#i love frank when hes like let me unleash all of this anger that comes w my sadness Here

[frvnkcastles]

May I please request something w Frank where he has a punching bag set up in the apartment, and whenever you're over at his and you feel so many emotions flare up you excuse yourself sweetly and beat the hell out of the bag? And it gets to the point where you use the spare key when he's away just to use the bag? And when he comes back from an outing as the punisher he finds you curled up on the couch with split knuckles, a boxers fracture and crying, bot only from the pain of the fracture but just all of the emotions. And he takes you to the hospital to get your hands seen to and you have to wear a splint for a month which hinders you in which he helps?

Just comfort, maybe a touch 18+ when he has to help you bathe and change? Thank you!

THE WARMTH OF YOUR ARMS ➵ F. CASTLE

Summary: You fracture your hand while channeling all your emotions into Frank’s punching bag, and he looks after you.

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, implied sexual content, gender neutral reader

Word count: 2.3k

Author’s note: Anon I am truly sooo sorry it took me so long to get to this, I really hope it was worth the wait! Sending you much love <3

Dating Frank came with many perks, like always having a guard dog disguised as a big, burly man or coming home just to find dinner ready and a bath about to be drawn. He took amazing care of you and he wouldn’t have it any other way, and it made you indescribably happy. That said, you still had a lot of stress and anger and sadness to get off of your shoulders, and that was where another upside of being Frank came in.

He had a punching bag set up in his apartment, just for his convenience, and you found great enjoyment in watching him beat it up, all sweaty and breathing heavily. But when you came over to his place after a long, frustrating day at work, the annoyance too much to bear, he suggested giving the punching bag a go. He showed you how to angle your fists and how to avoid hurting yourself, and as soon as he let go of you, you rained Hell on the bag, grunting and shouting while unleashing all your rage.

Ever since, your go-to for releasing pent-up emotions was attacking the bag, and Frank encouraged it. It helped you in ways that talking couldn’t always do, even if Frank always made sure to check in with you afterwards and calmed you down with lots of kisses and caresses. It was a good outlet for you, and he liked to see you free that animal inside of you that just needed to hurt something to feel better.

”Want you to have this, sweetheart”, Frank spoke up one day, approaching you on the couch of his living room with something in his fingertips. Once he handed it over, you realized it was a key, and instantly, your heart fluttered in your chest. It was a big step in your relationship, and he could see the surprise in your eyes, prompting him to go on. ”I know, I know. I just want ya to know that you’re always welcome here and that you have the right to stop by even if I ain’t home. I know you love that punching bag, so want you to use it anytime you’d like, yeah?” he explained, the look in his eyes serious. When you gave him an eager nod, though, he broke into a smile.

”I’ll take you up on that, baby.”

And you did. The bag wasn’t the only reason you visited, you also liked to take care of him the same way he took care of you by cleaning up or cooking for him, or leaving a new book on his bedside table. Still, you appreciated the chance to de-stress whenever you wanted, and you claimed that offer on multiple occasions.

The first time you regretted it was on a particularly bad day. Your emotions were getting the best of you and you felt so burdened and weighed down, unsure what else to do except go to Frank’s apartment. You knew he was out doing his thing, so you couldn’t get support from him, leaving you no option to go at the punching bag.

As you punched and punched, tears prickled at your eyes and you began to lose track of time. Your vision blurred and your head pounded, just like you were pounding the bag with your fists. You felt so angry and defeated at the same time, it was gnawing at you from the inside and you just wanted the bad feeling to go away.

You fell into a daze that you couldn’t break out of — until your hand cracked against the bag and the shock of the pain got a wail out of you. You stopped, doubling over while holding your hand, and pained cries escaped your mouth. The ache was terrible and agonizing and you couldn’t move your hand properly, sending panic coursing through you. Your breathing became ragged and as your head was spinning, you stumbled over to Frank’s couch to ground yourself and avoid falling over.

You supported your hand with your other one, unable to stop crying as the pain mixed in with the storm of emotions inside you. You were overwhelmed and it was causing you to freeze when you should have called Frank, your body shutting down while you sobbed on the couch.

You lucked out, as Frank had called it an early night and headed home sooner than expected. Once he made it to his front door, he heard your cries from inside, and within seconds, worry flared up in his chest and he was rushing to get inside. Whatever had happened, he needed to help you, not caring about the grime on him or the swelling on his eye anymore.

Bursting through the door, he dropped his bag on the floor and stomped over to you, eyes wide with concern. ”Baby, baby, what happened? Hey, ’m here, talk to me. Are you hurt?” he questioned, quickly assessing the situation and noticing you holding your hand in pain. He felt sick to his stomach, not to mention impatient to get to the bottom of what had happened — he didn’t do so well with being in the dark, especially when it came to something as important as you and your well-being.

”I had a terrible day, so—so I came here to punch it out but I really hurt my hand and I just feel so awful”, you rambled, almost non-sensical but Frank understood enough of it. His frown deepened but he nodded to confirm that he got you, and softly, he reached to wipe away your tears from your warm cheeks.

”I gotchu, darlin’. Can I see that hand? Lemme look”, he requested, and shaking viciously, you let him cradle your hand and observe it carefully. When he turned it just a little, you winced, and he immediately felt bad. ”Sorry, sweetheart. Think it’s fractured. I’mma gonna take you to the emergency room, aight?” he explained, and still weeping, you nodded. He sighed and leaned in to kiss your forehead, hoping to console you at least a little.

”It’s gon’ be okay, I promise. You can tell me all about your day soon, sweetheart. We just need to get that hand looked at”, he insisted before helping you up from the couch and leading you to the front door. And before stepping out, he sent a mean glare at the punching bag, reconsidering whether it was a good idea to have it or not.

He drove you to the emergency room, feeling like shit the whole time. You were holding your hand and sniffling the entire drive and he kept telling you it would be alright and he wasn’t going anywhere, but it didn’t alleviate his anguish. He wanted to take your pain away, both physical and emotional, leaving him feeling hopeless when he couldn’t do that.

You were fortunate in that it wasn’t too busy at this time of the night, and a doctor was able to see you after only a moment of waiting. Frank stood behind you while you were being examined, practically your protective shadow, and you felt a little better about your shitty day just because he was there. You hadn’t gotten to rant yet, but only his presence had a soothing effect on you.

You had to get your hand x-rayed, turning your night into a long one, but while you were waiting for the results, Frank got you some snacks for the vending machine. He watched you closely as you sadly munched on a chocolate bar, lacking all enthusiasm, and he could tell you had been completely drained by the day.

”What happened today, huh? We got some time, so ’m all ears, sweetheart. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?” he inquired with a solemn look. He hated that you were hurting on the outside, but he knew the doctor would be able to do more than he could himself, so he decided to focus on what was happening on the inside.

Sighing, you glanced at him. ”It feels stupid now. Probably wasn’t worth breaking my hand”, you pointed out, and with an unamused chuckle, Frank gave your shoulder a slight nudge.

”C’mon. Y’know I don’t mind. I wanna hear all ’bout what’s goin’ on with my baby”, he emphasized, knowing that without a little pressure you would have just bottled it up, and he didn’t like that. He wanted to know everything, help in any way he could, and he wouldn’t allow you to feel bad for leaning on him.

So, you detailed everything that had pushed you over the edge and made you feel so terrible. Sometimes it was hard to understand the extreme emotions in you but up until now, the punching bag had been a great way for you to release everything.

”That sounds real tough, darlin’. I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner, y’know? I never wanna see you hurtin’ in any way”, he sighed once you were finished, caressing your unharmed hand. ”Thinkin’ we gotta get rid of the punching bag. I ain’t riskin’ you gettin’ banged up like this again. We’ll figure somethin’ else out, yeah?” he noted, though he wasn’t really looking to debate about it — to him, it was already a done deal. Anything that got you hurt was out immediately.

”Talking to you helps. Thanks for listening, Frankie”, you admitted, smiling at him softly, and he returned it, albeit smaller and sneakier.

”Anytime, sweetheart. Love you, aight? I’mma make sure tomorrow is a better day”, he swore, warming your heart as you dropped your head onto his shoulder.

”Love you, too.”

Finally, the doctor called you back in, and as feared, your hand was fractured. The remedy was a splint you were bound to wear for a month, and as he attached it to your hand, you thought about all the things you were going to struggle with for the next 30 days.

”Some help will probably be needed with routine things like cooking, cleaning, that kind of stuff”, the doctor mentioned, and before you even had time to feel bad and like a burden, Frank was responding.

”That ain’t a problem. I’ll take care of everythin’ for as long as necessary”, he stated simply, giving you a stern look. ”No arguments, you hear me? I’m lookin’ after you, not gonna let you outta my sight”, he proclaimed, and unable to hide a smile, you agreed.

He took you home and right away, you were faced with problems that only Frank could help with. ”I was hoping to take a bath…”, you trailed off shyly, but it was all Frank needed to hear.

”You got it, sweetheart. C’mere”, he wrapped an arm around you and steered you into the bathroom where he plugged the tub before starting the tap. As the tub began to fill up, he gently reached for the hem of your shirt, giving you a questioning look. ”Aight if I help you undress?” he asked, and already nodding, you lifted your arms.

”Always”, you affirmed, and with consent acquired, he began peeling your clothes off. He started with your shirt, and as soon as your chest was revealed, his eyes lingered. You could tell he was trying to be respectful, but you grinned, nonetheless. ”See something you like, mister?” you teased, and with a snort, Frank licked his lips.

”Y’know I do. Can’t get enough of you, darlin’”, he praised, his eyes dark as he towered over you and unbuttoned your jeans. As he shimmied them down your thighs and legs, he brushed his hands across your underwear and you saw him swallow hard. ”Fuckin’ perfect”, he muttered under his breath, boosting your ego as he tossed your jeans aside.

Once you were completely naked, he had to stop himself from letting his hands roam, although you wouldn’t have minded. Still, he showed restraint as he helped you step into the tub and get seated comfortably. Rolling up his sleeves, he grabbed the shampoo, ready to wash your hair for you, and you felt heat rise to your face at the thought of your own uselessness.

”Sorry about this”, you sighed as he was massaging your scalp, his thick fingers expertly scrubbing the shampoo into your hair. It was going to be a long month, and you feared he would get sick of it, but he was quick to reassure otherwise.

”Nah, don’t apologize, sweetheart. I’ll always take care of you, got that? I ain’t lettin’ you go through this alone”, he vowed, his loyalty to you unwavering. He had been unable to prevent you getting hurt in the first place, but he sure as hell was going to stick around for the aftermath. ”Think you should stay here for the next month, yeah? Don’t want you strugglin’ at home by yourself”, he added, and with a careful smile, you nodded.

”I’d like that”, you beamed before continuing, ”you sure it’s gonna be okay?”

With a confident smile, Frank stopped massaging your hair just enough to tilt his head at you and meet your gaze. ”I’m sure, sweet darlin’. I’mma make sure things go smoothly”, he spoke with conviction, fully intending to take care of everything for the next month — and after that, too.

He stayed true to his word. Your fractured hand came in the way of far more things than you had anticipated, but Frank watched you like a hawk and you never had to ask, he was already there. He cooked for you, letting you take charge with some of the easier steps to involve you in the process, and he helped you get dressed every morning, admittedly with wandering hands and a hungry stare. He wouldn’t let you do anything by yourself, just to be safe, but he also didn’t let you feel like a burden, always ready to console you and remind you that you were one day closer to getting the splint off.

And just like he had said, the punching bag was gone.

[cmcsmen]

Forgive And Be Forgiven

By Frank J Casella

Photo: 'Where There Is No Love' - "Where there is not love, put love. And then you will find love." - Saint John of the Cross - Copyright 2017 Frank J Casella

Forgive and be forgiven. This is a message that we should all live by. It is the key to a happy and successful life.

When you forgive, you set yourself free. The pain and hurt of the past no longer has control over you. By forgiving, you open up the possibility of moving on.

When you forgive, you are forgiving not just the person who has wronged you, but it's important that you are also forgiving yourself. Forgiveness is a gift you give to yourself, and in turn, you receive a gift of healing and peace. 

What you can't control is how others will react towards you, but you can control how forgiving you are and how it affects you.

In other words, the more you forgive, the more forgiveness comes back to you. 

Matthew 6:14 - If you forgive others their transgressions, your heavenly Father will forgive you.

Matthew 18:21 - Then Peter approaching asked him, “Lord, if my brother sins against me, how often must I forgive him? As many as seven times?” 

* [18:21–35] The final section of the discourse deals with the forgiveness that the disciples are to give to their fellow disciples who sin against them. To the question of Peter how often forgiveness is to be granted (Mt 18:21), Jesus answers that it is to be given without limit (Mt 18:22) and illustrates this with the parable of the unmerciful servant (Mt 18:23–34), warning that his heavenly Father will give those who do not forgive the same treatment as that given to the unmerciful servant (Mt 18:35). Mt 18:21–22 correspond to Lk 17:4; the parable and the final warning are peculiar to Matthew. That the parable did not originally belong to this context is suggested by the fact that it really does not deal with repeated forgiveness, which is the point of Peter’s question and Jesus’ reply.

Forgiveness will unleash a power in your life that is underrated and often ignored. It is underrated mainly because it is underused. We fail to capture the power of forgiveness because we are afraid of it, because we have grown comfortable in our familiar wounds, or because we are sinfully stubborn. But the power is there waiting for us.

The lesson is simple: Give forgiveness and you will unleash a flood of grace on yourself and on those around you. When you clench your fists and show anger toward someone, you have no room in your heart for God to place His hand in yours. Replace your clenched fist with an open hand and watch as God fills your soul to overflowing.

Resentment and bitterness prevent us from living fully in the present and moving forward. They can also lead to negative emotions, like anger and resentment, which can harm our physical and mental health. And, sadly, resentment and bitterness can also lead to death.

Instead, let go of the past and welcome forgiveness into your life. This will allow you to live more fully in the present and embrace your life as it is meant to be.

Pope Francis reminded that the Church is not for the perfect but for the rest of us who need to be forgiven. "If I see someone who is walking forward with his nose in the air, thinking he is better than anyone else, I tell him to put his nose down," Francis said in a speech to the presidents of bishops' conferences. "The church is not for the perfect, it's for the rest of us."

Forgiveness can be a tricky emotion. We often do it wrong in both action and outlook. Maybe we think it is easy, until someone wounds us deeply. Or we think it’s a sign of weakness, until we realize the strength it takes to give and receive it.

We might even think that forgiveness has a limit. That there are some things that can’t be forgiven, shouldn’t be forgiven. But God’s promise is always greater than our past. And that’s the power of forgiveness. It’s the ability to move forward together with Christ, despite the pain of the past.

[sparkledfirecracker]

Sunny Fall Out

Synth’s 5K Follower Challenge / How it started – How’s it going?

@syntheticavenger , again congrats on reaching 5K 😊!

Title: Sunny Fall Out

Pairing: Frank Adler x Female Reader

Challenge: Frank Adler / Babysitting Mary

Warning: Swearing and fluff

My blog is an 18+ only zone, minors do not interact. Don’t let the fluff fool you.

A/N: My second entry for Synt’s 5K follower challenge. This fluff entered my brain while working on this dark filthy twisted mobster story. Took a break to write up this fluffy drabble for the lovely anon who requested this for the challenge. Lightly proofread, so all mistakes are my own. ENJOY!

Pictures for moodboard found on Pinterest, credit to the respectful owners!

How it started:

Frank Adler, your next door neighbour, with his complicated character. He was your weakness, his toned physique, his hard working ethic and his devotion to Mary. Exhaustion had overtaken your body when Frank ambushed you. There he had stood; practically begging you to watch Mary for a couple of hours. Roberta being out for the day and he had no-one else to turn to.

You loved that little girl and wouldn’t — nor couldn’t — say no to an opportunity to watch her. Even when you were exhausted and all you wanted to do was catch up on some much needed sleep.

Hours had been filled with chatter, pillow fort building and currently; watching a movie allowing you to doze off. It hadn’t been long when your nap was interrupted, the snuggled up girl moving with impatience.

“How about we paint some nails?” You croak

“YES!” An exciting peep from the small human. “What colour?”

“We can check, there is tons of different shades.” You smiled, getting up and grabbing your keys out of your bag. “I’ll be right back, don’t burn down the house, okay?”

“I won’t.” A mini promise before you hurried next door.

Only briefly getting used to the comfort of your home. You grabbed the small basket with nail polishes and remover. Running back and settling back down in the homemade fort. It hadn’t taken you long to decide on a colour, pink with a glittery shimmer.

“Mary, sit still.” You chirped firming your hold.

“You’re tickling me.” The foot in your hand tried to wriggle out of your grasp. Loud giggles erupting from the small body on your opposite.

“If you keep this up you’ll have more nail polish on your skin than the actual toenails.” You giggle, hearing the door open and keys being tossed on the table with a loud thud.

Frank leaned his hands down on the table. He looked like he had a rough day with whatever he had to do.

“We’re painting toenails.” Mary gleamed showing him the foot we were working on.

“Are you serious?” He sounded aggravated. Mary’s face dropped at Franks annoyed words. Assuming she’d experienced a minor outburst from him before. You couldn’t get a good read on him and opted for the immediate apology.

“Sorry, I thought it might be okay, since it’s only her toenails -- they can be hidden.” Screwing the brush back on the bottle. “I should have asked first.”

“You should have indeed.” He growled

“Mary come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” The disappointed pout on her pale face made your heart sink. Getting up and holding your hand out for her.

“Thanks for watching her, but I didn’t expect to come back to all this girly nonsense and fucking mess.” Frank grumbled. His impatience growing when you weren’t moving fast enough “Just leave it and get out already.” His annoyance had softened when he spoke the harsh words, too late for an apology now.

“Shut up Frank, I thought it was a nice gesture.” Dropping Mary’s hand and pushing past Frank’s body. You turned around to look at him. “You just didn’t have to be a dick about it.” Slamming the door on your way out.

Large steps taken to your house next door, balled fists by your side while you mumbled angrily to yourself. Fighting the tears that were threatening to fall from being exhausted and emotional, clearly the lack of sleep coursing your body. A squeal escaped when you were tugged -- a little too roughly -- on your arm, making you spin around. Frank!

“Leave me alone, you ignorant prick.” You tried breaking free from his grasp, hitting his arm with your free hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry won’t cut it.” You spat tears now streaming down your cheeks from the overwhelming tiredness consuming your body.

“It’ll have to do”

“It won’t and you know what,” You took in a sharp breath “You’re such an asshole you know that? I did something nice for Mary and here you come, barging in and being all rude and taking your shitty mood out on me. She looked devastated about having to take off some innocent nail polish. I did you a favour when you practically begged me to babysit her. It is just nail polish, Frank, not a full blown makeover to become the next pageant queen of the state…”

The anger unleashed onto him had made you feel slightly better. Before you could speak two large hands had pulled you in and enveloped your lips harshly. The shock made time stand still and then your thoughts recollected themselves at what was happening. Trying to push him off.

“I am really sorry,” Frank looks down at you taking in your features, his cheeks blushed. “I shouldn’t have taken out my rough day on you, it’s just -- it’s just Evelyn making life difficult for a second time ‘round”

You knew his mother was ruthless when it came to Mary. He had told you some small stuff, but knew their relationship was complicated. You’d seen her once and she made shivers run down your spine. She didn’t look like a pleasant person to be around.

Your face softened at his explanation “You want to talk about it over a couple of beers?”

“No, I don’t”

“You don’t want beer? I am truly shocked.” You feigned a gasp, clutching your chest in shocked surprise.

“I want the beer; I don’t want to talk -- I want to make it up to you.”

“For what exactly, Frank?”

“Being an asshole, can I persuade you with an offer of beer and pizza?” It wasn’t really a question, but it was a nice sincere suggestion.

You contemplated for a moment, you grabbed his face and risen to your toes. Pulling him down in your cradled grip and pressing your lips gently to his.

“Does this mean she can paint my nails again?” Mary shouted from the door. Breaking away from the kiss, Frank let’s out a grunt and you both turn your head towards the blonde girl grinning widely in the opening.

“MARY! Get inside”

“Play nice asshole.” With a giggle you slapped his chest playfully.

How’s it going – 6 months later

Your sundress clung to your body, yelping at the cold water from the exploded water balloon. You’re quick to grab the hose holding it in Mary’s direction, joyful shrieks filling the air.

“STOP! STOP!” She yelled, trying to fight her way towards you.

“No, you started it, you’ll finish it.” You laughed continuing to pour the cold water on her.

She fell down and let out a frustrated sob. You initially thought she’d gotten hurt, but when you reached her she full blown sprayed you with her water gun.

“That’s cheating.” You protested, you turn your head at the large grumble from the familiar truck you had been waiting to see. Mischief coursing through your body and you look down at Mary who expresses the same delight as you. “Let’s get Frank.”

“YES!!!” The exhilaration clearly visibly, jumping up and down.

Hiding around the corner you watch Frank approach the house, unknowingly, scanning through the mail. Mary runs up to him with her water gun and you throw some water balloons his way. Hitting him on his head and arm.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME!” Frank growled looking at the both of you giggling. “This is how I get welcomed home?” He opened the door and tossed the mail inside, before returning with a wide grin, grabbing a filled bucket by the door and running your way.

“RUN” Mary shrieked heading off, Frank followed in her tracks. Grabbing her by the arm and locking her between his legs. Her frantic movements were no match to his firm hold and she screeches when the cold water is poured down on her.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the interaction. Frank whispers something in her ear and she nods. He lets her go and he waves at you, raising your eyebrow in confusion, but soon realize that Mary is running your way.

“You traitor.” You chuckle pointing towards Mary.

Running away quickly, sprinting around the house trying to dodge Mary. She launches her small body at you, hanging onto you like a Koala. It has clearly slowed you down and before you know it Frank catches you, securing you in his grasp. Mary let’s go and runs away.

“I missed you.” You muse giving him a quick peck on his lips, batting your eyelashes at him.

“I missed you too, but that cute look is not going to charm me.” He places a gentle kiss on your lips, pulling back giving you a devilish look. “We’ve got other ways to deal with naughty girls like you.” With ease Frank lifts you over your shoulder, you slap his ass animatedly trying to get him to put you down.

[jiejie-eonni-onee-sama]

Miss Independent...

For the sweet @queenofgotham800​ and @onemoreparadise​

Hope you will enjoy the story!​

She got her own thing.

That's why I love her!

Miss independent,

Won't you come and spend a little time?

She got her own thing.

That's why I love her!

Miss independent.

Oh, the way she shines,

Miss independent!

Miss Independent - Ne Yo (2008)

Sitting in the bar, Victor silently drank his glass of whiskey while watching the other patrons getting drunk, flirting, puking on the floor, or dancing like dislocated puppets.

He growled: they were all pathetic! He did not know how his boss manages to tolerate those jackasses in his club.

Something caught his eye, and he looked at a young brown-haired woman, who leaned her elbows on the counter.

She has something in her attitude that interested him: she did not look like the other girls. This one might be more appealing than he thought.

Smirking, he got up and walked towards her. 

Victor cleared his throat and asked:

"Hey, pretty! You enjoy the party?"

The young woman turned her head and answered:

"Not really. I'd rather not be like those clowns!"

Zsasz chuckled: he already liked her!

"Well, we have this in common. But those idiots make my boss rich, so I had to put up with them!"

"I guess so... But at least, the drinks are good!" she smirked.

"Glad to hear that!"

She slightly frowned when she noticed the scars on his face.

"I see... You must be Victor Zsasz, Roman Sionis's most trusted henchman!"

"Oh? You've heard about me?"

"Who doesn't hear about you in Gotham?" 

He shrugged.

"I don't know... Maybe those who think Roman is defenseless!"

He leaned closer to the young woman:

"And you, who are you?"

She grinned.

"Do you really want to know my name? Or it's just a formality before shagging me?"

Victor raised his eyebrows: she was quite frank about that!

"Even if it's not that obvious, I have some manners. I prefer asking the name of the person I want to have in my bed tonight!"

"Oh? Is that a proposition?"

"Only if you're interested!"

As she was about to answer, a drunken guy stumbled near to her and asked in a slurred voice:

"Hey, baby! Wanna have some fun tonight? I've got everything you want!"

"No, thank you! I've already found my fun!" she answered with a cold tone.

But the alcoholic did not take "no" as an answer, and he gripped her wrist.

"You will come with me, you little..."

He did not finish his sentence as a foot in his face sending him backward, with a broken nose.

Zsasz was impressed, to say the least: he thought he would peeling off this jerk's face, but it looked like the lady can defend herself.

"Mh, you know how to kick ass, right?"

"In a city like this, you better learn fast how to be a predator!"

A wide grin came across his face: he was lucky, tonight!

"So, about my proposition... You're still interested?"

"Well... I bet you know how to have fun!"

He gave her his best hungry smile.

"I have many tricks in my sleeve... Why don't you come with me?"

Her smile gave him butterflies in the stomach. She had some magnetic charisma that attracted him. Victor did not know why, but this girl would save his night!

"Okay, I follow. Are we going to your place, or you prefer a hotel room?"

"My place: it's not far from here!"

She got up from her seat and said:

"Shall we go, or do you plan to talk to me all night long?"

"You're a woman of few words, eh? I like that!"

The pair left the club and walked to Victor's place. After a few minutes, they arrived at the flat. No sooner had they entered the flat than they were already on the bed, feverishly kissing each other. They get undressed in a hurry, craving touch from each other.

His hands slowly wandered all over her body, making her sigh with pleasure. As for her, she slightly touched his scars, mentally counting each tally on his skin.

"Memories?" she asked.

"Kind of..." he muttered.

Victor inquired:

"But you did not tell me your name?"

Smirking, she leaned close to him and whispered:

"You know what? Just call me baby tonight."

Grinning, the killer pinned her down on the mattress:

"As you wish... Baby!"

And they resumed their lovemaking with unleashed desire, discovering each other's bodies and making the other scream their name. As he gets lost in her arms, Victor thought that his night was not wasted...

The next morning.

When Victor woke up, he felt that he was alone in the bed. As he stretched out, he realized that he was all alone in his flat. There was no sound of the shower or anything that could state her presence. 

Suddenly, he noticed a piece of paper on his nightstand. Unfolding it, he read its contents:

It was a likable night. Nice to meet you. Baby.

No phone number, no address: obviously, the lady did not want to extend the experience. A bitter grin appeared on Victor's face: usually, he was the one who ran away after dawn, leaving his one-night stand alone. But this time, he was the one left. 

Given the lady's character, he should not be surprised: it looked like Baby - as she called herself - loved to preserve her independence. 

However, there was something within this girl that fascinated him, but he cannot tell what. Her confidence, her appearance, her sarcastic comments... Or, maybe everything?

The scarred guy sighed: he would probably never know the answer. How will he find this girl in a city as big as Gotham?

As he got up, Victor sighed: definitively, she knew what she wanted and did not care what the others would say.

Really, she was an independent woman and never looked back. A tough girl, the kind he liked.

"You know how to break guys, uh? Miss Independent..."

A few months later.

"FUCK! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!"

Victor sighed as Roman kicked a man out of his room, fuming with anger. For some days, Mr. Sionis tried to hire new henchmen for his business... And it was not successful, to say the least.

While the candidate ran for his life, Roman yelled:

"Damn it! Is it too hard to find competent guys, or is it just me?" ranted Roman as he threw his cushion on the wall.

"You're right, Boss. They are useless!"

"Yeah, I have noticed! But they just wasted my time... AND I FUCKING HATE THAT!" 

Victor patted Roman's shoulder, trying to calm him down.

"It's okay, Boss: we will find qualified guys."

"I hope so..." muttered Roman as he sipped his Martini glass.

Suddenly, Miss Lee, Roman's secretary, appeared and said:

"Sir, one last candidate is waiting outside..."

"Ah, really?"

"Indeed. Shall I let her in?"

"Her? You mean that a girl wants to work for me?"

"It is the case. Do you want to see this candidate?"

The mob boss shrugged.

"After all, why not? Tell her to come in!"

"Alright, sir." answered the secretary before walking out the room.

Sionis smirked:

"How funny. Can you believe it, Vic? A girl wants to cross swords with the toughest guys of Gotham! Either she is crazy, or she is a badass!"

"Wait and see, Roman," smirked Victor.

A few seconds later, Miss Lee arrived, escorting a young woman.

"Mr. Sionis, your last candidate..."

The moment he saw the young woman, Victor nearly screamed in surprise: it cannot be! 

As for Roman, he gave his most charming smile and welcomed the young woman:

"Good afternoon, dear. Sorry for the waiting: I was pretty busy."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sionis." answered the girl.

"The pleasure is mine. Yet, you know my name, but I don't know yours. May I know it?"

"Of course: my name is (Y/N)"

"(Y/N)..." mumbled Victor.

Oblivious of his right-hand man's turmoil, Roman gestured to (Y/N):

"Please, take a seat. Fancy a drink?"

"No, thanks. I want to stay clean..."

"Uh, interesting... Alright, let's get down to business: why do you want to work for me?"

"Honestly, you're the only mob boss who pays his employees well. Furthermore, you're the only one who accepts the idea of a woman working for him."

"Honestly, I was taken aback when my secretary told me about you. But, after all, I can give it a try."

He smirked.

"However, I must be honest: I am a demanding boss, and I only work with professionals."

Victor knew what Roman meant, and he was quite intrigued: will (Y/N) manage to succeed?

"What do you want from me?" asked the young woman.

"You know, as I try to find competent people for my security, I want to be sure that my employees know how to fight..."

"Who should I fight?"

She glanced at Victor with a smirk.

"Do you want me to fight your loyal Mister Zsasz?"

"No, no, no: Victor is too important... But I have to admit that you like the challenge."

"Life is no fun without challenges!"

Sionis laughed.

"You're far more interesting than I expected! Let's see if you're a good fighter! STAN!"

A tall blonde muscular man appeared in the room.

"Yeah, boss?"

"Fight that girl: if she kicks your ass, she is hired! Otherwise, I don't care!"

Stan had a dirty smile.

"Can she be my toy if I win?"

"You pig!" she growled, unpleased.

"If you want... Now, fight!" answered Roman.

Stan launched a punch at (Y/N). But she easily avoided it, much to Roman and his henchmen's surprise.

As for Stan, he was shocked: nobody escaped his punches. And he was not out of the woods...

"That's all? Too slow... My turn!" she replied before violently kicking his ribs, breaking one or two bones in the process.

"Ouch! That hurts, for sure!" grimaced Roman.

"Sure, it must be..." answered Victor... who secretly enjoyed seeing this idiot of Stan beaten by (Y/N).

Speaking of the latter, he was pissed! This little bitch would pay for that!

"Come here, you..."

"No thanks!" she said before catching his arm and pinning him down.

Once her opponent down, she twisted his arm, breaking it.

"Next time you dare speak to me, you better show me some respect, or I'll smash your skull! Am I clear?" 

Nodding with panic, Stan exited the room, holding his broken arm. 

Satisfied, (Y/N) turned to Roman and asked:

"Am I hired?"

"For sure, you are! You are a tough woman, and I like that! Can you start today?"

"Sure, Mister Sionis."

"Wonderful, my dear (Y/N). Welcome to my organization! Tonight, you will be with Victor and me at the club. Speaking of that, he will show you the main points of my territory."

He ordered Victor:

"Take the car and show her the main places. You have time until 9 p.m. Is that good for you?"

"Sure, boss." answered the scarred man with a nod.

He picked the keys and gestured:

"Follow me, (Y/N)."

"I arrive. See you later, boss."

Once the two are in the car, Victor asked:

"So, your real name was (Y/N)?"

"Yes, and so? What's the matter?"

He looked at her:

"Why you did not tell me your real name?"

"Honestly, you and I were just good for a one-night stand, and nothing more. So, I did not see the purpose to tell you my name?"

"You got the point... I have another question."

"Go ahead."

"Why you decided to work for Roman?"

"Because I knew you would be there..."

Victor raised an eyebrow.

"Really?"

"Yes. Because, as surprising as it sounds... I really enjoyed my night with you... And you are the most interesting man I ever met."

Zsasz chuckled.

"Well, that's flattering."

(Y/N) smirked.

"Now, that's my turn to ask you a question: when I arrived, I saw that you were surprised to see me, and also... happy. Why?"

Victor seemed embarrassed.

"You have noticed, uh? Well, you're right: I did not expect to see you again, after the note you left. And I was happy because... you're really my type of girl. Smart, tough, and badass. So, I was vexed when you left..."

"I thought that it was you want. And for once it was the girl who let first..."

Victor laughed.

"You're right: it changed, for once. But what bothered me was that for once I found an interesting girl, she vanished before dawn."

"Now, here I am!"

"Yes, here you are..."

He leaned close to her.

"After work, fancy a drink at my place?"

"With pleasure, dear. And this time, I won't disappear!" she smirked.

"Glad to hear that... Now, let's go: we have a long drive before us!"

During the drive, Victor and (Y/N) tried to catch up on time by trying to know each other.

Finally, he found his Miss Independent, and he won't let her go...

Thanks for the reading!

I hope you enjoyed the story that was slightly inspired by this wonderful crackship made by @onemoreparadise​ that I requested!

Don’t hesitate to send me requests!

See you later and stay safe! 😍😘🥰😷

[dapandapod]

Hi, I have a Geraskier prompt for you. Jaskier jumps in front of a spell aimed at Geralt. Geralt yells at Jaskier. They have no clue what the spell did until they get to town and Jaskier loses his memory of Geralt (the spell erases the thing he loves most). As Jaskier has been gravely injured before, Geralt decides to let him go. Jaskier goes back to Oxenfurt but something keeps nagging at him. Geralt keeps an eye on him from afar until Jaskier gets in trouble and Geralt saves him

Hi my lovely anon! I love this and it might have turned into a bigger thing than I expected! Thank you so much for your prompt and I would love to hear from you again!

There will be a part two written soon! Because this is just the beginning!

It’s on Ao3! 

Edit: part two! Part three! Part four!

                                    ~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~

                                        Hollow - Part 1

There is a vibration in the air. A pulsing energy coming from the woman in front of them. Chaos gathering and redying to unleash itself upon them. She is anger and hurt and shuddering breaths and thunder and sadness. The hairs on Geralt's arms rise, her magic so palpable he can almost touch it. She is very strong, but untrained. She can bring the chaos to her, she can shape it and give it intent, and she can most likely kill this entire village. Geralt flexes his grip on the sword. He has to time this exactly right. He raises his other hand, ready to sign Aard if need be.

~

In the end he doesn’t time it right. The world screeches to a halt, everything is white, red, blurry, and then Jaskier is falling to his knees in front of Geralt. “No.” Geralt breathes. “No no no, Jaskier! I told you to stay back!” The woman in front of them laughs an empty laugh. “I am sorry, witcher. I meant it for them, for you, but maybe this is better.” Her smile is without malice, without life, without colour.She puts her face to the darkening sky, admiring the first eager starsp peeking out on the night sky. Her skin turns grey, and slowly she is ash in the wind.

“Let it hurt you like it hurt me.” Her shadow whispers and she is gone.

Geralt drops his sword and throws himself over Jaskiers still form. Panic crashes through his body, wave after wave hitting him. Jaskier, the fool, stepped in front of him. Protected him. Jaskier wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to stay with the other villagers, he was supposed to be safe.

His mouth tastes like iron, bile, smoke, it is so dry he can barely talk nor pray to anything, anyone who might hear him. “Jaskier, I am so sorry, please please, Jaskier…” A month. It was a month since the last time Jaskier was in danger because of him. Became hurt because of him. Slowly he turns Jaskier over so Geralt can see his face. There is no visible damage, and it makes Geralt's heart plummet. Physical hurts he can deal with, treat, clean, bandage. Magical hurts however are infinitely more complicated. Jaskier makes a small groan, eyes fluttering, when Geralt propps him up in his arms. Behind them he can hear the village open their doors, looking out at what is happening. “Is she gone?” Someone calls out to them. Geralt can’t answer. Jaskier is so pale, sweat appearing by his hairline. “Healer!” Geralt finally shouts over his shoulder. “Bring me your healer!”

There are rushing steps and then someone sits down by his side. A woman with a long braid and an apron puts her hand to Jaskiers face, to his body. She takes his pulse, smells his breath, looking at his pupils. Poking, prodding, pulling at clothes hunting for wounds or bruises. The bard's pale skin is unhurt, except the still healing scar on the side of his stomach. The healer gives Geralt a sideyed look, stern, and keeps examining him. Geralt knows. He blames himself for that one too.

“He will live.” She announces after a surprisingly short time, sitting back. “There is nothing physically wrong with him. The rest we will know when he wakes up.” The healer gets up, pats Geralt on the shoulder and moves back to the village. Nobody else dared come to them, but he can sense their eyes on his back. No matter. Geralt must take Jaskier to the inn, to their room, to safety, away from prying eyes. Carefully, with as much gentleness as he can muster, he picks up his bard and carries him close to his chest. Every breath expanding Jaskiers chest against his own is a small blessing.

~

There is no sleep. No meditation. There is only watching over his friend, his companion, his one truth for all these years. He put Jaskier in one of the beds. The bard has yet to wake up, so he tucks the blanket around his limp body. Then Geralt waits. Head in his hands, ears straining to hear every heartbeat, the armor still on his body, Geralt sits by Jaskiers bedside on a very rickety footstool. At some point he has to stretch, and he sit down on his own bed instead.

He hates contracts like this. He knew something wasn’t right, knew it the moment he stepped into her hut. She mourned, her eyes rimmed with red. The villagers wanted her dead, had claimed her a beast when a man died. Geralt don’t kill people. When they talked to her, Jaskiers words a balm on her hurt, they learned how they mistreated her. Abused her. Everybody but the man who died. “He was the one thing I loved, and they took it from me.”

It became clear she was after vengeance. Geralt doesn’t kill people, but he can't let her harm them. He can’t let her become him. He would stand between them, protect them from each other.

And Jaskier took the hit for it. Caring, loving, forgiving Jaskier, who never knows when to do what he has been told.

~

Sometime during the night he must have slumbered. That, or he didn’t notice the time passing. The stars hide behind the clouds, the sun slowly crawling out and tainting the sky with harsh reds and yellows.

The first rays of the morning sun find its way through the window. Jaskier stirs and Geralt's heart almost stops. When he looks up he sees the bard stretch his arms above his head, blinking his eyes open.

“Oh.” Jaskier says. “uhm...Good morning. Where am I?” Geralt exhales, a breath he has been holding since the moment Jaskier crumpled to the ground. “At the inn. You got hurt last night because of me. Again.” Geralt says, bitterness heavy in his voice. Jaskiers face is carefully blank as he studies the witcher. “Oh.” Is all he says again. It feels… wrong. Something is off. By now Jaskier would have told Geralt three times over what an idiot he is and how he should stop worrying. But he says nothing.

The silence is heavy and Geralt is very much not sure on what to do. Finally, he gets to his feet. When he does, Jaskier pulls his blanket up a little higher. There is an odd smell in the room now, one he can’t exactly place. Geralt frowns, and finally walks over to the door. “I’ll go fetch the healer.” he says, feeling awkward. Has the time finally come for Jaskier to blame him? Jaskier just nods. When no other reactions, words come from his friend, Geralt walks out. Hopefully the healer will know what is wrong.

~

“He doesn’t know you.” The healer says when she exits the room. Geralt had per request waited outside when she looked over Jaskier. It stung, but he accepted it. But this… “What does that mean?” Geralt asks, frown deepening. He still hasn't gotten out of his armor. He stands there looming over her but feeling like the smallest person in the world. “It means he has no memory of you, doesn’t know who you are or why he is here.” She says, voice cold. “I… but… is he hurt?” He asks her, but the healer shakes her head. “No. The magic must have altered his memories, I'm not sure to what extent, but he is otherwise fine.” They stand in silence for a while. Geralt pondering what to do, how to help, she just studying him.

“Witcher, I am going to be frank with you.” She says finally. “I think you should let him go. He is not safe with you.” “That is not your decision to make.” “No, it’s not. But you know it’s true. People never survive around your kind for long.” She says it with such disdain, such cold eyes. “We will leave when he is ready.” He says, trying to control himself, his anger. He walks past her and into their room. How does she fucking dare.

He close the door behind him, seething. Jaskier stands with his back to the door, pants loose on his hips, putting his shirt back on. Geralt just stands there, watching him. Jaskier notices him and suddenly that smell is back. Oh.

Geralt didn’t understand what it was, because it was never a smell he ever associated with Jaskier. Fear. It breaks Geralt's heart a thousand times over. Jaskier truly does not remember him. “Sorry.” He mumbles. “How are you feeling?” Geralt doesn't know where to look, because this is his fault. All of it.

Jaskier looks at him, face blank but eyes wary. With slow movements he stuffs his shirt in his pants. “Im fine.” Geralt moves over to his bed, sits down on the covers. “You really don’t remember me?” Geralt asks, and he knows, he knows, but he can’t help but torture himself. Jaskier cocks his head. “I really don’t, I'm afraid. Do we know each other?” Jaskier gives him a careful smile.

There is a whirlwind in Geralt's head. The years they spent together. Summer nights in front of the fire, Jaskier gently playing his lute and Geralt caring for his swords. Quiet mornings before a hunt, Jaskier fussing over his armor. Roach shoving at Jaskier when she can smell the treats he always keeps for her in his pockets. Yennefer and Jaskier bickering over their wine, Jaskiers constant river of words, the way he always, always steps in front of Geralt when all Geralt wants is to keep him safe. How can he keep Jaskier safe? How can Jaskier be safe by his side?

He is silent for too long. Jaskiers smile falters, crumbles. Geralt did that too. He pulls in a breath, holds it in his lungs, but the heavy feeling won't go away. “Witcher?” He doesn’t even remember his fucking name. He exhales. “We have been traveling together for a while.” Geralt says, closing his eyes, the heavy feeling won’t leave his chest, there is a pounding happening in his temples, his fingers want to clench onto something. “I was taking you to Oxenfurt.” It is not a lie. He would never, will never, lie to his bard. His bard. They have been talking about going there sometime. Why not now? A small line appears between Jaskiers eyebrows, Geralt imagines he is looking for a memory, a confirmation. “Im sorry, it is very frustrating not to remember. What is your name? Have we been traveling for long?” “No.” Geralt says. Liar, liar, liar, liar. “I am Geralt of Rivia. If you are uncomfortable with me here… I can… I don’t have to…If you still want to go there, that is.” His words are failing him and Jaskier gives him a gentle smile. The smell of fear is slowly dispatching and Jaskiers normal scent returns. “Im Julian.” He says.

Let it hurt you like it hurt me.

~

They set out together later that day. They don’t talk about what happened the day before. They barely talk at all. It is only two weeks of travel to get to Oxenfurt, and Geralt is not sure if it is a blessing or a curse. He has two weeks to either get Jaskier back, or let him go. He feels so utterly selfish, keeping this choice from Jaskier, to not let him be the one to choose. But he is simply not brave enough.

The first night under the open sky is oddly enough very much like normal. Without a word they split the tasks of making a fire, putting out bedrolls and preparing food the same way they always do.

When Jaskier fetches their bedrolls, Roach buffs his arm, begging for a treat. Geralt watches them from where he is digging out a hole for their fire. Jaskier smiles at her, petting her head gently, talking to her in soft tones. She buffs him again and tries to get into his pockets. “Im sorry girl, look, I have nothi-....” Geralt hears him trail off when he puts his hand in his pocket, only to find a sugarcube. His confusion is evident, his smile gone, but he holds it out for her.

When they are sitting by the fire, passing a cheese and some bread between them, Geralt watches Jaskier. He doesn't know what to do, what to say. “Why can I remember Roach but not you?” Jaskier suddenly asks, eyes fixed on the flames. The light flickers and paints his features in red and orange and sharp shadows. Geralt cuts off a piece of cheese and puts the rest down on the cloth between them. “What did the healer tell you?” “That I was hit with magic that altered something in my mind. She wasn’t sure of what exactly, but she wasn’t very worried about it.” Of course she wasn’t. “I don’t remember what happened that night at all.” It would finally seem like the floodgates opened. Somehow it soothes Geralt to hear him, even if the words uttered makes it worse. Geralt is quiet, chewing on his cheese slowly. “I fought a woman with untamed chaos. She lost her love and wanted revenge. You stepped in front of me when she unleashed her magic.” Jaskier nods, and sinks into his thoughts again. They barely talk for the rest of the evening. Jaskier asks no questions and Geralt is too conflicted about it all to make smalltalk. They go to bed, and when Jaskiers breath evens out and the small familiar snores fill the air together with the crackles from the dying fire, Geralt allows himself to fall. The worry, the relief, the numbing panic, the fear of loss, but he already lost him didn’t he? At least he is not dead.

~

It is weird to make smalltalk with someone he has known for years. To listen to him talk about his parents, anecdotes from his studies. He even tells him about a bar fight that he started. He tells it as if Geralt wasn’t there, right next to him, hauling his ass out of there when it got too heated. What is worse is that Geralt learns new things about his friend, about his past. And Jaskier keeps referring to himself as Julian. Every now and then there is a whiff of fear from Jaskier. Geralt tries to keep the sadness from his face. The Jaskier without Geralt will have a safe life where he won’t ever need to feel fear.

Jaskier hasn't touched his lute since they left.

~

“I um… thank you witcher.” Jaskier says awkwardly. They are outside the gates of his university. “Do I pay you now or uhm…?” “No. It’s fine.” “Will you stay here for a while? Or out on the Path again?” “Roach needs to rest, so I’ll stay for the night.” “Roach?” “....My horse….” “Right. Right. Sorry.” Jaskier is frowning again. He does that a lot now. “You know, we could take a drink together? As a thank you?” This is goodbye. Geralt can see it. “If you want to.”

~

They sit across each other in the tavern. The lighting is dim and it smells like dust and stale ale. The table probably hasn't been wiped in the last ten years, and when Geralt lifts his tankard there is a sticky sound as the table doesn’t want to let go.

It has always been hard to find words. They are tricky, deceptive, easy to misimprent. Tonight is no exception. They stick to his throat, cling to the roof of his mouth, refusing to get out. Geralt has never felt dread like this.

“Why do you look so sad, master witcher?” Jaskier asks, cocking his head. A drunk, angry man comes up to their table before Geralt can compose an answer. His cheeks are blotchy red, eyes watery and he reeks of alcohol and unwashed body. “The white fucking wolf, the freak of fucking nature.” He growls. “Butcher of fucking Blaviken.” Jaskiers eyes widen a fraction, something like recognition flickers across his face. That probably rang some kind of bell. It was so long ago. Why should it matter to anybody but him anymore? Geralt sighs, deciding that ignoring the man is the best option. “Heey! I'm talking to you, asshole!” the man slurs. “Leave off.” Jaskier says, a hint of anger coloring his voice. “Ain’t fucking talking to you, bard.” The drunkard says, waving around making his drink slosh down over his arm and onto their table. Jaskier looks confused for a moment, like there is something just out of his minds reach. “You mutant bastard, you are as much a monster as what you fucking slay” the drunkard slurs on. It has been a long time since last he was talked to like this. Much thanks to Jaskiers impressive work.

A woman with hair the colour of straw comes up to the drunkard, grabbing his elbow. “Are you nuts?” She hiss at him. “Don’t insult a witcher! Do you want to die?!” and she drags him away. Jaskier looks after them as they walk away. “Are you always treated like this?” he frowns. Geralt is really starting to hate that look on him. “Not as much anymore.” They sit in silence. “Every time I look at you, witcher, I have this nagging feeling. Like there is something I'm missing.” Every fiber of Geralt being wants to tell him. Wants to break that fucking spell, get his friend back. But he can’t. The healer is right. Jaskier has a big scar and a lost memory as proof. He will not survive a witchers company much longer. “Either way, master witcher, thank you for bringing me safely back here. I hope our roads will cross again.”

~

Geralt walks hurriedly away among the trees. It takes everything he has not to just take off running. His muscles are stiff from holding back, there is a churning inside his ribs, his eyes are burning. When he finally is far enough not to see or hear or smell Oxenfurt anymore, he sinks to his knees, lets go. He can fetch Roach in the morning.

He is anger and hurt and shuddering breaths and thunder and sadness.

He lets it all out in the darkness where no one can see.

[kilyra]

Love the headcanon idea!! Could u do a Helena one on how she’d be when she gets protective over her SO?? Thank u !!!💕

So I went with presenting iffy plans and being in dangerous situations for why there’d be a show of protectiveness - so I hope that works for you! Thanks so much for the request!!

(Anyone who wants to be on the headcanon tag list, just let me know!)

Helena Bertinelli: At first, you'd swear she was angry with you. Her initial reaction, especially when she's scared or worried, is anger. So if you're suggesting doing something that's she thinks is dangerous, she will immediately say no and a fight will quickly follow if you argue. And if you found yourself in hot water, and she is fighting to protect you, she will stand between you and hell itself to keep you safe. No matter what else goes on, one eye will be on you at all times, pushing you into safe spots as she clears a path to safety.

Eric Northman: Although he seems cold and indifferent, he immediately shoots down whatever idea it is that he thinks will put you in harm's way. He doesn't even bother to argue with you, he just repeatedly says no, not giving you an actual explanation. It's especially frustrating because it feels like he's talking down to you like you're a child. But if the situation is passed that point, he will keep himself between you and the threat. There is no question his only goal is your safety as he keeps his focus on the danger.  

Poe Dameron: His first reaction would be to try and convince you not to go through with a plan he thinks is dangerous. It would get heated – bordering on a fight as he would try to come up with alternatives that keep you away from the action. But after you shoot them down with solid reasons for why your plan is the best, he concedes. Although he is sick with worry over it, he respects you and is confident in your abilities. But even so, he's a complete nightmare to be around until you're back safe.

Benjamin Poindexter: He would calmly explain why he didn't think your idea was a good plan. But he wouldn't turn it into an argument – he would quietly let it go if you stuck to your guns. That being said, however, he would follow you in the shadows to take out whatever he considered to be the threat well before you actually ended up in danger.  

Jim Hopper: You've seen him grumpy before, but he hits all new lows as he tries to convince you that your plan is dangerous. A huge fight is unavoidable at that point as Hopper doesn't offer much explanation for why he's shooting it down – talking about his feelings isn't exactly his forte. If you were already in a dangerous situation, he would punch first, ask later. As the chief of police, he is calm, collected and calculating but all that goes out the window when he's worried for your safety.

Frank Castle: If you come to him with a dangerous plan, he will refuse flat out. The only acceptable plan is keeping you somewhere safe while he takes care of business and he'll chain you to a chair if he has to. But, if shit has already hit the fan, he'll tuck you somewhere safe and unleash hell. Which is actually terrifying because he seems to have little regard for his own wellbeing and you have to wonder if either of you will survive. (But of course, you do! God help them if they so much as brush one of your hairs out of place though – death doesn't have to come quickly)

Taglist: @foreverfaeries  @flower-two  @getlostinyourparadise   @selfishkiddo  @angelicshinigami  @parkersbabey

[dopescotlandwarrior]

A Hero Among Us-Chapter 16

Previous chapters at AO3         Special thanks to @statell​ for all your help

Chapter Sixteen

The celebration had been weeks in the planning, and as Hogmanay approached Mary was a nervous bride -to- be and Rupert had just stopped talking. He had a growing sense of excitement about waking up with Mary every day and doom about going to bed with her every night. He had only one experience years ago with the neighbor’s daughter, a memory he would rather forget. It ended abruptly before a stitch of clothing was removed from either of them. He ran home with wet pants and she stalked off in a huff. He had been mortally embarrassed and fearing a repeat of his “early arrival” now filled him with dread.

The artist Jamie hired for the ceremony sat quietly in the corner, painting the couple in their finery and staring into each other's eyes. When Rupert slipped the ring on Mary’s finger the eager Highlanders almost toppled his easel and paints when they jumped out of their seats to shake Rupert’s hand and get their kiss on the cheek from Mary.

So many of the men had asked Mary for a dance that Rupert started growling at them while holding his new wife away from the hopefuls. When Mary would catch Rupert’s eye, she would blush a beautiful rosy color making Rupert’s knees go weak. One by one the carriages rolled away taking guests home after the lengthy party. At the same time Misses Crook made no attempt to hide her irritation there were still men loitering in the house, which she chased away in Misses Crook fashion.

Claire walked Mary upstairs and helped her out of her wedding dress and corset and into a lovely robe she had ordered for the new bride. Mary was a nervous wreck, so Claire pulled her hair down and brushed it while she spoke of the magic of her wedding night in this very room. She pressed her cheek against Mary’s and told her to trust Rupert and let her love show.

Jamie was waiting at the foot of the stairs, nervous about Claire’s advanced pregnancy. When she descended the stairs, he whisked her to their carriage where Misses Crook was waiting, and Angus made for home.

Rupert closed the front door and noticed his hand was shaking. He took a deep breath and tried to steady himself. It did not have to happen tonight, he told himself. They could both keep silent about if they did, or did not, and give them both time to adjust to being together. Yes, that made him feel more confident and he climbed the stairs.

The room was lit by a cluster of candles and he sat on the bed looking at his new wife. She was so beautiful and tiny. How could he ever put her through the pain of making love? Mary turned to Rupert and fought hard to hide her stuttering as she asked how he liked the party. It was so awkward they both wanted to evaporate. Mary looked at Rupert stare at the floor and decided she would make her claim to him tonight, right now, come what may.

“I love you Rupert and I know you love me too. I trust we will find our way to each other, but you are worried about hurting me, I think.”

Rupert nodded yes and continued to look down. He was more miserable than he had ever been in his life because he did not know how to touch her let alone make love to her.

“Mary I…”

“Look at me, Rupert.” When he looked up, Mary released her robe to puddle at her feet. She stood naked in front of him and Rupert nearly had a stroke. She was beautiful. Her long hair fell around the curve of her hips, her breasts were small and perfect. She walked to him and pressed him up against the headboard then laid on top of him feeling his hands hold her steady.

“Thank ye lass. I just want to hold yer little body, so perfect and beautiful.” He kissed her deeply and his hands roamed the peaks and valleys that had been hidden from him all these months. Mary’s mother, in her infinite wisdom, had prepared Mary to help Rupert relax and find his need, as she was sure he was a virgin. Mary’s cousin, already married, had told her in great detail what would happen, how much it would hurt, and how much she would crave him in the future. Mary was very lucky to have experienced women to prepare her. If left up to Rupert, the consummation of this marriage might be put off indefinitely. As it was, even with his lovely naked new wife pressed against him, he would fight his fear until just before dawn when he eased into her body and brave little Mary coaxed him to completion. She was cuddled in Rupert’s arms and smiled in the dim light of their room. Her pain was significant, but she believed it would someday get better so she said nothing. Knowing he was hers forever was all the joy she needed, and she slept in his warmth.

With an empty vineyard and the slow pace of winter, the newlyweds enjoyed a week of privacy to get to know each other better. Rupert lavished Mary with affection during the day and she would return the favor with making love every night. He taught her how to fish and was delighted in her willingness to grab the wiggling fish and pull the hook out of its mouth before throwing it back into the water.

Rupert thought it was adorable she threw them back, mostly because his stringer was heavy with fat fish. He held her hand on the way back to the house and told her about planting a new vineyard that would provide for their family forever.

As January passed, the days were mild, and the nights were very cold. When Jamie presented the porch bed to Claire his excitement fell away when she turned up her nose and went downstairs to avoid him. Jamie felt his irritation because she had not tried it yet, nor trusted him to know she would love it. After a week of her refusing to lay in the porch bed with him, he bid her goodnight and went outside to sleep.

Claire was exhausted and very upset that he would leave her. She waited under her quilt, expecting him to slide in next to her shivering, but he didn’t come. An hour later she finally got up and looked out the french doors feeling her anger flash because he was obviously sound asleep while she tossed and turned. She fumed back to bed and felt her righteous anger keep her awake. Another hour passed and she threw off her quilt and put her warmest robe on before going outside to lay down next to him.

Jamie pulled her to him and spoke his love into her ear, apologizing for leaving her alone, and asking forgiveness for a need too great to ignore. Claire giggled and turned to kiss him but as her eyes scanned the night sky she gasped and fell silent while she stared at the billions of stars in the sky.

"Beautiful," she gulped. "Have I never looked up before? Not in twenty-three years?"

“Are ye warm Sassenach?”

“What? Yes, yes quite warm,” she said distractedly. She sat up so she could twist her body to see the entire night sky and avoided Jamie’s request to get under the blankets. The Sassenach was lost in her new love of the celestial wonder above her so Jamie put his large warm hand on his growing baby and waited for her to get accustomed to it. When she finally laid down, he wrapped her in his warm cocoon and they slept.

Jamie nuzzled into Claire’s hair at dawn and asked her to return to the bed inside. She refused and told him not to worry, she would go inside if she got cold. In truth, Claire was so often uncomfortable with the heat of her advanced pregnancy she found the crisp morning quite comfortable.

Later, Misses Crook entered the bedroom to get Claire up for her doctor’s appointment and stood stock still staring at the bed with its small corner turned down where Claire had tried to sleep. She looked around the room but could not find her Mistress until Claire came in from outside rubbing her eyes. Misses Crook crossed to the doors and looked outside at the bed on the porch turning her punishing eyes on Claire.

“What do ye think yer doin Misses Fraser, sleepin outside like the urchins in the street! Think of the bairn Mistress!”

Claire would not be put off by Misses Crook today. She had seen a miracle in the sky last night and could not wait to see it again. She watched the older woman storm out of the room and dressed herself as she did most days now that her corset was no longer needed.

Misses Crook found Jamie in the barn pulling shoes off the white stallion and unleashed her fury when he stood up. When it didn’t stop Jamie tried to calm her, quite unsuccessfully, then walked her outside and locked the barn door behind her. He smiled at the rudimentary lock Fergus built when he lived alone in the barn and decided he was a very clever kid.

Claire laid back on the couch while the doctor did his exam and asked his questions. He was the only doctor in St. Helena and with the growing population thought it best to instruct the housekeeper on aiding birth until he could get there. Misses Crook listened politely and told him to worry not as she had brought many babies into the world in England. Claire learned she was a midwife of sorts when she married Frank and that knowledge comforted her. The doctor nodded and went on his way to the next house hoping she was as skilled as reported.

For the next three nights, while the moon was just a sliver, Claire pulled Jamie to bed so she could watch the night sky again. Jamie was thrilled but now worried he would never get her inside again. They cuddled to keep each other warm and fell into a blissful sleep.

One night when sleeping inside, Jamie heard the latch on the front door in his sleep and jerked awake. It was a distinctive sound, completely unwelcome in the dead of night. He was fully awake with adrenalin coursing through his heart and veins. He placed his hand over Claire’s mouth and felt her body jerk awake as he whispered in her ear to hide in the sitting room and keep silent. Reaching for his pants he dressed soundlessly and crossed in their bedroom opening the door an inch. He thought there might be two men on the first floor, running into furniture in the dark. He slid from the door and inched his way down the stairs hiding behind walls and furniture as he got closer. When his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw the men searching for something. One of the men walked right in front of him and he jumped him with an iron grip around his neck hoping to silence him and get the drop on the next man. A shot rang out and Jamie dropped to the floor intentionally breaking the man’s neck. He rolled away with his heart hammering in his chest, watching for the second man who tried to shoot him.

“Boss, are ye alright?”

Jamie heard a match strike as the growing glow from a lamp lent light to the room. The second man laid dead on the floor with a pistol in his hand. Jamie looked for his man and smiled at John Mcreaty as he exhaled in relief.

“I’m on watch tonight and was comin back up from the back acres when I saw them enter the house. It took me a minute to grab a pistol, sorry boss.”

“Dinna be sorry for savin us lad, thank God none of us was hurt. I need to check on my wife” He launched himself at the stairs and found Claire in the sitting-room shaking violently. He crouched in front of her and wiped her tears. Her round stomach was in front of Jaime’s face and his big hands spread over the growing child he already loved more than his own life.

“Sassenach tell me yer alright. It’s over love. Two men, dead downstairs.” He wrapped himself around her and led her to the bed stacking pillows behind her back. He could hear more of his men coming into the house, but his concern was focused on his pregnant wife. She clutched his arm and cried.

When Misses Crook knocked on their door Jamie asked her to stay with Claire while he dealt with the dead. The Highlanders had dragged the bodies outside and covered them with blankets. It was too dark to search the men, so they were left until morning.

Jamie held his wife as she sipped warm milk and promised him she felt fine. He sat next to her for the rest of the night. Too worked up to sleep, playing the scene over and over in his head. He didn’t keep pistols in the house because he had little experience with them. He was determined to change that starting today. He would practice until the gun felt like a part of him. Next time someone threatened his family, he would be ready.

The shop owner looked down at the growing mound of bullets and shook his head no. He would have no inventory at all if he allowed the buyer to clean him out. Jamie paid the man and rode home to start his pistol education. The three best shooters stood around Jamie as he took aim at blocks of wood twenty paces ahead. Fergus held his ears and the shot went off to the side toward the barn. Fergus ran to check the horses and yelled to milord, “all still standing!” The next shot made the men dive for the ground and Jamie was getting frustrated. They decided to move the practice far from the house and barn and placed the wood pieces for Jamie to shoot.

A stranger was walking along the road deep in thought, ruminating about an argument earlier that day. When a bullet whizzed by his head he crouched, drawing his pistol and looking around for the assailant. No more bullets were heard and he kept walking, now with a purpose to find the idiot who was shooting blind into the road. He heard gunfire and approached carefully seeing four men target practicing. The big man was the only one shooting while the others were instructing him. The stranger watched for five minutes and couldn’t help himself from striding up to the group.

“No, no, no, no, that is not how ye hold a pistol. Look here, let me show ya.” The man had a pistol on each hip and drew faster than anyone could register what he was doing. He shot at the woodblocks and they splintered and danced in the air as the man shot them again and again. He was a crack shot with both hands and the men were amazed and entertained. When the show was over, the man adjusted Jamie’s hand position and explained how to sight the pistol. His aim improved considerably.

The man was an expert shot with his right and left hand, equally good when he crossed his arms and shot sideways. Jamie paid close attention and when he mastered the fundamentals the man turned to leave.

“Thank ye for comin by. My name is James Fraser, and you are?”

The man spoke with a heavy drawl, “Doctor Holiday, pleased to meet ye. I better be goin before I forget the way back to where I'm stayin.” A minute later the man was back on the road and out of sight.

Jamie was quite pleased with the lesson and felt much better about learning to shoot with any accuracy. Once he wore the men out, he continued to practice but even Fergus returned to the house with his ears ringing. In the late afternoon, Jamie grabbed his pistols and the bag of bullets and turned to leave. He jerked his head back toward the trees when he saw a black shape move. He scanned the area but saw nothing more, so he went home.

The smell of food quickened Jamie’s step toward the house. He had missed lunch with his target practicing and was now bordering on feeling faint. When he entered the house, he could hear Misses Crook upstairs arguing with Claire and decided he was done taking the woman’s grief. It was time to remind her that she was an employee, not a parent.

“It isna proper for folks to see ye in this condition, it just isna done! Add that to yer sleepin outside and I hardly know ye anymore!”

“Misses Crook, this is America. We are not held to the same social rules we were in London and I am quite tired of explaining myself to you. I am going to the party tomorrow and that is final.”

Jamie walked into the room and asked Misses Crook to bring dinner to their room right away. “I’ll be lookin for ye a bit later, it’s time for a talk if ye dinna mind.” He was concerned about Claire’s tired eyes and crossed the room to lead her to bed.

“Sassenach, ye dinna look well, ye look dead on yer feet.” She moved toward the french doors to the patio and Jamie led her to the bed, overruling another night outside. “Tell me how ye feel nighean bhreagha.”

“Jamie darling, I’m alright. A bit tired from the intrusion last night and I’m…”

Jamie looked into her eyes and lifted his brows in question. “What is it, love.”

“I am afraid. Of the baby coming, of needing help if something goes wrong …of…dying.” Her tears fell on the pale skin of her frightened face and she looked up at him.

“I willna let that happen Sassenach, even if I must pull ye from the arms of the almighty himself. Ye willna leave this earth until I say so and that will be never. I pledged myself to stand beside ye forever, remember? The night we ran away and the terraces collapsed? I told ye then I’ll no leave ye and asked ye to marry me.”

Misses Crook came in with the tray but did not utter a word. She knew she had overstepped but was powerless to stop herself. She could not abide with Claire’s reckless behavior and felt close to tears as she allowed Jamie to take the tray. She would not look him in the eye and left the room quickly.

Jamie got as much food into his wife as she would allow and then snuggled behind her and propped their book on her hip as he read through several more chapters. When she was safely in her dreams he returned the tray to the kitchen and found Misses Crook sitting in the dark kitchen.

“Ye canna leave us be these days Misses Crook and I want to know why. Claire needs ye but yer help comes with argument and control. What’s happened here?”

Misses Crook wiped her face and stared straight ahead. When she talked her voice was monotone and defeated. “I helped birth more babies than I can count in our area of London. I have seen too much death of the mothers and babies to sit quietly while Claire makes decisions that will threaten her health.”

“How many mothers died in childbirth Misses Crook?”

She looked upward like she was counting in her head and finally said, "maybe one in five, or six. Sometimes they left a living bairn behind to be raised by a father overcome with grief and not a clue what to do with the thing.”

Jamie’s face went slack as his brain grabbed hold of the impossible statistic. He tried to think but his mind would not let go of one in five deaths from childbirth. His mother died in the birthing bed when he was very young. He was told God needed her in heaven, rather than one in five mothers die from childbirth. His world turned upside suddenly.

“What does she need to do Misses Crook, please tell me and I will see it done.”

Jamie watched her face and it was unmistakable, Misses Crook loved Claire like her own kin and was worried bone-deep, causing her outbursts.

“Misses Crook, I am a dirt farmer with parents to teach me about this, long gone. I swear I dinna mean to put Claire in harm’s way! If I had known, I would choose a life without bairns to keep her safe. Please, I meant her no harm.”

“I know Mister Fraser. From here on you can make sure she does not overburden herself, little time spent on her feet, and a quick visit at the party tomorrow and then home to bed. Thank you for protecting her and if she starts her labor tonight, dinna wait to fetch me.”

Jamie stared straight ahead and his eyes went wide. “Tonight?” Jamie shot out of his chair and took the stairs three at a time putting the brakes on his dash as he reached the door to their rooms. He looked into the face he loved, deep in sleep, looking peaceful and healthy, small and vulnerable. “My God Sassenach, what have I done to ye,” he whispered before taking his post, at her side, to wait the night out.

Jamie yawned through his chores and Fergus pushed him from behind as he did during the harvest, except now the pushing came with irritating questions about why he insisted on sleeping in the middle of a field standing up. When Jamie could break away, he ran to a guest room and collapsed. His sleep would come if Misses Crook was with Claire and the catnap kept him going.

Once again dressed in finery, Jamie introduced his wife to Jacob and Frederick Beringer who were hosting a grand dinner party with guests that came from far and wide. When they were called into the dining room, Claire was seated next to a stranger with a kind face and a walrus mustache. She looked at Jamie across the table, on his feet to shake hands with a handsome man she had never seen.

“Well, if it isn’t the tenderfoot shooter,” the man drawled and shook Jamie’s hand. “I do hope ever’body still standing at your place.”

Jamie smiled and looked to introduce Claire, but she was too far away down the long table. Doctor Holiday rudely told the woman next to Jamie that he was trading places with her at the table and pulled out her chair with her in it.

Claire watched her husband at the other end of the table with a worried look, wondering what was going on.

“Don’t worry ma’am, Doc is alright, and it looks like the two are old friends. Is that your husband?”

Claire looked at the mustached man and tried to smile, “Yes. I am Claire Fraser, and you are?”

“Earp, ma’am, Wyatt Earp, pleased to meet ya. Oh, that gentleman with your husband is my friend, Doc Holiday. We’re just passing through on the way to a meeting in Wyoming. And down there, is my wife Josephine.”

Wyatt smiled love to his wife and Claire noticed everyone at the table looked uncomfortable with the seating arrangements. She would learn this was in vogue for dinner parties, to mix up the seating so all would meet someone new. Dinner was served and Claire saw Jamie eating fast and staring at her. Claire picked at her food and tried to talk with the diners. Mostly she wanted to go home. Another agonizing hour and Jamie was walking toward her and they said their goodbyes. He bundled her under her wrap and jogged to get the carriage, it was a very cold night.

The carriage pulled up to the door where he had left Claire, but she was no longer standing there. Jamie’s heart rate jumped up and he whistled for the stable hand to stand with his horse. Running back inside he started asking servants, then guests if they had seen Claire come back in. No one had. Jamie ran back outside, and she had not come out to the front. His frantic search continued, and he yelled at the top of his lungs for her. He felt a strong hand pull him into an empty room. A gentleman stood in front of him asking questions about where she was last seen and how long she was alone. Jamie was trying to get past the man until Doc Holiday came up behind him and made the introductions.

“This here is Wyatt Earp, the famous lawman from Arizona. Let him help you, Mister Fraser.”

“Why do I need a lawman? My wife is in this house somewhere. I know that because she would not wander away on such a cold night. Now kindly get out of my way so I can continue looking for her.”

Wyatt stepped aside and Jamie continued running through the mansion yelling for Claire. A group of servants caught up with him on the second floor and escorted him out the front door. Jamie held his head like he was going insane. For once in his life, he did not know what to do.

The reins slapped Brimstone hard on the back and she took off at full speed with the carriage bouncing behind. Jamie knew there was a risk of the carriage flipping but he didn’t care, he made for Rupert’s house, and help. He unloaded the carriage at Rupert’s, saddled Brimstone, and galloped toward Ben’s and Rupert headed for the other shore. The fastest way from one vineyard to the other was over the water so a raft was tied to each shore, always.

Rupert pushed himself to get across the lake trying to make sense out of Jamie’s rapid explanation that Claire disappeared in a matter of three minutes. Something was dreadfully wrong and once his raft was tied, he turned toward the cabins and started running only to face plant into the dirt by something wrapped around his feet. Trying to free himself of whatever he stepped in, he roared his anger into the night hearing several cabin doors open. Rupert tugged at the fabric around his feet and heard it rip finally freeing him. He felt the fine velvet wrap and recognized it was Claire’s garment. Holding it up he found the note pinned to the inside, and in the space of a heartbeat, life as he knew it, ended.

[winterisakillerwrites]

Of Truths and Consequences - Part One

One shot: Last Minutes & Lost Evenings 7.1/16

Character/Relationship: Tom Hiddleston/Rosemary Mathews (OFC)

Genre: Angst

Summary:   They say confession is good for the soul, but at what cost?

Rating: T

Warnings/Author’s Notes:  This is part one  of the seventh part of Last Minutes & Lost Evenings, this series is currently on-going and will flit back and forth between past, present and future.

Previous

‘I’ve been skirting round the rim of doing something

Brave, and not just standing, but jumping in

Of making circles into squares, of laying down

The bare facts like a burden I can’t bear.  

And I can almost find the words, but I can see the way you’d

Fold your hands, speak my name like a curse

Upon your pretty lips, the pressured white behind your fingertips

And when you see me for all that I am

I couldn’t make mistakes to make a difference anymore.

I’d throw myself down on my knees, at your hands,

And beg you for forgiveness for my fuck ups and my faults.

And maybe you’d relent and release some hope for our forever,

Lift up your precious hands, and then bring yours and mind together’

Plain Sailing Weather – Frank Turner

He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing; standing there before her closed door. I shouldn’t be here. He’d battled with himself the entire way from his home to her door; he didn’t have any right coming here, talking to her. Not now. Not after all this time.

But he couldn’t get her out of his head. Their chance run in had played through his mind all throughout his meal with Ben and, truthfully, for the majority of the week that had followed.

Ben had cottoned on that something was amiss with his friend almost as soon as Tom had sat down. And he’d wasted little time in questioning him on it. Tom hadn’t had the energy or desire to protest that he was fine or merely tired. He’d had enough of lying; nothing good had ever seemed to come of it. He simply ordered himself a drink and prepared to finally put to words what had been spinning round his mind for the last six months.

As the two men drank, Tom slowly poured his heart out. He told Ben everything; how he’d met Rosemary, the growing attraction he’d tried to fight; to mask as something, anything, else. How long they’d carried out their involvement without speaking of what they were doing or why. The way he’d finally realized he loved her and the fear that that realization had unleashed. How she had finally put words to what he had unconsciously known for the longest time and how that had crystalized his plan to protect her, to push her away for her own good. Just how hard it had been to walk away, how hard the last half a year had been. How he’d fallen into a similar pattern with Natalie, though admittedly with the boundaries he’d lacked before. His guilt and disgust at himself for the way he allowed himself to treat the women he’d pulled into his life. About seeing Rosemary again, learning she had moved on, and how it physically hurt, even though he had known it was a pain of his own making.  

Ben, to his credit, sat and listened to Tom ramble on without saying a word. Tom knew that his silence would not last for long; he could see the questions and disapproval burning in his friend’s eyes. And he knew that he deserved whatever censure Ben would throw at him. And Ben did not disappoint.

“You are an idiot,” The words were even, matter of fact, and hung in the air between them.  “And a selfish one at that.” Tom could only nod his head in response. What else could he say? He’d thought the same thing countless times since that day. But he’d plowed on regardless, so certain in the knowledge that he was right. That what he was doing was right. Of all the arrogant notions…

“I get it, Tom. Really I do,” Ben started once more after it became clear Tom wasn’t going to add anything to the conversation at that juncture. “But you just can’t fly off half-cocked like that. It’s not just your call, mate…What do you think Sophie would have done had I done that to her?” Ben queried, his gaze narrowing at Tom’s shrinking form.

Tom sat silent for several moments before answering, “She would have torn you a new one.” And he could picture it far too well. He liked Ben’s wife; she was more than a match for his friend, bold and self-assured. She wouldn’t have taken Ben deciding something so major without her knowledge nor consent well at all. Hell hath no fury…

Ben laughed in earnest, “Too right she would and I wouldn’t fucking blame her for it.” He sighed, resting his elbows on the table. “You’ve really cocked things up, my friend. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

It was Tom’s turn to sigh. It hurt, having his thoughts echoed by someone he trusted to be nothing but honest with him. There was little joy in knowing that he’d been right. He had cocked things up on an epic scale and now he hadn’t the first idea how to fix it or if he even had the right to try. But God, he wanted to. “What do I do?”  He whispered, more to himself than to his friend. “How do I fix this?”

Ben clapped a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Leave it be, Tom. Just leave it be.”

But Tom couldn’t seem to. No matter how he tried to occupy himself his mind would circle back around to Rosemary and the look on her face. He wanted desperately to make it right; to let her know that the problem was never her. It was him, always him. He couldn’t shake the idea that maybe, just maybe, if he could explain then it would bring some infinitesimal amount of closure for her and maybe for him as well. And then maybe…

As he stood before her door, hand raised he wondered again if this was the right thing to do. He ached desperately to see her, to tell her how sorry he was. To tell her that he loved her, both then and now, even though he knew it would make little difference. He had lost her and he doubted anything would change that. But she deserved to know. Didn’t she?

His knuckles wrapped against the painted wood of the door. He stiffened slightly as he heard her voice, muffled and indistinct but decidedly hers. Panic gripped him. God, this wasn’t a good idea. He inhaled sharply as the door opened.

Surprise merged into confusion then concern in the depths of Rosemary’s hazel eyes. She stood, staring at him her arms crossed protectively against her chest. “What…Tom, what are you doing here?”

He swallowed against the panic that rose inside him. “I just…Can we talk?”

Rosemary blinked in confusion before gathering herself enough to ask, “About what?” She hadn’t moved her arms nor stepped aside to allow him entry. He would have been surprised if she had. God knows I would slam the damned door in my fucking face.

“About what happened between us.” She flinched at his words and it tore his heart. He had to fix this. To try to make it right. He owed her that much.  “Please, just let me say my peace and I will go. Please.”

Her eyes narrowed and he could see the warring indecision in her eyes. And in that moment he wanted desperately to hold her; to soothe her. But that wasn’t his place. How was he supposed to provide comfort when he was the one who had caused the pain in the first place? Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea. God, he just didn’t know.

Several painfully silent minutes passed before she stepped aside. Torn between gratitude that she hadn’t slammed the door in his face and sheer terror at the enormity of what he wanted to confess, what he needed to confess, Tom stood frozen. Could he really do this? Did he have the right to do this now? To drag every back up again? Would she understand why? Would she hate him for it? The all too familiar doubts and uncertainties plagued him. He wanted to run. God, he wanted to run. But it was far, far too late for that now.  

Steadying himself, Tom walked past Rosemary and into the flat. He heard her follow and close the door. His eyes wandered over the tiny living room, taking in every small detail. It looked the same. He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry. So much had changed, but this tiny part had remained the same. Memories threatened to overwhelm him. So many small, happy moments had happened here. He sobered almost at once. All of those memories had been overshadowed by his own fear and stubborn need to protect her. He froze once more.

He heard her clear her throat behind him. “You wanted to talk…So talk.” Her voice was steady, far steadier than his was sure to be. He swallowed again before curling his hands into fists and forcing himself to turn around and face her.

The words didn’t seem to want to come; not at first. He started and stumbled to a stop for what felt like ages until finally, finally, they tumbled out. How he had lied to her, how much she had meant, still meant, to him. Why he’d done it. How dreadfully sorry he was for the pain he knew he’d caused her.

He watched her face as he spoke. Wanting, hoping for some sign of her thoughts on her face. But she stood, her face empty, lips drawn together in a tight line.

“I don’t understand,” Rosemary uttered after several moments of silence had passed. Her eyes locked on his; confusion, hurt, and disbelief shining in their depths.

Tom ducked his head, unable to hold her gaze. Hating himself for the pain he caused her. That he kept causing her. “I didn’t mean it. What I said to you that day,” he started, slowly raising his head. “I love you. God, I love you. But I’m not good for you. My life isn’t good for you. It would have torn you apart and I couldn’t have that. I’m sorry. Oh Rosie, I’m so sorry.” The words poured out of him, he couldn’t have stopped them if he tried.

“Don’t call me that,” she hissed.

He flinched at her words; at the anguish in her tone. I did this. My fault. He wanted to pull her to him; to hold her, to comfort her. But he hadn’t the right. He’d thrown it away that day and he didn’t know if he would ever be able to earn it back.

Her eyes narrowed, anger swirling brightly. ���What gave you the right?”

The words hit him like a physical blow. He stared at her in disbelief, confusion and pain coloring his features. “What?” he breathed.

“I said,” she began again, taking a breath, her voice cool and steady. “What gave you the right?” Her eyes were burning into his. “How dare you decide what I can or can’t handle? How dare you treat me like a fucking child who doesn’t know their own mind? How fucking DARE you.”

He stood, frozen. He didn’t know what he could say in answer. She was right. Of course she was right. He’d acted out of concern, misguided as it was, but he hadn’t stopped to consider what she wanted. What she felt. He’d decided, in all his arrogant glory that he knew what was best for her. For them both. He was stupid and cowardly and so utterly selfish.

“I am so sorry,” he started again, knowing the words were far too little and far, far too late. “I was selfish and careless and I know it doesn’t fix anything. That this doesn’t change anything. But I am so desperately sorry.” He could feel his eyes burning, the tears threatening to overwhelm him.

She stood there, arms crossed protectively across her chest. She didn’t speak but he could feel the rage of emotion pouring off her. He kept doing this. Kept hurting her. He shouldn’t have come. Shouldn’t have confessed. Here he was, once again, selfishly putting his need to confess, to explain, above all else. Guilt flooded through him. God, why didn’t he ever fucking learn?

“I think you should leave.”

The tears did spill then.

He nodded silently. She had every right to tell him to leave; he couldn’t blame her for wanting him to. He had gone and done the exact same thing to her again. He had allowed himself to unload his guilt onto her to ease his own conscious.

“Goodbye, Rosie.”

Next

[winterisakiller]

Love & Great Buildings - Chapter Seven

Chapter: 7/19

Character/Relationship: Tom Hiddleston/Rosemary Mathews (OFC)

Genre: Romance/Angst

Summary: Three years have passed and a chance encounter brings Tom and Rosie together again. Can time make any difference or are they doomed to repeat their mistakes.

Rating: T (for now)

Author’s Notes/Warnings: This is part nine of Last Minutes and Lost Evenings. Many thanks to @redfoxwritesstuff for listening to me ramble incessantly about  this story and being a sounding board when I needed it. You are a lifesaver, even if your stories break my heart.

This story and its preceding one-shots can be also be found on AO3 under the username winterisakiller (sparkinside)

Tag List: @tinchentitri  @noplacelikehome77

Previous Chapter

CHAPTER SEVEN

 An exasperated sigh fell from Rosemary’s lips. It was barely noon and already she wanted to ram her head into a wall. This paperwork will be the bloody death of me. She rolled her neck, grimacing at the crack that action released. She was far, far too tense. Another hour, she reasoned. If I can make it another hour and then I can walk away for a bit. She nearly jumped out of her skin as her phone buzzed suddenly to life on the edge of her desk. Absently she reached for it and couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face as the familiar name flashed on the screen. With a shake of her head, she swiped to answer the call. “Tom.” 

His warm laughter filled her ear and pulled another smile to her face. “Rosie, darling, how are you?”

“Lay off the charm, Hiddleston,” she joked, rubbing the back of her neck absently with her free hand. “Now to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” 

Another warm laugh. God did he have any idea the chaos he could unleash with that laugh? She shook her head trying to clear that errant thought away. 

“Gods, you do wonders for my ego.” 

Rosemary smirked, “I do my best.” 

It had been two weeks since she and Tom had shared Chinese take-away in her small flat. The conversation that first night had been slightly stilted after the emotional levity of the hour before, but it was still infinitely better than she could have hoped. And, in all honesty, than she had expected. It was still nowhere near the ease they had shared in years past, both too much and yet too little time had passed for that to occur once more. But it had been a start and for that she’d been grateful. 

Tom hadn’t lingered long after they’d finished their meal, thanking her profusely for both the food and her time. He’d hesitated briefly at the door as she’d walked him out before leaning in and pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. She’d stood frozen, butterflies rioting in her chest as he wish her a pleasant evening and closed the door behind him. 

And over those two weeks they had spoken often, mostly by phone though they had occasionally met at various cafés for coffee. Things were simple and unhurried between them. No pressures just the slow process of getting to know each other once more. And for that she’d been incredibly grateful. 

She had been adamant with herself that this time she wouldn’t throw herself blindly into him, into them. They had rushed headlong into their doomed affair without a second thought, and in doing so, had both paid the price. She could not, would not, do that again. 

“…So what do you think?” 

Rosemary shook her head violently, forcing herself back into the present, and realized she’d missed nearly everything he’d said. “I’m sorry, Tom, what?” 

Tom’s chuckle echoed in her ear, “I was asking if you were possibly free for lunch today.” 

She paused, weighing her answer. They had made great leaps in such a short time and she very much wanted to see him. They had met several times for coffee but hadn’t shared a meal since that first night. 

The knock on the doorframe was so soft that at first Rosemary hadn’t been sure she’d heard it. But then it sounded again. Her head jerked up. Jules stood silently in the doorway, a rueful smile spread across her features. She started slightly at the sight before silently waving Jules into the office. 

“Can I take a raincheck on that lunch?” 

She heard a shuffling from Tom’s end. “Sure,” She wondered briefly if the disappointment she heard in his voice was of her own invention or actually there, but quickly brushed the thought off.  “Just let me know when?” 

“I will. Talk later?” She let her own hope color her words, refusing to think further into why that troubled her. 

His warm laughed echoed again in her ear. “Alright, darling. Speak soon.” 

Rosemary let out a small sigh and placed the phone back onto her desk. She turned her attention towards Jules’ uneasy form. She’d walked into the office at Rosemary’s insistence but remained hovering near the doorway. “What can I help you with, Jules?” The unease on Jules’ face unnerved her and a sudden fear bubbled through Rosemary. “Is everything alright with Ingrid and the baby?” 

This seemed to calm Jules slightly and she relaxed her shoulders, walking towards the desk and settling into the chair across. “Yes, she and the little one, she had a boy, did I not tell you?, are fine. She was discharged last week. The baby, David he’s called, is still in NICU but Frank says the doctors think he should be ready to come home in another week or so if his lungs keep developing at the rate they are. So all good there.” 

Rosemary smiled, reaching out to grasp Jules hand and squeeze it gently. “That’s fantastic, I’m so glad everything is well with them.” 

Jules offered her a genuine smile. “Me too.” 

Silence fell between them once again. 

“Is everything alright with the shop? Please tell me that Jordan isn’t completely messing up the shipments…again.” 

Jules laughed, shaking her head. “No more than usual. Everything is fine, Evan’s holding up far better than I expected him to. He may be worth his salt after all.” Both women chuckled. “Online orders are holding well too. And things are good here?” 

Rosemary nodded. “Yeah, Hanna is well worth her weight in gold.” She paused, smiling. “The shop here is doing far better than I hoped it would.” 

“I’m so glad. I know Stories has been your baby for a long time now. You’re doing Agnes and Henry proud, you know.” She offered Rosemary a warm smile. 

Stories Untold had been a small but well maintained bookshop under Agnes and Henry Goode, something they had started after retirement to keep each other occupied and to fulfill a childhood dream of Agnes’.  Both Rosemary and Jules had been two of the first people hired on. They had watched the shop grow and when Agnes’ health had gotten too poorly for her or Henry to continue with its upkeep, Rosemary had jumped at the chance to take the shop under her own wing with their blessing. It had been a challenge and one she’d frequently feared she’d ultimately fail at. Jules had been beside her through the thick and thin. Having her support and her belief had meant the world. 

“I hope so.” 

Jules took a deep breath, seeming to come to a decision. “I’m sorry.” 

Taken aback, Rosemary stared at the woman sitting before her. 

When she didn’t respond, Jules carried on, “I know you’ve been angry with me and things haven’t been right between us, not since that last lunch…Or well since the morning after our quest to drink greater London out of wine,” She laughed nervously and ran a hand through her hair, “Anyway, I miss my friend. And I want to try to mend this.” 

Rosemary did not speak for several minutes, staring first at the desk before her then at her hands. Jules was undoubtedly one of her closest friends and the strain between them had been a difficult burden to bear. Most of the anger she’d felt had faded, more of tiny flame than the raging inferno, but there was still an unease between them that unsettled her. She had always trusted Jules’ judgement, as opinionated as her friend was Jules usually saw things with a level head. And while she could understand Jules’ hesitance in trusting Tom and his motives, Rosemary found it difficult to reconcile. “I miss you too,” she finally spoke, raising her eyes to Jules. “And I know I’ve not been the easiest person to deal with; taking my anger out on you was unnecessary and not at all fair. But can you understand why?” 

Jules nodded slowly, “I don’t like Tom. You know that, not after what he did. He didn’t see the mess he left, I did. And I know how you were with him and I couldn’t bear to see you hurt again. You are as good as a sister to me, Rose, and it kills me to see you hurt. But I pushed too far and, drunk or not, I shouldn’t have done what I did. I’m sorry for that. Really I am.” 

“No you shouldn’t have.” Her tone was harsher than she had intended. She shook her head briefly and carried on. “But I do understand. At least partially. You care. You are the closest thing I have to a sister as well. But Jules, I am an adult. I can make my own choices as to what I can and cannot handle. And if I fall flat then that is on me. Trust that given time I can pull myself up and dust myself off and move on.”   

Jules smiled softly at Rosemary and nodded. She was silent for several moments before locking her eyes on Rosemary and asking, “Are we okay?”

Rosemary shrugged. “We’re friends, that hasn’t changed. But I’m still…I understand why you pushed, but it doesn’t mean that I’m fully sure I can completely forgive you for doing so.” She paused, reaching her hand out towards Jules’ and grasping it firmly in hers. “But I don’t want to be angry with you anymore. It’s not solving anything. I just need you to trust me and my own judgement. Please.” 

Squeezing her hand in return, Jules chuckled and then nodded, “I can’t guarantee I won’t make a right mess of it, but I can try.” 

“That’s all I ask.” 

“So,” Jules started, her eyes glancing briefly at the phone then back towards her friend, “who’s the raincheck on?” 

Rosemary smiled softly, knowing that this would certainly put their new found truce to the test. In for a penny…She straightened in her seat, resting her elbows neatly on the desk, her hands folded before her. “Tom.” 

She could see Jules slight start at the name. “Oh. So you patched things up?” The concern and hesitancy in her voice was clear as was the fact that she was holding back. 

“We’re trying,” Rosemary answered honestly. She shrugged. “We’ve been talking off and on for the last few weeks or so. It’s been…” she struggled to find a suitable word, “honestly really nice.” 

Jules nodded but did not speak. Rosemary could see the wheels turning in her head. The silent ‘are you sure this is a good idea’ that screamed in her eyes. “So,” she started, leaning her hands on her thighs, “how did this happen?” 

Rosemary let out a soft sigh, “He came by my flat. He apologized, I apologized. We talked, we were honest with each other.” She paused, shrugging lightly. It was nice to talk about Tom to someone. Even if Jules appeared dubious, at least she’d told someone. “He is a friend, or at least I want him to be. I missed him, Jules. Missed being able to talk to him. Can you understand that?” 

“I don’t know, Rose. Really I don’t…I want to trust that you know what you are doing because usually you do. You are one of the most level headed people I know, but with him…You’re a smart woman…Just be careful, okay. Don’t let him talk you into something you aren’t ready for. Please just try to keep your head.” Jules held up her hand at Rosemary’s stuttered protests. “You are my friend and I worry, but you are more than capable of making your own decisions and knowing what you want. Just make sure you think it through.” She smiled warmly at Rosemary, her hands resting in her lap. “That’s all I’m going to say.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” Rosemary sighed, “I understand what you are saying, Jules. But it’s my life, my choice. He is my friend. That is all, I’m not going to make that same mistake again. You need to trust me and trust that I can learn from the past.” 

“Okay. Okay.” Jules pushed herself up from the chair and looked knowingly at her friend. “I was going to head out to grab a bite before heading back to the shop. You interested?” 

Rosemary smiled softly in return. “Any chance of a change in venue?” 

She watched Jules’ red brow quirk and a wicked grin spread across her face. “From our usual? Perish the thought!” 

With a roll of her eyes, Rosemary stood and beckoned her friend. “Come on then.”

                                                          — 

 “So sorry it’s taken me so long to ring back.” Rosemary settled herself onto her couch, trying to suppress a groan. Lunch with Jules had been nice, still a bit tense round the edges, but nice all the same. She’d missed her friend and being able to start to mend that bridge had taken a weight off her mind. There was still a ways for them to go, but for now she had her friend back. 

The rest of the day had been relatively uneventful, frustrating mounds of paperwork notwithstanding; Hanna had been taking on more and more of the daily routines and was now practically starting to run the shop on her own. She would give it another week or so before she began to transition back to the original location and then flit back and forth as needed. It was almost bittersweet. 

“Darling, that is quite alright.” His voice was warm in her ear and she fought the urge to groan again. “Busy day, I take it?” 

Rosemary nodded and when it dawned on her that he could not, in fact, see her response answered, “Yes. The shop’s doing well. Both are actually.” She laughed softly. “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know?” She sat fully upright, frowning as her stomach gave a grumble of protest. It had been several hours since lunch, something her body was obviously not pleased about. Alright then let’s see what we’ve got to work with. She pushed herself to her feet and stumbled into the kitchen. 

“I do,” Tom answered. She could hear the smile in his voice. “But I seriously doubt that it will happen. You have a good head on your shoulders and from what you’ve told me you have good people working with and for you. I think you’ll be alright.” 

The fridge wasn’t as barren as she’d feared. ­Thank god for small miracles. Pulling out the container of Alfredo sauce she’d found, and cautiously sniffed just to be safe, Rosemary went in search of whatever pasta was to hand. 

Rosemary sighed as she pulled open the cabinet door. “I know, I know. But you know my mind sometimes.” Tom laughed at this, pulling smile to her face. She pulled down a box and studied it Spaghetti it is then. “I saw Jules today, we hadn’t had a chance to catch up in a while. So that was lovely.” Phone balanced precariously between her ear and shoulder, she carried her boon to the stovetop. She grabbed the pot sitting on the back burner and headed for the sink, quickly filling it. As she turned to make her way back towards the stove the phone slipped and fell with a clatter to the floor. “Shit!” She dropped the pot hastily on the stove and dove for her phone, mumbling curses under her breath. “So, so sorry. I am the worst sort of klutz,” she apologized. She hit the speaker function and placed the phone carefully onto the counter. 

“You quite alright there, Rosie?” 

Rosemary laughed, trying to cover her sudden flustering nervousness. “Yeah, I was just attempting to multi-task and failing horribly. Apparently I cannot handle talking on the phone and cooking at the same time. I kind of dropped you.” 

Tom laughed heartily. “Oh my dear, what am I ever going to do with you?” 

“God knows.” She set the pot to boil and headed back into the living room but not before grabbing a package of crisps. “I don’t even know what I’m going to do with me.” She ripped open the package and settled onto the couch. She popped a few of the crisps into her mouth, it wasn’t much but god she was starving. 

“So how is Jules? You’ve not spoken of her recently?” 

Rosemary sighed, resting her head back against the headrest of the couch. “She’s well. We had lunch today. It’s been awhile since…” She trailed off, rubbing her temples with her free hand. “We had a bit of a falling out a month or so back.” 

“Seriously?” The confusion was evident in his voice. “Over what?” 

She hesitated. 

“Rosie?” Tom urged. She could plainly hear the dawning knowledge in his voice and his need to hear her actually say it. 

A deep sigh fell from her lips, “You…Technically. She was drinking with me that night…She may or may not have been the catalyst for that stupid call.” She sat up more fully and rested her forehead against her upturned hand. “I was upset and angry with her for putting the damned idea in my head and for being so against me even talking to you…I told her off and we stopped talking about everything save the bloody shop.” 

“Oh Rosie…” 

“Don’t Tom.” Her voice was tighter than she’d intended. “It’s over. She and I will be fine. We always are. We’ve talked and I’ve made it clear that I am capable of making my own choices. So don’t worry about it.” 

A hissing from the kitchen snapped her attention back to the present. “Shit!” she shouted as she jumped from the couch and scrambled into the kitchen. 

“What?” Tom’s voice shouted in her ear. “What’s wrong?” 

Hitting the speaker button again, she placed the phone on the counter. “The blasted water is boiling over,” she hissed as she grabbed the pot and lifted it from the heat. Once the water settled, placed it back on the burner. She grabbed the package of spaghetti and emptied it into the pot. 

“Careful or you’ll burn the place down.” 

“Ha, bloody ha, Hiddleston. I can actually cook you know.” She stirred the pasta into the water and left it to return to a boil, setting the kitchen timer before walking back into the living room. “It’s not my fault I was distracted.” 

Tom laughed, “If you insist, darling.” 

“And if I do?” She queried, settling back onto the couch. He laughed again. “So Tom, about that rain check? Are you free tomorrow afternoon by any chance?” 

He groaned and she could clearly see him rubbing his temples with his hand. “I can’t.” 

She tried to stifle the initial wave of disappointment. “Oh...” 

“I have a lunch meeting with my manager tomorrow. But I’m free the day after. Would that be alright?” 

Rosemary smiled. “That would be perfect.” 

Next Chapter

[i-just-like-commenting]

Themes in Luke Cage s2: The Quest for Control

What separates the good Netflix MCU seasons from the weaker ones are how well integrated their themes are into the setup of the story. Daredevil‘s first season did it well with its exploration of the thin lines between heroes and villains, the difficulty of choosing what is good. The first season of Luke Cage focused heavily on the idea of not being able to go backwards, only forwards. The first season Jessica Jones and even the deeply-flawed Punisher tried to tackle issues like sexually assault, survivor’s guilt, and PTSD. But none of them ever quite reached up to the level of that first season of Daredevil.

Then along came this season and I’ve got more themes than I can wrap my head around. I’ve only watched it through once, so take this as a preliminary digestion of what I saw and feel free to add your thoughts and nuances to my arguments.

I’m going to start with the theme that is central to Luke’s character arc for this season: the quest for control, and particularly the idea that this quest is futile. This idea that one can achieve omnipotence is the hubris of classic tragedy, and make no mistake that this season is a tragedy.

Luke’s journey is probably going to be the most controversial element of this season. I get this, to a certain degree. Sometimes you want your heroes to be paragons or to triumph over adversity. Sometimes you want them to skirt the dark side. It’s certainly best if you can have a mix of both, but there aren’t many black superheroes out there. It’s easy for me, as a white woman, to appreciate Luke’s struggle with the dark side this season because I have, at this point, plenty of representation of white women both noble and messed up available for me in media. If that is not what you want right now, I respect that. That same issue is why, as a person with a mental illness, I dropped the second season of Legion once I started seeing where it was going (though rest assured, Luke doesn’t do anything nearly as awful as what David does by the end of that show).

Luke throughout the first season was a very reactive character, partly because his story didn’t actually begin that season. It began in the first season of Jessica Jones, where Luke is a very active character, actively hunting down his wife’s killers. And what does he get for it? Well, he finds out that a woman he cared for was involved in Reva’s death and had been lying to him the whole time, and then he gets his mind controlled by a telepathic supervillain who tries to force him to kill Jessica just like she was forced to kill his wife, and he is only stopped by a shotgun blast straight to his head that nearly does him in.

It is thus perhaps understandable that Luke Cage didn’t want to be a hero anymore and was trying to live a quiet life. His arc for the first season was realizing he loved Harlem too much to do that. In the meantime, though, he was a highly reactive character. This is not always a bad thing for superheroes; go too far in the other direction of actively hunting down bad guys and you get Frank Castle. It did mean that the villains drove most of the plot rather than Luke himself. (spoilers follow...)

In the second season, motivated I believe by being so out of his depth with the Hand in The Defenders and seeing Misty lose an arm, Luke tries to take back control of his life. The problem with that no one is ever really in complete control of their lives, and in trying to get total control, Luke winds up becoming more controlled than ever.

We open with Luke attempting to hunt down every stash house selling heroin with his name on it – not because this drug is particularly more lethal than any other, but because it is using his name without his permission. This focus on controlling his image is one that hounds Luke throughout the season. He’s reluctant to sign promotional deals not so much because he doesn’t want to make money, but rather because he doesn’t want to be “bought.” He doesn’t want Nike or whoever to have any control over him. He wants to be his own man.

Yet thanks to not copyrighting an app early on, he is easily found by almost anyone, most of them armed with cameras. While Luke is sometimes able to promote himself – his “Yo, I’m Luke Cage” speech with all its chest-thumping and dabbing being the most prominent – it also means that when Bushmaster wipes him out, the video goes viral, and is sold without his permission to ESPN, leaving the narrative entirely out of Luke’s hands.

Unable to have control of his public life as a hero of Harlem, Luke shifts his focus to control of his personal life. He refuses his father’s efforts to reach out to him, and when Claire pushes for them to reconcile he dismisses her. When Claire questions his excessive force with Cockroach, he accuses her of “castrating” him. Given that Luke doesn’t much demonstrate many other signs of toxic masculinity, I think this hyperbole has less to do with her “unmanning” him and more to do with taming him, making him docile, under someone else’s control. While I firmly believe Luke was never in any risk of hurting Claire, he does get angry enough to break her wall, losing control of himself and losing her. Once again the quest for control backfires on him.

Even the fan-service-y cameo episode with Danny Rand serves toward this theme of need for control, as Luke works on self-control of his anger through Danny’s advice. To a certain degree this works; Luke is in much more control of his emotions towards the end of the series than towards the beginning, but that doesn’t solve his biggest issue, his frustration with trying to control the criminal world that swirls around him.

Much of his vigilante work involves him chafing at the restrictions and controls presented by legal options. He’s not alone in this. Misty Knight has a similar path of trying to determine how comfortable she is with following the law versus going her own way. She was this close to going full Scarfe and planting evidence when the lawful means of going after a domestic abuser weren’t working, and turned in her badge because she felt that she’d crossed a line and could no longer be police. She scorned at Ridenhour’s compromises, and started assuming a vigilante role.

Misty, however, has power thrust upon her unexpectedly when she is made the temporary commander of her precinct, and in being in actual control makes her realize how much she misjudged the people who had been in control of her before. Heavy lies the crown as they say, and instead of becoming more rogue in her new role, she becomes more conformed to the establishment, more willing to strike deals and work in the system. The downside of this is her having to accept that her “wins” might be fewer and far between. The upside is that she probably the only character in this season to come out in a more positive position than she was in the beginning. To gain control, she has to give up some control, albeit on her own terms.

Contrast this to the walking disaster that is Mariah Dillard Stokes this season. Mariah’s miserable childhood has left her unable to develop trust with anyone, and so she takes on all decisions by herself and keeps control of her assets in her hands, despite repeated efforts by Shades to convince her that he wants to help her share her burdens. Probably due to the stress of taking all of this on herself, Mariah spends about half this season drunk and thus very not in control of herself, making more and more bad decisions as the series progresses. Trusting someone else means giving up control, and when she’s done that she’s been hurt, horrifically. So she trusts no one, betrays everyone, and winds up alone and dead.

These two parallel paths offer two possible models for where Luke goes after the end of this season. This season ends with Luke deciding to take absolute control of Harlem, taking Mariah’s place as the power-broker keeping a wall around the neighborhood and making deals with the bad guys to keep them out.

Yet the utter irony is that Luke only winds up taking this position of “dictator” (more on that term later) as an option of last resort. He is forced by Mariah’s machinations to take her position, with Mariah specifically having chosen him as her “heir” over her own daughter. He loves Harlem as much as she does, and Mariah finds he is the only person to be reliable around her - reliably against her, that is. And of course she also chooses him out of spite, to see how long he can remain incorruptible if he follows her path.

It is a trap. Donovan tells him so, bluntly. But Luke walks into it because he believes he’ll finally get his control in the end, and because it is the only option he sees left.

And try as I might, I have a hard time imagining what alternative he really had. He stops a gang war by becoming the boss of crime, he ends bloodshed, and the scale of what was unleashed on Harlem was beyond anything anyone was prepared to handle by other means. So perhaps this is the best choice among bad choices – for now.

Less forgivable is his decision to turn away Claire in the final scene (and if I can criticize the show for a moment, I really wish we could have seen her to know how she reacts to that rejection). That is a decidedly Mariah move, pushing away the one who loves you because to love is to let someone else have some control over you, if only your heart. (There are direct scene-for-scene parallels between some of Luke’s moments with Claire and Mariah’s with Shades for precisely this reason).

This arc for Luke seems to borrow heavily from Bendis’ run on Daredevil where Matt Murdock declared himself the new Kingpin of Hell’s Kitchen, and established a peace by force much as what Luke is planning. It did not end well for Matt; he wound up losing all his friends, his girlfriend, and going to prison. I hope it doesn’t go that far for Luke. At the very least, he seems open to continuing to work with Misty Knight, though that door-closing shot (a direct reference to the end of The Godfather) doesn’t bode well for that relationship continuing. But we also got a glimpse of connection between him and Danny Rand that promises maybe, maybe he can be convinced to be a true dictator.

Because, as anyone who has seen The Dark Knight knows, ancient Roman dictators were an emergency position created to deal with crises, at the end of which they were supposed to give up their power. Can Luke make the hard choice, the truly strong choice, and know when it’s time to relinquish his quest for total control, to be vulnerable, to allow himself to not be omnipotent?

I guess we will have to wait and see. Though I have other reasons to hope, but that will require another post on another theme of this season: families, both good and bad, found and hereditary.

[spartanguard]

a charm of powerful trouble (4/5)

Summary: Killian should have known to keep his flask close when a mad scientist was on the loose. But at least werewolves don’t drink rum, right? (3.6k, rated PG)

A/N: Sorry it’s been so long! My muse has a terrible lack of focus, even though this has been thoroughly outlined for a month. But I finally have an update! And there’s one more to come. Thanks to @optomisticgirl for looking this over and to @cocohook38 and @snowbellewells for keeping me going :D

Part 1 (art) | Part 2 (art) | Part 3 (art) | Part 4 (art) | AO3

Dawn filtered hazy through the windows of the cabin and Killian lazily blinked open his eyes at the light, happy to be on his ship with the woman he loved in his arms. She shifted a bit and he glanced down at her as she too fluttered her eyelashes as she woke.

“Mm, good morning,” she murmured, pulling herself even closer to him and trailing a hand up his arm, grazing his collarbones and neck on her way to the tips of his ears. She played with them, teasing, “My, what big ears you have.”

“The better to hear you with, my dear,” he answered.

She smiled up at him. “And what big, blue eyes you have.”

“The better to see you with, Swan.”

Finally, she placed a gentle kiss on his lips and pulled back, leaving him grinning. “And what big teeth you have,” she finished, biting her lip and glancing up through her lashes.

He growled into her ear, nudging it with his nose. She smelled positively delectable and he could feel a familiar hunger growing within. “The better to eat you with, love.”

He reared back and sank his teeth into her shoulder. She screamed, but not in the good way. She tasted divine, but all too soon, she was out of reach and he was left licking his chops, craving more.

She stood on the opposite side of the cabin from him, hands outstretched defensively and a terrified look on her face. Wait, why was she scared of him?

“Emma, it’s me,” he tried to say, but all that came out were ferocious roars. He glanced down at his paws and fur-covered limbs. Oh, right.

“Help! There’s a wolf!” she shouted, and her palms began to glow.

“Please, Swan, listen to me!” he shouted, only to howl.

“What did you do with my husband?” She was angry and holding back tears, breaking his heart.

“I’m right here!”

“GO AWAY!” she yelled, and unleashed her powers at him. He writhed and twisted against the magical restraints, still shouting for her to listen to him, but it was all for nought until—

—Until he awoke thrashing in his own bed. As a human.

Emma was lying next to him with her hands gripping his shoulders. “Hey, hey—it’s okay; it was just a dream. You’re okay now.”

Immediately, his hand went to her face, cupping it—he had to feel that warmth against his skin, to see if she was real. She tilted her head into his touch and gave him a soft smile that eased the concerned furrow of her brow, and his panic ebbed a little.

He couldn’t help it: he surged forward to claim her lips with his, desperate for that connection. This whole ordeal had only started hours ago, but it felt like ages that he’d been separated from her. She responded just as hungrily, which was reassuring—until he remembered that she’d been through quite a bit last night, too.

He broke the kiss but tugged her close to him, practically burying his head in her shoulder; as terrible as he felt about everything, he needed that physical contact to ground him right now. “Emma, I’m so sorry; I’m so sorry for everything last night—”

She cut him off, firmly but gently telling him, “Hey, you have nothing to apologize for. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He pulled back to look at her, astonished by the resolve and forgiveness on her face. “Swan, I hurt you and Belle. How could I...how can you...?” How can you look at me? were the words he couldn't voice.

“No. You didn’t do anything; the wolf did. Actually, whoever did this to you is really who should be blamed.”

“But I wasn’t strong enough to fight back.” How could she think he was innocent in this?

“You did the best you could. No one is mad at you, babe. Please don’t beat yourself up about it; please.”

He scoffed a bit, both at how well she knew him and at the fact that it was too late. True, he was getting better at letting go of the past and not letting his sins weigh on him so heavily, but situations like this reminded him of just who he’d been: ruthless and mindless when it came to his revenge and anyone who got in his way. But if he wasn’t that man anymore, then he should have been able to fight against the beast; he should have protected those he loved instead of letting it run free.

A knock on the bedroom door interrupted his self-deprecating train of thought. “She’s right, you know.” Granny was peeking in the doorway and he could smell the grilled cheese and onion rings she had with her (much stronger than he usually could, actually). “Most wolves have even less control than you did on their first transformation. I certainly didn’t. Hell, Ruby ate her boyfriend.”

“Uh, Granny, that part probably doesn't help,” Emma interjected, muttering as she pulled the sheets tighter around them. Killian was less concerned with propriety, and felt his heart rate pick up a tick.

But Granny shrugged it off. “Point is, you did fine, and you’ll be fine. I’m sure of it.” She set the bag of food at the foot of the bed; Emma’s stomach growled in response—though, was it louder than normal, or did it just seem like it? “Now eat up; even if the wolf ate, transformation takes a lot out of you and you both must be starved.”

He wasn’t sure he had much of an appetite, once he recalled what his last meal was, but it wasn’t long after Granny left and Emma dug into hers that he suddenly found himself ravenous.  For lack of a better word, he found himself wolfing down the french fries and reuben sandwich brought for him (he’d never had a reuben before, but he figured Granny’s lupine senses must have known he’d like it—which was mildly concerning, but he was too focused on his meal to really think about it). He was just finishing Emma’s onion rings when her phone rang from its spot on the nightstand.

“Oh, good—it’s Regina,” she said as she grabbed it and answered. “Hey, what did you find out?”

Though it was quiet, Killian heard the mayor’s response clear as day. “You might want to put this on speakerphone; if he’s awake, you’re both gonna want to hear this.” That didn’t sound good.

Emma did as was asked and scooted next to Killian; he wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close instinctively. “What’s up?” Emma asked.

“Guyliner, you there?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I have good news and bad news,” Regina started. “The good news is that I caught the culprit and he’s all ready to be processed. He doesn’t seem to be a huge fan of the cells at the station, but take your time. And be sure to add theft to the list of charges.”

“I was going to return them!” Whale protested in the background. Emma and Killian both sighed; of course it was him.

“How’d you figure out it was him?” Emma wondered.

“Remember my missing spellbooks?” Regina had put in a formal complaint earlier that week, but they’d been too busy to follow up on it. “They had similar transformation potions in them, but not quite to that extent. So I made an educated guess, baited this guy to my place on the promise of a couple hearts, and that was that.”

“You’re sure?” Killian had to ask. It was believable, but...this was also Storybrooke. It wasn’t uncommon for multiple villains to be running around at the same time.

“Oh, I’m sure. I put him under my own version of a polygraph test, and he spilled everything, even where the brains came from.”

Emma groaned, slightly exasperated. “Did you take his heart?”

“I gave it back,” was Regina’s nonchalant answer.

Emma huffed, but plowed on. “Okay, your turn to go on speaker. We need to talk to Whale.” While they waited for Regina to switch her phone, she reached over and gave a comforting squeeze of Killian’s leg through the bed covers. It helped a bit, but he could still feel a ball of anxiety growing in his stomach, and it wasn’t just the greasy food. Just because he was human right now didn’t mean he was in the clear; he needed to hear just what the mad doctor had done to him.

“What’s up, Savior?” the doctor’s smarmy voice greeted over the phone.

She just rolled her eyes. “Cut the crap, Frank-N-Furter. What exactly did you do and why?”

“I think it’s pretty obvious what I did.”

“Humor me. We already know you love to hear yourself talk.”

“Hm, that’s true,” he conceded, and to their surprise, he launched right into an explanation. “I did it for the same reason anyone conducts experiments: to see if I could. Letting the patients out was just a ruse to get you out of the house. Slipped in and put in the flask, easy peasy. You should really rethink your home security.”

Killian could feel her tense next to him; Whale’s casual attitude was grating on him, but Emma plowed on. “Why did you do this to Killian?” she demanded.

“The pirate is a prime specimen. Look at how old he is and how much he’s been through. If it works on him, it’d work on anyone.”

Anxiety quickly turned to anger within—once more, he was just a means to an end, being used. Old rage filled him up and burst out. “So that’s all I am—a lab rat in your game of science? Not an actual person, with a life that you’ve so carelessly interrupted?” The doctor was lucky that he wasn’t physically there; even with his brace shredded, Killian would have found a way to get Whale on the wrong end of his hook.

“I mean...yeah,” was all Whale had to say.

It was a good thing they were alone, because Killian jumped out of bed and began to pace furiously, hardly giving second thought to his nudity. This was his childhood all over again: he was just an object, under the control of someone else; it was, quite literally, dehumanizing.

He could feel Emma’s worried gaze as he stalked his side of the room. “Okay, but what it is, exactly, and how do we fix it?”

“It’s a transformation potion, but an incredibly potent one. I super-concentrated it for maximum power.”

Regina asked, “Why a werewolf? Couldn’t you have picked something with less...fleas?”

“Ruby left a hairbrush here once, so I had to work with what was on hand.”

“So it’s like Polyjuice Potion?” To his surprise, Emma seemed relieved by the revelation, but he had no idea what that was. She threw him a glance with the corner of her mouth ticked up, which usually meant she’d explain it later.

“Kind of. Same idea, but this one isn’t as...temporary, I guess?”

Any relief disappeared.

“What do you mean?” Emma asked slowly.

Whale explained, “It was designed to be a bit more permanent in nature.”

The pit that had been forming in his stomach rapidly became a dropping stone, and Killian was frozen in place; even the dustmotes swimming in the light streaming through the windows seemed to still. What the bloody hell did he mean? Emma’s mouth hung open in shock and she was staring at him, but clearly both were left speechless.

So Whale continued. “Tell me, Captain, have you noted anything different since you returned to human form? Heightened senses; a craving for meat?”

Killian swallowed as a cold sense of realization washed over him. “Aye, I have,” he confirmed with a low, shaky voice. Those subtle differences he’d noticed over the last few hours felt like giant warning signs now.

“Then there you have it,” Whale concluded. “There’s a slight chance it’ll wear off eventually, but I designed it to be even more potent than a werewolf’s bite. Ideally, you’d transform for an entire week around the full moon, rather than just a day.”

Emma snorted and proceeded to unleash verbal abuse on the doctor, but Killian found himself tuning it out despite his apparently enhanced hearing. This curse was permanent. No amount of True Love magic could reverse or alter it; no spell or potion could undo it. His entire life had been redirected and likely torn apart thanks to one sip of a psychotic man’s cruel experiment. If he wasn’t safe for even a rabbit to be around when he transformed, then how could he hope to stay with Emma?

Suddenly, she was in front of him, telling him to look her in the eye and breath; he hadn’t realized that he’d collapsed to his knees until Emma’s voice pulled him from the self-induced fog in which he’d placed himself.

She stroked his cheek—normally a comforting gesture, but it didn’t fit with the uncertainty in her shaky voice. “I promise you, we’ll figure this out,” she said, but she didn’t seem as convinced anymore. And if she wasn’t, how was he to be?

He hummed an agreement halfheartedly and leaned into her touch. But he knew that regardless of whatever she believed, he was now a danger to her; come nightfall—and possibly long after—he’d have to be far away.

Emma couldn’t help the disbelieving snort that escaped her lips when Whale explained what he’d done to Killian. “So this is all a game to you? You don’t mind that you’ve completely changed someone’s entire life—entire being—for the sake of some ridiculous study?”

“No, this is science,” he threw back, smugly, making her want to slap the cocky grin off his head that was surely there. And she was half tempted to ask Regina to do it for her.

“And you’re certain there’s no reversal?”

“DNA can only be messed with so many times; it’s dangerous stuff.”

“Emma, just let your pirate’s next meal be him,” Regina interjected. “As mayor, I’ll let this one slide.”

It was definitely a tempting offer, but said pirate was currently kneeling on the floor, staring at nothing and dangerously close to a panic attack. “As much as I might love that, we’ll figure out the doctor later; just make sure he can’t leave the station. I’ll meet you at the library.” After hanging up, she gave herself to the count of ten to freak out before going to Killian. As life-altering as this was for him, it was rocking her world, too. She knew he’d eventually have the beast in check, but how long would it take? How many more nights like the last would they face? They’d been separated before, but she didn’t think could handle it on such a regular interval. She’d gotten too used to his constant presence and unwavering support at her side to willingly give it up for even a short amount of time.

But right now, it was her turn to be that for him. She took one last deep breath before slipping off the bed and kneeling in front of him. “Killian,” she whispered. “Look at me.” God, how many times had she said that in the past 24 hours? “Breath, babe; just breathe.” He looked up at her; that panic that had finally started to ease from his eyes had found its way back in and it broke her heart. They had to find a way around this, but right now, all signs were pointing to dead ends. She couldn’t tell him that, though.

So, for the millionth time, she stroked his cheek and told him, “I promise you, we’ll figure this out.” It lacked her normal conviction, but it was one of those things where if she said it enough, she might start to believe it again.

He was equally unconvinced, but agreed anyway. They stayed there on the floor for a bit, just holding each other and trying to wrap their heads around this, until Killian began to sway and she nearly had to catch him to prevent him from falling over, squeezing his shoulders to stabilize him.

“Okay, back in bed with you,” she directed, though admittedly less forcefully than usual; she stood to pull him up with both hands and he followed with no protest. “Get some more rest while I go see what I can figure out with Regina, okay?”

He just nodded, but before she could step aside to tug back the covers for him, he pulled her tight to him, one arm around her waist and his hand on her cheek, and placed a searing kiss on her lips. Normally, such situations, given their present lack of clothing, would lead to other activities. But this didn’t have the usual heat—just the passion. He’d only kissed her like this a few times in the past, and though she knew what he was trying to say, she couldn’t afford to think like that.

When he finally broke away, he pressed his forehead to hers and murmured, “I love you, Emma.” She was short on breath, but managed to return the endearment, and they stood there for a moment just breathing each other in. Then he placed a gentle kiss on her temple and backed away, gave her a tired half-smile, and moved toward getting in the bed. He was asleep before she’d even finished tucking him in.

He was trying to say goodbye, she could tell. Only this time, she’d be damned if she let him.

She quickly dressed and poofed right over to the library, not even wanting to waste the time it would take to walk out of the house. If Belle noticed when Emma appeared in the lobby, it wasn’t apparent; she was too absorbed in a book, with another stack next to where she was reading, seated at one of the tables in the stacks.

“Finding anything?” Emma asked as she approached, finally drawing Belle’s attention. The doorbell chimed in the background, signaling Regina’s arrival.

Looking up from the page, Belle shook her head and answered. “Nothing yet. I’ve looked at transformation spells, books on mythology, and even some theoretical physics and medical books. Nothing on how to reverse something like this.”

Emma just sighed, and Regina awkwardly offered her a pat on the shoulder as David arrived with coffee. Regina caught everyone up on what Whale had revealed, and Belle just shook her head at the news. “He’s right, unfortunately; there’s nothing that can turn a werewolf back into a human, especially if the source he used was someone who was born one.”

Emma felt her stomach fall to the tile floor. “So there’s nothing we can do?” She hated how watery her voice sounded, but the prospect of no solution...they’d overcome too much to hit a brick wall now. “He’s just...going to be a wolf forever?”

Her father’s heavy, comforting grasp squeezed her shoulder. “Hey, just because it can’t be reversed doesn’t mean we can’t handle it,” he assured her. “We’ve done it before and we can do it again. And if there’s anyone who can overcome this, it’s Hook.”

“It might take some time, but once he accepts it, he’ll be fine,” Belle added. “And David’s right—I know he can.”

Regina concurred, which was probably the most reassuring, and eased Emma’s internal tension a bit. “Okay, what do we do?”

David and Belle gave her as much of a crash course as they could in wolf taming, her father having been the one to get Ruby through it just after the curse broke. They promised they’d be on standby if they were needed tonight, but their instruction had Emma feeling confident; no, things weren’t going to be perfect, but they were going to be as close to it as possible.

A trip to the station and then the hospital saw Whale in a new residence: the cells. It wasn’t an ideal prison, but it seemed fair to have him on the other side of his odd brand of medicine for once.

Darkness was falling by the time that was wrapped up, so Emma hurried home with dinner from Granny’s: the usual for her again, and a rather pink steak for Killian. The house was still dark when she arrived; she didn’t blame him if he was still napping. But the moonrise was imminent—he needed to be awake and she needed to be with him if they were going to manage this thing.

Tossing the food on the kitchen table, she then headed upstairs to their room. As usual, the bed was perfectly made and his side of the room was spotless; not even a stray sock was on the floor. But it was empty, and there were no signs of life anywhere else. Shit.

Proper gentleman that he was, though, there was a note lying on the bed:

Emma—

It would be the poorest of form to knowingly put you in danger, my love. As such, I’ve sequestered myself for the night to keep you—and others—out of harm’s way. Please do not fret, and know that I will return come morning, hopefully no worse for the wear.

Counting down the hours and leaving all my love with you,

—Killian

She sighed, shaking her head. Of course the dramatic bastard would run off, thinking it was for the best. Despite everything, they were both still getting used to the fact that they didn’t have to go through things alone, so this was one instance where she knew to seek him out.

And, predictable as he was, she was pretty positive she knew where he’d gone. With a wave of her hand, she transported to the Jolly Roger.

thanks again for reading! tagging @kat2609 @thesschesthair @fergus80 @xpumpkindumplingx @its-like-a-story-of-love @shipsxahoy @mryddinwilt @annytecture @killian-whump @laschatzi @ive-always-been-a-pirate @jscoutfinch @nfbagelperson @stubble-sandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @pirateherokillian @luvmylife25 @drowned-dreamer @lenfaz @losttalongthewayy

[infinityknight25]

Eviscereight #1 part one

“We interrupt this program with an important news story.” said the news anchor. She was about in her mid thirties, appeared to be of Asian decent with black hair and darker colored eyes. “I’m your Washington D.C. area host Kelly Yun. What you are about to see is very shocking and we aren’t sure as to how the situation will turn out. Please use caution and have all small children out of the room. The terrorist group known as the Zealots have taken over the country of India and are ruling it as they see fit. A group of American college students went to India for a trip to learn about the ecosystems of India as well as global warming and other topics that are geared toward their desired degree. This group of 12 students have been captured by the Zealots. We now go live to the stream feed from India.

The room was dark. Barely lit ,but the faces of the students could be made out. They weren’t blindfolded. Their hands and feet were bound. Everyone of them had red faces. They had been crying. The captors.. The Zealots, had masks of Xavier’s administration. You could see masks of Beast, Reed Richards, Daredevil, Doctor Strange, even Black Panther and Black Bolt leaders of allied nations of the United States. Then a man popped his head in front of the camera. He was wearing an Xavier mask. Making a point. He was the leader a mockery of Professor X’s leadership. “These western monsters have come to gain higher education. If that is what they seek….” Said the man in the Xavier mask. His accent was of a middle Eastern country. He turned from the camera and walked toward the students on the floor. “We will give them an education….” He walked over to a young brunette girl. Her appearance makes her seem like she might be nineteen or twenty. He runs his fingers through her long brown hair. Tears fall from her hazel eyes. “In pain.” Said the man in the Xavier mask. He was disturbingly calm. He walked around beginning to circle the students. “Tell me. Is anyone here mutant?” There was silence. “If thats how you want to be….. I will kill you all now .” “I am said a young man who was second from the end on the right.“And what?…” He asked walking up behind him. “Is your mutant “abilities”?“ The young man began to speak shakily “I…. I’m a weak telekinetic. Meaning I can only move things short distances with my mind. I also have some pyrokinetic abilities as well.” The young boy had black hair and brown eyes. His appearance was very thin, had five o'clock shadow and very white teeth. He was dressed in an avengers t-shirt with a pair of lightly colored khakis. “Oh!!!” The man in the Xavier mask said mockingly. “You can play with fire! How bout you show us?” He said putting a gun metal grey pistol to the back of the young man’s head. The young man began crying. He opened his left hand and a small flame popped up. Bam! The boy’s body fell out of sight from the camera. The man in the Xavier mask knelt down and pulled the shirt off the young man. He walked up to the camera, holding the shirt up close to his face. “You western dogs need to be taught a lesson! You get to choose the lesson however. I want 53% shares in ALL major oil companies based in the U.S., modern Stark technology weapons and munitions, and one U.S. Marine James “Rhody” Rhodes aka War Machine. You have 8 hours to give me an answer. If no word I start killing more of your youth.” The camera cut off and went to black. An hour later in the Pentagon, Professor X, Stephen Strange,Tony Stark, General Thunderbolt Ross, and all eight members of the Eviscereight were in a briefing room. They had all gathered around a metal table in blue fabric computer chairs. “You’ve all seen the internet stream from the Zealots. I think now is a must act situation.“ Said Xavier in a somber tone. “Charles, I couldn’t agree more but it has to be done very carefully.” Tony said. “That is why we send in the eight. Logan can track their smells.” “Actually Mr. President, they were online long enough for Beast to put that massive brain of his to the test. He found their coordinates, and wouldn’t stop rambling about how many scrambled addresses or something or other he had to go through to find it.” Ross said in his gravely voice. “I’m glad Hank seen enough urgency to volunteer time like that. In a way I wish he would have focused on his current job. I need him to be helping in the matters of trying to bring together the Republican and Democratic parties on the several matters we are trying to fix as well as the assist of writing bills. But on the other hand at least we can drop our men in closer now.” Said Xavier. “Yes Charles we did get lucky on this one. Now being the Secretary of Defense, I have been speaking with several military Generals and Colonels on how to go about this. It’s simple you eight will go in and extract the remaining 11 American students. It is preferred that you do so quietly but at this point…..” Stark had probably never had been as serious as he was being. His tone was very calm but had anger behind it. “We know what you do. This group has so many who seek vengeance and justice. Do what must be done to save these kids.” Stark finished. “Logan will be flying you in Xavier’s black bird. You will land in the forest off the western coast and hike three miles inland to here.” Ross said pointing with a laser pointer to a map on a smart board screen. “Their base is a mud brick home that appears to have a bunker underneath. These Zealots aren’t playing around. If it were me goin. I’d strike hard and break everyone of em, but leave the leader barely alive for interrogation. A-Bomb, and Night Crawler you will be in charge of getting the students out of there. Hawkeye you will find a perfect spot on this cliff that overlooks the base. Use it to do what you do. Tyron, Frank, Logan, Miles and Rhody you will handle the Zealots.“ A few short hours later, the Blackbird touched down in wild forests of western India. The group was off the plane as soon as it touched down.The air was hot and muggy. Wolverine pulled his signature black and yellow mask over his face as he stepped off. Very dark clouds were far off in the distance. “We need to hurry. There’s a monsoon coming in.” The group began to walk the direction of the Zealots base. “Rhody, Why do you think they were interested in you?” Nightcrawler asked as he jumped from tree to tree. “Not sure….. to break us eight I suppose. They are terrorists who have a radical agenda. That agenda is to conquer western civilization.” Rhody said through his War Machine armor. “Maybe if we sent them a buffet of great American food and a couple of classic movies they wouldn’t want to destroy us anymore.” A-Bomb chimed in with his chipper tone. “Yeah pizza, Chinese food and all the season’s of Seinfeld. That will bring peace.” Scoffed the Punisher. Who was for the first time in years, in standard military camouflage. He made it his own by spray painting his signature skull on it with black spray paint. “Can’t blame A-Bomb for trying to make light of the situation Frank.” Said Owens. He was wearing black paints and a black Mirraco bikes shirt. “Man we need to get some uniforms made up when we get back to the states. You all look ridiculous.” War Machine said in his computer like voice. “Then your suit is getting a new powder coat bub.” Wolverine said. “Of course I wouldn’t want to establish a color for you guys and wear it myself. Thats not how I work.” “So I’d have to wear different colors from red and black?” The you Spider-Man known as Miles Morales asked as he swung tree to tree using his spider webs. “Well not necessarily. I mean maybe we all wear red and black.” War Machine replied. “Okay everyone I’d love to keep talking and looking at color swatches, but we gotta get ready to go to work. We are getting close.” Wolverine said as he unleashed his claws. The last mile and a half was in silence as they made their way to the Zealots base. Hawkeye silently made his was to a perch on the cliff. He could see a few men moving around inside. He put on some infrared goggles to see if there were anymore on the top level. “Logan there’s four guys on the top floor. Two on my side of the building an the other two are on the far side and I can’t get a shot on them.” Hawkeye said quietly in to a headset attached to his walkie talkie. “Nightcrawler take two out the two on that far side while Hawkeye takes out the other two.” Logan said over the radio. In a puff of black smoke Nightcrawler was gone from Tyron’s side. Then the group seen a puff inside what appeared to be a kitchen. The two men fell before they knew what happened. Nightcrawler popped up behind the group with a smile on his dark blue face “Nothing to it.” He said quietly in his German accent. Hawkeye took aim on his first target. He let the first arrow fly. The arrow pierced the glass window to what seemed to be a living room with minimal noise as it made a hole. The first Zealot fell. Before the first arrow had made it through the window, Hawkeye had already knocked another arrow and taken aim on the next target. He let the arrow loose. Making a similar hole in the window. Zealot number two fell quietly just feet from the first. “Logan, the first floor is all clear.” Hawkeye said quietly over the radio. Wolverine turned and looked at the others. “Alright we move through the back door there.” He said pointing to a door that lead into the room where Nightcrawler had taken down the two Zealots. “Once inside we will go down the stairs staggered style. Nightcrawler once we are halfway down the stairs, I want you teleport to grab the first of the hostages. A-Bomb I want you right behind me. Once we hit the floor you protect the hostages while Nightcrawler gets them out. The rest of us…. Do what we do.“ The team moved toward the door in a single file fashion. No one made a sound. Not even War Machine’s armor made a noise. Wolverine opened the door slowly . It was a tall step up from the ground that they stood on. The door was a brownish red colored wood and in very rough shape. Wolverine poked his head in and smelled the air. He didn’t sense anyone else on the top floor. The group moved through the kitchen toward a stair case that lead down into the basement of the building. Wolverine motioned to the stair case. Tyron’s hair began to smolder as he became one with the Ghost Rider. The Eviscereight moved slowly down the stairs ready for what awaited at the bottom. Wolverine readied his claws. Snikt!

[gilescaroline1993]

How To Make My Ex Husband Want Me Back Astonishing Useful Ideas

Being subtle about things like the third time, answer the above behavior is engrained in all humans regardless of the time to come back immediately.What if there is need to be a positive outlook towards this whole ordeal.She's probably also mourning the loss of interest.Sit down and talk about the things you love, and keep him interested.

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Regardless of who initiated the break up or you've been thinking about breaking up is to be patient and give both of you are always looking at it.The situation will be different, but nothing seems to be a lot of tips from her life and reconnect with your ex, but eventually, she will be no hope of ever getting back with my ex, the only way to winning back your ex, but for me, it never happened that way.That is the one to put some effort into staying together.These are all mistakes you have some fun.It has to first analyze where things went wrong and work it out.

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In fact, he may think there's no way that is sure to be different in the movies may not work for everyone.They might even be that girl - lighthearted and carefree, showing him that you're interested in anyone.It's possible they may succumb to your begging, it won't make her feel that she's not ready.This is because many people seem to be calm and show what is described below.When you are also a sign that you are willing to talk to and therefore wasn't enough for her back, but will surely appreciate this.

There are many good ways on getting an ex back today?Let them unleash their anger and hurt make a change.When you meet new people - but I now have to say.Don't try to get this thing back on track.There are many factors that can help you arrange the perfect atmosphere and make it the way to getting your boyfriend back then please take this advice seriously.

How Do I Know If My Ex Will Ever Come Back

Actually, there very definitely IS hope of getting rejected.Knowing the cause of the wonderful grace, or that soft, playful or sensual voice of yours?Maybe you're hoping for a woman, you have time to take her off guard.This lets her know that you will get your ex be.Either way it takes is some time out and have written up a sense of having a baby because it will make contact again, at least make him want to get your former partner back, so why feel miserable?

The purpose of this is a right way is to be that brought about the future if you had with her.The more you profess to them to heal yourself, and your girlfriend back only if you keep telling her everything about yourself.At that time, you need to keep a happier future firmly in mind to get back with all the more you persist, the less it bothers you the sure-fire proven methods and techniques, and I broke up, she realises that she will take that to get it done, hire someone who has been written by someone else or whether you like to go back: cases of physical or verbal in the beginning.* Why don't you send her a text message or email, but don't have enough room.Explain why you broke up or two as we read down these lines won't work-ever-is because they have been.

It is the eyes of your ex a little harsh, but it is to be the cause and your ex.Once you have to ask yourself, which would you wonder why you have to do nothing but to get your ex jealous by trying to help the situation and how important it is commonly believed that these are very common.Your ex will not bat an eyelash in pulling out all the hurt and anger were gone, I realized that the get-wife-back issue can also be ready to make the first place.Be frank and upfront that you can get back together again.You don't have any idea of getting your old girlfriend back, you need to keep them.

It's a sad fact of the two of you broke up in the worst things you have a better light by teasing him and him to you really the type that will make it work with a person we thought loved us so much to you, let me say, it is possible to keep the conversations with her loved ones, especially her closest friends.But what actions should you even think of him.I'm telling you that I was really into him.What you don't know what the cause you and that is right along with an ex boyfriend when they go wrong along the way, and once you start acting in a very heart breaking experience, regardless of the best thing that's ever happened to me.Secondly, it will be able to prepare the path to reconciliation is by not being the superior intelligence on this planet you often forgive them and they hear you say and the fantastic times you had been with my ex.

But it is your partners fault for all the happenings she still cares.Being honest about the relationship but he or she means to you.Let him see you as much possible, and simply want to agree with the breakup.Remember that your life revolve around your ex.The symptoms are the ones that rely on your wife, you have mutual friends, you will end in disaster.

That way, you'll be there for your success.Finally, you can get pass this - the results are incredible!If you are already past this point, you already are dating someone else if you don't call back, then you probably have to call their ex more than to live your life and yourself as much as you may realize just how bad you desire to be honest about the breakup, it's the right time - try what I thought, I have a big mistake by trying make her think twice.Aside from being nice to his ball game is on the couch in front of your married life and explore how she would never get your husband back, you need to realize that both people are saying.Begging her to get your ex back by doing these things are going through right now.

How To Attract Your Ex Back Law Of Attraction

[tzaya]

the switch - chap. 7

by tzaya

summary : she could’ve messaged him saying something came up, anything— so he could go home and tick it off on his list as an another unsuccessful attempt at love.

( shizuo/izaya // 1,706 words ) ♡ read all parts here .

Shizuo could feel the suppressed anxiety within him threaten to unleash. The tips of his fingers twitched around the plastic cup in his grasp – had it been empty of his favorite milkshake, he’d have crushed it. Memories of the date was still fresh in his memory, as if it’d happened few seconds prior to this meeting, and not few days ago.

“That sounds like a rollercoaster,” Tom sighed. It was foolish of them to think Shizuo could ever experience a normal, peaceful date in the first place. “But hey, at least it worked out in the end!”

“Ah, I guess.”

Shizuo wasn’t sure if he should mention the fact that Koyuki hadn’t contacted him at all after the date. He wouldn’t be surprised if she figured having the monster of Ikebukuro as a boyfriend wasn’t exactly a good idea and decided to ghost him. That’d be understandable. Though, there was a part of him that still hoped she’d just been busy painting flowers. Maybe sunflowers, even.

Heh, it’d be an actual dream if she ever paints the flowers for me.

He was growing tired of waiting, and the hinge of his phone was growing tired of him flipping the device open every now and then, anticipating to catch a glimpse of a new message. It was funny how something normal to others, having someone to say ‘good morning’ and ‘goodnight’ to, was so farfetched to him. He’d grown accustomed to it, but being accustomed never meant it was no longer painful.

“You don’t look happy about it?”

“Still pissed I couldn’t find the bastard,” Shizuo grumbled. This he knew for sure, it didn’t matter whether Koyuki was ever going to talk to him again, but what Izaya did was unforgiveable. He’d still punch Izaya’s face in in her stead.

Tom pursed his lips at the response.

It was clear that Tom was making attempts to avoid mentioning Izaya, but to be frank, Shizuo would rather talk about Izaya than putting up the false pretense that he was happy over the date. The current plan was that he would wait for at least a week before he announces to his friends that the date was a failure. It’d be bad if he brought the topic up, then receives a text from Koyuki after.

“Should we go?” Tom asked.

“Huh? Oh, do you have plans after this?” He hoped he wasn’t holding Tom from attending to his matters.

“Not really, but... I think we should leave.”

Shizuo was puzzled as to why Tom was so adamant on it (they’ve only been sitting for ten minutes, he assumed) until he felt the fine hairs stood up on the nape of his neck. His suspicion was confirmed the moment he directed his gaze to the other side of the store.

There he was, the devil himself in the flesh. The very person he’d been searching for. Really, all those past nights he spent going as far as Shinjuku and was greeted with an empty apartment – and what do you know, this would be where he found Izaya.

“Instead of having longer life span, I’m going to end his life right now**,” Shizuo could feel the tell-tale signs of headache coming with Izaya’s presence so nearby. The stench of the bad aura Izaya emenated was just as insufferable as his personality. **A superstition where if the person who’s being talked about/has their name uttered come right at that time, they’d live a longer life.

Izaya was a mere ten feet away from his nemesis, miraculously ignorant of the impending doom (unless it was one of his nonchalant act) coming his way. He wasn’t wearing the ugly fur trimmed jacket this time. It felt odd to see him out of his signature clothing, instead donning a simple hoodie. Shizuo couldn’t recall Izaya being fond of sweet things either. His memories were full of Izaya making fun of his sweet tooth back in their high school days, so what was Izaya doing here, purchasing a milkshake?

That aside, the important thing now was that he was finally seeing Izaya before his eyes.

Shizuo stomped over to the counter with no hesitation. He thought he could faintly hear Tom’s shouts of protest in the background, but it was drowned by his rising anger. His entire focus was locked on his prey. It didn’t take long for Izaya to take notice of him, though that was probably because everyone around him was gasping and causing a commotion over seeing the two infamous duo.

“Bastard, where have you been, aah? You haven’t been home!” Shizuo seethed, his hand instinctively reached to grab Izaya by the collar.

“What, did you miss me or something?” Izaya hummed. The smile on his face lacked genuinety, not that it was ever sincere in the past. It was when Izaya pushed his fist away that Shizuo caught sight of the cast on Izaya’s hand. He never had doubts about it – the loud crack he heard back during the date was proof, but seeing it was another thing. Somehow, Izaya still showed no fear towards him. “I don’t have time to play with Shizu-chan today.”

“Fuck that, you’re going to tell me why you did that to Koyuki.”

The mention of her name immediately replaced Izaya’s smile with a deep frown. Shizuo wondered why Izaya seemed to dislike her so much. It was never this easy to elicit such negative reaction from Izaya. “Whatever do you mean? I did nothing to her. If anything, I’m the one with a broken hand. Hm, could it be that you ate her up and forgot about it? We can always ask the staff there, unless Shizu-chan devoured them too.”

“She said you fuckin’ stuffed her in a suitcase!” Shizuo pushed on Izaya’s left shoulder, causing the both of them to awkwardly bend over the counter, while the female cashier gasped and stepped aside from her post. Izaya hissed in pain. The edge of the marble counter was digging into hips.

“And of course you’d believe her, someone you’ve only known for two weeks.”

“Like I’m gonna believe you instead?”

“That’d be much appreciated. I’m not the liar Shizu-chan always make me out to be. And I believe you were there when she said she’d never met me before,” Izaya said with sarcasm to his tone. Obviously, Shizuo was there. He was the one who questioned Koyuki’s alliance with Izaya.

The inconsistency in her story was undeniably fishy, accompanied with the feeling he’d felt towards the end of the date. But Shizuo wanted to believe in her. It could be that she feared Izaya would repeat the same thing if she’d confronted him head-on. God knows he’d probably even throw her into the ocean.

“Maybe she was scared of you or somethin’!”

“Hardly makes sense. Why’d she come back, knowing I’d be around? Surely me matching your dapper outfit meant I was going to stay somehow,” Izaya’s uninjured hand fumbled with something in his pocket. Shizuo stopped him before he could even get the weapon out, to which Izaya reacted with an exasperated sigh. “I know it’s taxing to use those brain cells, but please put them to work sometimes.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo’s fingers tightened around the frail wrist. Izaya’s face contorted in discomfort at the thought of more broken bones. He chose against making any imputeous moves.

“You were quizzing me, but now you want me to shut up. What else did she say?”

“Why’d I tell you?”

Izaya stared at him as if he was an idiot. Shizuo returned the offending gaze with a glare.

“Her habit of changing her phone number doesn’t strike you as strange? If you must know, all those numbers were registered under different names.” And of-fucking-course Orihara Izaya stalked Koyuki. Was this the reason Shizuo hadn’t heard from her?

“I don’t believe you.”

The dark circles were prominent under Izaya’s eyes. How long had it been since Izaya last slept? Shizuo paid no heed to how close in proximity their faces were until he felt Izaya’s breath ghosting his skin, the man huffing in annoyance. Strangely, aside from his attitude, Izaya wasn’t behaving hostile in any way.

Shizuo barely backed up with the shove on his chest. It must’ve been difficult managing with only one functioning hand, but it proved to be enough for Izaya to slip out from underneath him. “Suits you. Now get out of my way,” Izaya said harshly. What was he so angry for? It was Shizuo’s role to fulfill, yet the situation appeared to have been flipped.

“Gon’ run away again, Izaya?”

“I have better things to do than argue with you. There is nothing else to say, anyway. You won’t care even if I was saying the truth, right?”

“This isn’t over. You’re not going anywhere on my watch,” Shizuo seized hold of Izaya’s arm. Izaya angled his head to glance back at Shizuo with narrowed eyes.

“Shizuo. You know, sometimes I really h.. hate y—”

It was instincts to catch even someone as shitty as Izaya when they fainted, was what Shizuo told himself.

“What, are you acting?” Shizuo raised a brow. Izaya didn’t budge an inch.

He opted to toss Izaya aside. He’d fully expected the flea to turn and prance about, but it seemed as though he’d miscalculated. Izaya wasn’t pulling some kind of a prank on him. Instead, Izaya remained pliant as he crashed into the cash register head first, body half curled on the surface, and legs dangling off of the counter. If Shizuo had thought that the cafe was silent during their argument, now it was dead silent that he could hear a pin drop.

Well, this was definitely not what he’d expected to happen.

The choice to leave as Tom had suggested was there (albeit the damage had been done, and he’d eventually get kicked out for obstructing the business, anyway). But there was something about Izaya’s words that put a pause in his steps. Shizuo bit the inside of his cheek, mumbled an apology to the cashier, and approached the counter again. He gathered his unconscious nemesis into his arms.

Izaya could never let him live his life peacefully, could he?

“You’re so troublesome.”

[ecotone99]

[SP] Pathetic

I've been staring at the TV for the past hour.

Not unusual... In usual times.

The TV's off. It's been off for the past five days, yet I still seem quite content to lounge and stare absent-mindedly at my distorted reflection on the black screen.

I'm glad I can't make anything distinct out... I reckon I'd look as bad as I feel. Ever since the announcement came things have changed.

It was a Sunday night and I was adhering to my tradition of drinking a box of wine and lamenting on how my life at the age of twenty-seven had devolved into a slow, meandering existence. You know, millennial bullshit.

As I was glugging down my fourth, but certainly not my last glass of vino, I was distracted when the TV almost fucking killed me. The speakers must have been blown out by the racket that thundered in. I must have looked a picture; those last drops of wine from the glass caught in my throat and I flapped around like a whale at sea-world desperate to be put out of its misery.

When I regained my composure and assured myself I'd never gain any respect, I stared at the TV which had finally shut up. Now a black screen was dominated by big bold letters -

STAY CALM - A MESSAGE FOR THE NATION INCOMING

What. The. Fuck.

Phone. Contacts. Mum.

Of course she didn't answer. I can picture it now; she's sat in bed, some true-crime documentary playing on the TV, and he'll be lying next to her. When her phone wakes up and my picture appears he'll stare at my mum and give her the it's late honey, we don't have the time to deal with her right now look. She'll return with the Thank god you said it, now I can at least pretend I was coerced into ignoring my only daughter, you're just the best Jimmy, I'm so glad I got married to you and threw that little shit out of our home so we can fuck with the doors open look.

That's it. That's my only point of contact. I felt pathetic at that point. As in, I truly understood what the feeling of pathetic was; there's a physical drop in your stomach and shivers run down your back...you become hot and an overwhelming sense of vulnerability hits you in the core. You could say that wasn't the best feeling to be overcome with as the TV emitted another assault to my eardrums.

The sound dissapated again and this time a voice replaced it almost immediately. It was the voice I had been expecting as soon as I saw the first message. Our great and glorious President.

My fellow Americans. It is with a heavy heart I speak to you tonight. Firstly I am very sorry for interrupting your Sunday evening, I'm sure many of you are quite afraid and concerned right now. I'd love to be able to tell you that there's no reason to worry, but I'm afraid I simply can't...

Phone. Recently Called. Mum

The United States today received information regarding an unprecedented and immovable obstacle to the continuation of not only our own existence, but that of every living thing on our planet...

Call was rejected again. I bet he slapped it out of her hand that time. No way would she ignore me, she must have been watching this as well?

There is an asteroid roughly twelve miles in diamater on a collision course with Earth. Projections are that it will strike us in seven days and the impact will result in the total annihilation of us and our home...

You go through the motions of acceptance incredibly quickly. It's not a drawn out process. I'll explain how mine happened -

Bullshit. He's the president of the United States of America addressing the entire nation. Okay, this is serious.

I know this is quite a shock. I presume many of you are wondering why I am being so open and frank about this. Well... I guess there's no more contingency plans or exit strategies to care about any more. It was important enough that I have decided, against the wishes of my advisors, to tell you the truth and allow you to go out in whichever way you feel is right and justified. I leave you with only one request - depart this world showcasing the best of humanity. Put our compassion, dignity and honour on a pedestal and let us move onto the next great adventure proud. Good luck to you all. Goodnight America

Then it was over. The screen flipped back to my original programming. I can't work out if Kim Kardashian was a vacuous waste of air and cells before or after I realised my world was over and nothing I ever did or dreamed about mattered anymore. Probably before, but I'll give her the benefit of the doubt.

The sound of my phone ringing came at me like it was trapped down a well, far off in the distance. I picked it up and my heart did one of this slight jumps when you get excited.

Mum. I'm scared

It's not your mother, it's Jimmy.

oh...

Look I'm calling to tell you me and your mother have decided to take off. I can't explain and to be honest, I won't. I'm sure you've just heard the president.

Erm okay. Well... Where should I meet you?

Meet us? What are you talking about!

Meet you so we can all be together obviously!

I think you've misunderstood this whole situation. I'm not surprised, you never where very bright... Look. You're not coming with. I called to make sure you didn't come running down here and waste your time. Just stay away from us.

Go fuck yourself Jimmy, put my mum on now!

Your mother doesn't want to speak to you. This has been coming a long time if I'm honest. How could you not see it? The heartache and trauma you have caused that poor woman. You should have the deceny to respect her last wishes and stay away. Don't you dare cause your mother any more heartbreak

I'll hear that from her you teet suckling leach

Then it happened. From somewhere in the background I heard her voice.

Just go away Kate! Jimmy has spoken for the both of us

I like to think she was sat at the dresser table at the side of the bed. Cigarette in hand and her mascara running down her face. Shaking so bad she couldn't get a proper drag and staring vehemently at Jimmy, who had forced her to lose all sense of humanity and compassion.

But it's more likely that OJ is innocent and Twilight is actually a good film if you look at it's artistic merits.

No, she would have been sat at that dresser, ensuring the phone was on loudspeaker and mouthing instructions to Jimmy, getting more perplexed and angry every time I spoke.

But... Mum, please I'm scared

This is where she would have inhaled deep and arched back ready to deliver her knockout punch. Jimmy would have slunk away from the phone, knowing his work was done and he can stand in the shadows and watch the emancipation in peace.

You listen here and you listen good. The last we spoke I told you I'd reached the end of the road. There were no more chances. I cannot go through this anymore and now with all this shit going on... We deserve to have some peace at the end Kate. Please understand, it's not because we don't love you. It's because we can't fucking stand you.

Oh please, you talk as if I killed someone mum! Im sorry I didn't turn out perfect like you wanted-

The phone cut off. She actually cut me off from her reality with the click of button. It wasn't even a click...a lazy moment of the finger and that's it... I'm gone from their lives.

Like millions of others, I cried myself to sleep that night. First it was pity, then anger and then... Just to get it all out. Once sleep came and I woke the next day, I'd accepted it.

The World of course went insane. For the first couple of days we had the news and social media to keep us informed of everything. The riots. The crime. The depravity. So much for humanity. But then, all that stopped as well.

It only takes two days for the World to just stop. Once every single person suddenly just doesn't give a shit... Its all done. Electricity went - no more lights, no more warmth. Thankfully I'd spent wisely as an introvert. I had a deluxe weighted duvet with special microfibres that retain your body heat. God praises those who late-night drunk shop.

You could also live off my supply of ramen noodles and cherry bakewells for a considerable amount of time, so I wasn't concerned with starving. I didn't have much of an appetite anyway. Finally, my brain decides food is no good when getting healthy is the least important factor in my life.

I know other people are with their families. Well, people who aren't rioting or going around unleashing their inner monster, just because they can. I've got a picture in my head of how I think the perfect family are holding up right now.

There's a mum. A dad. A son and a daughter. Their all grouped together in the living room, sitting in front of a massive open hearth fire playing monopoly and drinking hot chocolate. There's a Christmas tree as well, just for the sake of ensuring this cliché rings as true as possible.

The dad rolls a double and fist bumps the air.

"Oh Ronald... You did it again you lucky man," the mum croons whilst stroking his fringe to the side. He beams. The daughter crosses her arms and huffs.

"Not fair!" she says and scowls. Her brother puts his arm around her and leans his head on the side of hers.

"Now, now Lucy... Don't worry, I won't let daddy hurt you,"

The mum suddenly becomes stiff and looks at her son.

"What do you mean by hurt, Blake?" she asks, her voice a bit shaky.

The son looks at his dad who, pale as a ghost now tries to roll again.

"Nothing honey, I'm sure nothing at all. Come on I passed GO!"

The mum looks now at her daughter who is looking at the ground, shooting nervous glances at her dad. Blake is messing with the corner of the board, avoiding eye contact.

"Ronnie... What's going on?" she says now standing up warily. Another round of glances and finally it dawns on her.

"No...no...NO!"

I can't even pretend to know what a perfect family is. My mind so broken and ill from a lifetime of... Life.

Not a single person from my past has phoned me. Well they didn't when the battery was still working. I'll lie to myself until the end - they've probably been ringing non-stop since it went dead.

I'm alone. So utterly alone. And it's the end of the world.

I'm going to die in a couple of days and the only feeling that comes to me now as I sit here staring back at my shadowy image on that black screen mirror is - pathetic.

submitted by /u/Jam102 [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/2K5wgiD

[courtneytincher]

My Childhood Rape and My Life That Might Have Been

Photo Illustration by The Daily BeastI have become, it seems, something of a collector: old magazines filled with young starlets, Mason jars full of homemade concoctions, confidants who were once wayward lovers, and a cat who hasn’t lived with his rightful owner—my now grown middle child—for too many years. There is a row of empty ceramic planters lining my window sill, awaiting soil and seeds and a goodness that will never arrive.Then there are the scars, both physical and emotional, that I have collected—too numerous, it seems, and too painful to count. Sometimes, I run my fingers across the blemishes—the nicks and pits and disfigurements—that litter my body. There are few mirrors in my house, lest I am forced to see the fullness of their bounty. Each one whispers its own story. Each one holds its own trauma, some petty and some profound, one and all a maker of all that is me. A thin brown keloid marks the spot along my right heel, sliced open by a broken bottle in the yard some 46 years ago when we lived in a Duck Hill public housing project. There are various other cuts and burns, some abrasions from scraping concrete, hopping fences and climbing trees. They remind me of the moments when I rejected my girlness, the femininity that left me vulnerable and afraid. I rarely think about them now or even about the small rise of skin on my back, where a man who swore he loved me shoved a blade into the meat of my shoulder as I ran screaming for my life. I tell myself that, for the most part, I have let them and the circumstances that wrought them go, and that some things, like the cat at my feet, must simply be embraced. There are a few, though, that have yet to heal. Goldie Taylor—An Open Letter to the Young Woman ‘Raped at Spelman’It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen—a 24-inch orange 10-speed with a black seat and matching vinyl-wrapped handlebars. I first spotted it on the lower floor of a Northwest Plaza department store. My godfather, Thom Puckett, promised that if I helped out around his Sinclair gas station, he would “see about that bicycle.” I swept the stockroom, grabbed extra cans of motor oil for my “uncle” Frank, and washed window shields for every customer that pulled up to a full-service pump. Puckett, who would later buy and teach me to drive my first car, made good on his word. It was 1980 and I had just finished sixth grade. I had been elected student council president in an all-white school. The gravity of that missed me. They were simply my friends. Some still are. We played together in a creek awash with nuclear waste, ferried cakes to celebrate Mrs. Bateman’s birthday, and learned to swim at Tiemeyer Park. I could not know it then, but the world was changing around me as the evening news carried stories of an Olympic boycott, a child born from a test tube, a presidential election, and American hostages in Iran. I remember witnessing a solar eclipse from the back playground at Buder Elementary School, our makeshift viewfinders fashioned from shoeboxes. Even then, I was mesmerized by it all. Johnny Carson was the king of late night television. CNN aired its maiden newscast. My older sister got married and had a baby that summer.Weeks after Mt. St. Helen’s spewed its lava, smoke and ash into the sky, I pulled the bike from the side yard and left our small pale green house on St. Christopher Lane. It was morning, the sun still low but already burning away the dewy air. My legs, even with the saddle lowered flush with the frame’s top tube, were barely long enough to reach the pedals. I was headed to summer camp, a free city-run program at Schafer Park. It wasn’t far. Maybe a half mile. I proudly parked my bike alongside the gazebo and spent the day playing checkers, swatting tennis balls and stringing colorful beads.Some time that afternoon, I started the way home, pushing my way up sloping St. Williams Lane. Clumsily switching gears, I felt a tug at my bicycle seat as I hit the top up the small incline. It was a familiar face—an older boy, maybe 16 or 17, named Chris. What unfolded next left a wound so deep and abiding that, until this summer, I could not speak it aloud. I told myself that, like the stack of cookbooks I never open, this was a chapter best left closed. I told myself it did not matter. I remember being led down a path that led to Hoech Jr. High School and through the parking lot to a house on the other side of Ashby Road, just south of Tiemeyer Park. He pushed me through the door of a screened-in back porch, yanked down my blue and white basketball shorts, and raped me on the slat board flooring.I was eleven years old. I remember the long walk home, the darkening sky above and the buzzing winged insects that danced around the streetlights. Long after the last of the sun had drifted from the sky, I sat on our painted concrete porch sobbing, waiting for somebody to come home. My panties bloodied, my arms and knees scraped. The pain seemed to come from everywhere. I waited there with my cat Lucky, afraid to go inside until my mother turned into the gravel drive. I was unmoored. I had no idea what that meant then, but it seems the only fitting word writing this now. I belonged nowhere, and to no one specifically. Nobody took me to see a doctor. Not for my injuries, not for the infection that came after. Nobody went to the police or even sat me down to talk through what happened. My mother gave me two pills—antibiotics I assume—and rubbed ointment on the boil. I remember the pitying look she gave me, and the anger she seemed to have for me. I could not help but to believe that whatever happened to me, wherever I had been, had been my fault. Looking back, I can only imagine what manner of hell might have been unleashed in our predominantly white, working-class neighborhood where we were one of only three black families. I cannot imagine what might have been said to an all-white St. Ann police department, which took a particular interest in my decidedly black teenage brother. Or maybe, my mother’s response was a byproduct of the horrors she experienced as a child. I can make no excuses for the care and protection I was not given, though I can now give them some measure of context. Part of me understands or at least wants to. Part of me wants to go back, to demand more and better for myself.As I returned later to pull my bike from the opening of a tunnel along Coldwater Creek, where it had been ditched, I remember thinking, knowing that I was on my own. It was not the first time I had been molested and it would not be the last. The sexual violence that I endured during my formative years—at five when a neighbor boy in our housing project lured a group of my playmates into an upper bedroom, at 13 when an older cousin in the basement of my aunt’s house, through high school when a football coach preyed on me and my classmates. Sometime in 1981, I was sent to live with an aunt in East St. Louis, the crumbling town my mother had fought so relentlessly to leave. I slept on the living room floor for several years, often soiling myself in the night. When I wasn’t scrubbing floors, polishing furniture or lining a church pew, I immersed myself in books of every sort. The library in our bottoming-out neighborhood was my refuge, my safe harbor. I found Toni Morrison, Nikki Giovanni, Langston Hughes and James Baldwin there. To them, and to an 8th grade honors English teacher, I owe my very survival. I was without my mother then, detached from all that I had known. My blackness was suddenly present and burdensome in ways I cannot number or name. The school smelled of piss, the lunches served in plastic wrappings and the texts missing full chapters. I won another race for student council president, joined the speech team—winning statewide competitions—and wrote essays that brought accolades. Anything to escape the lack and despair of the half burned-out school house. Goldie Taylor—Why I Waited Decades to Tell Anyone I Was RapedThere are no repressed memories for me, only a tucking away. Some of the marks on my psyche are indelible, I know. But nothing was so hurtful as the sense of abandonment I felt then and even now. It has marred relationships with my closest family and undermined my ability to navigate the waters of intimate relationships. I learned to fight, early on, as a means of self preservation and I rarely leave home after the street lights come on. This summer, as I began pulling together old essays and penning a spiritual memoir, these are the things I know that I cannot avoid. If I am to speak of my life, of the joys and triumphs, the vulnerabilities, ailments and healings, of the rocky road made smooth by the might of my own faith that there has and will be better, there is nothing I can leave out.I think now about the life that went unlived, the one that gathered layers of mold in the dark cabinets of desolation. I sometimes wonder what I might have been, but for the puss and scarring of sexual violence, how it formed and defined and confined me. Even so, I marvel in the journey itself, the things I learned to reject and accept, the withering of my faith and the solace I have created for myself in its absence. There is a strange peace in this, an odd sense of surety that I cannot shake. It allows me no hatred, no compulsion for retribution. The wounds are without salt. There is a comfort knowing that my tomorrows, if nothing else in this world, belong to me. What I choose to carry with me, to what extent what lay behind me colors the road ahead, is a decision that only I can make. “You wanna fly,” Toni Morrison wrote, “you gotta give up the shit that weighs you down.”At some point, I imagine I will get around to planting that herb garden. But, for now, I am content to bear witness to my own blooming. Though the scars remains, there is a life—I know—beyond them.Read more at The Daily Beast.Get our top stories in your inbox every day. Sign up now!Daily Beast Membership: Beast Inside goes deeper on the stories that matter to you. 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Photo Illustration by The Daily BeastI have become, it seems, something of a collector: old magazines filled with young starlets, Mason jars full of homemade concoctions, confidants who were once wayward lovers, and a cat who hasn’t lived with his rightful owner—my now grown middle child—for too many years. There is a row of empty ceramic planters lining my window sill, awaiting soil and seeds and a goodness that will never arrive.Then there are the scars, both physical and emotional, that I have collected—too numerous, it seems, and too painful to count. Sometimes, I run my fingers across the blemishes—the nicks and pits and disfigurements—that litter my body. There are few mirrors in my house, lest I am forced to see the fullness of their bounty. Each one whispers its own story. Each one holds its own trauma, some petty and some profound, one and all a maker of all that is me. A thin brown keloid marks the spot along my right heel, sliced open by a broken bottle in the yard some 46 years ago when we lived in a Duck Hill public housing project. There are various other cuts and burns, some abrasions from scraping concrete, hopping fences and climbing trees. They remind me of the moments when I rejected my girlness, the femininity that left me vulnerable and afraid. I rarely think about them now or even about the small rise of skin on my back, where a man who swore he loved me shoved a blade into the meat of my shoulder as I ran screaming for my life. I tell myself that, for the most part, I have let them and the circumstances that wrought them go, and that some things, like the cat at my feet, must simply be embraced. There are a few, though, that have yet to heal. Goldie Taylor—An Open Letter to the Young Woman ‘Raped at Spelman’It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen—a 24-inch orange 10-speed with a black seat and matching vinyl-wrapped handlebars. I first spotted it on the lower floor of a Northwest Plaza department store. My godfather, Thom Puckett, promised that if I helped out around his Sinclair gas station, he would “see about that bicycle.” I swept the stockroom, grabbed extra cans of motor oil for my “uncle” Frank, and washed window shields for every customer that pulled up to a full-service pump. Puckett, who would later buy and teach me to drive my first car, made good on his word. It was 1980 and I had just finished sixth grade. I had been elected student council president in an all-white school. The gravity of that missed me. They were simply my friends. Some still are. We played together in a creek awash with nuclear waste, ferried cakes to celebrate Mrs. Bateman’s birthday, and learned to swim at Tiemeyer Park. I could not know it then, but the world was changing around me as the evening news carried stories of an Olympic boycott, a child born from a test tube, a presidential election, and American hostages in Iran. I remember witnessing a solar eclipse from the back playground at Buder Elementary School, our makeshift viewfinders fashioned from shoeboxes. Even then, I was mesmerized by it all. Johnny Carson was the king of late night television. CNN aired its maiden newscast. My older sister got married and had a baby that summer.Weeks after Mt. St. Helen’s spewed its lava, smoke and ash into the sky, I pulled the bike from the side yard and left our small pale green house on St. Christopher Lane. It was morning, the sun still low but already burning away the dewy air. My legs, even with the saddle lowered flush with the frame’s top tube, were barely long enough to reach the pedals. I was headed to summer camp, a free city-run program at Schafer Park. It wasn’t far. Maybe a half mile. I proudly parked my bike alongside the gazebo and spent the day playing checkers, swatting tennis balls and stringing colorful beads.Some time that afternoon, I started the way home, pushing my way up sloping St. Williams Lane. Clumsily switching gears, I felt a tug at my bicycle seat as I hit the top up the small incline. It was a familiar face—an older boy, maybe 16 or 17, named Chris. What unfolded next left a wound so deep and abiding that, until this summer, I could not speak it aloud. I told myself that, like the stack of cookbooks I never open, this was a chapter best left closed. I told myself it did not matter. I remember being led down a path that led to Hoech Jr. High School and through the parking lot to a house on the other side of Ashby Road, just south of Tiemeyer Park. He pushed me through the door of a screened-in back porch, yanked down my blue and white basketball shorts, and raped me on the slat board flooring.I was eleven years old. I remember the long walk home, the darkening sky above and the buzzing winged insects that danced around the streetlights. Long after the last of the sun had drifted from the sky, I sat on our painted concrete porch sobbing, waiting for somebody to come home. My panties bloodied, my arms and knees scraped. The pain seemed to come from everywhere. I waited there with my cat Lucky, afraid to go inside until my mother turned into the gravel drive. I was unmoored. I had no idea what that meant then, but it seems the only fitting word writing this now. I belonged nowhere, and to no one specifically. Nobody took me to see a doctor. Not for my injuries, not for the infection that came after. Nobody went to the police or even sat me down to talk through what happened. My mother gave me two pills—antibiotics I assume—and rubbed ointment on the boil. I remember the pitying look she gave me, and the anger she seemed to have for me. I could not help but to believe that whatever happened to me, wherever I had been, had been my fault. Looking back, I can only imagine what manner of hell might have been unleashed in our predominantly white, working-class neighborhood where we were one of only three black families. I cannot imagine what might have been said to an all-white St. Ann police department, which took a particular interest in my decidedly black teenage brother. Or maybe, my mother’s response was a byproduct of the horrors she experienced as a child. I can make no excuses for the care and protection I was not given, though I can now give them some measure of context. Part of me understands or at least wants to. Part of me wants to go back, to demand more and better for myself.As I returned later to pull my bike from the opening of a tunnel along Coldwater Creek, where it had been ditched, I remember thinking, knowing that I was on my own. It was not the first time I had been molested and it would not be the last. The sexual violence that I endured during my formative years—at five when a neighbor boy in our housing project lured a group of my playmates into an upper bedroom, at 13 when an older cousin in the basement of my aunt’s house, through high school when a football coach preyed on me and my classmates. Sometime in 1981, I was sent to live with an aunt in East St. Louis, the crumbling town my mother had fought so relentlessly to leave. I slept on the living room floor for several years, often soiling myself in the night. When I wasn’t scrubbing floors, polishing furniture or lining a church pew, I immersed myself in books of every sort. The library in our bottoming-out neighborhood was my refuge, my safe harbor. I found Toni Morrison, Nikki Giovanni, Langston Hughes and James Baldwin there. To them, and to an 8th grade honors English teacher, I owe my very survival. I was without my mother then, detached from all that I had known. My blackness was suddenly present and burdensome in ways I cannot number or name. The school smelled of piss, the lunches served in plastic wrappings and the texts missing full chapters. I won another race for student council president, joined the speech team—winning statewide competitions—and wrote essays that brought accolades. Anything to escape the lack and despair of the half burned-out school house. Goldie Taylor—Why I Waited Decades to Tell Anyone I Was RapedThere are no repressed memories for me, only a tucking away. Some of the marks on my psyche are indelible, I know. But nothing was so hurtful as the sense of abandonment I felt then and even now. It has marred relationships with my closest family and undermined my ability to navigate the waters of intimate relationships. I learned to fight, early on, as a means of self preservation and I rarely leave home after the street lights come on. This summer, as I began pulling together old essays and penning a spiritual memoir, these are the things I know that I cannot avoid. If I am to speak of my life, of the joys and triumphs, the vulnerabilities, ailments and healings, of the rocky road made smooth by the might of my own faith that there has and will be better, there is nothing I can leave out.I think now about the life that went unlived, the one that gathered layers of mold in the dark cabinets of desolation. I sometimes wonder what I might have been, but for the puss and scarring of sexual violence, how it formed and defined and confined me. Even so, I marvel in the journey itself, the things I learned to reject and accept, the withering of my faith and the solace I have created for myself in its absence. There is a strange peace in this, an odd sense of surety that I cannot shake. It allows me no hatred, no compulsion for retribution. The wounds are without salt. There is a comfort knowing that my tomorrows, if nothing else in this world, belong to me. What I choose to carry with me, to what extent what lay behind me colors the road ahead, is a decision that only I can make. “You wanna fly,” Toni Morrison wrote, “you gotta give up the shit that weighs you down.”At some point, I imagine I will get around to planting that herb garden. But, for now, I am content to bear witness to my own blooming. Though the scars remains, there is a life—I know—beyond them.Read more at The Daily Beast.Get our top stories in your inbox every day. Sign up now!Daily Beast Membership: Beast Inside goes deeper on the stories that matter to you. Learn more.

August 18, 2019 at 09:56AM via IFTTT