#there are still scars on both of my achilles two years later

[tortoisebore]

OMG WHAT DID YOU ORDERRR

THESE BABIES RIGHT HERE 👹😛✨😈🤩

i have been eyeballing these for literal YEARS and never bought them, but my favorite off-brand black platform sandals broke last summer so it was time to pull the trigger

[freifraufischer]

A Gymnastics Mystery: Was the 1981 World Championship Stolen?  Part 4 - You decide.

In the previous episodes (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3) I laid out one of the oldest unsolved mysteries of the sport of gymnastics.  Did the East German government force one of it’s greatest athletes to throw the 1981 World Championships to please their Soviet master.

My answer is ... I don’t know and I swing between yes and no depending on how I think about it.  The sport was incredibly corrupt and ripe with manipulation (both successful and attempted) by many different countries at the time.  The Soviets had ample motive to want to show success in 1981 at a home world championship--enough to enter an age falsified gymnast--and the East German state was perfectly capable of tossing away the ambitions and goals of a 17 year girl to do that.

Here are the things that make me doubt the conspiracy theory.  

Evidence the injury was real:

This is the ABC broadcast of the 1982 World Cup.  In the 1980s the World Championships only took place in the years right after and right before the Olympics, leaving the mid quad year having only one major international gymnastics meet:  the World Cup.  It was an invitation only event where the field was determined by results from the 1981 World Championship (though there is controversy to be had here too).  As they are introducing the competitors the American commentators begin to talk about Gnauck’s injury at the World Championships at 2.37 in the video.  

He references that she had a serious injury at worlds and “appears” to have had ankle surgery.  He then speculates that it was Achilles surgery.  I’m assuming there was a visible scar--and let’s for a minute contemplate the terrifying nightmare that would be East German Achilles repair.  The thing that makes me hesitate here is that he is not quoting Gnauck or an East German source.  He’s seen the incident from the previous year and he’s seen a scar.  This is also a full year later so she could have been legitimately injured after Worlds and it still could have been a bit of pantomime in the team optionals.  

Gnauck continued to win event medals (including the bars title at the 1982 World Cup and the 1983 World Championships but there were cracks in her AA in those years.  She ws generally finishing in the 5-7th place range.  She recovered some of her all around form tying for bronze in the 1984 Friendship Games AA with Elena Shushunova.  The next year in her last international competition the 1985 Euros she won the silver medal behind Shushunova who would be World Champion that year.  She also won the bars title.  In a 2016 interview (English translation, German video) , Gnauck now club coach for young gymnasts in Switzerland said that she retired in 1985 (at age 21) primarily because of the change in the uneven bars apparatus.  She did not believe she could adapt to such a radical new style of bars work that late in her career.

[One last look at gymnastics from this period.  The 1985 European Championships uneven bars final is a unique moment in time when the bars were moving further apart to allow more swing but gymnasts hadn’t quite adapted to the new settings.  Almost like an evolutionary missing link.  I highly suggest watching the above video starting at 50.36 to see 1985 UB world champion Gabrielle Fähnrich back to back with Gnauck showing the transitional space between the two styles.]

And that leads me to my second problem with the conspiracy theory.  Gnauck hasn’t confirmed it at any point in the three decades since the collapse of the East German state.  She has been active in the gymnastics community, giving occasional commentary for German TV and a rare interview (though she tends to be restrained person).  In a world of a unified Germany she could have gained a certain amount of advantage by claiming to be a victim of the state.  

Like most star athletes from the GDR of course she made statements in support of the state like this one after it was announced that East Germany would boycott the 1984 Olympics:  “In preparing for the Olympic Games, it is clear that my participation would have been possible only if all participants were guaranteed equal opportunities. I utterly condemn the activities that are being prepared against the athletes of the socialist countries, as well as the policies of the Reagan administration, which has exploited the Olympic ideal into the opposite. Therefore, I stand behind the logical decision of the National Olympic Committee of the GDR to not attend the Summer Games, and starting now I will dedicate my performances in international competitions in honor of our Republic.”  I’m not inclined to hold that against her (anymore than I hold political statements from the 1980s against Katarina Witt).  These were people born in and living in a highly sophisticated police state and Gnauck had no choice but to fully support the actions of the Olympic committee.  But of course that swings back around to why the entire conspiracy theory is plausible:  if it was something that she was ordered to do she would have played her part even at the cost of her own individual ambitions.

If you’ve followed me down this rabbit hole of 4 posts what do you think?  Was there a conspiracy, was there an injury, and was this the most insane time in the history of the sport?

[mousepsychologist]

With Aaron

Summary: Reader avoids Hotch after getting cleared for sex following a kidnapping incident because she is self-conscious about the scars left behind.

Pairing: soft!hotch X Female Reader

Content/warnings: 18+ (Minors DNI): Language, brief mentions of torture (similar to an episode of CM), brief mentions of knives and blood (as a means or result of aforementioned torture), mentions and descriptions of scars, insecurities, sexual content, oral sex: female receiving, fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, praise, use of pet names and some fluff.

If I am missing anything please let me know!

Word count: 3,956

A/N: Submission for the @hotchafterhours Smutty One Shot Challenge. Also, this is the first fanfic I have ever written, so if it is super rough to read...my sincerest of apologies, and feel free to pretend this does not exist😅😂

Sex…

Sex with Aaron…

That is all you ever think about. You are absolutely consumed with the idea of being with Aaron.

You love sex with Aaron. You’ve been having sex with Aaron almost everyday for two years now and holy shit...it is the best sex you’ve ever had. It is so good that even when you shouldn’t be thinking about it...you definitely are.

When you innocently watch him twirl a pen between his thumb, pointer and middle fingers while thinking, all you can think about is how those long, thick fingers feel inside of you. Or, when you watch him sip his coffee, all you can think about is how those soft lips feel sucking and nipping at your bare skin.

However, anything he does, innocent or not, it always gets you going. So, you can’t fully blame him. But, you know Aaron, and some days you are sure he intentionally tries to get you squirming...even at work.

Everyone knows he is Mr. Professional and you think just the same but you also know that you are his achilles heel. So, if and when he wants to play games, well...you can be his checkmate.

You will rock a deep v-neck blouse that gives him the perfect view of your cleavage or a tight pencil dress that accentuates your ass because you know it will cause his face to falter or his breathing patterns to become erratic.

The two of you are the King and Queen of the sexual chess board. He knows how to move in ways that make you scream out in pleasure while you know how to sacrifice your pawns so he can seize control of the bedroom.

And as much as you love thinking about sex with Aaron or actually having sex with Aaron, you are able to sometimes keep your sexual thoughts at bay.

However, when you aren’t thinking about sex with Aaron, you are thinking about cuddling with Aaron, watching TV with Aaron, going on dates with Aaron, cooking with Aaron, laughing until you’re crying with Aaron and everything else in-between. Anything and everything that the two of you could possibly do together is always what you’re thinking about.

Your relationship with Aaron has never been just about sex. However, sex with Aaron has always been a sacred thing between the two of you. He treats your body like a temple. Not just any temple though...rather a temple he seems to have built himself.

He knows your body better than you do and how to make you feel like putty.

He knows how to interpret your moans as well as assess your temperament and determine whether you want to have playful or rough sex or, just softer, lazier sex.

And up until now, sex with Aaron has never been something you were nervous or self-conscious about.

---

Everything changed following your kidnapping two months ago where an unsub managed to hold you hostage for a week.

It was the worst week of your life. It was a long week that consisted of beatings, cigarette burns and knives being dragged up and down your body.

***Two Months Ago***

When the team came bursting into the basement you were being held in, you looked like a bruised, bloodied, mangled mess. You are hunched over and tied to a chair with your clothes barely hanging on by a thread. Your body is littered with both long and short knife marks, small and large bruises, and multiple cigarette burns.

As your team stormed the area, you were so disoriented that you didn’t even comprehend what was happening around you.

A large, calloused hand gently touches your shoulder. You flinch and the hand immediately retracts itself.

“Y/N...” he pauses. “Y/N… it’s me. It's Aaron.” His voice is so quiet, calm, and soothing.

You immediately relax. You have never been more relieved in your life. You blink a few times and your vision unblurs to see an unfamiliar Aaron.

He is so panicked and scared. You are sure you’ve never seen him this scared. He is also tired. So so tired. You are positive he hasn’t slept since you’ve gone missing.

He slowly places his hand back on your shoulder once he realizes that you know it's him. You're slightly shaking and exceptionally weak.

“Sweetheart, I need to carry you to the ambulance. Is that okay?”

You nod and go to straighten up but immediately wince and whimper in pain.

“Y/N, no, don’t move. I’ve got you”.

To pick you up he gently places an arm under your knees and another behind your back. It hurts but you find solace in his touch and the faint smell of his cologne. You bury your face deep into his chest and feel your tears surface as you start to sniffle.

Aaron immediately notices and places a gentle kiss to the top of your head.

“Y/N, it's okay. I’ve got you.”

You press yourself further into him and grasp firmly at his shirt. Your tears start to come faster. “Please don’t leave me Aar. Please don’t go anywhere. I’m scared and I don’t want to be alone again.”

“Oh Love...it’s okay. You’re not alone. I am not going anywhere. I am right here. You have me. Always. I want you to forget everything and everyone else but me.”

You feel his grip on you tighten as you go unconscious.

That's the last thing you remember until you wake up in the hospital two days later.

---

***Present Day***

It has been 53 days since you have had sex with Aaron. But today is the day you are supposed to receive medical clearance from your doctor.

Up until this morning, all you wanted was to have sex with Aaron. Because of your doctor’s orders, Aaron wouldn’t give in to sex until you were cleared. You were totally okay with following the doctor’s orders but Aaron and you had decided that it was just best to not do anything remotely sexual until you were cleared.

So...for the last 53 days, the most the two of you have done is kissed and cuddled. No question about it, the two of you love to kiss and cuddle but...you also love to do SO...MUCH...MORE.

You understood where Aaron is coming from. He just wants you safe and healthy.

You, on the other hand, want so badly to be fucked by your boyfriend.

So, it’s safe to say that you are so excited to get cleared. You know Aaron is excited too... though he won’t admit it.

You have tried multiple times to get him off but it's never worked. You want to do it for him, but you selfishly need to have his large, veiny, cock deep in your throat. You want to taste him, to make him feel how he always makes you feel. You also miss the way his hips buck towards you causing you to choke on his pulsating dick.

But he never budged. And since he never did, this also meant that the two of you haven't seen each other naked in the last 53 days.

You miss his cock just as much as you miss his mouth sucking on your clit or having his hands pinch your nipples, but by waiting, you know that the first time back to having sex with Aaron will be worth the wait. As Aaron said it quite clearly one day, “Pretty girl, I’m going to make you cum so much that you won’t even be able to think straight. I may have to make you cum for every day you haven’t been able to.” He said this with a smirk and a wink, but you’re pretty sure he is not kidding.

...And damn it, you are so ready for it.

---

You wake up the morning of your appointment, and head to the bathroom to shower and get ready. This is what you’ve been waiting for. You are so excited to finally have sex with Aaron tonight. You take a little longer in the shower to prepare yourself. Using extra exfoliator, moisturizer and your more expensive shampoo and conditioner.

It isn’t until you step out of the shower and catch a glimpse of your naked body that your anxiety flares with a vengeance. Sure, a lot of the cuts and burns have healed and the bruises are long gone but there are still some scars that are still blatantly noticeable. They look so ugly, red and puffy.

The panic sets in at the thought of Aaron seeing you tonight. You feel the pressure of how tonight is supposed to go. You know Aaron loves you no matter what but that doesn’t silence the voices telling you otherwise.

A knock at the door pulls you from your self-deprecating thoughts. “Honey, are you almost ready?”

“Umm, ya. Just a sec.”

You quickly put your clothes on but your eyes never leave the mirror that is reflecting your damaged body. You exit your bathroom and head to the kitchen where Aaron is pouring two cups of coffee.

“Morning gorgeous.” You cringe at the name which you are sure he notices but he doesn’t acknowledge it and continues on. “You sure you don’t want me to come with you to your appointment?”

“No, it's okay. It shouldn’t take too long anyways.”

“Alright, my love. I will see you at work then.”

He walks up to you and kisses you gently. His hands lay on your hips and slowly take the ends of your sweater in them. You begin to feel his hands touch the skin just above your waistline and immediately grab both of them and pull away. He gives you a questioning look but before he can say anything you beat him to it.

“Babe, I really have to go. I don’t want to be late.” You place your hand on his cheek and give him a quick kiss on the lips. “I love you and I’ll see you later.”

You turn and walk out missing the clearly puzzled look on Aaron’s face.

---

You arrive at work a few hours later cleared to have sex again. And though you want to be excited, you aren't. You are so in your head that you don’t know what to do.

You know you can’t avoid Aaron so you walk into his office to tell him the “good” news.

Aaron hears you walk in and close the door. He quickly walks to you and kisses you before asking about the appointment. You inform him that you’re cleared and you panic more as you see the excitement spread across his face.

He cups one hand on your cheek while the other lays on your hip. He slowly starts to kiss you again. You love the taste of him. You can taste the coffee from this morning as his tongue makes its way into my mouth. Your hands go to his neck and begin tugging at his hair.

Aaron loves when you tug at his hair so you are not surprised when it elicits a few moans from him. And anytime a moan leaves those beautiful lips of his, it always runs straight to your core. You can feel your panties dampen as he sucks on your bottom lip and squeezes your hips.

You are so lost in this kiss and it’s the first time all day that you aren’t drowning in your thoughts.

You are in the moment and it's amazing.

The hand cupping your cheek moves to mimic his other hand squeezing your hip. You don’t even feel his thumbs rubbing the skin above your waistline and dipping under the top portion of your thong. You are so focused on rubbing your hands along his ribcage and chest. You love feeling his chest and tummy.

Aaron starts kissing down your jawline causing you to tilt your head back in pleasure. You can feel his soft lips dance their way down your neck. It's the stark contrast of his rough, calloused fingertips sliding up both sides of your ribcage that snaps you back to reality.

You quickly step away and readjust your blouse.

“Woah Y/N.” He gently grabs your wrists. “What is going on? What's wrong?” He asks with pleading puppy dog eyes.

“Nothing is wrong Aar. It’s just that we're at work with people around.”

“Okay, but that hasn’t stopped us in the past.” A slight smirk appears on his face.

“I know, but I would rather wait until we are home. Why don’t you come over to my place after work?” Hopefully being in the comfort of your own apartment will calm your nerves.

“I’d love to. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.” He moves both hands to your cheeks and places a delicate kiss on your forehead.

“Sounds good. I just have a few more reports to finish before I head out.” You say as you head towards his office door.

“Alright, sweetheart. I’m looking forward to it!”

You can see the excitement on his face and hear the sweetness in his voice as you exit his office. The nerves fluttering in your stomach almost make you nauseous but you have to ignore your thoughts so you can focus on the remainder of the work day.

---

You are home for 30 minutes when Aaron finally enters your apartment. You're sitting on the bed, leaning up against the headboard with your knees tucked to your chest when you see Aaron’s broad shoulders lean against your door frame. You know you can’t keep up the facade any longer.

“Alright, Y/N. What's wrong? Something is clearly off with you. You’ve been distant all day today. If I did something wrong, please just tell me so I can fix it.”

The sincerity in his voice is almost too hard to handle. You can feel your eyes start to fill with tears but you don’t cry. You tilt your head down and stare at your fidgeting hands.

“It’s so bad, Aar.” As soon as those words left your mouth you knew that was the worst possible way to phrase the sentence.

Aaron immediately walks to the bed and sits cross-legged in front of you. The panic is evident in his eyes.

He grabs your wrists to move your arms up and begins touching along your stomach. His eyes are moving all over your body like a ball in a pinball machine.

He’s searching for an injury.

“What hurts Y/N? Let me see, please! I want to help fix it.” He’s so scared. You immediately feel guilty about how fast your words send him into panic mode but it's this caring nature that reassures you that Aaron loves you no matter what.

It's what finally gives you the strength to tell him how you feel.

“Nothing hurts, babe. I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to phrase it that way.” His face slowly begins to soften.

“Then what is it? I know something is wrong.”

“My scars, Aar. They are so bad. They are way redder and puffier than I thought they’d be at this point.” Your eyes are focused on your bedspread. Quite obviously avoiding the gorgeous ones you can feel piercing into you. “My entire torso is hideous...I just don’t want you to see it.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” His hands come up to cup both of your cheeks.

You cut him off before he can continue. You need to tell him the whole truth.

“I know it’s dumb but I have this fucking voice in my head telling me that you are going to be bothered by them and less attracted to me. Which I wouldn’t blame you because I am already thinking the same thing about myself.”

“Please, Y/N. Please don’t ever think that I would ever find you unattractive for any reason. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I love everything there is about you and nothing could ever change that.” He says this reassuringly while placing a gentle kiss on your forehead.

You can feel your anxiety slowly dissipate. “I know you do. I have just been so nervous thinking about you seeing them for the first time tonight. Plus, we’ve been talking about having sex so much once I got cleared and I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“Y/N.” He says with such conviction that you force yourself to look into his eyes. “I need you to know that we do not need to have sex tonight, tomorrow night or anytime soon.” His hands are now gently rubbing up and down your arms from your shoulders to elbows. “We will go at whatever pace you’re comfortable with. And that will always be the case.” He pauses and lightly squeezes your arms. “Whether following an injury or not, okay.”

“I know, Aar. And you don’t know how appreciative I am of that and how happy I am to have someone as caring and supportive as you in my life.” You gently grab his face and place a tender kiss on his lips.

The love you feel for Aaron is all consuming. He has managed in a matter of minutes to dilute your anxiety to almost nothing. Now, all you feel is this intense rush of passion for the love of your life.

The kiss starts to develop into something much more needy. You both are fighting for dominance but you quickly relent and let his tongue invade your mouth. His large hands make their way to your hair where they lightly tug and pull.

Your hands are now on his shoulders pulling him on top of you while simultaneously working to unbutton his dress shirt.

You feel him hesitate and look down at you. “Y/N, are you sure?”. His eyes have never looked so intently at you.

“Yes, I am sure.”

That’s enough for him to abruptly continue kissing you. Your eyes are now closed as you lose yourself once again in an unforgettable kiss with Aaron Hotchner.

You are obsessed with how he tastes and you continue to feel yourself relax as you breathe in his pine scented cologne. The smell has and always will make you feel at home.

Aaron slowly removes your top and stops all of his movements which leads you to opening your own eyes.

You see him staring at your stomach which brings all of your insecurities to the forefront.

You feel yourself moving to cover your stomach when Aaron catches them and pushes each to the side.

“You are so beautiful Y/N. I can’t believe I get to have someone as beautiful, kind, intelligent, and courageous as you in my life. So please don’t ever try to hide yourself from me.”

The genuineness exuding from him is enough to melt all your anxieties. You know that you want him no matter what.

“Thank you, Aar. I love you so much and I don’t know what I did to deserve a man like you.”

“I love you too, sweet girl.”

His soft lips return to you. He slowly makes his way nipping and sucking at the skin from your neck to your breast. He begins to suck on your nipple while massaging the other with his large hand. His teeth graze over your nipple causing a ripple effect down your spine.

You love feeling his warm breath and wet tongue move across your already hard bud. Aaron tends to your other breast with his mouth before moving down your torso.

He begins to gently kiss each of your scars. You feel your stomach nervously tighten.

Aaron, as always, senses how your body briefly tenses.

“It’s okay, Love. I am right here with you. I want you to forget everything and everyone else but me.”

You feel your body relax. “I am okay, I promise. Please Aaron.” You beg with a quiet whimper. “I need you.”

His lips continue moving down to where you need him most as he removes your pants and thong. No matter your insecurities, you always seem to be needy for all things Aaron. So it's no surprise that you are already wet from only being kissed by him.

Aaron’s tongue moves further down so he can tease your clit. The action causes you to squirm beneath him. As much as you love his mouth on you and feeling him lick and suck on your clit, you need more.

“Aar, please…” you moan and arch your back off the bed.

“What do you want Y/N? Tell me and I will make it happen.” He responds while inserting two fingers into you.

He is curling his finger inside of you while continuing to suck on your clit. Your breathing has increased significantly along with your moans.

“Aaron…please. Please I need you inside of me.”

In an instant he grabs your legs and pulls you towards him. Once your legs are wrapped tightly around his waist, he pulls his already hard cock out of his boxers and begins to line it up with your core. He teases your entrance with his tip before he finally thrusts into you.

He fills you so well as he thrusts in and out. You can feel yourself climb towards your release with every thrust.

“Fuck, Y/N. You feel so good.” His pace quickens and becomes a little harder but he holds you like you are the most precious thing to walk the earth.

“I’m so close, Aar.”

“I know, baby. Let go, I’ve got you.”

That’s all you need to fall apart. Your body tenses before spasming uncontrollably. Your back is arched as Aaron continues to thrust into you to help ride out your high. It doesn’t take much longer for him to find his release as well.

You both try to ride out your highs as long as possible. The two of you are breathing heavily and a slight layer of sweat is now covering your bodies.

You gently begin dragging your nails up and down Aaron’s back as he is still laying on top of you. While still trying to come back to earth, he pulls out of you and rolls over to your side.

You miss the feeling of having him inside of you when he rolls over but the emptiness is quickly replaced as his arm is draped across your waist and is used to pull you to him. You are now laying more on him than the bed with your head nestled on his chest.

Aaron presses gentle kisses to the top of your head. “You okay, Y/N?”

“I’m perfect.” You are so at peace laying on his chest listening to his steady heartbeat.

Aaron is rolling the ends of your hair between his fingers as you continue to cuddle into him. “Okay, good. Are you sure that wasn’t too much this time?”

“It was perfect. I promise I would tell you if I wasn’t okay.”

“Alright, I just want you to be happy and comfortable no matter what.”

“I know, Love and I love you so much for that. You always make me feel amazing, especially when it comes to sex.” You giggle as you sit up to place a gentle kiss on his nose.

“Well, I am glad you enjoy it because I owe you 52 more when you're ready.” A devilish smirk is now plastered on his face.

“52 what?” Your puzzled look causes him to laugh.

“Orgasms, pretty girl.”

“52 orgasms!” Your eyes damn near pop out of your skull.

“Oh yes, 52...and not one less.”

And in this moment, well...all you can think about is 52 perfect orgasms with Aaron.

[thepartyresponsible]

this soundtrack fill is for kittenlzlz, who i cannot tag because it’s all sabotage all the time over here. also, i'm sorry, i didn’t realize you’d changed your prompt until after i wrote this one, so this is for the first thing you sent in.

anyway, here’s some dystopian sci-fi angst for sam and bucky with a hopeful ending. the song for this one is “achilles come down” by gang of youth.

                                                         —

When he was young, Sam spent thirty-seven weeks in New Mexico, learning how to keep people alive until evac. That others may live was a motto they preferred to operationalize rather than idealize, and, without the EMT training, pararescue tended to turn into high-risk body retrieval. So he spent the better part of a year learning how to keep a body breathing, and he learned, also, how to recognize when any effort was likely to be wasted.

Which is how he knows that what he’s looking at isn’t fully human. Because a human would already be dead.

It’s the blood that tells him, more than anything else. The Chitauri bleed a thick, dark blue substance that goes black if their cybernetics are leaking. And there’s plenty of blue and black puddled on the asphalt, but that red is a hemoglobin gift, and that means it’s all human.

“Shit, man,” Sam says, crouching next to the only human at this massacre. “You could keep a blood bank in business all by yourself.”

The man lifts his head and blinks at him, slow and a little dazed. Not dazed enough, though. He can almost focus on Sam’s face. “Not anymore,” he says, after a beat.

More blood bubbles up at the corners of his mouth. Sam can see it between his teeth.

“Yeah,” Sam says. And he laughs, because he might as well. Because he came out here with a team of ten to clean out the aliens, and it looks like one guy did their work for them. “Guess not.”

He’s a pathetic sight, really. Ragged body armor, hair clumped together, skin sticky with blood and ichor. He’s belly down on the cracked parking lot, and there’s a smear of blood behind him, showing exactly how far he’s managed to drag himself.

Sam’s not excited about what he’s going to see, when he rolls this guy over on his back.

“You gonna fight me if I help you?” he asks.

Most of them, these Enhanced, the surviving Super Soldiers, they can’t help it. Sam’s had to put a few down himself, although not for a while now. It’s been almost a year since he had to kill anything with a human face.

The man sighs. He rests his forehead against the asphalt, closes his eyes. His fingers flex and then go still. “I don’t know,” he says.

That others may live, Sam thinks. But the problem has always been that lives are balanced on both sides of the scales, and, sometimes, saving one means sacrificing another.

This man killed fifteen Chitauri, and he did it alone. There are kids back at the base. Vulnerable people.

The safest choice would be to leave him here. Let him save himself, if he can. But Sam’s never really been the safe choice type.

“Okay,” he says, hands curling around his shoulders, carefully rolling the man over on his back, “let’s see the damage.”

It’s enough to kill a human. But that’s not really what he’s dealing with.

                                                           —    

The Super Soldiers were a desperation play. Sam was supposed to be one of them. The best of Earth’s fighters, dosed with serum, patched up with cybernetics based on Chitauri tech, sent out to face the enemies that had invaded the planet.

Sam’s still not sure exactly how it happened, what level of their defenses failed. He only knows failure by its consequences.

The neural implants were hacked. The soldiers turned against their people. Sam, who’d been four days out from his own procedure, was shifted to a team tasked with hunting them down and eliminating them.

These days, there aren’t many left. There’s not much of anyone left. The Chitauri fundamentally misunderstood their target. Sam could’ve warned them. The species of mutually assured destruction was never going to die quiet.

He thinks about that while the Soldier sleeps, chained to a bed in a locked basement in an abandoned building two miles from the base. Sam keeps watch. He has a radio in case anything goes wrong, but he doesn’t intend to use it for anything other than warning them what’s coming.

“I could’ve been you,” Sam tells him. And then, smiling at nothing, shaking his head, “Hell, you could’ve been me.”

He wonders where he’s from. He wonders what his name is.

He wonders, when he can’t help it, what he did. If he ever killed anyone Sam used to know.

                                                           —    

The Soldier sleeps for forty hours and then sits straight up in bed, rips the chains off his wrists like they’re pipe cleaners, and then turns to face Sam. “What the hell,” he says.

“Oh, well,” Sam says, too startled to be afraid. “Didn’t want anyone stealing you.”

The Soldiers makes a face at him, an incredulous sneer that twists up his mouth and pulls his dark eyebrows together, and he looks so human, so perfectly skeptical, that Sam starts laughing.

“Well,” he says, with a shrug, “you killed fifteen aliens with a tire iron. You’re a treasure.”

“And I want it back.” he says, immediately. “Where’s my tire iron?”

“Confiscated,” Sam says.

He glares, and Sam‘s probably meant to be intimidated, but he knows – they both know – that, if this guy wanted to scare Sam, he could just start breaking bones. Or walls. “I want it back when I leave.”

“Leave,” Sam repeats. He kicks back in his chair, balances on the back legs as he swings his feet up onto the Soldier’s bed. “Why’re you leaving?”

The Soldier stares at Sam’s booted feet near his knees. “Usually it’s the fact that I’m a timebomb that chases me off,” he says, “but it looks like your manners are the real horrorshow around here.”

Sam grins at him. He’s merciless about it, uses the most charming smile in his arsenal. He expects the guy to soften a bit, but he’s not expecting the doubletake he gets, the there-and-away bounce of his stare, like Sam’s suddenly something he wants to look at but doesn’t want to get caught looking at.

Huh, he thinks.

“When’s the last time you hurt someone?” Sam asks.

The Soldier’s face crumples up and then flattens out. “What is this? Some kinda trial? An interrogation?”

“If this were an interrogation, I wouldn’t’ve given you the soft pillows,” Sam tells him.

The Soldier doesn’t look like he buys it. But, after a moment, he tips his head to the side. “Probably wouldn’t want to get blood on these white sheets,” he acknowledges.

“Christ,” Sam says, because that more or less seems to be the only thing he could possibly say to something like that.

The Soldier shrugs. He brushes his hair away from his face, blinks, and gives Sam a skeptical sideways stare. “Did you wash my hair?”

“With a firehose,” Sam confirms. “Damn near shaved the whole thing off. You were a mess, man.”

He shrugs. “It’s messy work.”

And, sure, it is. Sam knows. His base is the first resettlement outpost in this region. They’ve been clearing Chitauri out of the area for months.

But he still takes a damn shower whenever possible.

“Who were you?” Sam asks. “Before the program?”

The Soldier looks away. Looks at nothing. After a long pause, he recites, careful and rote, “Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. 107th.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “James. When’s the last time you hurt a human being?”

He worries at his lower lip, teeth pressing into the skin. He’s quiet for a very long time. “Thirteen months, ten days,” he says, finally.

Sam considers the timeline. “You think it’s over?”

“I think the implant’s in my fucking brain,” he says. “It’ll be over at brain death.”

“It’s just a chip,” Sam says. “It’s not sentient. Someone’s gotta send the message, right?”

The Soldier’s jaw works. “Even if the aliens stay out, there’s gonna be plenty of people who want to use someone like me, as soon as they rebuild enough to manage.”

It’s a hell of thing, and it could’ve been Sam.

He nudges the Soldier’s knee with his boot, and the Soldier stares at the point of contact. He doesn’t look angry anymore. If Sam had to use a word to describe the expression on the Soldier’s face, he thinks he’d use something bittersweet and barbed, something like lonely or longing.

“Gonna be a long damn time before anyone’s rebuilt,” he says.

“Aliens could have reinforcements here at any time,” the Soldier says.

“Maybe,” Sam says, although he thinks they might’ve learned some kind of lesson. At the very least, they’ve probably learned that it’s just not worth the effort.

“Look,” Sam says. “I think you should come back to the base.”

“No,” he says. Immediate and definite, louder then he’s been so far.

Sam expected it. Maybe part of him hoped for it. “Okay,” he says. “Then we’ll stay here. And, when you’re better, I want you to take a radio. And I want you to check in with us. All right? Every day.”

The Soldier stares at him. “Why the hell would you want that?”

Sam smiles, studies the hollows of the Soldier’s face, the scars, the freckles he must’ve earned when he was young, used to play too long in the sun. He has, Sam thinks, beautiful eyes. “There’s not a lot of us left,” he says.

“‘Us,’” the Soldier repeats, scoffing audibly.

“Us,” Sam repeats. He nudges the Soldier’s knee again, and the Soldier cuts his eyes away, glares at the wall. But, a moment later, he shifts, leans his knee into Sam.

                                                         —      

His name is Bucky Barnes. He’s fussy as hell, stubborn beyond belief, helpful every chance he can get, and fond of cats and songbirds. He doesn’t cheat at cards, and he doesn’t accuse Sam of it either, even when Sam beats him damn near every hand.

He’s a good man. Even now.

“I’m gonna miss you,” Sam says. Because it’s been two weeks, and Bucky’s decided he’s well enough to go.

Bucky ducks his head. “Shut up,” he says.

Sam wonders if he was always this head shy about affection.

“C’mere,” he says. “I’ll give you a goodbye kiss.”

“Shut up,” Bucky says, practically scuttling away, head still ducked. When he raises it, he’s grinning one of his ghost grins, the ones that almost show who he used to be, like a faint echo of a louder, happier man.

“Okay,” Sam says. “But if I don’t get a goodbye kiss, I’m definitely not gonna talk dirty to you on that radio. You gotta put in the work, Bucky.”

“I hate you,” Bucky tells him, and his crush couldn’t be more obvious. Sam would be embarrassed for him, if he weren’t busy being charmed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam says. “Check in every day, or I’m gonna track you down.”

“Hm,” Bucky says. He adjusts his pack on his shoulders. He’s got that tire iron, an alarming number of knives, and two guns. He’s setting off to kill more aliens. He’s going alone. “That supposed to be a threat?”

He was a Barnes in the Army and Sam was a Wilson in the Air Force, and so Bucky is a Super Soldier and Sam is not. It’s unpredictable, sometimes, the way mercy falls.

“Be careful out there,” Sam says, and he knocks his elbow against Bucky’s.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. He rolls his eyes and then catches Sam watching, and he blinks, falters. “Yeah,” he says, again. Softer, steadier. A promise, not a joke.

Sam considers him, lets the moment hang. Waits. Sometimes, all Bucky needs is the space and time to make up his own mind.

“I’m gonna miss you, too,” Bucky says.

“There it is,” Sam says, grinning, almost crowing in triumphant. “There--”

“Oh, Jesus,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes again, getting theatrical about it. “I already regret saying it.”

“Can’t take it back,” Sam taunts, grinning wide and smug.

“I’m going,” Bucky says, and he starts off, doesn’t look back.

“Hey, Buck,” Sam calls, when Bucky’s just about to break through the treeline, disappear into the woods. “I hate to see you go, but I love----”

“Fuck off, Sam!” Bucky says, but he’s laughing, and Sam can still hear it – surprised and happy, fully human – even after Bucky disappears.

[whocalledhimannux]

hello my friends it's time for another wildly self-indulgent AU, based on the fact that I spent several hours tonight with two windows open on my laptop, one showing Queen's Thief fic and the other showing the Philadelphia Phillies absolutely crushing the Reds:

Q T B A S E B A L L AU

featuring Eugenides as a hotshot player who is a rediciulous thief of bases (if u click on that link, take moment to pray for Roman Quinn's achilles 😢), incredible speed, no one can touch him, if he gets on base he will be scoring...

...until noted Absolute Asshole Nahuseresh "accidentally" steps on his hand with sharpened cleats (for the grip! he had no idea they would be dangerous! shocked and apalled and apologetic, really!) and causes nerve damage bad enough that Eugenides is more or less forced into an early retirement, reigniting the old Eddisian Griffins-Attolian Lilies rivalry with a vengeance

Helen is the manager (main coach) of the Griffins (she played baseball on teams with her brothers as a kid) and Irene is the owner of the Lilies

a year later, during the off-season, Irene and Eugenides elope, she hires him as the manager for the Lilies, and trades Nahuseresh while making it clear it's not about his playing, which is good, but because he's an absolute asshole. all of this happens in like a week and sports media goes BUCK WILD.

Dite is a very precocious pitcher, Sejanus is a shortstop. Eugenides trades both of them just under the trade deadline because he suspects Erondites is doing some shady Black Sox shit behind the scenes

Sophos is a pretty inconsistent player when he's younger and it's openly speculated he only makes it into professional ball because of nepotism--ironically, once his uncle loses a shit ton of money in a business takeover and has to sell the team to [random rich owner, idk], he really hits his stride and is called up from the minors to play for a major league team under the guidance of the Magus, who is his manager. he's a center fielder. drove his father nuts in his youth because he was always daydreaming instead of paying attention to the ball.

fun side note: like Sophos, I have a scar on my lip that alters my smile. I got mine when a softball glanced off my glove and hit me in the face, and my lip got caught in my braces. so I like to think he gets an injury in this AU in a similar way, lol.

I haven't thought this through for all of them, because it's midnight and I can't be doing this for hours, but major King's Guard/Attendants are Lilies players, cousins/major Eddisians are Griffins, etc. I'm de-aging some of them to make it fit.

MoW (is it weird that's still my default for him?) is a base coach, Ornon is a long-suffering umpire

Teleus is captain of the Lilies and their catcher (for non-baseball fans, the catcher does a lot of directing during the game--helping pitchers choose which pitch to throw, helping to decide if fielders should move back or move in or cover certain gaps)

he does get into a shouting match with Eugenides at one point, on the field, and again, sports media goes BUCK. WILD. the Lilies have so many good unwritten rules/bench-clearing/wtf-just-happened moments during this time.

as a player Eugenides defied a couple of the unwritten rules--he was not shy about bunting or stealing bases whenever tf he wanted to, for example. he dodged a lot of intentional hits from pitchers but he was too damn charming for the fans to be really mad at him

Relius is their general manager at first, the guy in charge of numbers and trades and negotiating. he's kicked out after a scandal but Irene ends up keeping him around. he starts to actually attend games in a private box and watch instead of schmoozing and rediscovers his love for the game.

oooooh I kind of like the idea of most of the attendants being pitchers. pitchers are sort of divas and teams have like 10+ and fans of Certain Teams experience a LOT of exasperation over their pitchers' inconsistent performance (not that I would ever ever point to any specific team and the fact that Lilies rhymes with Phillies means absolutely nothing)

Costis is the first baseman (because TALL) and has a killer batting average, is v close with Aris who plays second base, and kinda sorta accidentally becomes the first out MLB player when he gets caught making out with Kamet after winning the home run derby. oops.

Teleus, who has been successfully avoided winning that title for years, mocks him ruthlessly (although he does have a Glenn Burke kind of deal where his teammates know but keep it private)

Kamet has relatively little interest in sports and there is a lot of online complaining about the fact that he openly grades papers/works on other stuff during games, but hey, this PhD isn't going to earn itself. he does pay attention to Costis's at-bats, though, and gets more invested in the games as he gets to know other players better--he also eventually reveals that he's got a mean head for stats, even if he doesn't feel the need to be watching every second of every game. there are 162 of them for each team and they go on for 4 hours, okay? give him a break.

dear god, I don't even know exactly where Pheris fits in (once he's like. an adult.) but please take a moment to scroll through this page of commonly tracked baseball statistics and appreciate how much Pheris would lose his mind over this game

WAIT no I've got it, Relius becomes the scouting director for the Lilies and Pheris works with him. Moneyball.

the equivalent of the fighting the guards scene at the end of KoA is one day Eugenides is running a practice with the team and lets Laecdomon (one of the pitchers, doomed to be traded soon after) goad him into stepping in the batter's box. Laecdomon goes between strikes and balls that come VERY close to hitting him, including one that almost beans him in the head, but Eugenides manages to hit the ball even with his bad hand, fuckin' zooms around the bases while the team fumbles and commits multiple errors trying to stop him, and leaps over Teleus at home to score.

ok I spent an hour typing this up when I should have been sleeping lmao, but I have written two other baseball AUs for two other fandoms (as a contributing writer/brainstormer for one, tbf) and I am totally down to talk more about this concept if there are other QT baseball fans out there

[shadowfae]

Uhhh since you're dealing with people being jackasses: talk about a thing you've been wanting to talk about; or tell a story you've been dying to tell but haven't had a good time to tell it.

Things I want to talk about, hmmmm.

See, the twins’ birthday is on Friday, and it seems I’m writing More Porn. After that is Minos, next Thursday, and that’ll be fun because I know exactly what to write for his birthday, and that’s the fic of how he becomes a Spectre wayyyy back in the Age of Myth. (This is about Saint Seiya, for those of you who don’t follow me on my main.)

King Minos of Crete’s story is a fascinating thing. And the thing about a lot of retellings of Greek myth is that the running theme is almost always “...and the myth got it all wrong because what makes for a good story isn’t what actually happened” and that really got me to wonder how I could spin this guy into a sympathetic villain. Then, of course, I put on Gang of Youth’s Achilles Come Down and that was it, my dude.

So consider this: a young prince and his brother, being prettied up for the throne of Crete where Zeus was born in the most prosperous, if young, kingdom in the Mediterranean, four thousand years ago where this is where most human development is going on right now. That seat of power will move to India next during their Golden Age (as they don’t get their shit wrecked by Santorini and become the Atlantis myth) but for now, it’s in the sea that breathes and is as warm as a bath to dive on into, in the sea where everyone is right now.

A young prince whose brother is pretty and not much else, who knows he has to rule because while his brother is popular, he doesn’t pay attention to his studies and would drive the kingdom immediately into the ground with his enjoyment of finery at the expense of all else. A young prince who knows if he wants his kingdom to survive, knowing full well how many settlements and lives depend on Crete to run supply, that he’s going to have to do some evil and damn himself to save the kingdom. It doesn’t even matter if he wants to be king: it’s just that Rhadamanthys won’t do a good job, and there’s no way he can get him to abdicate, and good sake he doesn’t want to murder his own brother.

But then they get into a catfight over a pretty farmboy that they both like. Rhadamanthys likes Miletos’ smile and the way he talks to plants. Minos likes his wit and how he knows how to keep a farm running and what every problem’s solution is. Rhadamanthys sees a trophy to win, Minos sees an advisor. They both fall in love. Aphrodite from her throne laughs at the thought of two heroes to make a tragedy out of, and lets them start to rip Crete apart.

Minos realizes what’s going on, of course, why wouldn’t he? He wants his kingdom to survive, and this isn’t that. Good sake he doesn’t want to take Miletos prisoner, he knows how the heroes’ stories end and he doesn’t want to be betrayed. So he chases Rhadamanthys out of Crete and stuffs Miletos onto a supply ship heading into Thessaly and bids him that if he likes being alive, he should lay low and stay far from either brother, but gives him a good bag of drachmae and food anyway, and probably a scrap of parchment with an address to a temple of Demeter. Enough that he can save himself if he uses his wits, and Minos knows Miletos has wit.

He becomes king. He saves the kingdom from his brother’s idiocy, knowing Rhadamanthys will never forgive him, knowing that their warring would have destroyed the Mediterranean. This is the cost of what it is to be king of the powerhouse of the cell world. You sacrifice everything you love, everything you are, and you save everyone but yourself.

Kings and heroes have a lot alike, and Minos is a son of Zeus. It doesn’t stop him from being angry with himself. It doesn’t stop the gods from taking an interest in this plucky young man. It doesn’t stop Hera from being angry at Europa all over again. It doesn’t stop Aphrodite from being angry that he denied her the tragedy. He hasn’t proved himself, not to them. So they set him trials. Conquer this kingdom and liberate it from the evil king. Kill that monster and liberate that city from it. Do this, do that, and just when you think you’re done, someone else goes mad and starts killing their own civilians.

Minos doesn’t realize at first that he’s become a terror. That he’s the ghost king already, the one that queens and princes and servants whisper about when their king has so much of a cold. He’ll go mad one day. He’ll go mad and then King Minos of Crete will come by with his armour and his sword, high on his own heroism, walking the road to hell with the very best of intentions.

Minos will care for those kingdoms. He’ll send his advisors and sell them their necessities at half price, help the fledgling kings that rise in the throne still bloody from his conquest until they’re steady under the crown. He makes alliances and plays the game well, but he’s still killing people who never asked to be killed. Still saving people who never wanted to be saved.

He finds a wife in a nymph-goddess and he loves her, he loves her hard, and he’s still scarred from Miletos, he’s afraid to love Pasiphae even though he does with all his heart. She’s powerful, daughter of Helios who blinds him with her sunlight. He kneels before her and tells her that if anyone including himself but save his kingdom tries to take him away from her glory, he will kill them to make her happy.

He doesn’t know he’s already evil. He wants to make his wife happy, wants to not make the mistakes his father did that resulted in his existence. He wants to apologize to Hera for his birth by valuing what she does, and never doing to Pasiphae what his father did to her. He doesn’t know he’s damning himself with every move. But he swears his life to the girl of sunshine and brings her home to celebrate. Crete rejoices, they’ve always had the best of him, they’ve always loved their king who saved them and risks himself to save everyone else. He’s brought home the sun for them, hasn’t he?

They have children, his pride and joy, and he hires the best of tutors for them. He finds a son of Athena who’s known for his brilliance and pays him to teach his son, finds a son of Ares content with his spoils to teach his daughters and his youngest, loves them all and teaches them how to rule when he has to go out and save another city from a mad, dying king. So that when he gets himself killed being stupid, Crete isn’t damned and the world can run without him, because his wife and his children will continue the throne of power. They’ll run the supply lines and find a place for those who need to run, and they’ll save as many people as they can.

Hera likes him well enough for his love, hates him for what he is, hates him more for that he doesn’t understand why the mad king’s wife wants him dead. Aphrodite stings from that he earned Pasiphae’s love with a pledge he didn’t know the consequences of, that he denied her the messy child’s-love of Miletos. Zeus thinks he has farther to go. Poseidon, who Minos doesn’t love as much as his father but whose sea is the very reason he’s as powerful as he is, whose sea he loves more than most but doesn’t remember to thank, shakes the bottom of the Mediterranean in jealousy.

Poseidon makes his displeasure known. Minos appeases him, as best he can, and like every awkward nephew, asks if he needs further repayment or if he has earned his forgiveness. Poseidon smiles, thinks of how Minos does not know how the gods can suffer, and sends him a while bull that shines like the moon.

Minos presents it to his wife, thinks of the white dove that Zeus was for Hera. It’s a long habit he’s fallen into, appeasing Hera at every turn just in case. Amphitrite too, actually, and Artemis for his daughter Ariadne who loves to weave. Pasiphae loves the bull, and shows their children, and Crete understands that the gods love their king as much as they do.

Daedalus, whose son’s education Minos has paid for but who isn’t allowed his freedom to wander - he’s quite useful, and Minos has figured out that people will stay if you give them a reason to, but not that he needs to ask if Daedalus needs anything he might not ask for in supply requests - listens to Athena whispering of kings who didn’t deserve to die and kingdoms robbed of their ability to stand on their own, indebted to no one.

Aphrodite hates the pretty fantasy Minos and Pasiphae have created, hates that they have always gotten along. Hates that they still trust in the vow they made and haven’t had any reason to question. Love is suffering, love is war, and she wants them to prove that they understand her as well as they understand Hera. She goes to Poseidon, shaking with jealousy, and they hatch a plan together.

If he sacrifices the bull, he honours Poseidon. But the dreams of his sleep say that if he does not keep it to show the wealth of his kingdom, he rejects Zeus. There is no way to win. But maybe dreams are just dreams. He breeds the bull several times, to spread the wealth of the blessing to more than just himself, to honour Zeus by keeping what he can. Minos goes to sacrifice it, and finds it missing. He searches with his three eldest children and does not find it until morning, when Daedalus has put Pasiphae back to bed and has burned the contraption he made in a frenzy for his mother’s appreciation. He does not sacrifice it on time, and though he does the moment he finds it and checks that it has not been injured, it isn’t enough.

Three weeks later, they find Pasiphae is pregnant, and although Minos doesn’t quite think the math lines up, sometimes children are weird. Stranger things have happened, and it is a time to rejoice. The pregnancy is difficult, and he spends many days by her side, asking for the best physicians they can find and hopes that they can save her. They make it all the way to the delivery with her still breathing, and when the time comes, the physicians who have helped her through several births know by now to send him to fetch water from the other side of Crete to keep him out from underfoot.

He returns with water he knows they don’t actually need but is willing to fetch for love of Pasiphae, and finds that his wife is dead, and there is a curse within the kingdom that nobody knew about. He thinks of how Poseidon could have swept them all away with a tsunami, and knows that this is his punishment, not Crete’s, and he vows to keep it that way. He thinks another moment, thoughts too quick for anything but grief and shock. He thinks of how Hera might hate him now that he cannot apologize to her. He thinks of how Aphrodite ripped his family apart, and he hasn’t spoken to or seen Rhadamanthys in thirty years. And Minos realizes the question he’s always asked of why kings go mad has an answer, staring him in the face this entire time, and he’s just now seeing it.

It isn’t too late. It can’t be too late. He takes in a breath and asks to see the child. It’s... kind of cute, actually. Half cow, of course, and most certainly a monster, but it’s a baby monster, and when he reaches to hold it like he would any other child of his, it reaches back for him. He half-expected it to bite, and it doesn’t. Really, it’s acting like any other child he’s ever seen.

He swore to Pasiphae he’d keep her safe from everything, and the only thing that would sunder him from her side was his kingdom. She understood his reasons and loved him anyway. A goddess of a woman, and he’d still choose his kingdom over her.

He loved his father, and he loved Rhadamanthys, and he had chosen his kingdom. He loved the gods, as all men did. But he loved his kingdom more. This child is a monster, and monsters need to be killed. Children need to be loved, and killing a child brings down the wrath of every god he knows the name of. He closes his eyes, and opens them again. He loves his kingdom more.

“His name is to be Asterius,” he says, thinking of his mortal stepfather, who loved him more than he loved the gods. “He is a blessing from Poseidon, and though he comes with the death of our queen, we will love him as the prince he is.”

The physicians stare at him as though he is already mad. The glint in his eye probably doesn’t help. They know his words are a lie, and so does he. But sometimes it’s lies that keep a kingdom together. Crete is confused, but rejoices nonetheless, and when Asterius is put to bed, he weeps where his children can see. When he’s done crying for Pasiphae’s loss, he collects himself, and tells his children what he knows, and admits he knows the gods are trying to kill him.

Ariadne puts her hand, calloused from her weaving, on his shoulder, and twisting a spindle of thread in her other hand, swears they’ll always find a way through the machinations of the gods. Minos nods and thanks her, and is comforted by this. The vow has magic to it, not that they realize it, yet. Androgeus twists his sheathed sword and tells him that he’ll go be a hero where he can’t hurt his family, so when the time comes, he will be king and give his father a better way out. Minos looks up at his son, who looks heartbreakingly like Rhadamanthys but with all of Miletos’ wit, and knows that when there is no other option, his son will kill him as a monster, and only his family will know any different, and he will save the kingdom.

Crete has always come first. But his children love him, for they have always seen the best of intentions and only just now do they begin to see the road to hell, and they understand his determination. Blood of a hero’s blood. And by Asterius, too, blood of a monster’s blood.

The kingdom rejoices. Asterius grows in royalty and plenty, knows nothing but kindness as Minos makes it clear anyone who treats him more different than necessary can find another kingdom to serve. He slides down polished palace floors into his stepfather’s arms and Minos laughs. He dares the gods in the silence of his own mind to shatter a bond so gentle and innocent as this.

He does not forget that the gods thrive on challenge, and on bleeding out the innocent. The first assassination attempt happens when Asterius is three. Minos has the man jailed, but released when he doesn’t remember anything and can’t tell him why he wanted the young prince dead so badly. After two more, Minos orders Daedalus to build Asterius a paradise where nobody can find him when he doesn’t want to be found, where he can’t be hurt by the sight of a knife and the fear of his family. Asterius is visited every day by his tutors, escorted by his siblings, and sees the outside world only when Minos is there to ensure his safety. He loves him, and he does not want to see his youngest son hurt.

When Asterius is seven, Androgeus goes to Athens to compete in a tournament. He does not return, murdered by his own fellows in envy for his skill. Minos taught him everything he knows about fighting, and in his rage, he conquers Athens (again) and demands a sacrifice every seven years of fourteen youths and Crete will do with the sacrifices as they will. He returns home to plan the funeral and weep, and Ariadne bars his way to the throne room and starts yelling at him, tears bleeding through her voice.

He realizes what he’s done, and the implications of his words. Now everyone thinks that he’s going to feed Athenians to Asterius, all except for those who are perfectly aware that Asterius is a vegetarian, and can’t really stomach meat anyway. He can’t exactly go back on his word, it shows weakness. Kings pay for their convictions, and Crete comes first.

When he can think straight, after crying some more, they hatch a plan. Really, Ariadne is the genius here. Minos is going to go mad no matter what they do. He will have to die a villain, though she fears that with Androgeus gone, she will have to kill her father in his stead. So she proposes hiding the sacrifices in the labyrinth, so Asterius can have friends for once, and when it is time for Minos to go, they will ‘resurrect’ the sacrifices, and show that Crete once more has the blessing of the gods. Minos starts to laugh, and he laughs until his laughter turns into sobs, and he holds his daughter while his family cries.

This is what it means to be king. Crete will always come first.

They manage fourteen years of sacrifices, twenty-eight friends for Asterius who are all relieved to not be dying, who are glad to know they do get to go home one day, and are perfectly happy to keep up with the con so long as they can have some fineries they’ve never been able to reach. Minos smiles and gets them what they’d like. He can’t give them freedom, but for now, he can give them a home.

Theseus is in the third group of sacrifices, and Minos doesn’t know he’s danger. Ariadne takes a shine to him, gives him her thread that she swore to her father would always find the way through the machinations of the gods. Like every weapon, it has a double edge. By giving it to her love, by letting Aphrodite in, she sacrifices Hera. She goes to her father and asks if there’s not a way they can put on a secret wedding, so that he can still walk her down the aisle, knowing he will not be able to live to see his son-in-law free. He agrees.

They never get that far. Daedalus is bitter from the loss of his son, a messy affair that could have been rectified if he’d only asked for his freedom for a while and had sworn to keep his king’s secrets that still keeps Minos awake, crying from all the mistakes he’s made and the fact that his wife will never be able to soothe him back to sleep, and he offers Theseus a faster deal. The red shine of Ares glitters in the young hero’s eyes. The king of Crete has gone mad, and he delights in drawing out the suffering of Athens. A hero must liberate them from the evil king.

Asterius enjoys swordplay, wants to honour his big brother, is delighted that Theseus can spar with him for a while. Theseus’ blade is much sharper than Asterius has ever remembered a blade being. He dies, and there is nothing anyone can do about it. Theseus grabs Ariadne, all but limp from the shock and the horror and the sudden, raw guilt of believing Theseus could love her and yet let him near her baby brother, and he runs. Daedalus opens their way, and knows exactly what he’s doing.

Minos is woken by his eldest, Catreus, who already knows what it is to be king, and he sends his father after not Theseus but Daedalus. The mastermind of the cruelty this day. Catreus orders Theseus found and brought to Crete for the crime of murdering a prince and kidnapping a princess. Minos takes up his blade and he runs after Daedalus.

He finds him not far from Sicily. It’s been months on the road, and he knows when he returns with the man’s head, he will have one night with his family, and Catreus will kill him with a kiss to the forehead and a sleeping poison to ensure it doesn’t hurt. Is it really so bad, then, that he draws it out? He wants justice for his son, he always has, but he also isn’t quite ready to say goodbye to the world, even though he knew it was coming for years. Even though he has made every preparation he can for the ending that’s inevitable. The gods win, but Crete will survive.

He wishes he could stop in Rhadamanthys’ kingdom, apologize to his brother for everything, see him one last time before he lets the gods win. He can’t. Daedalus ensnares King Cocalus’ three daughters, and when he finds him there, he accepts hospitality as one final thank you to the world. The bathwater is scalding. The princesses look at him like the monster he’s become to save them all.

Minos finds himself in the Underworld and he does not weep. Not yet. He’s still on a quest. It’s not over yet. Charon takes him to the judges’ hall, where Hades and Persephone look upon him, fascinated, tie him to a chair with chains, and ask for this story.

He tells them, and it’s not until Pasiphae’s death that he has to stop to take a breath, so the tears can fall. He chokes out the rest of the story, makes it to the end, and it’s beginning to set in that he doesn’t get to see Catreus again. He won’t see Ariadne brought home. He won’t get to tell his children that he loves them, that he’s proud of them.

Persephone fixes him with a stare so much like Pasiphae that he weeps stronger, and then forces himself to stop. When Pasiphae gives him that look, she wants him to listen, and when Persephone does it, it seems habits die long after he does. She asks him what he considers his single greatest mistake.

He’s blindsided by the question, but thinks. Starts to answer treating Athens with cruelty, pauses. He wants to make sure he gets this right. Takes a breath, and with more conviction, says that he didn’t treat Rhadamanthys and Poseidon with the same love he treated Zeus and Hera to. Persephone nods, expression stoic, and asks what his greatest achievement is.

He thinks of his love for his wife, and his kingdom. He admits that he wants to say it’s saving Crete, but it came with so much suffering that he isn’t sure it counts. And then he says that his greatest achievement is Asterius, who had everything stacked against him, but Minos loved him, and by the time of his death had never become a monster because Minos had saved him, and the only suffering there was that he would be missed and mourned by all of Crete.

Persephone smiles, just a little. She asks him one last question. If she could snap her fingers and he woke up just outside of Sicily in an inn with Daedalus dead and himself alive, would he ask her to? Would he go back?

He doesn’t need to think. Of course he would. He wants to see his remaining children. He wants to tell them that he loves them. He wants to give them a better ending to this chapter of their lives, even though he knows they’ll have to kill him for his crimes. It won’t do anything for him, not really. Not even for Crete. But he wants to save them, one last time.

She glances at Hades, who smiles for the first time since the trial began. He says that while he cannot give Minos what he deserves, not with his contemporaries so angry with him, he can offer him a choice so very few humans ever achieve. He can send him to another Underworld, held by different gods, and offer him paradise somewhere else. He will never see his family again, not even in death, but he will have a chance to rest, and celebrate, and be happy. Or, he can stay here. He can serve two gods who will never toy with his heart, so completely under their claim that no other god would dare reach for him again, wait for his family, and help them build a kingdom here.

Minos blinks. He isn’t going to be king, not here, not with Hades right there. But it’s a chance to start over, build a place of pride, and when his family returns to him, he can give them all they deserve.

He agrees enthusiastically. He would love to help. He likes building, loves seeing Crete in full festival and laughing. And it means he gets to see his family again.

A fish-god in a wheelchair and a tail for legs wheels themself forward with a metal griffon at their side, and says that the griffon will train him. This looks already better than anything Daedalus came up with, and he’s intrigued. He reaches out to the griffon to shake their paw, only to find that they are now armour, wrapped around him, wings and tassets and gauntlets and all. The Griffon Surplice laughs a little in his ear, their head his helmet and two minds right beside each other, and he smiles.

Hades welcomes his new Spectre, Griffon Minos, and Minos finds himself immediately slammed into by something twice his size. When he gets over his shock, he realizes he’s looking at Asterius, clad in green armour not all that different from his own, and he shines.

Asterius whoops that he knew Minos would stay, that he loves him, and that he thinks Minos has always been the best to him, and that while Pasiphae isn’t here, Androgeus is, and so is Rhadamanthys. Minos starts to cry again, but these are good tears.

He’s finally home.

[lihikainanea]

Tiger wants to make a gingerbread house together. But Bill won't stop sneak-eating all of her building ingredients. Gumdrops: half gone. Frosting: there's a suspicious sugary dollop on the corner of his mouth. And why is there a bite out of the roof???

oh my god, Bill with an insatiable sweet tooth is the stuff dreams are made out of. How adorable is that? He’s usually pretty healthy, those good old Swedish genes of lagom dictating everything he does. His meals are usually pretty balanced--always some vegetable, only a few carbs, lean meats. Tiger marvels at his breakfast of plain yogurt with some berries and muesli, and she marvels because it’s like....every morning. He just doesn’t get tired of it. He’ll switch it up on the weekends because he knows that she’s always game for a big brunch, which is harder to do when she works during the week. And let’s face it, if Bill doesn’t boil her two eggs and pack some crisp bread and cheese in her purse on her way out the door, then tiger either skips breakfast completely or she grabs a phenomenal bacon’egger at work and then feels terrible after.

And don’t kid yourself--tiger also mocks him endlessly. Because he tends to eat pretty healthy, but he still smokes and tiger thinks it’s just the biggest hypocrisy ever.

I digress.

But look, I love this idea that like, his one Achilles heel is absolutely his sweet tooth. And the more manufactured and chemical the sweets, the more he loves them. He loves tiger’s homemade cakes and cookies, for sure, but Bill has also been known to go through an entire thing of Oreos with a whole bag of milk. Passion Flakies? He’s done for. The Little Debbie oatmeal cream pies? The whole box is one serving. Candy? Oh god. Tiger loves gummy candy, but Bill just loves...candy. Period. He blames it on when he had braces for years as a teen, and so many things were off-limits for him. He was scarred by it, so now he indulges.

So tiger gets the little house that’s already made. And she gets all kinds of candy and tubes of frosting to decorate it with. After the debacle of last year, she thinks maybe just one house for both to decorate is a better idea. And she hides it from him, because he’s been working away on a script all week and she figures it would be a nice thing to do together once he finishes his last audition later on in the week.

But she hides it in plain sight, because to her--that’s brilliant. So in his little office in the back room of the apartment, she stashes the little treasure in the back of the closet on the floor.

Bill spends a peculiar amount of time not emerging from his office. Like, he’s in there for hours. When he emerges for dinner one evening, his kisses taste suspiciously like cherry liquorice.

“Gum,” he says with a shrug.

The next day, he emerges at lunch and his fingertips are stained green and red from the entire mountain of M&Ms he was shoving into his cheeks like a squirrel.

“Festive cigarette filters,” he tells her. She wrinkles her nose.

The next day, he kisses her hello and she swipes a sugary, granular substance from her mouth that rubbed off from his.

“....Meth?” he says unconvincingly.

“Bill.”

“Sorry, you’re high now,” he tries.

“Bill.”

“I bought gum drops,” he mumbles guiltily. She holds her hand out and he reaches into his pocket, plopping the leftover four in her hand.

But like, tiger should have clued in. She should have clued in a long time ago. And it’s only once he’s done his audition, once she’s poured him a stiff drink that she excitedly goes digging into the closet for her secret art project.

Except she grabs the bag, and it’s....empty. Not only is it empty, but the gingerbread house is all unwrapped and there’s literally a huge bite mark through the roof.

“BILL” she bellows, and by the time she whips the door open he’s already  making a run for it down the hallway.

“I have a problem tiger,” he yells desperately, “I’m sorry!”

[lo-55]

Shattered Chains of Fate Ch. 18

Water Fights and Yet More Strays

Ichigo eyed the water speculatively.

“I don’t like this,” he said loudly. Achilles, who was the one who had put him up to this in the first place, grinned like the asshole he was.

“Just try it. You never know, you might have an affinity for water magics.”

“I don’t think I have an affinity for  any magics, but whatever,” Ichigo grumbled.

“Who knows, maybe you have an affinity for Imaginary Numbers,” Cu suggested. Ichigo made a face.

“I still don’t understand how a number can even  be imaginary. It doesn’t make sense in math and it doesn’t make sense in mystic crap. How can anything squared be equal to negative one?!”

“And to think you once missed school,” Medusa teased.

Ichigo flipped her off without looking. They were gathered in the kitchen of his house, with Achilles sitting backwards in a chair while Medusa sat on the island and Cu leaned against the fridge. Ichigo stood above a sink filled with water, with a carefully drawn rune glowing faintly on the back of his left hand.

“Aren’t runes more germanic than greek? I don’t think-”

“Fucking do it already,” Achilles finally shoved his shoulder. Achilles’ orange scarf was draped across Ichigo’s shoulders again. It felt right to have it. He’d had it for the entirety of his last three singularities.

“How do you even know how to do this?” Ichigo grumbled, but dipped his hand in the water all the same. “I thought you were a fighter, not a mage.”

“My mother is a sea goddess,” Achilles reminds him. “Now go!”

Ichigo scowls fiercely but obediently pumps mana through the marking on the back of his hand.The water starts to glow around his hand softly, pale blue and growing brighter and brighter the more he pushed into it until it was borderline silver.

Slowly, Ichigo pulled his hand up, and brought a square of water with him. It shuddered and rippled before it starts sweating down the edges and the whole thing collapsed. It slammed into the basin. Ichigo jumped back with a startled shout.

Achilles howled with laughter while Ichigo glared at him, the whole front of his shirt soaked. Ichigo shoved his hand back into the water, shoved as much mana into it as he could and yanked his hand out and towards the Rider. The square exploded a second out of the water and pelted his servant mercilessly, sending the great hero shrieking and diving for cover.

Ichigo tried to keep a straight face, but when Achilles poked his head up from where he’d dived behind the island, his hair plastered to his skull and dripping water down his sharp cheeks, he cracked.

Ichigo grinned at him. “I don’t think I have an affinity, but you were right. It was fun.”

“I regret answering your summons,” Achilles lied. He stood slowly and grabbed a dish towel to try and dry his hair with.

“No, you don’t,” Ichigo said flatly.

“No, I don’t,” he agreed a second later. Achilles didn’t hold many grudges. At least not against Ichigo.

“You’re both clowns,” Medusa told them, shaking her head at them.

Ichigo subtly exchanged a loot with Achilles, who started to grin and turned away to hide it.

Ichigo turned around to the sink and started the water again. He made sure it was nice and cold before he picked up the spray hose and turned around.

Achilles shoved Medusa off her perch towards Ichigo just in time for him to pull the trigger and spray her straight on. Medusa screamed and threw her hands up to protect her face while her hair whipped out violently in hissing serpents.

Ichigo dove for Achilles, who grabbed him around the middle and shot out of the room with snakes hot on their heels. Ichigo gripped his shoulders tightly while Achilles spirited him away at high speeds into the other room.

They hid out behind the couch, waiting.

Medusa  was a creature of  vengeance. She would never stand for their sneak attack without retaliation.

Ichigo leaned against Achilles, his shoulders shaking with muffled laughter. “That was awful. She’s going to kill us.”

“It was totally worth it. Did you see her face?”

“I did. She looked like she was going to kill us.”

“Don’t worry master,” he patted his head. “I won’t let you die.”

Ichigo puffed at him. “I wonder what’s taking her so long.”

“You know, I have the strangest feeling I’m not gonna like the answer to that,” Achilles mused. He peeked over the back of the couch and paled. “Oh. I was right.”

Ichigo followed his example. Somehow, Medusa had enlisted Cu into helping her, and now each serpent in her hair was holding a ball of water with one of his runes in their mouths, like some horrifying gorgon water balloon launcher.

“Oh. Oh we’re dead.”

“Uh huh.”

The two looked at each other and booked it for the door. Ichigo shoved Achilles behind him, shouting, “Human shield!” and busted out into the sunlight just in time to get beaned in the back of the head with an absolutely freezing ball of water that sent him skidding face first across the grassy lawn.  

Ichigo spat grass out of his mouth and got up on his knees, water dripping down his orange hair. He shook himself out and sat back on his heels. Behind him he could hear the sounds of an war starting in his house.

Cu came wandering out a few minutes later, looking no worse for wear.

“I can’t believe you’re not getting involved in that,” Ichigo told him. Cu was usually always up for a good fight. The Caster shrugged.

“It seemed like more fun to come see you. I’m going fishing this afternoon.”

“That was a great non sequitur,” Ichigo said idly. Cu gave him a hand up and Ichigo brushed dirt off his shirt. He was a mess, wet and dirty and covered in grass stains. Yuzu was gonna have a fit.

“I’d like to come with, but I’m taking the girls over to Uryu’s this afternoon to start their training. He might not be able to use quincy powers anymore, but he can still see spirits, so he’ll be able to tell us if we’re doing something wrong.”

“Good luck,” Cu patted his shoulder. “You should get out of here before Medusa is done with Rider.”

Ichigo winced and agreed. Yeah, he really, really should.

“I’ll see you later,” he promised, and ran off before Medusa could come after him.

*

Ichigo didn’t like this.

In fact he hated this.

He wasn’t gonna kill a kid! But, this kid hadn’t just put people to sleep. This kid had actually killed people. A lot of people. Like the entirety of Scotland Yard. It was just… she seemed sad. Desperate and desolate. How could he tell Mash to kill her? How could he push his Mana into Mordred and support her swinging her sword at a little kid?

Ichigo wasn’t even mad at the girl.

He was mad at ‘P’.

The idea that he would sent a child to kill people on his behalf made Ichigo’s blood boil.

Which might have been why he did one of the dumbest things he’d done this year.

He launched himself past the the little Assassin and threw a vicious punch at the Caster.

It was a testament to Ichigo’s training, and a bigger testament to the Caster’s physical weakness, that his hit landed so hard it sent him stumbling back with a red cheek.

“Master!” Mash screamed from behind him.

“What’s wrong with you?!” Ichigo roared at him. “You’re over here bitching about the incineration of humanity, as if you’re not complacent in it? Aren’t you the one that ordered Jack to kill all those people? Haven’t you been here the whole time and you’re not doing anything about it?!”

P touched his cheek, his eyes wide and fixed on Ichigo.

“There’s nothing helping it. The incineration is inevitable, whether we do it or someone else does-”

“Shut the fuck up!” Ichigo snapped, lunging for him. A strong, armored arm wrapped around his middle and forcibly held him back. “You can’t say shit like that when you’re not even willing to step up and stop it! Aren’t you a heroic spirit? Doesn’t humanity mean anything to you? People are hurt, people are dying and losing loved ones and you’re responsible for part of it!”

Mordred grunted and dragged Ichigo back, kicking and screaming at P.

“How many people have died? How many kids have no parents? How many parents mourn their children because you won’t say enough?!”

“Master, please calm down!” Mash planted her shield in front of Ichigo so he couldn’t get past and attack him again, no matter how much he wanted to.

Jack, meanwhile, had stopped her attack to peer at Ichigo curiously.

He ignored her and favor of shouting at P further, until he finally teleported away like a coward.

They were left alone with Jack the Ripper, who hadn’t moved since Ichigo started yelling.

“You’re a very weird man,” Jack said. Her grip on her knife’s was loose.

Ichigo forced himself to calm in the face of the child. “I’ve been told worse.”

Jack approached, slowly, the fog growing thicker and thicker. This was different from the demonic fog. It tasted like despair. This was the same thick mist that had come to encompass them the last time they’d been pit against Jack. Ichigo shifted closer to Mash, touching her shoulder.

This wasn’t good. He couldn’t see Jack, or even Mordred anymore. He could barely see Mash and she was right next to him.

“Mash,” Ichigo said quietly. “This isn’t great.”

“I know. Just have faith, Master. No harm will come to you.”

Ichigo sighed. “I believe in you,” he promised. He touched her shoulder and pumped mana into her body.

Ichigo stayed as close by her as he could, but it was hard to see and it was hard to stick close when Mash had to move to swing her massive shield. There was a thin line between staying close and getting in the way, and Ichigo ended up stumbling back one step too far.

The mist closed in and he was alone.

He could hear the two girls he’s come with. Mash’s shouting, and Mordred's clinking armor, but he couldn’t see either one.

He could see the little girl that stepped out of the mist. Her hood was down. Her eyes were two different colors. Her face was covered in stitched tight scars and her hair was short and choppy. Jack. Everytime he lost sight of her, he forgot what she looked like.

Ichigo stared at her warily.

“Why were you so angry? About children without their parents?” she asked, her head tilted. “We don’t understand.”

“Because- Because kids shouldn’t have to lose their parents,” Ichigo said. What was going on? Why was she even interrogating him instead of attacking?

“Look,” he went on, “That P guy said you were looking for your mom, right? Maybe we can help you find her. And even if we can’t, we’re at least nicer people than that guy. Will you know. Morals.”

“We don’t care about morals,” Jack said quietly. “We just want to go back to where it’s warm. With our mommy. But she’s not here…”

“Hey,” Ichigo’s voice gentled. He slowly unbuttoned his jacket. This was probably the stupidest thing he could do but… “Come here,” he motioned to her.

The assassin walked closer to him, her mis-matched eyes looking up at him.

Ichigo carefully took her shoulders and pulled her against his chest. He closed his jacket around her shoulders.

“It’s not a mothers embrace, but it's warmer than the fog at least. Right?”

Maybe he was too soft for war. Maybe he was too gentle to be a proper magus. Maybe all those people frozen on ice in Chaldeas would have done better than he.

In the end it didn’t matter. Here, now, he wouldn’t fight this child. Not when her knifes tucked away and her fingers dug into his shirt. Not when she clung to little heat he could offer her.

The mist departed. The sorrow that swelled around them ebbed. Ichigo stood, for the second time in just as many days, with a little girl who had once tried to kill him in his arms.

He looked up in time to see Mordred and Mash look utterly exasperated. A man with dusty blond hair stared out at them from a window across the street. Ichigo blinked and he was gone.

* *

When Ryuken answered the door he didn’t look particularly happy to see Ichigo. Of course, he never looked particularly happy about anything at all.

Not that stopped Yuzu from bouncing cheerfully up to him.

She took his hand and dragged the poor man inside, already asking him questions about himself and his home.

Ichigo and Karin trailed after them, exchanging a glace. No one could resist Yuzu when she turned up the charm. Ryuken wouldn’t be any exception to the rule.

“I want to make it clear,” he said as he led them into the backyard, “That I don’t approve of what you children are doing. You would be better off if you focused on the living. Not the dead.”

“We’re doing this so we don’t die young,” Karin said bluntly.

Yuzu added, much softer, “And to be closer to Mom.”

Ichigo softened. Yeah. To be closer to mom. That was what this all circled back to in the end, wasn’t it? Ichigo had been nine when their mom had died. The girls were only five. Ichigo had four more years with her than either of the girls did.

For so long it had felt like he had robbed them of their time with her. He had stolen the sun out of their family when she died because of him.

Now, he knows a little better.

Grand Fisher had killed her. It wasn’t Ichigo’s fault. If Masaki, a fully trained Quincy, couldn’t take down the hollow then Ichigo, who couldn’t even form a bow, had no chance. He’d gotten his revenge. He’d killed the Grand Fisher when it showed up and came after his sisters.

Ichigo followed Ryuken and the girls into the backyard, where Uryu was waiting with a thin wooden box.

“I still don’t approved of this,” Ryuken said to all of them.

“We’re not asking for your approval. Or your permission.”

Sparks threatened the fly between the pair of them. Ichigo didn’t know the full story, but he knew there was a lot of tension between father and son.

Somehow there was less between the two of them now than there was between Ichigo and his own these days. Ichigo still wasn’t speaking to Isshin when he could help it, and Isshin hadn’t tried to start any new conversation with Ichigo either. It made the house tense and quiet for the first time in Ichigo’s life.

Ichigo walked up behind the girls while Ryuken left them alone with his son.

“Thanks for doing this, Uryu,” Ichigo offered him a smile. Uryu, who was much less surly than when they’d first met, merely huffed at him.

“Don’t thank me yet. This training isn’t easy, and you’re so old it’ll probably just be harder,” he warned. All three Kurosaki siblings just looked at him expectantly. Uryu sighed. He should know by now, once a Kurosaki has an idea in their head, there’s not changing it.

He turned to the wooden box and opened it up. He turned around and showed it to them. Inside were small pendants attached to short silver chains, like the one Uryu wore on his wrist at all times.

“These are Quincy crosses,” Uryu said. “They’re a tool for focusing spirit energy Quincy use them to help form bows. Each of you take one,” he instructed.

Both of the girls picked one with five points. Ichigo’s had eight.

“...My father probably won’t admit it, but he was the one who provided these for us. He said they belonged to your ancestors, and so they should return to you in turn. Or something like that.”

“I knew your dad liked me,” Ichigo grinned at him. Uryu rolled his eyes, but he was struggling to hide a smile.

“Uh huh. Okay girls, come over here and we’ll start practicing forming your bows. You’re going to draw the reishi from the area around you into your body and convert it into a bow in your hands.”

Yuzu raised her hand.

“Yes?”

“What’s reishi?”

Uryu shot Ichigo a glare. “Didn’t you tell them anything?”

“I’m not much of a teacher,” he shrugged casually. Uryu flipped him off when the girls were looking and started explaining things to them.

Ichigo watched, turning the quincy cross over in his fingers. Tensa had said that his quincy powers weren’t made for combat as much as his shinigami powers were. Yet Tensa himself took the shape of a sword.

There was something strange with Ichigo’s quincy powers. He knew that much. So for now he left that to the girls.

* * *

“At this rate,” Jekyll says with no small degree of fondness, “Even I will run out of space to house everyone.”

“Sorry,” Ichigo says, even though he isn’t. “At least it looks like the authors are going to be cooped up in the same room?”

“If we’re lucky,” Mordred pipes up from halfway up the stairs. Fran, a step ahead of her, nods in quick agreement.

“You have the most horrible habit of befriending people who try to kill you, did you know?” Jekyll asks redundantly. Ichigo rubs the back of his neck and looks away.

“It’s not my fault!”

“Of course,” Jekyll says sagely, “You’re accidentally charismatic.”

“Yes! Exactly! Only I’m not that charismatic. I just… I dunno. I treat people like they’re people.”

Jekyll’s eyes softened. “Sometimes that’s more than enough to make friend.”

“I know,” Ichigo does. “That’s just sad.”

“But it is effective.”

“I guess,” Ichigo shrugs. “It worked on Jack, Alice…Hyde.”

Jekyll’s shoulders tense at the mention of his darker side. Ichigo nudges him lightly.

“Don’t look like that. He’s a degenerate and an asshole, but he hasn’t hurt me any.”

“ Yet ,” Jekyll says quickly. “You have to be careful with him, Ichigo. He’s not a safe person to be around.”

“A lot of people I hang around aren’t. Heroes and villains seem to flock to me.”

“Hyde is different. He has no morals to speak of. He’s violent and atrocious, and he’d as soon kill you as look at you.”

“Yeah. But he’s also protected me at least once,” even if he did hold a knife to Ichigo right after… “Don’t worry about it, Jekyll.”

“Easy for you to say,” Jekyll lamented. “You take so few things seriously, Ichigo, I don’t understand. The world is literally on your shoulders, but when it comes time to fight you’re as relaxed as Mordred is!”

“I dunno. Experience does that to you, I guess. If I worked in a lab and I tended to light things on fire I’d probably stop freaking out every time I saw a fire, too. It’s like that. Just a little more dangerous.”

Yeah, just a little.

Jekyll looks incredulously at him, but he gives up fighting Ichigo, who is apparently insane.

* * * *

It takes him all of five second to realize that Shinji is shanghai-ing him right in the middle of the day.

It started innocent enough. ‘Let’s eat lunch together’. Fine, they’ve had lunch together before. And Shinji still hasn’t stopped coming to his school for one reason or another. He can’t tell you why it’s just a fact. Even though their business should be concluded, Shinji still looks at Ichigo like he’s a crying statue sometimes, when he isn’t pretending to be a bizarre but friendly young man.

So Ichigo agrees. Only Shinji decides that they’re going to get lunch off campus, and drags Ichigo away by his arms, willingly or unwillingly.

When his three servants fall into step around them Shinji looks only mildly miffed.

“Can’t a man get some privacy around here?” Shinji asks irritably.

“Not until we know your intentions for our ma-” a vicious glare from Ichigo has Achilles changing words last second, “-an. Our man.”

“Your man?” Shinji looks over the three. Even though Cu and Achilles are rather laid back in general they don’t laugh or dispute the claim. It’s the truth. Ichigo is theirs, whether he likes it or not. They all know this.

“Did I stutter?”

“...Ya really know how to pick ‘em, huh Ichigo?”

“I have impeccable taste,” Ichigo says firmly. He doesn’t shake Shinji off, or order his servants to attack and free him. Not that he’d need to. Shinji can probably beat him in a serious fight, but that’s not what this is.

This is just a mild kidnapping, thats all.

They make their way down to the docs, where Ichigo is escorted into a warehouse.

It smells like food, cologne, and cleaning supplies.

It’s set up like a house, almost. Ichigo catches sight of a comfortably sitting area, an elevated kitchenette up on a ledge. There are people here. Powerful people, and Ichigo will put money on them being Vizard.

Ichigo ducks when a sandals foot launches itself at Shinji’s face.

“Why did you bring so many people here? Idiot?!”

Ichigo watches Shinji go flying. A young girl, or maybe an old one, lands next to him. She looks wild, nearly feral. Ichigo winces minutely in sympathy before deciding that no. Shinji deserves a sandal to his face.

Ichigo snickers at his misfortune before the girl turns her sights on Ichigo.

“You!” she shouts, pointing at him. “You’re the one that thinks he has a handle on his hollow?”

Thinks? Ichigo is getting really sick of this. He can feel his eye brow starting to twitch in irritation. What’s with these people thinking that he doesn’t know his own mind? Why are they all so sure they’re right?

If it wasn’t such a bad habit to get into, Ichigo would just start stabbing people who started this shit.

“Are we still doing this?” he asks irritably. “Because I’m done with this shit. I’m seriously done. I’m not gonna spend my whole life proving my sanity to you people. I’ve got better things to do. Like going to school. Where we both should be, Hirako,” he shoots a pointed glare at Shinji.

Shinji sat up, nursing his bloody nose.

“Hey, hey, it’s not like I actually need to go to human school.”

“Then you’re just there to hang out with teenagers? That’s so creepy. What kind of pervert are you?” Ichigo asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What is this, bully Shinji day?” Shinji complained loudly. Ichigo ignored him entirely because all of a sudden the girl was throwing herself at him, a sword drawn.

And Ichigo, stuck in his human body, prepared to counter without a single weapon.

He needn’t have bothered. As soon as she was in the air chains snaked out of nowhere and she was slammed bodily into the ground hard enough to crack the cement.

“Now that was just rude,” Medusa said, prowling forwards slowly. Her eyes glinted dangerously.

Cu and Achilles appeared on either side of Ichigo, a staff and spear in hand respectively.

“What the hell-”

“Sneak attacks are unbefitting, especially towards someone as straight forwards as Ichigo Kurosaki is,” Medusa went on, her heels glittering. Ichigo was aware of other people dropped down around them, swords equally in hand.

Ichigo lifted his hand and touched Medusa’s shoulder.

“Easy. That was hardly a sneak attack. Besides, this is a fight for me. Not for you. If she’s so desperate to see what I can do, how can I refuse?”

Ichigo can see the predatory smile creeping over his face in the reflection of one of the men’s sunglasses.

* * * * *

Dull teal eyes look into the depth of the void. A hulking figure stands beside him, and another man stands at the side of the split between worlds.

“Don’t forget,” he says in a voice like velvet. “No matter what happens, you must not kill the boy. Maim him if you please, fight to your own content, but if he dies so too will you.”

“Understood,” says the shorter of the pair. The massive man merely grunts.

“As long as I can get something to eat while we’re there. There’s gotta be a few strong souls there, right?”

“Be quiet,” his companion scolds him. “We will do as we are told.” He bows shortly, and the pair step into the darkness, out of the chalk white city.

* * * * * *

[autolovecraft]

Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch.

The tower at length finished, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought!

That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was not far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly. The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him. At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb. An eye for an eye!

The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him.

He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you got what you deserved. In this twilight too, he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep. Over the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications.

He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. The tower at length finished, and his aching arms rested by a pause during which he sat on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles.

Over the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here. Over the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things.

The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he vaguely wished it would stop. When Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that.

He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste. He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself.

But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago.

At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought! The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. Why did you do it, Birch? In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. Davis. To him Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the enlarged transom; but he could do better with four. It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. Why did you do it, Birch? He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought! He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. Perhaps he screamed. There was evidently, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. To him Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the way in his quest for the Fenner casket. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. I knew his teeth, with the front ones missing on the upper jaw—never, for God's sake, show those wounds! He would have given much for a lantern or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last.

[aidanchaser]

A Game of Scars and Secrets

a story about Cedric Diggory & Christian Thelborne part of the Everyone Lives AU TW; suicide, traumatic transition

Rating: M - explicit sexual content censored to comply with Tumblr’s ToS. Find the full fic on Ao3 Word Count: 7060

You are absent of cause / Or excuse / So self-indulgent / And self-referential / No audience could ever want you - Achilles, Gang of Youths

It was a cold, wet twenty-seventh of February when Christian Thelborne and Cedric Diggory found themselves tucked between two London shops with their lips pressed against each other’s in pursuit of warmth and comfort.

They’d made several attempts to spend at least one afternoon together for Valentine’s Day, but two overworked Ministry employees had little time for themselves, let alone for each other. It didn’t help that Cedric had business for the Order on top of his Auror training, which was much less training and a lot more field experience as the days went on. Finally, they’d managed a miracle where they had a few hours with each other before Cedric was expected to report to Williamson for another dull and irritating shift at Styncon Gardon.

Cedric and Christian talked about work less and less these days. The trouble had started after their New Year’s kiss — which hadn’t taken place until the fifth of January, but they’d made sure it happened at midnight regardless — when Cedric had complained about the latest shift addition to his and Williamson’s rotation.

“I don’t understand the problem,” Christian had said. “It sounds easy; can’t imagine there’s much trouble at the Potters’ place, with all the security they have.”

“That is the trouble,” Cedric had answered. “I don’t feel like we’re there to protect them. We’re there to spy on them. And I like them a lot. Harry’s a friend, and I’ve always respected Mrs Potter. You had her for Defense, too, didn’t you?”

Christian had nodded. “I had her and Lupin for my N.E.W.T.s. She’s the one who convinced me I could be an Auror if I wanted. It just sounds to me like if you admire them so much, isn’t that another reason to protect them? I don’t buy this ‘Chosen One’ rubbish, but I wouldn’t put it past Death Eaters to hurt them regardless.”

Because for Christian, the war was Good Wizards against Death Eaters. Cedric did not know how to make him understand it wasn’t that simple, and that the Ministry didn’t always have the people’s best interest at heart.

Cedric knew it wasn’t Christian’s fault. Christian had been born into a wizarding family that held some renown, not unlike the Diggory family. Cedric’s family had served in the Ministry for generations, and Christian’s had the legacy of his great-grandfather’s service in the war against Grindelwald. They had each grown up with aspirations to follow in their fathers’ footsteps. Cedric had wanted to pursue a career with Magical Beasts; Christian had wanted to become a professional duelist. They’d both changed their path to pursue an Aurorship instead, and despite being younger, and making the more drastic career change, Cedric had gotten what Christian had not.

Christian blamed Scrimgeour for this, rightfully so, but Christian also saw Scrimgeour as an excellent leader, who had guided the Auror Department well in the years between wars, and respected Scrimgeour’s decision to make Cedric an Auror, however begrudgingly. And the promotion to Squadron Captain had helped.

What Christian did not see — and could not understand — was what Cedric had seen and experienced under Umbridge. Umbridge represented so much of the Ministry to Cedric, and even though Cedric had told Harry he didn’t mind working for the Ministry, he minded quite a lot. He simply tolerated it because it made him better equipped to face Voldemort again, and made him of better use to the Order. Christian was never going to understand why Cedric was so bitter about so many of Scrimgeour’s orders, and Cedric could not explain it. Each time he tried to explain himself, he became too anxious, too aggressive. Words didn’t seem to form in the correct order, not in a way that made sense. It was all too difficult to put together — unless Cedric could be vulnerable in a way he wasn’t entirely ready for.

Christian’s kiss moved, as it had so many times before, to Cedric’s throat, pushing past Cedric’s scarf. Cedric pulled away.

“Not today,” he whispered. “Please — I have to go to work in a few hours. And the Potters know me; they’re much harder to lie to.”

Christian’s green eyes glinted mischievously in a way that made Cedric’s heart stutter. Cedric didn’t know if it was elf-blood or just Christian, but that mischief was always irresistible. “My sister’s visiting our parents today. Our flat is empty.”

Cedric swallowed. Their kisses, as passionate as they’d been, had been nothing more for the last six months. Cedric still lived with his parents, and Christian shared a flat in London with his sister. They hadn’t had a place to go — until now.

“You didn’t think to mention this when we planned our day together?”

“I wanted to surprise you. Is it a good surprise?”

“Yeah,” Cedric tried to smile, because it was a good surprise. It was a wonderful thought that they could have a quiet space to be alone together. He was, however, very nervous as Christian took his hands and Apparated the two of them into a small London flat.

Cedric had been with partners before. He and his first girlfriend Jamie Nettles had given each other handjobs in the Quidditch changing room, but always clothed, and often little more than very aggressive makeout sessions and lots of rutting. They’d been fourteen, then, and hadn’t known much better. A year later, Cedric gave Summerby a blow job, also in the Quidditch changing room, but they’d never done anything more than that, had never even gone on a proper date. And once, Cedric had gone down on Cho Chang, but it had been awkward and they’d never tried it again. With all that limited experience, Cedric didn’t feel especially confident as Christian left their coats and scarves at the entrance and pulled Cedric past the dining-and-kitchen combination room, back to the only bedroom in his and his sister’s flat.

Cedric thought that a twin bed, at least, would be more comfortable than a Quidditch changing room, and of course there was far less anxiety about getting caught.

The two twin beds were shoved against the walls of a bedroom that was hardly bigger than Cedric’s bedroom at home. Christian and Anne had split the space in half, with a trunk each at the foot of their bed and a wardrobe on the other side of the room. They had little more space to themselves than they must’ve had in their Hogwarts’ dormitories.

The decor, at least, was different. The bedspreads on both beds were worn and faded, as if they were as old as Anne and Christian. Anne’s side of the bedroom was decorated in photographs of friends, notes in tight scribbles pinned over the bed, and books and jars of herbs stacked on her trunk. Christian’s side was sparse, orderly. There were neat stacks of parchment and envelopes on top of the trunk, and on the bedside table was a small glass bottle that Cedric recognized. He had one by his bed, and he had bought one for Harry two Christmases past: a small bottle of eucalyptus and mint oil, meant to aid with sleep.

“Your place is nice,” Cedric said, as Christian pulled him towards the bed.

Christian made a face. “I know it’s small; you don’t have to pretend. But my sister and I always shared a room at home, and one bedroom is cheaper than two. She can’t afford to live on her own just yet, so the rent’s all me.”

“Muggle landlord?”

Christian nodded. He took a seat on the bed and pulled Cedric’s hands to his hips. “So spells to make the space bigger are out of the question, unless we want to constantly worry about Obliviating her. But it’s alright. We make do. Now can we please stop talking about my flat and get back to you kissing me?”

Cedric had hoped to stall a little longer, but he obliged, and leaned forward to kiss Christian. Christian fisted his hands in Cedric’s jumper and pulled him down onto the bed. Cedric had barely caught his balance, hands landing on either side of Christian’s shoulders, when Christian tried to pull the jumper over Cedric’s head.

“Maybe you should’ve let me do this while I was on my feet,” Cedric grunted, getting his knees onto the bed so he could sit up and pull off his jumper and t-shirt.

“I wanted to see it from this angle,” Christian said with that mischievous grin.

Cedric hid his blush by pulling his jumper and shirt over his head in a single flourish, and prayed the color wouldn’t spread down his chest. He tossed the clothes onto the floor and leaned back down over Christian. “Worth it?”

“Absolutely.” Christian lifted his head to kiss him again, and began undoing the buttons on his own shirt as he did.

Cedric sat back up. “Why don’t I get a view?”

Christian made a face, not unlike the one he’d made when Cedric had complimented the apartment. “Not much here to see. Come on, you’ve got to meet Williamson, and I’m not letting you out of here until I’m satisfied.”

Cedric knew misdirection; he was an expert at it. “Christian — you invited me here. If you’re not comfortable —”

Christian grunted and rolled his eyes. “It’s fine, I just didn’t want to spoil the mood.” He wriggled back a bit, to give himself some space between him and Cedric, and sat up to pull his shirt off, revealing several scars marring his chest. They were not unlike the thin white scar that ran the length of Cedric’s forearm, except that there were many of them.

Cedric placed his hand against Christian’s chest and brushed his thumb along the line of one of the scars. “Can I ask what happened?”

“I was sixteen and I was tired of having breasts. Thought I could do it myself, but, well — Dad took me to St. Mungo’s and had a Healer fix me up as best as she could.”

“Why did you… Why didn’t you say anything to someone first?”

Christian shrugged. “I know you and I haven’t known each other a year yet, but I think we’re a bit similar in that way.”

Cedric remembered his silence about his nightmares, his hesitation to tell his parents about his decision to become an Auror. He had never once doubted their love, but he hadn’t wanted to worry them.

“I know you and I don’t like asking for help,” Cedric agreed, “but I can’t imagine trying something like this on myself — while a student —”

“You fought You-Know-Who and a dragon when you were sixteen —”

“Seventeen.”

“— so I don’t want to hear it. Can we just get back to the kissing bit?” Christian whined.

It was funny how the stubbornness Cedric had always admired in Harry was so frustrating in Christian.

“I’ll trade you one secret for another,” Cedric offered.

Christian raised an eyebrow, enticed by the offer. “Alright. I told you about my chest scar, tell me about yours.” He pressed his hand against the discolored patch of skin on Cedric’s shoulder that spread from elbow all the way to his nipple.

“That one was the dragon,” Cedric said.

Christian frowned. “That’s not a secret,” he complained, but seemed to accept he’d lost a gamble. He did not press with a different question; he surged forward for another kiss.

Christian ran his thumb over Cedric’s nipple and Cedric was surprised when his spine seemed to tingle in response. Christian did it again and Cedric barely restrained a whine. He felt Christian smile against the kiss and brush over it again, this time rolling his thumb around the sensitive patch of skin.

Christian moved his mouth to Cedric’s neck and down to his collarbone.

“Christian,” Cedric murmured, “if we stay like this much longer, I’m going to fall off.”

Cedric had his knees on the bed, but it wasn’t a very large bed, and if Christian kept pushing against him, he was going to get pushed right off.

Reluctantly, Christian pulled away. “Alright, then, lay down.”

The thought made Cedric dizzy with both excitement and anxiety. “We don’t have —”

But Christian misunderstood his hesitation. “I have condoms. It was my surprise after all. Besides, I’m not going to ride you — just let me suck you off, alright?”

Cedric had not realized just how sexy crudeness could be, but it twisted his gut into a knot of excitement and arousal as easily as Christian’s kisses did. Cedric had always tried to be polite and romantic with his partners, but with Christian, everything was so rough and unpolished. Maybe that was why Cedric’s experiences had always been so awkward. He’d been afraid to be direct. Christian did not have that hesitation, and Cedric found the confidence incredibly attractive.

Cedric unbuckled his trousers, but before he could pull them off, Christian tightened his hands around his wrist.

“Socks first,” Christian said. “Haven’t you done this before?”

“I mean — sort of. Didn’t realize there was an order to undressing.”

“It’s a very important order. But I need to know — am I about to be your first blow job?”

“I’ve given one before.”

“Merlin, you’re telling me no one’s ever sucked off Cedric Diggory, Quidditch Captain and Triwizard Champion? Don’t you get up to anything down in the Hufflepuff dormitory?”

Cedric pulled off his socks. “Apparently all the action is in Gryffindor Tower.”

“I suppose I did have the benefit of being the only boy in the girls’ dormitory, and access to the boys’ dormitory whenever I wanted.”

“You stayed in the girls’ dormitory? Even after….” But Cedric did not have the vocabulary to describe Christian’s change in gender. He was not sure how to ask his question.

Christian didn’t seem to mind. “Sure. They were my mates. It was my room. Wasn’t going to change my whole life just because I cut off my breasts and my hair. I was still me, I just wasn’t getting scolded for wearing trousers anymore.”

“And you just, what, kipped in the boys’ dormitory when you felt like it?”

“I spent a few nights in Scott Arbor’s bed, yeah.”

“But you were a prefect!”

“Yeah, Weasley gave me hell for it, too.” He shrugged. “Only made me do it more. Eventually I made a deal with Wood so I could hide in his bed if I needed to dodge Weasley, as long as I didn’t keep him up before Quidditch practice and games.” Christian grinned. “So come on,” he patted the bed, “that’s my CV, so you know your first blow’ll be excellent.”

Cedric shook his head, bewildered by the amount of mischief one person could get into. He was distracted enough that it wasn’t quite as uncomfortable as it might’ve been to drop his pants in front of a partner for the very first time.

Christian did not comment, but did nod appreciatively as Cedric laid down on top of Christian’s bed. It was compliment enough.

Christian crawled on top of Cedric for another kiss. Cedric put a hand on Christian’s hip and hooked his thumb into the belt loop of his trousers.

“What about —” He was forced to paused as Christian kissed him. “— yours?” he mumbled into Christian’s mouth.

Christian wrapped a hand around Cedric’s half-hard cock and twisted. Cedric’s breath hitched in his throat and he wondered if Christian was intentionally dodging the question or if he’d asked it too quietly. He thought he knew Christian well enough to know which it was.

Cedric broke their kiss and pressed his lips against Christian’s ear. “I don’t mind either way,” he murmured.

Christian sighed, breath falling hot and wet into the crook of Cedric’s neck. His hands undid his belt and he kicked off his trousers with a little effort. “The pants stay on,” he grunted.

“Do you think I’ll be bothered?”

Christian would not lift his head to meet Cedric’s eyes. “It’s not for you.”

“Okay.” Cedric slipped his hand into Christian’s blonde curls and pulled him into a kiss. Christian slid his hands up Cedric’s chest. His hands paused their journey to give Cedric’s nipples a firm rub. Cedric felt that mischievous smile again as he keened into Christian’s mouth. Then Christian’s hands continued upward, sliding along Cedric’s arms, pulling them over Cedric’s head, and eventually pinning Cedric’s wrists against the headboard.

Christian broke the kiss and Cedric struggled to bring those intense green eyes back into focus.

“Do I get a question now?” Christian asked.

“What?”

“You asked about the pants. Do I get a question now?”

Cedric considered. He had not thought asking Christian to remove his trousers would lead to an especially personal secret, but he supposed it had at least brushed against one. Besides, it wasn’t exactly fair that Christian’s first question had been about a scar he’d gotten in a public, international competition.

“Sure,” Cedric said.

Christian loosened his grip on Cedric’s right hand and followed the long white scar that ran from Cedric’s wrist to the crook of his elbow. “Tell me about this one.”

Cedric’s gut twisted, but there was no pleasure to war with his anxiety this time. “A Death Eater,” he said. “In the Department of Mysteries.” Cedric wondered how much detail Christian expected from him. “I was Silenced and couldn’t cast well. The Death Eaters captured me, and Pyrites tortured me to try to get Harry Potter to…” But he stopped. No one was supposed to know about the prophecy, certainly not someone so attached to the Ministry.

Christian took Cedric’s lack of words for emotional intensity and pulled his hand away. “I’m sorry.” And he really did look sorry he’d asked.

“Kiss me again?”

Christian did. His hands went back down Cedric’s hips, where one held him steady and the other slid along the length of his cock. Cedric moaned into Christian’s mouth, then whined as Christian slipped his hand over his balls and rubbed against the slender strip of skin before his ass.

Cedric had never had the opportunity to appreciate having a partner who knew what they were doing before, and he was quite grateful for it now. Christian brought his hand back over Cedric’s cock and rubbed the tip with his thumb, then wrapped his hand around it once more and rubbed, twisting his wrist as he pushed down. Cedric jerked his hips up into Christian’s hand and bit back a needy whine as Christian pulled away.

“You’re exceptionally quiet,” Christian laughed, and reached over Cedric to dig in the drawer of the bedside table.

“Sorry?”

“Just thinking that maybe I could sneak you over with Anne here.” Christian pulled out a condom and closed the drawer.

Cedric squirmed underneath Christian. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

Christian laughed as he opened up the small package. “You’re too goddamn polite.”

“My apologies.” Cedric grinned.

Christian shook his head with a snort. “I assumed you’d had a blow job before, but since you haven’t, I feel I ought to ask: have you ever put a condom on before?”

“Er — no, can’t say I have.”

“Merlin, don’t they give ‘Puffs the talk?”

“Oh, shut up, like you had McGonagall brief you on the finer points of intercourse.”

“No, thank goodness. Could you imagine?”

“Please — you only just got me hard. Don’t ask me to imagine McGonagall right now.”

Christian laughed and unrolled the condom over Cedric’s cock with a few well-practiced hand thrusts.

“Is it supposed to be that tight?” Cedric asked.

“Don’t give me that hippogriff shit.”

Cedric grinned, then winced as Christian pinched the inside of his thigh. And then all pain was forgotten as Christian licked the length of Cedric’s cock, from base to tip. It felt different than the hand, and he knew that barrier made by the condom reduced some of the sensitivity, but he wasn’t about to complain.

Then Christian put his mouth around Cedric’s cock, and the drag of his tongue and his cheeks had Cedric’s back arching. Cedric quickly put his wrist into his mouth to stifle the moan that forced its way out of his chest. His lungs were no longer working properly, or maybe he had forgotten how to breathe. Cedric had never let anyone see him this way. He had never let anyone else see him this vulnerable.

The reason he’d been the one to go down on Summerby and Cho was because Cedric was, on one hand, a giver. He gave to his partners and did not like to ask anything of them. On the other hand, Cedric did not often allow people this close. He and Christian were too similar in both those aspects. They did not like to ask of others. They did not like to let other people see them weak.

Not that Cedric felt weak, exactly, as Christian’s head bobbed over his cock. But he found himself unable to hold onto his own thoughts. He was unable to hold back whines and whimpers, and did not have the will to do much other than bite down on his wrist and let Christian work him through an orgasm. It was a hard place for someone who had spent the past year on alert for an attack.

And then, with a half-strangled moan, Cedric came. Christian hummed appreciatively, and fumbled through their clothes on the floor for his wand. He used it to safely Vanish the used condom and the mess, then curled himself next to Cedric.

“How was it?” he asked, his impish grin still plastered on his face.

“Fantastic,” Cedric breathed. “Thank you. And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“You said I’m not leaving until you’re satisfied.”

“Ah, I think I got what I came for. You’ve got to get to work. Don’t let me keep you.”

“Work can wait.” Cedric kissed Christian, and could feel Christian’s disinterest. They’d exchanged enough passionate kisses that Cedric knew when the passion was missing.

“Why won’t you let me return your favor?”

“I said the pants stay on,” Christian grunted.

“That’s alright. I’ve probably got more experience with pants on than off.”

Christian rolled his eyes. “Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not. I mean it.”

Christian sat up and ran his hands through his hair. “Why do you have to be so good all the time, Cedric?”

Cedric sat up and pressed his lips against Christian’s shoulder in a gentle kiss. “The same reason you do. Please don’t make me leave without leaving you with something to remember me by.”

It was stupid, and cheesy, and deserved the derisive snort Christian gave it. Still, Cedric ran his hands over Christian’s hips. He did not take them any lower; he waited for permission.

“You’ve done this part before?” Christian asked.

“With hand and mouth. Which do you prefer?” Cedric rested his chin on Christian’s shoulder and watched Christian close his eyes. He seemed to be steeling himself.

Then Christian put his hand on Cedric’s, and guided him down, to Christian’s pants. He did not guide Cedric’s hand beneath the waistband, however, and Cedric did not press him to. Instead, he kissed Christian’s neck as a show of gratitude, then rubbed his hand over the front of Christian’s pants.

Cedric, for his lack of experience with himself, knew this part well. There wasn’t a terrible amount of technique in jerking off someone who was already rutting into his hand, but he gave it his best effort. He pressed with two fingers and pulled them back and forth, lazily at first, then increasing his speed. When Christian started to buck his hips, Cedric used his other hand to hold Christian still.

“Let me do this,” he murmured into Christian’s neck, and with a reluctant moan, Christian stilled and tipped his head back against Cedric’s shoulder.

Cedric rubbed Christian’s soaked pants through a full orgasm — Christian went stiff as a board for a moment, lungs and all, then let out a shuddering breath — and Cedric kept going. Christian let him for a moment, then moaned when Cedric still did not let up.

“Ced — come on —”

Cedric kissed his neck again, but did not stop until Christian shuddered and grabbed his wrist.

“Enough, please,” Christian begged, grabbing Cedric’s wrists. “You’re just being unfair now.”

Cedric buried his smile in crook of Christian’s neck. “Thank you for this surprise today,” he said. “It really was nice.”

“Next time my sister’s out, I’m stealing you away, Williamson or no.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t mind.”

Cedric closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment of rest as Christian ran his thumb over the back of Cedric’s hand. He wondered vaguely what time it was, and how long he had until he needed to be at the Ministry, but that seemed like a distant worry. The thing he cared about most was right here, curled up in his arms. He didn’t even realize Christian was rubbing the white scars on the back of his hand until Christian stopped.

“Are these runes?” Christian asked.

Cedric’s heart skipped a beat. “Are what runes?” he asked, hoping Christian might be talking about something else entirely.

“These scars on your hand. They look like… letters maybe? I can’t make it out.”

“It’s nothing.” Cedric pulled his hands out of Christian’s grip and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I should probably go.”

“Ced — wait.”

Cedric did not wait. He reached for his pants and trousers.

“Don’t do this — you always do this,” Christian reached for Cedric’s arm.

Cedric did pause for that. “What do you mean I always do this? This was our first time —”

“We’re having a great moment, and then you get all irritable for no reason —”

“No reason? What are you —”

“Remember our last date? End of January, I said, ‘The Ministry’s considering allowing us to use Unforgivables to help catch Death Eaters’ and you just up and left, muttering something about work. And then there was the time on Christmas Eve, when you didn’t like that I said something about a crackdown on Dark creatures, so you just made some excuse about going to your Mum and left. And now this, because I asked about some runes on your hand. I’m an expert at diversion, too. So stop giving me this hippogriff shit and ruining what should’ve been a good time. If you can't talk about something you have to at least tell me that.”

Cedric let his pants fall back to the floor and buried his face into his hands. His heart was racing against his chest, pounding so hard against his ribs he thought it might burst out of him. He wondered how Christian couldn’t hear it.

He wanted to tell Christian everything, but everything was wrapped up in too many secrets that were not his to tell. He also thought that leaving now was a softer way of ruining their good time than if he actually did take the time to be honest about all of this with Christian.

“A question for a question,” Cedric finally grunted. “What’s your first question?”

Christian did not hesitate. “What are those marks on the back of your hand?”

Cedric wished Christian had given the question a bit more consideration, but he was grateful that Christian had chosen the easiest of the three issues that had been brought up. Perhaps not the easiest for Cedric to think about, but it was the one issue not wrapped up in the secrets of others.

“They’re from Umbridge,” Cedric said into his hands. “She gave me detention for my interview with Rita Skeeter, for telling people that Voldemort had returned. Detention with her was lines, except the lines get writ into the back of your hand. It used to say ‘I must not tell lies,’ but it’s faded a bit. Harry’s is still legible.”

“Umbridge? No way. She’s all pink and bubbly. I don’t care for the woman, but I can’t picture her doing something like that to students.”

Cedric was suddenly overcome with a wave of exhaustion. He wasn’t even angry with Christian for not understanding; he had expected it. Instead, he was simply tired from taking the risk of jumping only to find there was no net to catch him. This is why he didn't jump very often. He reached for his trousers.

“You’re not going to ask me a question?”

“I’ll save it for next time.”

“That wasn’t the point of this. The point was to keep you from storming off.”

“I’m not storming off, Christian. I’m not even upset.” Cedric pulled on his trousers and fastened the belt buckle.

“Yes, you are. I get like this when I’m upset with Anne, so I know you’re upset with me. What did I do?”

“Nothing,” Cedric said, because it was the honest truth. Christian had done nothing. He had not even made an attempt to understand why the scars bothered Cedric. He was clever as they came, but stubborn as a mule.

“Don't do this.”

“What do you want?” Cedric sighed. “I let you ask a question, and you didn't like the answer. I can't give you any more than that.”

“Who said I didn't like the answer?”

“You did when you said you didn't believe me.”

“I just said it's hard to imagine. You're twisting my words.”

Cedric pulled on his jumper, wishing for all the world there was a spell to make Christian understand. There was no way to explain what it was like to have a teacher, someone who was supposed to be trustworthy, hurt you, knowing you were powerless to stop her.

“Then I've no reason to be upset.” Cedric sat down on the edge of the bed to pull his shoes and socks back on, but he knew it was a mistake as soon as he touched the mattress.

Christian wrapped his arms around Cedric’s chest and leaned against him. “You've got hours yet. Ask me a question.”

Cedric considered fighting his way out of Christian’s hold, but he knew that would only make this worse. He also considered asking the most pointed, barbed question he could think of, but that would not help, either. He settled on something he’d been wondering for a while, but had never thought it appropriate to ask. That was the spirit of the game after all, wasn’t it?

He did not lift his head or lean back against Christian, but he asked, “When did you know you wanted to be Christian?”

“What, my name? Or the whole thing?”

“The… whole thing I guess?”

Christian hummed, which Cedric took as a good sign. He was considering the question readily; it wasn’t a topic Christian wanted to avoid. Maybe they could get this over with easily and move on, and Cedric would go to the Potters and pretend it was fine, and if he was lucky, James and Lily wouldn’t say anything about how distracted he was as he turned this conversation over and over again, looking for ways it could have gone better.

“I always felt different from my sister, but it wasn’t until I was fifteen that I started being uncomfortable with even the idea of being a girl. I don’t really know when I knew, but I just knew it didn’t feel right. Kind of like robes that just didn’t fit. Not too big or too small, y’know, just too tight across the chest and sleeves too long…. I liked parts of myself, but I really hated others. That year, I bought myself a bunch of trousers over the Christmas holiday. I didn’t tell my parents what I’d done, but they got the letters when we went back to school about dress code violations. That summer I tried to do it myself, but — well, you saw the mess I made. Anne’s the one who told Mum and Dad what I was up to. Mum was kind of excited. We didn’t have a lot of money, but she helped me donate all the robes I didn’t like and buy replacements that I did. We had a meeting with Dumbledore about it and Merlin, he didn’t give two Murtlaps’ asses one way or another. Shortest meeting I’d ever sat in with a Professor. Mum and Dad said they wanted to make sure everything went smoothly, and that none of the other students would give me trouble, and Dumbledore said he agreed, suggested I keep my dorm if I was happy there, and said he would let the staff know, and if anyone gave me trouble I was to go straight to him or McGonagall and that was the end of the meeting. I’ve never looked back.”

“How did you pick the name Christian? Did you just like it?”

Christian laughed. “No, sorry, it’s my turn to ask a question.”

Cedric considered leaving. He was dressed. All he had to do was get out of Christian’s hold and get his coat. The game was even, so Christian couldn’t complain.

But before Cedric was quite committed to leaving, Christian asked, “Is Umbridge why you hate the Ministry so much?”

And Cedric couldn’t leave after that question. Because he’d never told Christian he hated the Ministry, not in such certain terms, but it was the closest he was going to get to Christian understanding him without having to share the Order’s secrets or Harry’s.

“When did I say I hated the Ministry?”

“You never had to. You know I’ve got my own irritations with them, but I know you hate them more than I do.”

“It’s not that I hate the Ministry —”

“Just Umbridge? And Scrimgeour? And Williamson?”

“I don’t hate Williamson; he’s a good mentor.”

“But?”

“I just don’t trust the Ministry the way you do, that’s all. You and I feel the same about Scrimgeour. We respect him for his accomplishments, but don’t like the way he promotes people and is so focused on an image of power, regardless of the real thing. And I get that looking strong is an important part of building morale, but you and I both know it’s not enough.”

“And I get that you hate Umbridge for being a terrible professor,” Christian said, which sent another wave of exhaustion crashing down on Cedric because it did not come close to how he felt about Umbridge, and he didn’t know why Christian couldn’t see that. “But what does all of it have to do with the Ministry?”

“That sounds like another question,” Cedric said.

“I think it’s closely related to why you don’t trust the Ministry.”

“So was how you chose your name to my question.”

Christian was incredibly stubborn, and not to be deterred. “Alright, then. Mum and Dad went through the family tree with me, and I liked my great-grandfather’s name. So what do your feelings about Umbridge have to do with the Ministry as a whole?”

“Do we have to do this?” Cedric asked.

It was like those words were the magic spell Christian had been waiting for. He released the grip he had on Cedric’s waist and leaned back against the wall. “Okay. Fine.”

And Cedric knew that “fine” was not fine at all, as well as he knew that he was truly upset, even though he said he wasn’t.

Cedric searched for the counter curse, the words that would undo whatever had suddenly wedged itself between him and Christian. He tried the ones he was familiar with first.

“I’m sorry.”

But Christian had his own counter curses ready. “What for?”

“For… being like this. For being so tired all the time.”

“I can’t be upset with you for being tired.”

“But you are.”

“No, I’m upset because you won’t talk to me.”

Cedric ran his hands through his hair and debated between explaining himself — which might put the Order at risk — and just leaving, and trying to make up with Christian another time. He settled on the more difficult path.

“Do you remember when we met, and you tried to explain about how Weasley had called you by a different name, and I told you that you didn’t have to explain anything you didn’t want to?”

“Of course I remember. That was when I fell in love with you.”

Cedric’s heart stopped. Christian had said it so casually — they hadn’t said they loved each other, not yet, and he was caught off guard. He forgot where his explanation had even been going. His lips felt numb, but he managed to say, “That’s sort of how it is between me and the Ministry. I can’t really explain it, or I don’t know if I can — at least, I’m not ready to try.”

“If we’d just met,” said Christian, “if I was just some attractive guy you’d run into on the lift, that would be fine. I get it. But we’ve been going out for six months now, and sometimes I feel like I don’t know anything about you. Anne asked me the other day what your favorite wine was. I realized I don’t even know if you drink. And if you do, I don’t know what you drink. I don’t even know your middle name. But I know I love you. And I know I’m pushy and stubborn and one-track minded. So if you need to go, go. I’ll cool off and we’ll pick this up in a month like nothing ever happened.”

Cedric reached for his socks. He did not truly want to go, but he didn’t know how to explain that he couldn’t explain it. Not yet.

He replayed the conversation, tried to pick the moment where everything had deflated, where the world had lost some of its color. It wasn’t hard to find.

No way. I can’t picture it.

Cedric was not sure what he wanted from Christian — understanding, perhaps, but the only person who could truly understand was Harry. Then Cedric, in his rapid replay, recalled what he had said when Christian had, in a stilted voice, shared about his scars.

I can’t imagine trying something like this.

Cedric froze, hands gripping the knit wool as tightly as he might grip his wand when cornered by a Death Eater. He did not understand Christian any better than Christian understood him. His mind raced, hurtling down familiar tracks of doubt and disappointment. Maybe it wasn’t worth it to keep trying at this. Maybe it was all hopeless. What was the point in seeking understanding from each other when they weren’t going to find it?

“I almost died,” Christian said quietly.

Cedric snapped back into the bedroom and abandoned his socks. He frowned, trying to recall a duel or attack from Death Eaters. “What happened — When was this?”

“When I was sixteen. That summer. Anne and I got in a fight. We’d never fought before — not really. And I just… I hated everything. I was done, and I thought if I was going to go out, I wanted to go out as much like myself as I could.”

Cedric turned around, but Christian had his eyes closed, head tipped back against the wall.

“I didn’t ask for help because I didn’t know how. I’m still…” Christian pressed his thumb into his palm, as if he could massage out this conversation. “I’m sorry. I’ve never told anyone about that. Not even Anne. She probably knows anyway, but we never…” He licked his lips and took in a slow breath. “I know you don’t understand. I know you won’t, but I —”

“No,” Cedric said softly. He lifted his hand, reaching — and hesitated. He wasn’t sure what sort of comfort Christian wanted right now, why Christian was sharing this after he had told Cedric to leave. But he did understand, better than Christian knew. He rested his hand on Christian’s leg. Christian flinched, but it was brief.

“I almost had my Prefect badge stripped,” Cedric said. “Not because of Umbridge, but because I neglected my duties. I stopped going to classes. I quit Quidditch. After facing Voldemort in the graveyard, I thought —” Cedric stopped, knowing he could not share any of Harry’s secrets. It was hard enough to make this work when he and Christian alike struggled with facing their own darkness, and it was harder when so much of Cedric’s story intertwined with Harry’s. But Christian had seen the graveyard, too. He had gone with Cedric to look, to check that it was truly the place Voldemort’s father had come from. He had seen Cedric in that place, and perhaps that moment was the reason they had ended up here, in Christian’s room, half-dressed and secrets half-spilled.

“I know what it feels like,” Cedric finally said, “to think there’s no future, none worth living through.”

Christian opened his eyes. There was no mischief in them, none of the joy nor danger that made Cedric’s heart skip, but something in Cedric’s heart reacted just the same, like something between him and Christian was suddenly pulled taut.

“I’m sorry,” Christian said. “I don’t know why I said all of that.”

“Maybe you didn’t really want me to go.”

“Maybe I wanted to push you away.”

Cedric considered the dullness in those eyes that were usually so vibrant, and wondered if this was what it was to be in love, to care and feel, even when the things that had drawn Cedric to Christian were so far gone. Christian had said I know I love you so casually, so confidently just a minute ago.

He had known the moment Cedric had given him space, and now Cedric knew, the moment Christian refused to give him that same space, the moment Christian persisted past his own level of comfort.

Cedric pushed himself back on the bed, until he was against the wall, beside Christian. He waited until Christian reached out, intertwining their fingers on the worn, sun-faded comforter. Christian’s thumb rubbed against the scars on the back of Cedric’s hand.

I must not tell lies.

“Christian?”

“Hm.”

“I… I love you, too.”

It was cold in the small flat, but a warm, dark blush spread from Christian’s check and up his neck, and even Cedric burned with warmth, embarrassment, and excitement. He leaned against Christian, turned his head, and Cedric kissed him. It was gentler than any kiss they had ever exchanged. It was soft, hesitant, nothing like Cedric knew Christian to be. But it was warm and comforting, and, for a moment, both boys forgot about their scars.

[somethingusefulfromflorida]

Dysmorphia

Imagine a man; featherless, bipedal, pretty standard.  This one has pale skin, black hair with a slight widows peak, and eyes so dark he looks like he has nothing but giant pupils.  He has a faceful of freckles which looked much cuter when he was a kid, and two small moles, one on his lip, the other on his neck.

Picture him taller than average, but not exceptionally so; 6′3″, 6′4″ with shoes on, sub-basketball player height.  Now give him a terrible hunch.  He loses a good three or four inches from posture so bad that chiropractors make appointments to see him.  He locks his knees when he stands so his legs curve backwards, which just looks uncomfortable, and he always leads with his gut hanging out; his spine looks like Trogdor the Burninator (sans beefy arms, wingalings, and consummate v’s, of course).

What he lacks in basketball player height he makes up for in basketball player feet.  Just look at those clod hoppers!  He has to order all of his shoes online because most stores only carry up to size 13.  Last he checked he was a 14 and a half, 15-ish, but nothing he tries is comfortable because he’s got flat feet, like a dirty, draft-dodging communist!  The way he walks is just wrong somehow.  He regularly wears out the back of his shoes, right over his Achilles tendon.  He has to pad the worn chunk of plastic and foam with duct tape to make them last longer, because size 15′s are not cheap!

His wardrobe consists mostly of t-shirts and khaki shorts, but these don’t seem to fit him right either.  Sure, he’ll buy nice clothes every year, but they all seem to change size between the mall changing room and his house, or otherwise disappear (his dad probably co-opts them into his own wardrobe, the bastard).  He is somehow both lanky and portly at the same time; thin arms and legs, with a big beer belly paunch over feminine hips, though he doesn’t drink.  His khakis are all too loose and too short; they come to above his knees when he sits, and he has to wear a belt cinched tight to keep them from slipping down to his ankles.

His shirts are comically large because men’s clothes get wider, not taller, when the size goes up.  He has to wear an L or XL, which are the right length, but make him look like he drank Alice’s shrinking potion.  His only other alternative would be to wear a shirt that is the right circumference, but bares his midriff whenever he moves his arms.

His fingers are the stuff of nightmares; the nails are either crack addict long or chewed down to the bloody stump.  He’s apathetic about this, he just lets them grow until they start getting caught on stuff, then he bites them off so short it hurts.  He doesn’t like cutting his thumbnails because they’re thicker than the others and they hurt the most when they’re short.  He has a weird sensory problem so that whenever he cuts them with clippers they feel artificial, unnatural, uncomfortable, so he has to chew them down or go mad.

Left alone for long enough his hair starts looking like Eraserhead; his hair doesn’t get longer, it gets taller, but not in a cool mad scientist kind of way.  It’s super curly and thick, so it never looks good no matter how he brushes it.  Not once in his life has he ever had a decent haircut; every single barber he’s ever been to has given him the exact same Deep South chud cut like one of those beefy dudes who pose with fish in their facebook profiles.  No matter how many times he shows them photos and asks for something different, he still gets the Standard Chud for $15, $20 after tip.  Whenever it’s cut that short, it makes his head look like an egg.  “WE ARE FROM FRANCE.”  His hair always looks best a week or two after getting it cut, but he never takes pictures in that little window because he is oblivious and self-loathing.

The less said about his facial hair, the better.

I’m going to say more anyway.

Both of his grandfathers had long, thick beards.  His father has a long thick beard.  He, however, is incapable of growing anything that looks even remotely presentable.  He can grow a short, coarse, curly neckbeard that looks like pubic hair, a thin pencil mustache like a creep who lives in a van, and patchy sideburns that cover random spots on his cheeks.  His chin is bare save for the thinnest saddest wisp of a soul patch that he can’t see, but he can feel.  Oh, It’s there, mocking him.  Altogether, it could not be a less flattering combo, but he often goes weeks without shaving because in These Trying Times™ he figures nobody’s gonna see his face anyway.  His depression lets him justify his “why should I make my bed if I’m just gonna sleep in it again” argument about his entire personal appearance.  Yikes.

His arms and legs are covered in scars and dark spots because none of his cuts ever heal right.  He would wear pants to cover them, but he lives on the surface of the sun where it’s about a million degrees in winter, so pants are not an option unless it’s a formal occasion, which are few and far between because his hometown is a cultural wasteland with nothing to do and no one to see.  His legs are disproportionately long, so he looks like he’s striding with purpose everywhere he goes.  His normal walking speed is ever so slightly faster than whoever is walking in front of him, so he either has to awkwardly slow down which makes him looks like he’s following them, or speed up to try and overtake them, but he’s not going fast enough to do it quickly so he ends up walking next to them for a few seconds too long which is even worse AAAHHH

Eye contact is weird.  Too much, not enough, he can never tell.  He tries to keep his head down with the prey-instinct that if he can’t see them, they can’t see him, which results in a chronic case of Text Neck.  When he walks past someone, he locks his neck straight forward so as not to make eye contact, which is almost always the WRONG thing to do because it comes off as rude, which he only realizes much later.

He overthinks everything and comes across as pretty sus because he’s trying to judge how everyone else pictures him on the fly; he doesn’t want to be rude, so he tries to leave everyone alone, but more often than not that makes him look cold and angry.  His worst fear is that people of color will think he’s racist when he doesn’t look at them, or looks at them too much, or gives them a wide berth, when in reality he does that to everyone because being seen makes him uncomfortable, and he can’t stop from feeling guilty about living in his own head because he doesn’t want to keep thinking the way he does, which is to say TOO MUCH!

And to round out his insecurities, he has a big gap in his front teeth and his voice sounds like a nasally child trying to compensate for a speech impediment.

But you know what, his grammy says he’s a handsome young man, so he’s actually doing okay.

[weeping-petals]

A Ticking Heart

Word Count - 2,597

This is not how the game was meant to end.

The lone doorway into the Crystal Temple was a portal, which led to the varied chambers of the individual Crystal Gems. Each room had a different meaning to the gem which inhabited it, and each room served as a sanctuary from the world outside. A place to store junk, a place to organize swords, a safe haven for the bubbled corrupt gems.

 Marble pillars and white stone sculpted the inner walls, and a spiral slope curved within the center point of the chamber. Across the dolomite wound parched vines, shriveled petals of forget-me-nots and hibiscus. At the center of the spiral pathway, a set of three dried fountains stood.

 About five meters above the fountains placement, an octagonal platform hovered. The surface was marred with fractures, scorch marks, and debris. A set of six pillars stood at one point of eight corners. A soft, peach glow emitted from a band in the pillars upper rim.

 “Nine combatants,” Spinel growled. She stood on the center of the platform, fists clenched at her sides and body wound tight. “Advanced level.”

 At once, the computers voice droned out, “It is my obligation to warn you, this is a high-risk scenario.”

 “Just do it,” Spinel snapped. “Don’t ask me again.”

 Five pillars upon the platform trembled. Stone reshaped and coiled down, the blocky form became streamlined and vaguely humanoid, aside from dolomites being predominantly mineral. Below on the floor, four additional pillars unwound off their moorings. In each animated statue’s grasp, a sword, a spear, an axe, or a club reformed.

 “Begin,” the disembodied tenure of the computer rasped.

 On the ground, the four statues converged on the outer walls of the chamber and began climbing. Meanwhile, on the platform, the five golems barreled onto Spinel’s diminutive shape.

 In a flash, Spinel was gone. The golems recalculated, wrenching in the direction movement was detected. One managed to grab Spinel by the boot, while Spinel was reeling over to the spiral path that encircled the chamber.

 “What does that mean?” Pearl asked.

 “I don’t get it,” she muttered.

 Spinel kicked her free leg to the ground, and wrung her body tight. Her free foot kicked the golem in the face, and she flipped backwards. By then, two others came upon her with weapons raised. She evaded in classic fashion, but rather retreat backwards and build momentum, she hurtled at the two statues. Her entire body looped around both, drawing the weapon arms up to facial readers. With a tight constriction, the statues slammed together. The golem from before recovered and closed in for retaliation, but Spinel was already tumbling away. She returned with a punch, expanding her fist and smashing into the golems side with velocity budding. The golem was nowhere near the edge of the platform, but still went barreling to the side uncontrolled, and toppled off.

 “There must be another way!” Pearl became panicked.

 “You’re looking into this wrong!” Spinel wrapped her hands around her face. “This is wrong. It has to be!”

 Rose Quartz assured them, she had done everything she could. There was no loophole. There was only one way.

 The four golems leapt onto the platform and raised weapons. Each kept out of the others way, but there was no team coordination. But the confusion and dislocation was disorientating, and a challenge to follow. It was her achilles heel, a plot twisting she was not immune to.

 If she continued to move her body, glide through punching and swiping at the stones, use their girth against them, she had a chance. If they caught her, managed to detain two or more limbs, that would be her downfall. She had to keep moving, never slow and never stall.

 One arm leeched out through an opening, snagging the edge of the spiral pathway. Her other arm took a golem, and she reeled in her limbs. She cast the stone warrior off the side, watched it plummet to its demise. She continued outward, swept far out from the platform and zoomed back in on the rebound.

 One golem raised an axe, for what would have devastated her physical form, if Spinel had not shot her legs outward. The collision alone would have dissolved her form, but her legs coiled into springs against the golem and she knocked it back into another assailant. Both cracked, the one at the rear crumbled into bits.

 “What are we supposed to do?” “You can’t do this!” “It can’t work!” “We’ll come up with another way.”

 “Don’t do this!”

 Spinel lost track of where she was, what she was doing. Another golem splint under a powerful barrage of her fists, while she stood upon the faux warrior. Three were converging, weapons raised, two others provided a fallback. The long shadows melted across Spinel’s magenta colors, blotting out the light flittering through her gem.

 Instinctively, she reached for her gem and drew forth a weapon.

 A whizzing blur of motion sawed out of the center, from amongst the stone warriors. Spinel alit on the shoulder of one, for the barest of a second, before zipping into a line of three. Her blade clashed with a club, causing her limbs to recoil. She kicked outward, and amid the motion, flipped into a sideways blur. While balanced upside down, a lone foot supporting her stance, she performed another wild twirl of her weapon. The blow knocked the legs out from beneath the golem, she sprang upon the back and delivered the fatal pierce to its spine. Two more statues careened in. She dispatched them, utilizing wild sweeping blows of her blade. Unleashing devastation upon the mindless golems, coming in at droves rather than pace and tact.

 “Initiate new training,” she announced. The duel blade she spun around her waist and then her upper arm. “Nine combatants. Advanced.”

 New pillars were in the process of sliding upward into their slots, replacing the original columns. When Spinel gave the command, the peach glimmer within the band flashed and the dolomites reshaped its structure. The faux warriors came into fashion quickly, brandishing varied weapons.

 Spinel twirled the blade above her head, before leaping at the first two that approached. Her movement was always a cascade of motion, no recoil or step was without severe delivery. Golems tried to catch her off-guard, get up behind her or at the perceived blind spots. However, Spinel was always bouncing, twisting, ricocheting among the stone figures; either one golem took the blow of sneak attack, or she lassoed one into the range of another. Her weapon cut through the air, hot and bright, glittering against gleaming points of light.  

 Hours later, chunks of white rock and pebbles decorated the platform, beside new grooves and scars. No more demands for training exercises range out. The chamber stilled, and a hush crept through the winding pathways. Below, Spinel alit on the center peak of the fountain spout and stepped off onto the dry basin. She dumped her blade with a clang and collapsed onto the wall encircling the fountain. Though she didn’t need to breathe, she panted as if beyond exertion. One hand grasped the gem on her chest, the other held her face.

 “She can’t have a baby!” Her voice reverberated off the walls. “She… CAN’T!”

__

“I don’t understand,” Spinel again, grumbled. At this time, Pearl was quiet and contemplative.

 This was the first time in decades that Rose came to her armory. It was planned, she asked Pearl and Spinel to meet with her there. Spinel floated in the water’s surface, reminiscent of appreciating a sauna. Refined Pearl stood near the center, after pacing herself out.

 Rose sat with her legs dangling over the edge of the center dais, her feet dipped into the water. She wouldn’t turn to acknowledge the two, but she did speak. Spinel couldn’t recall all of what happened, but those words struck her. “My child and I cannot exist simultaneously. A gem cannot exist without her stone. It is us. It will be her essence and identity.”

 “Your child,” Pearl spoke, as if the string of words was foreign.

 “That’s… not how this works,” Spinel murmured. “No. That can’t be possible! This doesn’t make sense.”

 Nothing made sense on this miserable planet.

 __

 Spinel hadn’t moved in days. Her back pressed into the base of the fountain, the walls bent around her silent, impassive, everlasting. This was a place she remembered, their special place. Once upon a time, it was lush and vibrant, the fountains gushed spring water. Yet, the years crept by, and the battles wore away at her perceptions for joy. This place was nothing but a husk, a shadow of what was. An outer reflection.

 “We lost everyone, for this stupid rock. They were supposed to run away. They weren’t scared. They just got angry. Why couldn’t they have left us alone. They didn’t care about her. They never cared about anyone.”

 A low and anguished wheeze whistled through her words. “We only have each other. We’re all that’s left. And she wants to leave.”

 Some diluted sound coursed through the emptiness. Spinel shifted, but didn’t look up. She tightened up into a smaller ball, arms and legs curled around herself. If she stayed quiet, no one would bother her. Right now, she needed to be left alone. Isolation was priceless.

 “Spinel,” Rose called. “I found you.”

 “Go away,” she snapped. “I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to hear you. Why can’t you just leave me alone!”

 “We need to talk about this.” A brief swell of silence. “There isn’t much time.”

 Spinel winced, and managed to tighten deeper into her tangled heap. “I don’t want to.” Nonetheless, she didn’t budge an inch when Rose Quartz crept in close and weightlessly settled beside her. Spinel was almost enraptured and drawn from her protective barrier. For some time, they sat in silence.

 “Do you miss it?”

 Spinel didn’t need to ask. She risked raising her eyes, to stare at the hollowed space expanding around them. “Some places, it feels almost like….” The words evaporated. She drew a breath and released it, unable to wrestle meaning from the muddled sensations. “Some days, I thought that— Nothing. Forget it.”

 Rose reached a hand out and set it on Spinel’s head. “There’s a beauty in this place. In the things we’ve been forced to let go. We saved this planet, but the things that live and thrive here, still wither and die. That’s the nature of this world. We’re not a part of that process.”

 Spinel inched her head up. “Do you want… that? To experience Death?”

 “And creating life,” Rose insisted. “More than anything. We… our kind did terrible things, we took so much from this world. Did irreparable damage. Now we live here, though we have no other choice. But I want to do something… else, something more than existing and observing all that we preserved. I want the opportunity to leave something, someone special, behind.”

 Spinel pulled away from the gentle touch. “But Home World—”

 “Believe that nothing survived the attack! It’s been centuries since we’ve seen a Red Eye. The Home World warps have been deactivated and cold for longer than the rebellion. We are isolated here, from the other planets, and interconnected solar systems. Yes, Corrupted Gems are still out there, they still need to be accounted for – whether they were friend or foe. But you four, you can do that on your own. You don’t need me anymore.” She dropped her eyes from Spinel. “It’s time for you to find your own ways, now.”

 Spinel scooted away, seething. The gall, to leave all of this on them! “You just can’t bear to be isolated and forgotten, on this ball of dirt, overrun with malformed gems.” She snickered nastily. “That’s funny. The bulk of the gem population left over, is nothin’ but a bunch of scattered defects, scratching at the wilds. You’re done with it. You’re gonna leave us!”

 Rose stood up. “Spinel. Stop!”

 “You’re gunna leave me!” She pressed a hand over her gem. “I won’t— I won’t have anyone!”

 “There are other reasons why I need to do this. You and Pearl, you don’t realize it, but you’re strictly loyal to… her. To Pink.”

 Spinel cackled, “So she still exists, outside of unflattering stories.”

 “You deserve more. You deserve better.”

 “OoooOOh! We deserve better! NOW? So, rather than hang around and fix everything we cracked, you! You!” Spinel stood and aimed a finger. “Want to run away. You bamboozled us into joining this game, and now you wanna abandon everything you made! Everything, we fought to take back! Like your colony! You wanted a colony sooOOoo badly! You didn’t hesitate to leave me, did you?!”

 Rose leaned forward, patience dwindling. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

 “Could’ve fooled me! A baby! Sounds like a SWELL idea. How clever! How useful! How neat! You won’t even be around for the lil brat!”

 Rose took a breath, striving for composure. “If it were possible to be in two places at once – myself, and my gem, divided from my child – I would do it. I wouldn’t place this responsibility on my friends. Or Greg. My stars, I won’t be there for him. I won’t be there to help raise her. Or him. I have a firm grasp of the gravity of what I’m doing, and if it were possible to splint myself, halve myself, make myself less so that I and my child can exist simultaneously, I’d do it. There is so much I will leave behind, and I mourn that. There is so much I am giving up. You’re—”

 “You’re giving up!” Spinel hissed, stretching and exaggerating her bodies proportions. Her voice cracked as she went on, full of momentum with no clear burnout in sight. “What about our loss? Our grief? You’re robbing us of your strength and guidance, ditchin’ all’uv us, and everything we managed to scavenge. The small fragments of a home, at long last! Then you go, and burden us with this…  baby. A useless larvae, that you’re not even sure if she’ll be a viable gem!”

 “Spinel, that’ll be enough!”

 Spinel tugged at her pigtails. “No! It’ll never be enough for you! No matter what! You can’t stand spending another minute on this no-good backwaters dump!”

 Rose grabbed Spinel’s arm. “I need you to listen, now. Listen very carefully. We’ll play a game—”

 Spinel thrashed, but her strength paled in comparison to Rose. “No! No! I don’t want to play another game! I don’t want to play with you!”

 “Spinel, do as I say! Here are the rules—”

 “You don’t own me!” Spinel stretched her captive arm, distancing herself from Rose. “You’re not my friend! You’re not my diamond! YOU’RE! NOT! PINK!” She wound back her free arm and punched Rose. Right in the face. Stunned, Rose released Spinel and stood back, blinking.

 Once released, Spinel staggered backwards and nearly tipped over the scattered ruble. She managed to connect her footing and stood, tears rolling down her cheeks. She stared up at Rose Quartz, shoulders quaking. Neither said a word, nor budged for several long minutes. Finally, Spinel hissed.

 “I wish… You left me in my garden!” Spinel spun around and, coiling her legs under her, sprang high.

 Rose recalled her wits and gave chase. She sprint to where Spinel last stood and rocketed upward, scouting the winding platforms for the spindly gem. No matter how she searched it was no use, Spinel was either well hidden or had abandoned her sanctuary completely.

[maxikha-ffxiv]

Defeating Baatu

This one’s been something of a big work for me for months. I finally got it written to a point where I feel good about sharing it. I’m putting the majority under a readmore because it’s a long one.

The circle was drawn. At one end, Baatu, his daughter at the other. Baatu had his spear in one hand, his usual hide armor the only thing he was wearing. Maxi, however, was different. She didn't have her bow, agreeing that it would not be a fair match if she used it. Instead, she wielded a dagger, the blade made of some green material that she always kept in her boot. She also wore no armor, wearing only a loose shirt and her tights. When she took off the jacket, she revealed some of the scars on her back, drawing a reaction from the crowd. She was used to it at this point, and she focused on the plan Ghoa had given her.

Rules were simple. Stay in the ring. No magic allowed, only allowed combat being hand to hand with a single weapon of choice. First to make their opponent either yield or perish is declared the victor, and they would win whatever is at stake. In this case, it was the right to the title of khan.

Maxi held the dagger in a reverse grip, something her grandmother taught her. It seemed unorthodox, but there was a reason behind it. Maxi waited, on the balls of her feet, watching for her father to make a move, ready to react the moment he did. And then he moved. Baatu dashed at maxi, spear swinging about in a motion as of to cut her in half. She was ready, and in a single motion, she dodged, spinning out of the way, landing a small cut on his side as she moved. Maxi spun back around facing Baatu, a smirk on her face.

 "Too slow, old man." 

Baatu turned, and thrust the spear at Maxi, trying a quick attack to catch her off guard. She parried it without batting an eye, using the dagger to deflect the spear tip from her body. Years of sparring with Connor made defending against a weapon of this type second nature to Maxi, something she was quite grateful of having done now. Baatu tried again to slash at Maxi, and this time she ducked under the swipe, moving forward into a slide under him, her dagger slicing at the back of his leg, finding the Achilles tendon. Maxi wasn't able to sever it due to not really being familiar with her weapon, but she made a decent cut on contact, at least making a point. Baatu's grunt told her she had at least caused enough pain to make the point, and she flipped around, ready for him once again. 

"Come on, at least give me a challenge." 

Maxi and Ghoa had planned for this. Ghoa knew Baatu's fighting style, and how to counter it. He was powerful and aggressive, but a solid defense that was devoted to dodging his attacks while hitting him here and there when able should be able to wear him out. Ghoa also informed her granddaughter that Baatu has quite the ego, and it could be bruised quite easily. And that is what Maxi was focusing on. Noting where he was attacking from, and either dodging or blocking it, hurling insults as she felt, only attacking when he gave her a clear opening.

The battle raged on for minutes, the crowd entranced. The only sounds were from. The combatants, either grunts of pain or various insults and curses as Maxi continued to dodge or parry every one of Baatu's attacks. She was definitely beginning to wear him out, various cuts on his body starting to take somewhat of a toll on him. But Maxi also was definitely starting to lose some steam as well, perspiration covering her body. She knew that there was only so much more of this she could do before she was going to give out, and she needed to find a chance to take her father down. 

Trying to figure out what to do was her mistake. Baatu suddenly lunged at her, catching her partially off guard. Maxi dodged, but he finally struck home, the spear head burying itself into her shoulder. Maxi let out a grunt of pain and shock as she pulled away, and to everyone's shock, the spear snapped in half, half still buried into her shoulder. Maxi backed off, pulling the spear out, and spun it around in her hand, blood trickling out of her shoulder. “Right, time to end this. My turn.”

Summoning a burst of speed from what energy she had left, Maxi darted at Baatu, in one motion throwing the spear head at him like a short javelin. Being unarmed, Baatu caught it in his hand, point first, and that turned out to be a mistake, as his daughter used her momentum to barrel into him, hand pushing the spear point through his hand, knee to his lower chest, knocking him down onto the ground. Baatu hit the ground on his back, hand pinned to the ground by the spear now fully poking through his hand. He gasped as her small knee knocked the air out of him, Maxi now fully on top of him, dagger to his throat.

“Yield, or I will kill you.”

“You would kill your own father? You would never be able to go through with it girl.”

Maxi pressed the dagger to his throat, getting it to draw blood, “I have two men already in my life who are much better fathers than you could ever be. And you really want to test me after what you tried to do to my family? Killing you would be too nice a punishment.”

After about ten seconds of tense silence, Baatu muttered, “I… yield”

_____________________________________________________________

It was about an hour later. Maxi had seen to her own healing, having surprised everyone when a small fairy had appeared while the tribe's healers tended to her wounds. Her fairy, one she named Daffodil, helped close her wound before she dismissed it. 

Baatu was tended to as well, on her orders. Once both were recovered, and maxi had dressed herself, she finally met the tribe to speak to them.

“So, this isn’t something I really planned for. All I wanted to do was to take down Baatu, and let this tribe flourish without him. Just a small problem of having to take the title of khan. It’s not one I want, or one I feel I have earned. Which is why I’m going to do a few things.”

Maxi took a breath, thinking about what she was going to say next.

“First things first. With Baatu. No more action is to be taken against him. He will be allowed to live among the tribe for the rest of his life, but it will be one of disgrace. For a man who only cared about himself, I think it is fitting he spend the rest of it thinking about others.”

“Now then, about the Khan of the Dazkar. I never once wanted it, and I have no desire to deceive the tribe. With that, I’ve been told I can choose someone to take the role. And, with counsel from those who know the tribe best, I’ve decided that Jebei, son of Baatu and my own half-brother, will take over the title of Khan. We two have spoken, and he is prepared to serve in a much better capacity than his father.”

“So, with all of this being said, I don’t want the tribe to think I’m abandoning the Dazkar. I am not. I’m just an outsider, and I have no interest in trying to run a tribe. I can’t even keep my own self straight some days. I will be around as much as I can, Ghoa has much to teach me, and I hope more of you will get to know me better. I am sorry for anything I may have done that may have upset anyone. But, as I can personally attest, Baatu was a cancer to this tribe, one that I felt my responsibility to get rid of. I am quite tired, so I am going to retire for the day.”

Maxi headed back to Ghoa’s yurt, and she and her grandmother began to discuss how they felt the day’s actions had gone, Maxi feeling for the first time in her life proud of accomplishing something big.

[she-who-fights-and-writes]

She-who-fights-and-writes Top 5 Book Recs 2019!!

Here are my top five books/book series that I think EVERYONE should read or at least try to read in their lifetime!! No matter their standing on this list, I love every single one of these books with my whole heart!!!!!

5. Pet Sematary by Stephen King (Genre: Horror)

Back cover:

When Dr. Louis Creed takes a new job and moves his family to the idyllic rural town of Ludlow, Maine, this new beginning seems too good to be true. Despite Ludlow’s tranquility, an undercurrent of danger exists here. Those trucks on the road outside the Creed’s beautiful old home travel by just a little too quickly, for one thing…as is evidenced by the makeshift graveyard in the nearby woods where generations of children have buried their beloved pets. Then there are the warnings to Louis both real and from the depths of his nightmares that he should not venture beyond the borders of this little graveyard where another burial ground lures with seductive promises and ungodly temptations. A blood-chilling truth is hidden there—one more terrifying than death itself, and hideously more powerful. As Louis is about to discover for himself sometimes, dead is better…

I didn’t sleep for two days after finishing this book. I had to read it in the morning, never at night, and couldn’t put it down whenever I picked it up. However, this book is really a testament to Stephen King’s reputation as the dominator of the horror/suspense genre of fiction.

Beautifully descriptive and creepy, it gives a shocking new perspective of the consequences of playing God. With a very much flawed and very much human main character, along with a gripping story that raises the hairs on the back of your neck, Pet Semetary is the perfect book to read when you’re feeling a flare for the supernatural. 

4. The Lunar Chronicles by Marissa Meyer (Genre: Sci-Fi)

Back cover of Cinder:

CINDER, a gifted mechanic in New Beijing, is also a cyborg. She's reviled by her stepmother and blamed for her stepsister's sudden illness. But when her life becomes entwined with the handsome Prince Kai's, she finds herself at the centre of a violent struggle between the desires of an evil queen - and a dangerous temptation. Cinder is caught between duty and freedom, loyalty and betrayal. Now she must uncover secrets about her mysterious past in order to protect Earth's future. This is not the fairytale you remember. But it's one you won't forget.

These books broke me out of a serious book hangover (caused by the #1 series on this list) and made me realize “Wait, there are other books in this world that can be enjoyed besides this series.”

Funny and captivating, this book puts an interesting twist on classic fairytales. Instead of being the kind of twist where everything is unnecessarily gory and dark, this puts a futuristic spin on the classic stories that we all know and love.

The characters are amazing and very diverse, and although the stories are similar to the Grimm’s fairy tales, they’re a whole new ballpark plot-wise that keeps you on the edge of your seat!

3. In Order to Live by Yeonmi Park (Genre: Memoir)

Back cover:

“I am most grateful for two things: that I was born in North Korea, and that I escaped from North Korea.”

Still in her early twenties, Yeonmi Park has lived through experiences that few people of any age will ever know--and from which most would never recover. At age thirteen, together with her mother, she made a harrowing escape from brutal conditions in North Korea. Two years later, they reached South Korea and freedom. But the devestating journey in between cost Park her childhood and nearly her life. As she writes, “I convinced myself that a lot of what I had experienced never happened. I taught myself to forget the rest.”

In In Order to Live, Park sines light not just into the darkest corners of life in North Korea, describing the deprivation and deception she endured and that millions of North Korean people continue to endure to this day, but also onto her own most painful and difficult memories. She tells with bravery and dignity for the first time the story of how she and her mother were betrayed and sold into sexual slavery in China and forced to suffer terrible psychological and physical hardship.

Park confronts her past with a startling resilience. In spite of everything, she has never stopped being proud of where she is from, and never stopped striving for a better life. Today she is a human rights activist working determinedly to bring attention to the oppression taking place in her home country. Park’s testimony is rare, edifying, and terribly important, and the story she tells in In Order to Live is heartbreaking and unimaginable but never without hope.

This book changed my life. 

Riveting, beautiful, and at heartbreaking, it really made me appreciate what I have in life and made me more aware of things that are currently happening in the world as we speak.

I think that no one should be able to talk about North Korea and about how it’s not a big deal that we help the people there until they read this book.

Truly an amazing and unbelievable story.

2. The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller (Genre: Fantasy)

Back cover:

Achilles, "the best of all the Greeks," son of the cruel sea goddess Thetis and the legendary king Peleus, is strong, swift, and beautiful— irresistible to all who meet him. Patroclus is an awkward young prince, exiled from his homeland after an act of shocking violence. Brought together by chance, they forge an inseparable bond, despite risking the gods' wrath.

They are trained by the centaur Chiron in the arts of war and medicine, but when word comes that Helen of Sparta has been kidnapped, all the heroes of Greece are called upon to lay siege to Troy in her name. Seduced by the promise of a glorious destiny, Achilles joins their cause, and torn between love and fear for his friend, Patroclus follows. Little do they know that the cruel Fates will test them both as never before and demand a terrible sacrifice.

A phenomenally written and emotional re-telling of the classic Greek epic the Iliad that delves into the romantic relationship between Achilles and Patroclus.

Madeline Miller truly has an undeniable god-given talent for writing; her descriptions and storytelling makes for a book that you CANNOT put down once you’ve picked it up.

I read this book in a day and had a serious, serious book hangover afterward; I literally could NOT stop thinking about it for days. It just sticks with you, you know?

Me and my mom both wept over this book; it is truly a triumph and a masterpiece.

1. The Grishaverse by Leigh Bardugo (Genre: Fantasy)

Back cover of Shadow and Bone, first book in The Grisha Trilogy:

Soldier. Summoner. Saint. Orphaned and expendable, Alina Starkov is a soldier who knows she may not survive her first trek across the Shadow Fold―a swath of unnatural darkness crawling with monsters. But when her regiment is attacked, Alina unleashes dormant magic not even she knew she possessed.

Now Alina will enter a lavish world of royalty and intrigue as she trains with the Grisha, her country’s magical military elite―and falls under the spell of their notorious leader, the Darkling. He believes Alina can summon a force capable of destroying the Shadow Fold and reuniting their war-ravaged country, but only if she can master her untamed gift.

As the threat to the kingdom mounts and Alina unlocks the secrets of her past, she will make a dangerous discovery that could threaten all she loves and the very future of a nation.

Welcome to Ravka . . . a world of science and superstition where nothing is what it seems.

Back cover of Six of Crows, first book in the Six of Crows Duology:

Ketterdam: a bustling hub of international trade where anything can be had for the right price―and no one knows that better than criminal prodigy Kaz Brekker. Kaz is offered a chance at a deadly heist that could make him rich beyond his wildest dreams. But he can't pull it off alone. . . .

A convict with a thirst for revenge. A sharpshooter who can't walk away from a wager. A runaway with a privileged past. A spy known as the Wraith. A Heartrender using her magic to survive the slums. A thief with a gift for unlikely escapes.

Six dangerous outcasts. One impossible heist. Kaz's crew is the only thing that might stand between the world and destruction―if they don't kill each other first.

The Grishaverse is a group of series that are all set within the same universe where magic runs wild and the world-building-- from the culture of each country to the unique landscapes--is so phenomenal that you almost wish you could jump right into the book like Blue’s Clues and live there forever.

Leigh Bardugo is my favorite author of all time.

Her writing is beyond any other tier that I have every had the pleasure to read, to the point where I couldn’t read any other books for a good year after finishing the Six of Crows Duology because it set my standards so high for YA fantasy.

There are many books within the Grishaverse-- including the Grisha Trilogy, the Six of Crows Duology, the King of Scars series, and the Language of Thorns storybook--but you don’t have to have read one series to understand the other.

Personally, I like the Six of Crows Duology better than the Grisha Trilogy; it was written afterward and the writing and storytelling is far more evolved and sophisticated.

But even so, Leigh Bardugo really is an incredible storyteller, so if you can get your hands on any of these books, please do!

[taylorftparamore]

YOU CUT OUT ALL TOO WELL??????

i mean... starting from debut, let’s show all the bridges that got cut that definitely didn’t deserve to be cut but y’all let them get cut anyway, hm?

“you never did give a damn thing honey but i cried, cried for you. and i know you wouldn’t have told nobody if i’d die, die for you, die for you.” (cold as you)

“if you and i are a story that never gets told, if what you are is a daydream then at least you’ll know.” (stay beautiful)

“you stood there in the doorway my hand shake, i’m not usually this way. you pull me in and i’m a little more brave, it’s the first kiss, it’s flawless, it’s really somethin. it’s fearless.” (fearless)

“when all you wanted was to be wanted, wish you could go back and tell yourself what you know now. back then i swore i was gonna marry him but i realized some bigger dreams of mine. and abigail gave everything she had to a boy who changed his mind, we both cried.” (fifteen)

“i got tired of waitin, wonderin if you were ever comin around. my faith in you was fadin. when i met you on the outskirts of town, and i said, ‘romeo, save me. i’ve been feelin so alone. i keep waitin for you but you never come.’ he knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring.” (love story)

“they’re dimmin the streetlights, you’re perfect for me, why aren’t you here tonight? i’m waitin alone now so come out and pull me near and shine, shine, shine. hey stephen, i could give you fifty reasons why i should be the one you chose. all those other girls, well, they’re beautiful, but would they write a song for you?” (hey stephen)

“and there you on your knees, begging for forgiveness, beggin for me. just like i always wanted, but i’m so sorry.” (white horse)

“i remember you drivin to my house in the middle of the night, i’m the one who makes you laugh when you know you’re bout to cry. and i know your favorite songs and you tell me bout your dreams, think i know where you belong, think i know it’s with me.” (you belong with me)

“i have an excellent father, his strength is making me stronger got smiles on my little brother, inside and out he’s better than i am. i grew up in a pretty house and i had space to run and i had the best day... with you. there is a video i found round back when i was three. you set up a paint set in the kitchen and you’re talkin to me. it’s the age of princess and the seven dwarves. my daddy’s smart and you’re the prettiest lady in the whole wide world. now i know why all the leaves change in the fall.” (the best day, typing this one out made me fuckin CRY, bitch how DARE y’all cut this one)

“i run my fingers through your hair and watch the lights go wild. just keep on keeping your eyes on me, it’s just wrong enough to make it feel right. and lead me up the staircase, won’t you whisper something slow? i’m captivated by you, baby, like a fireworks show.” (sparks fly)

“i miss your tan skin, your sweet smile, so good to me, so right. and how you held me in your arms that september night, the first time you ever saw me cry. maybe this is wishful thinkin, probably mindless dreamin, but if we loved again i swear i’d love you right. i’d go back in time and change it, but i can’t. so if the chain is on your door, i understand. (back to december)

“take pictures in your childhood room, memorize what it sounded like when your dad gets home. remember the footsteps, remember the words said and the words to all your little brother’s favorite songs. i just realized everything i ever had is someday gonna be gone. so here i am in my new apartment in the big city, they just dropped me off. it’s so much colder than i thought it would be so i tuck myself in and turn my night light on. wish i’d never grown up.” (never grow up)

“time turns flames to embers, you’ll have new septembers, everyone of us has messed up too. lives change like the weather, i hope you remember today is never too late to be brand new.” (innocent)

“so i’ll watch your life in pictures like i used to watch sleep and i feel you forget me like i used to watch you breathe. and i’ll keep up with your old friends just to ask how you are. hope it’s nice where you are. (last kiss)

“this is the state of grace. this is the worthwhile fight. love is a ruthless game unless you play it good and right. these are the hands of fate. you’re my achilles’ heel. this is the golden age of something good and right and real.” (state of grace)

“remembering him comes in flashbacks and echos. tell myself ‘it’s time now’, gotta let him go. but movin on from him isn’t possible when i still see it all in my head, burnin red.” (red)

“two headlights shine through the sleepless night, and i will get you, get you alone. your name has echoed through my mind and i just think you should, think you should know that nothing safe is worth the drive and i will follow you, follow you home. i’d follow you, follow you home.” (treacherous)

“oh, we made quite a mess, babe. it’s probably better off this way. and i confess, babe, in my dreams you’re touching my face and asking me if i want to try again. and i almost do.” (i almost do)

“you took the time to memorize me, my fears, my hopes, my dreams i just like hanging out with you all the time. all those times that you didn’t leave it’s been occurring to me that i’d like to hang out with you all the time, stay.” (stay stay stay)

“it was a few years later i showed up here and they still the legend of how you disappeared. how you took the money and your dignity and got the hell out. they say you bought a bunch of land somewhere, chose the rose garden over madison square. and it took some time, but i understand it now. (the lucky one)

“what do you say when tears are streaming down your face in front of everyone you know? and what do you do when the one who means the most to you is the one that didn’t show?” (the moment i knew)

“this is falling in love in the cruelest way. this is falling for you when you are worlds away. new york, be here. but you’re in london and i break down cause it’s not fair that you’re not around.” (come back... be here...)

i feel the “you cut all too well” loses weight when y’all let EIGHT tracks from red get cut. let’s keep going regardless, cause y’all let some GOOD 1989, reputation, and lover bridges get cut.

“your kiss, my cheek, i watch you leave. your smile, my ghost, i fell to my knees. when you’re young you just run but you come back to what you need.” (this love)

“they are the hunters, we are the foxes. and we run. just grab my hand and don’t ever drop it, my love.” (i know places)

“ten months sober i must admit, just because you’re clean don’t mean you don’t miss it. ten months older, i won’t give in. now that i’m clean i’m never gonna risk it.” (clean)

“i reached for you but you were gone. i knew i had to go back home. you search the world for something else to make you feel like what we had but in the end in the wonderland we both went mad.” (wonderland)

“please take my hand and please take me dancing and please leave me stranded, it’s so romantic.” (new romantics)

“they’re burning all the witches even if you aren’t one. they got their pitchforks and proof, their receipts and reasons. they’re burning all the witches even if you aren’t one, so light me up. go ahead and light me up, light me up, light me up, light me up. go ahead and light me up, light me up, light me up.” (i did something bad)

“they’re burning all the witches even if you aren’t one. they got their pitchforks and proof, their receipts, they don’t need their proof. they’re burning all the witches and it’s just for fun. so light me up! light me up! light me up! light me up, light me up, go ahead and light me....” (i did something bad tour version)

“i don’t trust nobody and nobody trusts me, i’ll be the actress starrin in your bad dreams. i don’t trust nobody and nobody trusts me, i’ll be the actress starring in your bad dreams. i’m sorry, the old taylor can’t come to the phone right now. why? oh! cause she’s dead.” (look what you made me do)

“you did a number on me but honestly, baby, who’s countin? i did a number on you, but honestly, baby, who’s countin? who’s countin? 1, 2, 3, and all the pieces fall” (so it goes...)

“we were jet set bonnie and clyde, til i switched to the other side, the other side. it’s no surprise i turned you in cause us traitors never win. i’m in a getaway car. i left you in the motel bar. put the money in the bag and i stole the keys, that was the last time you ever saw me.” (getaway car)

“i’d kiss you as the lights go down, swaying as the room burned down. i’d hold you as the water rushes if i could dance with you again. i’d kiss you as the lights go down, swaying as the room burned down, i’d hold you as the water rushes in if i could dance with you again.” (dancing with our hands tied)

“flashback when you met me with your buzzcut and my hair bleached, even in the worst times you could see the best of me. flashback to my mistakes, my rebounds, my earthquakes even in my worst lies you could see the truth in me. and i woke up in just in time. now i wake up by your side. my one and only, my lifeline, and i woke up just in time, now i wake up by your side. my hands shake, i can’t explain this ah ah, ah” (dress)

“i want to wear his initial on a chain round my neck, chain round my neck not because he owns me but cause he really knows which is more than they can say. i recall late november, holdin my breath, slowly i said, ‘you don’t need to save me, but would you run away with me?’ yes.” (call it what you want)

“would you please stand? with every guitar string scar on my hand, i take this magnetic force of man to be my lover. my heart’s been borrowed and yours had been blue, all’s well that ends well to end up with you. swear to be overdramatic and true to my lover. and you’ll save all your dirtiest jokes for me. and at every table, i’ll save you a seat, lover.” (lover)

“what’s it like to brag about rakin in dollars and getting bitches and models? and it’s all good if you’re bad and it’s okay if you’re mad? if i was out flashin my dollars, i’d be a bitch not a baller. they paint me out to be bad so it’s okay that i’m mad.” (the man)

“cause they see right through me, they see right through me, they see right through me. can you see right through me? they see right through, they see right through me. i see right through me! i see right through me! all the kings horse and all the king’s men couldn’t put me back together again, cause all of my enemies started out friends, help me hold on to you.” (the archer)

“lyrical smile, indigo eyes, hand on my thigh, we can follow the sparks, i’ll drive. lyrical smile, indigo eyes, hand on my thigh, we can follow the sparks, i’ll drive. so where we gonna go? i whisper in the dark. where we gonna go? i think he knows.” (i think he knows)

“i want to drive away with you, i want your complications too, i want your dreary mondays, wrap your arms around me, baby boy. i want to drive away with you, i want your complications too, i want your dreary mondays, wrap your arms around me, baby boy.” (paper rings)

“and i hate to make this about me, but who am i supposed to talk to if there’s no you? this won’t go back to normal, if it ever was. it’s been years of hopin and i keep sayin it cause i have to.” (soon you’ll get better)

like you’re telling me out of ALL THESE SONGS that got cut, all too well’s bridge is the only one worth being outraged about? grow up.

[writerjodie]

Renegades: The Chase

Assassin’s Creed: Renegades - The Chase (Chapter Eight)

Renegades Masterlist

--

Spluttering and coughing, Lisa attempts to cover her nostrils with her hoodie sleeve, only to have her hand ripped away by another. The following punch to her face confirms it is Hope who wishes her to choke, as does the blow to her guy which follows.

With the pain resonated through her body, Lisa crumples to the floor, her streaming  eyes cracked open just enough to see the tangled silhouettes of Hope and Shay fighting precariously close to the balcony edge.

By now, the heavy tendrils of the fog have begun to fade, allowing Lisa to scrabble about the floor for her rifle. Teeth gritted, Lisa aims the rifle at Hope, the sounds of the scuffle falling on deaf ears as she focuses in on her chest.

Her finger twitches over the trigger, flickering away when Hope twists around so now the gun points at Shay. A cry of rage escapes Hope as she manages to land a blow on Shay, winding him long enough for her to drop another smoke bomb. Mask pulled over his face, Shay’s feet pound into the encroaching whiteness, pausing only when the screaming of a bullet arcs past his ear, heading straight for the retreating shadow before him.

Reloading as fast as she can, Lisa doesn’t stop to look as Hope drops from the edge of the balcony like a stone - the bullet made its mark, but her aim wasn’t good enough. The damn thing barely grazed her arm.

“Give chase,” Lisa yells at Shay, as she barrels onto the roof of the next building.

With a grunt of effort, Shay drops down to the street below, giving chase from there as Lisa jumps over roof after roof, following them from afar.

Gunshots ring out over the dark streets, issued by Shay from one of his pistols. These ones are better shot, hitting Hope deep in her midriff, and slowing her down enough for Shay to trip her up and get her on the ground.

With Hope writhing on the floor, Lisa shimmies down the side of the building and drops down beside Shay.

“Pity, the two of you had so much potential,” Hope’s tone remains condescending, even as she bleeds out on the tarmac.

Knowing his old mentor doesn’t have long, Shay simply turns away, leaving Lisa stood alone by Hope.

“Come on, she hasn’t got long, the Assassins will find her soon enough,” Shay calls behind him, waiting for Lisa to follow.

As Lisa moves to walk away, Hope coughs out a harsh laugh.

“Traitor,” she spits, “You are the lowest of the low, the...the Assassins will kill you,”

Whipping around, Lisa crouches by Hope, taking her head in her hands.

“Talk about being low..you lied to me for years about Shay, about the man I love - the Assassins betrayed me long before I betrayed them,” Lisa hums, her voice lilting and sickly.

Without another word, Lisa flicks out of the hidden blade on her wrist, sending the sharp, cold metal edge singing straight into Hope’s neck.

Not even bothering to wipe her blade, Lisa rises from her crouch, grabbing her rifle as she goes, and saunters off behind Shay, leaving Hope’s body to be found later.

--

Striding onto the deck of the Morrigan, Shay heads straight into his own quarters - leaving Lisa with a very confused Gist.

“Aren’t you that Assassin lass Shay was chasing?” he questions, trying to hide the hand resting on his gun.

Eyes on the familiar red sails, Lisa loosens a sigh and nods slowly.

“Probably...hey, this ship was in Italy, in Bari? We saw you there,” she points to the sails, “I saw you and Shay go on land...Alexios was insistent on us leaving quickly,”

Relaxing a little, Gist comes over to stand beside her, his breaths misting in the cool night air.

“Well, Alexios told us you would be in Bari on that day, we’d intended to arrive earlier...Shay had wanted to speak to you,” Gist explains, his voice loud against the night, “We arrived too late, and that Kassandra lady would have strung us all up had we come to you,”

They stand in silence for some time, until Gist saunters back to the wheel of the red sailed yacht, muttering for Lisa to ‘go to him’. After some moments of sulking, Lisa remembers the pewter pendant against her neck, and quickly slips into the interior of the ship.

Her feet patter on the wooden floor, as she follows the narrow corridor to what she assumes to be Shay’s rooms. With a knock, Lisa waits at the door, and is greeted by the click of a shower switching off.

On the other side of the wooden panel, sound of approaching footsteps grow louder. Swallowing down the bubbling fears inside her, Lisa steels herself for the door opening. Today was not how she’d imagined reuniting with Shay...not at all.

“You’re still here? I thought you’d have gone back to Kenway,” Shay hums, opening the door. Seeing Shay stood only in a damp towel, streams of hot water running in little rivulets down the marble cut muscles of his torso - skirting around the stark skin of the scar on his shoulder -  Lisa struggles to keep her eyes on his face, which is framed by damp, dark hair that drips down his cheeks.

Damn him.

“No…” she swallows, again, mentally slapping herself for her damned wandering eyes, “No, I needed to talk to you, can I come in?”

Wordlessly, Shay nods, standing aside to let her in. As he disappears back into the bathroom, Lisa is left sitting on the bed, twirling the necklace around her fingers. The room is pretty, if not simple, it’s walls painted a soothing white, with the back one a faint blue. For a room of this side, the bed is huge - and damn comfortable. Lost in her thoughts about the comfort of the bed, Lisa doesn’t notice as Shay - now thankfully dressed in all black - comes to sit beside her, his hand taking her own.

“Before we start talking, I want to apologise,” Shay presses a gentle kiss to the back of her hand, “I want to apologise for leaving, for not coming back to find you, to tell you...I thought they would have told you lies, poisoned you against me...When Alexios told me you thought I was dead...I...I just had to find you, that’s why I went to Bari,”

“Oh,”

“Then I nearly went to find you in Greece, but Alexios rang me...then Haytham called to say he’d seen you - and now you’re here!” Shay sighs, “But I’m sorry, Lisa, for not finding you,”

Offering the necklace to him, she nods at it; “What about this? I found it in my apartment after Achilles announced my transfer...was it not you who put it there?”

A shake of the head is her reply.

“That’s Alexios’ handiwork,” he explains, “He’s been playing cupid for a while”

Blushing, Lisa purses her lips together at thought. Alexios? Cupid? That’s the oddest thing she’s thought of in a long while.

“Do you think we could have a second chance? To be together, I mean,” Lisa asks, “After all, we never finished or anything,”

With a tearful smile, Shay presses his forehead against hers and mumbles quietly.

“We do have another chance, and we should take it,” he murmures, now clasping both her hands between his.

Loosening a sigh, Lisa leans into his warmth, nodding against his words.

“Good,” she mutters, before quickly pulling away.

“We need to check in with Kenway,” she announces, watching as Shay mutely nods and pulls out his phone, ready to call the Grandmaster.

Hand straying back up to the pendant around her throat, Lisa watches the dark haired Templar before her. He’s different, now.

Where he once was warm and gentle, he is harsh and cold - but that potential warmth is still there, albeit behind a wall of unbreakable ice.

This mission of his, this revenge and murder of ex-comrades, has changed him. His abruptness has unsettled her, and Lisa nearly springs out of her skin when Shay slams his phone down on the bed, eyes shut for a brief moment.

“We have our orders,” Shay offers no more explanation, other than; “We sail at dawn,”

Slowly, the dreary weight of tiredness settles on her shoulders, and it’s all Lisa can do to crawl into the arms of her once-again lover, eyelids already drooping shut.