#where did i steal that wounded quote from?

[ellecdc]

A Man With a Plan.5

prologue // p1 // p2 // p3 // p4 // p5 // p6 // p7

Remus Lupin x whimsical!reader - Hogwarts Era (no Voldemort) - Soulmate AU

CW: swearing, self-deprecating thoughts, James losing his ever-loving mind.

“Okay. Start again, from the beginning.” Remus heard James say as he made his way back down to the common room with the Marauder’s Map held fast in his iron grip.

Regulus sighed something that sounded a lot like for Salazar’s sake, Potter as he looked at the ceiling of the Gryffindor common room for patience; jury’s still out on whether he found any or not.

“She was supposed to meet me in the library after the game to study.” He muttered plainly.

“Right.” James said as he paced near the fire, arms crossed and one hand up near his mouth as he chewed on his cuticles. 

“She never showed at the library, but I didn’t think anything of it as she often gets-”

“Distracted, right.” James agreed readily.

Regulus had lowered his head and was now looking at the floor. “I still had her books though, so I went to bring them to her dorm, or at least drop them off for her. Her roommate-”

“Which one?” James interrupted.

“What?”

“Which roommate?”

Regulus scoffed and levelled James with an incredulous glare. “I don’t know, Potter. Why would I know her roommates? The lot of them are tosser’s anyway.”

“Did Reggie just refer to someone as a tosser?” Sirius stage whispered to Remus. 

“Was it Mary-Ella?” 

“I don’t know who that is, Potter.”

“Did she have glasses?” James tried again.

“No.”

“The red head?”

“No.”

“Okay so it was Jill, then; the blonde.”

“Fine. Yes, Jill,” Regulus started, obviously antsy to get this conversation over with. “Said she had packed a small bag and said, and I quote,” he emphasized, obviously already having gone over this with James, “it’s better that she stays away from the castle for the weekend.”

James had since stopped his pacing and stood in front of the fire as he pieced the facts together.

“Okay...” he started as he looked to Regulus again. “One more time.”

“Potter!” Regulus shouted at the same time Sirius whined “Prongs!”

“This is awful. This is just awful.” James said as he resumed his pacing.

“Okay, well, relax Potter. She’s more clever than people give her credit for – I’m sure she’s fine.” Regulus said as he rubbed his temples.

“I know she’s more clever than people give her credit for.”

“Then why are you so wound up?” Sirius asked. Big mistake.

“Because, if she’s not here, who will stop the nargles, Sirius!?” James shrilled. 

“What the fuck is a nargle!?” Sirius shouted back.

“I don’t know! All I know is that Y/N’s not here, and now the nargles are going to steal my stuff!”

Remus was fully convinced that dogs two counties over could hear James at this point.

“Guys? Has anyone seen my shoes?” Peter interjected as he stood from his spot on the carpet where Sirius had abandoned their card game. “I swear they were just here.”

“Oh gods, it’s starting.” James cried miserably.

“Oh relax, Potter. The nargles aren’t interested in smelly running shoes.” Regulus added with derision. “They’d much prefer a nice wizarding pair of dragonhide boots.”

Suddenly, realization seemed to dawn on Regulus’ face as he turned quickly and exited the Gryffindor common room.

“Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods, oh gods.” James muttered as he resumed his pacing.

“Alright, are you going to tell him? Or should I?” Sirius said as he turned his sights to Remus.

“Tell me what?” James said immediately, looking between his two friends.

Remus’ face was pale and clammy while Moony was screaming in his mind at the thought of you being gone, not being safe, being hurt, hiding.

“Tell me what?!” James asked again.

Remus just shook his head.

“Remus.” Sirius warned.

“What did you do? What did you say to her?” James accused, immediately on the offensive as he stalked towards him. Lily stood swiftly to block James’ path.

“I...I can’t...I-she’s,” Remus stuttered miserably.

“Oh, for Godric’s sake.” Sirius muttered as he stalked up to his dorm room. He returned swiftly with the book Hairy Snout, Human Heart and tossed it to James who caught it easily. 

“She is his soulmate.” He said simply.

“SOULMATE!?” Lily, Peter, and James all guffawed in unison.

“I thought that was just a myth.” Peter muttered as he took the book from James’ hand and began flipping through it.

“Apparently not.” Sirius muttered as he ran a hand through his hair. “It’s had this guy wound up for weeks.”

“Holy shit.” Peter muttered as he held the book out for James and Lily to see as well. “It’s true. It’s here.” 

“How do you know it’s her?” Lily asked Remus.

He snorted and shook his head as Moony shouted MINE.

“Just a hunch.” He muttered miserably.

“Is this why you’ve been so upset, recently?” Peter asked quietly. James scoffed and shook his head angrily.

“So upset... to have such an odd girl as your soulmate, Moony?” James spat furiously.

Remus felt the colour drain from his face as Moony started arguing angrily in his head. IS MINE. IS MINE. MINE, GOOD. MINE, GOOD. 

James scoffed and threw the book onto the table. “You know, out of everyone, Remus, I thought at least you’d be more understanding. That perhaps maybe you would know what it’s like to be different from everyone else – treated differently than your peers.”

James looked down his nose at his friend as he began to stalk out of the room. “Turns out you’re just as bad as the rest of them.”

Remus felt a tear fall as he turned back to regard his friends.

“Sirius.” He whispered miserably.

“I know, Moons. I know that’s not why; I’ll talk to him - but I don’t blame him for being angry.” Sirius offered solemnly before he followed James up the stairs.

“You know...it makes a lot of sense.” Peter mused aloud.

Lily and Remus turned to face him with matching expressions of bemusement. 

“A witch who believes in nargles ought to believe in soulmates. She’s probably the perfect person for you.” He said simply with a shrug.

Mine. Miss. Missing. Where? Mine. Moony whimpered.

James was officially missing one half of two pairs of socks, his watch, his school tie, and his new quill set that his mom had sent him.

Oh, and also his sanity if you asked Sirius. 

Sirius was starting to feel like he was losing his sanity too, between Remus’ brooding over your ‘disappearance’ (which sounded so dramatic considering you told people you were leaving and that you’d be��back after the weekend), James’ (and admittedly, Regulus’) fussing over nargles, auras, and something other entity Sirius has never heard of, and Peter’s complete lack of help with any of the above. 

“All this over a bird.” He muttered to himself as he handed James one of his extra ties.

“Moony, up. We’re going to breakfast.” He barked over his shoulder. Remus just shook his head.

“Get up.” He demanded. 

“M’not hungry.” Remus muttered petulantly.

“Don’t care, Moons – we’re going to breakfast.” 

“Leave me alone.”

“Oh, for fucking fuck!” Sirius said as he stomped his feet. “Lupin, I swear to fuck if you do not get your arse down to the Great Hall right now and eat - because I know you won’t eat later and then you’ll have the moon tonight and then you won’t eat tomorrow morning which will have meant you haven’t eaten in over 24-hours – I will find your bird and bed her myself.”

Sirius felt ridiculous for a) his temper tantrum and b) threatening to steal his best mate’s girl – but it appeared to have its desired effect when Remus stood abruptly from what Sirius had officially dubbed the brooding chair with a growl and stalked out the dormitory door, shouldering Sirius as he went. 

It was going to be a long day.

Unfortunately for Sirius, it was an even longer night. 

James and Remus still weren’t speaking as the four of them made their way to the Shrieking Shack for Moony’s transformation. Peter, the poor sod, kept trying to make conversation, though it was all in vain as Remus was still too broody to engage and James just offered the occasional grunt of acknowledgement. 

And unfortunately, Moony wasn’t in better spirits.

After Remus’ transformation, Sirius – now Padfoot – had the unenviable task of watching a Werewolf in mourning.

The Wolf spent most of the night making pathetically sorrowful howls at the moon, and when he wasn’t crying, he was trying to gnaw angrily on his ankles. When Padfoot tried to get him to stop, or encourage a playful romp, Moony snapped at him.

Padfoot huffed to say “fine, you sod”, but his whimper as he laid on the opposite end of the room betrayed his haughtiness – Padfoot’s heart was breaking.

It was breaking for his Moony – his pack – and it also broke for Remus. Remus, who finally had a shot at something wonderful but let it slip through his fingers because he was too full of self-loathing to accept an opportunity. Remus, who deserves love and compassion, because lord knows he doesn’t give enough of it to himself. Remus, who found probably the most openminded and understanding person in the world. Remus...who found his soulmate. 

His soulmate.

Moony found his happy ending.

And Padfoot was not going to let him lose it.

Remus blinked against the harsh brightness of the infirmary the following morning – his body aching in ways it hadn’t since before the boys started joining him for the full moons. As he stretched, the bandages that pulled at his wrists and ankles explained why.

Moony had been angry. And he’d taken it out on Remus.

Remus couldn’t blame him. All of the floundering, grasping at ridiculous straws, the planning he’d been doing all week. For what?

To use a poor girl for sex and distractions? To cheat Moony, and himself, from what he really wanted? To fight and argue with his friends, his pack? To have you take off for two nights?

He hated himself.

He hated himself, he hated himself, he hated himself.

And Moony hated him too.

Remus groaned as he pushed himself up in a sitting position.

“Feeling better?” James muttered as he fluffed Remus’ pillow for him. His face and tone remained angry despite his kind gesture.

“No, not really...” Remus admitted.

“Me neither.” 

“James, I’m sorry.” Remus sighed as he settled back into his pillow. “I swear I...it’s not her, I-”

“It’s not you, it’s me. Really, Moony?” James sneered.

“Yes, Prongs. You know this.” Remus stressed. 

“Uhm, no. What I know, Moony, is that you are a wonderful, caring friend who loves his people so strongly, and has more love to give, and certainly deserves more love than he allows himself. That’s what I know.

“I also know that I have a very wonderful, lovely, caring friend who deserves the same amount of love she gives to everyone else, and you wouldn’t even give her a chance!”

“James. I know.”

“And anoth- what?” James stopped in his tirade. 

“I know.” Remus repeated as his eyes welled with tears. “I tried to fight it because I didn’t want to drag anyone else into my mess; I didn’t want anyone else to feel responsible for me. I’ve already damned my mum and dad, I’ve already dragged you three into this – I couldn’t do it again. I thought I was strong enough to ignore it, but I can’t.”

“Rem, you didn’t damn your parents. That’s what happens when you have a kid; the kids’ job is to be who they are, and the parent’s job is to love them regardless. And we chose to help you through this Rem – and it was the right thing to do!” James cried as he lifted his hands in the air.

“I just don’t want you guys to regret it one day or decide I’m too much. Then what would I do?” Remus admitted quietly.

“Oh, for- You know what, Lupin? Only way you’re getting rid of me is through death. Got it?” James said with all the sternness he could muster.

Remus huffed a laugh and nodded. “Okay Prongs.”

James deflated and offered a curt nod. “Good. ‘Cause I need your help finding Y/N. I cannot risk losing another one of my quills – my mom is going to kill me.”

Padfoot felt like he may have scrapes on his nose from how long he’s been out here following your scent. But he knew it would be worth it when he found you and got you back to Moony.

His ears perked up when he heard movement, but he swiftly hid behind a large oak tree when some Centaurs stepped onto the path.

“Now, if you continue West from here, you should find the rest of your path to Hogwarts unhindered. Stepping off the path brings the chance of new adventures and grave danger.” A centaur proclaimed.

“Thank you very much, Firenze. Best of luck on your search for the Snidgets.” An airy voice called back. 

Padfoot knew that voice! That was Moony’s soulmate! Padfoot tried to hide his excitement (i.e., he tried to stop his tail from wagging) until the centaurs all left.

Suddenly, Padfoot shifted and bolted out from behind the tree to stand in front of you.

“Y/N!” He shouted as he grabbed your upper arms in his hands, scanning you from head-to-toe for any signs of injury. 

You seemed surprised by his appearance, but not startled. Sirius figured you probably should have been startled – it was a pretty startling thing for him to do.

You had no injuries, but a few branches and leaves were caught in your hair and on various parts of your body. You were also not wearing shoes.

“Well, hello Sirius. It’s very nice to see you.” You said plainly.

“Nice to see me? Are you- where are your shoes?” He decided to settle on first. Not the most important question – but it took priority in Sirius’ mind.

You looked down at your feet like you weren’t fully aware they were bare. “You know, I’m not quite sure. Not to worry, though; I’m sure they’ll turn up. Lost things often have ways of finding their way back to us, if not always in the way we expect.”

Sirius had no idea how to respond to that – so he didn’t. “Do you have any idea how worried everyone has been?” He sputtered at you.

Your eyebrows furrowed at that, and you almost seemed upset as you responded, “Oh dear, I didn’t mean to concern anyone.”

Sirius immediately regretted saying anything; now he could see why James was so sweet on you.

“Well, let’s go to the castle and tell them all that, then.” He acquiesced as he hooked your arm in his and began the path back to Hogwarts. You did not seem concerned nor feel the need to object to his manhandling you. But Sirius knew he would not be letting go of you until you were back in the castle – maybe not even then. He was not going to deal with Remus, James, and Regulus like this again.

“Regulus was perhaps most concerned.” He lied, knowing very well he was far from the most dramatic through all of this. “Very worried about the nargles in your absence.”

You hummed in acknowledgement. “As he should; they’d be quite interested in his dragonhide boots.”

“You don’t say.” Sirius murmured, unadmittedly becoming increasingly concerned with the state of his beloved Doc Marten’s stowed in his school trunk.

“Better hurry then.” He said as he all but dragged you up towards the castle. 

Remus tried not to get too caught up on the fact that he was sitting in the infirmary with James and Regulus Black of all people as they scanned the Marauder’s map for any sign of you. He also pretended he didn’t notice the fact that Regulus was holding a duffle bag that appeared to have everything he owned jammed inside it.

“She said she’d only need to stay away from the castle for the weekend, right?” James asked as he continued to scan the parchment.

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Yes, Potter. Like I said.”

“Okay, I can’t look at this anymore – I’m going cross-eyed.” James moaned as he leaned away from the map and rubbed his eyes from behind his glasses.

Remus felt awfully guilty. He didn’t know how you would know - though he wouldn’t put it past you at this point - but he didn’t think it was a coincidence that you left for the full moon. He doesn’t think he’d ever forgive himself if something happened to you because of it.

“Oh, thank Godric.” James finally breathed as he stood from his chair.

“Godric had nothing to do with it, Prongsie.” Sirius called out as he waltzed into the infirmary – your arm in his. 

James all but shoved Sirius aside as he enveloped you in his arms. “Where have you been!?” 

You smiled sweetly – that damned dimple making an appearance to taunt Remus – and patted your friends back.

“Oh, I wasn’t far Jamie.”

Sirius let out a pfft from where he was now leaning against the wall at the end of Remus’ bed. “Not far she says. I found her with a herd of centaurs.”

“CENTAURS.” The three other boys shouted, earning them a dramatic shushing from the matron.

“Y/N, centaurs are very hostile towards wizard-kind.” Regulus spoke severely, albeit more quietly for Madame Pomfrey's benefit. 

“I don’t agree.” You said simply as you turned to look at Remus. “Are you feeling much better?” You asked him.

Your voice was so tranquil compared to the conversation with the boys, and even with Madame Pomfrey – Remus was sure if he was hooked up to a muggle heart monitor, his blood pressure would be dropping just from listening to you speak.

Keep smiling at him like that, though, and it might pick right back up.

“I am, Y/N. Thank you.”

You sighed in relief as you sat on the edge of the foot of Remus’ bed. “Oh good. I figured it’d be easier if I was gone.” 

Sirius and James’ necks looked like they might have snapped as they turned to look at you. The room fell painfully quiet as Sirius, James, and Remus all looked at each other and then to Regulus. 

Regulus seemed to understand his intrusion. “Uhm, right. Well, Y/N L/N, you are to never take off like that again without informing me. Got it?” He said severely. Remus is sure most people would have cowered, but you smiled sweetly and brushed his cheek.

"Okay, Reg."

Regulus offered you a curt nod and left the infirmary. Remus supposed that was likely as loving as Regulus Black could ever get. 

“What would have been easier if you were gone, Y/N?” James asked quietly.

“Well, the moon, of course.” You responded.

That muggle heart rate monitor? It’d be showing no signal at this point.

“I’m terribly sorry if your bond to me is causing you problems, Remus.” You offered solemnly. Remus thought this might be the most emotion he’d ever seen from you.

“It’s...it’s not your fault.” Remus croaked.

“Y/N, how much do you know?” Sirius asked.

You considered Sirius for a moment before responding. “About what?”

Sirius looked between the you and Remus before arching his brow at the latter. Remus grimaced and leaned forward to tap his finger against your hand that was closest to him to bring your attention to him.

“How much do you know about me?”

 “Well, I know your name is Remus Lupin. You’re from a town outside of Cardiff. You’re a Pisces, a Gryffindor, a werewolf, and a prefect. And you have a magical connection to me, it seems.” You said all too simply, head tilted as you searched his face for something.

Remus’ mind was reeling; it was reeling that you apparently knew he was a werewolf, and it was reeling at the fact that in a list of things you knew about him, that fact fell between him being a Gryffindor and a prefect and was not as important to you as his birth sign. 

“What’s his name?” You asked suddenly.

Remus shook his head as if to wake himself up. “I’m sorry?”

“The Wolf; what’s his name?”

Remus looked to Sirius who was staring at you with a terrified sort of awe, and then to James who looked both proud and smug that you’d figured it out.

“It’s Moony.” Remus whispered.

You smiled greatly at that. “A wonderful name.”

Sirius smirked at that – clearly chuffed his hard work was appreciated. 

“It’s fitting too – should have seen him mooning over you this weekend – this month even!” James said.

Remus threw a chocolate wrapper at him from his bedside table.

“I’m sure it’s difficult, feeling tied to someone so odd.” You offered quietly, and any friendly banter drained from the boys immediately.

“Y/N, that’s-” James started, but Remus interrupted.

“I’m so sorry to have made you believe that Y/N, but it’s just not true.” He said emphatically.

You tilted your head at him in intrigue. “No?”

He shook his head. “No. I was trying to keep you away from...Moony, from my infliction.” He admitted shamefully.

“Hm. Well, that didn’t work very well.” You said plainly, causing Sirius to bark a laugh.

“Most of his plans don’t, dollface.” He said through a chuckle.

“Oh, plans aren’t always a bad thing: it’s good to be prepared. But it’s important to plan to be spontaneous as well.”

“Plan to be spontaneous?” James asked incredulously.

“Oh yes,” you said severely. “I get my best work done that way.”

James seemed to consider this as Sirius sighed. “Yes, and, if you plan too much, auror’s throw around words like premeditated.”

You nodded in comradery. “Very true, Sirius.” 

Continue to chapter six here.

Taglist: @hanniejji, @y0urm0m12, @c0nsc10usworld, @aphrcdites, @starsval, @thepunisherfrankcastle, @anuncalledbridge, @unstablereader, @rai-strangebr, @klazina-couch-potato, @cancelledkaley, @fandom-crashlanding, @ttulipwritezz, @boo8008, @daisiesformylove, @frostooo, @myriadmoons, @aremuslupinsimp, @simars3, @stargurl99, @dreamingofts18, @iwannabeinthesequalmrghostface, @agent-tempest, @xxrougefangxx, @serenadingtigers, @adhxmoony, @spokenfolk, @hufflepufffangirlqueen, @thebiggestnaturaldisaster, @urmomw4ntsme, @b4tm4nn, @jamieolivia27, @stqrgirlies-blog, @loving-and-dreaming

[ryemiffie]

More quotes from my day as batfam incorrect quotes! (Edit: If anyone wants context feel free to ask!)

Dick: Oh, and I was thinking- Oh my god why is your shirt drenched in blood!?

Jason: Cause there was blood and it got on my shirt, duh.

Dick: Well is it yours?!

Jason: What do mean? It's my shirt, I didn't steal it.

Dick: No, I mean the outrageous amount of blood!

Jason: Oh!

Dick: ??

Jason: ...

Dick: Well??

Jason: Oh yeah it's mine.

Dick: Where did it come from?!

Jason: Me??

Dick: Why?!

Jason: Oh I was stabbed.

Dick: So you were stabbed but your shirt wasn't?

Jason: What you mean?

Dick: There's no puncture to your shirt.

Jason: Oh well I changed my shirt obviously, I'm not just gonna walk around in a stabbed shirt, that would be gross.

Dick: But walking around bleeding out everywhere isn't?!

Jason: I'm not bleeding out, I handled the wound.

Dick: You stitched it?

Jason: No?? I don't know how to give anyone stitches, let alone myself.

Dick: So you went to a doctor?

Jason: No?? Why would I do that? Doctors are all evil and sketchy, can't be trusted.

Dick: Then how the fuck did you handle the wound?!

Jason: Duck tape! Duh.

Dick: Oh my god what is wrong with you?!

Jason: Well right now I'm feeling a little light headed, your pestering isn't helping.

Dick: Oh and the blood loss isn't contributing at all?!

Jason: Why would that be a factor?

Dick: ??

Dick: Cause you were stabbed, and by the looks of it you have lost a substantial amount of blood!

Jason: That ain't my problem.

Dick: It literally is!

Jason: Okay well you keep thinking that, I'm just gonna be on the floor here for a minute.

Dick: Go to a doctor!

Jason: No!

[rottingbricks]

3000+ Word Rant On Why Boris and Theo Are Endgame and Had a Romantic Connection ✯

Forever and always will believe Theo and Boris are soulmates and they got married and lived their life together. (Maybe that's too much. Let me just explain why they have a very deep relationship)

Where do I start? So for one Boris was Theo's first kiss and sexual partner. They had a deep connection, felt safe with one another, and were practically inseparable. It's explained that Boris basically lived with Theo and was hardly ever at his own house. They also looked out for each other, Theo cleaned Boris' wounds after being beaten by his father and Boris comforted Theo on the loss of his mother —Here's a quote from the book; "And I suppose if either of us had lived in an even halfway normal household, with curfews and chores and adult supervision, we wouldn't have become quite so inseparable, so fast, but almost from that day we were together all the time.” (Tartt, chapter 5, section 12)

WHY THEO LIKES BORIS (YOUNGER) Everything is great between Theo and Boris but when Boris meets a girl: Kotku, it all goes to shit. But the way Theo responds to it is very telling. First off, Theo reflects on good moments with Boris after Boris got so wrapped up with Kotku; “I told myself I didn't miss him, but I did. I got stoned alone, watched Adult Access and the Playboy channel, read Grapes of Wrath and The House of the Seven Gables which seemed as if they had to be tied for the most boring book ever written, and what felt like thousands of hours—time enough to learn Danish or play the guitar if I've been trying—fooled around in the street with a fucked-up skateboard Boris and I had found in one of the foreclosed houses down the block. I went to swim-team parties with Hadley—no drinking parties with parents present—and on the weekends, attended parents-away parties of kids I barely knew, Xanax bars and Jagermeister shots, riding home on the hissing CAT bus at two a.m. so fucked up I had to hold the seat in the front of me to keep from falling out in the aisle. After school, if I was bored, it was easy enough to go hang out with one of the big lackadaisical stoner crowds who floated around between Del Taco and the kiddie arcades on the Strip. But I was still lonely. It was Boris I missed, the whole impulsive mess of him: gloomy, reckless, hot-tempered, appallingly thoughtless. Boris pale and pasty, with his shoplifted apples and his Russian language novels, gnawed-down fingernails and shoelaces dragging in the dust. Boris—budding alcoholic, fluent cursor in four languages—who snatched food from my plate when he felt like it and nodded off drunk on the floor, face red like he'd been slapped. Even when he took things without asking, as he all too frequently did—little things are always disappearing, DVDs and school supplies for my locker, more than once I'd caught him going through my pockets for money—his own possessions meant so little to him that somehow it wasn't stealing; whenever he came into cash himself, he split it with me down the middle and anything that belonged to him, he gave me gladly if I asked for it. (and sometimes when I didn't, as when Mr. Pavlovsky’s gold lighter, which I admired in passing, turned up in the outside pocket of my backpack)” (Tartt, chapter 6, section 4)

Theo took note that Boris was very physically touchy and that it made him a little bit nervous; “The funny thing: I’d worried if anything, that Boris was the one who was a little too affectionate, if affectionate is the right word. The first time he’d turned in bed and draped an arm over my waist, I lay there half-asleep for a moment, not knowing what to do: staring at my old socks on the floor, empty beer bottles, my paper-backed copy of The Red Badge of Courage. At last—embarrassed—I faked a yawn and tried to roll away, but instead, he sighed and pulled me closer, with a sleepy, snuggling motion. Ssh, Potter, he whispered, into the back of my neck. Is only me.” (Tartt, chapter 6, section 4) Then, Theo has a little gay panic — because of Boris being so affectionate; “It was weird. Was it weird? It was; and it wasnt. I’d fallen back to sleep shortly after, lulled by his bitter, beery unwashed smell and his breath easy in my ear. I was aware I couldn't explain it without making it sound like more than it was.” (Tartt) Near the end, Theo tries to play it off that what was happening between the two wasnt romantic, If Theo wasnt thinking of Boris in a romantic way why would he even be written to question or worry that they could come off in such a way? The fact Theo is worrying about it so much can only lead me to believe that Theo does think of Boris in a romantic light and is trying to deny it. Theo continues to explain ways Boris was affectionate towards him, further deepening the connection between the two of them; “On nights I woke strangled with fear there he was, catching me when I startled up terrified from the bed, pulling me back down in the covers beside him, muttering in nonsense Polish, his voice throaty and strange with sleep. We’d drowse off in each other's arms, listening to music from my Ipod.”

Then, the final nail in the coffin, Theo recalls the nights when he and Boris would partake in closer intimacy; “And yet (this was the murky part, this was what bothered me) there had also been other, way more confusing and fucked-up nights, grappling around half-dressed, weak light sliding in from the bathroom and everything haloed and unstable without my glasses: hands on each other, rough and fast, kicked-over beers foaming on the carpet—fun and not that big of a deal when it was actually happening, more than worth it for the sharp gasp when my eyes rolled back and I forgot about everything;” (Tartt) Afterwards, Theo mentions Boris and him never spoke of those nights, and that if people found out they were having sex they would; “think the wrong thing if they knew,”. However, Theo thought about those strange nights a lot and they clouded his mind at times, but, for Boris, it didn't seem like that. Theo notes Boris seemed unbothered by those nights; “But all the same he [Boris] seemed so completely untroubled by it that I was fairly sure it was just a laugh, nothing to take too seriously or get worked up about,” (Tartt) Since Theo uses multiple ways to get the ‘it's not a big deal’ point across. Saying it was a laugh, not serious, nothing to get worked up over, and uses all that when he's just going off of how Boris thinks and reacts to those nights. It can make the reader think that Theo, in contrast, does think of those nights in a serious, worked-up way. To further prove my point Theo was urged to discuss those nights with Boris, so he didn't ‘have the wrong idea’; “More than once, I had wondered if I should step up my nerve and say something: draw some sort of line, make things clear, just to make absolutely sure he didn't have the wrong idea.” (Tartt) Theo gets defensive over the thought of those nights, more importantly, the thought that Boris viewed those nights as something more, something romantic. This is even further pushing my earlier statement that a person who sees these moments as not romantic wouldn't be written to be worrying that it is romantic or that the other person sees it as romantic. So the fact Theo is worrying so greatly that these nights could even possibly be interpreted as romantic (especially when Boris isn't doing the same) can only have me further believing that it's because Theos is trying to deny or block out the actual romantic feelings he is having. Theo is so obsessive on this romantic or not topic that it comes off like Theo has a fear of becoming an orientation that he believes he isn't and that bleeds into internalized homophobia. Theo ends off this recall moment by stating; “I hated how much I missed him.” (Tartt)

There's another moment when Theo is thinking about how Boris is constantly around Kotku and hardly ever with Theo anymore. Theo tries to reassure himself; “But who cared what crappy girl Boris liked? Weren’t we still friends? Brothers practically?” (Tartt) Theo says he and Boris have a brother-like companionship, this, out of context is weird to use to prove my point that they are romantic. But considering all the context provided above this can once again be Theo trying to find an excuse to prove to himself that he and Boris aren't romantic. It's also obvious they aren't brotherly because the two are litterally having sex. In addition to this, right after that quote Theo admits; “Then again: there was not exactly a word for Boris and me.” (Tartt)

Finally, when Theo leaves Vegas he is rambling, trying to convince Boris to come with him, when; “I was still babbling when Boris said: “Potter.” Before I could answer him he put both hands on my face and kissed me on the mouth.” Shortly after. Once Theo is in the taxi he thinks to himself and admits to himself; “I'd stop myself from blurting the thing on the edge of my tongue, the thing I’d never said, even though it was something we both knew well enough without me saying it out loud to him in the street—which was, of course, I love you.” (Tartt, chapter 6, section 19)

WHY BORIS LIKES THEO (YOUNGER) All the content that is romantic between Theo and Boris is most of the time, if not always, initiated by Boris. Boris was the one who draped his arm around Theo, Boris was the one who pulled Theo closer when he rolled away, Boris was the one who cuddled Theo, Boris was the one who calmed Theo down from nightmares, Boris is the one who kissed Theo on the mouth while he had a girlfriend. Undoubtedly, all these things are romantic. Especially since these moments are told through Theo's perspective, who is interpreting these things as romantic, which rubs off on the reader.

When Theo is leaving Vegas and getting in the taxi, Boris hums the song "After Hours" by The Velvet Underground which is a band Theo and Boris listened to together. He hums a specific part of the song where the lyrics sing; "But if you close the door, I'd never have to see the day again" My interpretation of those lyrics in the scene’s context is: “But if you close the door” = If Theo doesnt leave Vegas. Correspondingly, those lyrics about closing a door means closing the door is giving privacy and leaving the character alone with someone they love. Another thing to mention, before those lyrics take place these lyrics are in the song; "Oh, someday, I know someone will look into my eyes and say, 'Hello, you're my very special one'" All of this feels very intentional. When songs and SPECIFIC lyrics are mentioned in novels it's always to convey something and those lyrics are just very romantic and are also about whether the character is going to choose to be alone or be with someone. Considering the lyrics are hummed by Boris right when Theo is leaving him is very telling. It's also to convey that Boris is debating whether to leave with Theo or not.

Everything I just mentioned was the Vegas era when they were teenagers, I will now discuss when they are adults.

WHY THEO AND BORIS JUST MAKE SENSE (OLDER) Now that Theo has lived and been with more people than Boris I will break down Theo's love interests and explain why they aren't good for Theo and why Boris ends up being the best outcome.

KITSEY: Kitsey is Theo's fiance whom Theo cheating on while Kitsey is also cheating on him. Theo is having affairs and hookups with pretty much random women. Kitsey is having an affair with Tom Cable, an old fake friend of Theo's who was the reason why Theo and his mother were leaving the house the day of the bombing. Once Theo witnesses the two kissing in secret he confronts Kitsey, this ends with Kitsey gaslighting Theo to stay in the relationship for the happiness of Mrs. Barbour rather than themselves. Kitsey also admits their ‘love’ has always been head not heart, that they get along well but neither is in love with the other.

PIPPA: Pippa was another victim in the bombing in lost her uncle, this led to her and Theo crossing paths as young teenagers. Finding comfort within shared traumatic experiences. As they grow older Theo begins to romanticize her. Although it's not love, it's more of an obsession if anything. Theo obsesses and overly plans their meetups making sure they are perfect, Theo shows mild jealousy and irritation to Evveret: Pippa's boyfriend, Theo keeps a shirt of Pippa’s without her knowledge, and as creepily as it is..Theo has a lock of Pippa's hair that he took from a trashcan after Pippa cut her bangs in the bathroom. Theo eventually confesses his love for Pippa in a downtown restaurant after seeing a film. He tries to reason that Welty, Pippa's uncle who she lost in the bombing—put Theo exactly where he needed to be at the right time with WHO he needed to be with (aka Pippa and Hobie). Pippa eases Theo into rejection, however, she admits she has a thing for him as well. She begins to explain reasons why the two of them cannot be together: With their shared trauma..if one of them ‘fell’ the other would go right with them as there is no emotional stability between the two, one cannot be there for the other if they can't even support themselves. They are close enough to star-crossed lovers: lovers who are destined to not be together being pulled from one another by outside forces.

If Theo can't have Pippa and doesnt want Kitsey it's reasonable to conclude that Boris is a valid romantic option for Theo. When the two reunite Theo feels alive again after living a boring tucked-away life. He's laughing and enjoying every second with Boris.

BORIS: After years of separation and keeping a secret from Theo news reports come out about how The Goldfinch painting was not ruined in the bombing and is being used as collateral. Boris is under the impression Theo has already unwrapped The Goldfinch years ago and found out what Boris did. With the rise of these news reports guilt rises in Boris that he took the painting from Theo and ended up losing the painting. Boris has a hint that Theo would not want to see Boris ever again and even wants to act violently against Boris for taking the painting from Theo, however, Boris is aware that he must try to fix what he’s done. So, he goes to New York and goes to Hobie's old shop, seeking Theo. When Theo isn't there to be found Boris is sure he’ll never see Theo again, but they happen to run into each other later in the night outside a bar. They then spend the night till 4am talking and catching up. Theo admits in college he took a conversational Russian class because it made him think of Boris. Boris admits Theo was the only boy he's ever been in bed with—but brushes it off as they were desperate teenagers in need of girls..but that doesnt make sense as Boris has a girlfriend, Kyoto- and he was talking to girls before her too. He wasnt partaking in sex with Theo out of desperation for pleasure by any means. -- Boris then says he thinks that Theo thought their relationship back then was ‘something else’, after saying this Theo gets upset and begins to leave the table. Within this mix, Boris apologizes for what he did to Theo all those years ago and he deeply regrets it, Theo is confused about what he is speaking about and Boris is shocked that after all these years he’s never unwrapped the painting. Leaving Boris to admit what he did with the painting with picture proof. Boris wants to apologize to Theo and attempt to find the painting— for Theo.

In the hunt to regain the painting, Boris interrupts Theo and Kitsey's engagement party to take Theo onto a flight to Amsterdam. After some bickering..Theo agrees and says goodbye to Kisey and packs his bags with a nice suit and lots of money. — Boris arranges a meetup with the holders of the painting, but the sellers seem suspicious as they are missing one of their men and one of the men gets away after Boris and his crew pull guns on the men. — Boris and Theo successfully retrieve the painting, Boris taking note of how Theo has his bird once again — But when returning to the parking garage to leave the two men who were absent earlier and one new man arrive with guns pointed, two of these men are killed by Theo and Boris but one man gets away with the painting — The next few days Theo is sent into a deep depression in his hotel room….however this ends differently varying from book to movie. In the book, Theo is urged to turn himself in to the police for murder … In the movie, Theo goes through with a suicide attempt by overdose but is forced to throw up the drugs later by Boris. Both versions end with Boris interrupting, calming Theo down, and telling the good news that he tracked the painting down in a house holding many more missing paintings and he sent in an anonymous tip to the police on these paintings and their location. Boris splits the reward money between his crew, Theo, and himself.

Boris makes a good partner to Theo as they get along, have a close history, make each other feel alive, know the do's and dont's / in's and out's of each other, show each other unconditional care, left a big positive impact on each others lives, and both share a deep love for art and beauty.

[add1ctedt0you]

Novel quotes: wei wuxian having feelings/thoughts about jiang cheng

Under the cut because it's long

However, Jiang Cheng was gone. Holding steamed buns, flatbreads, and fruits in his hands, Wei WuXian felt his heart skip a beat. He forced himself to calm down. Even after he searched through the neighboring streets, he still didn’t see Jiang Cheng. He finally began to panic. Grabbing a cobbler on the side, he asked, “Mister, there was a young master about the same age as me sitting here. Did you see where he went?” The cobbler licked the thick end of a thread, “The one that was with you?” Wei WuXian, “Yeah!”

The cobbler, “I was in the middle of doing something so I didn’t really see. But he kept on spacing out, staring at the people on the street. And then when I looked up at where he was again, he suddenly disappeared. Maybe he left.”

Wei WuXian murmured, “... He left... He left...”

He probably left for Lotus Pier to steal the bodies!

As though he had gone mad, Wei WuXian sprinted immediately toward the direction that they had come from.

[...]

He gave himself a harsh scolding in silence—he was stupid, useless, ridiculous, it was bizarre, unimaginable. Yet, he was alone, without a sword or any tools, and on the other side of the wall there were thousands of Wen Sect’s cultivators, perhaps Wen ZhuLie as well.

He wasn’t scared of death. He was only scared that after he died, he wouldn’t be able to save Jiang Cheng and betray the trust that Jiang FengMian and Madam Yu left him. In such circumstances, the only one he could place his hope on was a person of the Wen Sect whom he had met only three times in total!

[...]

Wei WuXian’s gaze turned from Wen Ning toward Jiang Cheng, whose body was covered in blood and eyes were tightly shut. His fingers couldn’t help but clenched into fists.

Chapter 59 Poisons—Part Four

Jiang Cheng’s expression was rather strange. It was calm, almost too calm. He stared at the ceiling, as though he wasn’t at all interested in the situation that he was in, as though he didn’t care about where he was either. Wei WuXian didn’t expect him to react in such a way. Sadness, happiness, anger, shock—he had none of these. His heart skipped a beat, “Jiang Cheng, can you see me? Can you hear me? Do you know who I am?” Jiang Cheng glanced at him. He didn’t say anything. Wei WuXian asked him a few more questions. Arm supporting himself, he finally sat upright. He looked down at the mark of the discipline whip on his chest before laughing bitterly. If the discipline whip struck, it’d be impossible to wipe away the mark of shame. Wei WuXian comforted him despite this, “Stop looking at it. There has to be a way to get it off.” Jiang Cheng slapped him. His strike was so weak, so powerless that Wei WuXian didn’t even flinch, “Hit me. As long as you’ll feel better.”

[...]

If Wei WuXian were the one injured or if somebody else had saved them, he’d immediately say farewell and leave at once, full of determination. However, right now, Jiang Cheng was the one who had been injured. Not only was he injured, he had lost his core as well. He wasn’t in his right mind. No matter what, Wei WuXian couldn’t find any determination.

Chapter 60 Poisons—Part five

Out of the blue, Jiang Cheng spoke up, “Not to do what?” Wei WuXian paused in surprise, turning to him along with Lan WangJi. Jiang Cheng covered his wound with one hand, his voice chilly, “Wei WuXian, you’re such a great, selfless person. You did the best things possible, and you swallowed all the suffering and didn’t let anyone know. What a touching story. I should kneel down and cry in gratitude, shouldn’t I?” Hearing the mocking tone that lacked any courtesy, Lan WangJi’s face grew cold. Jin Ling saw the displeased expression and immediately stood in front of Jiang Cheng, scared that Lan WangJi would kill him with one strike, “Uncle!” Wei WuXian’s expression worsened as well. He never expected Jiang Cheng to make up with him after he found out the truth, but he didn’t think his tone would be as unkind as ever, either. With a moment of silence, he replied, voice muffled, “I never asked you to thank me.”

[...]

In the beginning, it was precisely because he didn’t want to see such a Jiang Cheng that he decided not to tell him.

He remembered every single thing he promised Jiang FengMian and Madam Yu—to help and take care of Jiang Cheng. If someone as unhealthily competitive as him found out about this, he’d be dispirited his whole life, too tortured to face himself. There’d always be something he could never overcome, reminding him that he could only reach where he was because of another’s sacrifice. It wasn’t at all his cultivation and his achievement. No matter if he won or lost, he’d long since lost the right to compete.

Afterwards, it was because Jin ZiXuan and Jiang YanLi died for him that he had no face to let others know. To tell Jiang Cheng after what happened then would be like shirking responsibility, hurrying to demonstrate that he’d contributed as well. It’d be like telling Jiang Cheng, don’t hate me, look I’ve contributed to the YunmengJiang Sect too.

Chapter 102- Hatred - Part Five

At this point, somebody on the side suddenly called, “Wei WuXian!”

Wei WuXian answered immediately, “What?”

Only after he answered did he realize that the one who called him was Jiang Cheng. Wei WuXian felt somewhat surprised. Jiang Cheng didn’t respond directly. Instead, he took something out from his sleeve and tossed. Wei WuXian caught it by instinct and looked, only to find a black, gleaming flute along with a crimson tassel.

It was the ghoul flute, Chen Qing!

As he felt the flute that he was more than familiar with, Wei WuXian didn’t even have the spare time to feel surprised.

Chapter 108: Concealment - Part Two

After a pause, he asked again, “How have Sect Leader Jiang and Jin Ling been?”

Lan JingYi pouted, “They seem pretty fine. Sect Leader Jiang is the same as before, always lashing out at people with his whip. Young Mistress’s temper has been getting better. In the past he could talk back thrice to his uncle after he scolds him once. Now he can do ten times.”

[...]

Hearing Lan JingYi say so, Wei WuXian relaxed slightly. In truth, he knew that these weren’t what he really wanted to ask. But as it sounded like Jiang Cheng and Jin Ling had been doing quite well, there was nothing left to say.

Chapter 116: Extra—Banquet - Part Three

[amarriageoftrueminds]

Hot take but the more I think about it the more I reckon they should've left the Russian aspect out of the Winter Soldier in the MCU. 

I know it's a part of the comics, and the name is meant to evoke the Cold War (Russian, Winter), but IMO it better suits the ‘Gitmo Army brat’ Bucky of the comics than the ‘Arnie Roth’ Bucky of the MCU; it doesn't fit with the MCU's specific backstory parameters. (Plus conflating Russian/KGB with SHIELD/Hydra just muddies the waters, for no particular purpose.)

Examples:

If Bucky was tortured by Nazi doctors in Russia it would've been under Operation Osoaviakhim, not Paperclip.

It doesn't make sense that Russians would name him after an American's quote about America. That's the exact opposite of what Russians would do.

Whereas it’s exactly what Americans would do if he was in American hands when the WS was created (ie. from early on). If comics!Steve can quote Mark Twain it doesn’t make sense that people don’t recognise a Thomas Paine reference in-universe. 

It doesn't make any sense, logistically, that the WS is tortured and operated on by Zola, who is in America (and stays there until he dies), unless the WS is also in America from early on.

(Per Agent Carter) It also doesn’t make any sense that the man who created the WS mind-control techniques -- Doctor Fennhoff/Faustus -- is working for the SSR in America, with Zola, if the WS himself is not also in America when those techniques are implemented. 

(And we know that that tech stayed in America, not Russia, because in the Black Widow movie the Red Room had to go undercover in Ohio just to steal it, and this was in 1995!)

It seems significant that we only see the WS in Siberia a mere 10 days before the Dissolution of the Soviet Union (and Howard Stark knew about him / recognised him instantly, and called him Sergeant Barnes, like Zola did.) 

It doesn't make sense that the WS is shown being conveniently stored in a local urban bank vault in Washington, DC... but was previously shoved hundreds of miles out of the way, in the Siberian wilderness, where it would've been a massive pain in the ass for any American Hydra to get hold of him. (And if they did, for some reason, want to massively inconvenience themselves just for a cold-name’s sake, why not Canada or Alaska?) 

It doesn't make sense that MCU WS is shown exclusively speaking English to the American Hydra agents who have control of him in the present day... but then all his control-words were in Russian and suddenly he speaks only Russian to handlers before this... And yet, he’s back to speaking English again in the flashbacks from TFATWS?? 🤦‍♀️

IMO it would've just been simpler and more straight-forward if it was just Nazis who found Bucky at the bottom of the ravine, not Russians (might even explain why he didn't escape, post-fall but pre-brain damage; he would've been thinking he'd get repatriated pretty soon, when the war's over... and he's kinda right 😭). 

And it would ram home the 'we were the ones doing wrong' horror of CATWS, if Bucky had just been on US soil the entire time and nobody good knew.

Possible scenario: 

The Russians who found Bucky wounded in WWII handed him over to the Americans, since the war wasn’t over yet and the two sides were ‘officially’ still allies. (And/or because they didn’t realise what they had, and/or he was part of some POW exchange deal.)

By the time Stark, Carter & Phillips found out, they had already hired Zola and Fennhoff. 

They intended to use Bucky to reboot the eugenicist supersoldier program and also experiment in the field of mind control (a la Project Artichoke, MK/Ultra etc.) Which they knew people would object to, so they kept Bucky’s recovery quiet from the other Commandos, his family, etc. 

SHIELDra had Bucky in America all along, and the whole Russian Boogeyman / Russian weapons thing was just a cover so that Hydra Demagogues could blame every WS hit on the USSR, and thereby drum up convenient anti-Communist hysteria during the Cold War. 

(After scientists were sent there to work under Operation Osoaviakhim, Hydra grew slowly in Russia -- with the rise of (anti-Communist) capitalism, and with Fascism being typically the resort of anti-authority criminal classes. Hydra ideology flourished much more quickly in the US (where it would be conformist-authoritarian, not anti-authoritarian), because the US was already capitalist, and had already been doing Hydra eugenic science like Project Rebirth, back in WWII.)

Being a greedy liar and a thief, Howard Stark decided to take advantage of the end of the Cold War by selling the WS to the Soviet branch of Hydra, just days before the Dissolution of the Soviet Union made it moot, and stealing the WS from the Pentagon to patent it himself. 

He sold Bucky complete with the Red Book, which the Russians either translated while reading aloud, re-wrote in Russian for their own purposes (explaining why an American organisation’s supersoldier appears to have Russian trigger words; perhaps he doesn’t, they would work in any language?) and why Zemo read them aloud in Russian.

(And/or, maybe the Americans really did use Russian trigger words on Bucky, to perpetuate the ‘definitely-not-American’ Boogeyman mythos?) 

The Russians realised they had been double-crossed by Stark, and sent the WS after him and his wife in retribution, and to steal the WS serum back (which Stark may or may not have also promised but failed to deliver.) 

The other US intelligence agencies failed to look into it more closely because, once they discovered the sale of the WS, and the theft of the serum, they considered Stark and his wife traitors / double-agents, and thought it was best for PR if the whole thing was hushed up.

Despite now having a mind-controlled super soldier of their own, the Russians didn’t have the secret of creating new mind-control. This explains why they couldn’t control the other Winter Soldiers (despite them being Hydra ideologues before serum), and why the Red Room had to go undercover in America, to steal the secret of mind-control from SHIELD in 1995. 

Why would they have to go to America to get that intel, if it was already in Russia?

[themegachessatron]

A Review of my time in Skyrim's Prisons (Featuring some followers): Morthal Jail

I'm back on my Skyrim prison bullshit. I can only apologise. This chapter of the review will cover Morthal, the community's collective 9th favourite Skyrim city. Will its prison fall just as flat as the city that holds it?

Arriving in my cell for the first time and I'm pleasantly surprised. Morthal Jail uses cost effective but cozy bedrolls to give prisoners a place to sleep, as well as a complimentary bucket and broom to encourage their responsibility in helping tidy their accommodations. From these we can immediately infer that the mindset in Morthal is one of community strength. Placing multiple prisoners in one cell helps build bonds and encourages teamwork, communication and friendship. Admittedly the sorts that end up in prison are more likely to simply beat their cellmates to death with their bare hands than work in-tandem with them, but it's the thought that counts.

There was space for three prisoners in this one cell, which was fortunate as Sofia and I had been arrested simultaneously (Sofia for drunken hooliganism and myself for lollygagging). Included on Sofia's side of the cell was an additional bucket, this likely serving as the simple but effective waste deposit for this cell. Also included was a basket containing five green apples and multiple sacks. Most of the sacks were empty but one of them had some salt piles inside, useful for when we needed to add salt to somebody's wounds. These simple supplies show a level of understanding for prisoner's needs not really seen in most other prisons which goes a long way to making this one feel more welcoming. Thankfully I was given an opportunity to explore beyond my cell not much later.

Less than a minute after Sofia and I had arrived in our cells, Inigo walked up to the cell doors... and simply opened them. I was at a loss for words! How had he done this? Had he used his special Khajiit powers again? Did he steal the key from an unsuspecting guard? Or had he simply intimidated the door into giving way? Well as it tuns out it was much simpler than that. He paid our bail. He had picked up some trace valuables from our adventures while I was, and I quote, "too busy scarfing dragon souls as if they were sweet rolls" and could very easily afford the rather meager bail price. Yeah turns out lollygagging doesn't incur that high of a bounty, and as for Sofia, I had asked a guard and he told me that since Morthal is such a nothing shithole drunken hooliganism is a very common offence and as such more major punishments weren't really practical for having a city with people not in prison. Still, it gave me the chance to freely observe the rest of the facilities.

Leaving my cell had allowed me to freely confirm something I had observed inside my cell. The Morthal guard leave the prisoner belongings chests directly next to the prison cells, in plain view of all the prisoners. Now, I understand that this prison is trying to build a feeling of mutual trust in its prisoners, but I fear this is far too optimistic. With the chests in this position, any wannabe escapist can freely identify where their equipment is held and try to access it without even being in the peripheral view of any guards, leading them to easily re-acquire their trusty Banded Iron Shield of the Major Knight or whatever it is they use and be more than prepared to force their way to freedom without major harm. This, much like the issues plaguing Dragonsreach Dungeon, is a major security breach and should be remedied.

I (the rather large Redguard man in the rags pictured above) then noticed that the entire prison floor in this hold was being guarded by a single solitary guardsman. Initially I had considered this lack of manpower a major oversight and a suggestion that the Morthal guard were largely lazy and/or not effectively utilized like the Whiterun guards. However, in reflection shortly after coming to this conclusion, I came to a realization. This city is a nothing shithole with a total named population of eighteen people (three of which are children). Of course there's only one guard stationed here. What few guards this city has stationed here are likely stretched incredibly thin and not very satisfied with life given they do, in fact, live in Morthal. As such, I can readily forgive the short-staffed nature of this jail.

Opposite the guard was a desk for writing legal documentations, equipped with a writer's quill, rolls of paper and multiple bottles of wine. Naturally at the sight of alcohol Sofia immediately made herself at home and then took some serious persuading to leave. Turns out having an alcohol-happy workspace in a city where drunken hooliganism is let off lightly is exactly the sort of thing to get her attention, though knowing her should have made that obvious.

The way out of the jail floor leads directly into the guard barracks with zero alternative routes and multiple guards inside at all times, which in any other hold would act as a strong defence against escaping convicts. However, with this being Morthal the nothing shithole and the guards being so few in number, every guard in the barracks when I entered was fast asleep, catching up on any rest they could possibly get. I pity those soldiers, but I doubt thieves, murderers and other more serious convicts would be as sympathetic.

On the whole, I found Morthal Prison to be a much better facility than Dragonsreach Dungeon. It has a clear intention for its captives in mind, it accommodates them well without breaking the bank and the guards (what ones are still awake that is) are very nice and understanding. There are still faults however, namely the placement of the prisoner belongings chests and the fact that this is still, at the end of the day, Morthal. Despite these though, I'd recommend Morthal Prison. It serves as a diamond in the swampy messy shithole that is Hjaalmarch.

Final rating: Seven Banded Iron Shields of the Major Knight out of Ten Banded Iron Shields of the Major Knight

Thank you for entertaining these reviews of mine. Next time we see if the Dawnstar Jail is the reason why all of the city's residents are troubled by endless nightmares.

[rphelperblog]

Lord of Shadows Book Quote RP Meme

book two in the TDA book series by Cassandra Clare- feel free to edit the quotes or change pronouns for rp purposes

“Everyone is afraid of something. We fear things because we value them. We fear losing people because we love them. We fear dying because we value being alive. Don't wish you didn't fear anything. All that would mean is that you didn't feel anything.”

“If you steal any of the books from the library, I will know, and you'll be sorry.

“Break my heart,break it in pieces. I give you permission.” 

“Fiction is truth, even if it is not fact. If you believe only in facts and forget stories, your brain will live, but your heart will die.” 

“Those who cannot love do not understand it” 

All dreams end when you wake.” 

“Sometimes the most ruthless heart speaks the most truth” 

“There is truth in stories,”

Who would ever want movies or TV when there are books?” 

'Now get out of here before I risk his life by waking him up so he can turn you into a garbage fire. Something that would match your personality.'

"I kill plants just by looking at them."

I'll never be in love with anyone again who isn't you.” 

“When people die, our dreams of what they could be die with them. Even if ours is the hand that ends them.” 

“I think you cannot root out love entirely. I think where there has been love, there will always be embers, as the remains of a bonfire outlast the flame.” 

Am I the only one who's read X-Men and realizes why this is a bad idea?” 

“Wikipedia knows about everything. It might be run by warlocks.”

“ ‘We are dust and shadows,’ ”

“Some of us are very handsome dust,”

I mock you with my sugar cravings.” 

“To make a true choice, we must have true knowledge.” 

“Lex malla, lex nulla,” [a bad law is no law.]

“I need to be whole again. Even if it doesn’t last.”

“The bad things can't matter more than the good things” 

"Does anyone want to tell him that goldfish are freshwater fish and can't survive in the ocean?"

I've heard roling out of bed in the morning helps you build up resistance to surprise attacks.”

Not my favorite nickname. I prefer, "Our Lord and Master" or maybe "Unambiguously the Hottest.” 

“I am saying the choices we make in captivity are not always the choices we make in freedom. And thus we question them. We cannot help it.”

“When a decision like that is made by a government, it emboldens those who are already prejudiced to speak their deepest thoughts of hate. They assume they are simply brave enough to say what everyone really thinks.” 

I did. So is this like a high-five-slash-chest-bump- situation or an oh-my-God-what-are-we-going-to-do-situation?” 

“Your pretense does not fool me, gnome,”

Just words I like. If I say them to myself, it makes my mind - quieter. Does it bother you?”

"Hold on to me." 

“There's never going to be anyone else for me. That's just how it is.” 

“That is love, son of thorns. We welcome its cruelest blows and when we bleed from them, we whisper our thanks.”

“We fear things because we value them. We fear losing people because we love them. We fear dying because we value being alive. Don’t wish you didn’t fear anything. All that would mean is that you didn’t feel anything.” 

“You took my life apart and put it back together.” 

“To consider possibilities was to open yourself up to pain.” 

We all have wounds that are sometimes better cared for by somone else.” 

“There's something about a place you've been with someone you love. It takes on a meaning in your mind. It becomes more than a place. It becomes a distillation of what you felt for each other. The moments you spend in a place with someone... they become part of its bricks and mortar. Part of its soul.” 

“People say we're unlucky because we don't have parents. But I think they're unlucky because they don't have a brother like mine. -”

“The difficulty is not so great to die for a friend, as to find a friend worth dying for,’ ” 

"But I can't go live with him, because him and his hot girlfriend are going off on some sort of secret mission."

“A strange evening, forsooth,”

“Don’t you forsooth me.” 

“Few of us are lucky enough ever to know the whole truth about anything.” 

“I have won for you a fish, my fair one," 

"Women are too savage,” 

“If you believe only in facts and forget stories, your being will live, but your heart will die”

I thought you didn't love me anymore. But that isn't true, is it?”

Your life isn't wrecked. You're still alive. You can have a good “

'I came of age in the Dark War. I was baptized in blood and fire.” 

“People are flawed,"

the better, brighter half of him, who tempered his ruthlessness, who forced him to acknowledge the light when he saw only darkness.”

I need you, always, always think about you, I was wishing you were with me in that goddamned attic and then I turned around and you were there, like you heard me, like you're always there when I need you ...” 

“A pure fountain gives pure water” 

“Human emotions are so foolish to them, and human minds and hearts so fragile.”

I should never have touched you. I never thought what we had could break so easily.”

It's not broken. We made a mistake - but being together wasn't the mistake.”

“That is the problem with revenge - you wind up destroying the innocent as well as the guilty.” 

“It was terrifying to love someone who was forbidden to you. Terrifying to feel something you could never speak of, something that was horrible to almost everyone you knew, something that could destroy your life.”

I need you. You might be surprised to hear that.” 

All the lights and the shouting and the people. It's like broken glass in my head.”

“There's a legend about that clock. For a second, when it chimes the hour, the gates to Heaven open.” 

“You’ll find that the crisis is never over.”

I am sorry if I ever led you to believe anything else.” 

“Truth is to be found in dreams,”

"How dare you tell me it's a tragedy?”

“We fear things because we value them. We fear losing people because we love them. We fear dying because we value being alive. Don't wish you didn't fear anything. All that would mean is that you didn't feel anything."

I get my caffeine the way right-thinking people get it. From chococlate!” 

"We fear things because we value them. We fear losing people because we love them. We fear dying because we value being alive. Don't wish you didn't fear anything. All that would mean is that you didn't feel anything.” 

“Each family has a history we pass on to each successive generation. We bear the glories and the burdens of our name, the good and the bad our ancestors have done, through all our lives. We try to live up to our names, so that those who come after us will bear lighter burdens.” 

“Hate like that can tear down the world.”

“What was one lie among so many others?” 

“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” 

“She remembered what it felt like to have her hands in that hair, how holding him had anchored her not just to the world, but to herself.” 

“If you believe only in facts and forget stories, your brain will live, but your heart will die.” 

“People often run even when they have nowhere to go," 

'You want to live. Just like everyone else does. You don't want to be trapped, is all.” 

“The world isn't the way you want it to be, it's the way it is.” 

[kammartinez]

By Keziah Weir

Frieda Hughes and I are an hour into our conversation when Wyddfa the snowy owl enters the chat. With some coaxing, he has hopped down the hallway, lined with woven rugs, to perch next to Hughes in her high-ceilinged kitchen. The pair of them, framed by a Zoom square, are in their home in Wales, where they live with 12 other owls, plus “five chinchillas,” Hughes says, “one aging ferret, a python called Shirley, and the two rescue huskies.” By publication of this piece, she has added a fourteenth owl.

Wyddfa, who is so dapper that he immediately elicits very silly comments from this interviewer—Hello, sir! He’s a little gentleman!—joined the household in 2016 after a zoo could no longer care for him because of a damaged wing; another of the owls has “wonky feet.” All of them have an avian forebear, without whom the parliament might never have found their way into Hughes’s care: an orphaned fledgling, now the eponymous subject of her new book, George: A Magpie Memoir (Avid Reader Press). The book chronicles the five months in 2007 during which Hughes hand-raised the magpie after finding it tossed from a nest in her garden. “I had no idea how much I was going to fall in love with that bird,” Hughes tells me. “Oh, dear.”

London-born Hughes, a painter and poet, describes her growing up as peripatetic. “I felt as if the ground on which I stood was constantly changing and shifting,” she writes in the introduction to George, “because, following the suicide of my mother, Sylvia Plath, on 11 February 1963, my father, Ted Hughes, found it difficult to settle.” Her parents play a small role on the memoir’s pages, though the reverberations of their loss are felt throughout; most explicitly, Hughes notes the surreal feeling of strangers knowing, or believing to know, the intimacies of her personal history. (In the early aughts, the filmmakers behind the 2003 Gwyneth Paltrow vehicle Sylvia requested that Hughes grant them the right to use Plath’s poems. The film, Hughes wrote in her own poem, “My Mother,” would be “for anyone lacking the ability / To imagine the body, head in oven, / Orphaning children.” Needless to say, she did not grant the request.)

As a child, the ability to keep animals became an elusive sign of permanence—“if I had a pet it should mean that I’d have found a home in which to be stationary,” she writes—something she says she has finally found. 

During the five months of George, Hughes was grappling with the impending dissolution of a marriage—she and her husband had, three years earlier, moved together from his native Australia to Wales and he longed to return home—and her own chronic fatigue. An incessantly needy and increasingly tricksy young magpie proved to be a consuming diversion for Hughes, though not everyone was as charmed by his penchant for stealing food off plates or landing on heads. “Oh, there’s a magpie on the sofa,” Hughes quotes one visitor saying “with an offhand sort of grimace.” As a reader, it’s hard not to fall a little in love with him, an attachment aided by Hughes’s illustrations of him that run throughout the text.

Hughes has long been attracted to what she describes as “the wounded and the limping.” As a child, she says, “there were lots of little tragedies because I wanted to save everything, and couldn’t”—a theme that continues in her memoir. “If only I could have found it before the cat and the fly eggs,” she writes of another orphaned bird that died in her care, “if only I had a magic wand.” Still, as much as she acknowledges the difficult inevitability of death, she clocks lifeforce all around too. Of the wiggly garden creatures she collects to feed to baby George: “If worms had only a single thought in their little nematode bodies, it was that they wanted to LIVE.”

Before our interview, Hughes had been riding around the countryside on her motorbike when it broke down, stranding her, but she seems unbothered by the hiccup outside of apologizing that it had made her late for the call. There’s a forward momentum to her, a sort of indefatigable sense of thrust. One accepts difficulty, and moves forward. “He’s stuck on the ground,” she says fondly of Wyddfa, before we say goodbye—but “he makes the most of it.” 

Here, we discuss George, learning to open up after years of secrecy, and how to love despite the promise of loss.

Vanity Fair: I’m always interested in the why now of memoir. What made you want to revisit this time with George?

Frieda Hughes: Well, actually, I wrote it as George happened. A year later, I turned it into a book and then I tried to get it published. I had a publisher who was interested and then, I'll be perfectly frank, my brother committed suicide, and I thought I can't actually cope with the book and dealing with my brother's death at the same time, and so I put it on the back burner.

When, finally, my brother's affairs were all sorted out, and everything else, I thought, okay, I can revisit the book, I can get back to my art, I can get back to my painting and my poetry. I think I probably rewrote the book over the following years. Then I wrote an article about keeping owls for the Financial Times, and Cecil Gayford, my editor, saw this article and said to my agent, would Frieda consider writing about her love for birds, and she said, well, she already has. 

I have a new appreciation for magpies after reading the book—I had always really loved crows and ravens, but I hadn't thought so much about magpies. 

Where I live in the country, magpies are not regarded with great affection. They're regarded as pests and killers of baby birds. They get an awful lot of bad press, but in fact, all corvids are more interested in clearing up dead things. Ravens are apparently the supreme intelligence of the corvids; crows are very serious—so smart, so clever, but very, very serious. Magpies are complete imps, absolutely mischievous, curious. Honestly, I swear they have a sense of humor.

I remember a couple of girlfriends coming to visit and one of them was taking loads of photographs, and George was performing for them. He sat on my head, he nibbled my eyelashes, which is a bit unnerving because I could feel his beak against my eyeball, but he was adorable, and afterwards, my friend contacted me and said, "Frieda, I took all these photos and you can hardly see him. He's just a little bird." The thing is, we can't photograph the personality, can we, and that's what's so frustrating. His personality was extraordinary, and one of the things that really hooked its way into my heart was the fact that he related to me. The dogs would come up for a pet or a stroke or a snack, but George would look at what I was doing and play with it. When I was doing sketches of him, he would come and sit on the paper and try and pull the lines off the paper. 

He was probably only a couple of days old when you found him. I wondered how you think that played into the attachment that you had to George, that you had rescued him and that he needed you.

Hugely, because the more needy and desperate an animal or bird is, the higher up the priority list they come. George really needed feeding. He had the droopy wing, I didn't even know if he would ever learn to feed himself. It wasn't until I was working in the garden and I would uncover, on more than one occasion, a dead mouse, and George would be watching and suddenly, he appears and grabs the mouse and flies off and I thought, you know what? I think George is going to be fine. 

It is such a different project to raise an animal with the hope that they will be able to return to the wild. I think that's something that most people don't experience. Usually, you're raising an animal who you hope will be with you till the very end. In some ways, your experience seems almost much more like child-rearing where the goal is for children to grow up and take care of themselves.

In George's case, I was very, very torn. Part of me wanted him to stay, desperately. But it doesn't matter how much we love people or animals. At some point, we are going to have to let go, if we don't die first. They are going to go off to a new life; children grow up and leave home. Some parents are really happy about that, other parents, less so.

It's the same with partners. Sometimes we die, sometimes we fall out of love. We only borrow people. I believe in making the most of it, but also I believe in not ever keeping anything or anyone prisoner of one's own affectionate imposition. There are people I love, but if they feel that they need to go, I ain't going to be the one to stop them. I would only wish them wings, as it were. Loving people and animals so that you can let them go when you need to, if you ever need to, I think that is the best—difficult, but the best.

In the book, you wrote about your now ex-husband. There was a mirroring going on—him wanting to go back to where he was from, and dealing with that in the relationship as you were also dealing with the fact that your bird was wanting to go back to the wild, where he was from.

Yes, very much. He had said that he wanted to move back when he got old, only he wasn't able to tell me what old meant. He was 14 years older than me, so he was 14 years ahead of where my head was. He, too, ultimately needed his freedom. One might make all the effort one could to make things nice, but if somebody wants to go, they want to go—and also, quite often, by the time they want to go, we are quite glad for them to go.

In George's case, not. But having said that, he was complicated by these bad habits he developed, like the one of jumping on heads, which scared my elderly neighbor to the point where she wouldn't go out of the house if there were magpies in the garden. Hence the aviary, that enormous aviary, now populated by six very large Eurasian eagle owls.

They are alluded to at the very end of the book. I want to hear about who you have right now.

The first owl was Arthur, with the broken wing. Three of the owls that I have were given to me by other people who could no longer look after them; one had an operation on his shoulder, and another one was just incredibly sick and had diabetes, and so I got these owls and they came with two eggs. So I bought an incubator and hatched Charlie and Mac in 2015, and then two years later came Eddie, and they are fabulous. They're very, very handleable. They come in the house for a couple of hours at night just to play around in the kitchen

In the time period of the book you were working on a collection of autobiographical poems, which seemed to take a lot out of you emotionally. Over the years, how have you juggled a desire for a certain amount of privacy, but then also wanting to draw from your life and feelings in your writing? 

I'm working on balancing it all the time, because the answer is I'm not sure how to balance it. When I was younger and my father was still alive, the wish to be private on his behalf, not to say... I'll give you an example. The other kids would come back from a weekend and say, we did this and we did that and we did the other. I wasn't ever sure what I could give away or not give away, what would be okay.

In my first book of poems, it became really difficult because that's where we start, with our innermost emotions and feelings. I had all these poems boiling away. For years, I wrote poetry and never told anybody. Ultimately, I worked up to showing my dad my poems. He'd have criticism, and finally one day—I think I must have been about 15, 16, 17—I said, "Daddy, don't you have anything good to say?" He looked at me in complete surprise and he said, "But I thought you knew they were very good. I was only mentioning the bits that need pushing.” From then on, he would say, “Okay, this bit's brilliant and that works really well.” He was a very good teacher, but at the same time, I was trying not to read any of his poetry or my mother's poetry because I didn't want to be influenced.

My first book I wrote while I had chronic fatigue. I wanted to be autobiographical and I didn't dare. I'd trained myself so seriously to be private for the family's sake. So allegory became my best friend. And then in 2007, I set myself certain parameters for the autobiographical poetry book, 45. One was that I could be open about myself. When you say it must have been emotionally taxing or challenging, it was, because it was like stripping my skin off because I wasn't used to it. I hadn't had that practice.

In the end, as I get older, I think, does it matter? I'm getting older. One day, we're going to die. If I was publishing my autobiography at the age of 96, I wouldn't care much about what I put in it. I'd just put everything in it, but I'd have to be 96 because then I know I was probably on the way out. So I don't know. I'm working on it. 

You wrote in the book about the strange ways that either people react to you once they realize who your parents are.

It's very odd because until they bring it up, I labor under the illusion that I'm the only person standing where I'm standing. The moment they bring it up, I feel the spot on where I'm standing is now quite crowded with all three of us.

In your poem “Mother,” you’re writing about the strange idea that there are people who are portraying your parents in different ways and dramatizing, or writing biographies or making movies. Is that something that has gotten easier, emotionally, as you have dealt with it over the course of your life?

One of the difficulties is when people make up whole sentences and relationships and ways of speaking and there's nothing to support it. I've been very determined to make a home in which I feel safe, and create my own support and not look at those things because there's no point. I could rant and rave. I'm not going to change anything. 

So poetry is where I put things I feel very, very strongly about, and reading a poem like that on stage, you feel as though you're delivering it as a killer blow. It might only be for one moment in the ether, but it's something. When people reinvent my parents, it'd be like anybody reinventing yours or anybody else's parents. It's wounding and it takes them away. 

When articles or books have come out that depict negative versions of your parents’ relationship, do you just try to steer clear of that as well?

Well, they're rehashing it. It's been written about a lot. There was the very good recent biography by Heather Clark, Red Comet, very thorough. I had to read that for permissions, and I thought it was a really masterful piece of work. It didn't impose judgment and it didn't guess at anything. Everything was backed by research and reading, and for that reason, I found it really impressive. 

You have this rule, you wrote, to live each day the best you can no matter what—having experienced significant and public loss, and then also dealing with chronic health problems, how have you kept that up?

I can't believe I was in such pain when I was looking after George. I still get back pains, I still have problems with it, but I'm so much better. I work out at the gym three times a week, I do the gardening. I'm actually in better nick than I was then, and although they say that we never get rid of chronic fatigue, it's like a little warning sign; if I ever feel that coming, I now know, hey, I'm doing something wrong

A journalist actually asked me after my brother died, "Do you now want to kill yourself?" Part of me wanted to slam the phone down on her, but I thought, I actually think I know where that question's coming from. Because it would be what's in everybody's mind, or certainly a lot of people's mind, she just spoke it, she just put it out there. I'm the only one left in my little family. Somebody has to live life like it matters. My attitude is very much that I need, for my sake and for theirs, to make my life matter. 

[everthewip]

some fav quotes from my best boi

Celeon Faelock

Celeon is a High Elf mage/thief and side character in my Skyrim Fanfic. I love him with all of my heart, he lives in my head rent free. So here are some of my favorite quotes by him from my story, b/c it's high time i recognized some of my writing I actually like.

For reference, Eishilde is the Main Character and the story is told through her POV. I'm writing these in quote/dialogue only format though.

very OLD portrait of Celeon below the cut. it's bad and i will one day redo it.

Bandit: “Hope yer hungry, Thalmor bastard. Rations’re gettin’ low. Might be the last meal ye get for a while.” Celeon: “I don’t know how many times I have to say it, but just because I have the skin of a banana, that does not make me a Thalmor.”

****

Bandit: "Oi! Shut it!" Celeon: “I’ll shut up when one of you listens to me! I know every word to Ragnar the Red and can’t hold a tune for the life of me, but I will sing that bloody song until it echoes if you don’t hear what I have to say!”

****

Celeon: “Now… Where were we?” Arvel: “You were gonna cut me down! And I was going to show you the Hall of Stories, with the door and the claw…” Celeon: “Oh yes, the claw! The claw you stole from me, Arvie, just before your little friends tossed me into a cage.” Arvel: “It’s Arvel, thank you very much, and it ain’t stealing if you stole it in the first place!” Eishilde (MC): “Wait- You’re a thief?” Arvel: “Oho! Didn’t you know, lass? Golden Boy ‘ere went and stole this pretty claw from the Riverwood shopkeeper.” Eishilde: “You stole from a shop.” Celeon: “Well I was going to give it back! I only need it for the door.” Eishilde: “What door!?” Celeon & Arvel: “THE door!”

****

Eishilde: “A better death than giant spiders, I suppose.” Celeon, digging through a dead Arvel's belongings: “Certainly quicker… Aha! The Claw, back where it belongs!” Eishilde: “So says the thief.” Celeon: “I told you, once I’ve used it, I’ll return it.” Eishilde: “You’ll just ‘give it back’? And if they have you arrested?” Celeon: “They would, if they knew I was the one who stole it. I imagine the shopkeeper is offering a reward to anyone who fetches this beauty from the bandits. Which, might I add, we just did!” Eishilde: “So you stole it and plan to reap the rewards of returning it, after you’ve used it to steal even more gold from a crypt? You really are despicable, I hope you know that.”

****

Eishilde: “What other lies do you hold, I wonder?” Celeon: “Hm… Ah yes! The thing I said to the bandits, about your tits not being impressive? That was another lie. They are quite lovely. Gods… It feels good to get that one off my chest!”

****

Eishilde: “That was a dragon!” Celeon: “Yes.” Eishilde: “A massive dragon that flew right over us!” Celeon: “It was.” Eishilde: “But dragons are extinct!” Celeon: “Apparently not.” Eishilde: “How are you so calm about this! ?” Celeon: “The way I see it, there's nothing we can do about a dragon so there's no point in worrying about it.” Eishilde: “I am sure you will worry when it flies back over those mountains in search of a golden-skinned breakfast.” Celeon: “Ah, but I'd be nothing more than a pick for its teeth. You, on the other hand, would make a more appetizing meal!” Eishilde, throwing a wet cloth at his face: “You can clean your own damn wound!” Celeon: “It was a compliment !”

Celeon, my love

[poems-of-a-lover]

nick watches spiderman (cont.)

im gonna make another post bc i have a feeling im close to hitting the text limit on my other one but we're still on the first movie!! im gonna try and get thru this movie soon bc i HAVE to get to the second ones before my demons get me

okay where we are rn ben just died and peters in his evil era tryin to find the guy who did it

like hes just goin up to random dudes and beating them up bc he thinks its The Guy when its not

and every time i watch this movie i forget if they find him or if the plot point is abandoned bc peter has bigger problems by then KJGSHLKGJHSKH guess we'll remember together

peter falls thru a roof and these guys just let him go. like they leave him there. to be fair what were they supposed to do but still.

this is where we get the inspo to make a suit!! he sees a wrestling poster and is like "that could be me =D"

agh i wanna look like him so BAD bro i wish that were me

shoutout to him STEALING FROM OSCORP to make his web fluid thats so funny

this handstand moment is apparently judged by a lot of fans as him becoming spiderman but theyre SO wrong that doesnt happen until later in the film in my opinion

like thats just my opinion but other ppl can be wrong ig /lh

also how did he get this police radio. how do any of the spidermans get their radios. did they take them from officers. can u buy them. whats goin on here.

omggggg its captain stacyyyyy he'll be important later

like. incredibly important. GKJHSGKJSHGKJ we'll get to him in a minute.

"spandex.....spandex.......everything.......spandex......" i love peter so much

HE'S MAKIN THE SUITTTTT HES GOT THE SUIT NOW!!!!! THE SUIT OF ALL TIME!!!!!!!!!

i love this suit sooooo much its so textured and i love the logo its so fun

this car thief scene is rlly the scene of all time i love it

so many good peter lines from this scene

"seriously? u rlly think im a cop? a cop in a skin tight red and blue suit? yknow, u have got the mind of a true scholar, sir" PETER PLEASE BE NORMAL

this head tilt. the peter head tilt. in this context its kinda menacing but hes so me coded bc i also do the head tilt thing KHGSKJDHGKJ

the first time i saw this scene and for a while after i thought he told the cop "i just TOOK 80% of ur job" after he took the gun but he actually says "i just DID 80% of ur job" bc he webbed the criminal and i was so disappointed bc i rlly thought he was making a solid dig at the police force but hes just being petty KJGHSKJGHKSJ

ugh him talking to may here makes me sooooo sad. "u dont have to wait up for me, yknow" "yes i do" SHE LOVES HER NEPHEW PLEASEEEE

shes so worried for her nephew. seeing him hurt just destroys her. this boy is all she has. she lost her husband, her brother, her sister in law, and seeing her nephew come home at god knows what time just beat up and wounded must be so heartwrenching and she cant do anything bc he wont talk to her. i love tasm may shes so interesting.

"aunt may please, please go to sleep." "i cant sleep! dont u understand? i cant sleep! peter, listen to me. secrets have a cost, theyre not for free. not now, not ever." SOOOOO TRUE QUEEN. I SENSE A THEME.

AND THEN HE JUST WALKS OFF. LEAVES HER THERE. AJHGJSKGJAGFSJHF

oh yeah they're pushing curt to start human trials when they cure isnt ready, oscorp is so incredibly corrupt and its done so well in both films

"people die. even norman osborn." AKJGHKJSAGH SOOOOOO TRUE. YES. I HATE NORMAN SO MUCH.

also sorry for just quoting this movie so much it has so many good lines that i could talk about for the rest of my life

oh yeahhhhh this guy wants to start human trials??? at the veterans hospital?????

ugh theyre talking about plot that we dont learn until like the second film so its not important yet but its such a cool thing later on

PETER AND GWENNNNN I LOVE THEM

she really cares about him and it makes me so happy

shes inviting him to dinner!!!! with her family!!!!! its a family hes never met eating a meal hes never heard of but still its with the girl he really likes so hes gonna just deal with it and show up anyway

ugh normans doing things /neg

hes doing human trials. on himself. lets see how this goes HGKJSDHGKJL

oh hi peter. dinner date time.

he brought gwens mother flowers???? KWHGKSJGHSKJHGK theyre a little messed up bc they were in his bag while he was swinging but still!!! he brought flowers for this girls mom hes so sweet

"you must be peter" "dad this is. peter." thank u gwen

oh yeah i failed to mention that the captain of the police department is gwens dad if u didnt catch that from his last name

curt has his arm back!!! the cure worked!!!! hoping and praying that nothing bad happens and he just gets to live a normal life and be happy from now on

he has to go catch the one guy that i forgot the name of (edit its dr ratha) from going to the veteran hospital but the cure is backfiring so hes like. goin thru it. lizard moment.

anyway peter cant cut fish corrcctly

hes never had a fancy meal like this!! hes a little dumb!!!

uh ohhhh theyre talking about spidermannnnn yikes

this is what it feels like to talk politics with relatives

"if i wanted the car thief off the street, he wouldve been off the street" "so why wasnt he then?" PETER. CHILL. UR TRYING TO DATE HIS DAUGHTER PLS BE NICE

"its called strategy, im sure ur aware of the term strategy? maybe u learned about that in school?" MR STACY U ARE ALSO NOT HELPINGGGG

"i think he stands for what u stand for, sir. protecting innocent people from bad guys." banger line right there skajfhksjd

peter still apologized and said that he didnt mean to insult mr stacy but still ksajdfhkjsd cmon peter be nice

BIG PLOT HOLE HERE. peter webs gwen and pulls her closer and she goes "youre spiderman?" before he kisses her. HE HASNT GOTTEN THAT NAME YET. NO ONES CALLING HIM SPIDERMAN YET. WHERE DID SHE GET THAT.

ugh it gets me every time like where did that come frommmm

peter pulling away completely and turning around when her mother catches them is so funny hes trying to be respectful

uh oh crime time

HE JUST JUMPS OFF THE ROOF. BYE.

so yeah curt connors is now a giant lizard monster thing trying to find dr ratha and?? kill him???? okay yeah kill him he just threw his car off the bridge

peter has this moment of either going after lizard or helping save this mans son and he goes to save the kid and i love peter so much

hes also very very good with kids. he convinces this little boy that his mask has special powers to help the kid get out of the car safe and its so sweet

like this kid is terrified and honestly so is peter but hes staying calm and convincing this kid that this mask will make him stronger so he can save him. THIS is the moment i was talking about. this is when peter becomes spiderman.

the moment he gave that kid back to his father alive and safe is when he became a superhero. thats also when he coins the name. but this exact moment is what made him into the actual hero rather than just having the name. he gets home and he stares at his mask bc now he knows he has an immense responsibility to save peoples lives and keep them safe.

i love this movie

oh yeah mr stacy issued an arrest warrant for spiderman after the bridge attack thats so silly of him.

more petergwen lets goooo

"does it scare you? what you can do?" "no." "...youve got to lay low." "no, cant do that." "youve got to. i mean, why?" "because of last night. those people on the bridge. whatever was attacking them wouldve killed them. so i gotta go after it." "thats not your job." "maybe it is." SUCHHHHH A GOOD CONVERSATION. UGH.

OKAY IM GONNA. LEAVE THIS ONE HERE. ive finally got motivation so im gonna keep it going in a reblog like right away but im gonna stop this post here before it gets too long skjhfksjd

[kamreadsandrecs]

By Keziah Weir

Frieda Hughes and I are an hour into our conversation when Wyddfa the snowy owl enters the chat. With some coaxing, he has hopped down the hallway, lined with woven rugs, to perch next to Hughes in her high-ceilinged kitchen. The pair of them, framed by a Zoom square, are in their home in Wales, where they live with 12 other owls, plus “five chinchillas,” Hughes says, “one aging ferret, a python called Shirley, and the two rescue huskies.” By publication of this piece, she has added a fourteenth owl.

Wyddfa, who is so dapper that he immediately elicits very silly comments from this interviewer—Hello, sir! He’s a little gentleman!—joined the household in 2016 after a zoo could no longer care for him because of a damaged wing; another of the owls has “wonky feet.” All of them have an avian forebear, without whom the parliament might never have found their way into Hughes’s care: an orphaned fledgling, now the eponymous subject of her new book, George: A Magpie Memoir (Avid Reader Press). The book chronicles the five months in 2007 during which Hughes hand-raised the magpie after finding it tossed from a nest in her garden. “I had no idea how much I was going to fall in love with that bird,” Hughes tells me. “Oh, dear.”

London-born Hughes, a painter and poet, describes her growing up as peripatetic. “I felt as if the ground on which I stood was constantly changing and shifting,” she writes in the introduction to George, “because, following the suicide of my mother, Sylvia Plath, on 11 February 1963, my father, Ted Hughes, found it difficult to settle.” Her parents play a small role on the memoir’s pages, though the reverberations of their loss are felt throughout; most explicitly, Hughes notes the surreal feeling of strangers knowing, or believing to know, the intimacies of her personal history. (In the early aughts, the filmmakers behind the 2003 Gwyneth Paltrow vehicle Sylvia requested that Hughes grant them the right to use Plath’s poems. The film, Hughes wrote in her own poem, “My Mother,” would be “for anyone lacking the ability / To imagine the body, head in oven, / Orphaning children.” Needless to say, she did not grant the request.)

As a child, the ability to keep animals became an elusive sign of permanence—“if I had a pet it should mean that I’d have found a home in which to be stationary,” she writes—something she says she has finally found. 

During the five months of George, Hughes was grappling with the impending dissolution of a marriage—she and her husband had, three years earlier, moved together from his native Australia to Wales and he longed to return home—and her own chronic fatigue. An incessantly needy and increasingly tricksy young magpie proved to be a consuming diversion for Hughes, though not everyone was as charmed by his penchant for stealing food off plates or landing on heads. “Oh, there’s a magpie on the sofa,” Hughes quotes one visitor saying “with an offhand sort of grimace.” As a reader, it’s hard not to fall a little in love with him, an attachment aided by Hughes’s illustrations of him that run throughout the text.

Hughes has long been attracted to what she describes as “the wounded and the limping.” As a child, she says, “there were lots of little tragedies because I wanted to save everything, and couldn’t”—a theme that continues in her memoir. “If only I could have found it before the cat and the fly eggs,” she writes of another orphaned bird that died in her care, “if only I had a magic wand.” Still, as much as she acknowledges the difficult inevitability of death, she clocks lifeforce all around too. Of the wiggly garden creatures she collects to feed to baby George: “If worms had only a single thought in their little nematode bodies, it was that they wanted to LIVE.”

Before our interview, Hughes had been riding around the countryside on her motorbike when it broke down, stranding her, but she seems unbothered by the hiccup outside of apologizing that it had made her late for the call. There’s a forward momentum to her, a sort of indefatigable sense of thrust. One accepts difficulty, and moves forward. “He’s stuck on the ground,” she says fondly of Wyddfa, before we say goodbye—but “he makes the most of it.” 

Here, we discuss George, learning to open up after years of secrecy, and how to love despite the promise of loss.

Vanity Fair: I’m always interested in the why now of memoir. What made you want to revisit this time with George?

Frieda Hughes: Well, actually, I wrote it as George happened. A year later, I turned it into a book and then I tried to get it published. I had a publisher who was interested and then, I'll be perfectly frank, my brother committed suicide, and I thought I can't actually cope with the book and dealing with my brother's death at the same time, and so I put it on the back burner.

When, finally, my brother's affairs were all sorted out, and everything else, I thought, okay, I can revisit the book, I can get back to my art, I can get back to my painting and my poetry. I think I probably rewrote the book over the following years. Then I wrote an article about keeping owls for the Financial Times, and Cecil Gayford, my editor, saw this article and said to my agent, would Frieda consider writing about her love for birds, and she said, well, she already has. 

I have a new appreciation for magpies after reading the book—I had always really loved crows and ravens, but I hadn't thought so much about magpies. 

Where I live in the country, magpies are not regarded with great affection. They're regarded as pests and killers of baby birds. They get an awful lot of bad press, but in fact, all corvids are more interested in clearing up dead things. Ravens are apparently the supreme intelligence of the corvids; crows are very serious—so smart, so clever, but very, very serious. Magpies are complete imps, absolutely mischievous, curious. Honestly, I swear they have a sense of humor.

I remember a couple of girlfriends coming to visit and one of them was taking loads of photographs, and George was performing for them. He sat on my head, he nibbled my eyelashes, which is a bit unnerving because I could feel his beak against my eyeball, but he was adorable, and afterwards, my friend contacted me and said, "Frieda, I took all these photos and you can hardly see him. He's just a little bird." The thing is, we can't photograph the personality, can we, and that's what's so frustrating. His personality was extraordinary, and one of the things that really hooked its way into my heart was the fact that he related to me. The dogs would come up for a pet or a stroke or a snack, but George would look at what I was doing and play with it. When I was doing sketches of him, he would come and sit on the paper and try and pull the lines off the paper. 

He was probably only a couple of days old when you found him. I wondered how you think that played into the attachment that you had to George, that you had rescued him and that he needed you.

Hugely, because the more needy and desperate an animal or bird is, the higher up the priority list they come. George really needed feeding. He had the droopy wing, I didn't even know if he would ever learn to feed himself. It wasn't until I was working in the garden and I would uncover, on more than one occasion, a dead mouse, and George would be watching and suddenly, he appears and grabs the mouse and flies off and I thought, you know what? I think George is going to be fine. 

It is such a different project to raise an animal with the hope that they will be able to return to the wild. I think that's something that most people don't experience. Usually, you're raising an animal who you hope will be with you till the very end. In some ways, your experience seems almost much more like child-rearing where the goal is for children to grow up and take care of themselves.

In George's case, I was very, very torn. Part of me wanted him to stay, desperately. But it doesn't matter how much we love people or animals. At some point, we are going to have to let go, if we don't die first. They are going to go off to a new life; children grow up and leave home. Some parents are really happy about that, other parents, less so.

It's the same with partners. Sometimes we die, sometimes we fall out of love. We only borrow people. I believe in making the most of it, but also I believe in not ever keeping anything or anyone prisoner of one's own affectionate imposition. There are people I love, but if they feel that they need to go, I ain't going to be the one to stop them. I would only wish them wings, as it were. Loving people and animals so that you can let them go when you need to, if you ever need to, I think that is the best—difficult, but the best.

In the book, you wrote about your now ex-husband. There was a mirroring going on—him wanting to go back to where he was from, and dealing with that in the relationship as you were also dealing with the fact that your bird was wanting to go back to the wild, where he was from.

Yes, very much. He had said that he wanted to move back when he got old, only he wasn't able to tell me what old meant. He was 14 years older than me, so he was 14 years ahead of where my head was. He, too, ultimately needed his freedom. One might make all the effort one could to make things nice, but if somebody wants to go, they want to go—and also, quite often, by the time they want to go, we are quite glad for them to go.

In George's case, not. But having said that, he was complicated by these bad habits he developed, like the one of jumping on heads, which scared my elderly neighbor to the point where she wouldn't go out of the house if there were magpies in the garden. Hence the aviary, that enormous aviary, now populated by six very large Eurasian eagle owls.

They are alluded to at the very end of the book. I want to hear about who you have right now.

The first owl was Arthur, with the broken wing. Three of the owls that I have were given to me by other people who could no longer look after them; one had an operation on his shoulder, and another one was just incredibly sick and had diabetes, and so I got these owls and they came with two eggs. So I bought an incubator and hatched Charlie and Mac in 2015, and then two years later came Eddie, and they are fabulous. They're very, very handleable. They come in the house for a couple of hours at night just to play around in the kitchen

In the time period of the book you were working on a collection of autobiographical poems, which seemed to take a lot out of you emotionally. Over the years, how have you juggled a desire for a certain amount of privacy, but then also wanting to draw from your life and feelings in your writing? 

I'm working on balancing it all the time, because the answer is I'm not sure how to balance it. When I was younger and my father was still alive, the wish to be private on his behalf, not to say... I'll give you an example. The other kids would come back from a weekend and say, we did this and we did that and we did the other. I wasn't ever sure what I could give away or not give away, what would be okay.

In my first book of poems, it became really difficult because that's where we start, with our innermost emotions and feelings. I had all these poems boiling away. For years, I wrote poetry and never told anybody. Ultimately, I worked up to showing my dad my poems. He'd have criticism, and finally one day—I think I must have been about 15, 16, 17—I said, "Daddy, don't you have anything good to say?" He looked at me in complete surprise and he said, "But I thought you knew they were very good. I was only mentioning the bits that need pushing.” From then on, he would say, “Okay, this bit's brilliant and that works really well.” He was a very good teacher, but at the same time, I was trying not to read any of his poetry or my mother's poetry because I didn't want to be influenced.

My first book I wrote while I had chronic fatigue. I wanted to be autobiographical and I didn't dare. I'd trained myself so seriously to be private for the family's sake. So allegory became my best friend. And then in 2007, I set myself certain parameters for the autobiographical poetry book, 45. One was that I could be open about myself. When you say it must have been emotionally taxing or challenging, it was, because it was like stripping my skin off because I wasn't used to it. I hadn't had that practice.

In the end, as I get older, I think, does it matter? I'm getting older. One day, we're going to die. If I was publishing my autobiography at the age of 96, I wouldn't care much about what I put in it. I'd just put everything in it, but I'd have to be 96 because then I know I was probably on the way out. So I don't know. I'm working on it. 

You wrote in the book about the strange ways that either people react to you once they realize who your parents are.

It's very odd because until they bring it up, I labor under the illusion that I'm the only person standing where I'm standing. The moment they bring it up, I feel the spot on where I'm standing is now quite crowded with all three of us.

In your poem “Mother,” you’re writing about the strange idea that there are people who are portraying your parents in different ways and dramatizing, or writing biographies or making movies. Is that something that has gotten easier, emotionally, as you have dealt with it over the course of your life?

One of the difficulties is when people make up whole sentences and relationships and ways of speaking and there's nothing to support it. I've been very determined to make a home in which I feel safe, and create my own support and not look at those things because there's no point. I could rant and rave. I'm not going to change anything. 

So poetry is where I put things I feel very, very strongly about, and reading a poem like that on stage, you feel as though you're delivering it as a killer blow. It might only be for one moment in the ether, but it's something. When people reinvent my parents, it'd be like anybody reinventing yours or anybody else's parents. It's wounding and it takes them away. 

When articles or books have come out that depict negative versions of your parents’ relationship, do you just try to steer clear of that as well?

Well, they're rehashing it. It's been written about a lot. There was the very good recent biography by Heather Clark, Red Comet, very thorough. I had to read that for permissions, and I thought it was a really masterful piece of work. It didn't impose judgment and it didn't guess at anything. Everything was backed by research and reading, and for that reason, I found it really impressive. 

You have this rule, you wrote, to live each day the best you can no matter what—having experienced significant and public loss, and then also dealing with chronic health problems, how have you kept that up?

I can't believe I was in such pain when I was looking after George. I still get back pains, I still have problems with it, but I'm so much better. I work out at the gym three times a week, I do the gardening. I'm actually in better nick than I was then, and although they say that we never get rid of chronic fatigue, it's like a little warning sign; if I ever feel that coming, I now know, hey, I'm doing something wrong

A journalist actually asked me after my brother died, "Do you now want to kill yourself?" Part of me wanted to slam the phone down on her, but I thought, I actually think I know where that question's coming from. Because it would be what's in everybody's mind, or certainly a lot of people's mind, she just spoke it, she just put it out there. I'm the only one left in my little family. Somebody has to live life like it matters. My attitude is very much that I need, for my sake and for theirs, to make my life matter. 



[hellotherekenobi]

I'm gonna need you to fix that angsty ask bro I can't handle feelings

[ i ] I recommend you read the extended scene that @solaena wrote! It was so stinkin' cute but sad at the same time (which I know you're not looking for but it's honestly so worth it) - you can read it here!

It's just you & Obi-Wan in his chancery; everyone else had left-- Qui-Gon & a few attendants who were present for the meeting-- but you had stayed. He's busy writing away on a scroll before meeting your eyes once, then twice, until he's locking on them with the silent question of why you're still here & why you're staring at him when everyone else is gone. That's when you smile softly, just turning up the corners of your mouth, “I know you sent G6 to my chambers last night.” Obi-Wan looks almost guilty at your finding out, “I-- I thought you would have liked the company.” You nod at him, “Yes, I did.” He sighs, “Oh, good.”

And then you're both quiet again.

Obi-Wan sees your eyebrows furrow before you take one step toward the desk he's sitting behind; your fingers extending out to touch the wooden surface, “Obi-Wan... your grace, I...” you're caught between the words you have said & the words you want to say, feeling embarrassingly small in front of the prince, & then take a breath, “I appreciate your concern but... there's no need. What happened between you and I, what little there was before I left, that's in the past now. That's ten years ago. And I think it's about time that we stop looking at each other as if we're wounded, and then maybe we can stop acting like we are too.”

Obi-Wan looks down at the desk for a moment-- plunging the two of you again in an almost thick silence-- before he nods his head, “I agree.” & then his eyes are on you again, except this time his gaze is strong-- fixated on you-- “But ten years is a long time to love someone, and believe me, I've never stopped loving you.”

[kohakuarisaka]

Untamed (chapter 3 of 5)

Takami Keigo x (fem!)Reader

[ SUMMARY ] Every year, without fail, Hawks went into a rut: when autumn began, and then again in early spring. He would honker down up north in a secluded cabin. For the first time, he brought you with him.

[ WARNINGS ] R18+ for graphic sexual content and language. Non-canon compliant: Hawks’ quirk does not work like this. Reader is a hero that works at Hawks agency. Pre-existing relationship. Reader is a female with female genitalia. Feral behavior. Rutting. Biting. Spanking. Slight BDSM. Consensual sex. Wing kink. Oral sex. Romantic relationship.

Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5

[ My BNHA Fanfic Masterlist ] ~ [ Also on my AO3 ]

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"Baby," a voice cooed at you while hands gently shook your shoulders, stirring you from sleep.

"Come on. Get up. The sun's gonna be rising soon," he continued, speaking to you softly.

You groaned like a wounded animal and tried to resist the pull to consciousness, hoping you could slip back away and he would cease this assault.

Of course, that didn't happen, and the murmuring and shaking didn't come to an end. You found yourself turning around and groggily taking in the sight of Hawks. He already looked wide awake, gold eyes beaming, skin glowing, handsome face as immaculate as ever.

It made you want to punch him.

"Get up," he said, more so telling than asking, albeit politely.

He had warned you last night that he intended to wake you early; but, that didn't stop you from groaning tiredly, rolling over, as if in protest, before complying with his request, removing the blanket slowly, afraid to expose yourself to the cold.

He had stoked the fireplace before waking you; that much was clear, seeing as it wasn't blistering cold when you wiggled out of bed. It was chilly, of course, but not enough to leave you trembling helplessly.

You realized that Hawks had already dressed himself, boots thumping quietly on the floor as he stepped around the bed. He had slipped on a grey T-shirt, and didn't seem to be feeling cold at all, judging by the lax way he rolled his shoulders, wings jutting out from his back gracefully.

He gave you a sideways glance, an almost untrusting look written across his face.

"I'm getting up!" you hissed at him.

Hawks wasn't expecting that sudden outburst and flinched a little, eyes widening slightly and feathers shuddering behind him. It was a comical sight, if you were being honest. It wasn't like him to be so high strung.

Before you could assume you had upset him, Hawks blew raspberries and turned away, heading for the stairs.

When he walked away, you most certainly did not admire the way his cargo pants hugged his ass, nor the way his shirt was pulled tight across the plains of his muscular back, nor how his crimson feathers looked so beautiful draped behind him.

Hawks didn't laugh when you met him downstairs; but, he sure looked like he wanted to. Here he was wearing some loose, comfortable clothes like it hadn't snowed all night, while you were dressed up in thick pants and a heavy coat with multiple layers underneath, ready to weather the elements.

As soon as you stepped downstairs, you were hit with the familiar smell of coffee lofting about the cabin. You recognized the aroma as his favorite, the one he stockpiled at the agency, that was almost always coming from his office.

He had taken the time to pour you some, as well, evident by the mug he was trying to hand to you with a suspiciously innocent look on his face.

"Seriously?" you laughed when you eyed the receptacle he was offering.

It was his merch, clearly. The mug was black with sparkly gold trim, the pattern matching the chest on his jumpsuit . It was covered in comic book style quotation marks containing, what you were guessing, was supposed to be his quotes.

Hawks watched you admire the cup, looking a little too smug for his own good, and returned to sipping from the very plain mug in his other hand.

"Do you really say these things?" you laughed, not expecting an answer because there was no way such nonsense flew from his mouth in the middle of a fight.

"Aheh. 'I am speed'," you read aloud with a scoff. "More like, 'I do speed'," you teased with a grin, catching the way he almost choked on his coffee, shoulders trembling with laughter.

"Who the hell approved these?" you added on.

"The hero commission, I think," Hawks replied, shrugging his shoulders a little.

The coffee, of course, tasted great. He bought the expensive, high-class stuff, after all. Hawks was the only person you knew who could sleep in the dirt with his visor skewed across his face, without a complaint to be had, but refused to drink anything but imported, specially grown coffee beans.

He was ushering you out the door the second you were finished with your coffee, pushing you out into the snowy forestscape, hands grabby and wings fluttering anxiously.

Before you could shudder and complain about the cold, Hawks scooped you up into his arms, kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot, and took to the sky.

You couldn't believe he was out here without a jacket on. Your fully covered arms clung to him for dear life, shivering and trembling in the cold. He wasn't flying particularly fast; but, the winds felt punishing, ice cold biting at your cheeks and seeping in through your clothes.

You were too cold to really appreciate the beauty of the forest covered in freshly poured snow. The glistening, white peaks sparkled like something out of a fairytale in the dimly lit morning light.

"Come on, babe," Hawks cooed, turning his head to blow hot air right on your ear.

Well, no wonder he wasn't cold. It seemed to make sense to you, then, why he went into his rut during these times of the year. He was generating enough heat to be a transportable furnace.

"If you keep clinging to me like that, you're gonna miss the view," Hawks uttered, so close that his lips moved against your skin as he spoke.

You peeled back from him, away from the warmth you were desperately trying to steal. He hadn't stopped flying yet, but slowed down a bit.

"O-oh..." you whispered, taking in the snowy wilderness.

A few miles past the cabin's backyard was a cliff that dipped down into rolling mountains. He had flown overhead, granting a wonderful view of the many acres of untouched wilderness, towering trees and lush forest landscape over rolling hills and mountains.

But, Hawks hadn't dragged you out here at the crack of dawn just to see the snowy landscape. He wanted you out here right at sunrise for a very specific reason.

He had made it just in time for the sun to peak out from the horizon line, like a giant glimpsing through the trees on the mountain top.

The sun was shining a mystical light across the mountains. The overcast clouds were dark purple gliding across crystal clear, blue skies. Rays of red sunlight glided through the trees while gold laid out across the piles of snow like a glistening blanket.

"See?" Hawks murmured, his flight coming to a halt.

He hovered, fairly high up, wings flapping gently, arms still wound tight around you, holding you close. There was a gentle breeze brushing through his hair, causing the feathery strands to tickle at your cheeks.

While you were looking at the landscape in awe, he was staring at you. The sunlight lit up your face and reflected heavily on your eyes, making them glow like crystal orbs. You had finally stopped shivering, too in awe at the sight to notice the chilling bite of the wind.

He didn't say it aloud; but, the most beautiful thing in the sunrise was you.

He liked to tell himself that the rut was making him mushy, emotional. Surely, powerful pro-hero Hawks couldn't be this soft? But, he knew his rut was only amplifying what he already felt so strongly.

His rut made him less inhibited, surfaced darker, feral desires that lay in waiting under layers of discipline he had spent most of his life building.

Even without his rut, you had a power over him he couldn't deny, the power to break him, to peel back the masks he wore, to melt away his self-control, until he was reduced to a desperate animal.

Oh, but the beauty of it all was that you loved that side of him. You had proved to him that you loved every side of him, even the parts that he tried so desperately hard to ensure would never see the light of day.

Even if he could blame his desires on his mutation, that didn't change that he was an assassin, for heroes, yes, but a murderer none the less.

You-

-you knew that, and yet, still, those soft hands held him as if he was untainted. You purred beneath his touch as if those weren't the same hands he had used to kill.

"Keigo?" you hummed.

Just like that, there you were again, freeing him from the torment of his own mind, a lifeline to free him from drowning in the ocean.

"Thank you for this," you uttered, turning your head to look at him.

God, he was beautiful. His gold irises were amplified by the sunlight, like shiny coins in a wishing well, taking in the sight of you shamelessly.

The bird-like curve of his eyelids already gave him a mystical appearance, now further illuminated by the rays of light shining down from above. The wind was blowing, tossing his already frazzled hair in a senseless dance.

The bright red plumes that made up the shape of his wings looked like something out of a dream. In the sunlight, the feathers glowed magnificent crimson, glowing in sharp contrast to the pale white, wintery landscape.

Your hands, that had been gripping his shoulders during the flight, wove up the back of his neck, fingertips touching the trimmed hairs there. You felt his hands tighten where they were holding you, his arms weaving tighter, as if he could get you closer.

"Do you like it here?" Hawks uttered softly.

His tone concerned you a little, as if he was sincerely worried that you were a prisoner here.

You smiled, replying, "it's the first time we've gotten to truly be alone. I'm enjoying myself more than you think."

His gaze softened at your words. A couple of your fingers played with the soft, short hairs at the top of his neck. He felt unbearably warm there, skin slightly damp with sweat. It was startling, considering how cold it was outside.

You felt the soft brush of his lips and let your eyes flutter shut. He was slow, careful, like he was tasting something new and delicious for the first time.

When he pulled back and tilted his head, you felt the faintest drag of his chin across your cheek, felt the fine hairs of his beard tickle your skin.

He hadn't shaved in a couple weeks, leaving you to see him in a mess than most didn't get the honor of. The normally neatly trimmed hairs he shaved down to a fine patch on his chin were now covering most of his jawline, the same beautiful, pale blonde as the hair on his head.

Tantalized, you leaned in, nuzzling your cheek against his jaw, before tilting your head back and feeling the drag of his soft beard against your skin. It felt good, maybe a little too good, and you failed to suppress a quiet gasp.

When you had pulled back far enough to catch his gaze, you immediately realized his eyes had changed. The calm was gone; now, something akin to a storm was brewing underneath.

It was a look you were very familiar with.

He let out a low exhale, as if he had been holding his breath. Your name fell from his lips, low and sultry, a warning, or a curse, and it made you shudder.

Hawks tilted back suddenly and started a sharp decent downward. Having flown together many times, you weren't afraid. The arms around his shoulders tightened and you let out a soft gasp, but more so out of surprise than fear.

His wings fanned out and took him sharply soaring through the trees at a speed much faster than he had brought you here. His grip on you was almost painfully tight, as if his fingers were trying to dig past the fabric of your clothes to get to your skin.

Excitement made you forget about the biting cold, the forest around you distorted almost violently. Suddenly, the cabin door was creaking and then being slammed shut. You hadn't even seen the cabin come into view. Everything felt like a daze.

He flew up to the loft and dropped you unceremoniously at the edge of the bed. The tumble had resulted in you facing away from him; but, you could feel his eyes burning through you.

"Take off your clothes," Hawks commanded, his voice oddly polite despite the nature of his request.

Just as soon as you started working your jacket off, he was kneeling to pull at the laces on your boots. He was strangely gentle when he pulled your shoes off, less so when he tossed them aside. As you worked your shirt off, he pulled your pants and underwear down in one fell swoop, leaving you mostly bare and cold.

You rotated around and leaned up on your elbows, catching his cold stare, indicating that you were not done yet. You peeled your socks off, feeling a rush of excitement at the look he was giving you.

Hawks usually wore a kind, harmless face, not that it was unnatural, for he truly was a good person. However, most could easily forget or be blind to how powerful he was.

Now, in his gold eyes, that was what you saw, the reality that he could take whatever he wanted, when he wanted. You didn't have to be reminded, for every sparring and training session did just that: you couldn't best him if your life depended on it.

Still, Hawks wasn't that kind of person. He was the kind of loved, often times so passionately that you feared you couldn't keep up.

Even now, when his hands took hold of your waist, his body language dominating, wings spread wide behind him, you felt loved.

An amused sound, like a hum, rumbled out of his chest as he carefully maneuvered you around.

You were compliant, letting him roll you around and push your chest down into the bed. The hand on your back was gentle, but commanding, fingers splayed wide in the space between your shoulder blades.

Instead of nudging your thighs with his hands, a boot-clad toe poked between your ankles, commanding you to spread your legs, which you did with a low moan. You leaned up on your toes, presenting to him like an animal.

The sight threatened to send him into a spiral, and you felt his clothed body fall over you, pushing you down into the bed.

His wings flapped once, sending a sharp gust of wind spiraling around the room. There was a painfully obvious contrast between the soft texture of his shirt and the rough texture of his pants.

He made it very clear, with a roll of his hips, that he was ready to take you. The feeling of his clothed erection against your sex, combined with the knowledge that he could just slip right in without preamble, had you mewling.

"You like this," Hawks observed, the words like thunder as they rolled off his tongue.

He retreated, suddenly reeling back and standing behind you, warmth leaving along with him.

"You like when I just take?" he asked, accentuating 'take' with a smack to the back of your thigh. It wasn't hard enough to hurt, but it did manage to startle a yelp out of you.

"Yeah," he uttered lowly, agreeing with his own observations. "You like being Hawks' little plaything," he continued, almost purring the words.

Your delirious brain didn't really know what to expect next. When you heard a thump, you had no idea what to make of it, until you felt breath on your skin and realized that was the sound of Hawks' falling onto his knees behind you.

He didn't waste any time diving in, lapping a heavy tongue across your slit, from top to bottom. His hands gripped your thighs, keeping you still while his tongue breached your entrance.

If his enthusiasm and lack of grace wasn't enough, the rumbling sound he made was enough to make it obvious he liked it.

You couldn't fathom that your taste could possibly be that good; however, you didn't dare comment, especially not when he was doing things with his tongue that shouldn't be humanly possible.

A rough smack to your behind startled you from a delirious daze of pleasure. You yelped quietly, but otherwise remained compliant. When he smacked you again, this time growling faintly into your sex, it was clear he wanted something that you weren't delivering; but, you didn't know what.

"K-Keigo, what-" you whined, breaking off into a howl when he smacked you again.

Normally, such a touch would have you instinctively shriveling away; however, his grip on you was tight, and it kept you still.

Hawks smacked you again, you helplessly cried out, again, and the sound faded into moans that you couldn't possibly contain with what he was doing. You started to wonder, when another smack was delivered, if he was just doing that for his own amusement.

Eventually, he stopped and leaned back, rising to his feet. His hand slid over yours, large palm practically swallowing yours, and guided it back to your sex. You rotated a little, angling your body to follow his movement.

"Feel that," he gently commanded. "How wet and warm you are for me."

You heard the floorboard creak as he leaned back, clearly to get a good view. You did as he requested, immediately driving two fingers into yourself. Sure enough, you were slippery, walls compliant and squishy, and unbelievably warm inside.

Being ready for him with little provocation wasn't exactly a new thing. You were both very busy heroes and keeping your relationship on the downlow. That meant quickies more often than proper time together.

Yet, Hawks sounded immensely pleased; with himself or with you, you couldn't quite tell.

He returned to the floor, hand brushing your knuckles to push your fingers in as deep as they could go.

"Keigo, what are you-" you began, cutting off when his tongue returned to your heat, right alongside your fingers.

"Finger yourself," he told you, sounding oddly blissful despite the fact that you hadn't touched him at all. His cock was still trapped inside his pants, throbbing against the rough material.

You complied with his request, lacking in any grace or proper friction considering the awkward angle. However, Hawks groaned in approval at the view before leaning back in.

His tongue dipped in right alongside your digits. Immediately, he forced the pace and you were desperate to try and keep up, fingers squelching in and out of your core alongside the slobbery mess of his tongue.

Your fingers couldn't compare, lacking in the length, thickness and dexterity of his digits. But, it seemed that Hawks was less focused on getting you off and more focused on playing with you; or, maybe, you had severely underestimated what the taste of your essence was doing to him.

At some point, he pulled back, grabbed your wrist to remove your fingers from your core, and sucked them into his own mouth. You weren't expecting the teeth, and let out a low hiss when his fangs threatened to pierce the skin, holding you firmly in place while his tongue sucked your fingers clean.

He didn't release your hand when he was done. You heard the floorboards creak as he stood up, felt him tug your hand down, until your knuckles brushed his clothed cock.

"You want that?" Hawks breathed.

His free hand gently spread over the space between your shoulder blades, pushing you down before you could dare think to lean up. Your cheek was resting against the sheets, hair spewed about in a mess. His hand wandered, pushing hair out of the way until your neck and shoulders were properly exposed.

From where you laid on the bed, you couldn't make out the sight of him; but, you could see one of his wings, stretched out, looming predatorily.

"Yes," you replied hoarsely.

His hand glided over the prominent bump where your first vertebrae jutted from the top of your spine, and lowered, setting between your shoulder blades once more, where he held you still.

"Then, take it," Hawks uttered, his other hand releasing your wrist.

You let out a low hiss, wanting to curse him for making such a ridiculous request. You couldn't see his face; but, you sure as hell could feel the smirk he was wearing as he stared at you, watching your handle fumble with his belt.

You doubted it was mercy; but, Hawks leaned in closer, the tops of his thighs sliding over the backs of yours, making it a little easier to undo his belt buckle.

The button on his pants followed, but not with ease, before you tugged his zipper down. You couldn't tug his pants down like this, leaving you to fumble around with his boxers, trying to fish his cock out.

"Keigo, you fucking ass-" you growled, not bothering to hide your frustration.

Hawks laughed softly, sounding a little more out of it than he did amused. "'m sorry," he cooed. "-like seein' you struggle."

The slur in his voice should have given it away, his patience had depleted; however, it still surprised you when he suddenly swatted your hand away. He hooked his thumb on the hem of his boxers and pulled them down just enough for his cock to bob free.

You felt the smooth tip nudge at your entrance, the faintest warning, before he pushed forward and entered your moist heat.

"Ohhhh fuck," Hawks howled.

He gave you no time to become accustomed to the sudden intrusion, immediately pistoning his hips back and forth, driving his cock in and out of you.

One hand pinned your torso, while his thighs pinned your legs, and his other hand gripped your hip for leverage. You shifted your feet, trying to lift up on your toes to better the angle, and bumped against his boots.

He was still fully clothed; and, really, that shouldn't have mattered so much. After all, how many times had he freed his cock from his jumpsuit to take you quick and hard before tucking it back in and immediately looking as if nothing nefarious had occurred. Yet, still, the realization had you feeling dizzy.

Before you could nudge a hand between your thighs, something beat you to it. You recognized that bizarre texture. It was soft, sure, but a tad bit pricklier than a normal feather, with an unnatural, firm touch. The little heathen knew exactly how you liked to be touched there, too.

The wet, lewd noises of your union, skin slapping together, was drowned out by the litany of moans pouring from his mouth. If he wasn't crying out in ecstasy, he was huffing and puffing like he had just ran a marathon.

If you were being honest, he was being just a little too rough, a little too fast, offering you no reprieve. You didn't doubt that he would stop if you asked him to; but, you sure as hell didn't want him to. The intensity of it all had you on a plain of existence you rarely got to experience, where pleasure became blinding and mind-numbing.

His hand slid off your back and onto the bed, grabbing a fistful of the sheets as he set a brutal pace, the kind that threatened to unravel your sanity.

"Fuck! You feel so fucking good," he growled, sounding so out of breath and lost. "Gonna fill you up. Yeah, I am. Want my seed dripping out of you all fucking week."

High off the pleasure, and maybe a little influenced by his own state, you moaned approvingly at the suggestion.

"Baby," he whined, suddenly sounding like he was in pain. The feather fluttering against your pearl intensified, practically vibrating against you with how fast it was moving.

"Need you come, need you to come," Hawks pleaded, the words hissing out from his lips between desperate pants.

You didn't think you could come in that moment. Everything felt so good, from his cock rearranging your insides to his feather flicking at your clit. The pleasure was tingling down your thighs and crawling up your spine. You could barely breathe, let along process a coherent thought beyond Keigo.

The hand that had been holding your hip let go and joined the other in gripping the bed. He arched over you, forehead meeting your back.

"Come for me, come for me," Hawks sobbed.

You realized then, as he trembled behind you, that he had reached his own completion, and he didn't slow down until his orgasm waned. You could feel his seed, like molten lava as it filled your insides.

Hawks was still panting when he growled, "again."

He flipped you over, winding your legs over his waist and somehow managing to keep his cock seated inside of you during the transition. Your arms flopped uselessly above your head. You felt weak, laying there like a doll while he turned you over. Still, it felt good: his cock, his hands, his warmth.

One of his arms looped beneath your lower back and tugged you properly onto the bed. He climbed onto the sheets and followed, dragging you beneath him.

He was prepared to continue thrusting into you wildly and blindly chase another orgasm when your eyes met and he froze up. You could practically see him blink away delirious arousal, the sight of your debauched face bringing him back to his senses.

"B-baby, do you need me to stop?" Hawks offered, the words falling from his lips so weakly.

You huffed out a weak breath and reached for him. He leaned down, letting you wind your arms across his shoulders. Your fingers dipped across his clothed back until you reached his wings.

Hawks literally shouted when your fingers dipped into the exposed seams on the shirt and touched the baby feathers growing fresh from his back. The sound rattled your bones and made you jerk from the startle.

He didn't have to be told twice, obviously, for Hawks continued his thrusting immediately. The slippery, wet sounds of his claim over your body was downright disgusting, and you loved it. Your legs clung desperately to his hips, heels digging into the backs of his thighs.

One of his feathers was still pressed against your clit, now trapped between your bodies. It had stopped moving; but, every time he thrust back into you, it created delicious friction.

Your assault on his wings rendered Hawks incapable of speech. The pleasured sounds he made was almost unnatural. If you didn't know any better, you would have thought he was in pain between the broken, blabbering moans and choked, sharp gasping.

His arms were still wound beneath you, holding onto you for leverage and clinging to you so closely, so tightly, it was almost crushing. His wings were arched up high, flapping occasionally as if to increase the momentum behind his thrusts.

His face fell into your throat, forcing your head back into the sheets. He was burning hot, practically oozing sweat. In the corner of your eye, you could see the red tint staining his ears. You could practically feel his frustration gnawing its way through his body and into yours.

Without warning, you felt what couldn't be mistaken for anything other than Hawks' teeth piercing the skin of your neck. Sure, he had bit you before, even left faint hickies on occasion; however, this was something else entirely, and forced a scream from your throat.

You had no doubt he had pierced the skin, judging by how it burned. He was growling into the skin, holding onto you with his teeth as if you were attempting to flee. You didn't dare release his wings, fingers woven through the fine plumes, caressing the sensitive skin of his shoulder blades, where crimson feathers grew.

The bite hurt, without a doubt, but there was no denying the electrical shocks of pleasure it sent through your body. If it wasn't that, then it was the growls vibrating from his mouth onto your skin.

Suddenly, your orgasm hit, and left you screaming and gasping with a sort of ferocity you didn't think you were capable of. Something that sounded almost like his name fell from your lips at some point. Your back arched and your legs trembled where they rested around his hips.

You failed to realize he was following closely behind you. Your grip on his feathers had gone limp and you didn't notice the way his wings arched up, the tips of the longest quills nearly touching the ceiling. He kept going and going, until he was spent and your cries of ecstasy came to a halt.

Hawks let go of your throat and leaned up, removing his arms from beneath you to set his palms on the sheets. He should have felt embarrassed or ashamed or something. But, looking down at the bleeding bite wound on your shoulder, watching the way your chest heaved with heavy breaths, seeing the tint of red along your cheeks and neck, he felt blissfully proud.

Hawks scooped you into an embrace and carefully rolled onto his side, bringing you in with him and cradling you against his chest. One of his wings fell over you, the plumes stretched wide to hide you from the outside world. All you could see was him, his handsome face, the crimson feathers of his wings.

You were acutely aware that he was still inside you, still somewhat hard; but, his temperature was lowering and his breathing was steadily returning to normal. Your fingers untangled from his plumes and came around to rest limply on his chest.

He lapped his tongue softly against the bite wound until it stopped bleeding before peppering it with kisses. It stung a little and you squirmed in his grasp.

"I'm not sorry about the bite," Hawks confessed lowly, leaning back to look at your face.

"Me either," you replied, offering him a weak smile.

He looked blissfully unaware until you leaned in and sucked some of the skin of his neck into your mouth. Hawks groaned approvingly, laying still until you were satisfied and let go, leaving behind a faint, purple bruise.

You stared at his handsome face, watching the vibrant, red blush slowly leave his features as he calmed down. Blonde locks were clinging to his sweat soaked forehead and everything between the two of you reeked of sex. Yet, you couldn't bring yourself to complain when he looked so damn happy.

Hawks leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss against yours lips. Before he could retreat, you tilted your head and leaned in, not letting him escape. He hummed into the kiss, letting you lead until you were content and departed with a wet smack.

"Just a little bit longer," he promised, fingers gently digging into your back.

"Tell me what you're thinking," you requested, nuzzling your nose against his.

Something uncertain flickered in his gold eyes and his lids narrowed slightly.

"It's not sensical," he uttered lowly, and you felt one of his hands slide around to your front. His thumb lovingly brushed along the dip of your tummy, beneath your belly button. His gold eyes shifted down, staring at the expansion of your naval with dedication.

You both had implants. It wasn't going to happen. He knew that. Of course he did. But, he couldn't help but feel dedicated to commit to the effort, as if it would.

Your hand followed his, spreading over his fingers to press him down gently over your lower abdomen, as if this would be successful, as if there was a chance he would take. The encouragement to put him ease.

Hawks wanted to believe it was the rut talking. Some of it was, his body deliriously driven to mate, to the point that he overheated and arousal pained his core. But, his motivation wasn't purely biological. It was because it was you, whom he trusted with every fiber of his being.

But, he couldn't bring himself to tell you that. You loved being a hero, and he wasn't going to take that from you.

It felt special, being hidden with him like this, beneath his wing, whispering such depravities to one and other, that the rest of the world would never know. You felt safe, in a way that felt impossible. Here, as irrational as it sounded, you felt like Hawks could protect you from the world.

[animefreak1145]

For Whom the Bell Tolls(Adler x Bell!Reader)

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Chapter 3| How Little We Know of What There is To Know

Chapter Summary:

Pretending and being numb is the key.

Yet Adler always manages to bring some emotion out of you.

Cold War Reset AU| Undertale Reset AU

Warnings: Torture, Brainwashing, Manipulation, Possible Non-Con/Dub-Con, Trauma

A/N: Where pineapple is the nectar of the gods and scars are lightning.

“Bell”

Second Life

23:09 | February 25, 1981

CIA SAFEHOUSE E9, “DIE LANDEBAHN”

You rubbed your dry eyes as you stared at your notes all over the desk you’ve chosen as your little corner, the large bulky computer taking up space but you’ve made do by moving the brick that is the keyboard as much as you could off to the side. Your papers held inks of different colors—although they were only red, blue, and black and yellow highlights—and you had a stack of folders behind the computer that were from the CIA and MI6 archives. You had Kraus’ ledger off to your side, headphones on top of it for you to hear the audio of U.S. cities and numbers. Your fourth mug of coffee of the day was already gone and you would grab another just to enjoy the warm liquid to go down your throat instead of the caffeine itself, you were always one of late night’s either way.

The safehouse was quiet outside the hum of the generator and the lights above. Most of the crew gone. Outside of your absent tapping of a pen against your messy notes and the white of a nearby fan for extra circulation, the main open area of the safehouse was a desert.

If you focused deeply, you can hear mumbles and murmurs that you can’t make out coming from the office. Adler has been in there for awhile talking over the phone. To who, you don’t know but you have your suspicions. You just hope the subject is not about you being suspicious—the talk on the roof was a slight on your part earlier.

You truly don’t know what came over you. But you need to watch your mouth and expressions. Adler is perceptive, deadly and ever watchful of a person’s micro expressions and body language.

You can’t mess up.

A shot rings. And a heart splinters.

“It was never personal.”

You really can’t.

Which is why, you have been focused solely on decoding the entire day. Your eyes scanning and assessing the acquired Intel from the Volkov mission for Operation Chaos and Operation Red Circus. You have the knowledge on how to solve them but you are lacking needed Intel to help finish Operation Red Circus.

Operation Chaos was tricky. With two pieces of evidence outside of the newspaper, it being the audio log and the paper that had the coded message. Earlier in the morning, you wrote down all the possible numbers the missing parts of the code be—trying to find the pattern in the set of red and blue numbers. You were writing down the possibilities, your paper looking chaotic with arrows and numbers and cities that could coincide with said numbers.

After the quick checkup of your head with Adler, all firm and gentle touches with you keeping your eyes to the side or down as he fulfilled why he got the alias Doc—treatments of gun wounds and cuts to bayonets, complete trust he’ll take care of you as he would lecture or tighten a bandage a tad too tight in reprimand due to a reckless action—and kept quiet as he did so outside of a soft yes or no when he asked  about the pain, you moved to go to work. Ignoring the feel of his gaze on you as you did so. Park coming to your desk after you moved your stuff from the center table to your chosen corner to begin, papers already everywhere and scattered as you tried to organize it in a manner you could only understand, a mug close to her mouth and a cocked brow at the mess.

“There’s a way to keep it a bit more clean and less like a junk pile,” the British woman said, amused as you made a distracted sound, squinting at the coded language in your hand as papers rustled. “And when I gave you my advice, I didn’t think you would take it so seriously. There’s a better desk you could’ve chosen as your own, Bell.”

You blinked, giving Park a confused look.

“Advice?”

Park making an obvious glance to the center table in front of the evidence board, you automatically following it. Only to turn back to your paper once you noticed Adler’s form by the table, cigarette in his hand as he stared down at his own files.

"From one woman to another, give him a wide berth."

“. . . I just needed some space to focus. I’m sure Adler wouldn’t like all my papers everywhere around him either way.” You could still feel the ghost of his touch on your head and your hand. You wanted to erase it. “But I don’t mind staying close just in case. Easier to hand things to you or him whenever I’m done.”

“Someone sounds confident,” Park commented with a sip of her coffee, making your own lips twitch for a moment as you replied that you are the best as you moved some papers around. Than, in a quiet murmur with a quick dart back to Adler’s direction, “Distractions are best to be avoided. . .”

“What was that?” You asked, placing everything in a pile as well trying to keep some of them up by leaning the papers on the computer screen and failing as they slid down. You heard Park release an exasperated humored huff through her nose just as you heard her step away only for you to have a black leather gloved hand in your face with sticky notes. “What is. . .”

“Oh come now. I am sure it’d be easier if you used these. Make sense of this chaos. I guess there is some fact of what people say about geniuses and their rooms,” she motioned the sticky note pad again as you stared at it. The papers were yellow but new. Unused, outside of a crinkle at an edge.

“Where am I?”

“Who am I?”

“What is happening?”

“Why can’t you remember?”

“D o  y o u  h e a r  i t ? ”

“Who is Perseus?”

“Tell me who I am!”

Blood forms the words, as if with a finger.

“They want to kill you.”

“Make it stop.”

“MK”

Words pressed on the page, over and over and over with harsh penmanship and you don’t understand what’s happening. What is this room? And that man. . .  Why does it hurt? Is this helping Russell?

Pain

           Pain          Pain              боль

                    боль

   Pain                                         Pain

              боль

Pain        Pain                   Pain

          Pain         Pain    Pain                

боль                                                              боль

It hurts.

GlockeGlockeGlockeG̷̟̩͙̏͌ḽ̸̊̿o̵̦̓͝c̵̭̯̊́ḱ̷̛̼͌͊e—

You turned away back to your papers, jaw tight.

“I’m good. Sticky notes can be a pain. Thank you, Park.” Park lowered her hand, giving you a questioning stare in the back of your head. You sighed, turning your head over your lowered shoulders. “I’m going to try to finish this today but I think I’m missing a few pieces of Intel. You can give me other things to decode for MI6 in the meanwhile.”

Park frowned delicately, lowering her mug.

“That sounds like a hefty workload. And I believe it would be best if we put all our focus into Perseus for now.”

No. You have to be useful.

“It’ll be fine,” you say, searching for a paper and giving it to her while Park grabbed it. “I solved that part of the code already. The other intel we got from Kraus, I’m going to need more information in order to figure out who exactly can be Strong Man, Bearded Lady, and the Juggler. I can’t go forward with that so might as well help with other codes you guys may have trouble with. What did you imply?” You ask with faux curiosity, your lips twitching up before falling as you wrote something down. “That I’m a genius?”

“Smartarse.” Park retorted, although she seemed to still hesitate but eventually she gave you three files where they seemed to be having trouble. You getting to work immediately to help as Park walked away and you hearing later on Park and Adler head to the office.

You did your best to not think too much of it. You have to keep at your work and make sure you’re capable and on task. You rather not get jabbed.

“We got a job to do.”

And although it might be inevitable, you would rather not have those words said to you as well. Even if it didn’t seem to have the same affect as before, the feeling and how your thoughts seemed to blur came back. Being aware you moved like a puppet and were one all along is not what you would like to focus on.

After you finished two of MI6’s files—had to do with KGB and how interesting they would use some quotes of Oscar Wilde’s 1984 hidden in the code as if the man was in support of communism with the work—with a hum mixed with impressed and curiosity from Park as she looked at the solved papers, your nose twitched at the scent of smoke and leather as you worked on the last MI6 folder.

“Stealing away my protege, Park?” Your hand around the pen paused before continuing, a plume of grey gathering above you. “And here I thought we have an equal partnership when it comes to this whole Perseus business. At least tell me you’re not wasting her time?”

“I wouldn’t call it stealing if she’s willing,” Park easily replied before handing him the two files to look over that you did, Adler scanning through it as she continued. “And it still has to do with our red friends. You sure are quick with the ball, Bell.”

“It’s nothing,” you say quietly, “Can’t exactly go forward so might as well help you with other codes that others can’t solve. Just send anymore my way. You too, sir.”

Adler made a distant hum, closing the files and handing it back to Park. You felt his stare at the back of your neck as you stared at the paper in front of you that might as well be nonsense since you sensed him.

Look at him, pup.

“If you wanted a more exciting challenge Bell, you could’ve asked. Always the type to leave no stone unturned and show off.”

“‘More exciting challenge’?” Park repeated, “Think MI6 codes are all flowers and rainbows compared to those in the CIA, Adler? I believe I recall that it was only Bell that could be able to solve the dossier instead of anyone else within your organization.”

Yeah, cause you brainwashed me, you thought bitterly but the two kept going as you could only sit in between. Nice to have to be a witness between these two again.

“Bell is the best CIA decoder we have,” you tightened your jaw in surprise instead of to tense when his hand landed on your shoulder, a gentle squeeze—in comfort, in belief, in trust, in camaraderie, in everything but what you wanted and what you needed, in order to control— as you lowered the paper in your hand. “As well as having a wide range of other skills. You think I would just call in any brain dead desk sitter for this operation?”

You could see in your mind’s eye how dizzy you would get before due to all this praise. Now, you just do your best to press your lips as your chest tightened.

You felt Park shift behind you, her looking at you in appraisal.

“You are one of a kind, Bell. Shame you were born in the wrong country. Having to have Adler here as your superior.”

You huffed through your nose in dry amusement at that. Irony not lost on you.

What a curse indeed.

You turned in your chair finally, lips quirked that didn’t quite meet your eyes as you pointed your thumb towards Adler.

“You should’ve seen him in ‘Nam if you think he’s bad now. Always with the lectures.”

You felt Adler release you, watching as he took an inhale as he did a small shrug in disinterest.

“You can be stubborn, Bell. If I couldn’t beat it out of you, I’ll talk it out of you.” You looked up and you could sense his eyes looking down at you behind those shades. “Although I feel like sometimes I’m wasting my breath. Your recklessness borders on insanity.”

“I think I can see why they put the both of you together than,” Park said, brow arched towards Adler and a certain look in her eyes towards him you couldn’t quite read. It looked like a warning. But what could that look be for? “Insanity breeds insanity as they say.”

They left you after that, you waving off Adler asking if you need a break. He took that as the okay to bring you CIA files for you to decode. Seems he has no trouble using you dry if you’re going to insist on it. Despite that, you took them and you were able to solve three.

Park came back towards your desk and saying you could have a break, again, you waved her off. As well as her concern you wouldn’t want to read into—is it real for you and your body, or is some sort of guilt that perhaps they gave you a strong dose for the memory exercise and you’re running on steam, is it fake or real, don’t break the puppet- so you didn’t. You telling Lazar the food you wish and him dropping it by your desk with his own comment that your brain might fall out and you saying you’ll be fine, even threw in a small joke that with his food your brain will be well nourished. Outside of your favorite brand of pumpkin seeds of course. Sims only made a stray comment about the stacks on your desk, getting tall as the day went on and turned to night. You don’t recall if you said something back. You probably did, Sims was always distant—you have trauma that’s not even real and have the gall to have some nightmares about it when he actually went through that horrible war and sees a therapist for it, you don’t know the war—so you would take what you would get.

Everyone eventually shuffled out, Park—her brows looking creased and a purse to her lips—back to the side of your desk before she left and saying you should rest and leave the rest tomorrow.

“I’ll finish the rest today,” you replied, resolute and determined as you wrote the next possible code from this possible radio station an ally of Perseus may be using. “No rest for the wicked. As they say,” you threw out additionally, an echo of her words earlier which made Park raise her brows. “It’s fine. Once I start something, I have to see it through. It helps I can be patient when it counts—at least with this.”

“You seem to take it literally. You’ve been at it since early this morning. You only moved I believe when Lazar brought your food and to use the washroom.” Once you shrugged and said that seems normal to do and you’re fine with that, you heard Park’s tone grow stronger in reprimand. “Yes, you’re fine. Tell me, is Adler stopping you from taking breaks?”

You stopped, looking at Park and her irritated expression.

“No. . . No, it’s just me.” So none of you stick me with that dreadful drug and dig around my brain. So I can show all of you I don’t need it—that you don’t need to do that. That I’m useful and more than an asset. Unneeded assets get thrown away. “I just—just don’t want to disappoint.”

"Disappoint? You've exceeded expectations at every turn, Bell. Disappoint who?"

You didn’t answer, only turned back around and continued with your pen. You heard Park mutter a curse before walking out, giving you a pat to your back and tell you you’re driving back with Adler than since he’s determined to work as well before leaving. Your eyes round down to your desk.

You’ll be alone together with him again.

You took a shaky breath, focusing on the paper in front of you.

You’ll be fine. Just keep what you’ve been doing. Pretend everything is okay.

Pretend his concern—the touch on your shoulders burned as he shook you, as if to erase your dark thoughts out of you, lifting you up with his hand easily with words of a concerned reliable friend commanding officer—is real. And his kindness—why did they save you, you’re useless, what use is an untrained dog—is real too.

Just don’t question it. You’ll go mad.

Mind your tongue as well—control yourself. You used to tease before with faux confidence when the both of you bantered, but you have to watch your spiteful and petty comments. You really don’t want him to give you a dose.

But if you feel like the path is leading you there, you have a way to get at least a semblance of control back.

Puppets don’t control the puppeteer.

“Bell.” You turned in attention, Adler by the center table as he motioned his head towards the garage door, cigarette in hand. “Time to go.”

You nodded once, getting up after fixing up your desk a bit. Grabbing your beanie turned ski mask and placing it back on your head instead of your face and walked over obediently as the both of you walked out through the side door.

Good dogs come when they listen.

✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯  ◁ ◁ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯

“Come on, you know I hate fruit cake! Just give me your pears, Singer!”

“Sorry, Bell,” Singer grinned, taking a big purposeful spoonful of pears from the can, teeth flashing. “Guess you have to deal with all of that yourself. Too bad you don’t have a connection to those who pass the MCI’s, huh?”

You quietly glared at him with no heat, the act almost making Singer choke on his precious pears that he could’ve given you. The choking action making him spit out some and towards you, you making a noise of disgust as you punched the laughing man harshly to his shoulder as vengeance. It made him wince as the others around the campsite laughed at the two of you—the sun still above and the Vietnam jungle loud with birds and the trees moving against the wind. Although not really a campsite you would say since there no fire. Can’t have any eyes on them to go towards smoke.

‘They know these jungles better than us’ as Adler says.

Speaking of Adler, you turned towards him where he leaned against a thick great Banyan tree local to this country—the trunk thick just like the branches that spiral even to the floor. They were all actually hidden in the alcove of this tree, the space enough for them until they kept going to their destination. A beautiful yet haunting tree with its dark and smooth bark all around. You overheard once by Lee and other South Vietnam soldiers in base that these trees can have spirits inside. Dangerous they said for some of them. You don’t think these ‘spirits’ ever met Adler.

You could see Adler’s lips were up in amusement due to your predicament despite his war paint, raising his brow over his black shades when he noticed your gaze.

Before you even fully lifted your hand with the can of horrendous fruit cake, he shook his head at you, lips going even more into a smile.

“Don’t even try, kid. I fucking hate fruit cake myself,” he adjusted himself against the tree and the gun in his lap. The food of his MCI basically gone outside the crackers and canned pineapple. “Disgusting things. I don’t know who’s bright idea was it to have hard pieces of fruit and dry raisins in cake.”

That’s what you’re saying!

“Please, Adler. I gave you my cigs already, at least give me some of your pineapple?”

Sims laughed beside you, nudging your shoulder with his and shaking his head in disbelief.

“You think Doc is gonna give you some of his golden nectar away? Might as well have asked him to give his cigs along with his lighter.”

“Not happening, Bell.” Adler answered casually, finishing up his crackers and swiping his hands against his pants before moving to the can. “Besides, not like you smoke anyways. The cigs would just sit there pretty in the box if you don’t hand it to me. Unless you want to try to smoke again. It went well last time.”

“Didn’t she choke?” Singer teased around a mocking grin. It made his youthful face boyish and eyes bright. “Almost hacked out a lung didn’t you?”

Larson, who was quiet between Singer and Adler, spoke up. Already finished with his food since he’s been mostly keeping to himself. This is the first official mission he’s had since he got the news. Poor guy.

“I remember that,” Larson said softly, looking towards you and you just took all their teases. You blame Adler. “It was after the drinking game between Butcher and Hamilton. You wanted to see the big deal about why everyone liked the nicotine.”

“Only for Doc to come to the rescue after Bell took one of his cigs,” Sims ended with a shit eating grin. You’ll kill him. “Surprised you’re still here and alive. Not from just avoiding choking on nothing either, but that you took a cig from him.”

“You guys bet that I couldn’t. . .” You muttered with narrowed eyes towards Sims who shushed you.

“What was that?” Adler asked, cocking his head only for Sims and Singer to shake their heads animatedly. Adler hummed doubtfully but dropped it.

“Never mind that! Just—“ You groaned, putting your head on your hands as you still held the can of fruit cake. “You think I can eat this shitty cake? The ‘raisins’,” you said the word doubtfully, “could be actual pieces of shit for all I know. It could explain the taste. And how hard it can be.”

Singer and Sims snorted next to you, on both sides while Larson actually cracked a grin as you raised your head and told them strongly to think about it! Adler shook his head, watching the jungle periodically in the open spaces of the alcove which all of you did to be cautious but the fruit cake debacle must be solved.

You turned your eyes towards Sims, spotting his fruit cocktail. Only for his hand to block it.

“Nope.”

“Come on!” Sims shook his head, opening the can and eating the fruit cocktail and you scowled. “All of you are shitheads. Now I’m gonna have to eat this.”

“Damn straight you do,” Adler reaffirmed, stern yet you could spot he found your curse to all of them, him included, funny based on his arched brows. “No wasting MCI’s. You know the drill, Bell.”

You grunted unhappily at Adler, but you knew he was right. Which is why you wanted to trade in the first place. Food shouldn’t be wasted, no matter how heinous.

You took a spoonful after managing to cut into the hard cake, Sims laughing in your face and you could spot Larson keeping his smile at your disgruntled expression only for it to deepen when you took a bite.

You tried to distract yourself through bites by asking Adler how far away they were from their destination. Adler answering after they reach the next nearest foxhole which is two hours away, it will be another six till they reach where they need to be.

“Hue is a mess right now. With us additional reinforcements, we’re going to aim for stealth and go around and take out as much as we can.” Adler explained as they all attentively listened. They can’t mess up. “We’ve been able to give them a lot of damage last I heard, with one final push of us taking out some of them when they’re scrambling—we’ll consider the Battle of Hue a win. Of course, if there’s more than we can handle, we’ll stick to recon and head back around to tell command at the Hue MACV compound we have there.”

“And the civvies?” Larson asked.

“Don’t shoot ‘em.” Was all Adler said before they all moved to clean up and move on after you and Sims finished up.

You having to force to swallow and chew the cake and packing up the trash. They can’t leave anything else it can be used to track or find them.

Larson, Sims, and Singer were outside the alcove—waiting for you to finish as you smacked your lips as if that could take away the taste in your mouth as you grumbled. You moved to go out where Adler was as he stood by the opening to head out. You spotted something on the ground where he previously sat.

“You left something, sir,” you say, growing near to pick up the can. Huh, it’s not empty.

Adler turned his head over his shoulder, expression questioning.

“Whatcha mean, kid? That’s yours isn’t it?” You frowned, looking down at the can only for your eyes to widen. There was some pieces of pineapple left, a little less than half of the can gone but it’s something. He turned his head back as he muttered. “Don’t expect this to happen again. Not here to spoil you, Bell.”

“Don’t expect you to, sir.”

“Just pick up the trash and move it, kid.”

You grinned, knocking back the can and easily and quickly eating it. The juices spilling down your chin and neck but you didn’t care as you licked your lips. The taste of disgusting shit cake gone.

You packed the can quickly, swiping your chin with the back of your hand as the both of you walked to where the others were.

“Thanks,” you said to him softly.

“For telling you to pick up your trash?” Adler answered easily and you smiled knowingly but let it go.

Such a hard ass.

✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ▷ ▷ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯

The car ride was silent, passing street lights and empty cafe’s whizzing by and enlightening the car for a mere moment before it would be enveloped in darkness once more until the next light comes. You were staring out the window as they passed the streets of Berlin, the sounds of the wiper periodically occurring due to the light rain occurring. Not many people out at this time of night, nearing midnight unless you were a working girl or at the local bar. Some wisps of smoke remained in the car despite Adler on his side having his window slightly open. Your eyes watching as it moved lazily and glancing towards the quiet, relaxed man next to you before you would turn to look back out. Curious to see more of the city besides in the backstreets and being stealthy.

You didn’t see much last night after Volkov, you falling asleep in the car as Park drove you. You were too out of it when they arrived at the hotel, just absentmindedly listening and nodding along to Park’s directions and promptly knocking out once you reached your room on the bed. Only to awake once more at the alarm you or someone else must’ve set early in the morning.

You were focusing on that instead of the last time you were in the car with Adler.

“You’ll like where we’re going. Trust me.”

You took a sneaky glance towards the man once more, just as the man exhaled out a cloud of smoke that you watched. Enraptured in how it moved to and fro lithely, easily as your nose took in the smell before you glanced back at Adler, the side facing you being his ‘good’ side.

You wonder once more of his scar that accentuated this man’s beauty—all harsh lines that created a map that even now you wish to trace. For someone like this to earn the title America’s Monster, all styled wheat hair, suede shades, and an easy, wry tone—it should at least match the title.

Than again, you thought with faltering wax wings and of another—the fall of a devil with none. It was never about his looks was it?

“It’s a small price to pay.”

What does that make you?

“Alright, kid,” he says, taking out of your stupor as you stared fully at the man now. Smoke releasing out his mouth as he spoke, making you lower your gaze to it. “I’ll bite. What do you want to ask me? Must be a juicy question since you keep burning holes to the side of my face.”

Embarrassment colored your face, caught, as you quickly adjusted your gaze to straight ahead and instead watching raindrops going down the windshield.

“It’s nothing.”

“Mmm. For some reason, I can’t believe that. What did I say before?”

You said a lot of things before, you thought with a sad frown. But you knew what he was referring to. Always wants to be the one you tell all your worries and concerns to. Before, you thought it was genuine. Now, you just see it as how it was—a cloak to observe and make sure if your true real memories came or if they needed to give you a dose.

“Your scar,” you began as he tilted his head towards you, hair moving as he did so as he kept his one hand casually to the wheel while the other was leaning against his door. You didn’t get distracted by it. “How’d you get it? There’s a story there.”

“Scar?” He asked in false confusion, still stoic outside of a cocked brow and making your lips twitch up despite yourself. Before motioning with his cigarette hand towards his face. “You mean this? Is it noticeable?” At your unamused huff though your nose, he continued. “Back in ‘73, I was nearly killed by a tiger while on a mission in Malaysia. But human ingenuity still runs the animal kingdom.” He turned his head towards you when they reached a light, his brows rising above his glasses. “You ever been attacked by a tiger, Bell?”

You stared at him in disbelief before releasing a surprised snort. The nerve of this man.

“You’re lying. That’s not from a tiger, it would be worse than that. You and your need to tell stories. . .” You mumbled the last part, you don’t think he heard that.

“Didn’t know you were an expert on tigers, Bell. Got a degree in zoology under your belt that I don’t know about? What makes you think I’m lying?”

“Because—“ That’s not what you said last time. You stopped, a realization going through you. Because of course he’ll lie to you about this too. Worse kind of crowd, your ass. “If you got that from a tiger than I must be a distant cousin of Joseph Stalin.”

“That unbelievable, huh?” He said more than asked, amused at your sarcasm as you looked at him with crossed arms as the car moved once more. “Fine. I’ll give. I jumped on a roof in Calcutta back in ‘75 while chasing a Soviet agent. The jump was successful . . . the landing not so much. Advice: always know where the utility poles are.” At your deadpanned look when he glanced at you, his lips quirked into a humored smirk. “That one didn’t hit the mark for you either? Was it the jump?”

You shook your head, a small groan leaving your lips as you leaned your head against the dashboard.

“Anybody who’s anybody can jump from roof to roof,” you replied, staring at your leather boots—forehead pressed against the dashboard and maintains it there even as they turned or there was a bump. “You know that. Just like you know a utility pole would’ve either choked you or electrocuted you. At least with electrocution it’d be more scars throughout instead of that part of your face.”

“Watch the cockiness, kid.” He reprimanded but than, “You’re right though. Roof jumps the standard when it comes to our work. But you’re really confident that I don’t have any other scars throughout the rest of me. Know something I don’t?” Your eyes darted towards him, wide and as they passed a street light, you noticed he was peering down at you in turn. Your skin burned as you looked away and mumbled no while staring at your very interesting shoes. The man hummed. “How about this. You know what they say about kids falling in with a bad crowd? Let’s just say I fell in with the worst part of a bad crowd. The girl wasn’t worth it, believe me.”

At your silence, he glanced at you.

“What? That’s the one you believe?” You gave a small shrug. When he first told you that, you didn’t ask any more questions. It sounded personal the way he said it. Truthful. Adler always lies. “What makes this one believable? The lack of a specific date or are you a sucker for romance, Bell?”

You threw him a meaningful look up at him. Not feeling the need to say anything. At his arched brow though, you opened your mouth.

“Your ex-wife.”  His brow flattened at that. Something shifting in the air. “Was she worth it?”

A beat. A passing of street lights. The pitter patter of rain against the car.

“A romantic than. . .Never saw you as the type.” At your probing stare and his silence, you turned away. Seeing he won’t answer—too private. You’re a fool to even think he will say the truth at all. “Once.” You blinked, turning your eyes back up and lifting your head in attention as America’s Monster—a secret, a peek through the shades, a hint of something real besides the cold, black abyss, what are you Russell Adler—spoke ever so softly. A sardonic turn of chapped lips. “You can say we had a difference of opinion. Not much to it.”

There was more but you will take what you can get.

You thought of the memories you had, of friends you once believed were your own. Of little moments in beaches and camps and villages when all was calm and not chaotic with smell of burnt bodies or blood or how it feels to stab a bayonet through someone’s chest in defense. You could see them as clearly as any other memory you had. And feel it.

You thought of the poor soldier leaving a war only to get into another one in his home country.

“Larson. . .” you murmured, Adler hearing as he released a dry chuckle.

“Sort of like Larson. The poor bastard.” You watched him take a deep inhale, the cigarette almost a near stub. And you realize when that happens, he’s stressed. As stressed as a man like him could be. You’ve seen him in many moments in Vietnam. Not always the best. You wonder if that was another reason for your death. Adler exhaled a puff before having to throw the cigarette out the window with a flick, putting the window all the way up. “I don’t see why you’re so interested either way. Scars aren’t that impressive. Unless you always had a habit about asking for one’s ugly mug.”

You darted up at his eyes, shaded as they were, trying to sense if he was being serious.

Because he couldn’t be.

Not this man, with strikes of lightning upon his face as if Zeus did it himself. All power. Grace. Strength. Different from your barely functioning wax wings as you struggle to fly. Only able to watch and hope a falling demon crashes to its death—all harsh and slow.

What are you, Russell Adler?

Perhaps he is Zeus himself.

Perhaps how Adler got his scar was harsh retribution to control lightning, his scars even mimic those powerful strikes across his face. All strength. And all beauty. Those who survived struck by lightning always have the most beautiful marks upon their skin indicating their survival—you are selfishly bias though. Even now, you admit with self-loathing. The rougher marks on his face is all grace and you could wonder how he truly got it instead of fantasizing him as a God Of Lightning who mistook his own power upon his face.

It would only make sense. Both beautiful men, although you’ve never met the Greek God.

They both also have a habit of hurting women.

He’s all of that, while you could only hope with your squeaky levers and ropes and feathered wax can go up to said Mount Olympus where he was. A naïveté where you think you’re close with tired and sore arms only to be burnt away. A free fall down to the abyss.

Good pups stay in their place.

“You’re joking.” You accuse seriously as you stared up at him, your head against the dashboard but tilted slightly in his direction.

Adler tilted his head down slightly to stare down at you, a brow arched at your look.

“About?”

You didn’t say anything.

Just meaningfully looked up at him through your lashes, staring at his jaw that was strong as if Michaelengelo carefully carved it himself with minute details with his trusted mallet and chisel until dawn with a candle on his head due to determined ingenuity. Observing how the collar of his shirt did not do a good job in hiding his neck, his favorite jacket failing in that too so you could take it in. Not one strand was mussed or out of place on his head, all volume and thickness as your gloved hand twitched by your knee.

You than met the shades, in turn meeting his eyes as your heart seemed to pound as he stared down at you back. A look passing through his eyes too quick for you to catch, besides what you saw in your peripherals. The hand on the wheel tightening an iota as the air shifted to something heavier, blood pumping as your mind thought of reasons as to why which you pushed away. Impossible.

You licked your dry lips nervously, Adler’s expression seeming to tense when his eyes followed the action. You turned away, looking back down except to play with the ends of your gloves, neck hot and spreading.

You still felt his stare before he focused back onto the road.

They didn’t speak the rest of the ride.

Foolish dog should mind their eyes.

✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ▷ ▷ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯

You couldn’t sleep much when you reached your room, another floor to Adler’s and near Park’s, and not just due to how you were more one with the night.

You opened Pandora’s Box—something forbidden coming out into the world as you thought back to the meaningful stare between you and Adler in the car. That even the thought makes your heart pound once more. Your brain further muddling and melting away the more you spend time alone with that man. Whether in being caught in his pace or just the mere thought of what he’s done.

Although, you suppose you already opened a Pandora’s Box. Possibly even darker than the one you discovered.

If the monster in man’s skin was Zeus—he created the box in the first place. Except he wished to hide it from you and keep you willfully ignorant instead of tease you to release envy and greed and disease out in the world. You managed to open it—and it was none of those things, it was cruel and inhumane to you all the same.

Take this needle and follow the story, do the trick.

If only that box stayed close.

Zeus always did like to confuse.

✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ◁ ◁ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯

You let out a heavy sigh, hand mussing your hair harshly as you chewed your lips, staring at the paper on the center table of the safehouse.

“Having trouble?”

You slightly jumped as Adler, who was quiet in the seat across and to the side of you, spoke. Looking mildly curious at all the papers on your side of the table before taking a small puff. You sighed, looking back down at the paper in slight frustration.

“Just a little. Whoever made this code created a difficult to encrypt language. I have some of the numbers though already, it’s just the rest. I’ve never seen such an elaborate one before. . .” You said in thought as you tapped your pen against the paper. “I have to say, it’s impressive.”

Adler hummed idly, taking note of your words.

“Perhaps you need a sort of incentive.”

You moved your eyes up in confusion, wondering what that could mean. Only to stop once you noticed what was in his opposite hand not holding his precious cigarette.

It was a picture—a polaroid specifically. But not just any one. You stared at your oldest friend in the picture, taken on the rooftops in East Berlin, his face tilted down and a level of focus and calm as he stared down below in his crouched position. The lights behind him giving him an ethereal glow, a mix of white, red, and blue as those shades on his face gave a little glint due to it.

You reached a hand to see it better only for Adler to click his tongue, taking the picture back closer to him with a shake of his head.

“Sorry, kid. Can’t exactly be incentive if I gave it to you easily like that. You seem eager though.” Adler arched a brow at you. “Any reason as to why?”

Your cheeks prickle as you cursed in your mind. Why didn’t you get the film from the red room or Park yourself? You thought of a T.V. turning on it’s own, flashbacks to what happened in Vietnam on the screen, the memory sobering you up. You still. . .haven’t told Adler about that. He’ll call you soft and put you solely in the safehouse with no more field missions. You hate his disappointment. Still though, you recall you were determined to get it. A quick in and out but than. . . something? Something. . . happened?

At your brows furrowing deeply, Adler’s own brows furrowed and you answered his silent question as you touched your head.

“Sorry. . . That coma I woke up from still has done a number on me.”

“You did get shot twice, Bell. You have issues with always trying to push me out the way, even back in ‘Nam.” You smiled at his tease. You did have a protective streak. But only for certain people—even if you knew Adler could handle himself, you would do what you must for him if he told you an order. Or even go against it if it involved him doing something stupid like a sacrificial mission. You’d follow him anywhere. “Don’t think too much on it. I’m sure the rest of your memories will come back soon enough.  Just remember in the end that mission was a success.”

“Whatever it takes, sir.” You said, a phrase that he spoke often back in the war. Which you would repeat. You would always do what you must.

Adler’s expression shadowed as he nodded once.

“Whatever it takes,” he glanced at the polaroid in his hand, it facing him as he seemed to stare in thought before turning his gaze towards you. Your expression curious as you wondered what he was thinking before he turned the picture back towards you, brow up inquisitively. “Well, Bell? Don’t think you’re going to dodge the question as to why you want this? I went through a bit of trouble to let Park let me have it. She’s stubborn when she wants to be.”

You slightly scowled at him, feeling the blush once more.

You hated when he did that blasted rhyme!

You also had a sense there was more to him asking Park but you were too busy trying to defend yourself. Not think about their daily quiet pissing match.

“I like taking pictures. It’s an art form. Every artist would like to have their own paintings,” you said, tone even and you wanted to pat yourself in the back for that.

Adler rose both his brows now.

“Really?” The way he said it made it seem he doubted you. “Not a photographer. Was never really interested in art either so maybe that’s why I can’t relate. Still. It’s a good picture, my good side and all. Can see why you would want it.”

You restrained yourself from saying what you wanted like last time. That basically you would want that picture even if it was on his scarred side.

“It had good lighting.” You added as Adler stared at his picture, cigarette being held in his lips. He turned back towards you, glasses slightly falling from his nose and you could see a hint of his eyes. A tease. You stared. His lips curved around the cigarrette, amused and indulging. You panicked. “I-It does!”

“I didn’t say anything. But say, the sooner you finish that code, the sooner you can have this—“ he paused, waving the hand with the polaroid”—piece of art of yours. Never thought I would say that but I guess there’s a first for everything.” He pocketed the picture back in his jacket, blowing his smoke away from you before he stood up and headed towards Sims only to add over his shoulder, “I’ll leave you to it. I know you got this.”

You stared as he walked over, the belief he had in you with those words moving around in your brain. You moved back to work, pointedly ignoring Lazar’s whistle—him able to hear some of what occurred no doubt. You threw him an impolite gesture that only made the man laugh as you focused on the code. It took you three tiring and near sleepless nights, but you finished. Adler handing you the photo in between his fingers as you took it gently, trying not to crinkle the photo further as Adler watched you behind his shades as you held the photo, taking a thoughtful inhale of his cigarette before looking away. Looking around their surroundings outside the safehouse. Their break time spot.

“You sure got talent, kid.”

“You should know by now to not doubt me, Russ,” you replied, your eyes still on the photo between your gloved hands. “Only the best of the best with you. Just took me longer than I thought.”

“Watch that confidence doesn’t blind you one day, Bell.”

“You first.”

He chuckled at that, breathless and surprised making you stare up with wide eyes. The sound rare. Adler tapped the end of his cigarette, ash going on the ground as he stared towards the doors of the safehouse, an echo of a smile on his face. Barely there. Others wouldn’t see it, but you’ve known Adler for years.

“You got guts. And spunk. Met my match with you it seems, kid. You know me too well. . .” Adler took a puff, deep as he trailed off, shades dark.

“That’s not a bad thing,” you say, lowering the photo in your hand. “Sims does too. Can’t exactly get rid of us that easy.”

“Sims has been through many missions with me, but not as much as you.” Adler explained calmly. “Some of those, I’m taking to my grave. If I breathe a word about it, I’ll have a bunch of people up my ass.”

You sense as if this was like a conversation from years ago, on a beach. Quiet and away from everyone in the camp, just the two of you talking about realities and soldiers. You think about that memory a lot.

You recall some of the memories he’s referring to.

You half shrugged, pocketing the photo in your bomber jacket as you leaned against the wall of the safehouse.

“What can you do? It was necessary. Besides, I can’t exactly tell anyone else either, Adler. Brutality is sometimes necessary. That’s all I know.” You paused, tilting your head and throwing a teasing smirk his way to get him out this weird mood. “Don’t tell me America’s Monster actually cares what other people say?”

Adler deeply exhaled in exasperation, smoke coming out his nose.

“Don’t tease me, Bell. You know I can’t give a shit.”

“Than what’s the problem? You do what needs to be done. Make the tough calls. You know. . . you know I understand right?” You asked carefully. “I’m with you when it comes to doing what we must. To protect what we need to.”

Adler was silent. He never answered.

You didn’t push him. Didn’t feel the need.

You understood him the best.

Only monsters can see one another, after all.

✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ▌▌✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯

Monsters, you’ve come to know, are also a certain kind of creature that takes what they need.

To want. Selfish and uncaring and you should be concerned at how easily you take in those traits.

Too busy to worry about regular people—the mundane. There are bigger things to be focused on than other’s opinions on what actions are necessary.

You and Adler can give not one fuck about others. They know what they are and will accept the titles from others with a nod.

What you’re coming to find however, that even with monsters, there’s different breeds.

You basically reiterated to him that what he did with you was necessary. Needed. Sound brutality at its finest. You feel like you can’t even argue.

What is better—loyalty to a country or to people?

You’re trapped.

.

.

.

I have a problem. This story is going to be long when it was supposed to be short. Oh well. 

Also, hot take maybe, I love both Soft!Adler and Dark!Adler so let’s just have both sides of him shall we? Wait…is Adler truly soft here? Who knows.

DM me if you wish to be tagged please. ^////^

Tags:

@quizzyisdone @zulema117-blog @efingart  @pinkpinkboota @nuclear-boston @lifeisthemoments @jintana-critical @eclectriccanoeseven @hurricanesyd-blog @parkeepingparker @moonchild365-blog @aurora-windu @imperfectophelia @dvesinthewind @holy-crap-i-am-russlle-adler @i-will-give-you-love @adlerboi @preciouslilcreature @saynotohydra @mayaibnlaahad @smokeywhalee @0shuni0-blog @multi-fandom-imagine @littlepotatowizard  @direwolfspostsrandomshit @darlingor @collinnmckinley @kayalect @nikkibell1937 @fuzzybonkeggsopera @ppfedd @bro0kebxrter @actuallyilya @stayb1ack @frankwoodsmalewife @tr1ppylady @danjer

[gakkubi]

Pain is the corpse of a 15 year old because Yahiko died at that age. So if you decide to draw anything nsfw between him and Konan please make sure its an au where Yahiko did not die and he is an alive human being becuase that will also be considered necrophilia. Or not! If you're into that.

Hello! I was expecting this subject to come up sooner or later once I started posting art of PainKona. Truly, I understand where you're coming from with this. When I started drawing again and came back to tumblr last year, I too had some serious problems with PainKona. I was very sensitive about it, and voiced a few times an opinion about PainKona that is very different from how I feel about them nowadays.

Allow me to offer you a different perspective on things, one that perhaps might be more enjoyable since we're talking about a work of art and fiction (Naruto):

First, you say that Yahiko is 15 because of the databook entry; that is fair. But timeline is a common issue in Naruto, and the age stated for Yahiko is incorrect. I don't mean to sound arrogant by stating the official databook is incorrect, but, it was made for a shonen audience; the goal was to make Yahiko "relatable" to that shonen audience of teenage boys, even at the cost of plot logic. His age as 15 makes no sense, not only taking from the plot (Chōji assumes Pain Tendō is 25-30) but also considering how Kishimoto draws him. Using Obito's age as a time constraint and taking Nagato/Konan's age and Naruto's age during Pain's Assault, that makes 35-16=19. I can dwell on that on another ask but, if anything, Yahiko is the corpse of a 19 year old.

Second, the corpse issue. As far as I know, bluetooth controlled corpses aren't a problem in real life, so let's start from there. Naruto is a work of fiction; it's art. Pain Tendō isn't a literal dead corpse, not even in fictional sense. He's not rotting on the floor, decomposing, inanimate. He moves, talks, breathes, his skin is just slightly lighter than Yahiko's was - not grey as most corpses are drawn. Do corpses talk? Do corpses have personality? Not at all, and as you can see, I'm not drawing Konan with a dead body filled with worms. I'm drawing Konan with Pain Tendō, a character that symbolizes pain and suffering, and the inability to let go.

The Pain Arc is about, well, pain. Nagato literally has the eyes of Saṃsāra (Rinne), the endless cycle of rebirth where humans are trapped between 6 realms of existence (that's where the Six Paths of Pain come from), an eternal succession of pain and suffering that only comes to an end when the person attains Nirvana (enlightment). Pain's Arc is filled with symbolism from start to end, and the Pain Tendō is just another one of those symbolisms.

When Kishimoto created Pain Tendō, he created a metaphor to the inability of letting go and making peace with the past. Pain is literally pain embodied - Yahiko remains in the lives of Konan and Nagato as "a wound that never heals." (I'm stealing Nagato's phrase here).

Yahiko's there, constantly inflicting pain on them, a literal "live" wound that never heals because it never closes; Konan and Nagato never allow it to close. They want Yahiko to "remain alive". They don't accept his death. Pain Tendō is how they cope with his "death" - he never died. So, when I draw Pain and Konan, I'm drawing Konan loving what remains of Yahiko, because she can't (and doesn't want to) let go of him and of what he means, as neither can Nagato. It's an impossible, unreal situation because, as you know, bluetooth controlled corpses don't exist. It's a metaphor, one that I find especially sublime.

Because, well, when have you had in fiction such a physical way to show the grief, the absense, the suffering that remains from the loss of a loved one, as you have with Pain and Konan? Konan wants to love Yahiko, but all she has is... Pain. (And by saying this, I'm almost quoting Nagato word by word in a different phrase).

When I draw Konan hugging Pain, I'm actually drawing Konan wanting to hug Yahiko, but Yahiko is not there. It's the same as not drawing him at all, but how can I visually show the anguish of wanting to hug a loved one that isn't around? PainKona gives me that possibility. Pain's presence is the absense of Yahiko. That's the beauty of it; it's horrid, and yet Konan and Nagato keep him around because Yahiko's ever present absense is better than not having anything at all. And if you add on top of that the other impossible situation - a person inhabiting the skin of another, as Nagato does with Yahiko -, it's just too interesting for me not to think about it. The emotions, the human emotions of it all, because at the end art is about us.

So, this is why I ship them. This why I draw about them, why I will keep drawing about them. Honestly, from where I'm standing, the whole story looks a lot more fun than the literal interpretation you're making of a fictional work of art and literature. How about you give some time to reflect on this? Maybe you'll also find it's more enjoyable to see art as an expression for our emotions. Or not! If you're not into that. ;)

[kung-laos-hat]

Fool

Kung Lao x Fem!Reader

Warning: Contains major spoilers from Mortal Kombat 9, including quotes from the actual script. :) kinda follows the canon but also doesn’t considering this is an x reader ‼️Not Proof read yet‼️

AN: words of affirmation and acts of service love language goes brrrrr

Summary: Kung Lao is devastated that his best friend and the girl he loves get to complete in the tournament without him, so he does what any sane person does: sneaks his way onto the island and challenges Scorpion in an attempt to impress the reader :D

“We’ll be back before you know it, Lao.” (Y/n) said, placing a hand on Kung Lao’s shoulder.

He chuckled nervously and nodded, trying his best to seem at ease but the uncertainty in his eyes gave it all away. It didn’t matter how long they trained or how prepared the elder monks thought (Y/n) and Liu Kang were. (Y/n)’s attempts at comforting the young man were fruitless.

It wasn’t just that he was worried for his childhood friends’ safety. There was no denying that was definitely one of the reasons he was reluctant to see them off, but aside from that he was envious. And how could he not be? The two of them were chosen by the elder monks to represent their section in the tournament where some the greatest fighters would be present.

Sure, he always knew the elder monks would choose (Y/n). She was the perfect fighter in his eyes. (Y/n) was clever, cunning, and quick on her feet. It just made sense that she’d be the first choice.

However, that left that second slot open for debate, and the primary candidates were Liu and Lao. Now Kung Lao promised himself that no matter what the elder monks decided, he wouldn’t let that drive a wedge in his relationship with his cousin, and he’d been fairly true to his word so far. He was proud of Liu, really.

But time went on and Raiden suggested that it’d be best for Liu and (Y/n) to train together in private, allowing them to grow accustomed to each other’s moves, strengths, and weaknesses. This would come in handy if the two of them should ever find themselves in a position in which they had to fight opponents together. Of course, Liu and (Y/n) already had established a close friendship, but there was nothing wrong with a little refining.

Lao had no problem with this, that is, until the tournament grew closer, and he began to see less and less of the duo. (Y/n) in particular almost seemed to be avoiding him, but Kung Lao knew her better than to assume that was the case. Yes, Liu Kang and (Y/n) were close, but not as close as Kung Lao and (Y/n). The three of them were the best of friends since childhood, but Lao always felt like there was something special between him and (Y/n) that just wasn’t present in her relationship with Liu.

(Y/n) had her fair share of sneaking out, having midnight conversations, and causing mischief amongst the other pupils, with Liu, sure, but it was Kung Lao she always turned to when in need of comfort. Somehow (Y/n) preferred to talk about her problems with Lao, and boy did he love it when she did. It was like seeing a completely gentler, more authentic side of her.

Because of this, Lao simply noticed things about (Y/n) no one else did. He knew what made her happy, and when one night she expressed how anxious training made her, he began to go out of his way to do some of her daily chores along with his own or do little things such as make her a snack. Of course, his pride would never allow his to flat out tell her he’d be doing all of this just because.

No, it was always,

“I just happened to make too much to eat by myself.”

Or

“Don’t look too deep into it. If I didn’t do your laundry for you, you’d probably let it lay around your room. Then you’d have nothing clean to wear and you’d start stealing my clothes.”

Soon enough, Lao’s thoughts were flooded with nothing but (Y/n), and everyday he was forced to remember that she and Liu Kang were spending more and more time together, and eventually would be sent off to potentially die. This not only rubbed salt in the wound of not being chosen, but created a new fear for the poor young man.

God, what if (Y/n)’s opponent didn’t spare her? Would Liu Kang or Raiden interject? Kung Lao knew he would. He’d do anything to keep her safe. Hell, he’d throw away his pride and get on his hands and knees to beg if it meant saving (Y/n).

Was that why Liu Kang was chosen and not him? Because he was a better match for (Y/n)? Did the elder monks think he was more capable than him than much? Or was it (Y/n) who chose Liu Kang to fight beside her?

Now here he stood before her, soaking in her presence potentially for the last time. (Y/n)’s hand lingered on his shoulder a little longer, then she signed and took both of his hands in her own.

“What is it?” She asked, looking up expectantly.

Lao blinked, “What?”

“You’ve got that look on your face. Y’know the one that screams ‘I’ve got something to say, but I’m a wuss so instead I’m going to dwell in my room immediately after you leave,’” (Y/n) teased.

Lao half smiled and pulled his arms away. “It’s nothing, I’m just worried for you two.”

(Y/n)’s face softened and she offered him a small smile. “Hey, don’t worry about me. Liu Kang’s bad temper, maybe, but I’m sure I’ll be okay out there.” She opened her arms and embraced Lao, which he quickly accepted.

“After all,” (Y/n) said pulling away slightly and flicking the tip of Kung Lao’s hat, “I trained with the best.”

“We’ve got to get going!” Liu called out from a few feet away at the enterance of the temple.

With that, she placed a small kiss on Lao’s cheek and ran off to join him and Raiden.

“You better return in one piece!” Kung Lao called out jokingly.

“If I don’t, you better build me a cooler body!” (Y/n) laughed, waving her hand over her head.

With a flash of light, the three of them were gone.

___

So far the introduction to the tournament was running smoothly. (Y/n) had managed to hold pleasant conversations with a few other competitors, including one by the name Johnny Cage. (much to Liu Kang’s distain. Apparently Johnny had accidentally disrespected Raiden and was under the impression that everyone there was just really into roleplay. But aside from being a little arrogant, (Y/n) didn’t mind him.)

(Y/n) had been selected to do a quick demonstration fight against none other than Princess Kitana, who put up a good fight but in the end didn’t stand a chance against her. While the princess laid half on the ground, (Y/n) was given the option to either finish her off or spare her. Despite (Y/n) choosing mercy, Kitana didn’t take this defeat well, but did her best to maintain her composure as the two retreated inside to tend to their wounds.

“...Why did you—,” Kitana began in a low whisper. (Y/n) turned to her and helped her hand, palm out, in front of her chest.

“You’re an excellent fighter. One with true talent, princess, believe me.” (Y/n) chuckled, “To take a life such as yours would be a waste. Don’t let one little defeat become a deterrence.”

The ghost of a smile graced Kitana’s lips. “You know, you’re a fool to be so kind to your enemies. The next time we meet might not be under such pleasant circumstances.”

(Y/n) huffed, “A fool, yes, but at the very least I’ll be remembered for it.”

———

The fighting continued on without the two girls for a while until Shang Tsung granted an intercession. (Y/n) made her way to Liu Kang’s side and nodded at him. He glanced down at her neatly bandaged hands and huffed in amusement, knowing damn well that when they returned home, his companion planned on showing off her “battle scars” to Kung Lao in an attempt to impress him. As they waited for the next match to begin, Liu Kang filled her in on what she’d missed during the Johnny Cage versus Reptile fight.

“I wish you could of been here to see it, (Y/n). I got second hand embarrassment from how arrogant he sounded.” Liu rolled his eyes.

(Y/n) stifled a giggle and covered her smile with her hand, but as she did this, she noticed one particular bodyguard’s eyes watching her intently from behind his helmet.

He was a bit of a distance away, but somehow it felt like his stare was burning through (Y/n)’s skull, and the very thought of that sent a chill down her spine. She awkwardly cleared her throat and turned to face the other direction, her fingers slightly latching onto Liu Kang’s arm defensively.

The rest of the day was nothing short of eventful. Raiden had requested that she accompanied him into the underground sections of the island, where she became acquainted with Sonya Blade and Jax, and even got to witness Sonya fight a man named Kano. Johnny Cage and Liu Kang eventually joined them, and there they established a sort of team while Raiden explained the severity of losing the tournament.

Afterwards Sonya and (Y/n) parted ways with the men and accompanied each other to their designated bedrooms, which, luckily, were located across from each other. As they walked, the two women got to know each other a little better. Sonya told (Y/n) more about how she came to meet Jax, her life in the army, and how she eventually ended up on the island. In turn, (Y/n) told her about her life with the White Lotus Society and Raiden. They went back and forth, trading silly childhood and training tales until they came across a certain mural in one of the main hallways.

(Y/n) paused in front of it and smiled fondly at the depiction of a man standing victoriously over his enemy on a great cliff or something of the sort.

She turned to Sonya and smiled excitedly. “The Great Kung Lao,” she explained, “He’s a legend back home. Truly one of the greatest fighters the White Lotus ever produced.”

She proceeded to retell the story of Kung Lao’s victories back in the day, and Sonya listened intently.

“So that’s your motive then, huh?” Sonya chuckled.

(Y/n) raised an eyebrow, “What do you mean?”

“Well I’ve got my mission to save Jax, Cage wants his fame... what about you? What’s your motive? Aside from the monks selecting you, that is.”

(Y/n) glanced back up at the mural, then back to Sonya. “A descendent of his— the great Kung Lao, I mean.” Suddenly (Y/n) felt incredibly shy and began to fiddle with her hands.

“Liu Kang?” Sonya tilted her head.

“No!” (Y/n) exclaimed, laughing slightly, “A friend of ours, actually.” As she spoke, her tone was laced with a certain fondness.

Sonya smiled, “A friend?”

“Yes, Miss Blade. A friend. Anyways, he helped me create all of my best moves. I hate to admit it, but I basically modeled my fighting style after what he taught me when we were kids.” (Y/n) faintly blushed and smiled to herself.

“So... that’s it then? You want to impress him?”

“I mean— I just—,” (Y/n) struggled to find words, “I mean of course that’s not all of it. Of course I’m here to protect the Earthrealm first, but...”

She glanced up at the mural once more.

“I don’t know, I want him to see how much I’ve improved recently.”

Truth be told, (Y/n) had always admired Kung Lao growing up, but it wasn’t until around their late teens or early twenties that she’d began to admire him a little more than usual. And because of that she’d begun to lose her focus around him. Sure, he had always been terribly strong, smart, and witty beyond compare, but as they grew (Y/n) began to notice how charming he was or how nice he looked without his gear on.

Or even how differently he treated her compared to everyone else.

———

The next day the fighters returned to the island’s arena. Shang Tsung and the monks took to their spots while Quan Chi stood at the foot of the throne.

Liu Kang and (Y/n) exchanged anxious glances At eachother. After the events of last night, (Y/n) could tell her friend’s nerves were a little shaken, despite how composed he seemed. She silently patted his back as a masked guard crossed his arms and moved a little closer to where they stood with Raiden.

“Kombatants! the next match will now begin!”

In a burst of flames, Scorpion teleported into the center of the arena. Everyone gasped in awe, and (Y/n) and Liu Kang shared looks of pure admiration.

“Scorpion!” Shang Tsung called out, “Specter of the Netherrealm! Resurrected by the sorcerer Quan Chi! Who among you is worthy of this challenge?”

“Where is the Lin Kuei Sub-Zero? He killed my family and clan. I will have his head!” The masked man snarled.

Without order, the mask guard standing closest to Raiden promptly walked to the center with Scorpion, discarding his mask and armor as he went.

“I accept the challenge!”

(Y/n)’s face fell. She knew that voice, and it definitely wasn’t Sub-Zero. She looked up at Liu with a worried expression, and he returned her stare with his own.

“Kung Lao?” He whispered as he turned back to the two men standing before them.

“Nevermind the Lin Kuei. Now you face a Shaolin.” He announced.

“Kung Lao, what are you doing here?” (Y/n) muttered under her breath.

The man ran two fingers over the brim of his razor sharp hat and turned his vision toward where (Y/n) stood with Raiden and Liu Kang. He pointed directly at the girl.

“(Y/n).”

Oh god.

“I dedicate my soon to be victory to you, my most prized companion.” He said firmly.

She looked around the arena at the other fighters with a mortified expression and caught Sonya and Johnny hiding their smiles under their hands.

“Please don’t do this, Kung Lao.” (Y/n) begged, sweat beginning to form on her temple from the sudden embarrassment she was feeling.

“It has to be done.” He said, assuming a fighting stance.

“All this nonesense to impress (Y/n) (L/n),” Scorpion huffed, “You will regret your impulsiveness.”

The fight commences, and although Kung Lao is a master of the Shaolin arts and a great fighter, his attempt at overpowering someone who’s spent years trapped in the Neatherrealm soon proved to be futile. (Y/n) could feel herself cringe at every severe blow Scorpion landed to Lao’s torso until he ultimately beat him into an unconscious state on the floor.

(Y/n) tore away from the crowd and rushed to Lao’s side, swiftly but gently lifting his torso onto her lap, cradling his head in her arms as his hat laid in the dirt beside them. Scorpion looked down at her, the pity in his eyes seemed almost unbearable to (Y/n).

“He is not yet a warrior. I apologize, (L/n), I did not mean to cause you embarrassment.” He nodded.

(Y/n) shook her head and let out a small laugh. “Don’t be sorry, Scorpion. There’s no bad blood between us.”

“Kung Lao!” Liu cried out shortly after as he jogged over to aid them.

He thre Kung Lao’s arm over his shoulder and housed him up, carrying him out of the arena as Lao came to. Raiden and (Y/n) followed shortly behind.

“Listen when your elders speak!” He scolded, “You could not win this fight! And lost it at the expense of both you and dear (Y/n)’s expense!”

“Master, please, that’s enough. He meant no harm.” (Y/n) defended as they entered the main hall.

Raiden sighed angrily, “Take him to the nursery and get him cleaned up.” With that, he turned back around.

———

“Are you sure you want to tend to his wounds by yourself? It’d go a lot faster with my help...” Liu Kang said as he stood in the doorway.

“It’s fine, Liu,” (Y/n) waved him off, “It’d look bad if both of us weren’t present during today’s fights.”

(Y/n) turned around and subtly motioned to Kung Lao, who was spread out on a bench, and shot Liu an expecting look that said, ‘Get out, dumbass, I want to speak with him in private.’

Liu Kang mouthed a silent ‘oh,’ in realization and nodded. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Take care of him, and I’ll be back later to check on the two of you.”

He eagerly left the room and shut the door behind him, leaving the two together in awkward silence.

(Y/n) sighed and turned to the cabinets to retrieve a towel and bandages.

Kung Lao sat up and huffed in annoyance, “Why must the two of you talk about me as if I’m not here, (Y/n)? I’m perfectly capable of tending to myself, you don’t have to stay.”

(Y/n) furrowed her eyebrows together but said nothing. She continued on gathering her materials and laid them out on the counter beside them.

“Are you upset with me? Is that what this is?”

Still nothing.

“What? Do you want me to apologize? Look, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, (Y/n)—,”

“Why are you here, Lao!?” She interrupted sharply.

He scoffed, “Proving I’m equivalent to Liu Kang.”

(Y/n) shook her head angrily. “Why!?” She dipped her small towel in a bowl of water and squeezed it. “You don’t have to prove anything, I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t—,”

“Then help me here, Lao. Explain— Did Raiden... or the elder monks— did they say something to you?”

“That’s not it.” He glanced down.

“Did something happen? I don’t—,”

“It’s you, (Y/n). You’re the reason.” He blurted.

The room was silent again.

“Oh.”

(Y/n) slowly turned around and made her way over to Kung Lao, beckoning for him to give her his arm. She avoided his gaze as she placed the damp towel over a large gash in his shoulder.

“I’m very sorry then... Whatever I did, I didn’t mean to make you feel this way.” The heartbreak in her tone was prominent.

Kung Lao sighed, “No— sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s my fault.”

(Y/n) paused, “What do you mean?”

Lao timidly placed a hand on her shoulder. (Y/n) looked up at him in confusion and scanned his face. He was giving her the same look he had on the morning she left for the tournament. The one that made it seem like he desperately wanted to say something but didn’t know how, or couldn’t muster up the courage to flat out say it.

Kung Lao groaned and burried his face in her other shoulder.

“I like you.” He mumbled, “There, I finally said it. It’s foolish, isn’t it? That I did all of this just because I wanted you to admire me back? I knew the elder monks didn’t choose me for a reason. I’m sure I couldn’t have handled the tournament, anyways—,”

“That’s not it at all!” (Y/n) cried, gingerly wrapping her arms around his torso, “It’s my fault you weren’t chosen, I’m sure of it.”

“I don’t understand,” He said, looking up.

(Y/n) sighed, “It was originally supposed to be us two. At the tournament, I mean. The elders said our fighting styles complimented eachother the most out of the three of us. But then I started to slip up during training whenever you were around. I’m sorry, I thought they’d replace me with Liu Kang, but—,”

“They replaced me instead...” Kung Lao finished.

“You are no lesser of a great fighter than Liu Kang. It truly is my fault, Lao.” (Y/n) confessed.

Kung Lao blinked and was silent for a moment. “So... you were slipping up because...?” A cheeky smile slowly made its way onto his face.

(Y/n) signed and hid her face in the crook of his neck.

“I like you too, you idiot monk. I always have.”

Kung Lao laughed, “Why didn’t you tell me!?”

“What didn’t you tell me!?” (Y/n) argued playfully.

“What? Was doing all your chores and things not enough of a sign for you?”

“Well, clearly they weren’t. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been so stressed over the matter.”

“Oh goodness...” Kung Lao chuckled.

They two sat there, holding each other, for a moment until (Y/n) pulled away.

“I have to finish cleaning your wounds, Lao.”

He nodded and sat up straight, removing his shirt so (Y/n) could clean the wounds on his chest.

As he looked down at her hands, gently pressing the towel to his wounds, applying the medicine where needed, and wrapping them up neatly, his eyes couldn’t help but trail over her lips. This wasn’t the first time, naturally, but know that he had confirmation that she was finally his...

He swooped down and captured her hips with his in a chaste but sweet kiss that lasted no more than a few seconds. (Y/n) stared up at him in surprise.

“Too soon?” He half laughed.

She shook her head, “Not at all.” (Y/n) wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him back down for a real kiss.

Their lips locked softly once again, and the two of them could feel the sense of pure joy and excitement building up in their chests. (Y/n)’s eyes fluttered closed as Kung Lao deepened the kiss. As Lao moved his lips against hers, it tasted sort of metallic from the dried blood that remained on Lao’s lips beforehand, but (Y/n) didn’t seem to mind.

When they finally pulled away, Kung Lao rested chin on top of (Y/n)’s head.

“You’re a fool, Kung Lao,” (Y/n) said endearingly.

He kissed her hair and let out a small laugh.

“For you, perhaps.”