#i could have personally just gone and put the ashes in the hole if i was so callous ab it

[confinesofmy]

alright, i was way too quick to assume today's activities would be miserable, this was really fucking nice actually. the burial service was pretty low-key and pleasant even if it wasn't really my bag, and then after that we ate the last batch of spaghetti sauce my mom ever made from the freezer (1/2 of which had already been eaten at my cousin's after-memorial family dinner back in march 🙃) which was miserable miserable but would have been so much more miserable by myself, then i stuck around shooting the shit with a cousin i don't see often. he also has just started seeing a shrink (it's his first time!) and apparently he has mdd! so we were both there, miserable and smiling, which is not an uncommon state for either of us, both recognising the other's misery in a unique way that was very enjoyable for both of us. there was quite a double-edged kinship there that i don't get to experience often. also in other news my cousin who i talked to about my emotional affect problems the other day who didn't seem to get it did get it, actually! he hung in a lot tighter and was way more actively, almost aggressively, supportive today than previously and i'm pretty sure it's bc he now understands not to trust my face to communicate how i'm feeling. so yeah. fuck it. today went really really well and i'm glad i decided to suffer through it bc it was worth it.

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

Lost and Found ♧| 2.

Leon S. Kennedy x reader (ft. my girl Ash)

A/N: This... this took me so long lmao I rewrote it like five times. I'm pretty happy with how it turned out, though! I don't really write slow burn, so this might suck. I wanna apologize for how fucking wonky the events of Part one are???? They're all out of order lmao anyway, Enjoy!

~Fi 🪻

Warnings: swearing, reader is an idiot (lovingly, of course), mention of a small injury, sucky slow burn

Word count: 2.7k

Check out part one here!

Please don't copy my work! I put a lot of effort and heart into the things I write.

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It had been a couple of months since Spain happened. Your life has definitely... changed. Both good and bad. You were plagued by nightmares frequently, instinctively grasping your arm every time you shot awake. A faint, pink scar had formed where the gash once sat. Tracing it absent mindedly was a common occurrence ever since the first dream. You'd stare at the blank wall in your living room, gently caressing it.

That mission took a toll on you, so you were granted a few months off to work through your night terrors and process everything. Ashley had been a great help with that. She made sure you hung out at least once a week and always stayed in contact, calling you and you calling her. The events of Spain didn't leave Ashley without any struggles either. But, she had assured you that she was save, protected at all times and getting support from professionals. Talking to her, about Spain or anything really, helped you get out of the hole you were in.

She was your best friend. Whether or not she knew it, she really was. You didn't really have friends. Not since Raccoon City. You stayed inside your dull little home the last few years, working a boring office job for the government. Your only friend had been Dave, a middle-aged man who worked in the security department. So you rotted away for years, mourning your past life. Your past you.

Honestly, you have no idea how you ended up as a special agent in the first place. Your police background increased your chances at scoring the position, but you didn't really have much experience. When you were offered the 'promotion', you didn't think too much of it. Couldn't be that hard, could it? You'd survived Raccoon City after all.

You were so wrong. You basically traded the mediocre lunch breaks you had with Dave, with running for your life from Zombies. Bad fucking trade. And the worst part, your officials didn't give a shit. They just wanted this to be dealt with as discretely as possible. End of the story, they underestimated how big this whole thing actually was, and now you were the one left with the shitty consequences. But you had Ashley! And Leon, of course, but that was a little more complicated.

You still hadn't gotten around to the promise of getting drinks together. He was going away on missions all the time, so although you kept in touch no matter what, he wasn't there. You thought, after some excruciating years, you had found your best friend again. Your person. And you did, but he was so close yet so out of reach. You couldn't take it anymore. You lost 7 whole years with him, and you finally had him back, but he was still gone.

"I don't know what to do, Ash." You sighed, playing with your shirt while you held the phone to your ear.

"Well, have you told him that? I'm sure he wants to spend more time with you too, but you need to tell him that!" She urged. Biting your lip, you hestitated.

"I just... he was my best friend. We did everything together, and now.. I know that it's him but I don't recognize him. He's.. different now. I thought he didn't change, but.. he did. That scares me. What scares me even more is the fact that he's always on my mind, I can't seem to function without him here. I only think about him. 24/7." You mumbled into the phone.

"Sounds a whole lot like you're in love with him."

"I- what? No! I mean, of course I love him, he's my best friend, but that's it. He's just my friend and you can love your friends, right? Like, everyone does, it's not something odd or anything." you rambled.

Sure, your heart lit a flame every time he smiled, and the sound of his laugh was heaven. His dumb jokes never failed to put a smile on your face but that's just how friends are. Yes. Totally. Friends feel like that. Just some regular friendly feelings.

"You're so oblivious! That's NOT how friends feel about eachother. Like ever. I've seen the way you look at him!" She argued. "What look? I don't look at him differently... do I?"

"Yes, you do. Everytime he's near you, that lovesick smile on your face kinda gives it away. Or the blush when he asks if you're okay. Not to mention how you panic when he gets hurt. Just admit it!" Ashley whined.

"I'm not in love with him, Ashley! He's my best friend, that's it!" You argued. She groaned into the phone. "I can't believe you're so smart yet so stupid." She said, clearly annoyed. "Rude." you mumbled.

"I have to go now, Miss Denial. Seriously though, you're not doing yourself a favor by denying your feelings." She said softly. You rolled your eyes and huffed.

"Would it make you feel better if I told you I'll think about it?"

"Definitely. Love you!" She beamed.

"Love you too." You chuckled as she hung up. Maybe you would think about it. If not for yourself, then for her. She was right about suppressing your feelings but about you being in love with Leon... you weren't sure.

Eh, that was a problem for the future you. For now, all you wanted to do was enjoy some drinks with him.

Your teeth gnawed at your lip, trying to decided how to go about this situation. Do you call Leon now? Tomorrow, maybe? Should you call him at all? You hadn't talked to eachother in a while... would it be awkward? Before you can lend any more attention to those thoughts, your phone rang and it was none other than Leon. Speak of the devil. You picked up, your heart racing.

"Hey... look, I'm sorry for not calling more, work s'just been busy. I.. Do you want to go for those drinks I promised tonight?" He sounded nervous. Unsure. He sounded so much like the Leon you knew. Your Leon. Maybe he hadn't changed that much after all. "Y-yeah, I'd love that. Um-  how does eight sound?" You responded, a little more nervous than you wanted to. "Sounds good. See you." And with that, he hung up.

Something's up with him. Your brows furrowed. Maybe he worked more to get his mind off Spain? He was a workaholic, trying to do more and more and not realizing how much it actually affected him. He was hurting himself by trying to protect others from harm. Maybe it's just the stress. You had plenty of time to question him at the bar, supported by a few Piña Coladas.

A couple of hours before, the anxiety hit you like a truck. It was safe to say that you were scared out of your mind right now. How the fuck were you supposed to talk to Leon like nothing was going on? Like nothing happened? You couldn't. And after that conversation with Ashley? Nope. No chance. Panic was bubbling up your throat. You felt like you could never face him again. Everytime you looked at him, or even thought of him, it was just pain. The pain of the building collapsing on top of you. Your pained cries when you realized he hadn't come back for you. The pain when you thought he was dead. The pain that if Ashley was right and you really were in love with him, you could lose him again.

He made your world bright and vibrant and when he was ripped from your grasp, you were lost in a sea of grey. Drowning. Desperately gasping for air, refusing to let the water in. Now, he had brought the color back to your life but all the vibrant hues made your head spin and your eyes hurt. You grew comfortable in your sea of grey. Embracing the cold kiss of the water filling your lungs, making you float peacefully.

Could you let the color back into your world? Could you pull yourself from the tide and cough up the water? Did you even want to? You didn't know. It was all too much. You were pulled out of your head when you dropped your glass of water. You were so consumed in your thoughts and anxieties that it had just slipped out of your hand. Carefully cleaning it up, you felt a sharp sting in your finger.

You had accidentally cut yourself on the broken glass shards. A small stream of blood was running down your finger and along your palm. A drop of blood hit the puddle of water, and it bloomed in red. You haven't felt like this in years. You could actually feel something. It's not like you didn't you feel the last seven years, but your soul was too numb to care. You actually felt something. Not like those times when you hit your head or nicked yourself while cooking. You would react relatively neutral to those incidents, but now... you could feel the burn of the cut, a searing sting in your skin. A small smile tugged at your lips.

It's because of him. Because you had him back, and he made you feel alive again. He had just stumbled into your life and turned it upside down. Like he always does. But you wouldn't want to have it any other way. God, how you had missed feeling like this. So vulnerable. So sensitive. So human.

You cleaned up the glass but hung on to the feeling of the cut. You didn't like it per se, but it made you feel like something inside you had been fixed. A missing puzzle piece that slotted right into place. It just felt so right.

Just like he did. You shook your thoughts, having the habit of spiraling, wether it may be good or bad, and continued on with your afternoon. Your nerves about spending time with Leon calmed, it was just Leon! Your best friend. You had nothing to worry about. Well, with Leon, usually there was at least a little something to be worried about.

You were out the door, into the night, on your way to Leon. You had decided to just walk there since parking was an absolute nightmare in this city. Besides, the fresh air in your lungs and cooling breeze on your face was something you hadn't felt in a while. Fumbling with a small box in your pocket, you continued to the bar you two had agreed to meet up at. It wasn't really a present, more something you wanted to return. You never thought you could.

You took a deep breath before stepping into the warmth of the bar. Your eyes were searching for Leon, looking for that familiar blonde head of hair. Spotting him in the back, an inevitable smile crept onto your face. When Leon noticed you, his face lit up, a hand reaching up to signal you over to him. He stood up when you approached and immediately pulled you into a tight hug.

"Hey." He mumbled, muffled by your hair. "Hi." You said, the joy in your voice evident. The first real hug in seven years. You could've melted on the spot. It felt so good. So right.

You reluctantly pulled away, smiling at him. "Wow... It's been a while, huh?" He said with a small laugh. "Yeah.." you responded with a chuckle. You sat down and ordered your drinks. "So.. what have you been up to? How have you been?" You asked. He pondered for a moment. "Not a lot to be honest. Worked a lot, you know, saved the world once or twice." He joked at which you just playfully rolled your eyes.

"What about you?"

"I uh... I adopted a dog. Her name is Lady, she's a Bernese mountain dog. I couldn't stand being alone anymore so I got Lady and yeah... that's about it when it comes to major life events." You laughed, a little nervous but the tension was fading by the minute.

"You gave in, huh? You used to talk my ear off about wanting a dog back then, remember?" He smiled. You did talk about wanting a dog all throughout your time at the police academy and it seemed like you had finally fulfilled that dream.

"Yeah, I did. She's so sweet, you'll love her." you said with a smile. Leon let out a laugh. "I'm more worried about her liking me." He joked.

You two continued to talk and drink, just laughing and having a good time. The night got closer and closer to ending when you remembered the box in your pocket.

"I have something for you." You mumbled, nervous to how he would react. He piped up at that and raised his eyebrows. "Aw, for me?" He teased. You just gave him a shy smile. Now or never. You pulled out the small box and slid it over to him. "I wanted to return this." you said quietly. His brows furrowed and a confused look fell on his face. "Return? Alright."

Leon carefully undid the bow and opened the lid. Not in a million years had he expected this. His jaw hit the fucking floor. It was his goddamn RPD badge. What the fuck? How did you even get this? It was tattered and faded. He gently ran his fingers across his barely legible name.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. You had no idea how he would react. Leon looked at you completely bewildered. "I.. How?" He asked, still shocked. You shifted in your chair and fiddled with your fingers. "When... when I got out, I found it on the ground. It was the only thing I had left of you." You mumbled, avoiding eye contact. By 'got out' you meant fighting and clawing your way through infected residents and escaping the ruins of the collapsed building.

You could see the pain in his eyes. Whether it was his own for the pain he felt for you, you weren't sure. You spoke before he could. "I made a promise to myself that I would get it back to you one day, but.. at some point, I gave up and just kept it for myself. I thought you were dead and that this," you gestured to the badge," was the only thing I had left of you. My best friend. But it's yours, I want you to have it back." You said, your voice cracking, trying not to cry.

You could see the tears glistening in his eyes, his knuckles turning white as he tightly gripped his badge. "Thank you..." was all he managed to get out. You quickly wiped the tears that were threatening to fall and let out a sad laugh.

"God... I'm sorry for ruining the mood like that. It probably would've burned a hole in my pocket if I kept it any longer, though..."

Leon placed his badge on the table and took your hands in his. "You didn't. Well, a little maybe, but I'm really grateful for this. Thank you." He assured you, sqeezing your hands.  Your skin lit on fire. His touch was so addicting. And so comforting. A blush made its way onto your face. Oh, fuck. Was Ashley right? No. No way, it's just a little hot in here. That's all. But you couldn't deny the way your heart twisted and turned when he touched you, the butterflies in your stomach were having a fucking rave right now. Jesus, it's just Leon. Get it together You thought to yourself.

Shaking off all those annoying feelings, you returned a smile. "How about I make it up to you with a Movie Night, hm? Ice cream and cuddles from Lady included." You proposed. He grinned and leaned in a little closer. "What about cuddles from you?" He asked, a teasing smirk on his face. It didn't come off nearly was confident as he wanted it to. His voice shook a little, making him sound nervous.

Leon Kennedy? Nervous? Something was definitely up. His nervousness didn't stop the bubbling feeling in your stomach, though. There go the butterflies again. Stupid bugs. This is normal, though. Right? You always cuddled. Friends cuddle. No big deal. He's always been like that. No sweat. Just a little friendly cuddle session. That. Is. It. Is it bad that you wanted it to be more than that? The idea of being in love with him suddenly didn't feel as scary anymore.

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Part three is coming soon~

[eldritchtouched]

Updated "Mohg and Miquella were working together" theory

I wrote a post a while back about my theory that they were, but with rumblings about the DLC possibly coming out soon (some weird stuff on Steam DB updating over the last day), I wanted to compile some of the other stuff I've noticed that's just strange since then as I've gone back through the game.

Before DLC drops and either completely tears this to shreds or not, too, just because.

Because, it turns out, this is a fucking rabbit hole.

Miquella's men know he's gone.

This is actually rather interesting. In the Haligtree soldier ashes, it's explained that the exploding soldiers are Miquella's men who were despairing because of the Haligtree rotting away and Miquella being gone. Their holy light within them that explodes is specifically to lead Miquella back to the Haligtree.

All of the soldiers who are like this in the game are found on the exterior portion of Elphael. They are well-aware he's not there anymore.

But, mind you, they do not leave the Haligtree. Unlike a lot of the other factions, which do have individuals wandering around, they are staying put. They don't send out anyone to search for him. The implication is that they were told to stay there.

Miquella's promise to Malenia.

Miquella made some unstated promise to Malenia. It's heavily implied, though not outright stated, that it has to do with him returning. But the implication that he knew he would be gone, well, in light of other things, raises questions about what "gone" actually meant. Not "oh, I'm going to become a tree person" gone, but "I'm physically not even in the same part of the continent" gone.

The Albinauric guarding the teleporter.

There's an Albinauric in the Consecrated Snowfields guarding the teleporter to the Mohgwyn Palace. Interestingly, this Albinauric uses the spell "Discus of Light." Certain spells are used as a mark of character loyalties, and the Discus is one of them, with Albinaurics following Miquella using the spell version and the Cleanrot Knights getting a weapon art/skill version of the spell on weapons.

The Albinauric guarding the Mohgwyn portal is loyal to Miquella.

The Snowfield Ghost's weird implications.

There's a Ghost in the Consecrated Snowfields who apparently tried to confront Mohg when Mohg took Miquella. But there's some odd implications in the ghost's dialogue.

He knew Mohg's name, meaning Mohg was already familiar to him. Yet also didn't feel afraid of confronting Mohg at all, like he didn't expect to be killed. There's also how his issue seems to be the idea that Mohg as an Omen has cursed blood, so him touching Miquella and possibly sullying Miquella with said curse.

Logistic implications of Mohg taking Miquella and Elphael's layout

While the Snowfield Ghost is a whole thing, the logistics of getting through Elphael, which is very heavily guarded, unnoticed, is quite ridiculous. Everything is guarded too heavily for a Tarnished to sneak through (so you're pretty much forced to fight unless you can figure out how to run past everything) and I'm expected to believe a 12 foot tall Omen man could?

And that Miquella's men wouldn't immediately try to hunt Mohg down, if all their buddies were just straight up dead or them seeing Miquella being carried off? They're fanatics willing to blow themselves up at the hope of bringing Miquella back.

Miquella's abilities as St. Trina, and their implications.

Miquella is St. Trina. St. Trina has certain abilities under their belt. The ability to give people visions in their sleep, the ability to make people sleep, and a seeming ability to enchant people. Malenia is currently asleep, awaiting Miquella's return.

If Miquella was not where he wanted to be, he could easily send Malenia a dream, to get him out of where he currently is. And yet, she remains asleep, waiting at the foot of the Haligtree.

Miquella rewove his cocoon.

A lot of time has passed since Miquella was removed from the Haligtree. And, in the opening where we see the various happenings leading up to the game- Miquella is taken out of the first cocoon. And, with the Snowfield Ghost, he was very visibly Miquella, not a giant cocoon, when Mohg carried him away.

So, despite everything, he rewove his cocoon in the middle of the Mohgwyn palace grounds and went back to sleep.

Sleep/guard parallelism

There are two things in the game world which parallel Mohg's guarding of Miquella's cocoon.

First is the Albinaurics on the palace grounds. It's an infamous farming spot, that there's a few wandering "blood" Albinaurics guarding the place, and a bunch of other Albinaurics which are sleeping.

Second is the owls and their eggs. There are owls in the Lands Between and they're the only wildlife which does not attempt to move to get away from the player- they can't move, they're incubating eggs. Killing them gives you the "slumbering egg" which will never hatch (with the implication that killing the owl and removing its source of heat kills the egg in the process). The eggs are a symbol of sublime slumber (and slumber is often used to allude to Miquella's current thing) and the eggs are useful for crafting anti-sleep items.

Miquella's ties to blood magic

Miquella himself was dealing with a lot of blood magic. He grew the Haligtree by feeding it his blood. He's the origin of the Sacramental Bud, which is a plant both grown of blood and which has buds that are engorged with them.

There's also the land octopus situation. The land octopuses seem somewhat attracted to Miquella's stuff, like in "St. Trina's hideaway" or the path to the Haligtree. The adults also drop their ovaries when killed, which are described as being white, but are colored instead by human blood, because that is how they reproduce- they feed on human blood.

Item placement more generally.

Item placement is often heavy with implications in FromSoftware Games, in part because their whole thing is environmental storytelling. It's something I adore, which is also why I love Morrowind's design, too.

But one thing that shows up, curiously, is how often the game wants you to associate Mohg and Miquella together, including Miquella as St. Trina. Bloodroses and other Dynasty things are often near nascent butterflies, Trina's lilies, and Miquella's lilies. Sacramental buds grow in the Writheblood Ruins.

The two merchants who sell Trina's Lilies and St. Trina's Arrows also sell Bloody Fingers, and the one who sells one of the Fevor cookbooks also sells the spirit ash which inflicts bleed buildup (Fanged Imps).

(Incidentally, the Fanged Imps are sometimes joked as being a couple by other players. They're also one of the answers to the Albinauric Rise puzzle. Either summon them to fight the spirits guarding the Rise, or bewitch one of the pair with a Bewitching Branch/use crystal darts to fight the other.)

Spirit Ash mechanics stuff

...The only way to get spirit ashes (which are heavily associated with Miquella, what with Torrent and the implications of the spirit calling bell being his) to actually target anything? Use the ritual blood pots associated with Mohg. Considering how the AI gets so borked with ashes, having them specifically target an enemy is quite important, yet it's only tied to one item.

Likewise, the only way outside of upgrading spirit ashes to actually get them to be better? Use Mohg's rune.

The constant overlapping design motifs between Mohg and his followers, and Miquella and his.

There's a LOT of design things which overlap between them.

Dolores's design is basically a combination between the two of them.

Lilies (associated with Miquella/St. Trina) are found on both his own items and among his followers and found in the designs of the Sanguine Nobles and Mohg's clothing.

Roses (associated with Mohg) also show up on Malenia's prosthetic (depicting a stylized rose) and a not yet fully bloomed rose is the pommel of the Sword of Saint Trina.

The leaves on Malenia's prosthetics are the same design as the crossguards of Eleonora's poleblade.

Miquella's "braid/coil/infinity/helix" motif that shows up everywhere on his stuff and with his followers is littered throughout Mohg's clothing and, as another pointed out to me, the Bloody Helice.

A sun-like flower shows up in several items made by Miquella/his followers. It's found on the Pulley Crossbow and both the Sword of St. Trina (on the blade just above the crossguard) and St. Trina's Torch (above the head on the depiction of St. Trina). This motif also shows up both on the Sanguine Nobles' outfis, and along the clasps of Mohg's robes.

Both actively oppose the Frenzied Flame. Mohg's shade guards where one can get to the Three Fingers. Sleep, magic Miquella developed, is decidedly placed in opposition to Madness in terms of how the magic works, as calming agitation.

To be honest, it all reminds me of the weird incongruities between the story Robert Baratheon presents (which is the "official" narrative that everyone believes happened) of Rhaegar kidnapping Lyanna. There are implications with all the incongruent details, like Ned's perspective being oddly opaque in places, the Kingsguard at the tower instead of guarding Rhaegar, and the unspecified promise. And then the GOT show confirming the general aspect of what's going on in the books (that Lyanna and Rhaegar had eloped).

NGL I do hope my theory is right on a meta level, because GRRM using the same twist twice in consecutive works in the same subgenre with an overlapping audience and both being very popular in their mediums? Actually catching people out with it? I honestly would find it both really funny, and also respect the absolute audacity.

[from-memphis-with-love]

Gambling on Your Love - Ch. 8

Summary: Francesca throws herself fully into a new project, all the while struggling with loneliness and unfulfilled desires. Elvis battles the demons of fame and addiction and goes back to making mediocre films, reminiscing about what could have been. A chance phone call sets the scene for the possibility of a reignited flame. Word count: 8,200 Warnings: Emotional distress; heartache; brief mentions of substance abuse. Catch up with Francesca and Elvis in previous chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven.

If New York was the city that never slept, Francesca could only think of Phoenix as the city that never cooled. For all its sunny beauty, fine cuisine and fast living: it was a sweltering mess. The humidity had her hairdresser working overtime on set to keep her updo inflated with hairspray.

The script for her new film had gone through changes along with her. She’d arrived looking for a new direction and the picture inadvertently transitioned too. Just the name had been washed and rinsed now about seven times. Flames of Fury. Flames of Retribution. Rising from the Ashes. Now there was a twist. The newly widowed lead, Roxy Flare, wasn’t just a housewife spiraling into a pit of despair and grief. Now, she’d crossed paths with the notorious mob boss tied to her husband’s supposed accidental death. It was morphing from cerebral drama to gritty thriller. She rather liked it.

Francesca never felt more focused on set, although she never felt more out at sea in her personal life. She went home to a townhouse in the suburbs, a lowkey location to keep off the map of the local paparazzi. Every now and then, one trickled in, but her house blended seamlessly in with the rest of the narrow lot cookie cutter houses. Hers was delightfully blue, complimenting the other rainbow hues swatching the uphill street.

Inside, she’d barely unpacked a thing. The walls were blank. Her floors, bare. Her steps echoed loudly in the empty house. Her cat had been unnerved, but got used to it rather quickly. Frannie wondered when it would start to feel like home for her too. But after a few weeks where she could barely bring herself to hang a set of curtains, she got into a slight groove. Then came a knock at the door.

That sound startled her. Only a few people knew of her new address and number: her immediate family and Dominick. She’d had her mail forwarded to a PO box. So, when a courier with a package tapped his foot on the porch, Frannie wondered if he possibly had the wrong address.

She opened the door. Beside the courier, a tall crate, notched with head-high holes. When she squinted into the darkness, she could see something moving inside. Startled, she didn’t notice the courier handing her a clipboard.

“Could you sign here? I can’t mark it as delivered otherwise.”

Frannie signed her name, peering at the sheet. Sure enough, it was addressed to her. A receipt of delivery for one: EXOTIC IMPORT. Er… what on Earth had made its way to her door?

Now the courier had a thick packet of papers for her.

“Wait, what's this?” She thumbed through them, letting him push the crate through the door, minding the hardwood as he sat it down. The papers were import records, vaccine certifications, and care instructions. Fluttering sounded from inside the box. “Do you know who sent this?”

The young man shrugged. “Dunno, ma’am, sorry. Whoever ordered it didn’t bother putting a return address on it. To be honest with you, I’m just glad to finally have it out of my van.”

He shook her hand, leaving her to the care of her new guest. Her cat sniffed around the edge of the crate. A clicking noise resounded from inside. Looking around for something to start shimmying the planks open with, the rattling of a hinge queued her into the latch at the top. Hesitantly, she unthreaded the silver bar and the door swung open. Before she could peer inside, whatever inhabited the space rushed out in a flurry.

Francesca recoiled. A wash of crimson and azure flashed before her eyes. An ear ratcheting squawk emanated in her echoing halls. Her cat took off, hiding safely from the stairway, keeping a close eye on the situation. The creature that’d been unceremoniously stuffed inside of the ill fitted box, now covered in crap and feathers, fanned out her beautiful wings, preening them.

It was a parrot. A large one at that, with black eyes that saw straight through her as it whimsically chattered, nibbling at itself, keeping her in its sight. Its beak was stark white against a vibrant plumage. She could see the fear in its eyes, which upon approach, she realized were not straight onyx, but moon yellow surrounding inky irises that narrowed and expanded. It’d perched on the back of her settee, its claws curling with loud pops into the fabric.

Sofly, she continued to close the distance between her and the bird. It was large enough and perhaps even frightened enough to do serious damage to her. This poor thing had been squeezed inside of a narrow crate with no food for who knows how long while it was shuttled off to live in a strange new home, in a totally foreign environment. Weren’t these beautiful things from the tropics? Again, she had to wonder who on Earth had sent this to her? Was this supposed to be a gift?

“It’s all right,” Francesca assured, gently extending out her hand to the bird. Its wings fanned open defensively, and she noticed that their length was distorted. They must have been clipped at some point. Another pang in her heart for this unfortunate soul. Then, it began to voice its displeasure with loud hawking crows. The sound was ear piercing, reverberating in her head. Relentless! It had to be hungry.

Suddenly, her day was filled with purpose, with routine. She bought seed from the store, specialized for large birds. She purchased some little jingly bells and a chain with a tiny mirror and shiny trinkets to pick at. Treats, vitamins. Birds needed supplemental nutrition, right? She couldn’t imagine being satisfied with a dusty bag of seeds.

Gertrude, emphasis on the rude, was the name she deemed fitting for the screechy little lady. For weeks, Frannie didn’t get enough peace because Gertrude simply wouldn’t stop cawing. Like a colicky baby, the noise, the squawking, it never ceased. She was lost on the idea that parrots knew words; this one simply knew how to scream. But, she was rather beautiful. And Frannie liked to admire that beauty as Gertrude sat atop her window perch, when her eyes were focused on the dogwalker outside or the mail being delivered, children running down the street—there was a fascination and sadness in the creature she related deeply to. Those quiet moments were growing longer and one day, after a particularly hard day filming with her fickle director, the two of them reached an understanding.

“Hmmm, that’s not it, now play it more melancholy,” Nolan James had asked, like it wasn’t her 11th take. Her feet were starting to ache in those gaudy, spiked heel boots. She longed for the solitude of home. For warm, brawny arms to wrap around her and tell her that it would be all right, that she was fussing over nothing. Take a vacation about it, darling, buy some jewels to feel better.

She longed for him. Oh, how she missed him.

Gertrude flew over, the sound so much louder than anyone could have prepared her for. Like a copter closing distance. She barely flinched now as her attention was rapt on a People Today article about Elvis’ new film promos. They seemed terribly formulaic, like his agent had put him back up for the highest bidder. It wasn’t what she’d want for him, certainly not what he seemed to crave on the set of Gambling on Your Love. There, he seemed determined, vigorous, driven, ready to cut his chops on something with more substance.

Filming on his new pictures was already wrapping up, whereas Frannie’s had another few months before hitting editing, at least. It didn’t bode well for him. She’d go see it, regardless of the pang in her heart when she saw his handsome face in a small shot of the movie’s ad poster. A cheesy back-to-back pose with an actress she didn’t recognize and Elvis, grinning at the camera. Love Me Tender, Love Me Alien. She chuckled at the absurdity. He was holding a ray gun. 

Wings fluttered aside her and Gertrude’s claws popped in and out of the settee fabric as she inched closer to see what had Frannie so engaged. She leaned in, tilting her head, zooming with her right eye before chittering. It was the closest she’d come to her, and nearer still she inched until her warm body was pressed against the side of Frannie’s head. Before she knew it, the bird had stepped cautiously down onto her shoulders, making her wince at the sharpness of talons finding purchase. She allowed Frannie to stroke her chest and to feed her. Slowly, it graduated from the occasional preen to a spoiled neediness. 

Gertrude liked to stay on Frannie’s shoulder. To pull at long strands of her hair and cleave the ends sneakily, letting little clippings fall all around the house. She loved to peck and nibble at Frannie’s earrings. Her humor didn’t shy away in the presence of guests, and she was happy to dance with Frannie to her favorite records.

In time, Frannie learned that wings must be clipped occasionally, or else they’ll grow back. But she didn’t mind at all. Now, Gertrude was a more elegant flier than ever. She was messy, still loud, and beautiful. Obediently learning words and short phrases.

She knew how to call the cat for dinner time, so that was a fun fussy debate she had to struggle through. “No, no, I know. It’s not fair, but don’t blame me. Gertrude outwitted us both.”

Still, she had to wonder who had sent Gertrude into her life. It was a beautiful distraction from the heartache. Her bed was still so, so terribly empty. She reached out across from herself to splay her hand in the coolness. Thinking of him was something she needed… and couldn’t stop. Tears misted her eyes as she lay alone holding onto her pillow, where if she buried her face deep and used a pinch of wishful thinking, she could just get a whiff of his cologne, clinging on for dear life.

She ought to call him, but looking at her phone, sitting pretty and quiet, unrung like her ring finger, she resisted the urge. What would she even say to him? Not only did she feel a pang in her chest at the thought of him, but for him. She’d left him quite quickly and quite distraught, with almost no explanation. And then the… thing that happened.

Reaching for a glass of water instead, she tried to focus her mind elsewhere, anywhere but the pain that seemed to settle in whenever she was still. So instead, she kept moving, jumping up so fast that Gertrude squabbled. She must keep busy with something. A distraction. 

The filming process itself for Flames of Fury had been rocky but all in all, much smoother than the ups and downs on the set of Gambling for Your Love—but her truest performance, her heart and soul, had been poured entirely into that movie. She’d brought more than her everything each day. Having Elvis as friendly competition only fueled her to do that much better. They truly had been magic together. 

*

Elvis slumped in the jacuzzi with a swarm of pills floating through him like champagne bubbles, while a girl named Champagne poured him some more cola. He was lost, looking out at the California skyline, mesmerized by the pulsing lights while he sipped slowly, downing some uppers to stable his mood. He couldn’t feel so low when he was surrounded by his crew, women, good music, drugs and food. 

But with laughter all around him, echoing in his ears and growing duller by the second, he felt alone. Even in hot rolling water, California wind blowing through his hair, his thoughts were about her, only her.

Francesca had done a number on him.

Joe patted a buddy on the back, gently ushering a lady aside and telling her about the open bar upstairs, he’d join her later. 

“Hey. You ain’t uh, looking so good. Sure you’re doing okay?” Joe splashed around in the water. “This steam making you dizzy or something? Talk to me. Hello?” He snapped his fingers and Elvis grinned, shoving them away.

“M’fine, I’m fine,” he slurred, clearing his throat, looking his friend in the soulful eyes. “Thank you, Joe.”

Unbelieving, his friend motioned for Red to come over. Now it was going to be a whole big thing and he didn’t want to deal with another round of their pep talks. He understood it. He appreciated it. He knew he shouldn’t be moping around in his misery, but here he was. Enjoying it in some sick way. It was the pain that proved he really loved her. Loved her right now just as much as yesterday and tomorrow. If he could just see her again, hold her in his arms. Smell her hair. Tell her how sorry he was for whatever he’d done. He’d take her back in a second, tell the whole world that he loved her. They were going steady. He was going to marry her. 

“Not even gonna ask. Let’s get you out of the water buddy, you’re looking real… lax right now.” Red didn’t wait for his response, he just looped one brawny arm underneath his friend’s and lifted him up out of the pool. Water sloshed across the cement. The boys wrapped a towel around him.

He wandered inside and didn’t bother changing clothes as he sat still on the couch. This was his costar’s afterparty. Mitzy didn’t throw small bashes either, but Elvis stayed for the after-after party because he didn’t want to go home to his hotel room. Even the glitziest of suites had lost its charm after a few months of taking spurting, hot-cold showers and eating insipid dishes made by an overworked chef. But the service staff were sublime and heavy-handed tips always made the attendants’ eyes bright. He loved seeing that in someone, because he wasn’t getting much of that lately at all. He’d had it when he’d looked at his Francesca.

Elvis wouldn’t let himself fall to tears in front of the boys, but to say he was still torn up about it would be an understatement.

Mitzy Marvel walked in. Adult film actress-made-Hollywood star. She was up and coming to say the least, and a very hard worker… but that’s what worried him about her. Acting was coming easier to him, it had started to when he’d been on stage with Frannie. Mitzy seemed to struggle with finding her footing. This was her first big gig and he had a sneaking suspicion that she’d slept her way in with how nervous she was. Maybe it was just because he was Elvis Presley, but there was a naive wobbliness to her performance. Endearing but nothing compared to Francesca’s heart pounding rounds. She could deliver the same song without losing a bit of enthusiasm, straight from the chest, every time. Just like that. It was something he didn’t just admire—it was something he’d aspired to be.

It gutted him even more still that Gambling on Your Love would remain in this beautifully perfect limbo. All it needed was one more scene, a finale to tie it off and she was good as gold. He’d dreamed of seeing it in theaters with his crew. With Frannie on his arm, pointing out their little nods and glances, knowing the real fire behind the flames on set.

Elvis burned for her.

Joe grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him to look at him as he said in earnest, “Man, you’ve got to get a grip. This woman has ripped your heart clean out, by God. Don’t let her have any more of you. You’ve got to stop thinking about the past. It’s over. It’s done. She’s probably moved on by now—”

“Don’t say that,” Elvis hiccupped.

“So should you. You gotta do something for yourself. Live a little. Relax. Go on a date. Go back to a girl’s place. Bring her back to yours. Do something, other than all this moping.”

“Joe,” Red murmured.

“I’m just sayin’.”

Billy loudly vomited over the second level banister, and they all glanced back. Champagne was rubbing his back, Mitzy was wondering who gave him that much. She waved prettily at Elvis, her hair sprayed blonde curls glittering.

Elvis couldn’t stop thinking about her, about the life they could have had together if only she’d given him a chance. He would have taken such good care of her. Of their child.

These were the emotions he tried to avoid with partying and drugs, but some nights, it just made it so much worse. He’d had rougher ones, where he’d lain curled up like an infant in the shower, the light off because it hurt his eyes and made his head throb. Where he had to drag himself from the bathroom floor and into his bed. Never had he considered himself a lightweight, but something about the pain spiraled more pain.

He clutched at his chest, reclined his head and shut his eyes. Thinking about the night breeze cutting through his hair, the milk light of moon swatching a path for them to follow along dark highway roads, shining brighter than diamonds. Campfires reflecting in her gorgeous jewel eyes. The taste of her ruby lips. 

When he awoke, it was sometime in the early morning, just after sunrise. He had to move slowly or else the pudding in his head would just leak out of his ears.

He recalled the boys trying to drag him off the couch, but he wouldn’t budge, slipping deeper into his self-loathing. It was what he’d gotten used to by now. 

With the sun beaming mercilessly into his pinpoint pupils, rocking his head with ice pick stabbing pulses, Elvis winced with every step as he and the boys made their way to the car. He wasn’t feeling up for it at all, but he didn’t like cruising passenger and managed to throw himself into the driver’s seat. He gripped the wheel. 

Back in his penthouse suite, where he had grown rather bored of, Elvis saw the blinking red light of hope twinkling on his answering machine. He raced over to answer it. It could be her. He still couldn’t track her down. She was somewhere in Phoenix, still filming. He knew the movie was a thriller and foolishly had no songs written for her. She was already branching out, while their debut film rested peacefully in an editing room, just waiting to be finished. 

He pressed play, listening with all his heart, to a familiar voice. But it wasn’t Frannie on the other end of the receiver, it was Cassandra Morgan.

“Hey, Presley, it’s Cassandra. I can’t get in touch with Francesca, but I’m sure you can just tell her for me. Ahh, look, I don’t know how done with Gambling you are, but I’ve never stopped thinking about just how electric you two were on camera. I’d give anything to have you two back here in the studio for a little reunion. We can really give this picture what it deserves. I’m sure that you’d like to see it on the big screen, too. Well, just, gimme a call when you get this message. Bye.”

*

Francesca did not avoid her phone, per se, she just tastefully ignored it. But today, the tone was that of resolve as it rang for her attention. She felt out of body as she reached for the phone, clasping the bakelite to her ear, listening to static. Had he found her? Did she want him to? She wasn’t breathing.

“Frannie? Hellooo?” It was Dominick. She hadn’t even heard him.

“Yes, yes, good evening, Dominick. What kind of trouble are you getting into lately?” 

She could hear his smile when he said, “Only the good kind. How’ve you been? How’s it going on set?”

“We’re almost done, I can see the finish line. I didn’t think I’d ever get tired from wearing heels, but these skyscrapers they have me in for some of these scenes are killing my poor ankles.”

“Hardest working ankles in Hollywood. You be sure to pamper yourself.” He lit a cigarette, closing the zippo with a sturdy sliding clack. “You’re your number one asset.”

“So I’ve heard,” she teased, filling up Gertrude’s tray with fresh nuts and seeds, a few veggies from her lunch salad. She happily chittered in response.

“What’s that? You keeping chickens now? I knew you’d tire of the glitz and glam and turn to something rustic and homesteady.”

“You know me too well, Dominick.” But she also knew him well enough that his well-fare calls were usually few and far between. He had something up his sleeve, she was just waiting on him to dish it out.

After a little pause of staticky silence, he said, “So, your old friend Cassandra Morgan rang me up the other day,” he took a long drag. “You’ll never guess what she wanted.”

Well, Frannie had more than a hint. But she’d play along. “She’s directing a new movie and wants me as the lead?” A girl could dream. Cassandra’s screenplays were the stuff of literary dreams on paper and played even better on screen. 

“Hmm. Not quite. In fact, it’s a little closer to your heart than that. She pleaded for another shot with you. One more chance to have you and Elvis on stage together to patch up her unfinished vision.”

When Frannie didn’t immediately answer, Dominick put forth his own opinion. “For a second, let me step away as your agent—not all the way of course—and talk to you as down to Earth as I can, Frannie. Would you listen to an old friend when he says this would be good for you?”

Good for her? Her heart was already pounding at the thought of being on that beautiful, cursed set again. To rip another priceless dress? To wind up in the hospital once more? Who would poison her with what next? Or would her trust be totally violated by the man that she loved?

“I just… don’t think I can see it that way, Dominick. I’ve had fun. I did, I really did love every second. It was magical. But it came at such a hefty price, I just can’t seem to… to wrap my head around how I would begin to trust him again.”

“You know he’s done nothing but look for you ever since you left? He called me until I warned him I’d change my number if he didn’t drop it. I’m not saying you gotta trust the guy, but every time he pleaded with me, well, it sounded as desperate as Casandra, begging for you two once again.” 

These are things she both hated and loved to hear. That he’d tried to get in touch with her. Had he gone to her empty apartment, knocking on an unanswered door in hopes that she would give him another chance?

“I have faith, Frannie, that he’ll take this just as seriously as you do. Besides,” he took a final long drag from his cigarette. “I know you haven’t unpacked those boxes you’re probably surrounded by.”

Alright, he got her there. “Tell Cassandra that I will think about it. Emphasis on think.”

“You’ve got my word. She’ll be happy to just hear a response, I’m sure. Well, take care Frannie. And let me know when you’re wrapping up filming, I’ll come to the premiere of Flames of Retribution.”

“Er, Fury,” she politely corrected. Not that she could blame him with how many tweaks and stitches the meat of the film had gone through, name included. But even for the hiccups, it was still like swimming in the kiddie pool compared to the catastrophic always-on-her-toes intensity of Gambling on Your Love. Although, maybe that was just the nature of her and Elvis’s relationship.

Could she face seeing him again? Not that she didn’t see him every day, hear him every day, think about him every day. Dream about him most nights. Ah, especially those balmy beach getaway dreams where Elvis laid her out underneath a cabana in the sun and made love to her all evening until the sunset and the tide came back in. Or the simpler, more painful ones, that let her perceive a glimpse of the life she could have had with him. All too domestic, just fantasies. She couldn’t be a doting housewife right now, not when her career was just starting to really take off. One day, perhaps. But she’d always worried in the back of her mind while she and Elvis were together, that that is exactly what he wanted. A sultry housewife to come home to that kept the place clean and their children well behaved. How excited he had been at the sudden prospect of a baby coming into their life. All things she couldn’t afford to think about right now!

Her co-star, Billy Flynn, the innocent eldest son of the mafia boss, was no Presley. Or that was to say, she and him had no chemistry. Not that the director seemed to notice. It seemed to play better for her stoic character for her to be less attached, distancing herself to keep her heart from truly being given to another. Playing it safe. He was kind and he read his lines well, played his parts marvelously. In short, there was nothing lacking about his performance, other than he simply wasn’t Him.

Can’t Help Falling in Love made her pull over one night on the drive home. She’d found a dark stretch of highway away from the doming glow of the city lights, where the stars were just visible. She shut the car off, reclined back in her seat and opened the sunroof to gaze up at the dotted night sky. The tears streamed down her face before she even realized. 

In a few weeks, the red carpet roll out of Flames of Fury was a smashing success. Women wanted to be Roxy and men wanted to be with her. She was a dynamite dame with a sense of justice and loyalty that just resonated with the heart strings of so many. 

The showings for Love Me Alien were all taken down as the next season’s films came into rotation. There she was, billed at the top, her name in flashing lights. Her sister was wrapped in a warm fur coat that she’d bought her, her neck shining with jewels, all the things she’d wanted for her since she’d begun carving her own way. Her father and brothers cut handsome figures in smartly tailored tuxedos. The only one missing was her mom, for whom she said a silent prayer. Champagne flowed into fragile stems and she didn’t know if it was the drink inducing the apathy—but she just didn’t feel… quite as high as she’d hoped. 

The crowd gave her a standing ovation. Billy Flynn asked in her ear if they could get dinner afterwards and she politely but firmly reclined. Posters of her were around every corner, billboards, television ads. She’d dutifully attended her press conferences with her costars, smiling her winning smile and keeping her answers cool and concise. They ate up her every word, and yet something was missing. It just felt like her entire world had shifted and she was only a few millimeters off course, but dizzied and stranded, nonetheless.

*

Francesca peeked out of her little townhouse to see paparazzi had indeed made their way to her. Someone must have followed her home, or maybe even a nosy neighbor had sold her address to the highest bidder. She closed her curtains and rang up Dominick.

“Tell her I’ll do it. But I’m paid more than him and I want you there with me.”

“Of course, that’s just a start. What else?”

She loved him to pieces. He was like a father to her, an older brother type. He’d doted on her for a while now, respecting her. Taking her seriously. She’d had a handful of people, agencies that she’d tried venturing through, but upfront costs and greedy intentions without a care to her growth as an actress: hard pass. Dominick always made sure to look out for her first and foremost before even thinking about taking his cut. The total opposite to that squirmy Parker that followed in Elvis’s shadow. 

“That I… hmm,” Well, she had to think about that, demands didn’t come easy to her in this regard, and she thought for a moment before saying without preamble, “And what do you think about hiring a private investigator?”

“For whom exactly?” He didn’t sound averse to the idea in the slightest, asking it like what she wanted for lunch. 

“I want them to watch Elvis, more specifically, his associates. I don’t want dirt on them, I just want to know if someone is following me.” Messing with me. She wasn’t about to be harassed on set behind the scenes by someone too cowardly to show their face. If Elvis really was half as hurt as she was about their separation, then maybe someone else was doing the dirty work for him. 

There were coincidences and then there were carefully laid plots. 

“Alright, Frannie. I’ll get somebody on him. Someone real low key.” He switched ears with the phone, telling her, “You were amazing in Fury. I want you to know you did a good job. I’m proud of you. And your premiere was fabulous. You were lovely in that dress. The after party, though I couldn’t attend, I hear was wonderful.”

She smiled. “It was nice seeing you again. When can I see the little ones? I know Gracie is getting to be a big girl now.” Grabbing the coiled cord around her finger, she gazed out onto the little street she’d grown used to, the glass lamps casting a warm glow on the sidewalk.

“We’ll all come visit you again, I promise. You get some rest now. I hear you got a big movie coming up.”

*

Elvis couldn’t believe this was really happening. His circumstances, while fragile in a way, were a blessing. He was almost in a daze while readying up for his private flight back to Las Vegas, to where it all began with her. 

Equal parts thrilling and nerve racking. He wanted to start where they left off. Start over? He didn’t know how to approach her. He knew how he wanted to, but he had to see what it was that Francesca wanted. Still ready to give it all to her, he contemplated seeing if her old apartment was open for rent, but even he would admit that was going too far. Suddenly, his feet felt like lead. He missed California as soon as he left the plane.

Colonel Parker was simmering the entire damn time, tapping his foot, hands steepled in his lap while he stared straight ahead. Not partaking in any of the drinks or cigars, just simmering. He’d absolutely exploded when Elvis told him bluntly that this wasn’t a request, or a plea, it was a statement, a notification that: Yes, he absolutely would take the opportunity to finish this masterpiece with her. Just seeing her again, dancing and singing with her again would all be worth it.

“You’re making a huge mistake. Biggest mistake of your life.” Parker had seethed, roaring at him over the phone that this was the most disrespectful thing he’d ever done. But Elvis just didn’t see it that way. 

The boys thought he was a little crazy but doing the right thing. Except Joe, who was wary of Frannie’s influence over him. Elvis rather liked that influence, and that perfume she always had on. What’s that one, Chanel? Nina Ricci? He bought her another, crystal pink as her other one. She’d tilt her head to the side in that elegant, bird-like way and spritz her lithe neck, her chest.

He needed to see her as soon as possible. He’d been working up the courage to see her new movie, but something in him just resisted the idea. The posters said that her outfits and her dance moves might drive him up the wall for weeks, not that she didn’t already have him still besotted with her. Even when he tried to shack up with other women, he couldn’t stay with them if he didn’t think of her, her beautiful heart shaped face, rosy cheeks and dark, shining hair. She was an angel, breaking his heart into a million tiny pieces. Stirring around the dust with her heel a little bit just to get the point across.

But when he saw her on set for the first time, past the crew, past the cameras and curtains; he forgot all about his pain, at least for a brief second. Her hair had grown a bit. She had on a stunning black sundress and white heels. Her loveliness a knife in his heart. He watched her float amongst the rest, daintily reintroducing herself to familiar faces. Cassandra wouldn’t do with a handshake and yanked Frannie into a hug, squeezing her tight with a few hardy pats to the back, telling her, “You don’t know how wonderful it is to see you.”

Francesca’s eyes met his and he saw something in her face that looked like hope. She inhaled. He watched her chest rise and fall. She grabbed at the pearls draped over her collar, fingering their gleaming beauty. He’d given them to her.

His heart skipped. Soared. He didn’t know whether to give into the relief or remain entirely on edge, because this would be too good to be true. Francesca, still pining for him even after she’d dumped him hard and fast. Maybe it was his fault for not pushing harder for their publicity. Did she think he didn’t want to be associated with her? He knew her cut was above the rest, she really was a superior actress compared to so many he’d seen or worked with. Mitzy was a clueless but buoyant young girl and he did wish her the best. But just being near Frannie on set was a breath of fresh air.

“Chess,” he acknowledged. I see you.

Her eye contact did not break, even as her face softened, her expression puzzling him. “Elvis Presley. What a pleasure it is to work with you again.”

“I can only say the same, my dear.” He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her heavy, until her knees were weak and she was clinging to him. She was gorgeous.

Cassandra laughed, albeit a hint nervously as she watched them interact. She clapped, saying, “Okay, so, we’re just warming up today, getting the lighting back in place, the camera back in place. I honestly thought about just splicing the thing and keeping in the bits that did make it, intertwined with whatever we film over the next few days, but, I think it would be a better idea to just film the entire last duet together once more, from the top. Fresh, clean, and guarded, because god dammit I’m paying someone overtime to stay here and guard this film reel personally.” She was intense, absolutely bringing her A-game to the table. She was a force to be reckoned with when she wanted to be.

And so was he.

Before he could muster the courage to knock on her dressing room door, assuming she was even in there, he ran into Eddie, who’d grown out his hair a little bit since he’s last seen him. He was even sporting a little bit of a beard, looking more like a grown man than the kid he’d been months ago. 

“Eddie! It’s good to see you again!” Elvis embraced him warmly.

“You still owe me dinner. My dad says that I’m crazy. That I’m not friends with Elvis Presley, that I’m just pulling his chain.”

Elvis grinned. He had promised him that, hadn’t he? “Well, a man’s only as good as his word. So, what’s the address and when’s the food gonna be ready?” It’d been a long time since he’d last had a home cooked family style meal that wasn’t served up at a restaurant. Or whipped up by one of the fellas in a drunken, but generous, stupor. 

Francesca, who wasn’t in her dressing room at all, but readying to head out the door, overheard their conversation. He knew this because she was looking right at him when he glanced her way. He could practically feel her eyes on him. If only it were her silky little hands climbing him instead.

Winning her back was his ultimate goal, other than of course, putting on one hell of a show.

The next day, when filming finally commenced and Francesca was in that dress, his eyes were magnetized. Long legs that went on for miles, led straight to heaven. Where he’d once been invited.

And the way she was looking at him, even while trying her best to avoid being alone with him, he knew that some part of her still desired him. He just needed to stoke the flame. He knew her well enough. The things that made her sigh and moan. If she’d just give him a chance to show her again, how he was just perfect for her and she, him.

But he couldn’t see the forest for the trees and nearly fumbled his first few practice steps with her. Beat for beat, he slowly acclimated back, finding the rhythm like it was second nature. Muscle memory. Hopping back on the horse, he rose hard, never disrupting his gaze from the one thing that meant the most to him: her approval. And, well, obviously her. But he needed her to see, he hadn’t lost the memory of their dancing duet together.

One part of the song had him running after her for a brief second before lifting her up by her slender waist onto the top of the piano his character had always played solo. Her eyes were glittering from the prop lights and with flecks of something else as she looked at him.

Cassandra nearly forgot to call scene when the two of them were done, chests heaving as they panted. Their bodies were rigorously taut and spent as if they’d made love. She was heart achingly beautiful and she still didn’t acknowledge him the way he needed her to.

When they were finished, she parted from him as cool as the change of season. Spring pushed into fall, and he shuddered, watching her leave him near effortlessly. But on her way out, when she kissed cheeks and signed a few crew autographs, she glanced back at him over her shoulder. Batting her glamorous lashes at him, like a matador waving a red flag. He pursued, giving chase like never before.

It was one thing to be scorned, but another to be ignored. He just couldn’t stand not being under her guise. It ate at him more than if she just rebuffed him.

Today, things were serious. Cassandra had implied rather overtly that this portion of filming wasn’t supported by any generous backers, but from her own pocket. The cast, the crew, she was investing herself into this film more than ever. It only made him all the more confident that he’d chosen the best passion piece.

*

Colonel Parker always occasionally visited Elvis on set before, but now he was heavy handed, coming every day, sometimes staying for the entire duration of filming even though he’d tried dismissing him.

“Don’t you get bored watching us practice?”

“I’m just looking out for my number one guy, Elvis.”

Eddie was incredibly jittering, having to be scolded twice about the lights being off center. He apologized profusely. The previous night, Elvis had finally made good on his promise to have dinner at the young man’s house. It was a charming little factory home on the other side of the railroad tracks. Small, modest, but very well loved. It was cozy and reminded him of home.

Upon seeing the pair walk in, Eddie was the first one to be greeted, wrapped warmly in hugs. His father had to look once, twice, three separate times before he realized whom he laid eyes on.

“Well I’ll be damned…”

“Harold, not in front of our guest,” Eddie’s mother chided, elbowing her gobsmacked husband. She offered out her hand, shiny from cooking with grease. The smell of something delicious wafted out from behind them.

Sitting down at the too large dining room table in a house that did smell slightly of cigarettes, Elvis was treated to some of the best Mississippi roast he’d ever forked into his mouth. And Eddie’s mother, Glenda, was overjoyed to have company, let alone Elvis Presley, who they asked a bevy of questions. The typical ones that he’d answered dozens if not hundreds of times.

“What’s your favorite concert you’ve done?”

“What’s the best town you’ve been to?”

“Do you think you could help tune my old guitar, it just doesn’t sound right and these old ears aren’t what they used to be.”

Elvis was more than delighted to zoom in the scope of his understanding of the world, to fine tune his vision to see into these little domestic bits. Eddie’s parents, fawning over their beloved only child, their older age belying the struggle he must have been to conceive. They proudly showed off Eddie’s camera collection and all the places he’s been to recently. But when Glenda cheerfully went to open Eddie’s photo proofing room, a large utility closet he’d renovated, Eddie eagerly flattened his palm against the door, insisting that the light would ruin his set up. And besides, they were just “boring naturescapes”.

On set, his uneasiness hadn’t diminished and Elvis was surprised to find he was worried about the kid. But today, he had to have a laser focused mindset. No distractions. 

When Francesca walked upon the stage, as graceful and goddess-like as ever, Elvis offered out his hand to her and they got down to it. Hot and fast, one, two, three, four. Twists, turns, hip dips that had him feverish. He burned that heat with her, feeling it flare between them. Her hand touched his face, her eyes pooled into his. Her body was perfectly in sync with his; tandem movements in absolute perfection.

Cassandra was stunned. “That’s it people. We got it.”

The crew, overjoyed to have been reunited for a marvelous feature, cheered for the couple, breathing laboriously after their round. Her hand was still in his and she smiled at him, that old Frannie smile that he couldn’t get enough of.

When he finally found a moment alone with her, after weeks of simply being in her presence, Elvis didn’t hold back his feelings. It was the dark aisle behind the set, the both of them still soaring from that performance. It was unspoken between them that that had been it. Flawless. When this movie premiered, he couldn’t help but feel that they were pushing their project out into the world. But it wasn’t just a movie they were starring in, it was a movie made for them, even Cassandra said so, telling them, “You two were electric before. But whatever that was just now. Lighting in a bottle, babes. Don’t let it go, cause you two have got it.”

They did have it. He just needed to remind Francesca. 

“Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you?” He asked her honestly. Did she have any idea? By the look in her tragic face, he knew the answer. She didn’t just have an idea, she knew exactly how he felt. It filled him with pride, he wanted to shout. Her feelings for him hadn’t waned. Just reigniting the flames was all it took. His burned out of control. 

Francesca did not pull away from him. She turned her head to half-heartedly avoid his kiss. And breathlessly she told him, with her fingers pressed against his lips, with her face growing warm from his nearness, “Elvis, we can’t.”

“But we can. We absolutely can, Chess,” he said, sealing that assertion with a kiss. He didn’t care who saw. Maybe she did, but right now, all he could think about was her and closing the gap between them. He only felt far from her, letting her push him away. But here, she instantly melted against him, if only for a fleeting second.

Elvis felt her shiver. He felt the chills breaking across her flesh when he rubbed her arms. He kissed her deeper, tilting her head back, drinking her. The taste of her, the feel of her against him. Her hands curled against his waist, hooking into the belt loops and easing him towards her.

“You missed me, admit it,” he teased, pushing her buttons, testing his limits with her already. But he couldn’t help it. He wanted to see her frustrated, suffering, but not with pain—with desire.

Francesca peered out the window of the limousine and gasped, sitting straight back in her seat. “Good God, that’s a lot of people.” A hundred or so on either side of the red carpet, dozens and dozens more spilling out onto the streets. She’d never seen so many people or so many cameras in one place. 

Their car was two behind and she anxiously awaited the slow roll, watching Cassandra exit the car with her friend, a lovely tall blonde woman who Frannie recognized. When it was their turn to exit the limousine, Francesca steeled herself. Put on her best Hollywood smile.

Elvis clasped her hand. “You and me, Frannie.”

Once out into the limelight, she was stunned at the turnout of people. There were fans with signs that said all sorts of fanatical things, “Marry me, Elvis!” “I love Elvis Presley!” “Let’s Gamble on Our Love, Baby!”

It was amazing, the sheer amount and this wasn’t a broadly advertised event amongst the public. He simply had that many devoted fans, pining for his attention. And he was walking her through a cheering crowd, with her arm looped under his. He led her with propriety, like he was her husband. And she could feel them noticing, eyes tracking her. Pictures of him and her were held anxiously out, blank books for them to sign. There were fans asking for hugs, roses were being tossed at them. 

This felt like a dream. It felt like what she wanted a red carpet premiere to feel like. She and him were the center of attention. Paparazzi were flashing cameras, bulbs popping like a summer thunderstorm with their frequency. She just smiled, telling herself not to lean against him, no matter how good it might feel. God, he smelled so good right now, she could just take a bite out of him. Control yourself, Frannie.

It was certainly hard when he was resting his knee so close against hers on the ride here. Why she insisted in the first place, she wasn’t entirely sure. Whether to have a chance alone with him, or simply for the fanfare factor of the acting couple stepping out together. Which had paid off, seeing as the crowd was still screaming excitedly behind them as they made their way into the marvelous theater.

Francesca wanted the full movie experience and ordered a big bucket of popcorn for herself, or at least she tried to before Elvis butted in with his order, insisting on paying both their tabs. She argued but to no avail. He was always persuasive in ways she didn’t anticipate, charming but persistent. 

Elvis racked up on candy and excitedly sat down next to her, it was easy for her to notice that he was doggedly watching her, critically reading her every expression, every reaction to him. He was terrified he was going to mess up, wasn’t he? She felt a pang in her heart that he was so high strung while this was his big night just as much as hers.

Although, she couldn’t feel too bad for him, considering as of late, she was practically beating him off with a stick. He wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t relent. When she pushed, he pulled, when she retreated, he pursued. 

When she rebuffed him the last day of filming, after he’d racked her body with shuddering desire thanks to one of the most smoldering kisses he’d ever lain on her, he’d been perturbed exactly none. In fact, it was her own fault, letting him get her so wound up. She’d been clinging to him, rocking her hips into his to stem some of the tension pooling between her thighs. Elvis had a maddening effect on her and he absolutely knew it.

With his hand resting innocently, so innocently on her knee and her face as hot as the sun during Gambling on Your Love’s premiere, Francesca knew that she wasn’t over him.

[gone-with-the-rhys]

Just some lil thoughts

Pairing: David and Angel (I am nothing if not a lover of these two)

Warnings: Light swearing, but nothing else I don’t think.. (This is lightly proofread so that may also need to be a warning ahdjhf)

Summary: David feels stuck and if he’s at all honest he feels like a goddamn mess, that is until he meets a certain flirtatious little shit. 

          David Shaw was always hoping that time would just stop, for even just a second. He felt like he was constantly in a loop of working, eating, and sleeping, and if he was at all honest, it was killing him. 

          He knew becoming the Alpha of one of the most well known packs in Dalia would come with some complications, but he couldn’t get a break anymore. With the pack meetings, the security firm, and Asher living solely to stress him out, he felt breathless, like he had been running for years. It felt like a wicked dream, one where he was forced to run forever to catch up with everything but he was running in slow motion, and solace and calm were just out of his reach.

          He thought about his childhood a lot, the idea of running around with his friends just being free felt so foreign now. He knew it was a glorified version, the “freedom” he liked to reminisce on was most likely Asher breaking his arm falling out of a tree that he’d told him not to climb, or Marie shouting lovingly meant words of abuse every time one of them got hurt. He’d remembered those moments through the toughest damn rose colored glass his brain could possibly create, but by god did it work. He loved what he did, and he was damn proud of his pack and his firm for the work they did, but he would trade all of that success for one moment to be 15 again, spending time with his dad, Ash, and Milo as they sat around a campfire, or ran together on the moon bound solstice. 

          His life felt like it had a vice grip on him. He didn’t have time to feel anything or even think about himself and what he wanted. Not David Shaw the Alpha, or the leader, he wanted nothing more than to be “just David” for 20 goddamn minutes. 

          So, he took a day off to do some shopping. One of his shirts had gotten a hole in it as he was working and he damn near broke everything in his and Ash’s apartment over it, so he decided that today, he would take a break. He doubted it would last the whole day as he couldn’t really stop thinking about some paperwork he had to turn in soon, but a few hours was all he needed. 

          Of course, these few hours couldn’t just be normal for him. He felt eyes everywhere, running a security firm came with its perks of seeing everyone of some type of potential threat, and that wasn’t helped by the fact that someone was most definitely following him. He noticed them the first time as they were in front of him in line to check out at some random clothing store. They had headphones in, he thought it was obnoxious. However, when they took their headphones out as they checked out, he noticed their kindness directed to the retail worker at the counter, it felt like the two had been friends for years with the way they bounced off of each other. It was an intriguing interaction to say the least.

          The second time he noticed them, they walked into the next store he had gone into. They radiated such confidence as they walked, he couldn’t lie, it was attractive. They donned a simple outfit with a pair of black boots that he thought must make them a couple inches taller than they would’ve been otherwise. He realized he was starring as someone came up to ask if he needed a fitting room. He turned down the offer, and looked back down at the shirt he held in his hands. “Are they fucking following me?” he contemplated. He put the shirt back down and left the store without another moment of hesitation. 

          He’d wished for the sake of his own sanity that he hadn’t seen them again, or maybe that he had just gone home and never thought of this alluring person that was most definitely following him now. 

          He went around two more stores, seeing them in each one of them, he had damn near lost his mind by the time they had filed into the line at the fast food restaurant he was in line at. That stupidly attractive outfit was becoming a trigger for complete and utter paranoia. He clenched his fists as he whipped around,

“Why are you following me?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

          He’d ended up spending thirty minutes at a table with some random human who couldn’t seem to stop being flirtatious for 15 seconds even if it was just to take a bite of their meal. He was pretty convinced that it was just some sort of weird coincidence that they kept ending up in the same places. He didn’t believe in fate and he told them as much, but as he drove home with their number sat oh so temptingly in his phone he began to question everything he thought he knew. 

            David thought back to this morning when he drove aimlessly hoping that time would just stop and he could just feel like a normal person, and for thirty minutes, his wishes had been granted even if it was alongside one of the most stressful people he had ever met. He was just David and they were just the Angel that came down from a heaven he didn’t believe in to guide him to break down those walls he had built so high that they had almost become impenetrable.

[katsukikitten]

Spoiler fic below the CUT, please note I'm bumping this timeline up to their early twenties. Deku slander pls 😂 I'm sorry I just wrote this in the drafts

A soft knock comes at the oversized door as you sit with burning eyes in the recliner. You don't answer, it's just a courtesy the nurses use to give a false sense of privacy for the patient when it didn't even really matter at all.

It's not like he was awake.

Or could fucking breathe on his own as a tube snakes it's way deep inside of him. Past his epiglottis forcing his lungs to take air all from a tiny hole in the front of his throat. It all pairs in the rythem of the machine breathing for him, of his faint, so fucking faint heart beat beeping behind your ear.

You can't imagine you'll ever hear another sound again.

You swallow thickly, not bothering to look up when you feel a built body beside you, assuming it's Kirishima who's been visiting off and on when he can. Surprisingly Eijirou can't stay long, the emotions rolling off of him in waves. The guilt choking the air just as much as the smell of bleach. Taking deep root in your insides until it rotted into white hot rage.

Maybe he should feel guilty. Maybe they all fucking should.

But no one do you blame more than -

"Deku." You bite out, finally looking to your left when you feel an even more intense sadness and guilt than before. If you thought Kirishima's was bad before it couldn't hold a match to what Izuku was carrying, still you were never one to take the high road.

"Living up to your name I see." Spitting burning venom and he visibly flinches. It shouldn't make you feel good, but it does. To finally have a solid someone on to pin it to. To pin the reason why your husband, the love of your fucking life almost lost his. Pronounced dead for how long???

He might even still lose it for all you fucking knew.

It's wrong what you're doing, Bakugou was Izuku's friend, probably best friend but you didn't give a single fuck.

Not now.

Maybe not ever and you weren't above being nasty or petty.

"Ya know for someone who's supposed to be the world's best hero you sure did fail." You rise now, looking deep into his emerald eyes as you look up into his freckled face, "Could have used you at that battle huh? Bakugou really put his life on the line defending you when he was right all along."

The cap has finally come off and sadly the only person who can stop you once you've gone this far lies within arms reach and virtually dead to the world.

"You will never, ever be anything BUT fucking useless." You poke his chest with each word, pushing him towards the door.

"He's my-"

"I DONT GIVE A FUCK WHAT HE WAS TO YOU!" Finally you explode in your own right, "YOU DIDNT PROTECT HIM. GIVEN THE GREATEST POWER IN THE WORLD BUT YOU MIGHT AS WELL HAVE BEEN QUIRKLESS."

His brow furrows, his heart sinking deep into his stomach as he watches his best friend fighting and you, who helped bridge and repair that friendship with the fiery ash blonde.

"Get. The. Fuck. Out."

"I'm sorry. I really am."

"Yea I am too. Sorry that All Might ever saw anything in you. Sorry I ever believed the promises you made to watch Bakugou's back. Sorry that he ever believed in you, even until the fucking end." You grit your teeth, pointing towards the door shaking with your anger and wishing now more than ever you had a quirk so you could lift him and throw him out on his ass.

"Sorry you came here at all to show your stupid fucking face with the audacity to try to smile for my sake. Take your 'apologies' and shove them up your ass."

[inlocusmads]

This is Me. No, Seriously. And some thoughts:

First off, I am truly sorry for leaving without a word. I hope this post sort of clarifies a few things about why I had this sudden amazing urge to delete everything and walk off. The short version is, I'm surprisingly not doing okay.

Yes, this is me. Mads. You can put down your magnifying glasses now! I deactivated my account and went limbo for a week, succumbed to outside pressures and such and just couldn't help it. It was one of those days where I'd reached a point, you know? Where I was like, "Okay. This is it. I'm walking away."

If you guys didn't know before, I am a writer! Yes, not only do I write fanfics, but I have a couple of original works too. And I also have terrible anxiety. A few days ago, there was this happening in the fandom and things were said and I heavily regretted my words. I had this horrible feeling that I pissed off a ton of people and on the internet, it is very easy to drive someone mad. There's always going to be happy people and not so happy people and I should've definitely considered that before talking and sharing some possibly hurtful opinions.

But that isn't the reason! The main reason is, I'm just not doing okay! There's so much uncertainty in my life and though writing and art and all these things gave me some clarity, I always had this sickening doubt that it wasn't going to last very long. And struggling with quite a load of "hard times" shall we say, I just couldn't take it any longer. My mental health was literally down the drain and I no longer found happiness in doing what I want to do.

And when you're driven to the brink of insanity, to the point where you'd delete your works (the hours and effort put into them) and it is just reduced to ashes within a matter of seconds, it becomes somewhat of a serious problem. I've always struggled with work and have a bad case of self-sabotage, IRL and in the internet. But the damages are worse in real life and academics and health take a huge toll. I wasn't doing okay at all for a couple of months and I just assumed this would be a "kill switch". To have a fresh start and restart from checkpoint or something like that.

But I couldn't do that. Not when I'd done a bunch of stuff. It took me a fair amount of time; a week to kind of process what happened. And I know it is just a "silly little internet blog" and a couple of fanfics, but this and many other instances has set this precedent where I just want to crawl into a hole, cry as much as I could and wake up to this fresh day where I can try again. I couldn't do that for two reasons:

My effort and time that have gone into writing things.

The good people here that need no introduction.

So yes. I'm not doing okay lol. I just assumed I could just push through it, but I just couldn't. Things were becoming a lot more difficult. I couldn't think. I couldn't sleep properly. And worst of all, I'd just sabotaged myself once again because I assumed either I wasn't "deserving" of it or I felt like I've done something wrong. Like this sickening feeling, you know?

I'm pretty sure I've pissed off a lot of people and I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you! I promise. I'm trying to get better at understanding what I want, trying to better myself back at home. But it is a hard change to process. You wouldn't know the severity of your actions until way later. And yet at this moment, I have the same sickening feeling.

Now I won't go into very detailed reasons, because mental health talks can be quite sensitive and I really don't want to go into that conversation right now. My intention is not to "grab people's attention" or "stir up drama" and just offer an explanation as to why I'm not doing well and why I don't think I'll be very well. Plus, it is a personal subject and it is really not appropriate to you for me to drag anyone into this.

Who am I?

An absolute clown who deleted all her blog, her fanfictions and left and now has come crawling back because she clearly knows fanfictions are her only form of catharsis and is now knee-deep in a sea of thoughts (and not the good kind!)

Whew. That was a long sentence!

What happened to my works?

I didn't just delete my Tumblr blog, but I deleted all of my backups. Yes. I really went that insane XD! Google Drive, Docs, Canva edits, everything is at present, permanently deleted. And I mean, completely erased. Yes, I did delete them. Please put down your "MADS ARE YOU INSANE?!" comments because I am very aware of that!

I hope I can salvage some of my works through people's reblogs by stalking them lol, but I don't think it'd bear fruit. Mostly because Tumblr has this annoying "keep reading" thing where if you want to access the original post, you have to visit their blog and my blog is.. well.. deleted. So.. there.

Will I rewrite them from scratch?

I remember all of their premises and titles, but let's be real, my memory's pretty crap. I don't know, honestly. Maybe I'll rewrite the ones I really enjoyed and avoid putting pressure on this whole thing. I wanted fanfic to be a chill sort of experience; talking, reading, goofing off, but my brain had other plans.

Damn you, cerebrum!

Am I coming back from the dead? When will I keep writing again?

I'm gonna have to pace myself for sure. It'll happen when it happens.

Writing's a nice hobby for me, so I think it'd be a while before I quit it completely.

Am I going to be okay?

Yes. I'll be fine. I really don't want to draw people's attention to this very rant-y sensitive-y, ooey gooey feelingsy post , so I'm going to be disabling the reblogs. Honestly my mental health kind of sucks lately and I haven't sought out help. (I'm really heading for disaster, aren't I?)

But I am getting slowly better at the "think before you act" thing. I hope this doesn't happen again and I don't just go away. I'm kind of glad that my brain came to its senses and told me to knock it off. But the chances are, it is not going to be a permanent change. I'll try my best at being a good person, I suppose and not drag everyone into my messes! I'll also try to talk about things, assess them and maybe take better care of my health and not try to sabotage myself? I dunno. That's like asking a cheetah to stop running so fast.

But I'll pace myself in this regard. I know, fandoms are not something to get all worked up over, but it is real life at play here. My hobbies, academics, interests and others are just really unfortunate to be earning the short end of the stick.

Am I going to try and recover my works?

Maybe. I am not proud of them, but I do plan on trying to retrieve some of them. I love the process of it more than the finished product, so I really want to try and salvage some of them to calm my head into thinking I made a proper, wise decision for once.

You can't expect everyone to root for you, because you have to root for yourself.. at the very root of the problem (Ha!).

Is everything okay for me?

Yes. Okay.

I am truly sorry. I know this stupid explanation probably doesn't make sense and there's tons of stuff out there and I'm just a sitting duck here lol. But I hope for good things.

Things are.. hard at home to say the least. Fandoms and real life cannot mix. They're immiscible. Like oil and water, because things will soon get ugly.. which lead to big Apology Posts at 3 in the morning, like these. I'll try to handle things better and not let it affect my work and interests, but it is just hard. So freaking difficult. :( It's like, I can't even get out of bed these days. It is probably the deepest slump I've ever hit. And "slump" is too short of a word and too shallow of an estimate.

Once again, I am so sorry for this absence and this sudden disappearance. I promise I won't pull off another Bilbo Baggins, put on my One Ring and disappear again. I want to be honest and I hope this Apology Post suffices.

Don't be like me lol! I'm being serious! Please love what you do. It is heavily important. And it doesn't matter if you're writing cheesy romance or literal witchcraft. Please let it make you happy, even for just a moment, because happiness is very fleeting; at least in my perspective. It isn't about fandoms or hate or anything. If you love what you do and hold the highest, silliest hopes possible, nothing can ever bring you down.

And please don't delete your blog and vanish off and come back later with this. It is not worth the pain! If you're struggling, please get help or chart your own course to feeling better. Please let it not get intense and horrible and bad (and no, I'm not preaching or anything. I'm just echoing the words many people have already said before, with hope that nobody has to go through any of this or feel unwelcome or feel this need to delete and restart, because it isn't worth it at all.)

I hope you have a good day! See you! :)

[gurrillero-aa]

finally kissing the person you’ve been pining for . @xenovair

It  happens  after  the  end.  All  over,  no  more  lies,  no  more  tricks,  no  more  negotiations  that  would  save  him  this  time.  He  can  feel  the  life  bleeding  out  of  him,  and  all  he  can  think  was  how  upset  Sierra  looks,  the  looming  and  still    somehow  small  shape  of  Kay  watching  him,  his  own  face  reflected  in  his  photoreceptors,  Scaavi  floating  over  his  shoulder.  They  almost  seem  confused,  like  two  puppies  tilting  their  head  to  the  side  trying  to  hear  something.  He  can't  just  leave  them.  What  will  happen  to  them?  The  last  thing  he  hears  is  Kay  calculating  the  probabilities  of  saving  his  life  if  they  took  him  immediately  to  a  medic.  He  never  hears  the  number.

Then  light,  pain,  deafening  sound.  His  skin  hurts,  like  someone  has  peeled  it  off  his  body  and  dropped  him  back  on  the  galaxy.  But  even  as  he  frantically  reaches  for  the  tattered  and  bloody  shirt  on  his  chest,  looking  for  a  world-size  hole,  he  only  finds  smooth  skin  underneath,  slick  with  blood,  still  fresh  smearing  through  his  fingers,  but  somehow,  unharmed.  No,  it’s  the  clothes  themselves  that  hurt,  the  air  brushing  the  tip  of  his  ears,  the  back  of  his  neck.  It  takes  him  what  felt  like  an  eternity  to  go  back  to  himself,  to  remember  who  he  is,  what’s  even  his  name.  To  remember  they  are  the  last  thing  alive  on  the  ashes  of  a  battlefield,  and  that  the  one  still  holding  him,  as  she  comes  into  focus,  looking  just  as  in  pain  as  he  does,  is  the  most  important  thing  in  the  world.  The  three  of  them  are.  

He  doesn’t  understand,  he  can’t  understand.  He’s  in  pain,  scared,  and  now  terrified  that  she  has  done  something  dangerous,  something  that  shouldn’t  have  happened.  He  shouldn't  be  there,  and  it’s  somehow  all  over  again  that  feeling  after  waking  up  on  the  medbay  on  Yavin  IV.  Confusion,  pain,  terror,  and  that  unshakable  sensation  that  he  shouldn’t  be  alive,  that  he  was  somehow  snatched  away  from  the  hands  of  a  sealed  fate,  or  a  choice,  and  that  only  wrong  can  come  out  of  it.  And  maybe  it’s  because  of  it  that  he  snaps,  the  way  any  creature  reacts  when  in  fear,  when  faced  with  something  they  can’t  understand.  All  he  can  think  of  now,  as  he  comes  back  into  his  senses  is  what  if?  What  if  he  had  woken  up  alone?  What  if  she  did  that  and  he  woke  up  and  she  was  gone?  How  could  she  be  so  selfish?  Was  she  crazy?  Why,  why  WHY?

Because  I  love  you.

It’s  actually  yelled  at  him,  in  the  way  only  Sierra  can,  but  it  rings  quietly  inside  his  head,  maybe  because  he  knew  all  along.  Maybe  because  he’s  known  ever  since  Scaavi  put  him  on  the  right  path  to  figure  out  what  she  was  feeling,  and  then  it  meant  he  couldn’t  look  away.  Couldn’t  pretend  not  to  notice  how  she  glowed  a  certain  color  when  he  nudged  her  aside  and  crawled  in  bed  next  to  her  because  it  was  the  only  way  he  could  get  some  real  sleep,  when  he  rested  his  chin  on  her  shoulder  to  watch  what  she  was  working  on,  when  she  screamed  at  him  pretending  to  be  angry  about  something  when  in  truth  she  was  only  flustered.

And  just  like  that,  all  the  anger  and  the  fear  and  confusion  slowly  drains  from  his  body,  he  realizes  now  he’s  still  shaking,  but  her  words  are  like  a  rock  he  can  hold  on  to  in  the  storm  that  is  both  his  mind  and  his  body.  There  is  a  steady  certainty  to  it,  more  tangible  than  his  own  name.  There  is  the  ground  below,  the  sky  above,  and  Sierra  loves  him.  Sierra  who  has  always  been  there  for  him,  who  quite  literally  was  ready  to  tear  the  world  apart  to  bring  him  back.

“  And  I  love  you,  ”  he  finds  his  voice  oddly  timid,  like  he’s  fifteen  years  old  again,  like  he  hasn’t  said  those  words  a  thousand  times  and  has  them  mean  less  and  less  each  time.  Like  he  hasn’t  used  them  as  a  weapon  to  wield  and  manipulate.  And  maybe  that  is  the  list  of  reasons  why  he  was  so  afraid  to  say  it  out  loud,  as  if  it  cheapened  it  somehow,  made  it  less  real,  while  all  along  all  he  did  was  just  bottle  it  up,  keep  it  locked  somewhere  no  one  could  get  to  it,  not  even  her.

They  are  tired,  scraped  and  in  pain  as  he  leans  over  and  rests  their  heads  together.  Every  cell  in  his  body  feels  too  much,  even  the  sound  of  the  wind  hurts  his  ears,  but  Sierra  is  warm  and  real  and  somehow  steady  as  he  nuzzles  her  and  gently  finds  her  lips.  And  then  he  can  focus  on  only  that.  Its  somehow  small  and  bright  and  he  treasures  it,  this  fragile  moment  shared  at  the  end  of  the  world.  And  despite  everything  they’ve  gone  through  it  feels  a  little  like  hope.     

[5sosfanfictioncatalogue]

Bonding Masterlist

ALL OVER ME (ao3) - flingsy michael/luke, michael/calum M, 3k

Summary: "I wanna breathe you in like you're vapor.."

Or the one where everything is fine until Michael was reminded of what he’s biological orientation is.

Best Friends (ao3) - no_clue_who luke/ashton, michael/calum/crystal, sierra/luke/ashton E, 26k

Summary: When Luke uploaded a cover in his bedroom he didn't expect for it to go anywhere past the confines of his family and a few friends he had, he sure as hell didn't expect it to help him make a band. Now this band has to figure out how to be a pack while also becoming stars.

Also known as the guys going from friends to a pack to a family.

Bittersweet Relief (ao3) - koogolplex N/R, 6k

Summary: Looking back on the weeks events, Luke found himself feeling bittersweet. The bitter, he knew came from a life long let down, but the sweet was right up there with his life long lover.

Or, Luke and Ashton have heat sex; in which Luke goes into an unexpected heat, but Ashton fucks him right through it.

Cuddles? (ao3) - nine_rainbows michael/luke M, 586

Summary: A day when Muke staying in the house together.

Faulty Figures (ao3) - dwarvenchords luke/ashton, michael/calum M, 27k (WIP)

Summary: "I’m very glad you’re here. I think that this can be a wonderful experience for models and artists alike. Maybe seeing yourself in a static presentation can give you a different perspective on yourself.” Lynn gestures to his body while she speaks, “Seeing your outside on parchment or canvas can help you see the inside of yourself as well. Seeing how another person comprehends you.”

Ashton is an artist struggling with drawing people, and a blind pairing on a Figure Drawing seminar creates a connection between two strangers.

Give & Take (ao3) - Anonymous calum/ashton, calum/oc M, 13k

Summary: Calum was unsure about a lot of things in his life. School, friendships, the like. What he didn't need, on top of all of that, was the new stresses that came with pack life, something that he had been thrown into with no warning.

And, for the cherry on top, his new alpha hated him with every fiber in his being. And Calum hadn't even done anything to the guy.

So, one could say, things were just peachy for Calum Hood.

he's got blue eyes deep like the sea (ao3) - orphan_account luke/ashton M, 5k

Summary: He groans, a sickening pain shooting through him. He can feel something wet beginning to trail down his leg, and in his hazy mind, he just barely manages to put together that it's slick, and he's just presented.

Fuck, he's an omega.

(or, the one where luke goes into his first heat at a party, and it all goes downhill from there.)

I'm Gonna Miss You If You Leave (ao3) - nine_rainbows luke/ashton E, 5k

Summary: When the band shares room was offered them two rooms with king size bed. Calum and Michael were not really okay and just accepted it. But for Ashton and Luke, this is a good thing come into their life.

late spring night (ao3) - Calumthoodshands (tndart) G, 912

Summary: “I haven’t shown Mike and Ash though, so… maybe keep it on the down low?” Calum says, and just like that, all those worries, every nagging thought — gone. “Yeah,” Luke says with a beating heart, “Of course. I won’t say a word.”

Only Calum and Luke are left after the party, but Luke doesn't mind. In fact, it turns out to be one of those nights he will keep close to his heart for probably all of time.

let me give you what you need (ao3) - orphan_account luke/ashton, michael/calum E, 2k

Summary: The worst way to find out you're an omega is to be sitting at a drum kit on a stage in front of thousands of people and your bandmates, two of which are alphas, and suddenly feel your hole drench with slick as heat spreads through your entire body.

Ashton should know. It just happened to him.

Lily (ao3) - im_just_a_sucker_for_bromance michael/luke E, 49k

Summary: Luke and Michael, they used to be boyfriends, lovers and each other’s world. Michael did not know whether those things really existed but he used to think Luke was his soulmate and that they completed each other; that was until Luke left without saying anything. After many years, Luke had decided to come back home but he did not come alone; he brought along a cute little girl, named Lily. When he suddenly came across Michael, the feelings that he had forgotten started to come back. Will he be able to ignore them? Or let his heart decide for him? Although many years passed, Michael had never really been able to be with anyone else because his heart has always beat for Luke. Meeting Luke again was like a second chance to save what had been lost; he wanted to get close to Luke. Will Luke allow him into his world again? Or was it just him and Lily?

Loose Lips Have Sunk This Ship (ao3) - antisocialhood michael/luke, calum/ashton E, 29k (WIP)

Summary: It was funny how Luke found himself striving to impress Michael, doing anything to gain the older boys attention. It was pitiful and made his cheeks heat up, but shit, he just couldn't help himself.

~~~

Or the one where Luke's on Senior Week and Michael's doing everything Luke was told not to do, and somehow he finds himself tangled up with a boy that doesn't want commitment, just sex.

Why So Hard To Say I Love You (ao3) - nine_rainbows luke/calum T, 576

Summary: When Calum doesn't have an urge to confess to Luke and Michael pushing him to do it.

wouldn't change a thing - @sup3rbloom (haveufoundwhaturlookingfor) luke/ashton, michael/calum T, 5k

Summary: Luke feels guilty about Ashton being stressed all the time, and makes a decision that causes a rift between him and everyone else, but ultimately Luke gets the happy ending he deserves.

[rayons1only1started]

Insomnia gone too far

This is happening an hour after Red fell asleep for the second time.

___________________________________________________________

I can't. I can't fix this. The mess Ash made has left a gaping hole in my world, and I'm trying, with all my might, to fix it. But I don't think what I do is enough. I'm not doing enough, and might fall in at any moment.

I can't keep drugging Trenton. I know it's the only way for him to get at least a bit better, or sleep at all, but I can't. What if I'm not helping? What if I'm only forcing him to bear the pain in oblivion? What if Ash was right, and Trenton won't remember anyone but me? Is he still scared of me?

No, can't be. He wouldn't have pressed himself against me, like I was the only thing in the universe that he would trust. 

I probably was. But why did he believe me?

Tawy hasn't gotten better since I checked her bandages. I clean her wounds daily, and blood has stopped flowing so hard when I do. That's only because she's running out of blood. The life support helps with that, but other than that I don't know what to do. 

Like I said, Trenton was the better doctor. 

I wish things were like they were before Ash.

I wish Trenton and Tawy were ok.

I wish I had someone who understood me. One person, in the whole fucking world! Is that too much to ask for!?

I wish I never left.

If only, I never left, none of this would have happened. 

I wish I could go and kill myself. But Trenton won't get better, and Tawy will die. And the Rainbow Friends will go crazy. 

I'm the one who holds them together.

Yet I wish I could give this burden to someone else, and leave. 

So selfish. I know.

And tired. I haven't slept for days. Someone always needs something, and I'm more than happy to help. I'm losing track of time, of everything. I know one thing for sure. Trenton trusts me. That's enough for me. For now.

I should get up from this chair. I should see what the others are doing. I should. 

But if Trenton wakes up, and I'm not there, I don't want him to be in pain.

-----------------Time Skip---------------------------

I was half-awake when Trenton woke up. That woke me up. I asked him if he was still in pain. He said, "...yes...". I hope I'm not forcing him to bear the pain. 

I moved so I sat right next to Trenton's cot. He made no attempt to move, but just watched me with his great eyes. Full of pain.

"Look Trenton, I know you are in pain. I'm trying to help you, but I really don't want to keep drugging you. Is there anything that I can do to help?" I said putting my hand on his shoulder. He didn't seem to mind the contact. But he didn't reply either. Why was this so hard?

It's terrible to watch him suffer. And I can't do anything to help. I can only stare into those pools of hurt and hope. But I want to do more. I truly do.

Trenton's watching me, looking at what I'll do next. I don't know. 

Then he moved so his head would be only my lap. Wtf? Why? 

My face was burning. 

Why'd he do this? Is this platonic? Or not? Wtf?

Trenton looked like he wasn't going to move anytime soon. I don't want him to, but that was really unexpected.

[fatherhoodstory]

ashes to ashes pt.2

Driving has always been cathartic, the movement somewhere, the changing landscapes. Leaving always felt good to me, knowing that things will not be the same when you return, if you return. It was late June and things were finally starting to warm after a wet spring. Everything was green, the flowers blooming, the rivers still high and fast. I listened to music with the windows down and the sun burning my left arm that hung out the window doing airplanes against the wind. I thought of my sister and how much she would love to be sitting shotgun, not a care in the world. I imagined she was, if the space that now separates us is permeable, which I know it to be. We sang together like we always did, to Cat Stevens...

trouble....oh trouble set me free, i have seen your face and it’s too much too much for me.

I parked the car at the foot of the Sawtooth mountains, a jagged wreck of a range, and spent the better part of an hour getting the bike packed and ready. There’s always too much, many things were left behind, and the bike is always heavier than you thought it would be. It takes some miles before you get used to the weight, things fall off and bounce down the road, bottles not secured, a loose sandal. There is a lot of stopping and adjusting no matter what you do. Those first ten miles away from the car and I can feel the weight of those other things retreating. That is the beauty of the bike, of pedaling towards something far away and unknown. When I return to this spot I will not be the same person, no matter what happens, the grind relieves you of everything you bring; food, water, fat, and those heavy things we carry that we must eventually put down, to continue, lest we are prepared to lay down with them.

Most of the time

I don't even notice

She's gone

Most of the time

And it unfolds there in the silence. The miles of open spaces, rock and grass, mountains of green, all at the slow speed of the grind. It’s all too much to take in and I spend a considerable amount of time looking down at my legs and the strength there, the machine and I, one unit, melded for a singular goal...to proceed. I climbed two passes that first night, finishing the last descent with a headlamp in the dark. It was cool, but not cold, the forest was dark and unfamiliar outside the scope of my light. I sang just loud enough for any bear or moose or deer to think twice before wandering out into the road. At that speed even a squirrel could  prove disastrous. I set up camp along a creek about a half mile from the road and made food in the quiet under the stars. The first night is always the hardest, to sleep, the wild expanse above and around you. You are on alert and also in awe. I woke multiple times and stared into space, the forest silent save the river sounds, which are like voices, a language of water and rock you can only sometimes understand. The routine is the same; eat, fill water, and ride. There are hot springs here, many of them, and swimming holes deep and blue surrounded by cliffs and white sand beaches, tall trees. I didn’t think of dropping my sister’s ashes until I got to the middle fork of the Salmon river and spent hours riding along the banks completely alone save the occasional Nez Perce family, camping and fishing for salmon along the banks and bridges. I would come to a spot so remote and beautiful that I would stop and pull out the blue velvet bag that held what remained of her. I would cry with the bag in my hand and hear her voice, clear as day, like she used to do when I took her somewhere filled with strange people or off the beaten path, deep in the woods...

”Don’t leave me here brother”

...and I would continue riding. The riding was easy here and you had time to look out at the river, it’s many folds and drops, trees ripped from the earth and deposited like a twig atop a rock bigger than a house that had been there for longer than any memory, save those of the earth and the water. Those miles were some of the most beautiful for me, the most healing. I had time to think, and I digested the death of my sister like a cow chews cud. The part of it all I was having so much trouble coming to understand, and if not understand, accept. Did that really happen? Yes, it did.

I landed amidst the storms forming up and out of the gulf. We slid in between two cells, lighting all around us. My sister had already left Houston, barely surviving the first-class plane ride back home, a place she wanted to be in the end. It was just my father and I, carrying out the motions. There was a job to be done, tasks to complete, and that had some comfort in it. I had been here about a month before, when there was still this inkling of hope remaining. But even then, sitting with my sister on the bed, she turned to me and said “I’m dying brother”. I knew it, we all did, it just wasn’t something you said aloud. Death is like that, the elephant in the room, and is only mentioned when there is no room left to breath, or cry.

We ate spaghetti, my dad and I, in some sad apartment complex near the medical center. The furniture was worn and uncomfortable, the art, one piece per wall or so, was picked carelessly from the shelves of the nearest big box department store. I guessed Target. They were occupied with mostly medical staff, researchers, orderlies and their families, many from India, some with turbans, a dark purple or red. Then there were those getting treatments and their families. A church had purchased a slew of these apartments and kept the rents low for the unlucky and those that cared for them. It was humid and raining, the night air charged and heavy. I could feel the weight of the fork as we ate in silence. The same spaghetti I’d always eaten with my family, the recipe never deviating. A big jar of jalapeños, the green parmesan container. That’s not parmesan I thought but said nothing while I dulled it out. We ate because we had to, we ate to have the strength to do the things you must do in those times. Those are meals consumed with shock and sadness.  

The river came eventually to a fork, lost the smooth pavement, and gave way to dirt and rock, slowly rising towards some distance pass. There was no one here but me, the water, the sound of the bike, my breath, the sun, trees, birds, hawks, fish, and other creatures I could not see. It went on like this for many more miles before the road began to climb. Once in a while through a break in the trees you could see the pass, or at least where you think it might be. It was a long way up and still far away, the hardest climb according to the map. Maybe up there I thought, and vowed to listen while I climbed, to watch the signs.

My sister was sitting on a bench in a zen garden she liked near the medical center. The ducks in the pond were deformed from some ailment, or maybe internal squabbles that had turned violent, and they were hungry. I had snuck in on a morning flight and grabbed one of those unsound city bikes from a rental rack and was speeding across the park to surprise her. I saw my dad first, standing, obviously looking around for me, her husband Doug sitting next to her on the bench. I came in hot despite the “no bikes” sign and skidded to a stop right in front of them asking if anyone knew where the shitter was. My sister was so offended by the interruption she did not recognize her brother was the degenerate who had dared do such a thing. She was always fierce, when she needed to be, these last two years especially. There was a time when I was being chased by some older kid who I had probably offended, he was going to smash me to bits and I ran for the house. My sister must have seen him coming and intercepted us near the door, charging past me as I fled, sending him fleeing back in the direction he had come throwing blows and yelling, “that’s my brother!”

I didn’t recognize her either at first, the cancer eating away at the very center of who I’d always known her to be. But then her face shifted to joy from anger and tears flowed and she sort of collapsed in surprise and a bit of relief that her brother was here. It’s all good. We embraced and I could see that my dad was crying, her husband walking off pretending to be on a phone call was doing the same. We sat for a while and talked, she was tired, maybe we should eat I said. This was just before the wheelchair, where she was still determined to walk as much as she could bare.

Want to ride the bike?

I can’t ride a bike brother.

Sure you can, the seat is soft and huge, for Texas-sized butts. You sit on and hold the bars, I’ll hold the bar and seat and walk alongside.

Don’t drop me.

Never.  

We went to lunch I remember, in some swank hotel by the park. While we waited for the food I ran to the museum down the street and borrowed a wheelchair. We all sat there and ate, much like we normally would. It was like some strange vacation with a dark, sad undertone. It was the natural history museum we went to that first day, after lunch. She was tired and though she was reluctant to use the wheelchair, for fear of what that meant, I assured her it was fine. I can remember only the butterflies from that museum, and the Herzstein Foucault Pendulum that hung 60ft from the ceiling, knocking down a circle of pins as the earth spun around it. We sat there, you in the wheel chair, me beside you on the floor sipping water, the world spinning with us, around the sun, through space, the falling pins the only hint of movement. The butterflies were enormous, the room somehow hotter and more humid than it already was outside. They were wildly colorful and would do erratic circles around our heads. 

That climb was hard, they all are. It was made much worse by the work they were doing to maintain the road. There were two guys out there, somewhere above me, one was in a grater, a big piece of machinery with a large scraper blade that smooths things out. The other was in a truck with a sort of large metal rake behind it to scatter the bigger rocks and pull them to the side before the grater arrived. Before all that, a truck had come, or another tractor, and dropped fresh sand for the grater to smooth out. That’s what I was riding in, a few inches of soft sand. To the right or left would be a strip of the old compacted forest road to ride on when the sand got too deep or the road too steep. But then there were the rocks piled indiscriminately in those sections from the big metal comb. Usually you can just put your head down and climb, think about things without too much thought to the road. Instead it was a constant struggle to continue moving forward without hitting a rock, or dig into the sand and fall over, all of which I did many times. It was no less beautiful and save the guys up ahead of me somewhere working, I saw not a single person as I climbed. I could see the summit now, more or less. Two hawks were circling near the top, riding thermals. A few times I stopped and thought about spreading the ashes into the creek that ran violently down the mountain beside the road. She would enter the water here and be mixed with rock and sand, joining the Salmon in the valley below, to marry the Lemhi, then the Snake, to the Colombia and eventually into the sea. But still I could not and on I climbed.

After spaghetti we said our goodbyes and I loaded the remainder of the things into the car to begin the drive. It was 930 or 10 when I left Houston with my sister’s dogs and some other stuff they had brought here. I promised myself to drive as far as I could and never return to this hell-scape called Houston. My mom had told me earlier that her dad had died here, in one of the buildings near where my sister had been getting her treatments. She couldn’t remember which one exactly, but one of them she had said. She was 15 or 16, he had come for a routine surgery to fix something. He had called and said he’d be home tomorrow and never returned. This place is cursed.

I got to the top in the afternoon. I had passed the workers in the truck and tractor in the last mile. The guy in the tractor had leaned out the window with a cigarette hanging from his lower lip and said...”been making your life hell I bet” with a smile. Nah, not really. Uphill is always my favorite part. The hawks were still circling in the winds up high over the pass, and you could see off both sides of the mountain into the wide valleys separated by this upheaval of rock. This is the spot I thought, setting down the bike and removing the bag. I knew what lay ahead, having done this route a few years before. There wasn’t a chance I’d leave her in anything beyond here, remote and beautiful as it may be. No, this was the last spot, the highest climb. At that moment I heard the approach of engines, and within a minute two side-by-side Razors sped up over the hill driven by very large, very white, very proud, Americans. They had open bud lights and a flag hanging from the back. They stopped briefly to hoot and holler above the sound of their engines, keeping a weary eye on the loan biker sitting in the sun with a small blue velvet bag. This was not the place. I could hear my sister again after they sped away, saying...

Not here brother, don’t leave me here, no one knows me here and no one will visit me.

Where then Katie I started asking aloud into the wind. Where do you want to go because you can’t stay with me. Not there.

Take me home, was the response I heard or felt or sensed.

Home? Virginia home, where we were born?

Yes. Take me to mom and dad, they can put me out in the garden with a bench and sit and remember.

I drove into a storm, approaching it in the night in an already heavy rain. You could see the dark mass between lighting flashes in the distance. This was Texas, my sister and I had grown up here, for a little while. This was tornado country and I felt out of place, naked. I was determined to get as far as I could and drove on as people started to pull over and hide under overpasses. The road rose up to an elevated section with no exits and the storm hit me there. With the first gusts of wind I was sure I would be sucked up like Dorothy and tossed into some other part of state. I turned the music up so I could hear it above the rain, the windshield wipers on full tilt could no longer keep up with the torrent. Then it began to hail and I thought of my dad and how pissed he’d be if I didn’t die, but pulled up in his brand new car with a thousand golf balled sized dents. I wouldn’t be able to see the tornado if it came, it was all blurry, like opening your eyes underwater. Shapes could be seen, street lights like lighthouses, the tail-lights of other cars, some stopped in the middle of the road now. I found an exit after a while of white knuckle driving and then a parking lot with an awning. I pulled in as the hail began in earnest and the wind shook the car.

The descent from the pass was slow and technical. There were large holes in the road keeping you from gaining any real speed. Just when you thought you were safe and would let a little off the brake you would hit a hole and nearly be bucked off the bike. I laughed on the way down, knowing my sister would have killed me if I ever took her on something like this. There were sections that were pleasant, everything was always beautiful, but it was no pleasure ride, this whole thing was a slog, painful, designed to induce a great amount of suffering and ass pain. This was never about bringing my sister’s ashes here. This was about breaking through the pain I was carrying long enough to hear her, to let her tell me where she wanted to go. Even though I was nearing the halfway mark of the route, I was already making plans to pull out. My ass was so sore I could no longer sit on the seat without first enduring what I could only imagine felt like dipping your ass into a cauldron of liquid lava. Most of the rest of that day was spent up and out of the saddle, a standing peddle. I stopped for a burger in McCall at some rooftop bar filled with heavy set tourists. I had nothing left to prove here and made plans for a buddy to pick me up the following day another 100 miles or so south. He manned a fire-lookout tower that happened to be on the route and tomorrow was his day off. I rode on through a hot summer sun and no breeze. I passed a farm where people were gathering around the barn, a band was setting up in the shade, food was being cooked. I thought about stopping, mostly for the food, but didn’t feel like talking. There was a hot springs that was closing when I finally arrived tired and wind blown. They let me soak for thirty minutes before ushering me out the gate, which I was thankful for. There was one more big climb ahead of me and considering I had nothing else to do and felt more or less refreshed from the soak, I pulled out my headlamp and began to peddle. There was no one save me on the mountain that night, or so it seemed. As the sun set and the colors blew up the sky my world shrank to what my light would illuminate, the dirt below me and the dark forest just to the sides. It was steep and everything hurt, but it was the perfect finish, passing steaming piles of bear shit on the dirt road and saying “goodnight bear, goodnight moon, goodnight mouse, and goodnight to the old lady whispering hush”. I made the top in a thick black night with no moon. It was still and quiet, not a wind or a leaf to blow in it. In the morning there was the descent that went on for what seemed forever. I had climbed higher than I thought and returned to earth slowly with the cool of morning seeping up from every wet ditch and dark place. We met up along the river later that day and swam, had a beer, then another. The day shined and it felt good to be in the company of a friend after all those days alone. It’s always hard to pull out of a ride, to get off the bike, even when you know it’s the right move. Something tells you to keep going, to never get off, to keep peddling. As we sat around the fire later that next night, outside the tower atop the mountain, I thought about all the places I wanted to go still, to ride my bike, the many mountain ranges I’d never seen. I knew I would never be back here, this was it.

In the morning, after the storm it was cold and windy. I pulled over somewhere and jumped in the back and slept a few hours. I still had a long way to go and knowing my sister could pass any moment I sped on. There is nothing in west Texas. Small towns scattered in the mesquite brush, invisible lives lived away from things, in another world. My sister texted me as I neared El Paso, stopping to eat tacos next to the border wall. She asked where I was, how the dogs were. She was already so distant, taking a long time to respond if at all. We talked about the storm and she said I was brave for driving into it, that there had been 20 tornados that had touched down, causing death and destruction. I didn’t tell her that I had hoped to be thrown into the night, disappeared altogether. It would be easier than what I was speeding towards. I told her I loved her and drove on.

She was still there when I arrived some 10 hours later, having done the 16 hours almost straight through, like the old days. She was so happy to see her dogs, and me. She walked into the living room that afternoon, or maybe it was the morning of the next day. She was happy to be home and sat in the living room talking, as coherent and funny as she had always been. I didn’t realize it then but that was her last time out of bed, the final push of energy before the quick decline that follows. There is a name for it, but I don’t remember. We were gathering, everyone that loved her, like we had only five years ago when I had married her to the man who still stood beside her, who promised to do so in front of me, until death. This was no celebration of life, but a gathering to insulate and protect her from what all of us knew we could not stop. She asked to play the piano and sat on the bench, unable to read the music. She asked for pickle juice, something we both drank when the cramps set in on long runs. It was like she was gearing up for the big race, legs cramped and tired, she was nearing the end. Everything went quickly then, the pickle juice turned out not to be the best idea and she suffered greatly because of it. We were told to give her anything she wanted. I would have given her my life then, for it to stop, for her to rise from that bed and be strong again, to hug her children and kiss her husband. To be able to live many more years doing all the things she loved, to watch her children grow and become even more beautiful than they already were. To be an aunt to you. 

The rest blurs and fades into a mist. I took notes knowing I would not be able to remember everything. I read them for the first time since I scribbled them down between tears and typed them out. They are raw, but scabbed over now, healing. I will finish with those.

-The days pass and I have a better sense of things and I hate it all. This place, the sickness that eats my sister, the pain we all carry as a result. Why? Why her? It is past that now, past the questioning, past the hope. Now comes the gathering. It is all so shitty; this city, the traffic, fucking Texas and the trash, this apartment for those that grieve, another for those that die. There was a sock under the bed, a pair of glasses, no longer needed or simply forgotten in the sorrow of some other family, or one before them. My sister is not the same. She has one foot out the door now, her spirit fades. She does not want to die, part of her still can’t believe this is happening, that this is how it ends, slowly in pain. Things will never be the same for any of us, my family, those that love her-

-I haven’t seen my sister much these last couple days. She is in the hospital now, a guinea pig for the scientists who have given her little hope other than providing data, or a possible treatment for someone suffering many years from now. She is strong at heart and still holds out hope in these last treatments. Her body is frail, weak, and sick. This whole place seems sick, car horns and gunshots late at night. Despair and chaos all mixed together with all those who dream of living a good life with hope for the future. I will never return here after this. I miss the mountains and the deep places that lay hidden among the rocks and folds, places visited only by animals and wind. I want to go home and take my sister with me. I want to lay her down along a stream in summer and let her rest there for a while-

-There is no fairness here, no sympathy, no quarter for those we love. There is life and there is death, what comes between is suffering mixed with love. I laid with her today and she was dying. Where she is going I can not follow, not yet-

-Days are numbered here. Death is at hand. We are gathered and frayed, trying desperately to keep things in order. Our grief becomes us, engulfs us, making everything difficult as we ease the dying part. There is a lot of busy work, cleaning, food left at the door, far too much for any of us to eat, especially my sister. She is past the point of food, though she still tries. The sun rises on another beautiful day in the desert, oblivious to the suffering of those beneath the heat. There is confusion and chaos with those of us she is leaving behind and we scramble trying to alleviate the pain and discomfort that we can’t fix. It feels now that the good ones are taken from us early, when we are still sound and able to care for them. Those of us left to endure in their absence must suffer on without them. There are no more words now amid the tears and noise of mourning. She throws up now and the sounds of it run deep into my bones and I stoop over the sink to cry. My sister so sick and suffering and I am unable to do anything to help. Run to the store, fetch more ice, popsicles for her dry throat, something to ease the transition from dark to light, to get us through the morning, the minute, another day. Whatever time we can steal back from death we will-

-The food we eat like soldiers taken briefly from the front, quietly and fast, shell-shocked. It is tasteless, the act reduced from pleasurable to mandatory, a duty. One of us is missing and can no longer eat or sit with us. In this time of caring the food serves no other purpose than to give us strength to endure, fuel for the fire, grist for the mill-

-They are coming, from the east they are coming. They are coming, from the north they are coming, They are coming, from the west they are coming. They are coming, from the south they are coming. Our father, her children, those who come to hold the space, to love, to gather in her name-

-She no longer responds right away and I tell her I love her, that she was the best sister a brother could ever have. She whispers she loves me, her eyes never opening. My hand is on her head, so frail and cold, and I push the warmth and life in my body to hers, the love of a brother all I have...take it sister, take it with you, gather up your things for the trip, it has been a long road and you are almost home. You will be ok. We will be ok. As always you go first, with courage and strength-

-It is easy to forget about the dying among all the life and things going on. She is no longer sharing in the food we make and eat, the food left in piles by the door, her appetite replaced by nausea, sleep. I sit in the sun and nap, in her hammock that she will never sit in again. Two of her kids are here, the youngest. We stay up late on the porch telling stories and laughing. I have known them all their lives and they are all wonderful humans, smart and funny with dreams they work hard for. She raised them well, and a lot of what I learned about being a parent came from watching her raise them as they made their way through the years. Love, unconditional love, that’s what I learned. And here now in the end, these final days, that same love is returned to her by all those she gave it to. Her fear and pain is eased by the touch and presence of her children who lay with her, her dogs, her parents, her husband, the father of her children, me-

-A little drive north away from the heaviness of it all. It follows, in every song on the radio, in every glint of sunlight through the window, in every breath. The memories stretch over the landscape and sink me-

-My sister passed tonight and took with her a part of me. We were all together, she waited for all of us to arrive, to settle in. We all hand hands on her. I held her feet as one that comes to worship. I never took my eyes from her face, her eyes holding mine. I laid with her in those last hours, talking, laughing. I miss you already my sweet sister-

-The first day without her. Hearts are heavy as we carry on. You aren’t in pain but we miss you. Even in your worst pain you made us smile. In your weariness you gave us strength. What a goddam heavy blow-

-The end. Death has come like a hurricane, slowly gathering its strength somewhere far off while the sun still fell on our simple lives. The wind came first, just a breeze, it felt good after the sun, like things would be ok. Brighter days were ahead. Then the dark clouds gathered, the rain following. Building slowly, there was time to prepare, to board up the windows, bring in the porch chairs, seek higher ground. Nothing can prepare you though, not really, for in the storm we are brought to face the moment, without distraction or thought of past or future, problem or plan. Your one task is to witness, and if you survive, to straighten things out after, to live a little longer

My sister’s gone and I can’t go with her, I am needed here, I’ve got to stick around.

Images, scenes play out over and over. The way she moved in the end, her eyes rolling back, her lungs unable to take even one more breath, our mother cradling her as she had so many years ago as a baby-

-Then there was after, months, spring still but on the verge of summer. The rains come, snow in the mountains. It will be green, beautiful, the kind of summer in the mountains that my sister loved. She is with me still, her ashes, some of them spread about the garden, to be carried up by the roots of hundreds of sunflowers, feeding them, feeding me. Around and around we go. It hasn’t been easy. Things are different, a lot of things I cared about no longer matter at all. It will be easier now, in a way, there is less worry- 

-The ashes are at my parents house in Virginia, a part of her resting there in the soil of our birth. Life goes on and the tears still come. There is love though, so much more than I had before. It threatens to make me mad, a crazy mad that has you speaking to flowers and conversing with squirrels. I am not afraid of anything anymore, not life, not the coming of new love, not death. Everyday I think about Katie and how everyday is a day she would have loved to have, to travel, to run, to walk or talk with her friends and loved ones, to paint or play, to sit outside in the sun, to drink a beer and sing songs late into the night, to love her husband and see her children grow and marry and have children of their own. We who remain have no choice but to live well, it is a duty, we owe her that. So carry on and make love.  

[literarygoon]

So,

When I padded out to the living room just past 2 a.m. back in March 2021, Rogan was sitting on our leather couch smoking a Belmont cigarette and toting one of those orange and grey shotguns from Duck Hunt. He was wearing a zipped up black hoodie up around his face and a pair of baggy black sweat pants that pooled around a pair of fur-lined slippers. It had been six months since I’d seen him last, and over three years since his medically assisted death back in Victoria. The tumour on his back was gone now, there was a cluster of sun-freckles across his cheeks, and he had a pair of aviator sunglasses pushed back into his shaggy blond hair. 

I was relieved to see him.

“I figured now that I quit smoking pot you weren’t going to show up anymore,” I said. “Since you’re just a hallucination and all.”

He chuckled at me affectionately, took a long drag off his smoke, then ashed into a nearby can of iced tea. “Since I’m just a hallucination, you don’t mind if I smoke, right?”

“Not if you bum me one.”

Rogan frisbeed me his whole pack, his cigarette clenched between his teeth, then turned back toward the television and began firing his little Nintendo shotgun. Animated starbursts erupted on the screen as the cartoon ducks plummeted down to the eagerly awaiting dog. He had the sound on low, but the music reminded me of my childhood. One of these days I would have to get a video game console for my kids, but that was still a few years away. I shook a cigarette into my hand and raised it to my lips, luxuriating in the ritual.

“Gwen fucking hates it when I smoke. Says it’s making my sleep apnea worse.”

He shrugged. “She’s not wrong. You do snore like a motherfucker. Remember the Yukon? You should’ve gotten that shit checked out years ago, really.”

“My sleep has been so messed up these past couple of months,” I said, slow-blowing smoke at the ceiling. “You have no idea the shit that’s going on in my head. Just grief and panic and self-loathing. I lay there for hours just hating myself and fighting off suicidal thoughts. I wouldn’t wish this shit on my worst enemy.”

Rogan pumped his shotgun triumphantly, then took another drag. “Yeah, I heard you were having a hard time. Making a big scene of it on social media too, as per usual.”

“That’s how I process shit. Put it out there in public, get some solidarity if I can.”

The last time Rogan visited me was after my sister Kat died at Christmas, facedown in her bed from alcohol poisoning. I’d conjured his presence at his memorial bench in Vancouver, and he’d reassured me that she’d successfully reached the other side. This was before I lost my mind, before I purposefully crashed my car into a concrete median and jumped a posse of Victoria cops in the throes of a psychotic delusion. I’d spent three weeks in the psych ward, kicking holes in walls and screaming in isolation, before my family circled the wagons and moved us into a new three-bedroom house in Nanaimo. Now here I was with two kids and a wife, trying to be a normal person.

“You’ve always been prone to bleeding in public,” Rogan said. “But this shit is next level. It’s like you’re turning grief into a full-time job.”

“You have no idea, man. It’s like my brain is trying to kill me. I have these panic attacks where I literally feel like I’m going to drop dead on the spot. I’m all fucked up. I’ve been dredging up gross old memories that I feel ashamed of and telling them to Gwen, just to purge them from my skull. It’s like all my repressed trauma is coming unleashed.”

He laughed, and pointed his shotgun back towards the television. “I tried to warn you. Back when you started becoming chronic, remember? I told you this shit was going to bite you in the ass eventually. You and your sister, man. Neither of you could handle moderation.”

I hung my head. “You should’ve seen Kat towards the end, man. It would’ve broken your heart into a million pieces, man. It was like watching someone beat themselves to death slowly over the course of multiple years. She had bruises all over her body. She smelled like poison.”

He stubbed out his cigarette and paused the game. “Actually, that’s why I’m here.”

“To talk about Kat?”

He shook his head. “No, I’ve gotta take you for a ride.”

In the months since Rogan and I had last hung out, I’d had plenty of time to scour the scorched earth of my headspace. There was a perpetual sadness that hung in my shoulders, a persistent heat behind my eyeballs that never let me forget that death was looming nearby. I felt a sort of arrogance about my grief, like I uniquely understood the tragedy of the universe. When I looked into my sister’s dead face, with my infant daughter riding on my hip, I’d felt like my finger was on the white hot jugular of God. The blood had pooled unevenly in her cheeks and her tongue was swelling out of her mouth as she lay there, wrapped up in blankets like a pharaoh. It was the closest to Enlightenment I’d ever been.

Three months later my son was born, his head emerging with a rush of blood, down at the Nanaimo General Hospital. For a moment I saw his puckered blue face and thought he was dead, but then he opened up his lungs and began to sing like a dinosaur. Sweaty and wracked with guilt, I laid beside Gwen in her recovery room hating myself for how badly I wanted to die. This kid needed me, but all I could think about was checking out.

“You know, this is a pretty nice place,” Rogan said, pulling back the curtain and peering out into the darkness. “You’ve got a pretty epic view of the ocean.”

“Trouble is we don’t know anyone, you know? We’re so isolated here.”

He shook his head. “You’ve always got something to bitch about, don’t you?”

Before we headed out, I told Rogan I had to check on Gwen and my kids. He pulled on a leather jacket and told me he’d be waiting out front. I was worried that it was so late, because lack of sleep always led me dark places, but I wasn’t going to miss the chance to hang out with him. I missed my university days, back when we’d drink ourselves stupid and sleep in until 2 p.m. the next day. Was this what it felt like, becoming an old man? Was I going to be a boring teetotaler for the rest of my life, unable to have fun without losing control of my fragile mind? I felt broken in a way that couldn’t be fixed. As I pulled the front door closed behind me, I could feel my pulse thrumming uncomfortably in my throat.

“We’re taking your car,” Rogan said. He was carrying a large black hockey bag.

Once we climbed in, he rolled down the window so we could keep smoking. I figured these cigarettes didn’t count, since they were imaginary, so I started another one. We backed out of my driveway and the night wind danced across my face. A light drizzle of rain pattered against the windshield while Rogan fiddled with the CD player, pulling out my Simon and Garfunkel CD and replacing it with Hozier. 

The song “Take me to church” came on, and he turned it up nearly as loud as it would go.

“I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies, I’ll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife,” Rogan sang. “Offer me that deathless death, Good God, let me give you my life.”

Listening to his voice, grief hit me like a fist to the chest. Years ago I had called him my wife, back when we lived together in a two-bedroom apartment by UVic. We had an intimacy that was deeper than what I shared with my various university flings, and he was a part of all my future planning. Years later, when he got his cancer diagnosis, I could barely contain my fury at the universe. Of all the people to take, it had to take him?

“I’ve missed you, man. I miss our little life we had together.”

He shrugged, exhaled a ghostly plume of smoke out his window. “You’ve got a pretty good thing going now, though. With Gwen and the kids, I mean.”

I nodded. “It’s stupid. I wish I could be more present for them. I feel like I’m letting everybody down, being like this. I can’t tell if it’s the meds, the cannabis withdrawal, the grief or just garden variety depression. But every day I wake up feeling like a piece of shit.”

“This is all temporary. Grief has a season, you know? An expiry date.”

I took a deep breath through my nostrils. “I don’t feel like I’m ever going to get over this.”

“You’ve got to be strong, dude. It’s like that Game of Thrones quote: you have to kill the boy so the man can be born. You’re not a kid anymore.”

We sat in silence for a few blocks while I thought about that, Rogan pointing out the directions. The streets of downtown Nanaimo were mostly deserted, except for a few meandering homeless types, and I ran through some blinking reds because there was no traffic. “Take me to church” concluded and “From Eden” came on next. It had been a while since I’d listened to Hozier, and it was bringing up memories from my years as a reporter at the Yukon News. During that time I’d been pretty disconnected from my life on the coast, but Rogan had come to visit multiple times. We’d gone together to soak in the healing pools of Kluane Hot Springs.

“Okay, pull into that park there,” Rogan said. “Take the last spot on the left.”

I turned off the RAV’s engine and clambered out to the concrete, pulling my plaid jacket tight around me. I could smell the ocean nearby. Looming trees were silhouetted against the purplish black of the night sky. The cold wind tugged at our clothes, and I smelled a faint whiff of pot. A few tents were rustling nearby, rain-slicked. It occurred to me that this was a radically different setting than my living room, and I wondered why Rogan had brought me here. I trusted him, but at the same time I felt nervous. I blinked away the moisture in the air.

“What are we doing here?” I asked Rogan, as he lit another cigarette.

“Some dirty work.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Rogan took a few drags before he replied. I could sense that he was dreading what came next. He explained that once you’ve passed away, you’re granted a sort of omniscience which allows you to peer into the minds and souls of the people you love. Ever since his death four years ago he’d been haunting me, hoping to influence my life in a positive direction, despite the fact that ghosts aren’t really allowed to intervene. He’d been there on my wedding day in Beacon Hill Park, he’d shadowed me while I was institutionalized, he’d watched both my son and daughter’s births. But he could also tell that I was carrying around baggage that I hadn’t quite processed.

“Pot withdrawal’s no joke, man. I feel like I was using it to treat like five different things, now I have to deal with all of them at once. My sleep shit, my depression, all this shame I’m carrying around for no good reason. Not to mention all the meds they’ve got me on to treat my bipolar disorder. I try to explain it to Gwen, to my Mom, but nobody really gets it. I’m sitting here hating myself for shit that happened decades ago, just micro-analyzing every mistake I’ve ever made.”

He nodded. “Only you get to be you.”

“Right. I’ve been off pot for nearly two months now and every day I fantasize about it, about the relief. I feel like I need that escape, but I know it won’t lead me anywhere good. I can’t be a father who smokes pot every day, you know? My kids don’t deserve that. It feels like this is my last chance, like if I can’t kick it now then I won’t ever be able to.”

“Well, for what it’s worth: I think you’ll manage.”

The meds typically keep me pretty level, so I hadn’t cried in months, but tears welled up regardless. Rogan coughed uncomfortably and unloaded the black bag from the back, tossing it over one shoulder as he stepped on to the grass. There was a large field with a gloomy pavilion in the distance, surrounded on all sides by the woods. Waves crashed rhythmically in the distance. 

“You know, Gwen comes from a Catholic family,” I said. “We actually baptized Carissa when we were visiting her family in St. Catharines.”

He laughed. “I knew you’d get lured back to Christianity eventually.”

“I dunno, man. I’ve been saying I identify as meta-Christian. It’s different once you’ve had kids. I’m not so arrogant anymore. It’s like I’m getting comfortable with the mystery. Or maybe uncomfortable with it. Scared of it.”

“They call that the fear of God.”

The ocean wind was starting to get icy on my face. I figured it was probably 3 a.m. by now, the sky overcast and completely black. I could barely make out Rogan’s silhouette in the darkness as he worked his way towards the pavilion, his bag thumping against his back with each step. In the distance I could see some dancing shadows, and what looked like flames beyond the trees. Something was moving up there. Suddenly I was feeling anxious for no reason, a feeling I was becoming increasingly accustomed to. Sweat erupted in my hairline, my jaw clenched, and for a moment it felt like I was going to shit my pants. I desperately wanted to smoke a joint, somewhere safe, maybe back in my living room. I didn’t want to be on this ghostly errand; I wanted to be with Gwen. 

Just as this thought occurred to me, I heard a patter of footsteps in the grass behind me. I swung around in a panic, just in time for something black and unforgiving to wallop me in the mouth.

***

During the first week after I quit smoking pot, my dreams had been immersive and exhausting. Sometimes I relived pleasant memories from my younger years, there were sex dreams featuring totally inappropriate people, and then there were the nightmares. Most of them featured Kat, maybe drunk in my backseat or passed out on the floor of my parent’s living room. Sometimes she was drowning, far our in the ocean, further than I could swim.

It was nobody’s fault, what happened, but I still felt like we could’ve done more to save her. She’d been crying out for help for years and none of us could rescue her from herself — not her husband, her siblings, or her parents. In these dreams I begged her to love herself, begged her to believe that one day she would be free from addiction. I wanted her to get married and have kids, so our minions could grow up in tandem. Sometimes I held her while she was dying, listening to her last breath, feeling her heart go still against my chest. My counsellor told me I was dealing with a one-two punch of trauma and grief, and that I had to be patient with myself through the recovery, but I felt like I’d been broken in a way that could never be fixed.

As I floated back to consciousness, increasingly aware of the throbbing pain in my face, an image of Kat as a young competitive swimmer retreated into the blackness. I could taste blood. I blinked a few times and raised my head slowly, gazing down at a forest floor covered with fire-lit pine needles. I was rocking on my knees, my hands bound behind my back, while my wet hair dangled in my face. 

“He’s awake,” someone said. A female voice. “Guys, he’s waking up.”

Somebody kicked me in the back, and suddenly my face was pressed against the dirt. I struggled to breathe through the blood as rocks and sticks dug into my cheek. I turned to one side, and found myself face-to-face with a young woman. She had curly red hair pulled back into a ponytail, with a line of black war paint streaked across her eyes. She was carrying a tiki torch. 

“Hailey?”

“Surprise, fucker.”

“What’s going on? What’s happening?”

Before she could answer, two men lifted me roughly to my feet from behind. My Blundstones dragged on the ground as they carried me to a small wooden bench and dumped me there. I frantically searched my surroundings for Rogan, who was standing with his arms crossed amidst a mob of masked figures. He was staring at the ground.

“Dude, what the hell?”

“They forced me, man. They said they’d go after my mother if I didn’t cooperate.”

“Cooperate with what?”

Hailey came between us then. She still looked the same as she did in university, when we were studying visual arts. She was doing a double major in music and played the bass. Back then she’d been one of my best friends, a strident feminist type who liked to host costume parties. For a while I’d wondered if we would date, but we were just too alike. Instead I was always going after all her friends, which became a sort of running joke in our circle — a joke at my expense. I respected her deeply, and admired the way she tackled life head-long, but there was a secret between us, a shame that I kept hidden. Seeing her in-person made it all come burbling back. I’d betrayed her, and two of my other friends, by taking topless photos of them without their permission while we were at a nude beach. My girlfriend at the time, Paisley, had discovered the photos on my computer and confronted me about them, which was possibly the most humiliating experience of my life. I was a perv and a peeping tom and I had no defence. 

She had exposed my secret, even as I begged her not to.

It was a secret that hadn’t stayed a secret long. Hailey eventually told other people, and the story spread. This was during the early days of the #MeToo Movement, when everybody was calling out toxic masculinity and making a spectacle of crucifying abusers. I knew right away that I was guilty, and the self-hatred washed over me like a tidal wave. I was a worthless, porn-addicted peeping tom unworthy of his female friends. I ended up in the psych ward, having my first in a series of manic episodes, ranting to my nurses about domestic abuse, rape culture, and Rihanna. I wanted to repent, but I didn’t have anyone to repent to. Instead I had to soak in an acid bath of sin, watching it burn away layer after layer of my self-worth. 

Hailey gave me a sinister, curling smile. Behind her the half-crescent of women were starting to hoot and howl and bark, their tiki torches swooping skyward. Some of them stamped their feet or jumped up and down like monkeys. They’d been waiting so long for this moment.

Hailey brought her face within inches of mine, and produced a nine-inch knife from a sheath on her hip. She casually dragged it down my back, and I could feel my flesh split open like an overripe fruit. 

“Now,” she said. “We’re going to make you sing.” 

The Literary Goon

[plan-d-to-i]

I've seen the idea shared a lot that "jiang cheng was holding on to Chenqing bc uwu he miSsed WWX 🥺" so to clarify, in the same way JGY is holding on to Suibian, jc was holding on to Chenqing as a war trophy and in his case more importantly as bait because he was convinced that if WWX were to return he would not go for the sword he stopped using but he'd definitely seek out his flute:

"Xue Yang: Give him the sword in exchange for the flute. It’s long since Wei WuXian stopped using his sword, while Suibian sealed itself and nobody can pull it out. What’s the use of keeping a fucking piece of decoration?”

Jin GuangYao, “You really ask me to do the impossible, Young Master Xue. Do you think I haven’t tried? How could anything be that simple. That Jiang WanYin has already gone mad. He still thinks Wei WuXian hasn’t died. If Wei WuXian returned, he might not search for his sword, but he’d definitely come for Chenqing. And so, he would definitely not give up Chenqing. A few more words of mine, and he might blow up." (Villainous Friends Extra)

jc wants to lure WWX and kill him as he's been hunting him for THIRTEEN YEARS. So in the temple at the end it's not surprising jc has Chenqing on him. Considering how obsessed he has been with tracking down WWX and as Chenqing was his strongest lure why would he have let it out of his sight all these years esp when cultivator's sleeves are magical storage space (it's free storage space!). & because I've also seen this wayyy to often -No it's not like a horcrux- it's not draining him of energy or joy to have it on his person lmfao. He only gives it back to WWX as a last resort, because they're all in mortal peril battling NMJ's corpse and NOTHING else is working. jc has always been happy to use WWX as a weapon. He's not returning it out of the goodness of his heart or because he's a changed man, or as a love letter to WWX lmfao.

In the Guanyin Temple the situation with NMJ's corpse is already immensely precarious. NMJ is attracted to JGY's blood and by extension Jin blood meaning -Jin Ling's.

"Now that Nie MingJue had become a fierce corpse, his resentful energy was of course highest when directed at his enemy, Jin GuangYao. However, fierce corpses didn’t tell people apart through their eyes!

Jin GuangYao was quite close to Jin Ling in terms of bloodline. To creatures of darkness, the blood and breath of both these two humans seemed somewhat familiar, and those in a state of disorientation would find it even more difficult to tell the two apart. Right now, blood poured from Jin GuangYao’s lost arm. With weak breaths, and he was almost half dead, while Jin Ling was still alive and jumping. Nie MingJue’s dead, thoughtless brain naturally held greater interest in him." (107)

Even with everyone pooling their strength to control NMJ's corpse it's not successful:

Lan WangJi commanded Bichen forth to attack straight at Nie MingJue’s chest. As expected, the blade stopped as soon as it landed. As Nie MingJue looked down and saw the glittering sword, he roared and reached for it. Lan WangJi immediately summoned back Bichen, which flew into its sheath with a loud clang. Nie MingJue ended up empty-handed. Right after, with a turn of his left hand, he flipped out the Wangji guqin and placed it on his palm. Without any hesitation, he strummed a stream of notes. Lan XiChen returned Liebing to his lips again as well. With a wave of his hand, Wei WuXian sent out over fifty talismans flying towards Nie MingJue, but before they even got close, they were ignited by his resentful energy and burned to ashes in the air!

Lan Wangji is using Wangji, Lan XiChen is using Liebing, Wei Wuxian's flute is broken so he's either whistling or throwing talismans and Wen Ning still has to intervene and stop NMJ's punch that would've killed jiang cheng (and then probably Jin Ling) w his body.

Finally WWX manages to wrestle it under control after it puts a hole in Wen Ning, when it's once more distracted by NHS and JGY. And if difficult as it's been to control so far if it kills JGY it will be even worse:

After he killed Jin GuangYao, his killing intent would definitely become stronger, and he’d be more difficult to subdue!

So NMJ has already "smashed three of the cultivators into a scarlet puddle of flesh", punched his way through Wen Ning to get to Jin Ling, he's just punched his way through SuShe and is about to go after JGY once more. Once he Rocky Balboas him we know that he'll be even more powerful, and one of his next targets will most likely be Jin so MXY or Jin Ling. Or most likely one and then the other. Meanwhile nothing is having any effect on NMJ's corpse anymore... when FINALLY jc decides to throw WWX his flute.

Nie MingJue turned around after he pulled his fist back and stared hungrily in his direction.

The harsh, stern expression on his rigid face held a sense of judgement that was no different from before he died. Even his tears had been scared away as Jin GuangYao turned to Lan XiChen for help, his voice trembling, “Brother…”

Lan XiChen turned the direction in which his blade pointed, while Wei WuXian and Lan WangJi sped up their melodies as well. But the effects of the whistle had already been overcome. It would be much harder than before for it to take effect again.

At this point, somebody on the side suddenly called, “Wei WuXian!”

jc NOW returns the flute when he has no other choice and finally NMJ can be subdued.

Lan WangJi nodded. No more words had to be exchanged as the notes of the guqin and the flute sounded in unison. The former was like a frozen river and the latter like flying birds; one suppressed while the other lured. Under the duet, Nie MingJue’s body wavered before it was finally half-forced to move its steps away from Jin GuangYao. (Chapter 108)

Like this is not jc just casually letting go of all his resentments and returning Chenqing to WWX as an act of trust and goodwill. This is jc doing what he's always been comfortable doing- using WWX as a weapon. Naturally, he's not going to ask for it back at the end, when it's already been revealed in front of the others that he has WWX's core and WWX just saved them all. WWX asks as a passing courtesy and then he's gone bc as he's said in the temple jc is in his past.

Wei WuXian took the flute. Remembering that Jiang Cheng was the one who brought it, he turned over there and commented casually, “Thanks.” He waved Chenqing, “I’ll… be keeping this?”

Jiang Cheng glanced at him, “It was yours in the first place.”

After a moment of hesitation, his lips moved slightly, as though he wanted to say something else. However, Wei WuXian had already turned to Lan WangJi. Seeing this, Jiang Cheng remained silent.

jc gets it. The end.

[crysalita]

Brahms the Boy

Brahms Heelshire x reader

Word Count: 3097

Warnings: Violence, Death, Cole

When I was asked to accompany Greta with her new babysitting job, the last thing I expected was to find a doll that we would be looking after.

I didn’t dare question why we had to look after a porcelain doll because I felt it would be rude to ask, and besides, this just makes everything easier for us.

The house was lovely, slightly creepy, but lovely none of the less. It was a big house for an elderly couple and sometimes I felt so alone, minus the constant feeling of someone watching me.

Every now and then I would here creaks in the walls, but I would brush them off being the fact that the house was quite old.

We were given a set of rules that we were to follow, most of them were okay. I didn’t know how I felt about rule number 4 and rule number 10, never cover Brahms’ face and kiss goodnight.

After finding out that Brahms was capable of moving on his own, I was beginning to be more cautious on the things I did, always keeping an eye out.

*

“Tell Greta to think about us getting back together.” Cole pleads. I was pulled aside so Cole could convince me to talk to Greta about their, long gone, relationship. “I love her, I really do.”

“She doesn’t want to be with you. She’s moved on.” I reply calmly. I noticed that the more I denied his pleas, the more he was getting angry.

I wince as he grabs a hold of my arm and pulls me close. “You better hope that she wants to get back with me, because if not, she’ll be saying good-bye to you too.” He threatens.

He lets go of my arm and allows me to walk away.

Greta was standing outside of the room, holding onto Brahms. “He wants to talk with you.” I mumbled. I covered my arm behind my back before reaching for Brahms.

I hold onto Brahms tightly as I wait for Greta and Cole to finish their conversation. “Why can’t he just leave her alone.” I whisper to Brahms. “I just wish he would leave.”

Cole was never a personal favourite, for obvious reasons, but I never had the heart to tell Greta all the horrible things he would say to me. She always seemed so in love, and I didn’t want to ruin that for her.

I walk up the stairs and into Brahms room where I lay him down on his bed. I do the usual routine where I tuck Brahms into his bed and left with a goodnight kiss before I walked back to my own room and went to bed.

*

I was awoken when I heard calls from downstairs, I instantly shot out of bed and ran down. “Greta!” Greta was ahead of me as she entered the room that Cole was staying in. “Get in here.” Cole grabs Greta by the arm and pulls her into the room, me following behind her. “What is this?” We were met with the words ‘get out’ written in, what I could only assume, was blood. “Was this you?”

“I didn’t do that.” My eyes land on Brahms sitting in a chair, directly underneath the message.

“Brahms.” I mutter. I rush over to Brahms where I pick him up and keep him close to me, making sure Cole can’t get to him.

“The doll wrote this? How do we know it wasn’t your psycho bitch friend?” Cole points a finger at me as he scowls. This doesn’t work in his favour as Greta comes over to me and stands beside me. “Ok, fine. It wasn’t either of you. It was the doll.”

With each word, Cole takes a step forward until he’s directly in front of us. “Give me the doll.” I shake my head at his demand and the second he takes another step, I take off running out of the room, tugging Greta to follow along.

“It was me; I swear. Just don’t touch Brahms.”

My lack of direction caused me to end up cornering us in a room as Cole blocked the door. “Give me the doll!” He launches himself forward and grabs Brahms by the legs, shoving me backwards to I hit Greta.

I fall to the ground from the shove, and Malcolm comes running in. “Hey! Get your things and get out of here!” He shouts at Cole.

With the help of Greta, I am able to get back onto my feet and my eyes lock onto Brahms who was being swung around carelessly by Cole. “You know, everyone just seems to be in a big hurry for me to leave. Maybe-” He turns to Malcolm. “Maybe you left that message for me. Huh? Or are you gonna say it was the doll too?”

“Just put Brahms down and we can talk about this.” I attempt to get Cole to leave Brahms alone, but it’s no use.

“Cole, you don’t understand-”

“No, I think I understand exactly what’s going on here. What’s so special about this doll?”

As I go to take a step towards Cole and reach for Brahms, Cole raises Brahms up and swings him back down, causing the doll to hit the edge of a chair and shatter into pieces. The ashes from the doll fly up and I am left in shock. “Brahms.” I mumble.

Suddenly, from inside the walls, we could hear the sound of movement. There were creaks and bangs as well as the lights beginning to flicker. “We need to leave.”

It was as if someone was walking through the walls as everything stopped when it reached a mirror. Cole approaches the mirror and puts his ear to it, in order to hear what’s inside. “We should really go.” Malcolm places a hand on both Greta and me.

“There’s something-” The glass smashes in Cole’s face as he is sent flying back, hitting the ground right in front of us, but that wasn’t what I was focused on.

I was focused on the figure that stood behind the mirror. “Y/n?” My eyes widen as I hear my name being called. “Y/n? Are you okay?” A hand comes out from the mirror followed by the person behind it.

The man hidden behind a mask comes out from the mirror and stands to his full height, towering over Cole who was on the floor in front of him. “Is that-” I begin, but I am cut off by Malcolm.

“It’s Brahms.”

“It can’t be.”

Malcolm runs forward to block Brahms from getting to Cole, but he shoved a way and instead takes a hit to the side of the head with a broken stick of wood.

The man then turns his attention back to Cole and gets on top of him. “Brahms!” I try to stop Brahms from hitting Cole, but once again I find myself on the floor. “Brahms, stop it!” I cry.

Brahms then proceeds to pick up a broken piece from the doll and stabs it straight into Cole’s neck. Blood spills out from the wound and my ears are filled with a chocking sound from Cole.

I stare in shock at the sight in front of me. “Y/n!” My head snaps towards where Greta was standing as she calls me over. This gains Brahms’ attention as he wraps his arms around me and holds me back.

“No!’ I hear his childlike voice whimper. A bit of me broke when I heard him say that, but he also just killed a man right in front of me. "Please, no.”

“Brahms, let her go!” Brahms’ arms tighten around me as he pulls me close.

Brahms’ turn us around and walks us towards the open spot in the wall.

I hear the sound of someone getting hit and then Brahms’ arms loosen around me, and I yanked out of his grip.

Greta holds on as we run up the stairs and into her room that she was staying in. By now I was breathing heavily, whether it was from the amount of running I have done today, or because of how terrified I am, I wasn’t too sure.

Malcolm frantically runs around the room as he looks for a way of escaping. “Maybe he doesn’t want to hurt us.” The door handle then begins to rattle as Brahms tries to get in.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to hurt you, but he just killed Cole.” Greta replies. The rattling stops and we start hearing the creaking from inside the wall. “The closet!” Greta runs over to the door and slams it shut. I assist Greta in holding the door shut as Malcolm looks around the room.

A plank from the door is smashed in and Brahms’ arm comes through, grabbing a hold of me again. My hand reaches up to release myself from the hold, and as my hand connects with Brahms, I feel him go tense.

The door opens and Brahms is met with a hit in the face, or mask, from Malcolm who was holding a telephone.

We are, once again, running out of the room and heading into another. “Look.” I point over to the hole in the wall. “We can go through there.” I take the lead as we run through the inside of the wall.

We dodge past pipes and chunks in of the wall that is sticking out.

We find ourselves in a whole new room that looks to be where Brahms has been staying. It was messy and the room smelt foul.

I recognise some things in the room that were once mine, for example, bits of jewellery, notes, and even some clothes. “Y/n, over here.” Greta was standing by a bed, and it was then that I saw the makeshift doll that was wearing a dress of mine that I had lost. The had been decorated with all things that I had lost over the time that I was staying here, and I didn’t miss the magazines and tissues that were scrunched up around the doll.

Beside the bed, and on the nightstand, was a piece of paper. On the paper had the words 'I love you Y/n.’ I didn’t know how to feel about that. Whether I should be flattered, or absolutely mortified at how creepy this all was.

“We will not be back, the girl is yours now, to love and keep.” Greta was reading another piece of paper that she had found. “They were never coming back. He’s been living in the walls this whole time, watching us, or more Y/n. They knew.” Malcolm comes down and guides us to the exit.

I take one last look back at the room before I leave.

We climb down the ladder and quietly make our way out, the only source of light being from the gaps between the wooden planks.

We are stopped when the wall comes caving in and Brahms falls down on top of Malcolm. Brahms is kicked in the face causing him to fall backwards, this way we could drag Malcolm up to his feet.

I feel an ounce of excitement when we end up finding a door that would take us outside, but I also felt sad. I didn’t want to leave this house; I grew attached in such little amount of time.

“It’s locked.” Greta shoves herself into the door in order to open it, but I am too distracted by what is about to come.

Malcolm shoves past me and is tackled to the ground by Brahms.

Fists are swung left to right, but in the end Brahms is the one that comes out on top as he smashes Malcolm’s head into the ground.

“Y/n!” The child voice breaks through. “Y/n!” Brahms’ head turns towards me as I watch his eyes behind the mask. They light up when we make eye contact, something that made me melt inside. “I’ll be good, I promise.” He peers through the pipes.

I look back at Greta who was still desperately trying to make an escape. “Please, Y/n. Don’t leave me.” Brahms begs. Greta shakes her head at me, and I send her a small smile.

“Go, I’ll stay.”

“What? Y/n, no!” I keep my eyes locked with her, but I don’t bother saying anything. “Okay but be safe.” Greta gets the door unlocked and runs out.

I turn back to Brahms who held his hand out towards me. “It’s okay, I won’t hurt you.” He says innocently. I hesitantly place my hand in his and he gently helps me out.

My eyes stray everywhere else but Brahms and Malcolm, who I wasn’t even sure if he was alive at this point. “Thank you, Y/n. You’re the only person that wouldn’t leave me.” Brahms speaks.

I didn’t know if he’s child voice made the situation better or worse, when he spoke, I felt as if he wouldn’t hurt me, or anyone for that matter, but by the two bodies lying on the ground, I knew that I was far from right.

“I told you I wouldn’t leave you.” I remember all the times where I had whispered to the doll Brahms, that I would never leave him alone. “But it’s bedtime, and you know the rules.” His shoulders drop as he nods his head.

Brahms guides me through the confined space in the walls and even helps me step over bits that are sticking out of the floor. “I love you, Y/n. You will never leave me.” Brahms whispers. I silently nod along in agreement and then we are finally out of the small gap and are in Brahms’ room.

I walk over to the bed and lift the covers. “Lay down.” I order. He follows along with what I say and keeps his arms tucked underneath the blanket. Behind the mask, his eyes follow my every movement. “Good boy Brahms, now go to sleep.”

“Kiss?” He mumbles.

I debate on whether I should actually do what he says, but since he was following the rules, the most I could do was follow them too, even if he didn’t necessarily deserve it.

I slowly lean down until I am right above Brahms’, his eyes were piercing through me. I place a gentle kiss right beside the lips of his mask before I pull away, only to be stopped when Brahms’ sits up.

He doesn’t say anything, but instead releases his arms out from underneath the covers and pulls me back down to him in an awkward kiss.

The porcelain lips were cold against my own, and I was unsure of what to do.

I place my hands on Brahms’ shoulders and push him down. “Go to sleep Brahms.” I smile. I watch as his eyes close and then I walk out of the room, flicking the light off along the way.

I walk back downstairs to see Greta walking back in. “Y/n!” She runs towards me and pulls me in for a hug. “You’re okay.” She checks over my body.

“I’m fine but listen. I’m gonna stay.” I tell Greta. Her eyebrows furrow as she looks at me with confusion.

“No, Y/n. You’ll-”

“Get Malcolm and leave. I’ll be okay, I promise.” Her eyes held a sense of sadness in them as they glossed over with tears. “He won’t hurt me; he just wants someone to stay with him. I’ll call you often, don’t worry about me, and don’t go to the police about this, please.” I explain.

It took Greta some time, but she eventually ended up giving in. “Okay, I won’t go to the police, but as soon as I feel that something has happened, I will be storming up that footpath, with murder on my mind, you hear me?” I nod my head at her threat.

“Let’s go get Malcolm, and check if he’s fine, I’m not even sure if he’s alive.” I lead Greta up to the room that I knew would lead us down to Malcolm, the only problem is that that was the same room that Brahms was in. I peak my head in the room to see that he was now sitting up right, staring over at us.

As soon as he sees Greta he stands up and reaches for a weapon. “Wait, Brahms!” I run forward and stop him from grabbing something. “She’s going to get Malcolm and then she’s going to leave.” Brahms eyes Greta with a look of anger. “They won’t bother us any longer.” His eyes snap down to mine and then he nods his head, pointing over at the trap door that leads us to the wall. “I will stay, I promise.” Brahms gets back into his bed, and I take Greta with me through the walls.

When we stumble across Malcolm, he was just waking up as he rubs the back of his head. “Malcolm!” Greta greets Malcolm with a hug as she checks his wounds.

“Are you girls alright? Where’s Brahms?”

“We’re fine, but Y/n, she’s going to stay here, with Brahms.” Greta tells Malcolm. He looks over at me like I was some crazy girl, which I couldn’t blame him for.

“Are you out of your mind? He’ll hurt you.”

“Then I’ll be the only one to blame. Look, I don’t want to leave him alone again, he doesn’t have his parents anymore. He needs someone.”

“That’s not your job to keep him company, he is a sick person who needs help-” I interrupt Malcolm before he can continue with his insults.

“I want to stay, Malcolm, and that’s that. Leave while you still have a chance.” The door to the outside was still left wide open from when Greta had run through, leaving them with the perfect opportunity to make their escape. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Greta.”

“Yeah, if you’re still alive.” Malcolm mumbles. He crawls out the door leaving myself and Greta alone.

“Be safe Y/n, please.” We exchange a hug before she takes off behind Malcolm and I shut the door, letting out a sigh as I do so.

I take my time walking back and when I finally reach Brahms’ room, he was standing up and waiting. “You took too long, I got scared.” He whimpers.

Brahms’ fiddles with his hands as he stands across the room from me. “How about you sleep in my bed tonight?” I’m not sure why I decided to say that, but the look in Brahms’ eyes was enough to make me not regret the offer.

He was happy, so, so was I.

[the-wild-wolves-around-you]

hear those bells ring: chapter 2 (a deaf!bakugo x reader fic)

Summary: Reader has to deal with the aftermath of Dynamight exploding through her window and trying to bleed out on her floor. 

Pairings: Katsuki Bakugo x Reader; Katsuki Bakugo x You

Rating: M(ature)

Warnings: Blood, descriptions of gore, and adult language. 

A/N: Here’s chapter two, hope you enjoy! ~*~*~ No spoilers or anything. This is just a self-indulgent AU fic with aged up characters. Everyone’s in their mid-20s. Fic title is from a song called “Achilles Come Down.”

AO3 Link: Here 

Ch 1 Tumblr Link: Here 

Chaos. You intellectually knew the word, in several languages in fact, but nothing could have ever prepared you for the reality of it. 

Information assaulted your senses in a deluge. The gust of cold air whistling through the broken window, raking icy fingers down your exposed arms. The bright flare of flames, even behind your clenched eyelids. The dissonant, haunting wails of several car alarms, each one just a second out of sync with the next, barely audible over the loud ringing in your ears. The taste of ash, gritty on your tongue as you sucked in heaving, panting breaths. The sharp smell of smoke and something… sweeter. Like caramelizing sugar. 

The sweet scent, incongruous with every other heinous detail, seemed to snap you fully back into your body, and your eyes flew open with a gasp. 

You were curled up in a tight ball below your now broken window, and you gaped at your ruined apartment. The lights were out, so the only illumination you had to see by were the flames behind you on the street, but it was enough. 

It looked like a tornado had torn through your home. The remnants of your window and wall—broken bits of glass, wood, and plaster—covered everything in sight in a fine layer of white dust. Your sewing desk/kitchen table was in splinters, and even with the dancing shadows, you had the distant thought that the dress you’d just finished mending was most definitely ruined. 

Then someone shouted outside on the street, and you felt it like a sledgehammer to the skull. 

Oh, god. The villain. The heroes. 

You scrambled up onto your knees, hissing when shards of glass tore through your sweatpants and bit into your skin. You’d worry about that later. For now, you focused on getting to your feet… 

And not falling out of the gaping hole in your apartment wall. 

You stumbled back a few steps from the edge, stabilizing yourself on one of your kitchen chairs that seemed to have survived the blast. The smoke was thicker now that you were off the floor, and you coughed and squinted against the hot, irritating air. 

The street in front of you was a warzone. 

The windows in the building across from you were all blown out, the empty frames like black gaping voids. The building housed a café/tea shop owned by Mr. and Mrs. Yamato, and you felt a small modicum of relief at the knowledge that they didn’t live above the shop like you did with yours. They lived in a neighborhood not too far away, and they wouldn’t be happy when they came to open in the morning, but at least they were safe. 

Safe… 

“Mr. Takeyoshi!” you gasped as you remembered your neighbor. He’d been standing on the street and nearly attacked by the villain, but a blond hero had pushed the middle-aged man out of the way. 

Your eyes scoured the street as you leaned forward as much as you dared, and just as your heart was beginning to clench, you spotted him. Mr. Takeyoshi was sitting on the curb across the street and about four storefronts down, hunched over with his head in his hands. Two heroes stood above him and seemed to be tending to him, and all three of the men looked whole for the most part. 

“God.” You exhaled shakily, your heart still stuttering in your chest, and then movement in your peripherals caught your attention. 

One hero seemed to possess a water quirk, and she was quickly working to spray down the numerous small fires still flickering up and down the road. As you watched her work, you realized the street wasn’t as badly demolished as you first assumed. It was still pretty wrecked—all of the asphalt was cracked and even just missing in some places—but aside from broken windows, the rest of the shops seemed mostly intact. The worst of the damage was centered just in front of your apartment, and as your gaze flickered over the large crater in front of you, you saw another two heroes dragging a third body out of the pit. 

The villain. 

The hero with the water quirk paused in spraying down the smoking remains of a car and turned to shout something at the other heroes. You couldn’t hear what she said over the persistent ringing in your hears, and you frowned as you focused your own quirk toward your ears. 

In your hopped-up-on-adrenaline state, you didn’t even notice the energy dip, and a moment later, your hearing returned with a loud pop. Thankfully, all of the car alarms seemed to have been cut, so you could hear the heroes pretty well.

“—still alive,” a tall hero in a red and purple suit said. You didn’t recognize him. “He’s pretty beat up, but he’ll make it.” 

“Great,” the water quirk hero sighed. “Let him be the cops’ problem now.” 

As if on cue, you could hear a siren start up in the distant, slowly moving closer. 

The threat was over. The villain was neutralized, the fires put out, and the authorities were on the way. 

So… why did you feel so on edge, like you were waiting for the other shoe to drop? 

“—fuckin’ Dynamight,” one of the heroes suddenly spat and drew you out of your thoughts. 

You frowned in confusion as the words registered. Dynamight… why did that sound familiar? 

Then your eyes widened as you remembered the blond hero, literally exploding onto the scene. His face—snarling and illuminated by the white-hot flare of his quirk—flashed in your mind’s eye, and you dropped your gaze back down to the street below. 

Dynamight, Japan’s Number Two Hero. You couldn’t believe he had been the one to turn up and save you. 

Well, not you specifically. Your neighborhood. 

You’d seen the ash-blond on television before. Usually, the media just liked to harp on his crude language or brash attitude, but you’d seen this one story of how he had saved every single person from a collapsed building. A teary blonde gushing about Dynamight rescuing her had gone briefly viral, but the clip that stuck with you was when a reporter asked the pro hero why he decided to go into the unstable building without any reinforcements. 

The blond had scowled into the camera, sweat and dirt still streaked across his pale face, his scarlet eyes flashing from beneath his black mask. 

“What was I supposed to do?” he scoffed. “Leave them in there and sit with my thumbs up my ass while the fire department takes their sweet fuckin’ time? Don’t ask me stupid questions.” 

Of course, the media had another field day with that response, but… something about it struck you as incredibly genuine. Yeah, the pro hero could have phrased it better, but the core of what he was saying was he couldn’t sit back when people were in trouble, no matter the risks. 

You had thought that very brave. 

And now you’d witnessed his bravery first hand. You weren’t confident—or really self-centered enough—to go down and thank him for what he’d done, but you thought you would just be satisfied with seeing him from afar now that things weren’t so dire. 

But, the longer you looked, the more the pit grew in your stomach. 

You couldn’t see the blond hero anywhere. He wasn’t with Mr. Takeyoshi, still hunched over on the curb. He wasn’t with the two heroes who were trying to establish a perimeter and keep out the arriving crowd of spectators. And he wasn’t with the other heroes standing watch over the unconscious villain laid out on the sidewalk. 

The rest of the heroes seemed to be arriving at the same conclusions as you. You could hear Dynamight’s name being thrown about, and then the heroes were splitting up, taking different sides of the street, peeking into broken windows. 

You wrung your hands as you watched them search from your apartment. No one had noticed you standing there yet, and you were just contemplating going downstairs to try and help in some way when a noise caught your attention. 

In the grand scheme of things, the noise wasn’t very loud, especially given the shouting on the street and the loud sirens now that the police were arriving on scene. 

But since you lived alone, someone coughing in your apartment, someone who wasn’t you, was cause for a little alarm. 

You inhaled sharply as you glanced back over your shoulder, every atom of your being standing at attention. The apartment behind you was a study in contrasts, dark shadows and the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles outside. Your eyes fell on the empty spot where your couch used to be located, and then your gaze followed the drag marks that had been carved into your wood floor. 

The couch was half embedded in the wall beside your front door, with one of the armrests denting into the plaster and the other pointing toward your gaping window/wall. The sofa’s legs had been broken, so it slumped to the floor at an angle, and some kind of stuffing spilled out of several rips in the cushions. 

But your eyes were glued to the leg sticking out over the armrest and the arm thrown over the back of the couch, which was blocking the rest of the… person from view. 

Oh, fuck. That was a person. 

Your legs reacted before your brain could even process what you should do, but you were at least cognizant enough to pick your way over the worst of the debris. Your thin, rubber-soled slippers would protect you from the small pieces of glass and rubble, but you really didn’t want to step on a nail if you could help it. 

Since your apartment was so small, and there weren’t any full pieces of furniture in the way anymore, you crossed the distance in a handful of strides, but you jerked to a stop when you reached the back of the couch. 

Your lungs seized up so suddenly they hurt. The smell of caramelized sugar was stronger now, almost overwhelming, and you actually had to grip the back of the sofa for support, your hand right next to Dynamight’s leg. 

Because it was Dynamight half-strewn across your broken couch. Even when you first saw the leg, you hadn’t imagined it could be… 

But there he was. And he looked surprisingly… human. 

His face was lax with unconsciousness, lacking the perpetual scowl or snarl he wore in pictures or on TV. His hair, which looked paler and somehow softer in person, was tinged red along his brow line, where a cut was still trickling sluggishly. He wore a non-descript black hoodie over dark jeans and darker combat boots, but a glint of color and light around his midsection caught your eye. 

You frowned and leaned down without thinking, your fingers reaching out to brush… something wet. 

“Oh, shit,” you breathed when you lifted your hand to your face and saw, even in the darkness, that the pads of your fingers were red and glistening. 

He was bleeding. 

You moved a step closer, but then your foot lost purchase, sliding, and when you glanced down, you saw your once white slippers were dark, more wetness seeping in around your toes. 

Oh, god. He was bleeding a lot. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You fumbled for the phone in your pants pocket as you scurried around the opposite end of the couch and dropped to the ground. Glass bit into your knees again, this time deeper, a sharp, brilliant pain, but you ignored it as you tried to turn your phone’s flashlight on. The touch-screen wouldn’t register your finger at first, your blood-slicked skin skimming across the glass, and you could feel a scream building in your throat just before the light flashed on. 

If you thought things were bad in the dark, being able to see made it a thousand times worse. 

Blood had already pooled around Dynamight, dark and glinting like an oil spill. The sleeve on his left arm had been burned off, and the skin below was pink and raw. It smelled like cooked meat, and the curry you ate what felt like a lifetime ago churned hotly in your gut. 

But the burn wasn’t even the worst of it. 

A wooden stake, about as wide as three of your fingers, protruded out of the pro hero’s gut by several inches. You thought part of it might have looked like your window frame, but the thought came and went when you noticed the tip of the wooden splinter was dyed red, which meant it must have come through his body. 

That had to be where all this blood came from. Was still coming from. God, there was so much of it. 

Your eyes shot to the gaping hole in your wall, your voice rising in your throat as you prepared to scream for help, but a sudden gasp nearly made you jump out of your skin. 

You whipped back around to find wide, hazy red eyes trained on your face, and the hero’s mouth gaped open as he dragged in a ragged breath. 

“Wh—hnng!” he groaned as his body seized, his right hand coming up to clutch at his stomach. 

“Don’t!” Your phone clattered to the floor, throwing light, as you lunged forward, and you caught his hand before he could jar the piece of wood lodged inside him. “D-Don’t move, a-and try not to speak.” 

The hero panted as he cracked open his eyes and looked at you. Or maybe through you. His gaze wasn’t very focused, and blood from the cut on his brow was still dripping into his right eye. 

But the scarlet color of his irises was still striking, even in the dimness of your apartment. 

“You’ve… been hurt,” you said as you met his eyes as best you could. You weren’t a doctor or an EMT, but you knew the best way to keep people calm in emergency situations was to let them know what’s happened and reassure them. “There’s a piece of wood inside you, so you can’t move or you might hurt yourself worse. But y-you’ll be okay. I’ll go get—” 

“Villain,” Dynamight suddenly spat out, cutting you off and spattering you with a fine mist of blood. 

“What?” His voice was rough and guttural, so it took your brain a moment to translate the slurred Japanese. Did he think you were another villain? 

The blond hero winced and groaned again, and it wasn’t until he squeezed down on your hand that you realized you were still holding his. His palm was rough and calloused against yours—and warm, so inexplicably warm—but then he dug his nails into your skin, and you gasped. 

“Vil… lain?” he rasped again, and you realized it was a question. 

“Oh! The villain’s been arrested. You… you beat him.” 

Dynamight scowled at you, brow knitting in confusion, and he grunted what sounded like a questioning noise at you. 

Then he shifted his head, and you saw the dark stain of blood coming out of his ear. 

He must have ruptured his eardrums in the explosion. 

You didn’t want to shout and damage his hearing even more, so you squeezed his hand back and smiled in what you hoped was reassurance. 

“You won,” you mouthed as clearly as you could. “You won, Dynamight.” 

His narrowed eyes widened a little bit with recognition, and you could have sworn the beginnings of a smirk twitched across his lips before his eyes suddenly rolled up into his head. The tension fled his body as he went limp, like a marionette with its strings cut, and your heart lurched up into your throat. 

“Dynamight?” you asked, even though you knew he couldn’t hear you with his ears the way they were. “Dynamight?” 

You squeezed his fingers, shaking him a little, but his face remained slack. 

Dropping his hand, you reached up to flatten one of yours across his chest, the other going up to feel at the underside of his neck. A moment ticked by, two, but you found his pulse, weak and thready beneath your fingertips. His breathing was shallow beneath your other hand, and the knees of your pants were warm and soaked with his blood. 

“F-Fuck,” you breathed shakily as you sat back for a moment, your hands limp in your lap. 

He was dying. Dynamight… was dying. This was too much blood, and even if you called out to the heroes right now, and they got here in seconds, it was still ten minutes to the nearest hospital. 

He didn’t have ten minutes. You didn’t think he had five. 

You stared down at the pro hero’s blood-streaked face for half a beat before you made a decision. 

Then you were moving. Consequences be damned. 

Your hands went to the hem of his hoodie, and you flinched as you pulled it away from his belly with a wet sound. You didn’t want to hurt him, but you also didn’t think he was feeling much of anything now, so you worked the hoodie up and over the stake as best you could before you shoved the fabric the rest of the way up his chest. 

The flashing lights from outside played across the dips and valleys of Dynamight’s abs, but your eyes were immediately drawn to the wooden stake. It jutted out between the hero’s belly button and his right hip bone, and every splinter was coated in tacky, crimson blood. More of the viscous liquid bubbled up around the torn skin at the stake’s base, and it trickled across his pale, alabaster abdomen like spilled paint. 

You bit your lip as you considered your next move, but then Dynamight’s breath hitched with a wet sound, and you knew you didn’t have time for doubts. 

“Okay, steady,” you muttered to yourself as you knelt over the hero’s prone body. Your knees burned, glass digging deeper into the skin by the second, but you shoved away your own pain as you reached out and wrapped both hands around the stake. Splinters tore into your palms, and your heart hammered out a staccato rhythm beneath your sternum. 

Then panic started to creep up your spine like a million little spider legs. What if removing the stake only made him worse, killed him faster? What if you killed Japan’s Number Two Hero? 

Just as you were about to let go of the stake, Dynamight hacked out a gurgling cough, blood bubbling out of his dry, cracked lips, and you felt the warm spray of it against your collarbone and arms. 

The sound rattled something deep inside you, and before you could second guess yourself again, you tightened your grip on the stake and tugged it up and out in one single motion. 

Dynamight wheezed once more, but you were already dropping the stake, hands slapping down against his abdomen. Warm blood pulsed through your fingers like pliable clay, and bile rose in the back of your throat before you took a deep breath, closed your eyes, and called upon your quirk. 

An instant later, agony like you’ve never experienced slammed into you, ripping a gasp from your lungs. It felt like someone had stuck a white-hot poker through your gut, ignited your insides, and twisted. The pain was so intense, your ears started ringing again, and when you cracked open your eyes, your vision quickly began to tunnel until the only thing you could see was the bare outline of your hands, lined with green, against the hero’s stomach. You gritted your teeth as unconsciousness threatened to pull you under, and you groaned as you shoved as much energy as you could spare into the dying hero. 

As your quirk flooded into the blond’s body, you received vague impressions of his injuries healing. It was hard to describe, but it was kind of like you could see flashes of the tissue in your mind as it was stitched back together. First, the jagged hole on his back sealed over, and then your power wormed its way through the hero’s insides, patching up nicked arteries and punctured organs. The pain was still intense, so intense that your already limited vision was blurred by tears, but once you reached the top layers of his abs, you ripped your hands away with a gasp. 

You fell back on your ass, more glass and debris digging into your cheeks and the palms of your hands, and you sucked in ragged breaths as you tried to keep from passing out. The hero swam unsteadily before you, both from the tears in your eyes and because the entire apartment was swaying. Saliva pooled in your mouth as nausea clamped down on your stomach, but you focused on the burning in your palms to center yourself. Then you started counting deep breaths, and when you got to thirty, the darkness had receded from the corners of your vision, and the apartment more or less steadied out around you. 

You still felt like shit warmed over, like you’d been run over by a car and then dragged for several miles, but the bone-deep exhaustion could be cured with a good night’s sleep. The rest of the nicks and cuts on your body still burned like a million paper cuts, too, but your quirk was down to embers and was of no more use to you. 

But was it worth it? 

The two feet of distance between you and Dynamight felt like a canyon that stretched for miles, but somehow you found one last burst of strength to drag yourself forward a few inches. Then you held your breath and leaned over the hero’s abdomen, wiping away most of the pooling blood with the hem of his hoodie. 

There was still a significant gash carved into his skin, but when you shakily picked up your discarded phone from the floor and directed the light at him, you saw the wound was much shallower, maybe a few centimeters deep. The first few layers of skin were flayed back, but the muscles beneath were intact and healthy looking. A small trickle of blood continued to drip into the valley of the hero’s abs, but instead of a broken fire hydrant, it was just a leaky faucet. 

You dragged your tired eyes up Dynamight’s body, and you very quickly realized his breathing was deeper and not as wet sounding. Just to be doubly sure, you reached out and tentatively wrapped your fingers around his left wrist, only absently noticing that the once raw, flayed skin had been partially healed from third degree burns to first. 

You had poured more energy into him than you meant to, but it was hard to regret anything when you felt his pulse against your fingertips, strong, steady, and sure. 

“Oh, thank you,” you choked out as you closed your eyes, tears stinging in the corners. You didn’t know who you were thanking. You didn’t know if you believed in a “god” in the colloquial sense, but you felt as if the universe had given you a gift just now, and you could be nothing but grateful for it. 

You sighed as you slumped a little, and it was like weights were strapped to your eyelids as you struggled to open them and keep them open. You might have actually gone under, succumb to the exhaustion… 

If you didn’t catch sight of two crimson eyes staring back at you. 

“Fuck,” you gasped as a zap of adrenaline shocked you upright, and your phone clattered to the ground once again. 

Dynamight squinted, irises still a little glassy, but unlike last time, his gaze was very much focused on you. 

And the weight of it, the intensity, pinned you to the floor. 

“Y-You’re awake.” The words tripped off your tongue, chased out by the panic running circles in your brain. Damn it, you hadn’t even had time to come up with a plausible backstory for the pool of blood he was lying in. 

The blond hero’s eyes widened a fraction as he stared at you for an immeasurably long moment, and then you remembered with a start that he hadn’t been able to hear you before. This could work in your favor, though. You opened your mouth, ready to pantomime an elaborate story, but his voice—deep and rough, like crunching gravel or an expensive engine turning over—cut you off at the knees. 

“And you have eyes,” he said in clipped Japanese, a note of snide derision in his tone. 

You blinked in shock—at his attitude, the steadiness of his voice, and the fact he could hear you just fine all the sudden—but he just barreled onward like he had barreled through your window. 

“What happened?” he asked. No, demanded. “Who are you?” 

“I—” 

“And where’s that fuckin’ villain?” he cut you off as his split upper lip curled into a snarl, and his red eyes jumped to the gaping window over your shoulder. 

You frowned at him, pursing your lips into a thin line. “Are you going to let me answer?” 

A part of your brain was screaming at you, distantly: Are you giving Japan’s Number Two Hero attitude after he saved your life?!  You normally weren’t like this. Every inch the people pleaser, you were usually deferential to the point of your own detriment. 

But you were still so tired, every inch of you aching, blood still dripping and slick along your exposed skin, and he was the one who decided to be rude first. 

Plus, you saved his life, too, thankyouverymuch. 

Dynamight actually seemed surprised by your response because his gaze stopped its frantic search of your darkened apartment and settled on you. Those scarlet eyes raked over you quickly, a flick from head to toe, before they met your own. 

A beat of silence passed between you, and then his face pulled into a sharp frown. 

“Well?” he grunted. “Are you actually going to answer me?” 

The nerve of this man. Maybe the media had been right. 

“What happened was you decided to practically drop a bomb outside on the street, and then you crashed straight through my window and destroyed my apartment,” you said in a short, clipped tone. “But don’t worry. My couch managed to break your fall, so you’re mostly in one piece. Oh, and you beat the villain, the other heroes are outside handing him off to authorities. Satisfied with my answers?” 

You sucked in a deep breath after your little tirade, the blood roaring in your ears. Absently, you patted yourself on the back for the impromptu white lie you’d fed him. The couch did in fact break his fall… and shoved a stake through his gut, but he didn’t need to know that. Fortunately, you had dropped said impaling object behind you in your haste to keep some blood in his body, and you shifted a little now to insure it was blocked from his view. You had healed his life-threatening injury—and his hearing, apparently, though you hadn’t intended that—but he was still covered in scrapes, cuts, and minor burns along his left arm. It was a… plausible amount of wounds, so hopefully your little quirk indiscretion would go unnoticed. 

Dynamight was still staring at you in silence, and you began to fidget, on the edge of saying you were going to go flag down another hero, when he finally spoke up again. 

“No, I’m not satisfied. You didn’t answer all my damn questions. Who the hell are you?” 

A flush of heat infused your cheeks—part anger, part embarrassment for being put on the spot again and being the subject of his intense glare—and you averted your eyes as you mumbled out your name. 

“Hah?” he practically shouted as he leaned forward, bringing with him that bewildering scent of burned sugar, but he suddenly stopped with a wince that he quickly turned into a scowl. “Speak up, I hate when people mutter. Just like goddamn Deku.” 

The last sentence wasn’t directed at you, but you found his mention of Japan’s Number One Hero intriguing. 

You sighed and repeated your name for him, a little louder this time, and he grunted in what seemed like acknowledgment before he started to struggle upright again in the ruins of your couch. 

“Don’t move too fast, you’ll start bleeding again,” you chided and scooted closer to stop him from aggravating the injury on his abdomen. You’d healed the worst of it, but it was still an open wound, and he was bound to be sore as hell after smashing through a window/wall. 

“M’ fine,” he grumbled as he settled into a slightly more seated position. Then he looked down and noticed his hoodie was still partially rucked up around his arm pits, and his red eyes shot back to you. He studied you for a long moment, but his face was unreadable. “Undressing me while I was unconscious? You’re not one of those damn obsessed fangirls, are ya?” 

Your cheeks flared red-hot, but you scowled at the ash-blond hero. “N-No! I—You were bleeding, so I wanted to make sure it wasn’t too b-bad. But, uh, the gash isn’t that deep.” 

It was a little harder to make more articulate, detailed lies, especially when his blood was still drying on your hands and you could remember the exact feel of his pulse slowing beneath your fingertips. 

Dynamight narrowed his scarlet eyes at you, and you knew you weren’t being convincing. Panic started to claw up the back of your throat again. His burning gaze was charring away at your weaknesses, your resolve. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, confessing. You’d saved his life after all. That wasn’t a bad thing. 

Then you remembered all the articles you’d looked up one anxiety-filled night, soon after moving here. All the stories about people using their quirks and causing damage. Of people with healing quirks trying to help and only doing more harm. The fines, the charges, and in rare cases, imprisonment. 

You didn’t think you’d be locked up, but you couldn’t afford any fines now, and as an immigrant, any mark on your record could get you immediately deported. 

Your mouth dried up. You couldn’t be deported, sent back to your parents as a failure again. What’s more, you had people who relied on you here, like Mrs. Kojima. You weren’t a hero, not important by any means, but… you had just found something to give your life a little purpose. A little stability. 

No, you couldn’t be discovered. You just couldn’t. 

Your newfound resolve stiffened your spine a little, but when you lifted your chin and met those piercing crimson eyes again, your courage—along with your tongue—shriveled inside you. 

Fuck, how were you going to lie your way out of this? 

Unfortunately, Dynamight didn’t give you any more time to get your story straight. 

“Your hands are all fucked up.” 

You startled at his rough voice, instinctively flipping your hands palm-side down and tucking them between your legs. Then, when your brain caught up to your body, you cursed yourself. 

Could you be any more obvious, any more guilty? 

“I, uh, i-it’s nothing,” you stammered, clearing your throat before you continued. “I cut myself on the broken glass from the window, but it’s not serious. Nothing a few bandaids won’t fix, anyway. Maybe some gauze and antiseptic, but definitely not a hospital visit or anything.” 

You knew you were babbling but somehow couldn’t stop it, your anxiety just seizing control of your tongue, and you clenched your torn-up hands into fists until the stinging pain centered you a little bit. 

Once again, Dynamight studied you in silence, like he was choosing his words carefully. 

“Did you nick your damn wrist, too?” he finally asked as his neutral mask twisted into his signature scowl. “Looks like a lot of blood. Don’t be an idiot and bleed out on me. I don’t wanna deal with the fuckin’ paperwork.” 

Well, maybe not that carefully. 

“I-I’m not bleeding out,” you protested with a frown. “I’m fine.” 

“Let me see.” 

You blinked. “Excuse me? 

The hero stuck out his right hand, palm up, his scowl only deepening. “Let me see your hands.” 

Fuck. A drop of icy cold fear slid down your spine. Your hands were indeed “fucked up” like the blond said, but the cuts were all shallow and minor. They would in no way explain how you were coated in blood up past your wrists. None of your injuries would account for that. 

And none of his current ones would, either. 

“I—” You opened and closed your mouth several times like a gasping fish, and Dynamight’s eyes narrowed on you with what you were sure was suspicion. 

And then, like a gift from the heavens, a small but bright beam of light suddenly flooded your apartment from over your shoulder. 

“Dynamight?” a male voice shouted. 

The blond hero clenched his eyes shut and turned away from the light, and you. “I’m here! Turn that damn light out.” 

Said light cut out an instant later, and you seized the opportunity that had just been presented to you. 

Quick as a whip, you leaned over and snatched a large swath of dark fabric that you’d seen in the brief moment of illumination, and you reeled it into your lap quickly. The fabric had been a personal project of yours, a gown you’d started on a whim, but that didn’t matter now. Dynamight was still rubbing at his eyes, grumbling about being blinded, so you kicked half of the unfinished garment under and around the base of the ruined couch, effectively covering up the large pool of blood that had congealed under the splintered furniture. Then you reached behind you, grabbed the bloody stake, and shoved it between the folds of fabric. 

There. Now, most of the evidence was hidden. 

And not a moment too soon, because in the next breath you heard the crunch of glass as the unnamed hero stepped into the apartment behind you. 

“Hello?” 

“We’re over here,” you called back, struggling to your feet so the hero could see you over the back of the couch. 

The hero was silhouetted against your ruined window and the flashing police lights outside, so you couldn’t see much of his face, but you could tell he was tall and broad-shouldered, wrapped in a red and purple suit you didn’t recognize. 

“Are you alright, ma’am?” the hero asked in very formal Japanese. 

You opened your mouth to reply, but Dynamight cut you off. It seemed to be a habit of his. 

“We’re fine,” he grunted, and you turned to see the blond shoving himself to his feet. A gasp caught in your throat, and you made a half-aborted motion to stop him, but his red eyes snapped up and glared at you, freezing you in your tracks. “Aren’t we?” 

It took a moment for you to realize the last question was directed at you, and when Dynamight’s lip curled up into a sneer as he accusingly dropped his gaze to your hands, you realized none of your lies had convinced him after all. 

“Y-Yes.” The word stumbled out of your mouth without your permission, but you couldn’t seem to tear your eyes off the blond as you felt your world falling in around you for the second time tonight. “We’re fine.” 

The hero behind you said something, but it was lost in the static suddenly filling your head. 

He knows. He knows. Dynamight knows. 

The words cycled through your brain again and again, a broken record. What would he do? Would he tell the other hero? Or take you down to the authorities himself? And what then? Would they arrest you? Give you a few days to pack up and say your goodbyes before your deportation? 

Just as you were beginning to spiral, movement caught your attention, and you watched as if from a distance as Dynamight suddenly stepped past you, the scent of burnt sugar stinging your nose as he went. He was talking, and the low rumble of his voice vibrated through your body since he was so close, barely a hair’s breadth away, but he seemed to be talking to the other hero. 

Was he confessing your secret already? 

You couldn’t seem to turn around, your slippered feet rooted to your debris strewn floor. Even in the dark, you could see the black stain of Dynamight’s blood on your ruined couch cushions, and without thinking, you leaned down, picked up another torn and dirty piece of fabric, and threw it over the stain, blocking it from view. 

You didn’t know why you did that. It didn’t matter now. Dynamight knew, and— 

“Ma’am?” A hand touched your elbow, and you jumped, whirling around. “Whoa, careful there.” 

It was the tall hero in the red and purple suit. He was wearing a partial mask over his eyes, so only the lower half of his face was visible, framed by two pieces of dark hair. He smiled at you, a pleasant, reassuring gesture, but you could only gape at him. 

“Are you alright?” he asked you again, a frown replacing his smile. His eyes started to look you over, but you shoved your hands into the pockets of your sweats before he could see them. 

It doesn’t matter, you idiot, your brain screamed, but your body was still going through the motions of keeping your secret, twisting your hands in your pockets, trying to rub out the blood. 

“I’m fine,” you said again and then realized repeating the same trite phrase probably wasn’t convincing. So, you smiled at the hero, or at least you thought you did. Your face felt strangely stiff and numb, but you flashed your teeth and crinkled your eyes just the same. “Really. I’m just a little… shaken up is all. I have a few cuts and bruises, but nothing serious. The apartment took the worst of the damage, obviously.” 

You laughed, a hint of hysteria in your voice, as you gestured to the gaping hole in your wall behind the hero, hoping to get him away from your blood-soaked couch. And, blessedly, he did turn, so you took a few steps past him until you were both facing the broken window. 

Then you noticed Dynamight was standing near the hole, very cautiously leaning against the last remaining, exposed stud in the wall, with his hands shoved in the pocket of his hoodie. His body was facing out into the street, but his eyes were still locked on you, the red of them only intensified by the police lights still flashing on the street. 

His eyes seemed to say, I know what you did, and all the saliva dried up in your mouth. 

“Well, as bad as the damage is to your home, I’m glad you weren’t seriously injured, ma’am,” the hero at your side suddenly said, and you jolted when you realized he was responding to your inane babble from what already felt like hours ago. 

“O-Oh, yes.” You smiled again, just as forced and twice as shaky. “I was… very lucky. A-And thank you! For doing your part to s-stop that villain before he hurt anyone or caused even more damage.” 

“Yes, well, there was still more damage than I would have preferred,” the hero replied, and you didn’t miss the dirty look he shot Dynamight, who just deepened his scowl because he was still looking at you. “But let’s get you down to the street. The paramedics will look you over, and the authorities will want to take a statement. But don’t worry, they’ll also put you up in a hotel for the night since you obviously can’t stay here.” 

He threw the last part of the sentence at Dynamight like a dagger, and the blond finally tore his eyes off you to glare at the other hero. 

You waited for the explosive hero to… well, explode, but he only stared down the tall man beside you before he rolled his eyes, glanced at you one last time, and then jumped out the hole in your wall. 

“No—” you gasped, stumbling forward like you could stop him, but an instant later, you heard a mini-boom out on the street, followed by Dynamight barking orders at someone. 

Oh, yeah. You remembered how the blond had burst through the air while fighting the villain and realized he didn’t just ruin all your hard, illegal healing work by face-planting onto the concrete. 

You sighed and suddenly swayed, like the blond leaving had finally cut all of your tense strings. The adrenaline was fading at last, exhaustion leeching through your veins in its place, and you listed into the hero beside you. 

“Ma’am?” he asked, a note of concern in his voice. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled sleepily, trying and failing to find your balance. “I think… the shock is wearing off. Just… tired.” 

“Would it be alright if I carried you down to the street?” 

You wanted to protest, say you could take the stairs down to your shop, but your tongue felt sluggish in your mouth, and all you managed was a vaguely affirmative sounding hum. 

“Okay, hold on.” 

You felt one hand wrap around your shoulders while the other scooped you up around the knees, and usually, you would protest, insecure about your weight, but the hero settled you against his chest with ease. The instant you were off your feet, every muscle in your body went limp, and you were too tired to even be embarrassed when your head flopped against the hero’s collarbone. 

You had the vague thought that he didn’t smell like warm sugar, followed by a flash of disappointment, but then the hero was moving, jumping, and you were falling through the air. 

Unfortunately, you didn’t get the luxury of passing out. 

Once you hit the street, it was all sirens and shouting, flashing lights and flashes of people, so many people. 

True to his word, the hero in the red and purple suit carried you over to an ambulance and two waiting paramedics. The American in you panicked, instinctively trying to refuse care because your shop and home were just destroyed, you didn’t have money for an ambulance ride, too. 

But as the medics peppered you with rapid fire Japanese questions, you were reminded of where you were, and the bright flashlight shining into your eyes sure woke you up a little. 

The next half an hour was a blur. The paramedics tended to the wounds on your palms, knees, and, embarrassingly, ass, but all of the cuts were shallow, and none of them even required stitches. You knew they wouldn’t require stitches anyway, because once you rested up, your quirk would heal you, but you kept your mouth shut and let the medics wrap you in gauze and bandages. You seemed to have rubbed away enough of the blood on your hands that they weren’t suspicious, but it brought you no relief. 

While they worked, you watched the heroes and police out of your peripherals. They were still working to seal off the scene and tend to your neighbors, who were gathered further down the block behind some yellow tape. It didn’t look like anyone else had been injured beside you, and for that you were grateful. 

But your stomach was still in knots. 

More than once, you heard Dynamight’s brash voice bark over the sirens and other voices, and as the paramedics were finishing up the bandages on your hands, a head of ash-blond hair jutted out over the police car closest to you. Unable to stop yourself, your eyes zeroed in on that distinctive hair color, and you saw the explosive hero was speaking—well, yelling—at two police officers. 

Your mouth felt suddenly dry despite the multiple cups of water the medics had fed to you. What was Dynamight saying? 

As if he could hear your thoughts, red eyes snapped to the side and locked onto yours, and the breath hitched in your chest. That crimson gaze held you trapped, unable to look away, so when the two officers he’d been speaking to suddenly stepped into your field of vision, you gasped. 

“Apologies, didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am,” one of the officers said. He was a middle-aged man, balding, with a serious face and a no-nonsense expression. “We just wanted to ask you a few questions, if you feel up to it.” 

You swallowed, your throat clicking, and your heart stuttered into a breakneck pace beneath your sternum. 

“O-Of course,” you replied, only stumbling a little over your Japanese. You smiled at the officers, but the expression felt stilted, and fear seized you by the throat and squeezed until your breaths were shallow and grating in your ears. 

“Thank you.” The balding officer nodded. “My name is Detective Nakahara. I’ve been told you witnessed and were injured in tonight’s attack.” 

You thought the injury part was obvious, given your myriad of bandages and the fact you were sitting in the back of an ambulance, but you nodded to confirm anyway since your voice had abandoned you. 

This was it. He was going to ask you the damning question, and you were going to tell the truth. Lying to a hero in the heat of the moment had been one thing, but lying to a police officer during an official statement was another thing entirely. It would take one database search for them to confirm your quirk and Dynamight’s story, and then you really would be in trouble. Maybe imprisoned instead of deported. You cursed yourself for not knowing more about the laws that were going to quickly ruin your life. 

But… then Nakahara started asking you about the villain and what you saw, and you stuttered out an answer to the best of your ability. You thought this might have been a disarming tactic, to lull you into a false sense of security, but when you got to the part of the story where Dynamight burst through your window, the officer sighed. 

“I take it that’s your apartment there?” Detective Nakahara asked as he gestured to the gaping hole. 

“Y-Yes.” You nodded. “And I own the shop below.” 

Which you now realized looked no better than your apartment. The windows were all blown out, black scorch marks along the door frame, and you didn’t want to even think about the shape of the interior. 

“What kind of shop is it?” he followed up, but he sounded more curious than interrogatory. 

“Clothing alterations,” you said. “M-My grandparents were a tailor and seamstress. I inherited the shop about a year ago, after they passed.” 

“My condolences,” Nakahara murmured with a small dip of his head, and he seemed genuine. “For your grandparents, and your home and business.” 

You blinked in surprise at the turn in conversation. “O-Oh, thank you, that’s very kind.” 

“Do you have anywhere to go for the night, or were you on the way to the hospital?” he asked as he looked you over. 

“No,” you said quickly and then blushed. “I-I mean, my injuries aren’t serious enough for a hospital visit. Just some cuts and scrapes.” 

“Alright.” Nakahara nodded. “Is there any family we can call for you? Or take you to?” 

“N-No,” you repeated, a little more timidly this time. “My parents… don’t live around here, and I don’t really have any other family.” 

“Any friends?” he asked with a furrowed brow. 

Your face was red-hot now, and you dropped your eyes to your lap, fiddling with your bandaged fingers. What were you going to say? That you were an introvert, and the only “friends” you had were the old ladies who frequented your shop? 

“None that I would want to bother in the middle of the night,” you muttered before you suddenly remembered something. “But, um, one of the heroes said you could maybe take me to a hotel?” 

“Of course, we can take you right now, and we’ll also pay for the night,” the detective said. 

“Oh, you don’t have to—” you started to protest as you snapped your head up, but the officer held up a hand. 

“The city has funds to aid those displaced by villain attacks,” he explained. “The next forty-eight hours are guaranteed, so if I were you, I would use the opportunity to rest.” 

Detective Nakahara glanced down at your bandages, and you bit your lips as you nodded. 

“Okay, thank you for your help then, sir.” It was all you could think to say. 

“You’re welcome.” Nakahara nodded back at you and then reached out to help you out of the ambulance. “If you’ll come this way, we can have an officer collect some things from your apartment, and then we’ll head to the hotel and get you settled.” 

The finality in his tone and the idea of a hotel drew you up short. What… was happening? You had thought the detective was going to interrogate you about your quirk, not… chauffeur you to a nice hotel. 

The practical part of your brain was screaming for you to let it go, but the words were high-diving off your tongue before you could stop them. 

“I-Is that all?” 

Detective Nakahara paused and looked at you with a raised eyebrow. “Is what all?” 

“I—” Shut up, shut up, shut up! “You didn’t have any more questions for me?” 

“No,” the detective said simply. “We have your statement, and it matches the others we’ve obtained.” Here, he frowned and seemed to study you for a moment. “Did you have any other questions for me?” 

“I… was just wondering what the next steps are for my apartment and shop,” you blurted out the first thing you could think of. “Will the… city pay for repairs? Do I have to fill out some forms?” 

It was an honest question, a real one you had, but your mind was still reeling. He wasn’t going to ask about your quirk? Had… Had Dynamight not said anything? 

Nakahara sighed but held a hand out for you to take, and you absently let him help you down from the ambulance. Then he slowly began walking toward one of the police cars, and you had no choice but to follow since you were still holding onto his arm for balance. 

“Unfortunately,” the detective started, “the city will not be able to repair your home or business.” 

“Why?” you asked with a frown. “I thought you said there were funds.” 

“There are,” he said, and when you looked up at him, you noticed his lips were pursed into a thin line. “And, if the villain himself had thrown debris through your window, then the city would compensate you. But, in this situation, Dynamight caused the damaged.” 

The detective practically spat the blond hero’s name, and your surprise must have shown on your face because Nakahara quickly cleared his throat and schooled his expression. 

“Because of this, his agency will be responsible for repairs, so you will have to contact them,” the officer finished. 

Contact them? You had to contact Dynamight’s agency, which meant… fuck. You felt the blood drain from your face, and your expression must have shown your dismay because Nakahara patted your hand that was still looped through his arm 

“But you can worry about that tomorrow,” he said. “Let’s get your things and get you to the hotel so you can rest.” 

You nodded blankly and let the detective lead you to the open backseat of a police car. Nakahara called another officer over, and the woman asked you questions about where things were in your apartment. You answered numbly, listing out different clothing items and how to get to your bedroom. Then she was gone, and Nakahara stepped away to do something else, so you were suddenly left all alone. 

Unbidden, you looked up and searched for that pair of scarlet eyes, that head of ash-blond hair, but the explosive hero was suddenly nowhere to be found. 

The crime scene continued to bustle around you, but all the while, two thoughts circled each other in your head, like binary stars stuck in each other’s orbit: 

Dynamight didn’t reveal my secret. 

But I’m going to have to face him again.

[i-came-i-saw-i-loved]

Veni Vidi Amavi

Pairing: Doom Slayer x Reader

Reader type: gender neutral

Song:

Warnings:

An:

The cultist and The Sacrifice. Part 1.

"I am fragile and unholy. Open. Ravage. Eat."

- Tanaka Mhishi, Literary Sexts II (via ghost tearz)

Ash clung to your sweat-soaked skin. It filled your lungs. You were bathed in it. Watching as it fell from the sky like off colored snow. It silenced the world around you. No longer could you hear the cries of fellow humans. The laughing call of the demons.

All you were, was here and now.

The shackles digging into the flesh of your wrists. Ankles.

You breathe in more hot air. It dries out your already cracking and raw throat. Your lips were chapped and split. Your tongue thick and heavy in your mouth.

You were a fool to have come here. Or at least to have traveled alone. To one of the few habitable places on earth.

The Cultists had gotten you. The deranged group had gotten you late at night when you so foolishly slept.

The Sacrifice. They called you. The fucking sacrifice. They pulled your dirty clothes off and dressed you in a white long shirt. The hem brushing your knees.

They painted symbols into your skin. The paint sticky and burning to your sensitive skin.

The Sacrifice. They called you as they shackled you to what is now going to be your death bed.

The Sacrifice. So that the demons may leave them be. May save them from an eternity in hell.

You cried the first night. Drew blood as you pulled against the shackles. Desperately trying to pull at least one hand free.

The second night they came. The cult leader coming to check on you. To oh so sweetly brush your hair from your eyes. To assure you that this was for the greater good.

You bit his hand when it came near your mouth. Warm blood spilling and coating your lips. Your tongue. You gagged an sputtered and received a harsh smack across your face. One that made your ears ring and your lips to split.

The third night you called out for help.

From anyone.

A fellow human.

One of the demons just to put you out of your misery.

Or maybe your mother. Dead as she may be now.

The forth night. Here and now. You felt your body failing you.

Your breathing grew shallower.

You hadn't eaten or even drank anything when the Cultists had found you. Your body already weak and tired. And now?

All you wanted to do was watch the stars from the hole in the roof. Pretend that the falling ash was snow. Pretend that the ever-present heat was nothing more than a warm summer afternoon.

You were tired. Ready to rest. Give relief to your aching body.

Footsteps sounded to the right of you. Multiple.

You felt a clammy hand press to your forehead. You closed your eyes. Imagined your mother.

"They are still alive." A voice sounded above you.

"Amazing." Said another. "The will in this one is strong." The hand left. Metal sang against metal.

"We do not need strong wills. We need a sacrifice. Why have the demons not come yet to claim them? Were we wrong? Did we choose wrong?" Your eyes fluttered. Breath stolen as you caught a flash of stars in the parting of smog and clouds.

Here one moment and gone the next.

"We did not choose wrong. We have yet to choose wrong. Maybe they require blood this time around? The demon seemed displeased by our last sacrifice."

More talking that you tune out. Eyes trained to the world above. Wishing to see the stars once more. You were going to die here. You knew that now. Excepted it. You've tried. You've lived long on your now apocalyptic planet.

Death would be a welcome reprieve.

Movement from above made you tilt your head.

A glint of metal.

A flash of green.

The sound of screaming.

The Cultists around you came to life. Moving to shove broken shelves and tables in front of the doors. To the window.

"He is here!" One of them cried out. Almost wailing. Who was he? A person? The demon they were talking about?

It didn't matter. You moved your head back to the ceiling. Staring at the hole in the roof.

A face flooded your vision. Stringy brown hair surrounded them. Wide blown pupils turned their already dark eyes almost black. Lips pale and cracked.

They had a home once.

A family.

Is this why they were the way they are now? Because they lost them. Because they were desperate to find some sort of control in the new world?

It didn't matter. All you knew was what you saw. And what you saw was a mad man desperate to keep death at bay.

He had metal in his hand. His nails were dark and grimy. Filthy against the silver of the blade.

It shimmered in the dim light of the candles. Almost pretty if it wasn't going to be the cause of your death.

He held it high. Arced it into the air before it began its decent.

Blood splattered all over you. Hot and sticky as it clung to your once white shirt.

It wasn't yours though.

The man coughed and sputtered. Almost black blood frothing at his lips. His clothes bathed in it as he lurched forward.

He hit the table you were in then collapsed to the floor.

The shelves in front of the door had flown across the floor. One by one the Cultists fell. Bathed in red and yellow candlelight.

Booming shots made your ears ring. Rattled your teeth in your head.

As suddenly as it started it stopped. Silence.

Something pressed against your cheek. Once. Twice. You turned your head. Green.

God that was a lot of green.

You followed the green upwards and saw a helmeted head on top a very large body. Their frame heavy and immense.

Their metal finger pressed to your cheek again. So soft you barley felt it. It traveled up your cheek. To your temple. To the split skin on your brow and brushed loose hair from your forehead.

A deep rumbling hum sounded from the chest of the being.

And he left.

Turned on heel.

And left.

You wanted to cry then. Almost began willing your body to.

You wanted. Needed. Someone. Anyone.

Time passed. At least you think it did. Having dozed off only to be woken by the jerking of your leg.

The green metal man was back.

And he was breaking your shackles with nothing more than his hands.

He pulled your hand into the palm of his own.

Never had you felt so small before. From the heel of your hand to the tips of your fingers. Barely. Just barely did they fall over the side of his own.

The shackle broke.

He pulled the sleeve down. Hovered his fingers over your raw and bloodied skin. Then broke the other shackle.

.

.

.

The Slayer had no idea what he was doing. Why he was doing this.

He questioned himself again and again as he drew this person into his arms. One arm propping them up. The other holding a bottle of water to their lips.

It took then longer than he wanted for them to recognize the water bottle.

Just how long had they been here for?

Why did he care?

They drank greedily. Hands coming up to rest on his one like a newborn child. They whimpered as he drew it away.

Didn't they realize they couldn't drink that quickly? Everything would come back up and they would be in a worse state than before.

And that's how he stood for the next few minutes. Maybe an hour. Holding them in his arm. Giving them water.

His eyes traced over their features.

To their lips and glossy eyes. To the too thin figure of their frame. The dirt and grime covering them.

The powerful grip on his hand despite the sorry state they were in.

And in a moment of humanity.

He took them with him.

Brought them back through the portal and to his, sort of, home.

They were resting on him. Having fallen asleep in the sort time between here and there.

He hoped he wouldn't regret this.

He took them to his room. Placed them on his bed as he stripped from his armor before bringing them to the bathroom.

Filling the large tub like flooring with warm water.

He undressed them. Gently pulling away fabric stuck to old wounds.

Not once did they stir as he washed them. Their hair. Not even scrunching their nose as he washed their face.

He placed them into one of his few shirts after they were dry. The fabric to large on their body.

He saw one to many protruding ribs. The hip bones peeking through their skin.

Food. They needed food after they woke. But first.

He followed Vega's instructions on giving them an IV. On bandaging their many wounds. On easing the bruises.

He covered your body with a blanket. It could get cold here. And while he barely felt it anymore, he could already see the goosebumps covering your arms.

The Slayer sat there for a moment. Your chest rises and fall as you breathed. He brought his hand up again. This time without his gauntlet. And brushed his fingers over your cheek.

Fire spilled over his fingers. Jolted up his arm.

The first time he's been this close to another since. Since.

He sighed. Got up. Adjusted the blanket. And left to wait for you to wake up.

Something turned in the pits of his stomach since meeting you.

And the Slayer was determined to figure out what it was and why you caused it.