#that standing flat-footed on the ground is technically stretching for me

[portraitoftheoddity]

[pokes in here] y'ello! was wonderin if you had any suggestions on how to strenghten/stretch calves before hikin... im startin it up again and keep getting hurty outside of calves :(

A good, simple exercise my Physical Therapist gave me to build calf strength is to stand on a stair or step stool with the balls of your feet on the step, and your heels over open air. Dip yourself down, then push yourself up on the balls of your feet and repeat until your calves really start to burn. (You can technically do this on flat ground, but the stair lets you go deeper for a more effective raise). Take a short break, then do another set, and repeat for 3 sets. I like having something to reach out to balance myself such as a railing or chair back if I need it so I don't fall over, but try not to lean on it for weight -- building your balance is good!

To work different areas of your half muscles, you can angle your feet inward and outward at a 45º angle, though this does make the balance component much more challenging.

If you have hills near where you live, going for regular walks up and down a hill, or even repeatedly running up and down stairs will also help build strength and maintain it between hikes.

A good calf stretch is to go up to a wall (or tree if you're feeling tightness in your calves while outdoors on a hike), place your heel on the ground and your toes on the wall/tree, and slowly lean your weight in and forward. This will give you a really nice calf stretch, and is good to do before and after activity, or during if you feel a cramp coming on!

If you're experiencing cramping in your calves, that's frequently caused by dehydration and electrolyte imbalances from sweating a lot. Bring salty snacks, gatorade, and plenty of water when you hike! I carry electrolyte salt stick chews for when I'm hiking in summer (they also cut down on my migraines from heat/exertion).

Also, make sure you have boots that are supporting your foot appropriately! Good shoes and support to your foot affects everything from your feet upwards, sometimes in weird ways.

All that being said, I would mention your pain to your doctor during your next appointment, or reach out to them before then if the pain doesn't improve with stretching and exercise. There could be something else going on, such as tendonitis, or an issue that might require orthopedic inserts, etc., and they'll be able to offer much better advice than a rando on the internet!

Good luck!

[ninethecat]

After about 8 months of trying to figure out what is going on with my legs, I finally had my first physical therapy appointment today. I'm so thankful I managed to get a therapist that clearly listens to me about the things I've been dealing with and actually takes it seriously.

Also this was the most thorough exam I've had this entire time. He pointed out things I've never noticed that really put this into perspective for me.

On one hand, I don't think it's ever a great thing for a physical therapist to tell you that you have the tightest hamstrings they've seen in years..

But on the bright side I definitely feel like we have a much better understanding of what's actually going on, and a plan to help things going forward.

[tonesplash]

its thanksgiving get nasty (18+)

pairing: edward cullen x reader

summary: you get bored at thanksgiving dinner. unfortunately for edward you wore sandals

warnings: smut,brief footjob, thanksgiving dinner, edward kind of chokes on corn, reader doesn’t like their family, mild injury, fingering, innappropriate use of vampire speed, technically exhibitionism and public sex?? bad dirty talk, and cousin-shaming, reader is afab and might be described as female im not sure

a/n: i wrote this in 24 hours so any sloppiness is not my fault

masterlist

(c/n)= cousins name

When you told him thanksgiving with your family would be boring, you’d meant it’d be for him, looking forward to his reaction to being on the receiving end of your bloodlines ridiculousness while you’d get dinner and a show. But, as it turns out, your family just so happens to get along with Edward much better than they do with you.

The seating situation is a little unconventional, since because your boyfriend-snatching cousin stole the open seat next to Edward before you even made it back from the bathroom, leaving your only viable option directly opposite of him. On the bright side, you had the option of kicking his leg when he’d said something to embarrass you.

 Bless his soul, he’d done his best to bring you into the conversation but apparently, anything you had to say about your relationship had been relayed verbatim to the family group chat you weren't even in by your mother. So, after the third time you’re talked over by the aforementioned horny cousin or some other nosy relative on you’re bored out of your mind.

Everyone had gotten over your piss poor table manners years ago, or were just completely ignoring you at this point because there were no protests when they’d brought the turkey out and you’d stayed slumped low in your seat like a child in church.

Twitter had stopped refreshing ten minutes ago, and when you finally resigned yourself to tuning back into the conversation, your mother was showing Edward your baby pictures again. Idly swinging one bare foot under the table, your bare toe grazes the drape of his dress slacks under the table when you get an idea.

 You’d lost a sandal earlier after Edward had pinned it under his shoe in a vain attempt to stop your pinching and dirtying of his slacks with your filthy soles. You scoot a little further forward in your seat to reach out and press your arch flat against his shin.

Edward doesn’t visibly react, just shifts his leg away, leaving yours to slip to the floor until you reach up again to plant your heel on the seat of the chair. The conversation lulls for a moment as everyone says grace, and he uses the opportunity to grab your ankle and send you a warning glare over the top of your phone.

You meet his gaze and boorishly eat a spoon of mashed potatoes, shrugging as if he couldn’t read in your mind exactly what you were about to do. 

Your cousin asks about his mom car again and when you roll your eyes Edward flicks the outside of your fibula, sure to bruise, and you crinkle your nose, pinching his marble thigh between your toes as best you can through the material.

“Well my father thought it was necessary for my siblings and I to-” 

While he talks, he's soothing the spot he flicked, playing in the stubble leftover from your shoddy shave job this morning, and the absent affection gives you the final motivation to further push your luck. You tease the seam of his left leg with the very tips of your toes, coaxing the unnatural heat of the venom to build in the crotch of his pants, the coolness of the rest of him making it seem even hotter in comparison.

He inhales on a forkful of corn, almost taking it down the wrong pipe, and you fight a smile around the bowl of the spoon as he flawlessly recovers and finishes the thought. You idly wonder if you could be that smooth someday. For now, you press further, pressing a toe against the seam over his cock, stroking up and down as slowly and consistently as you can while stretched under a table because who would’ve thought that footjobs are kind of an athletic feat. 

Edward taps insistently at your leg, harder than he normally would, and you have to hold back a laugh at the idea of him splitting the table because he can’t take a little footsie action. You press forward again, arch encompassing his hardness through the fabric, toes curling against his pubic bone when-

“Ho-oly shit!” Searing pain shoots up from your ankle, and you double over, using everything in you not to shout, Edwards dawning mortification going unnoticed as everyone at the table turns to you at your unexpected outburst.  

“(Y/n)?” Your mother doesn’t seem that happy to have dinner interrupted, and you clutch your stomach as a quick cover.

“Uh, my bad.” You snicker nervously at the sudden attention, bravado gone. Your face feels red-hot. “I actually need to use the bathroom, I think,” you lick your lips and slide out of your chair. “Lady problems.”

The table erupts in a cacophony of gags and groans as the notion of a menstrual cycle is brought up in casual conversation, and it gives you the perfect cover to retreat to the upstairs bathroom. It takes you a minute to make it up the stairs without causing a scene, and just as soon as you close and lock the door behind you and settle down to weep in peace, he’s there, jiggling the doorknob like it’s a drug bust.

“Let me in.”

You’re apparently taking too long because as soon as your injured foot touches the floor, he forces the lock and slips in, shutting the door a little too fast to pass as human. 

“Jesus! Edward, are you trying to lose our deposit?” You lean around him to check for a handprint but he doesn’t respond, wordlessly setting you up on the counter, kneeling to examine your injured ankle, cool fingers soothing to the sore skin. You sit in silence, idly swinging your other leg to distract yourself.

“How'd you make it out?” You can't imagine they’d let the guest of honor go so easily.

“You forgot your bag, I told them I’d just bringing it up to you.” He places your bag next to you as evidence. “Maybe you should start carrying menstrual products for when you actually need them.”

Of course, he breaks your foot and wants to lecture you on responsible uterus care. Edward sighs, taking your foot with the gentlest touch and whispering a kiss into the skin. “It’s only a sprain, but I’m still sorry.” 

“S’Okay.” Your face burns, not expecting his guilt. “Serves me right, huh?” You titter, poking his side with your uninjured foot. He swipes it up before you can start again, halfheartedly laughing with you. 

“Let me wrap it before you get any more ideas.” You hand him the compression wrap from the medicine cabinet, and he gets to work. The wince you give at the pressure is more reflex than anything, but the anxious expression on his face tells you he wasn't going to let this go easily. 

“Y’know…” You poke at him again. The playful contempt in his golden eyes gives you the go-ahead to make your case. “If you’re really feeling torn up about it, seeing you wow my family like that got me a little riled up.”

“Really.” Edward kisses the secured wrapping and releases you, standing to frame you against the counter.

“I’m serious, impressing them isn’t easy, (C/n) is probably shaving in the guest room to steal you from me right now, just thinking about it has got me a little hot under the collar.” You run your hands over his back and through his hair, nuzzling into the crook of his throat.

“You’re laying it on pretty thick, don’t you think?” His hands smooth over your exposed thighs sending a shiver up your spine. You think you've got him, but he's such a tease sometimes you can never really be sure.

“Depends. Is it working?” You still, bracing for some line about ‘responsibility’ and ‘your family waiting for you.’

But then his hands are under your skirt, hooking into the sides of your underwear and pulling them down your thighs, leaving them to free-fall to your feet. You clutch his auburn hair in your fingers at the shock of open-air against your cunt.

“Do you think I could let you go back to that table smelling like this?” His sweet breath washes against your ear as he huffs a soft laugh. “I’d rather not go downstairs and pretend to care about football when I know you’re here, hot and ready for me.”

You can’t resist him any longer, pulling him close and kissing him with the desperation of a woman who needs to be back downstairs before dessert. His thumb teases over your cunt at first, swirling over your swelling clit and teasing your hole before he finds a focus, using the thumb of his free hand to hold your hood back as his slicked fingers grind the bud into a frenzy while he sucks your tongue into his mouth.

It’s all you can do to hold your breath while he touches you, cool fingers building a knot in your belly, smooth and steady as they batter you up into a frenzy. He adjusts his hand, his ring finger pressing into you and bringing a low ache from rushed preparation, but you welcome it, thighs shaking with the effort to stay open for him as your mouth falls open in a shaky gasp. Edward breaks the kiss to let you breathe , seemingly unbothered until- 

“(C/n) is coming.” 

“Wha-” A particularly deep stroke has you biting your lip as you struggle to concentrate. “What the fuck does she want?”

“She’s going to ask you where I am.” His expression doesn’t match his words, still completely concentrated on ruining you despite the obvious issue.

“And what am I supposed to tell her?!” You hiss back right as she reaches the door. His mouth closes over your pulse point and you don't think you've clenched that hard before in your life.

“Hey (Y/n)? Have you seen Edward?” Her voice is enough of a mood killer that you have to shove your face into his throat to ground yourself in the moment. He adds a second finger, gaining speed, and you pray and hope to any god listening to this that she can't hear the squelches through the door.

“N-no.” You rack your mind for an excuse. His scent is making it harder to concentrate. “I think he went out for a smoke?” Nice one.

“Really? I didn't smell anything on him...” If all your blood flow hadn't been centralized below the waist at this point you'd’ve asked how the hell she knows what he smells like. He's fully abandoned your clit now, leaving it to pulse in the open air while three of his fingers push and pull at your pelvic floor.

“That's cause he unh-” You slap a hand over your mouth to stop the moan before it can be recognized for what it is.“-he vapes!” Edward pulls back from your throat to look at you incredulously, but it's a little hard to be ashamed when he's nearly wrist deep inside you.

“Oh… Well, let him know if you see him that they’re playing charades and I need a partner. You know how it is.”

You forget to reply, too enthralled watching him spit onto his unoccupied fingers and mash the coolness against your clit, causing you to nearly spasm off the counter, losing the sensation as he silently laughs at having to hold you steady. She seemed to have taken your silence as an admission, as you can hear the door at the stoop of the stairs swinging shut after her. Thank God.

“Rub your spot, Sweet, come on, we have to be quick.” He kisses your temple and laughs a bit maniacally at the little whimper that escapes when you bring a hand down to your clit. “Surprisingly, she’s having trouble picturing me in a vape shop.”

You whine around a bitten lip, too far gone to listen to his ribbing. You’re building up to overstimulation with the sloppy way you’re rubbing yourself, and he must feel it too, because in the next second, his fingers are vibrating.

“Come on, (Y/n), don't you want to finish up here and mop the floor with them?” You hadn’t even realized how hazy your vision had gotten until he grabs your chin and levels your lidded eyes with his and says your name again. You nod sluggishly for him, not hearing a word. He laughs again, smiles wide. His teeth are pretty. 

“If you cum right now;” The buzzing grows stronger, your free arm spasming under you as you support yourself. “I’ll rub you raw after on the ride home. You just need to come right now and win charades with me.” 

The buzzing inside grows too strong, and your vision goes white, pulsing in long pulls around his fingers as hot waves of sensation spread from your head to your toes.

Edward kisses you, soft and slow, swallowing any whimpers tempted to escape as you come down, abandoning the counter to clutch his sleeve as the twitching reduces to a tremor.

“Oh my god.“ You laugh, planting your face into his collar as you catch your breath. “I can't believe you used charades to make me come, I'm never gonna forgive you.” 

“I heard the top prize is a ten dollar gift card to…” He squints and checks again. “The Google Play Store.”

“Ew, what could you even do with tha-”

“(Y/N) come help with plates!” Your mother shouts up the stairwell, totally fucking up any release you just had.

“I guess I should run down to the corner store;” Edward smiles, helping you to stand on wobbly legs and smoothing your skirt down. “Don't want to blow your cover.” 

“(Y/N)! Plates!”

“Oh my god;” Your eyes may never return from the back of your skull. “Meet you downstairs?”

He kisses you sweetly one last time, pulling you close and wiping the sheen of sweat off of your face.

“Downstairs.”

With that, he heaves himself out of the narrow sill, and you busy yourself cleaning up as fast as you can.

You just catch him hopping off the roof, and coming around to the front yard. He'll hear you no matter the volume, but you still shout the warning;

“Stay away from my cousin!” 

[evarcana]

I See the Moon

Oh when you are looking at the sun

Ev wears some very impractical shoes and learns that she does not know the city quite as well as she thought.

characters: the usual cast of Ev and consul Valerius

words: 2,4k

warnings: none!

notes: I wanted to write something short and sweet to act as a placeholder between the previous part and what is coming next, but I think I got a bit too emotionally attached in the process. The title is from “Be the One” by Dua Lipa and I will leave it open for interpretations.

Darkness strikes Ev’s eyes as she steps out of the theatre doors and for a moment she is completely lost in time and space, staring at her surroundings as if seeing everything for the first time - the disorientation which comes with returning to reality after the magic of the theatre wears off.

A few myopic street lanterns glimmer faintly and the moon, pitched extraordinarily high, is covered by the ragged organza of thin clouds and barely available to light the streets below. Passing groups of people turn into clusters of dark silhouettes, and Ev watches the collars being lifted and scarfs wrapped tighter, as the theatregoers hide themselves from the wind moist with the cool evening dew and disappear into the shadows, leaving only trails of soft footsteps and animated chatter behind them. It is this time of the year when night falls suddenly and way quicker than anyone anticipates.

The impatient tug on Ev’s arm cuts through the hazy darkness. “Are you going to let me leave or what?!” Valerius sounds desperate in his exasperation.

“Just a moment and you are free.” Still watching the dark street, Ev reaches for her bag and throws a pair of flat pointy mules decorated with golden beads and tassels on the ground in front of her. Using Valerius’s arm for support, she lifts one leg to untie the ribbons on her ankle. Somebody behind them helpfully holds the theatre door open, letting the light out, and they both stare at Ev’s bright red toenails as she steps out of her shoes. Ev frowns to herself and curls her toes - it is hard to be an intimidating opponent when you wear a cute sparkly little ring on your fourth toe, when she feels another tug and catches her breath in surprise, losing her balance. The arm slips from under her hand causing her to immediately crash into Valerius. Well, no chance of looking like a menace now. At least Valerius can’t run away, she thinks, because her entire face is smashed into his chest. “So impatient,” Ev rolls her eyes and tucks her heels in the bag.

Valerius hurries to brush off something invisible from his coat and then looks down at Ev’s feet with cynical interest, “Going on a hike?”

She contemplates telling that it took her a very detoured walk from the palace and four nervous circles around the Town Square to finally burn all that destructive energy her body generated in their morning argument, and that right now she is dying to rub her sore ankles, but decides against it. After all, wounded animals are easy prey. “Looks like it,” Ev says, shifting her weight from one foot to another. She scans the road once again and clicks her tongue. There is a carriage pulling away, two people inside, and another one rolling on towards the theatre, the coachman already waving to somebody, but most of the theatre crowd chooses to walk. They all must be locals, or heading to the closest tavern, Ev realises.

“Don’t tell me, -” Valerius’s voice says and Ev looks up, surprised that he is still standing there, “you don’t have a carriage because you were hoping to find a date to continue the night. You shall forgive me for ruining this little plan of yours.” His words are dripping with distaste.

She realises that Valerius must have been following her eyeline. The nervous lough blasts out of her but she manages to catch it and it turns to sound like a cough. A lucky guess on his part? Or did he take inspiration from his own plans? Ev refuses to think about the whole theatre fiasco. The sinking feeling in her chest has started and she puts her hands on her hips in annoyance. “I thought there would be carriages waiting,” she manages to say.

Valerius arches his brow in response, “...how pathetic.” Ev gives him her best withering look and turns away.

The last carriage departs with the din of wheels hitting the worn edges of the stones. Valerius’s eyes are still set on Ev’s face and his brow begins to crease slowly. He is clearly deliberating something but Ev cannot see it. She is watching clouds moving slowly across the moon. “Where do you live?”, he finally asks.

“By the Town Square,” Ev responds automatically, squinting at the sky above her.

“Not in the Heart District?” It sounds like a genuine question at first but the edge of his mouth lifts in a wry grin. “Didn’t you say I wasn’t the only one with the money here?”

“Too close to you,” she smirks back, “the urge of leaving a dead fish by your gate at least weekly would be -,” she leans in closer, turning her voice into syrupy sweet hush, “- irresistible”. This is getting weird. “Anyway,” Ev hurriedly looks behind her shoulder at the theatre doors, “I think it is going to rain later. Have a good night,” the words come in a flat orderly row, she is already concerned with something else, “I will see whether the theatre director can fetch me a carriage.”

“My carriage is waiting down the road.”

“Mm good,” Ev mutters to herself but then the realisation hits and she turns to the consul, eyes wide. “Are you offering me a lift home?” A ‘thank you’ sign lights inside her head but she crashes it with a wave of suspicion. It’s Valerius out of all people. He has no reason to offer her a ride in his carriage besides plotting to murder her and then ditch the body somewhere in the forest. Ev gives him a hard stare.

Valerius breaks the staring game first - his eyes flash with the new unidentified emotion before he regains his usual dismissive look. “Not home,” he snorts, “to the Town Square,this should suffice for a favour.”

“No no, hold on,” Ev raises her hand in protest. “I haven’t asked you anything yet, and hospitality is not a favour.”

“What hospitality are you talking about?”

“You repeat that it is your city all the time! Technically, I am still a guest.” Inside her head Ev is thanking all the available gods for her ability to just keep talking, regardless of whether it makes sense or not, because she definitely has not processed what happened yet.

“Yes, well, just keep your mouth shut,” Valerius says and walks off without a backward glance, his back soon disappearing in the darkness of the narrow lane.

Ev’s eyes follow his path and then she throws another look at the theatre building. The light in one of its rounded windows goes down. She watches the emptying street and feels the goose bumps scatter her forearms. The air is beginning to chill. She looks down at her feet. Ev decides that the consul is the kind of man who would rather pay somebody if he wanted to get rid of her than being involved himself and for the second time this evening she rushes after Valerius. This is so weird.

She is about to call him out to slow down because the sound of duck feet that her ‘emergency’ shoes make is getting on her nerves when she hears a loud thud and a curse. In the darkness of the path Ev is not sure how close Valerius is to her but she knows that he stumbled and it makes her giggle in delight. She stretches her hand out glancing at the strips of warm candlelight coming from the gaps in the window shutters and the ivory glare of the moon. A small globe of light, the size of a plum, forms above her hand. Its light is delicate and warm, as if filtered through the frosted glass, but bright enough to fill the space between the two of them.

The consul straightens up quickly, “Why -”

“I don’t know about you but I like my toes all intact,” Ev walks over to him. “It’s only a small trick, here,” she raises her hand and the light gets brighter, “you can touch it, it’s not hot.”

Valerius takes a step back, looking at the ball of light suspiciously. “You are full of tricks, aren’t you?” he says.

“Don't even make me start on what you are full of.” She bunches her hand in a fist and the light sphere drops down but, before hitting the ground, it bounces back in the air like a small ball and splits into a dozen of smaller lights, startling Valerius. They hover in the air along the path similar to a garland of lanterns as they walk in silence until the lane ends, opening to the canal, and Ev asks, “Is it your carriage there?”

***

The servant opens the carriage door and much to Ev’s astonishment, Valerius waits for her to get in first. She gives him a confused look but complies. There is no evening chill inside and the cushioned seats are invitingly soft, so Ev’s immediately decides that regardless of what is going to happen it was a good idea not to walk home. Valerius takes a seat opposite her and reaches to unbutton his coat and pull his long loose braid from under the collar. His head rolls gently to the side and Ev sees a couple of inches of the neck, soft lines and the glowing skin. She feels her cheeks beginning to heat, suddenly remembering the warmth and the bitter almond fragrance she breathed in every time she got too close to the man, and gods did she get too close tonight.

This is about as far from the real world as Ev can imagine. The carriage is small and the little triangle of her beaded slipper somehow ended up between the consul’s leather boots. If she was to stretch her leg, the bareskin on the side her foot would brush along his shin. They have never sat this close together. Ev thinks about the old lady from the theatre. How would she feel if she knew that she was the only thin barrier stopping them from recognising each other and fully succumbing to the mutual hostility, claiming at least half of the theatre as casualties in the process. This could have been a disaster.

Ev looks at Valerius again and tries to understand how could she not recognise these features straight away. The signature crease between the dark brows and the sulky mouth. Valerius sits in silence, and his eyes are definitely not the ones she knows. They are so wistful and lonely, and so golden under the lamp light, Ev has to look away.

She puts a hand under her chin and leans to the window. A fine mist of rain has started to grit on the glass, and behind the sparks of its tiny drops - a bridge arches over the canal’s silver curve, both ends of which are clipped by infinity, which, in the dim light of the early night, is only ten feet away. The backdrop is all in flashes of the lit windows and the black outlines of pointed rooftops, round cupolas and slender towers, all together resembling a crown adorned by a single grand jewel of the moon, burning bright white. Then, the skyline and even the moon gets momentarily obscured by the huge wall, deprived of any lights, looking ghostly in the tempered gloom.

“That massive rounded building, what is it?” Ev is surprised with herself for striking a conversation.

“Have you not seen it before?”

“No, I have not really been to this part of the city,” she says, turning to Valerius, “What is it? A hippodrome?”

“It's the coliseum. The count’s favourite place,” he gives a chuckle which sounds bitter. “The man loved... performances.”

“What kind of performances?” Ev asks, watching his mouth twisting in distaste. Something about his look makes her frown.

“Gladiators. Bloodshed which lacked any order or purpose besides the count’s own entertainment,” Valerius rubs the bridge of his nose and glances to the window. Ev cannot tell whether he is looking at the moon or the looming coliseum, considering something. “But it’s not what this place was intended for,” he pauses. He turns back to Ev and the expression in his eyes is softer. “It was built before Lucio became a count, although it was slightly less grand back then. The rituals and ceremonies were conducted there during the festivities and the previous count used to reenact scenes of the famous battles there, using the actors. It brought the whole city together. Nobody wants to remember those days anymore.”

Ev feels a weird tremble inside and she is not sure what has caused it until she realises that it is a strange, unusual affection in his voice. She crosses her arms and seats back to contain the feeling. It’s so freaking strange to talk to him when his face is not a mask of boredom. “Did you use to come to watch?” she asks.

“Only when I had to. As if I would mix myself with the roaring crowd of plebeians. Besides, it was terribly distatestful and the smell inside was disgusting.” His mouth tightens, and a strange shadow clouds his expression this time. “Pointless waste of human life.”

“Oh,” is all Ev can manage. She cannot stop staring at Valerius. There is some kindness beneath this asshole facade, human decency, fairness even. It is not the perspective that she has been prepared for. “I meant before that,” she adds faintly.

“Yes I did, when I was much younger.”

“I cannot believe I have never heard of it.”

“Did you do any research before you came here?” The consul is back to his dismissive tone.

“Honestly? I had other things to worry about.” Ev turns back to the window, suddenly unable to look at him anymore.

She hears an irritated snort from Valerius but then, after a brief silence, he starts talking again, and it is not about Ev’s inadequacy. He talks about the canals named after constellations, traditions which Vesuvia used to have, and what you could find in the city before the plague. His voice is calm and steady, and has this velvet quality to it, which fits the night perfectly. Ev closes her eyes and thinks that maybe if she asked Valerius, as that favour she got from him, to continue his stories sitting by her bedside, she would finally be able to fall asleep before the sunrise.

[plaidbooks]

Tough Decisions

A/N: Hey there! I said I was going to write Peter Stone angst, and here it is! This is based on one of the HC’s I wrote; make sure you read the tags!

Tags: implied smut, angst, miscarriage, blood

Words: 2436

Taglist: @witches-unruly-heart @itsjustmyfantasyroom @permanentlydizzy @infiniteoddball @ben-c-group-therapy @glowingmess @whimsicallymad @lv7867 @storiesofsvu @shroomiehomie @alwaysachorusgirl @glimmerglittergirl @prettypyschoinpink @cycat4077 @redlipstickandplaid @joanofarkansass

When the doctor announced that you were pregnant, you and Peter were over the moon. And when she then dropped that you were pregnant with twins, your eyes went wide. You glanced at Peter, whose shock match yours, before a broad grin stretched across his face, and he hugged you excitedly.

“Twins!” he whispered against your shoulder before he kissed your cheek.

Peter was a model husband the entire pregnancy; of course, he still worked, as did you, but he waited on you hand and foot whenever you were together. And once your due date was close, you took maternity leave, Peter taking the copious vacation days he had saved up for this moment. His paternity leave would technically start after you gave birth, but he was there every step of the way.

A few weeks after the twins were born, Peter started going back to work—half days, just to save up vacation time again. You were lucky enough to be able to work from home, not wanting a nanny yet, not when your boys were so young.

One night, Peter came home—one of the first full days he was back at work—and kissed you desperately.

“Are the twins in bed?” he asked hoarsely, hands on your hips.

You giggled at his eagerness. “They are.”

“Good—it’s been too long,” he growled, kissing you again.

He pulled you towards the bedroom, tiptoeing past the nursery. You were both not wanting more kids, and he made sure to pull on a condom. It wasn’t until after he was climbing off you, moving to remove the condom, that you both noticed it broke.

“R-remember how long it took you to get pregnant the first time? There’s no way—”

“I still have extra tests; I’ll take one tomorrow,” you said, cutting him off.

Peter nodded. “For now, let’s go to the bathroom, clean you up.”

 *********************

As luck would have it, you did get pregnant from that broken condom. After talking it out, both you and Peter decided to keep it—one more little Stone wouldn’t be that big of a deal…right? Even so, Peter called his doctor, making an appointment for a vasectomy.

It took Peter a full 5 months after the twins’ birth to succumb to Sonny’s persistent nagging to meet them. You just chuckled, shaking your head as you got the twins ready and made your way down to the precinct. Peter was already there, working; well, trying to work a deal with a perp, and then threatening him with extended jailtime when he declined.

He came out of the interview room, cocking his head at the commotion he heard by the detective’s desks. He smiled proudly as he saw you, surrounded by his friends and coworkers, all of whom were cooing over your babies.

“God, they both look just like Stone,” Sonny said, wiggling his fingers in front of one of the boy’s faces. Ben, if Peter had to guess.

“They really do; they got that blond hair and the same chin,” you replied, smiling. Your eyes were locked on Ben’s little hand, wrapping around Sonny’s finger.

Peter made his way over with Olivia, and when he stood next to you, he puffed his chest out proudly. “They’re my little mini-me’s,” he beamed. He kissed your cheek, then scooped Billy from your arms.

“Congratulations, you two,” Olivia said, a bright smile on her face as well.

“Wait, Ben and Billy? Can I ask where you got the names?” Amanda asked, looking at you both.

Peter shifted Billy in his arms, bouncing him slightly. “Ben is named after my father. And Billy is named after Billy Williams—”

“The Cubs player?” Amanda questioned, her eyes lighting up.

He huffed; of course she knew him. “Well, yes—”

“Carisi, you owe me $20, and Fin, you owe me $10!” Amanda announced excitedly. You and Peter gave her a look, and she quickly clarified, “I knew you’d name a kid after a ball player!”

Peter’s cheeks grew pink, and you laughed.

The merriment was cut off as the perp Peter and Olivia had been meeting with was dragged through the precinct by an officer. “You and your whore are dead, Stone! And those two little bastards!”

You pulled Ben closer to your chest, suddenly wishing you had Billy in your arms, too. Peter stared the man down, moving to stand between you and the perp, blocking your line of sight. But not before you saw the pure hatred in the man’s eyes. It also didn’t make you feel any better seeing how burly the man was compared to the officer pulling him away; the perp had a full foot on him, not to mention a few hundred pounds.

Peter turned back to you, seeing how shaken you looked. “In other news, my lovely wife is six weeks pregnant,” he announced to the silent precinct.

The detectives exploded with giddiness, congratulating you both. You smiled, thanking them, but you couldn’t get the image of that man’s eyes out of your mind. Peter could still sense you were off, even with your smile, and he kissed the top of your head.

“I think I’m going to take this little lady and my little pebbles home now, get them some rest. Call me if you need me,” he said, turning you towards the exit.

“You’ll have to bring them back in sometime; they’re too damn cute…. And if you ever need an emergency babysitter, you have my number!” Sonny called after you both, making Peter chuckle, thanking him.

You were still carrying Ben, Peter carrying Billy, when there was an animalistic roar from the left. You turned to look and saw that perp from before charging straight for you. You instinctively turned away from him, clutching Ben to you for protection. Peter, with Billy in his arms, could only let out a yell as the man collided with your back. You grunted, falling forward, your legs knocked out from under you. Time seemed to slow as you fell, and you rolled in midair, hoping to land on your back and not on your baby. Though, the movement shifted you to the side slightly, and you hit the back of your head on the corner of a desk. You were unconscious before you hit the floor.

***

Peter saw the man hit you, and saw you twist in midair. You landed on your back, Ben landing softly on your chest. He started to cry, and then Sonny and Fin were tackling the perp to the ground. Peter was frozen as he looked at your lifeless body, blood starting to pool on the white tile by your head. Olivia and Amanda were there in an instant, trying to stop the bleeding. One of them—Peter couldn’t tell which—handed him Ben. Billy, hearing his twin cry, started to wail, and Peter finally moved, bouncing them both and trying to calm them. But his eyes never left your face, your eyes closed and a halo of dark red around you.

“Wh-what just happened?” he muttered, stunned.

Olivia was talking in her radio and shouting orders while Amanda was pushing towels—Peter missed when she got them—to the back of your head. The paramedics got there after an indescribable amount of time passed, and Peter watched them place you on the gurney.

“Stone? Stone!...Peter!” Olivia said, trying to get his attention. His eyes snapped to her face. “You can’t ride in the ambulance with the twins—I’ll give you a ride, okay?” He nodded dumbly, allowing her to guide him out to her car.

Ben and Billy finally stopped crying—Peter was still holding them while sitting in the backseat, since Olivia didn’t have a baby seat in her squad car—and Peter just stared out the windshield.

“She’ll be fine, Peter; she’s a fighter,” Olivia was saying.

It took him a while to figure out that she was talking about you. It struck him then that he may have just…lost you. Lost you and the child you were carrying. And he had done nothing to protect you. Tears welled up in his eyes, spilling over and down his cheeks. It was like he had awoken from a dream, a nightmare really, and he was conscious of his surroundings once more.

“I-I want that bastard to get the needle,” he muttered. He glanced down at his little boys, both of which passed out from crying so much. How the fuck would he be able to raise these beautiful boys without you?

“You won’t be able to prosecute—”

“I can’t lose her, Liv. Either of them. I-I can’t,” Peter choked out. Now that the realization hit him, he couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

Olivia gave him a sympathetic look in the rearview mirror. “I know, Peter. I know.”

 ********************

By the time they got to the hospital, you were already back in surgery. Peter carried the twins to the lobby, sitting down gently in a chair, and pulling his sleeping babes to his chest. They anchored him, kept him in reality. He stopped crying, needing to stay strong for them, especially once they both awoke. He bounced both knees, gently rocking them as he tried to keep his world—their world—from falling apart. Sonny and Amanda showed up soon after, and then it seemed like the whole precinct was there, to give you and Peter support.

Amanda and Olivia eventually took one twin each, letting Peter rub his face with his hands…and letting him have another good cry. Sonny tried to comfort him, but his words fell flat. There was nothing to say.

Eventually, a doctor came out, glancing at the officers filling the lobby. Peter stood, hurrying to him, hopeful but also terrified.

“Are you Mr. Stone?” he asked.

He nodded. “Y-yes…please, tell me, how is she?”

“I’m sorry; your wife is barely hanging on. But…if we don’t terminate the pregnancy, she may not make it. We need your signature to okay the procedure,” the doctor explained.

Sound ceased and the floor fell away as Peter’s world came to a grinding halt. All eyes were on him, but he couldn’t feel them; all he felt was a deep, reverberating sadness.

“Mr. Stone? Do we have your consent?” the doctor pushed; time was short.

“…yes. Please, save my wife. I’ll sign whatever forms I need to, just save my wife,” Peter pleaded.

The doctor nodded, handing him a clipboard with a form. He didn’t even read it before signing, but he felt as if he was signing away a part of himself. The doctor took the clipboard back, then gave him a look. “I’m so sorry.” And then he was rushing off.

A figure—Sonny, though Peter couldn’t see him—approached, and he collapsed into the detective’s arms, sobbing. Sonny rubbed his back, but there was nothing he could do to lessen the weight in Peter’s heart. He guided him back to a chair, then offered to go grab water and snacks, before leaving.

Everyone gave Peter space, trying to let him cry privately, only Olivia and Amanda staying close, so that his babies were at least close; a reminder that he hadn’t lost everything. As the hours ticked by, the only people who left were the ones that had to go to work.

The doctor finally came back. Peter had just stopped crying and was holding his twins once more when the doctor came up to him.

“Your wife is out of surgery and is stable. She’s still unconscious and weak. I’ll let you know when you may see her,” he announced.

Peter nodded. “Th-thank you. Will she be okay?”

“She’s not out of the woods quite yet, but we’re hopeful for a full recovery.”

He nodded once more, and the doctor left. Peter looked down at Ben and Billy. “You hear that, boys? Your mommy is—she’s still—” he couldn’t continue, having to blink away the tears before his sons could see them.

With the announcement that you were out of surgery and resting in recovery, most of the officers left, giving Peter words of comfort as they made their way out of the hospital. Both Olivia and Amanda had to leave, too, to check on their own children. Only Sonny stayed, claiming he had nowhere to be, and wanting to help at least with the twins.

It wasn’t until much later that Peter was allowed to visit you. Sonny offered to hold onto the boys, but Peter wanted the whole family together. He thanked Sonny, letting him know he could go home if he wanted; Peter didn’t think he’d leave your side. Sonny nodded, offering once more to watch the kids if Peter needed him to.

***

You were laying in the bed, your head pounding. Your eyes were rimmed red, but not because of the pain. You sat up straighter as Peter entered your room, the twins in his arms, his own eyes red.

“Pete, I’m so sorry, I lost—”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, my love. You were a victim; besides…I had to okay it,” he said.

You closed your eyes in emotional pain. You couldn’t imagine how the decision must’ve torn him up inside. You composed yourself, then looked at your wonderful husband with sad eyes.

“I-I want…I need to hold my boys, babe. But…I’m afraid I can’t,” you whispered. You lifted your arms pathetically, your arms like limp noodles from the drugs and blood loss.

“The doctor said you were going to be weaker for a little bit,” Peter said softly. You gave him big, sad eyes, and he couldn’t take it. “Here, sit up a little straighter—and you can only hold one at a time.”

You nodded, shifting up on the bed. Peter place Billy in your lap, and you smiled down at him while Peter started placing pillows under your elbows. Once your arms were stabilized, he lifted Billy from your lap to your chest. You clutched your baby, holding him close to you while Peter sat in the chair by your bed, holding Ben tightly as well.

“How’re we going to get passed this?” you asked softly, rocking Billy to sleep.

Peter took a moment to respond; his eyes were glued to Ben as he bounced him gently. “One day at a time,” he finally said. “I didn’t lose you, the love of my life. And we have two beautiful baby boys. We’ll get through this…as a family.”

You nodded; he was right, of course. He stood, leaning over you, and kissing your forehead. Then, he held Ben and Billy to your face in turn, letting you kiss your sons. As long as you had your three boys, you’d be okay.

[swanlake1998]

Article: Ashton Edwards Talks Gender, Pointe Training, and Ballet’s Future

Date: February 1, 2021

By: Charlotte Barnett

Ballet has always had a complicated relationship with gender. In the classical roles we watch on stage, men play princes and heartbreakers who leap high in the air and take up entire stages with large, masculine steps. Women play tragic characters: swans who die, village girls who go mad from heartbreak caused by said heartbreaking princes. Their steps are light, quick, and on their toes in satin shoes. And, though created hundreds of years ago, these templates of traditionally gendered classical roles still inform how young dancers are trained. Boys are taught to jump, turn, and lift girls above their heads. Girls are taught more spritely, elegant steps, and around the age of 12 or 13, they go on pointe.

Classical ballet is notoriously slow to greet modernity, but with Gen Z now reaching professional age, ballet companies and schools may soon be forced to reckon with the demands of this unapologetically diverse generation.

Ashton Edwards is one such young dancer challenging the rigid gender norms of the art form. In their second year as a Professional Division student at the Pacific Northwest Ballet, Edwards, who uses she/he/they pronouns, is training in both pointe and in men’s classes, with hopes for a completely gender fluid career in their future. 

Observer: Tell me about how you got your start in ballet.

Ashton Edwards: I started when I was four years old back in Flint, Michigan, where I’m from. We had field trips through my school, it was called Super Saturdays where local public schools would get to try all the different arts – instruments, acting and dancing –  and if you had some talent, you would get a scholarship. So I went to the school of performing arts starting at age four, started doing strictly ballet when I was 6, and then I got very serious about it at 14 when I went to my first summer intensive. I went to PNB’s summer intensive in 2019, then I became a PD when I was 16 for the following year.

Observer: Had you done any pointe before you got to PNB?

Ashton Edwards: I just started a few months ago, actually. I borrowed some shoes from my friends. A few friends my age had fallen out of love with dance and had all these old pointe shoes laying around, so they gave them to me. Then over the summer and through quarantine, I was just trying different things with them, learning steps from all my favorite ballets. And then I reevaluated my life – what I wanted to be, who I wanted to be and what I wanted to do with my career. I couldn’t find a reason why I couldn’t dance all the roles I wanted to dance. Male and female.

Observer: Wow, from what I’ve seen it looks like you’ve been wearing pointe shoes for years – how many months exactly has it been?

Ashton Edwards: I remember, because I was taking a lot of photos at the time. It’s been since March 20th of last year.

Observer: That’s incredible. How did it feel putting on that first pair, what was the adjustment period like?

Ashton Edwards: When I started actually dancing with them, it became more natural. But at first, putting them on and just standing on toe, I would always just say it doesn’t feel like ballet, it felt like a circus act. Like I was on stilts. 

Starting out, I connected with a lot of different dancers – so I got to know a lot of PNB company members. Just talking to them and my friends about pointe work was really helpful and I got a lot of insight on the technique and training that I needed. I studied a lot, working every day, sometimes twice a day, just to make it feel more natural and to catch up to a professional level.

I should add that I trained with women at my old studio, up until I was 16. I had mostly female teachers who really honed in on my basic technique. Everything technical that they taught me balanced my training overall, so the transition to pointework wasn’t so drastic.

Observer: How did you initiate that conversation, to officially join pointe classes at PNB?

Ashton Edwards: Luckily PNB’s Artistic Director, Peter Boal, and PNB School’s Administrative Director, Denise Bolstad, are really accessible to the students. I shot them an email about how I was interested and that I wanted to see what was possible. And from there the conversation started. They started me in a Level 8 class to see how I would do, but now I’m going into a more hybrid schedule where every other day is a PD men’s day and then a PD women’s day. Quote-unquote “women” and “men”.

Observer: You must be totally exhausted, sounds like double the work.

Ashton Edwards: With our schedule, since we’re not performing and rehearsing with the company… well, actually I am so exhausted, ha. We now have three classes a day – normally it’d be two, a technique class and a men’s class or, for women, pointe class or variations. Now we have a third class, so a second technique, variations, choreography, or modern class. It’s the same amount of work, just different every day. So the men have a couple of men’s classes a week and the women have a couple of pointe classes a week. I’m just getting more of both.

Observer: So you started with your friend’s pointe shoes, have you bought your own shoes since then? I’m sure you must be going through a pair a week at least.

Ashton Edwards: Oh yeah. I had my first fitting in August when I started training officially. Since then, I’ve gone through quite a few. I’ve yet to find my perfect pair – I don’t think I will until I join a company and can customize them. I’ve come pretty close though. It’s been interesting, mostly with the width of the shoe. I also have unique feet – they’re really flat when they’re on the ground but when I go on point they shrink an entire size from a 7 to a 6. So it’s been interesting to find a shoe that isn’t too baggy or too tight.

Observer: How are you taking care of your feet these days after your pointe classes?

Ashton Edwards: I ice every day. Then an Epsom salt bath, a hot shower, a heating pad, then I’ll stretch and roll out and do some foot massages. It’s not just the pointe work, it’s also the men’s jumps and pirouettes and everything – I have to try and maintain my body as much as I can.

Observer: Have you felt that your pointe training has affected other areas of your dancing?

Ashton Edwards: I feel a lot stronger in every sense, actually. In general, my fifth position and my turnout feels stronger. I feel a lot more technical and more mindful in my dancing, it’s made me a lot more aware of everything. I would recommend everyone to try pointe and for women to try men’s training. It’s made me a more well-rounded dancer.

Observer: Looking to the future, I know you’re in the midst of that stressful crunch time of company auditions, how do you see pointework incorporating itself into your career?

Ashton Edwards: I hope this will become more of a normal thing. Right now, auditions are the trickiest part, because normally women do the women’s steps and then the guys come onto the floor to do the guys’ steps. It’s a conversation, a dialogue I need to have with each director that comes in to audition us. And as for what I would want my career to look like, I want to do everything – male and female roles. It’s different for everyone, I know some born-male dancers who only want to do female roles. It should be up to everyone what they want to do, but I know that I want to do everything. That’s become a big priority in my career. I would be open to only doing male roles but it’s just not what I really want.

Observer: It sounds like it would be such an asset to a director to have someone who can be thrown into any role, regardless of gender.

Ashton Edwards: I think it also adds to choreography and opportunities for new ballets. I think it could really bring ballet to our time – what people are and what our generation is becoming.

Observer: Do you feel a shift happening in ballet towards more gender-fluid casting?

Ashton Edwards: It’s not happening quickly. Not nearly as fast as I would like or as fast as our world is changing. But I think minds are opening. I’m really proud to be a gay man and I see members of the queer community opening their own companies and making their own opportunities, but in your traditional classical company you still don’t really see it happening. But I’m feeling hopeful for the future.

[isis-astarte-diana]

On Your Toes

Summary: “You told me you were bored, so I gave you something to do.” Missy can always find a way to keep her companion busy.

Warnings: NSFW. MIHOW. Dark!Missy. Serious predicament bondage, featuring stress positions and the threat of bodily harm. (It’s foot trauma). Anal, but, like, not particularly explicit. Absolutely terrible BDSM etiquette - realistically, this is just straight-up torture. Missy is... really unpleasant. The way we love her best.

Word Count: 2067

NB: Sat down to write this thinking “aha, yes, the ornamental bondage concept. Nice, wholesome stuff. We all love that,” and then... well... this happened instead. I think it fits quite nicely into the New Toy universe.

It’s cold in this part of the TARDIS.

The engines are drowned out by the low hiss of an air conditioning system, and this, in turn, is swallowed in the whir of the servers that surround you. Row upon row of shelves stretch to the high ceiling, glowing with blue light, the impossible dimensions of the room containing only a fraction of a fraction of the ship’s central computing hardware. The vast monitor in front of you indicates that the temperature is in its ideal range; somewhere above refrigeration, but certainly lower than would ever be comfortable for a human in your state of undress.

Still, you’re sweating.

Your hair is plastered to your forehead with it, rapidly cooling trails of perspiration trickling down your neck, your sides, the backs of your trembling legs. Another full-body shiver makes your knees quake and you falter, losing your balance, dropping silently from your tiptoes to stand flat footed on the smooth tiles.

“Heels up.”

Missy doesn’t look up from her work at the control panel. She has her back to you, her dark head bowed, quick fingers flitting between a set of keys and dials and a touchscreen display. She had explained what she was doing, and you had made a valiant effort to listen, but that was hours ago, or so it seems. The technical jargon you’d tried so hard to keep track of has been pushed from your mind by far more urgent physical sensations.

The plug isn’t overly large - perhaps, at its broadest, just thicker than two of her slender fingers - but it’s certainly too much to ignore. Though inaudible over the other machinery of the server room its vibrations are powerful and, more than this, variable. If there is any pattern to the change in pitch, you have yet to determine it; and you have been thinking of little else for quite some time.

“Missy,” you attempt weakly, making no effort to conceal the chatter of your teeth. “Please, I-“ The words turn into an unsteady whine to match the abrupt increase in speed of the pulsing toy inside you. Your thighs try to press closer together, if not for stability then at least to soothe the impossible sensitivity of the slick flesh between them. The bar that keeps your ankles spread wide offers no such relief.

“Lift your heels,” she repeats, sharper this time. “And hush.”

Gritting your teeth against the cramping in your calves, you obey.

Behind your back, you hold tighter to yourself, each forearm clasped in the opposite hand and bound that way so that your shoulders are drawn backwards. Your chest is forced up and out by the position, leaving your naked breasts vulnerable in the cold air, nipples painfully stiff and throbbing from the chill. As the vibrations slow once more, your breaths come easier again.

The effect, unfortunately, is two-fold; with fewer distractions, your attention is once more concentrated on the strain of your position. Tension is beginning to set in at the base of your spine, the arches of your feet, even the core muscles in your abdomen, everything below the waist protesting at being made to hold you up like this. Tremors pluck once more at the tendons in your calves. You withstand them for as long as you can, teeth sinking sharply into your chapped bottom lip, until another wave of sensation from the plug as it kicks up to full speed for an instant has you landing hard on your heels, yelping so loudly that Missy actually startles at the noise.

The server room is not quiet, but it is very suddenly as still as a tomb.

You watch as she slowly lifts her head, rolling her neck, stretching languidly as if to emphasise your inability to do the same. When she rises to her feet you almost whimper. Being ignored is a torture in and of itself, but having captured her attention is no comfort. She does not face you, moving instead to one of the shelves nearest the control panel, one that houses gutted hardware and its components. Her fingers plunge into the innards of a half-disassembled server. Impossibly, the sight makes you shudder. From here she withdraws something in a closed fist.

“It’s a fairly simple instruction, isn’t it?”

Her voice is cooler than the spinning fans above you and hums with far more power.

“I mean - stand on your tiptoes. It’s four words. Not even particularly long words, either.” At this, she finally turns on her heels, her smile bright and broad and utterly mirthless. “You can manage to keep track of four words, can’t you?”

You nod emphatically, the movement made jerky by the shivering you cannot stop. She raises an expectant brow.

“And yet, there you are. Not standing on your tiptoes.”

The haste with which you rock up onto the balls of your feet when she begins to approach almost costs you your balance. You waver there for a moment, close to falling back on your heels again, even closer to sprawling face down on the hard ground. With your arms bound behind you, you would have no hope of shielding your face from the impact; your nose, already sore from the cold, throbs at the thought. A strangled whimper works its way through your trembling lips.

Missy narrows her eyes. In the low blue light her features are sharpened, shadows darkening under every curve and arch of bone with the angle at which she tilts her head. “You told me you were bored.”

You shrink, not only from her tone, but also from the memory of your own impertinence. At the time - curled up on the tiled floor at her feet, left with nothing to occupy your restless mind or hands and scolded every time you dared to fidget - you had hoped that she would let you assist her, even if only with a trivial task, or at least set you some busywork to spare you from having to sit still and silent in the cold.

“You told me you were bored, so I gave you something to do.” She takes hold of your jaw with icy fingers just as the thrumming of the toy kicks up a degree. Your hoarse gasp is due, in part, to both. “I went to all this trouble and you keep disobeying me.”

“Missy, I- I can’t...” Spasms shoot up the backs of your legs, settling in your abdomen, shortening your breaths as you speak through a grimace. “I didn’t mean- I wasn’t-” It’s impossible to straighten out the words behind your quivering jaw. “I’m really trying.”

“You certainly are, dear.” Her thumb curls under your chin, her palm slowly moving to cup your cheek now. She bares her teeth. “Consider my patience tried.”

The slap catches you off guard. Its sting is only aggravated by the chill of her skin, and of yours, so that the pain is sharp as frostbite. Your heels meet the ground again as you struggle to steady yourself. The shifting of your weight brings relief, but this is smothered by the knowledge that you have, once more, failed to follow her instructions.

“I’m sorry!” With your face turned down towards your shoulder and your eyes clamped shut against the welling tears, you try fruitlessly to rise back onto your toes. Though the balls of your feet burn with the effort, your legs are too shaky, your knees too weak. You cannot seem to settle into a balanced position. All the while, the shifting of the plug inside of you is torturous, its constant vibrations irritating your nerves and flooding you with scalding arousal that cools on your parted thighs. “I’m sorry, Mistress, I- please-”

Her knuckles brush against the blazing skin of your cheek and you flinch from the touch. “Oh, it’s alright, poor love.” With a sympathetic click of her tongue, she coaxes your eyes back to hers and gives you a pitying look. “Now, I know how you humans can struggle with these things, so I don’t mind giving you some help, just this once.”

She shows you her other hand and finally loosens her fist to reveal the spoils of her earlier search. Your cry of alarm hones her lips into a knife-edged grin.

“I’ll do better!” The words are too loud in the close quarters, ragged with unsteady breaths as your wide eyes flit between her face and the pair of inch-long screws resting in her open palm. “I will, I promise, I-” Again, your voice is robbed by a sudden and brief change in the pitch of the maddening vibrations.

“Well, if you’re going to do better, then you won’t mind this at all, will you?” Missy presses the sole of her boot down lightly on the toes of your right foot, cool and smooth and with no weight behind it. “Stand on your tiptoes.”

You shake your head, teeth clenching to stop the chatter there, tears turning cold as they begin to escape at last. She pushes harder, the touch growing uncomfortable, still wavering just this side of pain.

“On your toes,” she repeats, her smile flickering with the threat of a snarl, “or I will break them for you.”

For the barest of moments you try to weigh up the impossible choice - obey, and feel the pointed tip of the screw beneath your raised heel; disobey, and test the sincerity of her words - until the bones of your toes grind painfully between boot and tile and the far more present peril wins out. With a choked gasp you lift yourself once more onto the balls of your feet.

Her voice lowers to a stage whisper and she gives you an exaggerated wink. “Good choice.”

You twist your head at an awkward angle to watch her moving behind you, but this threatens your balance and you quickly correct your posture again. As she sinks to the ground, her fingernails carve a stinging path down the back of your left calf, following the curve of cramping muscle from knee to elevated heel. You jerk under the touch, but cannot escape it without falling.

“If I were you,” she begins, with a faint stirring of amusement, “I would think very carefully about which foot I favoured.” To emphasise her meaning, she pricks the arch of your foot with the screw. You squeak pitifully.

“Please, Mistress.” You cast your blurry eyes to the ceiling, trying not to shift your weight when she repeats the motion on your other foot. Your thighs quake beneath you, cold and strain and horror all taking their toll. “I’m sorry, I- I was rude-”

“You were bored.” She drags her nails up your right leg when she straightens up and leans in to show you her indulgent smile. “And now you’re not. You’re welcome, dear.”

Missy returns to the control panel without a second glance. Your babbling protests fall on deaf ears as she sits back down, swirling her fingers across the touchscreen. It takes only moments for the futility of your efforts to sink in. Despite her earlier impatience with your complaints, she seems entirely impassive to them now.

Fighting every screaming nerve in your body, you bow your head and try to concentrate.

The most tentative of attempts at shuffling forwards is quickly thwarted; with your ankles bound this far apart and your arms restrained behind you, you have no hope of shifting away from the threat underfoot without your forehead meeting the tiles. Through harsh and wavering breaths you are forced to accept the dawning realisation that your balance is tentative, your muscles are fatigued, and it is only a matter of time until you fall one way or the other.

“Missy!” Her name is a panicked sob. Your feet are beginning to cramp and you shrink in on yourself, clawing at your forearms, seeking stability that you cannot find. In your anguish, your muscles draw tighter around the plug, drawing your attention once more to the unpredictable nature of its constant pulsing. “I can’t stay like this!”

She turns to look at you over her shoulder, her expression one of arch disinterest. “Well, you can put your heels down if you like, poppet.” Her eyes crinkle at the corners with her smile. “But you’ll only do it once.”

Unseen, she slips a hand into her pocket and deposits the two screws inside.

[whywishesarehorses]

Inside the Famous—and Deadly—Omak Stampede

This article was written by Allison Williams, published in the August 2017 issue of Seattle Met, and reformatted here for your enjoyment.

This one is text heavy and long, so it is hidden under a read more.

Thursday

Eighteen horses form an imperfect line on a hot August night, their 18 jockeys clad in jeans. Here on a sandy bluff in the small town of Omak, four hours east of Seattle and several worlds away, riders and spectators alike move with nervous energy, anxious for the race to start. One jockey wears a helmet topped with a pink mohawk, another with a GoPro camera. One horse, sponsored by a local marijuana dispensary, sports painted pot leaves on its rump. Wispy white eagle feathers hang from others, emblems of the Native American heritage the men share.

A summer carnival glows below, neon outlines of rides called the Orbiter and the Fireball, metal towers that came into town on tractor trailers. Farther into the Okanogan Highlands, a casino twinkles alone on Indian Reservation land. It’s August 11, 2016, and even an hour past sunset the air holds onto most of the heat from the 90-degree day.

A “whoooop!” erupts from the gathered crowd as the animals sidestep and bob their heads behind the chalk starting line. His race number bright across his chest, 18-year-old Scott Abrahamson eyes the sandy dirt in front of the line, groomed like a golf course sand trap. His long bubblegum-pink sleeves mean he’s easy to spot even in the shadows where floodlights don’t reach, and his helmet blinks with battery-operated toy devil horns. He’s surrounded by both champions—Loren Marchand with seven titles, Tyler Peasley with three—and nervous high schoolers in their first race.

At the crack of a gun, the horses charge. Their riders lean forward as hooves pound the sandy flat, at least for the first hundred feet. The crowd cheers as soon as the pistol sounds, cries and hoots blossoming into the dark.

Then 18 horses go off a cliff.

The riders shift in their saddles as their mounts fly down an incline steeper than a ski jump. The best jockeys, the veterans, barely lean back coming off the hill, reins clasped in the left hand and riding crops in the right. Others grasp a bar they’ve rigged on the back of their saddles they call the “oh shit handle.”

The spectators’ cries reach full pitch when the pack is halfway to the waterway at the base of the hill, a thick ribbon of black that flows left to right. The horses plunge into the inky Okanogan River en masse, hooves hitting the shallow bottom, and all but one charge across to the opposite bank. The stadium on the far side is lit up like a Friday-night football game, floodlights bright atop red, white, and blue bleachers, and Scott and his hot-pink sleeves emerge first in the dirt oval, just 45 seconds into the race. As they cross the finish line, Peasley is right on his tail.

Fifteen horses follow, minus the one that tumbled in the river. A crew attends to the downed horse from the deck of a small drift boat; while the stadium roars, a veterinarian surveys the animal and notes that it’s already gone, likely drowned.

Back atop the hill, Colville tribal elders watch through binoculars before one spots something in the sandy dirt, an eagle feather dislodged by the chaos. They circle the downed quill, addressing the spirit it represents, the eagle that travels in both worlds, before one of the elders lifts the feather to return it to its owner.

This is the World Famous Suicide Race.

There will be four races total during Omak Stampede, always the second weekend in August. Each race awards five points to the first-place finisher, four to the second, and so on; the overall winner clinches the King of the Hill title on Sunday, and $40,000 in prize money is distributed. It’s the highlight of this Central Washington town’s year, a tradition that draws thousands of spectators—and animal-rights protesters.

Omak straddles the border of the Colville Reservation, home of almost every racer, horse owner, and trainer. The contest is a rite of passage, they say, a proving ground for men—and even a few women—coming of age more than a century after actual horseback warfare. Beyond the turgid flow of the Okanogan River through town, the reservation sprawls over 1.4 million acres of highlands, brittle with brown grass in late summer. There the Native American communities are plagued by poverty and unemployment.

If the Suicide Race was a small-town Friday-night football game, teenaged Scott Abrahamson would be its star quarterback. He’s an ace student, focused and polite, with technical internships and honor rolls to his name, but this weekend he’s a jockey with a King of the Hill title to defend. All eyes are on him.

Friday

He gets sick before every big race. “Everything hits me and my body,” Scott says. “I can barely walk.” His cousin calls it good luck; Scotty puking means they’re going to do well.

In the hours before Friday’s race, the second of four, Scott’s prepping in the triangular Owners and Jockey’s paddock in the middle of the fairgrounds. By 5pm, Omak veterinarian Jai Tuttle holds court at one end of the dusty enclosure, near standing fans that muster a little manufactured breeze. As they wait to parade their horses for Doc Tuttle, owners angle water hoses over the animals’ backs.

Everyone older than Scott calls him Scotty. This year’s printed program, in the roster of winners dating back to 1935, calls him that. After he won in 2015, he became small-town famous, no longer just the good kid who excelled at basketball and wrestling. People holler, “Go Scotty” at him all weekend.

His father was famous too. That’s what happens when you win the Suicide Race; Leroy Abrahamson took the title in 2002, but was best known for his prowess in the Indian Relay, a more widespread style of racing where one jockey hops from horse to horse. Leroy, Scott has heard, would flit from one mount to the next with only a single foot brushing the ground.

Scott doesn’t remember his first time in a saddle but assumes it was before he could walk, though he largely gave it up in elementary school, when his parents split. His father was the horse guy; his mother was all about school. So he became a standout student in Coulee Dam, a reservation town in the shadow of the 50-story hydroelectric giant. When his father died in 2009, he was drawn back to horses.

“I’m sorta doing all this for him,” Scott says, hesitant. His mother wasn’t wild about the racing, but he didn’t falter at school, scoring an engineering internship with the Bureau of Reclamation. Slight and muscular, his five-foot-nine stature is too tall for a throughbred jockey but about average for this race. His hair is short and straight, spiking around his head like a halo, and he likes to hide his eyes behind sunglasses.

The summer he was 16, after his sophomore year of high school, Scott entered his first Suicide Race. Atop a small gelding named Kinky, he fell as they crested the top of the hill on the Thursday race, flipping over the horse’s shoulder. On Friday the pair wrecked in the water.

“I flipped over and everybody ran me over,” he says. “Everyone says it happens so fast, but when I was in it, it was like slow motion.” Finally, on Saturday, they made it through the entire race, galloping past the finish line in the stadium. Then Sunday the pair wrecked again.

A new horse was in order. His trainer, George Marchand, is a giant within the Suicide Race world and holder of three titles. He’d lost his own father at 14 and rode against Leroy Abrahamson 15 years ago, so he guided Scott, this time to a nighttime ride on a quarter horse–thoroughbred mix named Eagle Boy. The butterscotch-colored gelding was only about five years younger than the rider.

“It was pitch black and dusty,” remembers Scott. The hills of the reservation are dotted with brush and ponderosa pine, but he could make out little from his saddle. They were on top of a hill, he knew that, and that George had taken off.

He gave Eagle Boy his head as they sped over the uneven terrain. “We were jumping trees and dodging trees,” recalls Scott, but they moved as a unit. “I was like dang—he trusts me.” Matching horse to rider is alchemy.

In 2015, in his second year racing and only 17 years old, Scott on Eagle Boy tied for first overall with six-time victor Loren Marchand, George’s nephew. With a wide grin stretched across his face, the rising high school senior played rock-paper-scissors with his cochamp for a King of the Hill prize bridle.

The name World Famous Suicide Race might be a bit of hyperbole, but the race is nothing if not infamous. It emerged in scrappy Omak where a Great Depression population boom—all the way to 2,500 souls—launched an annual rodeo in 1933. As publicity chairman, furniture store owner Claire Pentz proposed a dramatic steeplechase to draw spectators, inspired by mountain races across the reservation at Keller, where riders charged a dry channel in the Sanpoil River. He knew how to sell it: He gave his 1935 creation a catchy name.

The World Famous Suicide Race ran every summer, the marquee event at the four-day Omak Stampede rodeo. Dynasties were born when the inaugural race’s third-place finisher, Alex Dick, won regularly through 1965. There have been seven Marchand riders over the years, six Abrahamsons, nearly a dozen named Pakootas. The unofficial motto, one that appears on winners’ belt buckles, is “Wimps Need Not Apply.”

The 210-foot hill, most say, is a 62-degree slope. Or it’s 54.7 degrees, as measured by a race official in 1993. Others say it’s more like 30. Regardless, it’s terrifying. From the top, the hill feels as steep as a hard ski run; a black diamond, but not a double black. Scrambling up on foot, you might use your hands.

The stampede and race remain intertwined, but in 1999 the Colville Tribes boycotted to protest a change to their camping space on the fairgrounds. The Stampede lost attendance and revenue, and the following year a deal was struck: The tribes got more control over the race organization, and the encampment got its park space.

Family ties bind many of the owners, trainers, and jockeys, and while a few aren’t Native American at all, they’re the exception. This is the biggest sporting event in the region, the Super Bowl of north-central Washington. “This is the only time we get to play cowboys and Indians,” jokes one organizer, Ernie Williams.

Doc Tuttle is fairly new to the race gig, but between her ease with fidgety horses and no-nonsense demeanor, the veterinarian exudes authority. One by one she clears the horses for Friday’s race, directing owners to walk each thousand-pound animal in a figure eight as her eyes stay trained on forelegs and haunches, scrutinizing for swollen tendons or joints.

No one can pretend the Suicide Race isn’t controversial. As early as 1939, the protests started; Humane Society president Glen McLeod succeeded in canceling a mountain race in nearby Hunters, then traveled to Omak and Keller hoping to do the same. “Why, even the riders call it a ‘suicide race,’ ” McLeod told The Seattle Daily Times before a similar trip in 1941.

Animal rights groups started keeping a tally of dead horses in 1983, with one count now at 22. “The reality is that the race is viewed as part of the Omak Stampede rodeo, and rodeos are protected under state law,” says Seattle Humane Society spokesman Dan Paul, but points out that rapid shifts in public sentiment swiftly made SeaWorld orca shows and circus elephant acts extinct.

People for Ethical Treatment of Animals has run letter-writing campaigns. In 1993, the Northwest’s PAWS, or Progressive Animal Welfare Society, tried a more robust tactic, filing a lawsuit that alleged organizers harm horses for profit, but a Superior Court judge threw out the case. In 1996, a PAWS member sued the Okanogan County Sheriff’s Office and the rodeo for roughing him up when he videotaped a horse being euthanized; the suit settled for $64,500.

For the organizers, the response is simple: The race is merely an extension of their horse-infused culture. Every rider points out that they ride similar hills during wild-horse roundups and cattle work.

Horses have to pass three checks before they’re allowed entry into the race: the vet examination, a swim test, and what’s called a hill test, where horses must round the top of Suicide Hill without hesitation.

Tuttle isn’t from the reservation; she isn’t originally from Omak. But even as an outsider, the one who has to put horses down if they’re hurt, she doesn’t think it’s inhumane.

“These guys use horses that love it,” she says; the horses are bred to it and run steep hills regularly on the remote corners of the reservation. She rarely has to disqualify a horse because owners who spot lameness usually scratch. “It does hold a real special place in the Native culture. It does.” And that horse Thursday night that likely drowned? She considers it. “He was doing what he loved and he had a quick and honorable death.”

Friday night’s race is classic and clean; no bad wrecks. As always, the riders reach the starting line by crossing the river on the Highway 97 bridge, closed to traffic. Hooves clomp on the asphalt as the parade passes a road sign that reads, “Tribal Code Laws Apply.” There are no rules to apply in the Suicide Race once the gun is fired; riders can whip each other, pull each other’s reins. No helmets required. No wimps.

The results echo the previous night: Scott Abrahamson and Eagle Boy come in first, Tyler Peasley on Spade in second. When Scott wins, he raises his right hand above his head, palm out, fingers outstretched. His father’s gesture.

Scott was only four when Leroy won the Suicide Race. “Everyone said he was one of the greats,” he says. “It’s kinda hard to fill his shoes.” Instead he fills his horns. He wears Leroy’s blinking red devil headpiece, the kind of bauble most 18-year-olds would don at a Halloween party.

Scott’s idols were the riders who won in the late 2000s, including the 30-year-old three-time champion who came in second to him during this weekend’s first two races. As a kid he’d run down hills playing at Suicide Race, imaginary whip flying, yelling, “I’m Tyler Peasley!” After his 2015 win, Scott noticed something: “The kids run around saying they’re me.”

It’s after 10pm when the racehorses have completed their cooldown laps and have been loaded into trailers for the ride home. Scott accompanies George Marchand to Omak Lake, 15 miles out of town, to let Eagle Boy soak before bed.

Saturday

Saturday night’s Suicide Race is the biggest. The 7,700-seat arena is packed, and lines form at every fun house and stomach-destroying ride in the carnival outside. Booths hawk curly fries, cotton candy, and foot-longs, though the longest lines are reliably at a taco truck.

But that’s not the whole Omak Stampede. On the east side of the arena, a mirror festival, maybe even larger: the Indian Encampment. Rows of teepees surround a round pavilion for dancing and drum performances, with RVs and tents beyond that. Spectators bring their own camp chairs to supplement the few bleachers. Booths sell jewelry, T-shirts, and dream catchers, and while some of the food is the same—nothing is as universal as curly fries—more signs are handwritten, and many vend Indian tacos and huckleberry lemonade.

Before the rodeo begins, the arena’s industrial speakers blast pop country songs over every acre. The festivities begin with a series of anthems and processions, recognizing the neighboring nations of Canada and the Colville Tribes. During the ride-in, dozens of rodeo queens from around the West shoot into the center oval on horseback, one by one, decked in every shade of sparkle.

The announcer introduces each event, then banters with the rodeo clown when things get slow or a bull rider needs a moment to limp off the dirt. The Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association produces the classic rodeo events, ones with more white riders than Native: bull riding, steer wrestling, team roping, barrel racing. Specialty acts bridge the competitive sports: trick riders and one blonde woman who does a kind of partner dance with an unbridled palomino horse to the blaring sounds of a country song called “Free.” It ends with the horse placing its blond head in her lap.

The Suicide Race is the final blockbuster event. Spectators wade up to their knees into the Okanogan River just upstream of the race crossing, bare feet on slimy rocks. Signs still note that video recording is prohibited, but they’re roundly ignored in the age of cell phones.

Despite the shocking name, the only rider death since anyone’s kept close records was one who drowned on his way to the starting line—though there are plenty of close calls. In 2002, the year Leroy Abrahamson took home the title, racer Naomie Peasley took a tumble so bad she fractured her skull. She recovered, but not before flatlining twice in the medic helicopter.

In its anti–Suicide Race materials, PAWS airs a common criticism of the race: its authenticity. “Organizers currently contend that the Suicide Race has roots in Native American tradition but, in fact, an Anglo conceived the race as a publicity stunt,” reads its statement. Detractors hang on that detail, its origins with furniture salesman Claire Pentz.

To riders and trainers, though, Pentz is irrelevant, and they point to the deep roots of horse culture. For Scott, the point of the race is clear: “Showing that a young man is becoming a warrior, becoming a man.”

The race, the encampment—it’s the tribes’ biggest invitation into their world. “There’s more that people don’t see behind these walls, about Indian life...sweat lodges, medicine,” adds Aaron Carden, a retired racer who now teaches Native language on the reservation. Of the borders around that world, he says, “It’s not our fence to keep people out. It’s the fence white men built to keep us out of the area they took.”

The race wasn’t the only thing “created” by a white man; the very invention of a Colville Tribes unit is recent. Long before that, before statehood, before Manifest Destiny, before Lewis and Clark white-privileged their way across the American West, the Okanogan Highlands tribes lived nomadic lives, picking berries and drawing salmon from the massive Columbia River. And racing horses.

First came the incorporation of Washington Territory, then a series of executive orders begun by president Ulysses S. Grant that roped several tribes into three million acres between the Methow Valley and the Columbia River. Others were elbowed into the reservation, linking bands that once stretched from the dusty plains of Washington to the mountains of British Columbia. One chief invited a famous Indian leader, Chief Joseph, and his Nez Perce followers in 1885. With his band, the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation—a patchwork assembly that had no single language or traditional commonality—reached their current 12-tribe size.

Over 125 years the tribes faced what so many other American Indians did—children forced into boarding schools, languages squashed. The federal government forced a cheap buyback of 1.5 million acres, lands still lamented as the lost “North Half.” The Grand Coulee Dam, erected in 1942, blocked spawning salmon with its 550-foot concrete walls; Colville tribal members mourned the loss of Kettle Falls, a historic fishing spot, with a Ceremony of Tears before it was submerged by the dam’s backup.

In the 1960s, the tribes toyed with termination, dissolving the reservation altogether and splitting the lands among its 5,000 members. Reservations had been terminated by the government before, but the Colvilles were the only ones to dare seriously consider it themselves, an unprecedented move of self-governance. Congressional hearings were held but the measure never passed, so the Colville Reservation endured.

The Suicide Race is a separate world from suicide itself, a public health crisis for the Colvilles. Whether spurred by pervasive poverty—reservation unemployment topped 50 percent in 2010—or rampant substance abuse, the suicide rate ballooned to 20 times the national average in 2006. “After that we were in a panic on what we need to do and could do,” says tribal staffer Olivia Wynecoop. Tribal leadership declared a state of emergency, and Wynecoop helped secure grants for education and designating “natural helpers” to be on call for suicide emergencies.

Scott positions Eagle Boy at the western end of the starting line for the Saturday-night race. This isn’t like the starting gate at the Kentucky Derby; horses pace and turn, and the antsy palomino next to him does a sideways prance before the starter pistol goes off. Scott is angry, though later he says he can’t remember why. Trash talk and psych-outs are regular along the starting line, older jockeys trying to ruffle the young ones still gathering their courage.

But three years and one win into the Suicide Race, Scott can ignore the chatter. He and Eagle Boy are still until the gun sounds, then fast to the crest of the hill. Aaron Carden still remembers the feeling 25 years after his first win: “You’re actually flying in the sky. Nobody can take that away from you.”

There’s a commotion, a cloud of dust to Scott’s left, but he’s well in front of the pack as they hit the water. Two strides into the dark water, Eagle Boy stumbles, flinging Scott into the river. His blinking red devil horns disappear under the white churn created by horses on either side. They’re both okay but don’t log a finish.

What Scott couldn’t see was what happened on the top of the hill, to the very first rider off the break. Tyler Peasley, whom Scott idolized as a kid, and who’d placed at Scott’s heels the past two nights, darted off the top of the hill like a raptor after its prey. Peasley’s a little taller than Scott, broader shouldered, and he rides to win. His mount, Spade, got so much air he tucked his back legs underneath him and simply sailed for the first 30 feet of the downward slope.

They were serene in that moment, flying, until Spade’s hooves finally hit the tilted ground again; Peasley pitched over Spade’s front left shoulder before the horse executed a tight somersault. The jockey disappeared under the hooves of the horses behind him and the crowd made a collective, guttural gasp. Peasley’s body didn’t come to a stop until he reached the bottom of the hill.

Sunday

The final race is also the only daytime race of the weekend; for the first time since the trials and runoff races held before the stampede, they’ll be rushing the hill in full daylight.

The mood in the O&J paddock is subdued, but word is going around that Peasley is stable at a nearby hospital. News will later spread that his injuries included a broken pelvis, hip, and ribs, and the racing community fundraises to support his care and gas money for his family to visit him.

Remarkably, Tyler’s horse, Spade, is unhurt from the tumble, ready to race again. His owner lights a bundle of sage and says a few words over the horse before a new jockey takes the saddle.

For the final time in 2016, Scott follows the parade to the top of Suicide Hill. His jeans have a gaping hole in the knee—real wear from hard riding, not a fashion statement—and his wraparound sunglasses are ’80s big. No devil horns for the daytime race, but, as ever, his name is the one most shouted by the crowds: “Come on Scotty,” over and over.

With 10 points already earned, Scott only needs to place to secure the title. Owner and trainer Marchand tells him not to go all out, and when the gun fires, he doesn’t. He holds back his whip, lets Eagle Boy run the race without extra urging. It’s the smart move, the calculated move, no doubt informed by the disastrous night before. But Scott comes to regret holding back.

Not because it doesn’t work. Scott and Eagle Boy place second, netting four more points and easily clinching his first solo all-around title. But for Scott, the kind of driven athlete who hates to give a single inch, playing it safe feels wrong. Now with two titles to his name, only three years in, he says he’ll ride “until I get broken down and can’t do it no more.”

Three days later, Scott will depart his Coulee Dam home and drive five hours to start his freshman year at Washington State University. As an engineering student he will pull a 3.8 GPA his first semester and a 3.9 the second; he’s lined up two years of scholarships so far and hopes he’ll be able to extend to the full undergrad four.

Scott won’t brag about his Suicide win at college, but he’ll drive home every fall weekend for Indian Relay races, another sport that mixes horsemanship with a touch of anarchy. Around the reservation, he doesn’t have to brag about being King of the Hill; everyone already knows. “He’s the Steph Curry of the Suicide Race,” one tribal member says. “Loren and Tyler are the Lebrons.”

The second weekend of August 2017 is already on everyone’s calendar. Scott will be back on Eagle Boy, who he now half owns with George Marchand—a 49 percent share. He now has a streak to defend. By early June, high winter snows have melted to fill the Okanogan River, and ecologists are warning of water flows two or three times normal. Scott guesses that, with the river this high, it’ll be too deep for the horses to simply wade across during the Suicide Race; they’ll have to swim for the first time since, he believes, 2002. The year his father won it all.

But on Sunday night in August 2016, after the King of the Hill awards and the pictures, he’s just a high school kid again. He wanders the Indian Encampment with friends, waits in line for fry bread.

Under the pavilion, dancers spin and step, decked in elaborate feathered headdresses and beaded robes. Some have numbers pinned to their costumes, like marathon runners, to compete. In a drum tent, the songs are a steady thrum of chants and cries, indecipherable to the visitors who stand awkwardly outside the rows of seated tribal members who are at once both audience and participant.

Picture this: a quiet mountain lake, bordered by rocky hills dotted with ponderosa pine. In daytime Omak Lake is seven miles of brilliant turquoise, but now, at night, it’s a black mirror. Two men drive a horse trailer to its shore, unloading an unsaddled Eagle Boy.

It’s one of George Marchand’s secrets to success; the lake minerals soothe the bumps and scrapes along the horse’s legs. In the midst of the annual Perseid meteor shower, the uncloudy Okanogan skies are perfect for spotting streaks of celestial light, but the men don’t look up as they dissect the day’s race.

Scott holds Eagle Boy’s halter from a dock while the horse wades into the water, breaking the lake’s calm. The water hasn’t yet cooled from baking under another 90-plus degree day, and the hills that round the lake keep the night air still. They’ve survived another madcap contest together, earned another W. They’re back on the reservation, back home. In the silence the only sound is the lapping of the lake water against a horse.

[themagicalmysticalboy]

PLEASE do that bob&george oneshot there's barely any content for them I love your stuff!!! :D

a/n: in which George and Bob Dylan are v e r y high on acid. this is technically closer to what a shroom high is like as opposed to an acid high but who cares abt semantics, right?

You've Really Got A Hold On Me

The flower pattern on the wall was doubling and tripling into a never-ending spiral, budding and blossoming in the blink of an eye. John joking and making the intimate circle of people laugh brought the wallpaper’s movements to a slow end. George took in a deep breath, grounding himself. Brian was to his right with his knees to his chest. Cynthia fell to his left, cuddled up against John. Leaving George directly in front of his friend.

They all sat around on the floor as the party around them went on. George wasn’t quite sure what John said but the flame of Cynthia’s lighter dancing strangely as she lit a spliff was enough to have him giggling. A wave-like sensation followed and tumbled through his body pleasantly. His fingers were a retreating tide, stretching impossibly long as he fiddled with a tune on the guitar only to come back to normal. He curled and uncurled his toes, feeling them roll like a carpet being put into storage. His whole body could be a rolled-up carpet for all he knew. Wouldn’t that be nice? But then again, carpets can’t hear and George was quite enjoying the music at the moment. Someone was playing a familiar song on the piano but the name of it couldn’t be placed.

Before he really understood his thought process, he was standing and his guitar was propped against a chair.

“Where you off to?” John was looking up at him with half-lidded eyes and a far-away smile.

“Duh know.” George laughed at the realization and let his feet guide him away.

Enough acid, alcohol, and weed had gone around that the party was nearing its peak. Whose party? At whose house? For what occasion? No clue. The important thing was that it felt warm. And not in an uncomfortable way. More like an excited hug from a long-unseen friend. Vibrantly dressed people filled the room and lined the walls. Some melted into the floor while others didn’t even touch it. Music was still going and Paul’s voice belted lyrics with the tune of the piano. He wasn’t visible in the crowd of people but he sure could be heard.

Swiping a drink from a serving table, George strode through the crowd and ascended a set of wildly painted stairs. Two birds sat together, painting a step with a bottle of sparkling nail polish. They didn’t look up as people passed. They only saw each other as they practically sat in one another’s lap. George rather liked when people did that- got lost in each other. He excused himself to pass and moved along.

At the top of the stairs, a couple rushed into a room in a fit of laughter and kissing. The door slammed behind them as George went by. The sound hit every inch of his body like a brick wall and suddenly the fringed lamps were giving off the worst lighting possible. When he tried to breathe he found that the warm hug had turned into a stranglehold. With the chug of his drink, George took swift strides down the hall. Tension rose in his muscles and tendons with each movement and the lights only got brighter and brighter, threatening to blind him. Finally, he opened the very last door at the very end of the hallway.

New energy from the space calmed him almost immediately. The glow of the lights somehow tasted much kinder in there and no one else was occupying the space, save for a tabby cat.

“You mind the intrusion?” He addressed the cat. It responded with a short meow and settled on the couch, unbothered. “Ta.”

The door clicked closed, sealing in the soft vibes. The art studio he found himself in was covered with finished and half-finished work. One piece still sat at the easel with nothing but a messy black background. Paint and drop cloths cluttered the space around the easel and couch. The floor was a beautiful and giant daisy, splattered with freckles of stray paint. George laid himself down on a delicate white pedal and took in the energy of the room. He felt yellow and orange bursting in his chest and behind his eyes.

There was a rhythmic knocking at the door. It echoed and bounced until it was all George could hear. The muffled chatter and music from the party fell away to the knockknock, knockknock, knock. The orange in his chest fell way to blue which melted into yellow seamlessly. He wasn’t very sure how to respond to the knocking, so he didn’t.

The door creaked open, regardless, and George slowly sat up to find a mess of curly hair on top of a small frame. “Bobby,” He greeted with a toothy grin. “You’ve got to ask the cat if you can stay.”

“Oh, man. Really?” Bob smiled, awkwardly removing the cigarette from between his lips though both hands already held drinks. “Well,” he asked the starring tabby, glancing to George as they both tried not to laugh.

The cat hopped from its resting spot and rubbed against Bob’s trousers. He looked to George to see if he had passed.

“Oi, well, now you have to leave. They like you more than me.”

“Apologies to your ego,” He stated as he sat in the center of the daisy and placed one cup in front of George before taking a sip of his own.

“I’ve got a drink, actually.”

“I’m sure yours isn’t water.”

The green vibrations romped around George and he took up the water appreciatively. “I feel romanced.” And he kind of meant it though his tone made it seem more of a jest.

Bob only hummed, placing his cigarette back between his lips. He leaned back on both hands to stare at the ceiling, casting his features into the soft yellow lighting. Both his legs were laid out flat, one foot on either side of George. “It’s loud down there. I couldn’t feel - see - anything right, you know? The noise was a cloud over my eyes.” Smoke poured from between his lips, delicately floating into the air.

“Mmm, suffocating like.” As Bob rose his head up George realized he hadn’t been seeing right either. A radius of color encapsulated him, dancing softly above his skin. It shimmered around him in an impossible display of greens and yellows. He saw nothing like it when he was downstairs. “Blinding too, yeah.”

“You Beatles are hard to find. You, Ringo, and John, at least. If anything, Paul’s hard to lose.”

George rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. God. He really hadn’t seen anything before this very moment. “Paul’s good for company ‘til he finds a bird to fly off with or gets bored,” he answered listlessly, lost in the explosion of color and energy before him. “Do you see all the colors?” He had to ask, even if it sounded a little silly out loud. “You’re as good as a rainbow.”

Bob gave a youthful grin and tilted his head. New shades of blue and green and yellow spun out from around him. “Yeah. You look like the sun just as it’s rising.”

The flow of energy between them felt magnetic, compelling George to move closer. Once they both occupied the bright yellow center of the daisy- George’s legs overtop of Bob’s thighs- the pull finally settled.

“You think it’s our auras,” he asked as he rested his hands above Bob’s hips.

“All I know is that I can see all of you.” He said as his eyes flicked between George’s eyes and mouth. “I could taste your favorite song on your lips.”

Though he fought to keep a straight face, his lips defied him and curled into a smile. He bit down on his bottom lip in a vain attempt to gain control but quickly gave up. “You think so?”

Bob nodded ever so slightly and cupped the side of George's face. His calloused fingertip gently rubbed his cheekbone. “Can I…?”

They were almost nose to nose already. It took so little effort to close the gap that George barely registered that he had done it at all until their lips grazed and a bolt of lightning struck through his veins, illuminating the room so brightly that George could see the pale yellow through his closed eyes. His fingers curled into the fabric of Bob’s shirt as he pressed into the kiss.

When they parted Bob’s head fell onto his shoulder, his hands circling George to clasp behind his back. “Hold me, please. Hold me, squeeze, hold me, hold me,” He sang softly, his usual folksy vocals nowhere to be found. “You really got a hold on me. I said you really got a hold on me.”

George gave a breathy chuckle and did as the song called for, holding Bob tighter in his arms. “The Miracles. Can never go wrong there.”

Bob raised his head and they kissed again before George repositioned. He tugged Bob along with him until they were both flat on their backs, laying on the same flower pedal, hand in hand.

After a while, Bob pressed his head into George’s. “How long do the colors last?”

“Probably another hour.”

Bob rolled on his side and George turned his head so they could meet eyes. “What even is an hour?”

With a quizzical glance at his own fringe, he surmised, “Somewhere between five seconds and an infinity.”

“Perfect. We’ll lay here ‘til then.”

[leviackermanscleaningbuddy]

BTS DRABBLE-OT7 🎃

Halloween Series: Halloween Surprise OT7 

You always expected that you’d go to hell when you died. I mean, you weren’t terrible, but you weren’t an angel either. But what you hadn’t expected was to be shown through the seven circles of damnation by seven men-each more dangerous than the last-that plausibly could’ve passed for angels. Dark and beautiful angels, disguised as demons. And by the time you reach the last circle, it’s with a horrifying reminder from the darkest angel of all, that you realize you are not quite who you thought you were.

Tags: BTS, Bangtan Boys, Bangtan Seonyendan, Bulletproof Boy Scouts, Beyond the Scene, Halloween, Spooky Season, BTS Drabble, OT7, BTS x you, BTS x reader, Kim seokjin, min yoongi, jung hoseok, kim namjoon, park jimin, kim taehyung, jeon jungkook

Warning: Mentions of torture and damnation, obviously.

Genre: Angst

Title: Seven Circles

CIRCLE I-GLUTTONY

As soon as the icy sleet hits the back of your neck-sending prickling waves of cold across your skin-you know where you are. 

Opening your eyes, you see nothing but a white wasteland surrounding you-puddles of chilled slush pockmarking the ground and already soaking your shoes-and in the distance, though you cannot see them when you look straight on, only from the corner of your eye, is the blurry figures of dark shapes moving through the curtain of hail and rain. 

The damned. 

You shiver, wrapping your arms around your body to try and retain your heat-though you’re technically dead, so you don’t know how you think this will help-and start to feel lifeless tears drip from the corners of your eyes, obscuring the ghostly moving figures at the edge of your vision. 

“Chilly, isn’t it?” 

The voice startles you, and you whirl to face its origin-icy puddle at your feet splashing as you do so-and are startled to see a very real, and very solid, shape of a man standing before you, watching you with a slightly grim smirk stretched across his full lips, pulling them upward into the start of a heart shape-odd, in contrast to the rest of his steely expression. 

“Who are you?” You ask without thinking, still shivering-ever more violently now-as the man flashes you a grin full of white, blocky teeth and steps toward you. 

“I am the keeper of this circle.” The man gestures to the cold landscape surrounding the two of you. You note, briefly, that there is a pair of dark, black feathered wings sprouting from his shoulder blades, but again, you feel as if you cannot look at them straight on or they will disappear. 

You tilt your head down slightly, to try to keep him in the corner of your vision. “Right. The first circle. Gluttony.” 

“Hah.” The beautiful, dark features of the man contort with a humorless laugh, and his black hair sweeps into his eyes momentarily, as he leans toward you and places, long cold fingers beneath your chin. “Beautiful and well read.” 

“What do you want?” You ask, pulling from his grasp, as a scream-probably of someone being condemned-echoes down from the gray flat sky above. “And you still haven’t told me who you are.” 

“Ah.” The man, his fingers still frozen where your chin had been moments before in his grasp, retracts his hand, and nods curtly. “I am Hoseok. And as for what I want,” He eyes you openly, and his tongue darts out to trace across his lips, as you feel more chilled at his look than you had before. “That will have to wait. For I’ve been assigned to escort you through the first circle and to the next.” 

“What?” You burst out, completely confused, as the man-Hoseok-turns his back to you and begins to trudge through the slush, onyx wings shimmering and moving in and out of focus. You take hurried steps to catch up to him-sneakers now absolutely soaking-and huff out between breaths, “I thought I was staying here.” 

Hoseok laughs-the sound once again hollow-and ushers you in front of him as he walks. “Oh, hells no. You’re moving on, sunshine. To sweeter and greener pastures if you will.” He looks over his shoulder and winks at you, though the gesture makes the pit of your stomach roil with sudden unknown fear. 

As you walk-to keep yourself from hearing the shrieks and looking out of the corner of your eyes at the blurry, dark figures hidden behind the sleet-you suddenly blurt out, over the sound of your crunching footsteps, “What did you do to be here?” 

Hoseok stops suddenly in front of you, causing you to almost stumble into him, and you wonder, for a brief moment, if he has stopped due to your question, until you see the large, wooden, barred door looming up from the white landscape in front of you. 

He steps aside, watching you carefully and intently, as you take a hesitant step toward the door. “I wanted something I couldn’t possibly have.” He says simply, but the way his words echo in your head, and the way he looks at you-just for a moment-as if in melancholy, puts you on edge. 

“Anyway.” He forces another hollow smile to his lips-and once again, the heart shape catches you off guard-as he pushes the door inward to reveal nothing but blackness beyond. “Enjoy your stay, (Y/N).” 

And before you can ask how he knows your name, you are being pushed through the door into the dark. 

CIRCLE II-GREED

You notice-as you enter the second circle-that it is much hotter here than it had been just moments ago in Hoseok’s circle. 

And there is a distinct smell in the air-almost the smell of hot, burning metal-that instantly fills and overwhelms your nostrils. 

“You’re late you know.” 

The sound of the deep, smooth voice, draws your attention away from the horrid smell, and to the tall, lanky figure of an incredibly handsome man, lounging on a large, cold looking golden throne. 

He flicks his fingers at you in disappointment, as he sighs, and-uncrossing his legs-stands to face you, dark chestnut hair framing his beautiful features, as a look of disgust crosses his face. “I’ll have to remind Hoseok to send you people on time.” 

“You people?” You bristle slightly. “And who are you?” 

“Oh, darling.” The man laughs-the sound light-and stepping away from the throne, walks down the steps toward you, his shoes loud on the solid gold beneath his feet. 

You note-almost immediately-that he has the same type of shimmering, almost hallucinogenic wings adorning his back as Hoseok. 

He reaches you, and stopping to study you for a moment, he reaches out-fingers covered in gold rings-and strokes a finger down the still chilled skin of your cheekbone. “I am the ruler here-You may address me as Seokjin.” 

You ready yourself to say something else sarcastic, but before you have the chance, Seokjin is putting his hand at the small of your back, and pressing you forward. 

“Come with me. I want to show you something.” 

You take hesitant steps-but the weight of his hand at your back pushes you onward-and as you continue to walk, you realize, the smell from earlier is becoming overwhelming, and the sound of moans and groans and cries for help begin to fill your ears. 

“What-” You start to say, but the words die in your throat, as Seokjin halts his progress forward, hand still on the small of your back, as you look down into the deep dregs of a pit. 

The edge upon which you stand drops sharply down into the pit-and just like the earlier circle-there are dark, shimmering shapes filling the pit, the air rent with their cries, as they claw at the sides of the giant bowl, only to be swept back to the bottom as soon as they gain their footing. 

“Is that-” You begin to ask, eyes wide, as you tilt your head to look at Seokjin, standing proud and tall and silent beside you. 

“Gold. Yes.” Seokjin nods, almost imperceptibly, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Greedy in life, the souls are damned to spend the rest of eternity suffering because of what they craved most.” 

You feel the breath leave your lungs, and you turn from the pit, trying to calm yourself, voice shaky, as you ask, already knowing the answer, “So I’ll be with them, then?” 

There is silence for a moment, and then Seokjin’s fingers curl beneath your chin, the gold rings cool against your flushed face as he turns you to face him. “Oh, no. You’re moving on. You’re much too good for this circle, darling.” 

He snaps the fingers of his free hand, and a door-gleaming gold in the dim light- appears before the two of you, swinging inward, once more, to reveal nothing but blackness on the other side. 

When you hesitate, Seokjin pushes you forward with a hand once more on the small of your back. “Good luck, darling. And don’t forget-” He offers you half a smile as you leave. “Don’t crave more than you can have.” 

CIRCLE III-ANGER

The first thing you hear when stepping into the third circle is bellowing and ranting and over it all, the smell of swamp and decay in the air. 

You glance down, surprised that the ground under your feet doesn’t seem to be solid, and note that your previously soaked sneakers, are now buried ankle deep in mud and muck and moss. 

“Great.” You say to yourself, rolling your eyes. 

Honestly-you’d never thought hell would be great-but you’d always assumed it at least had solid floors and wouldn’t ruin your sneakers so damn much. 

“So I take it you like the interior decorating then?” 

You glance up, no longer surprised, expecting to now be greeted at every level by some form of hot demon with black shimmering wings, who seems to know something about you that you don’t. 

This demon-or dark angel or whatever-does catch you slightly off guard. 

Simply for the fact that he’s breathtaking. And his voice sounds like dark honey sliding raspily from his throat. 

He raises a dark brow at you-from where he sits, perched precariously on a large boulder, feet bare-and cracks a boxy grin in your direction. “Like what you see, princess?” 

“I-” You swallow, and look away from him, only daring a glance from the corner of your eye to catch a better sight of his large feathered wings. How was this kid the keeper of the third circle? And anger no less? He seemed like nothing more than a jovial, innocent child. 

A gorgeous, dangerous, darkly scary child. 

Suddenly, he is in front of you, fingers-just like the other two before him-finding purchase beneath your chin, and you note, as you try not to look at him, that his feet are perfectly clean and seem to hover above the swamp you’re currently moored in. 

“What? Cat got your tongue?” He asks smugly, and you finally look up at him, just as he smirks, and the tip of his tongue appears to dart across his lips, caramel irises darkened beneath the sweeping mop of his curly black hair. 

“No.” You huff out, straightening slightly and pulling away from his firm grasp on your chin. “I’m just worried if I talk too much, that your terribly rank swamp air is going to infect my lungs.” 

“You’re dead.” The man states simply, almost curiously, as he cocks his head to stare down at you in amusement. 

“I look pretty good for a dead bitch.” You snap back a famous line from your time alive, and instantly regret it, as the man in front of you laughs loudly and deeply from within his chest at your joke. 

“I’m Taehyung.” The man grins at you once more, and then takes your hand, pulling your feet from the mud, as he leads you back toward the boulder he had been sitting on earlier. And suddenly, the ground feels less liquid beneath your feet as you follow in his steps. “Welcome to circle three.” He waves his hands at the dark and murky atmosphere surrounding the two of you. 

“Anger right?” You ask, as he pulls you up easily to stand beside him on the large rock. You glance around, and note that the dark swamp surrounding you appears to be moving with more of the dark, etheral damned souls. 

“Right.” Taehyung sighs, reaching up to rake a hand through his curls, before he says with disappointment, “Wish I could keep you here a little longer, princess, but you’re on a tight schedule.” 

You open your mouth to respond, but suddenly, a door appears beneath your feet-well, less of a door and more like a sewer grate covered with thick iron bars. 

“Wait.” You hold out a hand, before he can snap his fingers and send you through to the next circle. You’re curious now. “Why are you here?” You ask bluntly, and Taehyung’s eyes darken slightly, and his normally jovial lips flatten into a hard line. 

“Anger issues.” He shrugs, playing off the moment, and readies to send you through the door, as he adds vaguely, “I hurt someone I loved.” 

And with that, before you can smell the swamp air once more, or ask any other questions-like why the demon’s face suddenly looks so sad-you are sent through the grate and into the black once more. 

CIRCLE IV-HERESY

Circle four is HOT-flames and fire and cinder and ash-and so, it doesn’t surprise you, once you get your bearings, to see that the demon that watches over the souls here is also incredibly, absolutely, for lack of a better term, hot. 

He approaches you immediately, as you’re coughing and choking on the ash filling the air, and the pair of wings on his back-shiny and out of focus-appear almost blacker than the others, against the harsh, orange light of the fires.

“Noona.” He nods politely to you, hands behind his back, as if he’s scared to reach out and touch you like the others had. “Welcome.” 

There is something about him that seems oddly familiar-the large doe eyes, the way his long bangs fall across his forehead, the muscular physique, that is in contrast to the quiet personality-but before you can put a finger on anything, he is speaking once more. 

“I’m Jungkook.” His eyes flick to yours and then away, as he backs out of the way-so that you can see the fiery pit behind him, flames licking up the sides of the bowl-as screams emanate from the depths below. “This is circle four.” 

“I know.” You nod, not feeling quite as out of your depth with him as you had the other three. “Heresy right?” 

He nods once more, silent for a moment, and then swallows, his full lips parting slightly, before he says gently, “However, you don’t belong here.” 

“I don’t?” You ask, surprise clear in your tone. How far were you going? Your eyes glance over the pair of beautiful, feathered wings on the young man’s back, as you ask carefully, “But you do?” 

Jungkook’s lips purse, and you can see through the way his eyes tighten, that he is considering how to respond to your question appropriately. 

This kid-that you swear you know-couldn’t possibly be a heretic right? 

There is the sound of a piercing scream and one of the dark figures you can see from the edge of your vision-trying to claw its way out of the hot pit-falls back in a poof of cinder and dark ash, that joins the rest of the pollution already floating in the smoky air. 

Finally, Jungkook speaks. 

“I do.” He nods, just once, solemnly, and then-still without touching you-motions for you to step toward the dark, charred door you have only now noticed. “You have to go now, noona. They’re waiting for you.” 

“Who’s waiting for me?” You ask desperately, as Jungkook, with his mere presence, pushes you toward the now open doorway of black. 

Doe eyes gleaming, and a look of almost regret on his beautiful features, Jungkook ushers you to the edge of the doorway. “The hyungs.” He says simply, dangerously. 

And before you can ask what that means, you are once again tumbling into darkness on your way to the next circle. 

CIRCLE V-VIOLENCE

Circle five’s ground-immediately beneath your feet-is squishy, like the edge of a lake or pond, and you watch-with horror-as puddle instantly begin to pool around the toes of your shoes, crimson and steaming.

The air smells like a new penny-copper and metallic-and when you lift one of your feet, the liquid beneath your toes is thick and drips slowly, burgundy as it creates ripples in the puddle. 

Blood. 

You feel panic creep up into your chest, and you have to focus on keeping your breathing even, as you glance up, and in the distance, see the edges of a red lake-boiling and steaming-splashing crimson droplets into the reddened air of the atmosphere. 

And in the lake-hands and wavy, distorted fingers just visible above the surface-are the souls of the damned, dark and desperate and drowning. 

Drowning in blood. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” 

You start slightly, but only because the purring voice is right in your ear, and the feel of warm breath brushes across your skin and makes you shiver. 

And out of the corner of your eye, you see the black wings, folding and unfolding lazily against the dark angel’s back as he stands beside you. 

“Wasn’t the word I would have picked.” You manage to retort back, although slightly breathless, keeping your gaze away from him, as you look down at his fingers-small and petite-curled around your shoulders, silver rings glinting in the blood red lighting. 

The man laughs-and the sound is light and airy and almost beautiful-as he turns you to face him now, almond shaped eyes regarding you carefully, as dark blue hair falls across his forehead, obscuring his gaze. His full, plump lips curl upward into the hint of a smirk. “Ah, but I’d use that word to describe you, baby girl. Most definitely.” 

You swallow hard. He’s incredibly handsome, and smooth as all hell. You have to remind yourself that he’s a demon and a keeper of a literal lake of blood. 

“You seem to know me.” You say, almost smoothly, as you try not to let yourself look directly at him and get lost in his eyes. “But you are?” 

“Ah. How rude of me.” He tilts his head, watching you like a dark panther stalking his favorite prey, and his pink lips part slightly to reveal the tip of his moist, red tongue-the same color of the blood surrounding you. “Park Jimin. Keeper of the fifth circle.” 

The name rings a bell in your head, but shaking the thought aside, you ask casually, “Am I staying then? Or are you simply showing me onward like the last four?” 

Jimin laughs-the sound once again enchanting-and releasing his hold on you, takes a step backward, snapping his fingers as he does so. 

The blood on the ground rises to form the shape of a large, ornate throne, and Jimin casually sits down on the warm, undulating liquid, watching you with half lidded, catlike eyes, before he replies easily, “Ah. So you met my brothers.” 

He snaps his fingers once more, and a liquid, crimson door rises from the bloodied floor, swinging inward-once more-to reveal nothing on the other side but onyx night. 

“Unfortunately-for me and yourself-” He sighs, tsking slightly, as he waves ring adorned fingers in the direction of the door. “You’ll be moving on.” He smiles, and it’s a pretty gesture, but gives you the willies, as he leans toward you, chin held up in his delicate, small hand. “So go on then, baby girl. And tell the others hello for me.” 

You don’t dare ask him why he’s here, and without chancing another look at the alluring demon, you step into the door and go headfirst into the dark. 

CIRCLE VI-FRAUD

“So you’re here.” The voice is a purr-like a cat, but holding a dark, dangerous, almost uninterested edge-as it reaches you through the blackness. “I’m lucky Jimin didn’t try to keep you for himself.” 

You can’t see anything. Everything is dark and cold and desolate, and as you try to splay your fingers before your face, your breathing quickens, as you realize-it’s pitch black. 

“Who are you?” You ask into the nothing, desperately spinning in circles, trying to see who are what is speaking. 

“Probably your worst nightmare.” The voice replies, tone bored and deep, echoing around you from every direction. 

A heavy hand drops onto your shoulder, and you start, letting out a yell of fear, before fingers cover your mouth, muffling the sound and effectively silencing you. 

“Calm down, baby. I’ll spare you.” The voice is low in your ear, and the feel of his lips brushing across your skin because of his closeness makes you shiver. 

There is nothing except the sound of your panicked breathing whistling through his fingers, and then you hear fingers snap, and the light of a candle-though you can’t see it-breaks through the darkness and forms a wavy, dim pool of light around your feet. 

“Now.” The man’s fingers twitch where they rest on your lips. “Will you be quiet if I release you?” 

You manage a nod in his hold, and slowly-one by one-his long, old fingers drop from your mouth, and you are able to breathe once more. 

The demon steps into the circle of light before you, black beating wings blocking out the light in a dreamlike way momentarily, and cocks his head as he looks at you, the curious look crossing his feline features making him look more cat than man in the moment. 

“You seem to have had a rough go getting here.” The man wrinkles his nose slightly-and it would have been endearing in any other circumstance-as he takes in your disheveled appearance and now thoroughly destroyed sneakers. “Did the others not take care of you, baby?” 

“Who are you?” You repeat again, pupils large and dark as you glance around at the endless blackness surrounding your small circle of light. A scream and shriek and then wailing has you trembling, as the sound of a loud whip crashes toward you through the dark. 

“Min Yoongi.” The man reaches up to brush dark hair back from his forehead, black painted nails matching the night surrounding him. He waves a hand-almost boredly-at the pitch black surrounding you. “This is the sixth circle. Souls are sent here to endure the dark and torture for eternity. Fraudsters.” He takes a step toward you, caramel eyes gleaming. “Tricksters.” Another step. “Deceivers.” Another step, and you’re almost nose to nose once more, as his long, cool fingers come up to brush down the line of your cheekbone. 

“And which one are you?” You ask, slightly breathless from his closeness, as you try to ignore the ever increasing sounds of suffering and torture echoing back at your through the nothing. 

“A better question.” He smirks slightly, revealing pink gums and white teeth, as he reaches up to twirl a strand of your hair between his fingers. “Is which aren’t I?” 

You swallow hard, as he studies you for one moment longer, and then snaps his fingers close to your ear, the loud sudden sound making you jump. 

“Anyway.” His features draw back into a bored expression, and he shoos you toward the sudden outline of the door behind you-light leaking between the cracks into the dark void you now stand in. “Better hurry up, baby. I’d love to play with you more.” He grins, plush lips disappearing in the dark. “But he’s waiting.” 

The light from the candle suddenly goes out, leaving you in the pitch black once more, and you scramble toward the light outlining the doorway, and into the suddenly much safer dark on the other side. 

CIRCLE VII-TREACHERY

Your sneakers slip on the ice beneath your feet as you try to gain your footing, and as you glance around, you see nothing but your own reflection in the pillars of ice and sharp, jagged glass that surrounds you. 

Your features are sharp and pinched and anxious and not at all like yourself. 

And suddenly, you feel fear, even before you hear the low rumblings of his voice echo through your head, bouncing off the slick, ice cold walls surrounding you. 

“Why are you here?” 

The question catches you off guard, and you try not to fall as you turn to face the demon-the last dark angel of the last circle-sitting on a throne of something that looks eerily similar to human bones. 

Yet, just like his wings, you cannot look directly at the chair and tell what it is made of. Only out of the corners of your vision can you begin to see the shapes of ribs and skulls and femurs. 

The man-his cheeks dimpling-offers you a humorless smile, as he waves a hand in your direction, tall lanky legs crossed carefully in front of him, slippered feet resting on the icy floor. “I’ll ask again. Why are you here?” 

“I-” You stutter over your words, teeth chattering, as the sound of your voice lets a cloud of frozen breath out into the freezing air. “I don’t know.” 

The man reaches to a side table, where an ornate goblet rests, and takes a sip of the liquid inside, letting it flow easily between his lips, as he looks at you over the rim. “You don’t remember anything?” He asks casually, setting down the goblet once more, and from the corner of your vision, the liquid looks thick and red and a little bit like the blood you had seen in Jimin’s circle. 

“What?” You ask in sudden confusion, taking a careful step forward, as you try to find your footing on the icy tiles beneath your feet. 

The man laughs-a short, humorless bark-and leans back slightly in the throne, feet crossing at his ankles, as he regards you with nothing more than cold curiousity from his perch. “Interesting.” He reaches out, twirling something that looks oddly like a human leg bone between his long nimble fingers. “Well then. Would you like to know why I’m here?” 

You feel the breath leave your body at his words, and though your brain is screaming, you reply, “Yes.” 

You are no shivering so hard that it is difficult to keep the beautiful man sitting before you in focus-his whole body now appearing as shimmery and nonexistent as his pair of black wings. 

“My name is Namjoon.” The man pauses, studying you carefully, as if for a reaction, before continuing. “And I betrayed you.” 

Your mouth falls open at his words-and suddenly, just a glimpse, a brief flash, of memory fills your mind-and suddenly, you know, only barely, in the back of your mind, that you know the man sitting before you, and you know him well. 

“Come.” Namjoon stands from his relaxed position on the throne, and ushers you in the direction of a set of stairs. “I want to show you something.” 

You carefully follow the tall man down the slippery, ice covered stairs, and as you walk deeper into the clutches of the frozen circle, the more you being to fear. 

At first-as you pass the shards of glass like ice sticking up from the ground-you see nothing but your own face reflected back at you, and the face of the impassive Namjoon, beautiful and deadly and dangerous. 

But then. 

Then you begin to see memories reflected back to you-and you realize, with a harsh jolt-that they are your memories.

And they are dark, and they are deadly, and they are dangerous. 

And when Namjoon comes to a sudden halt before you, you feel like you can’t breathe and that something is clawing away at you on the inside, as he turns to face you with dark, unsympathetic eyes. 

“Do you remember now?” He asks in a scarily calm tone, and the feeling of losing air tightens even more around your chest, so much that you’re gasping at his feet. 

“No, I didn’t-” You stutter out, clawing at your chest, suddenly feeling as if you’re made of ice as the cold wracks over your body in a wave. You look up at him desperately. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” 

Namjoon crouches before you, as your fingers feebly scrabble at the edge of his gown, as if he will help you. 

But he won’t. 

Because in this moment, there is nothing in his eyes beside burning, cold hatred and a sense of twisted satisfaction at your suffering. 

“You see, (Y/N).” He reaches out and brushes a stray hair from your face, his fingers colder than the ice beneath your knees. “I betrayed you.” His handsome features darken, and his lips twist into a wicked line, as he waves a hand at the ice around you. 

The ice that is now reflecting back at you-over and over, like plunging a knife deeper and deeper-the seven faces of the boys you had known and loved in life, the seven faces of the dark angels of the seven circles of hell. 

Namjoon’s long finger goes beneath your chin and forces you to meet his gaze, and you feel as if you’re drowning in the dark pupils of his eyes, as his lips form the words you had never wanted to hear, “I betrayed you, but you betrayed all of us.” 

“No!” You shriek out with the last breath that you can seem to pull into your lungs, and you try to move after Namjoon as he stands from beside you, but you are already frozen, the ice creeping over your dirty sneakers and up your legs even as you watch. 

And Namjoon turns on his heel and leaves you-forever-with nothing but the echoing sound of your last scream and the faces of the seven boys you had betrayed. 

[teacupfulofstarshine]

the crossroad of our destinies book three: air

cw: mild angst, cartoon violence, manipulation/betrayal, detailed fight scene including minor character death, blood, injury, weapons, sedatives, and manipulation, swearing, nightmare mention, references to past child abuse, mention of potential genocide

to skip the fight scene, skip the section that starts “There’s no need to be difficult, Roman.” 

wordcount: 6926

book one: earth // book two: fire // read it on ao3! 

“I’m hardly a master of air bending,” Patton says nervously, fidgeting with his hands. 

“You’re the only air bender that we know,” Thomas says, pressing his hands together and bowing his head. “Please, Pat, you have to teach me! Who else will do it?” 

“There are plenty of air benders in the temples where we live, Thomas, much more skilled than myself. I still think you’d be better off going there and seeking out one of the monks to train you.” Patton fidgets nervously with his hands. “I’m . . . not exactly a master airbender. I’m just a kid.” 

“We’re all just kids,” Thomas argues. “None of us chose to be thrown into this war, but we’re here now. Please, Patton. The sooner I learn air bending, the closer I’ll be to ending this war.” 

“And what happens when you do end the war?” Virgil asks. 

“What do you mean?” 

“We’re all from different nations, different histories, different cultures. We never would have met without this war. What will happen when it ends? Don’t get me wrong, I’m more than ready for peace, but are we just . . . never going to see each other again?” 

“That’s stupid,” Roman says. “I’m not going to just stop being friends with you all once the war’s over. If anything, with my bitchass dad dead -”

“Language.”

“- I won’t have to worry about getting murdered for having friends. You’re all my friends, and I fully expect all of you to be at my wedding ceremony when I marry Dolos.” 

“Really?” Logan asks softly. “You would want us to come to your wedding?” 

“Of course I would,” Roman says. He reaches out and gently touches Logan’s shoulder. Logan smiles, and Virgil feels something tight in his chest begin to uncoil. “Somebody has to walk me down the aisle, after all.” 

“I volunteer as tribute!” Patton chirps eagerly. “And - and Thomas, I’m not an air bending teacher, by any stretch of the imagination, but if you’re willing to put up with me, I can try and teach you what I know.” 

*~*~*~*~*

“How many times have they done this now?” Roman asks. 

“Counting this? Sevent - nope, eighteen,” Virgil says. Thomas tries to copy what Patton is showing him, and he falls flat on his face. “I think the problem is that earth and air are on opposite ends of the bending spectrum, so their movements are the antithesis of each other. Earth bending is all solid movements and grounded footing, and air bending is about being light and detached.” 

“So what are you saying? Thomas won’t be able to learn how to do it?”

“No, he’ll be able to learn. Every Avatar before him has mastered all four elements, there’s no reason that he can’t do it too. It’s just gonna be particularly difficult to do this stage.” 

Thomas falls for the nineteenth time, screams in frustration, and punches a massive fireball into the sky. “Impressive size, poor technique!” Roman calls. 

“I’m not working on fire bending right now, criticism is unwarranted!” 

“This isn’t going to work, is it,” Logan says dryly. 

“Have some confidence in your brother,” Virgil says. “But no, I don’t think it is. We might need to try a different approach.” 

“Such as what? Patton’s the only air bender that we’ve got.” 

“Technically, we have Remy, too.” 

“What in the fresh hell are you smoking?” Roman says. Virgil ignores him, reaching out to gently pat Remy’s nose. The flying bison huffs out a puff of warm air that nearly knocks Roman over and gently pushes his nose into Virgil’s hand. 

“Fire benders learned to bend from the dragons, earth benders learned to bend from the badger moles, water benders learned to bend from the moon, and air benders learned to bend from the flying bison. I’m not saying that Remy has the temperament to be a bending master, mind you, I’m just saying that he could be a teacher.” Remy makes a disgruntled noise and shuffles off to flop down and sleep a few yards away. 

“He might have better luck than Patton is currently having,” Logan says. “I am sure he is trying his best, but Thomas is not showing promising results.” 

“Yeah, but think about how long it took for him to first make a flame when I was training him,” Roman argues. 

“We no longer have that kind of time,” Logan says. “The reports from your brother are getting more dire every day. Your father is speeding up his plans of conquest, and we cannot let him harm any more innocent civilians. We must stop him in his tracks, and that may necessitate accelerating my brother’s training schedule.” 

Thomas hits the ground again. Virgil winces at the noise. “We should have a team meeting about this.”

*~*~*~*~*

The team meeting takes several days. 

This is mostly because people (namely Logan, Thomas, both of them, and occasionally Patton) get fed up and storm away to blow off steam without taking it out directly on other people. Virgil does his best to maintain a neutral voice-of-reason position, but no one in their group has ever been particularly inclined to neutrality. (Logan claims that he is, but he is also the most prone to losing his temper.) 

Eventually, they come to a collective consensus that while Patton is doing his best to teach Thomas the ways of air bending, it may not be enough for the time frame they’re working with. “I’m doing my best,” Patton says, staring firmly into the campfire, “and I know that Thomas is doing his best, too. But I don’t think our bests are moving fast enough, given the timeline of the Fire Nation’s attacks.”

“According to Remus, my father is moving up the attack schedules every day,” Roman comments. “The faster Thomas can master air bending, the better.” 

“I agree,” Thomas says. Logan makes a face, rocks trembling at his feet, but Thomas reaches out and squeezes his wrist. “Hey, Lo, stop it. It’s not a personal attack on me. I’m not mad, he’s right.” Logan huffs, but lets himself calm down. “We have to find someone qualified to teach air bending and hope that they can help me.” 

“We should see which Air Nomad temple we’re closest to,” Patton says. “I think that’s our best bet. The monks there spend their whole lives training acolytes to bend air, they’ll be able to help you.” 

“Are we sure that’s the safest option?” Roman counters. “Remus said that Air Nomad dignitaries were meeting with Father, and if that’s true then -”

“We’re pacifists,” Patton says stubbornly. “We only fight if absolutely necessary. We would never side with a tyrant who’s trying to take over the entire world.” The fire flares a little, and Patton winces and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I - I didn’t mean to insult your dad, Roman. I just -"

“It’s okay,” Roman says. He lets out a long, slow, controlled breath, and Virgil watches as the fire returns to its original size. “It’s okay, you - you’re right. You’re right, Patton, you don’t have to apologize for that. My dad is a tyrant and he is an abusive asshole and he is trying to take over the entire world. You don’t have to apologize.” 

“But he’s still your father,” Patton says. “It only makes sense that you would have an emotional attachment to him.” 

“I don’t want to have an emotional attachment to him,” Roman pouts. “I barely want to have a genetic attachment to him! He’s a dumbass and he’s useless and - and I don’t need him or his validation!” He pushes to his feet angrily and throws a fireball towards the surrounding trees. Patton swiftly bends a vortex around the fire to suction out its oxygen before it can cause any significant damage. 

“We know,” Logan says softly. “You are more than your father’s son, Roman. You have grown to be more than he could ever be.” Roman’s shoulder shake, chest heaving as he turns away. Virgil reaches out and touches his shoulder; Roman flinches, but when Virgil starts to pull his hand away, he whimpers and leans back towards the touch. 

“We know you’re not him,” Virgil says quietly. “I know you’re not him.” 

“He’s hurt all of you so much,” Roman whispers. “He’s the reason you lost your father, Virgil. He’s the reason Thomas and Logan’s village was razed to the ground, he’s the reason that Dolos had half of his face burnt off, he’s the reason my mother abandoned Remus and me and - and he did so much bad shit and - and I have to fix it, I have to -”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Thomas says. “I’m the Avatar, Roman, and it’s my job to restore balance to the world. I know that you have your own reasons for wanting to dethrone your father, but you are not responsible for what he did.” He grips Roman’s hands and gives what Virgil can only describe as his best “I’m-the-Avatar-and-everything-is-okay-now” smile. 

Virgil has trouble pulling comfort from it, but Roman seems to. “Thanks, Thomas.” He squeezes Thomas’s hands back, and he smiles. Virgil is still uneasy about pretty much every aspect of their situation, but he can at least relax in the knowledge that their little group’s uneven edges have settled comfortably against each other again.

*~*~*~*~*

You are in more danger than you realize.

Virgil lifts his head, and suddenly he’s not curled around the campfire sleeping with the rest of his friends. He stands in the middle of a vast expanse of black nothingness. Wisps of smoke curl around his ankles, creeping up towards his knees. He swats them away hurriedly, whirling around and watching a puff of water vapor appear where he’d just breathed out. 

“Who are you?! Where am I?!”

You are safe, little water bender. I am a friend, one you have rescued before.  

The mist stirs in front of him, forming a small dragon shape coiled in front of him. “You’re . . . the dragon I saved from the Fire Nation temple?”

The very same. Your fire bender friend is right to be suspicious. The Air Nomads are acting strangely. There are disturbances in the Spirit World. Proceed with caution and make sure that you protect those close to you.  

“Disturbances? Isn’t it Thomas’s job to balance the natural and spirit worlds as the Avatar? Should I tell him about it?” 

This is not a disturbance he can heal, not yet. You must keep him safe until he matures enough to help us. Protect him, little water bender, and keep your eyes peeled. If the Avatar falls, the world is doomed. 

The darkness surges up around Virgil, and he wakes up screaming.

*~*~*~*~* 

“And you’re sure that you’re okay?” Patton asks, gently touching his shoulder. Virgil rubs his arms, shaking softly. “You were screaming so loudly . . . you were so scared . . .” 

“It was just a nightmare,” Virgil says. Patton wraps an arm around Virgil’s shoulders, hesitantly, as though he’s going to push it away. Normally he would, but Virgil is still shaken, and he leans into the soft touch. Patton makes a soft noise and pulls him closer. 

“I know it was,” Patton says. “But it’s okay. You’re awake now, and we’re here. It’ll be alright. We’ll be at the Western Air Temple in a couple days, and then we’ll be totally safe.” 

Virgil doesn’t know how to tell him that they won’t be safe, that they’d be safer in the Fire Nation’s outlying villages than in the temple, because he’s seen the way Patton gets more excited the closer they get. So he stays silent, pressing close to his friend. 

*~*~*~*~*

Remy swishes his tail irritably as they glide closer to the mountains. “Is he okay?” Virgil asks. “He seems kinda . . . upset.” 

“He doesn’t like flying close to the mountains,” Patton says. “The winds are a lot stronger, and it takes more effort for him to course correct. He has to do it a lot more frequently, too.” 

Remy makes an exasperated huffing noise and veers sharply to the left. “It’s so pretty up here,” Roman wonders, leaning over the side of the saddle. “Isn’t it beautiful, Logan?” 

“Beautiful,” Logan deadpans. “There are so many different shades of black to see up here.” 

Roman winces, but Logan is smirking, so Virgil pats his shoulder reassuringly and turns his gaze to the mountains. There’s a large, elaborate structure built into the crevasses of the largest mountain, spires and peaks and buildings, some of which blend so seamlessly into the mountain they’re difficult to see. If he squints, he can just barely make out tiny figures flitting around the mountain. 

Remy lands at the base, rather than taking them all the way up to the top. “The head monks take turns bending the air currents around the Temple itself, so we can’t approach unannounced. We’re just gonna have to hike up there.” 

“Why would we hike when Thomas and I can bend us up the mountain?” Logan says. He hops off of Remy’s saddle and wiggles his toes, happy to be back on the ground. “It will not take long at all.” 

“But I don’t just want to leave Remy alone down here . . .” 

Logan squares his shoulders and leans into an earthbending stance. Within five minutes, he’s created a cave in the side of the mountain for Remy to settle into. “I promise we’ll come back for you,” Patton says, pressing his forehead against Remy’s nose. The bison huffs, but licks Patton back anyway. 

“I don’t like this,” Virgil says. “What if something goes wrong? We’ll be all the way up there, with no quick escape, I . . .”

“Are you expecting something to go wrong?” Patton asks softly. He looks upset, Virgil realizes, like he was expecting pushback. 

“Of course not, Pat,” Virgil says, reassuring. “I didn’t mean to say that I don’t trust your people. That’s not what I’m tryin’a say at all. I’m always nervous that something will go wrong. Anxiety, remember? It’s kind of my job to worry about stuff like this.” 

“I know,” Patton sighs, reaching over and patting at Virgil’s shoulder. “I appreciate you, Vee. But you know you don’t have to be worried, right? These are my people. They may not be the temple I grew up in, but they’re still my people. They won’t hurt us.” 

Virgil smiles, and wishes he believed Patton. 

*~*~*~*~*

Even with a master earth bender (not that he’d ever call Logan one to his face) and the Avatar himself, it takes them a good while to get up the mountain. Virgil gets more and more anxious the farther up the mountain they get, and Roman looks pretty antsy himself. He’d ditched his more traditional Fire Nation clothing for some of Thomas’s spares and he’d let Virgil style his hair to obscure his face. 

“How much farther?” he asks. Patton is bouncing eagerly on the tips of his toes. 

“Not long now!” 

When they finally crest over a ridge and into the temple, they’re greeted by a group of school-age children. They all stare at the strangers with expressions ranging from confusion to wariness to outright terror, and then Patton steps forward. He says something in a language Virgil doesn’t speak, but it must be some kind of Air Nomad greeting because all of the children parrot back in unison. 

Patton pushes his bangs off his face, showing them the arrow tattooed on his forehead. “My friends and I have come to seek sanctuary,” he says. “We do not mean to cause alarm.” 

“What temple are you from?” one of the children asks. The others cluster behind her. 

“I am from the Eastern Air Temple,” Patton says. “My friends are not air benders, but we come seeking sanctuary.” 

“You have to come with us,” she says. “You have to speak to the Head Monk about that.” 

“Of course,” Patton says. “If you would be so kind as to lead the way?” 

One of the children tugs on Patton’s flowy skirt. “Why do you have hair, mister? Is that a Eastern Air Temple thing?” 

“It’s not an Eastern Air Temple thing, dummy,” the leader says. “All Air Nomads shave their heads. I dunno why he’s weird.” Patton doesn’t flinch at the insinuation, but it’s a very close thing. 

“It’s because I have not been in a temple for quite a while, little one,” Patton says instead. “We’ve been traveling for many months, and I haven’t been able to take care of all this.” 

“Well, we can cut all your hair off here, mister,” the leader says. “C’mon, the Head Monk is gonna be interested to see you.” 

Virgil looks at Roman, who looks exactly as nervous as Virgil feels, and swallows. Logan looks normal, but he’s also pressing closer to Thomas than he normally does (probably unintentionally). 

Yeah. Virgil has a bad feeling about this. 

*~*~*~*~*

The children take them to a large hallway. A single woman sits inside, eyes closed, meditating. Virgil is about to suggest that they come back later, so as not to bother her, but she speaks without opening her eyes. “Hiroshi. Kanna. What are you doing here?” 

The girl, apparently named Kanna, recites a greeting and performs a strange bow. The boy, who must be Hiroshi, copies her quickly; the rest of the children had scattered long before they reached this hall. “Visitors, Head Monk. We brought them to you.” 

The woman opens her eyes, standing up and sweeping her robes around her. “I see. Thank you. You are now dismissed.” 

“Yes, Head Monk,” the children say, bowing again before scuttling out of the hall. The woman approaches them slowly, letting the anxiety in Virgil’s stomach rise to a rolling boil. 

“I am Kya, Head Monk of the Eastern Air Temple. We welcome you, visitors, seekers of sanctuary.” Her words are kind, but her voice disturbs Virgil. It’s too calm, too devoid of emotion. “What brings you here today?” 

Patton reveals his tattoo to her as well before performing the same strange bow Kanna and Hiroshi had. “I am Patton, of the Western Air Temple. These are my friends, they -” 

Thomas steps forward, brown eyes gleaming slightly. “Head Monk Kya, my name is Thomas, and I am -”

“The Avatar,” she breathes. 

“I’ve been trying to teach him air bending,” Patton says, “but -”

“You could not. I am unsurprised. You have clearly fallen out of practice.” There’s something strange in her eyes, and Patton seems to wilt away from her. “Allowing your hair to grow over your tattoos? Shameful. It is any wonder you can connect with the element which breathes life into your body. I am disappointed.” Her voice is like frost, and Patton grows smaller with every piercing word. 

“Hey, that’s not fair to Patton,” Virgil says, stepping in front of him. “We’ve undergone a lot of challenging circumstances, it’s not like shaving was a priority compared to staying alive.” 

Kya turns her gaze on him, but Virgil doesn’t falter. He’s faced winters colder than her gaze. 

“Who are you to tell an air bender what is proper?” she says. “Do you even bend?” 

“I do not bend,” Virgil grits. 

“Then you have no place speaking here.” Kya turns back to the Avatar. “I am surprised that one of your station would travel with those who are not in touch with the elements, but I suppose I cannot make your choices for you. If you wish to spend the night here, you may, and we will make arrangements for your training to begin in the morning.” 

Virgil glances around the hall while Thomas and Kya speak, frowning when he catches sight of someone lurking behind a pillar. “Who’s that?” he says loudly. Kya frowns at him, but she turns to look at the figure. 

“No one of your concern,” she says. “You are dismissed. Leave my presence.” 

Thomas turns around and walks out. Roman presses close to Patton, who’s clearly trying very hard not to cry, and Logan turns his face in Kya’s direction. If he could see with his eyes, Virgil would suspect he was glaring at her. 

As they reach the doors, Virgil lifts one hand up deceptively, as though he’s going to stretch or scratch his face. The knife hidden in his sleeve gleams against his inner wrist as he angles it to spy on what’s going on behind him.

The figure steps out from behind the pillar, dressed in the blazing crimson colors of the Fire Nation, and begins to speak in a low voice to Kya. She nods, face still impassive and stony. Virgil feels his heart drop straight through his stomach and tumble right off the mountain. 

*~*~*~*~*

“Are you sure?” Roman asks, for the sixth time in as many minutes. 

“I know what I saw!” Virgil snaps. “I travel with a Fire Nation prince, Roman, do you think I don’t know what fucking Fire Nation clothes look like?” 

“Kya . . . she sold us out?” Patton says. He’s curled into a ball on one of the beds in the little tower room they’ve been allowed to inhabit. “I - I don’t -” 

“Remus said that Father was trying to broker some kind of peace with the Air Nomads,” Roman says, “and this temple is closest to Fire Nation territory. What if . . . what if he wasn’t looking for peace at all?” 

“You think he’s colluding with the Air Nomads?” 

“We have no proof of that,” Logan says, running his hands along the stone wall. “I’ll tell you this, though. They locked the door behind us, and there’s two guards at the bottom of the stairs.”

“But we don’t have guards! We’re pacifists!” 

“They do not read like Air Nomads to me,” Logan says. “They appear to be Fire Nation, judged on their stances and breathing patterns.” 

Before anyone can say anything further, Thomas makes an aggressive “shhhhh!” and beckons them over to the window. The moon, newly full, is only a few days into its waning gibbous phase, and the courtyard below them is illuminated enough to see Kya and the Fire Nation man Virgil had seen earlier. 

“Can you bend their words to us?” Thomas mouths at Patton. Even though he looks miserable, Patton nods, stepping forward lightly. Kya opens her mouth, and Patton begins to bend. 

“Are you sure this is what the Fire Lord requires?” Kya says. “We do not wish to participate in this war, Ruon-Jian. We would ask that he leave us be, in peace.” 

“The Fire Lord wishes nothing more than to accommodate the wishes of his most trusted neighbors and trading partners,” Ruon-Jian says. His voice is silky smooth and oily, and Virgil hates him immediately. “He of course understands your cultural traditions, and he had nothing but the utmost respect for you and your people. He admires that you share a goal with him, to protect your people and promote their interests and well-being.” 

“However?” Kya says, tiredly. 

“However,” Ruon-Jian says, “there have been rumors of a plot to overthrow our most gracious Fire Lord. Conspiracies against him, originating from his own people. The traitorous Prince Roman has, of course, been exiled, as has his betrothed, and the cursed Prince Remus has been sent on a fool’s errand with the disgraced General Emile, but you can never be too careful. You can understand why the Fire Lord might wish to keep tabs on those he suspects may be involved in such . . . foolishness.” 

“What do you want from me, Ruon-Jian? What will it take for you to leave us?” 

“The Fire Lord requires a sign, Head Monk Kya. A token of goodwill, as it were. In order to spare you and your people, he must know that you are not conspiring against him. You are currently harboring traitors to the crown, including the Fire Lord’s most reviled offspring and the Avatar. These are dangerous insurgents.” 

“I can handle them.”

“We do not doubt your capacities, but the Fire Lord would hate to foist the responsibility of punishing and detaining his fugitives onto our most honored neighbors.” 

“They are children, Ruon-Jian. How much damage can they possibly do?” 

“Enough,” Ruon-Jian says, and his voice drops sharply. “Do not underestimate the Avatar. Do not underestimate the Fire Lord. The terms of the agreement stand before you, Head Monk Kya. Turn over the fugitives to me, and the Fire Lord will spare your temple. Otherwise, you will be engulfed in flames like your Southern brethren. We wouldn’t want that, would -”

Patton drops to the ground as though his legs have given out from under him, tears spilling down his face. “No,” he whispers. “No, they - he - they can’t have - they - the Southern Air Temple? They can’t have -”

“I am so sorry,” Roman says softly. “I know my father, and I know that guy down there. He’s the most ruthless of Father’s generals. He brags about things like that, he wouldn’t lie. He - he probably did, Patton.” 

Patton bites back a sob. “They . . .”

“Kya is going to sell us out in order to protect this temple,” Virgil says. “We can’t stay here and get captured, but we can’t let the Fire Nation attack this temple, either. We need a plan.” 

“What kind of plan?”

“We’re going to have to draw the Fire Nation away from the temple. If we escape, they won’t blame Kya, especially since there are Fire Nation soldiers guarding us, and they’ll have to give chase.”

“We’ll need a plan,” Logan says. Virgil grins, sharp and wolfish. 

*~*~*~*~*

Predictably, things rapidly go downhill. 

They make it out of the Temple, but they’re pursued so tightly by Fire Nation soldiers that they can’t immediately circle back to Remy for fear of getting him captured. Instead, they divert into the forest, splitting up to avoid detection. 

Virgil ends up pulling Thomas along, gripping the Avatar’s wrist and tearing through the trees. He’s not accustomed to forests, but he’s travelled glaciers and snowdrifts before. Dangerous terrain is no stranger to him. Thomas stumbles along blindly, tripping every few steps, but Virgil just pushes forward. 

They stop dead in their tracks when they hear someone scream. It’s high and frantic, and it sounds an awful lot like - 

“Logan,” Thomas says. His voice rumbles deep in his chest like an earthquake, and his eyes begin to glow blue. 

“No!” Virgil hisses, slapping Thomas to snap him out of the Avatar state. “Sorry, sorry - but you can’t do that, you can’t! You’ll draw attention, and you don’t have control of that state yet! You won’t be able to survive, you’ll get captured and we’ll never get you back!” 

“That’s my brother,” Thomas says plaintively. “That’s Logan, I - I have to protect him, I -”

“I know, Thomas. But we have to protect you, too. Come on, come on, I -” 

Virgil pulls Thomas after him, tearing through the forest. He stops a good distance away from his best estimate of Logan’s location and instead begins to pull Thomas after him into a tree. “You stay here.” 

“Wh -”

Virgil slams his hand over Thomas’s mouth, pointing to the ground. There’s a heavy thudding noise, like booted feet, and Fire Nation soldiers rush past the tree. Once he’s sure they’re gone, Virgil uncovers Thomas’s mouth. “Stay here. If they catch you, it’s all over. I’m gonna go after Lo and the others.” 

“And what if they capture you?” Thomas says. 

“They killed my father, Thomas. They took the only family I had left. It’s taken me this long to build another one, I’m not going to let them take it away again.” He hugs Thomas tightly, quickly, before he can change his mind. Thomas is surprised, but he squeezes back just as tightly. 

“Save them,” Thomas whispers, voice wavering. “Please, Virge.” 

“I will. I promise.��� 

*~*~*~*~*

“There’s no need to be difficult, Roman.” 

Roman stands, frozen, staring at a man he thought he left behind. Ruon-Jian has the clearing surrounded with his men; his tone is level and soothing, like he’s speaking to a frightened animal or a rambunctious child, like he’s presenting the only logical option. His face gives him away. 

One of his goons stands behind him, holding Logan tightly. His massive arm is like a vice grip around Logan’s fragile torso, and he has a controlled flame-knife pointed at Logan’s throat. He’s holding Logan up so that he can’t touch the earth, and they managed to tie him up somehow. Without his bending, he looks like a blind, scared kid, struggling weakly. Patton is on his back on the ground, a spear point pressed against his throat, arms and legs bound with ropes.

“Come with us, and I promise I will be lenient towards your friends. Why you choose to travel with children is beyond me, quite honestly. Then again, most of your choices are . . . beyond me.” 

“How did you find me?” Roman asks. He knows he should be fighting, knows he should be bending right now, but he can’t. The fire inside him has turned to ice as he stares at his captured friends. 

“Your brother is not known for his subtlety, Roman. It was no secret that he was sending messages on your hawk. All I had to do was track it, and the stupid bird led me right to you.” 

This is all Roman’s fault. He’s gotten his new friends captured, and he’s going to get his brother killed. “What did you do to Remus?” 

“Nothing, yet. For all his lunacy, he’s popular with the crew. But once I bring you and your friend the Avatar back as proof of his treachery, I will have enough support to stage a mutiny. Your brother will die at sea in a tragic accident, and I will be the Fire Lord’s right-hand general.” 

“Never,” Roman croaks, but it’s a weak protest and Ruon-Jian knows it. 

“You are no threat to me, princeling. I will end you and your brother, and your father does not care enough to stop it.” Roman knows that it’s true. He knows he has to get them out of this situation before they all get killed, but there’s nothing he can do. He makes eye contact with Patton, trying to convey his apologies through his eyes alone. 

Patton shakes his head, mouths It’s okay before the soldier holding a spear to his throat kicks him, and Roman hates himself just a little more. Ruon-Jian holds up a rope, and Roman starts to lift his hands to be tied up, and then -

Creak. 

There’s a rustling noise around them, too pronounced to be normal forest noises, and Ruon-Jian frowns. “Did you capture the Avatar and the Water Tribe brat yet?” 

Two soldiers stumble into the clearing, carrying a third between them. Both of the standing soldiers have a knife sticking out of them somewhere, and the sagging soldier looks barely conscious. 

“What happened?” Ruon-Jian snaps. 

“It - out of nowhere, the trees -” one of them pants. 

“Before we knew what hit us, there were knives, and - and they attacked Shoji with some kinda weird punches and he couldn’t bend anymore! He collapsed, we’re lucky we got outta there alive!”

“There’s no such thing!” Ruon-Jian protests. “You can’t take away someone’s bending!” 

There’s a sharp whistling noise, and one of the Fire Nation soldiers cries out in alarm. A slender blade sticks out of his arm, and his eyes roll up in his head as he collapses. “Poison?!” Ruon-Jian hisses. More sharp whistles, and four more Fire Nation soldiers fall. Ruon-Jian snarls and thrusts his fist forward, vaporizing the blade that hurtles towards him. 

“Show yourself!” he roars. “Do not hide in the trees like a coward!” 

“Who are you calling a coward?” a voice snarks back; familiar, but also lower than Roman is accustomed to. “After all, I’m not the one who felt the need to attack children in the woods. You have, what, a teenager and a pre-teen tied up like prisoners of war? Did you really think you couldn’t handle them? God, you’re pathetic.” 

“Come down here and fight me like a man, then!” Ruon-Jian challenges. 

“If I can defeat your minions so easily, what makes me think you’re any more of a challenge?” the voice taunts. “You’re not so bad.” 

“Prove it!” 

The trees all rustle at once. If Roman strains, he can faintly hear the lightest of footsteps and grunts as something leaps from tree to tree. Knives appear out of nowhere, and a soldier screams as one pierces clean through his hand. There’s a gleaming ribbon attached to the hilt, and it gets yanked back before anyone can process what’s happened. 

“No match for me,” the voice lilts. “Too bad, so sad.” 

Ruon-Jian screams and thrusts his arms out, creating a fireball that he hurls at the nearest tree. He keeps screaming as he burns all the trees surrounding the clearing, and Roman cowers down to avoid a serious burn. 

“Where are you now, without your precious tree shelter to protect you?!” Ruon-Jian shrieks. “You’re nothing!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” the voice says. A shadow steps forward from the wreck of the forest, knife glinting in the moonlight as they hold it between two fingers. 

Virgil steps into the clearing, and Roman gasps a little. He can’t help himself. Ruon-Jian stares at him, and then he laughs. 

“Another child? Pathetic.” 

“I’ve taken down too many soldiers for you to call me that,” Virgil says coolly. “Also, destroying the forest? Not cool, asshat. The spirits are gonna beat your ass.” 

“Spirits?!” Ruon-Jian snarls. “What can a spirit do to me?” 

“Count yourself lucky that you won’t find out tonight,” Virgil says, “because I’m dishing out justice on their behalf tonight.” 

“Where is the Avatar?”

“Safe from people like you,” Virgil says. “I disabled your soldier’s bending, and you think I’m not the biggest threat in this clearing?” 

“You are a child!” 

“So are the benders you have tied like dogs,” Virgil says. He looks angrier than Roman has ever seen him. “Let them go, and let Roman go too. Don’t think I won’t fuck you up.” 

“What can you possibly do to me?” 

Virgil spins a cord rapidly, and the knife on the end gleams. “You sound scared. Fine by me. Send your minions to fight me if you’re so scared. I’ll take them down and then I’ll come for your pansy ass.” 

Ruon-Jian snaps his fingers and three Fire Nation soldiers step in front of him. He retreats to the edge of the clearing with the soldiers holding Logan and Patton, and Roman steps back as well. Virgil’s eyes gleam as he steps forward. 

Roman sees the cord wrapped tightly around Virgil’s wrist as he throws one of the knives. It sticks in the shoulder of a soldier, who cries out in pain. Another soldier throws a burst of fire at the cord while it’s still stretched out across the clearing, and Roman winces, sure that Virgil is about to lose a weapon. 

Instead, he smirks, yanking the cord and pulling the knife free. “What, did you think that I was going to fight a crew of Fire Nation soldiers and not use my fireproof weapons? Morons.” 

Roman quickly realizes that Virgil has far more of an upper hand than he thought. He has a knife-on-a-string in each hand, and he wields them with terrifying efficacy. He spins the knives and uses them to keep the soldiers a good distance from his body. They retaliate with fire, but Virgil just evades them almost effortlessly with an impressive display of gymnastics. 

“Stop playing around and kill him!” Ruon-Jian shrieks, presumably to his own men. Virgil rolls his shoulders back and grins. 

“Great idea, idiot. I should stop playing, shouldn’t I?”

His knives disappear into his clothes and he runs straight towards the nearest soldier. They shout in surprise, and Virgil shifts to a stance that’s strangely similar to earth bending. He narrows his eyes and tilts his head slightly to the left and lays out a series of jabs, one-two-three-four-five, quick and staccato like Roman’s terrified heartbeat. The soldier wheezes in shock and collapses to the ground in front of Virgil. 

“Use your fire bending! Set him ablaze!” 

“I - I can’t,” the soldier says, “My bending - something happened, I can’t - I - it’s gone!” 

Virgil grins, cracks his knuckles, and bares his teeth. 

“Who’s next, motherfuckers?” 

*~*~*~*~*

It’s short work after that, disposing of the soldiers. 

The leader, that slimy Ruon-Jian, gets away, but Virgil does manage to disarm the rest of his men. He does his best to only use non-lethal combat tactics, but when he gets to the men that had tied up and hurt Logan and Patton . . . 

Well, it’s not his fault if a knife ends up in their exposed throats.

It’s short work to slice through Patton’s binds, and he hugs Virgil fiercely the second he’s free. “That was so scary,” Patton breathes. “I thought they were gonna kill us - I thought they were gonna kill you -”

“Am I forgiven for swearing?” Virgil teases. Something wet seeps into his shoulder. 

“Yeah, Virge, you’re forgiven.” 

Logan is practically mummified in ropes on the ground, but he hasn’t made a single move to free himself. He just lays there, catatonic, and for a moment Virgil worries he’s been injured. “Lo?” Logan flinches, tears spilling down his face. “Hey, buddy, it’s me. It’s Virgil. Can I cut you free?” 

Logan nods. “T - Thomas?” he rasps. 

“I hid him before I came,” Virgil says. “We’ll go back and get him, Lo, I promise. Let me get you out of these . . .”

Logan stands up once he’s been cut free, stumbling forward one, two, three steps before collapsing. Virgil catches him, quickly sweeping him up into his arms. “Whoa! Are your legs sore from the ropes?” 

“Y . . . yes.” 

“Okay. I gotcha. Come on, I got you, you’re safe. I’ll take you to Thomas, okay?” 

Logan tucks his head into Virgil’s shoulder, breathing shakily. Virgil presses his face into Logan’s hair reassuringly and politely ignores the way his shirt becomes damp. 

*~*~*~*~*

Thomas throws himself out of the tree the minute he hears Virgil call to him. “Where’s my brother?! Logan, what happened?!” 

Logan has been still and silent since Virgil cut him free, but now he shifts and reaches for Thomas, hands opening and closing rapidly in a childish gesture he would normally never use. Thomas pulls him into a tight hug, and Logan’s breath hitches as he sobs into Thomas’s neck. Patton presses his face against Thomas’s shoulder, and Virgil smiles. 

“I’m sorry,” Roman murmurs. Virgil turns, confused. 

“What? Why?” 

“I froze. If I’d fought back, if I’d done - something, maybe - maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Ruon-Jian was right. I am a coward. I couldn’t stand up to my father for Dee and Remus, I couldn’t stand up to Ruon-Jian to save Logan and Patton, I . . .”

“You are not a coward,” Virgil says firmly. “You’re a victim of shitty circumstances and a shitty upbringing. Doesn’t make you any less of a person. It’s not your fault you were conditioned into this.” 

“That would have been me,” Roman says. “If Father hadn’t threatened Remus and Dee . . . It would have been me.” 

“But it wasn’t,” Virgil says. “And I refuse to believe that you would have stepped onto a battlefield full of innocents and decided to kill them. You’ve got a conscience, Princey, and you’ve got a good heart. You’ll be okay.” 

Roman smiles, just a little, and touches Virgil’s shoulder. “Thanks, Vee.” 

“No problem, Roman. What are friends for?” 

“Are you finally admitting we’re friends?” Roman probably meant to be teasing, but his voice quivers. Virgil smiles softly, leaning forward and bumping his head against Roman’s cheek. 

“Yeah, Ro. We’re friends.” 

*~*~*~*~*

They make it back to Remy, waiting in his cave with Dragon. Roman writes a quick letter filling Remus and Dolos in on what happened, telling them not to reply and begging them to take care of Dragon, before sending the hawk off. Patton climbs onto Remy’s head, and they fly away. 

Logan is huddled up against Thomas’s side, face blank. “Lo,” Thomas coos, “are you okay?” 

Logan doesn’t speak, tucking himself more closely against Thomas. “Go to sleep, okay? I’ll keep you safe.” Eventually, Logan’s eyes slide shut, and Thomas exhales heavily. 

“Has he ever done that before?”

“Once. After we escaped our home village, when it was on fire. He just . . . shut down. He’s never been good at dealing with emotions, so he doesn’t deal with them at all.” 

“Not healthy,” Patton says from Remy’s head. 

“You’re telling me. But I can’t force him to talk about his feelings. He deserves to work through things at his own pace.” 

“I can respect that,” Virgil interjects, “but that kinda implies that he’s dealing with his feelings, doesn’t it?” 

Thomas pulls Logan into his lap and shifts so his brother is cuddled against his chest. Logan exhales softly, mouth open in a little “O” as he breathes. He’s never looked younger than he does right now, except for maybe when he’d been tied up by Fire Nation soldiers. 

“I have to take care of him. It’s my job. He’s the only family I have left.” 

“The only blood you have left,” Virgil says. “Don’t think for a second that he’s your only family.” 

“Who else do we have?” Thomas whispers. 

“Me, obviously. And Ro, and Pat. You have us now.” 

“He’s tellin’ th’tr’th,” Logan mumbles sleepily. “Don’eed bendin’ f’r that.” Thomas smiles at Virgil, watery and honest, and Virgil smiles back. It might be ragtag, but it’s his family, and anyone who threatens it has him to answer to. 

[zrtranscripts]

Home Front, Mission 10: Round Robin

Life is irrepressible

~

SAM YAO: You know how sometimes you want to say that things are going to be okay, but you can't definitely know that they're okay, and they're not really okay right now? Yeah. All right. So Janine would say, "We have no evidence, Mr. Yao, that things are going to get any less okay than they are at the moment." Sometimes she can be weirdly comforting.

Anyway, all right. Positives: I'm safe in Abel Township with Janine. The other runners are safe. Jody is still in the warehouse. Runner Five is in the Spectrum Mall eating through the climbing shop stash of self-heating meals. Apparently, the lentil pilaf is surprisingly all right. Peter's in the cinema. Phil's in New Canton. We're all okay right where we are. But there's... [sighs] Look, something's happening to the communications system and we're gonna stop broadcasting for two or three weeks. We are 100% definitely coming back, okay?

Janine explained this to me. Um, yeah, hang on. [paper rustles] Yeah, “Essential maintenance can no longer be put off if our comms systems are to weather this time robustly.” Okay, I guess that was less technical than I was expecting. Anyway, this is our last exercise together for a little while, so I guess let's make it a good one. I'm gonna play the best dancing song ever. Let's dance.

~

SAM YAO: I don't know why I'm feeling so upset about this, really. It's not like anyone's going to be less safe when we can't hear each other's voices, and we'll all have crazy stories to tell when we come back. I bet Peter will have like, trained the fox to do tricks, and Five will know crazy amounts about mountaineering from all those climbing books.

And honestly, the Abel vegetable patch is just bursting with life right now. There were these borlotti bean plants and I'm not kidding, they were tiny beans two weeks ago and now they're literally a meter tall, stretching up to the sky. I mean, who knows what they'll have done by the time we start broadcasting again? Maybe I'll have quite the adventure to report with a giant and a golden goose.

Anyway, first exercise. In honor of the Abel veg patch, forward lunges! When the beanstalks are covered in new fresh beans, this will be the move we'll do to reach the furthest away ones. Okay? So you know the drill. Stand with your feet hip-width apart, take a big step forward with your right foot, then lower your hips towards the ground, bending both knees, keeping your right shin vertical and let your left heel come off the floor as your left knee lowers towards the floor. Make sure your right knee doesn't go over your right toes. Go as far down as you can, but make sure it doesn't hurt. Then push down into your right heel to go back to the starting position, then do it again!

Okay, I’m gonna time you. 30 seconds. Right leg forward, and go. That's it, keep it going. Just think of all those lovely beans you'll pick like this. It makes it all worth it, really. I love beans. Okay, now change legs. Left leg at the front, go at your own pace. Your 30 seconds starts now. Hmm, maybe I should do some more beans. One day, we'll all be doing this in the veg patch in unison and it'll look really weird. Bean training, that's what I'm going to call this. Almost there... and that's 30 seconds! Good work, everyone. I'm gonna play some more music. You could either do more lunges, or dance, or rest, and when you come back, there'll be a surprise! [laughs] Bet you can't wait, can you?

~

PETER LYNNE: Okay, let me see. God, is that... Is it working? [gasps, then laughs] Oh my God, I have a red light. Majestic. Oh, and I've got Sam on ROFFLEnet telling me to stop asking if it's working, so I... I'll assume it must be working. Um... Oh, uh, hi. Hello. Uh, welcome to a simultaneous broadcast from the Abel Township personnel for the first time, uh, well, ever. And-and the last time, just for a few weeks, so I suppose we'd better make it good.

Today you'll be hearing from myself, Phil, and Janine. Sam said we should all do our signature moves. Now of course, as you all know, my signature move is absolutely unfit for public consumption, certainly pre-watershed, so I'm going to have to come up with something else. Tell you what, having us all chip in though, it really does start to feel like having a real conversation. Which let me tell you, when you've exclusively been chatting with a fox for several weeks, that's really quite a thrill. So to celebrate, let's do some of our Rocky-inspired moves together one more time. That's right, it's the jabs!

So hold your fists in front of you. Your dominant hand - and that's, of course, the hand you write with - should be a little further from your face, ready to punch. Plant your feet diagonally, shoulder-width apart, with your knees slightly bent and your dominant foot at the back. Now you're going to punch out with your dominant hand, rotating your arms so that your knuckles face up and your shoulder moves forwards. We're going to do 30 seconds of jabs just like that.

Starting... don't be [?]... now. Yes, get going. Excellent. Don't get carried away. It's a marathon, not a sprint. 15 seconds down. Once again, imagine hitting that bullseye dead center. Just how, you know, in Disney's Robin Hood where he gets the arrow in and then hits the arrow with the arrow? Uh, anyway, uh, change foot. Now you want to put your dominant foot forward. That's of course the one you write with. And punch with your other arm. Excellent. Oh, this form, it's delicious. I could eat you up. 15 seconds left. Don't start to tire. Feel the burn, embrace the burn, love the burn! And we're done.

God, it feels good every time, doesn't it? I know we can't punch the zombie virus in the face, but for what it's worth, I'd for one bloody want to. All right. Well, Sam's made the frankly laughable mistake of giving me free choice of what music comes up next, so I'm going to make him regret that. Here is the song that I will be listening to over the next few weeks. Keep on punching while it plays, or just throw some shapes instead.

~

PHIL CHEESEMAN: [laughs] He started it by saying, "Is this working?" [laughs] No, but of course, he's not a radio professional. How would he know that when the red light goes on, it means it's... Oh. Um... okay! Hello, ci-ti-zens! Phil Cheeseman here, broadcasting from New Canton Radio, bringing you all the exercises and the hits all day long. Zoe is literally laughing in my ear right now. Okay, Zoe, could you try to... Yeah, I mean, you don't have to tell me that you're literally rolling around on the floor. Aren't you getting covered in cat hair? Honestly, I think she actively likes being covered in cat hair. It attracts all the cats while keeping the humans away. Ideal.

All right. In honor of Zoe's position on the floor, we're going to do sit-ups. Lie down on your back on the floor. Get something soft like a towel or a yoga mat. Bend your knees and put your feet flat on the floor. Now remember that you have a few options, but whichever you choose, make sure you don't strain your back. Keep your abs engaged and use them to lift your body. If you can only move an inch off the ground, well, that's plenty to work your core.

Okay, so. Option one, start with your arms behind you so that the backs of your hands are resting on the floor, then sit up so that your hands tap the ground on either side of your feet or your knees. Option two is more like, uh, crunches and they're more protective of your lower back. Start with your fingertips of your hands behind each ear with abs engaged. Sit up until your head is a few inches off the ground, and then lower your upper body back to your starting position in a controlled motion. Don't just flop down.

Okay, we're going to do 60 seconds of as many sit-ups or crunches as we can. Start... now! Just imagine how much cat hair Zoe gets on her doing this exercise. Halfway through. Uh, remember, only sit up as far as you can without overstraining yourself. 15 seconds left, you've got this! There we go! Oh, my stomach feels sore just thinking about all that work you've done.

Zoe reckons that by the time I see her again, she's going to have rock hard abs. [laughs] I reckon I'm never going to get close enough to her to find out because of the intense hair ball situation. I guess that's a nice thing for us all to think about, what we'll be able to do or tell each other about when... yeah, we do see each other again. Will we have perfected one joke or learned to play the spoons or will we have stories to tell about where we were and how it was for us? I guess Sam will have borlotti beans to share. Peter will have extensive Rocky knowledge. And me... I think I'll just know how much I miss Zoe when she's not around. [sighs] But don't tell her that. Here's some music. You could do some more sit-ups or crunches, or express yourself with your best dance moves.

~

JANINE DE LUCA: Hello, listeners. The red light tells me I'm now broadcasting, and it is an honor to do so. My intention was to use this segment to explain in some detail the maintenance work we are undertaking on the communications system to educate listeners on electrical engineering in a crisis situation, but Mr. Yao expressed the view that something a little more heartfelt might be more appropriate.

I am proud of you all. None of us expected to be separated for this long. None of us were prepared for it a few short weeks ago, and yet we have all risen to the challenge with courage and grace. We have grown crops, we have exercised, we have cared for those near to us, we have reached out to those far away. When we felt we could not carry on, we have carried on. I am proud of us. Please take this time to recall things that you are proud of in your own behavior in this time. I am proud of you for those things, too.

And with that said, on to my signature move. I gave this some thought, drew up a shortlist, and analyzed each exercise for signature potential. In the end, I decided upon the wall sit. It is simple, but surprisingly taxing. Rest your lower back against a wall and bend your knees as if you were sitting down, then simply hold that position for 60 seconds. Begin now.

That's it. Excellent, runners. Keep going. 15 seconds. You may feel a burning sensation in your thighs. There we have it. Keep it up, runners. 30 seconds. Try to maintain the position, but you may stand up and then resume the wall sit if you need. 15 seconds to go. You will get through this. Keep it going, runners. That's it. Stand up.

It occurred to me that the wall sit is the perfect analogy for our times. What needs to be done is simple, but not easy. The longer it goes on, the more tired we become, and yet, through doing this simple maneuver, we will grow stronger. I know this to be true. I will now play a song which gives me fortitude in difficult times. You may use the time to complete more wall sits, to march in place, or to dance. We will come through this together. We never knew our own strength until now. I will speak to you soon. For now, here is a tune from my personal motivational collection. Continue with wall sits or move in whatever way feels best to you.

~

SAM YAO: Well bloody hell, I've been doing those exercises along with you and that was a tough workout! Well done, everyone. God, honestly, I swear my borlotti bean plants are growing every time I look away. Like, there's this one plant, right? It's grown right up past the top of the cane and now it's sort of waving around in midair, looking for something new to cling onto. Yeah... yeah. I know how it feels. All that for one tiny bean. Huh. Do you know what? Life is just irrepressible. There's-there's no stopping it. Not the zombie virus. Certainly not a little break in comms. It's like, bursting out everywhere, little tendrils reaching out for connection. It's unstoppable, and we're part of it, too.

You know, when I finish this broadcast, I'm gonna walk out into the veg patch and put up some new nets, help the beans to grow up big and strong. The plant doesn't know that yet, but it's not going to have to wait very long, and that's like us, too. Reaching out for connection, not knowing how long we're gonna have to wait, but one day, this won't be going on anymore. All we have to do is keep on reaching out and one day soon, there'll be something solid for us to cling on to.

[laughs] I, uh... yeah, I'm supposed to be the one to click the off button here to end the broadcast, but I don't want to. [laughs] But um, I'm just going to close my eyes and tell myself, even though I can't see you, you're all still there. All of us are reaching out one way or another. We're all still here even after the click. I'm just being silly. We'll be back soon.

[radio off button clicks]

~

[d8rkmessngr]

Happy birthday @lorrainejhane

It’s always a happy joy to hear my stories are still read even today. I hope they stand the test of time. It’s @lorrainejhane’s birthday today and while I didn’t have a floating snippet around, I did find intro to book 3 in my phone.

One day....

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

Warning: language and unedited

"Just stick it in."

"W-what? No!"

"Aw, come on! I know you know how this works. Just aim and shove it in there!"

"You and I both know it takes more finesse than that, Alec!"

"You and I both know it takes less time than that, too!"

"It's—no, you know what? Forget it. Let's just forget it. This was a crazy idea…"

"Come on. Weren't you ever curious?"

"…Well…"

"It’s easy. We've done this a thousand times—"

"You have."

"And here I am sharing with you my expertise. And my experience is telling you to just shove it in there!"

"But—"

"You can't leave us hanging! Ready, aim, and boom! Give it the little twist I showed you and you're in!"

"No, this is insane. Alec, I told you, it was just a thought, I was only wondering, I didn't really want to—"

"I can't believe you're backing out now!"

"But this doesn't make sense—"

"This makes perfect sense!"

"No, it doesn't! Alec—"

"Look, it's your first time, I get it, babe. I do."

"But—"

"And I told you no points will be taken off if you miss your mark. I won't laugh. Much. Well, not in your face at leas—Okay, I promise only with Cindy. Pinky swear."

"No, I don't want to do this."

"Aw come on! Why the hell not?"

"Because I live here!"

It was admirable (and sort of hot) how Logan managed to look freaked out, embarrassed and pissed off all at the same time. He clutched white-knuckled around the harness wrapped around his thighs and torso. The lockpick trembled in the other hand.

Alec swayed in his harness to swing closer to Logan. He plucked the pick out of Logan's shaky fingers before it could drop twenty seven floors below. They were hard to come by.

The Seattle breeze held the promise of a chill, warning fall was finally edging summer off. Alec briefly enjoyed how the wind ruffled through Logan's bangs, flopping them over wide, panicked hazel eyes.

"You know," Alec remarked as he settled into his bow line with an ease Logan hasn't managed the ten minutes they hung over the side of his building.

"When you said you have a trouble with heights, I was thinking like more of a 'don't look down' kind of thing."

Alec stretched both arms above his head. Logan curled both hands around his own harness tighter as he tracked Alec's movements.

"Seriously?" Alec waved his arms wildly to his sides. "Whoa! Look out!"

"Alec!" Logan yelped.

Chuckling, Alec shifted his weight towards Logan. Using his feet planted firmly on the building, Alec steered towards Logan. He gave Logan's feet a quick check to make sure they were securely pressed against the narrow sill strip.

"Hey," Alec murmured. He leaned in and brushed the tip of his nose across a stubbled cheek.

"Hey," Logan said unsteadily. His head leaned into Alec's space. He exhaled shakily.

"You're doing great, babe," Alec said. He slid a steadying palm over Logan's lower back. Even though thick buckles and straps shielded him from the warmth and skin, Alec knew Logan felt it. When Logan fidgeted—although it might be more due to the whole squishy-human-might-go-splat thing—Alec felt a shiver go down his spine.

"You needed to graduate to something more after a month." Alec noted the tightness pinching at the corners of Logan's eyes. He pressed his lips together. "We agreed we needed to push."

"I was hoping for something more…grounding," Logan huffed. He sucked in a deep breath. When he looked over, his mouth was twisted in a half-grimace.

"You said you used to climb when you were in college." Alec wondered if Heather wore climbing shorts then, ballistic nylon wrapped around tanned limbs, thick black straps ribboned around his firm as—fuck.

Now it was Alec's turn to grimace because, wow, yet another thing about Logan Cale that could turn him on. Crap, it was getting harder to walk normally these days.

"That was before I was thrown off a roof," Logan muttered under his breath.

Cold crashed over Alec, deflating some parts and inflating others. His chest expanded, his eyes rounded and his mouth dropped open.

"What?"

Logan blinked, realizing Alec heard him. He winced.

"I'll tell you about it some time," Logan said. "It's a long story."

Alec ground his teeth.

"Give me the short version for now," Alec grated out, "At least tell me whoever did that are dead and if not, where can I find them?"

Logan smiled tightly. "They're dead."

"Good." Alec forced himself to face forward. When he caught the twisted look on his reflection on Logan's reflection, it startled him. It reminded him too much of 494 even if a part of him wished 494 was the one who eliminated the bastards, whoever they were.

Logan pried one hand away from his rigging and touched Alec's arm; only briefly before it hastily returned to its death grip around the strap.

Alec snickered. He brushed a bump over the bone bleached clutch.

"All right," Alec murmured. "Let's go over the steps aga—" He blinked. He looked up.

"What is it?" Logan glanced around. His throat worked when his eyes happened to skim below them. "Hoverdones? But even the new modified ones from Cale’s competitors shouldn't be able to get this high. They're not supposed to be released until after—"

"I'll be right back." Alec reached over and planted a wet smack on Logan's cheek. "Don't go anywhere."

Alec reached up and grabbed the line above his head. He wished he thought to hook up his ascender rigging instead. Jumaring was a bitch, but it would have been faster. It would have looked impressive, too. Not that he was trying to impress Heather or anything.

"Where are you goi—Alec!"

Logan's whispered words started with a hiss and ended a half octave higher in panic as Alec walked up the building, pulling his lines, higher and higher until he reached his goal. He may or may not have clenched his ass at the same time. In case Logan was looking, if Alec cared that he was, that is.

Far away, Logan was calling Alec's name. It wasn't clear if it was because Alec came here or that he was left dangling by his own window. Not that Alec would have let him fall; Logan was firmly anchored to Alec's line in two places. Heather wasn't going anywhere without him.

Alec blew a kiss down to Logan. The wide eyes and agape mouth that greeted Alec was cute, but also reminded Alec he shouldn't dally.

With a broad grin, Alec rapped on the window.

"Alec!" Logan's yelp floated away in Seattle's breeze.

After a moment, Alec heard the tiny beep of the security alarm—good girl—and the window slid open.

Merry blue eyes and a crown of snow white hair poked out and dipped down towards Alec.

"Why, hello," Mrs. Moreno chirped. She squinted past Alec's ear. "Hello, Logan."

"H-hello, Mrs. Moreno," Logan stammered.

Mrs. Moreno winked at Alec. "I see Alec finally convinced you to try climbing. How nice."

Logan choked. He fumbled an explanation or thanks or whatever he could think of twenty seven stories high.

Alec stamped down the urge to loosen his lines to drop down and kiss Logan. He cast hopeful eyes on Mrs. Moreno.

"I smell cookies."

Mrs. Moreno's tinkling chuckle swirled around Alec as she wagged a finger at him. He drew up his line shorter so he was eye level with her so she wouldn't have to stoop.

"I knew you would drop by if I made my lemon drop cookies again." Mrs. Moreno's eyes twinkled. "I had no idea it would be literally."

“Technically, I climbed up, you know.”

Mrs. Moreno patted Alec's hand curled on the sill. "They'll be ready in an hour." She peered out her window at Logan. Alec leaned in. His shoulder butted gently again hers.

"That should give you boys enough time?"

"What?" Logan squeaked down below. Seriously, Heather was totally begging to be kissed here.

"Shirley," Alec said in mock-outrage. "I'm appalled. For that, I demand a cookie now. I know I smelled some already powdered with sugar."

Mrs. Moreno winked. She reached behind her and held up a clear bag of a dozen cookies.

Alec reached in, kissed her forehead before grabbing the treats to shove into his jacket.

"Better make it two hours," Alec quipped. He knocked at the window. "Don't forget to reset that alarm."

"I know, I know," Mrs. Moreno sighed.

“Seriously, that aide Carlos keeps forgetting and last time--”

“Don’t be rude to your date.” Mrs. Moreno gave Alec a wave as he descended back down to Logan. "Have fun, boys!" she bade before retreating back inside.

Logan gaped at Alec when he reached their window.

Alec shrugged. "She makes the best cookies." He grinned wolfishly. "And she thought we look hot together."

Logan's mouth snapped shut. He stared at Alec a beat longer, blinked back up towards Mrs. Moreno's window. He shook his head as he muttered under his breath. He lifted his head and shot Alec a look.

Alec's breath caught. It wasn't the first time such a look was directed at him. Well, not the first time Logan directed it towards him. It was a mix of fond exasperation and something warm and unidentifiable. Unfamiliar, but not unwelcomed.

"So." Alec cleared his throat. He was never sure how to respond to the look; it appeared more and more often.

"How long you're gonna leave us hanging here, babe?"

The reminder erased the look on Logan quickly. Now, he glared at Alec. His knuckles bleached further white around the harness.

With a hand square on Logan's lower back, Alec nudged Logan closer towards the window. He caught the sharp intake of breath that rattled Logan's back. Absently, Alec wondered if Matt would know anything about assholes tossing certain people over rooftops.

Logan's right knee trembled as it fought to stay in the slightly bent position, its foot planted flat on the building. It was a huge improvement from a month ago. Even with Alec's and then along with Matt's support, Logan stayed upright only until he got to the ground floor of the damn warehouse the Reds held him in.

The breeze swirled around their bodies as Logan struggled to position the pick correctly like Alec showed him. Alec caught strains of Logan reciting the steps under his breath. He smiled at Logan's bent head. He suspected he wore the same look Logan just gave him before. The same warm infusion filled his gut.

The bowline curved under and around the firm buttocks. The harness creaked as Logan shifted weight to stay close to his target. Wide rough straps ran up, parallel to the strong line of Logan's back. They brushed against Logan's pullover, dragging fabric over sleek muscles and smooth skin.

Logan squared back his shoulders as he leaned in carefully, lockpick in position. The move had a ripple effect; muscles shortened and lengthened in response. Shoulders flexed; biceps swelled.

Heat pooled in Alec's groin. His mouth ran dry.

Another breeze skimmed over Logan's hair. Unruly shades of brown and golden parted to reveal an unblemished nape.

The lines around Alec's thighs seem to constrict. Everything felt too small, snapped tight around him.

Alec pressed in behind Logan, his legs spread to frame Logan for additional support. He was half-surprised Logan couldn't feel Alec's erection branding hot into his lower back.

"Almost there," Logan murmured. His voice was unintentionally throaty, a whisper brushing over Alec's skin.

"Same here," Alec groaned.

Logan didn't appear to have heard him. His brow drawn in concentration, Logan squinted at the spacing. He tentatively poked at the opening. The tool withdrew immediately after contact.

Alec pressed his nose to the soft spot under Logan's left ear. He breathed deep.

"Is that supposed to be motivating me or distracting me?" Logan grumbled.

Alec rolled his pelvis forward, enough to ground, but not enough to ease the ache between his legs. He squeezed his legs into Logan.

"Thanks," Logan said distractedly, mistaking the move as a 'let's not make the squishy human fall' rather than a desperate move to get off.

Alec placed his hands on either side of Logan's hips. It was probably the wrong move. This close, Alec felt Logan's ass brushing over his groin, his obliques flexing to hold Logan up, hot to the touch even through his shirt.

"Alec," Logan grumbled when Alec pressed in. "Pushing me isn't a effective way to rush me."

Alec swallowed hard. He leaned into the warmth of Logan's body.

"I want you," Alec whispered into Logan's ear. Somehow, saying he wanted to fuck Logan felt like he belittled what they do.

Logan exhaled. He was squinting at his window sill.

"Logan," Alec whined. He gripped Logan's hips tighter.

"Almost there," Logan promised. He tentatively poked at the opening and the exposed sensor again.

“Can’t we just do it here?” Alec groaned.

The pick screeched as it scraped into the sensor the wrong angle. The alarms wailed.

Oops.

[whatisthiscontentyouspeakof]

Miraculous: Tales of Another Life (Rough)

This is just a rough draft. I haven’t edited it, some characters may seen OOC (some are that way on purpose) and I may contradict parts of the story later on. Feedback is welcomed.

Summary: Google claims that Osteosarcoma is the third most common type of cancer founding youths. How would Marinette’s life change if at a young age she was diagnosed with cancer, eventually losing her limbs?

Next

Origins Day 1 Part 1

“Marinette!” Sabine Cheng called out. “Your alarms been going off  for 15 minutes. You’re going to be late on your first day back at school. 

“Got it mom.” Marinette called back, still half asleep. She was surprise to see the only notification on her phone was for missed alarms. She was expecting a million texts by now. 

Stretching, Marinette wiggled out from under her covers, scooting down to the end of her bed. She leaned down, grabbing her rose gold coloured bionic arm from it’s resting place and slipped it into position on her left arm. Happy with it’s position she flexed the robotic fingers out before bring them into a fist to make sure the arm was responding properly. 

Marinette repositioned herself so she lined up with the slide that met her bed before pushing herself down, ascending from her loft to the main part of her room. She picked up her elbow crutches before making her way to the vanity. She went through her morning routine, cleaning her face, putting on the small amount of makeup she did, and putting her hair up into pigtails. From there she moved to closet, puling out the outfit she’d pick the day before, tossing it onto the chaise. She replaced her light grey sleeping shirt with the white top with a flora pattern along the top left of it. She slipped on the dark grey jacket she decided to wear with it, the sleeves already rolled up so they fell just above her elbows. 

Marinette then sat down on her chaise, leaning her crutches against the wall. She grabbed her leg liner, slipping it over her left leg before grabbing the pink jeans that would bring her outfit together. She reached out, grabbing her prosthetic leg and slipping the left pant leg over it, the black socks and pink flats already on her prosthetic foot. Once everything was on right, she bent the prosthetic knee until it match positions with her flesh knee. She slipped her left leg into the prosthetic socket before placing her right leg in the right pant leg. Slipping the jeans up to her knees she stood up and pulled them the rest of the way up. She carefully stepped back and forth to make sure her leg was properly adjusted and working before grabbing her school bag and phone and heading over to her trap door.

Marinette made her way down the stairs, having learned over the years, and a few poorer quality prosthetics, that rushing would only result in her tripping and potentially falling down the stairs.  She gave her mom, who was in the kitchen a kiss on the cheek before going over to the barstool,  using her right hand to press against the seat to lift herself up onto the chair. She started pouring milk into the bowl her mom had set out for her before grabbing the cereal and adding it. 

“Excited for your first day?” Sabine asked her daughter. 

“You mean for another year of disappointment?” Marinette asked. 

“Who knows Marinette, maybe this year will be your guys’ lucky year. It’s bound to happen eventually. That man can’t keep him locked up forever.” Sabine said. 

“Me? Lucky?” Marinette asked. As if proving her point as she places the cereal box down, an orange fell from the fruit bowl, rolling down a baguette that had been leaning against said bowl, over the knife half in the butter, flipping the spoon out of the sugar cube bowl causing some to toss out, before someone to an end knocking over the carton of milk and yogurt cup. And then just to spite Marinette, another orange knocked over the cereal bowl.

“Uoh.” Marinette groaned. That was just like her luck.

Sabine came over to mop up the milk that had spilt on the floor while Marinette cleaned up the cereal. Sabine let out a little chuckle, rubbing a hand against her daughters cheek to try and cheer her up a bit. After all, if she got all her bad luck out of the way while she was home then she had a better chance of having good luck at school. Marinette smiled at her mom before tucking in to her breakfast, she had school after all. 

Marinette made her way down to the bakery to hear her dad ‘la la-ing’ along to a song only in his head. Her turned around having heard her enter to show her the box of macaroons he had made for her to bring for her class.

“Dad, these are so awesome!” Marinette exclaimed. They looked so good she couldn’t wait until she could share them with her new classmates, if they had any this year. Collège Françoise Dupont seemed to like to keep students together since there hadn’t been a new classmate in almost three years. 

“Glad you like them.” Tom Dupain said, closing the lid. 

“Thank you dad,” Marinette said, carefully taking the box from her dad. “My class will love them. You’re the best.”

“We’re the best, thanks to your amazing designs.” Tom said picking up his daughters sketch book which was open to the bakeries new logo that Marinette had designed. 

Marinette smiled happily at her dad before flinging her arms around him to pull him into a hug, forgetting that she had the dessert box in her hands. The box went sailing towards the floor. 

Tom let out a little laugh as her caught them with him foot, tossing them back up in the air before catching them. 

“Thanks,” Marinette said, before grabbing her backpack from her mom, who was checking to make sure she had everything, giving her mom a quick kiss on the cheek before doing the same with her dad as she took the dessert box back. “See you tonight.” She said as she headed out the door.

Marinette tried to rush to make the light but it turned just as she made it to the cross walk. She sighed, realizing she was probably going to be late now. She really needed to get an alarm that could actually get her up on time, since by now it was obvious that she wasn’t just going to be able to go to bed earlier, not when inspiration always hit her at night. 

She glanced up and almost screamed in alarm. An elderly man was in the middle of crossing, back heavily arched as he leaned on his cane for support, moving slowly. Marinette glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed the man, panicking when she saw a car speed towards him. Not knowing what else to do and not want to see him hit, she rushed out into the road, grabbing his arm and pulling him towards the sidewalk. Her flesh foot caught against the sidewalks curb and she fell to the ground just as the car zoomed past. 

“Thank you miss,” the elderly man said. “Oh, what a disaster.”

Marinette groaned, picking herself up off the ground, to see that the dessert box had landed on the ground next to her, half the macaroons were now either on the ground or broken. Oh well, at least they made it out of the house in one piece. 

Marinette made a noise of disappointment as the people around them walk past as if nothing had happened, some even stepping the macaroons that had fallen out. “Oh don’t worry.” Marinette assured the stranger. “I’m no stranger to disasters, besides, there’s still a few left.” She held out the box for him to grab one.

“Mmm, delicious!” The man said after having taken a bite. 

A bell rang out from the school. 

“Oh no, I’m going to be late.” She bowed politely to the man. “Have a nice day sir.” 

She started rushing to the school hoping that it was only to first bell to tell everyone to head to class and not the second one that would mean she was late. As she made her way to the front door, she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw kids still making their way into the building.

“There you are Dupain-Cheng.” A voice called out from behind her.

Oh, maybe she had breathed that sigh of relief too soon. 

“Chloe!” She turned around to see her friend standing there, arms crossed.

“You’re so lucky you’re not late.” Chloe said taking the box from her friend and opening it to grab a cookie. “Had a little cookie accident?”

“Drop them when I pulled an old man out of the way from being hit by a car.” Marinette explained as her friend took a bite out of one of the cookies. “I’’m just glad I got there in time and that some of the cookies lived.”

Chloe shook her head. “Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. You’d think someone without prosthetics would help out instead of letting the disabled kid save the old man, not that you’re not perfectly capable.” 

Marinette hummed. She and Chloe made their way into the school, towards Mrs. Bustier class since there wouldn’t be enough time for her to stop by her locker now.

“Any sign of him?” Marinette asked. 

“No, but I’m sure he’ll be here any moment.” Chloe said, her nose high in the air.

“Chlo, I know you don’t want to hear it but you know how his dad is, there’s a good chance he’s not coming.” Marinette said gently, not wanting her friend to be devastated later on like in previous years.

“I know, but this was the first time we’ve been able to actually enrol him. His dad doesn’t need to know until it’s too late.” Chloe countered.

Sabrina ran up to them excitedly as they neared the classroom. “Chloe, Marinette.” She greeted. “Word has it, we have a new kid in class.”

Chloe looked over at Marinette smugly. Looks like he had made it after all.

The three walked in class as the second bell rang, not technically late. Mrs. Bustier was calling for Nino, a student they’d shared class with since the third grade, to move to the front row. Marinette handed Sabrina one of the macaroons as they headed to their tables. Marinette set her back on the table in the front row by the window only to find a girl already sitting there.

“You’re not Adrien.” Chloe said, as Sabrina placed both their stuff on the table behind Marinettes. “And you’re in Marinette’s spot.”

“It’s fine Chloe,” Marinette said quietly, feeling disappointed that the blond model wasn’t the so called new student Sabrina had heard about. “I can share.”

“And what about when Adrien gets here, are you just going to abandon him?” Chloe demanded.

“Chlo, you know I wouldn’t do that and I don’t mean that.” Marinette said. “But it’s fine for now. If Adrien shows up then we can figure it out from there, but she’s not doing any harm.”

Chloe huffed but she went and sat in her seat without any more complaints.

“Alright, has everyone found a seat?” Mrs. Bustier asked from the front. 

Marinette turned to her new seat mate handing her a macaroon. “I’m Marinette. Sorry about Chloe, our friend was suppose to start school today but his father, like in past years, probably stopped him. She’s taking it a bit hard, usually she’s not that bad.”

“Alya, and I guess I can understand why she was upset.” The new kid said. She looked down at Marinette’s outreached hand to take the cook and noticed her prosthetic arm. “Oh wicked, just like Bionica, though she’s half robot.”

Marinette smiled, used to getting reactions like this from people her age. She didn’t allow it to bug her, at least it wasn’t coming from an adult, who in her experience were a lot more insensitive. At least this Alya girl thought her arm was cool. 

“You a superhero fan?” she asked.

“More like a super fan.” Alya said. She reached in her bag and pulled out phone, her screen saver being the latest comic Majestia cover. “My favourite is by far Majestia. She says ‘all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good people do nothing’. Words to live by, right?”

“Yeah,” Marinette said with a smile. “If you want help getting around school, I can show you around after class since I’m class deputy.”

Alya returned her smile. “That’d be great. Kind of new to Paris, not just this school so knowing my way around somewhere would be great.”

Marinette grinned before turning back to the front as Mrs. Busier called them to attention.

Next

[rinadoesstuff]

Secret Soldiers

Chapter Six

Georgia, Camp Toccoa, 1942

"Good afternoon, I was just wondering if I had any mail?" Maggie walked up to the counter, hands resting on it as she smiled at the man. Though an American post office on base, to Maggie it gave her the feeling of being back in Aldbourne. She would usually grab the mail for her family, enjoying the short walk and fresh air.

"Oh I believe you do, give me one moment Lieutenant." The man left, giving Maggie a moment to look around the mailroom as she felt the other man's eyes on her. 

"Maggie right?" 

Maggie turned to the man and gave a sharp smile. "Lieutenant, or Walters, Private." The man nodded, cigarette hanging from his lip. Maggie immediately regretted the way that she spoke to the man, she was supposed to be getting them to like her not for them to see her as even more of a bitch. 

"Sorry, Lieutenant. George Luz." He held out his hand, Maggie hesitantly out stretching her own and shaking his hand. "Nice to meet you again." The man looked sheepish as he spoke, as if he realised what he had done was wrong. Though technically it was, Maggie didn’t want to be one to punish the men for the smallest things. 

"Likewise, private."

There was another pause, Maggie feeling slightly awkward, before George spoke once more. "Where are you from Lieutenant?" 

"England." George gave a small laugh, taking a drag from his cigarette, shaking his head. Maggie realised he meant where in England and gave a small chuckle. 

"Sorry, of course you know I'm from England. Aldbourne, near the town of Swindon, before my father, myself and my brother moved to London." 

George nodded, finishing his cigarette and stubbing it out before talking about his own family. Maggie learned that he came from a big family, surrounded by sisters - six of them with only three brothers, which made Maggie smile. She only had a sister and a brother, both of which she missed dearly.

Sophie had stayed in Aldbourne when herself and the rest of her family had moved away. Sophie was the eldest, a few years older than Maggie - she had been closest to their mother which made Maggie understand why she didn’t want to move away from the family home after her death. 

Adam was the youngest, annoying to say the least but Maggie loved him. As far as Maggie knew he was still in the British Army, fighting the German’s already. Maggie was proud of him, always had been.

" Quite a big family then, Private." Maggie felt a lot more comfortable around George after they began chatting, smiles on both their faces. It was nice for Maggie, having someone other than Camilla to speak with. She adored Camilla but the woman became irritating rather quickly. 

"Yeah, you get used to it really. What about you, Lieutenant, just your brother?" 

Just as George spoke, Vest came back with a few letters for Maggie. "Here you go Lieutenant." Maggie smiled, accepting the letters from the man. "Sorry George," He turned to the man "No mail for you today."

George shrugged, opening the door for Maggie as the two left the small building together. Getting outside, Maggie pulled her pack of cigarettes out and offered one to George. She had a feeling the best way of making friends would be through her cigarettes. 

"Thanks."

Maggie nodded, both lighting up their cigarettes before Maggie spoke. "I've got a sister as well actually, she still lives in Aldbourne. Didn't want to leave after our mother died."

George nodded, eyes on Maggie as the two began walking. He hadn’t lost anyone in his family, parents and multitude of siblings still living. He was silent for a moment, unsure of what to ask. Playing it safe, George skipped over the topic of Maggie’s mother. "Is your brother in the army?" 

Maggie nodded once more "Yes, British Army since '39 when the war broke out." George nodded back, the two quiet for a moment. It wasn’t an awkward silence but a silence for the pair to think about what they had learned about the other. Whilst George was curious, Maggie was attempting to remember all the information. 

If she could remember it, maybe she would have the chance to build a bond with the man. After a few moments, the two needing to go separate ways, George spoke once more. 

"I'll see you for food later, Lieutenant. Save you a seat?" 

Maggie smiled and nodded, though she knew he wouldn't say a word when surrounded by the other men. "Of course," Maggie thought for a moment, deciding against her wish to call the private ‘George’ as if he was her friend. “Private.”

"Call me George!" With that the man jogged off, leaving Maggie to ponder about what had actually just happened. Maybe she had made a friend.

Dresden, September 1942

I lost my place when I left.

The thought hasn’t left her mind since stepping foot into the city again.The coffee Claire held in her hands was still hot, despite the chill temperature outside on the balcony. The city was still in a peaceful state in the early morning hours as the light of the rising sun painted the sky in a colourplay of orange and purple. 

Claire wrapped the jacket tighter around her slightly shivering body while looking inside the living room through the glass window. The pillow fort hasn’t changed except for the ‘roof‘ hanging a bit lower than before. A smile formed on her lips. Just as in their childhood, Claire was the first one to wake up. She could still remember how she and her mother would prepare breakfast Sunday mornings while the boys were still asleep. 

Letting out a deep breath, Claire placed the mug down on the small table next to her. When she stepped out of the trainstation not even 24 hours ago she felt so many emotions. She was excited and happy to be back home after all these years but on the other hand she was missing her family already. Claire wondered what her brothers were doing. 

Samuel and Paul were most likely still in Africa, fighting so far away from their home. Allen was probably up in the air already, trying to protect London from as many enemy aircrafts as possible while Daniel was in training for his first mission.

Claire couldn’t even describe how much she missed her brothers at the moment. Whenever she was in danger at least one of them was by her side but now she was surrounded by the enemy, with no way of them reaching her in time of need.

Claire stopped being religious years ago but on a few occasions she caught herself asking god to bring her brothers home in one piece. To end this war and to bring her family back together. 

The woman leaned over the railing of the balcony and looked down at the street, her blonde hair hanging down in loose strands. A few persons could be seen, hurrying down the cobblestone street into the direction of their workplace. Claire’s classes would start tomorrow and she would be one of the people down on the street. She would be nothing more than another person in the crowd. Out of the eyes of the enemy but yet right in the middle of them.

Claire knew who she was or at least pretended to be. Clara Schneider, the well behaved young lady from across the hallway. 

“Clara Schneider.” She said just above a whisper as she leaned back, her gaze now on the church in front of her.

Hearing herself say her mother's former last name felt off. She never called the strict woman anything else than Mama so hearing the name her mother only connected with bad memories brought up a strange feeling in her. Claire still remembered how her mother asked her to never say Schneider out loud. She never dared to ask why in fear of making her mother upset but the older she got, the more she wanted to push and find out why.

Pushing these thoughts aside Claire took the by now cold coffee back into her hands and turned her gaze back inside the living room. A sheepish smile greeted her from inside as she looked at Hans, who was sitting on the ground, obviously not having the motivation to stand up yet. 

With a last glance at the sky, Claire smiled softly and went back inside the cozy flat.

Maybe I’ll find my place here again.

• • • • • •

Taglist:

@wexhappyxfew @immrsronaldspeirs @trashgoddess600 @junojelli @kmorecoffee @vintagelavenderskies @order-of-river-phoenix @adamantiumdragonfly @happyveday @alrightnicelighter @easy-company-tradition @keoghans @jamie506101 @ultralillylove @pxpeyewynn @pinkesfaultier @madstertb @vikyska

[captainillogical]

Distant Lands Ch.6

Stranded on a planet with toxic conditions and nothing but the clothes on your back, your only means of survival lies within the gem that got you here in the first place.

Spinel/Reader

collab with my lovely wife @firstofficertightpants​

It's been nearly two weeks that you've been on this hellhole of a planet, and frankly, you're pretty fucking done with it.

You're currently grabbing anything you've deemed useful from your shelter, as the trip over to the structure might take a while and honestly, you're not too sure you'll be back. Whatever state that building is in, it has to be better off than your drafty ruins. You're hoping so, anyway.

You look around you to your tied up supplies and pick up your last remaining fruit. You'll have to find some more along the way, but it shouldn't be a big deal. You shoulder your shoddily made pack, and head out the opening to meet with Spinel outside.

"Ya finally ready to go?" You hear her say from the side as you step out, and she's leaning against the building casually. You roll your eyes at her.

"It wouldn't have taken so long if you helped me tie up the remaining bundle of wood. I only have two hands, you know." You reply to her sarcastically.

"You seemed perfectly capable of handling that yourself, though."

"I am, thanks! You're just not allowed to complain about my speed." You say as you brush past her, nearly hitting her with your pack on purpose. You hear her scoff as you pass her.

You walk several steps away, heading in the direction the two of you discussed before realizing that you aren't hearing her footsteps behind you. You turn around to see her tugging on a nearby tree branch, ripping it off the tree easily.

"Uh, you coming?"

"Yeah, hold on." She says as she breaks off a couple twigs on the sides of her branch.

"What in the world are you doing?" You ask her, a little exasperated.

"Making a weapon? Just in case? We don't know what's over there." She raises her eyebrows like this is obvious.

"You.. you're a gem. You can smack the shit out of anything with your natural abilities. You don't need a sharp stick to help you."

"It's for you, stupid." She rolls her eyes. "You're like, fleshy and stuff. They'd rip you to shreds."

"I can defend myself, thanks." You retort, turning around to continue walking. She catches up to you pretty quickly.

"Can you just take it!?" She thrusts it out at you. You stare at her for a moment, and then reluctantly grab it from her hands.

“Fine, whatever.” You give her a look, and spin around to keep walking. “Pretty sure I’d be most likely ending up using this on you.” You mutter under your breath.

“What did ya just say?” You hear her say from behind you.

“Nothing.” You keep your pace brisk, stepping over the large roots on the overgrown footpath in front of you. 

“Pretty sure I heard ya’ say something.”

“Forget it.” You wipe your forehead, the sweltering heat of the jungle making you slightly irritated. She makes a non-committal grunt in response.

You have a couple miles of walking before you guys reach your destination, and you’re only vaguely aware of where you’re going. Just the direction, really. You’re not exactly feeling super chatty, but you have a feeling Spinel is in a mood to be. 

Surprisingly enough though, you both walk in complete silence for a good hour or so.

That is, until you decide to stop to rest your feet for a little while. You take your pack off to stretch your shoulders and arms out, leaning on a nearby large rock. You also set the stick she gave you down. Spinel's standing nearby, casually glancing at you as well as presumably looking out for any nearby threats.

"Organic beings sure need a lot of rest." You hear Spinel say out loud to no one in particular, and nearly scoff at her. 

It's a bit funny, actually. You've learned in the last few days that she'll constantly talk out loud in a certain way, that leaves it open for you to join in on conversation. Even though it's just you two. You don't think she's doing it on purpose, but it's kind of hilarious to think that somehow, she's trying for companionship with you. Not that she has any other choice.

"We're literally walking meatbags, Spinel." You say to her quite frankly, and she makes a face. "I'm affected by a lot of things. Heat, moisture, the ground levels, even the gravity. Especially the gravity. I feel like this is going to have long term effects on my knees."

"I didn't think that the gravity would have much of an impact." She replies, crossing her arms. 

"You wouldn't. You're a gem. You guys don't really think much about other species entirely."

"Okay.. ow. Ya’ don’t need to lump me in with the rest of them.”

You stare at her pointedly. “Do I need to remind you how I got here in the first place?”

“Point taken.” She replies, a bit sheepishly. 

“Anyway,” You lean down to grab your pack off the ground. “Let’s keep going. We still have a ways to go.”

You trudge through the dense trees of the jungle, some areas much thicker than the rest. The air is downright dripping with humidity, making it harder for you to breathe. What’s even worse is that there is so much lush vegetation around you that you’re starting to feel like maybe you lost a bit of direction. You’re distracted with your thoughts about what lies ahead of you, that you nearly trip again on a large root half sticking out of the ground. Spinel grabs your arm to keep you from falling, and you mutter out a quick thanks to her without thinking too much about it. Adjusting the vine straps on your shoulders for better balance, you keep going. You hear Spinel behind you speak.

“Did you actually just thank me for something? Genuinely?” She sounds almost touched.

“Please don’t read into that.” You look up at the trees in irritation. She can’t see your face anyway. “I’ll make sure to never do that again.”

You hear her sigh loudly behind you. Ignoring it and keeping an eye out for everything around you, you notice something off to the side.

“Hey.” You stop and say. “Is that..”

You trail off, squinting in the distance. Spinel steps up beside you, peering through the trees to see what you’re looking at.

“Is that another cave?” She asks out loud. You were thinking the same thing.

“I think so. It looks similar to the other two we’ve seen.”

“Why out here?” She brings her hand up to her face, expression concerned.

“Does it look like I know? If anything, YOU should know. You’ve been to more places than I have, and have seen more.” 

She glances at you with an unreadable expression.

“I.. haven’t really been to a place like this. This is all new to me as well.”

“What, have you lived under a rock this whole time?” You retort sarcastically, huffing out a short laugh. “..It’s funny because you’re technically a rock.”

She gives you a tired, grave expression, and you have to force yourself to not laugh out loud at it.

“..Maybe I have. Anyway.. we should probably check out what’s in there eventually. Maybe it’s gem stuff even I don’t know about.” She finishes, crossing her arms.

Her body language is a little stiff like you offended her, and you don’t know why. Maybe she hates jokes. Whatever.

“Look, I don’t know how to tell you this, but they give me bad vibes. I’m not too keen on going in there.” 

“I could go in alone if you’re scared.” She smirks, eyes trailing down to yours.

“I’m not scared. It’s my gut instinct, asshole. And besides, you probably shouldn’t go in either. What if it’s something that can kill you?”

“Pfft, what could be in there that could kill me? I’m a gem, remember. I’ll just poof and reform.” She shrugs, uncaring.

“I feel like you should trust me in this. But if you wanna test fate, go right ahead.”

“I wouldn’t trust you even if you were actually giving me good advice.”

“I’m the one who should be saying that, not the other way around.” You scoff, glaring at her. You turn to keep walking.

Another hour of walking passes in mostly silence, and you finally reach an area with a clearing and a small hill. Eagerly, you run up it, hoping to be able to get a more precise look at your location, and how far you’re from the structure at this point.

You hear muffled foot movement in the grass, Spinel coming up beside you just as you realize what you’re seeing, now that you’re closer.

“Is that a half made Spire?” She says, hand flat above her face, shielding her eyes from the scorching sun overhead. 

“I think so?” You reply, squinting to try to get a better look at the details. “I haven’t seen very many before so..”

“Huh, they stopped making those on planets thousands of years ago.” She looks over to you, and you meet her gaze.

“If they stopped that long ago, why is this one only half-made?”

“I.. don’t know.” She shrugs, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “They usually finish the job, whether it be for a kindergarten, or terraforming. It’s very unlike any colony to just.. stop. This planet should’ve been mostly decimated, now that I think about it.”

“Weird. Let’s go find out, I guess.” You shrug, and head back down the hill, Spinel following your lead.

It takes you another few hours to get to the Spire, considering you have to take a detour around a huge, unwalkable cliffside. The sun is starting to set when you get to it, some of the days heat already dissipated.

Looking up, this thing is maybe.. a good two hundred feet tall. Large chunks are missing out of several sides, some from age and decay, some from where they just stopped building. You feel Spinel’s presence beside you, her arm barely touching yours.

“It’s strange that they’d just.. stop.” She speaks up next to you. “Most of the Bismuth’s I’ve met refuse to let a job go unfinished. They’re perfectionists.”

You stare up at it long enough for your neck to start hurting. Its.. height is a little formidable.

“Is there a way for us to get inside?” You ponder out loud, looking around the base of the building, too many trees nearby obscuring most of it.

“There’s always a way to get inside. Ya just gotta look.” 

“I AM looking.” You walk off from her, moving several bushes aside in one area, looking for a clue along the edges of the walls surface.

“It’s probably on the other side, then.” She says sarcastically, catching up to you instead of looking around by herself.

You feel yourself rolling your eyes, and you let the bush branches out of your grip, nearly hitting Spinel with it. She just barely manages to move out of the way before getting whipped by it.

“Watch it!” She shouts, glaring at you.

“Oh, my bad.” You smirk. “Didn’t see you there. Was just trying to find the entrance.” You blink innocently.

She stares at you dumbfounded, and shuts her open mouth. Turning on her heel, she spins around to walk in the other direction around the Spire. 

You chuckle to yourself. How dramatic.

Looking at the walls of this building, you trail your hand along the stone, gazing upon any crack that might give you a clue. The base of this thing is pretty large, so a door could be anywhere. 

It’s pretty quiet around you. It’s kind of always been quiet on this planet, but you feel like it’s even quieter around this area for whatever reason. The weird vines are here as well, with those gross-looking fleshy flowers climbing up the wall of this half-finished tower. A couple minutes pass as you keep walking around this thing, finding absolutely nothing still.

You eventually catch up with Spinel, and see her standing in front of something.. which you can see is vaguely door-shaped, covered by a thick layer of vines. Of course.

“Found it.” She starts with, sounding smug. She’s smirking. “Told ya it was on the other side.”

“Of course it was.” You reply, not at all enthused. “You figure out how to open it yet?”

“No..” She trails off, looking around the edge of the door, pushing vines aside to find some sort of control for the door.

“Of course you haven’t.” 

“Hey, at least I found the door.” 

“Not exactly an accomplishment.” You say sarcastically, bending down to the left side, moving vines to see something you had thought you saw turned out to be nothing. You hear her scoff in irritation. “Isn’t there normally some kind of access panel?”

“Yeah, but I can’t seem to find it.”

“Aren’t you useful.” You mutter under your breath, starting to move large amounts of vines at once, determined to get inside the Spire before it actually gets dark.

“I heard that.” She huffs out in irritation. 

“I’m glad you have functioning ears.” You reply, deadpan. “Do you have functioning eyes? Because I need you to use them before we’re stuck out here in the dark.”

“Why are you such an asshole, like, all the time?” You hear her say from behind you.

Is she really asking you this? You sigh internally, not wanting to have this conversation.

“Because I’m tired, all the time. Tired of this place, tired of you, tired in general.” You stand up, hearing your spine crack, and look at Spinel.

She looks.. kind of hurt. What the hell.

“Also, it’s kind of a defense mechanism.” You finish with, taking one last look along the entirety of the wall. Fuck all of this, you were hoping it’d be easy.

“What.. do you mean?” She asks, tentatively.

“What?” You turn to raise your eyebrow at her, puzzled. “Do you like, care, or something?” “No,” She says all too quickly. “I just don’t understand why you’re defensive, or so hostile towards me.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? It’s not like we’re friends.” You give her another look. “Can we like, just get this door open? Instead of chatting. I can physically feel the temperature drop.”

Her gaze lingers on you, completely unreadable, before looking back towards the door.

“I’m kind of at a loss. Normally the panel is just out in full view, but I can’t seem to find anything anywhere.” 

“Ughhh, I just want IN!” You nearly shout in frustration, slapping your hand against the wall.

You hear a click, and the sound of stone sliding against itself. You and Spinel look at each other.

“Huh.” She says, “What do ya know?”

 A small panel opens on the side, and you see its screen glowing. Both of you walk up to it.

“Is there like a button, or..?” You trail off momentarily, thinking to yourself. “Pearl usually just placed her hand on it, and we’d be good.”

Spinel considers it for a second, and then slams her palm on the screen. 

It does nothing for several long seconds, and then you hear the voice of a Pearl.

“Please scan your gem.” The console says nearly robotically.

You look towards Spinel, and her eyebrows are furrowed in confusion. “What?” You ask.

“This is really old tech.” She states, and walks right up to the screen. “I’m pretty sure only Diamonds and their Pearls would have access to something like this.” She leans over the screen, letting it recognize the object in front of it. A red line comes out, and it scans her gem.

“Is there any other way in?” You nearly sigh out loud, frustrated. The sun has set already, and it’s nearly chilly outside now. Pretty soon you’ll be seeing your breath.

You hear two beeps in succession, and the voice chimes out again.

“Welcome, Spinel.”

“Uhh,” You say in confusion. “You been here before?”

“I’m one hundred percent sure I haven’t.” She states, just as confused as you are.

The door in front of you shudders under the weight of the vines, before finally opening with a swoosh sound. Stale air hits you in the face, and you almost sneeze.

“Spinel,” You say. “What kind of gem did you say you were again?”

“I never told you what kind of gem I was.” She stares at you, slightly guarded. 

“Why would you have access? What are you?” You push at her, needing to know. 

She sighs in aggravation, wiping her hand down her face.

“I’m a companion gem.”

You stare at her.

“A companion gem. What exactly does that fucking mean?” You ask.

“Ya know.. like. Friendship and stuff.” She huffs out, narrowing her eyes at you.

“What..” You slowly blink, trying to comprehend this. Oh my god, what the fuck? You guess that makes sense, considering.. “So you just like, make friends with people? Pfff-” “Don’t.” She cuts you off with a glare.

"You're a friendship gem? The fuck? Are you like some sort of carebear?" You try not to laugh. You weren’t expecting this from a gem who tried to kill you.

"Tha' fuck is a carebear." She spits out, clearly aggravated and confused.

"Don’t worry about it." You shut your mouth, in case you burst out laughing. “Let’s just go inside, shall we?”

She nearly pushes past you, walking into the entrance of the Spire. You follow suit. 

With a whooshing sound, the door closes behind you both, and envelopes you in darkness.