#i think this is the first drawing of suns ive ever posted here actually

[macchitea]

iterators,,

[dekusleftsock]

IVE BEEN A GOOD KID AND IVE ACTUALLY LET MYSELF LIKE. THINK ABOUT THE OFFICIAL TRANSLATIONS SO. HERE WE GO BITCHES.

(Along with some other things bouncing around, implications of togachako because of this chapter, maybe even a prediction? This is my FINAL THOUGJTS POST, unless ofc I notice something and I say it BUT HOPEFULLY THIS IS THE LAST AND ITS JUST GONNA BE ME BEING SILLY AND POSTING FANART)

1, i find it funny that Caleb said lickitung than Pikachu since that… totally doesn’t make sense nor was why Twice suggested the name. IDK IM A POKÉMON NERD AND AN MHA FAN SO I JUST FIND IT A LITTLE SILLY.

Like I think Horikoshi chose Pikachu bc it’s the most recognizable Pokémon, along with Himiko’s “chu-chu” noises she makes when she drinks blood ofc, but it was also probably suggested bc… Pikachu has the same blushies that Ochako has…

Not to mention the fact that Pikachu is also representative of Toga’s colors, those of course being red and yellow.

Lickitung makes no sense other than the fact that it paralyzes people/Pokémon by licking them and making them uncomfortable. It’s such a… random gen 1 Pokémon idfk. I can see WHY he chose it, because lickitung is supposed to be a friendly Pokémon that accidentally makes people uncomfortable, but I think Pikachu being said instead just makes far more sense; Pikachu is supposed to be a cute Pokémon. It’s origins in gen 1 were, “I want you to make the cutest Pokémon you can” and the artist Atsuko Nisida had to go through 3-5 iterations of pixel art (bc they would make the pixelated version for the game first AND THEN draw the Pokémon from that) before finally settling on what people call “fat Pikachu” which looked like this

Lickitung works ig by being a Pokémon that ultimately is harmless to people but just accidentally freaks people out and makes them off-put by them, but Pikachu fits much better in a chapter where Ochako calls Himiko’s smile, something we’re supposed to see as creepy, perfect/pretty/beautiful. Comparing her and her cuteness to something like Pikachu just seems like something twice would do anything bc he’s a sweetie like that.

ALSO ANOTHER THING FOR PEOPLE WHO KNOW NOTHING ABOUT POKÉMON: reguri is I think the most popular ship? That might be beat by Selena/ash and misty/ash, but regardless it’s super popular and also is EXTREMELY SIMILAR to bkdk.

This does depend on which version of them you’re talking about, but personally when I read pokespe (the most popular official Pokémon manga, there’s others but that’s just the most well known one) I always thought bkdk were so similar to red/blue to the point it was uncanny. At the time I thought “eh that’s just gay rival tropes there’s tons of other characters in other anime/manga/tv that are similar to them too” but after the mention OF Pikachu and Toga’s purposeful similarities I do wonder if horikoshi was a Pokémon fan in the 90’s during his childhood. That wouldn’t surprise me seeing as the games were such a booming success in Japan (literally it’s the most sold Pokémon games ever nothing has beat it since), so it would make sense if horikoshi was a secret Pokémon fan.

I mean, blues hair is even similar to bakugous but idk, maybe it’s a stretch.

They’re not childhood friends in pokespe, but they are childhood friends in the games, blue bullying him as they got older and pushing red away, red goes and has an emo arc on mount silver by himself without telling anyone, eventually comes down from that mountain in black and white 2 where red and blue are starting to be friends again, and I don’t think they’re seen again until sun and moon where they’re on vacation together in alola. There’s other outside game content that has just… progressively gotten more gay.

AGAIN, IM NOT SURE IF HORIKOSHI HAS READ THE POKESPE MANGA OR IF HE PUT THIS MUCH THOUGHT INTO IT! However I WILL say that if you enjoy bkdk you will probably enjoy reguri and the pokespe manga, especially since it has a more interesting plot than the anime or games, along with being less corny. It’s a lot more… I don’t wanna say graphic but honest? It wasn’t really made in mind that it would be targeted overseas like all the other Pokémon stuff, so it’s just more honest about environmental issues and pet abuse and things like that. Red and blues character arcs and friendship, along with Leaf’s character arc is very interesting just by itself, highly recommend.

MOVING ON… my Pokémon nerdiness aside, I love Himiko’s defiance to conform to hero society especially as a villain. Will she go against this vow because she sees herself as a full fledged villain? I wasn’t really sure.

She didn’t, which is great, but I also think those themes of pity and feeling like Ochako is still looking down on her… remind me exactly of Katsuki.

I also find this page and what toga says quite interesting.

Saying that she KNEW ochako was sad too, that’s a VERY interesting observation to make when thinking of someone you “hate”.

And I like the distinction that Ochako wasn’t afraid of Toga because of her smile being creepy, or that she was trying to harm her or tsu, but because she couldn’t understand why she was smiling during a fight.

More bakugou vibes/lines

If/when they ARE canon, explicitly and completely and all that, then that would make mha a, and idk if it’s the first, shonen GL + BL. That would be fucking crazy.

ALSO THIS? THIS IS ABSOLUTELY NOT AN IZU//OCHA MOMENT… let me explain.

It’s a couple of things: Ochako is not explicitly saying how she wishes she could talk about her love with Izuku, instead it seems to be more framed as talking ABOUT Izuku.

He’s not even looking at her, and she’s not looking at him; no, instead Ochako and Himiko are looking at each other, and talking about the importance to talk about your feelings openly, how she admires that quality to Himiko.

In a way this is Ochako saying “No, don’t become like him, this is why I admire you. That trait makes you admirable, it’s a trait I love in you.”

And lastly, that marriage proposal. Is it REALLY a marriage proposal? How romantic or platonic is this this scene?

Well, I went back and read chapter 348 to find out, and a little detail disregarded, not only by me but everyone else, was the line, “If you ask me, being a couple means being one and the same. Makes sense right? Nothing else… would fulfill my desires.”

And then ochako in 393, purposely bearing her feelings to Himiko and offering her blood to her? Even with this knowledge? The knowledge that Himiko would see this as a confession? Fucking crazy.

For all her flaws, I can perfectly picture why Ochako would prefer someone who sees romance like she does, openly unapologetic about her feelings like she is, over someone who can’t even see a teenage girls confession as an actual confession of love. Way to be selfish Izuku.

(God he would be SO offended at all the shit talking I’ve been doing to him recently HAHA! BUT HE NEEDS TO HEAR IT BC HES AN IDIOT WHO SHOULD BE TAKING HIS FEELINGS SERIOUSLY. How are you going to let the hot headed blonde kid that bullied you be better at this. HOW.)

So yes, I think this is so explicitly romantic, I literally thought this scene would never fucking happen because I KNEW how gay it was, how gay everyone KNEW it was—but god damn. Horikoshi you mad man.

[ofcowardiceandkings]

me rambling about "Staring at the Sun" by Jacob Gellar and how much it smacked me in the face under the cut lol (contains exactly ZERO spoilers for TotK 💙)

AS SOON as i saw that his video would touch on the quests it does in some way i knew it'd fuck me up for a week or two but i didnt expect it to go that way - he rarely dives into the base plot of these things so i knew that was safe but ohhhh man

ive not played The Last Guardian but i know its one of my best friends favourite games, though the light in watching my partner play Shadow of the Colossus was amazing to see, but this really hit me hard because it pin-pointed one of the things i love most and maybe why i just love being in the world of Tears of the Kingdom (and BotW) so much ?? ive always been a fan of impressionist art too, and Turner as well, i've been trying to push myself into that space in my own art for so long. i always feel mega cliche saying these really well known artists are my favourites but i truly mean it jfdkjf ... this is probably one of the reasons i appreciated how bright and chipper the art style for Skyward Sword was with its fading blues and 'brush strokes', but it just doesnt compare to Breath or Tears with the amount of work the light puts in now, i spend so much time just STARING and ive just realised its usually at the light playing the forms and atmosphere in a real but beyond real way

i'm stuck in two art world of really enjoying doing linework and texture - and being reasonable at it - but wanting to go into colour and light though ive never been comfortable with doing so for some reason ??? im trying but i often just forget to try when im just drawing something self-indulgent and silly (most of what i have time for)

the play of light off cave art and that theory has lodged in my head forever too, As A Nerd On Such Things, there's something absolutely stunning about cave art, how it was made how it was put there and why how it was supposed to be viewed if at all, anything. absolutely fascinating, especially with the seemingly shifting images of Chauvet & Lascaux caves ??

a thing that always stuck with me as well - it might seem like a bizarre pull but it feels the same to me - is actually how the sun is portrayed and animated in the 1978 Watership Down ??? pulsing and moving and quaking with pattern and colour, not to be seen properly by us on earth, but you cant NOT look. i've not shaken the imagery of the sun from that movie from my mind since the first time i saw it as a child im STILL obsessed, it STILL almost haunts me

additionally, as someone who's repeatedly defended how these games look to people who complain about framerates and textures and whatever, i appreciate this. don't get me wrong, it doesnt HURT, especially from such a large gaming company (not that Nintendo have ever put heavy focus on the technical specs of their products though lets be real) but Breath/Tears just emphasises how much art direction or a vision can carry a project compared to other high-spec but ultimately forgettable titles. maybe a little much salt in that sentiment on my end but boy it bothers me when its all people can think about.

i'm gonna be stuck here for another few weeks lol this happens every time Jacob posts a video theyre ALL so winding and drawn out and beautiful gjfkds fuck

[trashquisitor-shirozora]

The "I Can 'Pin' Posts on Tumblr Now? Since When?" Intro/Masterpost

Greetings and welcome to the "Who The Fuck Am I?" post written by yours truly, whoever the fuck I am. Now that I'm back on my Fandom bullshit again in at least 2 blogs, I thought I'd re-introduce myself.

I am 2nd gen Korean-American on the Best West Coast. I ID as she/they/shiro, and ace/demi. I'm in the millennial bracket (aka, I am a Legal Adult) so be mindful when interacting with me. I do what I can to be antiracist and am always learning to be better.

I am some iteration of "shirozora" on: LiveJournal, Dreamwidth, AO3, Tumblr, Twitter, Instagram, Discord. My first Fandom 2.0 was political/pundit RPF and my first fandom fallout was Racefail '09, so you could say I've Seen Some Shit. Been 5+ years since I last engaged in actual Fandom, yet here the fuck I am.

Fandoms I have written/drawn for (FFN years do not count, I purged that account): political/pundit RPF, Supernatural, Tron: Legacy, MCU, Star Trek (AOS), Dragon Age, Mass Effect, Final Fantasy XIV, Star Wars/The Mandalorian

A Short List Of Things I Wrote in No Particular Order:

Lost Symphony (T): SPN; Dean/Cassie, Sam/Jessica, pre-Dean/Castiel; for the Racebending Revenge challenge - "Mary Ahn Winchester died on the ceiling of the nursery on November 2, 1983."

We Are Pilots (T+): Tron: Legacy; Sam/Tron; for the Tron Kink Meme - "Six months and Sam still can't shake off his father's ghost, so Quorra suggests returning to the Grid to find the answers he needs to move on."

Wishing Well (T): Captain America: The First Avenger; Steve/Howard, Steve/Peggy, unfulfilled Howard/Peggy/Steve; for the Cap Kink Meme - "And you just wanna feel like a coin that's been tossed / In a wishing well, a wishing well."

A Thousand Eyes Staring Back (T+): Mass Effect 2; Kaiden/m!Shep - "His problems start at Horizon, aka that time Kaidan Alenko was having a really bad day and his former CO was supposed to be dead."

Waking Ghosts (T+): Dragon Age; Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan Inquisitor; the Mummy (1999) AU nobody asked for - "Dorian Pavus, formerly of Qarinus, is an archivist at the Magisterium research outpost in Hightown."

Seasons Change (T): Black Panther/MCU; M'Baku/T'Challa - "A fisherman finds a dying king in his nets and Hanuman offers M'Baku an opportunity to repay T'Challa for sparing his life at Warrior Falls."

born in a thunderstorm (T+): Star Trek: AOS, Captain Marvel, Thor: Ragnarok, Guardians of the Galaxy; Kirk/McCoy; the worst AU I ever wrote - "Kevin Riley insists that James Kirk didn't die on Tarsus IV. Nobody believes him."

Dangerous Dreams series (T) - The Storm; The Suns; Between Planets: Star Wars/The Mandalorian; Din/Luke; the reason why I'm writing this post - "To want something for yourself, that is a dangerous dream."

I cross-post and occasionally write about writing at @shirozora-writes. But I bet a bunch of y'all stumbled into my little sandbox through @shirozora-draws, so let's talk about that!

I suffered from artist's block for almost 4 years. That ended when I became utterly fixated on "So Grogu has two dads now - oh no." I fucking ragequit Star Wars after the fucking world lied to me about The Last Jedi* and now I'm doing the most insane and involved fanworks because of Star Wars. The fuck???

To end this unapologetically long-ass Intro Post, here are my 3 favorite recent doodles:

The original post is here. First time animating with Clip Studio Paint and I had a two-day meltdown over it.

The original post is here. Fun fact: the file name is "homoerotic chin tilt yolo". Also, 6.4k notes? You guys are wild.

The original post is here. The final illustration from The Suns.

*I hate The Last Jedi the most not just because it's racist sexist garbage that trashed everyone except Kylo Ren whoever the fuck he thinks he is, and jumpstarted some of the most toxic fandom behavior I had the displeasure of witnessing, but also because I read so much praise for it before walking into the theater, paying for a ticket with my own money, and realizing 5 minutes into the film that I was gonna have the worst time of my life. I can't and probably will never watch Knives Out because I still haven't forgiven the director for the psychological damage. This is 100% a TLJ Hate Zone.

[star-wars-multishippers]

Get to Know Me(me) - The Members of SW Multishippers!

This was an event hosted on the Discord server to do a sort of re-introduction of both old and new joiners to the server. Everyone who wanted to participate filled out the survey below to share a little about themselves and about their faves in fandom.

Survey (for anyone who wants to join in below in the comments):

Who Am I? - Name, username on other sites, mini bio if you'd like Where do I fit into the SW fandom? - Prequels, Sequels, EU, etc. What do you do? Fic, art, lurking and reblogging? My Top Faves - 2 or 3 max please! My Own Stuff - 1 or 2 max please!

MBlair

Who am I?

MBlair both on Discord and on AO3, maggzblair on Tumblr (MBlair, maggzblair)

Where do I fit into the SW fandom?

Mostly lurker/reblogger/occasional writer, mostly Original Trilogy and Sequel trilogy.

Fics I Love to Rec

Of Queens, Knights, and Pawns (and associated fics) by chancecraz

Hand of Fate by sweetestcondition

My Fics I Love to Rec

Reyuxmas 2019

A Wonderful Winter on Hoth

I’ll Love You ‘Til the Suns Burn Out

feckyeslife

Who Am I?

Feckyeslife#2003 on Discord, firelord65 on AO3

Where do I fit into the SW fandom?

I'm pretty solidly a Sequels fan, but I have a special place in my heart for the Prequels. I'm a fic writer who dabbles mostly in canon universe AUs, what ifs, that sort of stuff. Primarily my fics have Rey with a tendency to focus on the First Order characters and plots.

My Top Faves

A classic Reylo fic from an old friend - Beneath the Facade. It technically has a prologue fic before it in the series, but this piece was the one that I really enjoyed way back in the EARLY days of Reylo.

Because I'm an insufferable Reylux fan, I have to rec at least one. This piece by @every-day-is-star-wars-day  a oneshot that ever so masterfully crushes my heart every time - Thread

My one Original Trilogy rec, this is a beast of a long fic but so, so good - Dark Times

My Own Stuff

Reylux, medieval AU - La Vita Primus - is the first in a small series of this AU

Reylo, TROS Fix-It - Oh but it's a dark future, my star. Oh but it's a soft morning for us soon.

apple-au

Who Am I?

Call me apple. she/her/hers. I’m gold_pen_leaps on dreamwidth, ao3, and pillowfort. @gold_pen_leaps@tenforward.social on mastodon. I am doing my best to boycott tumblr, but I've been known to use a tumblr link embed on pf from time to time. (gold_pen_leaps (DW), gold_pen_leaps (AO3))

Where do I fit into the SW fandom?

I’m mainly into the Sequels and the Mandalorian. I joined the server for Hux/Kylo/Rey and all the combinations of the characters in my ot3. I can edit better than I can write. Sometimes I comment on fics.

My Top Faves

A Dance of Titans by @lucidlucy is a really long reylux fic. The delicious slowburn makes all the flavors combine in an amazing way. Love how they battle the main villain!

My Own Stuff

I helped give feedback on the second part of a series. Does that count? This is knight_of_dance's fic. It's really cool to see writers' takes on Modern AU, and this one has influenced my ideas of what sort of kinks those characters have. :smirk: Switch Up

Mizz

Who Am I?

 hi! tho im much more...a lurker around here im mizz (she/they/he). im badarmada on tumblr, badwrong-gimme on pillowfort, gimmemrss on twitter, badwrongprincess on ao3 (i have so many usernames XD, ive got a dreamwidth, wordpress, and art insta too if youre interested lol)

(@badarmada, gimmemrss (twitter), badwrongprincess (AO3))

Where do I fit into the SW fandom?

i liked the prequels as a kid (still do kinda), rouge one, i do like clone wars tho i havent finished it and the sequels (well tfa and tros tho only one of them is good imo) i reblog stuff mostly and read fanfic, tho i write some stuff too. finn is my fav and pretty much my center character (ie the one i focus on the most) and i like most finn ships (favs being finnhux, finnlo, finnrey)

My Top Faves

the things we do for love by glare is an unfinished finnlohux fanfic that i love a lot

worlds are built for two by synergenic (Losseflame). this is a poefinn fic from finns pov

My Own Stuff

um...im still working on this fic -(Be More Chill, Hux) very slowly this year has been super hard on me writing wise and ive been drawing ocs and for another fandom mostly but I will finish this one day!

Arsanimo - Marion

Who Am I?

Hi, I’m Arsanimo, self taught artist and nerd from Germany that’s mostly lurking. You can find me with this username on tumblr, twitter and instagram. I draw mostly Reylo at the moment. ( @arsanimo, Arsanimo (Twitter), Arsanimo (IG))

Where do I fit into the SW fandom?

I‘m in my thirties and an OT fan since birth, because my dad was obsessed with Star Wars and we watched it a lot as kids - they are the go to christmas movies in our family. Even as a very small kid I loved Vader. I didn’t like the ST quite as much when it came out in cinemas but still watched them multiple times. I’m much more fond of them now. But my love for Star Wars really got renewed with the ST. I really liked TFA and TLJ a lot. Not a great fan of TROS though, but to each their own. I recently started watching TCW, if you haven’t go watch it! The Mandalorian is also great and feels more like the OT for me, which I love. Oh, and R1 was awesome, I loved that one! Solo also was good. I think I will be a lifelong fan because it’s such a rich universe and everybody can pick a favorite. I’m also good at ignoring the parts I don’t like, lol. But I‘m mostly exhausted about all the drama on social media, so at the moment I take a bit of a break from social media and only post from time to time. And I’m of the firm believe to ship and let ship and if the art and fics are good, you can also find me enjoying ships outside of Reylo (honestly, some Kylux art out there, woah... and Finnrey is always so tender but Stormpilot has two hot guys in it... and don’t get me started about Finnrose! You probably get the gist)

My Top Faves

It’s hard to name so few, there are so many good artists out there. But Winter of Her (Twitter) has some outstanding art in her own style. Than I really like the style of Khallion (Twitter), check her out.

My Own Stuff

And last but not least two pieces of mine that turned out pretty good

https://twitter.com/arsanimo/status/1275789997426311173?s=21

https://twitter.com/arsanimo/status/1258757927910989825?s=21

Knight_Of_Cookies

Who am I?

Allo allo, I go by many names but many know me as cookies here. Lol I'm from the US and I've been a lifelong A+, gold star , nerd my whole life. I love writing among 5 million other hobbies. I am on Tumblr and A03. (@knight-of-cookies, Knight_of_Cookies (AO3))

Where do I fit into the SW fandom?

It all started with the prequels which I fell in love with and even wrote my first fan fic on. (I dragged it from fanfic.net to A03 for my own form of personal torture) I dropped out of star wars until I was in Japan and a close group of friends got me to watch Roque One and play a star wars based table top role playing game, which dumped me back into this fandom hardcore. I fell in love with the sequel trilogy and now I'm stuck forever. Lol

I have been writing on A03 for around 2 years now for star wars and it's been the most productive and progressive work I've ever done thanks to ya'll.

Also, hey, I created this multishippers discord, because multishipping rocks and everyone should do it. :P I know I've never active enough but I love this space and the people in it! My fav part about multishipping is how I'm always discovering yet another ship that is awesome. It never ends. ^^

My top favs - (of things no one should be surprised by)

Beastie by @feckyeswriting. It spawned a written series(multiple actually)

Glutton by Witchoil. Just very good dark and wonderful kinky smut. Always go back to this one.

In the house that skywalker built by @aicosu. This story got me into Reylux in a way I'll never recover from.

My own stuff

Nothing but Themselves - This is my favorite beast of a story I've ever written and it will be beautiful when I finish it. One day. Lol

Tanzaku - One of my most polished pieces thanks to the Reylo Anthology. My best combo of: insert culture nerding here and captive Ben as personal tropes.

[oh-no-whoopsie]

reasons I love kip!! (aka @ghostsingold) 

(making this post bc they deserve all the love and my meds have kicked in so im able to be productive today. thanks long-acting adderall!!) 

kip I love you for so many reasons and as I fill out college applications im gonna list them out <3 no special occasion its just! you make me happy and I wanted to share that with you and since I have a teeny blog no one will see this but you <3 

1.) this response to a post I made on my old blog. it was one of my first positive interactions on Tumblr and this tiny piece of writing made that entire week easier. it was a tiny start to a friendship and it was also a stranger caring for me, which at that time I didn’t think was possible. 

2.) every single time that they have been a part of the Brown Eye Stan Club and hyped up brown eyes,,,,dude I can’t you’ve been such a big part of the journey to accept my brown eyes. it means so much to me that you just? say it!! you’re proud of the fact you love brown eyes! hell yeah dude! thank you!

3a.) for sending me songs that remind you of me??? to have someone think of me?? MY HEART?? I- I can’t express how much it means to me I just,, hnnhhh you even made me a fucking playlist (which I listen to CONSTANTLY) (here is the playlist ) just. dude. I love you 

4.) one of those songs is Glitter & Gloss by Skott and 

          a) this song makes me feel like a fucking badass 

          b) made me feel so appreciated and loved because it was the first time someone had said “this song reminds me of you!” 

          c). when I was stalking your blog trying to find my old posts I found this post about that song and?? sunbeams through Spanish moss? trees? pretty?? is this how you see me?? im in love????? also this ask I sent you where you describe your love for the sun <3 the implication that I am even a little bit like the sun to you makes me wanna cry happiness 

5.) Your taste in music is SUPERB. IMPECCABLE. A DELIGHT. 

6.) Someday I will have the strength to do naniwrimo with you and that will be a glorious month (and next September we should be able to be writing buddies!!!!! because now I have meds for attention span so I can write again >:) ) 

7.) A long time ago (old blog) I asked for people to give me nicknames because I never got cute nicknames and because I could only ever insult myself. for the longest time I forgot what you said but I remembered!!!! it was birdie!!

          a). even though now most people call me doe cuz of bumblebee, you were the first person to reply to that post and just because milk suggested fawn/doe and it stuck doesn’t mean I love birdie any less 

          b.) it means a lot that you suggested it in the first place and while I was finding links for this post I came across this ask where you call me birdie :> p.s. you still mean a lot to me and I hope you’re okay <3 

8.) every single time you sent me a picture of a frog :),, also that one post about taking fake shots of water still sends me but I can’t find it to link it,, and also everything you listed on this post including the fact that it is inspired by my post

9.) when you agreed to talk to people for me when I was panicking thinking they were going to die but had to go to sleep. that means so much that you would take that role on and dude I am so so sorry I ever asked that of you. 

10). you made me find magic in the sunlight and not just the moonlight, you helped me find that balance and accept that piece of me and it sounds stupid but its really important ok also im just gonna say it: your voice is perfection it is comfort it is warm and all things good in this world. ive only heard you speak like twice but I could listen to you for the rest of my life

11.) sometimes you send me posts that r like “thinking of you!!” and THEY MAKE MY DAY omfg 

12.) when you drew me!!! 

          a.) bc holy shit you are an amazing artist if you let me I want to post that drawing of me on my blog

          b.) I was supposed to draw you in return I am sorry I did not,, I still plan on doing it tho 

          c.) we drew ourselves as fairies and that was pretty fun 

          d.) you made me see beauty in myself I- 

13.) for never once encouraging my ed or bad habits. you were ready to call me tf out and I appreciate that so much dude? you were never subtley pro you also seem ready to stab anyone who opposes you. hell you post callouts against pr0-ana shit and m**nspo and f*tspo and photoshop and all of it. I admire you so much 

14.) for letting me ramble on about hermes and offerings and spirituality! 

15.) for lighting a candle for Catherine and talking with me that night

(I have the entire conversation copied into a google doc on my phone because it needed to be saved. the things you said are beautiful. it is so touching and breathtaking and if I could hug you I would and  I promise not to forget if you won’t forget. )

16.) holy shit dude P O E T R Y, both for being so good at it and for reading mine. 

17.) helping validate my arospec questioning and enby questioning,,, it was actually through your blog that I realized oh shit! I might be aro!! and having someone to talk about gender issues and arospec stuff is SO AMAZING and I love you <3 and thank you for talking with me and for helping me and for validating me 

18) validating my anger!! or at least helping to do so! you point out when things are unfair! you genuinely want my life to improve! you helped me realize some of my friends are shitty! you helped me accept things! 

19.) I love your vibes. I can’t say this enough but somehow you are just so wonderful to me,,, you are amazing I can’t describe it. you are ethereal and terrific and your features could be anywhere from beautiful to cryptic to solid to handsome but I promise you that there is something unique about you. a bit of mystery and magic left over from the days when fairytales were real. you have all the power of the sun and light and fire in both the life giving and the destructive aspects. you are so perfect and wonderful thank you 

20.) because you told me “you do not deserve to be traumatized” and in all honesty that slapped me into reality. if i still had my old Tumblr I probably would’ve screenshotted it so I could get the exact quote but I do not know how to make you understand How Much That Helped me 

all in all,,,, I must end the list here because I need to go be productive. alas.there is more I didn’t even BEGIN to mention,,, but kip, you are my rae of sunshine. someday we are going to go be cryptic authors in Scotland who disappear into the woods, perhaps to hunt with the faeries, perhaps no, who knows. we will become part of the local lore,, independent and happy and spooky. 

I love you so much!  also sorry I went through your archive to find all this,,,, to be fair I already did it once to find my posts <3 

I would never say that just one person “saved me”. thats too big of a responsibility to share. but kip, you helped save me, in ways I can’t explain, from myself and from death and from an abyss of numbness. you saved me from a thousand tiny deaths and gave me a thousand new pieces of life and I would not be the person I am today without you. I love and appreciate you so much and you bring me sunlight and joy and peace and connection. you are a true friend to me. thank you for being here. you deserve the world and so much more. 

[itskateak]

(Preface: this is a really long post as I typed it as I was watching the movie so this is unedited, pure thoughts as I was watching this movie.)

I just started watching the new Cats movie and I’m already having issues with what’s going on

Why did Munk spider man his way down a wall

What’s wrong with Misto

Why don’t they just crawl on their knees Jesus Christ if they weren’t on their toes it would be better

“Are you mean like a minx” that’s not in pitch

ThatS NOT HOW JUMPING WORKS

The choreography is going good though- I knew it would. I’ve worked with that choreographer before.

WHY IS THIS NOW A POP REMIX

I have so many questions

Music is too fast. Tempos are everywhere.

Singing isn’t too bad. I can understand the words better.

Munk is a little too feminine for my taste at the moment but I like his design.

ROMANTICAL CATS (heart hands) IS THE MOST ON BRAND MISTO THING YET

Macavity speaking and singing his own song is disgusting

WHY DO THEY HAVE HUMAN TOES AND FINGERS

Why is everyone bullying Misto

AND HUMAN NOSES

Munk there’s a rhythm to the Naming of Cats. You can’t go off it whole everyone else is on it.

You guys can’t keep a tempo can you

HIS name. HIS.

Munk that’s a little sexual. NO YOU ARE WITH DEMETER STOP

stop cutting the scene up. Just let them dance.

AH REFERENCE TO ORIGINAL CHOREO. I SAW THAT

Misto is on brand except he’s not Misto yet storytellers

Also I’m liking the idea that Victoria is new to everything and the plot is they’re introducing her to the wild and the whole heaviside layer thing

THATS NOT THE MELODY MUNK STOP

they have human eyebrows too what

Munk that note is too high for you

Is Jenny twerking excuse me

JennY IS SUPPOSED TO BE MOTHERLY STOP THAT

that’s also not the melody

The human mice are going to cause nightmares

Wait is Jenny lusting after Munk

Why does he actually look interested

Munk do you have an English accent or American. Please decide.

Jenny that’s not the right notes

HUMAN ROACHES NO

WHY DO THEH HAVE HUMAN FACES

The skiN UNZIPPED OH NO

no one needed that undershot of cockroach crotches

Mm meow

huh what Tugger what was that

Okay Derulo is not bad at all

I’m missing the Tugoffolees banter though

This Tugger is a little gayer than the original

THE NEUTER JOKE OH MY GOD

Tugger is reminding me of Dr. Frank N Furter from Rocky Horror Picture Show

Why does he have an English accent though

VictoriaaaaAAAAA? (The TOES)

Jenny’s humor is eh. Don’t see the reason of putting that in.

The ending is pure Tugger though

Not a bad rendition

Grizz isn’t as rough as I imagined her looking

Oh her VOICE

HER VOICE HITS HARD

Who is this cat singing about Grizz (the first) her voice was nice

NO. WHY THE SHORTNESS ON “that”

Munk why did you grab that queen’s head

Edward Hyde is that you?

Jenny stop trying to be the comedy relief you’re too awful at it

Bustopher please STOP singing your own song

PLEASE KIDNAP HER IDRIS ELBA

THANK YOU

I wish they spent more time dancing since that’s really the point of the show and the draw to it.

Bustopher wearing heels? I’m for it. Gay legend.

“Thanks Tugger” stop this whole sequence please

Bustopher is supposed to be a very prim and proper cat. What happened to him

Still can’t get over Idris Elba being in this

THATS NOT THE MELODY OF MUNGOJERRIE AND RUMPLETEAZER

What have thEY DONE TO THE MELODY GOOD GOD

AND THE RHYTHM THEY DESTROYED THE SONG

Oh. Hey that’s pretty neat choreo though

“I bought that for her myself” “hey” “what?”

My brain is rebelling because it’s not right at all in anything I remember

Did Misto just pull a whole femur from his hat

STOP THAT. MISTO LOOKS LIKE A CLOSETED TWINK STUCK IN A STRAIGHT RELATIONSHIP

is he wearing eyeliner

GROWLTIGER IS BACK

I don’t actually know his song so this is new to me

Jenny and Bustopher being comedic relief hurts because they’re not funny

Munk “where have you been?!” Is there a love triangle happening. What happened to Demeter

Also his voice in Deuteronomy is actually really nice

“Sits in the suuun” that was beautiful oh god

Deut looks more like how I imagined Grizz would look

IS THAT DAME JUDI DENCH

I bet she regrets ever saying yes after this.

What cat is randomly wearing a crow skull around their neck. Is that a witch’s cat

JUDI DENCH CAN’T YOU ACTUALLY SING? WHY ARE YOU STRUGGLING

Why are you singing Munk’s line

Oh the Jellicle ball is next let’s go Andy show me that awesome choreo

Asparagus are you okay

Tempo doesn’t exist in this movie does it

Neither does rhythm or time keeping

IS THAT MY BOY SKIMBLESHANKS

Twirly boy Munk

Munk really just wants to be topped doesn’t he

WhAT WAS THAT TWITCHING AND THE PANTING

Andy I love you man but the traditional and classic choreo would’ve worked just as fine

Skimble and Munk being gay

what happened to Plato and why is there something going on with Misto

TUGGER YOU HAD A MOMENT YOU COULD HAVE INTERRUPTED

Ah okay I understand why that happened. No mating dance or slumber party

Cats wearing shoes disgusts me more than the toes

POINTE WITHOUT POINTE SHOESSSS GROSS

honestly? Jellicle ball is disappointing. They just cut the ten minutes of amazing dancing down to like four.

I don’t like the heavy breathing. That’s not something that was ever necessary.

Okay, the end worked okay with the big synchronized dances.

I’m ready for this Memory rendition. Already getting chills.

Those are very human hands

Oh keep with the rhythm I beg of you

Ooh altered verse

Wait that’s jennifer Hudson???

Oh we just removed a whole verse, bridge, and chorus didn’t we.

Sweet moment? See I like Vic reaching for Grizz

Vic gets a song??? Ooh intrigued

I like her voice

I’m going to cry this song is sad and I’m glad she gets a story

Though it’s kind of “you think your life is hard? Mine’s worse” feeling after Memory

Awww I’m gonna cry what a sweetheart what a lovely dear protect her

Ugh meaning of happiness. I hate this song no matter who sings it.

Wait what happened to Rumpus Cat song :( the battle of the pekes and the pollicles

What do you mean you’re about to make the choice

We still have Gus’s song, Misto’s song, and Skimble’s song.

They got Ian McKellen to do this?? How much was he paid

“Cross paws” no stop

Why is Gus singing his own song please don’t

Munk’s face bugs me for some reason

His song always makes me cry for some reason but this is kind of goofy and cute and I love it

Misto in the background is just strange for me

Is he forgetting the words sometimes and mumbling to fill in because goodness

Misto’s so eager to please what a bottom

“Macavityyy” I hate it

Munk starting Skimble’s song has the same energy as Tugger doing Misto’s songs

I’m glad they’ve kept this song the same as it was

Skimble is SO gay oh my god what a classic twink

Oooh I like this addition of the train getting started via tap

I’m actually really liking this rendition and the tap dancing on the the rails

Though the tap continuing when no one is tapping or the rhythm being wrong is uh not good

Such an iconic song and I love the changes in scene

Oh skimble that note was not good

WAIT OKAY THAT WAS MACAVITY’S DOING WITH THE LEVITATION

Oh hi Taylor Swift

Use more breath. Stop doing the pop voice thing. Stop it.

Is Bombi a drug dealer

MISTO BEING TWEAKED ON DRUGS IS THE FUNNIEST GODDAMN THING IVE EVER SEEN IN THIS LIFE

I can say though that what they’ve done to the song is exactly the vibes it needed. Sultry and pushing the boundaries.

Sad there’s not a Demeter.

SORRY MUNK WHAT WAS THAT

I actually rewinded to see what happened there with the martini glass

OKAY MAN NEEDS TO BE TOPPED OH MY GOD

“Green house glass is broken” was changed and that makes me sad

This was a good song for Taylor to show off her vocal prowess but she just didn’t

Why is Macavity naked

Why is he singing his own damn song

PUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK ON

Munk you’re still tweaking out a little

Oh here’s the sleeping orgy

What’s with this drama now with the choice thing

We don’t have Munk’s fight with Macavity. Robbed

VICTORIA YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE THE ONE TO GET MISTO OUT THERE. IT HAS TO BE TUGGER

If there are no 23 spins, I’ll throw my phone

Munk that’s gay and I’m here for it. Encourage your twink Misto

“Please don’t make me do this” has phantom vibes

Munk that was a lusty look

Where’s the “ooh ahs”

This is weird without Tugger singing it and being an ego for Misto

Tugger come on. Please save this number.

Victoria I swear to god I will beat you

Why do they have one person on the melody in this. And Derulo going through the stratosphere

WHERE IS THE DANCING >:(

That trombone is playing absolutely nothing in the music at all

DON’T YOU DARE KISS HER

oh here’s the fight music

WHY DID WE UNZIP SKIN AGAIN

oh they used the fight music for the escaping of cats

How much longer is there

Oh there’s the daylight reprise thing

I want to die

To the sun, Vic. To the sun.

Munk, Tugger, be respectful. That’s your mother.

Wait that doesn’t work in this universe because Deut is female.

Oh they gave the Asian cat patterns that resemble tiger stripes hmmmm

Why couldn’t they have just filmed an actual stage version and turned that out

Oh that “smile at the old days” was god awful

How much longer oh god

I’m tired man. I wasted 6 bucks on this

Victoria just stealing Jemima’s parts

“Like a flowER as the dawn is breaking”

Okay here it is

OH COME THROUGH QUEEN. WHOLE FILM IS WORTH THIS CLIMAX

Okay so there are some cats wearing clothes and others not. What are the rules for this universe. Are they naked or are they not.

I have not shed a single tear. Usually I have by now from this show. Not a single tear.

Deut X Grizz is still my favorite ship

Is that the intro to Til I Hear You Sing that I hear. Those F to Gm chords Lloyd Webber loves.

Judi Dench stop trying to sing for the love of god.

Ah yes show off that beautiful ballet dancer that plays Vic

Aww Munk bowing to Grizz

Oh so it’s a chandelier this time and not a tire

Where’d Macavity and Bombi go

Oh there he is. What a child. Hate that.

BUSTOPHER CONFIRMED A GAY ICON

Deut being a proud mother to Munk is cute with the hands on the shoulder

Why are we reprising the first song

Also Air balloon.

WHY ARE YOU STARING AT ME JUDI DENCH

why are they all staring so intently at her too wait

Munk looks like someone is touching him inappropriately this whole scene.

Munk and Misto looking at each other

MUNK STOPPPP JESUS CHRIST DO YOU NEED TO BE REMOVED FROM THE SITUATION

The choreography doesn’t even match the beat of the song. Huh???

Misto you’re gay stop

Munk and Misto looking at each other and the shy glances away

So Grizz gets hot air balloned to death is that what I’m seeing

Oh it’s over okay

I want to cry.

It’s not as bad as I heard. Once you got used to the way things looked and just let things happen and say it might as well happen, it became a bit more enjoyable.

It’s still god awful though and let’s pray the furries never get ahold of it.

[megabadbunny]

Minuet, Part IX

But then…she already is compromised, isn’t she? She already gave herself away—gave herself to him sometime between There’s me and On your own? No taking back that sort of thing, not now. And Rose doesn’t think she wants to, even if she could.

***

(ten/rose angsty post-gitf au/fixit; here there be lemons, but you can find the lemon-free version on ff.net!)

(full-size image)

Minuet, Part VIII

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Final

Thunder crashes violently overhead and lightning slashes an arc through the ink-dark sky as Rose struggles to keep up with the Doctor’s unyielding sprint, shielding her eyes from the battering rain and flashes of light (brighter than she’s ever seen, burning-white-hot light so brilliant it hurts). Rose ducks her head to protect her eyes from the worst of it, but there’s no avoiding the downpour hammering down like a million tiny bullets or the raw wind buffeting her from all sides, stinging her skin every place it hits. Half-blinded by the rain, half-deaf from the howl, Rose stumbles over the uneven ground, trudging through mud and splashing through shallow lakes swollen to overflowing, pushing against the tempest and gale and begging her legs to keep going, keep going, just a little further—

The stench of ozone floods the air and Rose cries out as a bolt of lightning strikes a tree nearby, splitting it neatly in half with a ground-shattering crash that throws Rose and the Doctor to their knees. Thunder screams above them and shakes the earth with a rattle that Rose can feel in her bones and for a moment all she can do is huddle in the mud, hands clasped over her ears in a futile effort to drown out the onslaught of rain and noise.

Presumably the Doctor was hoping to escape to the TARDIS, but they can’t keep going in this. They can’t. They can’t. They just can’t.

“Doctor,” Rose shouts over the howling winds, reaching out for him half-blindly. “Doctor, what do we do?”

If he replies, Rose doesn’t hear it. Pushing her sodden hair out of her eyes, she peers through a curtain of rain at the Doctor, or the shadow of him, only just visible through the deluge and hunched in the overflowing shallows of a lake. Crawling closer to him, Rose watches as the wind tears at his hair and his clothes, buffeting them about wildly; she can see that his eyes and his mouth are pinched tight, as if in pain. Rose’s first instinct is that he must be hurt—was he injured in the fall, did the lightning strike closer than she thought?—but she quickly realizes that he’s just concentrating, trying to scheme up a way out of this mess.

Trying—and failing. It doesn’t take Rose long to figure out that his senses, heightened as they are, must be totally overloaded right now, extra-sensitive auditory and visual capabilities pummeled from all sides by the violent tempest screaming all around them. He must be completely overwhelmed.

Rose swears loudly. What the fuck are they supposed to do now? But she supposes there’s only one thing to do.

“C’mon,” she shouts, grabbing the Doctor by the hand and pulling him upward, drawing him out of the lake with her. “We have to keep moving!”

He stands but doesn’t move, doesn’t respond; his feet are frozen in place as he glances all round, like maybe if he tries hard enough he can see a solution through the storm, or perhaps a magic pathway. Rose steps in front of him, gently framing his face in her hands, urging him to look down at her instead.

“Hey,” she says to him, over the roar of the rain, “I need you to concentrate, okay? I need you to think about any houses or—or buildings, or caves, or anything we might’ve passed on our way here, any place we can take shelter. Okay? Can you do that for me?”

Lightning floods the sky overhead and the Doctor flinches, glancing upward.

“Doctor, look at me,” Rose shouts, and he obeys, face pinched in discomfort as he watches her through the rain. “Think about our trip here, our walk from the TARDIS. Think about everything we saw along the way. Where can we take shelter?”

Eyelashes fluttering, the Doctor shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Rose,” he stammers. “I can’t—”

“Look, just—just don’t stress out about the storm, okay?” Rose tells him. “It’s just water, right? Water and wind and light. It’s just nature. Yeah?”

Wordlessly, the Doctor nods, squinting at her through the rain.

“I know it’s loud,” Rose continues, “and I know it’s a lot of cold, and a lot of things on your skin. And that’s all okay. Let it touch you, let yourself hear it, let yourself feel it, but don’t focus on it—don’t let it drown you. Just breathe, and think about where we can find shelter. Just breathe and think. Okay?”

The Doctor closes his eyes and thinks for a moment, his brow knit tight in concentration. “We came in from the south,” he says, slowly. “Passed several houses, nearest one’s a kilometer away, maybe more—I can’t tell—”

“Which way’s south?”

Bent against the wind, blinking the rain out of his eyes, the Doctor looks around. “Thereabouts?” he says, pointing somewhere ahead. “But Rose, this storm—the geomagnetics of it—it’s thrown off my sense of direction, I can’t quite calibrate—I can’t—”

“It’s okay, Doctor! Don’t think about that right now. Don’t think about anything right now except running, and holding my hand. Just focus on that, and try not to trip. That’s all. Okay?”

He doesn’t look thrilled at the prospect of not-thinking-about-something, but he nods in agreement. Good enough.

“Just follow me,” Rose says, pulling him along through the howling gale.

 **

 Rose doesn’t know how much time has passed (minutes? hours? impossible to tell in this opaque and neverending mess), but it feels like it’s been weeks of following the Doctor’s vague directions as best she can, trudging along blindly in the storm. After an interminable amount of sloshing and slogging and slipping through mud and water up to her knees, the Doctor’s hand grasped firmly in hers, finally, Rose is rewarded with the sight of something vaguely house-shaped and house-sized up ahead, a dark silhouette that’s barely visible through the downpour.

Oh, thank god. Rose only just manages to suppress a mad laugh—she doesn’t fancy the idea of making it this far, only to choke on the rain. She was starting to think the Doctor’s internal compass had just completely quit on them.

“There it is!” she shouts excitedly, pointing, squeezing the Doctor’s hand as she tugs him onward. “We made it!”

“Wait!” the Doctor calls out. He slows to a stop, pulling Rose backward. Shielding his eyes from the rain and wind, he stares up ahead, frowning. “Something’s off.”

“What do you mean? Isn’t that the house you were talking about?”

“Yes, but what’s that light behind it?”

What the hell does it matter? Rose wants to ask, but she follows his line of sight and realizes he’s right—she can only just make it out through the downpour, but the house is silhouetted against some kind of bright light, glowing white at the edges and surrounded by an eerie pink haze. On further inspection, she sees that the light creates a kind of halo around the house, only it isn’t white at all, it’s almost like a rainbow. But she doesn’t remember seeing any streetlamps or other outdoor sources of light on their first trek through these parts. She didn’t see anything like that, except, of course, for the sun.

“Oh!” the Doctor calls out, his eyes wide despite the rain. “Oh, those crafty priests—of course!”

“What? What’s wrong?”

The Doctor sprints forward, holding out his hand, palm up. After a few paces he stops; whatever he feels, it’s causing his face to positively light up in delight, worries and concerns evaporating without a trace. “This is incredible!” he shouts, turning to Rose with a manic grin. “Come here!”

“Why? What is it?”

“Just trust me! C’mon, come here. Hand out!”

Eyes narrowed in apprehension (this wouldn’t be the first time the Doctor had said such a thing, only for Rose to be rewarded with a handful of something scaly and slimy), she obeys, joining him with her hand outstretched. She reaches out, out, out, until—

“Nothing,” she shouts. “I don’t feel anything.”

It takes a few seconds of the Doctor watching and waiting for Rose to realize what she just said.

In the middle of a thunderstorm worse than any she’s ever seen, rain beating down and wind lashing like a whip and thunder scream-roaring like an angry god, all of it jostling and hammering and pummeling her into frozen numbness, for one wonderful moment, her hand didn’t feel any of it. She didn’t feel anything because just an arms’-length away, there was nothing to feel; no rain, no wind, no hairs-standing-on-edge, no thunderous quivering tension—

No storm.

The Doctor laughs at the look of utter confusion on her face as he steps past, disappearing into a dim shapeless shadow behind the rain. Barely comprehending what this could all mean, Rose follows. She steps through the veil and on the other side, it’s completely calm. It’s like stepping out of the universe’s biggest, most violent shower into a calm, dry bath.

Rose’s mouth falls open in shock. She might have just found her way onto a totally different planet, somehow. There’s no rain over here, no wind, no roaring cacophony of relentless screaming sound; she doesn’t even spot any puddles to speak of, barely feels a light breeze, and her ears ring in the quiet. No clouds dot the sky overhead, and instead of an ominous deep crimson, it’s a friendly cheerful sunset pink, sprinkled about with vivid purples and blues like watercolor splashed carelessly across the page. Rose blinks the sun out of her eyes, because that’s what’s glowing behind the house, it’s the setting sun, because they can actually see the sun over here, even if it is close to dipping below the horizon—because over here, there is no storm.

Whipping round, Rose watches the tempest behind them, angry and red, lightning blooming threateningly through scarlet clouds and hailing rain. But just inches away from her feet, everything stops, as if held in place by an invisible wall; the only water on this side of the perimeter is whatever rain dripped off Rose and the Doctor on their way out, and no wind or lightning follows them. The scream of the storm is distant, now, muffled by whatever unseen force dams everything in place.

“It’s like a storm in a bottle,” says Rose, marveling at the sight (as well as the fact that she can hear her own voice without shouting). Reaching out a tentative hand, she touches the wall of rain; it’s like sticking her fingers into a waterfall. “How…?”

“Mirrors, argon, and silver iodide!” replies the Doctor, grinning like a madman.

Rose stares at him blankly through her dripping hair.

“Oh, come on. Mirrors, argon, and silver iodide. Mickey and Naami mentioned them earlier. You remember!”

Mentally retracing their steps past the storm, back into the Temple, Rose recalls Mickey’s display of marvelously bad timing, before she and the Doctor went on the run from a cluster of trigger-happy Temple guards. “You said something about a laser.”

“Exactly! A giant laser,” says the Doctor excitedly. “A giant laser, lopsided barometric pressure, massively inappropriate seasonal conditions, and geomagnetic forces gone totally wonky, all of it adding up to…?”

Rose shrugs. “Nerds gone wild?”

“No! Well, yes, actually, in a manner of speaking. Simply put, that storm,” says the Doctor, gesturing to the wall of rain behind him, “isn’t a naturally occurring phenomenon at all.”

“Oh?” asks Rose; she supposes this should all be terribly fascinating, but now that the threat of imminent danger has passed, she’s really starting to notice how wet and heavy her clothes are, completely soaked through and clinging to her like a second, and very cold, skin. It’s quite chilly and really rather distracting.

“Rose, don’t you realize what this means?” asks the Doctor, growing more eager by the second. “We’re looking at the engineered product of some absolutely massive geomagnetic atmospheric manipulation!”

“So, like…” says Rose slowly, thinking. She shivers, willing herself to ignore the cold. “Like someone controlling the weather?”

“Exactly like,” the Doctor agrees, beaming down at her.

“Think it’s the High Chancey bloke?”

“I do.”

“And that’s why they didn’t like us poking around, back at the Temple,” Rose realizes out loud. “They were afraid we would dig too deep and find out the truth!”

“Precisely!” says the Doctor, nodding emphatically and scattering water droplets everywhere.

“But why? I mean, this planet’s got loads of natural storms anyway, doesn’t it? Why would you want to whip up your own—and why would you lock a bunch of people in your church over it?”

“Good questions, very good questions, all,” the Doctor replies, pushing his soaked hair out of his face so he can better survey the area around them. “Each of which I’d love to find the answer to, but first things first: we still need shelter.”

“Well, since we’re not walking through the storm anymore, I guess we can probably make it back to the TARDIS?” Rose asks, internally crossing her fingers that the Doctor will disagree with her, whilst utterly expecting him to bound off into the twilight with her in tow. She’s surprised to see him hesitate.

“No,” he says, and is he looking her over before he shakes his head? “We’re here; we might as well knock,” he continues, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the house behind him. “No sense in being damp any longer than we have to be. Besides, storm or no storm, Therran nights get a little brisk.”

Rose doesn’t remember anyone saying anything about cold Therran nights, but she’s too relieved (not to mention chilly and damp) to argue. She takes the Doctor’s hand when he offers it (and silently, she’s very glad that he’s found his bearings and is back to his old self again, very glad indeed) and the two of them set off for the house, their shoes squelching in the mud. Now that they’re out of the rain, Rose can see the house much more clearly, even in the failing light, though she might not have labeled it a “house” if the Doctor hadn’t already described it as such; like many of the other structures they passed on their way to the Temple, the building is tall, almost towerlike, sitting on the banks of one of those perfectly round lakes and held aloft by stilts twined into an intricate root system. A series of steps rises out of the water and carries them up to the front of the house, which bears a smooth, rainbow-metallic surface like all of the other Therran buildings they’ve encountered.

“So what now?” Rose asks, shivering as she drips on the steps.

“Well, I would imagine we knock.”

“I know that,” says Rose, rolling her eyes. “But what are we gonna say? Hey, we just survived your planet’s famous killer storm, which actually isn’t your planet’s at all but rather something some nerd cooked up in a lab for some reason, and hopefully you’ve got nothing to do with all that nasty business and you won’t call the authorities on us, but anyway could we borrow some towels and maybe a room for the night?”

“Something like that,” the Doctor says cheerfully, extracting the (completely dry, somehow) psychic paper from his trouser-pocket, “though this should help things considerably.”

“What’s it gonna say, that we’re official storm inspectors?” Rose mutters under her breath as the Doctor raps his knuckles against the wall. He leans back on his heels, waiting with patient enthusiasm. Seconds later, a hole opens up in the wall, framing the round, friendly face of a Therran woman, about middle-aged if the laughter-lines and ornamental dots on her face are anything to go by.

“Good evening!” says the Doctor, flashing her the psychic paper along with his most charming grin. “We—”

“Sir Doctor and Dame Tyler, is it?”

“…we, erm,” the Doctor trails off with a stutter, frowning. “We. Erm. I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re Sir Doctor and Dame Tyler, aren’t you?”

Rose and the Doctor exchange glances. The Doctor flips around and checks the psychic paper. He eyes the woman suspiciously. “Could be,” he says, slowly. “But how do you—”

“Oh, thank the rain!” the woman gushes, and after another series of raps on the other side of the wall, the hole springs open wider so the woman can step through. Broad-shouldered and impressively tall, she has to stoop to get through the doorway, but once she does, she meets Rose and the Doctor with the warmest of smiles. “Uruud said you might be coming this way, but we were starting to worry you’d got lost in the storm, or worse!”

“Uruud contacted you?” asks Rose.

The woman nods. “They were worried, what with everything that happened at the Temple. Sent out a comm blast, told everyone in the area to keep an eye out for you two on account of you running out into the Allstorm like a couple of mad buggers.” She laughs, shaking her head. “What in the world did you go and do that for, anyway?”

Confused, Rose and the Doctor look at each other again, like maybe one of them is in on the joke. “Seemed like a prudent alternative to being shot,” the Doctor replies warily.

“Oh, never you mind that. No one at the Temple would harm a waterfly—not that you heard anything about it from me, mind,” says the woman, with an exaggerated wink to follow. “Therran’s best-kept secret, you know!”

“A secret?” asks Rose, properly intrigued now.

“Oh yes, one of many,” the woman replies with a conspiratorial grin. But then, upon noticing their sodden clothes (not to mention Rose’s very persistent shivering), she tuts, a distinctively Jackielike sound. “But here I am, wittering about while the two of you stand there in the wet and the cold. Come in, come in! Let’s get you some dry things, shall we?”

 **

 “You two must have made quite the impression on young Uruud,” the woman laughs, later, once Rose and the Doctor are settled in the parlor room. The Doctor, as usual, is letting his gaze wander all around the room, touching everything in it; normally, Rose might join him, or at least glance about, take this opportunity to absorb some of the sights and smells and textures and sounds of a brand-new place on a brand-new world, but right now she’s too busy appreciating the thick warm blankets wrapped about her and the Doctor and the expectantly empty teacups pushed into their hands.

“Imagine our surprise,” the woman continues, “getting a call from them about runaways in the middle of the Allstorm!”

“Thank you so much for taking us in,” Rose says earnestly, drawing the blanket closer round her shoulders. “We really appreciate it!”

The woman waves dismissively. “Oh, but of course, dears, of course. Think nothing of it. Any friend of Uruud’s is a friend of ours! You’re welcome to stay here for the night, and longer if you need, whilst you sort things out. And I’ve already let Uruud know you’re here, so no worries there.”

“What about the Temple guards?” asks the Doctor as he curiously inspects a hanging on the wall. “If Uruud knows we’re here, does the Temple know, as well?”

“Even if they do, not much they can do about it, is there? Not with the Storm going like that.”

“Yeah, except they’ve got ways of managing that, don’t they?” Rose probes, her words laden with meaning.

The woman nodded. “Well, yes, but—”

At the sounds of someone clearing their throat from the adjoining room, the woman shakes herself. “Anyway! Like I was saying: we knew straightaway when we got the call that it must be something important,” she says, stepping forward with her kettle to pour Rose and the Doctor a piping-hot cup of tea (or something that looks and smells enough like tea, anyway; at any rate, it’s nice and hot). “We don’t hear from any of the Votaries much during Storm season, though it’s only to be expected, not like you can plan on a consistent signal through the Storm, can you? And of course we don’t expect Uruud to keep in touch with their aunties all the time, though I imagine they do their best to keep in touch with their parents, at least. Oh, and naturally our Thiio comms us every now and again, lets us know what’s the latest gossip in the Temple—who flew in from where, who’s getting up to whatever forbidden romance with whoever, what the numbers are like this quarter—”

“Numbers?” Rose pipes up. “What numbers?”

“Well, attendance rates, naturally.”

“And you said this quarter. S’that like, to do with finances and things?”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, love,” calls out another woman’s voice before their hostess can answer. “Did you already get into the Veriment this evening? You don’t have to tell them everything!”

Chuckling, the woman nods. “She’s right, of course. Oh, but I haven’t even told you my name yet! Where are my manners? I’m Ruumfred. Ruumfred Dooning. Uruud’s my brother’s-child. And back in the back is my sweet wife, Viima.”

“Cheers,” calls Viima from her room.

“It’s lovely to meet you two,” Ruumfred continues, beaming.

“Lovely to meet you too, Ruumfred!” replies Rose with a shiver.

“And you’re still wet and cold! My poor dears. Looks like I’ve misplaced my manners and my head,” Ruumfred laughs. “We can talk about all of this more in the morning. In the meantime, let’s get you and your blankets and drinks upstairs for the night, shall we?”

“That sounds wonderful, actually. But before we go up, would it be all right if we asked you a couple more—”

“Come on, Dame Tyler. You heard the good woman,” chimes in the Doctor. “We’re headed upstairs now. It’s bedtime.”

Rose frowns. “It’s still light out,” she says, peering through the windows at the sky—though admittedly, the sun is dipping even lower than before, and the light is fading with it.

“Yes, because the days are longer here,” the Doctor explains, and he guides Rose toward the stairway with a gentle hand to the small of her back. “Rather, the sun sets much later than what you’re accustomed to. But it’s still evening—quite late in the evening, in fact. Not that you can be faulted for being ignorant of that, considering that our nights thus far have been blanketed in stormclouds and lightning, no way for you to see or appreciate the sunset before now. (Although it is quite lovely and you should certainly see it in full someday, but another time, perhaps. Maybe in another century or two.) But for now, I’m sure our lovely hostesses would like to get to bed.”

Quirking an eyebrow in suspicion, Rose follows his lead, shifting toward the stairs. “All right.”

The Doctor smiles at Ruumfred. “Please. Lead on!”

“I’m afraid it’s just the one room,” Ruumfred explains as she guides them up the stairs, opening the door to a cozy little chamber at the top. “But it’s got two beds and an en suite, and there are some spare night-things in the wardrobe, as well as a folding-screen,” she says, pointing to said screen where it leans against the far wall, “so as you can both have your privacy for the night. How does that sound, loves?”

“Eh,” says the Doctor, glancing about the room. “Little snug, but I suppose it’ll do.”

“It’s wonderful, Ruumfred, thanks so much,” Rose quickly interjects, elbowing the Doctor in the ribs.

Ruumfred smiles at them. “You’re very welcome! Oh, I’m so glad you’re both out of the Storm, and here with us, and safe. Let me know if you need anything else, absolutely anything at all. And you’re more than welcome to join us for Holy Verimentary in the morning, if you like!”

“Oh, absolutely not,” the Doctor replies cheerfully.

“He means we’ll think about it,” Rose adds, elbowing the Doctor again, harder this time. “And thank you very much for the invitation.”

“Of course, of course. Now go ahead and get dry and comfy—there’s a tub in the en suite, and a heater for your things, so you can wash up and hang your clothes to dry out, if you like—and be sure to get yourselves a good night’s sleep!”

With that, and a little wave, Ruumfred leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

“Wow. She sure is friendly, huh?” says Rose. She turns to the Doctor to find him gazing out the window—at what, she can’t tell; she can only make out the dimmest splashes of light from the Storm, made soft and quiet by the distance. “What’s that Holy Vegemite thing she was talking about?” Rose asks.

The Doctor chuckles. “That would be the Holy Verimentary. Translated directly, it means something akin to ‘Sacramental Gospel-Waters’. Holy wine for a Therran religious ritual,” he explains in response to Rose’s confused expression. “Early in the Allstorm, each family takes place in a private service of sorts, sort of like Catholic confession. But in place of anything like wafers or communion wine, your truly devout adherents will imbibe holy ‘waters of truth’, in order to cleanse themselves of falsehoods and sin. In short, the stuff compels you to tell the truth—it’s quite literally in vino veritas.”

Now Rose knows precisely why the Doctor turned down Ruumfred’s invitation to join them; he can babble on until Rose’s ears fall off when it comes to science or history or any number of other things, but she imagines he’d rather eat his own shoes than be honest when it comes to the most important things. She struggles not to roll her eyes. “What’s the point of all that?” she asks instead.

“Oh, it’s just your standard self-abasement and self-flagellation before your chosen deity. You know, all about humility, openness, forgiveness, purification, blah-blah-blah, the works.”

“Mmm. Sounds like a riot.”

“Not a fan of religious traditions, then?”

“No, ta,” Rose replies, and privately feels very glad that Jackie didn’t inject very much church into her upbringing.

Sipping at her tea (except it’s a little too sweet to be proper tea, tastes more like something they might make in America), Rose tours the bedchambers, surveying the art on the walls (simple, but pretty) and fingering the duvets on the beds (plush and warm) and inspecting the stools and furniture (sturdy, well-crafted) and running her fingers along the walls (no rainbow to be seen here, just an expanse of smooth black surface). She idly raps her knuckles against the walls, half-expecting a magic doorway to spring open.

“Do you think we can trust them?” she asks. “Ruumfred and Viima.”

“No idea,” the Doctor replies cheerfully, pulling away from the window. “How does Uruud strike us?”

“I don’t know. I mean, they seemed pretty trustworthy. But I guess anyone can seem that way.”

“True enough.” The Doctor plunks down on a bed, bouncing up and down a bit, ostensibly to test how soft the mattress is—the wrinkle in his nose afterward suggests that the answer is not soft enough. (Why he cares about such things when he probably won’t even sleep on the bloody thing is beyond Rose—not to mention, how on earth did he manage to bounce so much without spilling so much as a single drop of tea? Stupid perfect Time Lord equilibrium.)

“At least we’re out of the storm, I guess,” says Rose, with a shrug. But the Doctor seems far more concerned with mattress-softness (and mattress-materials, if the sudden appearance of the sonic is anything to go by), so Rose decides that maybe she shouldn’t worry too much, either. She returns to her snoop around the room, and after nosing about in the wardrobe for a moment, she finds something that looks like a nightshift, or close enough, anyway. The garment is dreadfully thin (it won’t trap in heat at all; she wonders if she could talk the Doctor into a nice cuddle for warmth? She’ll have to gauge his caginess here in a bit, she thinks) and it’s far too large for her (probably Ruumfred’s, unless Viima is also a gentle giantess), but that’s far better than being far too small, Rose supposes. She shrugs out of her blanket, dropping it to the floor so she can go wash and change in the en suite.

“Oh, come on,” the Doctor protests, and he crosses the room, stooping to swipe the wet blanket off the floor. “At least drape it over something so it doesn’t start to—”

For just the briefest of moments, something stops the Doctor from speaking or standing, his gaze fixed on Rose’s shirt. Rose glances down to see that the white tuxedo shirt, still quite cold and wet, is clinging to her like a semi-transparent second skin, and leaving very little to the imagination. Particularly where her breasts are concerned. (Not to mention how very cold they are.)

“—erm, you know. Molder and such,” the Doctor rushes, the moment ending as soon as it began, and he darts off to the en suite with the blanket—and are his ears turning just the tiniest bit pink at the tips? Not that Rose would judge him, if they were; she’s fairly certain her cheeks are blushing to match.

“Are you totally sure you want to stay the night here?” she calls after him, more for something to break the awkward silence than anything else. “With the storm out of the way, it’ll be a lot easier to make it back to the TARDIS.”

“No, I want to get you out of those clothes.”

Amidst the sounds of the Doctor hanging their damp blankets, Rose can practically hear him kicking himself. “I mean, I want to get us both out of our clothes.”

Rose hides a smile.

The Doctor sighs, heavily. “I mean, I’d like to get us both dry and warm,” he says. “And still clothed. In dry things. Very much clothed.”

“Spoilsport,” Rose mutters under her breath.

“I heard that.”

“So we’re just supposed to wash off the mud, throw on some borrowed nightgowns, and go right back to sleep, then?” Rose asks quickly. “Leave everything to be sorted out in the morning?”

“That’s the long and short of it, yes,” says the Doctor, leaning in the doorway to the en suite. Without the blanket draped around him, Rose can see now that his clothes are clinging to him as well, though that mostly serves to highlight just how very skinny he is. “Although right back to sleep is relative and only applies to those of us who slept the entire day away.”

“Do you know, I think I detect just a soupçon of judgment, there.”

“As you should,” the Doctor teases. “Humans spend far too much time sleeping.”

“Says you.”

“Far too much time!” the Doctor continues as if he didn’t hear her. “Time that could be spent doing so many better things. Exciting, impressive, important things!”

“Excuse me, but I do plenty that’s exciting, impressive, and/or important,” Rose retorts. “Saved your arse in the storm back there, didn’t I?”

“Wellll, I don’t know if saved is the precise word I’d—”

“And I’ve gone to all sorts of planets and done all sorts of things in all sorts of different time periods.”

“Only because I take you there. And sometimes I have to drag you out of bed to do so!”

“Whatever,” Rose laughs. “I think my time in France proved I’m more than capable of doing things without you, thanks.”

A shadow flickers over the Doctor’s face at that. But it’s gone so quickly Rose almost could have imagined it.

(Almost.)

“All righty, then,” says the Doctor, his voice suddenly just the slightest bit too tight. “What was it you said? Time to wash up, dress down, and go right back to sleep? Capital idea. Absolutely top-notch,” he continues, stepping aside so the doorway is empty. “Why don’t you go first?”

“Sure, but,” Rose starts to ask, and hesitates. She’s wet and achy and tired and she doesn’t want to start another row; really she doesn’t. But it seems like something is wrong—like she said something, or maybe he heard something she didn’t say at all—and the discomfort of it is crawling around beneath her skin trying to escape, so…

“Is everything all right?” she asks.

The Doctor’s face is infuriatingly blank. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Just seems like things got a little weird all of a sudden, is all.”

“Did they?”

Rose frowns. “Are you angry with me?”

“No,” the Doctor replies. “Of course not. Don’t be absurd.”

“Right,” Rose breathes, anger flaring dully in her chest. Don’t be absurd. Don’t be stupid. Don’t read too much into anything, don’t think about anything too hard or you’ll give your silly little human brain a headache from the strain.

Fuck, she’s tired. In more ways than one.

“Fine,” says Rose, her voice quiet as she pushes past him into the en suite. “We don’t have to talk about it. But you could at least not lie to me.”

The Doctor flinches at that. “Rose—”

“Sorry,” she interrupts, scrubbing a weary hand over her eyes. “I know you don’t mean to. I know it’s just like, some kind of defensive thing, or whatever. But it’s just…it would be nice to have a conversation where I could ask you a question and get an actual answer. That’s all. Cos otherwise it’s like, you’re pulling me close with one hand, and pushing me away with the other. Which is a great way to break someone into pieces, from the strain.”

The Doctor doesn’t reply, not that Rose expected him to.

She sighs. “Look, just—forget I said anything, okay?” she says, her hand on the door, ready and waiting to close off the room and this stupid conversation. “I’ll stop asking you so many questions. We’ll go back to business as usual. Get things back to the status quo. Okay?”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, the Doctor silently nods, unable to meet her gaze. Typical, Rose thinks wearily, shutting the door between them. No cuddles for them tonight, it looks like.

“You did, by the way,” pipes up the Doctor’s voice on the other side.

Rose pulls the door open to see the Doctor scratching the back of his neck, staring uncomfortably at the floor. “Back there,” he clarifies. “Like you said earlier. You saved me.”

Her fingers tighten on the doorknob and Rose feels very silly for bringing that up. She didn’t mean anything by it. Because of course she would help him, when he needed it. Of course she would. And she knows he appreciates it. That isn’t the sort of thing she has any questions about. It’s all just a given.

“You’re welcome,” she says quietly, closing the door behind her.

 **

 Rose awakens at the sensation of someone shaking her gently by the shoulder.

Groggy, she sits up, blinking blearily. “Wha’s that?” she slurs, casting about the pitch-dark room to see who else might be in it. “Who’s there?”

“It’s just me,” says the Doctor’s voice from somewhere in the black.

Her eyes slowly adjusting to the dark, Rose can just barely make out the silhouette of the Doctor standing next to her bed. It takes her a second to figure out why the silhouette looks a little fuller than usual—he must be wearing one of those nightshifts as well. Only makes sense, given how wet all their clothes were. Still, it’s unusual to see the Doctor in anything besides his suit, even if Rose can only half-see him. But you’d think he’d know that night-things are meant for sleeping, which, coincidentally, is exactly what Rose wants to be doing right now.

Huffing in frustration, Rose flops back down into her pillows, grinding the heels of her palms into her eyes. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to talk to you.”

“What?” asks Rose exasperatedly. “At fuckall-o’-clock in the morning?”

“It’s just past four, comparatively.”

“Oh my god,” Rose groans. “Why on earth d’you want to talk now?”

Something hits the mattress near her hand and after a second of groping around half-blindly, she finds it, plucking it up; between the smooth curves beneath her fingers, and what little light glints off it in the darkness, she can tell it’s a small glass bottle, perhaps a half the size of a soda-bottle, stoppered at the top even though it’s empty.

“Because I just drank a bottle of Veriment,” the Doctor says, “and I need to talk to you before the effects wear off.”

It takes a moment for the words to make their way into Rose’s brain, but once they do, the sleepiness blinks away like the flipping of a light-switch. She is fully, startlingly lucid, now.

“You did what?” Rose demands.

“I drank a bottle of Veriment. The holy wine I was telling you about earlier.”

“What, like the waters-of-truth stuff?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, but that’s not literal, though. Right? It’s not, like, something that literally makes you tell the truth, is it?”

“Yes.”

“And you just drank a bunch of it?”

“Yes.”

Rose blinks up at him. “Why?”

She hears him fidgeting more than she sees it. “Because you deserve honesty,” the Doctor says quietly. “And I’m too much of a coward to give it to you otherwise.”

Rose gapes up at him, speechless. She can’t quite make out the look on the Doctor’s face right now; dimly, she wonders if he can see her mouth hanging open in this watery non-light, if he’s holding back on some rude remark that she’s goggling at him like some kind of fish. More presently, she wonders what on earth all of this information means, and what the hell she’s supposed to do with it.

“Ask me a question,” says the Doctor, as if he’s reading her mind—and he better not be, Rose thinks, even if he’s more or less offering the same in reverse. Rose watches the shadowy form of him as he sits on the stool next to her bed, hands knit together, elbows resting on his thighs, face just about level with hers. “Any question you like. Any answer I give, it’ll be true. Or it’ll be what I consider to be true, anyway. I won’t have a choice.”

“No,” Rose says, shaking her head. “No. I don’t like this. It feels wrong.”

“Why?”

“Cos,” she replies stubbornly, “it’s like you’re drugged or something.”

“Well, that’s because I am,” the Doctor tells her, and Rose can hear a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “But in a decidedly intentional and self-prescribed way.”

“It feels like I’m taking advantage of you.”

“You wouldn’t be taking advantage of me. You would, in a non-negatively-connotative sense of the phrase, be ‘taking advantage’ of my current state, and my offer as pertains to it.”

Lips pursed in discomfort, Rose draws her knees to her chest, hugging them protectively.

“It’s a win-win situation for you, Rose. Little-to-no risk for you. Only mild risk of discomfort or embarrassment to me.” The Doctor tilts his head, considering. “Well, perhaps more than a mild risk for me. But it’s one I’m willing to take.”

Rose hugs her knees harder, her heart thudding so loudly she’s surprised the Doctor can’t hear it. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she says, her voice small.

She watches the Doctor’s silhouette as he drags a hand through his hair. “And I’m tired of hurting you,” he replies, in a tone to match.

Rose’s mind races, considering the Doctor beside her, the options laid before her. She’s not half-tempted to remain silent, wait this thing out until the Veriment wears off, out of pure obstinacy as much as anything. After all, sketchy ethics aside, it isn’t as if the Doctor is the only one with something to lose, here; the questions she really wants to ask could be every bit as revealing as the answers he gives for them. It isn’t no-risk for her at all, despite what he said. The very nature of her questions could compromise her, totally giving her away.

But then…she already is compromised, isn’t she? She already gave herself away—gave herself to him sometime between There’s me and On your own? No taking back that sort of thing, not now. And Rose doesn’t think she wants to, even if she could.

Besides. He’s trying, isn’t he? He’s trying hard. This is a big step for him, initiating any kind of meaningful conversation, pharmaceutical assistance or not. So maybe, Rose thinks…maybe she should accept this for the gift that it is.

(Maybe she should recognize what, exactly, it means.)

“Okay,” she says, and she wills her voice not to shake as she uncurls her legs, turning to face him. “So, erm.”

Her legs dangle over the edge of the bed. The silence between them is thick. Heavy with suspense.

(What can she ask, that won’t hurt either of them?)

“How long have you been doing this?” Rose asks, surprising herself. “Traveling everywhere in time and space.”

“Approximately 665 years,” the Doctor replies. Rose thinks she can hear a smile creeping back into his voice. “Starting with a softball question, are we?”

“Just to warm up.”

“Well, that’s very considerate of you. Perhaps not the most prudent use of these circumstances, though; I would have told you that, anyway.”

“All right, then,” says Rose, summoning the last pieces of her courage. “What’s going through your mind right now?”

“Well. Let’s see. First and foremost, I’m thinking about this conversation, and my answer to this question, which is, this conversation. And now I’m trapped in a bit of a cycle thinking about thinking about those things, over and over and over, sort of like an infinity mirror, but significantly less interesting to look at. Now I’m thinking about infinity mirrors. Now I’m thinking about the exhibit of infinity mirrors featuring Yayoi Kusama’s work at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta, George. Now I’m thinking about Georgia peaches. Now I’m thinking about peach pie, specifically the kind with a little lattice on top. Love a good lattice on a pie. Now I’m reciting the first seven-hundred digits of the mathematical constant of pi, being 3.14159265—”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Rose laughs.

Then, quieting, she asks, “What were you thinking earlier? When I asked if you were angry with me.”

“I was thinking, No, Of course not, and Don’t be absurd.”

“Wow,” says Rose wryly. “This game is so insightful, can’t imagine why we haven’t played it before.”

“It’s not a game, Rose,” the Doctor insists. “It’s an approximation of an ancient religious ritual. I’m playing the part of a devoted supplicant, genuflecting in the presence of the divine, humbling myself and divesting myself of sin in pursuit of worthiness. Or at least, that’s how it’s supposed to go. It’s not my fault you’re asking rubbish questions.”

Rose glares at him, or his outline, anyway. “Why’d you get all weird earlier?”

“You implied that you don’t need me, and that hit me harder than I thought it would. And then I felt very silly. Next question.”

“Why’d you go running off after Reinette? Why, really?”

“Because she is, quite frankly, an incredible person, and I’ve always found myself drawn to the incredible, whether you’re talking about people, things, or events, and sometimes I’m very, very stupid about it,” the Doctor replies. “Next question.”

“Did you do it to put distance between us? Cos we were getting too close?”

“Not intentionally, no. But subconsciously? It’s entirely plausible. Next question.”

Plucking at the cuff of her nightshirt, playing for time, Rose bites her lip. “Why me?”

“What do you mean?”

Rose’s heart pounds in her throat so hard it hurts. “Why did you choose me? To travel with, I mean.”

“Like I said,” the Doctor replies. “I’ve always found myself drawn to the incredible.”

Her cheeks warming, Rose huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s not me, though. That’s not me at all.”

“Rose Tyler,” says the Doctor, his voice low in a way that makes her stomach flutter. “I can’t lie right now. Remember?”

Rose licks her lips nervously. “Okay. Then…”

She braces herself. “How do you feel about me?”

A pause. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Sometimes,” Rose admits. “But sometimes I need to hear it.”

(You’ve already heard it from me, she thinks, and wills him to understand.)

The Doctor hums in consideration. “Fair point.”

He falls quiet, then. Probably trying to parse out a response that’s technically honest, even if it doesn’t actually answer anything, Rose supposes. Oh well. Once again. Typical.

“Look, it’s all right, Doctor,” Rose says on a sigh. “We don’t have to keep doing this—”

“I don’t know if there are words sufficient to describe how I feel,” the Doctor blurts out. “But if actions speak louder than words—and I believe they do, truly—then the two of us might as well be shouting at each other from rivaling mountaintops. But I’ll try to put it into words. I’ll really try. For you. All right?”

He drinks in a deep breath. “The plain truth of the matter is, I trust you. I have faith in you. And I am truly humbled and grateful for the amount of faith and trust that you have invested in me, even if I know I haven’t earned it, not really. You, though—you look at me, and you see me and you know me, more than anyone has for a good long while, and quite frankly it’s distressing, sometimes, being known. It’s uncomfortable. So I try to regain some distance, or even just a fraction of my composure, which results in me doing some spectacularly stupid of selfish things in a half-baked effort to protect myself. And I—I punish you, sometimes, I think. Because you should know better, you should know better than to love me. You really should.”

“But—”

“But despite all that, you still haven’t given up on me. You stay and you make me feel so much better than I really am. I feel like you do that for just about anyone you come into contact with. But especially for me. You make me better. You make me want to be better. Even though I don’t deserve it.”

Rose opens her mouth to argue, but can’t think of anything to say that she hasn’t said already. You’re wrong, she wants to tell him. You’re wonderful, she tries to say. But he’s already moved on.

“Here’s where you want to tell me I’m being too hard on myself,” the Doctor continues. “And—and that sort of thing means a lot to me, that you think that way. You seem to have just this bountiful well of empathy and optimism and compassion, that simply astounds me with its apparent endlessness. It’s one of the things that I love about humans; it’s one of the many things I love about you.”

He swallows, hard. “You saved me, Rose,” he tells her, his voice raw. “Not just today. Not just from the Storm. Not just from Autons or Daleks or gas mask zombies or any other number of silly dangerous things. As saccharine and overwrought as it may sound, you saved me from myself. You do all the time, every day. Just by being with me. Just by being you. And to thank you for that, I endanger you on a regular basis, and I get angry when you endanger yourself to help others, and I allow myself to get distracted and I make foolish mistakes and I worry and I become furious with myself and I take it out on you, often without even thinking about it until everything’s said and done. But that’s no excuse. And I’m sorry for it. It’s dreadfully unfair of me. You deserve so much better.”

Rose blinks, surprised to find tears welling fatly in the corners of her eyes. “It’s all right, Doctor. You already apologized once. You don’t need to do it again. Not like I’ve been a saint, either.”

“I’m rather glad you haven’t,” the Doctor laughs softly. “That would just make it even harder to keep up with you.”

Something tender swells almost uncomfortably in Rose’s chest. “You’ve got to know I’m not really as good as all that,” she sniffs, thumbing away her tears only for more to replace them.

“You give me hope,” the Doctor tells her. “You, and other people like you—but especially you. You make me hopeful, you inspire me. You make it easy to keep going. You were right, the other day—it’s refreshing to see the universe through a new pair of eyes, to experience so many wonderful things all over again. But with you—I look at you and I’m with you and it’s like the same feeling I get when I step onto a new world for the very first time. And it’s quite easy to be selfish, and to want to keep you all to myself, and to wish that you would never leave, no matter what, even if it would be better for you in the long run, never ever.”

“I won’t.”

He chuckles, a mirthless sound. “There’s that optimism again.”

“It’s not optimism. It’s stubbornness, plain and simple,” Rose insists, fiercely brushing off more tears in the hopes that the Doctor won’t notice them. “I want to stay with you, so I will, and there’s nothing you or anything else in the universe can do about it.”

“It’s very tempting to believe you,” the Doctor murmurs.

“You should. Cos if I’m really as incredible as you say, and I love you as much as I do, then that should count for something. That should count for a lot. All right?”

“All right,” the Doctor replies breathlessly before pulling her in for a kiss.

It’s softer than the kisses they’ve shared before, slow and undemanding, and Rose melts into the Doctor immediately, instinct telling her to shutter her eyes even in the dark. The kiss is a thank you, Rose thinks, or a yes, please or maybe even a me, too; actions don’t always speak louder than words, after all, but they certainly can speak more sweetly.

His hands cupping her by the face, his thumbs drift upward over her cheeks, only for the Doctor to pull back when he brushes over the moisture drying there. But before he can withdraw too far or ask her what’s wrong or why she’s crying or if she’s all right Rose grabs him by the collar and brings his mouth crashing back into hers. Her lips part, tongue darting out for a taste, and the Doctor hums deep in his chest as he responds in kind, a hand sliding into her hair as his tongue glides over hers and now the kiss is something heated and wet, slick and full of promise.

Rose breaks the kiss with a gasp, hands fisting in the Doctor’s nightshirt, but he barely gives her a chance to catch her breath before he dives back in, urging her mouth open with his and god, it’s a good thing Rose is already sitting because the sheer fucking need in his kiss would be enough to turn her legs to jelly otherwise. The Doctor slides off the stool, knees hitting the floor as he pulls Rose into him, scooting her bum to the edge of the bed and guiding her legs beneath his arm, around his waist. It’s a little awkward now, kissing like that, as she has to bend over and he has to crane his neck up to reach her, but then one of his hands is skating up the inside of her thigh and he’s going to realize very soon that she hasn’t got anything on under her shift and suddenly Rose has room in her mind for very little else.

“Erm, Doctor,” she says anyway, because he’s still drugged, isn’t he? “You’re going to get my hopes up, touching me like this.”

“Good,” he says, kissing her again on the mouth, moving to her cheek, her jaw, her throat as his fingers slip beneath the hem of her shift, between her legs.

Rose laughs shakily, her toes curling when he grazes her throat with her teeth and her slit with his thumb. “We shouldn’t do anything you’ll regret later.”

“Rose,” he says, and the way his voice brands her name into her skin makes her shudder. “Ask me what I want.”

“What—what do you want?”

“I want to offer worship and beg forgiveness,” he tells her, “by fucking you senseless.”

Rose can’t think of anything to say to that, but she’s fairly certain her whimper and the flood of moisture between her legs says it all for her. It’s almost embarrassing, how wet she already is for him.

“Do you want me to stop?” the Doctor asks.

“No,” she says, arching into his touch. “God, no.”

“Good,” he says again, and presses a bruising kiss to her lips as he pushes a finger inside her. Rose cries out against his mouth and clutches at his shoulders while he pumps in and out, yanking down the neckline of her shift so he can palm one of the breasts sharply begging for his attention. When Rose sneaks a hand between them, to stroke him like he’s torturing her, the Doctor wrenches her hand away.

“No,” he growls. “Not until I’m finished here.”

Before Rose has a chance to protest, he’s let go of her hand and dipped his head to plant a kiss along her collarbone and the swell of her breast before closing his mouth around her nipple, teasing it with his lips and his tongue and his teeth until it’s almost painfully swollen, sending tendrils of liquid golden heat straight between Rose’s legs. His tongue swirls round and round and pleasure pulses inside her and Rose has to bite her tongue to hold back a moan, her hips pumping as he thrusts another finger inside.

With one of the Doctor’s hands between her legs, the other on her breast, his mouth closed and flicking around her nipple, Rose doesn’t know how long she’ll last; it’s only been moments and already she can feel the telltale tension coiling low in her belly, winding tighter and tighter and tighter. It only gets worse when the Doctor twists his wrist just so, so his palm rubs her clit as he fucks her with his fingers. The friction and the heat and the wet both above and below are all so glorious, so utterly fucking perfect for what she needs, that Rose can only cling to the Doctor, rutting against his hand in desperate search of relief. He adds a third finger and Rose gasps at the delicious stretch of it, panting with the effort of holding herself up while her hips pump and thrust and clench slickly around his digits, sucking them in, just a little more, just a little bit closer, just a little bit—

“I am going to make you come just like this,” breathes the Doctor, kissing a line along her throat, up to her ear, “Rose Tyler.”

“Fuck,” she cries out and the coil deep inside snaps, shattering her along with it. She pants as pleasure floods her in waves, her muscles fluttering and contracting tightly around the Doctor’s fingers. He draws out her climax mercilessly, coaxing it to the final high-strung note until Rose’s hips stutter and stop, her chest heaving with exertion, every nerve alight and singing from head to toe.

“Oh, god,” Rose says, weakly, and the Doctor chuckles as he withdraws his hand.

“No god here,” he tells her, and Rose can just make out that he’s winking. “Just me.”

Groaning, Rose rolls her eyes, smacking him halfheartedly on the shoulder. “Doesn’t your ego ever take a rest?”

“Is there any reason it should?”

“Git,” Rose laughs, and pulls him up for another kiss. He hums into her mouth, pleased; the sound devolves into something of a groan as Rose’s hand ventures south to palm him through his nightshirt, tracing the warm stiffness of him through soft linen. The Doctor doesn’t break the kiss, but his fingers do close gently around her wrist, pulling her away.

“You don’t want me to?” Rose asks, surprised.

“I certainly wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” the Doctor laughs, his fingers twining with hers. His hand is still damp from her and Rose blushes in the dark, arousal flaring back to life deep in her belly. “But you may recall that I explicitly said, Not until I’m finished here. And I am certainly not finished with you yet.”

Rose laughs even as want flares between her legs. “Don’t I get any say in this?”

“Nope!” the Doctor says cheerfully. “It’s my sacrifice, my offering, and that makes it dealer’s choice. So outside any issues of consent you’d like to discuss, I’m afraid you’re just going to have to lie back and—”

“Think of England?” Rose teases.

“If you like,” the Doctor replies as he urges her down onto the mattress, “but I was hoping for something a little filthier, myself.”

Rose pants, legs tensing as he plants an openmouthed kiss on the inside of her thigh, giving a good suck after. “I think I can manage that,” she says, humming when he soothes the bruise with his tongue.

“Mmm, I’d hoped you would.”

She’s just buried her hands in the Doctor’s hair and arched her hips needfully upward when the sharp sound of insistent knocking slices through the air, startling them both. Rose sits up and the Doctor pulls back, exchanging glances with her; she can’t quite see the details of his face, still, as dark as it is, but she can only imagine he’s wearing an expression that matches her own. The Doctor pushes off the floor and darts over to the window, peering out into the dark night world below. Whatever he sees down there causes him to turn on his heel, sprinting straight past Rose into the en suite. He pops out just long enough to toss a pile of something soft and slightly damp her way.

Her clothes, Rose realizes.

“Get dressed. We’ve got to move,” the Doctor hisses.

“Why? What’s down there?”

“It’s the Temple guard,” the Doctor whispers back, pulling on his trousers. “They’ve found us.”

 ***

Final Chapter (forthcoming)

[stillness-in-green]

Changeling: The League (3/3)

Bonus Miscellanea!  A sampler round of various other villains and some AU-of-the-AU versions of the story and characters, including some alternate takes on characters using other game lines from the World of Darkness.  

This post is the last one I have in mind for the concept, but I hope everyone who was curious enough to read them enjoyed them.  There’s some fun stuff in this post in particular, I think--the Word of Darkness really is a very versatile setting.  Find the explanations and the League of Villains here, the follow-up with the Meta Liberation Army here, or just hit the jump for the bonus material.

THE MINIONS

All for One’s direct loyalists and followers.  All are dual-kithed or otherwise eyebrow-raising in kith/seeming combination, and all have a high enough Wyrd that their kith abilities are starting to evolve--serving AFO does have its benefits.  With AFO imprisoned back in Faerie and the cycle stalled out, AFO’s followers are finding themselves facing an unclear future, and so each is having to come up with what they want to do going forward.  Mostly want Tomura to come back and get things moving again, having little sense that there is a world out there that’s more “real” than the one they currently inhabit.

Kurogiri

Type: Palewraith Darkling, Chatelaine dual kith.  Once a caretaker for Tomura, he opts to find Tomura out in the real world in hopes of resuming that directive.  When Tomura does not show even a shred of recognition, Kurogiri opts to set up a bar in the local Hedge, making himself “available.”  

Mantle: Winter, season of secrecy.  Has a servant’s circumspectness with a loyalist’s desire to keep his secrets, as well as a deep, very old melancholy that even he doesn’t really remember the reason for anymore.  

Contracts: Fleeting Winter I, Sorrow-Frozen Winter I-III, Dream I-V, and Smoke I-IV.  For Smoke, he has the old 4-dot Smoke-stepping clause rather than the more modern Murkblur, which is something of a tell regarding his true age.

 Ujiko

Type: Chirurgeon Darkling, which shouldn’t actually be possible by the categorizations as the fae understand them.  He’s been in AFO’s hands for a long time, though.  Current fear: what’s going to happen to the realm if the cycle continues to stall?  Gears can only grind against one another for so long before something explodes!

Mantle: Autumn.  A mad scientist with a deep appreciation for breaking things open to find out how they tick.

Contracts: Artifice I-III, Shade & Spirit I-IV, Spellbound Autumn I-III, and Goblin Delayed Harm III.

 Gigantomachia

Type: Stonebones Elemental, Gargantuan dual kith.  AFO’s most loyal monster.  Would have tried to find Shigaraki sooner, but he’s far too removed from the human he once was to be able to find his way through the Hedge without aid.  Probably spends the first few parts of the story giving All Might trouble in Faerie.  

Mantle: Courtless.  Has no emotional affinities that don’t track back to All for One.  

Contracts: Oath & Punishment I-V, Communion (Earth) I-III, and Stone I-V.  Like Geten, a close replica of his canonical powerset.

OTHER VILLAINS 

Muscular: Bloodbrute Ogre.  Ex-gladiator; current terror.

Moonfish: Gristlegrinder Ogre.  Current cannibal; also current terror.

Mustard: Blightbent Elemental.  Looks cuter because he doesn’t have to wear the gas-mask to protect against his own fumes.

Stain: Razorhand Darkling, give or take a Pischacha dual kith.  Broken very deeply by Arcadia from the strict and upright man he once was, but Lost society was pretty much created to provide a safe haven for that kind of damage.  A Summer Court enforcer of some notoriety.  

Gentle Criminal: Windwing Beast.  Refuses to be ground-bound, and is posting videos of himself doing impossible stunts that are drawing some attention, for better or for worse.   

La Brava: Drudge Wizened.  Falls in love with Gentle for showing her that you don’t have to shrink into what other people tried to make of you.  Has absolutely dyed her hair bright pink.  Somehow amazing at stealth anyway.

Gag Inclusion That Makes No Sense With the Lore But Is Perfect Anyway So I’m Not Changing It: 

Overhaul: “Don’t be ridiculous.  There’s no such thing as magic.”  

A banality-riddled Dauntain, from the previous incarnation of the game.  This is how Magne survives--he doesn’t kill her, but rather nukes her glamour reserves/Wyrd score access so badly she has to spend the next three months in the motley’s Hollow living in as much fae decadence as they can afford her, dining on hedgefruit, pampering herself, and keeping up with her various dream pledges while she recovers.

ALTERNATE UNIVERSES, ALTERNATE TAKES  

Hero Court, Villain Court: There is a version of the story where Heroes and Villains are old labels from a time when the freehold was built around a now-collapsed Sun Court/Moon Court dichotomy, headed up by All Might and All for One.  In the days following the catastrophic last battle, changelings of the Hero Court and the Villain Court alike have begun picking up the pieces and realigned to what everyone hopes will be a more stable Seasonal Court model.  Endeavor is the Summer King, a changeling who somehow had four three children when it’s all but unheard of to have even one.

Final Boss Shigaraki: There is a version of the story that centers on Deku, and in that version, what Shigaraki learns is this: everyone and everything has an end waiting for them somewhere.  As the game story progresses through power creep and mounting stakes, dramatic revelations and shifting priorities, Shigaraki moves away from Autumn and becomes more attuned to the fatalistic but liberating philosophy of Dusk.  As such, he gains the Entropy Contract clauses, I-V.  In this fashion, Shigaraki is paralleled by Final Battle Deku, rising champion of the Dawn, who is likewise gaining mastery of the Contract of Shonen Protag Powers Potential.  Will they be enemies in the end?  Allies?  Either way, their fates are connected.

Changeling All for One: There is a version of the story in which All Might and All for One are both changelings, in which the entirety of My Hero Academia is a story being played out in some far realm of Faerie.  All for One here is not Shigaraki’s Keeper, but merely a mentor who, when expy!Kamino happens, takes the opportunity to get Shigaraki out, knowing that he himself has been gone from the world for far too long to ever make the return trip through the Thorns intact.  In this version, All Might is an unknowing Loyalist who follows Shigaraki out, determined to capture him “for the good of society”--which would, of course, entail dragging him back to Faerie.

Destro the Revolutionary: There is a version of the story in which Desto is not one of the Gentry, but rather a changeling from years past, one who was spearheading a huge movement advocating that the Lost should reveal themselves to human society writ large--that Faerie predation could never be stopped as long as humanity didn’t know about it, and changelings had the power to, well, change that.   And weren't they tired of living in hiding; didn't they wish they could tell their loved ones the truth?  And that was a message that a lot of changelings liked, but it was also a message that terrified changelings in equal measure, and so in the end, an operative/operation from the Seasonal Court freehold put Destro down.  

In that take, Re-Destro is a successor to Destro as someone who came out of a similar durance and the MLA is a group planning a retributive war against the Seasonal Courts for their perfidy.  Shigaraki and the League could either stumble across the plot or be actively approached as a potentially sympathetic party after Shigaraki's relationship to AFO comes out and endangers his position in his own freehold.  

Re-Destro the Prince: There is a version of the story in which Re-Destro is not a changeling at all, but rather a vampiric prince, heir to a forbidden blood discipline.  He and his followers catch wind of the League motley: not vampires, but not normal humans, either.  They seek the motley out to find out what their deal is and whether it will be a complication to the MLA’s plans.  Vampires are far more immediately dangerous than changelings, but changelings have so many wonderful little tricks up their sleeve, especially against people who are careless with their battle banter.  (But I’ll be real, I hardly know a thing about Vampire: The Requiem--I’m much more familiar with Masquerade.  This version of the story mostly exists because I’m a Shigaraki/Re-Destro shipper and I am not immune to adventures in sexy blooddrinking.) 

THE WIDE WORLD OF DARKNESS

There are many other spins one could put on various MHA characters that would be fun to explore.  I kept all the relevant characters fae (or Fae) because if I started thinking about all the things the characters could be, I would actually never stop--and anyway, I’m more familiar with Old World of Darkness meta than I am New World of Darkness.  A lot of the ideas were still fun, though, so for your perusal, here are some of the ones I came up with:

The Shie Hassaikai is an extremist Hunter cell dedicated to weeding out supernatural creatures of all sorts.

Ujiko is a wildly amoral retired Hunter running a mad scientist lab funded by dubiously sourced money from his fae patron, as long as he’s spending a requisite amount of time per month working on AFO’s projects.

There exists a Sin-Eater and his resident Geist who have become so tangled in each other that they no longer retain separate identities, and are now merely “Kurogiri.”  

Kurogiri is a changeling.  Yamada Hizashi is a Sin Eater.  Aizawa Shouta is a Hunter, and he and Hizashi both are trying to dig up information on what happened to Shirakumo Oboro, but neither one of them is anywhere near getting at the truth of the matter.  (This one might actually be true for the purposes of the main Changeling!AU story.)

Midoriya Izuru is a mortal taking his first, faltering steps into the great wide world.  He’s had no durance, no first change, no sire, no awakening--he’s just a young man who stumbles across a secret and has to decide what to do with it.

[wilsonsnest]

semi-cataclysmic events | sambucky

Oof, had to get this one out of my system. Not beta’d, will post on ao3 later when I have time.

Summary: It took time travel for Steve to figure his shit out, so Bucky doesn’t think he’s doing too bad.

“So, you and Sam…?”

Bucky looks over at Steve and squints suspiciously. He looks infuriatingly serene, a small secretive smile on his lips. Ever since he came back, he’s taken the grandpa schtick and run with it. Even now, their taking a leisurely paced walk around the Mall while Sam is lapping them at a steady pace. Bucky’s fairly certain Steve could still run with the best of him, but pretending to hobble around really seems to amuse him more than it should. ‘Keeping up appearances’ he had cheerfully informed Bucky one morning.

Bucky doesn’t have much of an excuse, other than that they’ve actually got a break from missions and actually getting out of bed before 8am is enough of a sacrifice. Sam, as hardworking as ever, has a routine to keep up with and refuses to bend no matter how much Bucky begs. Its infuriatingly noble and warms Bucky’s heart.

“Me and Sam.” Bucky mumbles, kicking one foot so that his shoe makes a a scraping noise against the cement. Run or Talk. Two options, neither very appealing.

“Have you told him?” Steve asks, knowing full well what the answer is. “He’s waiting for you, you know.”

Does Bucky know? Not really. He watches Sam, who is steadily gaining on them for another lap. The sun is coming up behind him, and Bucky almost wants to take his cellphone out and snap a picture. Luckily Bucky isn’t that much of a weirdo.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Bucky sighs and slides his eyes over to look at his friend. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Steve’s eyebrows are raised, the wrinkles on his forehead pronounced. Its annoying that he can still pull off innocent when he looks like someone’s grandfather (He is actually a grandpa, something he’s quite proud of).

“Take some advice from an old man.” Steve ignores him when he scoffs. “Don’t wait too long, you’ll regret it.”

Bucky looks over at him, tight-lipped. He’s never asked, but he wonders if Steve regrets how it all happened. Sure he got his happy ending, but it still cost him. Friends, family and so much more. Bucky knows it wasn’t all sunflowers and roses for Steve, but it still stings.

“Nah,” He answered, looking at the reflecting pool. “Figured I’d wait until the next cataclysmic galaxy threatening event to go back in time and tell him how I feel.”

It’s biting, and meaner then Bucky meant it to be. He can’t look at Steve, his old man face will make him feel even more like an asshole. Steve puts a hand on his shoulder, heavy and comforting in a way he doesn’t deserve. Especially when he knows Steve is just trying to help.

“Sorry.” He says quietly. Sam passes them with a wave, he’s panting hard, and theres a laser focus in his eyes. Sam has about two more laps in him before he calls it a day. Then they’ll all go out for breakfast, pick up some balsamic vinegar because Sam wants a fresh salad for lunch and then head home for movies and cards. “It’s fine, Steve. Everything is fine.”

xxxxx

Everything is very not fine at the moment.

Bucky curses and ducks down next to some undergrowth. Bullets are flying and smoke is filling the air so densely that he can’t see his targets. It’s impossible to get a lock on where Sam is visually, and the other man isn’t answering his comm. Whatever element of surprise they might have had is completely blown.

This was supposed to be an easy job, but now Bucky’s worried about just getting out of it alive. He presses the button on his earpiece. “Get me a location on Wilson, now.” His voice is much calmer than he feels in the moment.

The Shield agent on the other side says that they’ve lost all contact and they're sending in someone to pick them up. It’s too late for that though, theres no enough time for Bucky to wait for them.

The shooting has died down, the enemy probably thinks that Bucky has either run or been taken down by now. Cursing he crawls from the bushes and begins to pick his way stealthily towards the base. He hates going in with a plan, but he hates the idea of Sam being dead more.

The bunker is built low in a valley, and the smoke has started clearing already. Theres a distinct lack of gun shots or even shouting coming from the area and the smoke seems to be coming from the building itself. Bucky frowns, his weapon raised as he stalks into the clearing. He sees bodies, near the entrance, obviously fleeing, but they aren’t moving either dead or knocked out already.

He hears groaning, coming from the tree-line, and he looks over. It’s Sam, his uniform is torn and his wing pack is nowhere to be seen but he’s alive. Bucky doesn’t hesitate before running to him, his heart nearly caught in his throat.

Sam is leaning against a tree, the shoulders of his costume and ripped and charred. He’s wrapping his own leg with shaky hands, and Bucky can’t quite tell where the blood is coming from, only that theres a lot of it.

“God, Sam.” He tosses his weapon aside and immediately crouches and moves into Sam’s space, waving away his hands so he can assess the damage. “Stupid. You’re so fucking stupid.”

“Fuck off, Barnes.” Sam says completely without heat. He’s smiling weakly though. It’s a testament to how shit he must feel that he doesn’t stop Bucky from bandaging him up. “Just jealous ‘cuz I got here first.”

His words are starting to slur, and his eyes are glassy and wet. Bucky grunts, and ducks his head, pressing his earpiece again. “Located Wilson, we need evac immediately.” He gives their coordinates and then begins checking Sam over for other injuries.

“Getting handsy there, buddy.” Sam sounds amused, but his words are starting to slur together and his eyes are drooping. Bucky presses his gloves hands to Sam’s face and shakes him just a little.

“Hey, stay awake for me, yeah?” Bucky’s voice does not crack as he watches the awareness in Sam’s eyes start fading. He catches him before Sam tilts over and curses under his breath. “No, no, come on. Don’t do this to me, Wilson. Don’t.”

He holds him tight, whispering into the side of his head until he hears the sound of a chopper overhead.

xxxxx

“Really, Barnes?”

Bucky nearly jumps out of his skin, not realizing he had almost fallen asleep in the uncomfortable hospital armchair. He blinks hazily, the lights way too bright and everything far too reflective.

“Over here, sleepyhead.”

Sam’s tired, but cheeky voice draws Bucky’s gaze. He looks over and feels like he could collapse right onto the floor. It’s been two days, Sam completely out for all of it and Bucky refused to move from his side. The Doctors insisted his injuries weren’t extreme, but Bucky was fairly certain that someone being unconscious for days was exceptionally extreme.

He reaches over and touches Sam’s hand lightly, carefully of the IVs he’s currently hooked up on. His face is ashen, and theres a bruise on the right side of his temple, but otherwise he looks okay. Bucky’s just so glad he’s finally awake.

“I know,” Bucky takes a deep, shaky breath. “That you are Captain America now, but you really, really don’t have to copy every stupid thing that Steve ever did.”

Sam snorts, and then winces a little. He looks at Bucky, his lips pursed. “Says the man who takes flirting advice from him. Trouble Man, really?”

Bucky can feel heat rising in his face, he had forgotten he had put the music on playing quietly in the background. It was one of the first things Steve had introduced to him to when he was getting back on his feet. He hadn’t explained the significance of the music at all, only that it helped him relax and stop thinking so hard.

He vaguely wonders if Steve ever figured out what Sam had been hinting at. Steve was always bad at picking up romantic cues like that. Luckily, that seemed to be one thing Sam and Steve didn’t have in common.

“Is it working?” Bucky can’t stop the blush, and once the words are out theres nothing he can do about it. This is happening, its actually happening.

“The music? No. That’s mea and Steve’s thing.” Sam says. But he smiles gently, tilting his head back so that he can look at Bucky fully. “But everything else? Me and you? Definitely working.”

The tension flees from Bucky’s body and he smiles, big and dopey and he’s so relieved he couldn’t care less. He notices Sam looking at him imploringly, one eyebrow raised in an okay, what are you waiting for? kind of way.

He doesn’t need more than that before he leans over the hospital bed and presses a sweet kiss to Sam’s lips. Steve would be proud. He finally did it. Only a semi-cataclysmic event needed.

[wander-yet-wonder]

‘Portrait of a Young Man’

Historical Transtalia fic Characters: Aph England, Aph America

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18884995

Pairings: None Rating: All Audiences Warnings: Historical transphobia Summary:  The portrait of the nation gets taken to adorn the halls of the royal palace. The way one is portrayed however begs questions of identity and self image to become pressed to the surface for all to scrutinize. Minerva, can't stomach her portrait and would rather be portrayed as 'Arthur'. What is the empire built on? What should it be represented as? Setting: 1780's post americam revolution but during the colonial era.

The Grecian helmet sat heavy on Minerva's head and she shivered. The almost see-through peplos she'd been put in didn't provide her any shelter from the wind that seemed to have little to no regard for the walls of the royal academy, better equipped at evoking the classical past than at keeping out the cold. She was almost grateful for the dead lion draped at her feet meant to be a live one in the portrait that was currently being taken of her because if she shuffled her feet underneath it at least she could feel a bit warmer.

After what seemed like an eternity she was allowed to move. And immediately wrapped a shawl around her shoulders to inspect the work done. It was even worse than she feared. Doe eyed she stared over the sea and the deplorable wretch had drawn her with the peplos slipping of her shoulders to expose her breasts. Tell-tale storm clouds passed over her face. The painter winced because she was known to be tempestuous. "What is that." She pointed to the exposed bosom. It didn't sound like a question. "I emphasized you as a nurturing mother, kind and gentle to all her colonies." "This is wrong." "Pardon?" "This is wrong! This!? This is not your country!" She's shouting in a most unbecoming way.

The poor painter protests: "but I worked for hours- this is some of my best-" "I don't care if you're sir Joshua Reynolds himself! We're having a do-over. AND YOU DO AS I COMMAND!" He nods afraid his painting might end up smashed over his head if he pressed on. "Everyone get out I need to think" The man gathers his canvas and painting and scurries out, gesturing at his assistents and fellow societymen to follow, leaving his nation breathing loudly through flared nostrils with balled fists alone in the room.

The next day a small company is gathered at Kenwood house in Hampstead where Britain is currently resident. There’s excited murmuring in the crowd, gossip spreads fast and the spat over the painting is being readily discussed. No one really knows what is to be expected now. When the nation joins their guests in the drawing room however scandalized gasps are elicited from the crowd. They all had expected something but none of them had expected this. “Please, company, join me in the garden where I’ll have my portrait taken.” The murmurs are being uttered unceasingly and everyone is too stupefied to be truly angry or disobey the firm orders Britain administers. In the garden their favourite horse is prepared for them and Britain mounts it and steadies the animal with a loving touch. Finally, the nation turns towards the still murmuring crowd. A stern but calm smile plays on their lips as they speak: “You act like this is an unfamiliar sight. Surely you’ve seen a man in uniform before.” The sumptuous red uniform is of the highest rank and adorned with the silver star, Britain’s long hair is all but hidden under a tricorn hat and here on their horse they command respect and obedience. “This is how the empire was built, so this is how it should be portrayed.” No one in the crowd reacts. “I said that this is how it should be portrayed!” Hurried the painter realizes that this is his cue and sets up the easel. Everyone watches breathless at the portrait being taken and let their tea grow cold and their sandwiched remain untouched.

Everyone has left and the house had gone quiet. Arthur admires his portrait. He hasn’t changed out of his uniform and is alone in the room with the painting as the paint is drying still. He sits still and just stares. The uniform hides his already small chest perfectly. The hat hides his hair and there’s nothing that would insinuate he was not a man. He is not a mother.

“Are you my mother then? If you’re my mother why’re you not a sweet mum! Ollie down the street has a mum who kisses him and always gives him candy almonds.” Arthur sighs softly. That does tug at his heartstrings. Poor child. He takes little Alfred onto his knee. “Listen America, you’re a foundling. A child with only me for a parent. So, I asked myself- what does a child need to grow into a successful man? How do children who only have one parent prosper? Those who only have a doting mother never amount to anything. A man needs a father. A father who’s firm but who’ll guide you onto the right path, makes you work, makes something out of you. So, I wanted you to grow into a successful man, so that’s what I’ll have to be for you.” Alfred seems pensive but unhappy with the answer. “But you’re a woman, aren’t you?” Arthur pauses and grows rigid. “I suppose.” The child folds his arms. “I hate this. I wish I had a mom who gave me candy and kisses my cheeks but instead I have you who makes me learn French verbs.” Arthur feels hurt. Of course, he can’t be a father that Alfred would love. He’s not a mother, but not a father either. He slightly slaps Alfred’s wrist “I should’ve known that this is just about you not wanting to do your exercises!”

Arthur looks at his portrait and smiles. America never fully understood. He’d fought him in uniform. Chastising, but he could never make him behave. He was never father enough for Alfred. Alfred seemed to always have kept on wishing he would be his mother instead. The revolution had been a blow to his confidence, but when he looks at the portrait, he no longer feels that. He feels strong. A man, a ruler, an empire. Someone who commands respect. He still has the other territories overseas, he’s bigger than he’s ever been! On this man the sun never sets. For once he sees himself. Alfred should see this portrait, he'd understand if he'd see this. He wouldn't come back but he'd understand.

The next few days he goes around his house still dressed as a gentleman. He writes his letters with newfound vigour and finds that he’s for once actually listened to. The portrait is picked up, after all it was meant to adorn the palace and will there soon be unveiled. The night of the banquet where he’ll meet with king George IV and the portrait will be donated to the royal collection approaches. Arthur is met with the royal chamberlain who seems put of the moment he enters the house. After the first formalities regarding the banquet are exchanged it becomes apparent why. “Lady Britain, while I have no doubts about your sense of decorum I must still enquire. You don’t intend to keep up this masquerade at the banquet? It would be most improper to appear before the king with your legs for all to see.” Arthur doesn’t fight back too much. He’s very much aware of decorum and complies. “I’ll wear a smart skirt.” It doesn’t matter, the portrait will speak for him.

The banquet is one like Arthur has had many before. He wears something black and modest, not to look like he’s in too frivolous a lady’s skirt. Still he’s anticipating seeing his portrait, the way he truly is, being unveiled and adorning the palace halls. His heart is beating when people flood into the hall for the grand moment. The moment he sees the veiled canvas Arthur’s heart stops. Those are not the dimensions of his painting. Did they cut it to make it fit the hall better? He hopes in vain because a fear is wrapping its clammy hands around his heart. He stands motionless and the words of the speech are just a vague buzzing in his ears. When the curtain drops, he feels like a musket has been driven through his stomach. The doe eyed abomination, with the exposed breasts, meekly holding onto a shield and spear as though caressing them rather than fighting with them. The most alive thing in the painting seems to be the lion that was very much dead when being painted. The nobles exclaim perfectly appropriate adoring cries. Arthur says nothing, he’s afraid that if he opens his mouth, he’ll lose the roast lamb they are earlier. “Oh! Lady Minerva, you look absolutely lovely. Such a striking portrait.” He remembers decorum with a start and replies with polite gratitude. “Why see! I told my friend Lord Salisbury that underneath that sour demeanour you have the potential to be lovely. Truly Minerva, why don’t you grace us with that smile more often?” Arthur feels himself slip away, like his identity is being pried from his hands. When he smiles back, he’s no longer Arthur. Lady Minerva blushes and shows she has the potential to be lovely. She makes perfect company until the very end of the night.

When all the officials and nobles have left, she finds the steward, fuming absolutely fuming. She clutches his lapels and slams him against the wall. “Where is my portrait!?” She demands to know. “The thing you sent in? It was an affront. Be happy the painter was kind enough to provide us with this one as well so scandal could be avoided.” “Where is it!?” The steward gives her a look and she knows there and then that she’ll never see it again. With shaking hands, she lets him go and steps back. The steward seems a little surprised, he was convinced he’d be at the mercy of one of the Nation’s infamous outbursts. He hadn’t been expected to be let go without her digging her nails into his flesh like she’d done before. Yet here she stands silent and defeated. A demure and weary woman when she turns and leaves in silence. Minerva is silent all the way home. She’s been robbed of something so infinitely important. Not just the portrait. Being Arthur feels far away. Like he’s no longer hers to be. She lays onto her pillow and weeps.

Notes:

This piece was written out of a desire to write a transtalia fic that's not so damn anachronistic. I didn't want to paste the modern trans experience onto a historical period because often one can't do that. Associations with gender and different gender identities and categories have differed profusely trough the era. Writing the personification of a nation that's over 1000 years old as trans is really difficult. Their relationship with gender will have changed multiple times throughout their life as societies attitudes changed. Their age will also have influenced the posibilities for expressing gender identity and expression in general was far more limited. (without them placing themselves outside or on the margins of society by doing so). Arthur is a man, and has always felt more masculine. He can't live that life though and must live as Minerva.

if this had been a human in the 18th century it's more likely that he would've rebelled harder (especially given Arthur's hot headed and volatile personality!) and moved out to a little town house to live as a man. Arthur however, being the personification of England finds himself in the situation that his life is not his own. His position is highly symbolic and limits what he can do. It is in a way similar to kingship and the king being more than an individual human but also being this immortal and symbolic category. Unfortunately it'll take a while before Arthur is free enough to be himself.

This wasn't the fic I thought I'd be writing next but it basically wrote itself. I hope others felt the same need for it's existence.

[your-iron-lung]

No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross 10

aka ‘The House That Dripped Blood’; available to read on AO3 HERE

Story Synopsis:  Some weird low-key occult parties start popping up that Steve can’t in good conscience ignore and takes it upon himself to investigate. Billy gets caught up in the consequences of his meddling, and isn’t it funny? For all the strange things the Upside Down has thrown his way, it’s werewolves that Steve has trouble accepting exist.

Chapter Word Count: 7927

Pairings: Eventual Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington

Genre: Supernatural/Drama/Horror-ish

Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

Next Chapter: 11

Notes: if you follow me you may have noticed i havent posted in a while- this is bc i spend all my time playing ffxiv instead of setting aside determined amounts of time to spend on writing/drawing and i have a bunch of artist alleys coming up that im ill prepared for and im terrible at budgeting UH YEP bad excuse but WHAT CAN YA DO here we are

(ive also set up a ko-fi account if you want to give drop me some tippy tips if u enjoy the word things i do) ((no pressure tho))

"Bigfoot."

Hopper leaned back in his chair; let it creak and groan under his weight until he knew it was at its limit, and then pushed it a little more. He studied the no-nonsense expression on the hunter before him, and intrinsically knew that the man was speaking truth.

"Bigfoot," the old man said again, speaking a little sterner than he had before once he recognized Hopper's amiable expression of disbelief. "I seen't him out in the woods just the other day."

The aging man had lumbered into the police station almost immediately after Hopper came in, bundled in some worn hunting gear that looked almost as old as he was. The deputies had offered to speak with him after hearing his initial claim, but they'd been refused when Callahan couldn't stop smirking. The old hunter had insisted on speaking with Hopper, who leaned forward now, taking the stress off of his chair to take a sip of the coffee Florence had brought in for him. He didn't look at the old man as he drank.

"So let me get this straight," Hopper began, setting his coffee aside to rub at his forehead, "you came in first thing in the morning worried about a missing friend of yours, but now you're telling me you're worried about Bigfoot."

"You know me, Jim," the hunter said, a slight hint of pleading desperation edging out of his voice. "You know I ain't some crazy old coot. I ain't seen Lamm in a long while, and yessir I'm worried 'bout him, but when I went out to his cabin to check on him I seen it: I seen Bigfoot!"

As incredulous as the claim was, Hopper believed him- not about it being Bigfoot, exactly, but he believed that the man had seen something out there in the woods, and it had the possibility of being that something he'd spent the last two weeks fruitlessly searching for.

Regardless, he didn't want to let the old hunter know he was taking him seriously. The last thing he needed was for his community to think he believed in this sort of nonsense, but people in town were going missing, and people he knew were getting hurt: if his only lead should turn up in the form of an old man believing he'd caught sight of an urban legend, then so be it. He'd follow it through, but he'd be subtle about it.

"You sure it wasn't just a trick of the light or something, Wes? You know your eyes aren't what they used to be," Hopper remarked casually, softening his voice to let him down easy. "And this isn't the first time Lamm's gone missing; you know he's one of those types of shut ins. Remember those weeks he was gone hunting 'vampires'? He's the kind of guy who lives in his own head more than he lives out here, he'll turn up again on his own time."

The hunter's lips twitched into a frown. "Alright, maybe Lamm is a little off kilter," he relented, averting his eyes for a second, "and maybe it weren't Bigfoot, but the tracks it left were huge 'n mighty, by God, and I ain't seen nothin' else like it before. If it weren't Bigfoot, then at the very least it had big feet, Jim, and I ain't never seen feet quite like 'em."

Interest piqued, Hopper became more attentive. "How's that?"

"Well, they was stretched out lookin', for one." The hunter paused, tilting his head slightly as he tried to recall the details of what he'd seen out in the woods. He held his hands up, spaced apart in an approximation of how long the prints he'd found had been. "Human lookin', almost, which is what had me thinkin' it coulda been Bigfoot. They weren't the tracks of somethin' native 'round here, and I only caught but the barest glimpse of it, but it was tall, Jim; taller'n you or I."

That sounded right; the prints he'd found and unsuccessfully tracked were, as the hunter said, 'huge 'n mighty' and matched the description of what he'd just been told. It didn't take an expert's opinion (though he had consulted one) to discern that the markings just weren't natural. Hopper set his mug of coffee aside and pulled out a notepad from one of his desk drawers. He uncapped a pen and held it to the page for a moment before writing down a few preliminary notes for himself on the top line.

The hunter cocked his head and leaned forward to look at what he was writing and said, "That don't look official."

"Because it's not; this one's just gonna be between us, alright?" Hopper said, looking up to meet Wesley's blue, watery eyes. He held the stare long enough to get his point across, waiting for a sign of affirmation before looking back to the notepad and pressing the tip of the pen to the paper. "Tell me where and when exactly you saw this 'Bigfoot' of yours."

The day was cold and grey at its start, with harsh, biting winds ushering in thick clouds that blocked out any hope of the sun ever making an appearance. Steve eyed the sky apprehensively as he made his way back to his car, wary of the way the clouds looked as though they might start dropping hail on him at a moment's notice. Billy feigned disinterest as Steve opened the rear passenger door and leaned in to shove the box of things he'd bought at the Hunting & Camping store into the backseat. Even with his vision obscured in part by the sunglasses he'd elected to wear, he didn't miss the strong look of annoyance that graced Steve's features when he came around to the driver's seat and entered the car with a pout.

"That guy give you a hard time or something?" Billy asked as Steve buckled in and put the BMW into reverse, turning in his seat to hastily jerk the car out of the parking lot. "Why do you look like someone shit in your cereal?"

Steve clicked his tongue. "He just kept asking what a 'kid like me' needed with a bunch of chains and rope and shit. My god, he just would not let it go, like he thought I was trying to build my own sex dungeon or something. Fucking annoying."

"You mean that's not what we're doing?" Billy asked, grinning a bit at the way Steve's face pinched up in disgust. "What'd you say?"

"I told him the truth; said it was to tie up a werewolf. 'It's a full moon tonight, y'know? Gotta tie 'em down or they go all crazy on you', I said to him, and you know what he said to me then?" Steve asked, speeding out of the little downtown shopping area Hawkins played host to and sounding every bit as gossipy as Carol did when she caught wind of a scandal.

"How the fuck would I?" Billy drawled, turning away from the conversation to watch the scenery pass by disinterestedly.

"He said, 'Damn fool kids will never learn'," Steve said, ignoring him. "'Damn fool kids will never learn', like, what the hell does that mean?"

Billy shrugged. "Who knows? As long as he accepted daddy's plastic then what does it matter?"

Steve clicked his tongue again in annoyance and rolled his eyes. "Fuck you."

Feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on, Billy declined to retort. They rode on in silence, the chains in the box Steve had bought clinking together softly in the backseat before the radio was finally turned on to mask the sound.

Regardless of whether or not Steve actually believed something was going to happen to Billy that night, he couldn't deny that the whole day leading up to that evening just felt… off. From meeting up with Billy earlier that afternoon to go by the camping store, to grabbing lunch together before heading over to the Henderson's house, it all felt wrong.

It was something Steve had difficulty pinpointing the origins of, but as they began work on clearing out enough space in the cellar for Billy to do whatever it was he thought he was going to do, he soon came to realize that the feeling of wrongness seemed to stem from Billy himself.

Few words could better describe Billy than 'annoying' or 'smart-mouthed', but he'd been uncharacteristically tight-lipped all day. He'd become a remarkably dull version of himself, and Steve wasn't sure quite how to handle that.

Usually one to argue and bite back at everything Steve said, when he'd begun dishing out instructions on how best to clear out some floor space in the cellar, Billy hadn't talked back to him a single time; merely lit a cigarette and blinked at him slowly, silently acknowledging what had been asked of him before getting on with it.

It was unsettling. Steve could almost say that he hated how submissive Billy was because of how used he'd gotten to the back-talk and smart-ass remarks Billy usually had ready for him, and though, yes, there were times he had wished for this kind of attitude from him, the silence and absolute subordination coupled with all of the other behavioral changes Billy was exhibiting were enough to set Steve on edge.

Billy kept tonguing the gaps in his teeth where they'd fallen out over the course of the week, and he never seemed to realize he wasn't alone. Sometimes he'd jump at the sound of Steve's voice, or shake his head and crease his brow in confusion when he turned around to see Steve moving stuff somewhere behind him, but arguably the worst part of it all was that he stank.

He'd tried to mask it with an overabundance of cologne that had nearly suffocated Steve when they began working in closer quarters, but buried beneath that was a hint of something that smelled awfully rotten. If he had to, Steve could liken it to the stench of the monster they'd encountered in the woods, but he chose not to, instead chalking it up to a severe case of nervous b.o. or something. The implications that the scents could be related bothered him too deeply to believe, and even then he wasn't sure he really wanted to know what the source of the smell was.

The stench of decay emanating from Billy's person was worrisome enough on its own, but with so much to do in order to get ready before sunset, Steve had a hard time figuring out where to primarily apply his focus: there were simply too many things going on for him to worry about one thing more than another.

The giant hole in the wall that Dart made to tunnel out of the cellar was his immediate concern, but Dustin had done a good job of hiding it from his mother by placing a tall shelf in front of it, essentially blocking it off. That didn't mean it wasn't entirely inaccessible, but Steve wasn't sure what more he could do about it. In all honesty, he'd forgotten about it until he'd tried to move the shelf aside and then found himself peeking into the eerie tunnel. He'd knocked over several things in his haste to put the shelf back in place, but Billy hadn't seemed to notice it, and if he didn't, maybe he wouldn't think to use it if- or when- he lost himself to whatever supernatural effects he was experiencing.

"Big if, though," Steve muttered aloud to himself. Turning away from the shelf, he looked over to where Billy was inspecting some old power tools, turning a nail gun over in his hands before setting it back in the box he'd pulled it out of. "So, are we good or what? This baby-proofed enough for you?" Steve asked, startling Billy out of whatever ruminations he'd been lost to.

Billy looked at Steve blankly, face impassive and emotionless. He frowned, and then looked around himself as though he'd forgotten where he was. When he spoke, his voice was monotone and devoid of his usual arrogance as he said, "I don't know, Harrington; is it?"

"You tell me, man, this was your idea." Steve watched as Billy returned his focus on the box of tools he'd originally been rummaging through. Picking up a hammer, Billy balanced its weight in his hands before gripping the handle tightly. Steve distrusted the look in Billy's eye as he held it. "What are you, a child? Quit rifling through their shit, put it back," he said.

Billy didn't reply or even acknowledge that he'd heard him. Ignoring Steve's demand, he stepped up to the abandoned work bench to splay his left hand out over the wood and lifted the ballpeen up.

"What the fuck are you doing? Put it down," Steve said again, his voice rising slightly in pitch when he understood what Billy was doing. He started towards him in an effort to stop him, but halted when the hammer was brought crashing down.

It missed his hand, but the force of the impact splintered the wooden table's surface. Steve gaped as Billy turned around, a cocky little smile turning up his lips.

"Someone could get hurt real bad down here if they weren't careful, huh, Harrington?" he said, a fierceness that Steve hated to admit he'd missed charging his voice. "But we've been real careful cleaning this shithole out, haven't we, pally?"

"You sick piece of shit, give me that," Steve snapped, snatching the hammer away from Billy's pliant grip. "Fuck you, Hargrove; you could've just said you wanted to move this shit out of here."

"Had you pegged as being more of a visual learner," Billy sneered as Steve threw the hammer back into the box of tools. "Your concern was touching, though, really."

"You're the one who came asking me for help, fuckface. Begged me, almost, if I'm remembering right. 'Oh, Steve, help me, I'm so scared of fake movie monsters!'"

Steve hadn't meant to rise to the taunt, but Billy's insufferable attitude had him stooping to his level as he hoisted the hefty box of tools in his arms and lugged them over to the stairway. Billy laughed dryly at Steve's mocking tone.

"We both wish that fucking thing had been fake," he said as Steve placed the box on the ground at the foot of the stairs beside the box of supplies he'd bought earlier. They were both quiet for a moment, their attempt at a conversation dying as quickly as it had been brought on.

"Only one thing left to do then," Steve said morosely.

Billy blinked and turned to face the stairway, eyes rising slowly up to where the cellar doors were propped open wide. Steve felt the guilt of having to lock him in prematurely and had to remind himself that he wanted to be locked in.

"Better hop to it then, Harrington," Billy said lowly, lips curling back into a familiar grin, but without all his teeth in place to flesh it out, Steve found the display to be more unsettling than annoying. "Let's get this sex dungeon set up."

Steve grimaced. "Not even in your wildest dreams, Hargrove."

"Nothing's off the table in my dreams, pretty boy." Billy breathed out a small laugh at the disgusted look on Steve's face, but the grin he'd been displaying slowly fell away. "Is it getting dark yet?"

"Uh, kind of, but the sun hasn't set yet," Steve replied, stepping up into the stairwell to check the status of the sky. It was as dull and grey as it had been all day, the overcast weather acting as a harbinger for the snowfall the local meteorologist had foretold was coming. "If you took off those fucking sunglasses you'd be able to tell."

"These are for your benefit as much as mine," Billy snapped, frowning suddenly.

"Yeah, okay, whatever that means," Steve said dismissively as he began to fish out the cords of rope from the box, letting them spool out onto the ground before gathering them into his hands. "How do you uh, how do you want to do this?"

"Aw, is this kitten's first time tying someone up?" Billy purred, not moving from where he stood in the middle of the cellar, directly under the light. "Who knew 'King' Steve's favourite flavor was vanilla."

Steve rolled his eyes as he brought the ropes over, wrinkling his nose at the mixed smell of rot and cologne that got stronger with proximity. "I've dated girls kinkier than you'd know what to do with," he retorted as he gestured for Billy to hold out his hands.

"Oh please," Billy said with a snort, "there are no kinky girls in Hawkins or I would've found them by now."

"You're obviously not looking hard enough," Steve muttered in response, gesturing again for Billy to hold out his hands.

Shrugging out of his leather jacket and tossing it over the work table he'd splintered, Billy held his hands up obediently and watched stoically as Steve wound the rope around his wrists, binding his hands together roughly.

"What's should our safe word be?" Billy teased, smirking as Steve wound another, longer length of rope over the original knot.

"There is no safe word because this isn't a sex thing!" Steve insisted angrily.

Flustered, he sighed irritably as he wound the long part of the rope around Billy's waist, hating how close he had to get in order to make sure the rope was tight enough, though Billy seemed to be enjoying how close he'd gotten. He kept shifting his weight around, trying, it seemed, to get Steve into a more compromising position. Annoyed, but determined to finish, Steve did his best to ignore Billy's constant movement and the disgusting, rotten musk that was wafting off of his person to finish tying him up.

"Why do you fucking stink so goddamn badly?" Steve finally asked with a scowl, repressing the urge to gag as he tied the ropes off into a clumsy knot. He stumbled away from Billy, reaching up to pinch his nostrils shut so he wouldn't have to smell the rot anymore, but the rancid scent seemed to have lodged itself deep into his nose. "You smell like a dead Calvin Klein model or something, holy shit, did you use a whole fucking bottle?"

The amusement Billy had held while taunting Steve left his face. His smirk shrunk into an awkward grimace as he looked away in embarrassment.

"I don't know, alright?" he admitted bitterly. "It doesn't matter how much I bathe, and between that and my eyes I have no idea what the fuck's going on with me."

"What about your eyes?" Steve asked hesitantly, unsure if he really wanted to know the reasoning behind why Billy had insisted on wearing sunglasses all day.

Billy faltered for a moment, hesitating briefly before reaching up and plucking the sunglasses off his face. With both hands bound together, he awkwardly folded the legs against the lenses and tucked them into the collar of his button up. He turned his gaze to Steve, who couldn't help but suck in a slight breath of surprise.

His eyes were so bloodshot they looked ready to start bleeding straight out of the sockets. There were hardly any whites left in the sclera to be seen as Billy winked at him, looking immensely uncomfortable at the way Steve was gaping openly at him.

"Do they- hurt? Or whatever?" Steve asked, unconsciously taking a few steps forward to get a better look. In the dim lighting of the basement, even the blues of Billy's eyes looked reddish.

"What's it to you if they do?" Billy snapped, suddenly irritable. He squared his jaw and looked away, unable to face the amount of concern Steve was showing him.

The worry Steve felt for the both of them in that moment grew stronger as he backed off, letting the matter of the changes in Billy's physicality drop, despite how alarming they were. "If I don't hear anything an hour after the sun goes down, I'll let you out," Steve said abruptly as he walked backwards towards the stairwell, grasping for the hand rail behind him blindly, unsure why he was so reluctant now to let Billy out of his sight. It was what they'd agreed upon earlier, and he said it meaning for it to sound reassuring, but the way Billy's lips twitched made it apparent he didn't interpret it that way.

Billy didn't respond.

"Well, uh, I guess that's it then," Steve said as he bent down, placing his box of chains atop the box of tools Billy had been messing around with before lifting them up together to carry them up and out of their man-made dungeon.

The cellar doors shrieked loudly as they were closed, a high pitched agony that erupted when the metal grinded against itself uncooperatively. Steve didn't mind that so much as he hated the sound the chains made as he wove them through the door handles, reminding him of what he was doing and who he was imprisoning as the steel rattled sharply against the doors. He winced at the commotion, but continued to loop them through the small door handles until no more could be fit between them. He tested their sturdiness by attempting to pull them open, and to his pleasure, they remained shut. The doors were secured; the cellar, as far as he was concerned, was now a suitable prison. All that was left of him now was to play the role of the jailor appropriately.

He stared down at his handiwork for a moment before the cold, blowing winds prompted him to seek shelter. Already a few snowflakes were fluttering out of the sky, flying into his cheeks as he turned away, re-gathering the box of tools in his arms and headed for the door Dustin promised he'd leave a key for.

Searching under the backdoor mat, Steve found the promised key, and true to the rest of Dustin's word, the entire home was empty, save for the cat that chirped a greeting for him from atop the kitchen counter. With a deep intake of breath Steve glanced at his watch, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him, wondering if he really was prepared for the worst. In the trunk of his car his bat waited for him, ready to be put to use just in case shit really did hit the fan, but he found himself questioning if he'd really be able to use it; bludgeoning monsters to death was one thing, but turning it on a boy he knew was only a monster figuratively was something else entirely.

For both his and Billy's sakes, he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Shrugging out of his thick coat, Steve set it down beside him as he took a seat on the Henderson's couch. He glanced at his watch again, dismayed by the fact that time wasn't progressing as fast as he wished it was and sat in anxious worry about what the rest of the night might have in store.

But at least he was comfortable and warm.

The cellar was not.

It wasn't the cold that Billy minded, so much as it was the anticipation: when would the transformation start? Exactly at sundown? A little before? A little after? Would he actually end up transforming? And why the fuck did the word 'transform' make him so damn uncomfortable? The unknown factors surrounding his circumstances were almost worse than any of the physical symptoms he'd been experiencing as of late, and he'd been experiencing a lot.

Anxiety wasn't something Billy had a lot of experience with, but it was the only thing he could think of that explained why his heart had been beating oddly all day. It was running at a notably higher rate, as though he'd been playing basketball or working out extraneously, and brought on palpitations he wasn't used to dealing with at the elevated speed.

In short he felt terrible. His whole body ached like it was going through puberty again. Both his arms and legs were sore in ways that mimicked the aches that came with growing pains when he'd had them, but he couldn't understand why he would begin to hurt in that way again. He hadn't had the energy to work out in two days despite eating practically anything he could get his hands on, so the soreness in his limbs was unwarranted. Either his body was preparing itself for the coming night, or he was having an incredibly drawn-out heart attack.

Standing at the foot of the stairwell, Billy felt the cold permeating in through the closed opening and moved away to find a better spot to wait. He wanted rub his arms to bring some warmth into them, but couldn't with the way they were bound. Already the ropes were beginning to dig into his wrists, rubbing uncomfortably against his skin as he realized he wasn't actually that cold anyway, despite the frigid weather; his body temperature had been on a steady incline leading up to now, leaving him with a rosy complexion and a near constant fever, the long-term effects of which left him feeling severely disoriented.

He could barely remember meeting up at Steve's house only a few hours ago to carpool to his kid friend's house, riding with the windows down in spite of the severe wind-chill as they went into town to get lunch and buy rope. Even though they'd ridden together, he couldn't remember now if they'd actually talked about anything or not. All he could remember were the low tones of the radio and the resonating throbs of the wind as it swooped in through the open windows, rushing to fill the audial space between them. It was as though his mind had been steeped in a fog, and he couldn't accurately think through it: everything was clouded over, incomprehensible, like waking up the morning after a bender and being unable to remember everything he'd done the night before, but knowing all the same that he'd taken part in some memorable shit.

Would there be pain, he wondered, and would it come on as suddenly as it had to the character in the movie he'd made Steve watch? Even though 'American Werewolf' was just a movie, stories like that had to spawn from some sort of truth, didn't they?

The dim little lightbulb that hung overhead flickered briefly, drawing Billy's attention to it as he took a seat at the work table's bench, wishing his eyes weren't a dry and sore as they were.

Coming from above, he could hear the muffled sounds of a TV show permeating through the cellar's ceiling. He couldn't help but think ill of Steve in that moment, but if their situations had been reversed, he probably would have been doing the same thing; he couldn't fault Harrington for finding a way to pass the time, though he wished he had something similar to do for himself. There was nothing interesting to hold his attention, and time passed at a dreadfully slow rate.

Stretching out on the bench, he laid himself down slowly, mindful of which parts of his back hurt the most, and gazed up at the cement overhead disinterestedly. He listened to the muffled sounds of the distant television, trying to conjure an image in his mind that corresponded with what little dialogue he could hear, but the rapid beating of his heart overpowered the noises coming from the TV. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing in an attempt to lower his heart rate, but it just kept going, pounding in a determined rhythm that seemed to be quickening with each passing minute. A bead of sweat trickled down from his scalp and over his ear as he wondered if the tingling he felt in the tips of his fingers was because of the cold or from the ropes being tied too tight.

He flexed his fingers, opening and closing his hands into a fist to try and bring sensation back into his fingertips, but to no avail. They remained numb, and the cause of which eluded him.

Frowning, Billy stiffly sat up and began to pinch at his skin, belatedly realizing that the numbness was spreading slowly down the lengths of his fingers, a sensation that sent a chill running down the length of his spine.

"Oh," he said. "Oh shit."

The pain, when he finally did begin to feel it, started in his feet. There were still thirty minutes before the sun went down.

Billy licked his lips nervously as he tried to get his boots off, his numb fingers and bound hands fumbling uselessly with the laces as the pain centralized in his toes and grew in sudden intensity. He was no stranger to pain, but this was unlike anything he'd ever felt before: it was sharp and stabbing, with each throb of pain stemming from the bones in his toes, as though they were growing more pointed in an attempt to pierce their way through his skin as they elongated. He could feel them cracking; each joint slowly popping free of itself as the bones began to push themselves forward.

"Oh, shit," he repeated, and could hear the muffled sounds of a laugh track from whatever sitcom Steve had turned on upstairs roaring in delight as he struggled to finally pull his boots off.

The stabbing sensation didn't relent, even once his shoes lay discarded by his feet. He peeled away his socks with shaking hands and stared down at his toes.

They'd turned a bright, beet red and were bulging like they might burst apart, his skin bubbling up around toenails that were already starting to peel off. He couldn't help the whimper as he tentatively felt them, a pain like touching a freshly popped, skinless blister causing him to draw his fingers back.

It was real. It was happening.

Sweating freely now, he reached away from his feet to brush his dampened hair away from his forehead as sweat rolled down the sides of his face. He paused when he felt his hair pull free from his scalp, clinging to the back of his hand stubbornly. Billy stared at the loose, curly strands with a horrified expression and reached up with a shaking hand to grab more. When he pulled, a handful of his hair came away easily, eliciting another whimper from deep within his throat. Disgusted and frightened, he threw his hair away to the floor.

Breathing quickly, he hastily rubbed his hands free of the loose strands in a panic and tried to calm himself. His whole body trembled as he breathed in deeply through his nose, wondering if he should try to call out to Steve to alert him that the worst case scenario was indeed unfolding. Another laugh track from upstairs came through the ceiling as he felt a sharp, sudden stab of pain in his ribs, prompting him to gasp loudly and curl forward over himself. He could actually feel some part of his ribcage shifting inside his torso as he tucked his arms in to his sides. Any lingering thoughts of trying to remain calm left him as he transitioned from panic to full on fear.

He stood up not knowing what he was going to do, but regretted it instantly: as soon as he put weight on his foot, his ankle collapsed in on itself and brought him to the floor. A shout almost came out with his fall, but he managed to internalize the pain as he was used to doing and grit his teeth as his foot essentially broke itself in half.

The central part of his foot that arched snapped without warning. Billy swore loudly and reached for his foot instinctively, wanting to hold the break in place, but he couldn't bear the agony that came with the contact. Warm tears leaked from his eyes, and when his other lateral arch also split in half, he couldn't help but cry out.

From up above, the noises coming from the television ceased. Steve must have heard him and was listening for him now, trying to gauge whether or not he should intervene. Billy clenched his jaw tighter, determined to keep quiet, but gasped loudly when two of his molars gave out under the pressure, snapping to the side and coming loose of his gumline. The copper taste of blood filled his mouth as he spat the teeth out, shuddering uncontrollably when he felt the vertebrae in his spine begin to pop, one by one, pushing up against his skin that was quickly beginning to feel too tight.

Huffing in great breaths of air, he panted heavily as the bones of his tones finally pierced through his skin, causing most of the flesh surrounding them to burst open like little balloons. Blood splattered across the floor in gruesome, miniature arcs and Billy finally, finally became undone. He shrieked, unable to keep silent any longer as new appendages could be seen inside the flayed bits of bloody skin, slowly growing outward, already a part of him.

Warm tears of pain streaked down his face in thick lines as the skin of his feet continued to be ripped apart, making way for more muscle, new flesh. He wiped at his eyes helplessly and thought he could hear Steve's voice distantly calling out his name, asking if everything was alright.

He blinked, his vision blurred by the tears that would not clear away as he pulled himself over to the stairway.

Shaking wildly all over, Billy stretched out on the floor, realizing belatedly that the waistband of his jeans was growing tighter and tighter. Hissing sharply, he cursed himself for not having the foresight to undress himself as he hastily tried to undo his belt. A pain similar to the initial agony he'd felt in his toes was beginning to manifest itself in his fingers as both of his hands slowly began to turn red, swelling up under the bonds of the rope as he fumbled with the buckle, desperately trying to get it to come free.

"Fuck!" he shouted in frustration, his clothing growing ever tighter as his body continued to bloat. He felt like he was being pinched in half with his belt acting as an unneeded tourniquet. "Fuck! Fuck!"

"Hey! Talk to me Hargrove, what's going on?"

Steve's worried voice trilled down through the cellar doors as he continued vocalizing his frustrations. Billy felt an organ in his abdomen shift out of place before popping, prompting him to groan and curl in on himself before he threw up. His couldn't undo his belt as his vision began to darken.

"Hargrove!" Steve shouted, banging a fist against the steel door. "What the hell's going on? Talk to me!"

"Fuck you!" Billy screamed, unable to articulate anything else as he tried to rub the blackness out of his eyes, but the more he pressed his fingers to them, they more they began to hurt.

A pressure was building up behind them the more he rubbed, and as it increased, his vision grew ever darker. He kept blinking, over and over, feeling his eyes bulge out of their sockets and against his eyelids, trying now to keep his eyeballs in place. He was hyperventilating when he finally went blind, the pressure behind his eyes becoming intolerable eyes before it finally came too much, and his eyes popped free.

He felt them slide out onto over his checks and onto the floor, the slimy, blood-slick nerves leaving tracks of blood on his face as he became totally and completely blind.

"No," he whispered to himself, retching again on the floor as he scrambled across the cement, trying to find the stairs, unable to see. "No, no! This isn't real!"

Beyond the cellar doors, Steve had his ear pressed against the slight crack between the panels, desperately trying to understand what was going on. He wasn't sure what to make of the noises he was hearing, unable to determine if Billy was just trying to mess with him or if he was in actual distress.

"Hargrove," he said impatiently, turning his head to try and peak in through the crack to get a glimpse of what was going on, "you gotta start talking to me, man; what the hell's going on down there?"

"I'm fucking blind," he heard Billy shout, his voice rife with fear. "I can't see anything!"

His voice was shaking as he spoke, and Steve knew then that whatever was happening was legitimate; Billy wasn't one to openly show weakness.

"Okay, stay calm," Steve stammered, but he wasn't sure if that was actually sound advice or not. "It's- it's going to be okay, okay?"

Billy howled, and Steve understood that the pain that carried with his voice must have been terrible to get him to shriek like that. He licked his lips anxiously, not knowing what support he could possibly offer him. He continuously opened and shut his mouth, words of encouragement dying on his tongue before he could manage to speak them.

And then, all at once, the cacophony of agony ceased.

Steve couldn't hear anything over the rapid sound of his breathing for a moment before he finally spoke: "Hargrove? Is… are you okay?"

"Hurts." Billy's voice, quiet, strained, and barely audible over the sounds of things (flesh, fabric) slowly tearing, sounded disconcertingly like he was speaking with a throat full of water. It was gargling and grotesque; completely unlike the smooth, honeyed voice he'd become known for.

"Okay, what, uh, what… what hurts?" Steve whispered in response, fear quieting his previously urgent tone.

"Everything."

"Shit," Steve said to himself, backing away from the cellar door panels as the sounds of something large and heavy being knocked over made him jump. "Just, uh, stay calm," he said, though he wasn't sure if he was saying it to himself or Billy. From down below, he heard Billy groan loudly before going silent again.

Steve's heart was pounding as he hesitated, unsure of what to do. All the details of Billy's haphazardly concocted plan fled his mind as he tried to think back on what they'd agreed to do if something ended up happening, and his first instinct was to open the doors to go down and check on him. He looked at the chains wrapped tightly around the door handles and bit his lip before crouching down and pressing his eye to the crack.

The overhead light wasn't bright enough to reveal much, but at the base of the stairwell there was a small circle of illumination. Steve squinted, ignoring the cold of the steel as he pressed his face against the door, trying to see all that he could.

Blood stains. Torn bits of… something he couldn't quite make out. Dark masses on the stairwell; lots of evidence that pointed towards Billy transforming, but no trace of Billy himself.

"Hargrove," Steve whispered, and then shook his head to clear himself of his cowardice. "Hargrove," he said again, louder and with more emphasis, "dude, you have to talk me through what's happening down there."

He waited, unconsciously holding his breath as he waited for a reply. It was steadily growing darker as the sun slowly sank, making it all the harder to see into the cellar from the tiny slit. Frowning and unable to see anything, Steve turned his head and pressed his ear against the door. From somewhere in the depths of the cellar he could hear something breathing heavily. It was moving, too; he could hear something shuffling, moving around the floor space cautiously.

When he turned his head again to see through the crack, he caught a glimpse of... something large and hulking cross under the light, tall enough to set the lightbulb swinging. He couldn't help but suck in a sharp breath of air, his lungs and throat burning with the sting of the cold weather. The thing- whatever Billy had become- halted just outside the rim of light. Entranced, Steve found he couldn't move as it emitted a low, threatening growl that sounded more like a man impersonating a dog than an actual beast.

From his limited viewpoint, he couldn't see the way the muscles in its legs were tightening, or how it had begun to crouch; he didn't have time to react as it sprang forward, jumping up the stairs in a single leap to ram itself against the doors.

The chains held the doors shut, but the sudden impact smashed the metal against Steve's nose and soon all he could smell was blood as it drained out of his nostrils. He fell backwards, holding his nose as the Billy-creature growled again. Horrified, Steve could only sit in the snow and watch as the doors lurched forward when Billy rammed against them again, trying to escape. The second impact loosened the restraints, and all Steve could do in that moment was watch as they rattled uselessly in place, beginning to slip through the handles as they hadn't been properly locked into place.

Cursing to himself, staggered to his feet and rushed to grab the chains, but as Billy threw his body against the doors again it soon became obvious that even if the doors stayed shut, they were about to pop free of their hinges entirely. Blood dripped down over his lips and onto the metal panels as he tried to think of what he could possibly do to counteract the damage Billy had done. In an act of desperation, he threw himself against the steel and hoped that his added bodyweight would be enough to keep them in place.

If it managed to do anything, he couldn't tell. Almost immediately Billy was throwing himself against the doors again, nearly bucking Steve off.

"Stop!" Steve cried out, grasping for the chains to hold them in place. His fingers scrabbled against the cold steel links even as Billy let out another deep, throaty growl. With the doors as loose as they were, Steve was almost certain the doors wouldn't survive another body-slam. "Give it up, Hargrove!" Steve said again, desperately. "Just- fuck, Billy, stop!"

He braced himself for another impact, but it never came. Eyes closed in anticipation, Steve blinked them open and exhaled shakily, his fingers trembling as he let the chains go. Crystalized air puffed out in front of his face over and over as he rolled off the doors and stood up unsteadily, trying to wipe away the blood that had already frozen over and turned to crust on his upper lip. Somehow, miraculously, his pleading had worked, but before he could take comfort in that fact, other disturbing sounds began to creep back up to him from down below.

Things were being tossed around; the metallic clang of old paint cans being bounced off the floors and walls mixed with the hoarse, angry vocalizations of the creature Billy had become made his blood run colder than the air currently was. The noises Billy was making were at once both animalistic and human, deep and throaty and more akin to the bellows of a moose than a man or wolf.

Steve stood in front of the cellar doors not knowing what to do. Already their plan was falling apart, and he was quickly becoming aware of how vastly unprepared he was to handle the situation. He wanted the security of the bat in his trunk, but didn't trust himself to leave the doors unattended for the length of time it would take him to run back inside and grab his keys to get it, but he felt so weak without it.

Another loud, crashing noise came from within and Steve stilled, listening intently. Faintly, he could hear Billy snuffling about, and after the sun finally completely descended, all was quiet. His nose was throbbing as he stood attentively, but when nothing more could be heard, his stomach sank.

With trembling hands and his mind screaming at him to stop, he knelt by the doors and slowly unwound the chains from the handles. The fact that he couldn't hear anything coming from within didn't sit well with him; he had to make sure Billy was still down there.

He tried to shift the chains as quietly as possible, but with how nervous he was, he had a hard time keeping his hands steady. They rattled noisily against the door, grating on his already frazzled nerves as they slid free. Heart pounding madly, Steve carefully pulled the doors open and took the first step down into the cellar.

It was silent. He couldn't hear anything as he hesitantly took a second step, mentally berating himself over and over for being stupid enough to walk defenseless into the lion's mouth. He had no idea what Billy was capable of now, or if he'd even recognize him enough to (hopefully) have enough sense to not harm him. The lightbulb that dangled freely from the ceiling was swaying, throwing its light around erratically, showing him glimpses of the gore that lined the steps.

Eyes wide, Steve gagged at the sight of the flayed strips of bloodied skin that were splattered near everywhere. He had to avert his eyes as he took another step, making slow progress as he was careful not to step in any of the mess. At the bottom of the stairs he warily peered around the walls, hoping he'd only stuck his head into the lion's mouth figuratively. To his immediate relief, but long-term dismay, there was no trace of Billy to be seen in the space of the cellar.

Exhaling deeply, Steve tried to even out his breathing as he came to stand in the middle of the room, looking around to assess the damage. As the swinging lightbulb steadied, he turned towards where the shelf that was hiding the tunnel had been and found it on the ground, knocked to its side and several feet away from where it had originally been positioned. His shoulders drooped at the realization of Billy's escape.

He went and stood before the opening of the tunnel and felt all hope of remedying the situation vanish. A numbness overtook him as he recognized his responsibilities of keeping Billy captive had changed; he was the only one who knew about Billy's circumstances, and he was the only one who could do anything about it now. Distantly, and much further away then he would've liked, he could hear the muted, labored sounds of Billy's breathing as he escaped confinement through the underground system.

The burden of his responsibilities threatened to overwhelm him in that instant, but instead of letting himself be overtaken by despair, Steve took a deep, steadying breath and rolled his shoulders back. He hesitated for only a minute before he took charge and ran in after him, disregarding his urgent need to turn back and get his bat out of the car. There was no time, he thought; no time to get a weapon, no time to get a flashlight. If Billy was now as the werewolf in the woods was, then he was capable of speeds greater than Steve could muster, and every second mattered. If he lost his trail now, then it would be lost to him entirely. There was no time; he had to go now or he wouldn't go at all.

Alone and unarmed Steve ran, chasing after Billy into the dark, cold tunnel, hoping he would be able to catch him in time, and dreading the repercussions that would come if he couldn't.

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

Safe with me (14)

Summary: When an unknown threat enters your life, protection is offered at the highest level. As Bucky Barnes comes into your life, the game changes, and you realise falling for the man tasked with keeping you safe is the last thing you expected.

Characters: Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Graphic descriptions of violence. Minor character death.

A/N: Bucky has methods to his madness and you are just done with these people. Stuck in the middle of a battlezone is a terrible place to be.

Tags for this story are CLOSED Link here for posting schedule

SAFE WITH ME MASTERLIST PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously…

The room is silent.

All eyes are on Bucky, who stands at the screen with his hand still raised. Steve releases him slowly, when he feels the panicked movements go suddenly rigid. From behind, a peculiar shapeshifting appears to take place. His posture changes, his neck flexes, his shoulders roll back.

Bucky stands up straight.

When he spins around, even Steve takes a step back at the sight.

Deadly rage burns like blue fire in the Soldier’s eyes.

*****

MID-1990s

Jack Bernstein pours a cup of coffee and parks himself behind the large wooden desk, propping his boots on Pierce's crisply folded suit coat. He takes a long drink, coughing when the scalding liquid scorches his throat. No matter. He enjoys the pain, because he needs something simple to ground him before he buzzes out of his skin.

That was exhilarating.

Every fantasy he's entertained about this day, about meeting the Soldier for the first time, all of it pales in comparison to the real thing. In life, everything about him was infinitely more than Jack ever imagined. Harder. So obedient. Beautiful and perfect. What a marvelous gift.

Scanning the white walls and bits of clutter adorning the small office, Jack memorizes every detail. He knows he'll remember this day for the rest of his life.

Sighing in contentment, he selects the top folder from a large pile, one appropriately stamped with the word "INDUCTION" in chunky red script. He begins to read.

-----

BASIC HANDLING INSTRUCTIONS The Asset requires minimal formal care, but it is biologically enhanced and dangerous if not handled properly. The following instructions will minimize risk to handlers. See related appendices for detailed information.

Removal from cryofreeze: Asset will be sluggish and non-responsive. Hosing down with cold water is recommended before wiping. Clothing is optional, but not preferred during removal phase.

Wiping process (see detailed instruction manual): Asset will tolerate wiping process as long as it is completed shortly after leaving cryofreeze.

Nutrient management: Asset does not eat standard food. Calories should be administered in the form of IV fluids.

Drug enhancement: Adrenaline may be given through injection but should be used sparingly as it enhances agitation levels. 'Oblivion' can be given in limited amounts. Technicians are recommended to hold Asset's jaw shut until clear the drug has dissolved / been swallowed.

Weapons selection: Asset will select its own weapons. DO NOT try to remove weapons from the Asset's body once they have been strapped in place, may result in loss of life or limb.

In the unlikely event of death due to mission failure, Asset has no personal affairs or effects to manage. If available, body should be cremated to reduce risk of knowledge transfer.

-----

He moves slowly through the Asset's files, absorbed in hundreds of pages exploring every detail of the disturbingly long life. Memorizing lab reports and doctor's notes, tracing wondering fingers over the blunt block letters of his mission reports, captivated by photos showing bullet holes and knife wounds littered across a broad chest.

Shivering with delight at the idea that all of this belongs to him.

He was disappointed to put him back on ice, but the Algeria mission was unnecessary and it's best to be patient. He has years to learn him, to understand his Soldier inside and out. Every intricate nuance of his body, every sparking neuron in his brain. How to obliterate everything and how to piece him back together.

A perfectly indestructible toy.

Jack tips his head back and laughs, the sound bouncing around the small room.

And after all – toys are meant to be played with.

*****

PRESENT DAY

5 HOURS AND 10 MINUTES AFTER ABDUCTION

To this day, Bucky marvels at the difference between a Hydra mission and a mission for himself.

Now, Bucky takes blisteringly hot showers before every mission. He despises the cold, hated it during the war, hated it even more with Hydra. He doesn't have time tonight, so instead he stuffs heat packets in the pockets of his tac pants. He loves the way they make him sweat.

Now, Bucky doesn't rely on IVs and pills and manufactured enthusiasm. Instead, he drinks a special cherry flavored Gatorade Bruce had engineered especially for him and Steve, and he raids the Tower cabinets of every king-size Snickers he can find. Chocolate and peanuts make him happy and help him focus, and Bucky swears their tagline was written for him. He is definitely not himself when he's hungry.

And now, perhaps the most stunning difference, are the personal affairs he puts in order. As the Soldier, Bucky had less than nothing. He remembers the vague feeling of wistfulness, of emptiness, that often intruded before a mission – he consistently took unnecessary risks, because he had nothing to draw him home. When he joined the Avengers, he behaved the same way – until Steve reminded him that he had his own real life with people and possessions he loved. So, Bucky sat down and wrote a will. He still doesn't have much, but now the little things he cherishes all have a place to go when the inevitable end arrives.

On that note, Bucky digs out the sheet of paper from the bottom of his desk, finds a chewed-up Bic pen, and makes one small amendment.

Under the Brooklyn apartment, he adds your name next to Steve's.

*****

5 HOURS AND 20 MINUTES AFTER ABDUCTION

Steve can actually feel his body thrumming when he reaches Bucky's bedroom, tension climbing over his skin. Pausing outside the door, he steels himself for a full-scale brawl, because as he well knows, his best friend is a stupid god damn fucking idiot.

Throwing open the door he stomps inside, kicks it shut, and starts speaking.

Loudly.

"Look, I know you're pissed as hell right now, but you need to take a beat and think about things. You can't go barging in, shooting everything on sight with no back-up. It's fucking suicide."

Bucky hums in agreement, fishing through his loose change jar for the key to his bedside weapons cabinet.

"Seriously Bucky, we need a plan. This is very obviously a set-up."

The small key snicks when the lock clicks open, revealing a cache of knives and guns, several old grenades and a handful of Widow's Bites he won off Natasha in a poker game.

"They know you'll come. They expect you'll come. Traps, Buck. There'll be so many traps."

Bucky nods along with the tirade, but the absentminded move proves he's not listening. Frustration bubbles over and Steve's now yelling.

"James Buchanan fucking Barnes, why are you such a stubborn asshole all the time?"

At the words, Bucky looks up in startled surprise.

"What the hell Rogers? Why am I an asshole?"

"I don't know Buck, why are you an asshole?"

Tossing an armful of knives on his bed, Bucky plunks his hands on his hips, head tilted in genuine confusion as he stares at Steve.

"What am I – "

"You're not going alone Bucky."

"Whoever – "

"There's no guarantee you're not walking right into a god damn trap."

"No sh – "

"Why the hell can't you ever let anyone help you?"

"Steve, I – "

"Jesus Christ, you're an insufferable prick!"

Bucky looks on the verge of laughing.

"Are you done? Can I talk?"

Steve grabs a bottle of cherry Gatorade off Bucky's dresser and chucks it at him, growling when Bucky dodges the missile.

"Yeah I'm done. Jerk."

Bucky sighs patiently. "Steve. I'm not going in blind and obviously I need your help. Assumed the whole damn team was coming, so I'm not sure why the hell you're standing here. Stop being a little bitch and suit your self-righteous, spangly ass up."

Steve opens his mouth to argue, but – yeah, he's got nothing. Bucky raises his eyebrows and goes back to sorting knives, separating his favorites and setting them aside.

"Well," Steve clears his throat, still spoiling for a fight, but struggling for a reason. "Well okay then. Long as we're clear. About time you stopped acting like a self-sacrificing dumbass."

Bucky snorts. "You should talk. Meet me in the lab in 10, we leave in 40. Only got a few hours until the sun rises. I want this finished before then, I'm not leaving her there a minute longer."

"Good," Steve grunts, and turns to go. The door's almost closed when he hears the question.

"Steve?"

Spinning at the sound of Bucky's low voice, Steve's heart skips a beat when he sees the expression. The façade has broken, harsh emotion filtering through the cracks. In the entirety of their crazy fucked up lives, Steve's never seen his best friend look so desperate.

"If he kills her – I won't stop. Not until every last one of them is dead." A dark look settles on his face in place. "I'm telling you right now, don't get in my way. Don't make me stop."

Steve contemplates him for a long moment.

"I know you won't. And I'll help you do it."

Thank god for Steve Rogers. Bucky gives him a brisk nod and goes back to his knives.

*****

5 HOURS AND 25 MINUTES AFTER ABDUCTION

Bucky storms into Tony's lab, a wraith in head to toe black. The silver arm is emitting a constant whir, endlessly clicking and shifting, a physical representation of the anxiety pulsing through his veins.

"Stark, I need your help."

Tony looks up at his arrival, blanching at the image. Mission ready, Barnes is just a little terrifying.

Black tac pants are tucked into a pair of comfortably worn combat boots, and each boot holds two long serrated blades, rough black handles within easy reach. Strapped around both thighs are matching holsters, the right side holding a Sig Sauer P320, the left side holding a Beretta M9. A black utility belt sits low at his waist, holding extra clips of ammo, a cylindrical tube with five round mini-grenades, and a pack of bandages. Flat against each hip, are two fixed blade combat knives, and tucked into a holster at his lower back, sits his Glock.

Strangely, the most striking feature about the whole ensemble isn't the ridiculous amount of weaponry. It's the ordinary black tank top he wears.

Normally refusing to let anyone see the thick red scars streaking down his shoulder, he always ignores the curious questions or dismisses the thoughtful comments with an icy glare. But tonight, for the first time Bucky appears oblivious to the furtive glances and open stares.

Well, he's not actually oblivious. He's just totally out of fucks to give.

Rubbing both hands down his face, Tony slaps them on the table, fingers splayed wide. Disappointment rolls off him in waves, and Bucky thinks he knows what's coming.

"Stark, listen – "

"I'm sorry," Tony interrupts, curling his fingers into hard fists, rapping his knuckles restlessly against the table. "I screwed her tech up, that's on me. I wasn't – "

"Stop," Bucky holds his hands up. "Seriously. I'm sick and tired of us taking the blame for the shit these assholes do. Forget it and help me fix it."

Tony Stark and Bucky Barnes stare at each other for a long moment. Their relationship's been disproportionately burdened by a shared history, but with this common purpose, each is relieved to find the other willing to wipe the slate clean.

"Done," Tony says tightly. "What'd you need?"

"Remember the throwback outfits we had for that charity event? With Steve's stupid USO outfit and my Commandos uniform?"

"Sure," Tony says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "They're in storage. Why?"

"I need the blue jacket."

"You need it right now?"

"I need it right now," Bucky confirms.

"Are we stopping by Fashion Week on the way? You're not wearing it on this mission, are you?" Tony asks, bemused by the odd request.

"I most certainly am."

Tony purses his lips and chooses his words carefully.

"Uh, not that I don't condone wearing whatever makes you feel comfortable with your bad self, I mean clearly I love red since it highlights my boyish good looks and all, but you're supposed to be stealthy. That's kinda your thing. The blue is bright, Barnes. No clue why Howard ever made that dumbass design, they'll see you a mile away."

Bucky doesn't reply. Instead, he offers a slow smile and there's something so astoundingly sinister, it makes Tony's teeth chatter. Bone-chilling and lethal, he sees the anger simmering just below the surface, Bucky's murder face on full display.

"Ah. Right. So. The color was bright on purpose," Tony guesses. "You wanted to be seen."

"I did," Bucky affirms, his tone easy and conversational. "And now I want every one of those fuckers who took her to shit their pants when they see me. I want them to know exactly what's coming for them."

*****

6 HOURS AND 5 MINUTES AFTER ABDUCTION

Down in the cargo hold of the Quinjet, Bucky's screams grow louder and louder. Sitting quietly on the above level, the team remain stoic.

*****

6 HOURS AND 30 MINUTES AFTER ABDUCTION

The world around him is dark and blessedly quiet.

Alone now, Bucky leans a trembling forearm against the window, rests his aching forehead on the cold glass and takes a shallow breath. The beads of sweat dripping down his face finally begin to dry, so he shuts his eyes and lets his mind wander, searching for something sweet to calm the nightmare still wracking his body. Like a slideshow, the pictures in his brain flip at lightning speed, until they stop on his apartment in Brooklyn and zero in on the book you left tucked under a fuzzy velvet blanket.

The Book Thief.

When he watched you pick it up that day, Bucky fought back a smile. It's one of his favorites, something he's read a dozen times. When he feels anxious and fidgety, the story is soothing, the pages crinkled and bent, the poetic words smoothing the edges of his soul in a way he could never explain. Tonight though, Bucky begins to understand why the story holds so much appeal.

Through the horrors that made up the bulk of his life, first during his war, and later as the Soldier, a concept always played in the back of his mind.

Some people are born into this life with the desire to command, to play God. Some demand the role and some accept the burden when it's given. That was never him. No, Bucky was always asked to play one role above all others, one that led him to find a kindred spirit in the narrator of his favorite book.

Death.

It's been his calling card since the first day of Basic, when the US Army plucked him from obscurity and shoved a rifle in his peculiarly steady hands. From that day forward, he owned every life around him. Some he spared, some he protected. Some he reaped with a broken neck in the dead of night, some he bartered with a sharp blade and a sharper tongue. This has been the way of his life for so long, it boils down to a single truth.

Most of Bucky's life – has always been death.

Now he stands silently, accepting once again the bleak mantle laid across his shoulders and he thinks of you curled in his leather chair, warm in a patch of afternoon sun, your finger unconsciously marking his favorite quote as you drift to sleep, not realizing you equally loved the one line that always gave him pause.

"Even Death has a heart."

Most of Bucky's life has been death, but that's okay. Because those words are a poignant reminder that he can be so much more than the hollow shell he was. In this life with you, he finally understands how his head and his heart really are better together.

So, he holds the words in his mouth, tests them on his tongue, accepting that if the inevitable happens, he has a reason to come home.

"Even Death has a heart."

He certainly does, Bucky thinks wryly. He opens his eyes and gazes into the star strewn blackness, his heartbeat a steady rhythm driving him forward, back to you. And it's all hers.

*****

All you can think right now, is that this compound is freezing and you'll rage kick anyone who comes near you.

Slouched in the chair from earlier, a constant throb of pain shoots up your awkwardly bent arms, still secured behind you with a plastic zip-tie. Earlier struggles had done a number on your wrists, the unforgiving plastic slicing open the delicate skin and even now, blood oozes from the lacerations. It offers a small amount of warmth though, the sticky liquid running down your fingertips and catching under your nails.

You're a little disappointed when it cools.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

How did you not know?

You knew Jack. You knew him. He supported you, encouraged you. Offered helpful life advice even when you didn't ask for it and bought you a bottle of champagne to celebrate your first by-line. How could you not see that charming, amiable façade, hid a full-blown unhinged psychopath? How was it possible to be so utterly wrong about someone?

Maybe you should fire yourself for being the world's worst investigative journalist.

Huffing in frustration, pain flares anew when you shift, searching out a comfortable position. The stripes on your arms burn, your ribs are bruised, your jaw aches.

Everything hurts.

Bucky, where are you?

Closing your eyes, you let your mind drift, reaching for the imaginary comfort of your favorite place. An apartment in Brooklyn filled with piles of fuzzy blankets and soft pillows. Shelves of books and bowls of peanut M&Ms. The fresh scent of the river and Bucky's laughing blue eyes.

Did he see the video? Did he know where you were? Would he figure it out in time? The grim reality of this whole thing, was that you desperately wanted to leave, to be back in Brooklyn, warm and safe in his arms, but there was one glaring problem.

You wanted Bucky to find you.

You wanted Bucky to never face these people again.

Success was an impossible duality.

The faint sounds of movement outside your door grow louder, inaudible voices making you tense. Electronic beeps sound and the door whooshes open, revealing two men dressed in faded combat fatigues. One is tall and lanky, bald head shining under the fluorescent lights. He spares you a brief glance, before striding to the table and rifling through the knives and lengths of rope.

The other man is short and thin, with red hair buzzed military short. He gives you a little smirk as he ambles inside, making a show of locking the door and letting his eyes roam over you.

"Don't worry sweetheart, we're just here to tidy up," he says.

Sauntering over, he stops beside you, cocking his head and staring down, waiting for you to acknowledge him. Fixing a bored expression on your face, you ignore him, keeping your eyes trained on the door handle straight ahead.

"I'd look up if I were you," he advises. Heart pounding at the implied threat, you stare forward in silence. Suddenly his fingers are gripping your jaw, pressing into the bruises left by earlier knuckles, and the startled gasp melts into a groan as you struggle away from the rough hand.

Tears prick your eyes when you look up, meeting his mocking stare.

"There she is," he croons, pinching your jaw tighter. The pain makes your vision swim and you blink rapidly, fighting to stay conscious.

"I gotta say, we've been running real low on women around here. Be nice if you could help some of the guys out," he says casually. "Maybe later, once we get your man back under control. Hell, maybe he'll even have a go. I hear he'll do anything if you know the magic word."

Releasing you, he drags the tips of his fingers over your face, tracing the bruises, swirling his fingers through the blood still leaking from the gash high on your cheek. The pads of his fingers come away stained red and he brushes them over your mouth, painting your lips with the taste of salt and copper.

"How about it sweetheart?"

Eye level with you, his thumb is still rubbing your lip, waiting for an answer.

You can almost hear Bucky's voice begging you not to do it, but you're so god damn pissed off.

The taste of copper appears again, when you snap your teeth, sinking them into his finger. He screeches and jerks the hand away, hugging it to his chest as he stumbles backward.

"Bitch," he rasps furiously, raising his hand while you brace for the hit.

"Dude, would you get away from her? You're not allowed to mark her up," his partner cuts him off with a sharp rebuke. "Wait until the Asset's finished and packed away, you'll get a turn after. If there's anything left."

The nonchalant way they speak about you should make your skin crawl and it does. It really does.

But the way they speak about him, about your Bucky, as if he's nothing but a mindless animal and not the sweetest, snarkiest, most infuriatingly wonderful man in your life, makes you shake with anger.

"Makes your nervous, huh?" The redhead sneers, sucking petulantly on his damaged finger. "You should be. I hear he's a beast once he gets going. Brain's so fucking fried, he'll probably get confused halfway through, won't remember if he's supposed to fuck you or kill you, but either way – sucks to be you."

Nothing would be more enjoyable in this moment than stabbing this prick in the eye with a rusty knife, but you'll have to rain check. Taking a soul cleansing breath instead, you settle for your best Bucky Barnes murder face impression, letting a grim smile slowly lift your lips, while glaring in total silence.

"What the hell?" he grunts, unnerved at the creepy expression.

A long-suffering sigh comes from the bald man. "Stop talking and help me."

"Aw come on man, I'm just – "

The sound of a low sonic boom suddenly vibrates the floor beneath your feet.

Both men freeze, turning wide-eyed to each other.

"What the hell was that?"

"Something in the upstairs lab?" the other guesses wildly.

A long pause follows, the world quiet.

The second boom knocks the wind from you, raising dust from the floor. Lifting your eyes, you watch a long crack appear in the plaster ceiling, stilted bursts of movement as it spiders outward.

Silence follows again.

Then the distant pop of gunfire reaches your ears.

"Shit," you hear one of the men behind you whisper in panic.

The surge of happiness floods through you, promptly tempered by the panic of knowing Bucky was here, surrounded by these bastards once again.

"How'd he get here so fast? Bernstein said it'd take a couple days for him to figure it out!"

"How do I know? I wasn't planning to be here when he – "

There's a high-pitched scream in the hallway that's cut short.

Silence.

Suddenly the screeching whine of metal on metal rings through the room when something heavy slams against the locked door.

Once.

Twice.

"Fuck," the bald man spits out, lifting his gun and taking aim at the shuddering door.

Three times.

Next to you, the redhead draws a pistol from the holster under his arm, and you close your eyes when you feel the cold kiss of a metal barrel pressed against your temple.

Silence.

You can hear the ragged, panting of the man above you, deafening in the quiet room. He smells stale, like fear and cigarettes, the scents bleeding from his skin.

Silence stretches on, further and further, and you pray Bucky won't pass, that he knows, that he comes back.

The respite forces a shift in the room. Weapons lower slightly, muscles soften. Perhaps the Soldier has moved on.

A rookie mistake.

A catastrophic mistake.

With an ear-piercing metallic crunch, the door in front of you explodes open, ricocheting off the wall. A knife whistles through the air, cold steel whispering past your ear, before the wide blade lands in the man's neck with a wet thunk. The force of the throw knocks him flat on his back, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the rough hilt, and you squeeze your eyes shut when the gush of hot blood splatters across your face.

Roaring gunfire sets your ears ringing as the bald man fires five hasty bullets at the hulking presence in the doorframe, but each one is swatted away with a lazy flick of a metal hand. There's a sharp retaliatory crack, and the man wobbles for a second, before collapsing to the floor, a bullet drilled straight between his eyes.

Bucky steps into the room, gun raised while his eyes scan the corners, check the ceiling, sweep under the table. Swinging around, he catches the edge of the door and slams it shut, before grabbing a chair and jamming it beneath the busted handle.

When he stalks forward, a small fraction of your heart cowers in fear at the viciousness in his face. This is him, the unreal ghost story, the legend in the flesh.

"Don't look," he orders harshly, bending down to the twitching body beside you. Eyes closed, you turn away when you hear the cracking noise the knife makes as Bucky jerks it from the man's throat. A brief bloody gurgle follows, before it's effectively silenced, and you hear the sound of a body dragging across the concrete floor, landing with a soft thump.

Breathing fast, sharp little pants that make your chest ache, you keep your eyes closed and wait.

A moment later, you feel the light touch of cool metal on your swollen jaw. Opening your eyes, your heart leaps into your throat.

Leaning over you, he gently cups your face, patiently waiting for you to see him. And now, looking into those blue eyes, you wonder how on earth you could have ever been afraid, because this isn't him, he's not the Soldier.

This is your Bucky, through and through.

Reaching down to his boot, he pulls up a long knife, slipping it behind you to snap the plastic on your wrists. They feel like deadweight after being locked in that position, so he helps ease them forward, working out the aching kinks. Two quick flicks and your legs are free, and you see a minute tremble in his fingers when he returns the knife to his boot.

Kneeling before you, Bucky looks up, the penitent man with his heart on his sleeve. He swallows thickly, throat working as he gathers his courage.

"Hi," he finally whispers.

"Hey," you whisper back, voice cracking.

He sees the cuts and bruises scattered over your face, the raised welts down your arms. Reaches a tentative hand to your neck, fingers brushing over the thin line of rope burn, a broken sound rising from deep in his chest when he feels the raw texture of your skin. That sound alone is more painful than anything you've experienced, so you reach for him, cradling his face between your hands and his eyes close. Leaning into the touch, he turns to press his lips to the palm of your hand.

"You came for me," you murmur.

"I’ll always come for you," he responds, lifting blood-stained hands to cover yours, tangling your fingers together. "I love you. I love you so god damn much and I'm so sorry for everything."

Tears flood your throat at his declaration, at the heat behind his words.

"God you're such a pain in my ass Bucky Barnes, but I love you too. More than you can imagine," your voice is painfully hoarse, but his response makes each syllable worth the strain.

Speckles of blood cover one side of his face, sweat plasters strands of hair to his forehead, and there's white dust caught in the dark stubble covering his neck, but at your words, the grime and exhaustion fade away. Bucky's face lights up and his excited smile steals your breath.

"Really? Seriously?"

"Really seriously," you confirm with a smile, voice still weak but growing stronger. "Take me home Bucky."

"I will," he promises. "I'll get you out of here, I swear."

Taking your hand, he curls a warm arm around your waist and stands, lifting you carefully to your feet. Swaying at the move, you lean heavily into him and he wraps his arms around you, folding you close to his heavily padded chest.

And sure, the world may be falling to pieces outside that door, and god knows what you'll find when you leave, but in this moment, the only thing you need is the solid presence of the man surrounding you.

Comforting and stable and brimming with love, he is enough. He is everything.

Finally, reluctantly, he lets go. Stepping backward, he pulls his Glock from the holster at his back, cocks the hammer and flips it around. He presses the grip in your palm.

"Listen to me. We get out there, and I want you to shoot first, ask questions later. If you feel threatened at any point, pull the trigger, okay?"

"Okay," you agree.

"You remember everything I told you?"

It takes a moment, but you fish for the memory and reel it in, remembering that day at the Tower gun range.

"Yes. Squeeze the trigger, don't jerk. Both eyes stay open. Be ready for the recoil," you repeat.

He looks surprised but pleased at the automatic recitation. "I honestly didn't think you were paying attention that day. That was – kinda hot."

"Your face is kinda hot," you sass back instantly.

Pulling a fresh clip from his belt, Bucky snaps it into his Sig Sauer and grins. Watching his movement, you notice something new, something different.

"Hey. The blue jacket – it really did match my dress. I like it. You look really handsome in blue," you say softly, tugging his sleeve. "Sorry, I've been super behind on your compliments. Lots of catching up."

There's a blazing look on his face at your statement, and he wraps a gentle hand behind your neck and steps closer, resting his forehead against yours. Closing your eyes, you breathe each other in, a swirl of blood and death, of safety and protection.

"I love you," he murmurs the words again, reveling in the pleasure they bring.

"I love you," you answer, pressing a light kiss to his chin.

He hums at the response, giving himself one more delicious second to enjoy, before grudgingly stepping away. His voice shifts and he speaks quickly, sharing the basic intel necessary before leaving the room.

"There should be very few people left out there, I swept the majority of the lower level before I found you. There were people here, but it wasn't heavily guarded. Which makes me nervous. I don't know exactly what this place is now, but it used to be a secondary research lab. This is – it was here, where I met him. The first time."

It's clear who the him is in this scene. And while Bucky's voice is calm, you notice a flicker of confusion cross his face, and that small waver makes you want to find Jack and cut his heart out. Gripping his hands, you give him a small shake, forcing him to meet your eyes.

"Listen to me. You got out. You won. You never ever have to go back," he clings to your words, riveted by your conviction. "You came here to get me Bucky, but don't forget – I've got you too."

"I know," he agrees heatedly, pressing his lips to your knuckles. Then he shifts the chair blocking the door and squares his shoulders. "Alright, you ready?"

"Ready," you confirm. "Let's go fuck shit up."

Fingers pause on the handle and he sighs, equal parts exasperated and entertained. Glancing over, he looks like he wants to say something stern, but the serious expression melts and his shoulders shake with laughter.

"I really fucking missed you," he nudges you.

"Same," you whisper back, elbowing him in return.

Keeping one hand fisted in the smooth cloth of his jacket, you take a deep breath as he pulls open the door and steps outside.

Once in the hallway, his demeanor switches back to the man who kicked your door down only a few minutes before. He's overwhelming in this form, towering and tense, confidence in every move, so obviously capable it puts you at ease.

The corridors are eerily quiet, the tracks of fluorescent lights lining the ceiling giving off a steady buzz and the occasional flicker. The smell hits you in that moment, a strange burnt earth smell floating through halls, of gunpower and guts, and it makes your eyes water. People don't seem to talk much about what it's like on a battlefield, the visual horror and the stomach-churning smell. Now you see why.

Turning the corner, you see bodies scattered along the hall, the stench of blood a dense fog hanging heavy in the air. Bright red halos spill around surprised faces, and you see now that bullets leave very large holes. It draws your eyes with each body you pass, and your breath comes faster.

"Breathe through your mouth, not your nose," Bucky urges, his voice a grounding force as he propels you forward. "Look at me or close your eyes, okay? I won't let you fall."

"Yeah," you say weakly, turning your face toward calming blue. "Yeah, okay."

Rounding the next corner, the hall is thankfully empty of human remains. Bucky keeps his gun raised, eyes sweeping along. All seems deserted, until the whisper of rolling wood, like a closet sliding open reaches your ears and you see part of the wall begin to shift. Bucky swings around, but your finger already hovers dangerously over the trigger, and without thinking, you squeeze.

The bullet makes a solid thwack when it hits, and a body crumples to the floor.

A sickeningly familiar body in fact. One with a faded red tattoo crawling up his neck.

He groans, curling around himself, gasping as blood pumps from his abdomen. In one quick stride, Bucky is standing over the writhing body, and he stomps down, grinding his boot into the man's wrist. Screaming in pain as his bones are crushed, he drops his gun and Bucky kicks it away.

Walking slowly forward, with the smoking gun still raised, you stare down into the face of the man who's haunted your dreams for the better part of your life. Who spent the last several hours smiling while he slapped your face. While he snapped a leather strap across your arms. While he tightened a thin rope around your neck.

Who smiled the day he shot your father and took away the only person you had in the world.

Bucky's pistol feels perfect and right in your hand, as you point it at his face. Vengeance, retribution, revenge, whatever word fits, you're feeling it right now, surging adrenaline making you light-headed. Finger brushing the trigger, you steel yourself for the final shot, for the chance to end this on your terms.

The moment drags on and on, the sounds of his wet gasping the only thing in your ears.

"Come on little girl, do it!" he manages to taunt, choking on the words.

Pull the trigger. Pull the trigger. Pull the trigger.

This man killed your Dad. He tortured you. He destroyed your childhood.

Pull the fucking trigger!

Your arm begins to tremble, precious moments allotted for escape now lost as you stare down. A strangled sob suddenly breaks through and your heavy arm begins to lower. Tears fill your eyes, and you rub them furiously away, trying to raise your arm again.

And then Bucky reaches over, gently pushing the gun down. Looking at him, the tears spill over, sliding down your cheeks, dripping from the tip of your nose.

"You're not a killer," he says quietly. "Once you pull the trigger, you can't take it back. If you want to do it I'll help, but don't become something you're not, just because you think you should."

Firm and compassionate, his familiar voice shakes you out of the haze. Sniffling, you hesitate for another moment, before letting the gun relax at your side. With a deep breath, you turn away instead, snipping the strings tethering you to the survivor's guilt that's hung around your neck for so long.

Bucky nods encouragingly, and together you walk away from the bleeding man. Putting his arm around you, he pulls you in tight. Covers your ear and presses your head against his shoulder, muffling the world.

Then he raises his arm behind him and fires one quick shot.

The hallway goes quiet once more.

*****

Moments later, you turn another corner, relief palpable when you hear Bucky speak.

"We're close, there's an exit in two turns," he mutters, his body still tense, eyes wary as he tugs you along. He taps the comms in his ear, letting it go to the loudspeaker so you can hear as well. "Steve, we're near the north exit, where are you?"

Clear as a bell, Steve's voice comes through sounding annoyed. Gunfire sounds in the background and you hear the clatter of tin cans on concrete, followed by a slow hiss.

"We're coming, just – finishing something up. Apparently Nat decided this was the right time to test Stark's new gas grenades."

"Don't be lame Rogers, these guys are assholes," you hear Nat laughing in the background.

"Yeah no shit, just wondering why – ouch, god dammit – why you couldn't wait 10 seconds. Buck, we'll meet you at the rendezvous point in 10 minutes. Did you find Bernstein?"

"Negative, no sign, I think he ghosted from – "

The comms crackles and goes off. Bucky taps it impatiently, but it stays quiet.

Stark technology will not fail a second time and it takes a split second to connect the dots.

Something is happening.

Swearing fiercely, Bucky pushes you behind him, his arm keeping you pressed against his back.

"Stay against me. Do not move away," he grits out, eyes scanning the empty corridor, searching, searching, searching.

He hears the sound before he sees it happen. It raises the hair at his neck, and with sizzling burst of heat, a web of electricity blooms before you, a curtain of transparent white light. Spinning around, you find the same thing behind, a crackling fence of fire trapping you together.

"Fucking hell," Bucky hisses, eyes whipping back and forth, assessing the electric barriers. Hesitating slightly, he stretches a tentative metal finger forward.

"Bucky, don't – " the warning is still leaving your lips when his hand makes contact. The harsh zap flings his arm back.

"Dammit, I didn't think these'd still be here," he growls in frustration. His fingers curl into a hard fist, metal plates whirring as they reset after the electric shock.

Looking through the waves of energy, you can see beyond them, but there's no possibility of passing. "What are they?"

"Fry zones. Barricades to trap people," he mutters. "When a building was under attack, they were set up like alarms. Someone must have triggered them earlier, because I killed everyone else in the building."

"Well that's just awesome," you mumble, pressing close to him. Bucky turns to face you, hugging you against his chest.

"Okay, it's alright. The team are coming this way, they'll find us when we miss the rendezvous, so we just wait. Can you do that for me?"

"Yeah," your voice is muffled against the thick fabric.

Bucky leans down to press a feather-light kiss to your forehead, the barest hint of a touch. For a second, you wonder if the sound of electricity is still the walls around you, or if it's the feel of his mouth on your skin. Snuggling closer, you relax in his arms, while his hands rub long, soothing strokes up your back.

For a long, happy moment, all is well. The world is right. A bright future together is so close.

But inevitably, it doesn't last.

The measured, deliberate click of dress shoes on concrete rises above the steady hum of electricity, and Bucky's body goes rigid. His arms tighten around you, but when you raise your head, his jaw is clenched and his face is white, sweat already slicking his forehead. His eyes are fixed on something above you, beyond you, and still clasped in his arms, you slowly turn.

Jack stands on the other side of the barrier, his face flooded with desperate, hungry longing as he gazes at Bucky. He licks his lips and comes closer to the cage, and even through the thick fabric of his jacket, you feel Bucky's heart racing.

"So, here we are then. After all this, there he is," Jack breathes fervently, moving closer, unable to help himself. "I see him under there Barnes. Let him out to play. Let him come home."

Bucky lets go of you, tugging you behind him and extending both arms, widening his stance.

"Drop the barricade and let us go," he says calmly. "She has nothing to do with this."

With a snort, Jack shakes his head.

"Wrong. She has everything to do with it. It's because of her that you're even here. She's a weakness. She's your weakness, don’t you see that? You think you're in control, but she stole that from you. Look at you! Following her here like a pathetic dog. Jesus Christ, what did you do to my Soldier, you've ruined him Barnes."

"Seriously Jack, eat a dick you dramatic piece of shit," poking your head around Bucky, you try to move in front of him, but he holds you in place.

"Don't, it's not worth it," he murmurs warningly.

Jack looks amused for a moment, but it fades as he considers an idea.

"She's scrappy, I'll give her that. We could make a deal you know – give me back my Soldier and I'll let him keep her if he wants. She can be his pet, something soft and breakable to entertain him. Maybe that's what was missing before."

Bucky feels a swoop in his stomach as he considers Jack. Hearing his voice now, he's baffled how in seven hells he could have ever forgotten this man. It's so clear, so god damn obvious he wants to scream. But in the midst of that anger, Sam Wilson's voice pops in his head, and Bucky suddenly remembers the closing remarks of his first group therapy session down at the VA.

"Some things you leave behind, some you carry home. It's your decision what you need to let yourself heal."

Bucky understands it then, the choice he made. The only way he could let himself heal, to get better and move on, was to let go of the horrors in his past. Including this one.

"No deal you sick fuck," he says flatly. "Let us go or I swear to God, I'll rip you to pieces with my bare hands."

Jack shrugs at the response.

"Alright then, if that's what you want," he steps even closer to the barrier, so close you can see the gleaming white of his eyes. "I gave you a chance, so – just know that what happens next is your fault Barnes, it's all on you. I hope you remember that. In the end."

Jack reaches behind him, grasping for something in his pocket, and Bucky crouches slightly, a snarl on his face as he settles into battle stance.

When his hand reappears, Jack's holding a thick paperback book.

He smiles.

*****

Next Chapter

*****

[xxstyleart]

Chapter 18; Siege and Storm

Heyyooooo, so I’ve adapted a few parts in a particular scene of chapter 18 with Mal, Alina and the Darkling! I’ve been trying to read fanfics and it’s inspired to write my own so here ya go!! *Disclaimer: I’ve adapted the existing scene with a few things I envisioned. Most of the content is original to Leigh. I’ve simply added a few different elements into the scene and developed it the way I thought would create a deeper scene. Also, my content will be written in between double asterisks. Anything outside of that was written by Leigh. & the ‘[...]’ indicate there are additional lines from the book I’ve not included in my post but that I’ve skipped in order to make this post more fluid and concise with my adaptations. Hope that made sense. Enjoy!!!!

(Art credit: nanfe1789)

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He nodded, scuffed the toe of his boot along the floor. “I miss you,” he said quietly. Soft words but they sent a painful, welcome tremor through me. Had part of me doubted it? He’d been gone so often.

I touched his hand. “I miss you too.” [...] He let out a long breath. “Saints, I hate this place.” I blinked, startled by the vehemence in his voice. “You do?” “I hate the parties. I hate the people. I hate everything about it.” “I thought... you seemed... not happy exactly, but--” “I don’t belong here, Alina. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.” That I didn’t believe. Mal fits in everywhere. “Nikolai says everyone adores you.”

“They’re amused by me,” Mal said. “That’s not the same thing.” He turned my hand over, tracing the scar that ran the length of my palm. “Do you know I actually miss being on the run? Even that filthy little boarding house in Cofton and working in the warehouse. At least then I felt like I was doing something, not just wasting time and gathering gossip.”

I shifted uncomfortably, feeling suddenly defensive. “You take every chance you get to be away. You don’t have to accept every invitation.”

He stared at me. “I stay away to protect you, Alina.” “From what?” I asked incredulously. He stood up, pacing restlessly across the room. “What do you think people asked me on the royal hunt? The first thing? They wanted to know about me and you.” He turned on me, and when he spoke his voice was cruel, mocking “Is it true that you’re tumbling the Sun Summoner? [...] I stay away to put distance between us, to stop the rumors. I probably shouldn’t even be in here now.”

I circled my knees with my arms, drawing them more tightly to my chest. My cheeks were burning. “Why didn’t you say something?” **Quiet anger rumbled in my chest. How could he not know what was in my heart? How did he not understand that I could not give a care as to what anyone else had to say? I needed him and that’s all that mattered, not what others were speculating about my--sex life.**

“What could I say? And when? I barely see you anymore.” “I thought you wanted to go.” “I wanted you to ask me to stay.”

My throat felt tight. I opened my mouth, ready to tell him that he wasn’t being fair, that I couldn’t have known. But was that the truth? Maybe I had really believe Mal was happier away from the Little Palace. Or maybe I’d just told myself that because it was easier with him gone, because it meant one less person watching and wanting something from me. **Another burden I wouldn’t have to bear. Another disappointment I would avoid. So then, why was there such an aching in my chest as he stood there, staring at me expectantly? What more did he want? Was I not enough? Was I too much?**

He raised his hands as if to plead his case, then dropped them helplessly. “I feel you slipping away from me, and I don’t know how to stop it.”

**His eyes bore into mine with a deep sadness I hadn’t let myself look at for too long these past few weeks. It stung. Maybe because he was right. Maybe because I feared all of this would become too much for him and he’d decide to finally leave for good. Maybe because it was easier to let go first rather than to be left behind like crumbs on a table... Or maybe because it reminded me of the sadness that was growing in my own heart every time he left, because despite his previous declaration in wanting to protect me, I’d felt him slipping away and I hadn’t known what to do about it.** Tears pricked my eyes. “We’ll find a way,” I said. “We’ll make more time--”

“It’s not just that. Ever since you put on that second amplifier, you’ve been different.” My hand strayed to the fetter. “When you split the dome, the way you talk about the firebird... I heard you speaking to Zoya the other day. She was scared, Alina. And you liked it.”

“Maybe I did,” I said, my anger rising. It felt so much better than the guilt or shame. **Times have changed. I’ve changed. I'm not the weak little orphan from Keramzin anymore. I may not be strong, but I am more now. Different. I had to be because of this power, because of all the people depending on it. Why couldn’t he see that?** “So what? You have no idea what she’s like, what this place has been like for me. The fear, the responsibility--”

“I know that. I know and I can see the toll it’s taking. But you chose this. You have a purpose. I don’t even know what I’m doing here anymore.” [...]

**The rage boiled inside, heat rose to my cheeks and ears. “Coward,” I spat as viciously as I could. Surprise swims in his eyes as he registers my verbal attack. Despite the outburst, a door inside me slams shuts. “I chose nothing.” I say coldly. He stiffens at my change of tone. “I did not choose to be born with this power. I did not choose to wage this war. I did not choose to go after the stag,” I twisted the knife.

A mix of hurt, desperation and fear contorts his face. I know he remembers. It was his idea to go after the stag--to get it before the Darkling could so I could be used against the Darkling in time, just as everyone here was planning on doing. He shakes his head in denial.** [...] “You came here for Ravka. For the firebird. To lead the Second Army.” He tapped the sun over his heart. “I came here for you. You’re my flag. You’re my nation. But that doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Do you realize this is the first time we’ve really been alone in weeks?” **Brief shock overcame me.**

The knowledge of that settled over us. The room seemed unnaturally quiet. Mal took a single tentative step toward me. Then he closed the space between us in two long strides. One hand slid around my waist, the other cupped my face. Gently, he tilted my mouth up to his. “Come back to me,” he said softly. **The tenderness in his voice pulled at my heart and thaws it. The door that slammed shut creaked open just a bit. This. This was what I yearned for--what I’ve been missing. Him. His love, his affection. No pride and no barriers to stand in our way. My body relaxed in response.** He drew me to him, but as his lips met mine, something flickered in the corner of my eye.

The Darkling was standing behind Mal. I stiffened. Mal pulled back. “What?” he said. “Nothing. I just...” I trailed off **as fear choked me. I didn’t know what to say.** The Darkling was still there. “Tell him you see me when he takes you in his arms,” **he taunts. His voice was too raw. Too real. It shattered me.** I squeezed my eyes shut. Mal dropped his hands and stepped away from me, his fingers curling into fists. “I guess that’s all I needed to know.” **Panic rose in my chest.** “Mal--” “You should have stopped me. All that time I was standing there, going on like a fool. If you didn’t want me, you should have just said so.” “Don’t feel too bad, tracker,” said the Darkling. **Each word sounded like shattering glass and it was hard for me to not cringe anymore than I already had.** “All men can be made fools.” “That’s not it--” I protested. “Is it Nikolai?” “What? No!” “Another otazt’sya, Alina?” the Darkling mocked. Mal shook his head in disgust. “I let him push me away. The meetings, the council sessions, the dinners. I let him edge me out. Just waiting, hoping that you’d miss me enough to tell them all to go to hell.” I swallowed, trying to block out the vision of the Darkling’s cold smile. **He knows. He knows I won’t say anything more. I’ll let Mal believe this lie rather than tell him what I truly see. He knows I’m too afraid to face that truth.**

[...] “Mal--” **Faltering before I truly begin. He’s slipping. I need to say something. Anything. But what? What can I say to make him stay? Pain strikes me as I realized there wasn’t a better option than nothing.** [...] “I don’t want to hear about [...] Ravka or the amplifiers or any of it.” He slashed his hand through the air. “I’m done.” He turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

“Wait!” I rushed after him and reached for his arm. **Desperation clung to me. I wanted to feel the warmth of his skin on mine. I hoped for it to drive away this coldness I felt inside.**

He turned around so fast, I almost careened into him. “Don’t, Alina.”

**My heart broke. He was already pushing me away. I can see that the distance was much more than the few inches between us.** “You don’t understand--” I said, **faltering again. How could I put it into words he wouldn’t judge me for? How could I think of him so often after all that he’s done? Why do I keep seeing the Darkling? Mal would be disgusted of me.**

“You flinched. Tell me you didn’t.” “It wasn’t because of you!” **I just wished he’d believe me.** Mal laughed harshly. “I know you haven’t had much experience. But I’ve kissed enough girls to know what that means. Don’t worry. It won’t happen again.” The words hit me like a slap. He slammed the door behind him.

I stood there, staring at the closed doors. I reached out and touched the bone handle. **I know you haven’t had much experience. But I’ve kissed enough girls to know what that means. His words ring in my head, cutting through me like a double-edged knife.** You can fix this, I told myself. You can make this right. But I just stood there, frozen. [..] I bite down hard on my lip to silence the sob that shook my chest. That’s good, I thought as the tears spilled over. That way the servants won’t hear. An ache had started between my ribs, a hard, bright shard of pain that lodged beneath my sternum, pressing tight against my heart.

**I turned and leaned against the door, gasping for breath while trying not to let the sobs erupt. I see him fully now, standing exactly where he was behind Mal, just before the bed. The moonlight shone against his tall silhouette and illuminated his broad shoulders, his strong arms. I can see his perfect face, a smile no longer on his lips. He had the mercy to not look smug. Instead, his face was stony and cold but there was something dark swirling in his eyes that I couldn’t make out. I pinned him in place with a look, offering nothing but anger, hatred, and resentment.

I brought my hands to my face, my fingers curling and slightly tugging at my roots. Angrily, I spoke, my voice becoming louder with each question. “Why do I keep seeing you? Why are you here? Why must you torture me like this?” I’m nearly begging him for answers. My hands slashed the air between us, frustrated. “Must you make me drive him away?” I can read his face clearly now. The problem with wanting is that it makes you weak.

He thaws and looks at me disgustingly lovingly. His eyes were soft as he wrapped his hands around one of mine then laid it over his heart. The other caressed my cheek. Gently, he answers,“Yes, I do because you must realize that in this world, there is only you and I. There is no one else like us: powerful. Your power is growing every day. As much as you love him, he could never love you without fearing you first. And as much as you want him to be there for you--to understand you, he simply can’t. He is otazt’sya. None of them will ever know you the way I do. None will understand the hunger for more power or the delight we feel when we use it. There is no one who will not fear you or judge you. Only I can understand you. Only I will not fear or judge you for what you are. You are Alina Starkov, my equal. We were made opposites, but are halves to the other. We were meant to be together.”

I try to yank my hand back from his chest, but I am frozen. I try again, but to no avail. His words shake me to my core. Knowingly, he says nothing and silently urges me on. How? How was he able to read me so well? How did he know so much about how I felt? Of all people, how could he know what I was going through when he wasn’t even here with me? Or real? Shame and resentment filled me. We wage a silent battle, looking into each other’s eyes, acutely aware of the other. We stayed like that for a long time, so long, my body relaxed and grew used to his presence.

I finally break the silence.“...Why won’t you just let me be?” My voice broke. He was only a figment of my mind playing tricks on me. He wasn’t real... so why did he look so real? Why did this feel so real? He was an itch that I couldn’t soothe. I keep scratching to try and ease the itching but it only makes things worse and now I’m bleeding.

“If I did that, you’d be alone.” His words felt like a bucket of cold water washing over me. Loneliness? Wasn’t that his fear? You don’t understand, my words to Mal echoed again. I’d meant he didn’t understand that I’d actually flinched from him because of the Darkling, not because I didn’t want him but had I meant something else too? Was what the Darkling was saying true? With this new found power of mine, was loneliness my fear now as well? My blood turned cold at that truth. Yes, it was... ‘Sankt Alina’, they’d whispered during prayers. They’d praised the Sun Summoner without cease but I saw the look in their eyes. Admiration was there on the surface but it was fear that had driven them--fear of me... of my power. I saw the way servants never stood too closely, the way they flinched at my every move. I saw the way peers did their best to dance around me with their words. People claimed to worship the Saint but I saw their pity. No one wants this kind of responsibility or this raw hunger for power in any life.

“Alone...” I whispered. “Is that what we are?” As soon as I let the words out, I felt it: alone. It kicked me in the gut and nearly choked the air from my lungs. Tears well in my eyes again and spilled over without cease. My body gives way to the weight in my heart and I sink to the floor. The harsh reality that no one would ever understand drowns me. The fear courses through like an unforgiving tsunami. Breathing became difficult. No one could ever understand me. No one except the Darkling.**

I didn’t hear the Darkling move; I only knew when he was beside me. His long fingers brushed the hair back from my neck and rested on the collar. When he kissed my cheek, his lips were cold, **and I welcomed it, begrudgingly. We were alone, together.**

[la-knight]

BOOKS I (RE)READ IN 2018: FURTHERMORE BY TAHEREH MAFI

"Alice Alexis Queensmeadow, 12, rates three things most important: Mother, who wouldn’t miss her; magic and color, which seem to elude her; and Father, who always loved her. Father disappeared from Ferenwood with only a ruler, almost three years ago. But she will have to travel through the mythical, dangerous land of Furthermore, where down can be up, paper is alive, and left can be both right and very, very wrong. Her only companion is Oliver whose own magic is based in lies and deceit. Alice must first find herself—and hold fast to the magic of love in the face of loss." "Red was ruby, green was fluorescent, yellow was simply incandescent. Color was life. Color was everything. Color, you see, was the universal sign of magic." "Love, it turned out, could both hurt and heal." "Narrow-mindedness will only get you as far as Nowhere, and once you're there, you're lost forever.” "Alice was an odd girl, even for Ferenwood, where the sun occasionally rained and the colors were brighter than usual and magic was as common as a frowning parent." "Making magic is far more interesting than making sense." So I actually read this book a few months ago and then recently reread it via audio so I could remember all the details for this review. I was first introduced to Tahereh Mafi’s work through her book Shatter Me, her debut novel. Ironically, it wasn’t through any of the ways I normally hear about books - Booktube, Goodreads, my best friend, Booklr - but from my husband’s aunt. She runs - or used to run, not sure if she’s still doing it - a book review blog. And she posted a review of Shatter Me and I was like, “What a weird, interesting writing style, lemme check this out.” At this point the entire Shatter Me Trilogy plus novellas had been published and I devoured all of them (still need to review those, too). So when I heard Tahereh Mafi was writing a middle grade book, I got super excited! Especially because this was during a time when I was too stressed out to read any YA, since most of the YA I like involves having to save the world and all the stress that entails. I need to lay out some trigger warnings real quick: the main character, Alice? Her mom is incredibly abusive, both emotionally and physically. It’s treated as not such a big deal in the book, which is honestly the story’s only real flaw, but it’s bad. It took me seven tries and resorting to an audiobook (and even with a fantastic narrator, that short audiobook took me almost a month to get through) because the abuse was so bad. So:

TRIGGER WARNING: THIS BOOK CONTAINS EMOTIONAL AND PHYSICAL ABUSE OF A CHILD BY THEIR PARENT

Let’s get started, yo! First of all, the setting. OMG. See, I love tthis thing called Victorian fairy tales, which is something you can find in books like Mary Poppins - these super fantastical bits of whimsy that just warm your heart and make you grin because they’re so creative and fun. In the Mary Poppins books, you can jump into chalk drawings and go to a circus amidst the stars and make friends with a woman who sells living candy-cane horses. In Catherynne Valente’s Fairyland series, there are shadow balls and talking phonographs. And in Furthermore, there’s light raining down from the sky in literal drops, sticks of magic you use like money, and forests full of invisible berries. The way the world is put together and described, so full of color and imagination, is awesome and beautiful and I could picture it perfectly. It reminded me in all the best ways of books like The Phantom Tollbooth (one of my favorites). But I wouldn’t want to live there, because Ferenwood is full of colorism and ick. Alice, the female lead, is an albino in a world where color is important and the darker you are, the more magical you’re considered to be. So Alice gets treated like garbage. 

Also I think Alice may be autistic, but I don’t know if she’s deliberately coded autistic or if Tahereh Mafi did it by accident while trying to make Alice eccentric, but she comes across as autistic. I’ve actually begun to pay more attention to that sort of the thing in recent years, being autistic myself, and I see it a lot - authors giving their characters autistic characteristics, often without meaning to. I just touch on it here because Alice is already treated badly for being albino, but she’s also considered a freak because of the way she behaves - like an autistic preteen. And I wonder if Tahereh Mafi did that on purpose as a sort of commentary or not, because while Alice is treated badly by the people of Ferenwood for her behavior, the Narrator (who is an actual character in the story; love when that happens) always sides with Alice in this regard. The storyline is sweet and I love it. Alice tries to compete in the magical testing all the preteens do on their twelfth birthday, and so she dances. And her dancing is magical but it’s not Magical, you know? So she fails the test. Well, turns out a boy who passed the test the year before, Oliver (the brat), needs Alice’s help fulfilling a quest - rescuing Alice’s missing dad. So they go on a quest together, although Alice hates Oliver (and rightly so, he’s rude). They go to a dozen different and cool places, all of which are dangerous and all of which are different. I wish we could’ve spent more time in those places but I understand why we didn’t. The only annoying thing is there’s an origami fox on the cover but it only pops up in one of the worlds for like two pages and then it’s gone and I thought we could spend more time both in that world and with that creature since it ended up on the cover. But alas, not. I understand why - middle grade is often cursed to be short, especially if it’s the author’s first MG novel ever. Once you get big and bad like Rick Riordan you can start tossing out gihugic tomes like Son of Neptune or Blood of Olympus on the regular. Oliver’s reason for needing Alice was one I didn’t see coming, nor was her magical talent - a talent they hint at throughout the book but never explain until near the end, at the perfect moment. I thought it was an interesting commentary on how young girls perceive themselves, that Alice hates this marvelous, amazing talent she has of bringing color into the world from nothing...because she can’t use it to change how she looks. Society has trained her already, by the age of twelve, to discount something incredible about herself because she can’t use it to make herself into what society wants her to be. That’s pretty impressive for a book this short. I loved some of the more deliberate messages in the work - the thing I mentioned about society’s pressures on young girls, and also that it’s okay to tell boys to screw off if they’re mean to you, and to have hope and to look for second chances (Alice thinks she only has one chance to pass the test and believes her life is over when she fails, only to find out she can try again the next year). I love all of that, and the lyrical and whimsical quality of the prose, and the world building is so creative and also makes me a bit hungry (people eat magic in this book, among other things; I wonder what it tastes like). Now...let’s talk about the abuse. That’s my biggest issue with the book. Alice’s mother is a total bitch. And not in a cool, kickass way like the lady in the show Empire. She’s vicious, she’s cruel, and she’s abusive. Alice knows - and the Narrator confirms - that she turned bad when her husband went missing, and apparently the worry for him and the strain of raising four kids on her own is making her hard and sad, but I don’t give a shit. I was hoping Tahereh Mafi would’ve gone all Hansel and Gretel on this lady and when Alice comes home with her dad, the wife’s dead or something. She beats Alice (at one point she beat Alice for chasing a boy out of the place where she was sleeping, even though he kept staring at her in her sleeping clothes, because apparently the boy - Oliver - had the right to break into their barn at 3AM and ogle Alice???), she verbally abuses Alice, she sends her to bed regularly without dinner, is constantly criticizing, won’t hug her or kiss her, and - this one really got me, for some reason - forces her to do illegal things. Those invisible berries I mentioned? Alice can find them and bring back whole baskets because of her magical gift, and so her mom sends her out to pick them all the time. If she brings home enough, her mom smiles. If she doesn’t, her mom yells and calls her names and sometimes beats her. Guess what? Picking those berries is illegal. We don’t find this out until much later in the book, but it is. The thing I didn’t like about the berries is that Oliver, who’s thirteen, is less concerned about Alice’s mother beating her for not picking enough contraband berries and instead focuses on how her ability to find the berries in the first place means Alice has really impressive magic. NOBODY seems to care how much Alice is being abused, not even the Narrator. The Narrator sympathizes with Alice’s hurt feelings and despair over her missing Father, but it’s never objectively stated that her mom is abusing her AND SHE IS. Yeah, her mom is sooo glad to have her back after Alice almost dies on her trip with Oliver, but so what? My roommate’s mom is so abusive that my roommate’s clergy leaders, doctors, and psychological therapist all said my roommate needed to cut ties with said mom, even though my roommate’s mom has also exhibited the same kind of “oh baby I’m so sorry, I love you so much” bullshit. That’s what abusers do. So I hate Alice’s mom. She literally makes her daughter feel like if she doesn’t risk her life numerous times AND bring her father back, there is no chance her mother will ever love her. And if she pulls that stuff off (which she does), then MAYBE her mother will love her. Nuh-uh. Nope. Hate that bitch. Other than that, I really loved this book. The characters felt real (Alice is me, but without my anger), Even the ones I didn’t like were still REAL, and well-drawn. The world building and word choice is fantastic. Basically, if you can get past the evil mom, read this book. World Building: 1 star Realism: 1 star Word Choice: 1 star Plot: 1 star Characterization: 1 star - ¼ star because Oliver Newbanks is an obnoxious little creep - 1 star because the mom is AN ABUSIVE EVIL BITCH - ¼ star because NOBODY DOES ANYTHING ABOUT THAT +½ star because Alice is amazing and has a genius brain and I love her Total score: 4/5 stars Would I Buy It: Yes! I own it and loved it enough I got the sequel for Christmas (in...2017...I've been sitting on this review for months...)! Would I Recommend: yes, but with trigger warnings. Again, highly abusive evil bitch mom who somehow doesn’t die.

[maternalcube]

i did an art summary so now im doing a fic summary. i was tagged by @jamthedingus also!! ive never done one of these before!! lets go!!!

Rest (13106)

Keith & Lance's Island Adventure (20631)

Atlantis (10014 words)

The Way to a Man’s Heart (6858 words)

nobody's business (2096 words)

leave, and take (557 words)

dead girl walking (1661 words)

the course of fate (1039 words)

who ya gonna call (465 words)

come here often? (806 words)

til kingdom come (1950 words)

stars in the sky (pt 2) (5404 words)

a song of falling (630 words)

Eyes to the Sky (3683 words)

Feet on the Ground (4050 words)

Divergence (6669 words)

homecoming (1426 words)

Window of Opportunity (11144 words)

along that wilderness of glass (3801 words)

string theory (2327 words)

Katt Week (1062 words)

The Pining-Plant (3860 words)

at the end of many worlds (21684 words)

you're my home (19646 words)

Believe Me (3177 words)

Starchild (3568 words)

Summer Heat (2285 words)

third time's the charm (5349 words)

Blackbird (59546 words)

The Sixth Planet (9444 words)

all the infinite realities (1197 words)

Total Fics: 31! (plus one i posted anonymously lmao) Total Words: 229999! (except parts of string theory and the sixth planet were actually posted last year... but still, what a number)

more under the cut!

Ship/character breakdown: i didnt filter out my prompt collection or abandoned wips here so /shrug Ship breakdown:

klance - 6 sheith - 5 shance - 5 katt - 4 heith - 3 pallura - 2 and one each of plance, kallura, allurance, shatt, shkatt, kidge, kidgance, and shunk. and keiths parents lol. let it never be said i am not a multishipper.

and i know gen isnt a ship but it tied with klance at 6 (plus whatevers in the prompt collection) which was a surprise

Character breakdown: man if theres a way to get ao3 to show me ALL the stats, i dont know it. but.

keith - 25 (shocker) shiro - 23 lance - 21 pidge - 17 hunk - 16 allura - 12 matt - 12 and then coran and sam are at 4, and zarkon ats 3 and presumably many others are at 3 or less

Characters that had the main focus: well ~9 were from keiths pov, and ~5 each from shiro and lances povs. i think i also had ~5 from multiple points of view. its safe to say that keith has my heart tho lol

Specifics:

Best/worst title? Best title: i still like “at the end of many worlds.” i weirdly still like “Blackbird” too even if it has nothing to do with anything... Worst title: “Rest.” :/ also like all of the abandoned wips bc i didnt care. and “Keith & Lance's Island Adventure.″ some of my zine fic titles were also... bad. im bad at titles.

Best/worst first line?

Best: Keith & Lance's Island Adventure. ok the title is bad but this line? this really sets the tone for whole fic. you know what youre getting yourself into here.

When Pidge invited Keith to a fully-funded graduation party aboard the Holt family boat (“the smaller one, anyway,” she’d said), this is not exactly what he'd pictured: three of them standing on a wobbly dock, packed bags at their feet, sky cloudy and gray, while the Holt siblings stand on a little ledge off the back of the boat and deny entry.

Worst: ive got two for this lol

at the end of many worlds: even i have to read this a couple times to figure out what i was trying to say. at least you know youre in for pain...

Keith’s mother shows up to interrupt movie night often enough that, this time, Keith almost doesn’t realize anything’s wrong. Almost, because she’s silhouetted by the movie, but she’s clutching her arm and panting for breath, and in the thin edge of light around her he sees a wet and vibrant red.

Divergence: because all your friends being dead is EXACTLY like losing at dodgeball. yeah, theres a reason i abandoned this one.

Hunk always hated playing dodgeball. Not because he was bad at it--though he was--but because he always ended up the last one standing, and therefore the only target for the entire other team. It was due to a tendency to hang unnoticed in the back, he knew, but that didn't change the sickening, empty feeling of looking around and realizing there's no one left but him, and there's no way he can win. Only wait for the inevitable.

This, Hunk decides, is a lot like that, only, like, a billion times worse.

Best/worst last line?

Best: The Pining-Plant. there are a few others that were cute too but this one is also good out of context so

And then the pod swishes open and he's scrambling to catch Pidge as she stumbles out. She clings to his arms to steady herself and his heart swells.

"Falling for me again, huh?" he asks, and she groans loudly.

"Let me go, I'm getting back in the pod," she says, and he laughs. He doesn't let go, and neither does she.

Worst: if im bad at titles, im worse at endings. most are bad. i suspect the ending to “Rest” is terrible but i cant bring myself to even open that shit again so: Believe Me. if weather were a recurring theme in this fic, itd be fine, but as is its just... a weird note to end the fic on lmao

Hunk rocks back on his heels. "We aren't counting this as our official first date, right?"

"I dunno," Keith says, and now he smiles at the rain instead of frowning. It shows no sign of easing up, but whatever—they're soaked anyway. "This seems pretty good to me."

“...All right.” If nothing else, it’ll make a good story. And, Hunk had to admit—he’s pretty happy with how it’s turned out, rain and all.

But next time, he's double-checking the forecast, just in case.

General questions:

Looking back, did you write more fics than you thought you would this year, less than you thought, or about what you predicted?

more than i expected! considering ive been in grad school all year!! i wrote about the same amount wordcount-wise in 2017 which i spent only half in school so. idk how i managed it.

What pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted last year?

the anonymous fic was a surprise but im not gonna talk about that lol. otherwise... nah, its all been my usual stuff.

What’s your favorite story this year? Not the most popular, but the one that makes you the happiest.

blackbird, probably. i like working on that one. summer heat was also fun, id sort of forgotten about it bc it was a zine fic but coming back to it, i really liked it. likewise with third time’s the charm. and i like t6p a lot even if i kinda hate drawing for it :’)

Okay, NOW your most popular story.

depends on your metric. window of opportunity has the most kudos, keith and lance’s island adventure has the most hits, and t6p has the most comments and subscriptions. 

Story most underappreciated by the universe?

AT THE END OF MANY WORLDS. oh man i killed myself over that fic. it was important to me. but i think the mcd scared everyone off :’)

Story that could have been better?

i realize “all of them” is kind of a cop out answer but like

Sexiest story?

i have written nothing sexy, ever, in my whole life

Saddest story?

i mean, ateomw. considering all the death. blackbird def has its moments too.

Most fun?

i feel like i answered this in the favorite story q lmao. you’re my home also gets a shoutout, that thing was,, super self-indulgent lmao. and id be lying if i said i didnt have fun with parts of ateomw, even if its mostly sad.

Story with single sweetest moment?

man i write a lot of fluff but so much of you’re my home is just tooth-rotting. heres part of the proposal scene lmao

"Lance!" Keith yelps, barely rescuing the ring from falling into the sand with them. Lance pushes himself up on his arms, silhouetted by the sun and glowing with it.

"Really?" he asks breathlessly.

"Yeah," Keith says, and maybe he should've prepared something to say, that's a thing people do, right? Hell, he's winging it. "I know we can't stay here on Earth forever, 'cause we're paladins, and there's still stuff out there we gotta do. And I know you probably want to stay because this is your home—but you're my home, and if we gotta go, at least you'll have me, good or bad." He grins crookedly. "Or rocket science. Whatever happens, I'll be there."

Hardest story to write?

well t6p gets a shoutout, but its not the writing thats the hard part for that. uhhh ive struggled with parts of blackbird. i remember k&l’s island adventure giving me a LOT of trouble, i think i posted late lol

Easiest/most fun story to write?

anything short uhhh for all the infinite realities, i kind of just sat down the other day (actually i was in bed but) and was like “im gonna write this” and then in the morning i just sat down and wrote it in one go. i dunno if id call it fun, but it was easy. t6p is super fun to write but, as mentioned, drawing it sucks.

Did any stories shift your perceptions of the characters?

no... my perceptions probably have shifted but not due to anything i wrote in particular. i did talk myself into liking allurance with a prompt fill, though, but im not sure that was 2018...

Most overdue story?

all the infinite realities lmao. at the end of many worlds needed that happy ending. and another shoutout to t6p, because thats been going on over a year and im still nowhere.

Did you take any writing risks this year? What did you learn from them?

does posting my abandoned wips count? ive still got some of those hanging around... blackbird was a bit of a risk bc my last longfic was written while i was unemployed and out of school, so like i had the time for it, and now i kinda dont. still chugging tho. ateomw b/c of all the death but it turns out i really like writing whump woops. and writing any sort of kissing always feels like a risk bc i suck at it but im getting better lol... i hope...

What are your fic writing goals for next year?

write more! finish things! do more sheith! i really want to work on this sheith longfic i came up with the other day... but i want to get blackbird over with first.

Tagging: eh! do it if you want to!