#the rage it induces in me is second only to the sounds of people eating loudly

[celepeace]

I don't feel genuinely violent very often but the sound of landscaping tools in the morning activates something in me like a sleeper agent

[liroyalty]

(Part 3/??)

The first thing that roused the First Born awake was the sound of birds, he knew these birds, hell, he named them with his second beloved. Robins, a whole flock of them, chirping away happily just outside the double windowed doors that lead to his balcony. The memory of those days in Eden, much like every morning, would come back to him. Every morning he would wait to open his eyes, silently praying that what he was lying in wasn’t a bed, but grass. That he had no wings, no responsibilities and when he opened his eyes he would be back at that time, a second chance to right all the wrongs, as if the eons that had passed since he was alive was simply a nightmare.

Even now, as lightly puffed, tired and dull eye bagged lashes would slowly open just a smidge, he would be greeted to his room in Heaven.

Surely the man must have been cursed, who else would find Heaven to be such a Hell? This place was supposed to be perfect and yet it did nothing but to serve reminders of his wrongdoings. Lilith, Eve, Lucifer, all playing a role against him at once.

He shut his eyes tight before opening them again, this time fully, rubbing tiredness from them and trying to recall what had happened the night prior. He remembered the rage, him throwing items and smashing furniture to pieces. And then he remembered…

“Sue.” His head turned and sure enough, there she was. Those scarlet red eyes fixated on him, how long had she been awake? Had she slept? Why was she here? And all at once the memories flooded his head, how much pain he was in, how much he wished for her to devour his very existence and speaking Enochian with her.

If he didn’t feel the harsh pains of guilt and shame coursing through his veins, he would have blushed at the memory of how her voice sounded to him. A choir of corrupted saints, beckoning you to come closer. Much like a sirens song yet more enchanting, more alluring and multiple times more dangerous. Adam was certain she could conquer kingdoms with that voice alone.

However, his dull golden gaze looked away from her, not sure what to say. He was a mess last night and the morning seemed no different as just his eyes alone showed how little energy he had to give the day.

“You… Didn’t have to stay.” He said finally, his eyes roaming his room as an excuse to keep his sights off hers. “I’m surprised you came at all… I guess… thank you.” What was he supposed to say? She saw him at his lowest, a sight he wouldn’t let anyone grace themselves with as he knew how many people would have loved to see him in such agony.

“You can laugh now. It’s fine. I’m better.” Even now, he still assumed that this was all for show. A long game to finish off his mental, maybe even to be the one to push him into radical thinking that would leave him dead. Maybe like… Attacking the daughter of Hell.

“Pretty stupid of me to act like a baby, I know…”

Patience.

Despite being a Princess of Hell, walking sin, this was a virtue that Sue certainly had, her being able to even stand Adam might be proof of that alone. Which means she's more then patient enough to wake for the First Man to wake from his exhausted slumber, as long as that may take.

First taking liberties to keep a bit of distance from him for a while, until that damn-near ecstasy-inducing smell despair wafting off his soul dimmed. People say she's a temptation or leads people to it, but no, fuck that, devils would kill each other just for a taste of his agony; & she can resist through only her iron-will for so long. He may have given her 'permission' but she won't do it. She doesn't want to eat him.

Eventually it does calm down, & she can be a little closer, taking a spot at the edge of his bed. Only her thoughts to keep her busy, & only the events that transpired between them before can fill her head. She's been in hell for a while yet, but she can't quite recall seeing a man with such palpable sorrow. She's had souls ask for death at her hand before but... this was different, & it made her stomach flip, her chest ache. It... hurt in a way it shouldn't, not for her. She should know better.

Then Adam begins to rouse, & her attention turns quickly. Quietly watching him rub his eyes, still like he was in a daze, & still she was patient, waiting for him to come too, gather his Barings. Only as her scarlet eyes met the dulling golds of his own, & hearing her name out of his lips, did she speak.

"Good morning." Sue's not even being snarky, she sounds sweet. It was likely that, along the pangs of guilt & shame that made him turn away from her gaze. Sad as the act made her, she's not upset about it, she can't be. After what happened, she doesn't expect him to be fine, as much as Adam would like to play it off.

And boy, he does try to play it off alright, rambling while avoiding her eyes still. He's afraid to be honest about it... or perhaps he's still unsure if this devil wasn't like all the others.

"Y̶̨̻̫͔̭̥͓̥̍͑̐̑̂̑͝o̷̹̺̤͇̖̖͓̿͛̇̈́̐̎̌͐́̕ư̸͈͚̯̠̮̝̮̰ ̶̢̪͓͕̦͙̺̩̬͛̇̏̆̂̏̊t̶̲̗̤̒̆̔̃̿͘͜͝͠a̶͔̩̝̯͍̜̐͐̆l̷̡̛̳͉͉̿̀̓k̸͙̳̠͇͖̭̳̇́̆́́̅̐ͅ ̷̢̛̬̖͕͆̀͐͗̽t̶̀��̪͍̩̦̫̄̈́͊͛͆̂͌͜͝o̷͖̹̗̓o̷̮̘̱̭̥̳̠̒̈̚͜͝ ̶͓̺̥̳̺͛͂̑͌̈̍̆̂͒͘m̴͕̹̈́̌̿̃̚̕ū̸͍͎̩͍̣̥̭͗̿͗̕̕͜ĉ̴̨͓́̓̎h̸̢̰̙͎̺͒̅ͅ." She speaks to him in that old tongue again to catch his attention. The language & voice of an angel, but it has all the lure & smooth charm of a succubus. It's both disarming in it's gentle yet firm grasp, like the arms of a lover, & alarming a devil can sound like this, as if she can make all of god's angels fall with just enough talking.

"I'm not going to laugh at you, & I stayed to make sure you're alright." She only smiles at him, reaching over to cup one of his cheeks softly, as she did to him before. Maybe he doesn't remember what she said exactly, but he did mean it. She doesn't want to lose him, & as such, she naturally wanted to make sure he would be okay after his episode.

[bothsandneithers]

Day 4293

It feels weird to be these three things at the same time: childfree, a remote worker, and priced out of the housing market. The first is a choice, the second is happenstance, and the third is an artifact of late-stage capitalism. Yet, taken all together, they impact my sense of belongingness. In other words, they make me feel like I don’t know where I should be.

Of course, also taken together, they have their own set of affordances: an abundance of time to be spent awake, to be spent asleep, to be whoever I want to be, to do whatever I want to do, and to live wherever I want to live. This last one is tricky because it is hard to know where to live without some type of purpose or sense of belonging (most traditionally induced by children, a job, or a mortgage). In these circumstances, one has to think differently about what it means to belong. But, that is difficult, and so – at least right now – we return home to Colorado.

Here, I can save money because it feels problematic to be almost forty with no tangible assets, or, admittedly, no prospect of tangible assets. At this point in the conversation, somebody will interject, but Don owns a house! Surprisingly, my first wave of indignation triggered by this comment isn’t a feminist rage: of the assumption that I somehow subsume my partner’s wealth. But, rather of workers’ rage: of the acceptance that it is no longer feasible for a single person to own a piece of property, and of the quiet acquiescence that it only makes sense to share this investment with at least one other person.

Per the recommendations, the downpayment should now match my childhood home’s cost. This, then, allows me to pay a monthly payment that would make me “mortgage burdened” for almost the remainder of my life. I’m not going to do that. Nonetheless, I do save. Right now, I save to at least be able to eat food and rent shelter when I am old. But the goalposts have shifted so much for those without inherited wealth that trying to secure the future feels silly.

But, to disrupt these spiraling thoughts, I will say that home, no matter who owns it, is a privilege, and saving for the future, no matter how bleak, is also a privilege.

This sounds dramatic, but I miss California the way I grieve for those who are still alive, but are no longer in my life. The air that is not too hot and full of oxygen. The plum trees, the lemon trees, the lime trees, the orange trees, the bay leaf trees, the redwood trees. The soft ferns and the soft moss. The lightness of both the low altitude and of moving through a space where nothing sad has ever happened to you. The short drive to the coast, where as soon as you emerge from the forest and you turn left, the sun glistens off the ocean, and especially at the tallest points of the emerging waves, and causes you to utter, “we are so lucky.” If you go down the coast, you think that this is the most beautiful place in the world, and you stop for coffee and artichokes and beach walks and cafes overlooking cliffs. If you go up the coast, you think that this is the most beautiful place in the world, and the redwoods become wider and the air becomes cooler and the people become more sparse. You pick up soft, round glass at the beach and you stop for coffee in the forest where you immediately note that the vibe has shifted and you are now in another county. You go all the way up to the lost coast where the salt air, loud waves, and empty beaches make it feel prehistoric.

I don’t think that Colorado feels soft nor light, but I still appreciate its madness. The mountains are tall, and they are almost all bald because living things like trees can’t survive at their height. They aren’t even bald at the tippy-top, but rather, like, two-thirds of the way up, which infers a towering height that you become used to if you were born here. Summer activities always involve poor sleep. They sometimes involve hiking over the saddle, or the point where the one tall, bald mountain intersects with another tall, bald mountain, and you then continue down a ravine. If there is a trail, it doesn’t show, because there is still a lot of snow and you never know if you will step into an inch of it or three feet of it. The payoff is when you find yourself making morning coffee under the reflection of peaks on a high altitude lake, or accidentally falling asleep in the middle of the day because the mountain breeze rustles the tall pine trees in a way that makes your brain feel like nothing else exists, or making a short visit from your dispersed campsite to hot springs where you watch the trillion stars emerge faintly, and when you blink, they boldly reclaim their space in the sky.

Even in the shadow of the madness of the very tall mountains, there is a good quietness right now, and a space to attend to things that I know would make me happy but I didn’t have the time, money, or willingness before. This includes physical therapy to finally be able to run without pain. And also writing classes. As it turns out, an upside of years of navigating various flavors of criticism during PhD school, makes learning to craft and share fiction feel like a delightful undertaking (at least at this point).

Even as I indulge in the world of characters, perspectives, suspense and tension, mathematical frameworks still help me make sense of at least my human condition. Not having children, not having anywhere to be, and not having any security in my future shapes the vector space that I think that I occupy: (1, 1, 1). I use this to compare my location to others, which is either (0, 0, 0) or some combination of 1s and 0s. This makes me feel far away from most people and places. Of course, there are more dimensions, and the features aren’t always binary. It will just take some time to figure out – and, lucky for me, time is an asset I can stake claim to.

[rhysismydaddy]

After Midnight pt. 3 (Feysand)

Part 1 | Part 2

Uhhh this is kinda long and took me FOREVER to write which was v annoying. Disclaimer: stole a line from Grey’s Anatomy what’s new

____________________________________________________________

~Feyre~

I’m aware that pacing is one of my bad habits. My ex told me all the time how it drove him crazy to watch me go back and forth, back and forth. Most of the time, I can catch myself doing it and stop. 

But right now, I think I’d find a way to pace even if I were chained to a tree. 

Because I’m so freaking nervous about Rhysand coming over that I’m practically coming out of my skin. 

Which is ridiculous, because the man has seen me naked, for gods sake. 

He’s done more than just see, too. 

And yet the thought of him staying here, sleeping next to me all night, has me ready to run for the hills. Somehow, sharing a bed is more intimate to me than having sex to me. 

It’s fucked up, I know. 

But the last man I shared a bed with... 

There was a level of trust there, and it was broken. And knowing that this is the only way to rebuild the ability to give that trust doesn’t make it any easier. 

I also know that if I go downstairs, I’ll end up drinking myself stupid to make this easier, so I’ve asked Rhysand to just meet me up here. And to make myself even more miserable, I’m early. 

I mean, I’m always a few minutes early, but I somehow forgot we decided to meet later than usual and got here an hour ago. 

Which gave me plenty of time to start freaking out. 

A knock on the door snaps me out of my nerves-induced pace, and I tiptoe to the door and look through the peephole, both excited and anxious when I see Rhysand there. 

Just like last week, he's wearing dark pants and a thin white shirt that does nothing to hide the body underneath. I think he does it to drive me crazy, honestly, because the sight of all that tattooed muscle-

“Are you going to let me in?”

Shit.

I swing the door open, already blushing, and say, “Sorry.”

He looks down at me, full lips pulling into a smirk. “Hi, Feyre.”

The way he says my name is somehow so full of innuendo it threatens to send my cheeks scarlet, but I say politely, “Hi, Rhys.”

He walks into the room, dropping a backpack I refuse to acknowledge on the floor. “How was your week?”

Well, I spent the entire seven days fretting about what might happen tonight and was barely able to eat anything, so not that great. “It was fine. Yours?”

His lips twitch. “Also fine.”

Then he gives the biggest, fakest yawn I’ve ever seen--throwing in a stretch, too--and says, “Well, I’m exhausted. Want to go to bed?”

He’s so damn nice, it makes me want to slap him. “Okay,” I agree, walking to one side of the bed and pulling the covers back. 

I’m already dressed in my sleep shorts and a tank top, but grabs his bag and heads to the bathroom. 

I can do this, I tell myself, not at all believing it. He’s nice, and it’s just sleeping. Most women would kill to sleep next to someone who looks like him. 

The last part of that thought is confirmed a second later when Rhysand steps out of the bathroom in low-hanging shorts and nothing else. 

His tan chest is on full display, and even though I’ve seen and touched every inch of it, I find myself studying it once again. 

I suddenly wish I had a paintbrush and an empty canvas.

The urge shocks me. I haven’t thought about painting, haven’t yearned to pick up a brush, since before everything happened. If I’m being honest, long before everything happened. 

“I thought we weren’t doing anything sexual tonight,” he murmurs, voice a little deeper. 

“We aren’t,” I confirm, forcing my eyes to his perfectly innocent chin. 

“Well then put your horny eyes away,” he scolds with a smile, walking over to flop on his half of the bed. 

I smother a laugh with my hand and get in the bed next to him, trying to ignore the warmth leaking from his skin to mine. 

Neither of us move to turn the small lamp off, so we lay there in the soft light, perfectly silent. 

I’m lying down in a nice hotel room with a good looking man. My body is relaxed, and I am calm. 

Rhysand is a very nice person, and even though I’ve known him for only three weeks, I don’t think he’d ever hurt me.

But his soft, even breathing is a constant reminder that he’s next to me, and the weight in the bed is too familiar, too close. Pressing my eyes shut doesn’t help, because it just allows me to think about the past two years and everything that happened in them. 

My heart’s beating so fast and hard I’m surprised he can’t hear it, and a cool, horrible sweat breaks out over my back. 

Tears threaten to spill over, and I’m discretely trying to take deeper breaths and force myself to calm down.

It doesn’t work in the slightest, so I throw the covers off, turn on my side away from him, and pretend he isn’t there. 

Which becomes pretty damn impossible when a warm hand lands on my shoulder. “Feyre?”

“I’m asleep,” I lie. 

His hand gets a little firmer, turning me on my back so he can see my face. Soft, understanding eyes notice everything written so painfully clearly on it, and he says, “You know what? I’m actually not that tired.”

I think I could love him for that sentence alone. 

He rolls over and leans to reach into his bag. Sitting up, he throws a deck of cards on the bed between us and asks, “Fancy a hand of cards?”

Thank the gods above for warm, compassionate hookers. 

“Sure.”

I sit up across from and diligently ignore the sight of all those tattoos as I watch him expertly shuffle and deal the cards. He looks so serious that it comes as a surprise when he murmurs, “I’m going to cheat if you start beating me.”

My lips curve into a smile. “That probably won’t happen. I’m horrible at cards.”

“Good. I’m a sore loser.”

One hand in and I see that he was serious. He completely kicks my ass without a shred of hesitation or mercy, but I don’t even care because I’m finally starting to relax. It’s easy to when he’s in front of me, making jokes and laughing and smiling. 

He deals another hand without asking, somehow reading me well enough to know I need it. “If I win this hand, you have to answer a question.”

Oh, gods.

This is a recipe for disaster, because if I were him, I’d want to know why exactly I’m so fucked up. 

But I can’t exactly turn him down when he’s been so kind and easy-going about everything. “Okay. Same if I win.”

“You won’t, but okay.”

Cocky bastard.

A few minutes later, I realize his confidence was well-deserved because once again, he beats me. “I think you might’ve cheated there, but you can ask your question.”

I’m mentally praying it’s nothing serious, because I don’t know if I could handle opening up to him while looking into his pretty eyes and-

“If you were arrested for a crime, what would it most likely be?”

I find myself laughing as I look to see he’s completely serious. “That’s what you want to know?”

He smiles back at me and just shrugs. 

“Probably tax fraud,” I admit, laughing again when his eyebrows shoot up. “And before you ask, no, that isn’t why I’m well-off. I just have never understood those stupid forms, so I’ll probably mess up and end up in prison one of these days.”

Rhysand chuckles, grabbing the cards to deal another hand. 

“What about you?”

Putting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward like he’s telling me a secret, he whispers, “Road rage. I’m a really angry driver, and I find screaming at people helps.”

He says it without any remorse at all, so it’s pretty believable. 

“Same deal?” I ask, looking at the cards in front of me and knowing without a doubt I’m about to lose again. 

Almost an hour later, we’ve asked each other the most ridiculous, absurd questions we can think of. I now know he’s afraid of sharks, doesn’t believe in black holes, and was voted most likely to succeed in high school. 

He’s also found out about my sisters, my strong dislike of cilantro, and my dream of moving to France and working in the Louvre.

My stomach hurts from laughing so much, and there’s a quiet kind of peace inside me I haven’t felt in years.

We’re laying down, propped on our elbows, when we finish yet another game, and he puts his cards down and looks at me with unusually serious eyes.

I know he’s about to break our unspoken rule to not ask any personal questions, but for some reason, I don’t stop him. 

“Why don’t you paint anymore?”

His tone tells me that if I want him to drop it, he will. 

But... I want to tell him. I want to tell him what I went through, how it changed me. How it both broke me and made me stronger. 

So I do. 

“The last time I painted was over a year ago. I know it sounds cliche, but my art... it comes from a place inside of me that just isn’t there anymore.”

Rhysand nods, even though what I said didn’t make that much sense. “Do you think it’ll ever come back?”

“Yes,” I say, blushing and looking at his shoulder. I have no idea why I tell him, but I can’t seem to keep my fat mouth shut. “I actually wanted to paint earlier tonight.”

“Oh?” He gives me a knowing smile. “So those weren’t your horny eyes, they were your artist eyes?”

“Of course, you pervert.” They were both, to be honest, but I’m not about to tell him that when he’s looking at me like he just won the lottery. 

“Well, you can paint me anytime you want.” He gives me a wink and waggles his eyebrows. “I posed nude a couple times in college.”

He says that so casually it takes me a second to really hear and understand his words. “You went to college?”

Rhysand freezes, and I think about how I asked that question and want to smack myself. I didn’t have to sound so damn surprised, even if it did catch me off guard. “I didn’t mean to sound like that, I just... I shouldn’t have assumed-”

“Feyre, it’s okay. I just didn’t really realize I’d said that.”

“Okay.” 

There’s a moment of silence, and then he says something that completely surprises me. “I actually have a PhD.”

My mouth drops open, and he laughs. “In what?”

“War and Maritime History.”

For a few seconds, I just lay there and stare at him, mouth swaying in the breeze. “You have a PhD in history?”

It’s almost impossible to imagine this insanely handsome man sitting in a dim, dreary classroom, talking about something as dull as history. 

“I do.” His tone goes a little despondent as he murmurs, “I don’t use it, but I have it.”

He presses his lips together and reaches for the cards lying forgotten between us. I know I should listen to the silent cue, but I can’t stand seeing him like this. 

“Why don’t you use it?” I ask, making sure to keep my tone casual and inviting. I want to give him the same opportunity he gave me. 

He shuffles and deals, then looks at his hand and shakes his head, snatching up my cards to re-deal. At least he was honest about the cheating.

I hardly even notice, though, because he says, “I did for a few years. I was a professor at UVelaris.”

Now that, I can imagine. 

Him standing in front of a body of students, driving all the females crazy, lecturing and being the cool, funny professor everyone wants to have. 

“Not anymore?”

Rhysand shakes his head. “Didn’t pay enough.”

Something about his face tells me it’s time to drop it and change the subject. Which I guess makes it my turn to share.

So as I start to lose once again, I tell him, “I can’t go to sleep next to you because one day I woke up and my ex-fiance had locked me in our apartment.”

It’s blurted and quiet and a terrible way to spring that on someone, but he just says, “My hand is absolute garbage. You might actually win this one.”

“About time,” I mutter, weirdly relieved he didn’t start asking questions. Or worse, getting angry. 

It should probably concern me that he somehow knows and can read me well enough to find the perfect response, but I’m too busy marveling at how easy this all feels with him. 

Every minute of therapy is like a punch to the gut, but with Rhys... I feel like talking to someone who won’t judge, who won’t ever tell me what I should’ve done.

Pushing those thoughts out of my head, I actually concentrate on our game, and when I finally defeat him, I stick my tongue out at him and smile. 

He grins back, but something about it makes mine fall away. 

Because it’s his turn, and even though I’m prepared for the worst, I don’t know what it is until I hear it. 

“My cousin has a rare form of leukemia, and the university didn’t pay enough for me to cover her treatments.”

He says it quickly and quietly, just like I did, but it still carries a heavy punch that knocks the air out of my lungs. 

Because he... I don’t have the words to describe him. 

He gave up his dream job and does something he probably hates for his family. It’s the most selfless, heartbreaking thing I’ve ever heard. 

But I want to give him the space to say things at his own pace like he is for me. “Let’s play another hand. I’m feeling lucky.”

Rhysand nods, eyes looking relieved, and starts to deal again. 

My turn.

“My ex was really paranoid and thought I was cheating on him, and he had to go out of town for a work trip. That’s when he... I was locked in there for five days, and he took my phone and laptop, so I didn’t have a way to call for help.”

Rhys is silent for a long moment, jaw clenched tight. But when he speaks, it’s in the same calm, easy tone as always. “There’s not enough luck in the world for you to beat me this time.”

I laugh despite the heaviness of the words I just spoke, and even though it’s his turn, I keep talking. “I went a little crazy. I tore the place apart. I tried to break a window to get out, but we lived on the eighth floor and had Plexiglas windows.”

Our game is long forgotten at this point, and I know I should shut up, but talking to him... I can’t stop. “By the time he got back, I was... different. I was having panic attacks all the time and couldn’t bring myself to eat, and then he just strolls through the door like nothing happened.”

“And he was angry with me. For making such a mess. He hardly noticed I was a shell of who I used to be. Over time, he’d broken me down so completely he was used to it.” Taking a deep breath, I shrug and say, “So I left. I didn’t take the time to pack a bag, I just saw the open door and ran.”

“How long ago was that?” he asks, the first time he’s said something besides his endless taunts about cards.

“A year ago. I was with him for three. It took me a long time to leave him because he wasn’t always emotionally abusive and harsh. There were times when he’d be so sweet and good to me. I wrote it off as mood swings for a long time since I loved him so much.” I take a deep breath and push away the memories threatening to drag me under. “But I got out.”

I say it to him, even though it’s as much a reminder to myself. 

Rhysand smiles, reaching to slowly tuck my hair behind my ear. “And now you’re free.”

“I’m free,” I say, proud of myself for telling someone besides my shrink what happened. 

It’s the first time I’ve ever opened up about our relationship willingly, and even though it was a brief, abbreviated version of the full story, I’m happy with myself.

But it’s a bittersweet moment, because I can’t forget what Rhys told me.

I can’t forget why he’s here, what he’s been through. 

“I wish you were free, too,” I whisper. 

And gods, is it true. Even though I’m happy I found him, even though I’m grateful he’s helping me, I wish he was free to go back to teaching. I wish he didn’t have to carry this burden. 

I wish he wasn’t looking at me with enough sadness in his eyes to make my chest hurt. 

He doesn’t respond, and I don’t want him to feel pressured, so I say simply, “I’m tired.”

Rhys nods, sweeps the cards up, and tosses them back into his bag. Then we’re laying there staring at each other, and I’m noticing the way the light turns his skin a deep bronze and lights up his eyes.

Something feels different between us now that we know the dirty details of each other’s lives. It feels less like a transaction. 

It feels like he cares about me. 

I scoot forward and put my head on his chest, grateful he turns on his back so I don’t feel too trapped. 

His hand is on my hip, the other tucked behind his head, and as I put one leg over his, I think that I’ve never been this comfortable in my life. 

Which surprises me, but I’m not complaining. Especially not as the hand on my back starts moving across my back in small, soothing circles that make my breathing slow. 

Sleep comes for me quickly, but right before I close my eyes, I press a kiss to his chest and murmur, “Goodnight, Rhys.”

His response is the last thing I hear before I go to sleep, warm and safe in his arms. 

~

I don’t really remember where I am when I wake up. My eyes stay shut as I wiggle around a little, finding myself very warm and comfortable and happy.

It’s only when someone’s breath brushes the back of my neck that I remember where I am, and who I’m with. 

Rhysand is behind me, warm body wrapped around me. One arm is under my head, the other is mingled with mine, and his legs are tucked behind mine. His head is in the hollow of my neck, stubble tickling my skin slightly.

It’s been a long time since I’ve woken up in a man’s arms, and I’ve forgotten how good it feels. 

Careful not to move too much, I stretch my legs and arms out, enjoying the weight of his body on mine.

He must feel be stirring anyway, because next thing I know, his mouth is pressing against my neck in a soft, sleepy kiss that makes me smile. 

It’s natural and easy and it feels like we do this every morning. 

I trust him, I realize with a slight start. 

It’s insane to trust someone after such a short time of knowing each other, but I do. Especially after last night. 

He listened to me and made me feel heard without being overbearing or giving me pity. He’s been there for me through panic and sadness and somehow managed to make me smile regardless.

And I want him to know how much it means to me.

So I turn my head and meet his mouth with mine.

Rhysand doesn’t hesitate, sweeping his tongue into my mouth in a rich, hazy kiss that makes me immediately want more. His hand cradles my head, arms loosely wrapped around me. 

I turn around so I can put my hands in his hair, and I’m so lost in him I don’t even realize we’re violating our nothing-sexual rule. 

I don’t want you to touch me unless you want to. 

I attempt to pull away, but his mouth follows me, pressing kisses across my upper lip, the corner of my mouth. “Rhys,” I breathe, putting a hand on his shoulder to give myself room to think. 

He pulls away, violet eyes heavy hooded and happy. “Feyre.”

His voice is scratchy and his hair is ruffled and he looks so goddamn edible I can’t resist anymore. “I want to touch you. Please.”

It’s almost comical how quickly the drowsiness fades from his eyes. 

His full mouth opens and shuts, then repeats the process once again. And then he murmurs, “You never have to say please.”

Taking that as permission enough, I cup his face with my hands, running my thumb across his cheekbone. He leans into my touch, eyes drifting shut. 

I feel like I’m in a dream as I run them lightly down his neck, across his shoulders. 

I trace the lines of his tattoo until they stop, then my fingers explore his abs, the muscle tightening under them. 

And then I slip my hand past the loose waistband of his sleep shorts. 

Both of us react immediately. I completely stop breathing, mind going probably-permanently still at the feel of him in my hand, and Rhys’s eyes snap open so fast I watch as the dilate. 

We’re both staring at each other, the only thing breaking the utter silence in the room his shallow breathing. 

I run a finger over the length of him, then the tip, and he hisses my name. 

“Please,” I repeat, ignoring the fact that he said I didn’t need to ask. 

His jaw clenches as I wrap my hand around him, and he’s almost glaring at me as he says, “You’re going to fucking kill me.”

Fighting a smile, I start to move my hand and shrug. “This is about me, remember?”

He still wears a serious expression, but his lips twitch, so I keep going. 

I’m moving so slowly I think we’ll both be insane by the time this is over, but I can’t bring myself to speed up. His hips are moving slightly, pushing into my hand, and it’s addictive to watch him react to me. 

Rhys makes a low sound, then bites his lip as if to keep it in. 

Which is a mistake, since now I want to do it, too. 

Leaning in, I take that lip for myself, nibbling and sucking on it until he can’t take it anymore and starts kissing me again. 

I scoot a little closer and move my mouth to his neck, and all I can breathe or taste or think about is Rhys. 

A hand in my hair tells me this situation is unacceptable, and then his mouth is on mine again, desperate enough I take pity and move my hand faster. 

His body is tight with pent-up energy, like he’s determined to keep himself still and let me have my fun. 

One hand still between us, I run the other through his hair, pulling on it until he groans. I run my thumb over the end of him, and he mutters my name, voice holding a touch of warning that makes me smile. Even as I do it again. 

He curses, and then he’s falling apart in my hands, and I pull away to watch, just like I know he did with me. 

And it really is a sight to see. 

His muscles bunch tight, jaw even tighter, and his eyes drift close as his head goes back and a moan falls off his lips. His breathing is heavy and there’s a heavy, satisfied look to him that I can’t get enough of. 

Eventually, his eyes open again and find mine. 

Rhysand kisses me softly, then pulls back enough to smirk and say, “You’re welcome.”

A laugh bubbles out of me, and then the room falls back to silent. 

And I realize I’m laying in bed with him, laughing, and practically begging to give him pleasure.

Fuck. 

He gives me a strange look, cuing me into the fact that my panic is probably all over my face, so I smile, then roll out of the bed. “I have to go.”

“Interesting,” he states, tone making it clear he’s a filthy liar. A very amused liar.

I just roll my eyes and grab my bag, hoping that when I come out of the bathroom, he’ll be gone. 

No such luck. 

Ten minutes later, I’m fresh-faced and dressed, and he’s still lounging in bed, arm tucked behind his head. And the sight of all that beautiful, muscled, tattooed-

“You have your horny eyes on again.”

“You’re delusional,” I shoot back, mentally making a note to wear sunglasses around him at all times. 

“Come here.”

I shake my head, knowing where that’ll lead even without the look on his face.

Because after last night, things feel different. 

They feel casual.

Which is the exact opposite of what I wanted. I did this so I could find someone unattached and easy and... not him. He understands me better than I do, for gods’ sake. 

And he’s caring and gentle and so understanding, and my brain is just having a hard time keeping up. 

He opens his mouth to argue, but I throw a pillow at him from my safe spot halfway across the room. “I have to go to the museum.”

Technically, this is a lie. We’re on schedule for the next event. But I could go and get ahead. Which sounds like a great idea. 

“That’s not even remotely believable, but alright.” He rolls smoothly to his feet, remind me once again how comfortable he is in his skin. 

I look at the ceiling, and he makes an amused sound. “No self control. It’s sad, really.”

I hate him. 

Even though I’m grinning because it’s true. 

He throws on a dark shirt from his bag and steps into some jeans, all while I adamantly study my very interesting, unpainted nails. 

And then we’re walking down the hallway to the elevator and standing across from each other. If I had a knife-

No. If I had a spoon, I could cut the tension in there with ease. 

He smiles like he knows what I’m thinking, and I almost weep with relief as the doors open to the empty morning lobby. 

Rhysand moves to get out, but I’m going down another floor to the garage, so I stay put, firm in my resolve to appear unaffected. 

That plan goes out the window pretty quickly, considering he narrows his eyes at me, marches across the small elevator floor, pulls me into his arms, and kisses me. 

I kiss him back without hesitation, both of us only pulling away when the door bings unhappily. 

What the hell was that?

Did he just... kiss me goodbye? 

What the hell was that?

I don’t have time to ask, because he steps into the lobby, looks me up and down thoroughly, and says, “See you next week, Feyre.”

Oh, gods. 

I have to see him again. 

Because even though I know I shouldn’t, there’s absolutely no way I’ll cancel. 

I’m a stupid, stupid woman. 

But I replay last night and this morning in my head, and as the elevator starts dropping to the garage, I realize I don’t even care. 

_______________________________________________________

Part 4

Tags: @cursebreaker29 @a-bit-of-a-cactus @elriel4life @girl-who-reads-the-books @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @tswaney17 @rowanisahunk @superspiritfestival @studyliketate @over300books @justgiu12 @maastrash @aesthetics-11 @bamchickawowow @b00kworm @sleeping-and-books @musicmaam @savemesoon8 @hizqueen4life @maybekindasortaace @trinitybailey2003 @zukos-simp @that-other-pineapple @booksofthemoon @stardelia @awesomelena555 @queen-of-glass @whilma-warfstache @highqueenofelfhame @spyofthenightcourt @samcortlandisaginger

[you-can-wear-my-face]

Thomas Hewitt/Selectively Mute! Reader, part two

Part One

Summary: The Sheriff picks you up after you broke down on the side of the road. You know this can’t end well, but he makes you an offer you can’t refuse; use your nursing skills to heal the giant man he brings you to, and you can go free. Unfortunately for you, he obviously needs more than a nurse. (And how can you be sure he’ll really let you go when ‘Thomas’ is healed?)

C/W: Medical use of maggots, self-harm references. Also, please do not use anything here as medical advice. This is a slasher/reader fic, not a manual on first aid.

Note: As I said, I have no self control.

You wrote down an explanation for the maggots, trying not to let your shaking obscure your handwriting. Hoyt snatched it from you, obviously suspicious after your last note. The woman was glaring at you openly. Whatever points you’d briefly won with her were lost. Hoyt grunted. “Hmmph. They’ll eat the dead skin. Leave the good skin. That right?” You nodded. He grunted again, still skeptical. “Why can’t you just cut it off, huh? Ain’t like the boy hasn’t done it to his own—“

“Charlie Hewitt, you better not finish that sentence, ‘less you wanna see if I can still give you a good spanking.”

He turned his glare on her, mockingly parroting her words back at her before adding, “You don’t scare me, woman.” But you noticed he didn’t finish his sentence. He focused back on you. “Well? Just cut it off.” You shook your head, reaching for the pen and paper again. He held it out of your reach, mouth turned upward in a smirk. The woman slapped a hand to his chest, earning an aborted swear. “Mama, what the hell was—?”

She snatched the pen and paper, passing it to you. “You brought her here to fix Thomas. I ain’t gonna let you harass her while there’s something she can do to help him.”

He grumbled something to himself but pulled away to lean against the wall, picking at his teeth while you wrote. You hesitated a moment, then added a question at the bottom. You passed the note to the woman. She eyed it, then eyed you.

“Luda Mae,” she said, in answer to your scribbled question. “Charlie, go get the girl her maggots.”

“Mama—“

“Go on,” she said, “We got plenty of ‘em around here. You know where to look.” He sighed. “You’re getting too used to giving Tommy all the dirty jobs. Don’t think I ain’t seen it. Go. She ain’t a surgeon or a doctor, and she don’t wanna make it worse for him. She says maggots’ll help? Well we got maggots to spare. I’ll see what I can do about the rest of this list but...” She shook her head. “Ain’t likely to find much.”

You swallowed. It was just your luck that you’d end up in the backcountry of Texas, inside a home with an abundance of maggots and a complete lack of medical supplies—and with your life riding on your ability to heal the man in front of you.

It was almost funny, if you looked at it like that.

You nodded and shrugged, trying to convey acceptance without words. They—somehow—seemed to get it and left you to your devices, though Hoyt grumbled the whole time. Just before he shut and locked the door, he reminded you not to do anything stupid. You nodded, and he stepped outside. The door shut and the lock clicked, leaving you alone with your patient.

You exhaled slowly, a lot of the tension leaving you with their absence. You could almost pretend this was just another house call. You eyed the gash across his chest and swallowed. Almost.

Stepping close to the prone man, you pulled the blankets down to his waist to check for any additional injuries. Minor cuts and bruises littered his torso, and you shook your head. “What happened to you?” you murmured. You found no humor in the irony that you had no trouble talking when other people weren’t around. (As Thomas was unconscious, he didn’t trouble you either.)

Setting a hand on his abdomen, you pressed lightly to see if there was any internal damage—and if there was, both you and he were screwed, because there was no way for you to fix that. Thankfully, you couldn’t find any unusual swellings or broken ribs, and his bruises all seemed to be surface injuries. You pulled the blanket the rest of the way off, but his family had apparently decided to preserve his modesty; his trousers were still on, though they were stained with blood and dirt. “These definitely need to go, big guy,” you told him, “I’d like to change the sheets, too, but I can’t imagine we’ll be moving you, huh?”

If you were in a hospital, you’d have had orderlies and other nurses to help you muscle the big man onto a gurney or another bed, but even with Hoyt and Luda Mae, you didn’t imagine you’d be moving him anywhere anytime soon.

You scribbled down a few more items you would need—scissors, a bedpan or at least a bucket—then resumed your exam. The flesh around his injury was red and angry-looking, or blackened and starting to rot. His torso was covered in coarse hair, and you added a razor to your list...then noted that the skin around his injury needed to be shaved, when you realized they probably weren’t going to give you anything like a weapon. Soap and water went on the list, as well as clean rags.

You pressed the underside of your wrist to his forehead. You hoped Luda Mae could find acetaminophen, or something similar, because his fever needed to be taken care of first and foremost. He was burning up, and that could kill him faster than anything else.

You hurriedly added latex gloves and a face mask to the list, but you were certain they had nothing like that around. It wouldn’t hurt to ask, though. You raised your hands, putting your fingers to his pulse-point and checking your watch to take his pulse, only to jump when a huge, hot hand engulfed your wrist. Your eyes met his, and your breath caught. Pure rage stared back at you, and your heart-rate skyrocketed once again. His hand squeezed, and the strength in his grip was terrifying. He sat up and seemed to loom, despite his obviously pained hunch. You licked your lips nervously, trying to calm yourself. He was likely delirious, and you’d seen the kind of damage even small women could inflict in a fit of delirium—you didn’t want to find out what this man might be capable of when he wasn’t in his right mind. It was hard to find your words, but you managed to say, “Thomas?”

That caused his eyes to widen a fraction, the anger evaporating into surprise. Exhaling hard, you smiled in relief. “H-hey there, big guy. Your family—“ You swallowed. “Found. They found me, Thomas.” You kept saying his name, hoping it would ground him. “Looks like you’re hurt, but I’m gonna take care of you, okay? I’m a nurse. I’m here to fix you up.” His other hand reached up to cover his face, and your brows furrowed. “Is there something wrong? Are you breathing okay?”

He just stared at you, one huge hand spanning the lower half of his face. Then you remembered the deformities you’d caught sight of, and your stomach twisted. Was he...hiding them? “Your mama said you had trouble talking. Is that true, Thomas?” He didn’t respond. You licked your lips again, nervous. His hand flexed on your wrist. “Okay. Um. I have a few questions for you. Can you nod for me?”

For a long minute, he didn’t respond, and you were starting to worry he really was delirious, but he gave you a slow nod, and you smiled. “Good. Good! Okay. Nod for me again if you’re hurt anywhere besides your chest.” He shook his head. “Does your head hurt?” He shook his head again. “Good. I see you’re covering your face. Are you having trouble breathing?” Another head shake. “Good. You’re doing really good for me, Thomas. Thank you for answering my questions. I’m going to explain what I’m doing, but I need you to give me back my hand, okay?” He exhaled hard, the sound almost like a growl. Nevertheless, he loosened his grip, and you smiled at him. “Thank you, Thomas. I’m just taking your pulse. So, I’m going to put my fingers on your neck and count your heartbeats. Is that okay?”

He eyed you, then gave a subtle nod. You pressed your fingers to his neck and felt his throat flex against your fingers as he swallowed. You checked your watch, counting his heartbeats as the seconds ticked down. When you were finished, you smiled at him and said, “Good. Your pulse is just fine. Now we’re going to see about getting that fever down, okay?”

He exhaled, watching you warily, but exhaustion seemed to get the better of him. He laid back down, head resting on the limp pillow, but he never took his hand off his face. The door opened behind you, and you turned, happy to see Luda Mae. “Did you find acetaminophen?”

She handed you a basket. “I emptied the medicine cabinet. Look in there, see if you can find—Thomas?” She went to him immediately and started fussing over him. He didn’t seem to react to her, his gaze fixed on you. “Don’t worry about her. She’s here to help. Hoyt found her.” She leaned close to Thomas, and you could hear faint whispering, but you couldn’t understand what she was actually saying. It didn’t matter—you were too busy sorting through the medicine bottles.

You grinned, finding a bottle of penicillin and a bottle of ibuprofen. Their expiration dates were long past, but digging deeper didn’t net you anything helpful.

“T-thank you,” you said, belatedly, You struggled to read the label, but it was too faded and worn. You eventually gave up and measured out what seemed like too many pills, hoping to counteract the pills’ age-induced ineffectiveness. You stepped alongside the bed and took Thomas’ free hand. You turned it palm-up, and passed off your handful of pills. He watched you intently the whole time, looking from your hand—resting lightly on the underside of his fingers—and back to your face, searching your features. You smiled for him, trying not to get nervous under his gaze. “W-water?” you asked, unable to get the full sentence out.

He just pulled his hand free of yours and sat up, turning his big body away to hide his face while he swallowed the pills dry. “Oh.” You looked to Luda Mae, and seeing the hard expression on her face, you tensed immediately. Swallowing hard, you gave her your list. She skimmed it, pausing to eye you.

“What do you need a face mask for, girl?”

Her tone was harsh, angry, and you had no idea why. You took the pen and paper, scribbling out an explanation. “It’s for you,” she said flatly, “You’re worried about getting your germs on him?” You nodded. She shook her head. “Ain’t got nothing like that ‘round here.”

A handkerchief? you wrote.

She cocked her head, then nodded. “Yeah. I can probably find something like that.”

“Gloves?” you asked.

“Nothing like you’re asking for—we got leather workman’s gloves. Would that work?” You shook your head, vowing to wash your hands especially thoroughly. “I’ve already got water heating up. I’ll bring up some soap when that’s ready. Hoyt’s not gonna let you have scissors—that just to cut the guaze?”

You glanced at Thomas, then at Luda Mae. Since he seemed lucid, you turned to address him directly. “Thomas, listen, there’s mud and blood on your trousers. Your injury is already infected. We need to try to keep things clean so the infection doesn’t come back once we get it all bandaged up. Do you think you can take off your pants on your own? Or do you need help?”

His eyes went wide, and he lunged for the blanket—but you saw the moment the pain hit him. His features paled and his hand fell away from his face, grasping at nothing. He never uttered a sound, though, and he still managed to snatch the blanket, pulling it up to his ribcage. He lay back against the pillow, breathing rough and glaring at you when he remembered to cover his face again.

You pressed both hands to your mouth, appalled that he’d hurt himself. Luda Mae just sighed, shaking her head like she’d expected that. “Shoulda pulled them off while he was sleeping,” she said to you. Now you stared at her, equally horrified. “Thomas Brown Hewitt, you behave yourself and let her do her job, you hear?”

He didn’t respond, didn’t acknowledge that she’d spoken at all—he just continued to glare at you. Wringing your hands, you were having trouble finding your words again, but you shook your head when Luda Mae tried to tug the blanket out of his grip. You caught her hand, shaking your head when she looked at you.

You weren’t going to force him to strip. He was conscious, apparently not delirious despite the fever. You were going to get him to cooperate with you. You just needed to find your words.

Exhaling slowly, you shooed her away from the bed and leaned down to meet Thomas’ gaze. “Thomas, I’m a nurse. I want to make you feel better. Sometimes, I might ask you to do something uncomfortable or even painful, but I’m not going to hurt you. Promise. Now, your ma can find a fresh pair of pants for you to wear, and I won’t look while you put them on or while you take these off. Would that be okay?”

Thomas searched your face. You had no idea what he was looking for or what he found, but eventually, he exhaled audibly—not quite a sigh or a snort, but something between the two—and gave you a subtle nod. You smiled, patting his hand. “Thank you, Thomas.” He stared at your hand on his, brows furrowed as if he was trying to understand something. You hesitated, then said, “You know, you don’t have to cover your face like that.” His gaze snapped back to your face, glaring again. You swallowed when he growled at you, and you held up your hands. “Okay. If you don’t want me to see, that’s okay too. Your ma is going to get me a handkerchief for my face, so I don’t germs on your injury. Would you like one too? So you don’t have to hold your hand over your face?”

He gave a firm nod. Luda Mae shook her head, but there was a grim smile on her face. “I’ll get you what you asked for, but I suggest you start explaining the maggots to him before Charlie gets back.”

Hearing that, Thomas grabbed your forearm, his grip almost painfully tight. You met his gaze, and his demand for an explanation was clear enough, even without words. Your heart jolted, but you laid your hand overtop his, smiling nervously as you tried to find the right words to explain to him.

[lovebitesimagines]

Dangerous Love- Three Days.

I’m baaaaack! I hope you enjoy x

Masterlist.

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] 

Tag list: @happyhostforsymbiotes​ @brianaisasongbird​ @crazymofos021​ @lifetimeofadventue​ @itsmissdahliahayward​ @1opinionshared​ @arthurscarnival​ @thinkingsofamadwoman​ @shadow-of-wonder​ @anytimebitches​ @christinawxxx​ @biba3434​ @onlythechicagoway​ @accio-aesthetic​ @mortalflower​

Wanna be on the tagged list? Just drop me a message! x

(There are a few people on the tagged list, who I could not find. If you wish to be re-added, please message x).

Warnings: implied suicide, swearing, violence.

A lot can happen in three days.

Your POV

 Silence.

 You had never felt such a silence within your heart, the kind that ached as if it was frozen. The kind of silence that made thoughts echo loudly within your mind, like footsteps reverberating within an empty building. The kind that made you savour each breath, in case it was your last. The kind of silence that came associated with true heartbreak.

 Alfie’s last words tainted your mind as if they were tattooed upon your skin. The pain was inevitable, as each letter was dug into your flesh, a constant reminder of everything that you had just lost. You found it humorous, how quickly everything could change.  

 Your throat burned as you swallowed, the little saliva you had barely tainting the dryness. Your body ached, a reminder of how long you had been sat upon the floor, dust particles dancing in the air around you. Your eyes hadn’t moved from the front door, as you silently willed Alfie to return, hoping that everything would be alright.

 But it wouldn’t. Nothing could ever be alright again.

 If living in a world with Alfie was technicolour, then everything was now a dull shade of grey, muted of all life and joy. You had no desire to experience a future without Alfie. He had given you life, made you see a world outside of the shackles of Small Heath. He had made you feel love. You knew no one could ever make you feel like that again.

 Footsteps moved softly towards you.

 “Tea?” Pol whispered, kneeling down quietly beside you. You shook your head softly, keeping your gaze focused in front of you. “Come on (Y/N). You’ve been sat here for quite some time. You need to eat”.

 “I have no desire to eat Aunt Pol. I’m not hungry” your voice croaked slightly as you answered. A soft sigh escaped from her lips.

 “Is she refusing to eat?”.

 Your head snapped up at the sound of Tommy’s voice, the anger igniting in the pit of your stomach. Heat washed over you as you quickly stood up, the outrage you felt pushing your weakness to the side.

 How dare he stand there in front of you, playing the false ‘concerned brother’ card. He was the one who had scratched Alfie’s name into the bullet. He was the one who had handed over his dirty money to a stranger. He was the one who had put a price on Alfie’s life, on your life.

 “I’m going to fucking kill you” you spat, the anger you felt boiling over. You lunged towards him, the heated tears spilling out from your (Y/C/E) eyes, scalding your cheeks. Your knuckles met his left cheek before anybody could stop you, leaving a red imprint upon his pale skin. Arthur and John grabbed you, gently pulling you a safe distance away from Tommy.

 “Fucking let go of me!” you screamed, struggling against your brothers’ firm grip.

 Tommy stood there in front of you, his dark blue eyes emotionless as they bore into you, your rage continuing to bubble.

 “You need to calm down” Tommy stated, his voice sharp. “We tried telling you that Alfie wasn’t right. It’s now our fault if you didn’t fucking listen”.

 You froze, disbelief possessing your features, as you stared at your older brother.

 “You just couldn’t fucking stand it, could you Tommy? You couldn’t fucking stand the fact that you just couldn’t control me” you spoke softly, your voice trembling slightly. You sharply pulled away from John and Arthur, sliding out of their grip.

 Stepping back towards the front door, you swallowed softly as your eyes scanned over your family.

 “None of you gave him a fucking chance. Not a single fucking one of you” you whispered, furiously wiping away the tears that continued to stream down your cheeks, before turning the door handle.

 “If any of you follow me, I will kill you”.

 The door slammed shut behind you, as you slipped onto the streets of Small Heath. Adrenaline rushed through your veins, as you ran into the late afternoon. Your feet pounded against the hard, dirt floor, as you twisted and turned through the alleyways, willing the shadows to swallow you up.

 You weren’t sure how long you had been running for, until your legs began to dully ache, your lungs burning as you struggled to catch your breath. You leant back against a wall, the bricks scratching softly at your skin, as your eyelids fluttered closed. The familiar sounds of Small Heath had melted away into the distance, the silence that surrounded you brought you little comfort. You could never be far enough away from your family.

 Footsteps broke through your respite, crashing through your brief moment of silence.

 “I thought I told you not to fucking follow me” you murmured, your eyelids fluttering open.

 You only had a split second to register the face in front of yours, a face that you did not know.

 “Who the fuck-“ you were unable to finish your sentence, before the strangers hand was raised.

 And blackness consumed you.

 ******************************************************************************

 ALFIES POV

 Three days.

 It had been three days, since Alfie last saw your face. Three days since he had last heard your voice. Three days since his whole World came crashing down. The sound of the engagement ring hitting the floor replayed within his mind, the image of your heartbroken features haunted his dreams. It had been three days since Alfie had last slept, and it had begun to show. The bags underneath his eyes were deep, the skin beginning to turn a deep shade of purple. His eyes were bloodshot, the signs of a man possessed by heartbreak.

 He had spent his days locked within his office, refusing to see anyone. Ollie was the only man with permission to enter, providing Alfie with meals that would not be touched. Alfie had no appitite, instead opting to drown his sorrows in gin, empty bottles accommodating various places within the office. Shards of glass danced upon the floor, alongside scraps of paper, signs of his temper. You had always been the one to calm him, to bring him back down to Earth.

 Without you, he felt empty.

 Alfie sat at his desk, unopened letters and empty bottles scattering the surface. He twirled a knife within his fingers, the blade softly scratching against his skin. His eyes were fixated upon the dullness of the metal, his mind whirling with the million different possibilities the blade brought. No one would miss him, he knew that much. He had broken the heart of the one person who ever could.

 The thought of an endless night, the calm it possessed, intrigued him. He would no longer feel tired, no longer feel this heartbreak. One swift movement, and it would all be over. His lips parted slightly as a frustrated sigh escaped from in between them, the knife slipping from in between his fingers. Despite everything, he refused to let you down in such a way.

 Alfie held his head in between his hands, his fingers pressing into his temples. A light knock sounded at his door, before Ollie entered.

 “Sir. Sorry to disturb ya’” Ollie stuttered. Alfie looked up at him, grunting in response. Ollie twirled his hands nervously, his eyes flickering around the room.

 “Fuckin’ spit it out” Alfie growled, a deep frown etched upon his forehead.

 “Sorry sir. I tried tellin’ them that you’re busy, but they didn’t listen” Ollie began, before he was interrupted by the three men and woman who pushed past him.

 Alfie’s frown deepened, as he stood up, ignoring the alcohol induced dizziness.

 “What the fuck are ya’ doin’ ‘ere?” Alfie bellowed, his fingers reaching for the knife in front of him.

 “Christ you stink” Pol spat, bringing her dark green shawl up to cover her nose, her forehead wrinkling in disgust.

 “Don’t fucking try” John nodded towards Alfie’s hand, his gun trained upon his head. Alfie frowned in response, bringing his hand back to his side.

 “To wha’ do I owe the fuckin’ pleasure?” Alfie sarcastically drawled.

 “Where is she?” Arthur growled, his eyes frantically scanning the room.

 “She’s right over there” Alfie retorted, gesturing towards Pol.

 “Now is not the time for games Alfie. Where is (Y/N)?” Pol responded.

 “I don’t fuckin’ know! Last time I saw ‘er, she was fuckin’ throwin’ the ring at me, in case ya’ forgot?” Alfie stated, falling back onto his chair. “Now if ya’ don’t fuckin’ mind, I’m a busy man”.

 He picked up a bottle of gin, unscrewing the cap and carelessly throwing it upon the floor, before taking a large swig. He grimaced slightly as the liquid burned his throat.

 “She’s missing, Alfie” Tommy whispered. Alfie’s gaze shot up, his eyes meeting Tommy’s for the first time that evening. One glance, and he felt his heart sink into the pit of his stomach. Tommy’s eyes were heavy and bloodshot, like his own.

 “You fuckin’ what?” Alfie muttered, feeling the air leave his lungs as he spoke. He refused to believe this. It could not possibly be true.

 “(Y/N) is missing. We haven’t seen her in three days”.

 The sound of glass shattering filled the room, as Alfie dropped his bottle in shock. He ignored the way the gin seeped through his already stained clothes.

 Three days.

 Alfie knew in that moment, he would spend the rest of his life searching for you.

 No matter what it takes.

[kayteewritessteve]

Beautifully Unfinished - 7/8

Description: One foolish outburst, one moment of weakness at the worst possible time, and everything goes up in smoke. Who knew finally voicing your true, deep-rooted feelings, would lead to the complete destruction of your most cherished friendship?

Masterlist HERE.

Word Count: 3,130 ish.

Pairing: Modern!Steve Rogers x Reader.

Rating: PG.

Warnings: Curse words. Lots of angst. But if you’ve read my stories before, then you know how this will end.

A/N: I sadly don’t own any of these characters. And no beta reader, so I do proudly own all the errors and this story, so there’s that.

The Beginning of The End.

You pace the length of your living room, hands clenched in your hair. Your best friend—the love of your life—gets married in 7 days. 7 fucking days. And you are absolutely beside yourself right now. You can’t sleep, you can’t eat, fuck, you can barely even think. Everything in you is begging you to do something. Anything.

But you can’t. You can’t allow your foolish heart to say a damn thing. Who are you to dump all of this shit on an unsuspecting person? Who are you, that you can put your own feelings before others. Before your very best friend.

He’s in love. He’s getting fucking married, and next Sunday at that.

If you truly loved him, you’d stay the hell out of it. You’d stay the hell away from him till D day. Till the day there is no going back, and no chance for you to selfishly ruin everything.

So that’s what you’re currently doing, you’re avoiding him at all costs. You haven’t spoken to him in 2 weeks, much to your chagrin. And not without his effort.

He’s tried to contact you. He’s tried to call, to text. He even hounded Bucky about it, but you only know that because Bucky sent you a long text telling you to pull your head out of your ass, and stop ignoring him and Steve. He also reminded you that you are a GroomsWoman and you have duties to attend to. He may have also threatened to show up at your place, if you didn’t text him back within the hour.

So you caved. You texted him back, giving him a bullshit story about how busy you were with work right now. He clearly knew you were full of shit, but he left it alone. You’ve always assumed, and gotten the impression, that Bucky knew of your true feelings for Steve. Or he at least figured out there were more feelings there for you than just friendship. So you’d guess that he knew you were having a very hard time with this all.

You were struggling to come to terms with Steve’s impending union. Fuck, was that ever an understatement.

And in classic Bucky form, he seemed to understand without saying a thing, and then he offered to forward your message on to Steve. He promised to get him off your back for ‘work related’ reasons. And yes, he actually put it in quotes like that in his text.

So yeah, he totally knew. He probably always had, he was smart like that. He could read people better than anyone you knew. It was a little creepy actually, he was like some weird european spy, or something, you swear.

Yeah, you felt pretty guilty for not only skipping out on your GroomsWoman duties, but also for last minute cancelling on Steve’s Bachelor party. Because fuck that. That would not have ended well. Your intense heartache and feelings, mixed with alcohol and then stuck in a room with the object of your desires. Yeah, no, that had a ‘fucking mess’ written all over it. Entirely.

So you’d chickened out and texted Bucky, once again with a shit ass excuse about not feeling well. And again, you knew he saw right through it. But he covered for your ass like he always did.

You yank on your hair before dropping your arms, only to then not know what to do with them—or yourself, but one thing at a time here—so you awkwardly crossed them and halted your steps in front of your living room window. Staring out at the summer rain pelting down on everything outside; cars, people, the sidewalk.

What are you doing? Why are you like this? Why can’t you just get over these ridiculous feelings already? This is insanity, it’s the very definition of the damn word.

You take a deep breath, hoping it will help quiet the screams of your heart. With every passing day that’s brought you closer to his wedding day, your heart has gotten louder and louder. And your head? Well it’s not much better, it’s been trying to rationalize the pros of just telling him. Of just letting it all out finally. It’s been trying to tell you it would be worth it, it’s been attempting to give you this false hope that he would feel the same way. That if you just told him, he’d realize he feels the same and end this engagement to be with you.

But you aren’t a dumbass—at least not always—you know the likelihood of him feeling the same is a million to one. So basically so slim that there is no chance at all.

...But there is still that one shot! There is still that teeny tiny little chance!

Ugh! See! This is what it’s been like for weeks! This is the constant battle that has been raging inside you for months. Who are we kidding, it’s been like this for years. But it’s been made worse by the realization that you are running out of time. By the fact that the window of opportunity is slowly diminishing and will soon enough be shut forever.

Or at least until they get divorced! NO! You can’t think like that. They aren’t even fucking married yet, and already you are hoping for the end of their union. How sick are you? How fucking selfish? He’s your best friend. Be happy for him. Be thankful that he found his person.

Even if that person isn’t you.

Ugh! And now your hands are clenching the roots of your hair once again. This is agony. Maybe you can goto the hospital and ask them to put you under. Beg them to induce a coma, so you can finally just breathe and your head can shut off for a few days—

The slam of a door causes you to jump and whip around at the noise, only to feel all your blood attempt to leave your body at the cause of the sound. The very thing you are stressing out about right now.

Steve. He is standing not even 15 feet away from you currently, and he looks pissed as hell. Fuck fuck fuck. You are avoiding him for a reason! You can’t be around him right now, you are too weak, you will say something dumb. Or God forbid you will just word vomit all over him, you will just dump everything you’ve held in for years in one fell swoop.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Here, overthinking everything and having a mental breakdown. But you don’t say that, obviously, and instead go with, “What are you doing here, Steve?”

“Making sure you’re still fucking alive,” he glares at you. And ooh fuck, yup, yeah, he’s pissed alright. You’re fucking in for it now. “Since you can’t seem to reply to any of my messages, or answer your damn phone.”

He pulls his phone from his pocket, and then his eyes leave yours as he glances down at it’s screen, tapping away at it. A few seconds later, you hear the familiar chirp of your text notification tone and your eyes widen at the realization. You quickly go to grab your phone, hoping you can just avoid this whole thing. Hoping that by hiding it, it will defuse the ticking bomb that is currently your best friend.

He glances up and around for a second, his eyes then land on the traitorous electronic just as you pick it up and go to cram it in your pocket, but at the last second you flick the switch to put it in silent mode, then chuck it at the couch. His eyes follow the motion then snap back to yours, and you can’t miss just how heated they are now. Even more than they were before. “Steve, just let me—“

“I’m glad to see it still works perfectly fine,” he seethes, cutting you off and taking a few slow steps to fully enter the living room. Which causes your heart rate to pick up, tenfold. But not because your scared of him, fuck no, you’d never be scared of Steve. He gets mad sometimes, but never aggressive. The worst he gets is like a pissed off parent. So no, your heart wasn’t racing because of that, it was racing because he is so damn close now. Closer than he’s been in weeks, and he’s still like 10 feet from you. Gosh, you missed him so much—God, you are so damn pathetic!

“And that it’s on fucking loud,” he adds, halting his steps and narrowing his eyes at you. “So you have been ignoring me, huh?”

“It’s not like that—“

“Oh don’t give me that bullshit excuse, Y/N,” he cuts you off once again. And for a guy that wants answers, he sure as hell isn’t giving you the chance to actually give him any. “It’s me,” he gestures to himself, “Steve. Ya know, your best friend? The person who knows you better than anyone else. So tell me the damn truth, Y/N, why have you been ignoring me?”

I CAN’T! Don’t you fucking get that!? Instead of screaming that, you take a deep breath, and try to think of more rational words. “I haven’t been ignoring you, Steve,” you pause and scrunch up your nose. “At least not really. Not because of anything you’ve done. I’ve just been so busy lately, didn’t Bucky fill you in on this?”

“Really?” He says dryly, “you’re just going to stick with that horrendously fake excuse?”

“It’s not a damn excuse! I just needed some fucking space!” You snap, then quickly clench your mouth shut and drop your eyes to the floor, before exhaling deeply. The realization that he is clearly trying to get a rise out of you, hitting you instantly. He knows that if you’re pissed off, you’ll most likely slip up and tell him the truth. The fucker. He knows you too well.

“Some space?” He asks quietly, and you hear him take a few hesitant steps forward. “From who?”

You keep your mouth shut, and clench your eyes closed as well. If you open your mouth now, you’ll say something you’ll regret.

His breath hitches, “Fr-from me?”

The sheer pain and confusion in his voice makes your eyes start to sting, so you unclench them and blink rapidly a few times, in the hopes to stop the tears before they start. “From everyone,” you choke out.

“That’s not true though, is it? You’ve been replying to Bucky’s messages, so it is just space from me,” he takes a deep breath, “why? Why do you need space from me?”

“It’s not important,” you shake your head, tucking a few wayward strands behind your ear, “It’s stupid, and it won’t matter soon enough.”

“Of course it’s fucking important, Y/N. My best friend is upset at me for something, and that matters a hell of a lot to me,” he says adamantly. “So just tell me what’s wrong, Doll. Please?”

“I can’t, Steve. I really can’t, please just trust me here,” you sigh rubbing a hand on your forehead, while continuing to keep your eyes locked on the floor in front of you.

“And why can’t you?”

You keep your mouth shut, having no idea what to even say. But then you hear his light steps, just before his shoes come into your view.

“Doll, please look at me,” he pleads. “Tell me what’s wrong so I can fix this. I can’t deal with you mad at me, especially when I have no idea why.”

“There is nothing to fix, you didn’t do anything wrong. This is all on me, I’ll work myself through it and everything will go back to normal. I promise.”

“Damnit, Y/N! Would you just look at me already!”

You snap your eyes up to meet his, “there! Happy now?”

“No, as a matter of fact I’m fucking not!” He glares at you again. “Why are you being like this? What the hell happened? Just fucking tell me already!”

“You! You fucking happened, Steven!” You snap, glaring right back at him. The wall has finally crumbled, you can’t hold it in anymore, it’s all going to come out whether you like it or not. “You and your stupid perfection! And your dumb face! And—and this ridiculous fucking torch I’ve been carrying for you since grade fucking 7! I’m in love with you Steve, I always have been and the fact that you are marrying someone else is fucking killing me! I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can barely fucking breathe! My heart feels like it’s being crushed and—ARGH!” You yell the last part as your hands move to your head again, grabbing ahold of your roots and giving a few tugs as you spin around. You can’t face him right now. “So there it is, Steve! The whole fucking truth about why I’ve been avoiding you lately. That’s what you wanted to know so damn badly, isn’t it? How does knowing the real reason make you feel? Did my honesty ease your mind? Did it fucking fix things?”

“Y/N,” he says quietly, breathlessly, and you can here the shock in his voice. “I—I don’t,” he trails off.

Which causes you to groan loudly, shaking your head, “just forget it, Steve. Can you please just leave? I want to be alone. I need to be al—“

Your cut off by the motion of your body being spun around forcefully, yet gently. You spin so fast that you almost topple over, but two hands on either side of your face keep you upright. And then, out of fucking nowhere, Steve’s lips crash into yours.

To say that caught you off guard, would be an understatement. You must be fucking dead! Yup, you’ve died, clearly. Because there is no way in hell that Steve is kissing you right now! There just isn’t!

But yet, his lips feel so real. Too real. And just like that, you lose all train of thought, and you kiss him back with everything you have. Your arms slip around his waist, and one of his hands leaves your check to travel down and wrap around you. He pulls you closer and you comply, melting into him and deepening the kiss. His fingers dig into your hip, his forearm warming your lower back, and causing tingles to run up your spin.

But just as abruptly as it started, it stops. And not just that, Steve damn near jumps away from you as if you’re on fire. He takes a few large steps back, creating a vast space between you both.

“Shit,” he whispers under his breath, as he looks away from you. “I shouldn’t have done that.” He shakes his head and then his eyes widen, “Holy fuck, I’m getting married in a week. Literally getting married to Hailey in a fucking week.”

His eyes snap to yours, and the emotions in them make your heart clench even more. What have you done? “Look, Steve, let’s just pretend this never happened, okay? Let’s just act like this whole fucking night never fucking happened—“

“How can you expect me to just pretend like this never happened, Y/N? You just told me you’re in love with me! And we just fucking kissed, God d-damnit!” He stammers and starts to pace the width of your living room. He takes a deep breath, “Like what the hell, Y/N? You’ve had years to say all of this, and you pick right fucking now? A week before my damn wedding, to finally voice your feelings for me? Are you kidding me right now?”

Your nose flares at what he’s saying, because the fucking nerve on this asshole! “Are you kidding me right now?! Don’t pin this shit on me, Steven, I told you I couldn’t tell you! And you just kept fucking pushing! I tried to avoid you so that I wouldn’t say any of this to you, and what did you do? You showed up at my damn door demanding answers! I fucking tried so damn hard to keep it to myself. I did everything I could, to not ruin this friendship, or your big day with my stupid fucking feelings. You think I want to be in love with my best friend, who is getting married to someone else in a week?!” You scoff, crossing your arms, “Of course I fucking don’t. Give your damn head a shake.”

“I didn’t,” he snaps his mouth shut and shakes his head, before mumbling, “I can’t do this right now, Y/N, not yet, not like this. I ah, I’m sorry, I have to go.”

You want more than anything to stop him, to beg him to stay and to pick you, but what little dignity you have left won’t let you. You refuse to put yourself out there anymore. He wants to leave, than good fucking riddance! Don’t let the door hit you on the fucking way out!

“Yeah, I think that’s best,” you agree bitterly, seeing him purse his lips before nodding once then turning on his heel. A moment later you hear your door slam shut and at that very moment you collapse to the floor.

Everything you’ve felt over the last few weeks, months, years, all ripping out of you at once. And then on top of that, everything that happened tonight only adds more emotions to the mix. You’ve never cried this hard in your life, you can’t even bring yourself to stand up and go to your bed.

Shit, you can’t even manage the strength to get up onto your couch, which is only 3 feet away. So instead you curl up into a ball on your living room floor, and proceed to cry every last tear you have left.

You stay in this spot for a couple hours before you finally pick yourself up and drag yourself over to the window. Hoping and praying that the pain will go away soon, or will at least numb out enough to allow you to breathe normally.

But you know that won’t happen for a long time. This pain will stick with you for a while, and nothing you do or say will make it disappear. Nothing will make it go away, it’s taken root deep within you and you’ll carry it through life, along with you. Because Steve isn’t just some random guy, this isn’t just some silly crush. He’s your best friend, he’s the love of your life, and you hate him for it, but yet, you don’t.

Because I hate you, but I love you, and I wish you'd go away.

But I hate you, and I love you, and I wish that you would stay.

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

@caps-lockdown @boxofteenageideas @giggleberts @strawberry-gothchild @theonelittleone @agentbadbitch @ratwrites @bandsandanimefreak @rockyroadthepastryarchy @lovvliies @cuffski @icesoccerer @steeeeverogers @zombiepotterfour @ledandan1244 @straightforwardly @denzmallows @xremember-me-notx @gwynethjodie @lollipopdomination @capstopavenger @jemimah-b99 @rcvenqers @justkending @alagalaska @silent-loucidity @sabertooth-potato @pies-wands-and-more @interstellarmess @gabriella69816 @phantom-soilder @viarogers @kaithezaftig @the-kinkiest-goblin @hysterically-original @badassbeckettswan @heyiamthatbitch @zlixlle @givemehopenfandoms @pretendingandpreposterous @frozen-phoenix17 @emotionallysalty @saturngirlz @atomicsludgedonutbiscuit @bohemian-barbie @marvelous-capsicle @ivoryhazlewood @cjhorseback @jessiedaeum @capricornprince118 @pinkleopardss @drayshadow @wiserebelpartypie @dark-night-sky-99 @patzammit @cs-please @troublermalik @anika-ann @wxstedhexrt @rynabarnesrogers

[pettyrevenge-base]

Sharing is caring, and Karen ain’t caring.

One day, I was walking through City Market with my mom, the quiet buzzing of the lights only slightly annoying. All seemed well, and I decided to get one of the sample cookies from the back. Seems perfectly normal, right? So, I grab my cookie, which happened to be the last non-burnt one, as another family is coming into the back aisle. I’m not a particularly social person, so I started to walk away. This family consisted of a mother and a son, the son being maybe five or six years old by my estimates, wearing a vibrant and disgusting shade of yellow. The mom had a typical Karen haircut, and a bland red colored sweater on over a bright white shirt and brand new looking skinny jeans. 

That didn’t sound like a good time to me.

They realize that there aren’t any more non burnt cookies, which, in my opinion, shouldn’t be a problem. Cookies are cookies, especially free ones. The child wails horrifically, and notices that my cookie, that I haven’t yet taken a bite out of, wasn’t burnt! Wonderful observation skills, little Timmy. The mom approaches me and asks in a sickly sweet tone, one you can tell is obviously faked, if I would mind giving my cookie to her kid. I wasn’t sure if the tone was from her having a headache from dealing with her kid or if she wasn’t a nice person, but seeing as the kid was young, I chose to be nice, and broke my cookie in half, offering one of the halves to the kid, because I wasn’t about to miss out on eating my cookie, nor was I about to go grab another one, as I felt it would just be rude to the next people.

The kid looked confused at this, which immediately felt off. The mom’s face contorted from ‘nice’ to confused to offended very quickly, as if not offering the entire cookie had somehow forsaken her entire family and she stared at me like I was going to sacrifice a goat in order to curse them. I, naturally, was confused, and realizing what was happening a bit too late, backed away and tried walking away.

The lady placed her hand on my shoulder, preventing me from walking away. (I was maybe 12 at the time, so was smol boi.) She held out her other hand, as if expecting me to just hand my cookie away. Let me once again state that I had tried to share, but Karen and her little hellspawn don’t seem to understand the concept of sharing, evident by the atrocious wailing the child was releasing from the depths of the underworld itself. (I hate the sounds of children crying.) I managed to pull away from the iron grasp from this lady, and speed walked away.

The guttural “rrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeEeEeEeEeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” released from both her and her entitled child gave me the chills, and she marched up to me and tried to take the cookie from me. Before she could, a lightbulb flickered on, before bursting in my head from the excitement to see the next levels of rage and profanities my plan was about to induce.

I stuffed the entire cookie in my mouth. Now, these cookies were fairly big, bigger than the basic sugar cookies they usually give, so my mouth was stuffed. For a moment, Karen and her child are silent, stunned and what they had just witnessed.

Ten seconds later, the gates of hell are ripped from their hinges.

Karen exploded at me, screeching profanities at me, many of which I surprisingly hadn’t heard before. I stood there, the smuggest grin on my little face, as I slooowly chewed on the cookie, continuing to rub salt in the wound, until the profanities turned into indiscernible noises. Was it wrong of me to do so? Probably. Do I regret doing so? Absolutely not.

After maybe three minutes of random sounds ejecting from the deep, dark chasm this woman produced, she stopped to take a breath. I had swallowed the cookie by now, and was getting tired of listening to the white noise this lady was projecting, so I began to walk away.

“I’m not done with you!” She yelled after me. Obviously, I chose to ignore her at this point, as I was just done with her. As soon as I was out of the aisle, I booked it back to my mom and continued on like nothing had happened.

Tl;dr: Karen and her child got upset when they couldn’t have my free cookie from City Market, hilarity ensues.

Source: reddit.com/r/pettyrevenge

[storms-path]

Day 24 – Illustrious

The Diamond Weapon sank beneath the clouds, spewing smoke and sparks until it was swallowed up by the limitless expanse. Once the crown jewel of the Weapon project, now it was so much broken machinery. Sanda watched the clouds that engulfed the behemoth dispassionately, trying and failing to feel much of anything. We’ll need to go down and make sure the Garleans don’t retrieve it.

Fareena was whooping with joy, having taken the brunt of the Weapon’s attacks with her typical head-on stubbornness. Stalwart had sunken to the floor, cradling her cane tightly to her chest. She never did agree with heights, particularly when fighting gigantic primal-eating weapons of mass destruction. Arashi… Arashi looked like Sanda felt. Hollow, unable to process the outcome of the fight properly. That peculiar numbness that the pair felt took some time to ebb away after a fight, particularly one as gruelling as this. Then Arashi turned to face her sister and a look of understanding crossed between them.

Sanda limped over to her sister, offering a smile as she approached. “We did it,” was all she could manage to say. Should really get myself checked out. Getting light-headed. Arashi’s face flashed with concern as Sanda drew close, reaching out to grab hold of her shoulders and keeping her upright. “Stalwart!” cried Arashi as Sanda stumbled against her. “We need you over here, quickly!” Shortly Sanda felt the flow of magic pushing into her, filling her with gentle warmth as her wounds quickly mended.

“You’ve got to speak up about your injuries,” scolded Stalwart, her fears forgotten. “You and your sister both. I’ll not have half of the Warriors of Light dying on me because they forgot to inform their healer about their laser-induced leg wounds.” Sanda was dimly aware of the magic tapering off as it was applied to Arashi instead. Sanda shared a grimace with her sister. It was hard to take notice of such things in the heat of battle, particularly when a single misstep would have them tumbling into the sky.

Her task completed, Stalwart stalked off to give Fareena an earful about her battered body as well. Out of the corner of her eye, Sanda noticed Cid and Gaius emerging onto the platform, coming to make sure their allies had survived. Cid’s face was a picture of relief, while Gaius’s was much more pensive. Likely remembering the Weapon’s words, and the familiar voice that spoke them. What did you do, Alfonse? The question was growing louder in Sanda’s head as the battle focus left. Dread began to gnaw away at Sanda the more she considered it. What was done to you?

“We’ll be taking the G-Saviour down shortly!” Cid’s voice was barely audible amongst the din of the wind. “If you don’t want a very uncomfortable descent, I’d advise you all join me inside!” And with that Cid retreated down below, the elevator reappearing shortly after. Gaius descended shortly afterwards, worry adding years to his face as it sunk out of sight. Stalwart half dragged, half carried Fareena to the elevator. From the sounds of it, she’d saved her choicest words for the cocky viera. Mercifully the wind swallowed most of them as the pair vanished from view.

“Sanda.” Arashi’s voice was full of concern. “You don’t have to keep doing this, you know.” Sanda turned to face her sister. “I mean it. It’s only going to get worse from here. I don’t want to lose you.” Sanda’s chest grew tight, rage boiling up. Hypocrite. Arashi put herself through the seven hells time and time again, risked body and soul without a second thought for herself, and then she turned around and expected Sanda to just walk away and leave her to it?!

Her anger must have been showing in her face, for Arashi took a wary step back and held up placating hands. “Look, I just don’t wan-”

“Don’t want what, dear sister? Don’t want to see your family thrown into the meat grinder for other people’s causes? Don’t want to see her accumulating scars as she takes on the impossible? Don’t want to fear time after time that this battle is going to be her last?” Arashi tried to speak again, but Sanda cut her off. “No, I’m talking, you’re listening. Do you have ANY IDEA how it felt to see you succumb to the Light in Norvrandt? I was ready to kill you, you know! Just so you wouldn’t feel the agony of becoming a Sin Eater! Just to spare you that horror! So don’t you DARE give me that self-righteous tripe about not wanting to see my die, alright? Don’t you…” The rest of the words fell away as Sanda’s throat closed up. Arashi was suddenly getting blurry. The blurry version of her sister was suddenly closing the distance between them. Then the tears began to fall from her face and suddenly things made sense again.

“I’m sorry!” Arashi cried, clinging so tightly to her sister. “I’m so sorry!” Sanda was sorry too. She was distantly aware of her own tears, but she felt so disconnected from it all, as if some switch had been flipped in her brain. Mechanically, her arms closed around her sister’s shuddering body, holding her tight until the numbness faded away again.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Sanda heard Arashi sob. “Not again. Never again.”

As if that wasn’t obvious in her overly-doting manner. As if it wasn’t obvious by the tears falling from her face.

As if Sanda’s world wouldn’t collapse if she lost Arashi.

[catspluscrows]

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2 | ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟ ꜰᴀɪʟᴜʀᴇ + ɴᴇɢʟᴇᴄᴛ | ᴛ. ʏᴀᴍᴀɢᴜᴄʜɪ

TW: Abuse (verbal, attempts of physical), bad parents, insecurities 

Note(s): Y/n’s perspective on what happened in part 1 since I thought it’d be cool. 

There’s one thing your family has constantly been telling you. Ever since you were old enough to hold a pencil and developed enough to read. One thing has been on their minds since you showed signs of remarkable growth.

“Why did you only get twenty four questions right?” Your mother asked you one day at the dinner table. With a spoon in hand you stared at her in disbelief. Had she really asked why you missed six questions out of thirty on your assignment? “Will you answer some time tonight?” She questioned with a sickening smile meaning she was annoyed already. The same smile that makes you stomach lurch in discomfort. 

“I made a mistake reading the passage-” 

“A mistake?” She interrupts with a strict, sharp yell. “When have I ever allowed you to make mistakes?” Her voice has risen to more of a screech as her chair moves back from the force of her getting up so quickly. Left hand up and the right against the table, your eyes widen in fear of your mother’s strike. 

Your eyes close, thinking that it’ll be better if you don’t see it when she hits you. You spend a second to brace yourself for the blow, trying to repeat something to not cry. Squeezing your eyes and grinding your teeth, you can’t do anything but wait. 

“Let go of me.” It never came. You were never hit across the face like you expected. Opening your eyes, still scared you’ll be hit, you see your father’s hand holding your mother’s wrist. He’s frowning while your mother grits her teeth in rage. “I said let go!” She tugs away the same time he lets go. Glaring at each other for a moment, you use the tension as a cloak so you can escape to your room. 

Locking the door and wiping your eyes of what would be tears, you lay down. Really you didn’t misread any passages. You didn’t want to move out of class 4. All your friends were in that class, even if they didn’t view you as such. It was nice to sit across from them, eating your lunch while reading. The conversation wasn’t a need for you, it was the feeling of being included. 

Yamaguchi and Tsukishima always included you. At lunch they’d ask you how your day went. During class Yamaguchi would almost beg for a study date but you knew he didn’t need it. He was better than you in so many topics, including your favorite. At least he was better than you back then. 

Now you walk through the halls, head held high as when you slouched you’d be reminded of your mother’s cruel words and your father’s indifference. He was fine with whatever his wife said as long as she didn’t lay a hand on you. That’s what you concluded when you were in middle school when she first tried to hit you. Your father appeared out of thin air and disappeared as soon as her punches turned to curses. He didn’t want any proof of their poor parenting, that’s what made the most sense. 

When you pass by the gym you can’t help but fill with unnameable longing. Did you want to run in and find your only friends? Or was sprinting back to the main building what you felt like doing? Maybe you wanted to stay still, allowing yourself to be consumed by the silence of the campus. So many students were leaving now. Not many stayed this late for after school clubs. Or at least not many of them loitered around the gym. 

Once you spot Yamaguchi you act without your normal forced composure. Except before you can yell out his name you hear yours being called out. Yamaguchi smiles at you with a wave, a small gesture you’ve always appreciated from him. 

Biting back your excitement, you answer his question about student council. “Fine as long as I’m in charge.” You want to chuckle after the comment, let him know that you don’t think that they need you that much. You know they’d survive without you. Everyone could survive if you stepped down from this role. “What’s it like to be captain?” You ask him to keep the conversation going. Just in case you move your foot a bit closer so the door couldn’t shut. 

“It’s stressful but a lot of fun. I love my team.” Yamaguchi tells you with a smile. You want to see it again but nothing warranting that bliss inducing expression comes to mind fast enough. “Is being class president fun?” 

“What?” You’re shocked he asked you that. You aren’t sure how to reply. Never have you considered whether you enjoyed the role fun or not. It has just been something expected of you. From the moment you began first year you were told to become class president. The instant you became a third year you were told to snag the next largest title. It wasn’t ever about what you wanted, only about your mother’s wishes. 

“Not really. I enjoy the power of the position, not the people.” You think that’s what’s the best answer. It isn’t fun to be paraded as a crown jewel by your mother and then ignored if not sworn at if you make any sort of mistake. 

Yamaguchi’s next question causes the same panic to twirl about. “Is there anyone you do like on council?” It feels like you’re being put in a spotlight you’ll never properly shine in. Yamaguchi stares at you, waiting for your answer. 

Should you just tell him? That you don’t like anyone because you’re too focused on him? Say your true feelings? How you’re envious of how far he’s come through will power and support alone? Should you finally admit to liking him more than you should’ve allowed yourself? 

“I can’t think of anyone.” Retreating back into your cowardice, you see Yamaguchi’s eyes change in shock. He was worried that you’d reply this way, it was obvious in how his voice sounds when he says, 

“Oh.” 

That breaks your heart more than the fact your mother is using you as a pawn to look like a brillant parent. Hearing his disheartened reaction makes you want to run away but also stay here, accept that you’ll never have anything he does. Never have the support, the will power, or the sheer strength to end this cycle. 

But most of all, you’ll never get Yamaguchi’s support. The one thing you’ve wanted all along. He has both the things you’ve always wanted, love and support, and you know he’ll never share them with you. You know you’ll never have what he has.

[theblogchelor]

The Bachelorette Week Seven aka Reality on TV

Here’s What Happened Tuesday

A glimmer of real conversation about the most pressing issues in American society by two Black cast members of a historically all-white show… followed by an orgasm sounds competition because this is still The Bachelorette.

The First Group Date

The group date is fundamentally a qualifying round for the real one-on-one date. The men must write and perform songs for Tayshia’s attention, proving that they are both confident and literate.

Bennett feels confident in his abilities, citing that he had “spit some flow for some of his high school buddies over retreats” in the past, and we are left to wonder if “retreats” are what the rich call rehab.

None of the people who you may think would have an edge on musical ability – the Soul Cycle instructor, the boy band manager – have any advantage over the people who shouldn’t.

With an equal playing field of cringe to compete on, Ivan the aeronautical engineer wins the one-on-one.

Ivan’s One-On-One

Let us acknowledge up front: Tayshia and Ivan’s one-on-one breaks every rule in the Bachelorverse handbook.

Instead of a spa day in the mountains of Thailand or a helicopter ride over the rainforests of Costa Rice, Tayshia and Ivan have a is fourth grade slumber party in her hotel room. They destroy the furniture playing True American, partake in a pillow fight with sacks of loose feathers, and even attempt to play Twister without stretching first.

Instead of being served a five-course meal in a candle-lit cathedral, they order a four-gallon sundae and actually take bites. We have never before seen The Bachelorette eat food.

And, most significantly, they opt out of the standard, superficial date conversation typical of self-delusional fairyland of The Bachelorette and instead, we watch two Black Americans discuss George Floyd, police brutality, Black Lives Matter, and Covid, almost as if life actually exists outside the La Quinta.

The Second Group Date

The longer this season goes, the more of a stretch each date becomes. This time, Tayshia brings on Becca Kufrin and Sydney Lotuaco to lead the men through a series of challenges designed in some producer’s fever dreams.

Each pair must chug smoothies made of cow intestines, obtain Chris Harrison’s John Hancock on their Jake Butt, and broadcast orgasm noises into the resort’s speaker system. Why not.

Lastly, the men must eat hot peppers before practice-proposing to Tayshia. It seems just as ill-advised to make white men try to pronounce the word “habanero” as it is to encourage a challenge that induces coughing in the time of Covid.

Later, at Booze Date, Bennett reveals that his proposal was real and that they are now legally engaged, Demar tells Tayshia (a divorcée) that he’s terrified of divorce, and Zach gets in the hot tub and lets his hairy chest do all the talking. Zach gets the rose.

Conversational Booty Calls

Ben and Ed concoct simultaneous plans to go to Tayshia’s room and express their feelings, which is typically what men are after when they show up at a woman’s door at 2:30am.

Ed, the man with the neck and relative personality of a buffalo, is conveniently sent to Chris Harrison’s room instead for some whiskey, and we can only assume, fatherly mentorship.

Ben, the Army vet, says, “I haven’t done a secret mission in years” in what strikes me as a slightly hyperbolic war comparison to walking to a girl’s hotel room.

At her room, Ben apologizes for not claiming time at the previous date and Tayshia indicates that Ben should work harder to “show up.” Before he has the chance to, a room service delivery man literally shows up and Ben is upstaged yet again.

The Rose Ceremony

After some time to process, it becomes clear that Ben takes “showing up” to mean that he should appear at random as frequently as possible.

Noah takes it to mean “arrive and incite rage.” Dressed in all black and too few buttons done, Noah suggests to Tayshia that the men all assume the worst in her. Operating on false information, Tayshia reams the guys and cancels the remainder of the cocktail party.

The men confront Noah for his malevolence. Bennett accuses Noah of being a 14-year-old and then of needing to be breastfed. I am too concerned with the thought of Bennett breastfeeding a 14-year-old to unpack the intended meaning of that metaphor.

Roses are given to all but Kenny, Chasen, Jordan, and – unjustly – Dr. Joe. And by the scathing looks of the remaining men, this will be Noah’s last night with the current configuration of his face.

[docholligay]

Angst Prompt Day: Pharah / Mercy, "N I G H T M A R E"

2361 Words. I hope you enjoy! 

For most of her life, Pharah had avoided most mental scars related to her service. The human mind is a strange thing, and while seeing comrades killed in combat saddened her, and losing her arm had been painful in more ways than one, she had gone through the rocky periods of her life and come out quite unscarred. She held Mercy, when she cried, the high wind reminding her too much of that night, and she did Dva the favor of speaking softly when some too loud boom took her far away, and she was even known to grip Tracer’s shoulder tightly when a sharp cold got in between her ribs, and she trembled. 

But Pharah could not imagine what any of these things felt like on a personal level, because her mind had seemed to reject that precise method of injury. Tracer had grumbled that of course she didn’t, because Pharah was bloody fucking perfect all the time, and Pharah had shaken her head, and simply said there was no accounting for the way a mind reacted. But, in truth, she approached it with a mix of pride and fear, in ways she could not have potentially articulated to anyone but herself. There was, of course, a pride there, that she was strong, and she was resolute, and while any other normal person would have faced these consequences, Pharah was untouched. But there was the argument, of course, in the back of her mind. You are untouched because you are untouchable. You don’t feel things like other people do. You’re just like your mother. Cold. 

But Pharah was, above all things, a logical sort, and she could not change what did and didn’t affect her, and she did try very hard to show kindness and empathy, and so she put the worry to the side. She would be better than her mother, because she would try, and so she simply allowed that her brain was good at protecting her. 

Until it wasn’t. 

Moira broke Tracer, and it was a well known fact. That she had managed to claw her way back to a fully functioning human being was the sort of miracle that could only be explained by the very nature of Lena Oxton, a woman who would not be beat, who would only die when she was good and ready. Pharah loved that about her, that she was a tiny Jack Russell Terrier in human form. Seeing her bound back into the office a few months after being put in an induced coma, once again dirtying three different spoons because she couldn’t remember where she’d put the last one, yelling about how she was going to shoot Moira through the temple and see if she didn’t, gave Pharah a sense of stability in the world. 

But Moira broke Tracer, and everyone knew it. Pharah was very lucky not to be too seriously hurt. Tracer had been cobbled back together, but Pharah had only been deeply scratched. She was perfectly functional. 

And then she dreamed. 

During the day, it was very easy to distract herself from the sense of panic that rose up at the strangest times. A gate would clang shut at just the right tone, there would be the sound of a boot on a concrete floor, and all of a sudden she could feel the restraint at her wrist, the buzz through her body, the sound of Tracer screaming….but there was the warmth of a brick beneath her hand. There was the conversation fo the two old ladies behind her, complaining about Marks and Spencer’s, there was Tracer, putting an ice cube in her hand, and gently telling her, ‘you aren’t there, love.’ 

The night held none of this. The soft darkness was a canvas that her mind could work its will upon, and she traveled there, and she felt angry and betrayed by her own mind, how richly it painted the picture, how she could feel Moira’s breath against her cheek. She woke in a cold sweat, her chest tight, and often rushed herself down to the kitchen to panic quietly, to not bother Mercy, to click the spoon against the edge of her mug as she stirred and let it be the bell that chimed her home. 

Pharah was not generally unkind to herself, but she had a tendency to take all responsibility as hers and hers alone, and so it was her who would figure out the mess Moira had made of her, and wasn’t it self-pitying to even note the pain in her shoulder and the panic in her mind, against what had happened to Tracer? She didn’t complain, and so Pharah would put her head down and work this out. 

 What she had not counted on was the intense and deep love of her wife, and how little escaped her notice, even if she allowed things to pass without comment. It was foolish, Pharah would later chuckle, in the way that as her hair greyed, she laughed at herself more and more, to think she could hide her symptoms from an actual doctor, to not have known that Mercy was simply giving her time, but she could be very arrogant in that way from time to time. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to her, Mercy’s touch in the night, but it was all the same. 

It came one night, a handful of months after the incident itself. Pharah would often object to the absolute lack of creativity on the part of her mind, in the darkness. It never came up with anything novel, never played new parts or reminded her of different hurts, but came back to that same grey place. 

“You take so much for such a little thing.” 

Pharah heard that line, over and over, the villain of the picture entering stage right. She bucked against the restraints holding her, just as she always did, ignoring the searing, shooting, hammering pain running down through that shoulder that came to a stop. The movie progressed as always, with no response from the unfeeling leather around her. 

She wanted to yell, wanted to make some clever quip and science or Ireland or a football team or anything that would pull Moira away from her work. Tracer had come up with so many, her mind was so quick and agile, and Pharah could not remember if she had hated herself so much int he moment or if her ind had gently supplied her the hindsight, but she burned with rage that she was so logical and straightforward and had no real mind for sass. She had never considered it a military gift of Tracer’s, because she was a fool, and could not see things as expansively as her small teammate. 

“Oh fuck off, Moira, couldn’t even properly be doing this, ‘ad you not stolen Win’s work.”

Tracer’s voice was reedy, always, but filled with that biting contempt, too. Shut up, Pharah wanted to say, stop talking, stop making her want to hurt you. Don’t you dare say that next line--

“Win’s work, Ang’s...you’re not a scientist, just a bloody fucking thief, and you won’t learn nothing from doing this love, you’re a--” 

She screamed. She always screamed, when Moira hit the switch, when she dangled Tracer in between time and timelessness, seeing how long one could sustain in that space. Tracer only ever blinked for a second, maybe a second and a half if she was pushing her limits, but Moira just kept her there, letting it eat at her, but not releasing her into it either, playing tug of war with her body. 

Had Pharah yelled? Had she even tried? She felt like she must have, but she never did, here and so maybe she had been--

She sat up straight, gasping, cold sweat pouring down her back. There wasn’t any air in the room, she was still in that grey cold laboratory and it was running out of air, and she felt it begin to crush her. Then, there was a strong pull around her shoulders. A lamp clicked on. 

“Fareeha.” There was a voice in her ear, and it wasn’t quiet. “Fareeha, come here.” 

It was a command and it was her wife, and she felt the edge soften on the thought, because Mercy hadn’t been there, and if Mercy hadn;t been there than maybe. There was a pinch on the back of her hand, and the world started to come back into view, and for the first time she took a breath with air in it, and the tightness began to cease, slowly ebbing like the tide. 

“Fareeha look at me.” 

She turned around and there was Mercy, her face in opposition to all the command and ferocity of her demands that Pharah be released from the thought. 

“You are not there. Tell me what time it is.” 

Pharah turned her head and looked at the clock. “1:02.” 

“Yes, it is 1:02. Do you know what day it is? Tell me.” 

Pharah turned it over and over in her mind, the memory receding into the background as she imagined the calendar. “It has to be the 23rd, I think.” 

“What is four times six?” 

It was then that Pharah came back to herself enough, got enough air in her lungs, to realize what Mercy was doing, to love her so intensely that it cast out all other feelings and fears. She smiled. Moira faded in the background, having lost the battle in record time. How could a devil stand against this angel? 

“Twenty-four.” 

Mercy cupped her cheek gently. “Yes. How are you?”

She was still shaking, a bit, and the pour of sweat down her back was making her cold, but Pharah was back home, now, with her wife, and she was safe, and though her shoulder still hurt from what had been done to it, she was free now, and on the mend, and Tracer had lived, and she was mending. She remembered all these things, in a beautiful instant, like coming up from the deep water to see the sun. 

Pharah nodded, and then flushed. “I---I apologize.” 

It sounded silly even to her. She would never begrudge Mercy any of the love she had given her, when she had been struggling with fear, with the memories of what had happened to her, but she had been a child, and Mercy was very tender, and so it was much more natural that she would need help. Pharah was the anchor in a storm. She was iron. 

She looked at Mercy, who had taken her hand away. Her brows were furrowed and she was angry, maybe even hurt, as she assessed Pharah. 

“Why should you do this yourself? Why are you thinking you are stronger than all of us?” It came sharp, in that rare way Mercy used to call someone to account. “Do you not--do you not trust me with your feelings?”

Pharah had not taken it as the arrogance it was. She had not taken it as a mark of her attempts at invulnerability. She never would have taken it as an act of mistrust. She was helping, she had assured herself. She was not piling things on to people struggling with their own lives. She loved Mercy more than anything on this earth, and she was meant to help her, and she had already done so much with Pharah’s injury not one, but twice. She wanted to protect her, and not be the protected. 

She closed her eyes. It was frustrating, how she fell back into these traps. How she worked and worked at being more open, more soft, and yet, the moment there was trouble, she shut herself up again like an oyster, and she would be that alone, if she didn’t fight to keep herself open. And she had done it again, pledging that she would honor Mercy and then refusing to do her the love of trusting her with her most fragile things. 

But Mercy was good, and sensed her frustration, and touched her with great love, her voice soft and warm again. 

“Fareeha, I am here to be your partner, in life.” She ran her hand through Pharah’s scattered hair, “Your help. You have always helped with my burden.  Do not be thinking I want you to carry this yourself. Why, when we have four hands?” 

“Three.” Fareeha chuckled. ‘At night.” 

Mercy scooted close to her. “You are allowed to be hurt. You are allowed to need.” 

Pharah felt tears sting at her eyes, surprised by the rapier of tenderness that stuck between her ribs. Be strong, had been the ethos of her childhood. Be hard, be the rock that evil breaks itself upon. An Amari is an army in herself, she was told. Command requires firmness. 

“I love you, Angela.” Whatever she said, it was never enough, never the depth of what she truly felt, but as she laid her head on Mercy’s shoulder, she trusted that Mercy would know the all the meanings behind it. 

Mercy kissed her temple. “Let us help you. There is no shame in having to need it.” 

The Pharah that life had built argued inside her. No, it said, I am not the one who needs help. This is the weakness of a moment, and I will be fine in the morning. I am the helper. I am the one who brings order from chaos. I do not require the things that other people do. I am a wall. I am a rock. I am the sword that brings justice to this world. 

But there was another Pharah, too, one that she was growing, row by row, leaf by leaf. One that she was trying to nurture, and water, no matter the difficulty. And it was this Pharah who spoke now, two carefully chosen words.

“I’m struggling.”

[drakepad]

Classic Break-Up Lingo

I need to talk to you when you finish work tonight.

The text was read a first time, then a second, then a third. And then a fourth, just to make sure he was reading it correctly and that he hadn't missed any words. 'I need to talk to you.' Those six words caused Launchpad's chest to tighten and made his heart sink to the lowest pit of his stomach. They were words he was all too familiar with-- words he had heard before, words that he had said himself to other people. And it usually all led up to one thing: a break up.

He continued to stare at the text with wide eyes as his brow slowly furrowed. What could 'I need to talk to you' possibly mean besides breaking up? He had never heard it in many other contexts before-- besides from his boss, usually after he crashed into his fence or his water fountain or his incredibly expensive ice sculpture at that party that one time. 

"Launchpad!" Scrooge yelled from behind him, prodding his cane into the back of Launchpad's driver's seat, making Launchpad jolt and drop his phone to the limo's floor. "Eyes on the road, ya blasted buffoon!"

His hands gripped to the steering wheel, making a rough turn so he didn't crash into the side of a building.  A forced smile stretched across his face as he glanced at his boss in the rear-view mirror. "You got it, Mr McDee!" 

The car ride was agonizingly slow, and deafeningly silent aside from the turning of a newspaper from the backseat. Launchpad tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as they waited in rush hour traffic, accompanied by some awkward humming, attempting to take his mind off of the anxiety inducing text he had received from his boyfriend. 

Scrooge peaked above his newspaper with a quirked brow, with Launchpad's tapping of the steering wheel at an increasing speed and his incessant humming distracting him from the article about himself that he was reading. 

"I told you that you should start switching to decaf coffee, Launchpad." Scrooge said as his eyes fell back onto the article. Launchpad blinked and turned his head to look at his boss, and he let out a loud, forced laugh, making Scrooge jump in his seat.

"Ha! Yeah! You're right, Mr McDee! Tooootally forgot. I'll remember that from now on. Decaf coffee. That's what I need." He pointed a finger at his boss with a grin, before turning back to face the car in front of him with a furrowed brow, clenching the steering wheel so tightly it made his knuckles pop. The sight made Scrooge frown at his chauffeur, and he sighed, folding his newspaper and placing it in his lap. He flattened down the wrinkles of the pages carefully before looking back to Launchpad. It wasn't often that Scrooge allowed himself to become close enough to his colleagues that he would willingly ask them what was wrong when an issue occurred, but Launchpad wasn't just his chauffeur and pilot-- he was family, and Scrooge cared about him as such.

"It's not caffeine that has you so positively on edge, is it?" He questioned gently, entwining his fingers together and placing them in his lap. 

Launchpad's shoulders tensed at that, and then Scrooge heard a sigh. Launchpad took off his hat for a moment, ran a hand through his hair and then placed the hat back on his head. He slung an arm across the back of his seat so he could turn and see his boss better, and with his other hand, he scratched the back of his neck.

"No, sir. It's not." Launchpad finally replied, looking out of the passenger seat window. Silence fell onto both of them after that, and Scrooge quirked a brow.

"The only time I've seen you this worked up is the day after the boys and Webbigail had convinced you to take them to see one of those, eh, new fangled fancy horror movies with all those obscenely obnoxious special effects that appear to be all the rage these days." Scrooge stated. "So either you've watched one too many of those movies knowing that you can't rest for days afterward, oooor something else has put you entirely on edge." He lifted his cane to gently prod Launchpad's arm that was slung over the back of the seat, and Launchpad smiled a little sadly in return.

"Ya got me there, Mr McDee." Launchpad said softly, and then he sighed. He glanced at the traffic, and it appeared they had come to an absolute standstill, so instead of sitting in tense silence for the rest of the drive home, Launchpad figured he would take up the opportunity to confide in his boss about his worries.

Scrooge's eyes didn't leave Launchpad for a moment. Launchpad took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

"So… you know how me and Drake have been together for a while, right?" Launchpad began, still not meeting Scrooge's line of sight. "Well-- I got this, uh… text from him, saying he needs 'to talk to me' or something." He let out a laugh, as if trying to play off that this one text hadn't made him panic and rethink everything he could have done in the past few weeks to potentially have triggered Drake into wanting to break up with him. 

Scrooge frowned. That was it? That was what put Launchpad so on edge that he wasn't able to talk his ear off as usual? He couldn't help the somewhat frustrated sigh that escaped his mouth at what sounded like teenage sweetheart nonsense to him, but he quashed his bitter thoughts and continued to listen to Launchpad,  who, luckily, had not heard the sigh. His chauffeur/pilot needed a friend, and since there was no one else around, he didn't mind lending a shoulder to cry on.

"Go on, lad." Scrooge prompted.

Launchpad fiddled with his tie as he spoke. "It's just-- I've heard that before. I've said that before." He told his boss. "And it almost always means 'we had a good run!' or 'thanks for bringing out the best in me but I think we need to go our separate ways now' or 'I have to change my name and move countries because I'm a secret agent but I'll never forget you.'"

Scrooge pulled a face at that last part, choosing to believe that Launchpad was talking about an ex. Launchpad didn't notice.

Launchpad ran a hand over his face, and Scrooge could swear he could see the glint of a tear in the driver's eye.

“Now with Gosalyn in the mix, too…” Launchpad continued, forever thinking fondly of the little girl he and Drake had come to love and care for within the past few months. “He’s spending the day with her today, without me there. Which is fine, y’know? But… what if he’s… what if he’s realised he doesn’t want me there?”

Scrooge listened to Launchpad silently, ensuring Launchpad let out everything out before even attempting at any reassurance.

"What am I gonna do?" Launchpad said, barely above a whisper. He cleared his throat, and spoke a little more loudly. "This was never just some brief fling for me, y'know?"

Having only had one very on again/off again relationship his entire life, romantic advice was not something Scrooge McDuck particularly excelled in, but he didn't exactly enjoy seeing his usually cheerful and chipper driver being close to tears, so he decided to give it a shot.

"You love this lad?" Scrooge chirped up, leaning his head to the side slightly. Launchpad jolted his head up at that, and looked over at his boss, looking like a deer caught in headlights. He nodded slowly at first, but then his nod became more firm.

"More than I've ever loved anyone, Mr McDee." Launchpad admitted, almost sheepishly, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck again.

Scrooge nodded at him, with a small smile and a furrowed brow. 

"And he loves you?" He asked.

Launchpad fell silent, but smiled thinking about his boyfriend, looking out of the window again before looking back at his boss.

"I like to think so." He replied.

Scrooge thought back to all the times he had seen Drake around the mansion since the cancellation of the Darkwing Duck movie, more than a year ago now. All the times he had seen Launchpad wrapping his arms around Drake just outside of the garage, all the times he had spotted them holding hands. All the times he had seen the way Drake looked at Launchpad, how he barely stopped smiling around him, how hard he laughed-- how he appeared to understand Launchpad in a way that no one else could even begin to comprehend. And he knew how much Launchpad adored him, too. He was the one who spent morning and night with him, just the two of them in the limo together. He was the one who had to listen to how amazing Drake was daily and how Drake had said the funniest thing the day before. It was something truly special indeed, and it did his old heart good to see Launchpad so happy. Not to mention the way Launchpad beamed when he laid his eyes on both Gosalyn and Drake, as if this little girl he had come to know in such a short space of time had been in their lives for as long as she had been alive.

"I may not know Mr Mallard as well as you do," Scrooge began, shifting in his seat and clearing his throat. "But what I do know is that he cares about you. Deeply. Clearly, you both have a lot of love for each other. And yes, he may need to talk to you-- but that could be something as simple as, eh… not wanting you to eat burritos in bed anymore." 

Launchpad let out a genuine laugh at that, and reached up to wipe his eyes. Scrooge smiled at the sound.

"Yeah." Launchpad said, smiling at his boss warmly. "You're right. Thanks."

"Not at all, McQuack." Scrooge replied, returning the warm smile in kind. "Now, uh, if it's all the same with you, I'd quite like to get back home now." He stated, pointing at the large space between the limo and the car in front of them, and a loud beep that came from behind them made Launchpad jump.

"Yep! No problem, Mr McDee!" Launchpad exclaimed, flooring the gas pedal and jolting them both forward.

Each step towards his boyfriend’s apartment was another step in the direction of gut-wrenching anxiety. His talk with Scrooge certainly was helpful, but as he neared Drake’s residence, Launchpad couldn’t help his thoughts from escalating. He made a futile attempt to ignore them, but as he stood outside Drake’s door, his hand nearing towards the door handle, he couldn’t help but brace himself for the worst.

He took a moment to compose himself, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, before finally opening the door and walking into Drake’s apartment. Launchpad cleared his throat.

“Hey!” He exclaimed heartily, eyes still on the door as he closed it, only to be met with a harsh ‘shush!’. Launchpad’s brow furrowed and he looked over to Drake, who was carrying a sleeping Gosalyn in his arms. His heart melted at the sight, with Gosalyn being a more than welcomed recurring figure in both of their lives these days. Launchpad looked at him apologetically, mouthing ‘sorry’, and Drake sighed softly in response. The response made Launchpad’s heart sink even lower, and he unzipped his jacket it and tossed it onto the coat hanger along with his hat as Drake left the room to place Gosalyn carefully on his bed. 

He swiftly walked back into the room moments later, and Launchpad noticed how tired Drake looked. He knew Gosalyn had boundless bouts of energy (he’d spent his fair amount of time with the little girl they had saved a few months ago, too, and she had spirit unlike anyone he had ever seen), and with patrol on a night, it appeared to be taking its toll. Drake smiled at Launchpad, and made his way over to him, his arms wrapping around his middle in a gentle embrace. Launchpad enclosed his arms around Drake, squeezing him just that little bit tighter, and placed a kiss atop his boyfriend’s hair that lingered, almost as if he was savouring that moment--almost as if it’d be one of their last moments.

Drake let go at what felt like all too soon for Launchpad’s liking, and Launchpad watched as his boyfriend made his way into the kitchen of his apartment.

“I made you some dinner.” Drake said simply, a hint of raspiness to his voice that Launchpad recognised from the many mornings he had woken up next to Drake in the last year. “Oh, and we need to drop Gosalyn back off at the orphanage in an hour. She passed out after a rather intense game of hide and seek.” A look of fondness found its way to Drake’s face then, and Launchpad smiled warmly at the sight. “I heard her snoring behind the couch just before you came in.”

“And here I thought Gosalyn could never tire herself out.” Launchpad said with a gentle laugh, and Drake didn’t say much in return apart from a brief exhale of air, clearly meant to represent his own tired laughter.

Launchpad followed Drake to the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, almost as if he were trying to hide his anxiety. Drake seemed to be a little preoccupied, cleaning the counter and passing Launchpad the sandwich he had made for him without even so much as a second glance, and Launchpad was practically begging Drake in his mind to look at him. But instead he took the sandwich with thanks and placed it to the side, his usual bottomless pit of an appetite failing him. Had Drake forgotten that he wanted to talk to Launchpad? Was he scared to finally break up with him? Was he trying to drag it out as long as possible? Launchpad tried to ignore the thumping against his chest but he was almost sure it was audible. He picked up the sandwich as he leaned against the counter and fussed with it, eyes barely leaving Drake as he moved around the apartment with the same amount of noise as a gentle cat with not nearly half as much grace, tripping over various toys Gosalyn had left on the floor, but Launchpad watched Drake with barely blinking eyes, taking in this sight of domesticity he had come to love and cherish so dearly that he may never get a proper chance to see again.

The apartment was silent apart from the low hush of talking coming from the TV, which sounded much too loud for Launchpad. Drake was barely saying anything apart from mutterings to himself whenever he tripped over or bumped into something, and Launchpad had given up on eating his sandwich entirely, arms now folded over his chest again and fingers tapping anxiously on his own biceps. 

“Aren’t you hungry?” Drake asked, quirking an eyebrow as he looked at Launchpad from across the counter. Launchpad’s eyes widened, and his breathing escalated so that his chest was visibly heaving. Drake shot him an expression of worry, and opened his mouth to speak again before Launchpad interrupted him.

“If you’re gonna break up with me, can you do it quickly?! Just-- like a bandaid, y’know? Rip it off!” He yelled, flinching immediately after as if bracing himself for the impact and holding his head in his hands.

Drake stared at Launchpad in silence for a moment, before stifling a confused laugh and moving towards his boyfriend. He pried Launchpad’s hands away from his face, holding them in his own hands. “What are you talking about? I’m not breaking up with you!”

Launchpad averted his gaze for a moment, but then his eyes fixed on Drake’s. “What? You’re not?!”

“No!” Drake clarified, eyes not leaving his boyfriend’s face. “Why would you possibly think that?”

“You texted me saying you needed to talk to me! That’s classic break-up lingo!” Launchpad frowned in frustration. Drake looked at Launchpad, then rolled his eyes with a smile, shaking his head.

“Sweetheart, I am not breaking up with you. That’s not what I needed to talk to you about at all!” He stated, lifting a hand to caress Launchpad’s face gently. Launchpad melted into the touch as if he hadn’t felt it in years, and every worry he’d had throughout the day seemed to wash away with that one touch. “I’m sorry-- today has been pretty chaotic. I just needed a moment to tidy round before we talked.”

Launchpad’s brow furrowed. “....So...what did you need to talk to me about?” He asked, voice slightly softer now.

Drake smiled warmly, and held a little tighter to Launchpad’s hands. He guided him over to the couch and sat him down before sitting down beside him, and he took his hands into his own again. Launchpad looked down at their hands and ran his thumb over Drake’s knuckles before looking back at his boyfriend, who’s smile could put all the stars in the sky to shame.

“Well… there’s sort of… two things I need to talk to you about.” Drake started, and Launchpad nodded silently, holding his boyfriend’s hands with the usual firm but gentle touch he always had that forever made Drake feel safe and secure.

Drake cleared his throat. “The first thing is… I’m kinda tired of you going back and forth all the time.” He said, and Launchpad frowned, and opened his mouth to speak before Drake pressed his hand gently to his beak. “And before you jump to any conclusions, let me get to my point first.” He laughed softly, and then continued. “I’m tired of you going back and forth from here to the mansion all the time because… I want you to live here. I want you to stay here, with me. I want you to move in-- that is, if you want to.” He reached up to the front pocket of his shirt, and lifted out a key, placing it in Launchpad’s hand. “I… I got you a key cut already, too.”

Launchpad blinked, staring down at the key that had just been laid in his hand, then a smile beamed across his face. “Drake, I--”

“Hold on, hold on, I’m not finished.” Drake said, wiggling a finger with a grin, and Launchpad sat back slightly, although his smile remained.

“My bad. Go on.” He said through teary eyes.

“I want you to stay here with me. But I also… want Gosalyn to stay here with us, too.” He said softly, eyes looking over to the corridor where his bedroom was, where the duckling lay sound asleep atop his bed. Launchpad’s heart leapt into his throat at that, and his hands gripped a little tighter onto Drake’s.

“What are you--”

“I’m saying…” he took in a breath. “I’m saying… I want to adopt Gosalyn with you. I want her to be ours. No more taking her back to that orphanage, no more painful goodbyes at the end of days spent with her. I want her to be ours.” 

Launchpad felt a tightening in his throat, and he was almost at a loss for words. “You-- you want me to be Gosalyn’s dad? With you?”

Drake nodded slowly, then quickly, tears forming in his eyes that were threatening to unravel his calm exterior. “That is-- if you want to. If you don’t then I… I get that. It’s a lot to undertake. Being a parent, that is. I don’t want it to seem like I’m pressuring you, or anything, I-- I just want to give her a good life. A safe life. And I… I see the way you look at her when you’re spending time together. Like you would do anything to keep that beautiful smile on her face for as long as possible, no matter what it takes. That’s what I want for her. Parents who cherish every second they get to spend with her. Parents who would do anything to keep her safe. Parents… like us.” Drake said gently, giving Launchpad’s hands a squeeze. Launchpad had been frozen up until that point, and once he laid the key to the apartment that he had just been given to the side, he immediately pulled his boyfriend into a tight embrace, gaining a yelp of surprise from Drake as he was enveloped into his boyfriend’s arms but it was an all too welcomed gesture. 

“And to think I thought you were going to break up with me all day.” Launchpad said, his voice cracking as he held back his own tears, and Drake nuzzled his face into his boyfriend’s shoulder, his hands grabbing at his shirt as if his life depended on it.

He pulled away, cupping Launchpad’s face in his hands as he did so. “Never. I love you so much.” Drake told him, thumbs gently running over Launchpad’s cheeks in reassuring motions. Hands rested upon Drake’s waist, gripping almost a little too tightly in an effort to be as close to Drake as possible in that moment. 

Launchpad finally loosened his grip on his boyfriend to wipe his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I love you, too. More than anything-- or anyone. I mean, apart from…” He gave a nod to the direction of the bedroom, and he felt himself almost overcome with emotion. “God. I’m going to be a dad.”

Drake snorted a laugh, then sniffed afterwards, tears rolling down his face with him powerless to stop them from doing so now. “You are. We’re going to be dads. If it all goes according to plan. God, I hope…” he said barely above a whisper, and Launchpad gave his hands another squeeze.

“It will.” Launchpad clarified with a firm nod, and Drake looked at him, and nodded back, smiling. “When we drop her off tonight, we’ll tell them we want her to be ours, and we’ll go from there. Before you know it, we’ll be bringing her home without ever having to take her back.”

Drake wiped his own eyes, and nodded again. He leaned in and pressed his beak against Launchpad’s, arms wrapping around Launchpad’s shoulders, and Launchpad pulled him closer with that same familiarly firm grip. They parted, and nuzzled their beaks together, and Drake pressed a few more smaller kisses on Launchpad’s mouth before pulling away to look at him.

“You really thought I was going to break up with you?” Drake asked, raising an eyebrow as his hands lifted to play with the hair on the nape of Launchpad’s hair. Launchpad looked at him, almost embarrassed, and nodded.

“I may or may not have totally chewed Mr McDee’s ear off about it on the drive home.” Launchpad confessed, letting out a small chuckle.

Drake shook his head with a smile. “Oh, honey. No. Although if you don’t stop eating burritos in bed once you move in, I may have to sentence you to the couch for a few nights.”

Launchpad looked to the side, frowning. “How did Mr McDee know…?”

Drake snorted, then looked at Launchpad fondly. “I love you.”

His heart swelled at that, and he pulled his boyfriend closer once more. “I love you.”

They were then interrupted by the presence of the young duckling that accompanied them in their now shared apartment, yawning and walking into the living room slowly as she rubbed her eyes. Gosalyn’s curly hair was sticking up on end as she made her way over to where Drake and Launchpad were sitting. She asked what was going on, and they welcomed her onto the couch with opened arms, ready to tell her about the proposition they had just decided on together. Their arms enclosed around her shoulders simultaneously, and they both relished in the comforting thought that one day, someday soon, when they were all sat on the couch together on a quiet night like this, they would never have to take her back to the orphanage again.

[disresemble-the-place]

Come eat some chemicals with me

His gloved hands trembled, not with fear but excitement. Even though he knew deep down his plan would work it was so surreal to see it actually succeed. If he was alone he surely be dancing right now, but he wasn’t not yet. The people were still mourning their loss of Toon Town. He started walking and let his thoughts roam free. 

Debates were everywhere, did they really feel, were they like us or were they just pictures? Not that it mattered now, soon the only thing left of Toon Town was the mention of it in the history books. People would see and realise that this was better for them. They didn’t need those toons to entertain them. They could do that themselves. Human actors were just as capable at entertaining as Toons. Not to mention how nice and quiet is was now. No more headaches induced by constant laughter and sound effects. No more sun watching him at all times. Just peace and quiet like humans intended life to be. 

Soon they would be starting the new road system and all would fall into place. All of it would have been worth it. The following around of that asinine rabbit and his wife, the annoying detective would had now joined his brother in the afterlife and even pretending to be human. Oh how unbearable that was.. and no one who shared his faith. The fake eyes made him almost blind and walking around was harder than he thought it would be. He praised himself into taking up an older man as a disguise so people would just chalk it up as him being old and age getting to him. 

There was, however, one thing that still needed to be done before he could safely celebrate. Yes, the final citizens of toon town he had let live. They did their job, alright. In fact they worked better than the Judge had ever hoped. Turns out picking Toons who hold an extreme grudge at their own kind was a brilliant idea. All he had to do was promise them a place to live when this all was over. They had blinded accepted, either because they were dumber than they looked or they were so blinded by rage that any solution was a good one. He had, however, no desire to keep them around. Yes they went above and beyond to help him but they were toons still. So he let them celebrate, get them nice and drunk and when they least expect it they too, would meet their demise. It was just the five of them, how hard could it be. 

He made his way to the tiny bar, checking the clock on the wall of a building. If everything went according to plan, and he was quite confident it did, they would be close to black out drunk by now. He took a deep breath before swinging the door open. “Boys!”

He let his eyes glide across the room and just as expected there they were, in various degrees of drunk. The tall grey one was sitting alone in a corner, his hat covering his eyes and he appeared to be sleeping. The handsy green one’s hair was messy and he tried to put a move on their leader, who himself had taken off his hat and let the other scratch his chin. The one in the straight jacket looked unhinged, though that was nothing new. Except now his spiky hair was decorated with tiny paper umbrellas and the chubby one was making a pile of peanut shells. 

They barely acknowledged the judge which suited him just fine, the drunker, the better, the easier. He stepped further inside and took a seat next to them. There was no bartender, who he guessed they either scared off or just send home. Probably the former. Those teeth and claws were nothing to scoff at, if only they were smart enough to use it. He reached over the bar and grabbed a glass and a drink, not really caring what he picked as he wasn’t planning on actually drinking it, 

“You know what judge..” The pink one said, slurred. “We actually didn’t believe you had it in ya.” Even though he was sitting he wobbled a bit as he pretended to take his hat off as a sign of a job well done. “Now, I’m sure you already gave it some thought on where you want us to go but we have suggestions ourselves.” 

“I never saw you guys as globetrotters..” He said with a convincing smile, the bottle of dip he planned to spike their drinks with later pressing against his side. 

“No one gave us the opportunity before.. but now the world’s our clam!” The other said while smiling back. 

An uncomfortable silence fell, one waiting for a response and the other not quite knowing what to say. Luckily the small unhinged one slammed a piece of paper on the bar with something that no one could decipher on it. He almost got on the Judge’s lap to show where he wanted to go, mumbling word that didn’t even resemble countries of places but he played along. 

There was something quite endearing about his troupe of former lackeys, perhaps doing this so soon was a foolish idea. Maybe they should enjoy their victory a little, again it was just the five of them. Offing them off later wouldn’t be hard and he shouldn’t over play his hand. 

“Why don’t you give me your requests in writing and I make sure it will be done. It’s too late now to do anything and you’re all riding quite a buzz I don’t want to ruin.” He left his untouched drink on the bar as he stood up and walked back to the door which, to his surprise didn’t open. 

He gave it another shake, perhaps he wasn’t doing it right when he heard a snicker behind him. “Leaving so soon?” 

“Why don’t you party with us?” 

His mind started racing, he was sure he didn’t see any of them leave their seats. Even if they were fast he would’ve noticed.

He did a quick headcount. “One, two, three, four, five, six..” See all was well- wait.. did he count six? 

The one who was his former second in command put his hat back on, there was no trace of him ever being drunk. And now that he looked around he could see the others looked at him with the utmost clarity. 

A strange feeling overtook him, he hadn’t felt it in ages because he was usually the instigator of it; fear. In the dim light their teeth looked even sharper and as far as they knew, he was human and as a result, very fragile. Which may work in his advantage.. He calmed himself down a little and spoke. 

“I see you brought a friend.” He silently cursed himself, why didn’t he bother to learn their names, or even their nicknames. Why weren’t they drunk.. were they simply acting to be to fool him? Why-.

He wasn’t allowed to finish that thought. 

“Family is everything. We’ve been exiled and shunned for so long.. it’s all we have. Did you really think we were just going to let them die? Sure the other toons, they can bite it, but family? No that’s sacred.” 

More and more eyes popped up around him, he didn’t bother counting. He trembled again this time not out of excitement like at the start of the evening. 

“What is that you want then? Money? Fame? Fortune. You know I can get you all of it.” 

“Oh, we have no need for that. We’ve done without it so far, why start having it now?” The pink one came closer, he was short but intimidating. Doom reached for the bottle but found that it wasn’t there.

“Looking for this?” A deep, raspy and wheezing voice came from behind him. “You should keep your eye on it, pickpockets are everywhere.” A high pitched giggle from the culprit, whose spiralling eyes stared into his soul. 

The judge swallowed. “That’s just- for if I see anyone who escaped.” 

“Mentiras.. You don’t think we are that stupid are you?” 

“Huh?”

“Not you- can we just.. stop with the nicknames already? They’re degrading.” 

“You want us dead, Doom, after all that we did to you.. You want us dead. You wound us.” His voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“Besides, there is only truly one thing we want.. and you are in luck because you can give it to us.” 

A sigh of relief, an opening, a chance to live. “Name it, anything.” 

He felt various sets of hands grabbing his limbs. 

“We want all toons gone. Except us.” 

“I already did that..” 

“No. Not yet. But you will soon.”

The grips tightened and he could only watch their leader put on the large rubber gloves he made them carry around. “C’mon.. you’re my second in command..” He pleaded but it was to no avail. They forced his mouth open and poured the green liquid down his throat before letting him go. The burning was unreal.. He didn’t expect to feel pain, especially not to this degree. He screamed, he knew he screamed but it was drowned out by laughter. 

_____

[[Strength in numbers, my friends. A little story for you all, what if Doom got what he wanted. What if he truly wanted everyone gone- but they were one step ahead of him.

I know that in the movie, Toons can’t get drunk on human alcohol but in the book they can get drunk so I based it on that. Besides they were never drunk to begin with.] 

[kiruuuuu]

Kapkan/Glaz oneshot in which Glaz implicitly makes a bet with Kapkan. (Rating T, fluff/humour, ~2k words) - You might’ve come across this snippet on my AO3 here, under 1.5! I’ve never posted it on tumblr before but as I’ve written a second part, I figured it’s easier to have both in the same place :) Enjoy!!

.

A whip crack resounding in the thick summer air, slicing through heavy humidity and echoing off in the distance. “You son of a wet noodle”, Glaz breathes softly and furrows his brows, squinting disapprovingly through the scope to find his target undisturbed, gently blowing in the wind.

“You curse like a girl”, Kapkan tells him without looking up from his small sculpture. It’s not entirely clear what it’s supposed to be, but if Glaz had to guess, he’d have said a mixture of Sledge and a tragically disabled aardvark. Kapkan has recently picked up the hobby of carving and is still in the honeymoon phase, as the rest of Spetsnaz likes to call it, meaning he genuinely believes it’s going to work out and refuses to accept any criticism. It usually lasts two weeks, then the five stages of grief begin until the Russian finds a new hobby and delves into it head first.

“Didn’t you hear Mira when she dropped Montagne’s shield on her foot?”, comes a laconic remark from the side, “Cursing like a girl is a compliment.” Tachanka lies poured onto a sun lounger, ironically so since he wishes nothing more than to escape the heat. The ice in his glass of water has long melted and normally he wouldn’t grace the younger operators with his presence at these temperatures, were it not for the remnants of the stink bomb that Smoke accidentally detonated in the base. Sun is easier to stomach than a stench so bad it made even Smoke himself gag.

“This shot is impossible.” Glaz sits up annoyed and searches for the scarf without the help of any magnification, doesn’t find it – unsurprisingly. Kapkan has tied it somewhere onto a tree and Glaz uses it as practise, though it seems Kapkan overestimated his abilities when he chose their spot earlier. They usually spend the afternoons together, only Fuze absent today.

“Nothing is impossible”, Kapkan objects and almost hacks off his middle finger. Watching him usually gives Glaz mini heart attacks. “You’re just not trying enough.”

His patience is waning. He’s been attempting the shot for almost an hour now, adjusting for wind and distance and whatnot, and is almost at the point where he declares defeat. He’s sweaty and hungry and the steady bitching from the old man and the irregular sounds of Kapkan chipping away at his abomination are getting to him. “Oh yeah?”, he snaps back without meaning to. “Why don’t you try it then?”

Astonishingly, Kapkan agrees. He shouldn’t, he’s always been terrible at sniping and it’ll be a wonder if he doesn’t take out Tachanka’s lukewarm water instead. “What’s the closest thing you’ve hit?”, he asks and drops his carving into the impressive pile of not-quite sawdust at his feet from which he might never rescue it again. Maybe that’s actually the plan.

“Trunk of the tree it’s tied to”, Glaz replies and doesn’t care that he’s pouting now. He dislikes being bested, often refuses to even allow for the chance – he knows Kapkan won’t make it, yet the mere thought of it is distasteful. He stands up and stretches his stiff legs, can’t suppress a yawn and gestures for his teammate to take his place behind his rifle.

“I don’t know why you’re even trying”, Tachanka mumbles what everyone’s thinking from behind his oversized sunglasses. He’s yet to move a muscle since he’s taken up post on the sunbed.

“Don’t underestimate me.” Kapkan wiggles his eyebrows at Glaz (who merely returns his gaze unamused) and lies down on the cool dirt floor. He’s wearing a simple t-shirt that flatters his toned arms and rides up a little while he’s making himself comfortable, exposing a pale strip of skin unmarred by the merciless sun. Glaz is not staring. He’s not.

“You’re not going to make it”, he points out and crosses his arms. No answer from Kapkan who’s lining up the shot. “If you make it, I will literally suck your dick.”

It’s a phrase that’s basically lost all meaning during the few weeks they’ve used it, Fuze overheard it from Mute maybe or Rook and turned it into the ultimate dare, the others adapting and jokingly repeating it every time one of them attempts anything vaguely impossible. So far, no one has managed. Glaz steals some of Tachanka’s water while Kapkan wastes the first bullet. It’s not going to happen now and in a few weeks they’ll start using a different inside joke and –

“You’d better come see this”, says Kapkan and there’s something in his voice that makes Glaz’ stomach drop abruptly. He almost spits out the water and wastes no time in joining his fellow countryman on the ground, pushing him out of the way and checking the scope. He realises too late that it’s going to be a prank that he fell for again, as he usually does, and that Kapkan will begin laughing at him any moment now. Only… no one is laughing.

There’s a hole in the scarf.

Glaz blinks, not comprehending what his eyes are telling him. He’s acutely aware of the uncomfortably warm body next to him and his own breathing and the innocent words he’s uttered without thinking. There’s no chance he’ll ever live this down. “You’re fucking kidding me”, he whispers because he can’t help himself.

“There you go, use grown-up swears.” Kapkan sounds highly amused. “You know what this means, right?”

“No way in hell did he make the shot”, Tachanka slurs from his deathbed.

“He fucking made the fucking shot.” Glaz is furious. Mostly at himself for not accomplishing what Kapkan managed first try.

“Ooh, sounds like someone needs to walk off the rage”, Kapkan continues teasing him while wearing a shit eating grin that does nothing to alleviate Glaz’ frustration. “We can go to the shed to get some water, I’m dying of thirst. Want us to refill your glass, ‘Chanka? It’s probably at a nice kiddie pool temperature at this point.”

“With less piss”, is Tachanka’s only reply and so Kapkan takes it, pours the water into the nearest bush and repeats meaningfully: “ ‘Less.’ ”

They walk back to ‘the shed’, a tiny hut in the woods not far from the base containing various tools, chairs and a sink with running water that’s pleasantly cool even in this season. “I can’t believe you made it”, Glaz grumbles on the way, shaking his head. “How did you even – you couldn’t have –”

“But I did, and isn’t that a shame.” Kapkan holds the door open for him and if nothing else has made Glaz suspicious until now, this gesture undoubtedly should. His alarm bells should be going off full force. Yet all he does is ponder the impossibility of Kapkan’s feat, whether he’s made any glaring mistakes himself, whether he should take apart his sniper rifle to find the reason. “Do you want to get it over with right away?”

His thoughts grind to a halt. He stops. Turns towards Kapkan and finds the door to the tiny building shut and the Russian frightfully close to him. “What -” His voice breaks, he averts his gaze, tries again. “What are you talking about?”

“You said it yourself. You can’t back off now. A deal’s a deal.” Kapkan sounds reasonable, which is the worst thing about it, he’s reassuring him and makes the outrageous demand seem sensible.

“You’re not serious.” The I hope is implied though Glaz can’t bring himself to voicing it. His thighs are growing weaker by the second. This is another joke. It has to be.

“I’m deadly serious”, says Kapkan and he does seem sincere – though he’s an excellent liar when he wants to be. “You’re not one to shun a challenge, are you?”

He pictures it. For one glorious second, he toys with the idea of just yanking down Kapkan’s pants right here and is overcome with a heat wave not only induced by the stuffy air in the shed. “I didn’t mean it”, he insists, “you’re pulling my leg, you know I didn’t mean it, don’t be so…”

“If you really want to do it, you’d better get on your knees.” Kapkan is entirely unbothered by his words, smirking and placing a hand on Glaz’ shoulder, but what really constitutes the last straw is that his thumb brushes over Glaz’ collarbone in a gesture that is entirely too familiar and, most of all, suggestive. He opens his mouth to protest and doesn’t expect the push and his legs buckle and suddenly he’s kneeling on the dusty floorboards, his eyes level with Kapkan’s belt.

Okay. Sure. He can salvage this. His dignity has only suffered a little. Kapkan doesn’t know Glaz is half-hard right now and in this position he’s not going to find out either. Convenient, really. “I’m not going to suck you off.” He enunciates each word clearly in case Kapkan decides to be hard of hearing all of a sudden. “You’re being ridiculous. Where is this even coming from?”

“Look, do you want me to tell everyone that you never really did Sledge’s dare? Huh? I’ve kept quiet as a favour but I could -”

This is when Glaz understands. Kapkan facetiously blackmails people all the time, threatens to enlighten the world about Fuze’s showering habits if he doesn’t stop stealing his food, tells Smoke he’s going to expose his contraband hiding spots whenever he refuses to cease his current shenanigans (which is always), it happens a lot. What most people don’t know: Kapkan is usually not joking. Not really.

Just like he isn’t now.

Their gazes are locked, Kapkan’s considerably less confident than a few seconds ago, he must’ve realised his blunder, must know he’s betrayed himself. He’s looking down at Glaz like a trapped animal, ready to lash out or flee and chooses the second option, switches to the first when Glaz instinctively reaches out and grabs his trouser leg, keeps him in place. They scuffle briefly and hardly with any force behind it and somehow Kapkan loses balance and stumbles and one of his hands lands on the back of Glaz’ head and the next thing he knows is that his face is pressed into Kapkan’s crotch.

All he can think is: Oh.

Because there’s something quite obvious denting his cheek.

The door flies open. “You almost hit me holy shit what are you two doing?!” That voice unmistakably belongs to Fuze who’s standing in the doorway in casual clothing plus a handgun by his side and looking like he just ran a marathon, of which Glaz takes note after Kapkan panics and shoves him away so he’s again able to see something other than the seam of Kapkan’s trousers. To his knowledge, Fuze is supposed to be somewhere completely different while dressed completely different.

You almost hit me. Fuze has a gun for no apparently reason. Together with the guilty and fantastically sheepish look on Kapkan’s face, it’s easy to connect the dots, so Glaz starts laughing. Fuze looks utterly lost by now. “You didn’t fucking make the shot”, Glaz wheezes and would double over if he was standing. He’s dying to know how Kapkan managed to convince Fuze for his participation. It’s an impressively elaborate plan just to coerce him into doing something he would’ve done voluntarily and might’ve done regardless hadn’t Kapkan wounded Glaz’ brittle pride with the claim of sniping better than him.

He can hardly stop giggling, especially when faced with Kapkan’s stony face and the mumbled “let’s never talk about this again, alright?” and Fuze’s dumb ignorant expression. They gather a few chairs, fill up water bottles and Tachanka’s glass and refuse to answer any of Fuze’s increasingly irritated questions.

When they’re about done, Glaz turns to Kapkan and tells him with a bright smile: “You could’ve just asked, you know?” Leaving him to figure out what to do with that information, he steps out of the hut into the sweltering sunshine.

[mdzs-english]

Chapter 3: Wild and Free 2 (Making a Scene)

Wei Wuxian wanted to wash up and see his host’s face, but there was no water in the room, neither for drinking nor for bathing. The only basin-shaped object, he surmised, was used as a toilet, and thus completely unsuitable. He pushed on the door, but it was bolted from the outside, presumably to prevent him from running amok.

Wei Wuxian had finally been reborn, and he wasn’t able to enjoy it one bit!

He might as well sit a while, adapt to his host. He wound up meditating the whole day. When he opened his eyes, sunlight was leaking into the room through the cracks in the door and shutters. Though he could stand up and walk around, he was still dizzy, his condition not much improved. It was strange. “Mo Xuanyu’s spiritual energy is negligible. Why can’t I control his body? What’s causing this?”

Then his stomach rumbled, and he realized it had nothing to do with spiritual energy. This body wasn’t used to fasting. It was hunger, nothing more. If he didn’t find food soon, he might be the first evil spirit to be brought back to life, only to starve to death immediately.

Wei Wuxian had taken a deep breath and raised his foot, prepared to kick the door down, when suddenly the sound of footsteps approached. Someone kicked at the door, impatiently yelling, “Mealtime!”

That didn’t mean the door was going to open. Wei Wuxian looked down and saw that the main door had a smaller door that opened below it. A small bowl had been placed before it.

“Quickly!” the servant outside called. “Quit dawdling, eat up and give the bowl back.”

The door was smaller than a dog flap, large enough for a bowl but too small for a person to pass through. There were two dishes and one serving of strange-looking rice. Wei Wuxian prodded at it with the chopsticks and thought sadly:

When the Yiling Patriarch returned, he was kicked down, chewed out, and given cold leftovers for his first meal. What carnage should result? Not even the chickens and the dogs left alive? The whole family extinguished? Tell anyone who would believe it. He was a tiger in Pingyang nipped at by dogs, a dragon in the shallow waters of Longyou harassed by shrimp. A plucked phoenix is less than a chicken.

This time, when the servants outside the door called, they sounded like they were grinning. “A’ding! Get over here!”

A crisp female voice replied from far away, “A’tong, are you giving the guy in there some food?”

“What else would I be doing in this wretched courtyard?” A’tong spit back.

A’ding’s voice appeared closer, like she was right in front of the door. “You only feed him once a day. When you’re goofing off no one calls you out, yet you say it’s wretched? Look at me. There’s too much to do for me to go out and have fun. ”

“I don’t just have to feed him,” A’tong complained. “Besides, would you dare go out these days? With this many walking dead, what family doesn’t have their doors sealed up tight.”

Wei Wuxian crouched by the door, tossing aside his two different-length chopsticks, and listened as he ate.

It seemed Mo Manor had had little peace of late. The walking dead, as their name implied, were corpses that walked, a relatively minor and common type of corpse transformation. They were generally dead-eyed, slow-moving, and of limited destructive power, but they alarmed the common people, and their stench alone was enough to induce vomiting.

However, to Wei Wuxian, they were the easiest to control, most obedient puppets. He felt a sense of fond familiarity at hearing them discussed.

“If you want to go out, bring me. I’ll protect you,” A’tong flirted.

“You’ll protect me? You talk a big game. You really think you can hold those things off?”

“If I can’t hold them off, no one can,” A’tong retorted.

A’ding laughed. “How do you know? I’m telling you, cultivators have already arrived at Mo Manor. I heard they’re from an illustrious clan! Mo-furen is greeting them in the hall, and everyone crowded in for the occasion. Didn’t you hear the racket? I don’t have time for you, they’ll probably send me on an errand any second.”

Wei Wuxian listened raptly. To the east, a faint clamor of voices could indeed be heard. He thought for a moment, then rose. He kicked the door and the bolt gave with a loud crack.

The two servants, who had been giggling and making eyes at one another, were startled into a screech when the doors flung open to either side of them. Wei Wuxian tossed his dishes aside and made a break for it, eyes burning in the sudden glare of the sunlight. His skin prickled, and he shaded his eyes with his hand, closing his eyes briefly.

A’tong’s screech was sharper than A’ding’s. Composing himself, he saw the headcase everyone bullied and regained his courage. Trying to save face, he jumped over and shouted, “Get back in there! What are you doing out here?” waving like Wei Wuxian was a misbehaving dog.

A beggar or a housefly wouldn’t have been treated worse. Mo Xuanyu had never resisted, giving them free rein. Wei Wuxian kicked A’tong lightly and laughed, “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

Wei Wuxian followed the noise east to a courtyard full of people, with more crammed into the hall. As soon as he set foot in the courtyard, a woman’s voice called out over the din, “One of our clan’s youths was a cultivator...”

That must be Mo-furen, scrambling to build a bridge between herself and the cultivation world. Without waiting for her to finish, Wei Wuxian forced his way through the crowd into the hall, waving enthusiastically and shouting, “I’m coming, I’m coming! Don’t worry, I made it.”

In the hall sat a middle-aged woman, well put-together, in fine clothes: Mo-furen. Her husband was seated before her. Facing them sat a number of white-clad youths with swords strapped across their backs. At the emergence of a disheveled weirdo from the crowd, the hall fell silent. Wei Wuxian pretended not to notice the frozen scene around him and continued, unabashed: “You called? The cultivator you mentioned, that could only be me.”

The powder was too thick, and it cracked when he smiled, fluttering to the ground. One of the youths in white snorted, stifling a laugh. The one next to him, who seemed to be in charge, glared disapprovingly, and he schooled his face back into a neutral expression.

Wei Wuxian surveyed the scene, startled. He thought the visitors had been exaggerated by naive servants, but they really were young cultivators from an “illustrious clan.”

Magic seemed to float from those graceful robes and flowing belts. One only had to glance at that uniform to recognize the Lan clan of Gusu. And these disciples were blood relatives of the Lan family—thin white ribbons circled their foreheads, decorated with wisps of cloud.

The Lan clan’s motto was “Stand Upright.” The ribbons represented self-restraint, and the cloud was the symbol of the Lan family itself. When visiting disciples from other families wore the ribbon, the cloud was not present. Seeing Lans made Wei Wuxian’s teeth ache. In a past life, he had always joked that the uniform looked like funeral garb. He would recognize it anywhere.

Mo-furen hadn’t seen her nephew in some time, and it took a while for her to recover from the shock. Upon recognizing the painted man, her rage mounted. Still in control of herself, she murmured to her husband, “Whoever let him out, put him back again.”

Her husband smiled apologetically, but when the unlucky bastard got up to grab him, Wei Wuxian threw himself down, hugging the floor. He couldn’t be dragged away, and calling in more servants didn’t help, other than to prevent other people from seeing him kick. Watching the look on Mo-furen’s face turn ugly, her husband snapped, “You lunatic! If you don’t get out of here, you wait and see what I’ll do to you.”

Although everyone in Mo Manor knew one of the Mos was a dangerous madman, Mo Xuanyu had been secluded in his dingy room for years, not daring to show his face. When people saw his ghoulish makeup and behavior, whispers sprung up. They were afraid only of missing a good show.

“If you want me to go back,” Wei Wuxian said, extending a finger towards Mo Ziyuan, “tell him to return my stuff he stole.”

Mo Ziyuan, shocked that this lunatic had the nerve first to scold him and then to show up here, turned blotchy and yelled, “Bullshit! When did I steal from you? I don’t need your stuff.”

“Right, right,” Wei Wuxian said. “You didn’t steal from me, you robbed me.”

Mo-furen could see clearly now. Mo Xuanyu wasn’t crazy: he had planned this. He was trying to ruin them. Vitriolically, she said, “You came here to cause trouble, didn’t you?”

“He stole from me, and I came to get my stuff back,” Wei Wuxian said blankly. “You call that causing trouble?”

Mo-furen was silent. Mo Ziyuan was beginning to get nervous, and he wound up to deliver a kick. One of the white-clad disciples twitched a finger, and Mo Ziyuan wobbled, kicking the air, and ended up knocking himself over. Wei Wuxian rolled over as if he really had been kicked, tearing open his lapels to reveal the mark Mo Ziyuan’s shoe had left the day before.

The denizens of Mo Manor, who had been watching eagerly, became excited: it would have been impossible for Mo Xuanyu to leave the footprint himself. The Mo family must be cruel even to their own blood. Mo Xuanyu didn’t return to Mo Manor insane—he was most likely driven to madness. Any excitement was okay with the assembled crowd, and this was even more entertaining than the arrival of the cultivators!

With this many witnesses, Mo-furen could neither strike him nor leave. She was forced to hold her nose and compromise. Faintly, she said, “Theft? Robbery? This accusation is difficult to process—between friends, that’s just borrowing. A’yuan is your little brother, so what if he borrows your things? How can a big brother be so stingy? Acting like a child over such a small matter is foolish. It’s not like he won’t return them.”

Several of the white-clad youths looked at each other in dismay, and one who had just taken a sip of tea nearly choked. Children raised in the Lan clan of Gusu were pure as the fresh-driven snow, and had probably never seen such a farce, or heard such wisdom. This was a learning experience for them. Wei Wuxian, cackling on the inside, held out a hand and asked, “Then you’ll give it back?”

Mo Ziyuan, of course, did not. What was gone was gone, and what was destroyed was destroyed. Even if he could return it, he wouldn’t. Looking pale, he yelled, “A’niang!” His glare said, Are you going to let him humiliate me like this? 

Mo-furen glared back, silently ordering him not to cause an even uglier scene. Wei Wuxian interjected, “While we’re at it, not only should he not steal from me, he especially shouldn’t do it in the middle of the night. Everyone knows I like men. Even if he doesn’t have the sense to be ashamed, I know how to stay under the radar.”

Mo-furen took a shocked breath and shouted, “How dare you say this in front of the villagers and your elders? You really are shameless! A’yuan is your cousin!”

Wei Wuxian was an expert at bad behavior. Long ago, he had minded his manners here and there so that no one could accuse him of lacking good breeding. Now he was a madman, with no reputation to lose. He was expected to make a scene, so he could do what he pleased. He ducked his chin and said righteously, “He knows full well he’s my cousin, and yet he still can’t avoid suspicion! Who is shameless here? You won’t admit it, but don’t impugn my innocence! I’m still searching for a good man.”

Mo Ziyuan shouted and swung a chair. Wei Wuxian had finally gotten him to explode. In one motion, he sat up and dodged, and the chair smashed against the ground. The throngs of people milling about the East Hall had originally delighted in seeing the Mo clan lose face big time, but scattered as soon as the chair broke apart, afraid they’d be next if they weren’t careful. Wei Wuxian dodged behind the Lan disciples, who were sitting agape, and said reproachfully, “Did you see that? Did you see? He steals things and hits people, utterly heartless!”

Mo Ziyuan came after him, flailing, but his path was blocked by the head disciple. “This, uh, gongzi has something to say.”

Mo-furen saw that the disciples intended to protect this lunatic. Holding back fear, she forced out a smile. “This is my sister’s boy. Here, it’s complicated. Everyone in Mo Manor knows he’s insane. He says a lot of things you can’t take seriously. Cultivators, you must…” She trailed off, and Wei Wuxian poked his head out from behind the disciples.

“Who says you can’t take me seriously? The next time someone tries to steal from me, I’ll chop their hand off.”

Mo Ziyuan, who had been restrained by his father, broke loose upon hearing this. Wei Wuxian shrieked and leapt like a fish out the door. The disciples rushed to block his re-entrance, and, changing the topic, one earnestly declared, “Then… then tonight we will borrow the West Courtyard. Please bear in mind what I said before. After dusk, close your doors tightly and do not wander, and especially do not go near that courtyard.”

Mo-furen breathed shakily and did not object, just said, “Yes, we won’t, thank you for your help.”

Incredulously, Mo Ziyuan said, “Ma! That madman slandered me in front of everyone, and you let it go? You said, you said he was just a…”

Mo-furen cut him off. “Shut up! What do you have to say that you can’t say later?”

Mo Ziyuan had never experienced this treatment, been embarrassed this way. His mother had never scolded him like this. Full of hatred, he roared, “Tonight, this lunatic is going to die!”

The show over, Wei Wuxian slipped away from Mo Manor. He did a loop around town, taking pleasure in startling passersby and beginning to understand the joys of being a madman. The hanged-ghost makeup was a factor, and he was loathe to wash it off. He couldn’t bathe without water anyway. He fixed his hair and glanced at his wrists. The gashes there were unchanged. Clearly, bringing Mo Xuanyu’s struggles to light was far from adequate retaliation. 

Would he really have to exterminate the Mo clan?

...Honestly, that wouldn’t be difficult.

Wei Wuxian pondered this as he wandered back to Mo Manor. When he tiptoed over to the West Courtyard, he saw Lan disciples standing atop the roof and walls, engaged in serious discussion. He retreated quietly—they would definitely notice him.

Although the Gusu Lan clan had headed the siege against him, this generation of cultivators either weren’t born then, or were toddlers. He didn’t need to worry about them. Wei Wuxian stopped and circled back to see what they were doing. As he watched, he suddenly felt strange.

The black flags, planted on the roof and walls and fluttering in the wind—why were they so familiar?

These flags were called “Yin Summoning Flags.” When stuck into the body of a living person, they would attract all manner of beings of Yin energy, like vengeful ghosts, fierce corpses, and evil spirits, which would then only attack the victim. Being stabbed with such a flag would turn a person into a target, so they were also called “Target Flags.” They could also be used on a house, in which case their range would extend to all its living occupants. Because Yin energy would linger wherever the flags were used, swirling around in the form of a black wind, they were also known as “Black Wind Flags.” The disciples had arranged the flags in the West Courtyard and warned bystanders to keep away. They must have planned to draw the walking dead here, catching them all in one net. 

As for why they were familiar… how could they not be? Yin-Summoning Flags were invented by the Yiling Patriarch!

Though the cultivation clans raged against him, fought and killed him, it was alright for them to use what he made…

A disciple on the roof spotted him, calling, “Go back, please! You shouldn’t be here.”

Although he was shooing him away, he did it kindly, his tone very different from that of the servants. Taking advantage of his unguardedness, Wei Wuxian leapt up and snatched one of the flags.

The disciple startled. He jumped down from the wall to give chase. “Don’t mess with that! You shouldn’t take this stuff!”

Wei Wuxian shouted as he ran, disheveled and flailing like a real madman, “No, I won’t! I want it! It’s mine!”

The disciple got within two steps of him and grabbed his arm, saying “Will you give it back? If you don’t, I’ll hit you!”

Wei Wuxian held the flag in a deathgrip. The head disciple, who had been arranging the flags, heard the disturbance and leapt lightly down from the roof. “Jingyi, let it go. We’ll get it back nicely. There’s no need to bicker.”

“Sizhui, I didn’t really hit him,” Lan Jingyi said. “Look, he’s made a mess of the flags!”

In this time, Wei Wuxian rapidly finished inspecting the Yin Summoning Flag in his hand. The figures were drawn correctly, the spellwork wasn’t bad, and there were no careless mistakes. It was usable. The flag’s maker was just inexperienced, and the markings would only be able to attract a handful of evil spirits and walking dead. That was good enough.

Lan Sizhui smiled at him and said, “Mo-gongzi, it’s getting dark. The corpses will be drawn here soon. It would be best if you hurried home.”

Wei Wuxian sized up the disciple. He was polite and refined, with an impressive bearing and a small smile at the corner of his mouth. He was a young sapling worthy of praise. He had arranged the flags in perfect order, and his upbringing was clearly acceptable. Wei Wuxian didn’t know who in Gusu, that dreadful, old-fashioned place, could have raised a kid like this.

Lan Sizhui said, “This flag…”

Before he could finish, Wei Wuxian threw the Yin Summoning flag to the ground, hurrumping. “Just a lousy flag! What’s so special about it? I could draw one better than you all!” Then he ran off.

The disciples still on the roof watching the scene heard him boasting, and they laughed so hard they almost fell to the ground. Lan Jingyi huffed a laugh as well, gathering the Yin Summoning Flag and shaking out the dirt. “He really is a lunatic.”

“Don’t say that. Here, come help me,” Lan Sizhui responded.

Wei Wuxian headed off to do a couple more circuits of the manor, not returning to Mo Xuanyu’s little courtyard until nightfall. The bolt was already broken, and no one had tidied up the mess inside. Ignoring this, he looked around, choosing a clear spot on the ground to sit and meditate.

Before dawn broke, a wave of noise from outside pulled him from his meditative state. He could hear footsteps, crying, and panicked yells heading his direction. People were shouting over each other, “Get in there! Drag him out!” “Report him!” “What do you mean, report him? Beat him to death!” 

He opened his eyes to see a group of servants had rushed in. The courtyard was ablaze, and someone was shouting, “Drag the crazy murderer to the Main Hall! He’ll pay with his life!”