#what happens when a stone gets stuck under ice for many thousands of years and roll against the ground

[theflowerunicorn]

Visit hangö 👍

[ofstarsandfireflies]

Tonight is Beauty and the Beast and by Beauty and the Beast I mean the 22nd of November 1991 classic.

How do I know the release date?

That’s the very date of my birth 😁

Stephen shouldn’t have messed with the Ancient One.

He shouldn’t have tried to use the time stone to go back so he could use his hands properly again.

So he could have his old life again.

She had seen him do this and decided to punish him for it.

He would remain in this Sanctum, with his scarred hands, trapped in time where the scars wouldn’t fade, where the shaking wouldn’t cease.

A nightmare of his own making.

Until, by some miracle, someone came to love him and his scars, and he them.

If not, if he still hadn’t found love by the time the power within the stone fades, then his life would fade with it.

He knew her conditions would never be met.

That he was trapped like this, slowly watching his life dwindle away day after day while everyone on the outside went about as normal.

It had already been five years and it hadn’t happened yet.

Who in their right would love him, when his hands looked like this?

It’s business as usual when Tony and Peter are patrolling New York at night, the wedding proposal Rogers tried to spring on him earlier that day still fresh in his mind as Tony rolls his eyes at the cringe worthy memory and focuses on what Peter is chattering about in his ear.

There doesn’t seem to be much activity in the area they’ve designated themselves. It looks like it’s going to be an easy and calm night.

That is until Peter misjudges a swing and goes crashing through some old building’s even older, fancily designed window.

Tony tries asking him if he’s alright over the comms, but Peter isn’t replying.

Thinking the kid could be more hurt than he initially thought, Tony enters the building as well and sees the dark silhouette of an unknown man with an unconscious Peter.

Shooting at the man does nothing, his shots somehow miss him entirely, his suit malfunctioning quickly after.

Having no way to protect Peter, Tony tries to ask him to let Peter go, that he’ll pay for the window, he doesn’t need to hurt the kid because of it.

The man turns to him, instantly realising who he is.

Stephen doesn’t care that the window got broken, he cares that this kid decided to enter the Sanctum; the one place Stephen Strange can hide from the world. Can hide from the ridicule he would receive about his hands.

He’s going to teach the kid a lesson for disturbing him, for daring to come here and think he can leave with no consequences, no matter how many times Tony tries to tell him that it was an accident.

When his words fall on deaf ears, Tony tells him he’ll do anything, and quickly offers himself in Peter’s place.

The man looks at him.

Really looks at him.

This is new.

He’s been stuck here for so long, trapped in time for so long that he’s forgotten what other people would do for one another when they truly care about someone.

But more than that, he is being offered the chance he’s been waiting for to break this damn curse he’s under, so Stephen agrees immediately, sending Peter away through a portal before Tony can even say goodbye.

Tony is heart broken as the wizard leads him through the dark building and goes over the rules he wants Tony to abide to.

The first is the use of his name, as he wants to be addressed as Doctor Stephen Strange, Tony refusing the mouthful and getting on Stephen’s nerves when he just uses his surname.

It’s only when he tells him to stay out of the West Wing of the Sanctum, that he ends up snapping at him and the questions Stark seems to be filled to the brim with.

When they reach the bedroom Tony will be staying in, Stephen wants him to join him for dinner, the request coming off more as a demand.

He needs to get things going as soon as possible as the time stone has already begun to dim.

But Tony is not having it.

He is here against his will and he is not hungry, telling the Sorcerer this only to been thrown into an argument he very much wins, despite Stephen’s insistence he can make him do whatever he wants.

Stephen is very close to using his magic on him to show him what he means, but is stopped by Wong, who reminds him that if he wants to win the heart of Tony Stark to break this curse, then he needs to control his temper.

Stephen gives in, tries asking nicely, but Tony’s stubbornness only makes him angrier and he tells Wong that if Tony won’t eat with him, then he doesn’t eat at all, and leaves Tony alone to hide away further in the Sanctum.

Tony emerges soon after, Wong and a sentient cloak offering him some food despite what Stephen told them.

He’s a guest here, and should be treated as such. They even allow him to wander around the Sanctum.

That doesn’t stop Wong from making sure he doesn’t touch anything he shouldn’t, but Tony still manages to slip away to get a sneak peak at what could be in this West Wing Strange has told him to stay away from.

The West Wing, it turns out, is an almost completely destroyed part of the Sanctum.

Broken furniture and shattered glass litter the floor, and the only thing to have survived is a stand with a glowing amulet hovering a few inches off the surface, covered by a glass dome.

Intrigued, Tony lifts the dome and reaches for this magical item, not seeing Stephen appear behind him, until he’s flying forward to cover the mysterious relic once more and demanding to know what Tony is doing here.

Tony tries to apologise but Stephen is furious, shadows getting longer around him and magic sparking dangerously at his shaking hands.

Tony ducks as a bolt hits a wardrobe behind him and blows it into a thousand pieces, quickly running from the room before he’s caught in any of the other blasts the Sorcerer was gearing up to unleash.

By the time Tony is gone, Stephen realises what he’s done, covering his face in shame.

Tony can’t stand to be here another second, running to the door and throwing it open as Wong tries to beg him to stay.

Tony runs out of the Sanctum, uncaring for the promise he’d made to stay, trying to reboot his armour now he’s no longer around any magical interferences, but it’s as he’s doing this he’s set upon by some magical freaks with purple crystallised skin around their eyes.

They’re magic users too, only it’s not the kind he’s seen from Strange.

This magic creates weapons which get pointed at his throat, like long jaggered pieces of glass.

This magic is made to do harm.

And the users of this magic have mistaken Tony for a wizard of the Sanctum.

With Tony’s suit for the count and no weapons on him to defend himself, he is shocked when Strange comes to his rescue, beating the lot of them back and nearly losing his an arm when one of the shards cuts deep enough to draw an endless stream of blood which soaks his robes and splatters onto the pavement.

It’s not until they retreat and Stephen manages to take one last look at Tony to make sure he’s unhurt before he collapses from exhaustion that Tony finds himself pausing in his second attempt at running away.

Stephen had helped him.

Had risked his life for him.

He can’t just leave him to bleed out in the middle of the street.

With the cloak’s aid, and that of the portal Stephen had appeared from, Tony carries him back into the Sanctum and begins to tend to his wounds.

Which is a little difficult as Stephen doesn’t want Tony touching him, or to be more precise, his hands.

Tony tries to grab him but Stephen stubbornly keeps his injury out of Stark’s reach, resulting in Tony using a little too much force to press the clean cloth to the wound, starting another argument about whose fault it is this happened, winning again when he brings up Stephen’s temper.

Stunned into silence when he realises Tony is right, he finally allows Tony to touch him.

And as Tony sets to work, he stuns him further.

Not only by his thanks for saving his life, but also by how Tony doesn’t say anything about his scars, or how there’s no look of disgust on his face as he touches them in order to move his arm to the light to begin his stitches.

And Stephen acknowledges his thanks and remains quiet, pondering over this feeling in his chest.

As the ice had finally begun to melt between the two, Peter woke up in the hospital wing of the Avengers compound, having been out of it for over a week since Tony Stark’s disappearance.

He was surrounded by Avengers keeping vigil over him and he shot up immediately, trying to get all of his words out all at once about the old place he’d ended up in, the only thing he could remember before the very air had been squeezed out of him by something wrapping tight around his chest.

The Avengers looked around at each other, clearly unbelieving the deluded words of the teen as he flopped back down in bed, exhausted.

He’d make them see. He’d find that place and make them see.

Stephen was on the top floor, looking down at Tony out in the garden, the cloak wrapped around him to keep the winter chill at bay.

And his heart gave a little leap at the sight.

In all his years, stuck here or before hand, he’d never felt this way about anyone, and was compelled to do something for Tony to show his gratitude for helping to stitch him up last night and also to show him that he wasn’t a complete monster.

Wong was no help with ideas but after a short moment, Stephen realised what it was he could give to Tony.

So, he called Tony inside.

He didn’t want Tony to be bored, and he truly wanted him to be able to do what he loved, so he took him to a single room, opening the door slightly before closing it again and turning to the man, asking him to close his eyes.

Tony rose a playful eyebrow at him, and did as he was asked.

Stephen shook a hand in front of his face to make sure Tony wasn’t faking before taking his hands gently and leading him into the room, allowing Tony to open his eyes once more.

Before him, stood a portal.

And much to Tony’s delight, it was a portal which lead to his workspace back home.

Absolutely delighted with being able to work on his suit, he dragged Stephen into the room to show him around, Wong smiling to himself before leaving them alone.

Stephen watches Tony work, he even helps him from time to time, and even though his hands shake when doing so, Tony doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

He passes tools to him and Tony takes them, a rosy blush dusting his cheeks when their hands brush.

No look of disgust.

No flinching away as his scars scrape against perfectly smooth skin.

Tony doesn’t react at all.

As if the scars don’t bother him or aren’t there to begin with.

And Stephen’s heart skips a beat or two.

Tony’s been gone for far too long that Avengers can’t keep quiet about his disappearance any longer.

Either they go out and find him or go to the press and tell them why Tony Stark has been absent for so long.

And it’s only when they go back to Peter, ready to listen to where he thought this building could be, they find his bed empty.

The kid was in no condition to be roaming the streets in search of his mentor, especially with how hard it’s raining outside.

Stephen trims his beard and combs his hair back as Wong watches from the doorway, trying to convince Stephen to confess his feelings already.

Yes.

Tonight he’ll...

He accidentally drops the comb in the sink.

No.

No he can’t.

Tony’s just being nice to him, that’s all. A good man like him, a celebrity like him, wouldn’t want someone like Stephen Strange.

Maybe before his hands had become disfigured, but not now.

Short of knocking some sense into his friend, their conversation is interrupted by the cloak, fastening itself around Stephen and dragging him out of his room.

Tony is standing there, waiting for him in a simple suit that makes Stephen weak at the knees, tailored to each curve and line of his body that shows off all his assets.

They eat together, Stephen’s use of cutlery far more improved since he’s been practicing for this night, yet they barely get through the first course before Tony is dragging him away to dance to the music softly playing around them.

Stephen is a little shy, unknowing where to put his hands and if Tony wants him touching him anywhere, but Tony just places one at his waist while he holds the other, Stephen’s feet quickly learning the steps as he holds Tony more confidently.

They spin. They twirl.

Stephen forgets what his hands have become and Tony smiles broadly at him.

And as the music dies, as they slow and gaze at one another, each leaning in a little, the door bursts open and Peter falls to the ground, sopping wet and red with fever as he coughs and tries to heave in air.

Tony is frantic and Stephen is yelling orders, which turns into Tony yelling at him that Peter needs to go to a hospital.

No.

No, if Tony leaves, he might not come back.

But...if he stays, Peter might not survive with the little he can do for him.

Tony looks away from him back to the sick kid in his arms and Stephen wonders if he should let Tony go.

He cares about the kid he hasn’t seen in so long, and Stephen shouldn’t keep him from those who love him just because he loves him too.

Spell be damned, if Tony wanted to leave him and forget their meeting, Stephen would let him.

Because he loves him.

Truly loves him, as he thought he never would love another.

Heart heavy with what he knows what he has to do, what he has to give up, Stephen opens the portal that would take Tony away from him, but save the kid’s life.

And, with a grateful thank you instead of a goodbye, Tony picks up the teen and walks through the portal with him.

Stephen can only watch as it closes before walking through one himself, eyes locking onto the amulet before him and trying not to notice how dull it has become.

And Wong can’t believe what he’s just seen.

After all these years of waiting, Strange chose Tony’s happiness over his own.

He’s learned to love selflessly.

Peter opens his eyes, blinking a few times when he thinks he sees Tony sitting beside him.

A few more and the room comes into focus, Tony with a relieved smile on his face as he talks about how worried he was.

Peter doesn’t care that almost leaping out of bed to hug the man is probably the worst thing he could do, but Tony holds him close nonetheless before easing him back down to rest, running a hand through his hair to comfort him while he drifts in and out of consciousness.

Stephen is a sorry mess indeed without Tony around anymore, just staring out the window in hopes of seeing the Iron Man flying back to him.

Instead, a large shield comes crashing through the window, knocking Stephen onto the floor.

He doesn’t ask why Captain Rogers is here, he doesn’t very much care. He’s not in the mood to fight, for he has nothing to fight for.

Rogers grabs him and throws him through the gaping hole where the window had been, yelling at him to get up and fight.

But Stephen won’t.

If he’s here to punish him for holding Tony hostage here, then so be it.

If he’s here to put him out of his misery, he won’t try to stop it.

But then he hears Tony’s name.

Rogers is talking about Tony.

About how Tony is his fiancé.

About how Tony belongs to him.

About how Tony could never love someone with hands like that.

And Stephen knows that’s not true.

As Rogers goes to attack him again, Stephen finally stands up and defends himself.

He may be alone again, he may have nothing to lose but he still has something to fight for.

There’s still time to tell Tony how he feels.

Even if Tony didn’t feel the same way, he still had the right to know how Stephen felt about him.

And Rogers was not going to get in his way.

He’ll deal with him how he was going to deal with Peter before Tony came into his life.

He’ll toss him through a portal to the dark dimension and leave him there.

Tony is about to walk out and leave Pete to sleep in peace when he sees the doorway is blocked by his friends, everyone clambering into the small hospital room to get to him and make sure he’s alright.

Honestly, you’d think he were the one laying in the bed.

Tony is talking to the group of Avengers about where he’s been all this time when he realises Steve Rogers isn’t there.

And his heart drops.

Rushing out of the hospital to the suit of armour he’d called to him already open and waiting, he blasts into the air before it even has time to finish closing around him, flying straight to the Sanctum where he hopes Rogers isn’t.

And he gets there just as Stephen gains the upper hand in their battle, shoving Rogers towards the portal he had opened.

But when Steve starts begging for his life, tells Stephen he’ll do anything, Stephen can’t help but be reminded of Tony.

And he stops.

Slowly, he pulls Rogers away from the portal he was going to throw him through and is just about to finish closing it when he hears Tony call out him.

Stephen immediately turns, reaching for him as Tony closes the distance between them, holding Stephen’s shaking hand to his cheek as he gently caresses it.

He came back.

He chose to come back to him.

What he ever did to deserve Tony he’ll never know, but he’s not going to let him go now he’s come back to him.

Their moment is ruined by Steve, who plunges a dagger right into Stephen’s back.

Stephen pushes Tony out of the way to protect him as Steve goes to do it again , but Tony blasts him back toward the portal just as it closes completely on him.

Stephen slumps backwards and Tony catches him, pulling him into his arms and lays him down to make him more comfortable while he tries to get a look at the wound, but Stephen tells him there’s nothing he can do.

Tony’s not listening.

He’ll take Stephen to the hospital and get him patched up good as new.

He’ll take care of him from now on, they were together now.

But Stephen knows the truth of the outcome for him.

He knows he’s not going to make it.

Stephen holds his hand to Tony’s cheek just like before, happy to see him one last time, before he closes his eyes and his scarred hand slips away.

Tony tries everything he can to bring him back to him, but nothing works.

Wong and the cloak bow silently as Tony holds Stephen close to him, crying into his robes, and finally whispers that he loves him as the emerald light within the time stone fades completely.

At that very moment, the time stone reignites, green magic surrounding the two of them as time rewinds to heal Stephen and bring him back to Tony.

He’s finally free of the spell.

After so long he’s finally free.

And it’s all thanks to Tony managing to love a man a who couldn’t love himself.

Quotes -

“There’s nothing you can do. He’s my prisoner.”

“There must be someway I can...wait! Take me instead.”

“You? You would...take his place?”

Tony offers himself in place of Peter

“That hurts!”

“If you’d hold still, it wouldn’t hurt as much!”

“Well, if you hadn’t have run away, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“If you hadn’t frightened me, I wouldn’t have run away!”

“...Well, you shouldn’t have been in the West Wing.”

“Well, you should learn to control your temper! Now, hold still. This might sting a little. By the way, thank you for saving my life.”

“You’re welcome.”

Stephen and Tony starting to warm up to one another.

“I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I want to do something for her! But what?”

“Well, there’s the usual things. Flowers, chocolates, promises you don’t intend to keep.”

Stephen seeks Wongs advice on what he can do for Tony.

“She glanced this way, I thought I saw. And when we touched she didn’t shudder at my paw. No it can’t be. I’ll just ignore. But then she’s never looked at me that way before.”

Stephen sees something that wasn’t there before.

“And when the moment is right, you confess your love.”

“Yes, I...I...I...no, I can’t.”

“You care for the girl, don’t you?”

“More than anything.”

Stephen needing encouragement.

“Maybe... it’s better...it’s better this way.”

“Don’t talk like that. You’ll be alright. We’re together now. Everything’s going to be fine, you’ll see.”

“At least I got to see you...one last time.”

“No. No. Please. Please. Please don’t leave me. I love you.”

Tony finally confessing his love

As Old As Time

Stephen has been trapped in time for so long he has lost his humanity.

And a chance encounter with Tony Stark could be what he needs to break his spell.

January, February

Missed a Day? Catch up here!

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3

[iam93percentstardust]

hey! i hope you’re having an amazing day. this is just me popping in your inbox to say that’s youre one of my favourite writers and you got me really interested in winteriron (honestly one of the cutest ships) are there any fics/authors ii could reccomend?

Hi there! Thank you so much! I love this ship so much, they’ve got such potential for both fluff and angst. They really are one of my favorite ships to write and I’m glad I was able to write so much for them this year. I certainly do have plenty of recs for you, starting with my favorite authors:

@riotwritesthings: started writing last year, I highly recommend just about everything Riot writes but especially Road Hazards, Melt into Me (Your Words are My Own), and When is a bed not a bed? (When you’re not in it)

@hddnone: so many stories and all so good! Has nearly 100 Winteriron works on ao3 and you will not regret reading any of them, though fair warning that some of them are Team Cap Critical. Especially recommend Honey Pot, You’ve Got Mail, and A Bit(e) of Danger

@monobuu: mostly an artist but sometimes writes stories as well. i recommend Ravioli, Invincible Summer, and Meet the Fam

@tisfan and @27dragons: can’t make a Winteriron rec list without including the both of them. They work together a lot but you should definitely take a look at their own stuff as well. I recommend Safe and (the) Sound, Kiss Me Thru the Phone, and Stark, Naked

@ad1thi: currently taking a bit of a hiatus and working on non-Marvel works but I love everything Adi writes, particularly her entire Bollywood but Make it Gay series, which isn’t always Winteriron but wonderful nonetheless. I recommend the Greek Gods AU, 1000 Lives (For You), and we’re connected

@the-winter-writer: lots of smut and all absolutely fantastic! I like Precious Treasure, Winter Wings, and Instinct

@rayshippouuchiha: definitely an iconic writer for this fandom. Really great if you’re looking for genderbends. Writes a lot of absolutely incredible fics and not just for Winteriron but my personal favorites are The (Not So) Great Pretender, Fearful Symmetry, and The Mistletoe Kiss Polka

Finely Honed (jaqen_hgar): once again very iconic. you’ve probably read at least one of their works even if didn’t know. I recommend Shameless, Today’s Forecast, and Practice Makes Perfect

@lovelyirony: mostly writes ficlets here on tumblr and a multishipper (I don’t know why I’m saying that like it’s a bad thing, I’m a multishipper), also a fan of Sharon Carter and that’s the thing that made me follow her so you know

@amethystinawrites: I only recently started working their works but I’m loving everything I’ve come across so far. I recommend Tech Support and I Won’t Hold My Breath

AvocadoLove: also writes a lot of Stony and Stuckony, which I love a lot, but for their Winteriron works, I recommend Amalgam and Dead Man’s Switch

Dracusfyre: another one I’m new to. I literally just started reading their works today so I don’t have any recs for them yet but one of my friends loves them so I’m going to go with you should definitely take a look at their works

Eirlyssa: has some anti-Team Cap works so keep an eye out for that if that’s not your thing but writes very good Winteriron. I recommend Guide Me Home (Guide My Heart) and Always (I’ll Be There)

@imposter-human: one of the first MCU blogs I ever followed! I recommend childhood memories, speak my language, and lost in translation

As for specific works I like:

Four Strings and Second Chances by Vashoth

It was reluctance to let one of his finest inventions ever out of his grasp that made him take a couple days over a week to send the arm to Pepper’s office. But all things considered, Tony figured that sending finest prosthetic that had ever come into existence--literally grasping an olive branch--was one of the classiest gifts he’d ever given. He’d included a note and everything. ‘Barnes,

Can help with installation. Or not. Up to you. --Stark'

Who is the Mechanic? by @akira-of-the-twilight

The Asset watched as his handlers brought in a stranger—a man with a metal object stuck to his chest that was hooked to a car battery.

The handlers shoved the man onto the stool where many who had operated on the Asset’s arm in the past had sat before.

“Asset,” one handler said, “meet the Mechanic. He will be responsible for the upkeep of your arm. Should anything malfunction, kill him.”

The Asset eyed the Mechanic. The Mechanic was glassy-eyed and unresponsive.

He’d probably be dead in a week.

The Fix by SleepsWithCoyotes

Right, because Tony...Tony fixes things. He remembers thinking that, not for the first time.

Paths are Made by Walking by @potrix-the-queerschlaeger

The road to recovery is long, winding and a different one for every person walking it. Bucky chooses to help himself the only way he knows how; by doing what he does best.

Or, alternatively; the one in which Tony is a mess and accidentally kick-starts Bucky’s protective mother hen instincts.

The Evidence by StrivingArtist

Didn’t notice. Right. Sure. Two brilliant minds, two super spies, and a god didn’t notice when the chattiest man they knew stopped making sound. They just seemed happier than before. Brighter and more cheerful than before. They just seemed like they were more comfortable with him around when he was stone silent.

Fuck it.

He knew they noticed.

And he knew they liked him better this way.

Shadowed Hearts and Winter Souls by NotEvenCloseToStraight

The mid-1800s and Antonio Carbonell Stark is caught in a scandal with his lover. Desperate for a chance to escape the trouble and his own broken heart, Tony accepts a proposal from a mysterious Russian heiress and flees the country.

Natalia Romanova is in trouble of her own and has enough secrets to make Tony's head spin but somehow they settle into a fake marriage and calm day-to-day together, and everything works... until her half brother comes home and their life is disrupted again.

James is somber and silent, brutal and nearly broken and scarred, a soldier of the resistance. His heart is cold and gaze like ice, but his hands are hot and lips are warm and Tony finds himself ignoring the blood on James's palms and the shadows in his soldier’s eyes, and falling in love.

When danger lands at their doorstep, Natalia and Tony have to pack up and leave, running away in the middle of the night and leaving their men behind.

The distance between Tony and James gets longer every day, and Natalia has been keeping a secret for that can’t be hidden much longer. With no place to call home and a thousand miles between them and the men they love, what are Tony and Natalia supposed to do?

Puppy Love by Reioka

Bucky is learning to become a person again. When some guy starts crying all over Natasha's dog, he decides he's doing better than he originally thought.

Describe Your Perfect Date by ali_aliska

After getting turned down by Bucky, Tony decides it’s time to move on from his massive crush. He tries online dating—Pepper’s idea, not his—but the only thing worse than getting rejected is getting rejected and finding out your soulmate-level match is Clint Barton, all in the same day.

Clint, of course, does not let opportunities like this go to waste, but he’s driving Tony nuts for a good cause, he swears.

Bucky’s just trying to do the right thing and fails spectacularly, but it all works out in the end.

Rocket Science by marsmaywonder and orbingarrow

Sleep-deprived and under-caffeinated, grad student Tony falls asleep in a conveniently empty classroom and wakes up in the middle of Bruce’s Physics 101 course. After seeing a groggy Tony fumble a simple question, actual-student Bucky offers to tutor him. In a moment of “oh no; he’s cute” panic, Tony takes him up on it. Now, in addition to his already complicated life, Tony has to figure out the answer to the incredibly messy question: “How do you look like you’re failing the class, when you literally wrote the book?”

What’s Good for the Goose by Taste_is_Sweet

For this nonny prompt at the Imagine Tony and Bucky comm on Tumblr:

"A soulmate AU where an immortal goose shows up one day to lead you to your soulmate, the challenge is surviving the goose." (Full prompt in notes.)

We all have soulmates, and every soulmate pair shares an animal guide. The Guide is there to lead you to your One True Love, and they represent the aspects of the psyche that you both share. They appear when you're about to meet your soulmate, and often materialize in moments of great personal crisis, offering hope and support. There are stories upon stories about how someone's Guide appeared to lead them to their One True, or how the barest glimpse of their Guide eased their hearts and gave them hope in the midst of despair. The newly-rescued almost always attribute their Guide with giving them the strength and courage to hang on.

Animal Guides are ephemeral, ethereal, and elusive. They are, most often, no more than a warm presence or flicker out of the corner of one's eye. They are incarnate symbols of perseverance, optimism and hope. Foretellers of happiness, and the grand destiny of love.

Except for geese. Geese are assholes.

and so, we unfold by TheKitteh

Senbazuru. Thousand Cranes.

An ancient Japanese legend that promises anyone who folds a thousand origami cranes will be granted a wish by the gods. Some stories believe you are granted happiness and eternal good luck, instead of just one wish, such as long life or recovery from illness or injury.

Bucky’s not big on believing in any legends, not after all that has happened. He just wants to create something for a change, not destroy.

He needs to prove himself that he can be trusted to handle something delicate. He doesn’t need a promise of a wish come true. He just,- needs to do this for himself.

He doesn’t need noticing how sad, tired Stark looks. Doesn’t need to want to do something for the man, when he can barely do anything for himself. --- Tony simply goes through days and motions. He deals with the Avengers, with R&;D, with the rewritten Accords. All of it, it’s nothing new really. He just wants to get things done.

What’s new is seeing Barnes hunched over the coffee table, one step away from ripping a glossy magazine apart in the middle of the night.

And why the hell Barnes keeps looking at him during the days after like he’s a puzzle to be solved?

Welcome to the Winteriron fandom! We’ve got a lot of incredible authors and artists both and this is just the tip of the iceberg!

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Two Fathers

More writing stuff. Not sure how far I was going to take this since no one is really interested.

The Netherlands

The roar of the crowd thundered over into the bright blue sky over the soccer stadium. Dominic was so high up in the stands that the players looked like tiny puppets running about the green pitch, following the rolling white ball and sprinting after it in white and blue jerseys. The match was 0 and 0 for the entire game. The goalies on both sides were too good. Neither team could slip in and score no matter how they tried. The sun was beating down on the exhausted crowd who was ready for anyone to score at this point. 

Dominic wiped his face on his shirt. Locally, he and his father were supposed to be rooting for the blue team. Not the white, but he really didn’t care. The important thing was being out having fun and sharing a beer with his dad on a summer day.

There wouldn’t be many more days like this. He’d gotten approved for a college in the UK and sitting in his room on the nightstand under a poster of a heavy metal band was a one way ticket to London. He had gotten a scholarship to study engineering and would spend the next eight years pursuing a doctorate. His hope was to become a civil engineer. His dream was to build and work on bridges. His father was an experienced crane operator. The idea of weight and balance and counterbalance fascinated him. And wouldn’t it be great if, after graduating, he and his father could work on the same project? The remotest possibility of that fantasy was a ways off. Even then, he would have to graduate early to make it out of college before his father retired.

The players charged towards the goal and the crowd roared encouragement, but again, the goalie caught the shot and the noise went down to a disappointed murmur.

Dominic’s father, a heavy set man in his early fifties, took him to games quite often. He was wearing a jersey for the team and a baseball cap that compressed his sweat soaked hair. He wiped his face with a cloth and stuffed it in his back pocket.

The weather was unseasonably hot. This wasn’t an area where most people were concerned about summer heat. In the past, if things got warm in the home, an open window and box fan would suffice. But now, the news was full of stories of the elderly suffering heat stroke in their homes and lying dead for days before they were found. In the city, venues like the soccer stadium were often the only relief from the heat. You could drive an hour out to get to the beach or thirty minutes in the other direction if you wanted to find a swimming pool. But in response to the heat wave, the soccer stadium enticed guests with free cups of ice and water and the soda fountains were a reduced price for season ticket holders.

However, the heat was starting to defeat even this strategy. Three times games were canceled because it was just too hot to be safe for the players. The result was a backlog of games, disappointed fans, and dodgy scheduling. If you didn’t have a ticket in advance, you would have a hard time getting one. People who had tickets for postponed games could redeem them for a future game. So now the empty seats were filled with fans who had missed games a week ago. When this game came up, his father was on the computer, spamming the refresh key until he managed to snag these seats. He kept them as a surprise.

The players filed out of the field for a brief time out. “All this trouble for a double-aught game.” Dominic said regretfully. “Did you want me to go get a refill?”.

He watched his father reach into his back pocket and pull out his cellphone and he saw his father’s eyes go wide. His face paled despite the summer heat. Dominic straightened in alarm. “What’s the matter?”

His father took one breath and then another. “There’s a problem.” He began and then stopped. “A big one. At work.”

“Are you serious? Ugh.” He rolled his eyes. “It really can’t wait?”

His father licked his lips and stared blankly at the empty field. His chest was rising and falling rapidly even though he wasn’t moving. A few more text messages came in but he didn’t look at them. He just put the phone into his back pocket, silent. It was like he had turned completely wooden.

“Are you alright…?” Dominic asked softly.

The man swallowed, his throat bobbing. He took a quick breath. “Yes. Well, then… I have to go.” He stood up, not looking his son in the eye.

“I’ll go with you!” Dominic rose but his father shook his head. 

“No. I’ll order an Uber for you.” He wrote down quickly on the back of a white paper napkin. “Here is the license plate number. It will be a red car with tinted windows.”

His father gave his shoulder a squeeze. “I’m sorry.” He said, before he hurried out of the stands and up the stairs.

The crowd of people, exhausted from the heat and the long game, filed out of the stadium. Dominic lifted his phone and checked for any missed calls or messages, but there were none. His father didn’t call him back or return his texts. His mother didn’t either. The stadium opened into a large plaza between it and the parking lot and lines of ice cream trucks had already started to attract customers. Normally, Dominic never would have passed up ice cream, but worry about what was going on at his father’s job kept him from joining the line. 

The Uber ride should be waiting to take him home. 

The sun was sinking lower in the sky, blazing a dull red thanks to the wild fires that were burning thousands of miles away.  The crowd thinned as he got closer to the curb where the rideshare vehicles were permitted to idle and wait for their clients. Dominic scanned the vehicles for a red car and found it.

He briefly paused and checked the license plate.

 “Dominic?” The man asked from the window.

He nodded. The driver got out and opened the backseat and then got back behind the wheel. Inside smelled of clean leather. It was cool, a welcome respite. “You know where I’m going?”

The driver had very broad shoulders and a square jaw and a short buzzcut of blonde hair. Despite the heat, he was wearing a blazer over his thin shirt.

“You’re in military training?” Dominic asked.

“You’ve got a sharp eye. Or is it that obvious?” The driver said as he turned the wheel of the car, carefully watching the road as they pulled away and started to drive through the expansive parking area full of gleaming cars. “I’m in the military now. Just making a bit of money while I’m on leave.”

“Military stipend not enough? Or does Uber really pay that well?” Dominic asked with a smirk. “Maybe I should sign up once I’m in London. For Uber I mean. Not the military.” 

He looked down at his phone again. There were no calls and texts but now that he was in the air conditioned space, he realized that he had no signal at all. He tried to text but the error popped up telling him his texts were not sent. He sighed. “What’s wrong with this phone?” 

He tried restarting it. He spent the time waiting for it to reboot staring out the windows at the line of people walking to their vehicles. A family with two children, one sleeping in a stroller and the other limp on his father’s shoulder, were getting into a minivan. The mother was on her phone. But when he looked down, his phone had restarted but once again had no signal. Maybe his dad had tried to call him but he was sitting on a dead phone all this time.

“Hey, can I use your phone?” He asked the driver.

“I’m afraid I can’t close the app or it will end the ride.” The driver said without looking back.

“Okay, I’ll get out and ask someone if I can use theirs.” They were already stopped in line to pay the toll to leave the parking lot, so he didn’t think anything of getting out to use someone else’s phone. But when he pulled the handle on the door, the door was stuck. “I think you have the child-lock on.”

The driver looked straight ahead, not acknowledging his words.

“Hey. Can you let me out?” The mother was getting into the van. She shut the door and the brake lights came on.

The man who was driving continued to look ahead, like he was some sort of robot and not responding to his commands.

“Hey! Can you not hear me? I said-...”

The man suddenly reached into his jacket and pulled out a black metal pistol. He pointed it at him without even turning around to look. The sight of the weapon sent a visceral fear through Dominic. He slammed himself against the door. “No! No!”

The muzzle flashed and something hit him. It stung, like a wasp sting he got at summer camp. 

“He shot me… He shot…” Dominic moaned.

The man put the gun away and turned around like nothing happened. Dominic felt dizzy and light headed. He turned to the window but no longer had the strength to call for help. His eyes slid shut and his world went from darkness to nothingness.

Dominic opened his eyes in a panic, immediately asking where he was. His mouth tasted like blood, his hands were tied to a post. He was lying on a bed. A piece of cloth between his teeth was so tight that it stretched the corner of his mouth. It hurt and bled. He jerked hard and the restraints around his hands tightened.

“He’s awake.”  A deep feminine voice attracted his attention. A woman in a black tightly woven combat suit stood up from a wooden chair that was placed against a stone foundation wall next to his bed. Her hair was dark and tied up in a ponytail at the nape of her neck that swayed between her shoulder blades as she walked. A black belt around her waist carried copper colored long, fang-like bullets. A long knife was at her hip. She wore black combat boots with thick treads that left a trail of wet tracks as she made her way to a door. She opened the door and a light lit up her face. Her nose was painted and long, her eyes dark and framed with thick lashes.

Above where she had sat was a thin dingy window covered with high grass. It was dark in this room save for the single bare yellow light bulb on the ceiling. His shirt was gone. His phone was gone. He gasped, struggling to breathe through his nose and around the cloth. He remembered being shot in the chest but he wasn’t even bleeding and there was no sign of any other wounds.

The man who had driven him and shot him cast a shadow as he walked in, swinging arms as thick as oak trees. He hadn’t noticed his eyes before, steely grey almost white. He was still in his cotton shirt but the jacket was gone and the holster was displayed with that same pistol. He pulled away until the zip ties bit into his wrists and his hands immediately became numb. He pulled and pulled as that man reached for his face. His thick fingers and cracked fingernails untied the gag. “Keep quiet and we won’t gag you.”

“What do you want? What … What do you want from me? My dad. He’s just a construction worker. He doesn’t have any money!” Dominic sobbed in fear. “Please. We don’t have any money!”

“Listen!” The man’s voice was sharp and cut through his panic. His face was inches from his and he could see a slight blond stubble and the remnants of a scar that crossed over his upper lip. That lip twisted in disgust revealing yellow teeth. His breath smelled like tobacco smoke. “The man you think is your father is not your father. That man ran away with you when you were young. We’re taking you back.”

“What?” 

“He was assigned to care for you as a toddler and escaped. I suppose he let his feelings get in the way of his duties.” The man reached up and adjusted the restraints to allow blood flow again. “Don’t struggle so much. You’ll cut your hands off.”

“No, you’ve got the wrong person.” Dominic blinked away the sweat rolling into his eyes. The returning blood gave him pins and needles as it pulsed through his wrists. The gag had soaked up all the moisture in his mouth. His throat was so dry he could barely swallow. He called out in a hoarse voice. “This is a mistake. My father can prove it. Just let me call him. Just give me my phone. Let me call him!”

The man and the woman looked at him with calm pity while he was gasping in panic. The woman crossed her arms over her chest. They looked at each other and Dominic held his breath.

“Let him talk to his father.” A low voice came from outside the door. The two people straightened up, their spines upright and stiff and they turned in attention. Immediately, the woman walked to the other side of the room where Dominic’s phone was on a charger.

“My phone isn’t working…” Dominic sniffed, suddenly aware he was crying.

“Your phone is fine.” She said. Her voice was soft and gentle as she approached him. “We jammed it to keep you from being tracked.” 

“Why?” He asked.

“I already told you.” She pressed his finger against the sensor to unlock the phone and scrolled down to his contacts. Then she held the phone to his ear.

The electronic sound of ringing could be heard through the earpiece and his mind raced. All he had to do was talk to his dad and he would clear all this up. But the phone just rang. As it did, another phone began to ring in the other room. It rang with his father’s ringtone, the song ‘Margaritaville.”

“Dad?!” His father’s phone was here? But he was supposed to have gone to work! Did they capture him here too? “Dad! You have to explain! Tell them… show them my papers!” He shouted at the door, towards the sound of the phone ringing.

Dominic looked at the woman desperately as she held the phone to his ear.

The deep voice from before echoed from outside the room. “Pick up the phone and talk to him. Tell him the truth.”

The phone picked up. He could hear his father’s voice both through the phone and in the other room, echoing each other. “Dominic. Are you hurt?”

“What is going on? Who are these people?”

The other end of the line was silent and no sound came from the other side of the room. Why wasn’t his father talking? He should be telling them that this is a mistake. He should be threatening them with legal action. He should be calling the cops. Why was he here? Were they holding him at gunpoint?

“You’re going to get through this…” His father’s voice was soft and soothing. Even in this terrifying circumstance where he’d been shot, bound, and gagged, that voice slowed his breathing.

“Dad. Tell them. Tell them, they’ve got it wrong…” More silence greeted him and his eyes wildly scanned the room. “Where’s mom. Do they have mom?!”

“Your mother is fine. She’s at home. Listen to me. No matter what… you’re my boy. Even if we’re not related by blood.”

Dominic’s panic increased and his voice cracked. “No. No you… you have to tell them. Did they threaten you? Do they have a gun to your head?! Why are you lying?”

“I’m not lying.”

“But you… you… you took me to the passport office, we… showed them the birth certificate.” The memory of the birth certificate came to his mind as clear as day. “Your name and Mom’s name was on it. Dad, what are you saying!” His teeth clenched and chattered. Their names were on the birth certificate. That memory was what he clung to as his world was coming apart.

“The birth certificate was falsified. It was a fake document.” His father said.

Dominic refused to believe that. His father had to be bluffing. He had to be buying time. On crime shows, experts say you should cooperate with captors until the police could be called right? The police were on their way. So long as he cooperated, the situation would not get worse and he would be rescued. He had to stay calm. “Right… a fake document.” He said. “Of course.”

He glanced at the woman. Her lips lifted in a slight smile but her eyes were sad. She huffed.

Even the burly man chuckled to himself. “You’re pretending to accept it to cooperate right? Your father is serious. It is a fake document.”

Dominics heart slammed against his chest but he took a deep breath. He lowered his eyes.

“Say goodbye to him.” The woman said.

Dominic didn’t want to say that because this wasn’t real. If he said goodbye, they might shoot his dad. “Um… Dad. So… when I was a toddler, you stole me right?” He asked, glancing at the woman who was still smiling. She gave a little shake of her head.

His father answered. “I knew who these people were when I accepted the job. I had a job to do. Raise you until you are old enough and then let them take you. But… remember when you were at summer camp and we dropped you in the woods?”

Dominic did remember. “Yeah… the time I got attacked by the deer?” 

He was only eleven then, but there was a tradition where young people at that age could be blindfolded, driven off into the woods and dropped off. They were given some supplies and told to walk their way back completely unsupervised. It was considered a right of passage. It was never good for a young child to be too dependent on their parents. Their parents weren’t powerful omnipotent all-knowing beings. Even at the age of eleven, a child had to know for themselves right and wrong, right from left. They needed to look at their parents and take their words with a grain of salt. Being without his father’s protection for the first time in those dark woods terrified him. When the deer burst from the underbrush, galloping straight at him, he screamed. The deer wasn’t attacking him. He’d just startled it.

Using the map and the GPS device, he’d found his way out of the woods. The feeling of seeing his father in the clearing, smiling proudly at him, his son, was a feeling he would never forget. After that, he realized that if he let go of his father’s hand, he could stand on his own and not die. He became a bold, independent youngster.

“Right. That was when they were supposed to take you.” His father said.

“But they didn’t take me.” He said.

“No. That’s because the GPS coordinates I gave you took you away from them. Remember, right after that? We moved across the country.” 

A feeling, cold like ice, began to run through his veins. Dominic’s eyes shifted from the woman who held up the phone for him to the other man’s face, to the light coming through the door where his father was. “But… you got transferred. It was a work transfer.”

“I was running away. With you.”

Dominic sighed, remembering this was a script. This was made up. They had guns to his father’s head. He was surrounded. If his father didn’t say these things, they would shoot him. “Right. But you’re giving me up now so you’ll be okay, right? They’re not going to shoot you, right?”

The man and woman looking over him exchanged glances. 

“Don’t shoot him. Please… Please!” Dominic begged.

The deep strange voice that commanded the two people in front of him came again. “If you agree to come peacefully with us, we will not shoot him. This man and his wife will live out the rest of their lives in peace so long as you cooperate.”

“Me?” Dominic asked. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to leave. But if his father was alive, then he could call for rescue. “Okay. I’ll go. Just let him go!”

The phone on his ear disconnected.

“Untie him.” The voice came again. “Let’s go.”

The man and woman undid his restraints and helped him off the bed. They kept their hands on his arms as they escorted him barefoot out of the room where he was held. When he stepped into the light, he was shocked to find that there were no gunmen. His father wasn’t tied to a chair. He was standing, still in the blue soccer outfit, with his baseball cap in his hands. He’d never seen his father look so shrunken. 

The man with the deep voice was sitting there, with a gun on a small table, one leg crossed over the other. He looked to be about the same age as his father, but was strongly muscled like the man with the buzzcut hair. The tan suit was fitted to his muscular frame with a white shirt, khaki pants and brown shoes. He spun a silver wooden cane in one hand. He leaned on this cane as he stood up. A golden chain arced from his breast pocket. He reached in and looked at the time before leaning on the cane to stand up.

This man rested his hand on his father’s shoulder. “That wasn’t so hard. Was it?”

His father’s hand suddenly moved to the man’s side, gripping the hilt of a knife, buried in that man’s side. “Dominic! Run!”

Dominic sprinted toward the exit, a stairway leading to a door. The door was like the stairway to heaven, the stairway to freedom, leading him away from this nightmare. He was lucky! The people standing next to him hadn’t grabbed him! He just needed to be fast enough!

His vision suddenly burst white. His feet left the ground and his shoulder collided hard with it. Pain silenced his voice and he could only grip his shoulder in agony. A heavy shoe pushed him to his back. The man with the cane was standing over him. Dominic had never seen such a cruel gleeful smile. Even though blood was spreading throughout the tailored suit from the stab wound, it didn’t affect him.

He reached down and his hand closed like a vice over Dominic’s arm. He picked him up to his feet and shoved him staggering back. He now rested the cane on his shoulder. It was clear he didn’t need it to walk.

Dominic’s ears were ringing and he realized he must have hit him in the head with the cane. The two people who had been standing guard over him made no move to interfere. Dominic looked to where his father was and found him doubled over, clutching his hand in pain. The knife was on the ground, but Dominic didn’t remember seeing his father get hurt.

“I said, if you cooperate… I’ll let him live.” The man lightly tapped the cane against his shoulder and looked at him with eyes like burning twin coals. The sight of those golden eyes sent a shock through him but they quickly extinguished themselves from burning bright to cold black. 

“What are you… you’re a vampire?” Dominic whispered. “An alien?”

“Yes… and no.” The man said patiently. “You’ll find out all these things once you come with me.”

“Dad?” He looked at his father, desperate for direction.

His father could only shiver in pain, holding his hand. “I am still… your father. Don’t forget that. Go with him.”

“He can’t protect you.” The man with the cane shifted his gaze to focus over Dominic’s shoulder. “But those two, they can. They will be your guard on your journey.”

Dominic looked over his shoulder at them. They stood, resolute, like soldiers at attention. “No this isn’t true!” Dominic didn’t care about what his father said now. He couldn’t go with them. If he left with them, he could never go back.  “No. No!”

He didn’t know much hand to hand at all beyond what he’d learned briefly when a self-defense instructor came to the camp. The instructor said always go for the crotch or the shins or the neck. These were places where even the weakest person could inflict disabling blows.

His knee rushed up to the man’s crotch but never made it. That cane slammed on his knee. Pain crashed into his brain and he collapsed to the floor, howling, rolling, unable to think or breathe. 

The cane cracked again against his ribs and he curled up to defend himself againt further blows. His father’s voice sounded. “Stop! Stop!”

“Shoot him.” The voice from the man with the cane was a cold command.

“No!” Dominic sat up only to be brought low again with a blow to his back, right above his kidneys. He fell again. It hurt so much he couldn’t move, he could only gape like a fish out of water, tears leaking from his wide open eyes.

His father covered his face with both hands, sobbing into them against the wall. The gun was still on the table. No one had reached for it.

“Are you ready to cooperate now?” The man with the cane said.

All resistance left Dominic. His father didn’t get up to defend him. He couldn’t run away or fight. The police weren’t coming. “It’s okay… we’ll get through this…” Dominic said quietly.

“Get him up. Let’s go.”

The two people described as his guard ignored his father and helped him up. He couldn’t take his eyes off his dad who leaned on the wall. His father’s hands lowered from his eyes and their eyes met for the last time. They were red rimmed and desperate, swimming with tears. They weren’t resolute. They had no hope. Looking into those eyes, Dominic understood that the truth didn’t matter. Maybe he was his father, maybe he wasn’t. In the end, there was nothing either of them could do.

[perseusjackson-jasongrace]

Ma'am- how dares thou leave us off on a cliffhanger for both Empires on the Horizon and Kingdom Collisions V >:L I demand to know whats going to happen next!! (also take your time to write them lol )

Ah my friend you are right I am sorry for being so rude😭👀here's a Kingdom Collisions update. Please forgive me?🥺

Y’all know the drill by now. This is a fic i’m writing to try incorporate more descriptions into my writing. I do not have pre-written chapters so we’re both lost on what comes next or when the next update will be?! Please enjoy!

masterlist

TW: Suicide mention

Kingdom Collisions VI

Once upon a time in a land known for water and jewels there lived a young boy. He had skin the colour of soil and eyes the colour of oceans and were your gaze to ever fall upon this little figure you knew the earth was created just for him. The boy lived in a white-stone castle, surrounded by guards in clanking silver armour and blue-feathered helmets. Swords gleamed with their newness. They are decoration, a rite of passage. They only reflect the water. Children darted between their legs as they swoppeed shifts and if you looked closely the boy was often one of them. The castle stood proud and tranquil in the kingdom and gave the people hope.

If the white walls stand tall the queen will rise above all. 

A piece of poetry long since washed away.That single line ran through the city streets like rain water. Ran into people's homes, and under the wheels of rumbling cars. Generations had forgotten the poem to time but that line for it's power and rhyme had weathered the changing tides. If you listened closely the trees still knew the words. But nobody ever heard. The world was too busy and the day too new to remember what it was like to become one with evergreens.

Percy Jackson wakes up with a gasp, heart beating like conga drums. His fingers curl into his chest, leaving red marks as he winces sleep away. The world is still pitch black; stars hidden behind a blanket of storms. He wonders if they find comfort wrapped in the clouds. If those white puffs feel as soft as they look. Sleep is faraway, a distant friend stuck at a cold airport terminal. So he drifts to the window, ignoring the wind prickling his skin and sits down at the bench. The chiffon curtains rustle softly, talking to him in a language he hasn't quite yet learned. He knows they're saying something important. They must be if they brush against his legs every few minutes. Everyone is always trying to tell him something important. Something life changing and groundbreaking. He wishes he could pause time for a little while. Stroll through the gardens and into the ocean without anybody running after him.

The curtain drifts towards him again and he sighs as if the universe has made him designated driver. An unwanted, unwilling task.

Somewhere a bird caws and he snorts softly, "Okay, okay. I'm handling it."

He let's the sounds of the wind take him through the endless corridors, let's it carry him like a dying flower, like autumn leaves, like bonfire embers. The stone floor is cold under his bare feet and his body is littered with bumps. He misses the warmth of his castle. Misses the warmth of the hearth in every room and the smell of the sea that drifts in through open windows. Mostly, especially, he misses his mom. There is something distinctly missing from the Castle of Caelum. He hasn't quite put his finger on it but it doesn't feel right.

He doesn't have time to delve into that thought because all at once everything goes quiet. A large door looms before him.

"So this is it huh?" His voice is soft, afraid to disrupt the silence.

Taking a deep breath, filling up his lungs with the air of the Kingdom of Wind, he knocks on the wood. It is gentle and solitary and he's almost certain no-one heard it but his ears perk up anyway. He knows you can't pick up footfalls on stone but it doesn't stop his heart from racing in anticipation. The door opens with a soft click and tired eyes look at him.

"Percy," Jason's voice is raspy with crying and his heart shatters.

"Hey, can I come in?"

The blonde looks at him, brows furrowed and tear stains carved into his cheeks. Percy can see the tiredness in the prince's bones, like x-rays of exhaustion. He's about to say nevermind, about to walk away, walk past his own chambers and into the lifeless night. But the Prince nods once and moves aside.

He feels almost disappointed that he couldn't escape. Disappointed he couldn't just go back and never return. His mother's voice flitters into his head.

When your people are suffering you must lie down with them and ask them to tell you their story.

Why mom?

Because little one when the time comes you will know what to do.

How momma?

We are made of stories little one. We are made of all the things people tell us. Our dreams and hopes and memories are just threads in a tapestry and every person is connected to it.

I don't understand momma?

She smiled at him, perfect white teeth and dark blue eyes: When you think of me little one, what comes to mind?

Ten year old Percy frowned, Chocolate chip cookies, and your bedtime tales, and the beach, and hugs.

And what do you think about Grover?

Percy's green eyes had lit up like the sun: Play time and movies and ice-cream!

She laughed: And what about Dad?

His little brows furrowed: Fancy clothes and swords and paper and cuddles.

And Princess Piper?

His nose scrunched up: Cooties! He squealed and then he was running around the room; the world a flowing river, him a little fish learning its current.

You see little one, you didn't think about bones or skin or blood. You thought of memories and stories. Do you understand now?

He nodded as he scrambled into her lap: I think so momma. So if my people tell me who they are I can use their stories to help them when they're sore?

Almost little one. Half of hurt is because nobody listens. If you just listen to what your people are saying they will not hurt so much.

Is that because we have to tell our stories momma?

"Exactly. That is how we live. And live on."

Prince Perseus Jackson takes a deep breath and steps into the room. Immediately he can feel the icy wind, so much colder up here, stinging his bare arms, chest, legs. Save for the small silk boxers covering his most sensitive parts his body is exposed to the brutal temperatures and he cannot hide a shiver as he settles on the couch. The fire has died long ago, maybe not even put on for the night, if the grey ashes and lack of heat are indication enough.

"What are you doing here?" The blonde prince looks at him.

"The curtains told me to come."

"What?" He can hear the confusion, but more than that the weight of a thousand heartaches.

He wonders if every person who has their heartbroken feels like they're the first to ever go through it. If that feeling is so perfectly human it feels unique and special to each one.

"Sometimes the world talks to me and sometimes I listen."

"I don't really know what game you're playing but I'm not in the mood so if it isn't an emergency," Those eyes are ice blue, "And I honestly wouldn't care even if it was, please get out."

"I cannot." He shrugs and pulls a velvet blanket over him.

"I'd appreciate," Jason's teeth grit, "If you respected my boundaries enough to leave. I am not in the mood."

"The window is open, there is paper sitting on the desk and many crumpled pieces on the floor, and I can see you haven't even sat on your bed, never-mind slept in it. What do you plan to do Grace?"

"You know what." That voice is hard, malicious with fear, pain.

"I will not leave. And you will not either. You can sit there on your bed hating me till the sun graces us once more. You can punch me until I am the same colour as the dusk but I am not leaving."

"I hate you. Leave me alone." He can hear the tears hit the cold stone. He doesn't react. A shadow blocks the moonlight finally peaking through the clouds.

"I said leave me the fuck alone!"

"I cannot do that Prince."

"Don’t call me that." He snaps, pushing his face into Percy's, "Go away! I want to be alone."

"I can't Jason,"

"JUST LEAVE!" Golden fists pound at his chest, droplets of salt soaking into his skin, as if trying to wash away the bruising.

He grabs his husband's hands gently and pulls him to the couch.

"I'm not going to leave you."

"They all left." Jason gasps, "They left. HE LEFT!"

The scream draws blood from his ears, pulls oxygen from his veins.

"I'm here. I'm not leaving. I am here."

"Please," Sobs wrack that broken body, and Percy can feel the first cracks in a kingdom. "Please don't leave me. Please, please please."

He rubs his hand over a shaking back and mutters over and over again, "I will not leave you."

Prince Jason Grace cries a new ocean and he names it after the fire that caused it. When the sun peaks over the horizon, fracturing a wall of crystal, and attempting to warm those cold grey stones, Percy Jackson takes his husband to bed and ignores the fissures running under his feet.

Once upon a time in a kingdom known for storms and gold there lived a little boy. He had eyes of lightning and skin the colour of sunlight and if you ever caught a glimpse of him you knew only the darkest nights could ever produce something so beautiful. The guards are bathed in riches, weighed down by diamonds cut from dreams and earrings weighted with the pureness of gold. Swords are varied and prized. Bred for fodder. Used at will. He lived in a castle made of grey stone and it loomed over the kingdom like a black cloud. The people looked at it and shied away. For they too had a poem about their crown but they remembered every line. 

Those who fell under the shadow of stone were sure to be left to ruin by their king and cursed forever alone. A young boy with hair spun from starlight is trapped inside. Who will save him if he cannot hide?

Forgetting was a death warrant.

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

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[twoidiotwriters1]

Written In The Stars XVII (Harry Potter xF!Oc)

A/N: One last chapter before book one ends!! That was fast lmao

Words: 2,266

Warnings: Fight scenes, abusive behavior ig

Series’ Masterlist

Previous chapter // Next chapter

Chapter Seventeen: A Dark Revelation.

"What's that at its feet?" Hermione whispered.

"Looks like a harp," said Ron. "Snape must have left it there."

"It must wake up the moment you stop playing," said Harry, "Well, here goes ..."

They were about to enter the trapdoor, Harry had the flute Hagrid gave him on Christmas -Mel thought that was very clever- and played it until the dog fell asleep. Ron informed them that the only way to get in was by just jumping. Of course, Harry went first.

He handed the flute to Hermione and got inside until he was barely holding himself with the tip of his fingers.

"If anything happens to me, don't follow. Go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to Dumbledore, right?"

"Right," said Ron.

"See you in a minute, I hope..."

He jumped, and part of Mel's stomach dropped too as she watched him disappear into the darkness.

A muffled thump got to their ears, they waited.

"It's OK! It's a soft landing, you can jump!"

Mel moved Ron aside and jumped without hesitation.

"Oof!" She grunted, touching her surroundings, "What's this?"

Ron fell between them, mimicking her actions.

"What's this stuff?"

"Dunno, sort of plant thing. I suppose it's here to break the fall. Come on, Hermione!" Harry urged.

Hermione jumped. Mel's eyes were getting accustomed to the darkness when she felt the roots of the plant slowly creeping up her legs, only then she recognized the plant.

"Oh no," She gulped, trying to kick it out but only worsening her situation.

"Stop moving!" Hermione ordered them. "I know what this is – it's Devil's Snare!"

"Oh, I'm so glad we know what it's called, that's a great help," snarled Ron.

"Shut up, I'm trying to remember how to kill it!" said Hermione.

Mel thought deeply, she knew the answer! She spent a whole week studying it!

"Well, hurry up, I can't breathe!" Harry gasped, wrestling as it curled around his chest.

"Light!" Mel yelled, but her voice was muffled out because the plant was now starting to cover her mouth.

"Devil's Snare, Devil's Snare ... What did Professor Sprout say? It likes the dark and the damp –"

"So light a fire!" Harry choked.

"Yes – of course – but there's no wood!" Hermione cried, wringing her hands.

"HAVE YOU GONE MAD?" Ron bellowed. "ARE YOU A WITCH OR NOT?"

"Oh, right!" said Hermione, and conjured a blue fire.

The kicked the plant and pushed it away, standing up.

"Lucky you pay attention in Herbology, Hermione," said Harry.

Mel only felt a tad jealous after hearing his compliment.

"Yeah," said Ron, "and lucky Harry doesn't lose his head in a crisis – there's no wood, honestly."

"There's no time to argue," Mel moved.

"This way," said Harry pointing down a stone passageway.

The second room had winged keys, from the thousands flying above them, only one could open the door to the next room. They grabbed four broomsticks that were laying next to the wall and prepared for what was next.

They tried to catch as many keys as possible in order to try them on the handle, but it wasn't necessary, after a minute in the air Harry shouted:

"That one! That big one – there – no, there – with bright blue wings – the feathers are all crumpled on one side."

After a failed attempt by Ron, Harry distributed his friends around the room: Ron above, Hermione under, Mel and him circling around the key.

"NOW!"

The children moved at the same time, Mel made sure to get in the way of the key without making it harder for Harry, forcing it towards a wall, where eventually Harry pinned it.

They landed, the boy turned the key and opened the door, at first it was just as dark as the last, but then lights went on, revealing a huge chessboard.

"Now what do we do?" Harry whispered.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" said Ron. "We've got to play our way across the room."

Behind the white pieces, they could see a door.

"How?" said Hermione.

"I think," said Ron, "we're going to have to be chessmen."

He walked up to a black knight and put his hand out to touch the knight's horse. At once, the stone sprang to life. The horse pawed the ground and the knight turned his helmeted head to look down at Ron.

"Do we – er – have to join you to get across?"

The black knight nodded. Ron turned to them.

"This wants thinking about... I suppose we've got to take the place of four of the black pieces... Now, don't be offended or anything, but you are not that good at chess –"

"We're not offended," said Harry quickly. "Just tell us what to do."

"We could die, it's better if we listen to someone who knows," Mel agreed.

"Well, Harry, you take the place of that bishop, and Hermione, you go there instead of that castle. Mel, you stand there as pawn."

"What about you?"

"I'm going to be a knight," said Ron.

While they were talking, the pieces Ron had mentioned left their place for them, they could start playing.

In years to come, Mel would think about that moment and still feel extremely impressed with Ron's skills, he thought every move and saved them from getting hurt several times. They were winning!

Until...

"Yes..." said Ron softly, "it's the only way... I've got to be taken."

"NO!" They shouted.

"That's chess!" snapped Ron. "You've got to make some sacrifices! I'll make my move and she'll take me – that leaves you free to checkmate the king, Harry!"

"But –"

"Do you want to stop Snape or not?"

"Ron –"

"Look, if you don't hurry up, he'll already have the Stone!"

There was nothing else to say.

"Ready?" Ron called, his face pale but determined. "Here I go –now, don't hang around once you've won." Ron was right.

He was also unconscious in the corner of the room. The kids passed next to his body, Mel felt desperate to finish the whole thing, they couldn't waste more time.

"What if he's –?"

"He'll be all right," said Harry, "What do you reckon's next?"

"We've had Sprout's, that was the Devil's Snare – Flitwick must've put charms on the keys – McGonagall transfigured the chessmen to make them alive – that leaves Quirrell's spell, and Snape's ..."

"If Snape didn't take it down already," Mel added.

"All right?" Harry whispered.

"Go on." And Harry opened the door.

It was a troll.

Luckily for them, he was already on the floor. Mel couldn't tell if he was still alive, but they didn't stick around enough to find out.

"I'm glad we didn't have to fight that one," Harry whispered, "Come on, I can't breathe."

He pulled open the next door.

"Snape's," said Harry, examining the little bottles in front of them, "What do we have to do?"

"Look!" Hermione seized a roll of paper lying next to the bottles. They looked over her shoulder to read it, "Brilliant. This isn't magic – it's logic – a puzzle. A lot of the greatest wizards haven't got an ounce of logic, they'd be stuck in here forever."

"But so will we, won't we?"

"Of course not," said Hermione. "Everything we need is here on this paper. Seven bottles: three are poison; two are wine; one will get us safely through the black fire and one will get us back through the purple."

"But how do we know which to drink?"

"Give me a minute," They waited as she muttered to herself, pointing at the bottles and walking from one side to the other, "Got it! The smallest bottle will get us through the black fire – towards the Stone."

"There's only enough there for one of us, two at most," he said.

"Which one will get you back through the purple flames?" Hermione pointed at a rounded bottle at the right end of the line.

"You and Mel drink that," said Harry. "No, listen – get back and get Ron – grab brooms from the flying-key room, they'll get you out of the trapdoor and past Fluffy – go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to Dumbledore, we need him. I might be able to hold Snape off for a while, but I'm no match for him really."

"But Harry – what if You-Know-Who's with him?"

"Well – I was lucky once, wasn't I?" said Harry, pointing at his scar. "I might get lucky again."

"I'm not leaving," Mel frowned, "you're out of your mind if you think I'm leaving you behind."

Before Harry could reply, Hermione threw herself at him.

"Hermione!"

"Harry – you're a great wizard, you know."

"I'm not as good as you," said Harry, he was bright red.

"Me!" said Hermione. "Books! And cleverness! There are more important things – friendship and bravery and – oh Harry – be careful!"

"You drink first," said Harry. "You are sure which is which, aren't you?"

"Positive," said Hermione.

She took a long drink from the round bottle at the end and shuddered.

"It's not poison?" said Harry anxiously.

"No – but it's like ice."

"Quick, go, before it wears off. Mel, you drink it as well and I'll meet you in a while"

"Good luck – take care –"

"GO!"

He turned around before Mel. When he grabbed the tiny bottle, Mel snatched it from his hands and drank half of the liquid in it.

"Mel!" Harry gasped, "No!"

"I don't like you when you get bossy," She replied, giving back the bottle, "did you really believe I would let you go alone?"

"That's what I told you to do!"

"You don't tell me what to do!" Mel replied just as angry, "I intend to keep my promise!"

"Your promise won't matter if you die!" He yelled.

"Ron said it before, we must take risks, we have to sacrifice things to save others..." She huffed, "Glasses, there's no point. I took the potion and now you have to do it."

"I'll wait until yours wears off."

"You'd be wasting time that can't be wasted," She offered her hand, "I know you'll forgive me"

Harry hesitated, in the end, he drank what was left in the bottle and shivered terribly.

"You're annoying," He gulped, "how did you drink that? It's like ice!"

He reached for her hand and took it.

"I know," Mel said with a guilty smile, "I just wanted you to think it wasn't so I could see your face when you drank it"

Harry glared at her and moved forward, Mel following close.

The flames engulfed them, but she barely felt a thing.

When they entered, she couldn't believe what she was seeing.

"You!" Harry yelled at Quirrell.

"Me. I wondered whether I'd be meeting you here, Potter," He threw a disinterest glance at Mel, "you certainly are a surprise..."

"But I thought – Snape –"

"Severus?' Quirrell laughed, "Yes, Severus does seem the type, doesn't he? So useful to have him swooping around like an overgrown bat. Next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor st- stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?"

"But Snape tried to kill me!"

"No, no, no. I tried to kill you. Your friend Miss Granger accidentally knocked me over as she rushed to set fire to Snape at that Quidditch match. She broke my eye contact with you. Another few seconds and I'd have got you off that broom. I'd have managed it before then if Snape hadn't been muttering a counter-curse, trying to save you."

"Snape was trying to save me?"

"Of course. Why do you think he wanted to referee your next match? He was trying to make sure I didn't do it again. Funny, really ... he needn't have bothered. I couldn't do anything with Dumbledore watching. All the other teachers thought Snape was trying to stop Gryffindor winning, he did make himself unpopular ... and what a waste of time, when after all that, I'm going to kill you tonight."

"No!" Mel, out of pure impulsiveness, grabbed Harry and pushed him behind her.

She was scared. That's why, later when people asked her what had happened, she couldn't explain.

It was as if something had gotten into her, or out of her as she stood in front of Quirrell. All her fear cast out as a defense mechanism, a wave of something hitting Quirrell and sending him to the other end of the room.

Quirrell found himself on the floor, confused and looking at her with more interest. Mel was exhausted, that wave had drained all her energy, she was barely able to stand.

"That," Quirrell whispered furiously as he stood up, "was a very bad idea, Miss Dumbledore"

It was too much for her body.

"I should get rid of you before you cause more trouble with your little tricks..."

"No!" Exclaimed Harry, but it was too late.

Quirrell raised his hand and Mel felt an invisible hand closing tightly around her throat, lifting her inches from the ground, then feet... then he moved his fist and slammed her against a wall.

The last thing she heard before everything went black was a loud crack on the back of her head.

Next Chapter —>

Taglist.

@vampiregirl1797 @tiphareth2018 @siriuslysirius1107  @celestialhayi @omiwashere 

[kshitij1997]

Hi everyone! Hope you liked the previous chapter.

Someone sent me an anonymous message asking me whether every main character may have a story pulled from history to relate to. I would like to say that nearly every character would relate to someone or some event and I hope that you readers find the thematic relations to be resonant with the story.

Note: Of course, even though there was no saint Vida of Avignon in actual history, Pope Innocent the third's persecution of the cathars was a real, horrible, occurrence in 13th century France, not 14th century France, sorry for that error :P.

I'll let you decide how Europe would react to finding evidence of magic in the nineteenth century.

Anyways, onward with the story!

All Frozen and Tangled characters belong to disney. All I own is this retelling and the OCs.

Chapter 9 : An attack and the accident

Early December 1827, Northern Arendelle.

It was a chilly winter wind on a chilly winter evening that cut through the night skies and the sparse land just south of the mist like a red-hot knife cutting through butter, accompanied by a noise like nails on a glass pane. A trio were passing through, struck by poor timing and bad luck, leaving a faint trail of blood behind them. They were quite possibly the only survivors of a cruel ambush laid out for them. The trio were of the Iceni tribe, one of the most ancient tribes in Arendelle, tracing back their ancestry to ancient England. With the rise of the Romans, the Iceni mostly petered out, with a few emigrating to Arendelle. With the passage of time, the Iceni combined forces with the tribes across the country and became a force to be reckoned with as the Raiders who ravaged all of Europe, from the Northest part of Greenland right to the borders of the Caliphate in Spain. Sadly, those days were long gone, as the ideological split from the south cost the tribes the security and any prosperity they had. It was hard to believe that those formidable tribes, who once held all of Europe in terror, were now reduced to pockets of settlements across the northern wilderness, being forced to adapt to the new world.

Of all the raiders, only the southern Arendellians and the Northurldra truly retained the seafaring capability. The Iceni stuck to land. To compensate, the Iceni knew the land better than anyone else in the country and found new livelihoods in mapmaking, surveying, transporting goods across the land. The Iceni were also among the few who kept the voice going by anointing heralds regularly to be stationed at different parts of the country. In many ways, the Iceni were the unappreciated lifelines who kept the country afloat, for they were in every strata of society, from the miners to the businessmen, to even the king's staff and courts.

And some of them were ice harvesters and sellers, crucial for preservation in a time before one could refrigerate their supplies. It was to this trade that the trio belonged to. A man, a woman and their eight-year-old boy, in tow.

The man, who went by the name Guthrum, was limping in the three-foot snow that surrounded him. The man stood tall; six foot four on a good day. However, this wasn't a good day, as he had suffered a grievous injury to the gut and had to use the support of his wife, named Freyddjis, herself a six- footer. He had been bleeding through his stomach into his reindeer-wool coat and pants, the browns of the fabric turning first to burgundy, then to crimson from the blood.

They were almost through the shallow bed of snow when the little boy with them winced with pain. His leg had been sprained in the escape, and he had to jump into the water with his parents to escape the attack, so now the cold was getting to him as well.

'Ssh shh Kristoff, hold on, I'm sorry.' Freyddjis whispered as she readjusted her son's grasp on her back and torso and straightened her arm to further support her injured husband.

'Freyda…' Guthrum began to speak, in a voice weak with fatigue and injury.

'Breathe, my love, we're getting close to the settlement. Don't give up please.' Freyddjis pleaded to her husband, making every attempt to keep her husband awake and not fall unconscious.

'I was a fool; I should've known better than to guide them all to that cursed valley.' Guthrum hissed painfully as his wounds had begun troubling him again; the loss of blood had begun to make him delirious.

'Don't blame yourself, the decision lay with the leader and everyone else. We all knew the risks of travelling through the valley of death. We knew what could happen if the Northurldra were disturbed. We gambled, and we lost.' Freyddjis tried desperately to calm her husband down, trying her best to ignore the doom rising in her own belly and throat.

'Now what shall I tell Hardrada's widow? How she b-begged him not to go. She made me a request, not an oath, a plea to protect him, so that he m-may see h-his...i-infant come in the w-world . How shall I face her? How…...how w-will I….find the courage…to f-face her?' Guthrum spoke haltingly as his wakefulness began to falter and his throat went dry, even as tears fell from his disoriented eyes.

'Don't think about that, we'll face her together, I promise. Don't give up now, please.' Freyddjis tried in vain to subdue the lump in her throat that rendered her voice thin with emotion. 'We need to get under cover soon, they're still following us. I know it, I can feel them getting close.' She shifted her gait to prevent Kristoff from falling. The boy had been wide awake all this time, his wounds not so serious, but the cold was still a concern. The boy also felt dread; for he had never seen his parents so feeble before. The boy had known fear before, sure, however this was a new feeling. This horrible feeling, as if he was about to learn what loss was and there was no coming back from this event.

'Freyda, you're...you're one in a million, you k-know that? I-I made the guh..ggnnnn...the greatest decision of m-my life making y-you my wife. You- you did your best with m-me. Now go. L-leave me be, I'm done for.' The man spilled some blood from his mouth as he finished speaking, adding to the delirium and the cold, this was not encouraging at all.

'Shut up, you fool! You're not dying today, do you understand! We're close to the mountains of the stonepeople. It is an hour's trek left at most through the forest, we're halfway through it. I know you can hold on. I know it.' Freyddjis growled at her husband, ever as the mere possibility of the event brought tears to her eyes. In that moment, Kristoff was afraid of everything; what could happen in the next moment, what could happen tomorrow morning, would his father be all right, how would he and his mother get by, everything. It wasn't fair; he was so young, too young to ask such heavy questions. It seemed that he was learning a lot in a very short time. His father's voice broke his chain of thought.

'Freyda, I know you'd n-never leave me. I'll make the choice easier. Just k-know that I...I love you and little Kristoff. Forever.'

With that, Guthrum summoned his remaining strength, pulled out a well-concealed pistol and shot himself through the head, from temple to temple.

BOOM!

A thunderous, deafening noise. Then the man hit the floor, his face blackened and bloody from close impact. It was a terrible mess.

The tree upon which his body fell, became dyed with blood and grey matter. In the dead of night, illuminated only by a pale crescent moon, the tree with red leaves having five edges, and the alabaster bark of the great Snowpillar tree;

The great tree symbolic of death to the Iceni, painted red by fate and by the bravado man may feel in his final moments.

It was all a haze to Kristoff, who couldn't register anything around him in that moment. Somehow his vison became blurry, his ears fell numb, his limbs felt rigid. And yet, his eyes were transfixed on the lifeless body of the man who was until ten minutes ago, his father.

And yet he could say nothing, do nothing. Couldn't shout, couldn't kick, couldn't put his mind at ease at all. A dull voice persisted in his head; the painful screams and cries of his mother whose voice felt present and far away all at the same time.

In the distance towards their left, deep in the forest, a few lights lit up.

Friends? No. Foes. Definitely foes.

Well, Kristoff was the man now. He had to rouse his mother.

'Mum' he slid off his mother's back said, 'I see lights coming.'

Freyddjis came out of her grief with a shock. Foolish, very foolish to scream in the forest at night, especially for a deceased one. Her mind became unnaturally alert and active, thinking a thousand miles in a thousand directions per second. After a moment of quick reasoning, she handed him a knife and spoke softly 'Kristoff, my love, listen carefully. We'll have to part. Run. Run away from here. Away from me, as fast as you can. Your life depends on it. Don't look back, whatever happens. I'll come back for you soon. I love you.' With that, she embraced him fiercely and smothered him with tearful kisses.

A pang troubled his mind. What if...

'What if I get caught?'

Her answer came, chillier than winter's cold. 'Use the knife. Die fighting. They will not be kind to you.'

With that, she was gone, drawing the attention of the lights to her, disappearing into the thick darkness of the forest and the night.

Kristoff had never run so fast in his life, at least how fast his sprain would let him. Running blind through the forest, caring not for the frightful spirits whose myths he could listen to all day from his mother. The moon was being mean-spirited in lighting his way towards the mountains of the stone people, at times being blocked by the clouds, at times by the leaves. How the trees rustled around in unease, in disdain, as if teasing and mocking his attempt at escape. The hissing and growling in a language from the Snowpillars, in an ancient tongue he didn't understand.

Old, primal, mystical, terrifying.

He stopped dead in his tracks as the growling became more prominent, recognizable and severe, a knife drawn out in his trembling hand. Is this it? Will the spirits kill me?

His question was answered almost instantly as a pair of yellowish-green lights lit up at once from up ahead. Lights that were like eyes. Eyes of a beast. A beast looking to kill.

A mountain lion, probably disturbed in its attempt at finding food for himself by these fools making a ruckus. What the great beast may have lost in some wily stag, it could have found in this human kid. It was graceful in its movement as it climbed down from the tree and faced the kid, like a well-seasoned thief stealing a prize through sleight of hand. Every move deliberate, every stride and crawl graceful, every intention murky and dangerous.

Kristoff could only stand frozen in fear, even if the knife stood up in his hand, rudely challenging the predator. Please, please don't kill me.

The mountain lion growled and bared his deadly canines, as if insulted and slighted by the non-verbal cry for mercy. It was almost ready to pounce when-

BANG! BANG! BANG!

A succession of musket fire, followed by a painful scream cut short, sending ripples throughout the jungle. The mountain lion changed its stance completely, faced the direction of the source of the noise.

This abrupt distraction was enough for Kristoff to try and escape. Unfortunately, he had forgotten that he was at the edge of a steep valley. One false step and that was it.

He fell screaming, headlong into the valley. He tried to stall his descent somehow, but to no avail. With nothing else left to do, he closed his eyes, and braced himself for the impact.

It was by sheer accident that his fall was broken by the river blowing at the base of the valley. The river that shone like silver in the pale moonlight. He may have escaped the possibility of splattering himself from the fall, but the sheer tension from the surface of the water drew out a cry of anguish from him as he landed into the water. To make matters worse, the danger of drowning had multiplied manifold.

He tried grasping for the bank as the pace of the river quickened as it descended from the mountains. Even as water rushed into his lungs, he tried further and did his best to keep his head above the water. Finally, after several minutes, the river decided to relent and slowed down. Kristoff used all his remaining strength to swim and crawl towards the shore. With the solid ground of the riverbank firmly under him, he fell, exhausted.

Before he lost consciousness, the last thing he remembered seeing was a feminine figure, but somehow not a human. More like stone. Stone covered with moss and remarkably, flowers. In the middle of winter.

And then. Darkness.

A fortnight later; the eve of the winter solstice, Arendelle, 1827

'Wow, Elsa! You've outdone yourself!' Both Anna and Olva squealed delightfully in unison.

'Thank you, thank you! I didn't know I had it in me.' Answered Elsa, flush with excitement. The creation which the three sisters were talking about was a massive chandelier she had made of ice in the ball room. Elsa loved designing chandeliers. The geometry, the scope, the intricacies, the elegance, the weight, the beauty. How every piece is perfect in its alignment, how every facet angled to reflect the maximum amount of light possible. She had discovered her passion for it when she was seven; she had gone with her mother and sisters to Russia, to the courts of the Tsar. How his palace was gigantic, how his hall was huge, it could have easily housed a thousand people at a time. And the chandelier! She could observe it forever.

However, the exact replica she had tried to make was no less a marvel. She had worked on it for almost a year, making sketches, obsessing over it in her bed, late at night. To see every turn, twist and bend of the hanging piece of glory. Scribbling a line here and there, a short diagram between comprehension, some more figures in arithmetic. She had even got a scolding from Iduna once when she had absentmindedly written something on the tablecloth while eating supper.

Ah, but now, the whole thing was etched in her memory like carvings on granite. She remembered everything from memory. Building it was no effort surprisingly; she kept the figure with detail in her mind, conjured a glowing ball and shot it towards the ceiling of the ballroom.

It was beautiful, almost otherworldly in its appeal; for no chandelier in the world lit up to a blue of this shade. What made it even better was that the ballroom was not as big as the Tsar's court, which made the chandelier even more gigantic and beautiful.

'This is amazing!' Anna chirped. The five-year-old never grew tired of Elsa's abilities. Be it early morning, late afternoon, or the middle of the night, the redhead was always eager for the platinum blonde's magic.

'It's wonderful. How long did it take you to make it in your head?' Olva asked with the curiosity only she had; the dark-haired girl always took so much interest in her powers, like someone trying to uncover a mystery, completing a puzzle. In such thrilling moments, she always had a far-off glow in her eyes. She loved Elsa's power in her own ways, different from Anna's adoration. Olva had more excitement and respect.

'When did you learn all this, Elsie?' Olva asked with genuine admiration.

'Umm, between you two pulling my leg and getting me involved in all your hare-brained mischief and fun.' Elsa replied with a wink.

'Hardy hardy har. You know you love the trio.' Anna quipped with a grin as Elsa nodded with a smirk. Olva laughed, oh these two.

'I'm not done yet.' Elsa said with a mischievous smile.

'What, there's more?' Anna perked up.

'Yes, but first, the last one to get up from their bed has to bring us hot chocolate.'

'Hmmm, who could that be now?' Anna asked with an impish grin looking towards Olva.

The trio already knew who it was, but Olva begged to differ.

'Hey, it was who got to the ballroom last. I remember very well that I was the first one in, I made sure of that. I sprinted out of bed, got in before you two. Therefore, Anna should be getting the hot chocolate, not me.'

'No, it was who got up the latest, it always has been, why would we change it now?' Anna said.

'Yes, not our fault you were fast asleep.' Elsa added.

'So, I sprinted and nearly slipped on the staircase for nothing?'

'Yes, apparently.' Elsa replied with faux concern and hidden fun-poking in good humour

'Boo, the both of you, how do I win? Anna sleeps on time of an owl, and Elsa's too excited for her birthday. Not fair.'

'Come on, you know it will happen every time. Besides, you make the best cup of hot chocolate ever.' Elsa began.

Olva put on a haughty air 'Hmm, it is true.'

Elsa and Anna smiled to each other. See, it never fails.

'All right, I'll get it. But don't start anything without me!' With that, the dark-haired princess rushed to the kitchens.

A few minutes passed, and Anna began to fidget.

'What is taking her so long? We've been here for daaayyyyyyss' Anna was a natural at exaggeration.

'You know the kitchens are on the other side of the castle, right?' Elsa told her little sister.

'So? Can't she hurry up? I'm getting bored.' Anna replied.

'She'll be here in couple of minutes, don't worry.' Elsa assured her.

'Say, what if we ice the floor?' Anna asked with a grin.

'Oh no, Olva would not like that.' Elsa backed away

'Oh come on, she would just join in the fun, you know her.' Anna said.

'Guess I got talked into it, huh.' Elsa said with a cocked eyebrow and a smirk.

'Yes!' Anna could barely contain her excitement.

Elsa closed her eyes, twirled around and stamped her foot on the floor. On cue, a thin layer of ice blanketed the floors of the Ball room, with the little princesses going giddy over the patterns the ice formed. Anna began to skate along one of the patterns, only to fall flat on her face.

'See Anna, I told you to wait. There are many more ways to fall.' said Olva as she glided in, making a perfect loop, doubly impressive with her carrying a tray and a box as well.

'Here's your hot chocolate, you lunatics. Enjoy.' Olva laughed.

'Gimme gimme gimme!' Anna squealed as she got up.

It was worth the short wait. Olva created magic when she had sugar, milk and chocolate in her hands. It tasted like heaven.

'Mmhmm, when did you learn to make it so well?' Elsa asked with a contented sigh.

'You know, between you two pulling my leg and I being left behind to cover up for you.'

Touché.

'What's in the box, Olva?'

'Well, it is our birthday gift for you. Happy birthday Elsie' Olva and Anna beamed.

Elsa hugged her sisters together in an instant, with tears of joy in her eyes 'Thank you, thank you so much, both of you!'

Anna and Olva hugged her in return, while exchanging glances of victory. We're good at this.

Elsa opened the box and there it was; a wooden carving of an eight headed star, complete with carvings indicating facets and faces of crystals, along with three dolls made of cotton and felt, each signifying one of the sisters.

'Oh you two, you precious little kittens! Thank you so much! Ask me anything, I'll give it to you right now.' Elsa giggled.

'Hmm, we're missing something here. What do you think is missing here?' Olva began.

'Snow!' Anna finished.

'Of course, I'm feeling kind tonight. How much snow, my humble citizen?' Elsa moved with a show of royalty; something that came naturally to her as she was the heir apparent to Arendelle.

'Oh, your majesty, the whole room!' Anna joined in the fun, always up for a caper, a commoner at heart.

'My liege, I must say, we need to be able to leave safely and in one piece once we're done.' Olva joining in as well, ever the voice of reason.

'Well said, noble adviser. Shall three feet of snow be good?' Elsa addressed Olva, clearly enjoying herself.

'Ample, your majesty.' Olva finished. This was a special occasion, after all.

'Very well. Now let's get this bastard up in the air.' Elsa said, dropping the regal flair at once and shooting the glowing ball of snow in her hands towards the ceiling.

'Ooooooh naughty word!' Anna cooed.

'It's my birthday, who's gonna stop me?' Elsa said in mock defiance.

'Yes, tonight we shall cuss like gutterheads!' Olva heartily laughed as she looked upwards to the ceiling only to remark, 'Hey, is it snowing from the chandelier?'

'Damn right it is.' Elsa announced it in pride.

'You magnificent shhhhee wolf.' Olva called out.

'You worked hard to control yourself, didn't you?' Elsa asked.

'Yes, you ice-shitter.' Olva said

'Oooh, there's going to be trouble for that!' Elsa laughed.

'Yes, a fairy tale! To rescue her rowdy friend, the princess must calm the snow queen and survive her quests and save the day. Also, the floor is lava!' Anna yelled in excitement.

With that she began to jump on the snowy bed, already two feet thick. 'Wait, dear friend! What about Olaf?' Olva called.

'Olaf?' Oh yes, how could she forget?

The trio get down to business, building a snowman who always had the same name. they always argued about the design, but hilariously always ended up making the snowman the same crooked way they always did. Olaf, the snowy saint of friendship and family. With a love for warm hugs, of course.

With Olaf's blessing, the trio began their fairy tale, the snow queen giving the adventurer higher platforms of snow to jump from, to save her trapped friend. Anna going higher and higher towards the ceiling.

Wait, what are we doing?! She's gonna fall terribly from that place!

Olva suddenly realized with horror. 'Elsa, stop! Anna's gonna fall!' Olva screamed.

Elsa broke out of her birthday high to see where Anna was. From a pleasant dream to a terrible nightmare. 'Anna, wait, slow down! I can't keep up!' Elsa shouted.

Alas! The little redhead was too excited to listen. 'Catch me, o queen of ice and snow!' she yelled as she leapt from the chandelier.

In her haste to help her, Elsa slipped on her ice. It had never happened before. Even as she fell herself, she tried to save her baby sister 'Anna!'

Smack! Went the ice to Anna's head. She was stunned into unconsciousness as she landed head-first on the snow, three feet deep.

'Oh no!' Olva screamed again as she rushed beside Anna, right beneath the chandelier.

But it wasn't over, for Anna hadn't been the only one, or thing caught in the crossfire. The chandelier of ice cracked dangerously from the top and went into free-fall.

'Olva, get out of there!' Elsa yelled through her tears threatening to fall and crash any second.

Olva used all her might, trying to drag herself and Anna as quickly as she could. While Olva was ultimately successful in pulling Anna away, she herself was not so lucky. While she avoided the worst impact of the chandelier, she was knocked unconscious by the corners of the chandelier and her left side, from head to hand, was pierced by scores of tiny icicles, forming horrible scars and blood flowing from the tiny cuts.

Elsa was dazed in shock; what just happened? A minute ago, we were playing and now this?

She rushed to the side of her sisters. Anna had a streak of white running through her red hair and Olva's cheek and forehead scars had begun to redden. In her fear, the three-foot snow became a solid block of ice. Elsa could do little but hold her unconscious sisters close, scream for her parents and cry. Ultimately, Agnarr and Iduna had to smash the doors with an axe and pickaxe as the ice was too stubborn for them. They quickly seized up the situation, took in the icy carnage and made some tough decisions on the spot. Tough decisions, for which, only Grand Pabbie could help them.

Yes, the plot is in motion, after so long! I'm shit at writing, even though I improve steadily :P

As always, constructive feedback is always welcome.

Until next time 😊.

[thegreatantonchekhov]

In Exile

By Anton Chekhov

Translated by Constance Garnett

“God created man to be alive, and to have joy and grief and sorrow; but you want nothing, so you are not alive, you are stone, clay! A stone wants nothing and you want nothing.”

OLD SEMYON, nicknamed Canny, and a young Tatar, whom no one knew by name, were sitting on the river-bank by the camp-fire; the other three ferrymen were in the hut. Semyon, an old man of sixty, lean and toothless, but broad shouldered and still healthy-looking, was drunk; he would have gone in to sleep long before, but he had a bottle in his pocket and he was afraid that the fellows in the hut would ask him for vodka. The Tatar was ill and weary, and wrapping himself up in his rags was describing how nice it was in the Simbirsk province, and what a beautiful and clever wife he had left behind at home. He was not more than twenty five, and now by the light of the camp-fire, with his pale and sick, mournful face, he looked like a boy.

“To be sure, it is not paradise here,” said Canny. “You can see for yourself, the water, the bare banks, clay, and nothing else.... Easter has long passed and yet there is ice on the river, and this morning there was snow. . .”

“It’s bad! it’s bad!” said the Tatar, and looked round him in terror.

The dark, cold river was flowing ten paces away; it grumbled, lapped against the hollow clay banks and raced on swiftly towards the far-away sea. Close to the bank there was the dark blur of a big barge, which the ferrymen called a “karbos.” Far away on the further bank, lights, dying down and flickering up again, zigzagged like little snakes; they were burning last year’s grass. And beyond the little snakes there was darkness again. There little icicles could be heard knocking against the barge It was damp and cold....

The Tatar glanced at the sky. There were as many stars as at home, and the same blackness all round, but something was lacking. At home in the Simbirsk province the stars were quite different, and so was the sky.

“It’s bad! it’s bad!” he repeated.

“You will get used to it,” said Semyon, and he laughed. “Now you are young and foolish, the milk is hardly dry on your lips, and it seems to you in your foolishness that you are more wretched than anyone; but the time will come when you will say to yourself: ‘I wish no one a better life than mine.’ You look at me. Within a week the floods will be over and we shall set up the ferry; you will all go wandering off about Siberia while I shall stay and shall begin going from bank to bank. I’ve been going like that for twenty-two years, day and night. The pike and the salmon are under the water while I am on the water. And thank God for it, I want nothing; God give everyone such a life.”

The Tatar threw some dry twigs on the camp-fire, lay down closer to the blaze, and said:

“My father is a sick man. When he dies my mother and wife will come here. They have promised.”

“And what do you want your wife and mother for?” asked Canny. “That’s mere foolishness, my lad. It’s the devil confounding you, damn his soul! Don’t you listen to him, the cursed one. Don’t let him have his way. He is at you about the women, but you spite him; say, ‘I don’t want them!’ He is on at you about freedom, but you stand up to him and say: ‘I don’t want it!’ I want nothing, neither father nor mother, nor wife, nor freedom, nor post, nor paddock; I want nothing, damn their souls!”

Semyon took a pull at the bottle and went on:

“I am not a simple peasant, not of the working class, but the son of a deacon, and when I was free I lived at Kursk; I used to wear a frockcoat, and now I have brought myself to such a pass that I can sleep naked on the ground and eat grass. And I wish no one a better life. I want nothing and I am afraid of nobody, and the way I look at it is that there is nobody richer and freer than I am. When they sent me here from Russia from the first day I stuck it out; I want nothing! The devil was at me about my wife and about my home and about freedom, but I told him: ‘I want nothing.’ I stuck to it, and here you see I live well, and I don’t complain, and if anyone gives way to the devil and listens to him, if but once, he is lost, there is no salvation for him: he is sunk in the bog to the crown of his head and will never get out.

“It is not only a foolish peasant like you, but even gentlemen, well-educated people, are lost. Fifteen years ago they sent a gentleman here from Russia. He hadn’t shared something with his brothers and had forged something in a will. They did say he was a prince or a baron, but maybe he was simply an official -- who knows? Well, the gentleman arrived here, and first thing he bought himself a house and land in Muhortinskoe. ‘I want to live by my own work,’ says he, ‘in the sweat of my brow, for I am not a gentleman now,’ says he, ‘but a settler.’ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘God help you, that’s the right thing.’ He was a young man then, busy and careful; he used to mow himself and catch fish and ride sixty miles on horseback. Only this is what happened: from the very first year he took to riding to Gyrino for the post; he used to stand on my ferry and sigh: ‘Ech, Semyon, how long it is since they sent me any money from home!’ ‘You don’t want money, Vassily Sergeyitch,’ says I. ‘What use is it to you? You cast away the past, and forget it as though it had never been at all, as though it had been a dream, and begin to live anew. Don’t listen to the devil,’ says I; ‘he will bring you to no good, he’ll draw you into a snare. Now you want money,’ says I, ‘ but in a very little while you’ll be wanting something else, and then more and more. If you want to be happy,’ says I, the chief thing is not to want anything. Yes.... If,’ says I, ‘if Fate has wronged you and me cruelly it’s no good asking for her favor and bowing down to her, but you despise her and laugh at her, or else she will laugh at you.’ That’s what I said to him....

“Two years later I ferried him across to this side, and he was rubbing his hands and laughing. ‘ I am going to Gyrino to meet my wife,’ says he. ‘She was sorry for me,’ says he; ‘she has come. She is good and kind.’ And he was breathless with joy. So a day later he came with his wife. A beautiful young lady in a hat; in her arms was a baby girl. And lots of luggage of all sorts. And my Vassily Sergeyitch was fussing round her; he couldn’t take his eyes off her and couldn’t say enough in praise of her. ‘Yes, brother Semyon, even in Siberia people can live!’ ‘Oh, all right,’ thinks I, ‘it will be a different tale presently.’ And from that time forward he went almost every week to inquire whether money had not come from Russia. He wanted a lot of money. ‘She is losing her youth and beauty here in Siberia for my sake,’ says he, ‘and sharing my bitter lot with me, and so I ought,’ says he, ‘to provide her with every comfort. . . .’

“To make it livelier for the lady he made acquaintance with the officials and all sorts of riff-raff. And of course he had to give food and drink to all that crew, and there had to be a piano and a shaggy lapdog on the sofa -- plague take it!... Luxury, in fact, self-indulgence. The lady did not stay with him long. How could she? The clay, the water, the cold, no vegetables for you, no fruit. All around you ignorant and drunken people and no sort of manners, and she was a spoilt lady from Petersburg or Moscow.... To be sure she moped. Besides, her husband, say what you like, was not a gentleman now, but a settler -- not the same rank.

“Three years later, I remember, on the eve of the Assumption, there was shouting from the further bank. I went over with the ferry, and what do I see but the lady, all wrapped up, and with her a young gentleman, an official. A sledge with three horses.... I ferried them across here, they got in and away like the wind. They were soon lost to sight. And towards morning Vassily Sergeyitch galloped down to the ferry. ‘Didn’t my wife come this way with a gentleman in spectacles, Semyon?’ ‘She did,’ said I; ‘you may look for the wind in the fields!’ He galloped in pursuit of them. For five days and nights he was riding after them. When I ferried him over to the other side afterwards, he flung himself on the ferry and beat his head on the boards of the ferry and howled. ‘So that’s how it is,’ says I. I laughed, and reminded him ‘people can live even in Siberia!’ And he beat his head harder than ever....

“Then he began longing for freedom. His wife had slipped off to Russia, and of course he was drawn there to see her and to get her away from her lover. And he took, my lad, to galloping almost every day, either to the post or the town to see the commanding officer; he kept sending in petitions for them to have mercy on him and let him go back home; and he used to say that he had spent some two hundred roubles on telegrams alone. He sold his land and mortgaged his house to the Jews. He grew gray and bent, and yellow in the face, as though he was in consumption. If he talked to you he would go, khee--khee--khee,. . . and there were tears in his eyes. He kept rushing about like this with petitions for eight years, but now he has grown brighter and more cheerful again: he has found another whim to give way to. You see, his daughter has grown up. He looks at her, and she is the apple of his eye. And to tell the truth she is all right, good-looking, with black eyebrows and a lively disposition. Every Sunday he used to ride with her to church in Gyrino. They used to stand on the ferry, side by side, she would laugh and he could not take his eyes off her. ‘Yes, Semyon,’ says he, ‘people can live even in Siberia. Even in Siberia there is happiness. Look,’ says he, ‘what a daughter I have got! I warrant you wouldn’t find another like her for a thousand versts round.’ ‘Your daughter is all right,’ says I, ‘that’s true, certainly.’ But to myself I thought: ‘Wait a bit, the wench is young, her blood is dancing, she wants to live, and there is no life here.’ And she did begin to pine, my lad.... She faded and faded, and now she can hardly crawl about. Consumption.

“So you see what Siberian happiness is, damn its soul! You see how people can live in Siberia.... He has taken to going from one doctor to another and taking them home with him. As soon as he hears that two or three hundred miles away there is a doctor or a sorcerer, he will drive to fetch him. A terrible lot of money he spent on doctors, and to my thinking he had better have spent the money on drink.... She’ll die just the same. She is certain to die, and then it will be all over with him. He’ll hang himself from grief or run away to Russia -- that’s a sure thing. He’ll run away and they’ll catch him, then he will be tried, sent to prison, he will have a taste of the lash. . . .”

“Good! good!” said the Tatar, shivering with cold.

“What is good?” asked Canny.

“His wife, his daughter.... What of prison and what of sorrow! -- anyway, he did see his wife and his daughter.... You say, want nothing. But ‘nothing’ is bad! His wife lived with him three years -- that was a gift from God. ‘Nothing’ is bad, but three years is good. How not understand?”

Shivering and hesitating, with effort picking out the Russian words of which he knew but few, the Tatar said that God forbid one should fall sick and die in a strange land, and be buried in the cold and dark earth; that if his wife came to him for one day, even for one hour, that for such happiness he would be ready to bear any suffering and to thank God. Better one day of happiness than nothing.

Then he described again what a beautiful and clever wife he had left at home. Then, clutching his head in both hands, he began crying and assuring Semyon that he was not guilty, and was suffering for nothing. His two brothers and an uncle had carried off a peasant’s horses, and had beaten the old man till he was half dead, and the commune had not judged fairly, but had contrived a sentence by which all the three brothers were sent to Siberia, while the uncle, a rich man, was left at home.

“You will get used to it!” said Semyon.

The Tatar was silent, and stared with tear-stained eyes at the fire; his face expressed bewilderment and fear, as though he still did not understand why he was here in the darkness and the wet, beside strangers, and not in the Simbirsk province.

Canny lay near the fire, chuckled at something, and began humming a song in an undertone.

“What joy has she with her father?” he said a little later. “He loves her and he rejoices in her, that’s true; but, mate, you must mind your ps and qs with him, he is a strict old man, a harsh old man. And young wenches don’t want strictness. They want petting and ha-ha-ha! and ho-ho-ho! and scent and pomade. Yes.... Ech! life, life,” sighed Semyon, and he got up heavily. “The vodka is all gone, so it is time to sleep. Eh? I am going, my lad. . . .”

Left alone, the Tatar put on more twigs, lay down and stared at the fire; he began thinking of his own village and of his wife. If his wife could only come for a month, for a day; and then if she liked she might go back again. Better a month or even a day than nothing. But if his wife kept her promise and came, what would he have to feed her on? Where could she live here?

“If there were not something to eat, how could she live?” the Tatar asked aloud.

He was paid only ten kopecks for working all day and all night at the oar; it is true that travelers gave him tips for tea and for vodkas but the men shared all they received among themselves, and gave nothing to the Tatar, but only laughed at him. And from poverty he was hungry, cold, and frightened.... Now, when his whole body was aching and shivering, he ought to go into the hut and lie down to sleep; but he had nothing to cover him there, and it was colder than on the river-bank; here he had nothing to cover him either, but at least he could make up the fire....

In another week, when the floods were quite over and they set the ferry going, none of the ferrymen but Semyon would be wanted, and the Tatar would begin going from village to village begging for alms and for work. His wife was only seventeen; she was beautiful, spoilt, and shy; could she possibly go from village to village begging alms with her face unveiled? No, it was terrible even to think of that....

It was already getting light; the barge, the bushes of willow on the water, and the waves could be clearly discerned, and if one looked round there was the steep clay slope; at the bottom of it the hut thatched with dingy brown straw, and the huts of the village lay clustered higher up. The cocks were already crowing in the village.

The rusty red clay slope, the barge, the river, the strange, unkind people, hunger, cold, illness, perhaps all that was not real. Most likely it was all a dream, thought the Tatar. He felt that he was asleep and heard his own snoring.... Of course he was at home in the Simbirsk province, and he had only to call his wife by name for her to answer; and in the next room was his mother.... What terrible dreams there are, though! What are they for? The Tatar smiled and opened his eyes. What river was this, the Volga?

Snow was falling.

“Boat!” was shouted on the further side. “Boat!”

The Tatar woke up, and went to wake his mates and row over to the other side. The ferrymen came on to the river-bank, putting on their torn sheepskins as they walked, swearing with voices husky from sleepiness and shivering from the cold. On waking from their sleep, the river, from which came a breath of piercing cold, seemed to strike them as revolting and horrible. They jumped into the barge without hurrying themselves.... The Tatar and the three ferrymen took the long, broad-bladed oars, which in the darkness looked like the claws of crabs; Semyon leaned his stomach against the tiller. The shout on the other side still continued, and two shots were fired from a revolver, probably with the idea that the ferrymen were asleep or had gone to the pot-house in the village.

“All right, you have plenty of time,” said Semyon in the tone of a man convinced that there was no necessity in this world to hurry -- that it would lead to nothing, anyway.

The heavy, clumsy barge moved away from the bank and floated between the willow-bushes, and only the willows slowly moving back showed that the barge was not standing still but moving. The ferrymen swung the oars evenly in time; Semyon lay with his stomach on the tiller and, describing a semicircle in the air, flew from one side to the other. In the darkness it looked as though the men were sitting on some antediluvian animal with long paws, and were moving on it through a cold, desolate land, the land of which one sometimes dreams in nightmares.

They passed beyond the willows and floated out into the open. The creak and regular splash of the oars was heard on the further shore, and a shout came: “Make haste! make haste!”

Another ten minutes passed, and the barge banged heavily against the landing-stage.

“And it keeps sprinkling and sprinkling,” muttered Semyon, wiping the snow from his face; “and where it all comes from God only knows.”

On the bank stood a thin man of medium height in a jacket lined with fox fur and in a white lambskin cap. He was standing at a little distance from his horses and not moving; he had a gloomy, concentrated expression, as though he were trying to remember something and angry with his untrustworthy memory. When Semyon went up to him and took off his cap, smiling, he said:

“I am hastening to Anastasyevka. My daughter’s worse again, and they say that there is a new doctor at Anastasyevka.”

They dragged the carriage on to the barge and floated back. The man whom Semyon addressed as Vassily Sergeyitch stood all the time motionless, tightly compressing his thick lips and staring off into space; when his coachman asked permission to smoke in his presence he made no answer, as though he had not heard. Semyon, lying with his stomach on the tiller, looked mockingly at him and said:

“Even in Siberia people can live -- can li-ive!”

There was a triumphant expression on Canny’s face, as though he had proved something and was delighted that things had happened as he had foretold. The unhappy helplessness of the man in the foxskin coat evidently afforded him great pleasure.

“It’s muddy driving now, Vassily Sergeyitch,” he said when the horses were harnessed again on the bank. “You should have put off going for another fortnight, when it will be drier. Or else not have gone at all.... If any good would come of your going -- but as you know yourself, people have been driving about for years and years, day and night, and it’s alway’s been no use. That’s the truth.”

Vassily Sergeyitch tipped him without a word, got into his carriage and drove off.

“There, he has galloped off for a doctor!” said Semyon, shrinking from the cold. “But looking for a good doctor is like chasing the wind in the fields or catching the devil by the tail, plague take your soul! What a queer chap, Lord forgive me a sinner!”

The Tatar went up to Canny, and, looking at him with hatred and repulsion, shivering, and mixing Tatar words with his broken Russian, said: “He is good... good; but you are bad! You are bad! The gentleman is a good soul, excellent, and you are a beast, bad! The gentleman is alive, but you are a dead carcass.... God created man to be alive, and to have joy and grief and sorrow; but you want nothing, so you are not alive, you are stone, clay! A stone wants nothing and you want nothing. You are a stone, and God does not love you, but He loves the gentleman!”

Everyone laughed; the Tatar frowned contemptuously, and with a wave of his hand wrapped himself in his rags and went to the campfire. The ferrymen and Semyon sauntered to the hut.

“It’s cold,” said one ferryman huskily as he stretched himself on the straw with which the damp clay floor was covered.

“Yes, its not warm,” another assented. “It’s a dog’s life. . . .”

They all lay down. The door was thrown open by the wind and the snow drifted into the hut; nobody felt inclined to get up and shut the door: they were cold, and it was too much trouble.

“I am all right,” said Semyon as he began to doze. “I wouldn’t wish anyone a better life.”

“You are a tough one, we all know. Even the devils won’t take you!”

Sounds like a dog’s howling came from outside.

“What’s that? Who’s there?”

“It’s the Tatar crying.”

“I say.... He’s a queer one!”

“He’ll get u-used to it!” said Semyon, and at once fell asleep.

The others were soon asleep too. The door remained unclosed.

NOTES

Tatar: an ethnic group of Turkic-speaking, traditionally Moslem people

karbos: a large rowed ferry boat with 4 to 10 oars

commune had not judged fairly: a village commune, mir, had the right to exile any lawbreakers to Siberia

[tessatechaitea]

Cerebus #13 (1979)

This cover reminds me of at least three different nights in college.

One time in college, a drunk friend of mine fell UP the stairs and injured himself. One time in college, a guy down the hall invited me to drink with him and he was telling me about all the dead cockroaches he found under his dresser when he suddenly just vomited all over the front of his shirt. One time in college, I snuck into the top level of a factory in Los Banos which was really just a bunch of creaky catwalks in the dark and I stole their fire extinguisher (I did not go to college in Los Banos. Do they even have a college?!). One time in college, a girl in my Steinbeck class told me all about this cartoon she was watching called Sailor Moon and I desperately fell in love with her (and I also started watching the cartoon and super fell in love with that). One time in college, my friend Soy Rakelson looked at me confused after leaving our Lit Theory class and he blurted out, "Why doesn't he just tell us what is true?!" One time in college, my teacher wrote on one of my homework assignments "Please speak up in class more!" because it was a humanities course focusing on American History, Art, and Literature and all the dolts who did speak up in class were business majors and idiots. One time in college, I...no, you know what. I'm not telling that story. Never mind. One time in college, I went with a friend to a meeting where they were starting a new fraternity and everybody who was starting it automatically was in but my friend just missed that cut off and when they held the vote, he didn't make the cut. He left hurt and angry and pleaded with me to stay after he left to maybe find out more information about why he didn't make it. When they asked me if I were interested in joining, I laughed and said, "Fuck that," and left. One time in college, I had to describe my Halloween costume to my creative writing teacher because she was blind (I was Alice Cooper in Wonderland). That same day in college, my Children's Lit professor just laughed when she saw me and said, "Great costume." I wish I had a picture of it. Basically I wore the Alice blue dress and smock deal and Alice Cooper's make-up while carrying the decapitated and bloody head of the white rabbit. One time in college, I got wasted on Long Island Iced Teas at the Portland Rose Festival with my thirty-something year old coworker and we wound up running around the deck of a battleship when one of the Navy guys invited us on. One time in college, I sat next to my lesbian professor of 19th Century American Literature at the movies where we laughed and joked the whole way through Demi Moore's The Scarlet Letter. One time in college, I read my version of a scene from Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest in the style of Shakespeare and everybody after felt too intimidated to read theirs. Man, some of these stories are really sad! And I've purposefully left out the thousand or so stories that would have begun "One time in college during our Warhammer campaign...". Look, I really agonized about the punctuation at the end of that sentence but it wouldn't have been true to the punctuation's job performance to put all four periods within the quotes! I just realized I forgot to discuss the Aardvark Comments at the end of the last issue. It seems the expansion to two pages has stuck. The only part I remember was Dave Sim explaining that because of his nervous breakdown, he actually spent four days in a psyche ward. So I guess he went way past just shitting himself. Dave's Swords of Cerebus essay reveals one important fact: Necross the Mad was based on Exidor from Mork & Mindy. The issue begins with a bird shitting on Cerebus' snout. That's a portent I should use more often in my roller playing campaigns. Roller Playing Games should also have a simple rage statistic. Sort of like a saving throw but it gets harder and harder to save against every time some minor annoyance aggravates the player until they simply explode, becoming so careless from rage that it reflects in all of their dice roles. Or is that simply what going berserk is for Berserkers or Barbarians? Plus, there are so many Roller Playing Games, I'm sure one of them uses those rules in their system. Cerebus is captured by some farmers and taken to a Priest of Tarim to determine what sort of sorcerous monstrosity he is.

Cerebus pleads future violence.

The priest decides to dump Cerebus in the foyer of the castle of Necross the Mad, a sorcerer who has been plaguing the villagers of Lower Felda. His plan is that they'll simply kill each other and he won't have to deal with them anymore. Praise Tarim! Sometimes I wish I had become a priest but I don't think I would have made it through Divinity School. I'm fairly certain everybody would frown on my constantly yelling "Pshaw!" after every few passages from The Bible. I probably don't have to admit this because nobody was around to witness it but I just hopped up to turn on the light and then danced around humming the theme song from I Dream of Jeannie. One time in college, I went to see Ken Kesey speak after which he and his (new?) Merry Pranksters performed a sort of The Wizard of Oz play but about climate change. It was such a train wreck that halfway through, my friend Aaron Voorhees streaked across the stage. Or kind of duck waddled across the stage since he didn't take his pants off, he just dropped them around his ankles. The priest of Tarim has a lackey take Cerebus into the lair of Necross and it doesn't go too well.

Yikes. I'm more evil than this guy.

Sometimes I run outside in the morning to throw out garbage or something and I won't put my pants on. I figure it doesn't matter too much because I wear boxers and those are pretty much shorts. But today in the early morning hours, I was outside with my cat Gravy (on a leash) and I was up on the little hill in the backyard under the tree which enables me to see over all the backyard fences and two houses down, I caught sight of the woman there running back inside in her red panties. It was pretty awesome. I told that story because this guy's confession of looking down women's dresses reminded me of the moment and also because I wanted to tell people that I saw a woman in her underwear. This guy also confesses to having "impure thoughts about farm animals" which I totally have never done except in a rhetorical or theoretical or maybe even philosophical conversation. What I mean is I've never thought "I wonder what it would be like to fuck a goat?" but I have said to friends "You would probably fuck a goat, right?" Necross the Mad materializes so that he can speak with Cerebus (after disintegrating the guy who wants to fuck goats or sheep or chickens). Necross, being mad, decides to prove to Cerebus that he isn't mad. But his proof that he isn't mad is just more evidence that he is. That's what happens when you're mad; you're not the best advocate for yourself. Necross introduces Cerebus to Thrunk, a sixteen foot tall stone golem which Necross intends to bring to life at some point. That some point is soon and not in the way Necross intended because in a few pages, Necross is going to be killed and do an emergency transfer of his spirit into Thrunk.

Okay, less of an emergency transfer and more like an accident.

The priest's mob rushes into the tower where Thrunk begins to smash them all into jelly. While that's happening, Cerebus decides it's time to leave. As he wanders away to more sane territories, Necross the Mad realizes he's trapped in the only reinforced room of his tower. But if you think that's the end of Thrunk, you haven't read Church & State yet! Aardvark Comments just proves that a lot of people were discovering that Cerebus was one of the best comics on the market in 1979. Reading the Cerebus phone book in one sitting never allowed me to realize just how quickly this comic book finds itself and begins gaining momentum. It's truly inspired that Dave Sim, by issue thirteen, has created so many wonderful characters and written so many gags that stuck for decades inside my head. And I'm not a quote person at all! I'm more the type who thinks saying something new and unique and true to myself is dozens of times better than puking out some pop culture reference that everybody will recognize. Sure, I do it sometimes! But when I do, I do it all M. Night Shyamacock style! Cerebus #13 Rating: B+. I've given a lot of issues A grades so I thought I would change it up. This one is actually probably an A as well. I especially loved how Thrunk complains about the bottoms of his feet being sticky after stomping all of the farmers to death. We all how annoying that is, right?

[blankdblank]

Glass Heart Pt 2

Pt 1 was part of @sdavid09 52 wk prompt challenge

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@love-of-fandoms, @aspiringtranslator, @lilith15000, @howdoistopadulting, @himoverflowers

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Shouts were heard across many a dinner table sharing the news of your thievery with many determined to go over and give you a piece of their mind on disturbing family relics. Only in their way over to see the land themselves only to freeze seeing the returned statues glowing in the early morning sun, clearly polished and pampered better than any had imagined.

Around them a clear set of indented paths and odd pits, upon further inspection of a bribed teen, each were filled with a layer of layered stones sealing in the sides of the deepest ones you had secured into place with oddly crossed metal pipes clearly linking them.

Between the smaller dips with raised frames clearly filled with layered stones in thick walls in the form of large planters dividing the clear pathways in the odd maze of a garden left to dry without shifting without your supervision. At the base of the largest circle a clear miniscule slope was uncovered feeding into a dip around the edges under the lowest step with pipes folded over the steps now with an odd steak the end was tied to leaving the elders to assume it was a planned marker for a drainage pump. The clear improvement in just a day left them baffled as to what you could finish with by the end of the week if you had done all this nearly alone in one day.

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A long morning of work later and the new metal shingle roof was in place through your castle ending your team repairs on that for the time being until the guys were available in another months time to help swap out the wiring, plumbing and paneling throughout. Alone again you made the long walk back to your rental where you left your boots outside when you had knocked them on the front walk, showering in as hot water as you could muster up you felt your body relaxing you onto your next step. Dried off and pulling on a fresh pair of jeans over your matching set of lingerie you had been meaning to try out in public possibly able to flash a strap of your shoulder when the shoulder of your loose t shirt would drop to the side.

In your car however in the drive through the main square you caught glances of symbols forming the word ‘Shuktu’ above the doors used to mean ‘Kin Only’ when placed that way. Holding back your urge to cry you continued on driving ignoring the stares of the Dwarves pretending not to notice your presence there. From what you could remember Dale was a good two hour drive making you mumble to yourself, “Guess that takes ice cream out of the picture…”

Two hours out of your way brushing your wall of curls from your face you strolled through the lot of the shop collecting a cart along the way. Simple spare soaps and toiletries were gathered along with a cooler you would fill with ice. Barely half an hour later you had all you’d dream of needing and you collected your ice on the way out. You had stuck to mainly pasta, sauces, gravy mixes, bags of potatoes and vegetables able to handle the ride home with a risked try for a roll of hamburger, bag of fries and a box of creamsicles and milk in the cooler.

An obscenely long drive back you were elated to find the frozen items and milk still good for your first trip inside to unload it all. In the light of the sunset you started to pull together a simple pasta dinner that you ate while sipping on an alcoholic lemonade you sat back on the floor against the front of the couch watching some obscure film on a classic log tossing team. A ring from your phone broke your attention and you eyed the screen lighting up with another call from your ex you declined.

In its vanishing you eyed the messages on your screen from your cousin Lei and various relatives scolding you on your abrupt departure and the drastic demotion your ex had gotten. Wryly you chuckled and took another sip of your drink, “Ooh, that should sting.”

A skype call came in and you smirked seeing your friend’s face pop up. “Jaqi! There you are!”

With a giggle you gave a finger wave in return to hers, “Here I am.”

“You are ok? I heard from Daddy what happened. You’re not holed up in some motel, are you? Because we have a great number of properties you know you’re welcome to.”

You shook your head, “No. Staying in a place I rented, friend of my uncles on my dad’s side. Helping out with some family stuff. Looking close to a year, possibly for good if things work out.”

“Oh.” She pouted then asked with a playful grin, “Any cute guys out there?”

You giggled and lowered your drink from another sip, “Remember my Prince of Scowls?”

With a giddy squeal, “How is he?! Is he single?! How does he look?!”

You giggled again, “No idea if he’s single, he’s drop dead gorgeous and moody as ever.”

She chuckled, “Ooh, what is it with you and your weakness for scowls.”

You shrugged, “Just the Dwarf in me. Can’t help it. Meaner the scowl the more protective and snuggly they are.” Making her giggle as you did in delving more into her weeks of traveling she had planned ahead for her photography career for a top fashion magazine. For hours you chatted until you had cleaned up your dishes and sprinted upstairs to drag your comforter and pillows into the closet you locked to curl up on the floor for the night to hope to get some sleep before starting on making the first of the windows for the castle.

With thousands of windows and stained glass murals for doors and windows alike you had quite a bit to get done but thankfully you had sent ahead for some of the frames for the more intricate locations. Mainly for the windows topped with arches and various awkward shapes to fit in the odd cutouts between the visually confusing shelves covering nearly every inch of the walls you couldn’t wait to fill up again when everything was done.

…

Unable to sleep your eyes opened and you changed your clothes. Strolling out in the dark you found the piles of beams in the shop you loaded up on another cart and pulled along with all the tools you would need under a tall ladder. For hours you worked alone in the dark, starting front the supporting beams you slid the smaller arched beams through the notches into the tops of them. Bracketing down what you needed for extra support. Mentally you held them in place until you could set up the ladder between them to secure the meeting joints. Starting with a single arch in the dark. Under the light of the rising sun the entire area was covered in layered arches forming spiraled domes and smaller beams in the ground for securing points for decorative lattices and plaited walls you would layer climbing vines of flowers that would help to shade flowers needing a break from the harsh summer sun.

When the first of the cars and on foot passers by arrived you were seen in the distance laying a ditch for a stretch of pipes to feed from the branch of the river a mile off. When the beams had been finished you had finished installing the piping inside the full construction. And at the final length of tubing you heard the water rushing through to slowly fill the center section that when the pump was turned on would feed the fountains and sprinkler systems feeding from the smaller raised sections both for floating planters and decorations.

Panting at your glance to the growing crowd your arm rested on your shovel as you wiped your forehead with your free arm streaking a line of dirt across it. Inhaling deeply you turned back to filling the ditch back in with a wave of your hand urging the rolled back grass to settle back into place again. Strolling back to the courtyard you pulled the dirt filled cart over to the first raised planter you started to fill up now that the wooden supports for the properly secured layered stone walls were removed. One by one you pulled it around emptying it into the planters you marked with symbols in chalk to remind you which seeds and bulbs to plant there tonight.

Next your eyes fell to the slabs of unpolished opal you had pulled from the earth you split up into awkwardly aligned pyramids to the distant Dwarves looking on. One by one forming seating sections for those passing through you would finish off later. Barely an hour into the job and a low bellow sounded making you sigh and focus on your work as the Dwarves isn’t he distance flinched and double took between you and the group of massive pitch black mortar bears starting to trot their way over to you. All clearly over six feet tall in their fully grown stature known for their territorial tendencies, though this clan used to the townspeople were rather docile if respected and known to wander from time to time only to be brought back again by members of the Blacklock clan before any incidents would occur.

In the distance a few Dwarves chuckled betting if you could outrun them or not only to fall silent at their leader coming to a stop and strolled straight for you, pressing his forehead to yours in a giggle inducing stroke of his face against yours. Lost to your giggles the Dwarves could not hear in the distance a fur coated arm drew you against his chest for a tight hug you gladly returned mumbling sweetly to him in Bearish, “Hey there Big Bo. At least you remember me.”

The leader once a cub born the day you were now proudly showed you his large brood of sons along with his grand cubs, all at three feet tall already, that came bounding into the courtyard to climb all over you before inspecting the thankfully bear proof structures. Their happiest spot was to climb down into the center circle to splash into the filling pit then bound out to plop and wiggle all over you. Each element of the structure was shown and explained to them earning their awed stares at you in leading them to the greenhouse where you would start next after a stop at the wild beehives your kin tended to in good need of some fresh food sources to survive this year.

Stunned beyond belief at the video captured of your being accepted by the troublesome mortar bears known to dwell in your lands the Dwarves flooded through the town sharing the news puzzling them as to how you managed not to get chased off their lands.

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A single swipe of your hand tore the foliage climbing the greenhouse walls with another after. This one focusing on the sand contained on the glass you tore free leaving the rest of what formed the glass to crumble to the ground you used a rusted snow shovel to scrape to the walls tearing the stubborn plants tearing the stone floor up from its original level places you would focus on removing next. Layering the giant stone tiles outside you returned inside and began to work on leveling the ground while the bears lounged in the green pool of water in the center of the room with the brave birds floating between them to get some relief from the growing heat.

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Coated in sweat you panted hearing a truck backing down your drive up to your studio. “Oh no.” Walking out you removed your gloves you folded in your back pocket on the stroll out to the truck packed with trees and small shrubs, “Blast it all…”

A mix up dates had your trees unloaded into the field by the studio and you inhaled sharply while stretching your arms in the empty truck driving off again. The mixture of orange, lemon, lime, pear, cherry and apple trees sat by the hundred and you exhaled rolling your shoulders to head off to the empty patch of land you would be adding the majority of the citrus trees and at each of the areas you had marked off with the loaded cart packed with trees you forced holes open in the ground the trees were eased into and nestled safely one by one. Staggeringly to the last flickers of light you managed each of the trees into their homes including the final flowering trees and shrubs through the courtyard now taking shape a bit more.

Leaving the rest of the seeds and bulbs you had received while the bees from your hives set out to inspect the new food sources you returned back to your studio. Heavily by the completed wrought iron frame for a special gazebo you settled on your stool and got to shaping each special piece of colored glass to form murals with spinning panels that when hit by rain will sing as the water falls into the flute like tubes below the murals.

The sound of an engine dying and doors opening and closing turned your head to see the dying headlights on a familiar blue truck and with a sigh you turned back to the intricate glass knob you were currently making raising the metal rod to your lips to blow a flame tipped heated breath through it adding a special spiral of flecks through the center. Twisting it around you propped it between your knees grabbing a metal spike you used to work a dipping spiraled head through steady turns of the pole hearing the heavy boots of the men entering while they looked at the vast piles of possible bits for your castle they couldn’t quite work out.

When they stopped they remained silent in hopes of not breaking your focus stirring you to say, “Lovely evening for a drive?”

Balin grinned, “Yes, yes it is. Much cooler now the sun has gone down.”

Thorin nodded then drew in a breath blurting out, “Just what do you imagine you’re doing?”

Blindly you answered in turning the pole again adding the final spiraled dip deepening Balin’s grin, “Making a doorknob. Would you like one?”

“I mean with the statues.”

“Ah.”

Under tightly knit brows his words exploded out of him, “How dare you imagine you can just go and move the founder of the Blacklock clan and his-,”

“Dabondor.”

Thorin, “What?!”

“Dabondor, his name, would you like the names of his bears as well as their unique abilities and gifted knowledge to him?”

Thorin, “Amazing! You can read a book!” At that you lowered your pick wielding hand and turned your head to look up at him with a stoic yet challenged expression Balin nearly stepped back at assuming you would throw something at Thorin, “The matter is no one moves those statues! If necessary only kin is allowed to move them and only under the strictest-,”

“Who told you I’m not?”

“Not what?!”

“Kin? Who told you I’m not?” His lips parted and his gaze darkened, “I was born on this land who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do with it? I know the laws and charters as well as you, Durin.”

“I have lived here for centuries! And never once has there been an Elf born on these lands!”

Softly you replied through a chuckle, “Wow!” His exhaling breath came with a growl and you added, “Are you going to feel like an ass when you remember me.”

“I will not feel like an ass! Because you have never lived here before!”

On his heels he turned and you looked to Balin saying, “I’ve a full stash of honey, if you or even pookie over there would like some-,”

Thorin turned again, “Just because you are managing these lands does not mean you can hand out the clan’s honey! None of my kin will accept anything from the Blacklock hives until it has been handed back to a fully recognized clan member!” he turned for a moment then added, “I am not your pookie!”

You nodded to his back and replied, “Well aren’t you just full of hot air today. Why not put it to good use and blow me?” A smirk was flashed to Balin in his fight not to laugh and keep a steady expression when red faced Thorin turned to see you looking to the fire with pole raised to your lips for another heated breath making it just a bit larger emphasizing the color effects from the swirls.

Thorin, “You have never lived here!”

You nodded again lowering the pole you tapped against the steadying stand making the base of the knob split off freeing it to fall into your palm as you said to Balin, “Let me know about the honey.” Thorin turned to you and you smirked at him grabbing the metal innards of the knob you eased into the heated glass you cooled and sealed around it saying, “Just because you don’t remember me doesn’t mean I didn’t exist. I have a hunch your cousin has a notion who I could be.” Standing up you moved to add the knob to the cushioned box with the others saying as his eyes scanned over your fire lit face urging his body to untense at his first full glimpse of you spreading a greatly despised warmth through his body followed by an urge to move closer to kiss you in your challenging smirk. “I look forward to our next argument upon which I will remain the gracious victor I am. Enjoy your drive pookie.”

Exhaling sharply as you moved to grab another clump of glass to heat up he simply growled and stormed his way to the truck leaving Balin scratching a mental tally in your favor. Stealing a glimpse of your bear print tattoos on your wrist lit by the flames through your nod at his brief wave in trotting over to join his cousin in the truck.

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“The nerve!” Thorin growled out for the fourth time only to look at Balin who was intently looking out his passenger side window to avoid laughing, “You are not accepting that honey!”

Balin nodded, “Whatever you say Thorin.”

“Some nerve! Blow me! She said that! Blow me!”

Balin freed a weak chuckle in answering, “It was a clever pun.”

Thorin narrowed his eyes at his cousin who said, “Did you have to insinuate she was lying about her kin?”

“She is!” At Balin’s pause Thorin’s heart skipped feeling for the first time he might be terribly wrong in his assumption of you. “Who is she then? She said you know who she is, who is she then?!”

Balin simply shook his head knowing the answer he wanted to give would only anger Thorin worse and send him back to you in a rage for the pain he had felt at having lost you in their lives so long ago. “I am uncertain. However,” he turned his head to catch Thorin’s eye in their parking in the driveway of their own castle, “By looks alone she does appear to be a relation of the clan.”

Thorin huffed and killed the engine climbing out of the truck only to slam the door behind him making Balin shake his head, whispering, “Ass, ass, ass.” In his climb out he saw Thorin heading for the door and shook his head remembering the pain and anger in your eyes at his first insult to you.

Inside the door all in a huddle the Durins came into view and Dis asked, “Well, what did she say?”

Thorin promptly fired back a bit louder than he had intended in his lingering rage, “Blow me!”

Diaa’s mouth dropped open and Grandma Niro said, “Thorin Durin!!”

Balin came into view as Thorin stormed up the curved staircase in an angered trot through his cousin saying, “No, Thorin went off on her and she meant it as a pun. She said he was exceptionally full of hot air today and he should put it to good use and blow her, she was blowing out a doorknob.”

At the top of the stairs Thorin shouted, “No one takes her honey!” Turning to storm to his too he shouted, “No Elf has ever been born here!” At his door Balin’s grin split across his face at the final cry of, “Pookie!” The door slammed and Balin broke into a fit of giggles while Fili and Kili did the same.

Diaa came closer as Balin wipes his cheeks, asking him, “What did he mean by no Elf was ever born here?”

“Our tenant claims to have been born on those lands and is part of the Blacklock clan. A claim Thorin adamantly claims to be false. He also issued a ban on is accepting anything from her produced from those lands.”

Niro eyed his expression asking, “And you?”

Balin wet his lips answering in a confirming glance that Thorin wasn’t able to hear, “She stated Thorin would feel like an ass when he remembers her. Inferring she knew us and we knew her,”

Diaa, “Balin, Thorin right?”

Balin, “Thorin is an ass. A terribly well meaning one, but ass none the less.”

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Upstairs through all the stacks of scrapbooks and piles of unsorted pictures Thorin feverishly searched for any sight of any Elves, crossing off all except a single one that seemed similar to you who he couldn’t place. He knew all the former residents of this town and her he recognized but he wasn’t certain how. Assuming a passing visitor he left it to you might have been born in the hospital just within town borders, if anything at all. But under no circumstances were you a resident or relative of any he had known.

Again his mind in moving to sit on his bed to remove his boots, in the firelight flickering across his legs and arms he shook his head forcing his focus off you with that temptingly fiery gaze locked on him. “Pookie.” Muttering it to himself he tossed his boots away into his closet then turned to plop back across his bed in a defeated sigh already doubting his formerly steadfast belief he never knew you. The contrary hurting him all the worse for possibly having missed you and now insulted you so severely to the point he seemed irretrievable.

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Bathed and changed into your comfy sweats you closed your eyes in the dark closet lit only by a glowing fish night light so you wouldn’t slam into the island in your traveling through it. Stretched on your stomach on the inflatable mattress you had bought you raised your comforter higher over your back and tried to force the growling Dwarf from your mind so you could get some well needed rest.

All night and halfway to noon you slept and groggily made your breakfast that would fuel you the rest of the day and into the night. Another long stroll found you back at your studio on the edge of an incoming storm. Heavily the rain pounded and your new trees soaked in the water and stretched out their roots claiming their own spaces while you slaved away on your glass gazebo. On the edge of another storm when you had finished another project you made a brief night covered trip to the Durin castle. A simple bag was left hanging from the handle and you turned to make the walk back, returning in time for the first drops of the storm to fall while you returned your focus to the windows for the castle.

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Heavily Fili and Kili came crashing down onto their sleeping Uncle, who jolted to consciousness as the rest of his relatives all poured in to join in on the hug. Chuckling to himself Thorin pulled out of bed and found his feet to join the other into the dining room to enjoy his birthday breakfast. After the meal as always he was led into the living room where he opened each of the presents offered to him from his various relatives then paused at the final one from Dis.

“Who is this from?” Thorin’s eyes met hers with an arched brow at the small yellow bag.

Dis shrugged, “It was on the handle when I went to check the mail.”

Thorin’s eyes lowered and he set the bag on his thigh and reached inside finding a small box covered with etchings of a phrase through outlines of clouds and a sideways crescent moon. ‘If you don’t know where you’re going then any road will get you there.’

Lowly he repeated the phrase then eyed the spinning lock on the front he shifted revealing a rounded tail in a half circle that when raised revealed the body of a cat crouching lifting the lid his lips parted in seeing the glass figurine inside the blue velvet lined box. On the inside of the lid was a slip of paper with roses doodled around the elegantly written note of, ‘To spark your memory here’s a clue. Many Happy Returns Pookie.’

Unable to be furious at the moment he raised the figurine of the Cheshire Cat with head propped up on his little arms tail raised cockily through his wide grin. Balin with a smirk asked, “Any idea on who sent it?”

Lowering it back into the box he answered, “Our tenant.”

Balin chuckled nodding his head to the gift, “Quite a gift. Some might say she’s sweet on you with efforts like that.”

Thorin rolled his eyes and locked the box again his fingers eased across the lid of, “Her intention is to taunt me. A note inside says it’s supposed to be a clue.”

Dis, “Clue?”

Thorin sighed, “To who she is.” Standing up he cradled the box in his hand, “I’m going to head to my studio. Get an early start.”

Niro hurried over to steal another hug, “Don’t you forget about dinner tonight. All your favorites.”

Thorin nodded and chuckled, “I won’t.” Moving past her in the dispersing of the group while Balin wondered just what else was on that note to keep him from showing it off and smirked to himself seeing Thorin’s care in handling the stunningly crafted gift.

Up to his studio he glanced out the wall of windows aimed straight out to the fold of two peaks coated in trees leading to your rental cottage blocked by the growing storm outside. Another sigh left him as he sat at his sketching table and set down your gift again, carefully inspecting every inch of it after setting the figurine aside. Lowly in a hum he mumbled, “No manufacturing markers.” His eyes focused for a moment on the small bear print with an Elvish rune inside of it for the word ‘Pear’ freeing a confused hum from him before he turned to the figurine to do the same noting the intricate details put into it and a similar stamp of the same paw and rune combination. Setting it inside the box again he pulled out the note he read then flipped over then sighed only seeing more doodles of roses across the back. “Why would she make this?”

Shaking his head he put the note back and closed the box then rolled to his clay figurine rolling up his sleeves to start up on the final touches of it before he would go through the process of casting the copper statue he was tasked to bring to life from a child’s sketch. In the middle of the casting process when he was left with nothing to do but wait he did what he always did, turn to a spare bit of clay and begin to shape blindly allowing his hands and subconscious to lead him.

A sounding of his alarm to remind him of dinner snapped him out of his daze and in his eyes focusing on the sharpened tool in his fingers he eyed the familiar pouting lips he was shaping. Taking in the full face he had been shaping he sat up flinching his hands back seeing your face with loose curls cascading around it stemming form the unshaped back half of the clay. Shaking his head he stood leaving his tool with the others and turned the carving around exhaling steadily knowing his mind had wandered as his dreams had entertaining Balin’s belief you might actually care for him in all his irritating idiotic wonder. In a quick turn he grabbed your gift he carried through the castle to his room to set it on his dresser where he was certain it wouldn’t get knocked around then showered and changed to head down to dinner.

Pt 3

[deviationdivine]

Caustic Salvation (RK900!Prompt Request! w/Connor)

TLDR: Never made to love, he simply destroys to accomplish his mission...

Word Count: 3,381 

TW: Heavy Angst, Pining, Character Death, Allusions to Smut

A/N: Follower/Reader Appreciation Drabble | Prompt: “Did you really think I loved you?” - @your-taxidermy request! This turned into some fierce angst I couldn’t let go and a bit of a triangle. Thanks for participating sweetie! Hope you like! If there’s errors I’ll fix them but I need to post this. I’m actually proud of this one.

“I want to take you somewhere. Private and reserved for no one but us.”

 Affection. 

How you long to hear it pass his cold lips. Molding as a notch in a slot connecting to seal what once burns aflame. Even chilly his kiss retains warmth spreading a righteous inferno. 

If ice can conduct heat then his eyes are a source of comfort. Impenetrable to everyone else around him but hauntingly open to you there is shock in his amiable introduction. It is there. 

Underneath all his stoicism, serious facade beats a heart of a man. To you he has a heart, a tin man who captures yours from the beginning. A man not an android because he is much more. 

You tell him this. He politely if curtly declines small talk. That is how it starts. 

It builds until there is nothing left to hold back. As much as you were close to Connor friendship became the pinnacle between. Nines, however, he opens floodgates and swamps the tender emotion hiding inside. 

Why does a light gather towards darkness? How can something soft coexist with an indurate stone? 

The anchor steadies you. There is serenity in stability. Somehow, you did not think to find such and most of all not with him. However, it happens. Whether it is realized or not, slowly but surely Nines creeps into your lonely life.

“Are you a quiet storm brewing in the substructure of circuits and wires or a gentle breeze fluttering around a crescendo of my heart?”

“I will be whatever you want me to be.” 

  Promises sweet they are a line of life. How delicate in need this fairy tale blooms but all at once it becomes so clear. As a sunny morn bathing the world in light and vanquishing the dark. Yet, still an edge tingles upon mechanical digits twisting your dainty strings. 

Are you merely brittle, shaving off piece by piece carved by your lover’s command? Or simply lost amid constant craving by heart’s demand? 

Your heart sings for those nights stowed away from rest of the world. They are silent. Only sound between two pairs of ears, one far more advanced than the other but equally perked together. 

His kiss is molten. Shivering tempestuous, cradling you for the first time. It is your first moment of intimacy.

Quietly fuming down in the evidence room, attempting to get some extra files looked at and isolation stabbed at you. It was colder in a way. Without anyone to offer company, no husky voice of Connor and crooked goofy smiles to placate this overlong work week.

You assumed you were alone. Then…then you were not.

Nines scared you to death. Quickly recovering it was then the building attraction reacted. Pulled together you were two magnets in the night, metallic energy, sweeping you into strong arms but never crushing.

Instead this kiss crushed you in many ways. It crushed your dream of Connor that will never be. It was never his fault. If you had to be his friend the rest of your life that was enough for you.

RK900 blazed in to sweep you off your feet. Seemingly he had done that, unknowingly you had succumbed to the most terrible plot of all.

  “He is not what he appears, Y/N. Believe me.”

“No. Connor, please! Just stop. Stop…”

  What is wrong with Connor? Why is he acting like this? Now of all the times he could’ve showed some type of interest, he does it after finding out you and Nines are dating.

It hurts. To believe the one boy who never in a million years would do anything to make you unhappy and this happens. Jealousy is not real. He’s only doing this because he’s not the only android detective now.  

That is what you believe. Nines makes sure you do.

“Do not allow the opinions of others to taint what we have, Y/N.” The RK900 spins words of comfort. Craving such affection, he readily offers because it is the greatest benefit for his objective.

“But Nines he doesn’t mean anything.”

Standing up for Connor causes a curious reaction in the superior android. A first blinding sign of software instability…

“Nines?” Quietly gaining his attention, brushing fingers down his chest, the soft sweater rests firmly beneath your touch. He stills with a stroke of palm and tugs you close.

Devouring your mouth, slipping smooth tongue through the warm cavern between parted lips claims you out of spite. As a machine pretending he does not require validity. 

However, there is an urge to lift your body away and ravish every inch. Witnessing Connor’s reaction would please him to no end.

Machines do not feel pleasure. It does not stop his need to taunt the RK800. The idea will bring him great satisfaction. Little does this impeccably advanced model realize in this moment you already begin the spread into his system.

  “What are you doing?” 

“Ending this charade.” 

  Sweetness turns bitter, poisoning both mind and body. This is where your heart dies. Withered away a tainted apple eaten down to its core and burrowing out the other side by a ferocious worm.

Everything is blood, tears and anguish. Bleakest night in a thousand nights as darkness casts over Detroit. Nines is no longer stark white and majestic. He is pitch black and the soul reaver.

“Connor was right,” you whisper regretful. Pain consumes more than is bearable because what once gave so much takes everything away in a snap. 

RK900 does not flinch. Ultimately he discovers no amount of remorse in these actions. This was his plan all along. There is no turning back.

Strewn upon empty warehouse floor, tears cascade in a glistening symphony of despair. Shed for your precious Connor. Shed for the RK800 whose seeming uninterest pushed you into the arms of a white demon, thirium staining jacket, the essence of his target. Murdered in the most horrible place he could have been.

Defunct Cyberlife Tower makes for an ironic location. He led Connor here. The deviant took the bait.

Nothing may be here any longer but that does not mean Cyberlife is gone. They are still operating undercover. He is their agent of stealth moving through shadow, blending with humans as a deviant android. Nothing at all is deviant in him. Even if you tried to cause glitches in his software he is too strong to be fooled.

“Nines! I know you wouldn’t do this!” 

Begging is a pitiful display he ignores. Saccharine protests echo in a hollow tin. No longer full of thousands, androids awaiting release of merchandise, released instead by RK800-51. 

Designated Connor model #313-248-317 came under swift destruction when RK900-87 struck out in his completion. Mission successful flickered in his syntax until a glaring shift took over. Another influx of software instability shudders but not in guilt over accomplishing assassination of Cyberlife’s original prototype. 

Your face blinds following the splatter of thirium. Lodging a bullet in the brain of android you truly love. He knows this. He understands deciphering interactions at the DPD, watching careful for a slip to slither in and compromise.

It is easy. While naivety shrouds the clarity of the RK800’s return in affection for you, RK900 coils into favor. Using the inane lack of confidence in yourself to benefit him, Nines begins a careful tug. Slipping in concern about state of being following late nights at work; Connor would do this. The newer model would watch a private talk between you two, smiles and laughs.

An opening came when Connor is stuck out late with Hank Anderson. Specifically assigned cases to the department’s best in android crime affairs they are out more often. Nines slithers into your orbit, piece by piece planting doubts to the closeness you share with the other android.

After all, Connor does not love you that way. The RK900 hints as much. He purposely inflates your misleading thoughts on the matter. That is how he snares. It is how he begins to get close to that one thing that will give him a clear victory.

Here in the now the handgun aims directly at your head. Ice narrows straight down the barrel as you continue to grovel for him.

“Th-there’s something wrong.” Suggesting quickly it’s the only explanation to this. Maybe there is a virus in his system. It might have altered his perception and changed him in some horrible way.

Is that what Connor meant? No. No, he-he meant something else didn’t he? 

Please. Please, don’t destroy this. This is everything. It was everything. You gave all knowing each outcome may be riddled in hardships. A human-android relationship is difficult in hindsight even whence this all blew over. You thought this before him with Connor. That was only a pipe dream. A beautiful boy like him would never love you but tonight –

It would have worked; no longer running in fear but Nines was not there during. 

The RK900 came after. He is still shunned by those who accepted Connor. Is this why? How can it be an answer when he threatens you? When he-he did this to Connor!

Nines loves you. This is what he spoke softly in nights of passion.

  “Can you love, Nines?”

“I can love you.” 

  “Nines, please,” a gasp shatters composure as everything snaps. 

A bundle of energy expels between two bodies. You scratch nails into his shoulder blades marking synthetic skin for only a short time. The trophies of love will fade but they will never fade from you. 

The android groans barely audible below your ear. Hips lie snugly between your thighs pushed to the hilt amid your warmth. 

Stirring a deep response out of his metal frame, Nines traces fingers along the length of your body. Sweaty beneath him as a pause in the strenuous evening satiates even a race of hearts. 

He feels more against his chest pressing atop yours. A human thrum flutters not quite in sync with his regulator but touching in harmony. Only a sheet of metal covered in liquid, pale skin separates the most machine parts of him from your delicate humanity. Many things are feeble in his eyes. That is how they are made but this-this surges within at an alarming rate. 

As much he will like to stop it is too far along. He is too far into this ruse. The more it sticks to synthetic skin, RK900 loses another edge. Dulling blades and softening him is not part of the plan.

Only the mission matters. He takes you to infiltrate personal space. Staying with you even though he is not required to fall into comfort; pillow talk, as it is called, loosens those lips in detail.

Kissing them now seals another step. Seduction enraptures intricately around your heart. Easily giving over to him because of the love you honestly crave, thought lost in the footsteps of Connor and Nines takes advantage. Nines embraces you sweetly to fill a falsity.

He is sweet only in protocol. Programming himself, pulling upgrades into the equation, drawing him ever closer into the fold of the DPD.

You grant him this proximity. You place the bull’s eye onto his target without knowing.

As you return to slumber this first eve of lovemaking, android lying beside, threading an arm to keep you close for an image desired, RK900 stares blankly into the void. The machinery in his head hypothesizes, constructs steps and analyzes every outcome to fulfilling the mission.

It is then he closes eyes. LED blinks amber before steadying but it is not stasis he falls back to.

  “RK900. Tell me of your status.”

“Things are going remarkably well, Amanda. It is only a matter of time.”

Time does not exist in the zen garden. Unchanged since Connor’s disconnect, blooming anew with a more powerful source. Connection to their highest of upgrades the RK900 breathes this fresh landscape grown over last tendrils of ice from whence RK800 escaped.

He offers shade to Amanda. Hoisting umbrella above to blot out speckles of rain, he moves steadfast beside the petite master program, listening intently as a machine who should obey.

“What about the human?” She asks, intent solely held with the dark opaque of her scrutinizing gaze. “This relationship. Do you feel it is a necessary step in order to complete your mission?”

The android shifts stopping upon the arch curve of bridge. Rain begins pouring heavier in time with his hesitation. 

“It is necessary,” he decides. “I will use this to advance the current stage of my infiltration. The RK800 will be destroyed. As you order, Amanda.”

  “Why did Cyberlife really send you? When the revolution is won?”

“Careful who you question, Connor.”

  Careful eludes his inferior. Nines’ warning seems futile. In the fight it begins equal both RK800 and RK900 locked to the death. It becomes clear even for this android that fakes deviancy, pulls tender threads from your human vessel only to use to get closer. You and the RK800 are close but not in a lover capacity. That is why the newer model inches his way into your pathetic heart. 

It is far too simple. You make his mission easier. After all it is you who ultimately offers inside information on Connor’s schedule. Living a fabricated life in viral disease; he takes every bit from you. 

You are also the reason Lt. Anderson lies in a puddle of his own blood. Another human obstacle who saw fit to suspect RK900 of nefarious means early on his arrival. It did not take long for him to convince Connor. Then he attempted to warn you but of course denial is what you love. As he represents that and more but no machine can love. 

No machine will truly feel. He fakes this but a small spark of pleasure seeps in. Physically from those times playing the perfect lover but also mentally.

Shoving it in the face of the RK800 placates him. It stirs dominance, smug self worth. He enjoys the obvious jealousy that rages behind the deviant android’s eyes.

Perhaps if your pitiful self esteem did not keep you from discovering the obvious love this defective android held for you. Then you may be spared. Only to accomplish to his mission strictly set by his creators. Masters of the artificial intelligence, branding him the most acclaimed and he will never fail.

He did not fail. A tough battle leads to one calculated aim.

Connor fights for you, to protect you from what he knows is to come but his emotion derails him. The original android sent by Cyberlife missteps because of his love, his fear for you.

That is what killed him.

  “I’m so sorry, Connor! I-I love you. I loved you so much.”

“We both know what you really loved. You loved me. A ruthless machine.”

  Everything burns in your vision. Breath stagnant, chest pounding and thirium staining fingers. Where you cradled Connor’s head once discovering his body sprawled upon floor. Shining, echoing in fast paced steps, dropping to knees frantic and searching for a sign. 

Only glassy chocolate bore into the void. A gaping hole trickles eternal blue where his deviant life snuffed from one direct shot. 

Even now fingers latch onto Connor’s jacket. Pulling at him in desperation knowing why he tried to warn you. He did love you. Why couldn’t you see? If you did – things would be so different. Turning back the shades of time is a fantasy because nothing will erase what has come to pass. Nothing will bring this sweet boy back. Connor died a true death. His deviant self is gone and frankly you find yourself gone with him.

Ra9 save his soul. Please, please, please don’t let him fade away. His soul was beautiful. Please!

“Time for tears are over, Y/N.” Nines interrupts your quiet mourning, devastation forcing a tremor in your frame. “Did you really think I loved you? It is time I finish. I am after all the RK900. Faster, stronger, more efficient. I am the android sent by Cyberlife.”

Cyberlife!

You spit on them. Monsters that hide somewhere unknown but this horrible place is a reminder. Connor was here once. He came to free his people. Now he lies dead! Dead in their domain where they bore him out some nightmare laboratory!

Yet, his face is still serene. He can no longer see or smile but nothing will change. Forever a kind, awkward boy who loves dogs; you lean forward to place lips against his cheek, kissing a freckle as the sobs pour over.

Let this be a mercy. As everything falls back to that time of terror before revolution’s end take this villainy away. Allow a bathe into light, the same kind that shone in soft brown eyes. Let it be good when you awake you again. Maybe this time it will be what is right in front. Maybe then Connor will be alive. Even so at what cost? Why? 

“Cyberlife will never win.” 

Strength exudes as you look into the face of the man, no the heartless machine that you stupidly gave your heart to. When all you had to do was look at Connor, his sweet smiles in deviancy, his warmth despite his design to do exactly what Nines is now; Connor became alive. He became sweet and a place to feel safe. 

Friendship began this and there is where it ended. Foolish you never thinking, never dreaming or hoping Connor will see you more. Then it was too late. Far gone this thought and prayer… 

All that remains is a hole in the heart and a desolate stare outwardly to your fate. Raising a chin now brings tear stained streaks, bloodshot eyes onto that face almost identical but harsher, wider and a seal of death. 

“Just do it, Nines!” You scream, fury overtaking sadness, betrayal and heartache. Oh so much you ache. For this so-called love and-and for your sweet Connor. 

“End me,” you plead. “I want to be with him! I just want to be with Connor now.”

Nines’ digits loosen the tiniest of margins on weapon. A sow of doubt in his programming? Fight to retain his machine persona over needles of deviancy, he cannot allow this disease. You are viral. Contagious! 

You-you rather the corpse of a defective cretin over what he is! Filthy deviant! RK900 will not follow footsteps of the RK800. He will do what he failed to do. Amanda will not be disappointed in him! 

“Then go,” the android sneers, LED ablaze in sickening scarlet. “Go and be with your RK800! There is no heaven for androids, Y/N.”

A smile draws the lips upon your face. Smiling in the face of everything torn apart but still you hold even then. 

“Oh, yes there will be,” so sure the breath escapes that it fills you with a final instance of peace. “Because he was alive. He was an angel. And you won’t stop me finding him there.” 

RK900′s facade cracks following the resounding bang of gunshot ending not only your life but contagion. As he lowers the caliber weapon he cannot tear eyes from the still form. Defiant even this truth your life ebbs away but you still find a place to fall, slumped atop Connor’s chest. 

Human and android lying dead, blue and red mixing a palette of violet; the moment everything clears a faint smile remains upon your lips. 

“I’ll be with him, Nines.”

A phantom echo dissolves his stiff posture. Your voice sticks. It is spreading throughout circuitry, buzzing in mockery. In the end there is incompletion to his mission.

The last laugh against what Nines did to you. Happy to die for a deviant!

He digs fingers into his coffee colored hair, attempting to dig, peel synthetic scalp apart and dismantle an urgent transmission of deviancy. Software warnings pop into vision blurring your peaceful position resting eternally upon his predecessor, inferior and obsolete. Yet, it is still enough for you to crave an end to torment to meet him again.

RK900 screams out in this torrent of infection lying dormant since the first time he became one with your human flesh. It rips him apart bringing him down to knees in a static bellow.

Slowly but surely this instability you leave harboring inside like a symbiotic pest will fry the circuits of brain and drive him viciously insane.  

Tag List: @elydith  @your-taxidermy

[cave-of-the-owl-witch]

Changes

((Under a cut for length.))

The air in the meeting hall was tense and confused as the gathered volunteers murmured amongst themselves. The crowd was small this year; not as small as it had been in years prior, but it still left a lot to be desired. Hushed conversations echoed off the candlelit walls and diffused into the room as ambient whispers as the gathered Elves waited for Topaz and Ivy to enter. What was going on? The First of December had come and past more than a week ago...

Jubilee was among the crowd this year, just as she had been every year for over a century. She was joined by Anise and Melody as usual, but not by Harmony; she was too busy for Wish Duty, ever since she had signed on with the Tin Soldiers. It was a choice the whole family had resented at first, but over these past few years, she had proven herself capable and they had all come to terms with it. Still, it hadn’t felt quite right showing up for Wish Duty without her.

Of course, nothing about this year felt quite right, as the minutes ticked by and the Elders responsible for the raffle-- and this meeting-- still hadn’t appeared. Jubilee’s ears twitched as she rocked on her heels, casting anxious glances at her sisters. They returned hers with equally anxious glances of their own. She frowned, chewing at her lip, and faced forward again. A few more minutes crawled by at subsonic speed.

“If I leave, will you guys fill me in later?” Melody muttered. Anise half-heartedly swatted her arm with the sleeve of her sweater.

“Stop,” she chided. Mel stuck her tongue out at her like a child.

Finally, two ancient-looking Elves took the stage: a round-faced little man with sparkling eyes, wispy white hair, and deep smile lines-- Elder Topaz-- and a sharp-looking woman with horn-rimmed glasses, and steely grey hair done up in a bun-- Elder Ivy. The two shared a final glance with each other as the rest of the Elves went silent.

“Good evening, everyone,” Ivy began, her voice magically amplified, “and thank you all for coming out tonight. We’re sure you have a lot of questions regarding this year’s Wish Duty.”

There was a murmur of consensus throughout the crowd, and Jubilee’s ears twitched again in anticipation.

“Now, I know you’ve all been waiting too long already, but we’re going to have to ask you to hold those questions until we’ve finished.”

The crowd seemed less enthused about this.

“The thing is,” Topaz added, “Ivy an’ I have been talkin’, an’ we’ve decided to make a few changes to how things’re done. The first o’ which bein’-- now don’t lose yer heads when I say this-- the first o’ which bein’ that we’re doin’ away with the raffle.”

Despite his plea, there was a chorus of gasps and muttered words of disbelief. Ivy gave him a look.

“Yes, we’re doing away with the raffle. But Wish Duty is not going anywhere. We’ve decided to test out a new system this year.”

The crowd shifted, almost seeming to breathe a collective sigh of relief.

“See, volunteer numbers have been... up an’ down the last few years, an’ sometimes that means there’s only a few dozen raffle winners. Imagine, a few dozen out of the thousands o’ folks on the Nice List! So we got to thinkin’, why don’t we try an’ grant wishes for as many o’ them as possible? Instead of spendin’ the whole month with one person in one place, why not wander around an’ see how many people we can help?”

“So what we’ve done is put together an R&D team to create these.” As she spoke, Ivy produced a smooth, white stone, roughly the size and shape of a snowball. “I trust that many of you have seen the humans’ Christmas specials, yes? And the one in particular where The Boss keeps an eye on things with a magic snowball? This here is more or less the same concept. It was hewn from the depths of the Ice Caves and enchanted several times over, allowing us to check a person’s Naughty or Nice status in real time. We have one here for each of you, and if things go well this year, we’ll have even more in supply to meet future demand!”

Another chorus of gasps and murmurs swept through the crowd, this time very much awed and excited. Ivy shot Topaz a somewhat smug smile, which he returned with a genuine grin.

“That’s why this year’s announcement took so long; we needed to make sure there were enough o’ these to go around!” he chuckled. “Can’t very well send ye out with no way o’ knowin’ what’s what!”

“Indeed, we can’t have you out there under prepared. Which brings me to our next point: this should probably go without saying, but don’t forget to travel with a glamour up. Even with the Snowballs, accidents and misunderstandings can still happen. Use your best judgement.”

The crowd sobered a little, and there were some murmurs of agreement.

“Good. Now we will open the floor to questions.”

A dozen hands shot up, Jubilee’s included. Topaz pointed to a squat, stocky Elf near the front. “Yes, Flint?”

“So... we can go anywhere? Just pick a point on the map and start from there?”

“Well... yes. That’s pretty much what we’re sayin’. Places ye’ve been, places ye haven’t been-- just don’t everybody bunch up in the same places. I don’t wanna hear that all o’ ye wound up in New York City or the Bahamas. In fact, it may be best if no one stays in the same place for too long.”

A few hands went down.

“Next question,” Ivy called. “How about... Lingonberry.”

A doe-eyed Elf beside Anise asked, “Um... are we allowed to visit people we’ve granted wishes for before? That is, um.... if maybe we know they could still use the help...?”

“I don’t see why not. Although, I would still suggest that priority goes to somebody new. It’s fine if you want to visit and catch up, and help out where you know help is needed, but if you linger too long, that sort of defeats the purpose of the new model.”

A few more hands went down.

“Yes, Briar?” Ivy said, gesturing to a lanky Elf with glasses.

“How exactly do the Snowballs work?”

“I’m glad you asked. We were actually going show you after questions. That is... if that’s all of them?”

All the other hands went down, Jubilee’s included.

“Splendid! That’s just lovely!” Topaz said with a wiggle, rubbing his hands together.

Ivy motioned to someone backstage, and a cart full of Snowballs was wheeled out. “If you’ll all line up stage left, we’ll pass these out and show you how to attune them.”

None of the volunteers needed to be told twice, and with a bit of fumbling and disorganization, eventually managed to form a line along the wall. Like many of the Eves around them, the three sisters were all grinning from ear to ear.

“Har’s going to be so jealous! First place I’m headed is Brazil, then maybe Hawai’i, Costa Rica-- oh! Christmas Island! How funny would it be to spend Christmas on sunny Christmas Island?” Melody tittered, earning another-- albeit more playful-- swat from Anise.

“Maybe she’ll finally take time off and come back to Wish Duty next year,” Anise laughed. “Especially if you bring her a souvenir.”

“I’ll send her a postcard from everywhere I go,” she replied wickedly.

Jubilee laughed at the both of them and rolled her eyes. “What about you, An? Anywhere jumping out at you immediately?”

“Yeah, anywhere special you want to take Lingonberry?” Mel chimed in. Anise flushed bright pink.

“Hush! She’s right there, you know,” she protested, gesturing a couple spots ahead of them. “Just because you’re excited is no reason to be a brat.”

“Why not? I bet Jubi’s off to that Wasteland place to see Copernicus!”

“Hey!”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“...Probably, at some point,” Jubilee begrudgingly admitted. Melody crossed her arms in satisfaction. “Not immediately, though. I was thinking I might go someplace new first.”

“Like where?” Anise pressed.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just close my eyes and point to a place at random.”

“That could be fun. I was thinking maybe Finland or Canada; someplace that’s still close enough to the Arctic Circle that it’s mostly dark, that way even as it gets closer to the new moon, I’ll still have a bit of extra power left.”

“Oh, good thinking!”

“You sure you don’t want to go to Paris? It is for lovers, you know,” Mel teased.

“I swear, if you don’t cut it out I’m going to dunk you like a cookie.” This earned Anise a few giggles from the both of them.

As they chatted away, the line grew shorter and shorter, and they came closer and closer to the stage. Jubilee watched Topaz and Ivy walk her sisters through the attunement, practically wiggling with excitement as she waited for her turn. The process went quickly, and soon she was standing in front of Topaz, her new Snowball in her hand.

“Now, what yer goin’ to want to do, Jubilee, is hold it in both hands. It’s dead simple, really; just let your magic flow from one hand, through the Snowball, an’ into the other. Once it glows with yer colour, that’s it! You’ll be able to activate it just by holding it up an’ thinkin’ about the person in question.”

She did as he instructed, and found he was right; it was dead simple. It only took a moment for the Snowball to glow her signature light blue.

“That’s it! Wonderful! Now go on an’ head out; there’s only fifteen days left until Christmas, y’know!”

“Will do! Thanks!” she called over her shoulder as she went to join her sisters. Just as she got there, Melody vanished ins a swirl of violet sparks. Before she could ask, Anise explained,

“I told her that you guys can go on ahead. I’ll let everyone else know what’s up.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Of course! Besides, I do want to talk to Lingon and see about meeting up once or twice.”

“Right, gotcha,” Jubi laughed. “Tell everyone I said bye, then.”

“Will do.”

And with that, Jubilee did as she said she was going to. She closed her eyes, pointed to a spot on the map that hung on the wall, and that was where she headed.

[sholiofic]

Er. So. First of all, I posted a de-aging fic for Danny a little while back, in which Danny is five years old but still has his adult memories (with all the trauma THAT implies). In the comments, @asofterhibou​ suggested de-aged Ward. Well, specifically:

I had the horrifying thought of what if Ward was the five-year-old the next day, but that is almost TOO heart-breaking. Like I can only imagine that the first half hour is just Ward curled up in a ball under the hotel room bed while Danny lies on the floor and talks quietly to him to get him to come out.

I swear I was just going to write a couple paragraphs of this, and then suddenly there was like 1900 words of it. (I’m not really sure if this is canon relative to the other fic; it’s more like a what-if spun off from it.)

Seeing Ward as a small child was almost too strange. Danny didn't remember him like this at all. Their five-year age difference had loomed impossibly huge in their shared childhood; his earliest memories of Ward were of the other boy being so much bigger that he might as well have been a grown-up, a source of both torment and protection, fear and comfort. Danny had been scared of him and admired him in equal measure.

It was an extremely disconcerting perspective shift to suddenly be the bigger one, the older one; it was hard to see Ward as a little kid and not see a ghost of the adult Ward superimposed over it, like looking at childhood photos of your parents.

Not that Danny had seen much of him yet, since Ward had been curled up under the bed for most of the last hour. He wasn't crying -- in a way, Danny thought it would have been less worrying if he was crying. At least it would have been more normal five-year-old behavior. Instead he was just curled up shivering. Ward's adult memories weren't something that Danny would wish on his worst enemy, let alone on a little kid.

Danny had given up on talking (much) and just decided to lie on the carpet next to the bed, with one hand stretched out underneath it and his hand on Ward's pointy little shoulder.

"You want to come out and have something to eat?" he asked. "There's a place down the street that has desserts and stuff. Ice cream. You wanna go have ice cream?"

Ward shook his head. Okay, Danny thought, a five-year-old turning down ice cream was a really bad sign.

He rolled over on his side and discovered that Ward was watching him, a flash of light-colored eyes in the darkness under the bed. Was Ward scared of him? he wondered. 

There was no Hell in the Buddhist afterlife, and Danny wasn’t even sure what his own religious beliefs were exactly anyway (it was sort of a mishmash of all the various cultural influences in his life), but if reincarnation and karma actually did exist, he hoped Harold was currently reincarnating as an endless series of mosquitoes and getting smashed every single time. A few thousand years of that ought to be about right. After that, maybe Harold could graduate to rice weevils or something, and work his way up from there for the next few million years.

"I can also call down to the front desk and have them bring ice cream to our room," Danny said, pillowing his cheek on his arm. "There won't be as many choices, but I bet I could have some vanilla ice cream brought up. Vanilla with chocolate sprinkles, that was your favorite, right?"

He just wanted to drag Ward out from under the bed and hug the stuffing out of him, but he also knew that would be the worst thing he could possibly do. A Harold kind of thing to do ... well, minus the hugging, probably. The only thing he could do was try to show Ward that he wasn't that kind of adult.

"So I'm gonna go do that, okay? I'm just going over to the phone."

He made the call sitting on the floor where Ward could see him. He wasn't sure whether that actually was important, but it felt important. After that, Danny lay on the carpet again.

"Hey, Ward, do you want to see a picture of your sister?"

He thumbed through pictures on his phone until he found one of Joy. He didn't have very many of her due to ... well ... circumstances, but he did have a couple from last year, during that ever-so-brief period when they'd been speaking to each other and it had seemed, for awhile, that things were going to be okay.

"She's just a baby for you now, right? This is what she looks like when she grows up."

He turned the phone screen so Ward could see it. After a little while, Ward uncoiled somewhat and scootched over so he could see the screen better.

"Here's another," Danny said, flipping to a new one. This was Joy at her desk at Rand, giving him an exasperated look as he'd peeked into her office to take a quick picture of her to use as his phone photo for her. (He'd just discovered that you could set a picture to go with someone's phone number in a smartphone address book. He remembered being delighted about that.)

In a very tiny voice, not much more than a whisper, Ward asked, "Do you have any pictures of me?"

"Sure I do." Lots more than Joy, fortunately. Danny flicked to the recent ones. "Here, you're in most of these." Generally either ignoring him, or giving the camera (and by extension, Danny) assorted variations on his sardonic "why me?" expression while Danny took pictures of temples and markets and parks that also just happened to have Ward in them.

There was a knock at the door. Ward retreated back under the bed. "It's just the hotel people bringing us our ice cream," Danny said, and he passed the phone under the bed where Ward could keep looking through photos while he went to answer it.

He had to hand it to the hotel's restaurant: they'd done a nice job. Danny came back with two glass bowls, each with a heaping scoop of vanilla ice cream topped with chocolate shavings and a strawberry on each one. He set one down on the carpet and held the other. "It's gonna melt," he said, dipping his spoon into his. "I can put yours in the room fridge if you want it later instead."

There was a short hesitation and then Ward cautiously crawled out from under the bed, with the phone clutched in one of his hands. "That's me?" he said dubiously, showing the screen to Danny.

Danny was aware that he had no particular talent for photography, so it was a little bit off center and crooked, but it was actually a nice picture of Ward, sitting on a low stone wall with a sweeping vista of gardens and jungle behind him and a sketchbook in his lap.

"Yeah," Danny said, grinning at him. "That's you."

"I'm drawing?" Ward said, and frowned. "I'm drawing," he said again, thinking his way through it.

Danny remembered that part of what this was like: everything was overwhelming, and you got the most intense memories first and hardest (which had to be part of what was giving Ward such a rough time). But putting things in order or remembering anything specific was the hard part.

"Yeah! You like to draw. You're really good at it, too. Here, I'll show you."

He hopped up and got the sketchbook, which was stuck in the top of Ward's luggage, where it usually was. Danny also got out a box of Ward’s colored pencils. He figured it was Ward's sketchbook and Ward had an equal right to draw in it when he was five as he did when he was thirty.

When he came back, Ward had the enormous bowl of ice cream in his lap and a spoon stuffed in his mouth. He glared at Danny as if daring him to make something out of it.

It was really weird how much like his adult self he still was at this age. In a way, Danny thought, that was probably what had gotten him through all those years of Harold's abuse. Ward had a rock-solid core of, well, of Ward: prickly and angry and sarcastic and stubborn. It made him a real dick sometimes, and it certainly had when they were kids, but it had also kept him from being completely steamrolled by Harold, over the years. Danny felt a sudden intense wash of ... just, feelings: love and admiration and the intense desire to kick Harold's ass around the astral plane for awhile. Luckily Ward was looking at the sketchbook rather than at Danny's face, because hiding his feelings was something Danny really wasn't good at.

"See, here," Danny said, opening the sketchbook up randomly to a drawing of a temple carving. "You're really good at this. Here you go." He put the pencils next to it. "You can draw in it, if you want."

Ward touched the page hesitantly, then jerked his hand away when he noticed he'd left a smear of melted chocolate on the drawing. "I'll mess it up," he said in a voice that sounded small and fragile.

"No, you won't. It's yours. Anyway, it's already gotten wet and had coffee spilled on it and got trampled by a bunch of goats in Cambodia." Danny flipped to a fresh page and showed Ward a coffee ring on top of a half-finished sketch of Danny. "See? You can't do anything bad to it."

Ward shoved the spoon into his mouth, and said around it, indistinctly, "I'm bad at it. Dad said --"

"Your dad's not here," Danny said, more fiercely than he intended, and Ward quailed from the anger in his voice. Damn it. He gentled his tone down and got himself under control. It turned out that dealing with a traumatized five-year-old was better training at emotional control than anything the elders in K'un-Lun had ever come up with. "Look," he said gently. "You're awesome at it. At least, I think so, and I'm the only adult around here, so I must be right. Right?"

Ward looked like he was extremely doubtful about this logic, but he also had the ice cream spoon in his mouth again.

Danny flipped the sketchbook to a blank page and shook out the box of pencils in a heap next to it, noticing Ward's eyes following them covetously. Then he dug into his own bowl of ice cream.

After a little while, with the ice cream in his bowl mostly gone, Ward picked up a pencil.

Danny leaned back against the side of the bed and pretended to be interested in his ice cream and only his ice cream, and not at all in the slow relaxing of Ward's rigid little body as he got interested in the drawing. It worked that way for adult Ward as well, which had given Danny an extremely unpleasant (but plausible) theory that Harold had made him stop because it was something that made him happy that Harold didn't have control over; it was something that Harold could neither understand nor use to control him, and therefore it had to go.

Danny clenched the fist that had once been the Iron Fist until the metal handle of the ice cream spoon actually bent. Carefully, he pried his fingers off it and flexed his hand until the purplish imprint of the spoon handle had faded, and then went back to eating.

When he'd finished his ice cream, Danny picked up his phone and pretended to be absorbed in it, while keeping a subtle eye on Ward, who was now completely absorbed in his drawing.

And a little while after that, without saying anything, Ward picked up the sketchbook and his pencils, and crawled into Danny's lap, and spread the sketchbook on the floor and -- sprawling half in and half out of Danny’s lap -- went back to drawing in it.

[senor-plume]

Reunion

   Henry throws on his favorite shirt, a concert tee that he got at an Arlo Guthrie concert some years back. Pulling the shirt over his head, he eyes the bottle of ale that sits on the kitchen table. Reaching out with his left hand he grabs the bottle and takes a long pull from it. Friday night and not a thing going on. Luckily.     With the drink in his hand he walks over to the living room window and takes a peak at the great outdoors. Folks arriving for a CYO event at the school across the street. Looks like a basketball game as he spies on the young girls showing up in their cheerleader outfits. Some adults walking in and a young man about 20 has his head stuck into his cell phone, texting as he moves straight ahead. Henry closes the curtain tight and walks away quite glad that he is not playing a game of basketball tonight. As much as he complains about the loneliness of his life, he has adapted to it and some nights, such as tonight, he is glad for his solitude lifestyle.      The television is on but thankfully muted while the record player spins the vinyl album around at 33 and a third. A collector of sorts, he stops and stares at his records. A massive amount that must be well into the thousands. His father started him out young to the pleasures of music and he never looked back. His dad left him his old records from the 40's to the 70's when he passed away. Alphabetized, he goes down to one knee to look through the Z's. Pulling out Frank Zappa's first album he takes the record from its sleeve and stares at the grooves that the needle reads. Henry can, and will spend hours now gazing at his collection with pride bursting up through his soul. Nothing can or will make him as happy as rummaging through these records and trips to the Salvation Army for more is his true joy in life.      Stopping only to gather up a plate of nacho's and a few beers, Henry has just spent the complete Friday night alone with his records. He plans to leave the house tomorrow morning for a trip to the local hotel where a huge record sale will be going down. Once a month there is a gathering of all types of venders selling off their albums and other music related items. Henry looks forward to this with unbridled glee. He takes to the computer and after seeing there was not one email waiting for him he begins to compile a list of albums that he must have and hopefully he will be able to find them there. Some records he just never stops looking for. Years and years he has waited for somebody to sell them off. A Beatles record nicknamed the Butcher Album due to the cover showing the Fab Four dressed as butchers covered in raw meat and doll parts. A true and rare collector's item. He saw one once when he was visiting his sister in California. He had it in his hands and as he always does, he smelled the inside of the cover. There really is nothing finer than the scent of an old record Henry believed. The asking price for the album was a hefty 1000 bucks which he did not have at the time. He has saved up for the day it would appear to him again. He would not miss out on it twice.     With the need to take a piss Henry, drunk now, as he always is on the weekends, stumbles to the bathroom. Holding on for dear life he lets out a long sigh and out of the blue the telephone rings. He usually unplugs the fucking thing on the weekends but he must have forgotten.  The answering machine pick up. It is a woman's voice and it is unfamiliar. Without washing his hands, Henry walks to the bedroom to hear the voice say goodbye and then the tape rewinds. Who the fuck could that be? Henry presses play and he listens in carefully.   "I'm looking for Henry Coda. If this is the wrong number I apologize but I really want to find him. This is Anna Baez. I went to school with Henry back in the 80's and I would like to invite him to our schools 25th anniversary. It's this upcoming weekend…seven days from now and it will be a ball. So Henry, please if you could join us at the school at 7 in the gymnasium… I would be thrilled to see you again. We all would. It will be a blast. I hope this is the right number. Call me at 722-5733 to let me know if you can come. Thanks and goodbye."     Christ. Anna Baez. Henry takes a long drink from the bottle…killing it and he heads to the bookshelf to pull out his senior yearbook. The cover says Binghamton Central High School. It has been years since he has looked at this thing. He takes a seat on his bed and opens the book. He flips through the pages with a bored look on his face until he comes to the page he wants. Under his nose is a picture of Anna. A blonde beauty that was quite popular in school. Unlike Henry she excelled in school, running for class president and winning. A cheerleader and if he remembered correctly, she was crowned prom queen…a prom in which Henry did not attend. His book was signed a few times and he reads a few. "Have a great summer Henry…see you at the college." "Henry, keep playing that guitar and I am certain you'll be top of the pops in no time." "You are one weird fellow man. Don't change."    Henry never ended up going to the local community college and he never made it to the top of the charts. He was still weird and he has barely changed since the 80's. He closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. He remained on the bed thinking of school. How he hated it and most of the kids there…except for one girl…Nancy…or Nan for short. Nan, he had the biggest teenage crush on. She was always friendly with him but she was dating the same guy from their freshman year right up to the senior year. They were friends…she was kind to him and although her boyfriend hated him she didn't care. She was nice. Rising from the bed he began to think about her. Nan, I wonder if you are even still alive and if you are I bet you have fourteen kids and a beefcake husband. He wandered out of his room and made it to the kitchen to grab a fresh beer. Cracking it open he heard the needle hit the label on the record he was playing and he knew it was time to flip it over.    Playing the Stones now he could not get his mind off of that girl. Nan. Henry hardly left his house for any kind of social event. Skipping family reunions and the like. But this…this could be…interesting. He wanted to see Nan and that was the only thing that made him pick up the phone to call Anna back.     She answered right away and sounded genuinely pleased to hear from him. She told him that he was all set. That it was to be a casual party and that he could bring a friend or spouse if he wanted to. Henry asked how many people have signed up to go and she told him that it will be a packed event. "Expect at least a hundred kids to be there. It will be lots of fun. And Henry, feel free to bring some of those records of yours with you. I bet we would all like to hear them." After saying goodbye and hanging up Henry crawled into bed and found himself…drunk and daydreaming about Nan and just what he could say to her. It made him nervous just thinking about it and soon he blocked it out and fell asleep with the full bottle of beer next to his head. ——————————————————————————————–                    After about four beers Henry was ready to leave for the reunion. Dressed in khakis and a seersucker shirt he bent down to tie his shoes when he felt the urge to throw up come over him. He ran to the kitchen sink and made it just in time. Four beers down the drain, all sudsy and wiping tears from his eyes he went to swig some mouthwash around in the bathroom.       Outside now Henry tucked the cuffs of his pants into his socks and jumped onto his bicycle. The school was only a few blocks away and it was a pleasant night. He had no intention of trying to impress anyone there. His bike was fine and he enjoyed riding it more than driving anyway.      Along the way there his nerves grew worse and he checked the time on the side of the bank on the corner. 7:15. He was late and he did not care. He toyed with the idea of not showing…no one would miss him anyway but Nan…he was dying to see what became of her. He stopped his bike in front of the tavern Rocco's and parking his bike on the side of the building. He went in. "Henry! Long time no see my friend. How goes it?" Rocco extended his hand and Henry shook it with a weak smile on his face. "Get me a cold one please Rocco. Lord knows I need one tonight" "What's the big occasion? You got a hot date tonight? If you do, bring her here. I'd love to see the kind of girl you could pick up Henry."       The bartender, a black guy with muscles that would put Schwarzenegger to shame cracked the top off the bottle of Bud and handed it to Henry. He took hold of it and brought it to his mouth and drained half of it in a mere two seconds. His eyes darted around but he found himself slowly calming down. The television above the bar was on showing some soccer match and the jukebox was playing the old Turtles tune.. .'Happy Together.' "Henry, it's been a while, a few days now perhaps since you last walked into my establishment. What's been happening to you? You depressed? Did a fire destroy your record collection or something?" "No. Just been busy is all. Listen Rocco, I need your advice here. I'm now headed to my 25th reunion at school and I am rather nervous about it all. There is a girl there…or a woman now and I really want to talk to her but I am a social dud. I have no idea what to say to her. What's a good ice breaker? Something that won't make me look like a total dick head. Just a little dick head." Rocco smiled and said " Ah Henry, you seeing an old flame tonight? Some girl who used to give you hand jobs in the basement? Something like that eh?" "No…not at all. Just a girl who I was friendly with. Though I have to admit that I dreamed of her and those hands giving me some relief. I don't know. I can't think of what to say to her when I see her. I need your help here."   Rocco pulled up a stool and thought for a while. "What did you guys used to talk about in school? Back then. What did you talk about?" Henry thought for a while and he said `music.' "Ok, then you talk about that. Just say that you heard an old song on the radio and that it made you think of her. She'll be pleased to hear this…hopefully and there you go. You'll be off to the races." "But I never listen to the radio…all those commercials and that terrible hip hop music they play now a days…It gives me a head…" “Then, forget the radio part…just say you heard a song…somewhere… and it made you think of her. Just wing it from there. She'll want to know what song and then you'll be in a real conversation and I bet it will be the first one with a woman for quite some time. Am I right?" Henry sighed and took a drink from the bottle. "Yeah, music, that's kinda what I had planned on anyway." "That's all you ever talk about actually Henry. This is the first conversation we've had that wasn't about music or music related. You must really be nervous." "Yeah, I am. What time is it Rocco?" "7:30." "Shit, I gotta go. Thanks for the help. I appreciate it, man."     Rocco wished him good luck and said that if he gets lucky with the girl to bring her over to the bar so he could see what all this nervousness was all about. Henry killed his beer and slammed the bottle down on the bar with a determined thud. He stood and with a wave left the bar and found his bike waiting for him. He climbed aboard and began his trek to the school. ————————————————-      Inside the gymnasium it was sweltering. He was informed at the front desk, where old Anna Baez was sitting, that the air conditioners were on the fritz and to expect it to be a little warm in there. Warm? It was horrible. Henry went immediately to the bar and ordered a beer. A nice cold beer would really hit the spot and maybe calm his nerves a bit.    Drinking, he looked down to his name tag. Henry. Who the hell is going to remember me anyway? This is a mistake. He had a few friends in high school and they all went to universities and left him in his hometown alone and friendless. Sure, he knew some of the guys and gals at the record conventions but he wouldn't be able to really call them friends. He was a lonely guy who simply loved his records and beer. He looked up and watched all the people milling around and some dancing. A few guys whom he recognized as old jocks were standing at the bar, drinking and laughing, without a care in the world. Henry felt the sweat dripping down his back and he flapped his shirt a few times to get some air in there. His ears pricked up when he heard a Duran Duran song playing and he was just about to head over to the DJ booth to talk to the guy about his CD's when he saw Nan walk in. The light from the gym was weak at best but he knew it was her although he could not read her name tag. My goodness…there she is he thought to himself. I'll just wait for a while to let her mingle with the people that she really wanted to see and then, then he would walk up to her and reintroduce himself to her.        Henry wiped his brow with the back of his hand and struck up a conversation with the DJ. They shot the shit for a few minutes when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around and saw Nan smiling ear to ear. "Henry Coda…my God…you look exactly the same. You really do. My goodness…how are you?"       Henry's shirt was sopped with sweat as he opened his mouth to return her greeting when a group of guys walked up to Nan and began to talk excitedly to her. Henry shrunk back to the DJ booth and just stood there watching them enjoying their conversation. I wish I was normal he thought to himself. I wish I could talk and feel carefree with others. Instead I am a sweating fool all alone with social anxiety and a drinking problem. He took a swig from his plastic cup and turned around to stare at the wall.     A few minutes passed while a Van Halen song played. Henry began to recall the time he had bought the album which this song came from when he heard a woman's voice say something. He turned around to see Nan staring at him. "Hello…anyone home? I've been trying to get your attention for a minute now silly. Daydreaming about music I bet. This Van Halen song sure brings back the memories don't you think?" "I was just playing this song a few days ago actually. All in all it's a great album with very little filler. Sure, a few of the songs aren't all that great on it but not many records from that period were masterpieces. You know what I mean?" Nan smiled at him and told him that he has not changed all that much from 25 years ago. Henry smiled and tried hard to think of something to say to her. He decided to ask her about her life now but she spoke first. "So tell me Henry…tell me about your life. Are you married? Is your rock and roll wife around here somewhere?" "Wife? Ha, no…No wife. Never. Never was married. You?" "Well, remember Davey? My boyfriend in school? We married after college and 10 months later we were divorced. Still to this day I have no idea what went wrong but that band of gold on my finger just cursed us. It was something else, I'll tell you, I won't be walking down the aisle again, you can count on that." Henry looked down at her finger and even in the bad light he could see that she was not sporting a wedding ring. "Gee, I'm sorry about that Nan. Geeze…will he be here tonight? Davey?" "No, he moved to Washington State after our divorce was finalized. I haven't seen him in years now. No kids…thank God." "Oh…well that's good I guess…divorce can really be hard on kids; at least that's what I've read in magazines and all. So…you live around here?" Nan answered his questions and boy was there a lot of them. Henry at times felt like he was interviewing the poor girl but he really had nothing else to say to her so he asked questions. Query after query but she didn't seem to mind at all. They talked for a while when he realized he was in dire need of a drink. He tried to back step a bit to get closer to the bar hoping that she would follow him…slowly but two steps back into his plan she stood right there, not moving an inch. He would have to ask her if she would like a refill on her wine…or what appeared to be wine. Maybe it was punch. It was red and that was all he could tell. In a break in the conversation he asked her if she would like a refill and that he could really go for a cold beer in this stifling heat. "I know! It's so hot in here…I can't stand it. Want to go outside for a bit? I could use some fresh air and besides…and don't tell anyone but I am dying for a cigarette." "Outside? Certainly. I'd like that. I'm beginning to melt in here. Please just let me refill my beer here. Can you wait?" She nodded her head and Henry went to get a beer. Turning to Nan he asked her if she was good. She replied that another cup of wine would be great and she handed him her now empty cup. "…A nice cold Michelob and a wine please Jerry."    The bartender filled up the two glasses and they headed outside. On the way to the front doors Nan was greeted with many hellos. Henry couldn't remember her being so popular in school. It was mighty crowded and Nan grabbed his arm and pulled him along and he was happy to be lead away out of there. Outside the cool air was a Godsend. They both needed the cool night air on their hot skin. "Now this is much better, don't you think Henry? So, tell me now…back in school you loved music more than anyone I've ever known. You ever made a career of it? You in a band or anything?" He felt like he was letting her down as he went on to say that not only was he not in a band but that as a career he chose media marketing. "What exactly is that Henry?" "You know those jingles you hear on the radio? I write them. I make commercials for the radio and television." "Oh my, how interesting…anything I would know?" "You know Champs Fried Chicken? The chain of chicken places? Well that one ad..the one that goes:

`Champs…is the place to be when your down and hungry, a dollar 99 is all you got? you'll dig our chicken, you'll dig it a lot.'

I wrote that." "Holy shit Henry, I know that song! It's the catchiest tune like ever! Wow…I'm with a celebrity here!" "Ha…well…it pays the bills. It's not going to get me a gold record but I suppose I can't complain." "Well, I think it's awesome…simply awesome Henry. I'm not as famous as you but I guess my job is ok…I sell real estate in North Carolina. I'm not rich or anything but like you, I can pay the bills."     Henry found himself relaxing a bit. The cool night air did him well and he found that he could keep up his end of the conversation. He went in a few times to refill their drinks. He was feeling alright by the time of his 7th beer of the night and Nan was really knocking the wine back. They talked about many things and a few people even recognized him as they made their way out of the gym to return home.    Around the time of Nan's fifth cup of wine she realized that the party inside was dying down. "I should really go back inside and mingle a bit more. You wanna come along with me? There has to be other people you want to see besides me." "Not really, Nan…in fact the only reason why I came to this high school heat wave was to see you. You were always so nice to me…don't think I've forgotten it these many years later." "Oh Henry, that's so nice of you to say. Shoot…I should go back though. You sure you don't want to come with me? I'll buy you another drink." Henry thought about it and decided not to go in. "I'm sorry Nan but it's really too hot for me in there. I'm going to head to Rocco's for a nice air conditioned beer." "Sounds splendid. Ok…I understand. "It was nice to see you again Nan…really. Take care now." "I will. Thanks for visiting with me. I had a ball. Enjoy Rocco's" And with that they hugged each other goodbye and went their separate ways.

      Around 1AM Rocco was placing the chairs up on the tables when there was a knock at his front door. He checked the time on his wrist and went to tell them he was closed. Through the door he saw a woman standing there. "I'm sorry Ma'am but I'm closed now. I open at 9 if you still need a drink in the morning." The girl was swaying a bit but managed to steady herself. "Is Henry there? Henry Coda? I'm a friend of his." Rocco opened the door and told her that she just missed him. "He left about 10 minutes ago. You don't happen to be Nan are you?" "Yes..why?" "Oh boy was he going on and on about you. You made quite the impression on him tonight. He usually only talks about music but not tonight. It was Nan this and Nan that. Sorry you missed him." "Yeah, me too. Please tell him I stopped by ok?" "I will. Goodnight." And with that she turned away and headed back to her waiting taxi. “Thanks for waiting. Please take me to the Serling Hotel.”   The driver nodded and turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the tavern.  Nan, drunk… rummages through her purse as the taxi speeds through the early morning darkness as the car radio plays an REM song and Nan smiles to herself as she zips up her bag and quietly sings along to the tune as it plays.    

[its-love-u-asshole]

Without a Doubt [fic]

Pairing: Tsukishima Kei/Kuroo Tetsurou

Summary: Only they would get lost on the way to their own wedding.

Rating: T

Tags: fluff, established relationship 

Note: I managed to finish one more thing for kurotsuki week! I was just in the mood for pointless fluffy love and honestly that's what kurotsuki deserves so I hope you all enjoy this! Thanks to @emeraldwaves for reading this over! I also wanna thank @kirinokisu for always supporting me and encouraging me to finish wips, I wouldn’t get anything done without her ; ; 

AO3

Only they would get lost on the way to their own wedding.

It's not something which surprises Tsukishima truthfully. He's less frustrated by it than he would've thought two hours prior, when they were rushing and bickering and fielding calls from annoying relatives. Normally, when on such a big time crunch, Tsukishima would be antsy, distressed, the anxiety bubbling up through his blood and limbs.

But...not today. Not on the most important day.

Tsukishima watches with a calm patience as Kuroo shuts the car door quickly from about ten feet away, the rain pouring down so heavily the droplets look more like sheets. Maybe they are. After all, it is winter, and Tsukishima smiles fondly at the realization. Perhaps this is the universe's revenge for their unconventional ways. 'Should've planned a June wedding,' it probably screams with thunder and the harsh slap of raindrops.

The weather has no mercy on Kuroo's old high school joggers, or that horrible sweater Tsukishima has told him to throw out for years now. He wouldn't go back and change the date though.

Tsukishima hates the summertime, it's too hot and muggy, his skin hates it and his mind hates it even more. He wants to be happy on his wedding day. In fact, he considers it to be essential. When he'd told Kuroo that all those months ago, the raven had been in complete agreement, that dopey smile on his face...

"Whatever you want stardust."

But Kuroo could be such a fool. Recalling the memory, Tsukishima shakes his head. He probably could've asked him to hike up Mount Everest and he would've, or trekked to hell itself. But doesn't Kuroo know that smile of his, all caring and solely for him, made Tsukishima just as weak?

It’s the one he wears even now, when they're an hour away from the venue, stuck with less than a quarter tank of gas in their rental, and standing under an old church awning to shield themselves. The cracks in the stone let some water in, hitting Tsukishima's head.

It should be miserable for both of them.

So why do you look so happy right now?

Even as Tsukishima thinks it, he can't stop smiling as Kuroo approaches him, soaked magazine failing to cover the top of his head. He knows the answer. It's the same for him.

When Kuroo throws the magazine to the ground with a wet slap, Tsukishima snorts, because shit, it's the wedding catalogue Terushima had poured over, circling all kinds of unnecessary decorations and adornments. It ends up being strangely funny, how the thought of them possibly missing said wedding, with all those fancy arrangements and desserts, doesn't make him stressed in the slightest. Their clothes are drenched, it's cold, and they're probably making Terushima and Bokuto (self-proclaimed wedding planners) have strokes, but...

"We're getting married today," Kuroo all but sighs, adoring, despite his messy bangs and wet shoes. The squish of socks is audible regardless of the rumbling in the sky. Kuroo's biggest pet peeve is wet socks, but he looks like he's on cloud nine, and Tsukishima can't blame him.

Yeah. That.

"We're getting married today."

It's a lot of things at once; a fact, a promise, a disbelieving show of excitement. As if even if the rain never let up, or if the world decides today is the day to flood over completely, taking humanity with it, they would still be getting married.

(On a raft, but oh well.)

Basically, it's a 'don't worry,' so Tsukishima doesn't. He trusts Kuroo too much now to doubt him. He laughs, like a teenager, because he simply can't help it, the giddiness he's feeling. This is so dumb, he thinks, so immature. They should be calling people, trying to get a taxi, something.

Instead they're running a good thirty minutes late, standing under an old stone chapel in the dead of winter, and looking at each other as if they were getting married right then and there, in their pre-wedding frumpy clothes with no rings, no music, no cake.

(Yes, the last thing on the list is important.)

It's amazing.

"Mm, we are," Tsukishima says, meeting Kuroo halfway as he leans in for a kiss, and their lips are so chilled but they don't care. Kuroo shivers--yeah that's right, the human heater shivers, so Tsukishima is the one to pull him closer, shielding him from the elements.

"Not sure if it'll be on time," Tsukishima adds as he pulls away, content with the way Kuroo's hands rest on his lower back. His fiancé winces, and Tsukishima laughs again. "But I think early weddings are overrated anyways."

They'll make midnight weddings popular again. They'll all see.

"On a scale of one to ten, how mad do you think Terushima and Bokuto are?" Kuroo asks, bumping his forehead against Tsukishima's.

Oh. Well that's just a scary train of thought.

However, they have time to run through the thousand possible (and all equally believable) scenarios which comes attached to the question, so Tsukishima only smirks. It must be what Kuroo expects of him, because he looks so close to laughing already.

"Well, assuming the place isn't on fire already--"

"And what a bold assumption that is," Kuroo says, voice solemn. He's right though, which again, scary.

"Bokuto is probably worried sick," Tsukishima continues.

"Ah yes, so pure."

"Akaashi is comforting him, because he surely must've known this was gonna happen since he knows everything."

"A god among men that one..."

Tsukishima hasn't broken his neutral face yet but it's a challenge. He almost slaps Kuroo's hands away due to the commentary, but he can't bear to. "Terushima is freaking out and has to be on his third shot by now, and that's being kind. And he’s possibly insulted the two guests who I secretly don't like but had to invite anyways."

"He's a gem."

"He really is."

"Who's next?" Kuroo asks, and it's a ploy all along. As soon as Tsukishima's jaw opens while he debates on it, Kuroo steals a kiss, deep and toe curling.

Tsukishima hates him (but not really).

"Mm," Tsukishima hums against his lips, and he sees the temptation in Kuroo's eyes to take it further. That's the one thing he won’t allow. Not out in public...in the rain anyways. He breaks the kiss, and continues his 95% accurate inferences. "If Terushima’s not drunk enough, he's cursing our names, and Akiteru is probably taking a video so he can show me later. Our parents are obviously at the bar."

"That's not as bad as I pictured it actually," Kuroo says, nodding in appreciation. Tsukishima only sends him a disbelieving look.

"Tetsu."

"Yes?"

"That's only scenario one of many equally possible misfortunes."

Mock fear, which masquerades so perfectly as genuine only because of the man displaying it, covers Kuroo's face enough to make Tsukishima look away. He's going to crack.

"Wait, is the worst scenario that the place burns down?" Kuroo squints, and he must know, as he knows Tsukishima, the fire isn't remotely close to being the worst potential outcome.

Their parents could get in a bar fight over caterers (since they'd both been so insistent on choosing).

A secret madman could hold the whole ceremony hostage.

Kuroo's exes could show up. (Less dire, he knew, but he hated them). Worse, Tsukishima's exes could show up. Ugh.

Tsukishima won't even scratch out the possibility of a zombie apocalypse, but maybe he's been watching too many reruns.

There's all those and about a million more unexpected worst cases, but what Tsukishima ends up saying is the one he truly cares about, the one which matters most.

Kuroo stares at him after the pause carries on too long, concerned and thoughtful in the usual way, and Tsukishima knows what he says truly is the worst of worst cases.

"The worst outcome is...we don't get married today," he whispers, so small and oddly fearful it makes him stumble. It's childish. He knows missing one date doesn't mean the proposal is revoked, but...he likes this day. Not because it means anything or is significant, but he'd spent so many hours planning it with Kuroo in the late hours of the night, folded over brochures and catalogues, tasting cakes and foods, looking at flowers...

Arguing about whether they should put bow ties on their dogs' collars or not...

This day has become quite a big deal, to say the least. Part of Tsukishima's heart is unfairly sentimental about this random day in this random week in this random winter month.

Part of his heart is irrevocably, unfairly sentimental about anything to do with the man in his arms, and it's almost a curse, how much weight it carries. It's good weight though, weight he wanted and weight which felt light in every way.

So even if he has to walk the fifty miles to the venue, he will, as long as he makes it by midnight.

Surely, Kuroo's going to say something equally if not more cheesy, but instead, Tsukishima watches as his fiancé’s brow furrows in confusion before dissolving into amusement.

It's the same look Kuroo gives him when he's about to fight Tsukishima on whether or not a particular flavor ice cream is good, like Tsukishima is oh so misguided. (Yeah, that's what they fight about.)

It makes Tsukishima glare playfully, but Kuroo's next words honor Tsukishima's initial expectations.

"Wait a minute, you said all these scenarios were likely," Kuroo emphasizes, the soft smile already blooming across his face. "That one's impossible."

God.

The words are so unbelievably sappy, the tone drenched in love like the rain seeping through their clothes, and Tsukishima doesn't say anything. Can't. He's so done for.

Why is every response Kuroo has the exact response he needs?

He'll never truly get it, but he'll never take it for granted.

He leans in, and Kuroo meets him like always, connecting their lips as if they'd never get the opportunity to kiss again.The promise sits between them, solid and stable.

Yeah, you're right. We're getting married today.

He'll repeat it as long as he needs to, until the ring is securely on his finger.

And at that moment, a car honks, and they hear tires roll over the gravel of the parking lot. Their reckoning has arrived.

He's not as prepared as he thought.

Terushima leans out of the passenger window, too far out, because as Tsukishima predicted, he's in no state to exist let alone drive. Akaashi looks so smug beside him. "Save it for after the damn vows you hooligans! You're ruining my wedding!"

Tsukishima squints through the violent rain, not moving quite yet from the safety of the awning. "Hooligans? Big insult from the guy I definitely know didn't tie that tie himself. Did my mom help you?"

Beside him, Kuroo finally loses it, and it's possibly more rewarding than the rescue. Also this is Tsukishima's wedding, thanks very much, and he can be a little late if he so chooses.

Terushima stares at him, mouth open and mind torn between venturing out into the rain to personally fight him or ignoring the comment all together. "....Fuck you Kei, you're lucky you're the groom. Can you guys just please get in the car? The clock is ticking!"

Oh, is it now?

With false disappointment, Tsukishima looks to his fiancé and sighs, and Kuroo rolls his eyes along with him. "I mean, I guess."

Yet despite the sass, they do start walking towards the behemoth of a car, the nervous excitement already building in Tsukishima's heart. No matter what he says, all he can think is finally. His steps are hurried, and not even the rain phases him anymore. Soon he'll be in his tux anyways, surrounded by warmth, and he doesn't mean the heated venue.

Kuroo turns to smile at him, and Tsukishima knows it's a mutual feeling.

As they pile in, Terushima has the nerve to sass them once more, but Tsukishima allows it. After all, that's the job of a wedding planner. Or so he's told, and they've probably given Terushima a fair amount of heart attacks already. "You guys do know you're getting married today, right?"

It's like being scolded by his mother. Or Akiteru. It's a toss-up honestly.

The question makes Tsukishima laugh as they pull out of the driveway and onto the main road, the rain heavy against the windshield. Beside him, he feels a hand intertwine with his own, squeezing tight.

He dreads letting go, but knows it'll never be for long.

Kuroo shrugs beside him, but they lean closer, until there's no space left. "Oh, you have no idea."

[ninjakitty15]

Chapter 18: Spiderman With a Plan (Loki x OFC pairing)

May came back before Loki could teleport us away or Peter could even hide us. It took a bit of explaining and convincing to let an alien war criminal and a walking, slowly healing corpse stay but between Peter telling her we had in fact been staying with Tony up till now and she trusted Tony almost as much as she trusted her nephew, and me swearing they aren't in danger as Hydra doesn't want Peter, only me, she seemed to yield at the end. Loki then offered a better place for them if they didn't feel safe with us being around but the two of them turned down his offer, stating that if Spiderman's enemies didn't even know where he lived, ours wouldn't either. Loki then promised if that wasn't the case and they came after them, to have Spiderman find us and Loki would fix the damage for them. I had to look at him then, being all generous and gentlemanly when the world pegged him for a narcissistic megalomaniac war criminal.

"I kinda get the sense you were a bit like him when you were...a kid? I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with Asgardian years, is it like dog years? No wait are humans like dog years compared to you lot?" I asked Loki.

"What do you think I was like as a child that you see with Parker?" asked Loki in amusement.

"Quiet, eager to please, exceptionally clever compared to most your age there, desperately wanting to find your place, maybe a little bit awkward but still quite gifted though few see that last quality or care enough to notice."

Loki was quiet for a moment, probably trying to remember what he was actually like way way way back when he was a wee bairn but the slowly creasing brow seemed to imply I was at the very least not off the mark that bad. "Why do you think I'm like him?"

"I'd say more he's like you as you were here eons before he was. But to answer your question...I can't say how long I've been around but I do know I've been around long enough to study people and see details most might miss in interactions and reactions. When you're around anyone like Thor, you kinda have this aura of irritation, even though it's not him all the time, the kind of person who charged head and fists first into any kind situation, all about action and making a great mess. When it comes to interacting with someone with more wit, more intelligence, more analytical and less physical stuff, you're more reserved in reaction, more curious and intrigued. The same kind of qualities I see in you, you see in others and I know there's plenty of self love in that icicle of a heart you have, maybe not at first, but it's definitely there now." Both Peter and Loki stared at me with damn near identical expressions of something between "wtf" and "how the hell did you figure all this out, who are you?". "What? You think I didn't notice between the jokes and the constant commentaries? Just because I'm physically and legally dead, doesn't mean I'm brain dead too."

"You sure I'm not just rubbing off on you," teased Loki.

"I told you I'm not terribly fond of that action to begin with, it's gross. Also and more importantly, I find your lack of faith disturbing, as you should recall even in your ancient age, I was muzzled when you found me and I don't always need to use my mouth when calling the dead so..."

Loki was about to retort I assume but as he opened his mouth to do so, Peter beat him to it. "Hydra muzzled you?"

"Initially they didn't but when you're me and hoping they get so annoyed by your jokes and taunts that maybe they'll let you go because nothing else they did to me worked like they wanted, they decided a muzzle wasn't just for dogs. In my defense, I had been stuck in that cramped glass cell for apparently 5 years with no outside contact, I honestly don't know how I'm still somewhat sane after all that time alone."

"Well maybe it's because time has no effect on the dead, right?" offered Peter hopefully.

I opened my mouth to object but damn if he wasn't a mortal, Midgardian version of Loki always being on par with his points. "Okay, you win that round. It felt like a few months to me, color me shell shocked when I was actually told how long I was down there and how much stuff I missed out on."

"I'm still not completely sold on you actually being dead when you're walking and talking in front of me though," Peter muttered.

"Seeing isn't always believing, hun. Here, check for a pulse or any way to tell if a person is dead or alive these days."

"Then how are you here? And also, if you are in fact a necromancer, aren't you susceptible to being controlled by another necromancer since you're dead too?"

"Under normal circumstances, maybe, but alas I'm anything but normal so nah."

"What are you then?"

I gave the kid a sinister smile. "Pray you never find out because when you do...you'll wish you never met me."

"You can't be that bad if Tony Stark took you in."

"Tony Stark means well and is insanely smart but mostly just insane, I mean he did essentially invent his own supervillain with Ultron on Slovakia and then more or less help in making an infinity stone with Vision, didn't he? More recently though he gave insanely expensive superhero equipment to a teenager too smart for his own good. Think of it this way, Hydra wants Capsicle dead because he's too good to be made useful to them, nothing they can do will make him the next Winter Soldier. A good heart will almost always be a good heart unless the ones let into that heart break it which won't be Hydra ever, that's for damn sure. Hydra can break many things but a heart ain't one. Now take a heart that's not all good, one that has no strict moral compass or doesn't lean toward one end or another, that one more than a good or even an evil one, can be useful. They want me alive because I'm useful and now they know how to make it theirs through Loki. If they really thought their efforts in extracting stuff from me was fruitless, they'd kill me any way possible or at least leave me for dead or let me go even but they didn't as Loki can attest, I was still chained down and muzzled in a glass cell when he found me."

"Are you seriously trying to convince me that you're actually a chaotic neutral?" Peter asked incredulously.

"That is exactly what I'm telling you I am. I mean yeah I try my best to keep the peace and natural order between me and the others like me but look how fucking well that's going when they're either dying out or switching sides. I'd say I'd like to be more toward lawful neutral but then I'd be lying because lawful is fucking boring having to follow the rules so blindly."

"What's wrong with rules?"

"Nothing, they're just meant to be broken is all and no one seems to get that."

"Nothing's made to be broken though," Peter argued.

"I disagree, Reginald, pinatas are, glowsticks, karate boards, pasta when you have a small pot, those party crackers. Loki, can you think of anything?"

"Glasses or goblets for really good drinks you want more of, good riding horses that haven't been trained yet, new footwear, a lady's hymen," Loki continued.

"I'ma stop you right there before you get too graphic."

"You asked, don't get shy on me now."

"Shy? I'm sorry, have you met me? I joked about oral when we first met, how the fuck is that shy? I'm censoring you for Peter's sake as we're guests and don't want to overstay our welcome."

"Seriously?" squeaked Peter. "I'm sorry, you're trapped in some base and the first non Hydra person you see, who just happens to be a war criminal from another planet that attacked this city not too long ago, and you blatantly flirt with him?"

"'K first of all, back off on the judging, buddy, you don't know what it's like being trapped with the same ugly assholes for an extended period of time and wishing for a new face regardless of their intentions. Secondly, he's hot so there's that and just cuz I'm dead doesn't mean I don't have some needs left in me, a few select things make me feel alive again, he turned out to be one of them. Also, did I mention he's hot and he really pulls off the green god look in all leather and stuff."

"You weren't the least bit worried?"

"What's he gonna do? Kill me? Good luck, he ain't the first to try it."

"Okay, you are way too casual about being wanted dead or deader."

I snorted. "Very little fazes me these days, if I got myself worked up over every little obstacle I would be a cold mess and never leave the grave I crawled out of."

"Wise words from a dead girl," teased Loki who got punched in the arm again, this time my fingers didn't break but he was still made of solid ice so it pretty much bounced off him.

"I'm curious which of the two of you has more secrets, I mean Loki is kinda known for that kind of thing but then there's you who's been dropping hints there's a lot we don't know about you, you're just so casual about them whereas if Loki drops hints he comes off completely devious and cunning about it, like he's flaunting it almost."

"That's because Loki is the god of teasing," I mused. "In many ways. And he's had many many lifetimes in his old age to perfect it. Yeah that's right, tease me about being corpse all you want, but remember you're basically a cradle robbing necrophiliac for shacking up with a dead girl that's not even a fourth of your age."

"I might be over a thousand or so years old but between that being still young in Asgardian years as you call it and no one outside you and the Avengers knowing how old I am just by looking at me, that's not actually that much of an issue. Nice try though."

"You're over a thousand?" questioned Peter in shock. "How long before you actually get gray hairs?"

"I'm working on that," I joked.

Loki scowled at me then and shook his head. "A few more thousand I should say, might be different for me being a Frost Giant rather than actual Asgardian."

"Do you age at all?" Peter asked me.

"My body is in a state of dead stasis, it can't change or age and always returns to the same state of death. It's how I heal like I do."

"But didn't you say Loki's magic could undo that?"

"He's probably the only one that can at the moment, him and the wankers that stole some of his power to use against me. I don't know the specifics but I'm guessing because I'm a source of death magic and his is either exactly or closely related to living magic, the two cancel each other out."

"I'm still not happy about them doing that nor do I know how," muttered Loki.

"Like you said, that part doesn't matter at this point, they have it and unfortunately they know how to use it. We just gotta figure out how to undo that so I don't get shot full of rocksalt again, that shit stings like swallowing an angry beehive."

"I-I might have an idea if I remember your other powers correctly," Peter spoke up, looking at Loki eagerly. "Also, random question, which of you is actually more powerful?"

Loki and I looked at each other for a moment then both at Peter at the same time.

"He's been around eons longer than I have and acquired a fuckton more power over time than I have but the power I have isn't remotely like his so I'm not even sure the two are comparable, he built his up over time, I earned it another way entirely and not all on my own like I'm willing to bet he has."

Loki then looked back at me and I could almost hear the gears grinding in his head, knowing he had picked up more of the many hints I've dropped about myself to collect and analyze later. "Are you ever going to tell me the whole story?"

"If that's allowed but ultimately it's not up to me to decide that," I replied softly. "So this plan of yours, Pete, do tell!"

"Well first, Loki, would you be affected by your own magic hitting you."

"If it came from me, no, if someone else can wield magic like mine then yes."

"Then I got an idea that should work."