#i am finding that i am including way too much information yet the details haunt me enough to make me put it in

[antoine-roquentin]

This series is shaping up to be about covert attempts by institutional power structures to undermine the health and safety of the international working class. The previous part, Part 4, is here. You can find a cool easter egg by seeing who the magazine in the bottom right image was delivered to.

The above is a dossier compiled by a right wing business intelligence group and purchased by the CIA not long after the events I’m about to share occurred. It is hosted on the CIA’s website for declassified files, the Reading Room. It was prepared by Fulton Lewis III, an outspoken supporter of the Rhodesian government and the son of a Hearst-sponsored anti-communist radio broadcaster, sort of the Tucker Carlson of the 40s and 50s. We don’t have the CIA’s own assessments because those are still classified.

When we last left the crew of the spaceship Ramparts, they were dealing with infiltration, incompetence, hedonism, an inability to secure funding, and the heady addiction of fame. Things were about to get worse as their own interpersonal disputes had come to the fore. Keating had seen his power at the magazine get whittled away as incentives in the form of shares for other backers became necessary. At the time, Hinckle counted among his friends Howard Gossage, an advertising whiz kid who helped popularize Marshall McLuhan and did the Sierra Club's first campaign. He frequently went to Gossage for advice. The two came up with a plan to push Keating into the 1966 Democratic primaries for the 11th district of California (later held by Leo Ryan, a CIA critic killed at Jonestown, and now held by Nancy Pelosi) as a way of reducing his influence on the day to day operations of Ramparts. In the midst of a meeting, they had two staff members slip away and come back with signs that said "Keating for Congress" and "Keating the people's choice".

By the start of 1966, however, the election bug had spread through the offices, both because it allowed Ramparts to make the news it reported on as salacious as possible, and because the Democratic Party had largely denied ballot access to anybody who was anti-Vietnam War. Bob Scheer, the foreign editor, ran in Oakland, and Stanley Sheinbaum, the Michigan State University professor who'd exposed the CIA's role on campus, ran in Santa Barbara. All gained 40-45% of the vote, mainly by cohering those opposed to the war. One thing in particular all three did was bring together the black vote (for instance, Julian Bond, mentioned previously in the series, campaigned for Scheer). Their campaigns were run by a coterie of Ramparts staffers, namely CPUSA member Carl Bloice as well as Berekeley lecturer Peter Collier, and were endorsed by a combination of black and Hollywood luminaries, for instance Dick Gregory, the civil rights activist and stand-up comedian, and Robert Vaughan, Napoleon Solo on the Man from Uncle and both a murderer and a victim on Columbo (see him argue about Vietnam on Firing Line with William Buckley here). Some of the opposition research on the three came directly from CIA files and was given to the establishment candidates by LBJ's press secretary Bill Moyers.

With the elections lost, Ramparts needed a new spin on things to bring back all the anti-electoral politics radicals. Fortunately, in nearby Oakland, a new group had just been founded called the Black Panther Party. Huey Newton and Bobby Seale like to portray their group as their own innovation, two upwardly mobile college kids shooting the shit late at night. The group they'd been part of prior to the BPP, the Maoist Revolutionary Action Movement, described them as "adventurists" for their desire to put theory to practice and finally organize in the community instead of just talking about it. Whatever the case, Newton learned from Robert Williams' Negroes with Guns that California law, influenced by white supremacist vigilanteism, allowed anyone to openly carry a weapon even in the presence of police. He went to Chinatown, bought copies of Mao's Little Red Book for cents, and sold them for dollars in Oakland as part of a course in organized self-defence, then used the money to buy shotguns and M-16s for use by graduates of the course. By February 1967, Ramparts staff writer Eldridge Cleaver had made contact at a speaking event for Malcolm X's widow Betty Shabazz, where the Black Panther Party founders and their cohort were the only ones armed. Cleaver invited them to the Ramparts offices for a sit down.

Remember the bit from the last part about Shabazz' bodyguards? That was Seale, Newton, and Co. Their arrival caused  Hinckle's police buddies to get worried, and they put out an APB and surrounded the building, much to Newton's consternation. Hinckle suggested they go out for a drink, but nobody was buying it. Newton stared down a cop, who undid his holster. Seale put his hand on Newton, who told him off. "Don't hold my hand, brother." Seale released it, because that was his shooting hand. Newton taunted the officer. "You got an itchy trigger finger?... OK, you big, fat, racist pig, draw your gun!" All the Ramparts' staffers who'd come to watch as well as the officers' backup got the hell out of Dodge. Eventually, even the officer backed down. It was the first time the BPP had ever gotten the police to back down. It brought admiration from the entire Ramparts staff, who soon made the magazine the semi-official outlet of the BPP. And it brought Cleaver into their fold. They appointed him spokesman/Minister of Information within weeks. The following is the only news footage from that day shot after the incident, the rest having been lost, with Scheer in the background at one point:

And that wasn't even the most shocking thing going on at Ramparts. This series has previously mentioned the National Student Association as a bunch of debate nerds who essentially trained to have public speaking and organizing on their resume for future employers. The thing about the NSA was, it was a CIA front, and generally suspected as such. In 1947, there was an implosion of student politics' international facing groups. Those who had seen the Soviets fight in the Second World War generally accepted their claims to want world peace on their face, while the groups aligned with the Catholic Church teamed up with disparate right wing WASPs and Jews to fight back. The CIA had taken these students (to note, these were largely men in their late 20s or early 30s, grad rather than undergrad) under their wing and organized them into a front group that could report back on invitational events held in Eastern Europe. In turn, the top echelons of the NSA had to be sworn into legal secrecy as a prerequisite of participation, with the reward being entry into the old boys network of politicians and bureaucrats which virtually guaranteed a job.  

The CIA fucked up. In 1965, the elected president of the NSA was Philip Sherburne. He was sworn into secrecy on the source of funding for their new HQ and general operations, as was normal for the group. But he disliked that they had only one source of funding, and he wanted the NSA to be independent. At the time, the grassroots in the organization who followed international politics and hewed to the left had managed to get some of their membership into power, but they had felt straitjacketed by the CIA's complete control of NSA finances. Many wanted to join in on the anti-war marches. Sherburne and others, spurred on by abrogation of Juan Bosch's regime in the Dominican Republic and the electoral fraud that brought the American-backed opposition to power, worked to find alternative sources of funding. They sent one an NSA man as part of the operation, but he got cold feet and worked with Sherburne to expose it. In response, the CIA had a number of top NSA men declared eligible for the draft in Vietnam. Bureaucratic fights ensued, involving the lives of students in America, Spain, Vietnam, and elsewhere. Finally, Sherburne went above the CIA's head to vice president Hubert Humprhey. In response, the CIA went and cut all of Sherburne's independent lines of funding. Unbenkownst to them, Sherburne had made a relatively radical student named Michael Wood his outside line to donors. He'd told Wood not to approach certain groups because they were backed by "certain government agencies". Wood had surmised that this meant the CIA and gone and picked up the only book out on the Agency: The Invisible Government, by David Wise and Thomas Ross. When he saw that the NSA's funding for 1966 had the same donor groups backed by the CIA, he realized Sherburne had lost and stole the files.

Twice the New York Times had published articles critical of the CIA in some form. In 1965, Texas congressman Wright Patman, initially elected on his support of the Bonus Army and ever a thorn in the establishment's side, had investigated 8 charitable foundations and found them to be CIA cutouts. The NYT had written an article on this as well as replies from the funded orgs (Encounter Magazine and the Congress for Cultural Freedom). In 1966, spurred by Ramparts' articles on MSU, NYT reporter Tom Wicker wrote of the allegations and added details of other botched operations around the world he'd heard from sources over the years. This brought the ire of the agency. In 1961, in response to details of the Bay of Pigs invasion being published in The Nation before it occurred, President Kennedy told his aides to bother him when details showed up in the New York Times because it otherwise did not matter. The CIA had actually worked hard to kill the very same story before the NYT could publish it so by the time the invasion failed, Kennedy apparently exclaimed that he wished more details had been published in the NYT so that the invasion would have been stopped. CIA agent Cord Meyer made the postscript of Part 3 of this series as the handler of much of the CIA's work through cutouts and allied groups like AFL-CIO, especially in in regards to  the effort to influence the media known as Operation Mockingbird. Meyer and his wife, Mary Pinchot, were next door neighbours to the Kennedy's before JFK became president. Pinchot divorced Meyer after their child was killed in a car accident in 1957. She moved in with her brother-in-law, Ben Bradlee, later of Pentagon Papers and Watergate fame and played by Tom Hanks in the Steven Spielberg film The Post. In 1961, James Jesus Angleton, head of counterintelligence at the CIA, tapped her phone and discovered she was in a sexual relationship with JFK, including visits at the White House. When Pinchot was murdered in October 1964 in what was termed a robbery (a black man was arrested but acquitted), a friend of the family heard (he said) about the murder on the radio and phoned Bradlee first and Meyer second. Bradlee went to go find her diary and found Angleton sitting in her house (his garage) reading it. They later destroyed it. After that, Meyer became an alcoholic and compiled an enemies list of the CIA that included the Vice President. He was already fearful of a leak and told his subordinates to go after NSA staff but did not determine who Sherburne had told until his wiretaps of Ramparts phone lines informed him.

Ramparts, of course, knew that they had been tapped and kept phone calls brief. Scheer phoned Judith Coburn of the Village Voice and asked for her discretion. Wanting to break into a field dominated by men, Coburn felt like she was being called by a rock star, but nonetheless found it absurd that Scheer believed his calls to be tapped. She knew the CIA to be involved in assassinations like Lumumba's and thought their dealings with a minor org like the NSA were absurd. Ultimately, she helped by confronting a number of figures on their work. Eventually, a young WASP Harvard undergraduate who was on retainer from Ramparts named Michael Ansara got the call. His blog about it is excellent reading, located here. I quote:

One evening in the cold months of early 1967, my phone rang. A strange voice, obviously from New York asked, “Is this Michael Ansara?”

“Yes.”

“This is Sol Stern from Ramparts. Bob Scheer says you are our man in Boston.”

“Well . . . OK.”

“Listen I need you to do some work for us right away. I cannot tell you what it is about. I am calling you from a phone booth. Will you do it?”

“Well, what kind of work and are you willing to pay me for it?”

“It is research into two Boston based foundations. We will pay you $500.” 500 dollars was a lot of money. I had no idea how to research foundations, but I thought, what the hell. I could really use the money.

“Sure. What exactly do you want me to do?”

“I can’t tell you anything more than to find everything you can on the Sidney & Esther Rabb Foundation and Independence Foundation. They are based in Boston. I will call you in several days. You cannot call me. You cannot tell anyone what you are doing. You cannot mention the name Ramparts. Can I count on you?”

“I guess so. Sure. Yes.”

Ansara knew a much older man, an economist and lawyer who had sway in the Democratic Party named George Sommaripa. Sommaripa suggested Ansara go to a guy he knew at the IRS. Ansara did, and was told that under no circumstances could he have access to the files on two CIA cutout foundations. Chastened, Ansara complained to Sommaripa, who'd gotten the IRS clerk his job. A few days later, Ansara went back. The IRS clerk told him he could have any box he wanted, provided he did not go past the 990 form on the cover. He went past for the first two foundations and found that money came from an anonymous donor and in equal amounts went right out to the NSA. Ultimately, he pulled the files for 110 foundations, every single known group that the CIA used. He would look at the incorporation files for the foundations, see a lawyers' name, and look him up. Every time, the lawyer was an OSS operative during WW2, the predecessor org of the CIA. One of the lawyers had founded a firm with Sommaripa, a man named David Bird. Ansara confronted Bird, and Bird did not even stop to hang up on Ansara before phoning a contact at the CIA.

Left to right: Hinckle, Stern, Scheer.

A major corroboration of the story came from three students in New York who were disgusted by American foreign policy in Latin America. One in particular, Fred Goff, had been sent to the Dominican Republic with Allard Lowenstein (part 3) to observe the election of the pro-American candidate over the anti-American one. Goff had discovered that a man that Lowenstein had said he trusted on the country was actually a CIA agent, Sacha Volman. Another, Michael Locker, had done a paper about the CIA based on the NYT articles. Together, they walked in the doors of the AFL-CIO's American Institute for Free Labor Development and asked directly about the CIA, prompting a crashing sound and the institute's director, Thomas Kahn, planner of the 1963 March on Washington and the long-term romantic partner of Bayard Rustin, to scream at them.

The problem was when it came time to do the story. Sometimes, the researchers were paid by Ramparts. Other times, they received cheques from the Interchurch Center, a strange agency that serves as a front for charitable giving from the Episcopal, Lutheran, Presbyterian, Reformed, Methodist, and United Churches in America. James Forman, mentioned in previous parts, once led a picket in favour of reparations from them. Ramparts staff demanded they talk to them by picking up pay phones that would ring at designated times, a dismal failure. Other times, Hinckle, Scheer, and Sol Stern would fly in, book rooms at the Algonquin, and order massive amounts of takeout and booze. 15 to 20 people would be in a hotel room trying to negotiate who would be writing the story by continent, or by year, or by foundation. At one point, Coburn broke into the NSA HQ and unwittingly stole the original deed to their land, where it remained undiscovered in Ramparts' files till the 2010s.

On New Year's Eve, 1966, Lowenstein was hanging out with the new members of the NSA leadership when he informed them that Ramparts was writing about their relationship with the CIA. "The usual sloppy Ramparts piece, lots of flash, little substance," he said. The CIA had known since at least Thanksgiving. A lower level NSA official who'd just been sworn in went to meet with Hinckle and Scheer. The duo, while nonchalantly throwing darts, offered the Ramparts donor list as an incentive to tell all, but he refused. Sherburne attempted to find counsel in a lawyer who'd once opposed the CIA's new Langley HQ on NIMBY grounds. Meyer had threatened the lawyer's brother, working in Bogota with USAID, but the lawyer persisted. Undaunted, Meyer got word to Douglass Cater, the first president of the NSA and now an advisor to LBJ. LBJ bumped it to Lowenstein and the CIA to develop a response, which was to hold a press conference with an article in Henry Luce's (the man, not the monkey) Time Magazine that this was all well known since the 1965 congressional hearings, that the money was not that impressive, that the Soviets had done much more, etc.

This could have killed Ramparts. The IRS was already looking for any sign of foreign influence as an excuse to shut down the magazine. It needed some sort of relationship with the establishment press in a way that would let it gain influence without keeping it from the areas it wanted to report on. At the very same time, both Time and the NYT were reporting on the survival of Ramparts: Keating had attempted a coup and lost a board vote 13-1, with Mitford and other backers providing anonymous quotes that while they disliked the "Animal Farm-ish" nature of the issue, they needed Ramparts to stave off a fascist dictatorship in America. Hinckle followed by setting up an astounding agreement with the New York Times and Washington Post: they would get full access to Ramparts' files on the CIA right now, before the White House could set up a press conference, in exchange for letting them run full page ads for days for their next issue.

The day the Times went to press, February 13, 1963, was termed by former CIA director Richard Helms in his memoirs as "one of my darkest days". The press pushed, smelling blood. President Johnson ordered a suspension and review of CIA funding for outside orgs. The CIA initially tried to find a way to blame a dead president, Truman, but realized that its own documentation on the program, written by Cord Meyer, claimed that then-director Allen Dulles did not have any responsibility to inform the president of what he had ordered. Switching tactics, they turned on their press weapon, known as the Mighty Wurlitzer, and claimed that the CIA would have been remiss to not conduct these operations. "I'm glad the CIA is immoral" was the headline of an article by Meyer's boss, Thomas Braden. He described $250 million a year the CIA believed to be spent by the Soviet Union on cultural subversion, to which a mere handful of dollars from the CIA could not compare. No evidence for the accusations was provided, of course. Finally, Helms pulled in a favour from Robert Kennedy and had him testify to the press that his brother had authorized the funding, carried over from the days of Eisenhower. 12 former NSA presidents (including Lowenstein) came out and said the relationship was above board. All had worked for the CIA at least once after they'd left the NSA, but that was not revealed in their letter.

The strategy was a half-success. All the foundations funded by the CIA fell apart and students around the world became suspicious of CIA infiltration. Much of what Ramparts found was investigated by Congress repeatedly over the next decade, culminating in the reforms that came out of the Church Committee, which Helms claimed in his memoirs was sparked by Ramparts and Watergate. Certainly press readership was high, and many stories were published in the NYT and WaPo confirming and furthering the work done. At the same time, the CIA escaped with only a few new rules on its behaviour. President Johnson was a paranoic and was more concerned about using the CIA as a tool against his domestic enemies. He authorized a much larger role for MHCHAOS in punishing his enemies (remember the cryptonyms? MH was the most illegal, as it meant the USA). Many of those fingered were considered liberals in good standing and were part of the labour movement, particularly AFL-CIO higher-ups. They fell in line with the rhetoric about communist subversion because they knew they'd be the ones punished if things went further.

Interestingly, a few months later, the NSA held a vote on integrating an anti-Vietnam War and anti-draft stance into its platform. Traditionally, the CIA had worked from the shadows to suppress these votes. This time, Allard Lowenstein whipped in favour of the anti- stance and it won. Lowenstein soon became a fixture in the anti-LBJ movement, leading the call to bring Eugene McCarthy and Robert Kennedy into the Democratic presidential primaries. To a large extent, the organizations that were closed to the CIA had been products of decades-old relationships and worked in ways that nobody had bothered to improve. Within the CIA, a tension had always existed between bureaucrats with their own fiefdoms and up and comers with new ways of doing things. To a large extent, this scandal simply pushed the former out and made room for the latter, who would not do things like create financial records with the exact same dollar amounts going in and out, or act so bluntly when it came to manipulating staff. While the CIA may have suffered a little in the short term, it was an act of "creative destruction" that improved how the CIA did business. For Ramparts, on the other hand, things were going to get much worse now that they had drawn the ire of the intelligence community. While the magazine reached its peak distribution of 250,000 copies a month, it still did not bring in enough money to cover its expenses, and it was about to be faced with a much larger funding crisis: the Six Day War.

AFTER ALLEN DULLES RETIRED, the director bragged about the NSA operation. “We got everything we wanted. I think what we did was worth every penny. If we turned back the communists and made them milder and easier to live with, it was because we stopped them in certain areas, and the student area was one of them.”... Edward Garvey, who also worked at CIA headquarters, puts it more dramatically: “My God, did we finger people for the Shah?”... Stephen Robbins, despite his limited CIA involvement during his year as president, echoes Garvey’s concern: “It’s South Africa that keeps me up at night.”

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Bound Blood (Cassandra Dimitrescu/Reader, Soulmate AU) Pt. 4

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T+ for language, nudity (but, like, for art), and violence Warnings: Unhealthy dynamics, including violence between the shipped pair, leaning heavily into the "enemies" part of "enemies to friends to lovers" Summary: Local vampire discusses art, depictions of certain anatomy, and enjoys the company of her feral soulmate for 4.5 minutes. Then it goes to shit (as things tend to do). 0-60 Real goddamn quick. Previous Chapters: 1: Sharing Is (Not) Caring; 2: Bloodbath, Baby!, 3: Haunt Me Dearly

4: Portraits For Ghosts

“Am I really supposed to just… stay here? Did she honestly think that I, of all people, would behave? The universe gave me two good hands, and by God, I intend to make that someone else’s problem,” you mutter to yourself as you get dressed. It’s not that you necessarily had anything in mind, rather that you hated the idea of waiting around for who knows how long for Cassandra to return. Especially considering what she had done prior to leaving. Sure, you had laughed, but that hadn’t meant much in the end. At this point, you hadn’t even been out of the dungeon for a full day yet, and the memories of what happened there were fresh in your mind. Nightmares, too, even if you had pushed them aside to deal with Cassandra’s. Why did I bother? You wonder, frowning. There was hardly any point to comforting a monster, no matter the way they trembled.

Or at least that’s the lie you sold yourself.

Soon enough, a knock at the door brings you out of your head. Daphne, maybe, you think, remembering the maiden from yesterday. When you open the door, however, you’re met with an unfamiliar woman. She’s a few years your senior, at the very least, and appears surprised to see you. In her hands is a very enticing tray of food.

“Lady Cassandra wanted me to bring this to you. I am… I am glad to see you are feeling better already,” she says, voice shaking. What was with these maidens and assuming you were anything like your soulmate? Though that last part did catch your interest. Something told you that she wasn’t at all referring to your time in the dungeon. If you had learned anything from Daphne, it was that the best way to get information was to be indirect. So you graciously accepted the food, before speaking, dodging your way around your ignorance.

“Yes, it’s amazing what a bit of meditating can do for the soul- and body, that is,” you start, watching closely for any veiled reactions. Even within the first few words you can tell that this stranger wasn’t expecting you to be pleasant. “Out of curiosity, what did my Lady say about my condition? There are, uh, a few details that I hope she did not share. I’m sure you understand.” As soon as the words leave your mouth, the maiden is nodding, appearing eager to satisfy you. Maybe a hint of fear can be useful, after all.

“No worries, Lady Cassandra did well to respect your privacy, and we would not dare question her further. She simply explained, to her family, that you were dealing with a migraine. I only heard this because I was helping serve breakfast,” she explained, smiling softly. You’re quick to nod, mimicking her expression for maximum empathy. “Do you require anything else? I am here to serve, you must only ask.” Ah, perfect. Would she have offered this even if you hadn’t attempted to be charming? Probably, but your politeness certainly didn't hurt.

“Well, there is one thing… as long as it’s no trouble.”

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

It had been a risk, asking the servant to take you to a room you weren’t sure existed, but one that had paid off brilliantly. Even if said room was nothing like you had anticipated. Who would have thought that Cassandra, you think, would be an artist? What’s far less surprising is the fact that the studio (or ‘study’, as you had called it) is a disorganized disaster. Discarded papers lie scattered around an overflowing trash can, a cabinet with an attached tool rack is missing pieces, and in one corner there are literally random shards of broken glass lying about. What is this, performance art? Part of you feels tempted to clean up the mess, if only to occupy your time. Instead, you decide to examine some of the pieces within the room. Maybe somehow they’d tell you something noteworthy about your soulmate.

First, you move to your left, where a workbench houses strange sculptures. For the most part they’re abstract, jagged edges contrasting with gentle curves, but there is one you think you understand. It’s very clearly a bust… of someone’s ‘bust’. Guess that solves the age old question of ‘boobs or ass’, you think, stifling a giggle. Moving on, you shift your attention to the exposed section of the cabinet. One row is dedicated to small vials, each labeled with a concerning ‘blood’, despite the fact that it’s clearly not refrigerated. Still, you have heard of artists painting with blood before, but you seem to recall them mixing it with something else. Perhaps Cassandra had done the same? Though you did wonder if she had any difficulty resisting the urge to drink the blood, at least prior to mixing it.

Shrugging, you continue to the other side of the studio, squatting to get a closer look at the broken glass. As expected, there’s no discernable pattern or purpose. Huh, you think, wonder why she doesn’t clean up. Maybe she’s waiting for a servant to do it? Guessing her reasoning was rather difficult, especially considering your lack of context, such as how long the mess had been here. Deciding that this was a pointless distraction, you move on to the only other thing of note in the room: An easel, in the center, with a canvas nearly as tall as yourself. So far, there’s little on it other than pencil lines, a sketch marking where to paint certain details. Only the (start of) the background has been colored. Understandably, it’s hard to make out what exactly the finished project would end up representing. Based on what you know of Cassandra and her family, however, you infer that this- with four figures, one larger than the others, protective- is a painting of the castle residents.

“Family means something to you, hmm?... I hope that mine does not miss me much, for I will never see them again,” you say to yourself, instinctively reaching out towards the art. Before you can touch it, or think better of it, the door to the studio is flying open. In storms Cassandra, fists clenched at her sides. As soon as she sees you, she’s rushing forward, pulling you away from the easel. “Hello, darling. Glad to see me feeling better, yes?” You teased, smiling wide at her. Feeling a bit emboldened by your earlier success, you go a step further, leaning in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek.

“I swear to fuck, if you touched any of my stuff-” Cassandra starts to say, intentionally ignoring the kiss, even though her cheeks get flush at the contact.

“Nope, not a single thing. Not even the broken glass. Nice touch, by the way, makes the whole space feel a helluva lot cozier,” you interject. For a few moments she holds you by your shirt collar, staring you in the eyes as if determining whether or not to believe you. Somehow, some way, she declares you innocent, releasing you with an irritated sigh. After pretending to dust yourself off, you return your attention to the central canvas. “Do you do a lot of art of your family? I passed by several pieces on my way here, though they were certainly in a different style.” Another pause, with Cassandra waiting for you to spring a verbal trap.

“Some of those are mother’s work,” she answers, tentatively, eying you closely. When you merely nod in reply, expecting her to elaborate, she starts to relax, little by little. “I doubt you passed any of mine. Mother tends to keep those closer to her quarters, or near the main entrance.” Interesting, you think, why hasn’t she addressed my original question?

“It sounds like she’s very proud of you,” you muse, still facing away from your soulmate. There’s a slight shakiness to your voice, as your mind starts to dwell on memories of your own family. Perhaps noticing this, Cassandra takes a few steps closer, one hand hovering over your shoulder, not quite sure if you needed (or perhaps deserved) any comfort. In this moment, you feel far more vulnerable than you had the day before. Taking a deep breath, you try to center yourself, before perfectly ruining whatever trust you had just established with Cassandra. “Something tells me she doesn’t know about the titty sculpture though, right? Can’t quite imagine that one being displayed where everyone can see it.”

To your immense surprise, Cassandra gives you a blank stare.

“You… you really don’t know anything about my mother, do you?” She says, after several awkward seconds. It feels strange to think that she had been furious, merely a handful of minutes ago. “If you actually behave for a while, I can show you some of her favorite pieces around the castle. Then maybe you’ll understand.” Intrigued, you debate how exactly to respond. On one hand, you did want to see the art, but on the other hand… misbehaving was your goal of the day.

“Sounds like a nice date to me. Why not start the tour right now?” You suggest, hoping to meet your ‘politeness quota’ earlier rather than later. Still, it is in your very nature to be chaotic, and you find yourself giving Cassandra an affectionate shoulder touch. It’s not at all genuine, but the two of you blush nonetheless. How could you not, when your blood was bound together, hearts made to race in sync?

“Don’t get friendly with me,” Cassandra stammers, unadjusted to the way her pulse pounded. “This isn’t a date. We’re just- it doesn’t matter, actually. As long as it means getting you out of my studio, I don’t care.” With that said, she takes your hand in her own, pulling you towards the exit. If she has any feelings about the soft touch, she hides them well… unlike yourself. Cheeks flushed, you’re half tempted to yank yourself out of her grip, hating the way your heart skips a few beats. Would I still feel this way if I didn’t know we were soulmates? You wonder, biting your lower lip to prevent any unwanted comments from slipping out. Soon enough you’d have art aplenty to distract yourself with. Hopefully.

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

“My God, you were not kidding. I don’t- I can’t even think of anything clever to say,” you chime, staring dumbfounded at the several statuettes of naked women. They seemed to fulfill some other purpose, one you couldn’t parse at the moment, but you could hardly think about the details right now. “I mean, good for your mother, for sticking to a theme, I suppose,” you continue, tripping over your own tongue, uncharacteristically quiet. Clearly amused by your flustered display, Cassandra lets out a hearty laugh.

“Good to know some things can shut you up. I’ll have to keep this in mind for next time you bother me,” she teases, light-heartedly. Her words only fluster you more, though they quickly give you room to counter, much to your joy.

“Is that so? Planning on carrying around a busty bust for the rest of your life, or thinking of going the more au naturel route?” You asked, briefly sticking your tongue out at Cassandra. It takes her a moment to understand what you’re getting at, but as soon as she does she’s smacking your arm with an offended huff. Despite her irritation, the blow is relatively soft, and you swear you can see her fighting to hide a smile. “Starting to go soft on me, are you? I hardly even felt that one.”

“So you’d prefer I hit you harder? And to think you called me kinky,” Cassandra fires back, without a hint of hesitation. Now both of you are laughing, softly, like old friends sharing fond memories. It’s… weirdly nice. A warmth fills your chest, even as you try to remind yourself that you shouldn’t be happy right now. Damn it, you think, suddenly frowning, hands clenching. We shouldn’t be having fun banter, back and forth like a real couple. Not when I’ve still got wounds from her hands on my skin. Instinctively you reach up to your face, thumb running over the marks Cassandra’s nails had left behind. The touch stings, bad, no matter how gentle you try to be. Noticing your shift in expression, your soulmate inches closer. “If your wounds are bothering you, I can have one of the servants get more ointment or whatever it is we have around. I don’t want you to-... There’s no reason for you to suffer more than you need to, besides, I don’t want you complaining all day.” Of course she couldn’t bring herself to imply that she cared. Of course. It wasn’t like the two of you were actually capable of being soft for each other, obviously. All of your confusion melts down, boiled by the warmth in your chest, turning to a familiar, albeit painful, rage.

“Right, right! Because you care so fucking much, yeah? What the fuck am I doing? Why am I-” you jab a finger towards her chest, accusatory- “talking to you? Why am I pretending you're not the one who did this to me? You’re the fucking reason my face hurts, my shoulder hurts, my brain-... I can’t stop thinking about everything that happened down there. I can’t get those goddamn images out of my head, every time I close my eyes, every time I look at you. I…” You trail off, chest heaving a little, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Cassandra’s standing tall, unflinching, but there’s a noticeable regret in her expression.

“What. Are. You… going to do about it?” She asks, through clenched teeth, fighting back the full force of her emotions. You can’t tell what exactly she’s feeling, but you know that you want her to show you. Every part of you is itching for a fist fight, regardless of how stupid you know the idea is.

“Depends, dickwad, on whether or not these statuettes are properly secured,” you snap, already moving, fully abandoning all impulse control. By the time your hand grips the first sculpture, Cassandra has put you in a headlock, forcefully tugging you backwards. Panic sets in, making you try to jam your elbows into her stomach. Before long both of you are tumbling to the floor, bodies already aching, limbs flailing wildly in an attempt to hit a target, any target. In the end the air is knocked from your lungs as your head smacks against the ground. “Shit, shit, shit,” you grumble, coughing, finally processing just how much of a dumbass you were. It’s clear that at least one of the previous day’s wounds has reopened, and you feel something wet and sticky on your shirt.

“Finished, asshole?” Cassandra wheezes, sounding dazed, roughly pulling you up by your shirt collar. You nod, refusing to meet her gaze. Then she’s sighing in relief, letting you lean on her for support, holding you surprisingly close, considering the circumstances. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Again…”

[maxwell-grant]

So that ask about a Doc Savage/The Shadow crossover (which as an aside, I agree that Doc is probably the worst of the archetype he is functionally the Ur-Example of that isn’t an intentional deconstruction focusing on his worst eugenicist/borderline-fascist aspects to create a villain) has me thinking: what exactly would be the boundaries for a good, well-written crossover between the Shadow and different genres or eras of what we all collectively call pulp? Could someone do a crossover between the Shadow and Indiana Jones that didn’t rely on one or the other being little more than a glorified cameo in a small portion of what was essentially the other’s story, or reducing the former to his lamest two-dimensional “gun-toting homicidal maniac” interpretations? Could the Shadow ever functionally exist in a universe shared with a space opera setting like the Lensman series? It seems like one could theoretically do a crossover between the Shadow and a character of the same era like Nero Wolfe or Sam Spade, but would it strain credulity to attempt it with characters from an updated form of the private detective archetype like Thomas Magnum’s Hawaiian noir or Rick Deckard’s cyberpunk dystopia? Obviously not expecting answers to each of these hypotheticals specifically, just as examples of the kind of thing I’m wondering now.

I will be going through some of your hypotheticals though, you clearly gave a lot of thought to this and it's only fair I respond in turn. I am always eager to respond anyone who wants to ask specifics about writing The Shadow, because much of what I strive to do through this blog is to just inform people about the many, many things that made The Shadow great, the things that have been neglected, and to provide paths anyone who wishes to write the character may take. I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to write The Shadow someday, but the least I can do is spread knowledge as I work my way there. I'd like to think I've done allright so far.

It's a fairly big question though so we're gonna through it by pieces...

...not THAT way

what exactly would be the boundaries for a good, well-written crossover between the Shadow and different genres or eras of what we all collectively call pulp?

Part of the reason why I did a post yesterday on The Shadow's influences is because looking at them, looking at a character's influences and history, I think are always essential to the prospect of tackling them. And in that regard, The Shadow doesn't actually have much, if any, boundaries stopping him from crossing over with just about anything. The most that's stopping the pulp heroes currently is, besides legal issues, their time periods and obscurity, but The Shadow is the most famous of them all, and a lot of stories have already worked with the idea that he's immortal (which I have my misgivings with, but for better or worse is clearly not going anywhere, and it's not a unworkable concept).

Right from the start, The Shadow was designed to be a long-running, versatile character that could partake in whatever adventures they felt like telling, and part of this is due not just to an incredibly strong personality not afforded to most pulp heroes or characters in general, even those who tried imitating him, but also the fact that he often takes a narrative backseat to the agents and proxy heroes, which means he doesn't have to carry a narrative by his own (and is in fact best suited not to), can blend in to just about anyone's story, and still stand out and be the center of sprawling mysteries. Actually, I'm gonna let Walter Gibson answer this one for you:

While his major missions were to stamp out mobs or smash spy rings, he often tabled such routines in order to find a missing heir, uncover buried treasure, banish a ghost from a haunted house or oust a dictator from a mythical republic.

There was no limitation to the story themes as long as they came within the standards of credibility--which proved easy, since The Shadow was such an incredible character in his own right that almost anything he encountered was accepted by his ardent followers.

Widespread surveys taken while the magazine was appearing monthly showed that a large majority of newsstands sold nearly all their copies within the first two weeks of issue. While other character magazines might show an early flurry, their sales were either spread evenly over the entire period or gained their impetus about the middle of the mouth and sometimes not until the third or even the fourth week.

From the writing standpoint, this made it advisable to adhere more closely to the Cranston guise and to emphasize the parts played by The Shadow's well-established agents, since regular readers evidently liked them. Also, it meant "keeping ahead" of those regulars, with new surprises, double twists in "whodunit" plots, and most exacting of all a succession of villains who necessarily grew mightier and more monstrous as The Shadow disposed of their predecessors.

Always, his traits and purposes were defined through the observations and reactions of persons with whom he came in contact, which meant that the reader formed his opinion from theirs.

This gave The Shadow a marked advantage over mystery characters forced to maintain fixed patterns and made it easy to write about him. There was never need for lengthy debate regarding what The Shadow should do next, or what course he should follow to keep in character. He could meet any exigency on the spur of the moment, and if he suddenly acted in a manner opposed to his usual custom, it could always be explained later.

The Shadow’s very versatility opened a vast vista of story prospects from the start of the series onward. In the earlier stories, he was described as a “phantom,” an “avenger,”, and a “superman,” so he could play any such parts and still be quite in character. In fact, all three of those terms were borrowed by other writers to serve as titles for other characters.

Almost any situation involving crime could be adapted to The Shadow’s purposes

The final rule was this: put The Shadow anywhere, in any locale, among friends or associates, even in a place of absolute security, and almost immediately crime, menace or mystery would begin to swirl about him, either threatening him personally or gathering him in its vortex to carry him off to fields where antagonists awaited.

That was his forte throughout all his adventures. Always, his escapes were worked out beforehand, so that they would never exceed the bounds of plausibility when detailed in narrative form. And that was the great secret of The Shadow.”

In some regards, The Shadow is a mirror. He presents himself to people the way that's best suited to them, the way they'd like him to be, the way he needs to be to affect them. They want money, he has it. They want honor, glory and purpose, he gives them that. They want to fight and turn around social systems for the better, he funds their dreams. Gangsters want the underworld's greatest hitman on their side, he becomes that and lets it be their doom. The story calls for a rich aristocrat who can rub elbows with politicians and kings and presidents, he can do that as long as it suits him. Kent Allard can be a world famous celebrity in one story and a disfigured, broke and faceless nobody in the next. You want a kind janitor with unexpected fighting skill to spy on police and assist the homeless, he has a little someone named Fritz for the occasion. You want an evil monster to be defeated, bring out Ying Ko. Hell, James Patterson's upcoming Shadow novel, which by all reviews seems to be pretty lousy, apparently features The Shadow transforming into a cat. Why? Screw you, that's why! But you'd never see James Bond or Batman spontaneously transforming into a cat without outside interference. He's The Shadow, he's got a face for everything.

(Okay to be clear I don't actually want the Shadow to literally transform into animals, at least not without a good explanation which the book clearly doesn't provide, but I do think it illustrates my point about how generally weird he is)

He is a shapeshifter who can be just about any character in any given narrative who only reveals himself when it's time to materialize into a cloaked terror or a familiar face (whether it's Cranston or Allard or Arnaud and so on). War stories, romance stories, sci-fi stories, globetrotting stories, parody stories, he's done all of them and then some. He doesn't need to be the protagonist of a story, he doesn't need to be invincible, and he doesn't really have any set rules regarding powerset. Gibson stressed credibility a lot, but for over 70 years now, that's clearly gone by the window of the character's writing. By design, he was always meant to be able to smoothly integrate into any existing narrative. Frankly, the only thing that's really holding him back (or saving him, depending on how you look at it) is the fact that he's not public domain (yet).

I think for a start, it's not so much boundaries, because in make believe land boundaries are just things to be overcome on the way to telling a story, so much as it's a good working knowledge of the character and of how far you are willing to stretch your storytelling limitations to include him, because he can account for just about all of them. Now, obviously there's stuff that works for the character better than others, a lot of Shadow fans don't like it when they take the character too much into fantasy, there's debates on how superpowered should he be if at all, and so forth. I have my own preferences, but one of the bigger tests of long-running characters is how can they succeed and thrive when placed outside of their element, and The Shadow can do that.

Could someone do a crossover between the Shadow and Indiana Jones that didn’t rely on one or the other being little more than a glorified cameo in a small portion of what was essentially the other’s story, or reducing the former to his lamest two-dimensional “gun-toting homicidal maniac” interpretations?

would it strain credulity to attempt it with characters from an updated form of the private detective archetype like Thomas Magnum’s Hawaiian noir

Well regarding the first question, the latter portion I think is very easy to do. Just, don't write him like that. Just be aware of why that's a mischaracterization, why the character doesn't need that to work, why he works better without it, and so on. It shouldn't be that hard.

Regarding Indiana Jones and Thomas Magnum, I think these two actually lend themselves very easily to crossovers with The Shadow. On Indy's case, he already is a Pulp Hero operating in the same time period, who's got a heavily contrasting niche and personality to build a fun dynamic around. Indy is more story-driven, in the sense that the Indiana Jones moves are all centered around his experiences and point of view and growth as a person, compared to The Shadow's stories, which are not really about "his" story as much as they are about the stories of the people he comes in contact with. Indy is a blockbuster superstar while The Shadow lurks and slithers through the edges and cracks of a story until it's time to strike. But if anything that just makes even more of a case as to why they could team up without issue, since there's a further built-in complimentary contrast to work with.

I have never watched Magnum P.I so there's definitely stuff I might be missing, but looking him up, past the necessary explanation as to why The Shadow's hanging around the 80s, it wouldn't strain credulity at all for the two to team up. The Shadow has had Caribbean/beach-themed adventures and one unrecorded adventure in Honolulu, he has a beach bum secret identity called Portuguese Joe that he could use for this occasion, and Magnum seems like exactly the kind of character who could star as the proxy hero of a Shadow novel. He's lively and friendly and can look after himself, he has a job that leads him to trouble and puts him on contact with criminals as well as victims, he's got secrets and a dark past and a laundry list of character flaws, he's perfectly capable of carrying a story by himself but can be out of his depth in the schemes that he gets caught up in.

Could the Shadow ever functionally exist in a universe shared with a space opera setting like the Lensman series? Or Rick Deckard’s cyberpunk dystopia?

I'm going to tackle parts of this question more throughly when I answer one in my query that's asking me "How would you do The Shadow in modern day?", which I still haven't gotten around to answering because it's a tricky one. I won't go into the specifics for the two examples you listed because I've never read the Lensman books and googling about them hasn't helped much very much, and Deckard's a fairly standard P.I character mostly elevated by the movie he's in, there's not really much to discuss regarding him specifically interacting with The Shadow. The question you're asking me here seems to generally be: Could The Shadow functionally exist in settings so radically apart from the 30s Depression era he was made for?

My answer for this is a maybe leaning towards yes. Starting with the fact that the concept of The Shadow is more suited for allegorical fantasy along the lines of space operas and cyberpunk, than the gritty realism he's been saddled with for decades, which I'll get into another time. For some reason, a lot of people seem to harp on about how the Shadow's costume is impractical and unworkable for modern times, and said James Patterson novel mentioned above ditched it all together, which as you can guess was a massively unpopular decision. Matt Wagner talked once about how cities don't have shadows and men wearing hats anymore and that's part of why you can't have The Shadow in modern times (as if The Shadow was always supposed to be dressing like an average guy, and not cowboy Dracula). But nobody seems to have a problem with characters dressing up exactly like The Shadow showing up all the time in dystopian future cities with fashion senses where they stick out like a sore thumb (and really, they should stick out, otherwise what's the point of being all weird and dark and mysterious?)

Although The Shadow is specifically suited for urban settings, is conceptually rooted in 1930s America, and there are important facets of his characterization related to history like the Great War, there are not the be-all end-all of The Shadow. It's part of the character. Other parts integral to the character are, as mentioned above, the versatility and metamorphous nature he was always intended to have. His nature as a character who exists to thrive in narratives not about him and not centered around him. His roots on Dracula and King Arthur and Oz and Lupin which are concepts that have had so, so many drastical revisions and turnabouts that still stuck to the basic principles of the icon.

Besides, The Shadow's already been there. He's already been to space, he's already been in alternate dimensions, he's already reawakened in modern/future times several times now (when he doesn't just live to them unchanged). He's been a cyborg twice, and between those, El Sombra, Vendata, X-9, the Shadow-referencing robot henchmen from Bob Morane and Yu-Gi-Oh's Jinzo referencing the movie's bridge scene, it's enough to constitute a weird pattern of The Shadow and Shadow-adjacent characters turning into robots. Perhaps one positive side effect of The Shadow's decades-long submersion in fantasy is that it's opened the character for just about anything, and I think this could be a good thing if it was married to an adherence to the things that made him such a juggernaut of an icon in the 30s and 40s.

Really, The Shadow partially works on Predator rules. And by that I mean, the big secret of the Predator that filmmakers don't seem to get is that the best way to make a Predator film is to just put the Predator somewhere he's not supposed to be, and let that play out. Because the Predator is, by design, a trespasser who invades narratives and turns the power dynamics around, and that works for any narrative you put it into.

The first movie is all about setting you up for a jungle action movie with Schwarzenegger's Sexual Tyrannosaurus Crew as the biggest baddest death squad around, only for the Predator to appear, turn the tables on these shitheads and pick them off one by one until Arnie scrapes a victory by beating it at it's own game. The 2nd movie is about a drug war between cops and gangs in L.A, until the Predator shows up and suddenly he's the big problem again that's gotta be put down. All the other movies fail because they try to be "about" the Predator, but the Predator doesn't work that way. He's a ugly motherfucker who's here to fight and kill things in cool ways for the sake of it's warrior game, who already has a specific structure to how his story's meant to play out, and that's all he needs to be. What you do is just take that character, take the structure he carries around, and throw it somewhere that works by different rules, and let the contrast play out the story.

Obviously there's a lot more to The Shadow than this, I write a billion essays on the guy after all, but much of what makes The Shadow work, much of what made The Shadow such an icon at the decade of his debut and such an interesting character to revolve any kinds of stories around, was because of the great contrast he posed to everything surrounding him, and the ways he can both be at the forefront as well as the backseat of any story.

Going back to what Gibson said:

Almost any situation involving crime could be adapted to The Shadow’s purposes. He could meet any exigency on the spur of the moment, and if he suddenly acted in a manner opposed to his usual custom, it could always be explained later.

The Shadow was such an incredible character in his own right that almost anything he encountered was accepted by his ardent followers.

advisable to emphasize the parts played by The Shadow's well-established agents, since regular readers evidently liked them.

The keyword here isn't that the Shadow should be realistic, frankly that's always been a lost cause. He was never really that realistic, and it's unfair to expect writers to keep pace with Gibson who had lifelong experience with the in and outs of magic and daring escapes and whatnot. The keywords I want to stress here is "accepted by his ardent followers".

Make a good explanation, an explanation that fits the character, an explanation that works, and the rest will follow. And if you can't, make us like the character. Make us accept that he can do and be all these things. Give us something to be invested in. And if that can't be The Shadow himself because he has to stay at arms length constantly to be mysterious, Gibson cracked the code almost a century ago through the agents. Make us invested in them, and through them, we will become invested in The Shadow.

The pulp Shadow would get tired, get injured, need rescuing, need to stop and rest and catch his breath, would need to think and plan and make split decisions on the spot and sometimes would make the wrong ones only to reverse them in the nick of time, and it made the fact that he was achieving all these things all the more impressive. The pulp Shadow was a creature of fantasy grounded in the history of the world he was a part of.

If you can make people care about The Shadow, be truly, genuinely invested in him and his world and the people he comes in contact with, be as invested in those as audiences were back then, you can and maybe should put him anywhere, doing anything, as long as you know what you're doing. As long as you understand what makes The Shadow tick, what makes him work and what doesn't, and whatnot.

Which is a lot of words for "do whatever you want, just don't fuck it up"

[danddymaro]

Erron Black X Reader |Pt.3

Previous: A Familiar Sense

Thoughts are italics in quotations = ‘Example’

Flashbacks are in italics = Example

Fixed

Wordcount :   8111

Pt. 3 |   The Big Bad Wolf

His dark, espresso-colored eyes lazily fell over the captive female, eyeing the silent, somber woman as she sat across him. 

She was still bound and helpless, her face set blank as she slept, yet again escaping reality through her slumbering moments.

‘She’s out again,’ He thought to himself, emitting a low blow of air that flew up to the flat under-piece of his hat. By then he’d quickly caught on to her ingenious, little plan, taking it in with growing exasperation,

“ Nearnin' three days and not a bite,” he told himself before standing, rolling his shoulders with a low, little groan escaping him before he strode over to her. 

He knew that if she kept up with her act, she’d starve before they made their way to their destination, something that would definitely reduce his pay, bringing the number down to zero if she so happened to perish while under his watch.

‘That has to be your plan...right?’ He mused while he stepped towards her slumped form, quickly reaching over to where she was, soon looming over her just as a shaken breath left her.

It was as though a cold gust of wind had violently struck her, but he knew her reaction had nothing to do with the weather.

It was still sunny out, the last bit of heat the day could provide slowly dying out, but not enough to bring anyone to such violent shivers.

‘Sunny... Well as sunny as it can get in this godforsaken place,’ He told himself, looking up to see the blinding brightness of Outworld’s star spread its last bit of light out to the realm before it retired.

'Pretty soon we'll see sundown,' He thought to himself, '...And I can't help but wonder...Just what are you're thinking of little miss...’ He wondered while bringing his eyes back down to his sleeping captive, his gaze instinctively drawn to her. 

He’d formally wasted what felt like short minutes gazing at her, when in reality they were hours of silent entrancement.

It had occurred earlier too, soon after her messy outburst, following his discovery of her lovely orbs. 

Even after he'd been cautious, moreso, unwilling to fall under any little spell she would have set for him, he still found himself entranced by her. 

However, he reasoned that technically, it was part of his assignment. 

So silently, he sat back and watched, interested in just what lay deep within the crevices of her mind, haunting her.

‘Just what does she see?’

He briefly wondered just what had her so shaken and helpless, however, the interest was easily overrun by the annoyance he felt at the small act of rebellion, because all it did was make his job harder.

- All it did was threaten his pay, and that was what it was all about.

The pay.

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“- Not a scratch on her,” The masked man said with an icy undertone present in his already curt way of speaking. “Do you hear me?” He pressed on. 

With rolling eyes, Black agreed, not needing to be told twice about the done deal, because by then, it’d become almost insulting.

"- Got it." He replied back nonetheless, his tone calmed as he wiled out all of his annoyance from the short response.

“That is the only rule I have; that you bring her to me in one piece.” The cloaked male added while handing the brunette a sack of golden coins along with many other little treasures in the bag, none of which could outweigh the value of the woman within the mysterious man’s sharp eyes.

“Here. This is only a small portion of what is to come,” His new employer said with a nod full of certainty, promising so much more in exchange for the job.

“Riches await you, So long as you complete your task.” He added while he blew out a little huff of amusement, well aware of who he spoke to, having personally asked for him, because until then Erron Black hadn't had a single blunder to his name.

He knew the language the native Earthrealmer spoke, aware that so long as there was profit, there was a way to convince him.

And that was just who he needed, 

- A man willing to spare no expense if it meant success.

Holding the bag within his own hand, Erron stared down at the handsome pay with widely peeled dark orbs, struck by a small stun of disbelief, 

“You mean to tell me there’s more than this?” He asked with a small chuckle, tickled by the high pay he started off with, weighing the contents with his outstretched hand.

‘All this for a woman,’ Black thought while shaking his head, amused at how much the man before him was willing to pour into his hands just to have the female delivered to him.

Black was of course, a man; one who’d lived a long life. 

During all his time living, he’d become aware of just how much a single woman could reign over a fool, but even then he was still in awe at the situation he was in.

But who was he to complain?

‘I’d be a bigger fool to let you take your business elsewhere,’ He thought while he chose to stay silent, swallowing down his own opinions.

“There is plenty more, but remember Erron Black, your pay will depend on the state you deliver her to me.

Take care of her throughout your travel, and make certain she is steered from danger,” He specified while he lifted his chin up, aiming to the sky as he gazed at it.

Simultaneously, while his sight properly aligned up to the heavy clouds, the sky above them roared with a mighty cry, the vicious sound echoing for miles to where the man hoped it'd reach his darling beauty.

'Hear the sky cry out; be aware of my existence as I am yours,' He thought to himself.

“Do whatever it takes, and do not fail me,” he then went on, his already dark eyes dimmed, “ And If you have to get rid of anyone that blocks your path, then do so,” He added, caring of only the end goal.

All he cared about was having (f/n) with him.

“Soon... Soon the spring will be invaded by the rain, and they will exist as they should. " he declared.

" Together, as one.” He added softly, the mask which hid his face not only hiding his identity, but the small smile that played at his lips as well.

The expression was touched by a linger of sweetness that then reached his eyes, infecting every bit of his being.

 “My dear goddess… soon she will be within my arms,” He mused aloud, the change in tone apparent.

“Only you are worthy…” He added lowly, still referring to the woman and all her splendor.

“- Very well,” Black murmured while taking hold of the brim of his hat, lightly tipping it as he performed a single nod, a hidden smirk curling his lips as he agreed with the condition, taking in all of the other man’s odd behavior with astounded amusement that had yet to cease.

‘All this… All this for a woman,’ Erron thought to himself while he was also handed a scroll that gave him all of the information available.

‘It’s easy pay,’ He mused while his dark eyes scanned over the illustration of the woman, making sure to remember it down to the last detail.

With his small, personal booklet in hand, he recorded down every bit of information he had of her, including her location.

Unfortunately, it wasn't the precise location, but it narrowed down the search considerably.

‘ (F/n)’ He thought to himself while he scribbled the name onto the once blank page,‘ That’s your name little missy..,’ He thought to himself while he found himself staring down at the dark ink delicately painted onto the paper in hand.

“I’ll get back to you soon,” Black said before he whistled loudly, the call responded to by his snow-haired steed as it approached the two men with an assertive bray, letting his master know he was at his disposition.

“Good boy,” Erron said while his palm fell over the side of its long, strong neck before easily mounting the creature with a leap up,

“ And don’t worry, I’ll be back soon,” He repeated while taking the reins of the saddle, turning to his employer with a wide grin, “ Very soon...with your goddess,” he added with a tickle of amusement, shaking his head at the praising address.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Hey...You,” Erron said while lightly tapping the side of his boot onto her leg, repeatedly doing so until the action caused her to stir, the (h/c) haired young woman seemingly bothered by the disturbance, but not enough to immediately wake.

Instead, A fussy, little groan then fell past her, the small sound rousing a grin from him as he detected the annoyance weaved within it,

“Rise and shine Darlin',’' He said while nudging her again.

Her dark lashes slowly fluttered up as she opened her (e/c) colored orbs. Soon, her glazed eyes slowly found his as she looked up to see who woke her, a little pout then performed right as her sights landed on him.

“-Glad you’re awake,” He said flatly, eyeing her shining (e/c) colored eyes for just a moment before his own strayed, falling down to what he had in hand instead.

“I’ve noticed a certain someone hasn’t been eating,” he started, “so... here," he said while shoving the piece of meat over to her, immediately glaring at her as she turned her head, her lips pursed together as she showed her notable disdain, not even wanting to give any consideration to the offer.

‘After being kidnapped by him…

Tied up so uncomfortably...

Forced to be so close to him…On that damn saddle too!’

She thought with a little huff, the muscles in between her legs involuntarily squeezing, causing the soreness that previously settled onto her to become more prominent.

‘After seeing only just part of who you truly are… I wouldn’t dare take anything from you,’ She thought with hard resolve.

‘Because despite what you think…

Despite what you may find amusing…

I’ll make sure to find my freedom.

I’ll make sure that even if I don't get to escape… I’ll ruin every bit of satisfaction you can get from delivering me!’

There wasn’t anything she could do while being tied up, and she despised the fact.

‘I hate you! I really hate you!’ She repeated while yet again her muscles strained, ‘And I don’t want to get on that horse again!’ She added while biting her inner cheek, not thinking she'd ever get used to it.

They’d spent nearly two days on foot, and in her opinion, it was much better than the other form of transportation.

‘I’d rather walk,’ She thought with a low blow of breath being released, deciding that it was much better than the humiliation he put her through during the first time.

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“There you go!” he mused, watching her glare at him as he perfectly sat her on his horse’s back, having let loose of the binds on her legs to do so, but not giving the same treatment to the ones binding her hands together. 

He played it safe by altering the position of her arms, tying her wrists up in front rather than back for the ride.

“Come on, lighten up doll,” He told her, reaching up to give her thigh encouraging little pats, the little contact causing her to jump at the first tap. 

“It’s much better than walking,” He assured her, knowing she was already dog tired.

Soon after, an actual shiver then ran through her as he mounted the creature himself, sitting right behind her, his arms draped over her bound ones to take the reins.

“Don’t wanna chew gravel, right?” He asked her, his strong arms at each side of her, holding her still, 

“- So just stay still...no squirmin," He advised her.

Momentarily, her eyes fell down to the dirt ground, swallowing hard as she realized that if she did struggle against him, she’d only end up hurt.

‘He's right...I’m so high off the ground…’ She thought while hanging her head, her chin aimed to her chest with hopelessness.

Anxiously, she tried to squeeze herself tiny, not wanting any contact with him. Little by little, she tried to inch forward, her torso leaned ahead to try an attempt at even the slightest bit of distance, failing altogether as he took the opportunity to press his chest to her back each and every time, knowingly irking her.

‘I don’t want to be pressed to you,’ She inwardly cried, straightening her back from the uncomfortable slouch she had set it at.

‘The very idea disgusts me…’ She added while the warmth of his body was shared with her via the contact.

‘And the action itself...’ She went on, trailing off while her stomach churned, her heart set into anxious mode as she slowly caved. 

By then the air began to mellow down and grow colder, the woman begrudgingly appreciating the comfort of his heat whilst the wind began to pick up, and the sky began to darken furthermore.

She tried to not think much of it, wanting to put every bit of memory she had of him down a deep, dark abyss to never think of him again, but finding it nearly impossible.

‘I detest this more than anything in the world…’ She thought while her vision began to blur, her stiff shoulders falling as she was lulled to sleep, the slow, careful beating of his heart which bounced off his chest and melted with hers providing a strange sense of comfort that overwhelmed her. 

 The rest of the travel was silent, save for the occasional soft hums he released out of sheer boredom, something that was normal during his travels. 

 What he did find surprising was that throughout the ride, she'd let out not a peep.

'I guess they're not all bad then,' He told himself, beginning to think that perhaps she had a nice dream every now and then.

' Or don't tell me…. ' he then thought while grinning, a stupid little thought coming to him and livening him up,

'Darlin'...have you taken a liking to me already?' He mused with a powerful grin, the thought so far stretched, it was almost comical.

'The second you realize what you're doing… I know it'll give you all the more reason to want to kill me,' he went on, by then having the sleeping woman leaned back to him, for the most part, cradled by him as he made sure she was safely secured within his grasp.

"And here I thought you hated me," he said whilst he came down to her little ear, certain that it'd be an action that would bring her back to reality.

-And he was right on the money because not a second after she stirred.

She had awoke to the sound of warm chuckles and what was the unmistakable touch of gloved hands grazing her forearms with slow strokes.

Groggily, she answered back, emitting a soft groan in response that was preceded by yet another sound of amusement by him,

“I see...” She heard the awful man speak, “Taken a liking to me already sweetheart?” He asked her, her tingling spine shooting up stiffly straight as over the course of her entire body, cold shudders raked her.

The events afterward happened in a blur, perhaps because she tried hard to forget it, that, or her mind was so frazzled by him that she could barely focus.

It was all fuzzy to her, but through it all, she could hear him chuckle, the deep, warm sound twisting her already knotted stomach as she tried to sleep yet again, attempting to ignore him after he had the nerve to sit her back down and tie her up again, moving her around like a little sack of potatoes.

‘ Just one,' she decided with certainty, biting her lip, convincing herself that she just needed the chance, whatever slim it may be, to slip away.

‘ And then I can go back home.

I can make my way back…

And I can wait for you there,’ she thought while for just a moment her mind drifted back to the hazy vision of the woman.

‘ I’ll wait for you there,’ she said again, ‘ because I know deep in my heart that you'll make your way to me.’

Sure he'd been able to catch her easy, but she wasn't going to let him win in the long run.

She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction, and what was much more, she'd make certain she'd get away.

'I need to get away from him.

Far ...Far away from him.'

 "hm...What a rude, little lady," he said lowly, taking the piece meant for her in between his own teeth, taking a bite as he watched her, studying her and every twitch of her face as an array of emotions broke through.

It wasn't like he had anything else to do but watch her anyways, so entertained, he watched her display her truths.

She went from stubborn bitterness to a hard resolve, slowly but surely melting in a softhearted expression that was touched by sadness before she came back full circle, her lips pursed as she willed herself into the same bullheadedness.

'I won't take it…' she thought to herself, ' I don't want to…' she went on, trying to convince herself, 'but…' she thought while she swallowed hard, trying to brush away the empty feeling she felt, and what was much more, the desire she had to sink her teeth into the savory, smoky scented piece.

Her pressed lips then loosened in the slightest, the bottom one lightly sinking into her mouth as she continued to watch him, (e/c) colored eyes trained on his chewing mouth.

Longing invaded the lovely shine of eyes as she watched him, but stubbornly, she continued to deny him the satisfaction, not wanting to give the man any more reason to reign over her.

However, despite all the effort she made to seem collected, her stomach rumbled, the sound immediately drawing his eyes to her pathetic, little figure.

Catching the little twinkle in his eye she swallowed down fiercely.

Instantly her face grew warm, color blossoming over her cheeks from being so easily put to shame, all by her own roaring tummy.

“ Stubborn too.” He added with amusement, eyeing the warm color sitting on her shamed face.

‘I see… so that really was your plan,’ He mused, watching her determination slowly crack. ’Good to know,’

It'd been a hunch, but now he was convinced she purposely starved herself, be it for the reason he’d assumed or not, that was her intention, and now he was certain.

Seeing his notable enjoyment at her dismay, she tightened her teeth together, glaring at him viciously, still willing to keep up her front despite her humiliation, which always came at his hands,

“ I'll die before you get me there!” she said through gritted teeth, her words filled with malice as all the while, her face showed the same evident embarrassment that had yet to leave her even while she desperately tried to fight it.

‘ I swear… I swear I’ll find my way home,’

“You won't get a single coin for me! Not One!” She taunted him, snorting, picking at the mercenary like a madman poking a sleeping bear,

‘Because I know well enough that whoever paid you to take me wants me unscathed,’ She thought with assurance. 

‘So you can either let me go….Or let me die,’ She went on, the latter being a path she didn’t want to take.

‘I don’t want to die…’ She thought to herself, pained at the thought, her heart aching, ‘ I don’t want to meet an end where I feel such incompletion, but...but if I were to continue to live, What would be my fate?’ She wondered, afraid of all of the horrible things she could be subjugated to.

‘What awaits at the end of this journey?’ She wondered helplessly.

‘Who...Who awaits me?’

“Oh really?” He said amused. “You think so?” He asked her, continuing to eat, unbothered by her threats, interested in provoking her in order to see just how far she’d really go, because he hadn’t known she could bark so much.

He thought she was meek. 

He figured she was easy to break, but he was slowly being proven wrong.

At the sound of his entertained tone, she strained against the tight ropes, “I know so !” She answered back, roaring at him with a voice that held a dangerous firmness within it,

“I don't know who paid you to do this…” she started, in her own mind trying her damn best to figure out just who in the world wanted her so bad that they'd pay some armed mercenary to whisk her away.

"But they won't give you anything seeing me dead!" She cried out, her arms still attempting to pull away from each other, wiggling on her seat on the floor, attempting to do the same with the restraint on her legs.

“I’m starting to see that you’re really stubborn,” he muttered, watching her waste her energy, seeing her waste the lovely, flickering flame that had him entertained.

“You’re barkin’ at a Knott. Wiggling so much won’t get you anywhere, so all in all, I’d say that once we get there, you’d just wasted that breath of yours,” He informed her, watching her continue to shift with the knowledge that she’d stay bound regardless of what she did.

'Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!'

Fuming, she stopped squirming, refusing to answer him back, instead looking up at the sky, her nose turning up to it as she inclined her head back to gaze at it fully.

Up there in the sky….

‘ Does anyone see me?’ She wondered. ‘Can anyone save me?’ She continued to ponder, wishing that somehow the ropes that bound her became unwoven, somehow unthreading.

(F/n) continued on, ignoring him instead as her thoughts strayed up to the sky with a yearning gaze, sadness dancing with the little shining specs in her (e/c) colored orbs.

‘If you know I need you…

If you know where I am…

If you come to me in my hours of sleep…

Then why don’t you save me from this nightmare? From this horrible isolation and sorrow?

Why don’t you show yourself?

Why have you abandoned me?’

Hearing no reply back, Erron took a step closer, staring down at her from his upturned chin, glaring down at her with an irked twitch to his brow.

 “So...After all that, you're ignoring me again?” He asked her, approaching her again and crossing his thick arms above his chest.

He saw her jaw move, tensing up and tightening as she kept her eyes up to the dark sky, seeming to grow more and more annoyed by his presence, and nearing an approach to yet another explosion of hers.

He knelt down to her, his eyes fixed on her, staring at the woman dead on yet, still being ignored by her as she continued to reside in her thoughts instead, choosing to do away with his presence the only way she could.

“Really now?” he said with a low sigh,” After all that bark you plan on giving me the cold shoulder ?” He asked her, receiving a cold, desolate silence in return, irking him, the woman easily crawling under his skin with her little act.

'Stubborn little brat…' he thought while huffing.

“...I’ve said all I need to say to you,” She said lowly, still not bothering to look towards him, instead, gazing up at the air, the dark, night sky soon in her line of vision,

“...You rotten man,” She added with a clenched jaw.

 "Alrighty then,” he said with a nod, “That's just fine,” he told her, shrugging disinterestedly. “Fine by me if you keep your mouth shut,” He retorted, “But you know… I can't have you starved,” he informed her. 

“ Dying on me…” he added nonchalantly.

“So eat,” He told her, receiving a brisk and snarky No in return.

“ It’s not good for my business, you know?” He told her, and as he spoke he could see a thick shiver run through her, rattling her as he put in his complaint.

“Bringing in a dead body won’t do me any good,” He added, almost as though him telling her about his little dilemma would convince her otherwise.

“Screw y-”

Not letting her finish, he caught her nose in between his two fingers both his thumb and index pressed on either side, squeezing tightly and cutting off her airflow.

At that, her eyes bugged, arms flailing to tear his hand away, but as she did, she was left with the same helplessness as the restraints which bound her didn't budge.

Being trapped, she couldn't really fight back, and the best she could do was shake her head, but even then, his grip was firm, causing tears to bubble in her eyes as the sting of his press and lack of oxygen overwhelmed her,

“Ah!”

It didn't take long for her to gasp, her mouth flying wide open, and with a quick hand, he shoved the last of his morsel in her mouth, offering her a satisfied grin while he succeeded.

She would have spit it out had it not tasted so heavenly, especially while she was starved.

He watched as she begrudgingly ate, satisfied with himself, "’atta girl," he muttered, making her scowl, her eyes once again glowing with a fierce fire.

“ If looks could kill,” he started,” by now I’d be dead, dead, dead,” he mused, “ right honey?” He asked her, making her scoff before she swallowed down the bit of food with a dried mouth,

‘ How dare he…

How dare this… this… rotten man toy so much with me!’ She thought with dismay, convinced that every thing he did was to bother her.

If it wasn’t bad enough that he’d caught her and had her at his mercy, he seemed to enjoy picking at her and making her suffer.

‘But then again…’ She mused while a sudden thought came to her as she saw an open window, ‘It's to my advantage…Right?’ She thought to herself, slowly finding her voice, her (e/c) colored eyes drawn to his boots, not daring to look up at him, knowing her eyes could betray her,

‘If he finds me to be so vulnerable…

If he thinks I’m so helpless… then wouldn’t that mean he sees no threat in me?

Wouldn't that mean that he doesn’t expect me to get the best of him?

Isn’t he too confident?... Enough for me to take my needed chance? ’ She wondered with hope.

‘I’m nowhere near as strong as he is...’ She thought with certainty, ‘But maybe I don’t have to be,’ She thought while momentarily bringing her eyes to the weapon strapped to his side.

‘Maybe I just have to be smarter,’ She added.

‘If I can get it away from him... and maybe even use it myself...’ She trailed off, biting her lower lip, 

‘If he can get closer to me...and give me just a moment...’

“Can I...I have some water? ” She asked him softly, making him chuckle.

“ You have to be sweeter than that honey. After all that big talk I'm a little hesitant to get closer to you… Who knows right? “ He asked her. “For all I know you could try and bite me.

From that little devilish look in your eye, I can only assume you're on the shoot.” He told her, betting on the chances of her planning to escape.

“I’m parched,” She told him, which wasn’t too much of a lie because she actually was thirsty.

“ I haven't had anything to eat or drink,” She said to him, giving him large doe eyes, the sudden look of plea hitting him with surprise.

Again, her little stars were shot to him, causing his jaw to lock at the sight, remembering just what they did to him the last time, figuring she was making the same attempt,

'She's a damn witch,' He told himself, convinced she had some sort of magic to her as he reached towards his water canteen, unscrewing it as he approached her yet again.

He then kneeled to her, coming closer to her level while his right hand began to tilt the opened container just over her mouth, his left hand momentarily running his fingers over the soft skin of her chin, lifting it up with the tips of them to make sure she didn't spill anything.

"Open up," He murmured, his actions making her frown, the expression instantly washing over her as he leaned in.

"C-Can't you let me go?" She asked him, having expected him to untie the restraints to let her drink," I can drink on my own," she said softly, barely uttering the words, because as she spoke she knew she was being too hopeful and that he wouldn't take a bite to her bait.

- But she had to try.

She had to take every chance she could.

Adorning a little smirk, he chuckled, " I sure hope you don't take me as a fool darling," he said while watching her stiffen.

"Insincerity...It really isn't in you, is it?" He asked her, having noticed how little she could hide her true self.

"You want me to let you go, don't you?" He asked her, placing the canteen aside, moving it out of the way before he trailed his left hand down from her waist to her thigh, moving down even more to reach her ankles where he'd tied her up.

All the while she stared at him wide-eyed, watching him undo the knot that held her before he made his way to the other tie, both knees pressed to the ground as he placed himself before her, his arms fully around her figure.

" You know...All you had to do was ask," He told her, his grin present as he was pressed to her, momentarily working on the binds while she basked in his strangely warm, sweet scent of leather.

"If you'd just kindly asked me before...there'd be no need to try and fool me," He murmured, the thickness in his voice causing her to swallow down strongly.

 "After all, I'm a sucker for pretty girls..." He informed her, her face blooming with color at the statement.

During then the tip of her nose was pressed onto his chest, breathing in his smell with tightly shut eyes,

'It's overwhelming,' She thought to herself, having already been surrounded by the scent while they'd rode on the hooved creature, but not having been encased by it as she was now.

It was inescapable and tantalizing. 

Unlike before, now she was facing him, and it felt so much more intimate to be pressed together in such a manner, 

'-But...wait...what...what's going on?' She wondered with confusion while the pit of her stomach warmed, a strange, yet sweet, and warm feeling spreading out to the rest of her body as it was surrounded by him.

" You think I'm the big bad wolf, don't you?" He asked her with a small hum, hearing her reply to him with a nearly soundless sigh, having nothing more to really respond with.

' No. I think you're awful...I know you are...' She thought to herself, trying to ignore the strange, and foreign feeling that washed over her.

'You're...You're the worst,' she reminded herself.

"But really... I'd only bite if you gave me a reason to...If you'd tempt me to..." He added while drawn so close she felt uncertain on whether or not he could actually feel the wild pace her heart ran with.

'You must know what you're doing to me...

Whatever it is you’re doing to me...You have to know...' She silently spoke, wanting to draw back from him, yet left stupidly stilled.

Unwillingly, a little, anxious whimper escaped her, causing his chest to rumble with yet another chuckle, the sound surrounding her, causing her skin to bump up, the woman becoming thoroughly flustered.

'You must be enjoying this...' She thought with perturbation. 'Toying with me like this... making me feel so helpless and small...I...I...Just why do I even feel like this to begin with?'

He suddenly stopped, his voice low, beneath his breath, sounding clear as day to her as she was at such a close range, daring to ask a question that needed no answer, 

"Am I making you nervous?" He asked her, teasing her, causing the tension between them to thicken furthermore.

It had always there. The same thick, uncomforting feeling as the villain was pressed so close to her was always present, however, somehow, with just the single teasing utter, he'd made the air became almost unbreathable and suffocating.

'Is it just me? ' She wondered, suddenly feeling warmer, the feeling somehow similar to standing near a blazing fire. 

She felt so nervous and small, her vulnerability making her feel delicate beneath the rugged man who she was growing certain remained unmoved.

" what do you want from me?" She then asked him, her chest heaved as she shook, wanting to know just what his plan was.

She was aware that he was dangerous.

She knew he wasn't there out of the kindness of his heart, and that the only reason their paths crossed was because of who he already was.

‘You’re someone who’s done awful things. 

You’re someone who doesn’t care about anything but himself and what he can get back.‘

She knew it, and yet, within such a short time, the warmth of his body had already become familiar to her, melting over her sweetly, and leaving a mark that now responded at any form of closeness. 

‘You’re not someone I should be comfortable with in any way...

So why is my body responding in this way? '

 "Why me?" She asked him in search of a concrete answer.

Why her of all people?

 " Someone just wants you that bad..." he replied, answering briskly.

"Who?" She asked him anxiously, all while pleading.

'Just who,' she thought with fright.

" Can't say," he answered back because truth be told, he had no idea.

He'd only ever met the man once and during then his voice was slightly muffled by the mask he'd worn. And if that wasn't enough, he'd also worn a long hood, hiding most of himself save for his dark gaze.

The almond-shaped eyes clicked in his mind, but not enough to give him certainty on just who it was.

 " But we'll see when we get there," he told her.

"In the meantime-"

" Why don't you just let me go?" she interrupted him, questioning him in the same hushed tone of before, "You can let me go," she assured him, her glimmering eyes pleading as she inclined her head back, gazing up at him.

 ' If there is any good in you, please... please let me see it.

Please let it shine through.' She thought with growing faith. ‘ This feeling...give it reason.’ She went on, searching for a soft spot within his glaring dark stones, trying to weave through to a portion of his heart that held mercy.

"And why would I do that? What do I get in return?" He questioned her, scoffing at her plea, because she couldn't really believe it was just that easy, right?

Did she think she could give him puppy eyes and she'd be set?

His resolve then hardened even more as he looked down at her, challenging her, letting her understand that if she thought a look from her eyes was enough to bind him again, she was sorely mistaken.

It wasn't going to happen another time, because he was a strong man, one that wouldn't be caught off guard.

- One who would cave down to no little woman.

Just then the ropes fell, and in that instance of freedom her hands went up to his chest, intent on pushing back while he did the contrary, slowly falling onto her until she was left supported on her elbows.

 ' Do you understand..?' he mused while he was coming close to her, ' I'm In charge...and for now... I make the rules.

So don't think you have anything over me.

Don't think you can play me in any way. '

Her hand then moved to snake over to the side his gun was strapped to when he spoke, stopping her, 

" Tell me Darlin', if we were to cut a deal....what would I get from you?" He asked her, the question making her eyes widen.

The featherlight hope within her grew, her eyes gleaming with the lovely look of trusting faith causing him to shake his head in disbelief. He was amused she really had so much optimism in her despite being trapped beneath him, and that all in all, she was stuck at the mercy of a man that made his living spilling red.

" Anything," she said nodding, starry-eyed and happy, "Anything you want," she breathed.

"Oh? And How much is that ?" He asked, interested, "How much can you give?" he asked her, "You might be able to buy your way out of this," he informed her, knowing there was no way in hell she could, but entertained by just what she'd give,

 What did she think was valuable?

 " I already told you, you can have anything you want!" She said desperately, not understanding why he pressed on so much. 

Didn't he understand that anything was better than being sold off?

Didn't he get that all she wanted to do was make her way back home?

 "Just let me go home and leave me be!" She exclaimed.

"So..." he started, dragging out the word with a little teasing grin, "You're willing to give me anything I ask for... You want to be free that bad?" He asked her, and with a furious nod, she agreed again.

"Please..." she airily murmured.

' I don't know what I've done...

What I've done wrong...

But if it gets me back home, I'll owe you my life.'

A miserable, little smile touched her face while her wet eyes looked up at him, holding onto the small string of hope he'd tossed at her. 

"Well..." He started, idly running the fingers of his left hand beneath one eye to catch any escaping drops, the sweet touch giving her a soft form of comfort.

The hand so close to the weapon withdrew fully, moved to his kind hand, offering a lax hold to his wrist that assured him she was thankful and appreciative. 

‘There is something in you then...something that is good,’ She began to think.

"Now that you mention it, there is just one thing," He said to her, continuing to smile, leering down even closer to her, the proximity causing her breath to hitch as he fully climbed over her, caging her down.

" I know there's one thing you could pay me with," he added. " Hell...I don't think you've shared it with anyone yet," he said chuckling, running the same hand's fingers down over her neck, falling to her chest to where his touch became nearly nonexistent, ghosting over the bosom until he went down to her ribcage.

All the while, his eyes were glued to her ripening face as it glowed and realization dawned onto her.

"Mind sharing it with me? "He asked her, his husky voice falling over her little, heated ear as he whispered the offer.

'Did it cross your mind?' He wondered, 'Or are you that innocently foolish?' He went on, interested to know what went through her mind.

During the entire time, he'd been just toying with her, but even then he felt a small twitch, growing excited as he caught a whiff of the sweet scent she carried around. 

 The smell that emitted from her (s/c) flesh was eerily similar to fresh wildflowers, and it was only really noticeable as he brushed his nose over her flesh, the little arousing aroma only just letting itself be known.

' I'm starting to see how you could make a man go stupid,' he thought to himself, recognizing that she was arousing from sight to scent.

"Not! Not that!" She cried out, literally shaking at his fingertips, the woman growing as delicate as a brittle leaf,

"Get...away..." she said with harsh pants, her voice trembling.

"But you said anything, right? " he said in a low murmur, reminding her of just what she had said, making her realize just how stupid she was.

 ' You thought you'd strike a chord in me and that I'd cave.

 You really thought this world worked that way.'

 "So convince me," he said whilst his lips grazed over her neck, the little contact tickling her, causing her to shiver.

A little sound that she'd never produced before set free from the confinement of her strongly heaved chest and soon after, A sweet, virginal moan struck him. 

With a tight bite to his lip that slowly raked over the flesh, he then took a long breath through clenched teeth.

"No... no..." she shook her head, tears bubbling in her eyes as she wanted to pull back every promise she made, swallowing down the words of compromise she had given him because by then she had become thoroughly frightened.

" ...Off," she weakly begged, her hands which were still on his chest fisting his shirt before she resorted to pushing her balled hands toward his chest, feeble, shaken strikes bumping him.

'For just a moment...For just a measly second...I actually trusted you!' She thought with growing anger. 

' You made me think that there was a shred of kindness in you when you're nothing but a sick... 

Degenerate...

Awful... 

Rotten man!' 

The little quakes that had overcome her ceased, as she clenched her teeth tightly, barring them with a low snarl, "Get off of me now!" She demanded, her voice suddenly stern and certain, filling with spite. 

Her right hand flew up to his face, her palm greeting his flesh with a vicious contact that echoed out, the quiet silence of the desert land interrupted by the clash.

His head moved with the force she used on him and blankly, he stared off to the side, feeling the bothersome sting left on his cheek after the well-deserved assault.

"You actually went and struck me..." he said slowly, his brown eyes glaring down at her, darkened down to near black as he watched her fierce features then melt, regret gleaming in her eyes as she realized just what she did.

His tongue slowly ran over his top lip, a heavy breath passing through his parted lips as he inhaled, sucking in a low breath.

His two hands then reached for her wrists, one pinning her left over her head with unkind force, the other lifting up her right hand back up to his face, forcing the offending hand to lay over the stinging spot it had struck.

Under her touch the spot was pulsing hot, throbbing with pain which overall left him impressed, 

"I didn't think you'd actually go ahead..." he said chuckling, no true show of malice or rebuttal being reflected.

'Serve's me right, right?' He thought to himself cheekily.

" I Didn't take you to be so brash," he admitted to her, because despite the spikes of strength that glowed in her eyes, he hadn't figured she'd be brave enough to actually take a strike at him.

"Not with these hands," he added, continuing with the same amusement, feeling her shake, the little quake present even in her fingertips.

‘These little hands that were so sweet to patches of weeds, ‘ He thought to himself as he remembered how sweetly she interacted with her garden. 

" Little miss sweet and innocent; Miss I wouldn't hurt a fly..." he jeered, "She has some poison in her, doesn't she?" he said while watching her, the said venom which had previously brewed not there, replaced with fear.

"It's a real shame..." he murmured, pressing his lips over her stinging palm, giving it a quick, playful peck that lingered.

' I know it hurts darling'...it hurts you more than it does me, doesn't it? ' He mused while his lips rested on her warm palm.

‘ I can only assume you detest violence. You loath it as much as you say you hate me.

Maybe because... To you, I am violence.

To you, I’m a complete nightmare. ’ 

There was so much shame in her eyes that she shut them close, not wanting to be ogled by the man that had already greedily drunk in their sight.

' It is such a shame...

A shame I can't touch you,' he thought with the same excitement.

' It’s A shame your nothing but an inexperienced girl at that,' he added with a shake to his head, his mind wandering to territory he knew shouldn't be threaded upon, but was unavoidable.

He dared her to stop him again, willing to take her command if she found her voice, 

' Tell me no and I'll stop.

If you can...

If those pretty lips can form the words...I'll step back now,' He thought while in the end, she stayed silent, leaving his warm mouth stuck to her, not moving from the little spot it’d landed on.

Afterward, he let her limb fall, retreating and ultimately, leaving her little body to lay with haggard breathing that was difficult to ease.

It was then that her hands reached up to her risen chest, scrambling back further from him, wanting to run, but left a wobbling mess.

Her erratic heart was in desperate need of a steady hand to grasp it, and helplessly, she clutched her chest, her wide, teary eyes following the man, afraid of him, and yet, somehow excited.

It was all too much for her.

What was much worse, the present excitement she fizzled with had her in a poorer state, the woman wondering why her body had grown so hot, as well as questioning why the sight of him caused her chest to ache so much.

' I can't stay here... I just can't,' she told herself, watching as he seemed unaffected, the light of the fire being put out by the sand he gently kicked into it. 

'I have to leave...' She told herself, letting the precious time slip past her fingers as she stayed motionless instead, watching him in quiet silence until he decided to pay her mind again.

As his eyes landed on her, she couldn't help but shrink furthermore, much more as he went to her, the bind in his hands yet again, having already given her enough time to enjoy being unbound.

'She didn't try anything,' He told himself, somewhat surprised. ‘She didn’t even move an inch,’ He observed.

" Time for some shut eyes darlin," he murmured lowly, suddenly seeming somber, all the traces of amusement he typically wore drained out, the overall sentiment having been vacant throughout the entire two hours of calm quietness.

Reaching towards her, he pulled her dangerously close to him as he carefully knotted the rope around her wrists and ankles, each twist done with slow carefulness, making certain it was secured, yet kind. 

‘Since you’ve been good...I suppose I’ll be nice.’ He silently spoke to her as he finished up restraining her, doing so in a much more comfortable manner, leaving her arms before her rather than behind.

" We're heading out in the morning, just before the sunrise," he informed her while draping a small, woolen blanket over her, her little, balled body covered by it.

"So rest up..." he added while going back to his previous spot across her, keeping his eyes on her until he was sure she was out.

Again, the same small sounds of discomfort he'd become familiar with drew from her, making his lips press together firmly, his head shaking. 

Inclining his head back, he then stared up at the stars, leisurely counting them until somewhere along the count he closed his eyes a final time, his eyelids grown to heavy to blink open. 

‘A good night’s rest,’ He thought to himself. ‘That’s all I need.’ 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Next Part: I Know I shouldn’t 

[laufire]

Supernatural s1

my dash: decries Supernatural every five posts.

me: time to watch it seriously for the first time in my life.

-First thing first: it’s an amazingly well-crafted season of tv. I’m a character-focused watcher, not a plot-focused one; I never connected emotionally to the Winchesters (still haven’t and likely never will, as interesting I might find them as character constructs), so I feared I’d be bored and would want to skip scenes. Nuh huh. I was many things, but none of them were bored xDD. Each episode was a lesson in good pacing and the entire season another in proper build-up. There are one or two or a few dozen tv-writers I would like to show it to, ngl.

-Another thing it excelled at was in its portrayal in abusive family dynamics. The way Dean went mellow and so unlike himself when John gave an order (and what a SHOCK it is in the later episodes when he finally stands up to him!!). How Sam said HE would apologize to his father when they saw each other again, or how he made apologies for his father because “it could have been worse” (at least John didn’t beat them up, like it happened to that poor kid!). John showing Sam more “““respect””” (as far as he’s able at least) simply because Sam already proved he’s capable of leaving him; the way John controls the information he gives them and when and how and how much and how small they feel when they reunite with him. Dean knowing his father had been possessed by a demon because it wasn’t reprimanding him and belittling him. Dean’s psychic shapeshifter (?) expressing his resentment towards Sam for getting to escape. Dean’s quickness to resort to violence when Sam says something that makes him angry, or how he tries to severe ties between Sam and his college friends, or how he guilt trips him when Sam says he plans on returning to his studies, or how he minimizes Sam’s experiences with John or how Sam criticizes Dean’s compliance... (I don’t think Dean’s being consciously manipulative. I think it’s intuitive. Which is far, far scarier. He’s the Elena Gilbert of Supernatural and a walking red flag for controlling behavior). How it’s paired with ~honeymoon periods. The way they use the families around them to highlight their issues. It’s... chilling and terrifying and I can’t look away. I won’t get into the shit John pulls in 2x01 because that’s for the s2 POV, but oh my god I’m so happy he’s dead.

I wasn’t all that sure of how self-aware the creators were about this trend (especially because of how centralized and validated Dean’s POV is in his conflicts with Sam IMO. OTOH... characters like Dean and actors like Ackles are the type to take over a show by charisma alone tbf. The way he swoops in in the pilot and starts disrupting everything, including Sam’s relationship, reminding me of both Angel in BTVS and Chuck in Gossip Girl, Doylist-wise. This comparison is going to make sense to like three people I talk with regularly xDD). At least on early seasons, since certain spoilers about the later ones make me think it grew over time. I’m still unsure but I think they are a little self-aware because of this quote:

Eric Kripke said of Buffy: “I loved ‘Hush’ and ‘Once More, With Feeling,’ but overall, Buffy really taught me about effectively using metaphor in genre. For Buffy, it was ‘high school is hell (literally),’ and Joss Whedon did such a masterful job of grounding his horror and fantasy concepts in this notion, and ultimately telling allegories about high school, which turned what could’ve been B-Movie material into an all-time classic. I used that same philosophy on my run of Supernatural, with the mantra ‘family is hell (literally),’ and always grounded my horror episodes around the notion of families, to the show’s benefit. So thanks, Joss Whedon. I owe you a beer. (Credit: The WB)

everyone wants to be Buffy lol.

-My absolute favourite thing was how competent the Winchesters are (I’m even reluctantly including John here. That bastard). They’re sneaky with local authorities, crafty about fake IDs, credit scams, research abilities, DIY supernatural detectors xDD... I loved the lack of an audience proxy, the fact that the story throws you into the deep end with people that already know their shit. And that the other side is competent too, like when Meg & YED’s plan to trap John relied on the Winchester being competent; on Sam immediately going into the defensive because, what are the chances of finding that cute weird girl a second time, miles away?; on John suspecting it was a trap and only revealing himself after Meg appears to be dead... Another scene that I loved in that sense, from 2x01 (I watched until 2x03, I wanted to see Sterling K. Brown’s first appearance lol) was how upon discovering Reapers are shapeshifters, Dean immediately knew that cute ghost he’d befriended was the one after him. I get the feeling this aspect will get lost in future season and it’s a pity, tbh.

-Related to that, some of my favourite moments: Sam straight up bribing a guy to get into the morgue when Dean’s arguments are failing (with Dean’s money!); Dean’s plan of “well, if this guy is haunting the house and there’s no other way to kill him, we burn the house. No house no haunting”; Dean telling that kid to fake appendicitis to get his parents out of the house; John blessing the tank of water knowing he’s walking into a trap with demons... I dig this stuff.

-I get whiplash sometimes, with the show making a point of (very briefly) telling you racism, homophobia or pro-life attitudes are Bad(TM) and the brothers are Against them (the Racist Truck episode, the one where a woman used a Reaper to exchange “virtuous” lives for those of sinners...), when the rest of the show is err... what it is lol. Dean is toxic masculinity’s poster boy (I was so disgusted by how he acted with Jess omfg), in s2 we don’t get the monsters’ perspective on hunters until we’ve conveniently met our first black one (I love the episode AND the character but it’s fucking true)...

-I need to make a note of paying attention to the writers credits/Bts stuff because I find this show’s progression fascinating on a metatextual level. The only problem is that audience reaction seems to have played a big role (which is a problem on one or two different levels imo xD), and tracking that down is sliiiiightly more difficult lol. Oh well (I don’t even think I want to see too much of this fandom, even to satisfy my curiosity. Some of the glimpses I’ve caught of it are disturbing to the extreme).

-The detail about dead people’s blood being toxic to vampires is SO COOL OMG. I’m tempted to steal it xD

Some random stuff:

-The monsters of the week were some legit creepy stuff.

-I love that Meg has her own hellhounds. Is that still a thing when she returns?

-Dean: you and dad are reckless and I’m going to have to be the one that buries you. / Me, with the power of foresight: 👀

-Also Dean: sometimes it scares me how good I am at killing. / Me: it scares the shit out of me how good you are at killing, too, fam.

-I get the impression Sam loses his demonic-in-origin powers later on, right? What a waste, I love those.

-I’m pretty sure at one point it’s implied John used Dean to honeytrap monsters (when he sends him as a trap for the lady vampire that stole the Colt) and I really don’t know what to do with this information.

-Cassie was GORGEOUS and even make Dean likeable for me while they lasted xDD. But given this show’s track record I’m considering the lack of more appearances a blessing.

-So many guest stars. Everyone’s been on SPN. Especially if they were on the Buffyverse first (I totally get the impulse of casting Buffy actor after Buffy actor lmfao).

-Funny how Luther Hargreeves is exactly who a lot of fans think Dean was (Dean is far, far colder imo), and yet one is constantly called pathetic and evil and the other woobified. Very Funny Indeed *coughs* (funnier still that the character I often see Dean compared to is Wynonna Earp when the parallels are kids-pool deep at best and offensive at worst. Dean is not a Wynonna. Again, Dean is an Elena Gilbert xDD).

-The two paranormal investigators were dumb as rocks, but their motto was “What Would Buffy Do” so I like them (if they ever change that to What Would the Winchesters Do or something like that I’m going to be furious lmao).

-When I want to ~chill I dress about exactly like Dean (minus the flannel I’ve seen in later seasons, you can’t pay me to wear flannel). Like, I think I have a couple of shirts that look exactly like ones of his. I don’t know how I feel about this xDD

-IDK how I’ll feel about Bobby later on (I get the impression every long-term character on this show has their hateful phases xD), but in his introduction he said the last time he saw John he threatened to shoot him (“he causes that reaction in people”), so he’s so far the most relatable character around lol.

[anonwriter27]

Trust in Me Ch8

Hey! Hope you enjoy the latest chapter :)

“Am I not your mother?”

 With a pained gasp Loki shot up from his bed, sweat beading on his brow, when would these night terrors end? This nightmare had been a particularly bad one. He could handle the torment of his torturer, the menacing grin, the promises of pain; but the memories of his mother would inflict the most grief. It didn’t matter if they were happy or sad, they were a reminder that she was gone.

 Loki could not stay in his room this time, he had to move, he had to distract himself. He made his way to the living room.

 At 3am Loki had thought he would be alone, but in the corner next to a small lit lamp was Bella. She was wearing a wool blanket as a shawl, clutching an empty cup of tea in one hand, and in the other a copy of Tess of the d’Urbervilles. Her white fuzzy socks peaked through the cocoon she had made for herself in the armchair; she looked so innocent and content with the world.

 “I believe I’ve tracked that as your fourth book of the week.”  Loki spoke softly, grabbing her attention, “and it’s only Wednesday.”

 She laughed quietly, “I seem to have chosen some riveting books this week.”

 “So riveting they’ve kept you from sleep?” Loki asked.

 She shook her head sadly. Loki walked into the kitchen, filled the kettle, and switched it on to boil.

 “Nightmares?” Loki pressed.

 Y/N looked thoughtful, “In a way…they make me more sad than frightened.” She explained.

 Loki made two cups of tea and brought one over to Bella; she smiled at him gratefully. Loki took a seat on the sofa across from her, looking out the window at the bright lights of New York. His view was obstructed by small gathering raindrops, delicately hanging on the glass.

 Y/N had noticed the tired expression on Loki’s face the past few weeks. He tried to disguise it as boredom, but slowly dark circles were forming under his eyes. She had begun to worry for the trickster.

 “Is that what’s keeping you awake? The nightmares?” Y/N asked quietly, still afraid of crossing a line.

 Loki looked over at her and she could have sworn he seemed relieved; relieved someone had noticed or that he did not have to admit it, she wasn’t sure.

 Loki hesitated, debating whether he should divulge this information. The God of lies decided to be honest; she had shown him nothing but trust and he wanted to return the favour.

 “Not all of them are nightmares. They are mostly memories, good and bad.” Loki admitted, his voice low, almost inaudible.

 A long silence followed, comfortable but weighted. There was a lot to be understood from what had not been said. Y/N knew Loki would not reveal more about his dreams, nor would she reveal the details of her own. It was enough to know that they were both haunted by their pasts.

 Loki changed the subject, not wanting to dwell on what he had wanted to escape from.

 “I hope Thor is treating you kinder.” He said.

 Y/N had noticed Thor had been more hospitable towards her. When making a drink he would offer her one or if asking the group a question he made sure she was included in the conversation. It was a small change, but a significant one. Y/N had wondered if Loki had had something to do with it.

 She smiled, “He is. I don’t think we are friends just yet but maybe in time… I don’t blame him for being wary.”

 Loki sighed and brushed his hand through his hair. Y/N liked it when he looked casual like this, he seemed relaxed with her and in turn she relaxed with him.

 “My brother should know better than to judge a person for their family. How many would judge him due to their hatred for Odin?” He scoffed.

 Bella’s lip quirked upwards remembering her father, “My father would be on that list.”

 Loki looked up at her, noting her startled expression, as though the words had slipped out of their own accord.

 “Oh? Your father did not care for the almighty Odin?” Loki said, with a devilish grin and a humorous tone.

 His teasing smile gave Y/N the permission she needed to carry on without fear of causing offence.

 “My father did not care for the Gods. His brother Regin was devoted to Odin, he even raised his sons to worship him. But my father always told me to never trust the Gods.” Y/N said, hearing her father’s words echo through her head.

 Loki was surprised. Despite the Tatum Clan being unpopular in Asgard, they were devoted subjects. He would hear their battle cries to Thor on their many raids. He suspected this dedication would dwindle throughout time, but he hadn’t expected a Tatum to cast aside the Gods outright.

 “May I ask why? He asked curiously.

 She remembered her father’s warning, “He said that people spend their entire lives trying to please the Gods, to interpret their teaching and follow them whole heartedly; but the Gods are fickle, what they would teach, they would reinterpret, never to be satisfied with what man can offer. He said he would not live his life depending on their false courtesies and small mercies.”

 Y/N stopped and smiled.

 “This annoyed my uncle to no end.” She chuckled, “I think my father would say it just to annoy him.”

 Loki chuckled with her, “Your father sounds like a wise man. Your uncle’s faith never wavered?”

 Y/N shook her head, “He remained loyal to Odin most of his life. He had four strong sons with strong Norse names. He thanked the Gods for them every day, prayed for their safety every day, begged for their bright futures every day.” Y/N’s voice grew quieter towards the end.

 Loki noticed her smile had grown sad. “Most of his life?”

 “My cousins… Regin’s sons, were some of the first to die when the family were…well.” She never knew what to call the demise of her family, a slaughter? A cull?

 “Regin felt as though his prayers had been ignored. He asked my father why Odin had forsaken him; my father simply told him what he had always told me, that Gods are fickle. They say on his last day Regin did not pray.” She spoke sadly, “Despite my father’s waring, I do hope he and his boys are in Valhalla…it’s all he wanted.” Y/N said.

 Loki pondered her father’s words. Pandering to ‘false courtesies and small mercies,’ is that not what Loki had done his entire life?  Had he not waited for scraps of kindness from his supposed father only to be condemned for doing just what the Allfather had done himself? Odin had hated the Tatum’s, maybe Rafael was the reason why. Could Rafael see what others had been blind to?

 Y/N could feel Loki overthinking, she could see it in his eyes too. When Tony began to worry a simple touch of his hand would soothe him; Y/N did not wish to be too forward with Loki, so she changed her method of comfort.

 Y/N tightened her blanket around her shoulders and grabbed a few cushions from the neighbouring sofas. She scattered them in front of the giant window, arranging them much like she did the night they watched the fireworks. She sat down in the little den of cushions, looked over to Loki and patted the spot next to her.

 Loki was slightly bewildered by her actions. For a woman wise beyond her years, he had never seen her look so youthful and relaxed. The seat she offered was inviting, it promised warmth and comfort. He took her offer and sat down beside her.

 The pitter-patter of rain against the window was calming. They watched the city continue to go about its business for a little while before Belle spoke up.

 “My Uncle told me many stories about the Gods when I was a little girl. Did Thor really dress up as the Goddess Freya?”

 Loki couldn’t hold back his laughter, “Yes my dear, he did. It all started when the giant Thrym snuck into Asgard…”

 Loki continued to recount Norse tales from long ago for many more hours. They grew more and more tired as the night went on and eventually fell asleep on the pile of cushions. Y/N was the first to fall asleep, her head resting against Loki’s shoulder; not long after, Loki gave in and rested his head on top of hers, he drifted into a dreamless sleep.

 Loki awoke just two hours later; the tower was still quiet, and the sky was still dark. He looked down to see Y/N resting peacefully in his arms, they appeared to have gravitated closer together in their sleep.

 She was curled into Loki’s side, safe and secure. Loki had one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped around the young woman beside him. His cheek rested against her forehead, the gentle flutter of her eyelashes brushing against his chin.

 Loki couldn’t shift the feeling of contentment, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that it meant nothing. The warmth of her body soothed him, her even breathing calmed him. It was the first time he had slept without his memories interrupting him.

 It was a big statement of trust for Y/N to fall asleep in front of him, one that Loki would not take for granted.

 Slowly and carefully, he lifted her into his arms and carried her over to the sofa. After making sure her head was gently placed upon one of the soft cushions, he draped her blanket over her sleeping form.

 Loki made his way to his own bed and tried to continue his peaceful slumber, but for some reason, when he closed his eyes, he felt like something was missing.

    Y/N was confused by her surroundings when she awoke the next day. When the memories of the night before came back to her, she blushed profusely and hoped she had not offended Loki by being so forward.

 “How come you slept out here?” She heard, making her jump off the sofa and onto the floor in shock.

 She turned to find Bucky smirking down at her.

 “Bucky you scared me!” She said regaining her lost breath.

 “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He said sheepishly.

 Y/N felt guilty, “I know…I’m sorry. I’m not quite awake yet.” She got up and made her way to the kitchen where a fresh pot of coffee was brewing.

 Bucky smiled, “That’s okay, I was just wondering if you wanted anything from the bakery?”

 Y/N looked at him surprised, “You’re going out today?”

 Like Bella, Bucky did not leave the tower much. He would go out much more frequently than she would, but he had fears of his own. Loud noises startled Bucky, but over the last year or so, he had tried to get used to them and pushed himself to go visit new places.

 “Steve is going with me. It’s been a week since I last went out and he’s getting anxious.” Bucky chuckled at his friend’s over protectiveness.

 Y/N gave him a big smile, “That’s great Bucky.”

 As they made a small shopping list for Bucky’s bakery trip, Loki came into the room. He hadn’t interacted much with the winter soldier, but he seemed civil.

 Y/N noticed Loki enter and found that she felt something akin to nervousness. Was it nerves? Why did she feel this strange flutter in the pit of her stomach? She felt her skin heat up too, making her aware that her cheeks had turned as red as cherries.

 Bucky noticed this change in his friend, he had never seen her so flushed. It was somewhat entertaining.

 “Morning.” Loki said.

 “Morning.”  Bucky replied with no malice or trepidation.

 “Yes morning, it’s…um…morning.” Y/N fumbled over her words.

 What on earth had gotten into her.

 Loki also noticed this change, but believed she merely felt embarrassed about having fallen asleep together. Loki wasn’t offended by this; to rest with someone is an intimate act, especially for someone as timid as Bella. He just hoped she did not regret it.

 “Okay…” Bucky said, trying to move away from the awkwardness of the encounter, “I’m heading to the bakery if you want anything?” Bucky asked Loki.

 “The bakery?” Loki questioned.

 “It’s just around the corner from here. I can show you if you like?” Bucky offered.

 Loki hesitated, “I’m not sure that is wise…”

 “If it helps, Steve’s going to be there to make sure I don’t mess up and scare everyone. I’m sure he can babysit the both of us.” Bucky smirked.

 His dry sense of humour had caught Loki off-guard. Loki had been somewhat made aware of the circumstances that brought the soldier to the tower. Bucky’s situation was not too dissimilar to his own.

 “Well if you think he can handle it...” Loki joked, earning a chuckle from Bucky.

 Bucky got up from his seat, “They don’t call him a super soldier for nothing, shall we?”

 Loki was about to follow Bucky to the elevator but stopped to speak to Y/N first. He suddenly felt very shy.

 “We could go to the library this afternoon… if you wanted?” he asked.

 Y/N was surprised, but so very happy. She lowered her head, hoping her hair would shield the pink of her cheeks from his gaze. “I would like that.”

 Loki smiled, “I had better get us some pastries then.”

 With that he left, leaving Y/N to think about the God of Mischief and how good it felt to have him so close.

[nekoannie-chan]

The night we met

Pairing: Brock Rumlow X Reader.

Word count: 1674 words.

Summary: Something went wrong in the last mission, something that completely changed his life, Brock doesn’t know how to overcome what happened and continue with his life.

Warnings: Some smut references, death of a character, nothing explicit.

A/N: Flashbacks are in italics.

This is my entry to @imma-new-soul​ ‘s Jay’s 550 followers writing challenge and to @angelinathebook​ ‘s Lena’s 300 followers writing challenge with the song prompt #1 y #5:

“The night we met” by Lord Huron.

Also is my entry to @ugh-supersoldiers‘s Gracey’s 5K Challenge with prompt #6:

“If you could feel what I feel when you walk into the room, everything about ‘us’ would change”.

My native language is Spanish so I wanna improve my writing skills in English if you notice any mistake please let me know and I will correct it.

I don’t give any kind of permission that my fics be posted in other platforms or languages (I translate myself my work) or the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this), I did them exclusively for my fics, please respect my work and don't steal it. There are some people here who make dividers that anyone can use, mine is not this type, please look for the other's people. The only exception is the ones I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. If you find any of my works on a different platform and is not one of my accounts, please let me know. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.

My other media where I publish: Wattpad, Ao3, ffnet.

If you like it please vote, comment, and give me feedback to improve my skills and reblog. 

I am not the only traveler

Who has not repaid his debt

 Brock was sitting on the floor, he saw the bottle in front of him, and there were also the photos, some of which were taken at your wedding, many of your dates, others of special moments in your relationship.  

He knew that at the time he should not get drunk, he had another obligation that needed him, but it was very difficult to continue with that pain.

It hurts so badly, he didn't know how he was going to get over it, he didn't feel able to continue, he was very angry because everything changed, the plans that you had now made no sense.  

It supposed you will be old together, you were going to have several children and they would see they grow up, but Werner von Strucker came to ruin all the plans, even though they had captured him, it wasn't enough, he wanted revenge, he needed to make he pays for destroying his family, but his teammates wouldn't let him, they claimed he would pay, however, they didn't understand what you meant to him. , nothing would be enough to make up for what had taken away from him.

 I've been searching for a trail to follow again Take me back to the night we met

 He could remember in great detail how you knew each other, both had entered as recruits for S.H.I.E.L.D.  

 You used to be away from the rest of the recruits, almost always alone, you seemed very shy, he used to always be chatting with one of his teammates.

That's precisely what caught Brock's eye on you, he didn't understand why someone as beautiful as you wouldn't want to draw attention.  

He felt lucky when he touched them on the same team in the first practice. 

“Y/N Y/L/N,” you introduced yourself by extending your hand. 

"Brock Rumlow," he replied by holding your hand. 

You were a great team, you always gave the best results.

The first time he asked you for a date, he'd never felt so nervous before, for a moment he thought you were going to turn him down, he walked into the office you were working on to invite you in.  

"Do you want to go to the fair?” He invited you. 

"With you?” You asked distractedly.  

“Yes... Well... forget it, never mind,” he retracted.

You blinked a little, you finally understood what Brock had asked you.  

"I'd love to, as long as it's just you and me," you answered.  

He smiled a little, the nerves were gone.  

"Only you and me, Saturday at seven o'clock, I pick you, okay?”  

"Perfect.”

 And then I can tell myself What the hell I'm supposed to do

 He looked up a little more, in a chair, was the first stuffed animal he had given you, the face you had put in made it worthwhile, it had been a successful first date.

 "Do you want some of those stuffed animals?" he asked when you walked past one of the stands.   

"Do you know how to play it? I'm too bad for those games," you said.  

You stopped in front of the post and paid.  

"Which stuffed animal do you want?" he questioned.  

"That dog," you pointed out.  

Never before had he felt so pressured to win a prize, he played and won it, he immediately gave it to you, you looked like a little girl. 

"Thank you, you're very skillful," you thanked him.

You kissed him, you barely grazed his lips, but that was enough for him.

 And then I can tell myself Not to ride along with you

 Your kisses, he was going to miss them, your body, your caresses, everything from you.

 He needed to know if you two were in a relationship to know how to behave, if it was just an adventure, would set aside your feelings. 

"So what are we?” He asked.  

"Aren't we in a relationship? I thought that...” 

"We've never talked about it before..."Then I have to assume we're nothing or we can be in a relationship if that's what you want,” you figured.

He kissed you.

 I had all and then most of you Some and now none of you Take me back to the night we met

 He felt it was all his fault what happened, he must have insisted that you stay at the Compound with Wanda that day, if he could return the time, he would prevent you from going on a mission. 

 You were lying in bed after making love, you had your face hidden in his chest, while he hugged you with one arm and with the other hand caressed your hair.  

"Marry me," he said suddenly. 

"Hmm?”   

You raised your face, you weren't sure what you heard. 

"I know it's not the most romantic way, but I want to spend the rest of my life with you," he continued.  

You smiled, you passed a finger over his chest. 

"Are you sure? I can be very unbearable," you answered.

“If you could feel what I feel when you walk into the room, everything about ‘us’ would change.”

You bit your lip, you knew he couldn't stand the intrigue. 

"I don't think you're very convinced.” 

 "I am more than ever, do you want to be my wife?" he asked again.  

"Yes, but only if you give me my engagement ring," you answered, laughing.

"I'll buy you the one you like the most," he promised. 

He kissed you and you made love again.

 I don't know what I'm supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Oh, take me back to the night we met

 He stroked his wedding ring with one finger, what was he gonna do now?

He saw your wedding photo, it was one of the happiest days of his life when he started thinking that he should do things right.  

He took the picture, for him, you had been the most beautiful bride in the world in that dress.  

Sometimes you used to dance to the song that had been your waltz at your wedding.

 You were married for four months when he decided to tell you the truth.

 "I have something to confess to you," he said out of nowhere.  

You looked at him with doubt, even though you kept muddying the jam on the bread you were having for breakfast.  

"Are you cheat on me?" you questioned trying to stay calm. 

"What? No! I couldn't do that to you.”  

"Ah... then it can't be worse,” you answered calmer. 

 "I'm HYDRA," he finally said.  

You dropped the bread out of your hand. 

 "What? Oh... Brock...”  

What were you supposed to do? You never suspected he was the enemy.

"If you ask me I'm going to confess everything to Fury, I don't want to lose you, first listen to me, there's a good reason for this...

 You had heard and supported it, in the end as promised he confessed everything to Fury and even helped dismantle the organization enemies, yet many enemies had been gained. 

When the night was full of terrors And your eyes were filled with tears

 When you announced that you were pregnant, he immediately prevented her from going on more missions, he didn't plan on taking any chances, finally, he was having the family, he had always wanted.

One night you got up when you heard noises, they came from what would be the baby's room, when you walked in you saw Brock opening boxes with the furniture that would be in the room.  

"Brock, isn't it very fast yet, I mean, I'm only three months old," you asked. 

He turned to see you, he didn't think he was making so much noise.   

"Everything must be ready by the time the baby gets here," he replied.

 And when the little girl was born, he didn't care if they saw him crying, it was promised that he would protect his daughter from any danger.  

Tears fell again when he remembers when the doctors told him that you were dead.

 When you had not touched me yet Oh, take me back to the night we met

 “Brock…”

It hurts a lot, he crouched down to check your wounds. 

“Y/N... wait... help is on the way," he said. 

"I don't think...”

”Shh... everything will be fine, they're on their way," he repeated.  

He was trying to stop the blood loss, but you'd already lost too much. 

"I love you, tell our daughter that I love her too, please take care of her, take care of her, please, I’m sorry….” 

He tried to keep you from talking to keep you from running out of energy. 

The wait in the hospital had become eternal, as soon as he saw the doctor immediately rose.  

"I'm sorry, they didn't make it," they informed him. 

 "Did they make it?" he asked.  

The information was like a bucket of cold water.

 I had all and then most of you Some and now none of you Take me back to the night we met

 You were three weeks pregnant, he couldn't help wondering why you hadn't told him yet, what he didn't know was that you were going to tell him the night that you came back from the mission.  

He wiped away tears when he heard the door open.  

"Daddy?" the little girl came into the room.  

"Hey princess," he replied by opening his arms to get him closer. 

The girl ran to hug him.

"Sorry, she got away," Wanda apologized coming in.  

Brock beckoned her that he was fine.  

"Mommy doesn't love me anymore?” The little girl suddenly asked.

"What? Why do you say that?” Brock questioned.  

He had asked not to tell him anything that had happened, he wanted to explain it to him himself.

"She didn't come back," she replied.  

"Your mommy loves you, do you remember Lucky?”  

"Mom's dog? Yes, he liked me to give him my candies.”  

"Mom and Lucky are together," Brock explained.  

"In heaven?”  

"Yes, from there they're going to take care of us," he continued.  

"Why didn't she say goodbye? We're not going to the park on Saturday anymore?" the girls asked distraughtly.

Brock sighed, it was harder than he had thought, and he had been promised that all three would go on the weekend.  

"In a little while we'll say goodbye to your mommy, don't worry, you and I are going to the park," he told her.  

He got up and carried her, it was time to go to your funeral, it was going to be very difficult, he kept feeling that his world was collapsed, he would give everything to go back to the day he met you and avoid making all the mistakes, he would be able to do anything as long as you were alive.  

However, he couldn't let himself be beaten, his daughter needed him.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Take me back to the night we met 

[queencatherynerhys]

The Fighter - Chapter 6

A/N: I’ve had this published in Wattpad for a while now. I just have been too lazy to publish it here. Sorry. I just got back into being active this week when editing my Masterlist.

Summary: The more time America spent in the palace, the more she can’t control the memories that she’s buried deep within years ago.

Tags: @devineinterventions2 @madaraism @theroyalweisme @drakewalkerwhipped @drakesfiance @hhiggs @hellospunkiebrewster @alicars @mrswalkerreynolds @mfackenthal @simplyaiden-blog @hopefulmoonobject @blackcatkita @cocomaxley @boneandfur @lizeboredom @crayziimaginations @umccall71 @zarina-x-zig @writtenbycandy @ranishajay @heatherfilliez @drakelover78 @indiacater @pens-girl-87 @katurrade @speedyoperarascalparty @greyeyedsmile14 @barbaravalentino @zilch3 @mynameiskaylabella @darley1101 @blznbaby @trashbagfullofflannels @bella-ca @highlyselectiveextrovert *I just used my usual tag list. Let me know if you want to be taken off if you don’t want to receive notifications about this story. Also let me know if you want to be added.*

Marlee hugs me for quite some time until it gets a little uncomfortable. I debate whether cutting it short, but I understand the reason why she was hugging me for so long. I missed her, too, but I haven't had this kind of personal interaction in six years and it's my impulse to push away. One cannot afford to be vulnerable in this line of work.

"Um, Marlee, you're crushing me," I lie to get her off me.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, America. I just missed you so much. I don't get why you left or why you lied to everyone saying that you were dead," tears begin to form on the corners of her blue eyes.

"I missed you, too, Marlee, believe me. But please you must promise me you will never call me America again. No one can know who I am. It's safer for you, for everyone and for me. Promise me, Marlee." I ignore her curiosity for now. I simply have too many worries in mind to answer her inquiries about why I left.

"I promise, Amer-, Scarlet. Sorry," she corrects herself and I nod my approval.

"Now, I'm sure the royal family is waiting impatiently for my arrival to breakfast, so I must go. If you wish to know more, you can come by later tonight and I will disclose what I can about what happened in the last six years," I sound so distant and I hate myself for not being able to talk to Marlee like I used to, but this is the way it has to be. I can't allow myself to get close to her, to anyone. I have to remind myself that I've made my choice. I chose this life of solitary, of loneliness, for the happiness of everyone I love and that includes her.

I look at Marlee and she nods before leaving the room. I grab and put on my black leather bomber jacket and tuck my gun in its permanent home in the back waistband of my pants before heading down to the Great Hall. I decide to search for James on my way to inform him of the breach in our security. I find my loyal secretary doing a perimeter check with one of the palace guards and I whistle to catch his attention.

He walks towards me and I drag him to a remote part of the hall without guards or staff to hear our conversation.

"We have a breach in security. Marlee Tames knows my identity. Now before you scold me, I didn't tell her, she just figured it out. She was always the smart, observant one. Find her, instruct her of the proper protocol and measures that must be put in place since she has top secret information. When you're done, report back to me. Can I trust you with this, James?" I ask him.

"Of course, Scar. Why even bother asking? You can trust me with anything, you know that."

"I know. I just needed to hear you say it. Thank you, by the way, for not scolding me about someone recognizing me."

"You're welcome. I figured you're already doing that for me. But I am still strongly suggesting that we leave and let our Fennley team handle this mess. What if more people start recognizing you? What if he recognizes you? What then?" He asks. It's a fair question. I can't have him knowing or figuring out who I am, but I also can't leave without knowing he'll be safe. I can't leave without keeping my personal promise.

"A valid question, but you already know my answer. I am not leaving. Not without ensuring his safety. Especially with our prisoner lurking two stories beneath my feet." I confirm yet again.

He huffs in defeat, "Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you."

"If something happens to go awry, you can be the first to tell me 'I told you so'. But right now, we should really head to the dining room." With that, I start my path to the eating space with James beside me.

As we reach the door, I take a deep, calming breath to center and ready myself to face my past. To face the person who has haunted my days and nights. There's no turning back, Scarlet, I thought to myself. I release the breath I was holding and begin to reach for the door handle when the guard posted by the grand entrance interferes, "Allow me, miss."

I nod. After six years of opening my own doors, I was taken aback by the formality, but I have to get used to that for this short period of time. He opens the door and the familiarity of the room rushes back to the forefront. Many memories of eating with the royal family and the elite in this very room. Oh, how naïve I was to think that my life was complicated, then. How I'd give anything to be back in those simple times. Times when I could be America again and sing my days away. Sadly, those days are long gone. They must stay gone. For the sake of the one person that sits in this room.

The lavishness and grandeur of the dining room amazes me to this day. It's nothing compared to the massive U-shaped dining table we sat on the very first day of the selection. This dining room is smaller, more informal, intended solely for private dinners between the members of the royal family. When the Selection was narrowed down to the Elite, this was the place we ate. I hear the faint whispers and laughter from distant, buried memories. I feel James' light nudge pulling me out of my recollection.

"Well, well, we were beginning to think you weren't coming to join us. If it were left to me, we would've eaten a few minutes ago, but my lovely wife insisted we wait," the king states in a rude tone.

I learned a long time ago how to not react to childish remarks even if they came from a person with such a high rank in Illéa's hierarchy. America, the old me, would've scowled at that, I'm sure. Instead, I curtsy to the direction of the queen, "Thank you, Queen Amberly." The king notices my ignorance and I am almost positive I will receive the back end of that decision later.

I take my place on one of the chairs on the side of the table facing Princess Kriss. King Clarkson and Queen Amberly sits on opposing sides facing each other on the head of the table with Kriss to the right of the queen and the prince to the king's left.

As the servers begin their task of bringing food, Queen Amberly acknowledges me, "Miss Ryan, please kindly invite your..."

I realize the queen doesn't know my relation to James and I quickly reply, "James."

"Your...James to come and eat with us." I obey and whistle for James, who was just beginning to make his way to the door after making sure I was safe.

He turns around and we do our silent conversation.

Come and sit down, I say.

Is that appropriate? He silently asks.

The queen asks for it.

Are you sure?

Would you just sit the hell down!

Alright, alright!

It's not like the bastard king will bite. At least he won't in front of his wife.

He laughs with his eyes.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," James bows before taking his place beside me on the dining table across from the beloved prince. I glance at Maxon for the briefest of moments before concentrating on the meal set in front of me. Eggs, bacon, toast with a fresh cup of orange juice. It's been more than 3 years since I sat down to have a proper breakfast. Usually my morning routine included me taking my meal to work and getting a head start toward my long day of running a clandestine organization. Also, my work allows me to forget my horrible nights.

I slowly dig into my plate, savoring the quality of food in the palace. Since becoming director, I am blessed to have a decent life. Still, there's still a distinct difference in palace living and the rest of Illéa.

The quiet buzzes of hushed voices fill my ear, but I don't really try to comprehend what they are saying, too focused on my worries. I tear myself away from my internal concerns to see a maid set a plate of strawberry tarts placed before me. Distant memories immediately bombard me. Instinctively, I reach for James' hand underneath the table. He knows every detail of my past, the selection.                  

                  He looks into my eyes and know the predicament I am in as he sees the pastries in front of me. He squeezes my hand as I recall one of the earliest memories I have of the Selection.

Our first meal with the handsome, celebrated Prince Maxon. I was contently minding my own business eating delicious strawberry tarts when the precious royal thought it would be funny to single me out.

"Lady America?" I looked at him, shock clearly written all over my face and a mischievous smirk in his as if it was his plan all along to address me just when my mouth was filled with food.

I hurriedly chew and reply, "Yes, Your Majesty?" No doubt my face was as red as my hair from the embarrassment he was so clearly amused by.

"How are you enjoying the food?" His facial expression clearly said that he was enjoying the sight of making me look and act like a fool.

I explained how the food was excellent and my sister, May, would cry if she had these strawberry tarts. And as if he found that information amusing, he beamed with a smile as he continued to make a bet with me. If my sister cried, I made a barter that I would be allowed to wear jeans instead of the stuffy dresses we are mandated to wear. If he won, I would have to go on a date with him.

I was confident I knew my sister well enough to win, so I agreed. As if fate had other plans, I lost.

Looking back on how my life had completely gone off the rails, I wish I could back to the girl who had the audacity to knee the prince in the groin. I wish that my nightmares would cease. I wish I would stop seeing the face of all those I've lost when I closed my eyes. I wish the screams I hear in my head would silence themselves. I wish to not have the scars I carry on my body from the torture I've had to endure from the last six year. Most of all, I wish to be in the place of the woman that sat in front of me. The one who held Maxon's heart in their hands. The one he called his wife, his love, his world.

[atamascolily]

Lily reads Star Wars: Red Harvest, part six

In which EVERYTHING IS ON FIRE (and no, I do not exaggerate). Eat your heart out--oh, wait, sorry, eat someone else’s heart out. My bad.

(If you’re just joining me, check out the “Red Harvest” tag on my blog for previous posts)

We left off with Darth Scabrous waiting for Zo in the library. There's the obligatory villain monologue with some much-needed backstory.

“This library,” he said, “is the oldest part of the academy, older even than the tower itself. It was constructed over a thousand years ago by a Sith Lord named Darth Drear. He founded the academy, back when the planet itself was young. The ancient writings tell about how he used his first students as laborers. For hundreds of years, the Masters at the academy believed that a good many of those students died down in these very chambers, using the Force to move hundreds of tons of snow and ice and dig out these corridors and chambers to house Drear’s vast collection of … specimens. It was thought that Drear worked the students until they died from exhaustion.”

Blah blah blah Sith holocron blah blah blah eternal life. The usual stuff.

“Before he died, Darth Drear wrote of the final stage of the process—the step that he himself was never able to achieve. He dispatched his sentries to a nearby planet to abduct a Jedi and bring him to the secret temple underneath the library. After ingesting the elixir, in the final hours before his body gave in completely, under exactly the right circumstances and conditions, Drear planned to use a ceremonial Sith sword to cut open the Jedi’s chest while he was still alive, and eat his heart. Only then, with that final infusion of midi-cholorians still warm from the Jedi’s blood, would the decay process be held back—granting the Sith Lord his ultimate immortality.”

I TOLD YOU THEY WENT THERE.

The plant!zombies show up again - turns out they weren't really dead! They carry Zo down to the Secret Sith Basement at Scabrous's command, where the sacrifice is to take place. But don’t worry, not!Qui-gon is in hot pursuit! The tree librarian grabs not!Qui-Gon and dangles him in the air. I am LIVING for this. “No need for your weapon here,” the voice said. “Not in this place of learning. We are both learned beings, are we not? Enlightened and informed by the written word. No need for the encumbrances of physical violence.” It uttered another bulky, dusty chuckle. “Look upon me, if you like. Seek my face.”

There's a bunch of book avalanches. not!Qui-Gon  goes into the tree!Librarian's head at his own urging and sees his memories

It was the librarian’s name, Trace realized, his patronymic, and somehow he knew that on his home planet it meant “lover of knowledge,” a perfect choice for—

HOW DID HE END UP ON A SITH PLANET AS THE SITH LIBRARIAN IF HE WASN'T ACTUALLY EVIL?? Sadly, we don't get answers.

Also, more relevant to the plot, not!Qui-Gon sees the secret Sith basement being built and gets caught up on all the backstory that Scabrous already revealed. Then everything catches on fire and not!Qui-Gon uses the Force to retrieve his lightsaber and create an air bubble to ward off the flames.

He looked at the lightsaber, laboring to evacuate every other thought from his mind. At the Jedi Temple, they had taught that it was never a matter of manipulating the object, but of eliminating the space that separated you from it. Yet at this moment, the object in question had never felt so far away....

The timing of what happened next was critical. Deactivating the bubble, he opened his hand, and the lightsaber flew into it. Its handle was almost too hot to hold, but the solidity of it had never felt better in his life.

I like this attention to detail in my Star Wars.

Not!Qui-gon gets pulled down to the basement via plant zombies for the final showdown as the library burns around him.Good-bye, Tree Librarian -- you may have been evil at the end, or perhaps this whole time, but you were fucking rad.

The mechanic is still alive and in hiding. He gets lured out by Kindra's pleading, only to reveal it was a trap by the zombies and she's a prisoner. The zombies rip her to pieces but the mechanic gets away. I’m so mad because even though I knew it was a trap, and I knew she was going to die, I hoped she got a more badass ending. Sigh.

Meanwhile, the bounty hunter and the newly liberated HK droid discover the zombies are hiding INSIDE the Tauntauns, a la Aliens and it's gross, and now we have zombie tauntauns, too. Turns out the HK droid hates the Sith too! But the bounty hunter got sprayed with tauntaun spit so now he's infected. Good thing droids can't get this... right?

Scabrous tries to kill Zo but not!Qui-gon makes a dramatic entrance and stops him. Not!Qui-gon gets murdered while Zo watches in horror and... I guess he really has more in common with Qui-Gon than I initially thought!

Scabrous transforms into his final form, but the orchid wakes up just in time, and Zo tells it to grow while she starts going to town on the Scabrous and slaughters him with his own sword. It doesn't take, so she switches to her brother's lightsaber, which does better, since it actually cauterizes.

She climbs out of the pit after Scabrous is dead, only to find the rest of the zombie horde waiting for her. The bounty hunter and droid rescue her, but they're attacked by the academy's perimeter cannons, so everthing gets worse fast. The droid jumps out and turns to the lasers on the tower, destroying everything - including the orchid if it's still alive? I'm a little fuzzy on the details here. Fortunately, the mechanic is flying the plane and he's okay.

Zo goes into the trophy room, only to find that the bounty hunter is now a zombie, but he locks himself in a cage before he turns and tells Zo to send him out the airlock, which she does--along with the entire grisly contents of the room, and a last zombie stowaway. FINAL GIRL VICTORY.

Zo returns to Jedi Greenhouse Planet, traumatized but alive. Turns out the guy who we thought was dead in the bounty hunter attack at the beginning of the book is actually alive, so that's good. There's a new orchid waiting for her:

You were with my seed-brother, the orchid said, arching toward her. Is that true?

Yes, I was, she told it, and thought about the voice of the first orchid, the one that she still heard in her mind. I still am, in a way. He saved my life.

Really?

Bennis smiled again, the indulgent smile of a proud parent, and gave the orchid a small pat.

D'awwww. Wait, so the original orchid isn’t really dead? She can still hear him even though it’s gone and they’re separated? Did I miss something in the tumult of the finale?? Or is Zo being metaphorical here?

Also, I’m so curious how the Jedi just... got another orchid so quickly. In our world, orchids can be clonally propagated in HUGE batches, so the AgriCorps could potentially be churning these things out at a massive rate. This raises WAY more world-building questions that this book is NOT going to answer, and it frustrates me, but I doubt the author knows much about actual orchids, so... *shrugs*

But cuteness aside, Zo decides she'd rather study on the Jedi Temple at Coruscant (the mechanic will take her) because she has too much PTSD. Also, this means that if anybody else tries to kidnap the new orchid, they won’t get Zo! I don’t know why the Jedi are even raising these orchids, given that they’re in demand on the Sith black market. Didn’t Zo explain they were the critical ingredient for an awful zombie plague?? DID NOBODY LEARN FROM THIS EXPERIENCE??

This is supposed to be a happy/hopeful ending, and it kinda is, but Zo apparently doesn’t know / the author forgot that the Jedi Temple was destroyed when Corsucant got sacked eight years earlier (as Trace tells us in his introductory scene)... which means she's walking into ANOTHER haunted temple nightmare and doesn't realize it yet. We'll call it.. Red Harvest II: Coruscant Nights, or maybe just Blue Harvest. How about that??

Frode would be waiting for her with the ship, ready to take her back to Coruscant, and whatever might be waiting for her there. The mechanic would be good traveling company, she sensed—there was a low-key air about him that bespoke dozens of untold stories, events that had made up his life and taken him to the unlikely destination of Odacer-Faustin. She felt herself already beginning to trust him.

Wow, I was not expecting this dude to survive, but okay. Also, he got tagged in the beginning as kinda greedy (scuttling the engines of the other bounty hunters to sell) and kinda lazy/stupid/opportunistic/desperate (for ending up as the mechanic for Sith Hogwarts in the first place). But okay, whatever, I guess.

And the moral:

The future was scary, but you couldn’t avoid it, anymore than you could outrun the past.

OR  A MASSIVE ZOMBIE HORDE, AM I RIGHT??

Wow, that was a trip.

I feel like this was better than I had any right to expect from the premise, but still felt like a B-grade horror movie. I like the tantalizing hints of what world-building we do get, and I think this novel is excellent fodder for future horror/Halloween fics. Otherwise, I’d skip this unless you are a “must read everything in Legends” purist, enjoy Sith shit, enjoy watching Sith die in horrific ways, and/or a diehard plant nerd like me.

RANDOM TRIVIA: Wookiepeedia says the first draft had a character named  "Middish Sunblade, modeled after Holden Caulfield, but Sunblade was removed from the rewrite because he was whiny and nobody could stand him," which is just too true and too funny for words. Also, an actually-in-character Holden Caulfield expy would last approximately 30 seconds at Sith Hogwarts before being stabbed... I’m just saying.

[tv-writes-ff]

Shizuru/Hiei/Botan OT3?

I ship it now! There are not enough poly ships out there, in most fandoms, and this is one that I can support! My memory is the worst, but I think I've heard of this ship before. I am pretty sure that I've never read a fic for it before though. If anyone knows of any fics, please let me know!

I am very curious about how this would work out. Who approached who? Was there a two-person relationship and then the third joined the relationship later? Did all three start and develop the relationship at the same time? I need so much more information.

As for the compatibility, I can definitely see it working. All three of them would balance each other so well because their personalities are so different. I think there would be some friction in the beginning, of the not so good kind, but once everyone figured out where they stood in the relationship it would be AMAZING. I'm picturing a cuteness overload of domestication as well as some explosive acrobatic sex. Their relationship would be one of those that shouldn't work but most definitely would.

Okay, I told myself no headcanons or little scenes with these, but I can't help myself. So have some Shizuru/Hiei/Botan headcanons!

Shizuru and Hiei exchanging fond yet horrified looks whenever Botan decides to redecorate their home, including repainting and how did she find a chair in that color?

Botan and Shizuru shaking their heads whenever Hiei gets in a mood and goes nonverbal, then wordlessly agreeing to not push him into speaking and instead sandwiching him between their cuddles until he gets over whatever is bothering him.

Hiei and Botan sitting on their couch while Shizuru paces in front of them ranting about whatever is currently bothering her; the two of them pass snacks back and forth, Hiei offers to kill whoever Shizuru is annoyed with, and Botan says she knows some spirits who will haunt them into insanity.

Shizuru and Hiei are more reserved in public. Botan is the one who jumps on them and grabs them whenever they're out. In the privacy of their home, Shizuru is always casually touching her partners and Hiei is the master of surprise cuddles.

Shopping is a breeze for them. Botan pushes the cart and apologizes to everyone in their path, Hiei walks ahead of her and keeps everyone out of their way, and Shizuru is in charge of putting what they need in the cart.

Hiei is the jealous type. Seeing Botan and Shizuru together makes him feel a deep sense of satisfaction, but there is no god that can help the idiot who dares to touch one of his partners or even looks at them a little too long.

Shizuru brags about her partners to anyone who will listen, or anyone trapped in her chair at the salon. About the new sword that Hiei made himself and how it's sharp enough to give someone a close shave, wink-wink. Talks about Botan's newest passion project of glassblowing, no one knows what she's making but she's happy so they're happy.

Botan is surprisingly close-lipped about her relationship at work. Koenma and Jorge know all of the details, from the cute to the sordid, but the other Pilots can only guess and gossip about Botan's human and demon lovers. Botan loves over hearing the gossip and always tells the craziest theories to Hiei and Shizuru so they can laugh together.

[al-winchester]

Commission Guide

 Commission Rules and Guidelines + How to Request

-Fandoms-

My list of fandoms I write for is constantly growing as I read and watch and play more things. I also may have forgotten to list a few, so don't be afraid to ask about a fandom! An up to date list of fandoms I write for can be found at the end of this post for easy reference, or via the link in my description. 

-Genres, Prompts, and Content Rating-

I can write for any genre you would like. Specify which you are interested in, or let me surprise you. 

I can write from prompts you see on my page, prompts you find other places, or a plot you came up with. Just be sure to word it carefully so the right idea is portrayed! A fun idea is using a song as a prompt. It allows for lots of ways to interpret it!

Content I write is most often PG-13, but I can do R-Rated. This being said, please notify me of anything that may offend you so I can create something you will enjoy reading. Alternatively, let me know what is okay to incorporate into the story. 

-Default Writing Style-

There are things I do in my writing if there is no specifications made in that area:

- If it is a x Reader story, I write in first person (Example: I adjusted my bag.)

- I usually follow the plot of the canon universe, save for a few changes necessary to make the story work

- I use some swearing, if it is in character (This can be censored or omitted)

-Things I Will NOT Write-

- Incest, pedophilia, beastiality

- Anything that glorifies suicide or self-harm (different from depicting it)

- Anything that glorifies abusive behavior (different from depicting it)

- Anything that promotes racism, homophobia, or sexism (that includes the kind of fake feminism that states that women are better than men)

- Fanfiction of real people is not my thing. I don't want to write it.

- Anything that gives out personal information about you or others

- Any sort of hate promotion

- Real life politics (Not my area of expertise at all)

If you have questions about if your request breaks my rules, please ask! The worst I can do is tell you I won't accept your request.  I am happy to clarify anything you may have questions on.

-Examples of information to give for a commission-

The more of the following you include in your request, the easier it will be for me to have a handle on what to create for you. Here are the things I recommend listing in your request:

- the main character(s), and how to refer to reader character (If doing a reader based story)

- a prompt or plotline (a song can work as a prompt too)

- Point of view

- Any alterations to the fictional universe being used as a base (Alternate Universes and Universe Alterations)

- Word count limit (This determines how much you pay. If more is written, it is not charged for.)

- When you would like to have it done by

All this being said, there are lots of ways to go about this. If you only have a general idea of what you want, that is fine too! I am happy to work with you to get what you want out of the story. Alternatively, the more details you give, the more of them I can integrate into the story. Last, you could go as simple as asking for a character and giving a word limit and let me work my magic! It is completely in your hands on how to make a request.

-Pricing-

Price is a penny per word up to 2000 words.

After for pieces longer than a limit of 2000 words, the price is 1 and 1/2 pennies per word.

For easy reference, a 500 word commission would cost $5. A 2500 word piece would cost $37.50.  A table of word counts and prices is at the end of this post for easy budgeting.

You set the word limit. If I go over the limit, you only pay up to the limit. Consider the rest a bonus for getting me inspired. Standard limits are between 200 words and 2000 words. Anything longer will require more planning.

-Logistics-

Keep in touch - We can communicate via email or messaging. It’s your choice.

Payment - When the commission request is accepted, I will send you an invoice via PayPal or Square based on your preference. The invoice can be done one of 2 ways, either pay in full up front, or pay half before and half after completion.

Publishing - I will not publish the commission unless I have your express permission to do so. If it is published, you can choose to be tagged in it or not.

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[bffhreprise]

Entry 312

 Throughout the night, I gave James a rather lengthy tour of my ancestral home.  Sadly, he admired the architecture far more than the relevance of the antiques to my family, but I wasn’t particularly surprised.  Still, I did my best to explain the family history without boring him too much.  If only there were more from Arthur’s time still around, I might have been able to hold his attention at length, since he did have a fondness for that particular ancestor.

 When I insisted on doing a little bit of work, he was obviously disappointed.  I could understand why he refused to use my secondary computer, given how incredibly slow these machines were compared with Mila’s hardware.  I doubted James really considered how much the technology in his house could revolutionize the world, but none of it could be shared.  Aaliyah wouldn’t let us.  With gaming out, James went out to roam, so I absently tracked his meandering course through the mansion as I did my best to finish quickly.  Unfortunately, new problems always arose, though there weren’t any so pressing that I insisted on keeping at them when he returned.

 “Have much left?” he inquired.

 “Always, darling, but I can excuse myself if you are ready to begin.” I assured him.

 “Well, Sebastian has already procured everything we’ll need, so we might as well.” he replied, sounding hopeful.

 Smiling, I said, “Excellent.  Give me thirty seconds.  I’m quite interested in seeing what sorts of spells are utilized in your craft.”

 “About that…” he started, interrupting my thoughts immediately.  “Will you be completely disappointed if there is something for you to sign?  Sorry, but there are reasons, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

 I nodded, feeling dejected.  “This is precisely why I worried about her getting involved in your life.” I asserted, knowing the reasons revolved around Aaliyah.  I knew I was being a little silly, since James probably wouldn’t have discovered whatever he was about to show me without Aaliyah, but I wasn’t in the mood to admit it.

 “Still worried about her?” he asked as I hurried to close my meetings.

 “Always.  As fantastic as she can be, I know her mood can be mercurial, and there is nothing that will withstand her wrath.” I asserted, unable to share what I had seen of the devastation she had done to my family.

 James had the nerve to smirk, saying, “I find her perfectly adorable.”

 “You’ve seen her other side.” I pointed out, knowing the Reaper wasn’t forgettable.

 “As I recall, everyone was a bit put off by her presence when I was fighting for your hand.  She seemed fine by me.” he replied, actually looking as if he was considering what had happened.

 “Has she actually shown you what happens to someone killed by her scythe?  I know she’s generally too quick, but she’s not above demonstrations.” I replied, certain he hadn’t.  The chilling display still haunted me whenever my thoughts meandered to it.

 “Want one!?” questioned Aaliyah, appearing out of nowhere.  She was giddy as ever as she stared between us.

 “No.” I told her firmly.  “Never again.”

 “No promises.” she teased with a wink.  “I brought the paperwork for you!”

 “Lovely.  Was I saying too much?” I questioned, wondering why she decided to disturb us at this moment.  I had barely ended my meetings.

 “No, Alpy.  James is more aware of who I am than anyone else alive today, including Carl, and that’s really saying something.” she insisted, overly happy about the idea.

 “Please excuse my disbelief.” I told her, taking the tablet she held and perusing the annoyingly threatening document.  Still, part of my mind considered the truth of her words.  If James really did know her better than even my family, which was possible given he knew about the flying and Chronos, could he have an actual reason to trust her?

 “I can’t explain yet, but I’ve seen her.” stated James.  “Really seen her, not how she is now or as Death.  She’s magnificent, I assure you.”  He winced very slightly as if his head was hurting, but he didn’t look to Aaliyah as if she had done something.

 “Don’t worry, boss-man, sir.  She’ll know well enough one day.” promised Aaliyah, which made a chill go up my spine, but James instantly relaxed.

 “If she’s truly that magnificent, then why must her infernal contracts be quite so complicated?” I asked, uncertain how to interpret part already.  “Surely, she could have me promise not to tell and accept that my word would suffice.”

 “As you wish.” stated Aaliyah, snatching the tablet away from me.

 I nearly reached for it again before saying “What?  Are you serious?”  Gauging her with all of my senses wasn’t enough.  She still seemed perfectly adorable without a hint of deceit as she nodded.

 “Uh huh.  We’ll be boring this time.” she replied, feigning a hint of regret over the loss of the “fun”.

 “But what about…” I started, pointing toward the tablet.

 “I trust you.” she replied, interrupting me.

 Despite her apparent earnesty, the lack of specifics left an inherently more frightening, vague threat in my mind.  “I haven’t even promised anything yet.” I pointed out, hoping she’d give me some defined lines of where I could stride safely.

 “And I trust you.” she insisted solemnly.  Then her face took on that enormous grin as she exclaimed “Have fun!”  She vanished with the sound still lingering in the air.

 “She’s messing with me again.” I insisted as I visually looked for her.  She could hide her heat from me with ease.  “The bloody girl is playing another of her games.”

 James suddenly hugged me, kissing the top of my head.  “Shall we get started?’ he asked as he pulled back to pull me behind him by the hand.  The materials for our project were effortlessly gathered with a spell, reminding me that not even a year had passed since he first learned of magic.  He did at least allow me to undo the protective spells guarding my father instead of sauntering through them as if they weren’t there.  I wouldn’t fair so well against them.

 After greeting my father, which was still a thrill for me after the seemingly endless years of silence, James started explaining the spells he had planned for us, starting with the most basic.  His surprise at my knowledge of metallurgy amused me, though I didn’t admit some of his spells seemed slightly better than what I would have used, especially regarding the formation of an alloy I didn’t recognize.  As he explained the metal's properties and the reasons behind these particular spells, my trust in his ability grew by leaps and bounds.  This was certainly the man who had made my engagement ring.  I had given Aaliyah too much credit for its design in my head, not that I was holding that against James in any way.

 Then I noticed something disturbing.  Pointing to it, I said, “This part here looks like something I’ve seen in a book on the dark arts.”

 “I’m sure it’s similar, but we’ll be using that bit to identify one another.” he insisted.

 “James, this probably isn’t wise.” I argued, knowing stories of family members who had attempted to unravel the dark arts with unfortunate consequences to their bodies and minds.

 Solemnly gazing into my eyes, he said, “I swear on my life that this is perfectly safe.  I know in great detail what every part of these spells does.”

 I wanted to trust him, but part of that came from his magic having free reign on my mind.  Protecting myself in any way from his enchantment while keeping my mind open to Father was impossible.  Forcing myself to fight that bewitchment, I said, “How could you possibly know what every part does?  No one does.  We simply know the rough purpose of any given pattern we use, but I’ve demonstrated to you the disastrous results that can happen when attempting to alter patterns as well as combinations we know to be disastrous.”

 He sighed, dismantling his spell while creating another with which I was quite familiar.  Taking on the tone of an instructor, he started making claims about what each individual part of the spell did while explaining what the small changes he made throughout it would do, which he certainly could have known from seeing me use it, but he altered it further.  Then he released the spell, creating a large wave of fire to shoot outward in a plane above us.

 Ignoring my father’s amusement at the sight, I said, “You’ve obviously done that before, so knowing what will happen isn’t that impressive.”

 “Yes, but I’ve also studied, as I’ve told you before, from a book of sorts which I can’t share with you yet.  Trust me.  These spells we’ll be using are perfectly safe for this use.” he insisted, sounding as if he desperately wanted to say more.  Indulging himself a little, he said, “I’ve been studying magic a great deal since I enhanced Jarod’s suits.”

 “Fine.  What is this supposed to do?” I questioned, demonstrating the necromantic portion he had created earlier.

 “We’ll be using the part that reminds you of necromancy to identify one another, so the rings will react to us.  If you prefer, we could tie the rings to each other and leave things at that, but I thought a little extra information would be nice.” he replied somewhat evasively, smiling at me.  He obviously wanted me to ask for more.

 “What sort of information?” I questioned, indulging him.

 “We’ll not only know precisely in what direction the other is, but we’ll have a sense of distance as well.  The rings will also pulse slightly in time with our heartbeats, so you’ll know if I’m alive and calm no matter where I am.  Furthermore, the rings won’t function for anyone else.” he stated proudly.

 “All that from a bit of necromancy?” I asked, impressed by the notion.  If he truly came up with that on his own, James was probably the greatest authority of magic I knew, not that I would admit it to him until receiving further confirmation.

 “Well, more than that the bit of necromancy will allow for it.” he replied, still being evasive but unwilling to say more.

 “I can easily imagine some saying that feeling your partner’s heartbeat through a ring is a bit much.” I teased, finding the notion romantic myself.

 “Are you one of those people?  Personally, I’ll find knowing with absolute certainty that you are alive to be wonderful.” he insisted, obviously hoping that I’d agree.

 “You’ll also be able to avoid me when I’m angry.  Nothing gets my heart pumping quite the same.” I replied, losing my humor as the reality of the thought reminded me of how far I needed to come in self-control.  My temper had always been a problem for me.

 “I’ll know where to find you, so I can find out what’s wrong.  Besides, I always know when you’re angry if I’m nearby.  Your magic gives that away.” he explained, gazing into my eyes as he lightly touched my cheek.

 “And what if I don’t want to be found because I might lash out at you?” I questioned.

 “Marriage isn’t a perfectly smooth ride for anyone.  I’d rather know where to find you than be left wondering where you are.  There are also a number of protective spells I’d like us to place on the rings.  I do need to warn you that undoing these spells is far more difficult than placing them.  You could consider this an eternal bond if we go through with it.” he warned, looking quite serious.

 “I figured as much.” I admitted, finding that as the most logical point of the necromancy.  The rings would draw energy from us.  “Let’s do it.  All of it.  I find myself amused by the idea of always having your heart.”

 “Well, there’s that too, but you don’t need a ring for it.” he assured me with a charming smile.

 The conversation on spells continued for a time before moving onto a discussion of aesthetics.  Our rings would have engravings, imperceptible to most, of us dancing with one another in a sequence around the bands.  His ring would have twin bands of rubies to match the ruby of my engagement ring, and mine would have sapphires to also match my other ring.  Set into the dark metal of his alloy, we believed the effect would be quite fantastic.

 When we started on our test rings, I felt James watching me.  He surely wasn’t surprised that I was doing this with my eyes closed, at least he shouldn’t be with how much he knows of my abilities with heat.  Our test rings were so perfectly formed that we could have used them if not for a peculiarity of certain spells.  James claimed that they would only fully set if applied while the metal was molten, so I took his word for it.  I was very impressed that he was able to craft so perfectly without my power over heat.

 The final rings took an incredible amount of concentration due to the complexity of the spells going into them, probably the most complicated spells I had ever cast.  Keeping myself from wondering how he had managed to come up with these was somewhat easy until after I finished, due to my inability to think of anything outside of the rings or spells in those moments, but the moment I finished, my musings started taking hold… until I saw him smiling at me as he held up my ring.

 “Let’s hope you got the sizing right.  They won’t come off easily, so we can’t try them on.” he teased, still grinning at me.

 I playfully hit him and insisted we showed Father.  I knew from the scattered images pressing into my mind, that my father couldn’t fully comprehend what we were doing or why, but he loved me still.  Knowing that his love for me lasted through his mental breakdown gave me hope that I could still have a meaningful relationship with him, even in this state, and James was fully in support of it.  How lucky was I?

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 31: New Tastes

Chapters: 31/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Teen And Up Warnings: None Relationships: Loki x Reader (Someday) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Reader, Thor(Marvel) Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Loki Is Still Up To His Tricks, Loki Just Wants To Help, It’s Not A Date, Only Two Beds, Loki Is Starting To Realize Summary:   On the night before the proceedings, Loki tries to take your mind off your nervousness with a nice meal, alone together. It's not a date though. Really.

Akureyri was the second largest human settlement in Iceland, and even to a small-town American woman, it didn't seem very big. Bigger than your hometown, but smaller by far than the nearest 'large' city in Iowa; a state famous for its large cornfields, not its population.

The group of you crossed a long bridge over the beautiful fjord, only to find even more protesters on the other side. At the first hint of a waving sign, you found yourself surrounded by horses, Asgardians on all sides. These protesters stayed beside the road, and made no moves to approach, being watched by bored-looking police officers, who also did not move from their spots.

Despite the much more peaceful appearance of these protesters, the Asgardians remained on high alert all the way to the nice hotel, and sent both Valkyries to lead the horses to their own reservations at the nearest stables. The rest of you stowed yourselves away in the restaurant area to await their return.

You were hearing a surprising amount of American English being spoken by the people around you. Either tourism was booming, or they were here for the trial. You never thought that the sound of your homeland's speech would awaken suspicion in you, but you found the Asgardian accents around you to be a barrier to the dread.

“Loki and I will be in one room, Brunnhilde and Borgliot in another, and _____ and Saldis will be in the last.” Thor said, and the chatter around you diminished. You noticed a young woman staring at you, though she looked away when you met her gaze. “Apparently, these were the last rooms available, as a large wave of tourists have arrived for the summer. The receptionist rather helpfully told me that this happens every year, but not quite to this degree.”

“No more mouth.” You tried to say in Asgardian.

“Pardon?” Loki asked, astonished.

“No mouth. No more mouth.” You didn't know how to say it, but when Thor had mentioned their sleeping arrangements, too much of that background English had abruptly stopped. People were obviously listening in, either out of pure curiosity, or for more suspect purposes. You couldn't tell them in English, because everyone would understand, but you didn't have the words in Asgardian yet.

“Mouth? Dear, I don't think...”

You flapped your hand like a puppets mouth, and his expression became understanding. He turned to Thor, speaking swiftly in a language you had never heard. All of the Asgardians seemed to understand, but all you could tell was that it was not Asgardian. They all seemed to agree with what he was saying, Saldis grabbing your luggage and leading you to your shared room.

“We really need to work on your Asgardian, my Seidkona.” She said blandly, as you entered the very nice room.

“Yeah, sorry, I haven't picked up nearly as much as I oughta. Andsvarr tried to teach me some basic stuff, but I don't have nearly his gift for language.”

“It is something he is very good at. It's a shame his father wouldn't let him pursue a scholar's life, but nothing would do for him but that all his sons be in the royal guard.”

“His father is that Alarr guy? He seems, uh....”

“He is a donkey.” Saldis sniffed, hanging your dresses. “Always braying and stepping on other people's feet.”

“Woah. Are you supposed to talk like that?”

“Who is going to tell?”

You started laughing, because it certainly wasn't going to be you, but the laughter turned into a short scream, as Saldis disappeared in a cloud of smoke, to be replaced by a larger figure.

You fumbled for your knife, drawing it just as Loki cleared the smoke.

“Oh dear.” He slowly moved the point of your knife aside with one finger. “Have I startled you?”

“W-what's going on now?” You demanded. “Where's Saldis?”

“With Borgliot.” He said. “We saw fit to reassign our sleeping arrangements. There is simply too much potential for danger, for you to be left with a non-combatant.”

“You understood. Thank goodness.” You sheathed your knife. “Everyone was listening in.”

“Fortunately, no one in that room had the possibility of understanding Vanas. Unfortunately, that included you as well. I regret that we could not tell you what we were about to do, but we had no way to do it without also informing potentially dangerous eavesdroppers.”

“Yeah, well. Okay.” You put your knife away, laying the sheath on an end table.

“You should keep that with you.” Loki suggested.

“I'm in my own hotel room, and it's close by. Besides, I really shouldn't be carrying it here. I'm pretty sure it's super illegal. We came here to see justice done for a crime, so we shouldn't be committing another crime at the same time. So...are you sleeping here now?”

“There's two beds my dear. You needn't fear anything nefarious from me. Well, not much, anyway. Or, do you prefer your servant's company to mine?”

“Well she was putting my dresses away. Looks like now you have to finish that for her.” You quipped.

That might have been a mistake. Loki locked eyes with you, lifting a dress from the luggage, and reverently hanging it next to the others. The next one caught his eye, being green and soft, and sleeveless. You noticed that it had a surprisingly low neckline. Who had put that in there? It was nowhere near warm enough outside to warrant revealing that much skin.

Loki held the dress up to the light to examine, fondling the cloth, taking in all the little details. He then slowly approached you, holding the dress up against your form, as if trying to imagine what it would look like if it were actually being worn.

“Put this on.” He said, voice a soft whisper.

“Wha-now?” You exclaimed. He nodded. “Why? We're not going anywhere.”

“Exactly.”

You sighed and took the dress into the bathroom.

It fit. It fit really well. It also made you look like you belonged on the cover of an old fantasy novel, where everyone was wearing very impractical things to be fighting dragons, but sure looked good. You weren't sure you had seen anyone else in Asgard who showed this much skin.

“I...I don't know if I want to come out.” You called through the door. “I'm kinda embarrassed.”

“I'm sure you've nothing to be embarrassed about.” He called back. “Besides, twice this day you have commanded me as if I were a servant, and I have acquiesced. Come out, and show me the dress.”

You should have known that would come back to haunt you. At least he didn't sound angry. You steeled yourself, and stepped out into the room.

You'd expected a bit of ridicule. Teasing about your figure, or comparison to the graceful and powerful Asgardian women, or even outright dismissal. What you did not expect was for his breath to catch, or for him to fail to hide it. For his eyes to rake over you, or his lips to curl upwards with smug satisfaction.

“Uh...Do you like it?” You asked shyly. The last time you had dressed up privately for a man, he had ended as your emotionally abusive ex.

“Very much.” He said. “I knew I had good taste.”

“You put this in here?”

“No, no. I ordered it made for you, but I did not know it was done yet. We have galas and feasting holidays in the wintertime, and I wanted you to have something appropriate to wear.”

“You call this appropriate?” You asked, gesturing to the distressing neckline, and immediately regretting drawing his eyes back to your chest like that.

“It is not inappropriate, and that is the most important part.” He pointed out. “You would hardly be wearing the most risque thing I've seen at one of these galas.”

“Well, you're a legendary prince, you've probably seen all kinds of things during your fancy dances. Or after...” You halted that train of thought right there. That was none of your business.

The levity left his face as you spoke. “Have I caused offense? You look a vision, my dear, I thought you would see that when you put on the dress. I am not angry about your demands; I found the audacity amusing.”

“No, no, I'm just on edge right now, it's not your fault. I'm probably gonna be all wound up like this until the trial is over. I'm scared of all the people out there, I'm even scared of hearing my own language!”

There was a knock at the door. You jumped, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Well, in that case, it's probably a good thing I ordered dinner to be delivered to us.” Loki announced.

Green light flickered at his outlines, his appearance changing until the visage of Saldis stood before you. She wore Loki's expression, winked at you, then opened the door to accept the meal. Once that was done, he resumed his regular form.

“I didn't know you could do that!” You exclaimed. “Must come in handy!”

“You have no idea. Now, have a seat, let us have dinner.”

                                                                                                                                                *****

Loki had known that dress was going to make you into a work of art when he had commissioned it, but he had not counted on just how exquisite the combination of cloth and bashfulness would be. He couldn't wait to show you off at the Buridag gala, but even deeper down than that, he wanted to hide you away so that no one else could see you like this.

He felt that was rather silly of him, considering that everything he had done so far had been specifically so that you would be seen. Seen, and known, and respected.

But he still didn't want anyone else to see this. To see you shy and squirming in a perfect dress of his own devising. Perhaps he was just feeling protective. You had been projecting distress all day, after all, and he wanted to lighten your mood just a little. Make you smile a few times before he had to allow you back into the presence of that murderous human slime.

How he wished you had let him kill the man!

Instead, he set the food down on a little table, and pulled out the chair for you. Producing a gilded candelabra with green candles, he lit them with a spell, and placed it in the center of the table. You mumbled something about the candles being green, but of course they were green, always green, like the verdant living lands, like farms full of food, like forests full of timber. It would always be green, green and gold, the twin colors of prosperity, success, and wealth.

He drew the heavy curtains closed, plunging the room into candlelit darkness. The sun wouldn't set for another month, but here, he could at least create for you a kind of faux night. He even poured the wine for the both of you, having chosen a unique and less powerful variety specifically for you. He still caught you eying it suspiciously.

“I'm told this is a very special wine. Locally made by the only winemaker on the entire island. They called it Kvöldsól, and it is apparently made without any grapes at all, but with wild berries, herbs, and rhubarb instead. I assure you, it is safe for human consumption. In fact, I am told that it is touted as a potent brew for the preservation of youth, driving away the ravages of age with something called anti-oxygen. Which sounds absurd; humans need great quantities of oxygen to live. But perhaps there is something to it?”

Yes, defending you from mortal aging was a worthy cause. It would be nice to keep you around for as long as possible.

“First of all.” You said, a gentle mirth in your voice. “I'm pretty sure it's 'anti-oxidants'. Second, are you implying that you don't?”

​”Not as much as you, perhaps. Does it meet your approval?”

You took an experimental sip.

“Okay, yeah. It's good.”

It wasn't, not by Asgardian standards, but it also was at least a little different from the jumped up peasant fare that was nearly every other Midgardian wine. They were all either so sweet they might as well be desserts, or so dry they were tasteless. This, at least, had the excuse of being made with wild things, and if it was good for your health, he could make sure you had a supply.

Dinner was a charcuterie platter that also boasted a variety of fruits, nuts, crackers, spreads, and local cheeses, as well as what appeared to be one small smoked bird each, and one strip of cooked meat each.

Loki didn't suppose you could identify half of these things, except perhaps, the fruits, considering that most of them came from within Iceland, which you hadn't yet had the chance to see much of yet. He would have to arrange a royal road trip before the summer ended. What a great bonding opportunity that would be; on the road, alone together, learning more and more about what made each other work. He knew you would enjoy exploring, you had proven to be adventurous; even now you were choosing a little bit of everything for your plate, especially the things you were unfamiliar with. He wondered if he should tell you what everything was?

Most of this was finger food, and you ate with relish; it appeared lunch had not stayed with you. The journey through the mountains especially must have been grueling, he'd been able to tell by looking at you, but you had nobly refused help and just urged everyone to continue on.

“You've been so brave through all of this.” He said. “We will be here for a week, but this trial should not last that long. We can use the rest of the time to take a little vacation. There is a lovely botanical garden here in the city; we can get you some plants here, if you like. There are bookstores and museums. There are also shops, and a place to watch the whales swimming, and just across the fjord there is a waterfall to observe. We might be able to visit everything, if you like.”

“That might be nice. I've never seen whales before.” You regarded the little smoked bird and strip of meat with curiosity. They were different from the other fare before them, but you took several experimental bites anyway, and seemed to like them.

“Is this a quail?” You wondered. “It's so little. Tastes kinda weird. Not bad, but a little strange for a bird.”

“I believe this is a puffin. A type of seabird.” He elaborated at your blank expression.

“Like a seagull?” You asked. “You can eat seagulls?”

“Probably. I assume you can eat any kind of bird, they are all made of bird-flesh.”

“Eew, don't say bird-flesh.”

Loki held out his phone to you, having brought up a photo of a puffin.

“Ohhh, it's so cute!” You exclaimed. “Those live here? I think I'd rather see them than eat them.”

“I believe they used to be common fare, but now they only serve them to tourists. And visiting dignitaries, of course.”

“Okay, well I'll eat this one, because I don't like food to go to waste, but I think I'll stick with chicken from now on.”

“At least they understood our status when they sent us the sheep cheeks.” Loki said cheerfully, pointing at the strip of cooked meat. He had been rather impressed by the level of respect their hosts had shown by including it.

A bite stopped in midair, halfway to your mouth. “Uhhh...”

“What is it? Is something wrong?”

“I've just, uh, never eaten the cheeks off something before.”

Loki laughed quietly. “Of course not! That's kings fare. You would never have even seen such a delicacy. Meat from the head of the animal is always the best part, so it goes to the royal table. Unless, of course, you hunted the animal down yourself. So I suppose that's one way in which a peasant and a king might experience the same thing.”

“Don't like to waste food...” You muttered.

It was rather baffling to Loki, modern humans conceptions of what was good to eat. Granted, it seemed to change from region to region, but it seemed like, no matter where one went, there was some form of food that the locals turned their noses up at.

Perhaps he shouldn't judge too harshly. Some people simply couldn't digest certain things. Loki himself had some trouble with root vegetables. They sat like lead on his stomach, and made his bowels twist. Most people chalked it up to the pronounced pickiness of the nobility, but Loki could put forth his own guesses. Namely, that there was no such thing as a 'root vegetable' on Jotunheim.

He could change his face, but he couldn't change everything.

He still couldn't bring himself to tell you. Not yet. Certainly not now, when you had other things looming large in your mind. Later. When you returned home in triumph, and peace was restored.

Maybe.

It occurred to Loki that he had never actually told anyone of his true heritage himself. Odin and Frigga had always known. Odin had told Thor, and Thor had then told Brunnhilde and his Midgardian companions. And Loki had indirectly told all of Asgard, through the commission of his play, although that was after he had supposedly died a hero, and become beyond reproach.

But he'd never had to look someone else in the face and say to them with his own mouth 'I am a Jotun'.

It felt like admitting to a crime.

But it was not his crimes that were important here. The courthouse called, bright and early tomorrow morning. With any luck, this would all be over quickly and easily.

The time came to sleep, and Loki was as good as his word; he kept his back turned until you were changed and under your blankets, before turning out the lights and settling into his own bed.

As your breathing slowed, Loki allowed himself the tiny illicit thrill of imagining himself lying next to you, peacefully cuddling. Nothing inappropriate, nothing questionable, just gently holding you.

Loki knew that he liked touching you. He didn't put much thought into it; it was obviously because of the magical bond between you. His touch healed your body, your touch soothed his spirit. It seemed obvious.

He was not going to question a good thing right now.

Loki snuggled his other pillow, but it wasn't nearly as soft and warm as he imagined you to be.

[bitchiago]

HAUNTING GENEVIEVE / CHAPTER ONE 

(full chapter under cut)

Contrary to popular belief, the Catholic Church does not believe that the mortal sin of suicide automatically sends the performer of said act to hell. In fact, the Catechism itself says, and I quote, that ‘we should not despair of the eternal salvation of persons who have taken their own lives. By ways known to him alone, God can provide the opportunity for salutary repentance.’

The internet is handy for little titbits such as this. A personal favourite that’s been gnawing at my soul recently after trolling question and answer forums the three weeks prior has been ‘one doesn't attend a funeral out of respect for the dead, but for the living.’

I’m new to the funeral scene, the mourning scene in general, actually. Hell, I haven’t even lost a grandparent. And while some of these bits of information come as absolutely knee shaking, leg buckling, hand sweating, anxiety inducing; sometimes you can find something on these sites to calm your nerves a little. Still, there’s very little online about attending the funeral of your best friend who you were knees deep in an illicit homosexual affair with, hid far from both your parents, friends and loved ones.

Point is, I’m doing as much research as I can for my first funeral since it is such an impromptu and particularly confusing one.

One thing I can say, however, that I didn’t need to find affirmation for online, is that this was the first day I didn’t wake up crying my eyes red raw, and, for a matter of fact, the first that I didn’t wake up and immediately have to rush to the bathroom to throw up, which I have been routinely doing since I found out about Molly’s death. This time I rushed and gagged till I had tears in my eyes. It’s involuntary by this point. There’s no other way for my body to cope and catch up with my mind at the same time apparently.

Each morning has been the same since the day I got the damned call. I wake up, check my phone for a text that is not there nor will it ever be, see the texts that are almost always there, then rush to the bathroom and try to make it to the toilet bowl before last night’s dinner spews up onto the hall carpet. I didn’t realise a death could affect you in such a physical way until the end of Molly.

The difference in today, or so I’ve speculated with the limited brain power I’m able to sacrifice for the cause, is that the stress seems to have completely balled up inside of me and made it impossible for me to do anything but think about the funeral. This includes effective vomiting.

I close the PDF I found of the Catechism I never once thought I would find myself searching through and return to my google tab. All the questions I could ask and yet none would explain the clusterfuck of a situation I’m in.

I saw Molly’s mum two days after she found her daughter in her bedroom unconscious. At first she thought she was asleep, then when Molly wouldn’t get up for breakfast, not even when her mother shook her shoulders and screamed her name trying to wake her up, she realised exactly what her daughter was. The empty packet of sertraline gave her enough information for her to piece together how it had happened.

I didn’t find out till the afternoon when Lillian, Molly’s best friend, called me on Molly’s parent’s behalf. (See? The best friend role is taken, what am I supposed to grieve in front of people at the funeral? The one who found out second? The second-best friend?). Ever since Lillian’s call, ever since she said the words and I froze and she asked if I was still there and I hung up, I’ve been ignoring her attempts to talk to me. Dread is not the word I’m feeling to face her again. Or Molly’s parents. Or Molly’s aunt and uncles and favourite cousins I never got the chance to meet over the short-lived school year and summer we were dating.

After typing in a few ‘do I have to cry at a funeral?’ and ‘how much crying is too much crying?’ questions into google, not having the motivation to read a single answer to them, I shut my laptop on my desk and spin round in my chair.

My phone sits perched on my bed beside my pillow, sheets sprawled out in a mess on the bed after my hasty escape to the bathroom this morning. I move to sit at the end of my bed across from my phone. I had been using it less now that I hadn’t anyone to text except for my parents. Still, I seemed to keep it close by and check it out of habit every few minutes. I don’t know what keeps me repeating this ritual knowing full well my lock screen will be the same as ever. Worst of all is whenever I catch myself looking for new texts with that familiar name at the top and I start to feel a little queasy, which is making me worse for wear considering how my mornings have been going recently. I’m thinking of getting a watch instead of a phone.

The contemplative eye contact I’ve managed to hold with my phone shatters when the thing starts ringing and vibrating its way off the pillow onto the sheets. I pick it up and switch it off. It was my second alarm, the one I set last night telling me that I had two minutes till I had to leave for the funeral, in case I ignored the first one telling me I was T minus twenty in hopes of making the event disappear from my calendar altogether. But, and I’m sad to say I’m quickly coming to this realisation, ignoring something doesn’t make it go away. Not even when you wish it with your whole being.

“Genevieve!” I hear my mum call from downstairs. T-minus 0. My alarm had tricked me.

 My mum holds my hand through the whole funeral. At first I pull away, but after the third time she grabbed a hold of my sweaty palm, I try and settle into it.

We sit in the pews, deep in the middle of the congregation, on those god-awful cold hard benches, and I try with all my might to pay attention to the words being spoken by the priest. Love, peace, great tragedy – it all sounded the same. If I really needed comforting, I could google the exact transcript he was speaking from. In fact, I had been doing exactly that for the past week. Every so often I glance around the rows of faces, trying to catch an eye of someone, anyone really, to ask are you getting any of this? To find some kind of connection so I didn’t feel so lost in it all. The only one I manage to find is Jesus hanging on the back wall, right above the priest.

I watch Jesus hang over him, as I do every Sunday morning, feeling strange that today is actually a Tuesday, and feel those same shudders crawl down my spine that I always feel when I look too carefully at the hanging Jesus. Gruesome, it is; I had always thought so. A dead man hanging from two planks of wood, for everyone to see – and the large crucifixes intended for hanging above the altar in churches are detailed things too, they’re created to be a spectacle. The blood dripping from Jesus’ hands are always too real a shade of red to be just paint, and if I ever looked at it for too long, it would look wet.

My eyes shoot down again to the priest, love, peace, love, peace, CRASH! The bloody crucifix could fall and crush him like a bug at any moment. I wonder if he knew. It doesn’t fall. Of course, it doesn’t – it never does. They’re sturdy spectacles, crucifixes are. Detailed bloody sturdy things.

I don’t manage a single bit of contact with any of the attendees. All of the faces remain locked on the priest. They don’t need the contact with me as much as I need it with them. I am alone, even with my mum’s hand to hold onto. Not even God himself will give me a sparing glance to lock onto. I squeeze my mum’s hand harder.

When the mass ends, I find myself standing by the exit, expertly avoiding the priest’s handshake as well as eye contact with the church goers who had done their duty by attending and were now leaving the church to go on with their lives. I fear that I’m going to be stuck in this church forever, hovering around and waiting for my mum who is near the altar, giving her condolences to Molly’s family and trying to make eye contact with me as a last chance at getting me to come over and speak with them.

Molly’s mum had already seen me earlier and smiled, which I returned, and that was about enough as I could manage. We both understood, or at least I hope we did.

I look down at my hands and start flicking my fingers off of one another. Ah, yes, the perfect distraction. Simple enough to not get convoluted and stress me out, but quiet and subtle enough for it not to draw attention from anyone and have them wisecrack something about it to get me talking to them.

As soon as my mum had wished well, we would be leaving.

I look back over to them, but something is different – different as in my mum is waving at me, beckoning me over. Not only that, but Molly’s immediate family is looking at me, too. Only me.

I drop my hands to my sides and dart my eyes to the side. Was someone calling me? Someone in the church foyer, perhaps?

I take a sharp breath and shuffle out of the church and into the foyer, making myself hidden deep into a new crowd. The same church goers – but now not seated and in perfect formation for my hideout.

I glance back through into the church and run a hand down my face.

Yes, it seems at only aged seventeen, Genevieve Walsh has ditched her first funeral and its own grieving family to save her own selfish feelings. Not even a goodbye!

A wash of relief washes over me, an emotion I wasn’t quite expecting to feel today. Then comes a tap on my shoulder.

“Genevieve?”

Oh! Wasn’t I too quick on the relief front? The voice is recognised immediately, it’s the same voice that said the words that tore my world apart just three weeks ago. The voice I had been ignoring ever since.

I stand frozen. Perhaps I didn’t feel the tap, maybe I didn’t hear my name, maybe… maybe someone was calling me in the church now too? I side eye the main church hall again, no… it was too risky. Trading one tricky emotional situation for another when I had just ran tail between my legs from the first? No thanks.

Then something hitches in my stomach – shifts in a way its not supposed to. I feel it. It’s happening. Of all the mornings, I have been training for this. I look dead up and make eye contact with the bathroom. Finally, the morning vom sesh has come to take me.

“Sorry,” I whisper back at Lillian, or I maybe don’t. I can’t be sure. All I know now is that I’m saying excuse me’s and I’m sorry’s at people as I push them out of the way and stumble to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me.

I lift the toilet seat, kneel before it and see salvation as chunks of Weetabix come pouring out of my mouth, splashing back the holy water at my face.

For a moment, I am not scared. I have not just run from my mother and a grieving family. I am not someone who hides. I’m not connected to the pain that waits for me outside of this cubicle. I am alone, I am safe, and this old wooden door gives me the sanctuary I need to be fine.

If only for a second, I am free.

[notquitejiraiya]

Chess [1] - {ShikaTema AU}

Here is my comeback...so don’t expect too much from me. I haven’t written fan fiction in a looming time now, but hopefully it’s okay.

This is an AU centred around Temari being a psychiatrist and Shikamaru being her patient, so it’s a sort of ‘forbidden’ thing. It could get a pretty deep and dark down the road considering the topic of mental illness is key to it; but it’s going to be a story about support and help with mental illness. It’s very important to me and I know it is to many people.

I will tread lightly throughout and warn if things grow darker to the extent any warnings may be needed.

Thank you very much - enjoy! 

CHAPTER ONE

“For Christ’s Sake…” muttered Temari as she sorted through the paperwork on her desk for the file of information on her next patient.

This would be the fourth of the day; fifth if you included the one that stormed out ten minutes into his appointment, complaining that ‘the last one’ they gave him wasn’t nearly as bad as her. But, from then until now, she’d been trying to sort that into a folder in the back of her mind. Still, it was undeniably haunting her conscience.

She’d spent almost eight years of her life doing nothing but solid, hard work, training to do this. She’d wasted her twenty-first birthday writing the essay that only almost got her full marks, yet granted her a clear distinction in her given field, and the respect to finish her studies just before her classmates.

Now, at twenty-six, when her first five clients since being board approved hadn’t left out a single detail about awful she was, she realised what this really was; sitting and listening to other peoples loathing, possibly—no, most likely, about her. Going off everyone’s words, she couldn’t help but worry that, maybe, she’d chosen the wrong path in life.

Although it’s what she wanted to do, chose to do, Temari couldn’t stop wondering if she should’ve taken same road as her younger brothers and just had more fun. After all, Kankuro was a smart guy and probably could’ve amounted to much greater things than his older sister, if only he hadn’t got so lucky.

The minute he’d left school, he’d become the apprentice to the local carpenter, and worked his way up in the world, recently taking over the business as his own, only just turning twenty-five. He was skilled and worked hard each day; but he also made sure his fun and social life were never outweighed but his job. A least four nights a week, Temari would come home to the house her and her brothers shared to find Kankuro sprawled out across the sofa, a beer in hand and a massive grin across his face.

Sometimes he’d be alone, mostly likely not, but either way it had become customary for her to cook him a fry up the following morning. She hated it; she found them greasy and hated  the smell of eggs with a passion, but it made Kankuro lift his spirits instantly, so she could never turn down making one.

The youngest of the family, Gaara, was currently studying Law, hoping to become a defense attorney some day. He was, by far, the most gifted and successful of the children, and, although Temari was intelligent, even with her three extra years on the earth she could only just match him in a battle of wits.

But even he’d had more fun than her! He’d dyed his hair bright red and always wore tons of eye makeup, not caring if it looked ‘unprofessional’ in his lectures of if it would ‘get him fired’ if he were hired.

That was a trait he and Kankuro both possessed: the ability to block out what they didn’t want to care about; something Temari wished she, too, had inherited.

But, as she sat there, skimming through the threadbare file of the man about to walk through the door, she couldn’t help but worry about all the things she wished she didn’t care about.

Will he let me help him? Or is this all just a waste of time…?

She checked her watch for the third time that minute. If only time would slow down the maybe she’d be prepared for this. She’d practiced a million times this very scenario, but now it was happening with a real person, her confidence that she could do it properly was wavering.

“Urgh!” she groaned, flopping down and banging her head against the table, not stopping. Even when the door creaked open she couldn’t hear over the banging that echoed through her head.

“Before we start, I’d like to say something,” said a deep raspy voice from in front of her. “I really don’t see how it’s worth my time getting supposed ‘mental help’ from someone who, quite frankly, doesn’t look at all like she has her life together.”

Sheepishly, Temari raised her head and locked eyes with the tall, slender man stood in front of her. His black hair was bundled on the top of his head in a ponytail, eyes narrow and bored. He’d said two sentences and he already looked ready to leave; she knew immediately he wasn’t here by choice, but that didn’t explain the lack of information in the file.

“Sit,” she ordered, sitting up and resting her elbow on the desk in front of her.

The young man didn’t move a muscle, he just blinked at her like she was an idiot.

Temari frowned at him, clenching her teeth and balling her fists on the table in front of her. “Please, kid. Now.”

Lethargically, he flopped onto the plush, black leather sofa that sat in front of her desk. The tiny weight he carried managed to shift it to a peculiar angle from before, which she couldn’t help but find awfully annoying. She made a mental note to shuffle it back when he inevitably left in a few minutes.

“Okay,” she said, in a dull, negative tone, “for starters, I have got my life together, I’m just having an awful day-”

“You think you’re having a bad day?” laughed the young man, shaking his head. He lay back on the sofa, raising his eyebrows at her, before turning to look at his feet, perched up on the arm of the couch in front of him. “I think I can top that.”

“You do? How so?” Sneakily, Temari pulled out her note pad and bit down on the end of her ball-point pen, readying herself to delve into the mind of this guy.

He sighed. “Well, my parents—”

“Actually, um, what’s your name?” She looked down at the sheet on her desk with what little information had been provided to her over the phone. “All I have here is Nara, but I’m assuming that’s your surname.”

“Shikadai.”

Slowly her head rose and she raised her eyebrows, shaking her head as she noted down something on her notepad.

Trust issues, she scribbled down.

“I don’t have trust issues.”

Her head shot up, frowning. “How did you—”

“It’s what the last one said, bloody hell. I just don’t want to give you my name.”

Temari huffed and covered her face with her hands.

I’m not sure I can deal with such an uncooperative person right now, she thought. This kid is just a pain in the arse. If my approval wouldn’t get revoked, I swear to God…

As calmly as she could, she looked up and smiled at him as best she could. “Okay, kid. I am forbidden share what you tell me whilst I’m acting as your psychiatrist to anyone unless I think it’ll result in harm to you or anybody else.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “And, honestly, I don’t want to act like I’m superior to you, but I also don’t want to be your best mate, okay? Let me put that out there.”

“Glad to hear it.” Why was he so dismissive?

This only fuelled Temari to keep on ranting. “This is my first day doing this on my own and I’ve done nothing right according to my patients. I’ve tried to be kind and friendly just like I was taught, but that’s just made them all hate me. So now I’m just going to be frank with you and treat you like a human being, cause I can’t keep up this act much longer.” She leant back in her chair and groaned. “Don’t grow up, kid. Life just fucks you over.”

From his chair, her patient looked at her, raising his eyebrows slightly. She watched as he crossed his arms and cocked his head to one side. Although he was possibly the most negative, bored-sounding boy she’d ever encountered, she couldn’t help noticing he was quite attractive.

She wasn’t sure how long it had taken him to perfect the messy ponytail he wore, but it was sure as hell time well spent. His eyes were dark, almost black in colour, and his jawline sharp; so sharp Temari felt like she’d cut her finger if she ran it across…

No, she had to stop. He was her patient and patients were more than off limits, no matter how sharp and precise their jawlines. Not to mention that he was young he looked, too young for her.

“Shikamaru,” he finally said, in a slightly more upbeat tone than before. “My name’s Shikamaru. And, before you say it even one more time; I’m twenty-three. I am not a kid, I’ve grown up already.”

Temari felt her eyes widen as she bit her lip. How on earth was he twenty-three? He was too skinny, bones stretched so tight across his hands as if they didn’t know how to sit yet, and he wasn’t nearly as well put together as Gaara even though they were nearly the same age. In fact, he was older than Gaara!

“I’m sorry. Your age wasn’t included in the information I was given, and I just thought—”

“It’s fine. I don’t need the sympathy — it’s sickening.” He sighed. The bored tone was back. “I can tell you’ve been fucked about with today, but at least your that side of the desk.”

“What do you mean?” she frowned. Of course she knew what he meant, what made that come out of her mouth?

Shikamaru closed his eyes and let his head fall back, seemingly lulling into a relaxed state. “I mean, at least you’re not the one who’s seen five different therapists in the past year.”

How did he get juggled around that much?

“Do you still live with your parents?”

He nodded. “I moved out for a while, but after I…” He stopped, swallowing and shifting his weight. The couch creaked. “Let’s just say they insisted I come back so they could take care of me.”

Right now, her training would’ve told Temari to lift her pen and start to make notes on his attitude, words and body language, trying to unearth his inner demons. But the empathetic side of her worried that, if she did, he’d stop opening up. He’d come here for a reason, and she didn’t want to belittle that reason with a ballpoint pen.

“Take care of you after what?”

“That’s like asking for my life story, Miss...” Shikamaru chuckled.

“Temari,” she said, resting her chin in her hands, “and that’s exactly what I’m asking for. Tell me everything. I get paid to listen to you talk and try and help, and while I get paid for you saying nothing, I’d rather help you out. I’m game to listen to even the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard, just talk to me.”

His eyes narrowed and she saw his lips curve up into a slight smile.

She frowned. “What?” she barked, straightening and stiffening up.

“You say you’re done with being friendly and kind, Temari,” smirked Shikamaru, “but you’re possibly the nicest woman I’ve ever met.”

“You can’t have met many nice women - seriously.” She could feel herself beginning to blush.

Laughing, he shook his head. “No, I suppose not.”

He sat up a little and looked over at one of the larger shelves in the room, and she watched as his eyes skimmed and scanned every nook and cranny from top to bottom, left to right.

Then, all of a sudden his eyes came to a halt and his feet planted on the ground. Temari followed Shikamaru’s gaze to the shelf to meet the black and white checks of a wooden block. He got to his feet and shuffled over toward the shelf, taking the checkered-board in his hands once he reached it.

“Telling you my life story will be such a drag,” he said softly. “However, it’ll be less troublesome if you let me play.”

Temari frowned, looking at him with a look of total confusion. “Chess?” she muttered. “You come to a psychiatrists office and you want to play chess?”

Shikamaru lifted the board and placed it on the coffee table in the centre of the room. Silently, hands in his pockets, he stepped up to Temari’s desk, cocking his head to one side. “Chess is my passion…it’s like a stress-reliever. Brilliant for the mind and for the nerves, don’t you think.”

“You really aren’t a kid,” sighed Temari, shaking her head. “You know exactly how to get in someone’s head; you could probably do this job better than me!”

A crooked smile appeared on his face again, big and strong. “From what your previous clients said in the waiting room, it seems most people could.”

“Just set up the board!” she snapped, holding back the laugh she was trying so hard to suppress. “I’m going to wipe the floor with you, and you’re going to spill your life story. Clear?”

“I’ll tell you my story,” Shikamaru said, turning his back to her and chuckling. “Although, I can’t promise you’re not going to lose to me. On paper I’m a genius.”

“Success on paper never guarantees success in practice.”

“Touché.”

“Now, set it up. If your lucky, I might even tell you about myself.” It was hardly customary, but if it was going to get him to talk—to help him—it was worth it.

Temari got to her feet and clasped her hands together.  As she did so, she clumsily knocked over the cappuccino onto Shikamaru’s information sheet. It wasn’t like she’d need it anymore, but she cursed under her breath anyway, catching the young man’s attention.

Shikamaru turned to face her, chuckling as he spotted the spilt coffee. “I’d like that,” he told her without much feeling in his voice, just shaky laughter.

“How about we make a deal, then, Shikamaru?” Temari asked, crossing her arms and stepping closer to him. “Whoever loses first has to talk. You know, answer a couple of questions or something. ”

He stepped closer to her and crossed his arms across his chest, looking down into her eyes. Three years younger than her but taller by at least six inches. “I’m good with that,” he replied snidely. “After all, I haven’t lost a chess match since my ninth birthday.”

Temari couldn’t help but wonder if this client’s personality and mind was a bit too dense; too complex for a recent-graduate, a newbie on all accounts. He never seemed to look more than slightly interested in anything she had to say. Well, not until he’d spotted the chess board at least.

Is he just a complete nerd? No, that’s not a diagnosis. That’s just putting him into a clique…

Inwardly she felt something twang inside her, a confused and sickening shiver rocketing through her body. However, she didn’t know if that was due to her slight intimidation from her client’s height and brains; her attraction to his sharp, shadowed jawline; or the worry that she was in way too deep for her own good with this guy.

But one thing she did know was that Shikamaru was too smug about his ability to play this game, and she needed to pull him down off his high horse and get some information out of the bloke.

“Set it up then,” she muttered. “We’ve got a game to play.”

[flipperbrain]

The Deckhand and The Dagger

CHAPTER 16: REPENTANCE AND RESOLUTION

Summary: Hook must face up to his error in judgement and realizes along the way that there is often more to the story than meets the eye.

[Ao3] [CH1] [CH2] [CH3] [CH4] [CH5] [CH6] [CH7] [CH8] [CH9] [CH10]  [CH11] [CH12] [CH13] [CH14] [CH15]

Hook looks wistfully at Jones' nude reflection in the mirror whilst he dresses, and ponders what a shame it is that he must cover his body with cloth; his skin fresh and clean from their bath should be proudly displayed, he has a glorious physique, muscled and lean... the curve of his back is what dreams are made of. His companion was quiet throughout their ablutions, lost in contemplation or possibly irritation, his silence most likely by design. 

Hook does regret his rash actions, but only for their consequences and how they affect his love. Dr. Martin Fleming deserved to be strangled for his ill-advised treatment of Jones; he will not say so aloud, but he will think it. As for manhandling his daughter, well, he should not have done so. He was angry but there is no excuse, she was merely following the direction of a physician whom she presumed to know the best course.

Hook has seen more than one death by this method, sailors so weakened by blood loss they could not recover; painful and unnecessary deaths caused by stupidity and arrogance. He was livid at the sight of his lover blanched and bleeding into that basin, and he very nearly ended the doctor’s life, but he stepped back from the abyss. Jones has changed his heart on that account, facing his disappointment would be too much to bear. Perhaps one day he will see the error of his ways on his own, for now Jones helps him move toward the light.

Jones sniffs the air as he buttons his vest, savoring the wafting smell of meat roasting on the spit. He grins at Hook then trots off in its fragrant direction and skips into the kitchen to find Sophia as suspected, muttering to herself with spoon in hand. She turns toward the sound of his footsteps on the wooden floor and sees him there by the door grinning sheepishly, his cheeks rosy from scrubbing. 

‘Master Jones!! Look at you!!’ She squeals setting the utensil aside and hurrying to throw her arms around him. He smiles brilliantly and hugs her back, his arms cannot quite circle her round form, his chest is pressed against two very large breasts that jiggle when she laughs. She smells like cinnamon and cooking oil and he grins at the touch of her hand gliding fondly over his hair. When she finally releases him his cheeks are even redder than before, he scuffs his toe and looks at his feet, blushing with embarrassment.

‘You are up and about, and so dashing!’ She chortles, ‘I was terribly afraid when I heard you were ill, but you seem to be in fine fettle now!’

He looks up at her, his face solemn and serious, ’Yes, yesterday was a blur but I understand you were instrumental in my recovery… thank you Sophia,’ Jones says sincerely.

‘You are very welcome dear, your Captain was beside himself with worry. I am grateful that La hechicera was able to cure you… let us hope the price does not come back to haunt, she is a strange and powerful woman but has helped many including my husband,’ she replies.

‘The price? What price?!? Hook did not tell me…’ Jones frowns and is suddenly fearful, he can see the look of trepidation on the cook’s face, she inadvertently shared information that Hook chose not to divulge. He will not press her for more details but will certainly ask his companion later this eve. ‘No matter,’ he says brightly, 'it is marvelous to see you! I am afraid we must be off soon, but I was wondering if you might help me with two requests, the first would be the recipe for the delicious stew you prepared,’ he asks smiling at her proud expression, ‘and the second… tell me what you know about Dr. Fleming.’

————————

Hook sits by the fire wracking his brain about how to remedy the mess he has made, Jones is insisting he apologize to the doctor and it grates him to think of it. The days here have passed in a blink of an eye, their carriage was scheduled to retrieve them and take them to the docks near sunset, but at Jones’ prodding he asked Garrett to arrange for transportation into town this afternoon instead. They will meet with the Doctor and his daughter at their home, what will come of it remains to be seen. Perhaps he will be arrested. He chuckles at that thought, they may try but will not succeed. 

He would be sorry to leave the memories of this place behind though not all have been pleasant, he has shared many tender moments here with Jones. But there are other houses and other towns, they will move on to a new adventure if resolution cannot be found.

Jones saunters into the living room with a strange look on his face, he stops at the well-worn liquor cart in the corner of the room to pour them both a glass of brandy. He walks over to Hook, hands him his drink then plops down beside him on the sofa. ‘Hello my sweet,’ Hook says, ‘You conversed with Sophia earlier this morning, is she well? What did you speak of?’ He asks innocently. ‘Oh, this and that, nothing really,’ Jones answers. 

He knows what Hook is doing, his transparent prying to discover if he now knows the terms of his deal with the witch are obvious, but he will not placate him. He sips his brandy, grimacing at the burn, ’She gave me her recipe for stew. I shall attempt to replicate it when we sail, but I fear it will pale in comparison.’

’Somehow I doubt that my love, you are an excellent cook. Only one of the many reasons why I love you so much, a tasty meal created by a handsome lad does much to provide a happy existence,’ he says and leans to kiss him on the cheek but Jones turns his face to meet his soft lips instead. 

They lounge in the warmth of the fire, drinking and talking about the next leg of their journey. Now that the hour of departure grows near they are both anxious to march toward their goal. It is late in the year, the waters near Acela’s island will be treacherous and extremely cold, they must brace themselves for the weather. Fortunately Garrett has taken care of restocking the Jolly Roger with foodstuffs along with additional blankets and warm clothing for Jones. She is ready to sail when they are.

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A bell chimes from the kitchen to signal lunch is ready to serve, ’Sophia has prepared us a light repast, shall we eat? Jones asks, ‘The carriage will arrive soon.’

Hook would transport them to town with magic were he not concerned it would engender additional gossip. He would prefer that Jones did not have to travel past the lake again, but it cannot be helped.

‘Yes love, let us sustain ourselves for the humbling ahead,’ Hook grumbles as they walk toward the dining room.

Roasted chicken with freshly baked baked rolls, greens and hominy awaits them, ’This is a meal fit for a king,’ Hook remarks winking at the cook. 

’Do you require anything else Sir… my apologies, Hook?’ She asks, then continues excitedly, ‘Oh, I have coffee for Master Jones! Would you care for a cup as well?’ Hook arches an eyebrow and glances sideways at Jones, ’That would be delightful,’ he replies. ‘One moment,’ she says whirling on her heel with her index finger pointed at the ceiling and hurries back to the kitchen to fetch two cups.

‘Master Jones?’ Hook whispers with a wry smile on his lips. Jones waves him off, ‘Behave yourself,’ he quips as Sophia returns with the coffee. ’Thank you!' he exclaims, 'would you conjure some cream for me my love? I have developed a taste for it.'

Hook waves his hand and a small pitcher appears on the table in front of them. ‘I am not thrilled at the prospect of begging for forgiveness from that lout,’ he crabs sullenly whilst buttering his bread. 

‘I am sorry to hear it but you will go just the same. Now may I enjoy my food?!’ Jones huffs. Hook continues to moan and grouse under his breath but the deckhand pays him no mind.

They have barely finished lunch when Garrett appears to announce that the carriage has arrived. Hook wipes his mouth and rolls his eyes then pushes himself back from the table. Jones cannot help but giggle at his crankiness, he has no one to blame but himself, but he is satisfied that by the end of the day all will be well.

‘You should have the dagger with you,’ Hook says matter-of-factly, ‘You must accustom yourself to keeping it on your person. I feel fine at this minute but it is not worth the risk.’ Jones brows knit together, he had nearly forgotten that it existed. He nods and runs to retrieve it from the library and attaches it to his belt. He does not yet know exactly how it functions, it feels strange to be in possession of a device that can control his love. He must be careful not to unwittingly order him about and will speak only as necessary during their visit with the doctor.

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They climb into the carriage and ride wordlessly toward the home of Dr.Fleming and his daughter Anne, they were kind enough to grant this audience and Jones is not sure if he would do the same were he in the doctor’s shoes; he took advantage of the situation with his very public complaint, but Hook was wrong to react violently and it must be addressed. 

The horses clip clop down the narrow lane and the deckhand busies himself pulling at an errant thread on his vest as they roll past the lake. Hook notices this of course but does not comment, inwardly however, he is enraged that his love would be frightened of such a lovely place, one that he was so eager to visit when they first arrived. That bastard kraken, he would tear it to shreds if he could.

A quarter of an hour later they arrive at 10 Mendoza Street, and Hook is slightly taken aback by the modest home the physician resides in, by his lofty manner he imagined a castle on a hill. It is well kept and painted a cheerful shade of yellow, Anne is tending to a young boy who sits in the shade of a large maple tree. She turns to greet them as they approach, shading her eyes from the sun, 

‘Hello again Captain,’ she says politely enough, but her eyes tell a different story, ‘and Mr. Jones, I am glad to see you have recovered. This is my brother Thomas,’ she says gesturing toward the boy. ‘Good afternoon Anne, nice to meet you Thomas,’ Hook says.

‘Are you a pirate??’ Thomas asks gleefully. ‘The most fearsome pirate on the seven seas!’ Hook answers with a devilish grin. Thomas claps his hands with joy at meeting a real pirate. The boy looks to be 8 years old or thereabouts and is pale and painfully thin.

‘Father is inside,’ Anne says waving her hand toward the door. ‘Come darling, let us go into the house, these gentlemen have come to converse with us, we will play another game later the evening,’ she says sweetly. Thomas reaches for the crutches that lean against the chair beside him and hops up on one foot, the other leg is twisted and misshapen and apparently cannot support his weight, but he is quick and agile enough with his crutches.

He scampers alongside them firing questions at Hook, ‘Have you fought many battles? Do you have a pirate ship and if you do may I see her?’ He asks excitedly, ‘Too many to count and yes I do! Her name is the Jolly Roger and she floats in the bay as we speak. Mr. Jones and I plan to sail away this evening, but I believe we could find time for you to see her if your father agrees,’ Hook offers.

The boy looks to be cheerful enough, but he has a soft place for those who have experienced such an injury, he is quite familiar with the trauma that comes with loss of limb; and Thomas reminds him so much of himself when he was a lad, before his father's unthinkable betrayal ripped his world apart. High-spirited and inquisitive, a charming naivety. Despite whatever obstacles blocked his path, he was determined to overcome them. And this endearing boy looking up at him with such undeserved admiration, well, if he can brighten his reality for an hour then it is the least he can do. There is no question that Jones fully supports the idea, his smile and the sparkle in his eye tells him all he needs to know.

‘Oh Anne do you think he will say yes?? Please make him say yes!!’ Thomas pleads tugging on her skirt. ‘We will see,’ she says as they enter the house, ’Now go find something to do darling, we have things to discuss. I will fetch you when the Captain is ready to leave.’

Jones’ heart melts watching this exchange, Hook is as wonderful with children as he knew he would be. Sophia explained earlier what had happened to Thomas, he and his mother were riding to town in their buggy when the horses were somehow spooked and galloped out of control. The buggy overturned and Thomas was run over by an oncoming carriage, he barely survived; his mother was thrown and hit her head, she died a few days later. Martin was devastated by her loss and hardened by it, he did all he could for his boy but his leg was mangled in the accident and no surgery could help it.

Dr. Fleming enters the room and looks down his nose at them both. ’Thomas is a fine boy,’ Hook remarks and Jones perceives the slightest softening in the doctor’s expression, ‘Yes, he is a good lad… you requested this meeting, I presume you saw the story in the Gazette? What do you have to say in reply?’ he asks curtly. ‘Yes, we did see it, but that is not the reason why we are here… rather it is not the only reason why. I wish to apologize for my behavior, for my rough handling of Anne and for what I did to you. I hope there was no lasting harm. I acted out rashly in anger and worry for my companion, my fear for his wellbeing was so great I was not thinking rationally. You have a beautiful family who need you and I was terribly wrong to lash out the way I did. I am truly sorry and I ask for your forgiveness.’ Hook says earnestly.

The doctor contemplates Hook’s words for a moment then nods brusquely at him, ‘I accept your apology Captain, I was exceedingly angry myself, but I very much understand the strain when a loved one is hurt or ill. I am relieved to see you discovered a cure for your friend. How, may I ask, did you do it?’

‘We called on the sorceress, it was the only way,’ Hook answers. Dr. Fleming raises an eyebrow and glances at Anne but inquires no further on the subject. ‘Are you content as well my dear?’ He asks her. ‘Yes, I will forgive you with one condition,’ she replies then turns toward her father, ’The Captain has offered to show Thomas his ship and he is desperate to see it. If you will allow it, that will satisfy me.’

‘Oh please father, please let me go!!’ Thomas chimes in from the next room, then appears a moment later, ‘A real pirate ship father! And a real pirate! You must let me, they are leaving tonight and I might not have another chance!!’ He begs. The doctor sighs heavily not at all liking the spot he finds himself in, but he is loathe to disappoint Thomas after all that he has endured and eventually concedes, ‘Alright, I will allow it,’ he sighs. 

‘Hurray, hurray!!’ Thomas shouts and nearly topples over in his excitement, Hook reaches out swiftly with a gentle hand to steady him before he falls. ’Thank you for seeing us,’ Hook says then bows in Anne’s direction, ‘We will take up no more of your time. Would 6 o’clock at the docks suit?’ he proposes. ‘That will be fine,’ Dr. Fleming answers with a much more conciliatory tone.

Hook squats down on his haunches, his face level with the boy’s pleased countenance, ’Aye Thomas ‘ye landlubber, prepare yerself!’ Hook declares ruffling the boy’s hair, his voice a caricature. ‘It was lovely to meet you all, we will see you later then,’ Jones says shyly and they exit the house.

The deckhand smiles to himself as they bump along the road home, ‘I am proud of you my love, your speech was perfect.’

’It produced the desired effect but the population is none the wiser, perhaps they will forgive over time,’ Hook remarks. ‘At any rate we must pack our things and ready ourselves. It has only been three days but it feels like far longer, do you suppose I will remember how to sail?’ Jones giggles in response, ‘If you do not, I will remind you.’

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They have already said their goodbyes to the cook and the caretaker, Sophia tearily presented Jones with a basket of muffins, Apple cinnamon this time; he will miss her kindness and her rumbling laugh. Garrett assured them that all will be looked after until they return, Hook apologized to him for his poor behavior the day before and thanked him for his good service.

Now all that remains is to make sure nothing is left behind. Jones surveys the bedroom, his new old robe is tucked away in their trunk along with a selection of books to pass the time. He hopes there will be a few moments of peace for reading and other activities he is fond of, his eyes discreetly rake over the gorgeous man across the room. ’Well my sweet, what say you?’ Hook asks, Jones shrugs his shoulders and nods, ’Let us be off then, we must say farewell to this place for now.’ He waves his hand and the trunk disappears, another flick of his wrist and the violin case is gone.

Hook is finished with carriages. They are leaving now and there is no point in pretending he is anyone other than who he is. He touches Jones’ sleeve and in an instant they appear at the docks. A few minutes later Dr. Fleming and his family roll up, Anne helps Thomas exit from their buggy and he hops enthusiastically toward Hook, his crutches barely touching the ground. Hook stands with his hands on his hips looking down at the frail boy, ‘Aha, our new Swabbie has arrived!’ he grins then glances at the doctor, ‘I will have him back in an hour,’ he promises.

‘Come Thomas, touch my coat!’ the boy looks back at his father and sister then reaches out to grasp the leather of his duster, Jones takes hold of Hook’s elbow and all three of them disappear in a cloud of red smoke. Dr. Fleming and Anne are agape at the sight, and run to the end of the dock searching for movement on the deck of the ship.

Thomas is exuberant, thrilled by their method of travel, ’You are a pirate and you have magic??’ He gasps. ‘Yes indeed Swabbie! And speaking of which, I would like to try something before we show you our beautiful lady,’ Hook says, 

‘What is it you wish to try? Thomas asks curiously.

’It is a surprise! Whilst pirates are notoriously untrustworthy chaps,' he laughs, 'I trust Mr. Jones with my life, he has my every confidence and will watch over you until all is revealed. Sit here on the deck and be still, I will not hurt you,’ Hook directs. 

Thomas looks up at Jones who winks in return then dutifully sits and Hook kneels beside him, ‘Now close your eyes and imagine running through a green meadow,’ he says and waves his hand over Thomas’ damaged limb, a beam of healing magic begins to work at the muscle and bone. ‘There are birds and rabbits and a dog runs beside you.’ 

Jones can see the leg gradually untwist and he is moved beyond words. He chokes back tears and is on the verge of sobbing, his hand unconsciously flutters to rest over his heart. ‘Do not open your eyes yet… can you see the dog Thomas? What color is it?’ Hook asks as he moves his palm toward the boy’s hip. ‘It is black like your coat, it is a pirate’s dog!’ He says laughing, ‘My leg feels strange, may I open my eyes now?’

’Yes Swabbie, open your eyes.’

Thomas opens one eye to peek at his leg and it looks different now, straight and the same length as the other one. Hook helps him to his feet, ‘How does it feel? Can you walk on it? Hold my hand and try,’ he says. Thomas takes a tentative step forward and then another, he walks slowly along the rail at Hook’s side, clutching his hand.

’Now try to walk without holding on.’

Thomas lets go and walks a few steps then bounces ahead a few more, and soon he is running circles from bow to stern giggling wildly. Jones slips his arm around Hook’s waist and looks at him as if he were an angel on earth. 

‘Swabbie! Come here!’ Hook commands, and Thomas skips over to him. ‘How did you fix me?!’ He asks, his eyes filled with wonder and joy. ‘With magic my boy! It does come in handy from time to time.’

Hook gestures and a thousand points of light fill the air illuminating the ship. ’And now for the tour!’

They show Thomas everything there is to see, the deck and the ship’s wheel and compass, their cabin, the ship’s mess, the hold and the crew sleeping quarters. Hook even takes him aloft to the crow's nest to see the rigging and the sheets up close whilst explaining basic sailing terminology. ‘So, Swabbie, what do you think of her?’ he asks when they have finished. ’She is wonderful! A real pirate ship!!’ Thomas exclaims, ’This is the best day of my whole life!’

‘Well Thomas, unfortunately all good things must come to an end and now we must send you to your father and sister… but, when we return I promise to take you sailing, if your father consents of course.’

Thomas claps with glee, ’Truly? Oh please, please hurry back!’

’Truly. I swear it upon my black heart,’ Hook chuckles, ‘We will be back before you know it, and you will be occupied running and playing in the meantime,’ Hook assures him then hands him his crutches, ‘You no longer need these but another boy might, give them to your father.’ Thomas smiles brilliantly and hugs them both, ’Thank you Captain, thank you Mr. Jones!!' He cries, his face radiant with happiness. Hook slips three gold coins into the tiny pocket of the boy’s vest, ’Pirate treasure, spend it wisely! Until the next time mate,’ Hook smiles and waves his hand transporting Thomas to the shore and into his father’s arms.

Jones leans in for a kiss and they linger for a moment, holding each other close. Hook gazes at Jones and says quietly, ‘You engineered all of this, I can see it in your eyes... Let us make sail, my sweet.’

Tagging some lovelies: @laschatzi @hollyethecurious @suwya @artistic-writer @ilovemesomekillianjones @therooksshiningknight @ashley-knightingale @cocohook38 @spartanguard 

I didn’t do any new art, so sorry Sandra :) I’ve been shirking my responsibilities with some things I’ve promised but there’s a couple scenes here I’d love to illustrate when I get around to it. ❤️