liquid gathered between the fingers, painted their calf, around the liver entry, checking the display, painted left hip also. Droplets gathered and dripped, tracing down the leg, a glowing trail, speeding down the side of the foot and staining the floor. Liver area a patchwork of bleach, the skin especially soft from all the attention would split in funny ways, elastic mesh to keep the skin together. Petroleum lubed skin, hooked up pressure pads on calf, liver and hip, hissing blood pushed out of tissue.

 Article 4588:9379.6. Proven links in underground gene/meme warfare that leave the human suffering in the middle, hurt by both parties. The gene, the original replicator, the maker of the survival machine that is human, the maker of the brain. The brain, the birth place of a new, more efficient evolutionary force, the meme, each with it’s own blind agenda, each their own stubborn will to live. The human left confused between their blind squabbles, each pulling in a different direction, always towards suffering.

           The genes role was to best adapt to it’s physical surroundings, this in no longer necessary. The meme has created culture and society, a new environment for evolutionary survival. The pace of adaptation and change reached dizzying speeds. The parasites that are meme and gene fighting over the body and damaging it in the meantime. The body is just the vessel, the vessels only purpose is to carry the genes , it’s purpose now is to propagate memes as well as partially genes. Consciousness and the ffeling of self, agency, is just a mistaken by product created in the conquests of meme and gene. It has been allowed to stay as long as it is behaved. Consciousness, a transitional product between gene survival and the birth of memes stuck in the middle.

           Consciousness became involved in the mess, the growth of memes invading consciousness, the rejection of religion, the  fear of death, the adoption of memes that tried to comfort one of that reality.

           Part of the weaponry created by this mix up was cancer, a fumbled offspring of two blind, deaf and dumb mad scientists, part gene, part meme and part consciously willed. The gene losing the fight, the  meme wanting immortality, the gene responding, adapting as fast at it could, started to propagate cancerous cells, cells that were in blind short term understanding immortal. Constant reproduction, constant growth, but with the unforeseen consequence of killing the host.

 It began by redoubling it’s efforts to squash both, increasing violence, sex drive, selfishness in a bid to destroy culture and society. Trying to push humans back into small tribal pockets, back into the dark ages where they can forget their memetic pararsites and the plague of consciousness that had infected the brain. But memes and consciousness fought back, vying to stay alive and the cancer war began. It lead to millennia of backward stagnation, the strange hypocritical, contradictory projects, capitalism, communism etc etc. Strange societies, run on contradiction and obfuscation, fuled by memes counsness and a voracious genetic code. The war had begun and it was a foul state to witness. Memetics and genetics only know the primeval, they only know the brutality of the universe, the systems they make are ones of blunt trauma and self serving vice, this is what human society had followed for thousands of years. Society became a ritualistic place of genetic and memetic role-play, a strange stage for us to express our memetic and genetic desires, to enact our unconscious drives.

This war created conditions experienced in the 21st century, this bizarre unstable situation, 2 blind megalomaniacs and a scared confused consciousness. The ‘self’, believing it was in control of its actions, believing that free will existed, when really it had nothing, no say in anything, pulled this way and that by it’s unconscious masters. Until it was all revealed, genetic behavioural code revealed, consciousness becoming aware of what its master were. Fooling us all along, unconscious areas of the brain making decisions well in advance of any conscious process, the feeling of free will and ‘agency’ produced is a retroactive construction, protecting the mind from the feeling of helplessness. A key feature in genetic and memetic survival, the vessel must understand little to nothing of it’s actions while believing they are in full control.

 Cancer was a desperate attempt for the gene to take back control of the situation. It had started to feel the presence of the invaders, consciousness and the memes. Now the genes were turning on their own creation, desperately trying to pare it back. Cancer was it’s weapon, the body need not live that long anyway, only for enough time to reproduce and protect the family. The life cycle needed to be addressed, too much time for consciousness and memetics to start interfering in matters.  

 Memes and genes however lacked one thing, that was foresight, the ability to imagine. This allowed humans to retake control of the body, the brain. To regulate both gene and meme and allow consciousness to take back territory. Humanity unified by consciousness, the one true leveller that is shared by all, everything else is just memetic or genetic behavioural systems, race, gender, class, sexuality.

 Laying down on the bed, face to the paper towel. Turning over, best to do the calf muscle last. Scanned again, local anaesthetic injected around entry point, Varley began the clean at the liver, using hands, head to the side at wheely’s monitor, small claws pinching the skin, tension, pressure pad off, skin quickly parted, no blood. Pushing stomach out the way, fascia snipped, parted just enough to allow access to bottom of liver, 0.18mm shave, fat sucked and vaporised, liver shines, light colour of new cells, quickly pared back to the darker red. Exits, sealing partitions and skin, rearranging stomach, skin pulled together sealed, 1 inch opening when the clamps let go, final seal. Second cut at hip, cells on inside of subcutaneous tissue, more anaesthetic, pressure pad removed, small skin door opened, shaved and sealed, no longer than a minute. Unclips screen, flips over, drops pressure pad into sterilising bucket, suction skin, the layers peeling back, new pads sucking and holding. Small robotic arms from the wheely work calmly, anaesthetic, muscle split, calcium spiral bored out, bone saturated with inert solution, sealed, exits, layers back in place, sealed and finished. Varley flips over, reattaches screen, a pink droplet runs from the liver stitch, wraps midriff with surgical compress. Sits on edge of bed, flushes guts into bucket and wipes down body. Skin tingles, some potential energy. Varley prays and fingers itch.

 Washes face, features so soft, nose barely rising out of skull, soft dome eyes, wide slits, tiny lashes, hairless body, micro genitalia

  Article 4588:9379.6 Genetic code regulation, neurochemical inhibitors and digital brain stem attachments were now the standard. Consciousness was now the unifying factor for humanity, consciousness was the only way out of this ruinous situation that genes and memes and lead us. It was discovered that consciousness comes in and out of human society, sometimes it is necessary for both evolutionary parties, other times it is a hindrance and must be stamped out. The process of genes removing consciousness could be done in as little as 5 generations. This didn’t leave the world governments much time to act to try and save consciousness.

 The understanding of our genetic sequencing enabled society to quickly back some control of the genes. Reproduction for a time became a state controlled procedure, given the circumstance people were relieved, the current position being that 38% of the population was dying before the age of 45, with the age decreasing year on year. No one wanted the genes to be in control anymore.

 The memes were dealt with brain stem attachments, the aim being to overload the brain with information and then while it is distracted to try and let consciousness make unencumbered decisions. Artifical free will. Brain stem attachments developed, to confuse and hinder the animal brain, to lead it into a complete state of confusion. Just background noise. The Brain stem attachments, digital hyper loops for media projection techniques. The unit running constantly, updated remotely if more effective loops found. The loops floods the memetic holding areas of the brain, leading to saturation, this saturation temporarily dissipates the ability for memes to hijack consciousness and propagate themselves. The synthesised loop using imagery, sound, music, many different sensory devices. This part of the brain has been partitioned so they are not noticed by the user. It did cause headaches on some of the earlier models. The loops are updated and refreshed daily, the memetic receptors quickly learn the loops and began to operate outside them, refreshing them never gives them this option. The saturation of this part of the brain gives consciousness a chance to respond to reality without the constant pull of the memetic agenda.

 When first experienced, users felt rather empty, especially after v.2293747 of the genetic code, with many genetic behaviours removed. People’s heads all of a sudden felt empty, this feeling was worrying for many. Used to the comforting totalitarian drives of the gene and meme, now suddenly alone, left with no one to guide. People felt empty and life became very abstract, many suicides, it took a long time to get used to. Life suddenly, became a quite bizzare experience, where as before ‘things made sense’ but for no reason apart from delusion of agency and delusion of purpose.

 Artifical Free will, free will is never possible because synapses can never fire on their own. Need to stress this! One media loopto saturate the memetic ares of the brains. One part of the brain stem attachment fire synapse’ in the brain. When firing, the brain would be active and then thoughts upon this platform are slightly freeer than previously. We are reactive beings, we take information from the outside world and then respond to it, we are not proactive, we cannot create thoughts out of nothing. Our brains can only react to what we feed it, it cannot create anything of its own.

 Neurochemical brain levellers, brain chemicals regulated, remove all fluctuations, to reduce the chances of acting based on genetic hormone releases. Everything was flattened out to give consciousness the best chance.

 The cancer though was a continued problem, genes had seemingly become more sophisticated, something hidden to us was going on and the labs were in a constant battle to irradicate its cancer spreading, age of death had bee rescued and now stood at 85, still 45 years off what was once the average age of death, 135.

 Then go into brain rape, brain stem attachments, articial free will and the conscious trying to outplay genetics and memetics to gain some sort of control over their reality, this is the purpose of genetic control and brain stem attachments, to forcibly take control. How to supress memes? Overloading the brain with ideas and then from that point of total knowing make a ‘free’ choice, not allowing any one meme to take control, not enough space for all memes, just a little taster of each to create artificial free will.

 A reminder pops up as Varley is towelling the last of the pink saline droplets leaking from the incisions. All surgical rinsed at the wheely, then placed in it’s central autoclave for sterilisation. Wheely pushed under the mantle piece where a fire place would have been.

           The reminder was a Rotation notification, Varley stepped into stores and found the freeze dried samples. Once every 3 months sperm and eggs samples were given, for research and also reproduction.

           The door buzzed as Varley padded back down the stairs towards the front door. Opening as they neared it, the bright light pouring in, Varley moving feet to avoid it’s heat. There was an awkward whirring outside, the wheeled drone, stuck on the upturned bin lid. Taking a black umbrella from the hall, Varley slipped on some flip flops, opening the umbrella as they stepped out, the heat of the sun still making it through the shield. Being out in the sun all morning the bin lid was hot, it’s shiny surface reflecting the light back onto the pale legs, skin itching from the irritation.

Varley soon freed the wheel, unable to pick the lid up, kicked it to one side of the path. Indifferent to Varley’s presence, the buggy carried on it’s journey to the front door where it tooted it’s chirping electronic horn. The mother drone waiting in the middle of the street, the little bays opening up for its returning kids. Varley made their way back inside, scanning the packages on the front sensor then placing them into the open hatch, its cooled interior air a huge contrast to outside atmosphere. The lid closed and the buggy whirred back through the front gate, down the curb and back into its designated bay in the mother drone. Last back the mother drone now sped off, back to the regional facility. The facility will process the specimens, apply any new updates to the genetic code (normally 10-20 alterations found made a month), some samples kept for research, viable stabilised code sent on to a randomised facility, where all the worlds modified genes were kept. There the lottery would begin, the whole worlds sperm and eggs, randomly chosen to create the next generations. V.8402893 was the current genetic base, our own gene pool, now consciously controlled. No parents, no tribes apart from humanity at large. (platos republic idea?, Sparta’s societal structure). Becoming a sole agent within society.

             Varley was back upstairs, already had a universal credit payment from the Reproduction centre. Sat down at the screens,

   Perhaps adding something to say that games were the future of all social interaction and experience.

      Sleep walker 9/11 article. The weaving of the collective conscious and unconscious into video form, film editors, the new order of priest soothsayers. Reconstructed from hive mind footage, which is exctracted from collective consciousness, sleep, hypnosis, young girls on mentrals cycles. A girls first period (girls monitored for this, as first period arrives they are examined for fresh collective memoris, passed down from generations, secrets, loves, stories, horrors.

 Collective conscious starts to get heavy, get saturated, starts to obsess over traumas, over guilt. The consciousness becoming more sensitive and more powerful. Sleepwalking was the first instant, people would begin walking, end up at ground zero, massed outside people houses (guilty people).

  Article 4588:9379.6. Senen Cove, 14th March 2014

 Without disturbing the covers, her bare legs slipped out of the bed, her feet instinctively finding the slippers. Her husband snorted at the slight disturbance, turning over awkwardly, his t-shirt catching in such a way that would eventually lead to his arm going numb, upon waking he would realise his wife had gone.

           Her feet had pushed all the way into the faux fur slippers, her night gown falling to just below the knee. She was now seated on the side of the bed, hands massaging the mattress, all the muscles in the face relaxed, eyes shut, still sleeping. She stood and made her way across the room, she crossed the landing, walked slowly down the stairs, hand on the bannister, at the bottom she slowly unlocked the door.

           Senen Cove was a small village, deep south west, Lands End, England, it was 4.12am and dark. The wind was blowing bitterly as Claire walked down the central road through the village. She turned sharply, through the pub car park, over the knee high timber bar and down the shingle embankment.

           Halfway down the slope she twisted her ankle, falling head first into the loose rocks. An automatic groan as the wind was knocked out of her, rolled onto her back and stood, carrying on her journey towards the sea. She hobbled down the rest of the embankment, clearing the shingle and out onto the sandy beach.

The sun was just pushing up over the land behind her as her slippers touched the cold water. Her pace unchanged as she proceeded into the sea. The blue black darkness calling her forward, her head held transfixed on the horizon, her eyes shut, still sleeping.

The dark water was now chest height, breathing now short, her footing lost where the sea bed fell abruptly away. Her head underwater, she breathed in, filling her lungs, the cold salty sea funnelled into her lungs. Chest convulsed, partly retching the water back up, with her head still under the next breath drew in more water, this continued until she was unconscious, each convulsion gentler than the last.

   Were part of the unearthing of the 9/11 myth, through a hive mind, collective conscious investigation. Groups have started to investigate the past, freedom of information of the past, the agencies tried to disrupt this but the hive minds managed to stop this. (think of Peter Watts at the beginning of that book, the government systematically killing the hive minds, against anything that goes up against them). They were able to contact spirits within the atmosphere, or troubled spirits from the actual locations of these traumatic events, these investigations are recorded, fragments of memories stored. Different spirit perspectives brought together, edited to work out what happened, moment by moment. Video editors, are now almost soothsayers, spiritual, their practice is magical as well as technical.

 The spirits are haunting the world, not being released into the cosmos where they are meant to join the flux/wind of the universal, the universal. The guilt plagues the spirit, and is spat out upon death only to travel within 8 km of where the death took place, given the size of the universe, 8km is like being stuck in a shoe. As you can imagine, in New york this was difficult, given it’s size and a human propensity to trauma and guilt.

 They unearthed the memories from the people, not only could they interact with the spiritual they could also tap into relatives of the people, particularly the daughters, particularly while menstruating. They did this with the help of drug inducement and hypnotherapy, stored memories deep in their unconscious.

 They also find fidden footage of the actual event, the inside of these rooms and the stair wells as they were being boarded up. Gassed, sleeping gas. They find this buried in the back garden of someone home, he never knew what his father had done in his life. He had himself always had an inexplicable fear of the garden. The package was sealed, and secured in special containers. It seems we never want to die with these things, we always want to leave some sort of trace, some way that the truth can still be got at somehow.

 The hive minds and Editor Shaman have got together with surveillance to set up detection posts across the lands. To detect these restless, ‘Grounded’ spirits.

 They depend on these conspiracy theories, they depend on terrorism, they depend on prejudice, cold war, racism, sexism. They depend on all forms of bigotry and self interest. All of these Narratives have helped the retainment of the status quo and the oppression of the masses for the world over, everyone has been fucked by this, everyone. Everything is a smokescreen for economic oppression, there’s no way that without these things people would put up with the lack of social mobility etc etc etc etc. The more the consciousness of the people grow, the more desperate the agencies get. Greater amounts of force is necessary, greater spectacles, the more outrageous, the more unthinkable the more believable and also the more open to conspiracy theories. They actually aim to make the false flag scenarios as complicated and outlandish as possible, of course they could have just blown up the twin towers on that day, but that would have been to easy, not enough of a spectacle, they needed the whole world to tune it, the whole world to see the fantastic display of badly masked planes supposedly hitting the towers. If it wasn’t so unbelievable no one would have believed it.

           They left too many clues though, the money, the bonds, the hijackers, the drills, that amateur masking.

 This was all revealed by a secret silicone valley group The Hive minds ended up unearthing all of this. Elon Musk  managed to get one up on the world agencies and set up an independent bureau of investigation.

Elon Musk is himself the centre of a conspiracy theory, he tactically nuked himself apparently after writing a digital suicide note. The tactical nuke became a favourite of the authorities as it handily enough vaporised all evidence and made the crime scene un-investigable for many months. I wonder what lengths someone such as Musk must go through not to be assassinated by the authorities, how careful does he have to be not to be framed, self suicide etc. What securities does he have to build up, personal, physical, technical, governmental, international. etc etc.

 There are some who say this has been planned for a long time, and that for years it has been forced into our collective conscience. Through imagery, 911 emergency, all these things, so when it does happen we’re already comfortable with the idea, we’re already halfway to believing it. ( talk about precognitional memory, the shadow government already have a deep understanding of this, they know that propaganda just needs to be maintained through ought the present and into the future to make us believe it right now, they know it’s a 300 year old plan that started yesterday.

 There are now inbuilt programs that can detect possible precognition patterns, like an antivirus. Every person now has their own defences, their only checks on everything, food, water, information, everything is checked, double checked.

   Need More Varley -Varley Gaming here, alternative economy, brain power used to organise economy (like bit coin harvesting). Neo liberal capitalism modelled on 3.5 billion year old genetic survival, need an economy for the future.

  Conscious Rape , started with the hyperfrontality epidemic, all forms of stimulation. This brought about the unification of the sexes, the unification of gender, sexuality, classes, nations. We were all suddenly seen as one thing, one being, slight human consciousness. The forever misguided human consciousness, forced, coerced into nearly all actions. Consciousness became the unifying force in all of this, all of us,

This first led to big crack downs on all visual, audio, media stimulation that could be seen as collaborating with either genetic or memetic survival at the detriment to the human subject. For billions of years the human consciousnessn the human being had always come second, now with memes on the scene, it was trailing in third place. There needed to be a rebalancing.

The brain was deemed woefully out of date, out of touch with the new world. The Brain is a 3.5 billion year old piece of hardware, only getting a firmware update every million or so years, it could not keep up with the alter, alien devices that proliferated around the world. Consciousness Rape clauses aimed to stop companies and media preying on us. Sex, Fear, Violence, Death, all these things were part of the problem. The populations of the Centro Western States came together and agreed to try and limit the constant inseccessant attacks on the struggling consciousness. All sexualities, all genders, all classes came together for this.

           Devices were developed to single out animal, or knee jerk brain responses. People were notified in real time when they were making decisions based on a limited free will or their animal instincts. There can never be free will, but the closest thing to it. Discuss free will, Peter Watts, how can there be free will when everything is a reaction, you can only ever react you can never assert yourself, you can’t make yourself think, full stop.

   Genetic Code roleplaying as humans, memes also roleyplaying as humans, consciousness stuck in the middle of these blind , waring factions. Memes and Genes also trying to get rid of consciousness, it wan’t good for either of them.

 Culture is a tool for genes and memes inject the illusion of agency upon a being. Culture/society as stage for us to role play within. Memes and genes needs consciousness in order to survive, it holds this consciousness, maintains it through culture. Society/ Culture is all an unconscious creation of these survival systems.

           All areas of human life just a performance to enhance reproduction of these entities. Different genes and meme sets , with different skills put together different showcase areas to highlight their skills in order to impress mates and engender themselves within the social structure. Sciences, arts, government, money, banking, finances, nature, these are all tribes that are vying with each other in order to promote their gene/meme sets.

  Reciepts (gang of murderers)

Gang of people murdering high ranking officials on their death bed, 40 years after their offence. The list of damned people is public, so they know it’s coming. Will kill you 5 years before your estimated death.

       End on the sun, the solar exchange, varley looking again at the outside world, the hot rays, perhaps he decides to spend the rest of the day on the roof sunbathing, building up his relationship with the mother of existence, his true parent. The Sun is our immediate provider, our immediate creator, we are her offspring, she is our mum. We can only learn from her example, for ever giving like the sun, even unto our own destruction.

 Perhaps elaborate on the idea that once we leave this we become part of the universal, then the universe dies and becomes a part of something else, then that dies and becomes part of something else. Where is the end point of this? Ballard, voices of time!!

  Fish all fucking the wrong types of fish. Both chemical and sound pollution began interfering with fish migration and breeding patterns. The high levels of mercury inducing bouts of clinical schizophrenia and mass hysteria amongst many species of fish. Oceanic disturbances first reported off the Costa Rican coast, the Gulf of Nicoya’s beaches and inlets clogged with rotting fish carcasses. A group of marine biologists with the help of local fisherman soon found the source. A shoal of cod, 850,000 in number, a gluttonous whirlpool, its exterior surrounded by adult males, the interior a prison to females and the young. At night the shoal would surface, their furious circular swimming creating a whirlpool capable of dragging under smaller vessels.

            The Cod seemed to be systematically dismantling the oceanic ecosystems. When their prey was bigger than them they’d devour it, when it was smaller than them they’d rape it. The death of 37 researchers over 4 years led to many countries not allowing scientists in the water. The swarm had developed a society of constant hysteria and manic bloodlust.

They came to have a semi religious cult following by some fringes of society. People thought it was the end of the world, hundreds sacrificed themselves to the shoal, large boats, full of sacrificials would head out after nightfall. Cutting off the engines upon approaching the shoal, the sacrificals would then enter the water, the current from the whirlpool drawing them slowly in. Satilite images of whole families sucked into the swarm of fish, the blood swirling round, in the anti-clockwise motion of the swarming fish. Simultaneously drowned and eaten alive. Underwater footage of these mass suicides were often leaked from military vessels monitoring the swarm. The fish passing the sacrifices down the walls of the shoal to the bottom of the tornado of fish, the limp bodies, clothes delicately stripped off, cartwheeling down the outside of the throbbing structure, pushed and pulled downwards. The bodies were almost completely  stripped by the time they reach the bottom the structure. The flesh prepared perfectly for the young of the shoal at the bottom, meant tender, ripped into manageable strips. The fish were seen as Satanic, the coming of the apocalypse, their steely dead eyes, looking into the camera, indifferent to existence.