#what a fragile fucking web they weave

[gingervitus]

WIP Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday Sunday

well, here I am. better late than never, right? thank you for the tag @thedissonantverses. if not for writing in bed last night when I couldn't fall asleep, I fear I would not have much of anything to share at all, but WE DID IT JOE.

here's a bit from the next part of grief: in three phases, which I don't think will be out this week. Unfortunately, like with most things, I gave myself a goal that was a little too ambitious and lofty. Now it's taking much longer to write than I had anticipated.

(but also I'm proud of this work and love despair)

Anyway, here it is!

The dust had settled on the stories of the elven gods, leaving so much clarity in its wake.

Viago, of course, was and still is not pleased with her choices, but he's stopped sending his Crows to Arlathan in an attempt to retrieve her. They are never returned in any permanently disabled capacity. All simply maimed in a way that displays very clearly her repeated declination to return to House de Riva. A broken arm. A very sprained ankle. A fractured clavicle. Each one finds their way home to presumably resume their duties as soon as they've been healed. And each one has a scathing letter which arrives addressed to Rook a month or so after their initial arrival, critiquing their incompetence. Despite everything, she laughs as she reads them.

Trudging through the forest after a rain with the extra weight of her Antivan spoils, though, is almost as bothersome as the rare trip to Treviso she is returning from. With the disappearance and presumed death of the First Talon, the other houses have been in a state of turmoil for nearly two years. Her boots sink into a pile of mud, and she grumbles to herself about how impractical Crow armor and Antivan fashion is, wondering why she didn't simply plan accordingly and wear what she normally would. She knows very well that would never have been the case, not if the proprietor of her old haunt would have anything say in the matter. 

Teia insisted on showering her with gifts upon her return. Upon the return of an ally. An old friend. A confidant. “I am happy for you, Via… and Lucanis.” Luckily, they managed to work their way through most of the expensive wines and cheeses during her three week stint in the city. She is well aware that it would have been even more difficult to make it through Arlathan hauling all that food. Sharing them with a friend had also been gratifying. One of the few people she genuinely misses being away from the city she knew as home for so long, and her whole trip home, she cannot recall Teia ever looking quite so… defeated. “These last two years have been… illuminating.” 

Lucanis was meant to bring about change. Be the innovative progressive the Crows desperately need with a well established name to back him up, but it was a short lived title, all three Dellamortes up and vanishing without so much as a word. “House Nero is… well, Cesare snatched First Talon, and we all knew how that would go.” Slaves being plucked from Tevinter, half of them not making it through training. Infighting from every which angle. Black market dealings with every seedy operation imaginable. House Nero has been accumulating a massive wealth and set out to destroy the old Villa at the edge of the city as soon as they had been able. They all knew what would happen should the Sixth Talon ever take the reins. Suddenly, the Butcher was a benevolent and kind ruler if for nothing else than his true unyielding love for the city of Treviso itself.

I'M GOING TO DO THE WORD ONE SOON BUT IT'S NOT A PART OF A WIP. I HAD AN IDEA FOR IT WHILE I WAS FALLING ASLEEP.

[technovillain]

my d.e. fanskills set

these are based on my own personality. so just allow me to be nerdy and vaguely vulnerable for a second.

INTELLECT

SCAFFOLD: call back to past solutions to problems. You are a seasoned professional who can make a Venn diagram of any two situations. This is always appropriate. Cool for: Architects, Think-Tankers, Technical Support

IDEOLOGY: apply your truths. Bring those Philosophy 101 facts to the forefront and show everyone you know how the system works. Fuck the man. Fight the power. Cool for: Soapboxers, Revolutionaries, Activists

REFERENCE: recall previous facts and information you have stored in your head. Cool for: Scholars, Expert Witnesses, Archivists

THREAD: tie unrelated things together to form new concepts or truths. Easily led astray by distraction. Cool for: Conspiracists, Investigators, Crossword Champions

RACONTEUR: tell a story, be it true or false. Is the web you weave convincing? More importantly, does it baffle and dazzle the mind? Cool for: Authors, Compulsive Liars, Dungeon Masters

EVERGREEN: your childlike, everlasting hunger to learn more, and to learn everything. A potted plant frustrated by its root space. Cool for: Finger-Painters, Those Who Pine, Renaissance Men

PSYCHE

APRÉS MOI: look forward to the consequences of the future. See yourself return to the clay and find what remains. Cool for: Dark Poets, Forensic Scientists, Prognosticators

MOTLEY: a fool from a fantasy world. Thinks nothing of the mortal realm and encourages escapism through imagination. Cool for: Spiraling Entertainers, the Absent-Minded, Nincompoops

SOLICITUDE: show compassion and understanding to those around you. You've been there before, reassure them. Cool for: Village Elders, Veterinarians, the Lonely

MATRYOSHKA: connect with versions of yourself long gone. Different names, the shunned, the dearly missed, hold court with them all. Cool for: Introspects, Therapists, Those with Identity Disorders

L'APPEL DU VIDE: think of all the ways it could go wrong. Usually unnecessary and distressing, occasionally enlightening. Occasionally allows you to get into the mindset of a lunatic. Cool for: People on the Edge, Paranoiacs, Health & Safety Inspectors

BREECHES: you're a big boy, you're a grown up, these are facts that you can believe all the time. People take you seriously. You are confident. Cool for: Fragile Egos, Self-Proclaimed Big Boys, Younger Siblings

PHYSIQUE

GUTS: something is stirring in your stomach. Can you handle it? Cool for: Daredevils, the Honest, Dumpster-Divers

SWIVEL: scope out the room. Locate danger and emergency exits. Trust no one. You aren't paranoid, you're just being more cautious than everyone else. Cool for: Bodyguards, Runaways & Fugitives, Petty Criminals

FLOODGATES: Hold it in. Don't cry, don't emote, don't let them know what you're thinking. Cool for: Feeling-Bottlers, Chronic Tough-Guys, Judiciaries

MULTI-TOOL: be resourceful with your tools. Use everything for multiple purposes, get all the juice out of every fruit in your basket. Cool for: The Frugal, Those Who Hate Doing the Dishes, Tailors

ITCH: encompasses most primal desires. Destruction, feasting, sexual gratification, violence. Cool for: Vandals, Hedonists, Party Animals

VIGOR: the overall state of your immune system and physical health. Your body is a well oiled machine. Cool for: Health Nuts, Olympians, Hypochondriacs

MOTORICS

FLOAT: sneak around, light as a feather. Leave the environment undisturbed. You are a gentle breeze. Cool for: Jewel Thieves, Eavesdroppers, the Forgotten

IGNITION: the adrenaline-fed movements of a maniac. How scared are you? How badly do you want to run away? Cool for: Prey Animals, the Guilty, Cowards

FLUIDITY: loosen your jaw and unclench your fists. You're in control of the situation, and none of this will matter a year from now. Cool for: Yogis, Enlightened Monks, Trusted Leaders

PANACHE: move your body in all the right ways. You are unthinkingly perfect at knowing where to put your hands and feet. Cool for: Masters of Charisma, Dancers, Impressive Show-Offs

CROSSHAIRS: make precise and accurate motions with your body and the tools that you wield. Cool for: Court Stenographers, Sharpshooters, Sign Interpreters

BRUNT: bear a heavy load. You don't need any help with this. Your muscles and joints are forged of steel. Cool for: Heroes of the Working Class, Shot-Putters, Powerlifters

[brucewaynehater101]

So I was reading "Kidnapping Tim's dignity" by Sophie_Vers and "Suffer in Vogue" by InkpotSprite, which btw, mind the tags and content warnings in the endnotes before reading because holy fuck!

And while they aren't the first to depict Tim being the exception to Jason's 'Protect Kids' schtick, it got me thinking of the principle of "if one of us isn't safe, none of us are safe"

So here's some loosely connected ideas exploring that. Bending canon ahead

Also I fused that Mafia!Tim idea with this because it's fire

Feel free, but not pressured, to add on however you want

==========

Titans Tower occurs before Stephanie becomes Robin. It, + other incidents, convince Bruce to bench Tim for the foreseeable future

Steph becomes the Fourth Robin and has the help of Tim for training, the batcomputer + more

Stephanie's dies during her run as Robin and is buried, Bruce at least has the decency to pay off the bills for the funeral eve if she wasn't legally adopted

How does she get revived? Let's say Tim is experimenting with Lazarus Water. If it can bring back Jason, it can bring back his friend

And since he succeeded at reviving Stephanie, if anybody else (like say, Kon & Bart) dies, he can just whip out the pit juice

Since Stephanie died under Batman's tutelage, she makes the decision to hide her revival from Batman, and Tim helps set her up with a new identity

At some point between Tim trying to revive Stephanie and helping her get a new ID, Duke joins the fray. Idk how but they meet & he gets in the know about Steph's revival

Then his parents being Joker Gassed happens, and Bruce—thanks to a little red robin whispering in his ear—takes him in as his ward/foster/adopted kid

Fuck it, let's add in Cassandra as well, girl speedruns hopping into Gotham like another League runaway she's heard of and comes under Batman's wing in no time

And you don't hide shit from her so Cass and Duke are in on Stephanie's resurrection and are trusted Secret Keepers

==========

Despite all that's happened, Stephanie isn't going to let go of being a vigilante, but she doesn't want Batman looming over her either

Plus the others are up for some teenage rebellion so they copy after their Big Brother Jason and become crime lords

Introducing the gang; The Undying Carrion

(named them after Carrion Crow, which is very intelligent and a scavenger)

Works like Tim Gang in the Gang AU but with Tim, Steph, Cass and Duke as shared leaders

They need leader names, fuck

Lemme think . . .

Introducing, the Carrion Crows!

Stephanie / Carrion Violence

Tim / Carrion Thread

Duke / Carrion Light

Cassandra / Carrion Promise

Explanation Times!!

// (Violence - nce) + t = violet, which is purple!!

Hence why Stephanie calls herself violence! Okay that's a Canon Event but there's also other meanings to the name

Stephanie didn't just die, she was killed or murdered, an act of violence

Stephanie is on the field more than the rest of the Carrion, and knows how to rock your shit, she's well trained in—and expecting—violence

She's motivated partially by Jason's violence against Tim

Why call themselves Carrions? Stephanie started this all after being returned from death

// Tim became Robin because what little faith in Batman remained was a thin, fragile thread, and while he restored Gotham's into a tightknit spider web, his own faith degenerated into a thread that snapped with Stephanie's death

Likewise, his adoration for Jason, the Second Robin, is hanging by a thread, especially as the other three voice their disdain for Jason's more recent action in Titans Tower

Plus the logic Jason has for hating Tim, Batman has for abusing Tim, and he has for loving those two still, barely has a thread of logic to them

Like spider webs, he's able to take mere threads and weave them into inescapable traps, make unseen firewalls and find the thinnest threads of knowledge on the internet

He makes a secure spiderweb of safety nets and contingencies for the gang for countless possible situations

// Behind Stephanie, Duke is the most well-known of the Carrion Crows, he's like a lighthouse of directions for the gang

He is also able to lead mass swaths of people at once, while Stephanie is better with smaller groups, or doing it one-to-one

Because he leads a larger statistic of people at once, foes tend to be lured to him like moths to a flame, thinking if they take him down, the whole operation comes toppling

Even if they do put Duke out of action, they're in for a rude awakening when the rest of the Carrion Crows come to the rescue

He and Steph know how to put all eyes on themselves so that Tim and Cass's activities go unnoticed

Why think of mysteries with too little clues to wonder about, when you can look at this spectacle of a spotlight and galore of violence?

His name is also a nod to the fact that despite all the trauma he's went through, he has more childhood innocence compared to the rest of the four; more light in his eyes so to speak

// Cassandra, the renegade, the renegade . . .

She made a promise to herself even before she met The Bat; She will not kill, for it is wrong, all have the right to live, and none the right to revoke it

She does not kill for all deserve a sufficient judgement; all victims the ability to gain closure how they see fit (this sets up possible future arguments between Jason and her)

Where as the other Carrion may take the liberty to transform 'No Killing' into a fate worse than death?

She is the only one who's made this promise, and thus the only one you can trust to not make you beg for death due to it transforming into mercy

And if you make a promise to the Carrion? You better go through with it, because she'll know when you've broken it

==========

The gang starts off as basically welfare.

Here's free lessons of essential life skills, here's free nursing and doctor training, here's free education and shelter— legality? Who cares?

Eventually, however, they meet bottlenecks of lacking legal options as illegal gangs do

So Tim starts looking into ways to circumvent this. lo and behold, the Drake Industries he is set in inherit

Tim starts catching up on everything he'll need to know to be CEO as a fricking teenager and starts discussing the possibility of even doing so under eighteen

For plot convenience, Jack and Janet are ecstatic that he appears to be so passionate about this and help him speedrun inheritance

Badabing badaboom, with Tim weaving in the Undying Carrion and Drake Industries together, business is booming on both sides as they feed into eachothers growth and profits

The Drake's, in the dark, are wiping tears above their smiles. They're so proud of their boy!

Tim unfortunately has to play Loving Son™ more than ever, but hey, worth it

Fuck it, it's helping Gotham, so Tim even enlists Kon, Cassie and Bart as honorary and substitute leaders in case of emergencies, gets them up to speed

(hey maybe even have Bart info dump about the Undying Carrion when introduced to it be it due to history lessons or it's place in the future)

Idk what their Carrion Titles would be lol

Also how will they utilize their powers without giving themselves away? 🤔🤔🤔

==========

Oh yeah, what do they all do as the heads of their gang?

Well, they're very remote and hands off in practice due to civilian and bat-vigilante lives, so unless they can find the time;

Tim is the tech genius, encrypting and hacking like no tomorrow. Plus his ability to gather information is like no other

He can even double as an info broker when nessecery

He does most of the bureaucracy when it comes to working Drake Industries and Undying Carcasses both at once, but others help him shoulder the burden

Cassandra specializes in getting a read on people with her knowledge in body language

She can tell who works best where, who to trust, who to play, who to investigate, etc.

Duke does most of leadership possible remotely. He also utilizes his meta powers without outing himself as Signal

Stephanie—with an undone death—is able to act as a physically present leader for the gang, and is the one on the field if nessecery

In a nutshell, Tim does tech + organization and DI & UC, Cass passes judgements, Duke does remote leadership, and Stephanie does fieldwork and physical leadership

As the four leaders, they have meetings and discuss how to proceed with their gang

==========

So yeah, Batman + non-criminal allies and Red Hood are sniffing around the Undying Carrion because, hello? New gang? Who dis?

Especially if one of them catches a look at Stephanie's eyes as Violence and sees them flash Lazarus Green, giving the name 'Undying Carrion' a whole 'nother meaning

That also boosts their motivation to uncover what the fucking is going on here

==========

Anyways Jason slander because I'm a Hater™

Stephanie proposed becoming a crime lord since she didn't want to work under Batman, still wanted to help people, and crime is still a big fucking problem so "if you can't beat 'em, join em"

However, she is also aware of the mess that is Batman and Jason's relationship after the latter revived, plus Jason beating Tim up to high hell, and fills in Cass and Duke about this

And having never met Jason nor caring about his Robin days nearly as much as Tim Drake, she has a very low opinion of the Second Robin

Especially with Jason's audacity to claim he protects kids whilst doing the Titans Tower

And whatever the hell he was pulling didn't stop her from biting the dust

So yeah, she's a hater and she makes it KNOWN

She's super vocal about her criticism towards Batman and Red Hood

"Batman's second Robin died due to circumstances out of his control, so I won't grill him for that, but to allow Red Hood to break into Titans Tower and beat the Third Robin to near death and later allow the Fourth to die is something else entirely!"

"Speaking of Red Hood, what happened to 'protecting the children'? look at you! You beat Robin—a teenager—into the dirt for daring to care about his community! for feeling obligated for throwing away his childhood so he could play Therapist for Batman!"

"Shouldn't you be throwing hands with Batman instead? The Third Robin threw away so much for him and the Fourth Robin gave her own life!"

"Or is the problem that they do care for their communities, and have the power to fight for them and defend ourselves?"

"Was the Third Robin not only exempted from your rules, but actively targeted by you because he could defend himself? Do only protect children when they can't fight back? When they're utterly helpless? In Gotham?"

"Forget being an exception, why did you see fit to grant the idea that children should be protected from harm an exception? Are the kids in Crime Alley safe from you at all?"

"Argue all you want for yourself, but the fact remains that you've displayed not the power, but the willingness to torture those you claim to protect, and we won't stand for it, I least of all."

"If one of us isn't safe, none of us are safe."

Maybe Stephanie's slip for the tongue "one of us" can clue Red Hold in on Carrion Violence being a teenager, whoopsie daisies

But yeah, arguments for those under Red Hood or The Undying Carrion abound

Lord help you of you're under Red Hood, and The Undying Carrion

I'm thinking about the Twitter Wars . . .

==========

Hey maybe she even whispers the idea that Red Hood is infact a copycat of The Joker and is just playing the long con, building a reputation and trust so he can burn it all away and watch the improving community collapse and despair

It'd explain why he brutalized the Third Robin like how The Joker did the Second Robin but has yet to do the same with Batman and is obsessed like the Joker is, she's just saying . . . 👀👀👀👀

Not as Carrion Violence of course, that'd be the biggest target in her back yet!

It's small suggestions here and there only Tim would be able to trace back to her

I'm just saying, with the Carrion Crows being Waynes (not matter how unofficial) and Tim running Drake Industries they're experience with PR could be weaponized *handrub*

Jason has to throw in his own rustic abilities but it's gonna be tough, woof

==========

Is Cluemaster still isn't jailed yet, he's done for with the Carrion Crows on his ass

==========

The four are also gonna beat Jay's ass into the dirt when they find out he knew about Damian since he was under Talia's care and never brought him up

Or maybe not, Red Hood isn't on good terms with Batfam or Carrion, and if he did go single father he'd have assassin's on his undertrained ass

But also

That kid's in a fucking cult for fucks sake what the hell man?

==========

Oh yeah, the Batclan side of things.

Given the disastrous trend of Robins biting the dust or being brutalized by previous ones, Robin is benched indefinitely, especially with Tim admitting that he's going to focus more on his civilian life

Particularly getting that CEO status in Drake Industries and playing the Prodigy Image for PR

Also the Carrion stuff but Batman doesn't know that

Bruce sort of has his hands full simultaneously training daylight hero Signal and recent partner Batgirl

as do they but he doesn't need to know why

Batman is sweating bullets after learning about the rapidly growing Undying Carrion and realizing they have to investigate this. Especially if he knows about Carrion Violence's Lazarus eyes

Cassandra and Duke meanwhile are sweating because they have to investigate themselves without getting caught

Just because Tim is benched doesn't mean he's wholly out of the game

He does lots of duty on the batcomputer as he did during Stephanie's Robin time

Plus, since he's gone Computer Man, he spends more time with Barbara and learning technology with her

Which is later exploited by Carrion Thread

So yeah, with the Batfamily infested with three moles, It's gonna be rough not raising suspicion but slightly easier with each other to trust

Plus they can do some espionage for the Carrion side of things

==========

Suffice to say that the Carrion Crows and maybe even Young Justice become much closer thanks to this, so if something real bad happens like Tim's Sixteenth birthday, he'll trust them to have his back and to give a shoulder to cry on

And to think this started off as Jason Todd hate . . . And also Batman hating . . .

Oh yeah, I never established wtf Stephanie"s fake ID was, just that Tim helped her get one, should probably toss that in as well

Tim doing experiments until he can, in cases of emergency, revive his family with Pit water makes sense.

I do love that this AU focuses on Steph, Duke, and Cass because they can be overlooked by fandom and canon (I'm glad Tim is a focus as well, but he's not nearly as overlooked as the other three).

I'm always down for Bruce bashing, and I like the idea that they are slowly driving him nuts. He has no clue why this new gang is always ahead of him, and he just wants to figure it out. Fuck him, though.

The role for Steph in this is great. I think that Bruce is too limiting for her character. She should be able to make her own decisions with support, not dictations of lines. She's too used to making her own decisions for some random ass man to tell her what she can and can't do. It doesn't matter that Bruce is Batman and a billionaire. Steph deserves the respect to be a leading decision maker of her own life.

In this AU, she's able to shine as the brilliant, fierce, and strong person she is while being able to lean on Duke, Cass, and Tim.

Duke and Cass have it rough with two separate vigilante (ish) personas, but you did mention they kind if work not as frequently as Steph is able to.

As far as Jason, there's very few fics that address how his attack on Tim would affect his reputation in Crime Alley. That, more than anything, would devastate the man. The kids of Crime Alley, whose trust is hard earned, losing faith in him. I don't remember which fics address this, but even fewer actually have Crime Alley find out about Red Hood attacking Robin. That whole situation is tricky to navigate as a fan of both Tim and Jason.

Anyways, I love the amount of detail you put into this AU. What part of Gotham would they control? Would they be fighting with Red Hood for Crime Alley, or would they set up territory in another section? Or do they not have territory?

I'd be down to hear more about this AU. Stuff like what their outfits are like, what missions they tackle, how the public treats them, etc.

[nobodyssoldier]

i. a web weaving

These crosses all over my body remind me of who I used to be, and Christ forgive these bones I'm hiding from no one successfully. Jesus can always reject his father, but he cannot escape his mother's blood. He'll scream and try to wash it off of his fingers, but he'll never escape what he's made up of. The fate's already fucked me sideways, swinging by my neck from the family tree. He'll laugh and say, "You know I raised you better than this." Then leave me hanging so they all can laugh at me.

you look just like your mother. i guess i do carry her tenderness well. you both have the same eyes. 'cause we are both exhausted. and the hands. we share the same wilting fingers. but that rage, your mother doesn't wear that rage. you're right, this rage is the one thing i get from my father.

ii. digging deeper

name: orestes lestrange

age: 26

former house: slytherin

blood status: pureblood

face claim: freddy carter (ask for alternatives)

allegiance: the wraiths

gender & pronouns: utp

firstborn son, least-loved child. it wasn't always this way. once, you had a mother who loved you, who cradled you in her arms and sang lullabies into your dark hair. you carried her in every part of you: her doe-like eyes, her gentle heart, her hands that knew nothing of cruelty. but tenderness withers quickly in the house of lestrange, where old blood seeps through walls and portraits whisper dark secrets. you learned this slowly, painfully, watching your father's disappointment grow like shadows at sunset. once, orion loved you too, held you like something precious and rare. you were his heir, his legacy, his future carved in flesh and bone. but now you remind him too much of her, of what he lost when she withered away to bones and dust. now, you are nothing but his wound, a mirror reflecting everything he wants to forget.

desperate for love, aching for it, you try & you try & you try. you do your best to shape yourself in his image. but where you fall, electra rises . where you falter, she excels. where you question, she obeys. where you show mercy, she shows sickening cruelty. you watch your father's pride shift to her like an ebbing tide, leaving you stranded on the shore with nothing but salt on your tongue. you tell yourself it doesn't hurt anymore, but there is a coldness in you now, hollow as bird bones, and it spreads through your chest like winter frost. your sister, iphegenia, she mothers you still, as she has since your real mother became nothing but portraits and memories. but her protection is a double-edged sword — it only proves what your father already knows: you are too much your mother's son, too soft for the name you carry. but even soft things can learn to cut. sometimes, the apple may fall far from the tree, but that doesn't stop it from rotting away. when father named electra heir, something crystallized inside you, sharp as shattered glass. you've let the frost in now, let it reshape you from the inside out. you forge yourself anew. you've become stillness and shadow, the moment before the knife falls. what's lost will one day return to you. you will have his respect — his love — again.

but sometimes, a quiet thought presses itself against your ear, whispers like a secret: is that even what you want anymore? you've spent so long trying to kill that gentle boy, trying to freeze him out like winter killing flowers. but sometimes, he bangs and pounds at your fragile chest, begging to set free again. these days, iphegenia looks at you only with pity & grief & longing, searching for something you don't know how to give, not anymore. at night, you pace the manor's halls like a ghost haunting its own grave. your footsteps echo against marble floors where you once played with your sisters, before everything shattered, before electra learned to wear cruelty like a crown, before iphegenia's touch began to smother, before you started trying to carve out everything soft inside yourself. when your mother does not return with the others, your tongue feels heavy with unspoken questions. your father's eyes gleam with something that looks almost like a confession. in this manor, secrets creak like loose floorboards. you've always been good at keeping them — they nest inside you like winter birds, wings folded tight against the cold. but prodigal son, how long can you continue pretending you do not wish to leave this place? how long will it be before you flee into the night?

iii. connections

one. ALTAN SERVER "ALBUS SEVERUS" POLAT , one-night-stand — you saved my life, he says. i owe you everything. you don't, i say, you don't owe me squat, let's just get going, let's just get gone, but he's relentless, keeps saying i owe you, says your shoes are filling with your own damn blood, you must want something, just tell me, and it's yours. but i can’t look at him, can hardly speak, i took the bullet for all the wrong reasons, i’d just as soon kill you myself, i say. [ ... ] you can’t get out of this one, henry, you can’t get it out of me, and with this bullet lodged in my chest, covered with your name, i will turn myself into a gun, because it’s all i have, because i’m hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own.

two. DANTE MULCIBER , only friend — someone has to leave first. this is a very old story. there are no other versions of this story.

three. ELECTRA LESTRANGE & IPHEGENIA LESTRANGE , siblings — growing up with a sibling is like being the only people on a stranded boat, constantly figuring out how you can live with them and questioning how you could ever live without them.

[pulchrasilva]

Hearken, good sir, to the frenzied ramblings of a man gripped by the merciless clutches of madness. In this epoch of antiquity, where reason tussles with the unknown, I find myself ensnared in a maelstrom of delusions and bewilderment. Pray, indulge me as I unfurl the tangled threads of my disarrayed mind.

Ah, my mind, a vessel now adrift upon a tempestuous sea of swirling thoughts. The very fabric of reality frays before my eyes, revealing glimpses of a kaleidoscope of half-formed specters and ethereal shadows. Doth it not seem that the world itself conspires to vex my senses, to pry open the floodgates of my sanity?

With each passing hour, I traverse a labyrinth of my own making, where corridors of reason merge with hallways of illusion. The laws of nature, once steadfast, now crumble like ancient ruins beneath the weight of my deranged cognition. Perception, that fragile web we weave to make sense of the world, has betrayed me, transforming my surroundings into a dizzying masquerade of inexplicable phenomena.

Do you not see? The walls whisper secrets, their ancient stones breathing life into forgotten echoes of the past. The ticking of a pocket watch mocks me, elongating and contracting in a bewildering dance, as if time itself taunts my futile attempts to grasp its elusive essence. The very air bears witness to my torment, vibrating with an otherworldly hum that scours my senses raw.

Oh, the faces! A procession of visages, both familiar and grotesque, materializes in the mist of my fragmented thoughts. They leer and grimace, wearing masks of deceit, their eyes, portals into realms beyond mortal comprehension. Their silent voices reverberate within the chambers of my addled brain, whispering enigmatic truths or wicked deceptions—I know not which.

Logic, that guiding beacon of rationality, has abandoned me, replaced by an anarchic tangle of absurd connections and irrational leaps. I am a prisoner, shackled to a swirling carousel of half-formed ideas and fleeting epiphanies. Yet, in this chaos, there lies a perverse fascination, a perverse delight in the unraveling of reality's tapestry.

Verily, I am but a solitary figure amidst the vast tapestry of existence, a vessel tossed by unseen tempests. The world, once so tangible, now eludes my grasp like a wisp of smoke. My words, like scribbled hieroglyphs upon a crumbling scroll, attempt to capture the essence of this fractured reality, to etch upon the annals of history the enigma of my derangement.

And now, dear interlocutor of this bygone age, you have borne witness to the meandering wanderings of a mind unhinged, caught betwixt the realms of order and chaos. As twilight descends upon this theater of my shattered cogitations, I bid you adieu, for I am destined to drift further into the uncharted abyss of my own lunacy, an enigmatic specter haunting the corridors of a forgotten time.

Hey dude - and I mean this with my whole heart - what the fuck

[iron-hearts-ablaze]

Astarion had been an incredibly powerful asset since his amelioration. Being so close to the coveted Lord Astarion; Vampire Ascendant certainly had its perks. In more ways than one. His web weaved through many nooks and crannies - and her brute force knocked down walls he need not climb anymore. It was a simple union, but a terrifying prospect to any who stood in their way.

Gortash didn't necessarily trod on their almighty path to greater power, but he was a thorn Karlach wanted removed from her side. She wanted to feel as Astarion did when he earned his revenge on Cazador. She wanted to finally feel quenched as she soaked in her revenge at long last.

A smirk grew across her plush lips as he spoke the devils tongue to her. She was dressed in fair luxury for once. An elaborate combination of military and opulence. Silks and satins met leather and decorative metals that highlighted not just the curve of her body but of her prowess and muscle.

"You sound as devilish as you look when you speak like that," She had a hint of an approving purr to her tone. "It sounds handsome on your tongue." She finished. He seemed in a great mood as he swayed his way over with practised precision. She raised a brow, her arms crossed and hip out slightly to balance herself as she anticipated a reason for these theatrics.

Oh, and what a reason...

An audible rush through her engine as the clattering chains revealed who they surrounded. Her pupils shrunk dangerously small as they narrowed in on Gortash. Blood and oil rushed through her like lava, drowning out all other words. At last... At long last!

She ignored Astarion temporarily, as if in a trance. She strode up to Gortash - he seemed a little bruised here and here, but nothing of real note. And certainly nothing to what he was about to experience. Karlach suddenly wrapped her hand around Gortash's neck - slowly at first. As if seeing he was real. It was rivaling a lovers touch, how she lusted after the pain she wanted to cause him... She then squeezed hard, gasping in ecstasy as he spluttered for breath - especially as she raised him easily into the air, chains and all.

"What a gift!" Karlach laughed almost manically. "Gods above, I've waited so fucking long for this!" Gleefully, she brought him down to the floor - head first. Hard. There was a sickening crack and soon his yell filled the room as he could do little else. Karlach rubbed her hands up her arms and up her neck to her face, as if smothering herself in his torment. What punishment could possibly fit the crime? She had so long to think of this, and yet everything on her list seemed to be too minimal. Or rather, she simply wouldn't be able to do it all with his weak and fragile humans could be. Especially in the hands of one fuelled by the Absolute and her own rage. Unless...

"Astarion," Karlach whispered, rather dangerously as she looked over her shoulder at him. Eyes manic with the desire to harm, deranged with such a terrible idea. "Didn't you say you wanted another slave around here...? Maybe one that can work to the bone for - oh I don't know - ten years... One that won't break so easily when I get my hands on him..."

IT HAD TOOK THEM AGES SPENT IN HELL figuratively, and literally for the pair to get to their final destination - absolute reign over Baldur's gate and the denizens . The rivers of blood that the vampire ascendant has consumed, the Fury of Avernus had doubled in numbers, wake evident whenever her cambions went under stern command, leaving no stone unturned, seeking for Gortash's hiding place. And he might've managed to evade her devils for a while, but the Banite was finally facing his doom in her alliance with Astarion. Every effort, of fighting off anymore, was simply in vein.

" My darling, my sublime warrior.., " The Lord greeted the tiefling with a wicked grin, and a kiss on her mouth in synch with hid newly found pulse, " I've been longing to hear your voice, " Bright red orbs lingering over her as silk and silver melted persuasively on his tongue. For the vampire was fluent in infernal now, one of his newly found talents.

The silver and white curls appeared exquisitely soft under the dim lighting, as he approached her, sauntering over with dancer like elegance . " I so loathed seeing that shadow cast upon your face. . been wanting to see a glimpse of your smile again, I hope my gift, would bring more joy to you, then anyone ever could, " Astarion sneered finally stepping to the side, revealing his surprise for her.

The right hand of Lord Bane, had been caught and wrapped up by his goons, in more chains than his slaves could probably ever carry .

"Tell me what is your verdict on him. I took the liberty, of treating him like a dog, as a starters, it will suffice. But only as long as you shall decide, what is the punishment for his sin."

[icannotgetoverbirds]

political action for arizona residents!

TL:DR help me waste a conservative hotline's time with bogus stories about CRT

Do you know of an obnoxiously conservative school? Is your teacher racist as fuck? Does your school refuse to acknowledge systemic racism? Well boy howdy do I have an idea for you!

Over at 602-771-3500 or empower@azed.gov, republican assholes are looking to the community for reports of Critical Race Theory being taught.

They're making no efforts to deter spammers, because they think we're going to sit back and let their racist asses go unbothered. Remember, creating a new email address is free.

It is absolutely vital that we only report people who are NOT teaching critical race theory. What we are doing here is wasting their resources as much as possible: I'm looking for writers to send in emails and people with acting skills to make phony calls, reporting the exact people that would be most annoyed by getting accused of teaching CRT.

It's important that we're convincing enough to waste their time and resources. If you don't know of a conservative non-CRT-teaching place to report, just waste their time with a fake address and story.

If you do, however, know of an institution to report, you can send them on a wild goose chase that makes them realize how fragile groups ralling around ideology built on hate and ignorance really are.

Also: If you don't feel comfortable writing and sending in stories, send me stories of your most racist teachers and institutions and I can send stories in for you. I'm a writer myself and can absolutely use your truths to weave a nice web of lies for these assholes on your behalf.

Warning: Do not use this to get back at teachers/institutions that you just don't like. Unless they are both conservative (or apologists) and also do not teach CRT, do not target them. Otherwise you are delivering to the Republicans exactly what they want.

Plain text for the last paragraph reads:

Warning: Do not use this to get back at teachers/institutions that you just don't like. Unless they are both conservative (or apologists) and also do not teach CRT, do not target them. Otherwise you are delivering to the Republicans exactly what they want.

[parkerlyn]

How would the ROs react to getting trapped in a closet with the MC (like seven minutes in heaven style)?

Hahaha weeeelll (written in the crushing stage, magic trap style with the whole gang 👀)

---

The door slams behind the two of you just as you realize that the room had no depth at all. A snap of magic encases you in darkness just barely breached by a sliver of light sneaking past the door frame.

"HEY!" You call back frantically, slamming a spell to try to interrupt the runes now faintly beginning to glow against your face.

“It seems like a weak trap, hold on a second!” comes a muted call back from the others. There’s a furious pulling from the other side, and though the door rattles in its frame the magic holds it firm.

You give a sigh and turn in the tight space to look at...

The Healer:

They have to crouch within the strange trap you’ve found yourself caught in, cool blue light scattered across their skin.

“It’s never easy for us, is it?” they try to joke, while pressing a hand against the back wall, shoulders rolling back and forth to try and find the most comfortable position.

"Doesn’t seem like it," you grumble, finding some solace in the fact that you’re not stuck alone.

The Healer’s eyes are flitting around the door, colors swirling like blown glass between the cerulean and gold. The runes cast shadows over their collar in stark lines, and you realize you can trace the exact edges of them because your face is within inches of theirs.

They realize it the same time you do.

Their usual forward confidence immediately shrinks back, creating just the barest extra space between you since they have no where else to go. In vain, they begin to busy themself with trying to turn in the confined space, hands running over the rough surface that nearby digs into your back. They continue their pointless search in a desperate attempt to appear more preoccupied by the wall than you.

“Think there’s another way out?” You ask quietly, letting the facade continue for just a little longer as you turn to stare at the door.

The shrill whine of magic trying to break through the trap is the only accompanying sound you register at first, until you hear them sigh. “Doubt it,” they finally admit, shuffling in place to reposition their body.

Though your focus is ahead of you, the trace sensation of breath against your cheek drags your consciousness screaming back to the mortalis next to you. Before you can control the impulse, you turn towards its source, finding yourself staring at the Healer again.

“I’m sure they’ll get us out in no time, though,” they whisper out, their face not really concentrated on the statement.

"I hope so," you respond, cursing an unsuppressed shiver. The Healer’s breathing becomes shallower and slower, as if not wanting to mix the air between you, afraid that it may pull them forward.

It does anyway, their face magnetized toward you with their next question.

"Are you worried?" There’s a movement in the corner of your eye as their hand starts to raise, hesitating and hovering near your arm. Heat radiates from their palm, in contrast to the cool feel of their magic beginning to sweep out at their conflicted emotions.

"In general? Or right now?" You answer back, equally uninterested in the conversation and more aware of yourself leaning into their touch.

When their hand connects you feel their fingers freeze, unsure of their own function for a few brief moments, before they eventually remember, closing around your bicep and sending a lancing heat through your chest. Carefully and recklessly, the hand shifts upward to your shoulder.

But as soon as they reach it, something snaps near you, and the two of you draw away just in time for the door to open. 

You see the Healer's eyes caught on yours while your ears hardly register the faded drone of someone boasting about their magic, and eventually they smile and hold out their arm to let you go from this snare, at least.

The Magesmith:

A string of curses flies from their lips as they pull on the door as well. “Can you try a little harder?!” they snap back across the barrier. You can practically envision Oisein mouthing the words with dramatic annoyance on the other side.

Taking matters into their own hands, the Magesmith fumbles in the dark with something at their metallic elbow, before sliding their fingers along the top of their forearm. You watch the color between their joints start to shift to blue, the saturation changing depending on where they trace their other hand. With a slight hint of hesitation, they hold their brass hand close to the layer of magic on the door, the blues starting to harmonize with each other.

They press their fingers forward into the runes, the symbols bending like gel caving into itself. The sight is so unexpected that it takes your eyes a moment to fully grasp the movement, unsure if the door is now melting against their hands or if you're just imagining things. Fingers steady their arm, small adjustments here and there along the gears as their eyes narrow and their teeth grind against eachother.

“Magesmith?” comes an urgent call from the other side. “TELL me you’re not-”

That's quickly interrupted, however, when a flash fills your vision and a heavy weight slams into your body. It throws you back roughly as your spine crashes against the wall, and you tumble within the small space to feel the floor greet your lower back and limbs far too quickly.

A fragile high whine ricochets around your ears and your skull while you try to take some sort of stock of the rest of your body.

And the body on top of you.

"Fucking- shit I thought I-...ugh-" comes a low whisper near your ear, warmth lazily drifting across your neck from the Magesmith's lips. Dark auburn hair waterfalls over their headband and barely brushes against your ear. You freeze underneath them as they groan and straighten their arms to lift themselves. 

Head hanging forward, you see their eyes start to open, a flutter of color swarming underneath their eyelashes. They scrunch their eyes closed again, lips pressed into a thin line, before opening them to soft brown. Finally, they look up, caging you beneath their arms.

“You alright?” they ask bluntly, clearly still trying to blink the spots from their eyes.

“Yeah, yeah I think so.”

“Sorry, in hindsight I should’ve seen the trap having an escape ward, but I might have...gotten a little curious, but didn’t think about it fully, which was stupid, and-" An uncertain pause. "....what?”

They look at you with a questioning stare as you try to press yourself into the corner you’ve found yourself backed into underneath them. You give an awkward smile, look them in the face, back down at where their legs frame your hips, and then back up.

“I’m just...I can’t move because-”

Realization hits them as the magic drops and the door opens.

“I can’t believe you didn’t think that through and-”

You don't even have to look to feel the salacious grin spreading on Oisein's face.

“...Wow. I mean, if you guys wanted us to leave the door closed all you had to do was-”

The Magesmith is off you in a blur of motion, running a hand down their face with an embarrassed string of excuses. They brace themselves off the walls of the trap and storm out, pushing Oisein aside. Who, you note, looks back to you with eyebrows raised and a smirk that says ‘I’m not letting either of you live this down for at least a week.’

The Sage:

The usual calmness in their demeanor still permeates through their body, but you notice an outline of nerves as they look to you in the dim light. Their hands roll over one another as they turn and watch the runes begin to coalesce in front of you.

“Ah, our trappers are from Han, it seems.”

You turn to them in bewilderment, at least some of the edge of your situation slightly dulled. “How do you know?”

They raise a hand, with an almost unnoticeable swallow while they survey the tight space around you, their eyes eventually landing on the magic. Their finger hovers just barely overtop the symbol itself, tracing a web of lines that snake between it and the other magic glyphs.

“For people who work with enchanting, you see small signatures like this in their work. I’d wager no small amount of athasins that if you laid these lines on a map, they’d match some portion of the rivers around Han.” They give a weak smile. “The Magesmith would protest at me saying, but there are a lot of flame-like symbols and sharp mountains that appear in their glyphs if you know where to look.”

You watch them methodically course over each river, bobbing along each connection and confluence. But after a few more moments, you register the almost constant shiver that runs down their arm through their hands.

With a turn you find their face knotted in concentration and focus honed in on the light around you. Their jaw is clenched, rigid, unmoving, their shoulders locked firmly in place. You begin to open your mouth to say something, but think better, letting the breath ease from your chest as you look to where their hand starts to trace the rivers again.

Gingerly you lift your arm, a cautious hand lowering to the back of theirs and letting your fingers fall around their palm. There’s more cold, clammy, nervousness than you expect and they continue to scour the paths of the channels.

But soon the shudders subside, and they stop after one last run through the rivers, hand resting against the surface with their hand splayed against it and yours holding theirs. Shoulders unfurl and they close their eyes with a sigh, before turning to watch your face with a more relaxed smile.

They spread their fingers to let you weave between their knuckles, and delicately lift your hand. At first, you think they’ll back away from the contact, trying to find some polite way to drop and disconnect your touch. Instead, they bring your fingers softly to their lips, furrowing their brow as they hold them there.

“Thank you,” comes a murmur, right as the light shines inward when the magic seal breaks.

They do drop your hands then, but together, still connected, and they hold on tightly with a smile.

Oisein:

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” they groan out, looking around at the tight quarters. “Who makes a trap out of a tiny room? At least make it exciting, some spikes or something.”

“Sorry-" You slide your hands down the door and turned with brows raised, though you're not sure they can see it. "Are you disappointed that we’re not getting impaled?”

They pout, then grimace, screwing up their face with a frustrated swipe at their eyes. “No, that's not- no, sorry.”

Silence hangs between you as you come to terms with the situation, and you watch them roll their lips together with lavender cast downward. Though you swear you feel their gaze cascade over you in the dim light, everytime you look over, they snap their eyes away again.

Had it ever been this awkward with Oisein?

No, you answer yourself. 

But things had changed recently, hadn't they? 

Oisein had never watched you with a serene longing in Saor, had never desperately held you in Saor, had never lingered a second too long when helping to brush dust from your skin in Saor.

Or maybe you just hadn't noticed.

An aura of force passes through your chests as someone tries to break the trap from the other side, to no avail. Oisein tsks, squinting an eye and scratching at their heart.

"Mortalis magic," they scoff under their breath. You let a small smile creep onto your face before looking at them, finally catching their eyes. They don't look away this time, mustering the courage to hold firmly to your gaze. "The rate they're going, we might be stuck here forever, huh?"

Familiarity buzzes warmly in your lungs at the return of their more usual snark in the midst of the quiet.

"Good thing I like your company then," you respond.

"Mm, think it's better that I like yours, otherwise I might be annoying on purpose."

"Here I thought that was just a constant unconscious effort."

Oisein's brow rises, and they just shake their head with a barely hidden smirk. Another minute passes, but the lack of conversation feels more comfortable, and you let your head drift against the back wall to relax in the stillness.

"I'd be happy to be stuck with you, though." The statement pierces through the methodical taps on the door, and you roll your head along its crown to look over at the other sheevra. They've straightened their frame, eyes softening. "I mean- outside of death traps too. I'd want..." They trail off, and the unfinished sentence lures you towards them.

"Want what?" For a moment you swear you only thought the question, but Oisein's face shows that you whispered it outloud.

"I-"

"GOT IT!" Comes the dull shout before you feel the magic shatter and light pours in with a torrent. Oisein shields their face with a sharp intake of breath, and you watch it morph immediately into a mask of flippant disdain.

"Took you long enough!" They bluster, forcing their way out the door, the anxious pitch only noticeable to you.

"A 'thank you' would be great, you know, just a suggestion," someone sneers, though you don’t really register who.

You suppose you'll find out more later, peeling yourself forward with the breath you'd been holding and offering Oisein’s missing “Thank you.”

---

Thank you for the ask! ❤️

[hawksugarbaby]

Hawks x reader- widows web

Smut

Chapter includes: wing play, shibari, handjob, sub/dom dynamic (sub hawks), praise (giving), light degradation (giving)

weaving over his body and through his wings. His legs tied together and he was stuck on his knees for hours, his arms tied tightly at the top and shifted into diamonds at his forearms, pulled behind him and tied to his ankles, a rope collar with a long leash for you to grab and put him in his place and an hours worth of art on his chest and torso, the rope connected to the tight loops on his legs, he was completely bound.

It was a shame when he came from work one day without them. Only black chared feathers burnt into his back and crumbling bone.

Your favourite piece of art though was always his wings, his little whimpers when you gently pulled on the rope to twist them in the middle, a spider web of rope, and you were the black widow "hush now little songbird, you can have what you want soon" you said pulling on the leash lightly to cut off his whining. Pretty snake knots where the rope connected in the middle branching into diamonds then wrapping around his wings, the bone skeleton was fragile so you tied loosely and came back into the middle, barrel knot, Napoleon claw, barrel knot, diamond, wings, snake knot repeat.

"you take so long (y/n) can't you just tie a granny knot and be finished" he sighed waiting impatiently, trying to flutter his wings only to get rope burn on his wings "you'll hurt yourself," you said grabbing the tips of his wings making him moan out and his wings puff up slightly "s-sorry" he stammered biting his lip when you grabbed a fistful of feathers "good"

"Just another knot" you assure, stroking his wings softly sending shivers down his spine. You tie the last knot tightly and pull on the ropes making sure they were loose enough for him to be safe yet tight enough so that he couldn't escape. "There we go" you kiss his neck and press him down into the mattress. His calfs up in the air his arms connected and the lead trailed down next to your hand. You yanked the leash pulling his head back and grabbing his hair harshly. "You look so pretty kei do you know that" you mumbled kissing up his jaw with your hand pulling on his hair forcefully. "Of course I do when don't I?" he quipped, you rolled your eyes and continued your pursuit of his pleasure.

"Your wings are so fragile Kei," you said, tracing the arch of his wings, making them puff up, crimson feathers dropping onto the bed, his wings we're so sensitive it was easy to make him cum just from touching them the right way. "Poor little birdie can't fly, I've got him all caged up" you teased wrapping the lead around your arm pulling his head back further the rope choking him slightly. You pulled on his flight feathers grazing your arm on his feather blades "what will, you tell the press about the burns running across your body" you whispered drawing out a groan from his chest "(y/n) let me out of these ropes or I swear to God-" you yanked on his feathers, a few fell out from the force and he moaned loudly, a dark blush crawling up his face "what will you do Little songbird" you nip at his neck his head rolling to the side to let you have your way "n-nothing. I'll do nothing" he stuttered "good boy. Now sit up" you said pulling him up.

Now he was on his knees, his wrists still tied to his ankles. You traced the curve of his spine making small circles where his wings connected to his back. You reached your arm around rubbing across the rope constricting him and grabbed his erect cock making him gasp "quiet now songbird or I'll leave you tied up like this" you said sliding your hand up and down slowly your other hand gripping his wing. He snapped his mouth shut forcing it into a tight line subduing his moans but they couldn't stop the tiny whimpers escaping. "Do I make you feel that good Kei? You can't even keep quiet huh?" he nodded, his head falling back and you chuckled "i wonder how i'll tie you next time, wings to your arms? No you want suspended don't you, to feel like your flying even without being able to move"

You loved seeing him like this, a complete mess underneath you with your works of art on his body, but you never hurt him and you trust each other completely. It was a perfect balance.��

"(Y/n) ah, fuck please go faster" he groaned bucking his hips into your hand "hm. Okay since you asked nicely" you kissed  his wings and they puffed up larger, the rope rubbed along the skeleton of his wings "careful," you said loosening the rope so he wouldn't damage his nerves. Your hand goes quicker and he moans forgetting about your rule "Kei. What did I say?" you pull on the leash and bite his shoulder making him cry out "I'm sorry. we both know how much I like breaking rules" he grunts, you pull your hand away from him completely and he whines from the loss of contact. He thrusts his hips into nothing and you sigh "so pathetic. Keep talking back we'll see what happens" you threaten and grab his dick again.

You run your hand through his feathers, touching them lightly and he choked back cries. "fuck baby. I'm so close" he groans and you bite your lip excitedly speeding up and slowing down drawing out his torture. You weren't concerned with your own pleasure right now, you wanted to see him unravel under you and make a mess from your own hand.

His cock twitched in your hand and you sped up. "fuck (y/n)! I'm cumming" he shouted followed by a string of curse words as his orgasm washed over him. Cumming on your hand and the sheets "good boy" you praised and wiped the mess on your sheets. He tumbled forward, his wings twitching and trying to flap against to rope "careful pretty bird you might hurt yourself" you said holding his wings still. You grinned at your prize and began to untie the ropes on his wings, then legs and arms, then chest. Hours of work demolished in a matter of minutes. "was that good songbird" you hum and he nodes steadying his shallow breath. You wrap the rope up and hang it on the wall "good"

You loved his wings. So pretty and powerful. Fragile and sensative but they could hold him up in the air. He had complete control over them.

[knightofameris]

uncharacteristic team-ups — avengers (stark!reader)

Setting: Timelines? What are timelines? I have no clue when this could be so have fun but also who cares lol (basically an AU) Gender: Neutral Contains: curse words, an in-depth description of death (like lots of it), blood, a bit of fighting alcohol mention, everything in here is platonic but relationship with peter parker could be read either way Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: What happens when a mission gone bad leads you to team up with some vigilantes who aren’t known to be good team players? Except, you have to team up with the so-called Defenders of New York as they’re the only way to get your dad back.

a/n: a self-indulgent piece,,,, lol. also uploading this despite it being done a long time ago since i haven’t posted in a hot minute.

Let me know if there are any mistakes, regarding the gender of reader, grammar, spelling, or with the story. c:

Enjoy! [repost from old account

☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆

❝ the most powerful people in New York and you were a part of it ❞

☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆

The abject horror one feels when coming across a dead body is one no one ever talks about. The stench, the sudden realization of how fragile life is. If said dead body is mutilated, violated, eyes left open to stare into the unlucky person to come upon it, it’s even worse.

But (Y/n) was left in a worse situation. The feeling of their dinner wanting to leave their stomach the same way it entered caused them to cover their mouth, trying to hold it back. The array of bodies strewn about in the warehouse caused them to shut their eyes and pinch their nose.

No one ever talked about how a body releases everything, and I mean everything, when they go onto the next life.

Now (Y/n) knows why.

“Holy shit,” Peter murmured, plugging his nose. “The smell, I didn’t realize the smell—”

Tony shushed him, his head turning back towards the two teenagers. He should have known that this small takedown of a few crimelords should have been left to the police. But when he saw his name on one of their weapons, he couldn’t help but want to investigate. Now he regrets it because even on missions, he’d ensure that (Y/n) and Peter would never see dead bodies. And now they were seeing more than they should.

Tony’s hand gripped (Y/n)’s shoulder, giving them a small squeeze then looking back over the railings onto the first floor where the bodies laid.

The lights on his armor dimmed and (Y/n) looked up at him with a tilt of their head.

“Something’s wrong,” a voice spoke out, a group of footsteps sounded throughout the warehouse. (Y/n)’s eyes widened and began to back up on the catwalk they were on, hiding from the voices.

“God, this is disgusting,” a woman spoke out.

“You’re telling me, Frank Castle, did this?” A man in a hoodie asked.  

“Yes, but this group, they wouldn’t be his MO,” another man wearing a red armored suit responded. “Luke I’m going to need you to—wait.” His mouth parted, and he tilted his head. Unbeknownst to anyone else, his eyebrows furrowed as he continued listening into his surroundings.

“We’re not alone.” The man turned his head upwards.

“Daredevil, right?” Tony was already over the railings, hovering in the air above them. The HUD on (Y/n)’s domino mask they wore had instructions over it: ‘Do not show yourself until I say so. I know you’ll do it, but don’t do it.’ (Y/n) and Peter exchanged glances in which Peter only shrugged.

“Or should I say, Matt Murdock?” Tony pointed his finger at the man in the suit, his helmet promptly coming off. Matt tensed up, his jaw clenching. His fingers parted from the eskimo sticks he held then regripped it.

“Great, now we’re dealing with superheroes,” the woman sighed, walking away.

“Isn’t that Jessica Jones?” (Y/n) murmured towards Peter. Peter inched forward, peeking over the railings then looked back at (Y/n). He nodded his head. (Y/n) lets out a silent grunt of approval then slowly sat down, wanting to hear their dad’s interactions with them.

“I’m sorry,” Tony gestured towards her and his eyebrows furrowed. “Rosie the Riveter, from what I could tell, what you guys have done in the past few years could deem you as heroes.”

“Look, this isn’t something you could blast your way through, Stark.”

“Oh, so this is something you could, punch your way through, Mr. Luke Cage is it?”

“Okkaaayyy,” (Y/n) called out, jumping over the railings and ignoring the dead bodies below. “Dad, they’re on the same side as us, they might know more than us.” They landed with grace in front of the adults and then promptly jumped back up, tapping their mask that uncovered their face. “(Y/n) Stark, but you probably already knew that.”

Tony began protesting (Y/n) but they just ignored him after putting their hand out to shake the hands of the others with a smirk on their face. (Y/n) didn’t even notice Peter landing next to them until he did a two-finger salute.

“H-hi, Spider-Man, nice to meet you guys,” Peter stammered out. “I’m usually in Queens.”

(Y/n) rolled their eyes then turned around to face Tony who’s helmet already came off. His face full of exasperation and the wrinkle lines could probably very well be from the stress from taking care of his kids.

“I swear to god,” Tony flicked the back of (Y/n)’s head lightly, “you’re both going to be the death of me.”

(Y/n) giggled, trying to make light of the situation before turning back to the others.

“We’re on a bit of a time crunch, so please, if you could just get out of our way.” Jessica leaned on one of her legs, her voice slightly desperate. (Y/n) arched a brow at her. Peter raised his hand in the air and everyone glanced over at him. “Just talk, kid.”

“You know, if you work with us you won’t have to deal with the illegality of being a vigilante,” Peter spoke up.

“So what, we’d be Avengers-in-training?” A man (Y/n) and Tony recognized as the heir of Rand Enterprises, Danny Rand. Tony had meant him once, with Pepper.

Luke scoffed, “No thanks, we’re not—”

“Heroes?” (Y/n) interrupted. “Don’t you guys already have a nickname?” (Y/n) glanced up at their dad who clicked his tongue and began nodding his head, gesturing to (Y/n) then back to them.

“Yeah, yeah, the Defenders, right?” Tony asked. “Rhetorical question but you guys need us,” he turned around, looking over the dead bodies then back up at the catwalk he was at minutes earlier, “just as much as we need—”

(Y/n) frowned and everyone exchanged glances wondering why Tony would just stop talking, he loved hearing himself talk.

He was even frozen in place, his hand raised to the side and his foot just hovering over the ground.

There’s a certain gut wrenching feeling you usually get before the bad thing happens, in movies, in real life. Usually you just look away, ignore it, and wait for the next scene. But in this situation, in this world that (Y/n) lives in, you gotta look. You gotta watch to find out what the next move is.

(Y/n)’s gaze followed their dad’s, wondering what Tony was looking at.

“Don’t look up!” Matt shouted, pushing both teenagers’ heads down. “Don’t look at her.” He held both of them there.

“Oh my,” an alluring voice called out. (Y/n) suddenly felt at peace and almost wanted to fight against Matt and look up to see who the voice belonged to. “I never would have thought I could catch one of the big ones.”  

“If you can,” Matt murmured towards the two of them, “Change your masks to see in infrared.” He slowly let go. (Y/n)’s mask covered their eyes, and they blinked, suddenly seeing everything in infrared. They looked up and saw a woman who radiated no heat but her eyes, her eyes were burning hot.

Jessica and the others had on goggles with the name Rand on the side, their fists were held up, prepared to fight the moment they saw Tony’s helmet come back online.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter called out, his voice wary.

The woman laughed, weaving her arm through Tony’s arm and hugging it tight. “I’m afraid Mr. Stark isn’t able to come to the phone right now.”

“What did you do to him!?” (Y/n) demanded, pulling out their bo staff. Jessica grabbed their arm and held them back.

“Not now, kid,” she said. (Y/n) tried shrugging her off but her grip just tightened. What they didn’t realize was another man walking out from above, a skull painted on his chest and two assault rifles in his hand.

“Alright, honey,” the woman wrapped her arms around Tony’s neck, “Let’s get out of here. And Frankie, be a dear and take them out for me?”

“Wait, dad!” (Y/n) called out, reaching their arm up towards him as he flew up and blasted a hole in the roof.

“Watch out!” (Y/n) was jolted out of their daze from Tony seemingly under the woman’s control when Luke grabbed them and set them behind him once the man, Frank Castle, began raining bullets down on them. Matt, Jessica, and Danny dove behind a car that was set in the warehouse.

Peter launched himself up onto the roof using his webs. Then pointed it towards Frank.

“That’s unfair, you can’t use guns on unarmed people!” His webs hooked onto the two guns and he yanked it back. Frank stumbled forward, grunting as he lost his balance. He wasn’t able to react fast enough when Peter launched two webs beside him only to catapult into him, knocking him out the moment his head slammed into the wall behind him.

(Y/n) gripped their bo staff, their knuckles white and waited before the shooting stopped. They watched as Peter jumped back down with a webbed-up Frank Castle in his arms. (Y/n) turned to face the other adults and their mask came off, their face red with fury behind their eyes.

“You better tell us what the deal with that woman was because she just kidnapped my dad, Tony-fucking-Stark and we’re helping whether you like it or not.”

***

“So you’re telling me,” (Y/n) rubbed her forehead, “that Adeline Trost, the woman who took my dad, can control people when she makes eye contact with them.”

“Yes, and that’s why we don’t want to call in the Avengers,” Matt replied. At this point, he was unmasked, relaxing in the confines of his apartment. (Y/n) glanced over at Peter, who still wore his mask, and then over at the others who sat spread out. Frank Castle was webbed to a chair, making him incapacitated in case he’s sitll under her control.

“Well, when one of us is compromised, we have to alert the others,” (Y/n) sighed, burying their face into their hands. They let out a frustrated groan and leaned back in the chair.

(Y/n) didn’t want this, they didn’t want to be the one making the call but they were an Avenger, and a higher ranking one than Peter was. At least, that’s what they both saw (Y/n) as.

Peter fiddled around with his hands, tapping his foot against the ground. He watched (Y/n) let out another frustrated groan and though they just seemed exasperated, he knew that they were worried about their dad. Naturally, he was too. But (Y/n) had probably lost him more times than the two of them can count combined.

“No,” a new voice spoke up, his voice gruff. “If she ends up controlling them, the whole world will be at risk.”

Chairs scratched against the floor as everyone stood up. Frank sat still though, as still as he could. He looked up, his face was bruised up and littered with cuts and scars. If he had powers, he’d be a force to be reckoned with; he still was.

“Are you still��” Danny’s arm was outreached towards him, cautious in case Frank could break out of the webs, despite it being extremely strong.

“Under that bitch’s control?” Frank asked, his head tilted. “No.” He shook his head. “I’m not and Murdock over there can tell you I’m telling the truth.”

(Y/n) looked over at Matt, their eyes narrowed at the lawyer. Matt’s face was relaxed, most likely listening to Frank’s heart.

“He’s telling the truth, you can unweb him,” Matt assured. Jessica walked over behind him before Peter could make his way over and ripped open the webs. Frank shortly stood up, letting the webs fall to his feet. He groaned as he rubbed his neck and dusted the webs off of himself.

“Woah,” Peter murmured and looked over at (Y/n) while pointing towards her, “she’s strong.” Jessica rolled her eyes and walked over to the fridge and took out a beer.

“I’m taking this Murdock.” She raised the beer then took the cap off and began chugging. Matt didn’t respond, knowing he couldn’t deny her.

“So what’s the plan?” Luke crossed his arms, looking back and forth between (Y/n) and the others.

“Alert the Avengers and,” (Y/n) raised a hand up in the air before anyone could protest, “let them know that Tony’s compromised and to not trust him. I’ll let them know that I can handle it too.”

“And you’re sure they’d trust his kid and Spider-Kid?” Luke nodded towards Peter.

“Spider-Man, it’s Spider-Man,” Peter whined.

Jessica cocked a brow at him, “You’re a kid, Spider-Kid.” (Y/n) stifled a laugh, patting Peter on his back before taking out their phone.

“I’m sure,” said (Y/n) and walked away from the group to call Rhodey.

***

Rhodey walked up to Frank, who was significantly taller and more toned, despite Rhodey actively being War Machine and a Colonel.

Frank stared down at him, adjusting his stance and his fingers fiddled around against the palm of his head rhythmically.

“Look, Colonel,” Frank started, “with all due respect, this is one of the jobs that the Avengers can’t take up. Might as well be well below your paygrade.”

Rhodey scoffed with a smile, placing his hands on his hips, the whirring of the mechanics surrounding his legs filling the quiet room. Everyone watched with silent, observant eyes. You could literally cut the tension in the room with a butterknife. (Y/n) knew they were in deep shit when Frank glanced over at them from the corner of his eye.

“This is a job that’s already been taken up by the Avengers,” said Rhodey. “When one of our own is compromised, we’re involved. I could call in the authorities right now and have you arrested. All of you.” He pointed at the other four. “But I won’t, even if I should.”

Jessica groaned, walking towards a chair and falling into it. “I need a fucking drink and I blame you, Stark.” (Y/n) ran their hand through their hair nervously and walked over towards Peter, hoping to find comfort near him.

“Can we stop this?” Luke asked, desperation laced in his words. “The longer we take on finding a way to work together, the longer it takes to take down Adeline. Frank, you need to learn how to be a team player.”

(Y/n) draped an arm over their stomach, their other hand going up to the side of their face, taping on their mask to let it go over their face and watched Tony’s vitals that the two of them setup for each other. A way to make sure the other was safe in a situation like this.

They pursed their lips, tapping their fingers against their side, ignoring what the others were talking about and just watched Tony’s heartbeat across the screen.

That’s all (Y/n) wanted, for their dad to be back and safe and alive. They’ve lost him too many times, too many near death counts. This can’t be the one where they truly lose him.

***

The streets were nearly empty of civilians. Buildings were destroyed and, despite ‘the Defenders’ wanting to keep the Avengers out of it, the Avengers became a part of it. But with the Avengers becoming a part of it, the risk of them falling under Adeline’s control increased.

The plan was to bring Adeline out in the open, have the Avengers as secret weapons in case the plan went south if the Defenders (and Colleen, she didn’t want to be left out) got stuck in control and to have Wanda use her powers to invoke her worst fears and to read her mind.

But what they didn’t expect was Adeline being able to counter Wanda’s powers and she worked backwards, bringing Wanda down to her fears and then putting her under control. One by one, the Avengers who were there, Rhodey, Steve, Sam, and Natasha, fell straight into her control.

Leaving the misfit heroes (not that they’d ever call themselves that) with the two Avengers-in-training to take out Adeline and bring them back. Which brought the block they occupied in Manhattan to be destroyed.

(Y/n) slowly walked up to Tony, ignoring the sounds of protests behind her. The Defenders, miraculously, brought a few of the Avengers back to their side, aiding them in the fight against the others, especially  Wanda. They all helped each other up, leaning on each other for support as they watched (Y/n) confront Tony.

His mask was off and his eyes were dull as he stared into (Y/n)’s eyes. His gauntlet was pointed straight at them, one repulsor blast and they’d be done for. But Tony was hesitating.

(Y/n) tapped the side of their mask allowing the nanotech to show their face; allowing themself to be vulnerable even in the case that Adeline appeared. But they didn’t care, they just needed to get their dad back.

“Dad, it’s me, it’s (Y/n).” They smiled but choked on a sob when they heard the whir of his repulsor. Until Tony cracked a smirk and he grunted, using his other hand to pull the one pointed at (Y/n)’s face back down.

Tony yelled, falling to the ground, his face scrunched up in determination. The ground hit (Y/n)’s knees, landing next to him and grabbing him by the shoulders.

“Hey kid,” he breathed out, placing his hand on her shoulder as he stood back up. The glimmer in Tony’s eyes coming back and (Y/n) knew he was back. His helmet covered his face and (Y/n)’s mask followed. “You in infrared? I don’t want you to fall und—”

(Y/n)’s arms wrapped around him, despite the bulky armor.

“How do you always get caught up in this shit, dad?” Tony hugged back, the mouth of his faceplate slightly tapping the top of their head as if it was a kiss.

“I don’t think I’d be me if I didn’t get caught up in this shit.” He pulled away, glancing back to the fight. “How’d you even pull me out?”

(Y/n) shrugged, “I just looked you in the eye. We got Frank out by knocking him out really hard too, and the others.”

“Sounds good, now how do we deal with the Adeline chick?”

“Already got her,” Jessica said. The two Starks turned to face the powered woman who held a woman with her eyes covered. Jessica shoved her down at their feet, her hands tied together. Both of the Starks’ masks came off, showing their face.

“Well, that was easy.”

“For you, maybe.” Luke spit out a mouthful of blood, walking up to them, limping. Others trailing behind.

Steve grabbed his helmet from the ground, holding it to his side. “You guys did good, you know. Not a lot of people could say they went toe-to-toe with the Avengers and survived. We could use more people with your abilities.”

“Yeah well,” Colleen sheathed her sword and held her side, leaning on Danny for support.

“We’re not heroes,” Frank finished for her.

“No matter how much you guys deny it,” said (Y/n), “you guys are heroes. You worked with us, saved us, helped me get my dad back and defeated the enemy. You’re my hero.”

“We should cap this conversation for another time.” Natasha gestured towards Adeline squirming on the ground and then towards civilians making their way to watch a large group of heroes interacting with each other.

“Sure, but I’m tossing it in the ocean because I’m not down to join a band,” Jessica began walking away, despite her wounds. “You know where to find me though, if you need me.”

They all watched as she walked off.

“She’s always like that, don’t worry,” Matt brought up with a slight smile.

“She acts cold, but she’s warm-hearted. A bit blunt at times,” Luke added.

(Y/n) rolled their eyes as the adults began to talk about trying to recruit the others to be Avengers. Peter inched his way over to them and (Y/n) looked up at him.

“This is pretty crazy, isn’t it?” Peter asked.

(Y/n) nodded their head, “It’s like a crazy crossover special episode. Pretty badass.”

a/n: skfhgkdsfg i had fun writing this even if it’s not the best but i hope you guys still enjoyed it nonetheless!

[kiruuuuu]

Doc/Lion oneshot in which a secret comes out which Lion would much rather have kept from the rest of Rainbow. (Rating T, angst + happy ending, ~2.4k words) - written for @big-r6s-fan!! Thank you very much again for commissioning me 💗 I enjoyed myself writing this :)

.

Lion was 15 when lying became a necessity.

Before, it had been a fancy, a brief display of power: he could deceive people if he wanted, but it was no more than a trump card he was never forced to play. When he went out with his friends, his parents hardly showed enough interest or worry, making a lie redundant, and his peers didn’t really care either about his religious upbringing or other interests. He felt being the younger sibling keenly, and Sophie oftentimes reminded him of all the things she wasn’t allowed to do at his age, unaware of how much he actually took advantage of this freedom.

Many things happened at 15 which interfered with this dynamic, deeply disturbed his relationship not only with his family but also his friends. He stole his dad’s car for a joyride and ended up getting caught. The parent of an ex-friend he long ditched for being a teacher’s pet saw him drinking together with older kids. He snuck into the school’s chapel and pissed in the holy water. He started smoking, lost his virginity, and shoplifted. His parents didn’t find out about all of it, but they did find out about enough, gathered clues from half-hearted responses and all the details he omitted, saw it in his face. He had to get better at lying, if only to trick their system of regular texts and calls, checking homework, rigid curfew.

Not only that, he learnt to keep secrets to prevent ridicule. Just like most of his friends, he claimed to be an atheist since they were the loudest group and often harassed others for believing – in truth, he doubted yet hadn’t faltered. Church involvement repelled him as did the strict moral code, but he never fully gave up the idea of a higher power. He kept quiet about liking some of the catchy songs on the radio, about his crush on the prettiest girl in his class, about enjoying some of his classes, about his reading habits. He didn’t want to be uncool, so he went along with his peers, easily agreeing and keeping most of the things he truly held dear close to his heart instead of on his sleeve.

It resulted in fewer problems. His parents thought him converted, his friends thought him amiable and he started to enjoy telling lies.

One of his friends was already 18, owned a car and lived alone – in Lion’s eyes, he was the pinnacle of maturity, something to strive towards. It didn’t matter his vehicle was on the verge of falling apart and that his flat stunk of stale weed and had no wallpaper and that he worked in a supermarket; he could stay up whenever he wanted, had his own money, and could go wherever he pleased. Not only that, he also never took no for an answer. No matter how hare-brained the plan, he was on board, no matter how unachievable the dream, he gave support and encouragement. The little word which Lion had heard one too many times from his parents lately was missing from his vocabulary.

At some point, his friend told him to take his clothes off. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. This, too, Lion never disclosed to anyone.

Just like the fact that he liked it.

.

Years took their toll on him. One of the very few things he kept from his adolescence is his taste in music which he doesn’t readily share with others from his church. He doesn’t speak about his faith with his colleagues. The extent of his escapades has never reached his parents’ ears. Not once has he told any of his girlfriends about the men with whom he fooled around. At times, it eats at him, every little secret, every little lie another bite out of his conscience, and though he’s trying his best to follow the commandments, it’s a habit he simply can’t kick. It spares him so many intrusive, difficult questions that it’s just not worth giving up.

There’s one man in particular who seems keen on testing his limits, however. There’s no reaction from him when Lion attempts to change the topic, every excuse merely makes him dig deeper, every wall that’s thrown up causes him to redouble his efforts of scaling it – once he’s identified an issue, he refuses to let go until he’s received a satisfactory response and his bluntness frankly intimidates Lion. He has trouble dealing with it, walked off a couple of times instead of opening up but with time realised that judgement never followed. That his concessions were never met with disdain. That his bareness was reciprocated in kind.

It’s hard to accept that the one person who carefully dismantles the web of lies, half-truths and excuses he weaves as protection used to be his enemy.

But by now, he’s starving for affirmation and takes what he can gets without seeming desperate, and when Doc refuses to back down even when confronted with some of Lion’s unsavoury past, he eventually gives in. Hands himself over. Allows Doc to rummage through the myriad of memories he usually keeps under wraps, and watches helplessly as the other man treats it more like a historical museum than contemporary art – he reassures Lion that while all of it contributed to his personality, he’s greater than the sum of its parts. He sees something in Lion no one else does, and so he fiercely, jealously guards the emotions shared between them from the rest of the world. This is his. He will not risk ridicule. He will not let it wither in sunlight where it flourishes in darkness.

Which is why he’s overcome with dizzying nausea when Dokkaebi walks in on them.

They were cautious, both of them averse to endangering this fragile understanding between them, and though they began living in each other’s skin outside of work, they avoided each other in Hereford. Not obvious enough to draw suspicion but rigorous enough to resist temptation. This day, it just so happened that Lion had lab results to drop off at the end of his shift, and Doc was still around, and so they exchanged a few words. Maybe stood a little too close. Doc said something soothing, Lion reacted with a rare smile, and warm fingers found his own, lips neared his.

A quick peck. No more. But Dokkaebi bursts in just then and clearly realises what’s going on and though Lion scrambles to revert back to the persona which can lie like it breathes, he’s gotten used to not needing it in Doc’s presence and is therefore too slow.

Awkwardness settles in his bones, guides Dokkaebi’s stilted words and stiff movements, laces Doc’s curt response, causes Lion’s face to burn and him to take an unnecessary step backwards. It squeezes his heart until it desperately pumps against the iron grip, blackening the outside of his vision, and with a formal excuse, he leaves. He nearly misses the doorknob on the way out due to shaking fingers.

She knows.

And if she knows, so will everyone else the next day. His and Doc’s feud spread like wildfire the moment he joined Rainbow and there’s no doubt this tasty bite of news will do the same. They will all know.

His phone starts buzzing before he’s even home. Composure is a virtue and he thanks the Lord for gracing him with it or else he might’ve swerved his car into a ditch. Teeth chattering, he stops by the side of the road and turns the device off – he doesn’t need this unconditional compassion right now, even if he’s unsure what else he needs. All he knows is that he’d break down if the calm voice on the other end asked him whether he’s alright.

Intrusive thoughts haunt him almost like a badly edited narration over a bleak independent film. You don’t deserve him, and he’s fairly sure he’s hungry, so he puts a slice of bread into the toaster. Doesn’t it contradict your faith? He hasn’t even taken off his shoes, so he unlaces them by the couch, leaves them lying in the way. Believe me, you two aren’t gonna last. Coffee sounds good right about now, even if all he has is instant. Fucking coward, hasn’t even come out and probably blackmails Doc. Kettle, water, cup, spoon, powder. The metal in his hands feels too smooth. Wasn’t his kitchen a little bigger? He could’ve sworn it wasn’t dark out when he arrived. He’s still an arrogant twat. Great, his toast is cold now.

The voices of the people he’s forced to interact with every day are merciless.

It’s like he’s run a marathon and, despite being wholly drained, the residual adrenaline fires up his mind in uncomfortable bursts. Sitting down for longer than ten minutes is impossible and he finds himself going through his qualifications at one point. He’s good at his job. He’s sure he can find another one elsewhere.

Now and then, faces flash before him. The priest he told to go fuck himself when he tried to talk to young Lion about responsibilities. His parents after being informed about his fatherhood. Claire when she realised he was serious about the abortion. His own son upon seeing him the first time. And, lastly, Doc. The day his colleagues’ blood added to the crusty mess already on Lion’s hands.

He won’t be able to bear more. He’ll break if the rest of Rainbow adds to this embarrassingly long list of shocked, appalled, disgusted expressions, especially since it’d be over something so dear to him. So crucial to his survival. He can’t stand them shunning him for having found his heart’s desire.

Already resigned to a night of no sleep, he jolts upright at the sound of his doorbell. Sits there, motionless, paralysed in indecision. He should let him in. He doesn’t want to.

It still rings now and then five minutes later, every noise running marrow-deep. He trusts Doc fully, but he doesn’t trust himself.

For once, his mind comes up with a reasonable objection: isn’t he a little old to be self-sabotaging like this?

Doc doesn’t mention the wait once he’s crossed the threshold. He won’t get it, not with how supportive his family has been, not with how popular he is, not with how little he encountered rejection in his life. And yet simply seeing him helps.

“I don’t want to lose you”, Lion breathes into his hair and the reassurances convince him that his lover genuinely doesn’t understand – he whispers the words which usually soothe Lion, promises him to stay by his side and remains unaware of the real problem. It matters not that he’s loyal when no one will talk to them. It’s irrelevant how supportive he is when open hostility will make coordinated teamwork unachievable. The tension will carry over until it either permeates their entire relationship, leaves them irritated and frustrated with each other, or until Lion is reassigned. Or potentially leaves of his own accord.

Both would be the end of them.

In exposing their feelings, they have killed them. And though Doc’s fingers will eventually grow tired of brushing away wet streaks, there will always be more tears.

.

Needle pricks in his back. He feels them wherever he goes, head held high and seemingly impervious – but the gazes riddle him, erode his self-control and he’s sure that eventually, there’ll be more holes than substance. Wandering through the base is nightmarish, an omnipresent sense of dread unshakeable. None of the people around him dare to speak anywhere but in their minds, and so he’s powerless to defend himself. They all know.

Every smile is malicious, every bout of laughter directed at him. Today, the universe has assembled to judge over the mockery that is his life and finds it lacking.

Doc’s words are etched into the back of his brain, not as encouragement but as a reminder of how naive his lover is. Doc desperately holds onto this fundamental trust towards humanity, ignorant of his privilege, ignorant of how revered he is, how the seas part for him, how no one dares to speak ill of him. He blindly assumes his experiences are universal. It’s easy for him to confuse his own brightness reflected back at him with another source of light.

Lion isn’t so lucky.

Whenever anyone approaches him, he expects the worst, flinches pre-emptively and stumbles his way through conversations which should’ve gone a lot smoother. They shoot him more and more odd looks the further the day progresses, and it’s not just the albatross around his neck they see. A glance in the mirror confirms he looks like death.

Montagne is a good friend and Lion values his opinion, yet conversing with him is like nails dragging over a chalkboard. He inquires about Lion’s well-being and lies like this one hardly count anymore. The brief talk has him sit down or else he might’ve started swaying, and the deafening roar of his thoughts almost makes him miss Montagne’s parting statement: “I’m happy for you and Gustave. I wish you two all the best.”

He -

He can’t mean it, can he?

A day later, in passing, Buck says with a smile: “You’ve snagged a good one. Don’t let him get away, eh?”

And Ash, at the end of the week: “I’m very glad it’s working out with you and Doc.”

Lion has never received this many friendly words. Most of the team captains send him on errands which carry him past Doc’s office. Hibana assigns him and Doc together for an exercise without a second thought. Twitch begins buying one coffee more each morning.

The burden lifts. The queasy feeling dissipates. His future brightens. It’s an incredible experience, and the more he adapts, the warmer the others receive him. It’s a mutual thing, glowing and strengthening his confidence, and eventually he even admits Doc was right from the beginning.

“They don’t treat me any worse”, he adds when sharing his observations with a wholly relieved Doc, loose and content and not at all shy with his displays of affection.

“Of course not”, comes the gentle reply. “Everyone deserves happiness, Olivier. It’s time you start believing it.”

Lion has to concede that here, by Doc’s side, looking forward to a good night’s sleep and a challenging job with supportive co-workers, it’s a lot easier to trust in these words.

[gothamdetected-a]

𝙸𝙽𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙰𝙻𝙸𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙶  . . . 𝙰𝙲𝙲𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙶: // 𝙻𝙾𝙶                         𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁: 𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙴_𝚃𝚈𝙿𝙴 : 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁 > { @emeraeldcity​

𝘽𝙇𝙊𝙊𝘿 𝘿𝙍𝙄𝙋𝙎 𝙊𝙁𝙁 𝙃𝙄𝙎 𝙁𝙄𝙉𝙂𝙀𝙍𝙏𝙄𝙋𝙎, 𝙎𝙀𝙀𝙋𝙎 𝙄𝙉𝙏𝙊 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘾𝙍𝘼𝘾𝙆𝙎 𝘽𝙀𝙏𝙒𝙀𝙀𝙉 𝙇𝙀𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙍 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝘾𝙊𝙋𝙋𝙀𝙍  ;  the eyrie is quiet. just how he likes it. red rivulets slide down the sheen of his blade as it is twirled lazily, dragged over the sheet metal of the floor, grating and sparking. the syndicate are out, accepting their yearly offerings like disinterested deities, but bruce isn’t made for that, can’t possible go a whole day without killing, hours of polite silence and forced smiles and fragile, shatterable peace.           (      one wrong word, one single little itty-bitty word and there would be a bloodbath. a MASSACRE. it would be glorious.      )           owlman says he makes too much bad press, which is stupid because that’s literally his job, to strike fear and terror into people, to make them constantly AFRAID. it’s far too late to teach him manners now, and who’s fault is that, tommy?

he’s gracefully slunk halfway across the 49th floor mess hall, showers calling him to like ancient greek sirens, when he notices the lone figure hunched miserably against one of the tables. a faint sickly green glow, vaguely pulsating, enough to light the man in profile and  ——  oh they hadn’t, they hadn’t really, they couldn’t just ... oh they had. they’ve left jordan behind. there’s a brief battle to stifle the first traitorous laugh threatening to grind through the modulator. he can’t waste this opportunity, can’t alert the pathetic creature too soon.

darkness envelops him like an OLD FRIEND, invisible and soundless as he stalks nearer and nearer to jordan's hunched piteous form. owls are silent hunters, capable of being just inches from their prey without detection  ——  and talons are no different. a pause. waiting for the right time to strike and then he is looming out of the crawling shadows, unblinking eyes and monstrous form, rasping out a single word with all the pure malice he can muster.           ❛   boo.   ❜           the voice mod isn’t designed for laughter, and there is a horrific metallic noise, wheezing and screeching, pealing over and over and OVER as the hulking form of the talon suit doubles over, crumples in on itself. god, watching jordan shit his pants and scramble away never gets old. 

fingers scrabble at the twisted metal, hands finding the release catch with a pop and a pneumatic hiss. the helmet is abandoned to the nearest surface, and then a hand raises, drags through sweat slicked hair, fluffing it back up, preening. image is EVERYTHING, and bruce sure does make a pretty picture when he wants to.           ❛   the look on your face. fuck, that was PRICELESS.   ❜           if only he’d had a camera.

clawed gloves find the edge of the table, and he stretches, indulgent and lazy, THE CAT THAT GOT THE CREAM.            ❛   good evening, harold.   ❜           it’s sing song, sickly sweet mocking, and the last  e c h o  of his smile still clings to his lips, curving them wickedly, sharp, dangerous. even his name is turned into an insult. there is still blood on his hands. the light catches at his blades, glinting silver as he leans back against the dented metal, arms rising to cross over his chest.           ❛   not off with the rest of the syn-dick-ate? i guess you’re too scared for that. you’ve already filled your bedwetting quota for the month, right?   ❜           the only way this could get better is if jordan actually pisses himself or- WAIT. realisation is dawning, in all it’s brilliant, wondrous glory. oh harold, you make it too easy.           (      and this is precisely why tommy keeps you on such a short leash bruce, precisely why you were sent to an assassination, rather than a pr event. all you’re good at is causing pain. clever boy.      )           ❛   or tom didn’t want you there, embarrassing everyone. remember that time you got an erection in front of luthor? no? maybe i imagined it. still, how does it feel to know even the closest people you have to friends don’t want you around?   ❜           he’s just daring hal to lash out, say something, show some SPINE. sure, he could kill bruce if he really wanted. but he won’t. tommy would never forgive him. and harold loves pretending he has friends.

he lets his eyes drag a slow path down the man’s figure, too thin beneath his suit, eyes sunken and hollowed. the only part of him that seems alive, FLOURISHING, is the web of pulsing veins weaving a lurid maze up his arm, away from the ring. jordan looks worse with every passing day, and bruce, bruce just smiles wider.           ❛   have you considered that maybe looking like a sickly librarian and being a slave to a mostly-inanimate object is what’s cramping your style here, harold? oh that’s right, you don’t have style.   ❜           maybe if he were nicer, he’d almost, almost, feel sorry for jordan. but he isn’t nice. he’s a SHARK, and there’s blood in the water.          ❛   hey, remember your justice loser counterpart? now THAT was a cool guy. fearless, brave  ——  hot. i’m just saying, i would. you know your goody two-shoes alt-earth doppelganger gets laid more than you, right? i bet that stings, huh buddy?    ❜           if tommy was here, this is where he’d tell bruce to shut up.           (      but tommy isn’t here. OH NO, no one to protect harold from the big, bad brucie.       )           his grin gets even sharper, too many teeth, gleeful as he waits for the man before him to squirm. maybe he can even get jordan to cry. damn, he wishes he had a camera on him.            ❛   i would offer to give you a make-over, take you to a club maybe, set you up with someone hot, but lets face it, any scenario where you’re standing next to me, no one is going to touch you.   ❜           and now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for  ——  THE KILLING BLOW. a deep breath in, summoning every ounce of hatred, every iota of condescension, of uncaring anger, he can muster, and the smile falls away in an instant. he can almost taste jordan’s pitiful quivering. then he hisses the words out, triumphant.             ❛   plus i, you know  ——  𝘋𝘖𝘕'𝘛 𝘎𝘐𝘝𝘌 𝘈 𝘚𝘏𝘐𝘛.   ❜ 

[thisloveforyourmom]

Sygyzy: Chapter 2

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12355665/chapters/28184442

Read Chapter 1: http://marshmallowsweetheart.tumblr.com/post/166379936879/sygyzy-chapter-one

Chapter 2: Schwellenangst

Time passes like it always has, but James is around more often now. He doesn’t live in the apartment, there’s not room, but he sleeps there sometimes, on the couch, because Cib insists the same way he did for Steven. James is more of a morning person than either of them, but sometimes Steven doesn’t sleep, and when he goes out into the living room in the early morning just for something to do, James will usually be there, making breakfast or handing him a cup of coffee.

He’s been...gentler, Steven notices, and part of him resents the idea that he can’t handle aggression but another still wonders why James cares if he can. Why the idea that Steven doesn’t like something might make James decide to stop.

He’s noticed it in Cib, too. That when Steven tenses up, or seems uncomfortable, Cib will immediately go after whatever he thinks is making him feel that way. He blows smoke rings at people on the street who get a little too familiar, never touches anywhere lower than his chest or higher than his neck. Stops when it’s obvious Steven’s more than just annoyed.

He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t want to let himself think he does and then have it be ripped away.  

Tomorrow they’ll be leaving, just the three of them, to a town called Idyllwild to meet with a potential seller. The crew’s grown far beyond the fragile business it was when Steven first joined, held together by willpower like a spider weaves a web between two branches, and he knows Cib’s been talking to one of James’ many contacts in hopes of expanding. Three people isn’t really enough anymore, not for the size of territory they’re quickly beginning to control, and they’re hoping to gain a lot more than just clientele from the Idyllwild trip.

That’s what Steven should be focusing on, and what he would be if Cib hadn’t booked a cabin for all three of them. James’ presence in his life isn’t unusual, but the knowledge that he’s got his own apartment, that there’s no space in Cib’s flat that’s truly his, separates him by a degree. When he wakes up, this time, he’ll know that James won’t be leaving for at least the few days they’re there, and something about that thought gives him the same feeling he’d gotten on the couch the day they’d let him pick the pizza toppings.

James had picked the pineapple off of his, and Steven knew Cib preferred supreme, but neither of them had complained. All this time at the apartment, from the moment Cib had locked eyes with him in the bar, no one had asked him to change. To be softer or harder, to be more emotional or less. To accept the things that he pushed away or to push away the things that he accepted.

At first he’d thought there was a catch. There always had been, before. He’d been so sure that something would give, sooner or later, and someone would finally reveal what he had to do to earn this, to deserve this, to keep this. He still felt that way to an extent, but even that didn’t feel real, like he was only holding onto it so there’d be at least one thing that hadn’t changed. So that he’d have an anchor to tie this flat, scared worldview to, and he wouldn’t forget why he’d adopted it in the first place.

Cib and James, for all their many, many faults, treat him like they care about his wellbeing separate to their own, and Steven knows enough to know that it’s….more than wishful thinking. What he can’t figure out is why they want to, or even why he wants them to, after so long spent accepting that nothing would change. Men more attractive had been in his life, men who were nicer, men who at least were normal . He’d never been confused about what they wanted from him, or vice versa.

They’re going to Idyllwild tomorrow, and they’ll be sharing a house. Something about that feels terrifying but right , and Steven rolls over in bed, pushing the thought away until he can figure out why.

***

Idyllwild starts out well. Idyllwild starts out really well, because even if James takes forever to get ready and Cib tries to jump out of a moving vehicle multiple times, Steven allotted time for chaos and they make it there with time to spare before the deal. James takes Steven’s suitcase while Steven goes to talk to the landlady and get them the key to cottage Sugar Pine 7, and when he lets them in, Cib immediately finds the window to the roof, goes through it, and jumps off. Something about the excitement in his voice afterwards gives Steven that helium feeling, makes it so he can’t be mad, and he just tells him to come inside with a sigh that’s a little less exasperated than usual.

The rest of the night is spent planning and then, when Cib gets bored, watching the Hannah Montana movie for probably the eighth time. It starts to rain outside, but the cabin is warm and dry, and despite the fact that they have a major deal tomorrow Steven feels calmer than he has for a long time. He lets his head rest on Cib’s shoulder, tired enough that he doesn’t see the surprise in Cib’s eyes and the look James shoots his way, and allows himself to relax for once. Eventually, Cib’s arm settles around him, tentatively, and then with more certainty when he doesn’t pull away. He should be pulling away, shouldn’t be sitting here at all, but he likes the fact that they’re all three together, for whatever reason. Too tired from too many sleepless nights to really care, and the warmth is nice . Cib smells like he always has, sweat and Old Spice, but fake cinnamon has replaced the cigarette tar clinging to him when they met, and it’s easy to shut his eyes and fall asleep there.

When he wakes up the next morning, Cib and James are both gone, but someone’s tucked the blanket around where Cib was and put a pillow there to replace his shoulder. His watch says they have a few hours before the deal, so he gets up without any real hurry, and gets to the bathroom for a shower right as James comes out.

He’s shirtless, in just a towel, and his hair is wet and slicked to his forehead, and the first time he says good morning Steven doesn’t hear it. The second time, he snaps out of it and stutters out a reply, grateful that it’s early enough that James can blame it on the hour.

He lets the hot water scour away what he just saw, push it to the back of his mind until they don’t have work to do and he can determine what it is and find the source.

By the time he gets out of the shower and picks an outfit, James and Cib are having breakfast. Cib smiles when he sees him before going back to their conversation. Something about an army, the water warriors, and scratching pants. He tries to follow for a minute, but Cib is making about as much sense as he usually does, and James’ hair is still wet and tousled from his shower. When he talks, his eyes crinkle a bit, and there’s the same strange feeling in Steven’s stomach as before his shower and he shoves it away again. Later . When he’s alone. When he can think.

They finish breakfast, Cib and James continuing their conversation far longer than normal humans and Steven just watching, staring. Cib, at one point, catches him off-guard with a quick ‘earth to steven’ , but he says the coffee hasn’t kicked in and looks away and that seems to satisfy him.  

Then they’re leaving for the deal, all three on the job together for the first time, and Steven feels like nothing could go wrong.

Of course that’s when everything goes wrong.

***

The deal started out fine.

They’d been talking for an hour and they hadn’t reached an agreement, but that in itself wasn’t unusual. Steven could handle that, the back and forth, even the ever-growing tension--they were criminals. They all were. Criminals didn’t disagree with smiles and cute words. He could handle that. He could . What he couldn’t handle was the barrel of the gun he was now looking down.

He’d pulled it quickly, stopped Steven in the middle of saying ‘I’m sorry but that won’t work’ , and James’ is out just as fast but it pales in comparison as the seller takes off the safety.

He suspects they won’t be reaching an agreement any time soon.

Suddenly, a shot goes off, and Cib and James must have agreed on something while he was examining the rifling inside the pistol because the moment it does he’s pulled out of his chair and out the door. A quick turn reveals James behind them, yelling run before sprinting after them.

It must be because he’s still shaken, still smells the metal and gunpowder, but Steven sees the men chasing them while turning a corner and freezes for half a second and it’s half a second too long as a bolt of pain sears up his arm. He runs and this time he doesn’t stop, grits his teeth and tucks it close against his torso because this isn’t his first bad experience with a gun but fuck, fuck , pistol wounds hurt.

Everything slowly begins to blur, then, and just gets worse until suddenly they’re outside and taking cover behind a dumpster. Cib turns to him to check him over, to make sure he’s alright while James lays down some cover fire, and everything around them is going too fast but suddenly Cib’s moving in slow motion. He can see, with perfect clarity, the way his eyes widen in horror and he moves to catch Steven as he stumbles and collapses to the ground, yells a word that Steven can’t hear but must be ‘James’ from the way he turns. He looks down and there’s red, there’s just red, and something in the back of his mind reminds him that there’s an artery thats runs down the inside of your arm or maybe that’s your leg or maybe that’s both. Who knows? Not Steven, too busy trying to stay awake, to stay aware. Maybe Cib, he could ask.

A sharp pain jolts him back into real time, and it’s a struggle to keep his head up as he sees Cib pull his headband above the red and twist hard. His hair falls into his eyes, his pretty hair into his pretty eyes, striking blue and filled with a terror that doesn’t fit and it hurts --

He must black out for a moment, because when he comes back James is cupping his head with his hands, and asking him something with desperation in his eyes, and no, no, that’s not good.

“Your eyes.” Steven’s voice doesn’t sound right, it sounds slurred and far away and quiet. “Look scared. Don’t.....look that way. You’re pretty, happy.”

James’ eyes widen as he gives up talking to him, turns to Cib and says something, still holding Steven’s head up.

James looks away when a voice calls out, too loud, and Steven recognizes it only vaguely as the seller, but he doesn’t understand because it can’t be, James fired a shot and James doesn’t miss. He doesn’t understand while Cib holds the tourniquet and his head lolls when James picks up his gun and looks at Steven, pained, for just a moment before hesitating long enough that he loses his shot.

It’s bright, loud , Cib is saying something to James or maybe it’s the other way around. Three shots, or maybe fireworks, and three yells from somewhere far away. James is back, talking at him but not to him which is good because he can’t hear but bad because he likes their voices and he wants to hear them and he wants to understand. He’s being lifted, and it’s confusing, everything’s confusing and suddenly there’s fear, racing through every part of his body because, no, wait a minute, is he dying , and he looks for but can’t find the fireworks going off until he shuts his eyes and sees them in the light that dances behind his eyelids and then he sees nothing at all.

***

The first time he wakes up, he isn’t sure where he is but he can tell that he’s alone. It’s not the apartment, and his head hurts and his arm hurts and he can’t move either. He can’t move his other arm, or anything else, actually, and he can’t find enough energy to care. He wants...something, someone, someones? He flicks his eyes around the room. It’s empty save for something going into his arm, and if he could have stayed awake he wouldn’t have found a reason to.

***

The second time he wakes up, it’s to a hand on his cheek, soft and small. It takes a moment to find the energy to pull his eyes open, but when he does, it’s--

Reina.

It’s Reina, and he doesn’t know where she came from, or where she’s been, and all he does know is that she’s not here. She’s not real. She’s gone dark, she’s been dark since SourceFed ended, and he’s imagining this, and she’s not real.

He wants her to be. Why does he want her to be?

Dream Reina tells him to go back to sleep, or something, so he does.

***

The third time he wakes up, it’s too dark to see anything except for the moonlight streaming through the window and the figure next to him on the bed. He can’t pick his head up to tell who it is, but their head is resting on his shoulder and their hair is tickling his chin, so it has to be Cib. He’s relieved that he’s alright, then wonders why he wouldn’t be, then is distracted when Cib stirs in his sleep, makes a small sound.  

His breathing evens out again in seconds, and Steven feels for a moment until he finds his hand. He doesn’t have the energy or strength to hold it, exactly, but when he rests his hand on Cib’s, the other seems to instinctively curl around him. He feels safer for a moment, knowing that Cib’s there, before letting his eyes shut.

***

The fourth time he wakes up, it’s afternoon, and he’s aware. He’s in the Idyllwild lodge with a bullet wound. He can pick his head up enough to look around and see the IVs in his wrist: something red that must be blood and something clear that’s probably dulling the pain.

Someone must have noticed or come to check on him, because the door opens, and there’s Reina, standing in the doorway.

“Reina,” he says, his voice hoarse from disuse, and it’s less a word and more a shocked and reverent sigh.

Reina is here, still Reina, even though he’s awake, even though he knows where he is and what’s going on. She smiles, something tired and sad and relieved in her eyes, and comes to the bed. “Steven,” she replies with the old warmth in her voice, and doesn’t hesitate before pulling him into a tight hug that he does his best to return. “You really scared us,” she whispers against his ear, still holding him, then she squeezes once and lets go to check his IVs.

“How did you..” he trails off. He’s awake but he can’t think, a combination of blood loss and whatever painkiller is in the second IV. But Reina’s smart. She’s always been, so she knows. “James called. Luckily I was in the area. If I hadn’t gotten here so quickly…” She turns away for a moment, sucking in a shaky breath and holding it, pausing before she exhales. Steven doesn’t like this, that she feels like that, wishes she didn’t but doesn’t know what to do.

“But you did.” he offers a weak smile before thinking for a moment. “You--You did, didn’t you?” she laughs at the slight uncertainty, and he’d forgotten how much he missed that sound.

“I did,” she confirms, before seeming to remember something. “I’m going to go tell the others you’re awake.” she starts to turn away, and Steven frowns. “But…” and smart Reina knows. She looks over her shoulder, the same sparkle as always in her eye.

“Don’t worry. I plan on getting all the gory details of what you’ve been up to while we were dark. Boys only.” she winks, or maybe blinks because he can only see one eye, and leaves the room.

He’s only alone for a few seconds.

James and Cib come in quietly, and the fear on the faces throws them off but, God, he’s glad to see them. Relieved that they’re okay, glad that they’re here. He can see them both relax when they see him, as well, and they pause, but he smiles as well as he can. He’s out of practice and it’s crooked and it probably looks forced, but they don’t seem to mind, Cib smiling back and James nodding from some kind of approval.

“I get shot and you won’t even come to my deathbed, jeez,” he says, and it’s probably the painkillers but he wants them closer and he wants to tell them so. They both move at the same time, Cib quite literally jumping into action to spring onto his bed and crawl up to the head of it to examine him, James moving like a sensible person to sit in a chair set up next to the bed. Steven yawns, feeling the strain of even just having a conversation. “How long--?”

“Three days, man,” James says, his voice scratchy, something hard underneath it. Not anger hard, but something else. “You lost--you lost a lot of blood.”

Cib nods. “Like, you ran out. It was nuts, dude!” Cib’s voice doesn’t betray the concern, but Steven can see it in his eyes, and it’s unnerving.

He’s only been awake for a few minutes, fifteen at most, but he’s exhausted again. As far as he’s concerned, he’s slept long enough and he wants to keep talking, but his body is saying something else, so instead of replying he just puts his good arm around Cib and his bad hand in James’. He can see something on their faces that could be surprise, delight, relief, before he closes his eyes and ignores it, because the fear that usually stops him is gone. He focuses on how soft Cib’s hair is on his shoulder, and the way that James immediately squeezes his hand back.

Something bothers him, suddenly, something that he has to ask, and so he does.

“Why didn’t you kill him?” He says, keeping his eyes shut. The words are slurring some, but that’s okay. Only James replies.

“Kill who?” And he sounds nervous, intense, for some reason. “The guy. Him. You fired but he chased us.” Steven pulls his eyes open, looking at James before letting them fall shut again, sleep coming more quickly than he’d thought. “You’re an--a water warrior, or something. You said you don’t--You don’t miss.”

If there’s an answer, he falls asleep before he hears it.

***

When he wakes up, the sun is setting, and Cib is asleep next to him again. Steven doesn’t know why his arm is around Cib’s shoulders, doesn’t really remember putting it there, and he’d move it if he had the energy, probably, but…

Cib looks so peaceful, so calm, and it’s hard to believe that this is the same man who had jumped off of a roof a few days before. Who’d saved his life with a headband even more recently.

Cib rolls onto his side and Steven carefully removes his arm. He huffs quietly and buries his face in the crook of Steven’s neck, his hair feather-light on Steven’s cheek. His chest fills again with that weird feeling and, wait, how long has he been smiling, why is he smiling? Oh no, oh no, no, this can’t be happening, it isn’t--

He groans, more like a whimper, because he hasn’t felt like this about anyone since before SourceFed ended, and the time to realize what the feeling is isn’t now, when he’s barely known them two months and they barely know him at all. It can’t be love, he doesn’t feel that, it’s too soon, he won’t let it be, and there are so many other reasons, but. As much he as he wants to deny it, something is there. Something that will hurt when it’s taken away, and it will be. He knows.

Steven tilts his head down, lightly presses his lips against the top of Cib’s head despite himself, and he tells himself it’s to stop them from trembling. It’s just the painkillers, making him feel all weird and soft, or the blood loss, or the fact that Cib and James just saved his life, or that he has friends for the first time since SourceFed. It has to be.

He closes his eyes, lets himself fall away because it’s easier than thinking about this, and can distantly hear the door open before he’s asleep.

***

It’s another two days before he can stay awake longer than an hour or two, and longer before he’s able to get up and walk around without his head spinning and his heart racing, and if the time in bed isn’t spent with Cib or James or both, it’s with Reina.

He tells her everything, over one of those hours or two that he can, because Reina is the only person he knows that he’s sure would care without judging. He tells her about the men, the sex, the hurt. Cib finding him, meeting James, the fact that he feels a way that he’s scared to act on and it won’t go away. She doesn’t interrupt, just sits and waits for him to finish, and when he does, she doesn’t say anything, just pulls him into a hug and stays there. It doesn’t feel like pity, it feels like--

--like Steven had forgotten that there was still someone out there who loved him, he realizes as he wraps his arms around her in return. Someone who cared because rather than despite , and for the first time since they parted ways he cries.

It doesn’t last very long, but he’s shaking, and by the end he’s gross and there are wet stains on Reina’s shirt but she doesn’t let go until he starts to pull away on his own. When she looks at him it’s not with pity but the sorrow of someone who understands, and just that thought is enough to send another few tears down his cheeks as he turns away.

Almost like she can tell what he’s thinking, and probably because she’s known him long enough that she can, Reina cups his cheek, turns him back, and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” Steven says automatically, and she shakes her head, cutting him off.

“You’re fine,” she says, and he knows that she means it for more than just the apology.

***

They stay in Idyllwild for another few days. Everything is done, in terms of what they’re there to do, but even though Steven insists he’s fine everyone else has been keeping him in bed until he’s reached the upper end of the timespan for blood loss recovery. Steven learns that Reina’s been freelancing as a doctor and a PI, working stakeouts for people too lazy or too obvious to do it themselves, and he learns that while he was recovering Cib and James went to the meeting to see about a fourth, and apparently an unexpected fifth and sixth. They hadn’t made the decision yet, wanted Steven to at least hear about them and meet them if he wanted to.

“He’s kinda weird. And one of his friends is a little terrifying,” James says, and something about hearing him admit it makes Steven feel a little better about that possibility. He might be scared, but not ashamed, and not alone, and maybe that would change things.  

“Yeah, he didn’t talk, like, the whole time. He had sweet shades, though. I’d hire him,” Cib says, and of course that’s why Cib would take him on. The thought makes him smile, a little, and he nods.

“I mean, if you think they’d be good for the crew then we should hire them. We need more than just us.”

Cib nods, goes to make a call, and James stays behind and then they’re alone.

James starts to speak, then stops, moves like he’s going to take Steven’s hand, and stops again.

Fuck it , Steven thinks, and really he must be on morphine or something, because he reaches out his own and ignores the way his stomach flutters at the touch. James blinks at him in surprise before seeming to stabilize.

“You asked me, uh, why I didn’t kill him,” James says, and whatever Steven was thinking about is put on pause. “I didn’t…” he trails off, taking a breath and starting again. “I don’t want to be the kind of person you’re scared of,” James says, and the intensity in his eyes is the same as it was when they met in the club. It startles Steven, that that same burning he’d been so scared of when they met is dedicated to the exact opposite.  

“Why?” he says, before he can stop himself, and his voice sounds strange. Vulnerable.

“What?” James asks, and he sounds just as confused as Steven feels.

“Why do you--why do you care?” he asks again, swallowing, and suddenly it’s important that James answers.

A lot of things seem to flash through James’ face before he settles on uncertainty. He opens his mouth to speak and nothing comes out for a moment, and his eyes search Steven’s face, but Steven doesn’t know for what.

“I don’t know, dude. It’s like--when you’re scared, something feels wrong,” he says. “It feels like I’m doing something wrong, if I’m scaring you, and I want to stop whatever it is until you’re happy.”

And it doesn’t make sense, it shouldn’t make sense, but apparently crying to Reina has turned Steven into someone who cries because he can feel the tears burning behind his eyes. It’s disgusting.

It shouldn’t feel so important, the fact that someone doesn’t like it when he’s scared, but it does because no one has in so long, and he can’t respond past the lump in his throat. He doesn’t know how he should respond, so he says the first thing that comes to mind once he’s able to get it out.

“I was never scared of... you ,” he says, pausing to figure out how to explain. “Only…the person you could be. The person that people like you usually are. If that makes sense.” It probably doesn’t. He’s stupid, who’s scared of potential? It’s dumb, and James is going to realize that.

But James only nods, seeming a little relieved, and squeezes the hand that Steven had forgotten he was holding. And then Steven yawns, because he’s been feeling too many emotions and he’s been awake longer than he has since he was shot, and James lets go. He doesn’t want him to, but he can’t bring himself to reveal that much, not after realizing what he did two nights ago, and he shuts his eyes and pretends not to notice when James tucks the blanket around him.

***

James insists on driving back up to Los Santos, even when Steven tells him that the blood loss was worse than the actual wound and that he’s fine, and he only agrees when he gets lightheaded trying to get out of the car and prove James wrong. He’s grateful now, because Cib’s asleep in the backseat and he’s not far himself, with a warm car and James softly humming to the music he’s playing.

When they’d left, Reina’d had to stay behind for her work, but not before she and Steven exchanged new numbers and promised that next time she was in Los Santos they’d meet up again. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her, after SourceFed ended and he turned that part of his brain off, but it was like something he hadn’t known was broken had fixed itself. It was….nice, to have her in the back of his mind to hold on to.

He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and turns to see James lip syncing to Cyndi Lauper, and the contrast between the man sitting next to him and the man in the Waterside club draws a small smile to his face. James had seemed concerned before they’d left, oddly so, almost guiltily so, and he doesn’t like that but he doesn’t know how to fix it now that the pain medicine is gone and the fear is back.

No, that’s not true, he realizes suddenly. The fear isn’t back. He doesn’t need courage to approach James anymore, not the way he used to. He’s not scared of him, even now that he’s fully awake and aware and himself. It’s a different kind of fear, now. He’s scared of--of whatever comes after not being scared of James, and of pushing whatever their relationship is towards that. And he’s not so much scared of that as he is scared of potentially losing it once it’s developed. Scared that James will eventually realize how pathetic he is and decide he doesn’t want to get involved. And then something new: he’s scared that Cib will do the same, and he hadn’t thought about that before, that Cib may seem reliant now but it was Cib who’d started this thing and Cib who saved his life when he was bleeding out and Cib who had the exact same ability to walk away. Steven doesn’t want him to. He doesn’t want either of them to.

He’s scared that he wants something he’ll never have, and that the sooner he asks for it the sooner he’ll have to deal with the rejection.

James must notice him tense at the thought, because he stops singing, makes a questioning sound and looks over when they’re stopped at a red light. Steven shakes his head, gestures vaguely to his arm, and however much he wants to, he can’t push down the flutter in his chest that comes because James asked at all.

[solivar]

WIP: Ghost Stories On Route 66

aka the one in which Hanzo Shimada is an expatriate art student, Jesse McCree is an NPS ranger, both are more than they seem, something weird is going on in the New Mexican desert, and their lives collide in the middle of it.

Now featuring 100% more Hanzo soul-baring action!

If you like what you read, maybe throw a penny in the tip jar? https://ko-fi.com/nagaina

Mrs. Amari’s consultation room was, to Hanzo’s great surprise, not in the basement. No, rather, it was in one of the four third story rooms that capped the hacienda like turrets on a Pueblo Revival castle, perfectly square, walls aligned flawlessly along a true directional axis, ceiling mostly made up of a pyramidal skylight, picture windows longer than they were wide in the eastern and western facing walls.

Nor were the walls painted a shade that tried frantically to be Santa Fe red and failed in any number of tragic ways, such as he was accustomed to finding in shops that purported to be herbalists but mostly sold psychoactives and their derivatives. Instead, they were a color too warm to be white and too lovely to be described as beige by anyone not suffering from a Philistinic lack of poetry in their soul, a creamy hue enlivened by a subtle hint of yellow and something that might have been handfuls of crushed mica added to the final glaze that caught the light pouring in from three directions and glinted gently. There was an astonishing absence of candles and not a single whiff of patchouli, though there was also no real furniture to sit on, either -- here, unique in the house as far as he could tell, the smoothly joined hardwood floor was covered in relatively small, richly pattern-woven area rugs and large floor pillows upholstered in jewel-toned silk, a transit hazard in a house where one of the residents was blind or the next best thing to it.

A trio of dark hardwood storage chests sat against the southern wall, a practical concession rather than an aesthetic one, as their hostess crossed the room and opened them. “Please -- make yourselves comfortable.”

“After you, darlin’.” Ranger McCree murmured at his shoulder, yielding the choice, and so Hanzo picked the nest of pillows closest to the western wall, a pleasantly thick rug that felt like wool under his hands, its pattern particularly elegant and complex. It gave his eyes something to do while he concentrated on inhaling peace and exhaling stress that wasn’t losing himself in the dark gaze of his rescuer.

Ranger McCree settled down on the rug next to his own and, taking the making himself comfortable thing entirely literally, stretched out on his side, the familiar indolence of it distracting Hanzo momentarily from his contemplation of the floor. His fingers remained long and strong but unclawed and his eyes remained warmly soothing brown behind extravagantly thick lashes and oh damn he was contemplating those qualities and also the perfectly sculpted nature of his lips and it took all his strength to look away. Genji and Zenyatta took up station together on the rug directly across from his own, his brother discreetly tucking a couple pillows behind his back so he could lean against the wall in a pose that loudly purported to be entirely at peace and harmless despite the prevailing glitter of his eyes. Hana and Lucio brought up the rear, carrying their bags and, before they sat, they both set up their recording equipment in a manner that clearly allowed them to cover the entire room and everything that went on in it.

Hanzo inclined a questioning brow at them and Hana shrugged slightly. “Their idea.” She nodded in the direction of Zen and Ana.

“Since this is going to be a diagnostic procedure, having a reviewable record of it may be helpful.” Zenyatta replied, in response to his unspoken question. “If, of course, neither of you object.”

Hanzo considered that for a moment. “Not I. In fact, I’ll probably want to watch it.”

“Me neither. S’like to be a thousand times less embarrassing than any number of other recordings they’ve got of me already.” Ranger McCree flashed a grin and, behind the cover of couple pillows, his hand sought and found Hanzo’s on the rug, his grip gentle and comforting.

“Then we are in agreement.” He could hear the smile in Ana’s voice, even though her back was still turned on them. “Vanilla or cinnamon?”

“Pardon…?” Hanzo asked and there were the candles, one in each of her elegant, long-fingered hands. “Oh. Vanilla.” Cinnamon, he rather thought, might have a little too much in common with the unknown spice that pervaded the ranger’s scent to be properly soothing.

Ana set the candle in a dish of blue mosaic and lit it with a struck match, setting it on top of the storage box she closed, and turned to face them, a length of cloth looped over one arm and a smaller box of carved wood in both hands. “Dr. Tekhartha, young man, if you would be so kind as to spread out the chart for me.”

Zenyatta rose and took the cloth and together he and Genji laid it out on the floor in the central space, pinning it down at each corner with the heavy stone blocks Ana handed them from the box she held. From the quality of the sheen as the light touched it, Hanzo suspected the cloth was silk and very old, its weave almost impossibly fine, its surface painted with the outline of a human form, otherwise unadorned. The blocks, by way of contrast, were densely etched in hieratic characters on all their visible sides; Hanzo suspected they were completely covered.

“The purpose of this rite is to unbind the souls of two who tied together without bringing harm to them through the act.” Ana’s voice, in fact, had a touch of ritual about it, her pronunciation precise and formal. “For this to occur, we must know the shape of their souls and how they touch in order to part them cleanly. Jesse.”

The ranger released his hand rose, taking a moment to peel off his boots, and padded in stocking feet to the center of the room. The cloth was, fortunately, not as fragile as it looked as he took his place stretched out on it, too tall and too broad to fit inside the outline, the entire border of the thing only just large enough to contain him. The sunlight falling through the skylight overhead graced him in ways that even firelight did not, turning his skin tawny wherever it touched, bringing out the subtle hint of red in his hair, striking sparks of gold in the darkness of his eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, Hanzo saw Ana moving but paid it no attention until Hana squawked in distress and, by the time he looked, she had already taken off her eyepatch and was in the process of prying the eye out of her skull with a very audible and more than faintly horrifying pop.

“Oh. My. Actual. Fucking. God.” Hana sounded on the verge of chucking her cookies, for which Hanzo could not actually blame her since his stomach was also trying to get in on that action. “What. What are you. Is that -- “

Ana held it into the light -- a stone sculpted in the shape of an eye, banded and variegated shades of creamy green, iris and sclera alike carved with almost impossibly tiny hieratic characters. The socket in which it had lain was a twisted mass of scar tissue that she made no effort to conceal as she placed the stone in the very center of Jesse’s forehead. He didn’t flinch, either from the stone or from her touch, nor did he react as it began to glow from within, or as the blocks holding down the cloth on which he lay picked up the light, or as that viridian radiance swept the length of his body. Perhaps there wasn’t really anything to flinch from -- it didn’t look like it hurt -- and his expression remained serene even as the green faded, turning into a fine and delicate webwork of red and gold that rippled across the surface of his body, cohering into denser knots here, looser ones there, the entire whole visibly pulsing in time with his breath. Hanzo blinked and, for an instant, saw it again: the pattern, black geometric forms against golden brown skin, etched into his exposed forearms, a pattern that hadn’t been there a moment before. He reached up, rubbed his eyes, and when he looked again, it was gone, nothing to see but the flicker of red and golden light, the colors of his soul, of the cloak he had lent, that he felt laying across his shoulders even then.

A cool silver radiance joined it, and a sound like chiming bells. Zenyatta’s fingers were laced together in the mudraish form he recalled from the Student Union and, as they watched, spheres curled into existence around him -- nine spheres, to be exact, settling into orbit over the ranger, surfaces swirling cool blue and even cooler silver, cohering into forms that were almost words, almost a language that Hanzo knew.

“Zen,” Lucio’s voice, compared to Hana’s, was almost unnaturally steady. “For the recording: what are those things?”

“My inner eyes.” Zenyatta replied serenely. “With them I can perceive the soul divorced of its relationship to crude matter -- true self is without form. Our bodies cannot, can never, express or contain all that we are.”

“You have nine eyes?” Hana asked. “Also: I totally could have done without that eye-popping thing, I can’t even handle the concept of contact lenses, warn a girl, would you?”

Zenyatta smiled and said nothing more.

“Every craft has its own guiding conceptions of the metaphysical, including the true anatomy of the soul.” Ana gestured, the slightest movement of her fingers, and the webwork lifted away from the surface of his flesh. She removed the eye-stone from his forehead and the web rose a bit further, hanging in the air high enough to let him roll out from beneath it without disturbing it as it took on a multidimensional quality, knots and nodes and interactions multiplying before their eyes, beautiful in their complexity. “In mine, the heart is the key of all will and thought, emotion and intention, the guide of all action, positive and negative.”

“In mine, there is no single aspect of being more important than any other, but rather a continuum of essential forces whose interaction creates the internal balance unique to each individual.” The nine spheres spread themselves length of the webwork. “Not all balance is necessarily harmonious -- adversity is the crucible of change and growth, after all, but a soul too long in a state of disquiet can be darkened in ways it is difficult to repair. Hanzo?”

Hanzo took a moment to untie and remove his own shoes, stealing another cycle of peace-stress breathing as he did so, and gingerly crawled out onto the cloth. To his surprise, it didn’t crinkle under his hands despite its appearance of extreme age and fragility. A wave of neuropathic tingles washed through his uncovered hand where he touched it, up his neck and across his scalp as he lay down; it felt charged, like static electricity just before it let go, and he half expected to be shocked as he finished stretching his length. Instead the sensation rose and folded around him like an embrace, nerves thrumming gently, almost impossibly soothing.

“Are you ready, child?” Ana asked kindly.

“Yes.” Hanzo replied, his gaze automatically seeking his brother’s. Genji was leaning forward on his knees, eyes dragon-bright, one of Zenyatta’s hands resting comfortingly on his shoulder. Hanzo offered his best reassuring smile and then something small and warm came to rest on his forehead and the surge of power that washed through him swallowed his awareness of anything else.

It was, in a way, not unlike meeting Minamikaze’s eyes all those years ago: the same feeling of being seen, of being perceived and known to the depths of his own being, without the accompanying sense of stripped bare, of being measured and found wanting beneath his dragon ancestor’s pitiless judgment. Not pleasant, precisely, but not terrible, either, and as it faded he heard sharply in-drawn breaths all around the room. He opened his eyes -- when had he closed them? He couldn’t remember -- and found Hana staring at him with undisguised horror, her hands pressed to her mouth, Lucio’s eyes enormous with shock, Zenyatta gently but firmly restraining Genji from reaching for him.

“I’m guessing it looks bad.” He said, dryly, not quite having the courage himself to look the length of his own body, to see what sort of mess the naayéé had made of his soul.

“Aniki,” Genji’s voice was painfully unsteady, on the edge of tears, “doesn’t it hurt?”

“No. Not now, at least.” Even his arm, swathed inside its bandages, was offering him no discomfort; he wondered if it was an effect of the bespeaking or if he was just experiencing an abnormal allotment of good fortune, for a change. “Or I might not be feeling it yet. Zen? Mrs. Amari?”

“I am not interdicting any sensory response you might otherwise experience.” Zen replied, his tone planed utterly smooth of expression, itself an unnatural turn of events.

“Nor am I.” Ana laid her hands, gently, on either side of his head. “Please do not move, child.”

He held utterly still while she lifted away the webwork the bespeaking had built and removed the eye-stone from his forehead. He could not quite bring himself yet to look at it directly, and so he rolled to the side and kept his back to it as he returned to his place, staring fixedly at a particularly bright flake of mica just below the window sash long enough that the ranger, his ranger, said softly, “Hanzo? Are you okay, darlin’?”

“I -- “ Hanzo took a deep breath, released it in a shuddering sigh that seemed to take a substantial chunk of the integrity of his insides with it. “Yes. I just...need a moment.”

A warm hand came to rest on his own and without thinking too deeply on it, he leaned into its owner, resting his face in the crook of the ranger’s neck and shoulder as he gathered the scattered bits of his courage back up. When he finally turned around, Jesse placed himself at his back, and it was all he could do not to press more completely into his side, settling for an arm and a shoulder and a hand laced together with his own in the pillows.

The webwork of his inner being was incomplete, at best, a tangled cat’s-cradle of threads in shades of darkest blue, some so deep they were nearly black, some wound together with others in knotwork patterns that echoed the ranger’s, orderly and purposeful, but still more, most he suspected, were snarled and twisted together in an effort to maintain some sort of internal cohesion. Woven among them, holding lengths of torn and frayed strands together across expanses of emptiness, were flickers of gold -- far more gold than red, to his eye, completing knots and nodes that would otherwise be broken, holding together pieces of his being that otherwise would be threadbare, at best, if they existed at all. His left arm, for example, trailed away in mid-bicep, the shredded ends of what had once been his unfulfilled bond fading into nothingness.

And there, in the very center of his living essence, was the scar: a gnarled and withered mass of spiritual keloid, severed from the rest of his being, the place where all the damage began. It was ugly even to his own eyes, ruined and repulsive, the undeniable evidence of his own unworthiness.

“Han, you know me. I’m not a violent person by nature,” Lucio broke the appalled the silence, “but I think I’m going to have to punch a dragon in the face.”

A chorus of agreement met that sentiment and, to Hanzo’s surprise, it included Zenyatta. His spheres rotated between the two constructions, colors reflecting and blending across their surfaces until they flared like miniature suns, illuminating the bonds still linking them together -- not only the threads, which were enough and more than enough, but the passage of intensely bright golden light spilling into his being from the source at his side.

“On the one hand,” Ana said, neutrally, her face as still as a millpond, “I am impressed by the amount of healing that has already occurred. On the other, a great deal more needs to happen before we can even consider separating you.”

“I concur.” Zenyatta reached out and touched one of his spheres -- it rang a single silvery tone, echoed by the spheres to either side, thrumming the threads of the ranger’s being and his own. “They are resonating together too closely -- if we part them it will do far more harm than good.”

“How long d’you think, Doc?” Jesse asked; Hanzo was having difficulty finding his voice.

“It is...difficult to tell.” Zenyatta flicked a sidelong glance at Genji, who absolutely did not notice, his own gaze fixed on the construct. “Physical proximity may well speed the healing. It will certainly shorten the, ah, supply line.”

“Could it do him harm? To continue the connection to me?” Hanzo asked, his voice a toneless rasp and for the sake of the one who lent you this ringing in his ears.

“There is always a risk.” Ana replied, calmly. “And a price to paid for taking them. Here and now, in this place, the danger is minimal -- Cerillos is protected, strongly, against intrusions from Beyond, and even now my husband and Gabriel are reinforcing the border defenses.” Her expression softened a fraction. “It also matters that he has chosen this of his own will, even if you did not.”

“Hanzo.” Zenyatta said quietly. “It is not impossible to separate you, if that is what you truly wish, but I counsel strongly against it for your own sake.”

“It’s not hurting me to do this, darlin’.” Jesse’s breath was warm against his cheek and the words were sweet, so sweet, in his ears and he could not imagine how he had looked on this and found it beautiful, could not believe that he still did. “I got more than enough and you need it now. I’m sorry about the way it happened but not sorry that it’s doin’ you good -- what’s a few more days, if you can walk outta here more whole than you were comin’ in?”

“Very well.” Hanzo replied, softly, knowing defeat when he looked it in the eye. “What must we do?”

“We should --” Ana began.

“The scar is vibrating.” Genji said, quietly, and silenced whatever she was going to say.

“It is.” Lucio leaned closer. “Zen -- that note the sphere closest to it is playing, can you make it louder?”

Zenyatta touched a fingertip to that sphere and the tone it emitted filled Hanzo’s chest with cold and dark and the icy longing for nothing even as the scar shivered where it lay inside his being, beating in time with that painful music like a second, shriveled heart. They all watched, wordless, Jesse’s arm tightening around him, Zenyatta and Ana going carefully, professionally blank, Hana wiping tears from her eyes as though merely seeing it caused her grief.

It was Genji, again, who finally spoke what they all knew was true. “There’s something inside it.”

*

[placetobenation]

Welcome to the Wednesday Walk Around the Web, where we weave & wind through weblinks weekly. Hopefully you will find the links on offer amusing, interesting, or, occasionally, profound. Views expressed in the Wednesday Walk do not necessarily reflect those of anyone but the writer.

A fund set up in memory of Philando Castile (after he was murdered by cops) has eliminated a year’s worth of student lunch debt for St. Paul, Minnesota. I mean, “student lunch debt” is the sort of phrase that makes one wonder just what it takes to burn an economic system to the ground, but good on the organizers and donors.

Give me all of the web game courses synced up to classical music. *grabby-hands emoji* Seriously, that video gets pretty fabulous.

Call your video Randall Cunningham Seizes the Means of Production and I am THERE.

Local news is always there to cover hot late-breaking stories.

To the writers of Olive Garden fanfiction: bless you. (For real though, “There is only one Olive Garden, but it has a thousand doors” is an exquisite line, rich in possibility.)

Sometimes a simple typo can take you on a journey of discovery.

This Week in Textbook Design/This Week in Animal Drawings: Programming textbooks have distinctive animal engravings because they were more interesting that way, which is pretty much the best reason to make a design decision.

Normally I find any claim that something was better in The Old days, let’s just say, extremely dubious. (Kids These Days is always bullshit.) But it really is hard to read this account of philosopher-troll Diogenes of Sinope without yearning for a simpler time when trolls would live in wine barrels and instruct world leaders not to block their sunlight, in stark contrast to the misogynist edgelord cyber-terrorists and actual factual Nazis among our modern trolls.

This Week in Sculpture: The Fragile Giant is an elephant sculpture measured at 0.157 nanometers, filmed with a scanning electron microscope.

You can arrest a person for stealing a million dollars’ worth of fajitas over nine years, but there’s not a jury in the land that would convict. Hold the phone…what’s that? He stole the fajitas from kids? Well, that’s different then.

This Week in Wednesday Walk Parenting Top Tips: Every now and then, make sure your kids’ hobbies mirror scientific techniques.

Also in parenting ideas, Halloween is coming up and I can’t think of a better costume for your kid than Gordon Ramsay.

Meme culture is totally neo-dadaism.

Speaking of, let’s check the tweets–oh, we’re ranking Doctor Eggman designs by relative sexiness. The internet can be a wonderful thing.

This Week in Video Games: Why Spend $80 on an SNES Classic When You Can Install Emulators on a Raspberry Pi and Never Shut the Fuck Up About It?

PTBN Grand Poobah Brad Hindscrooge brings word of Billy Corgan’s supernatural adventures. Yeah, and one time a guy I used to know spent half an hour telling me about all of the unnatural limbs and protuberances he thought he saw on some animal running away from the side of the road when he was driving at night. Let’s all just nod our heads, wonder internally if he’s drunk or something, and move on.

[solivar]

WIP: Ghost Stories On Route 66

aka the one in which Hanzo Shimada is an expatriate art student, Jesse McCree is an NPS ranger, both are more than they seem, something weird is going down in the New Mexican desert, and their lives collide in the middle of it.

Now with 100% more Ranger McSweetie and Little Dragon Brother heart to heart!

For the record: sleepovers are a go.

Mrs. Amari’s consultation room was, to Hanzo’s great surprise, not in the basement. No, rather, it was in one of the four third story rooms that capped the hacienda like turrets on a Pueblo Revival castle, perfectly square, walls aligned flawlessly along a true directional axis, ceiling mostly made up of a pyramidal skylight, picture windows longer than they were wide in the eastern and western facing walls.

Nor were the walls painted a shade that tried frantically to be Santa Fe red and failed in any number of tragic ways, such as he was accustomed to finding in shops that purported to be herbalists but mostly sold psychoactives and their derivatives. Instead, they were a color too warm to be white and too lovely to be described as beige by anyone not suffering from a Philistinic lack of poetry in their soul, a creamy hue enlivened by a subtle hint of yellow and something that might have been handfuls of crushed mica added to the final glaze that caught the light pouring in from three directions and glinted gently. There was an astonishing absence of candles and not a single whiff of patchouli, though there was also no real furniture to sit on, either -- here, unique in the house as far as he could tell, the smoothly joined hardwood floor was covered in relatively small, richly pattern-woven area rugs and large floor pillows upholstered in jewel-toned silk, a transit hazard in a house where one of the residents was blind or the next best thing to it.

A trio of dark hardwood storage chests sat against the southern wall, a practical concession rather than an aesthetic one, as their hostess crossed the room and opened them. “Please -- make yourselves comfortable.”

“After you, darlin’.” Ranger McCree murmured at his shoulder, yielding the choice, and so Hanzo picked the nest of pillows closest to the western wall, a pleasantly thick rug that felt like wool under his hands, its pattern particularly elegant and complex. It gave his eyes something to do while he concentrated on inhaling peace and exhaling stress that wasn’t losing himself in the dark gaze of his rescuer.

Ranger McCree settled down on the rug next to his own and, taking the making himself comfortable thing entirely literally, stretched out on his side, the familiar indolence of it distracting Hanzo momentarily from his contemplation of the floor. His fingers remained long and strong but unclawed and his eyes remained warmly soothing brown behind extravagantly thick lashes and oh damn he was contemplating those qualities and also the perfectly sculpted nature of his lips and it took all his strength to look away. Genji and Zenyatta took up station together on the rug directly across from his own, his brother discreetly tucking a couple pillows behind his back so he could lean against the wall in a pose that loudly purported to be entirely at peace and harmless despite the prevailing glitter of his eyes. Hana and Lucio brought up the rear, carrying their bags and, before they sat, they both set up their recording equipment in a manner that clearly allowed them to cover the entire room and everything that went on in it.

Hanzo inclined a questioning brow at them and Hana shrugged slightly. “Their idea.” She nodded in the direction of Zen and Ana.

“Since this is going to be a diagnostic procedure, having a reviewable record of it may be helpful.” Zenyatta replied, in response to his unspoken question. “If, of course, neither of you object.”

Hanzo considered that for a moment. “Not I. In fact, I’ll probably want to watch it.”

“Me neither. S’like to be a thousand times less embarrassing than any number of other recordings they’ve got of me already.” Ranger McCree flashed a grin and, behind the cover of couple pillows, his hand sought and found Hanzo’s on the rug, his grip gentle and comforting.

“Then we are in agreement.” He could hear the smile in Ana’s voice, even though her back was still turned on them. “Vanilla or cinnamon?”

“Pardon…?” Hanzo asked and there were the candles, one in each of her elegant, long-fingered hands. “Oh. Vanilla.” Cinnamon, he rather thought, might have a little too much in common with the unknown spice that pervaded the ranger’s scent to be properly soothing.

Ana set the candle in a dish of blue mosaic and lit it with a struck match, setting it on top of the storage box she closed, and turned to face them, a length of cloth looped over one arm and a smaller box of carved wood in both hands. “Dr. Tekhartha, young man, if you would be so kind as to spread out the chart for me.”

Zenyatta rose and took the cloth and together he and Genji laid it out on the floor in the central space, pinning it down at each corner with the heavy stone blocks Ana handed them from the box she held. From the quality of the sheen as the light touched it, Hanzo suspected the cloth was silk and very old, its weave almost impossibly fine, its surface painted with the outline of a human form, otherwise unadorned. The blocks, by way of contrast, were densely etched in hieratic characters on all their visible sides; Hanzo suspected they were completely covered.

“The purpose of this rite is to unbind the souls of two who tied together without bringing harm to them through the act.” Ana’s voice, in fact, had a touch of ritual about it, her pronunciation precise and formal. “For this to occur, we must know the shape of their souls and how they touch in order to part them cleanly. Jesse.”

The ranger released his hand rose, taking a moment to peel off his boots, and padded in stocking feet to the center of the room. The cloth was, fortunately, not as fragile as it looked as he took his place stretched out on it, too tall and too broad to fit inside the outline, the entire border of the thing only just large enough to contain him. The sunlight falling through the skylight overhead graced him in ways that even firelight did not, turning his skin tawny wherever it touched, bringing out the subtle hint of red in his hair, striking sparks of gold in the darkness of his eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, Hanzo saw Ana moving but paid it no attention until Hana squawked in distress and, by the time he looked, she had already taken off her eyepatch and was in the process of prying the eye out of her skull with a very audible and more than faintly horrifying pop.

“Oh. My. Actual. Fucking. God.” Hana sounded on the verge of chucking her cookies, for which Hanzo could not actually blame her since his stomach was also trying to get in on that action. “What. What are you. Is that -- “

Ana held it into the light -- a stone sculpted in the shape of an eye, banded and variegated shades of creamy green, iris and sclera alike carved with almost impossibly tiny hieratic characters. The socket in which it had lain was a twisted mass of scar tissue that she made no effort to conceal as she placed the stone in the very center of Jesse’s forehead. He didn’t flinch, either from the stone or from her touch, nor did he react as it began to glow from within, or as the blocks holding down the cloth on which he lay picked up the light, or as that viridian radiance swept the length of his body. Perhaps there wasn’t really anything to flinch from -- it didn’t look like it hurt -- and his expression remained serene even as the green faded, turning into a fine and delicate webwork of red and gold that rippled across the surface of his body, cohering into denser knots here, looser ones there, the entire whole visibly pulsing in time with his breath. Hanzo blinked and, for an instant, saw it again: the pattern, black geometric forms against golden brown skin, etched into his exposed forearms, a pattern that hadn’t been there a moment before. He reached up, rubbed his eyes, and when he looked again, it was gone, nothing to see but the flicker of red and golden light, the colors of his soul, of the cloak he had lent, that he felt laying across his shoulders even then.

A cool silver radiance joined it, and a sound like chiming bells. Zenyatta’s fingers were laced together in the mudraish form he recalled from the Student Union and, as they watched, spheres curled into existence around him -- nine spheres, to be exact, settling into orbit over the ranger, surfaces swirling cool blue and even cooler silver, cohering into forms that were almost words, almost a language that Hanzo knew.

“Zen,” Lucio’s voice, compared to Hana’s, was almost unnaturally steady. “For the recording: what are those things?”

“My inner eyes.” Zenyatta replied serenely. “With them I can perceive the soul divorced of its relationship to crude matter -- true self is without form. Our bodies cannot, can never, express or contain all that we are.”

“You have nine eyes?” Hana asked. “Also: I totally could have done without that eye-popping thing, I can’t even handle the concept of contact lenses, warn a girl, would you?”

Zenyatta smiled and said nothing more.

“Every craft has its own guiding conceptions of the metaphysical, including the true anatomy of the soul.” Ana gestured, the slightest movement of her fingers, and the webwork lifted away from the surface of his flesh. She removed the eye-stone from his forehead and the web rose a bit further, hanging in the air high enough to let him roll out from beneath it without disturbing it as it took on a multidimensional quality, knots and nodes and interactions multiplying before their eyes, beautiful in their complexity. “In mine, the heart is the key of all will and thought, emotion and intention, the guide of all action, positive and negative.”

“In mine, there is no single aspect of being more important than any other, but rather a continuum of essential forces whose interaction creates the internal balance unique to each individual.” The nine spheres spread themselves length of the webwork. “Not all balance is necessarily harmonious -- adversity is the crucible of change and growth, after all, but a soul too long in a state of disquiet can be darkened in ways it is difficult to repair. Hanzo?”

Hanzo took a moment to untie and remove his own shoes, stealing another cycle of peace-stress breathing as he did so, and gingerly crawled out onto the cloth. To his surprise, it didn’t crinkle under his hands despite its appearance of extreme age and fragility. A wave of neuropathic tingles washed through his uncovered hand where he touched it, up his neck and across his scalp as he lay down; it felt charged, like static electricity just before it let go, and he half expected to be shocked as he finished stretching his length. Instead the sensation rose and folded around him like an embrace, nerves thrumming gently, almost impossibly soothing.

“Are you ready, child?” Ana asked kindly.

“Yes.” Hanzo replied, his gaze automatically seeking his brother’s. Genji was leaning forward on his knees, eyes dragon-bright, one of Zenyatta’s hands resting comfortingly on his shoulder. Hanzo offered his best reassuring smile and then something small and warm came to rest on his forehead and the surge of power that washed through him swallowed his awareness of anything else.

It was, in a way, not unlike meeting Minamikaze’s eyes all those years ago: the same feeling of being seen, of being perceived and known to the depths of his own being, without the accompanying sense of stripped bare, of being measured and found wanting beneath his dragon ancestor’s pitiless judgment. Not pleasant, precisely, but not terrible, either, and as it faded he heard sharply in-drawn breaths all around the room. He opened his eyes -- when had he closed them? He couldn’t remember -- and found Hana staring at him with undisguised horror, her hands pressed to her mouth, Lucio’s eyes enormous with shock, Zenyatta gently but firmly restraining Genji from reaching for him.

“I’m guessing it looks bad.” He said, dryly, not quite having the courage himself to look the length of his own body, to see what sort of mess the naayéé had made of his soul.

“Aniki,” Genji’s voice was painfully unsteady, on the edge of tears, “doesn’t it hurt?”

“No. Not now, at least.” Even his arm, swathed inside its bandages, was offering him no discomfort; he wondered if it was an effect of the bespeaking or if he was just experiencing an abnormal allotment of good fortune, for a change. “Or I might not be feeling it yet. Zen? Mrs. Amari?”

“I am not interdicting any sensory response you might otherwise experience.” Zen replied, his tone planed utterly smooth of expression, itself an unnatural turn of events.

“Nor am I.” Ana laid her hands, gently, on either side of his head. “Please do not move, child.”

He held utterly still while she lifted away the webwork the bespeaking had built and removed the eye-stone from his forehead. He could not quite bring himself yet to look at it directly, and so he rolled to the side and kept his back to it as he returned to his place, staring fixedly at a particularly bright flake of mica just below the window sash long enough that the ranger, his ranger, said softly, “Hanzo? Are you okay, darlin’?”

“I -- “ Hanzo took a deep breath, released it in a shuddering sigh that seemed to take a substantial chunk of the integrity of his insides with it. “Yes. I just...need a moment.”

A warm hand came to rest on his own and without thinking too deeply on it, he leaned into its owner, resting his face in the crook of the ranger’s neck and shoulder as he gathered the scattered bits of his courage back up. When he finally turned around, Jesse placed himself at his back, and it was all he could do not to press more completely into his side, settling for an arm and a shoulder and a hand laced together with his own in the pillows.

The webwork of his inner being was incomplete, at best, a tangled cat’s-cradle of threads in shades of darkest blue, some so deep they were nearly black, some wound together with others in knotwork patterns that echoed the ranger’s, orderly and purposeful, but still more, most he suspected, were snarled and twisted together in an effort to maintain some sort of internal cohesion. Woven among them, holding lengths of torn and frayed strands together across expanses of emptiness, were flickers of gold -- far more gold than red, to his eye, completing knots and nodes that would otherwise be broken, holding together pieces of his being that otherwise would be threadbare, at best, if they existed at all. His left arm, for example, trailed away in mid-bicep, the shredded ends of what had once been his unfulfilled bond trailed into nothingness.

And there, in the very center of his living essence, was the scar: a gnarled and withered mass of spiritual keloid, severed from the rest of his being, the place where all the damage began. It was ugly even to his own eyes, ruined and repulsive, the undeniable evidence of his own unworthiness.

“Han, you know me. I’m not a violent person by nature,” Lucio broke the appalled the silence, “but I think I’m going to have to punch a dragon in the face.”

A chorus of agreement met that sentiment and, to Hanzo’s surprise, it included Zenyatta. His spheres rotated between the two constructions, colors reflecting and blending across their surfaces until they flared like miniature suns, illuminating the bonds still linking them together -- not only the threads, which were enough and more than enough, but the passage of intensely bright golden light spilling into his being from the source at his side.

“On the one hand,” Ana said, neutrally, her face as still as a millpond, “I am impressed by the amount of healing that has already occurred. On the other, a great deal more needs to happen before we can even consider separating you.”

“I concur.” Zenyatta reached out and touched one of his spheres -- it rang a single silvery tone, echoed by the spheres to either side, thrumming the threads of the ranger’s being and his own. “They are resonating together too closely -- if we part them it will do far more harm than good.”

“How long d’you think, Doc?” Jesse asked; Hanzo was having difficulty finding his voice.

“It is...difficult to tell.” Zenyatta flicked a sidelong glance at Genji, who absolutely did not notice, his own gaze fixed on the construct. “Physical proximity may well speed the healing. It will certainly shorten the, ah, supply line.”

“Could it do him harm? To continue the connection to me?” Hanzo asked, his voice a toneless rasp and for the sake of the one who lent you this ringing in his ears.

“There is always a risk.” Ana replied, calmly. “And a price to paid for taking them. Here and now, in this place, the danger is minimal -- Cerillos is protected, strongly, against intrusions from Beyond, and even now my husband and Gabriel are reinforcing the border defenses.” Her expression softened a fraction. “It also matters that he has chosen this of his own will, even if you did not.”

“Hanzo.” Zenyatta said quietly. “It is not impossible to separate you, if that is what you truly wish, but I counsel strongly against it for your own sake.”

“It’s not hurting me to do this, darlin’.” Jesse’s breath was warm against his cheek and the words were sweet, so sweet, in his ears and he could not imagine how he had looked on this and found it beautiful, could not believe that he still did. “I got more than enough and you need it now. I’m sorry about the way it happened but not sorry that it’s doin’ you good -- what’s a few more days, if you can walk outta here more whole than you were comin’ in?”

“Very well.” Hanzo replied, softly, knowing defeat when he looked it in the eye. “What must we do?”

“We should --” Ana began.

“The scar is vibrating.” Genji said, quietly, and silenced whatever she was going to say.

“It is.” Lucio leaned closer. “Zen -- that note the sphere closest to it is playing, can you make it louder?”

Zenyatta touched a fingertip to that sphere and the tone it emitted filled Hanzo’s chest with cold and dark and the icy longing for nothing even as the scar shivered where it lay inside his being, beating in time with that painful music like a second, shriveled heart. They all watched, wordless, Jesse’s arm tightening around him, Zenyatta and Ana going carefully, professionally blank, Hana wiping tears from her eyes as though merely seeing it caused her grief.

It was Genji, again, who finally spoke what they all knew was true. “There’s something inside it.”

*

It took two hours and the return of Mr. Wilhelm and Terrifying Smoke Monster Dad, bearing with them a multitude of objects both strange and intriguing, Roadhog the Friendly Giant and his beanpole constant companion the excessively destructive mechanical genius, and also thirty pizza boxes from a local joint so famous even he had heard of it, for Hanzo to find a moment of peace by himself. A pretty decent amount of open space lay between the walls completely surrounding the compound and the contents of the compound itself, even with the greenhouses, and the prevailing chaos inside the house allowed him the snag half a box of pizza and the remains of a two liter of root beer and slip out into it to find a reasonably comfortable place to sit and get himself back in order. Or possibly to sulk. He didn’t think he was sulking but he also had to admit that he wasn’t always the best judge of his own emotional reactions, particularly when the contents of his skull and the contents of his digestive tract were both equally contorted with an excess of feeling. Such as they were now.

He found his hiding spot on the far northern edge of the compound, a little alcove built out from the wall lined and roofed in a trellis heavy with vines that probably flowered in the spring, complete with a cushioned horse-shoe shaped bench and a marble birdbath a few feet away. He tucked himself into the most heavily shadowed corner and slurped down pepperoni and still moderately gooey cheese while thinking fixedly about nothing: not the now-impossible-to-overlook-or-deny state of his own fuckedupness, not how much the same was patently freaking out his brother and his friends, not the ranger, absolutely not the ranger, not the way the ranger felt pressed against his back, not the way the ranger’s hand felt entwined with his own, absolutely nothing about how the ranger’s soul and his own were tied together and how much he did not, in fact, wish to be separated, how he couldn’t imagine ever wanting to be separated, even once he was healed, or how purely and simply good it felt to have that tie, that connection, to someone else, even if it came about in a terrible way. And there was, thinking about it, and he let his head fall back against the trellis.

“What if he doesn’t really want to stay tied to you?” He said the words aloud because that was marginally better than keeping them penned inside his head, where they could ricochet around and do more damage. “Why would he? He practically said he didn’t back at the house and why would he ever do this in the first place?”

Because he’s a decent human being, the voice of reason interjected, finally overcoming the roar of egregiously melodramatic emo complete with extreme dynamic tempo shifts and, possibly, lyrics by Gerard Way otherwise commanding his internal narrative. And also it’s his job. Remember the job? Ranger is not just a title. It’s what he does. He helps people.

“That’s right. That’s true.” It was weirdly soothing to admit that out loud, to force himself to look at the situation from that light, to remind himself that if anyone else had turned up on the ranger’s doorstep that night he’d have done the same for them, that it didn’t actually mean anything more than that. “He’s...simply the best human on Earth and you randomly encountered him in the middle of the night, on the ass-end of nowhere, just when you needed him most. Don’t make it more than that, you idiot.”

They had not, after all, talked and the odds that they would seemed to be diminishing by the moment. It was, after all, entirely probable that he was misreading the situation somehow -- it would not, in fact, be the first time.

He tried, and succeeded at least for now, not to think about the thing in his chest. He had the rather distinct feeling that wouldn’t be the case for much longer and embraced the not-thinking-about-it-for-now like a long-lost love.

He gathered up the remains of his meal and made his way back towards the house, using the bulk of the greenhouses as cover, and, as he approached, he heard voices coming from the back porch, itself partially screened by ornamental junipers. He recognized the speakers nonetheless and he slowed his stride and softened his steps and, no, no he was not going to hide in the bushes and listen to his brother talk to his ranger. He was not going to do that.

“You know, I was really pretty dedicated to the idea of not liking you.”

He was totally doing that because that was Genji, Genji sounding faintly bemused instead of borderline homicidal, which he was inclined to consider an improvement.

“I kinda noticed that, yeah.” The ranger, by way of contrast, sounded at least moderately pleased. “For the record, I don’t blame you any and, also for the record, I apologize. I’d do a lot of things differently, if I could.” The sound of footsteps, with spurs, on the planks of the porch and Hanzo planted himself flat against the hacienda’s adobe wall and hoped against hope that the junipers completely concealed him. “Mostly, I’d try harder to make sure y’all were safe from the start.”

“That’s gratifying to know.” A sigh. “And, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry, too. I’m just...really worried about him. Worried that this going to undo all the effort he put into rebuilding his life -- rebuilding himself -- after…” Genji’s voice trailed off.

“Apology accepted.” A pause. “If you don’t mind me sayin’, it doesn’t sound like you two came from the most nurturing environment.”

“Oh, it could be incredibly nurturing -- provided you were willing to let yourself be nurtured in exactly the direction the clan wanted you to go.” Hanzo could practically feel his brother’s bitterness from where he stood. “Do you know what the worst part of all this is, Ranger McCree? Our family did this to him. Deliberately. They took him when he was barely old enough to speak in complete sentences and way before he could really understand or consent to what they were asking of him, and they made him into a sacrifice. They let Uncle Toshiro turn him into a younger, stronger version of himself and sent him off to perform an impossible fucking task and when he fucking succeeded they couldn’t even treat him with the smallest bit of kindness when what they wanted him to do broke him. I could forgive them a lot of bullshit but I will never forgive that.”

“We’re in more than passin’ agreement about that.” The sound of two bottles -- real bottle-capped bottles -- flicking open with a pop. “Seems to me like you’ve got something on your mind, Mr. Shimada --”

“Genji. Just...call me Genji. Everyone does.”

“Genji, then. Why don’t you let what’s eatin’ at you out before it gets down to the bone?” The ranger’s voice was close and Hanzo dared a glance, found him leaning on the roughly peeled wooden railing a double handspan away, if that, and ducked back under cover.

“He told me he thinks that your friend can...bring it back. What he lost.” Genji replied bluntly. “Is it true?”

“Ana thought so, yeah. Not sure if her opinion has changed any, after this morning, but I expect that’s something we’ll learn before too much longer. Doesn’t leap to diagnostic judgments, that one.” A pause. “You don’t look too happy about that, I gotta say.”

“I’m...not? Not really?” A significantly longer pause and a sigh. “That sounds terrible, I know, and I’m probably a horrible person and an even worse brother for even thinking of it this way but...it hurt him so badly to lose it and what if this doesn’t work? What if it can’t be healed, can’t be fixed, what if Minamikaze did something to him to make it impossible and nothing can make it better again? He’s my brother, I love him, and I want him to be as happy and whole as he can be but, most of all, I want him alive. I’m...not sure that this is the hope he could survive having crushed. Not after…”

They were both silent for a long time, long enough that Hanzo almost dared to move, and then Genji spoke again. “I didn’t believe in any of this, you know. Not a fucking bit. I thought they took my brother away from me for nothing, for something that probably didn’t even exist, and even he didn’t see what was wrong with that. It made me absolutely crazy with frustration. And then...it happened and it was all real and the only person I knew who believed -- who believed with all his heart and soul -- was the one left out, the one who wasn’t worthy, and I just…” He caught his breath in a sound painfully close to a sob and it was all he could do not to break cover and climb over the railing and wrap him up and tell him that everything would be all right. “I would give this to him if I could.”

“I know.” Softly. “That’s not terrible, Genji -- it’s an honest fear. And you ain’t anywhere near the worst brother I’ve ever met or heard tell of, so just don’t even think that way, all right? C’mon inside, we’ll find Ana and your sweetheart and we’ll have a talk. They can answer any questions you got better than I could, anyway. After all, I’m not much good at healin’.”

“...That was a really cheap shot and I’m sorry about that, too.”

“All’s forgiven, li’l brother. Let’s go.”

He waited until he heard both sets of footsteps cross the porch, and the sound of the door closing to step out of his concealment, to find his own way inside, his heart sore and strangely full all at once.

*