#he tends to destroy things when he’s bored of them. very few ever register on his radar as people even worth note

[the-darklings]

What is the I'd let you win tag? 🥺 👉👈

It’s a ship tag for two pov characters from my original novel.

They’re the duo I said people would like if they liked Corinthian/Wanderer in tibyim as their dynamic was basically backwards engineered from those two.

They’re the my monster recognises your monster, they’re dark mirrors, he’s her mentor (but trying to make her worse), they’re extreme versions of each other, they’re the academic idiots who can discuss anything for hours (he’s a genius, she has insatiable desire for knowledge), he’s extremely dark and manipulative while she’s grey at best so their morality is agree to disagree since he sees the worst in people while she sees the best, big I chose you/I made you dynamic, he’s Icarus and she’ll either help and prevent the fall or crash with him. Because who doesn’t love a good dose of devotion that corrupts and potential tragedy?

[after-witch]

Yandere Ransom Imagine

“That's some heavy-duty conjecture.”

Word Count: 2700ish

notes: unhealthy relationships, emotional and physical abuse, financial abuse, yandere

Imagine being a struggling adult working a full time job plus freelancing gigs just to get by in your one-bedroom apartment where the ceiling always leaks when it rains and you have to perform a complicated maneuver to make sure the door doesn’t jam up on you and you’re constantly worried about your landlord raising the rent.

Maybe a well-meaning friend gets you a gift card to an upscale bookstore because they know you haven’t had a new book on your shelves in years, or maybe you find $20 on the street like a veritable Charlie Bucket but instead of buying a Wonka Bar you head into a this fantastic artisan coffee shop on the rich side of town, a place that everyone always raves about on Instagram, just so you can try an expensive latte with hand-ground beans and flavors you’ve never heard of before--because don’t you deserve a treat, for once?

Whatever it is, wherever it is, Hugh Ransom Drysdale is waiting inside and sees you there.

And oh my God is it obvious that you’re out of place right off the bat. I mean, what the hell is someone like you doing in this part of town?

With your worn out clothes that are worn from necessity and not from being fashionably thrifted and your ratty purse stuffed with papers and candy wrappers that spill out when you dig in for your card or cash and your winter boots that you’ve probably worn 5 years in a row, ripped in the hell and patched with black tape that you hope people don’t notice.

It becomes even more obvious that you’re out of your element when something goes wrong. The gift card isn’t activated. The $20? A fake, probably a movie prop that blew in the wind. Whatever goes wrong, it means that you’re suddenly at the register, impatient people with real money tapping their expensive shoes behind you, unable to pay. You’re left standing there like a deer in headlights, unsure of what to do or say.

Normally he might just roll his eyes and remind himself that people like you ought to stick to your own shops, your own place. But something about the way your eyes go all downcast and you seem to shrink down in embarrassment makes him take pity on you. Like a stray cat in the alley hoping someone will toss it some scraps.

So he strides up and flicks out a card and hands it to the cashier, dropping a friendly greeting to them because he spends like crazy and they probably know him by name at this place, and he’s the one who hands you your coffee or your bag and your hands touch ever so briefly during the exchange.

He leads you away from the register--don’t want to piss off the spoiled debutantes and assistants on lunchtime coffee runs--and you stammer out a thank-you-thank-you and you promise you’ll pay him back as soon as you can and Jesus Christ, isn’t that just adorable? Someone like you, some lost kicked puppy who can’t even afford new boots, promising to pay him back?

He doesn’t care if you pay him back, but he finds that he would like something out of this exchange, so he says that instead of paying him back you can do him the honor of going to lunch with him. His treat. 

He insists. And you can’t really say no, can you? You are hungry and he did just pay for your things and it’s the least you can do to oblige his request.

He’s not stupid. He doesn’t take you to some razzle dazzle fancy restaurant where you’ll feel embarrassed and out of place. Instead he takes you to a quiet diner, classy not greasy, where you can have an easy conversation and tell him all about yourself.

It’s funny. Normally he brings up his family name, his grandfather’s books, to women he picks up, to get them impressed and hooked and pliable. Something about you, though. Something about you is making him want to turn this into more than a lunch date and pressure for a quickie in the car to repay him. 

So he holds back to see what he can do with you on his own. No quickie in the car, but instead before he drops you off--at a bus station, you insisted--he brushes his hand over yours. Can he get your number? He swears he can feel the heat coming off your cheeks as you fumble for your phone and let him put his number in your contacts.

He waits a day, then asks you out again. Dinner, this time. He asks you if you know any good places and you recommend a dive bar that you can go to after work (because 1) schedule and 2) cheap) and shit, he’s all for it. There will be time in the future to impress you with restaurants that have dress codes instead of sticky floors. You sit close on the stools and you buy him a drink (real cute, real real cute) and just for you he keeps the baggie in his pocket there all night instead of heading to the bathroom to liven things up.

Your relationship develops with an almost shocking speed. He knows just how to reel you in. I mean--look at you. Working your ass off at some dead end job, living in an apartment so shitty it takes you almost a month before you reluctantly agree to let him see it.

He can understand, though. Because you’re not that stupid and you know he’s wealthy, even before he casually brings up his family in a “it’s no big deal but I don’t want to keep things from you because we’re getting serious” sort of way. 

You pretend to be casual about it all, but he can tell you’re suddenly wondering: why the hell would someone from this wealthy family want anything to do with me?

It’s a question Ransom asks himself a lot. He asks himself this when he’s snorting coke off another woman’s stomach (hey, you’re dating, but he’s got needs and they aren’t met with hand-holding) or when he’s eating another greasy burger at a shitty bar because you refuse to let him buy you a nice dress to wear so he can take you out somewhere fancy.

You’re not the type of person he normally goes for, not at all. He has strings of girlfriends and flings, but they all tend to fit that same cookie cutter mold: wealthy do-nothings with their parent’s credit card who want someone else to spoil them for a while, without caring who it is or what they’re like. They’re easy pickings that Ransom can burn through and then toss aside when he’s bored of them. Some of them cry but a few days later he’ll see them on someone else’s arm, it’s the circle of life.

With you, though, there’s more. You don’t expect him to pay for dates or anything at all (even when he wants to spoil you a bit) and you have actual conversations and you seem to actually give a shit about what he says and does. You argue with him, too, when he wants you to do something (just let him take you shopping, for Christ’s sake!) or he asks you to move in (again) and you say no (again). I mean, you really fight with him, spitting words and all.

And unlike his previous girlfriends, you don’t come crawling back a few hours later because you want to buy a new purse with his shiny credit card. Instead, you make him apologize first. Fuck, that’s hot. It’s also something he tucks away in the back of his mind to work on later--but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t admit that he sometimes has the overwhelming urge to push you against the wall and fuck you for the first time right after a good argument. 

But he knows that would destroy your image of him entirely, so he holds back. He’s good at crafting a version of himself that appeals to others when he has to, and you’re maybe the first person that’s been worth all the effort he’s put into you so far.

But you need a push, a push that makes it so you can’t go running back to your shithole apartment when you fight or when you question whether or no you two have a future. You do, you’re just too naive--too inexperienced with money, to say it charitably--to realize it.

So he tips off the fire marshal about your apartment building’s shoddy fire escapes and well, damn, in the process of the investigation all the little corners that your landlord has cut come crashing down. At least they were discovered before it was the building that came crashing down.

But the evacuation of the building leaves you--and countless others--high and dry. You don’t have any family in the area, and your only half ass-decent friend in the city lives in the same building but her parent’s aren’t going to let a stranger move in.

When you finally realize you have no options and call him, voice tentative and embarrassed, he knows just what to say to get you to pack your meager belongings and wait for him to pick you up. He’s no-nonsense about it. 

He knows how to avoid deflating your pride, how to keep you from deciding you’d rather stay in a shelter than take his charity. You’ll pay him back, he says, you’ll figure out a rental plan or whatever. He even teases--he’s not the best landlord, but he won’t take 2 weeks to change the toilet if you submit a maintenance request. It makes you crack a smile and bam, just like that, he knows he’s gotten in.

That night, after takeout and wine and a Netflix movie neither of you paid attention to, you fuck for the first time on his expensive sheets on his expensive bed and afterwards, when you’re both sweating and cuddling and reveling in the afterglow, he makes a note to buy you some new lingerie. 

It’s all very homey, for a while. He could do without you leaving for work and working your ass off, with your freelance shit, sometimes staying on the computer until two, three in the morning. But it’s nice to have you close all the time, available to him whenever (almost whenever) he wants. He brings home takeout and you snuggle on the couch and he finally even convinces you to go out with him to a nice restaurant wearing something he’s bought and hot damn, do you look good, head-to-toe in the clothing he’s chosen for you. Especially, later that night, in private, in the lingerie. 

Does he love you? The word hasn’t left his lips yet, hasn’t crossed yours either, but he can feel it underneath the surface. No. It’s more than love. He wants you. He wants to have you. And not just for the afternoon or the summer, but forever. 

He spins daydreams about how he’ll clean you up nice and introduce you to the family. Probably to Harlan, first, because everyone knows that’s whose opinion really matters. Harlan will like you--he would probably like you without any primping or fixing, actually, which is more than he could say for his parents or anyone else in the family. Then once you’re in, you’re in--you’ll come to family dinners and vacation retreats where people always end up in ridiculous arguments, and you two can exchange snarky comments about the family on the ride home.

And yeah, sure. You fight sometimes.

He throws out your old clothes and buys you a wardrobe befitting someone he wants to integrate into his family. You fight about that.

He makes comments about you how you should quit your job or at least try to get a degree--he’ll pay, as long as you agree to go to a university within driving distance--to work somewhere more respectable than a chain restaurant. You fight about that.

He gets pissed when you want to meet some “friends” at a bar without him, because why would you need to go anywhere without your loving boyfriend in tow, unless you were trying to flirt with someone else? You definitely fight about that.

And, okay. Maybe he’s hypocritical.

Maybe he goes out late at night when you’re stuck doing your “freelancing work” and he’s in a rotten mood about it, and he ends up on the floor of a swanky club with drugs in his system and lipstick on his neck. He doesn’t come home until the next morning and you’re pissed and red-eyed and arguing with him, accusing him even, but you have no shitty apartment to stomp back to anymore so you’re stuck. 

Until you’re not stuck. Until he casually snoops through your phone and sees that you’re looking up cheap-ass apartments and hey, you’ve already booked a few interviews already. The thought of you slipping through his fingers makes him more sober than he’s been in a while. He’s got to do something. Not to himself, of course. But to you. To keep you with him.

It’s easy enough to get you fired. He’s a ‘Thrombey’ after all, and some nice crisp bills anonymously sent to the right hands is all it takes for you to come home one night, cheap mascara (he notes: buy you some better quality makeup soon) running down your cheeks. Your freelancing isn’t nearly enough to get you into an apartment.

He assumes that you’ll give up on the idea after losing your job, but you’re nothing if not stubborn (one of the reasons why he likes you) so you start the job hunt the next morning, fresh mascara in place. 

Damn, do you keep him busy. Anonymous calls. Cash in nice white envelopes. Rejection after rejection. You get so sad, so depressed. You don’t even want to go out to restaurants, so he orders in and you snuggle in his lap while he feeds you bites of orange chicken and rubs your back. It almost brings you two closer again, starts to mend the rifts that began when you refused to get over his occasional late night out.

But then you break the uneasy mending by snooping and woah, you don’t like what you find on his phone. 

You fight. 

Damn, do you fight. This time there’s no pretense of potential forgiveness as you begin wildly throwing your clothes into your ratty duffel bag from the back of the closet, telling him to fuck off fuck off fuck off, telling him he’s crazy, telling him that what he’s doing is fucking illegal and--

It’s the shock that hurts you the most.

The shock you feel when he grips your wrist hard and pushes back on your shoulder when you try to yank away, pushing you against the wall with a hard thud. It’s like having a rug pulled out from underneath your feet when you feel a slight ache in your back, on your shoulders, when you tell him to Let go, goddamn it and he only pushes back harder to keep you in place. It’s Ransom. It’s Ransom who’s doing this.

His voice feels unrecognizably cold when he leans in and hisses in your ear.

“You think you can just leave me? After all I’ve done for you? Let me tell you something--you won’t get another job within one hundred miles of here, within one thousand miles of here, unless I say you can. So just put your clothes back in the closet, chill the fuck out, and stop being such an ungrateful bitch.”

It’s the shock that makes you numbly hang your clothes back up in the closet, fold them again with shaking hands, and sit on the bed until the dam breaks and you cry.

And oh fuck, he’s sorry. Really. He wraps his arm around your shoulders and then he’s the one who’s crying and confessing that he didn’t want you leave him because yeah, he knows he’s a fuck up, he knows he’s got a drug problem, but he loves you. 

It’s the first time he’s ever said it out loud. He loves you. “I love you,” he says, again and again, half-laughing.  And he tells you you’re the only person he’s ever dated that made him want to be a better person but he doesn’t know how.

You don’t know what to say because maybe you do love him--but he hurt you and got you fired, but the tears on his face seem so genuine and he tells you he’ll never, ever hurt you like that again and fuck, he says, if you want to go get a job he’ll drive you to the interview right now just-let-him-blow-his-nose-first-please.

You make him sit down and then you’re the one apologizing and the rest of the afternoon is a shaky truce between you two as you drink hot chocolate and order in takeout and watch a movie together.

It’s not until you’re both under the sheets, satisfied and then showered, that you think about what he did to you in a clearer light. The thoughts weigh heavy on your mind, pulling and tugging. You think you might love him. He hurt you. He took care of you when no one else would. He cheated on you. 

I love you, he tells you, when your mind is starting to tug itself into sleep.

He hit you. He said he was sorry.

He hit you.

[pollylynn]

Title: On the Horn WC: 1100 Episode: Dial M for Mayor (4 x 12)

The idea of him in therapy makes her laugh. It’s actually a little bit alarming. She’s days away from her next appointment with Burke, and yet she’s genuinely alarmed that she might have to bail mid-session, because she suddenly cannot get the laugh-inducing—if not downright laughable—idea of Richard Castle in therapy out of her mind.

She imagines Burke trying to pin him down to anything—to a single, linear train of thought and failing miserably. She envisions the good, eternally patient doctor breaking down, rending his yellow pad in two, storming out in fury, because the expanding universe of Richard Castle’s psyche simply cannot be shrunk.

It’s not the kindest fantasy she’s entertained. It’s not the healthiest, but good God, being more is hard, often humiliating work, and the negative associations she’s built up around that man, that office, those fifty minutes a week are intense. So who couldn’t use a therapy-related laugh?

So she follows that dangerous, zig-zagging train of thought for a while. She chuckles to herself, then at herself as she contemplates him seeking out therapy at $4.99 a minute. It’s a far more likely scenario, she thinks, than him jogging one knee, watching the clock, giving a master class in evasion, deflection, denial in some wildly comfortable chair in a high-up midtown office. It seems downright likely that he hasn’t just “heard” about lost souls tithing at the temple of the Goddess of Good Listening.

The idea pricks at her. It’s the source of a sudden slow leak in the balloon of her laughter. She doesn’t love the idea of some woman, bored out of her mind and just looking to cover her bills, being the one who hears about the toll Martha takes on the loft’s infrastructure, or what stage of grief Alexis is in, two months and two weeks out from her breakup with Ashley. She certainly doesn’t love the idea of his daily download session all wrapped up in the kind of sexy talk that has left the tips of Ryan’s ears permanently red ever since he drew the short straw and wound up going through the Dial-a-Goddess call logs.

That falls firmly under laughable. It’s decidedly not laugh-inducing for her to be . . . what? . . . jealous? of a hypothetical woman on an imaginary phone sex line that he might have vented to once upon a time? It’s ridiculous and true—or at least truth adjacent.

It’s curious. She’s laughed herself out at the idea of Richard Castle in therapy—in one kind of therapy or another—and it’s left her quiet inside. It’s left her with a wholly unexpected moment of clarity, even with the bottle-fly buzz of jealousy, possessiveness, insecurity trying to draw her attention off.

She wonders now—seriously wonders—if he’s ever been in therapy. She thinks about the course of his, yes, very privileged life, and it’s like constellations winking into existence on a planetarium version of the night sky. She sees all the well-known points of inflection laid out. There’s Kyra leaving, there’s Meredith. There’s Alexis and single fatherhood, informal at first, and then quite formal. There’s Martha careening in and out of his life, his home, over the years.

And then there’s . . . lately.

She’s a few days out from her next appointment with Burke. It’s the sweet spot of the week in some ways. Everything has settled, more or less, from her last session. The jagged tears have trailed off into a few pooling at the corners of her eyes when she lies staring up at the ceiling for a little while each night. The razor-wire conviction that she will never—never—go back and subject herself to that again has dulled, its coils around her center have loosened. She is able, when she can breath through everything, to see progress.

Part of that progress, though, has been taking a giant step out of herself to think about time—to think about lately and not so lately and the fact that a number of the most traumatic things that have happened have not happened to her alone.

There’s Roy—their beloved Captain. That’s a loss they’ve all suffered. It’s a damnably complicated story that they cannot, of necessity, untangle together.

There’s the shooting. Her shooting, as her mind tends to snarl, and it’s true enough. She has the twinging, aching scars to claim it for herself. But that happened to all of them, too. That is happening to all of them, because who knows when they’ll come back for? Who knows which of the people she loves they might cut down to send her a message?

There’s this case. Oh, there’s so much in between. There’s the summer and silence and this land mine of a secret there between them, because there’s progress and there’s progress, and she is nowhere near ready to process his words to the dying.

But right now, most of all, there’s this case and the fact that she has blown apart the career of an innocent man. She’s been the instrument of his undoing, and in the course of it, she has hurt him—Castle. She has inflicted yet another wound and cannot see what she could or should have done differently at any point.

There’s a lot. For all of them. For both of them. For him, and she really wonders if he’s ever been in therapy.

She’s not content with that. Even though it’s late and things are raw between them. She’s not content to wonder alone as she stares up at the ceiling with one or two tears pooling at the corners of her eyes.

She reaches for her phone. She dials before she can think too hard about it. She dials before she can second guess. But when he answers—Beckett. Everything okay?—her mind is a blank. She has no script or point of entry into the conversation. She can’t just ask him, out of the blue, if he’s ever been in therapy, though that’s what’s on her mind. It’s exactly what’s on the tip of her tongue, but she cannot ask that. So she’s silent. She’s so silent for so long that she thinks she might have to bail, mid-session. She might have to claim butt dial or bed dial or whatever dial.

He’s the one that salvages things. With his mind like an unending ping-pong match, he leaps into the stream of her consciousness.

Why, Detective, he says dropping into his sultriest vocal register, did you decide to Dial a Goddess?

A/N: A golden retriever puppy in therapy would destroy all morphousness. So I've checked that off the to-do list, then.

images via homeofthenutty

[whitecatindisguise]

Blood in My Veins

I decided to do a thing. This story was inspired by this post. Sooo.... let’s see how it goes.

P.S. @honeyxmonkey, I told you I will do it if you tell me no lmao

------

At first Varian didn’t suspect the thing. So what, his jail-mate seemed to be more awake during the night than day? It didn’t even disturb him how he always scooted away from the daylight pouring through the small window. After spending months in the darkened cell he, too, started to show symptoms of photophobia.

It was after their escape and taking over the kingdom he started to notice it wasn’t just Andrew. All of the Saporians tended to stay away from the daylight. They ordered to cover the windows with dark curtains, basking the interior of the castle in darkness. They never came out during the day, unless it was cloudy or raining. Varian couldn’t fathom, why all of them shared such peculiar dislike to sunlight.

Then, it started to get weirder. Whenever he worked in his lab, which was situated so low there was no windows inside, pushing him to use candles to even see anything, one of the Saporians was there. It wouldn’t bother him that much, if not how they always trailed after him, keeping too close for his own comfort. One time, he was quite sure he caught Clementine sniffing him.

But it wasn’t until few months after their escape that he finally learned, what was wrong with Saporians.

He just finished work for today, deciding to rest a little. His eyes were closing on their own and he could barely keep himself steady, as he walked towards his bedroom. Andrew trailed behind him like a shadow. It still sent the chill down the alchemist’s spine, no matter how much time has passed.

He finally managed to drag himself to his room and pushed the door forwards, making way towards his bed. The door behind him closed with a loud clank and he turned, surprised to see Andrew turning the key in the lock.

“What are you doing?” He asked confused.

The Saporian turned to him and the look he gave the boy was nothing like he’d ever seen. Andrew’s eyes bore into his small frame, assessing him, almost EATING him. It was disturbing, to say the least.

“I have no idea, what you’re doing in this lab of yours kid...” Andrew said, stepping closer, a sinister smile on his lips. “... but whatever it is, the smell of your blood is just breathtaking.”

“What?” Varian blinked and stepped back, tripping over the leg of the bed. He lost his balance and fell backwards, landing on the plush blankets.

Before he could react, Andrew closed the distance and was looming over the terrified boy. He licked his lips in delight and leaned closer, sniffing on  Varian’s neck.

“Yes... I’ve never smelled something like this before.” He murmured, hands gently but firmly pinning the alchemist to his bed. “I don’t think I’ll be able to held myself any longer.”

“What do you-?” Varian’s question was cut as Andrew lunged forward and he felt something sting his neck.

He let out a startled gasp. He tried to push the man away, to escape the grasp, but he couldn’t. He felt weaker by the second, his vision fogging. Finally, the pressure on his neck disappeared, followed by unpinning him from his bed.

Andrew pulled away and licked his lips again, a drop of red trailing down his chin.

“Ah, I knew you were special, kid.” He grinned and Varian could swear his teeth were sharper than they should be. The man reached out his hand and gently cupped the alchemist’s cheek. “Sleep now. We’ve got so much time before us.”

Varian tried to argue, tried to get the man explain himself. But his clouded mind refused to cooperate. His vision blackened and he passed out, two bite-marks visible on his pale neck.

~~~~~~

After that night, it became a somewhat usual occurrence. To Varian’s dismay, it wasn’t only Andrew. All of the Saporians shared the same trait and he started to find himself pinned and bitten in the neck more times than he would like. It came to the point he was constantly on edge, watching over his shoulder, trying to spot red eyes in the darkness of the hallway.

No matter how much he wanted to find another, scientific explanation for their behaviour, he was painfully aware of who exactly were they. Vampires. The creatures he only read in fairy tales, never believed to truly exist. If it wasn’t for the constant pain in his neck, his growing paleness and developing anaemia, he wouldn’t believe it either.

Somewhere along the time, he started to wear a coat with high collar, to hide the sickening sight every time he looked into the mirror. It helped a bit, but the marks were still visible, so he purchased a bandana, which successfully managed to cover his neck.

It was only for show, he knew. So that he could pretend everything was alright. Pretend his allies weren’t bloodthirsty creatures preying on him. Pretend he wasn’t getting more and more tired as the days went by...

~~~~~~

When Rapunzel came back, at first he was furious. It was the first emotion he felt, seeing the woman who destroyed his life, made him a criminal.

After the Princess and her friends were pushed away from the castle, Andrew didn’t even bother to wait until Varian was back in his room. He sunk his teeth right there, earning a moan of pain from the boy. The man murmured something about how anger made his blood even more enthralling. It was hard to pay attention, as his vision swum once again, his limbs losing strength.

He awoke in his room, neck hurting from the bite. He curled on himself, weeping silently over his fate. 

Then, the Princess came back, sneaked inside right under their noses. Apparently, she was found crying in Cass’ room, holding her dress to her chest. If it wasn’t for that, Varian wasn’t sure she would be found and caught.

But there she was, stuck behind the bars as he once was. The irony of the situation was laughable, to say the least. He bantered to her how she made his life miserable, how he’s going to fix it up himself, because he couldn’t count on her. And then, everything went south.

The Saporians revealed they were planning to use the unstable Quirineon to blow up Corona. Varian was furious. Not only they used him a their personal food source, the thought of which sent a chill up his spine, but they even refused to listen to one request he had, that no one got hurt!

In a spur of a moment he tried to trap them, throwing a bomb in their direction. But, of course, nothing ever goes like he wants it too. The bomb turned out to be a bathbomb, useful when you want to take a quick bath, but useless to use AGAINST someone.

Andrew laughed, his eyes glinted red, and Varian shivered, backing away.

“Bad move, kid.” The man stepped closer, licking his lips. The alchemist could see the teeth sharpening.

“Don’t you dare hurt him!” Rapunzel cried from behind him. If Varian wasn’t frozen in fear, he would have laughed. So NOW she’s concerned about his well-being, huh?

“Oh, don’t worry, princess.” Andrew was now so close, the boy could smell the cologne he used. The man leaned forward and sniffed, letting out a pleased sigh. “We would never hurt our favourite snack, would we?”

Before the princess managed to process what he said, Andrew pulled away the bandana from Varian’s neck and sunk his teeth. The alchemist cried out, as the man was more forceful than usual. His teeth sunk deeper, he was sucking blood with more strength.

Varian’s knees buckled, his eyelids started to close. Andrew pulled away and watched the boy fall to the floor, wiping the blood from his mouth.

“Consider it a punishment for your disobedience, kid.” He said, kneeling next to the alchemist, the hazy blue eyes staring at him through the fog. “You are mine now.”

Varian’s eyes closed, world turning black. He didn’t hear Rapunzel crying out his name, begging the Saporians to let him go. He didn’t feel Kai pick him up, sling over his shoulder and take him away. He didn’t hear the cling of metal, as he was chained to the floor in the airship.

~~~~~~

“-an... -rian...” His hazy mind picked out, but he was too out-of-it to understand what was being said.

He felt so weak. His neck hurt, and so did the rest of his body. He just wanted to sleep.

“-rian...! Varian!” This time the words sounded clearer. Someone was calling him, voice concerned. “Varian, please. Open your eyes.”

Easier said than done, he thought, feeling as if his eyelids were made from stone. After several attempts he finally managed to pry them open, even if only slightly. His vision was blurred, but he spotted something distinctively familiar and purple just in front of himself.

“Eugene, he’s not waking up!” Someone called, voice trembling as if they were crying. Eugene... he knew that name... And purple meant...

“Rapu.....nzel...?” He managed to breathe out, voice hoarse and barely audible. The purple moved and something yellow and very bright appeared before his eyes.

“Oh my god! Varian!” It was truly her. She leaned down and he was pulled into a bear hug. “I thought we lost you! When they all started to...” She trailed off, not letting him go yet. “You were so pale, we could barely feel your pulse!”

“You gave us quite a scare, Goggles.” He heard a male voice. Eugene.

“Wha...? Where...?” Varian’s mind was still hazy, barely registering what Rapunzel was talking about. What has happened? Why was he so weak? Why did his neck hurt so much?

“The Saporians almost killed you, kid.” Eugene spoke up. Varian moved his head to the dark-blue blur which seemed to be the man. “They were all sucking up your blood like maniacs. Crazy, if you ask me.”

Varian tensed at the explanation. Usually it was only one of them that... drunk. And they gave him time to rest and his body to refill the lost blood. If they all tried drinking so shortly after the situation in jail...

He trembled and subconsciously reached out to grab Rapunzel’s dress. He almost died. He almost died. He almost-

“Varian, calm down.” Rapunzel called out. He didn’t even notice when he started hyperventilating. “Deep breaths. You are safe now. They are not going to hurt you anymore.”

He gripped her dress tighter, burrowing his face in her chest. Tears stained the purple material, dumping it. His whole frame shook, as he cried and hiccoughed, Rapunzel gently stroking his back.

You are safe. You are alright. You are not alone.

She spoke quietly, whispering into his ear as he trembled and weeped. And, this time, Varian believed her.

[eccia-dawnstalker]

I Am the Storm

((Theme music as you read if you so please))

Scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing…. The sounds of bristle against wood washing away the trail of dark blood that stained the floor of the shop she’d come to temporarily call home. The only home she had left now officially after tonight.

"You aren't the type to pine," The Kaldorei’s voice echoed in her mind. Words spoke just hours ago. Or was it minutes? How long had she been scrubbing this floor. Was the blood stain even still on the floor or had she just been scrubbing it all on her hands and knees lost within the recesses of her mind. "Oh? Then what type am I, do tell." "The type to compartmentalize your feelings, I get the impression you'd agonize over your feelings before letting them be known. I imagine you deliberate about it all for a while."

Again the conversation echoed in her mind her ears pressing firmly against her head as she continued fervently scrubbing. She could still see it, the pandaren home with Sin’dorei motifs engulfed in flames. Flames she’d set in motion as she watched it burned down within her mind. The fire like a wildfire as it grew and grew consuming all within its heat. All the memories she’d built, all the life she’d known prior and till this night had been unable to let go of. Of her life among the Quel’dorei, among the Sin’dorei as a ranger. A life, that no longer had room for a void being to dwell within and the consequences of her choices since then.

"As you know, I've been gravely mistaken before. And easily mislead later. So I think it wiser to keep them to myself till and if an opportunity clearly presents itself. If even then."

"Patience is a good trait to have," he replied as his eyelids fluttered slightly. His voice grew more tired as he continued. "But sometimes it can be a weakness instead of a strength in situations to do with feelings. Or so, I've tended to notice.." She blinked, she hadn’t noticed the passage of time again well into the heart of the night going on into the morning. A glass within her hand, the smell of his familiar preferred drink on her breath. She raised the glass to look to it, how many had she drank now? For that matter when did she think to start and break into his stash? Knowing him he wouldn’t care but even as she had consumed the contents it failed to numb her mind… failed to comfort her any as it merely trapped her further within the recesses of her thoughts. The floor was fully scrubbed as was the counter, no more blood remained in fact it looked like she’d scrubbed every square inch of the floor as it practically sparkled now. The only dark spot on it left was that of her own figure drunkenly brooding now lost within her thoughts. She brought the contents of the glass up to her lips as she threw her head back to consume, feeling the burn down her throat as she went for the stairs and climbed slowly to the top. One hand out helping guide her along the wall while her eyes closed. She could still feel the rage coursing through her veins, still hear his cries echoing through her every being and worse yet… she could feel his final harsh caress as he seeped through her body following the shattering of his home. The sound of shattering crystals, of a foundation that was once her home within Quel’thelas… his home. The home that cast its shade over her all these years and still now lie in rubble as the magic that animated it had been forever destroyed and with it, her freedom of the entity that haunted her every waking thought. But instead of comfort now at last she felt… empty.

Her shoulder found the doorway leading into her room. The spare room he’d lent her within his home during her troubled times. The dark tresses of the Kaldorei sprawled elegantly along her pillow even as he slept. Her eyes not focused on his face however, but on the wound that lay wrapped around his bare chest. Her empty glass at her side still held in hand as her glassy eyes caught sight in the corners of them the armor she’d tediously cleaned free of his blood however many hours before and now drying on the table. The sounds of her work that put him to sleep mid conversation, so tired was he that he didn’t even register her final words before the exhaustion of the last few days they’d survived through took him.

"If, it was ever meant to be... then perhaps I'm naive enough to believe they'll see through my hesitation instead of choosing another. Either way, I won't be the one to make it known first... ever again."

If ever again… a very, very big if. She slowly and quietly walked over to the end of the bed, before lowering herself to the floor and resting her back against the bed as she rolled her head back. Her hands limply settled at her sides as she stared into that dimming darkness of her dying candle that lit the room. The sounds of his breathing the only thing to be heard past the flicker of flame. She stared into the darkness waiting, waiting for that familiar voice to come and attack her. To prod at her heart and very soul as he knew her every thought. Her every desire, her every secret. But there was nothing but silence…

She could still see the Gilnean’s face, see how he glanced through the door and stopped in his tracks only to advert his eyes from her. How he turned without a word and walked away without a look back nor a reply to her despite her attempt to genuinely thank him for being there for her. For being her rock as he held her tight despite how she deliberately attempted to violently break free of his hold. Stopping her from murdering the elf behind her now in her bed and that highborn mage in cold blood as she remained consumed by the last bouts of madness in Run’ahl’s wake. His words still echoing in her ears as he pleaded with her to fight the madness and return to him, to them. The solid feel of his arms around her as he held her up when she had nothing left in her to fight with as the darkness faded at last broken with that shattering sound. The smell of his lotus cologne that was almost a perfect mirror to the same that she smelled now of the elf slumbering behind her. A slumbering figure that she didn’t dare watch sleep in his current state as she knew how she felt for him, for them. Or did she? Did she even truly know anymore? For that matter, after what they’d just endured and the humiliation each of them bore on her behalf would they even look at her the same? Or would she be surrounded by fake faces, masks they hid behind protecting themselves from her as both had their faces covered even now. Her thoughts finally her own no longer misguided nor tainted. So much fuel to torment her with, but all she had now was her own thoughts and… silence.

Her eyes snapped to her hand then as she just realized it was shaking. Shaking as if cold, that kind of cold that no blanket could warm. She raised her hand up before her face as she watched it shake, felt it traverse down her arm along her shoulders before she pressed her hand firmly to her face and it stopped. Eyes shut tight in her momentary lapse of reason.

Stripped bare, Silence, Darkness. A single decision. A decision that ended the tremors and gave her but a moment to breath in deeply, then back out. She hadn’t lost everything tonight. She still had one blanket left. That one area left in her mind that had always been there to protect her. And with that complete numbness that filled her she became that metaphorical stone she had be to protect herself from everything. Even from herself. Only then did sleep finally take her as she slowly slumped over to the floor to bare witness to the storm within her mind that’d plague her nightmares. Within that storm the hunter rose from the ashes of all she’d buried this night… yet to be seen. ((Mentions go out to @illdraes and @ivanvukoja - thank you both for being a part of a huge arc in her character development. I have been blessed to share some wonderful rp stories with you both and I hope you enjoy the fruits of your labors ))

[oliveraaliyah1994]

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Premature Ejaculation Zhongwen

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[fictional-scenarios]

Ugh... that new BNHA episode killed me! Scenario please where Iida had left his partner before the Hero-Killer's battle because he wanted to focus on his goals, and afterwards when he's better but injured he comes to see them because he realizes he was selfish and wants them back. I need some good Iida feels in my life.

SAAAME i feel so bad i never want to see iida cry ever again… i just want to hold him and tell him everything will be okay -mod cassie

The news was all over television, both outside in the broken up streets and in your own home. The infamous killer, Stain, had been killed by the Hero Association, and paired with that was the blessed news that the Nomu were defeated with only a handful of injuries and damaged property. The toll of both the costs and the casualties could have been much higher you supposed, so you took the victory with a smile, a hand on your chest. “Thank god.”

Still, there was a certain lingering feeling in your chest. You hadn’t heard anything from your friends at the Association, either Izuku, Ochoko, or even… Iida. It was odd not receiving a text back from him since usually he answered within seconds, and if it not right away less than 5 minutes at the most save for when he was busy training or tending to family matters. Even considering your recent history he still answered whenever you’d message him, though now it was much less than before. Even though it had been a gentle break up, you still caught yourself staring just a bit too long at his contact name, fingers itching to message him, to see how he was. You refrained for your own self care, knowing that talking with him casually would do more harm than good, so you let it go. While you didn’t understand why chasing his goals meant the end of your relationship, you didn’t argue with him (though you feel like you should’ve) and wished him good luck on his mission. That was the soft but piercing end of it.

Until the night before. With all the chaos the internal hurt didn’t register whatsoever as you frantically typed to him, asking him where he was, if he was safe. He never got back to you, never even looked at the message, and while there were no deaths from the attack you still worried up and down about his well being. It was very Iida to get right in there, to protect people, and while you trusted him to keep himself safe you couldn’t help but be worried about him.

Sitting out on your couch, there wasn’t much to do with your afternoon. Your parents had been out for a few days and wouldn’t be back until at least four more days, and while before you dreaded that fact given last night’s scenario you were thankful for their absence in knowing even if the town was destroyed, at least they’d be safe. Now that the calm was back, you were bored. You’d made yourself lunch, did the dishes, laundry, dusted, even killed some time by sorting clothes that you’d already gone through days before. You patted your knees in no particular rhythm, staring at your ceiling and subconsciously waiting for a ding of your texts being answered.

Your phone was not the thing to alert you. It was a knock at the door and truth be told it startled you, head snapping to the direction of your front door and knitting your brows. Really, your parents would be the only ones coming to your house, so who was it? You’d already talked to the kind hero who visited you earlier asking if you were okay, so why would he come back?

Smoothing your clothes down and taking a quick moment to use your fingers as a makeshift brush, you approached the door and closed one eye, glancing into the peep hole. The person on the other side made you gasp, heart fluttering.

“Iida!” His name left your lips before you even opened the door all the way. Upon seeing you, he straightened his back and looked down at you. He seemed… Okay, except for the casting on his arm and the crutch under his other. It sucked seeing him injured but he was alive, and that was all that mattered.

“___,” He started, bowing. “I’m sorry to have come uninvited, but if you’d forgive me, I can explain.”

You blinked at him in bewilderment. “Of course,” You stepped to the side. “Come in.”  Iida bowed again in thanks and stepped past you, taking in the environment he’d come to know so well during the course of your relationship. “Please, take a seat.” You murmured as you closed the door. He maneuvered his crutches to lean against the armrest of the couch before settling down.

“Your parents are still away.” He stated as he idly looked around.

“Ah, yeah, their trip was extended.” You said sheepishly, for some reason finding yourself feeling a bit flustered in his presence. It was a mystery how even after he’d broken up with you, just being around him was still enough to make your cheeks warm. You sat beside him, hands tensely resting on your knees.

“I see.”

“Yeah.”

There was an awkward silence, one that made you close your eyes and frantically think of something to say. There was so much you wished you could say to him. Did he reach his goal? Did he see Stain? Yet you remained silent, not wanting to overstep your boundaries but also not knowing how to bring anything up.  

“___.” Iida suddenly started, voice tense and arms even tenser. He was staring down at his lap almost as severely as you were, and his eyes were almost unreadable. He was stressed about something, surely. You waited intently, turning towards him, not looking away when he managed to look up at you too. “There’s something I came to talk to you about.”

You nodded. “Okay… Go on.”

He seemed to sigh, troubled, and shut his eyes briefly. When they re-opened his expression was different than before, this time much more determined. “I have been thinking back on some of my… Questionable choices these past two days.” For some reason you wanted to break eye contact, a strange feeling building in your gut. “One of those choices was our last encounter. I was being unreasonable and selfish.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, placing a hand on the cushion and leaning towards him. “No, Iida, you we-”

“Please.” He interrupted you, which was not something he usually did. “I’m sorry for stopping you but you must listen to me, ___.” Instead of following the burning desire to comfort him, you agreed, settling back down and nodding for him to continue. “Thank you,” he sighed. “As I was saying, I wasn’t in my right mind the last time we talked. My judgement was clouded by a… Selfish ulterior, and I made you the one to suffer for that. I apologize, and if you’d allow me to, I would like to make it right.”

“Make it up to me?” You watched him, exasperated. He nodded once. “…How?”

It was strange to see Iida not very animated. Instead of his usual repetitive motions and actions, he was nearly totally still with his fingers nervously fidgeting with the edges of his pants.

“If… You would be interested… I would like to make it up to you by treating you better.” A redness spread over his cheeks, that determined expression now softening to something much more vulnerable. It made your heart melt.

You swallowed thickly. “Are you… Asking for a second chance? For us?”

“Yes.”

Mind racing, you stared back down on your lap. Many different emotions coursed through you and it almost made you dizzy, almost made you unsure of what you wanted but one thing was much stronger than the rest. Maybe it was because Iida was right there, staring you like his world was in your hands, maybe it was because you really did want him, but you smiled at him, reached out and pressed a palm to his cheek.

“I’d like that.”

The sigh that left him was so loud, like it was a breath he’d been holding for days. His shoulders actually untensed, head dipping to face his lap in relief. You watched him and your smile only grew. But, you still wanted something even if it meant pushing your luck.

“Iida,” You murmured. He turned to look at you, the corners of his lips twitching to turn upwards. “Can you kiss me, to prove it?”

For a moment you were worried that he wouldn’t, his expression perplexed and then contemplating. However, before your skin could turn to needles and you could laugh off your question, he made a move. It was quick but there was definitely passion, your lips connecting. He lingered for just a moment, one hand awkwardly still in the air like he was afraid to touch you. When he pulled away he was flushed much darker than before but you were smiling, even following his lips for a moment.

“Are you convinced?” He asked, tilting his head. You grinned and leaned back against the couch cushions, face on fire but happier than you’d been in days.

“Of course.”

[charyzard]

I wrote another Jaal x Ryder, 2800 words. Should be spoiler free. Prompt-fill for ‘First kiss.’  read it on ao3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10720971

Fresh Water

The firefight was almost over- Hell, Fiona was reluctant to even call it that. She’d pulled a few gas canisters together (and one sniper) and thrown them around the corner into the mass of idiots hiding behind a rock, blowing them to bits if their necks weren’t already broken. It was almost pitiful. Only the smart ones were left, keeping to cover and bolstering their shields to avoid Fiona’s biotics. It was one of those pains in her side that threw a grenade behind Jaal’s cover, snapping her focus sharply to the explosive sailing through the air towards her friend. An image flashed through her brain, losing him, losing what they’d begun to have. No- not happening.

“Jaal! Get down!” Fiona shouted, her voice piercing over the comms. She was already dashing over to tackle him, biotics boosting her speed, and the impact was enough to knock them a few feet away- still, Jaal waited for the impact of the grenade. Even at a distance, it was going to rip through his shields. He squeezed his eyes shut, wrapping his arms around Fiona’s waist as they hit the ground- he’d at least try to take some of the blast for her.

The explosion never came. In fact, there was nothing registering in his senses; no noise, no pain, not even a ringing in his ears. Was he dead? Jaal cracked his eyes open, half expecting nothingness. Instead, he was greeted with Fiona leaning over him, one hand by his head, the other splayed out towards the sky. The purple, shimmering sky. That wasn’t normal. The shimmer extended in a bubble around them, Fiona herself laced with the shifting light. It was her biotics, he realized, isolating them from the surrounding carnage. She looked down as he shifted, the barrier dissipating, and fixated her blue eyes on him with concern.

“Are you okay? Let me check you for injuries-“ Fiona began, her omni-tool flaring to life, ready to apply medigel. Jaal stared at her quietly as she tended to a slash on his leg, an earlier injury he’d been ignoring.

“Fiona.” He attempted to get her attention, listening passively to Drack destroying people in the distance. She wasn’t responding, and Jaal sat up, reaching out to put a hand on her arm. “Fi.”

“Huh? What, am I missing something? Are you hurt?” She put a hand on top of his, concern heavy in her voice. She couldn’t lose him, not to something like this.

Jaal wasn’t sure how to convey his gratefulness, nor the warmth that was welling in his heart at the sight of her. She was more beautiful in that moment than he’d ever thought possible, the last of her biotics shimmering across her skin and sweat on her brow, brown hair disheveled, a smudge of dirt across her red cheeks. “Not in the slightest. You saved my life. Come here.”

Jaal pulled on Fiona’s arm, shifting her into his lap as he pulled her into an embrace. Fiona squeaked, surprised, but not entirely protesting. It was awkward in their armor, but nothing mattered to Ryder as Jaal cradled her head, his pupils wide and holding steady with hers.

“Um?” Was all Fiona managed, her eyes flitting between his lips and his eyes. God, his eyes, they were looking at her like she was a star, and it made her heart fill with an almost terrifying mix of wanting and pure, unadulterated joy.

“May I kiss you?” Jaal asked, unsure. Fiona was visibly scared, but she hadn’t left, and she was starting to put her arms around his neck-

“Please,” she breathed, and that was all Jaal needed.

Their first kiss was gentle, gentler than Fiona was expecting. Jaal took time to brush his lips against hers, the tingling current of his bioelectric field flickering across the sensitive skin. It left Fiona breathless, and she gasped when he kissed her harder. This was what she was expecting, want and tension and curiosity bundled tightly behind their lips, his large hands holding her close, her deft fingers running across the ridges on the back of his head. The current was stronger now, nerves in her body firing off in ways she didn’t know they could. He was sweet to taste, something indescribably him, and when his tongue pressed against the seam of her lips, Fiona almost whimpered.

”Fiona,” Jaal murmured into their kiss, his rumbling voice sending a shudder down her spine. God, he sounded almost predatory, and it made heat pool in her stomach.

“Hey, you kids done with your nonsense yet?” Drack’s voice cut through the comms, gravelly and wholly cranky, “Because I’m bored.”

Fiona and Jaal pulled apart, embarrassed. The dark blue flush of Jaal’s cowl mirrored the redness of Fiona’s face, her cheeks burning under the bright sun.

“Uh, yeah, we’re good,” Fiona sputtered, rolling off of Jaal and standing. She noticed her knees shaking- shit, she had it bad. The angara stood, eyeing Fiona carefully, unsure of her reaction. She seemed concerned more than anything, which bothered him. “Let’s- um, let’s go back to the Tempest, since these raiders aren’t a threat to Prodromos anymore, okay?” Fiona ordered, her voice wavering. She needed some time to think about what just happened.

“Fiona, was that… not alright?” Jaal asked as they walked back to the Nomad, and Fiona snorted in surprise.

“That was fantastic. I just need to think about this for a little bit, okay? I promise, I’m more than pleased with what that-“ she waved her hands towards the battlefield in emphasis- “was.”

“I- alright. I believe time to think is a wise idea. I will find you later?” Jaal asked, and Fiona nodded. Their hands brushed together, and Jaal was reassured by the contact. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to think of anything else for the next few days.

Drack watched their exchange from a distance, amused. Love was a good, pure thing, and if it was making Fiona happy, it was good enough for him. Jaal was a good kid, the Krogan mused, and they were more than crazy about each other. Fuckin’ kids.

The roast in the oven smelled fantastic- enough so that Fiona had taken up shop in the galley. She was gently picking her guitar strings to pass the time, cradling the instrument gently in her lap. Music had been the one thing that kept their family together, Alec actually taking the time to teach both of his children how to play guitar for the first few months after their mother died. Then he became engrossed in himself, in his obsession with the Initiative, with SAM… They lost a parent all over again, no matter how many times Alec had insisted he was there if they needed.

‘Hollow words mean nothing,’ Fiona thought bitterly, but she shook herself out of the rut, strumming a heavy C chord and returning to thoughts of the food in the oven. Even if Drack had said no peeking, Fiona still couldn’t stay away from the mouthwatering scent of it; she’d even kept Peebee from stealing a bite, reluctantly.

“Pathfinder, Jaal is looking for you,” SAM pinged into her head, “And Mr. Vidal has located the sheet music you requested, on the condition that you come back to Kadara soon and play it over a bottle of scotch. He says he found a new rooftop you would like, as well. Shall I download the music onto your omni-tool?”

“Please do. And let Jaal know where I am, would you?” Fiona replied, left grinning by Reyes’ demands. She didn’t think she’d find so good a friend in Kadara of all places. And then there was Jaal- a small sprout of joy started in her heart. She always liked her conversations with Jaal, and since they started flirting… With the dearest one and the emails… and that kiss! They still hadn’t talked about it, and she’d been wanting more since they’d left Eos. His presence in her life was filling a need she didn’t know she had. It wasn’t long before the man in question meandered into the galley, his nose twitching as he focused on the oven.

“What is cooking?” The angara asked, leaning down to peer through the glass. Fiona took a generous stare at his behind as he bent over, idly plucking strings.

“You mean, like, the act of cooking itself or what’s in the oven?” Fiona teased, reaching one foot out to poke his rear end. Jaal jerked in surprise, turning around to shoot her a flat, unamused look.

“You know the answer to that,” he replied, humor tinging voice. Fiona giggled, drawing a smile onto Jaal’s face. “But I still do not know what’s in the oven.”

“Drack is cooking us a roast for dinner, and it’s got to be one of the best things I’ve smelled in weeks,” Fiona explained, and Jaal nodded, satisfied with her explanation. His attention then turned to the musical instrument in her arms, his interest piqued. The angara placed high value on music, and he had no idea Ryder was musically inclined.

“That is an interesting instrument. It looks similar to some of ours. Why are there so many strings?” Jaal asked as he pulled a chair opposite to Fiona, settling in comfortable. He gently rested his foot against hers and quirked a small smile, earning a grin from her.

“Well,” Fiona began, “Each string has a different tension, which is managed by tightening or loosening the tuners. Then when you strum the strings, the different harmonics produce different pitches. The body of the guitar is hollow, which amplifies the sound. This is an acoustic, but I have an electric guitar from my dad, and Scott has our bass guitars. But they’re in storage right now. We used to joke that we’d go around as a family and play for any new species we found in Heleus, but obvisouly…” She trailed off, lost in thought for a moment as she ran her hands along the polished maple-wood surface. “I suppose I could still do the same. Mind being my first audience?”

Jaal didn’t know how to respond; in angaran culture, live performances of music were very important affairs, and private demonstrations were considered almost intimate. Still, he could tell it meant a great deal to her, so he nodded. “I would be honored.”

Fiona shifted slightly- what to play? It was significant, the first song she performed in Heleus, at least for someone else. A peppy song wouldn’t do it, not given their situation, but maybe, maybe a classic. “Alright, sit still for a moment. I have to tune this.” She fiddled with her tuners, strumming with frustration for a few minutes as she tried to find the right sound. When she struck the right chord, though, she knew. With a soft sigh, she relaxed into her seat, and began to strum. When it came time for lyrics, Fiona didn’t know if she should sing- but the words were in her throat, welling up and bubbling to escape her lips.

“Come up to meet you, tell you I’m sorry, you don’t know how lovely you are,” she sang softly, the words coming naturally. It was one of her favorite songs, one she associated with her mother- It was the song that comforted her and Scott when Ellen died.

Jaal listened closely, the lyrics giving away more sadness than Fiona ever expressed. He knew she was hiding her feelings, but this… He saw tears in her eyes, but she didn’t waver; if anything, her voice grew stronger as the song went on. And by Zorai, her voice was something magical. It was soft and almost breathy, but clear and refreshing. Like a soft spring, he thought, and water after a parching day. And as she grew more confident, it rang through the small galley like a hymn. He was well and truly fascinated.

“Nobody said it was easy, nobody said it would be so hard,” Fiona breathed, the last of the lyrics trailing after she had finished playing. “I’m going back to the start.” She stilled, silence settling into the void left behind by her words.  She wouldn’t look up from her guitar, a white knuckled grip on the fretboard, not trusting herself to meet Jaal’s gaze. She knew he was staring at her, trying to discern the flood of emotion she’d just poured at his feet.

“Fiona?”

“Yes?”

“Look at me, please.”

She raised her head, blinking away the tears in her eyes, swallowing the knot in her throat. Where she was expecting pity, Fiona only saw admiration. Jaal was watching her with gently reverent eyes and a smile, and as Fiona turned her head to the side in confusion, he bowed his head gently.

“Your voice has the grace of the yevara. I have never heard a vocal range that spreads so, it is wonderful. You are wonderful, darling one. Thank you for sharing that with me.” He reached out for Fiona’s hands, and she placed her guitar on the table to hold his. His fingers were larger than hers, firm but soft, and cool to the touch. She could feel a light current raising the hair on her skin, a soft shiver going up her arms as he ran his thumbs over the tops of her hands.

“Thank you for listening,” she replied softly, watching curiously as he took one of her hands and spread the fingers apart.

“Your fingers are small, but they are so deft. I was watching you play, it was intriguing. They all move so independently, and yet, there is no lack of purpose. And how eagerly they grab onto things,” he chuckled, recalling how her hands danced over his cowl when they kissed, and how even now she wrapped her hand around his. The skin to skin contact enticed Fiona, her emotions a jumbled mess, and she was struck by a desire to kiss him.

“It’s pretty useful,” she mused, her lips pursing into a smirk. She was planning something. “Good for getting a nice grip.” With those words she pulled herself forward, shifting into Jaal’s lap. He snorted in surprise, his chromatophores flushing blue in a blush, and stared at Fiona. She was looking up at him with a sly grin.

“What are you doing, dearest?” He asked, knowing full well that teasing her would elicit a rebuke.

Fiona whacked his arm softly- there’s the rebuke- and leaned in. “I’m gonna kiss you, silly. Unless, you don’t want to?” She was asking for more than just a kiss, he could see it in her eyes.  She was asking for a yes or a no, a go ahead for their relationship, a culmination of their thoughts since Eos. Jaal wanted nothing more.

“Why would I ever say no?” Jaal rumbled, and they kissed again. There was no sweat on her lips, no salt to tinge the taste of her. To Jaal, she tasted almost like water in its purest form. Even better, there were no chest plates, no awkward poking armor to keep them apart. Fiona clung tightly to him, her hands smoothing over the back of his rofjinn- it was softer than she expected it to be, almost plush. Jaal splayed his hands over her lower back, pulling her closer as they kissed. His tongue pushed against hers and drew little sighs from Fiona’s chest, stress falling from her shoulders the more they moved with each other. They were so engrossed in each other that neither of them noticed Drack and Vetra walking into the galley, stopping dead in their tracks.

“What the fuck?” Vetra sputtered, and Drack started cackling. Fiona froze, turning to look at her friends guiltily.

“Hi,” Fiona giggled, the hilarity of the situation masking her embarrassment.

“Hi, yourself. Spirits, get a room, would you?” Vetra countered, but she couldn’t hide the smile on her face, mandible flared. It warmed her heart to see her friend happy.

“Ah, relax. Their just having fun, yeah?” Drack joked, smacking Vetra on the back. The turian elbowed him, and Jaal finally found his words.

“Drack, you’re here. I would like to know what exactly you’re roasting!” He still had Fiona on his lap, but that wasn’t a problem, as far as he was concerned.

“I’ll tell you if you get our boss off of you. Shouldn’t you be pathfinding, kid?” Drack chuckled, and Fiona sighed. He had a point.

“Alright, alright, I’m going to the bridge. You guys have fun in here, cooking and hopefully not slandering my name. You know how important professionalism in the work environment is!” Fiona piped up, standing. Jaal pulled her in for a last peck before she left, earning a disgusted sigh from Vetra. She grabbed her guitar and booked it out of the galley, leaving her crew mates to tease Jaal and prep dinner.

[smileduponyou]

✩

The Ultimate Relationship Tag

Send ‘✩’ for the following:

Disagreements:

Who is more likely to raise their voice?: GregoryWho threatens to leave but never actually does?: CraigWho actually keeps their word and leaves?: GregoryWho trashes the house?: NeitherDo either of them get physical?: Very rarely and only because they can hold their own against each other pretty damn well. How often do they argue/disagree?: I want to say on occasion but less than people expect them to.Who is the first to apologize?: Gregory.

Sex:

Who is on top?: Switch.Who is on the bottom?: Switch.Who has the strangest desires?: … Why do I wanna say Craig, actually?Any kinks?: Tons.Who’s dominant in bed?: Both can be quite domineering.Is head ever in the equation?: Do people need to blink?If so, who is better at performing it?: No one knows cause they’re never truthful about it and instead semi-mockingly say the other is.Ever had sex in public?: I feel like they would cause they don’t give a shit.Who moans the most?: TieWho leaves the most marks?: I feel like this is also a tieWho screams the loudest?: I don’t see either of them as screamers, tbhWho is the more experienced of the two?: Gregory.Do they ‘fuck’ or ‘make love’?: Depends on the moodRough or soft?: Again, depends on the mood.How long do they usually last?: Honey… if you let Gregory tops and he wants to make you last, you’re gonna be in for at least half an hour to an hour.Is protection used? I wanna say this depends on moodDoes it ever get boring?: With these two??Where is the strangest place they’d have sex?: Probably a roof or balcony.

Family:

Do your muses plan on having children/or have children?: I feel like this is a ‘no’.If so, how many children do your muses want/have?: N/AWho is the favorite parent?: You know damn well it’d be Craig.Who is the authoritative parent?: GregoryWho is more likely to allow the children to have a day off school?: Both. Gregory because he understands the concept of ‘mental health days’ and Craig probably just to fuck with the school.Who lets the children indulge in sweets and junk food when the other isn’t around?: Craig.Who turns up to extra curricular activities to support their children?: BOTH.Who goes to parent teacher interviews?: Gregory.Who changes the diapers?: Turns but often times Gregory talks Craig into confusion and he ends up doing it.Who gets up in the middle of the night to feed the baby?: GregoryWho spends the most time with the children?: Craig. Gregory would try to spend a lot of time with them but his work has him VERY busy a lot of the time.Who packs their lunch boxes?: CraigWho gives their children ‘the talk’?: Both.Who cleans up after the kids?: Depends on who is around at the time.Who worries the most?: GregoryWho are the children more likely to learn their first swear word from?: CRAIG.

Affection:

Who likes to cuddle?: Gregory. Craig acts like he doesn’t but you know damn well he’s lying.Who is the little spoon?: Often times, Gregory. Though he’ll switch if Craig wants to.Who gets naughty in the most inappropriate of places?: They are both guilty as fuck of this.Who struggles to keep their hands to themselves?: Craig.How long can they cuddle until one becomes uncomfortable?: Honestly? I wanna say they can last a night, if desired or needed. Generally cuddle sessions can go for about an hour, maybe a little over.Who gives the most kisses?: Gregory.What is their favorite non-sexual activity?: Banter, banter banter. These two snipe each other a lot, playfully.Where is their favourite place to cuddle?: Home. Preferably on the couch and with the cats.Who is more likely to playfully grope the other?: Craig.How often do they get time to themselves?: While Gregory is pretty busy with his charity and revolution work, he does try to set aside time to spend with Craig. So they can get a few hours daily.

Sleeping:

Who snores?: Gregory, actually, though they’re rather quiet ones.If both do, who snores the loudest?:Do they share a bed or sleep separately?: Share a bedIf they sleep together, do they cozy up together or lay far apart?: It’s a damn adventure. I wanna say they start apart and then just gradually migrate to each other in sleep.Who talks in their sleep?: Craig.What do they wear to bed?: I’ve no idea for Craig but Gregory tends to wear orange, striped pajamas.Are either of your muses insomniacs?: Both of them, terribly. Can sleeping pills be found by the bedside?: Occasionally but Gregory keeps track of them.Do they wrap their limbs around each other or just lay side by side?: Again, starts as the latter and then gradually shift to the former during the night.Who wakes up with bed hair?: Both but Gregory’s is worse due to the curly texture of his hair.Who wakes up first?: GregoryWho prepares breakfast in bed for the other?: Gregory.What is their favorite sleeping position?: Craig strikes me as a ‘sleeps on his back’ kind while Gregory is either on his stomach or right side.Who hogs the sheets?: Craig.Do they set an alarm each night?: Gregory’s internal clock wakes him, Craig keeps no alarm and will kill a man if he’s woken before dawn.Can a television be found in their bedroom?: Yes.Who has nightmares?: Both.Who has ridiculous dreams?: Both.Who sprawls out and takes up most of the bed?: GREGORY Who makes the bed?: Gregory What time is bed time?: Whenever the hell they can manage to sleep.Any routines/rituals before bed?: Gregory is meticulous and will brush his teeth, trim his nails and rub lotion into his hands before bed, as they tend to dry out easy.  Craig probably only deals with his teeth before going to bed.Who’s the grumpiest when they wake up?: Surprisingly, Gregory. Craig is that kind of lazy passive.

Work: 

Who is the busiest?: GregoryWho rakes in the highest income?: Depends on what Craig does but generally I’d have to say Gregory.Are any of your muses unemployed?: NahWho takes the most sick days?: These two are so damn stubborn they’d have to be incapable of standing up before taking a sick day.Who is more likely to turn up late to work?: Gregory, since he is his own boss.Who sucks up to their boss?: Neither. Craig would sooner flip his boss off and Gregory works for himself.What are their jobs?: I don’t really know for Craig but Gregory would continue his revolutionary and social work. His income comes from family fortunes and draining the bank accounts of corrupt, horrible people.Who stresses the most?: Gregory.Do your muses enjoy or despise their careers/occupations?: I wanna say enjoy. I can’t see Craig lasting five minutes in a job he hates because you know he’ll flip a higher up off and end up fired for it.

Gregory has always enjoyed his work, so…Are your muses financially stable?: IMMENSELY.

Home:

Who does the washing?: CRAIGWho takes out the trash?: Either. Depends on who is around.Who does the ironing?: GregoryWho does the cooking?: Gregory. He’s had to cook for himself since he was like… 10, so he doesn’t mind.Who is more likely to burn the house down just trying?: CraigWho is messier?: CraigWho leaves the toilet roll empty?: Craig and he always gets scolded for it. Sometimes has the empty roll tossed at his head.Who leaves their dirty clothes on the floor?: Neither. There are hampers everywhere.Who forgets to flush the toilet?: NEITHERWho is the prankster around the house?: Both are and they will go after each other like it’s a war.Who loses the car keys when it comes time to go somewhere?: I wanna say this is more so Craig.Who mows the lawn?: Neither. Gregory has a gardening company hired to deal with that.Who answers the telephone?: Typically Gregory but Craig will if he isn’t home or can’t answer right away.Who does the vacuuming?: GregoryWho does the groceries?: I don’t think these two do one big trip. It’s more like a ‘one notices they’re almost out of a few things, calls the other to get it while they’re out’ kinda deal and nothing else.Who takes the longest to shower?: Gregory.Who spends the most time in the bathroom?: GREGORY.

Miscellaneous:

Is money a problem?: Fuck no.How many cars do they own?: WELL…. Considering Gregory’s income and his use of vehicles to get to several different areas (and maybe needing to destroy the unidentifiable ones) they can have up to five at a time, though likely only two of them are registered and can be traced.Do they own their home or do they rent?: Own it.Do they live near the coast or deep in the countryside?: I feel like these two would be more countryside than coast.Do they live in the city or in the country?: I wanna say somewhere in the middle. Not suburbs but sort of in a space between country and city limits.Do they enjoy their surroundings?: Yes.What’s their song?: I Just Want You from Castle OSTWhat do they do when they’re away from each other?: Gregory is typically doing his revolutionary or social work. Likely leading a protest or staging a coup. Craig I feel would spend a lot of his time either at home or just exploring about.Where did they first meet?: La Resistance but it was fleeting so it’s not really considered their first meeting. That was more at the Batting Cages.How did they first meet?: Gregory was on a walk and just noticed Craig, decided to walk over and see what was going on.Who spends the most money when out shopping?: Gregory.Who’s more likely to flash their assets?: … Craig does it intentionally. Gregory does shit with innocent intentions that can be seen as ‘lewd’. Like the fact he straight up has a pair of booty shorts with ‘Enemy of the State’ over the ass that he wears when it’s too hot.Who finds it amusing when the other trips over?: Craig.Any mental issues?: Craig has trouble with emotions and saying what he means, Gregory has some abandonment issues due to the distance between him and his parents.Who’s terrified of bugs?: NeitherWho kills the spiders around the house?: Spiders aren’t killed. Gregory catches them and lets them go.Their favorite place?: There’s a big hill in the woods behind Gregory’s house. It’s a really great place to see the stars at night and occasionally there are even fireflies.Who pays the bills?: GregoryDo they have any fears for their future?: I want to say they really don’t. Craig might?Who’s more likely to surprise the other with a fancy dinner?: GregoryyyyWho uses up all of the hot water?: GregoryWho’s the tallest?: I… don’t know, I don’t know your Craig’ s height?Who’s more likely to just randomly hop into the shower with the other?: CraigWho wanders around in their underwear?: Craiiiiig.Who sings the loudest when singing along to the radio?: Gregory but he has the pipes for it.What do they tease each other about?: Anything and everything, tbh.Who is more likely to cringe at the other’s fashion sense at times?: Likely Gregory but he wouldn’t say anything.Do they have mutual friends?: Mostly just Tweek. Gregory doesn’t really have friends outside of Mole.Who crushed first?: … Craig.Any alcohol or substance related problems?: No. Gregory only indulges in moderation and Craig doesn’t strike me as the type.Who is more likely to stumble home, drunk, at 3am?: Neither.Who swears the most?: Craig.

[itsworn]

Modernizing Old Halibrands & American Racing Wheels

There’s an almost universal truth in the world of obsolete parts: the sweetness of a deal is sometimes inversely proportional to the utility of the score. That manifold you found for $100 fits Desotos but you have a Chrysler. You’ll practically fall into a 60-inch-wide axle when you really need something about 58 inches. And don’t even get us started on wheels. Given width, diameter, bolt pattern, and wear it often feels like you’ll never find the one that’s just right to complete that set of three you stumbled into for real cheap.

But we have good news. Wheel-mounting holes, whether boogered or drilled in the wrong pattern, can be filled and re-drilled wherever you want. And our pal Buffalo at Buffalo Enterprises has a relatively novel way of doing it to alloy wheels: he plugs them.

In the process of showing what he does we’ll explain it in finer detail, but here it is in a nutshell: he drills and taps the existing holes and then machines a threaded slug from similar metal in such a way that they achieve an interference fit. Then he mows down the slugs to the height of the surface around them and drills the repaired area to take a new hole or holes. The beauty of the process is that it’s up to you where those holes go. In fact, his most common job is to convert Halibrands from six-pin racing use to five-lug street use.

Now, if I know you guys half as well as I think I do, I know what a bunch of you are thinking: Why not just weld up the holes? To paraphrase Buffalo, consider the application.

The wheels that this applies to are cast of either aluminum or magnesium. There are a few problems with aluminum and mag. For starters, casting and alloying technology wasn’t at its pinnacle when most of these wheels were made, and impurities trapped in the castings can wreak havoc once reheated. But that’s almost a non-issue compared to what happens to these non-ferrous alloys over the years.

To put it mildly, the metal gets contaminated. Coat a part in oil for long enough—say from a leaky hub—and a porous aluminum or mag casting will soak it up like a sponge. Yes, you can burn or bake it out and some people are really good at it, but it’s not fully reliable … and you probably don’t want to gamble on a valuable wheel. And contamination is nothing compared to oxidation. Oxidized aluminum, for example, has a far hotter melting point than aluminum. So by the time an oxidized area starts to melt, the good material around it can drop out in a blob.

And magnesium is on another order yet: it’s below zinc on the galvanic scale, meaning it reacts with everything, including the other metals used to alloy it (like aluminum which is about the same galvanically, and copper, which is way higher in the chart). I’ve watched the lip of a very desirable, non-vented 18×5 Halibrand make a “pffft” sound as it literally disintegrated in a puff of smoke. And this was after bead-blasting, torching, and grinding a trough to dig down into shiny, clean metal.

Then there’s the hole itself. Even if you were to exercise perfect pre- and post-heat processes, you’re still piling on a ton of material to fill a hole the size of a pin or lug nut. The amount of heat put into such a relatively small area makes shrinkage a real problem, and that invites cracking. And Buffalo says that magnesium filler piled in by such aggressive means tends to have poor structural integrity—he says drilling a hole filled with magnesium creates powder rather than chips when drilled. Not exactly a confidence-inspiring thing for something that separates your car from the ground. Or a guardrail. That’s not to say that it’s impossible to weld up giant holes in alloys or even old mag. But it’s not nearly as reliable as this non-welding solution, according to him. And the majority of wheels that he does this to end up on cars that go sideways on dirt ovals. If they can handle that, they’ll certainly live up to whatever you’ll put them through on the street.

Now for the bad news: Buffalo really doesn’t want to work on your wheels. However, there’s good news: he’s more than forthcoming with what it takes to do it. We’re here to tell you that it’s not a speedy process, but in light of the alternatives (unusable wheels or possibly destroying them in the process), it’s well worth the work.

This poor wheel has suffered enough: originally six-pin, it was drilled for a five-pin hub, and the pattern wasn’t what I have (5.5).

The first step is to drill the holes to the size of the smallest tap necessary to fill them. Buffalo uses conventional coarse-thread taps.

It’s possible to drill overlapping holes, as shown here, but not to tap them individually. In these cases two must become one, and that means a giant drill and tap.

He tapped the hole clean through to make a conventional thread. While probably not entirely necessary, a mill makes it a lot easier to make big threads like this one needs.

Buffalo cuts the threads in aluminum bar stock just slightly oversized so they won’t just fit in as-is but will take a threading die. This part is key.

He then ran a die over about an inch of the end of the bar. Taps and dies cut progressively, which means the last inch or so of thread tapers ever so slightly from the nominal size to just oversized.

Thread just a little bit at a time and then check your progress on the wheel. The bar stock should thread into the hole just enough to protrude through the other side of the flange.

Buffalo aims to have the bar stock protrude by about 1/8 inch.

He cut the bar stock to make a slug that stands about 1/4 inch proud of the surface. Then he sawed a slot in the heads of the slugs and checked the fit again.

Because of the tapered threads, the slugs achieve an interference fit much like a tapered pipe thread. That’s probably sufficient but Buffalo likes security. So he uses high-strength thread locker.

Once coated, the slug goes back into the hole where Buffalo drives it home with a draglink socket (basically a giant flathead screwdriver tip on a socket). Between the interference fit and the thread locker, this ain’t coming out. Ever.

Buffalo then mows down the protruding slug with an end mill. He goes to the mounting surface and maybe a thousandth or so deeper just to make sure they don’t interfere with the wheel fit.

And here it is, a wheel brought back to the point of the second-to-last machining process it underwent more than half a century ago. This is blank-slate stuff! The world is your oyster!

I like the part of the oyster with a 5×5.5 bolt pattern. So do a lot of other people. So Buffalo made a jig with that and the other popular patterns. It registers on the standard Halibrand hub opening. Absent this jig, it’ll take a rotary table and a mill. But that’s not the end of the world.

But before drilling any holes, it pays to align them with existing ones. That preserves as much of the wheel’s integrity as possible.

Buffalo finally installed the drill fixture and bored the holes to 11/16, the diameter of the shank-style lug nuts that I use.

Finally, here’s the wheel from the front side. The shadow is from the pressure plate from when the prior owner ran it pin-drive. After bead blasting and sealing, this wheel will be ready for a tire. And quite possibly another 60 years of rolling.

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