#that cell must certainly be reeking right now

[tetsunabouquet]

My mother has an almost 2 hour break so she always comes home from work. She now left to go back, groaning. Today is a wild day you see? She's one of the cleaning staff at our local police station and in charge of cleaning the cells and the people today are quite something. First came a young man who had to be dragged by 6 officers into a cell, a couple of minutes later came his girlfriend; they had been selling stolen goods. Then a true psycho arrived who wanted to eat people's organs. There was also a farmer who beat his wife but all his animals got taken away too so there must be more going on. He was also drenched in cow shit. And it doesn't stops there, no, because then a man in his early 80s was locked up for murdering his wife and continuing to sleep next to her dead body as if everything was still peachy. I don't need to watch true crime, I can just ask my mom how her day went.

#tetsutalk #true crime #cannibalism #senior citizens #dead wife #should that be classified as an act of necrophilia? #edited because I forgot the farmer #that cell must certainly be reeking right now

[jamesdeniscouldnever]

Yay! I'm absolutely enthralled by this series, so the inspiration just keeps flowing. Same as the rolan fic Zevlor's hurt/comfort won. I love him. These two made me realize I love teiflings. Gonna scream. This takes place if you failed to save him in act two but its a little AU in the sense that you save him before Orin can...ya know.

The Guardian's Guardian

Summary: Caught in Orin's sordid little web, Zevlor finds himself on the receiving end of some less than pleasant treatment. Hes sure he deserves it for being an oathbreaker and abandoning his fellow tieflings. So why, amongst the pain and torture he endures , does he find his mind seeking comfort that he doesn't deserve in the memory of a friend?

Zevlor couldn't begin to find the words to explain his terror. He was certain he'd simply be turned into an absolute cultist after Ketharic had taken him, nothing special and no one of note. But no. Instead, when Thorm had been killed and the injured Tav had been making their way out of the belly of the beast, they had missed him. At least, he liked to think they missed him. Surely they wouldn't have left him there if they'd known...would they?

He'd been at peace with the idea of dying there, but all that had shattered when a terrifying woman with pale skin that swirled in strange patterns had appeared. She'd smiled so cruelty when she saw him. She had said only one word.

"Perfect." And that was all it took. She'd opened the pod, grabbed him, and in a swirl of ash, they were someplace else. Someplace dark and damp and reeking of blood.

That was almost a week ago. How he'd survived so long he wasn't sure, he'd been on the receiving end of numerous beatings, tortures, and even a flaying since then. He winces to himself as the memory of his own raw nearly-skinned flesh on his left leg causes it to flare in pain once more. Certainly, some God must be keeping him alive for their amusment. Or for his own punishment.

If he'd just fought the absolute harder, he wouldn't be in this mess. His people would be safe. Tav may have had more help in slaying Ketharic.

Tav.

He closes his eyes, feeling the cold stone of the cell floor against his back, and allows himself to think of them. He doesn't deserve the comfort their memory brings. He doesn't deserve to fantasize about them bursting through the door and rescuing him. He doesn't deserve to be worried about them. Certainly they were okay. Far far away from this cultish temple to a filthy God. Far away from him.

That thought brings him more comfort than he was expecting. The idea that they were somewhere safe beyond Orin's reach makes him exhale a breath of quiet relief. A relief he had no right to feel. They weren't his.

He'd been in love with them, no doubt, since the Grove. Their kindness, their leadership, the diffusion of tension among the refugees, and their willingness to help. Help teiflings, no less. A notable trait since the fall of Elturel.

If anyone had been around, he'd have scolded himself for the small smile he allows to creep onto his lips as he thinks of them, their smile, their eyes. It's enough to make him ignore the pain the action brings by reopening the scab on his split lip.

He feels his eyes growing heavy, the tension of pain outweighed by his outright exhaustion. He's almost able to slip into a much needed sleep. Almost.

But the comfort is cut short by the sounds of shouting somewhere above him. It must be loud to traverse the stone of his prison. Perhaps someone had displeased Orin. Perhaps she was making another sacrifice to her awful parentage. Maybe Zevlor would be next.

He doesn't open his eyes. Let them come take him. Let his suffering be over. Let his punishment finally be complete.

But even as the screams and yells die down, they do not come. Even as the whole of the caverns fall silent, they do not come. No, what comes is a frantic voice and the sound of several pairs of boots scraping against the dirt and stones. He is certain now - he has, in fact, died. Died and, through some measure of mercy from the same gods who ignored him, been allowed to see them again.

"Zevlor, please! Where are you? Please, Gods, tell me we weren't too late!" The panic in their voice is enough to rouse him. There shouldn't be such pain after death, such a heartbreaking cry. Unless this is his personal Hell. No, this is not real. He won't play their games anymore. He doesn't respond.

"Zevlor! Gods dammit all! Please! Please answer me!" Tav's voice cries again, closer now. The sounds of clanging doors and cells being ripped open follows them. He sighs in content. Even with such pain laden in it, their voice is like a symphony to him now. A soothing balm to caress his soul. He only wishes it was singing one of the lullabies they'd taught the children or telling one of their stories. But this would do.

The world begins to fade around him, finally letting him go. From deep within his swimming hearing, he hears a cell being yanked open. A desperate cry that sounds as if someone is in pain. A word repeated over and over. He strains as much as he cans to listen-

"-vlor! Zevlor. Please, Zev, please!" A desperate cry. He feels hands on his chest, his neck, then moving to his face. He flinches despite himself, and he hears what sounds like a sob. He tries to open his eyes. Tries to tell the visage of his beloved Tav not to cry, that it will all be over soon, but he can't control his tongue nor his eyes. It's as if they're both turned to rock inside his skull.

The last thing he hears before darkness pulls him down is a fractured sentence.

"Karlah- arry him plea- ave to get out of here!"

After that is dark. He's not sure for how long. He's not sure if he was conscious during it all or not. All he's aware of now is warmth that the cells of the cult of Bhaal had been devoid of.

A crackling sound. A fire. He tries to move his hands, move any part of himself. He's able to feel the twitch of his tail and something soft pressing against his fingertips. A bedroll?

No. A bed. A real bed. The soft dip of mattress under him tells him this. Where in the 9 hells is he?

He struggles his eyes open, the light that meets them a little garish compared to the dark of his previous surroundings. However, they adjust after a moment, and he blinks several times. He's in a room, lavishly decorated, warm, large. He turns his hand and sees several beds, all just as large and soft as his own lining the walls. Curtains hang from the doorway, having been pulled down, presumably for his privacy. He hears voices speaking soft beyong them.

He tries to speak but finds his throat hoarse and painful. He tries to sit up instead but groans out loud in pain as he moves his left leg. Right. Basically skinned alive. But looking down, he notices it's been bandaged, the scent of yarrow and other medicinal herbs wafting from around him.

His yelp seems to have been heard as footsteps rapidly approach the curtains, and a pair of hands yank them apart, a face appearing between them. Tav.

Their eyes are wide, set in both fear and relief, their bottom lip quivers slightly before they swallow and quickly close the space between the curtains and his bed. They don't hesitate to drop to their knees beside him, taking one of his clawed hands in theirs.

"Zev! Oh gods, have mercy, you're awake! You're awake. You're safe. I'm here." Their voice seems to flit through the stages of grief, then relief, then gentle happiness. He doesn't reply, just stares at them with wide eyes of his own.

They simply hold his hand tight and keep repeating the same words to him. As if they're an incantation that will heal his battered body. "I'm here. I'm here. I'm here."

His eyes flit to the curtains, and he sees faces peaking through. Tav's companions. They watch with varying degrees of pity, joy, amusement, or disgust. His looks back to Tav and tries to speak, but only a croak replies. Tav's eyes widen, and they're reaching for the pitcher of water beside the bed before he can even grasp at their hand as it leaves his. They pour a glass and hold it to his lips for him, their other hand cradling the back of his neck as they urge him to drink. He does, and before he even realizes it, he's drained the glass. They pour him another, but he only sips at this one before he finally speaks.

"It's you. You came for me...why? Why would you do that? Why would you put yourself and your friends in danger for me? You could've been hurt! You could have been killed!" Its not until Tav places their hands on his cheeks and hums soothingly that he realizes his voice had been growing in volume. One hand remains on his cheek, and the other moves to stroke through his hair, passing across the bases of his horns. He can't keep himself from sighing and curling in on himself at their touch. Tears blur his vision, and he let's them fall. He's so relieved. Not for himself but for them.

"Zevlor, of course I came for you. I would never have left anyone to Orin's torture, but least of all you. I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you." They hushed. His tears continued, and wrecked sobs finally burst forth from his throat.

"But why!? I don't deserve your kindness, your sacrifice, and care! I-I gave in to the absolute! I left my people to die! I broke my oaths, I left innocent children helpess, and now I put you all in danger. I'm a murderer." Zevlor wails. He deserved to die there. He shouldn't be here, he should be a body laying in the pits of Avernus left to-

"Zevlor!" Their voice cuts through again. They're gently pulling his hands away from his arms, where scratches and traces blood are now forming. He'd been hurting himself and hadn't even realized it. "Stop. Zev, your people are safe. I got them out of moonrise, and I returned them to their families. There were a few losses but...I did what I could. Arabella's parents... but that doesn't matter. It isn't your fault. The absolutes hold on people is almost unbreakable, but you did it. You broke it. You aren't a murderer. You're a victim. Please don't hurt yourself over this, I can't bear to see it. I love you too much for it."

Their words are so earnest and spoken with such certainty that he almost misses the end part. His gaze whips up to meet theirs, and he almost cries anew at the look in their eyes. He buries his face in their chest and breakdown down once more. They hold him close and gently rock back and forth with the. They rub his back and stroke his hair and whisper words of encouragement and kindness to him. He takes a deep breath and pulls back from them. He pulls his head back and whimpers.

"I love you. I've loved you since that day in the Grove that you saved Arabella from Kagha. Since you showed Geux how to defend himself or kept Lia and her brothers together. I must have annoyed the others with how much I talked about you after we left there. But I couldn't help myself. You're perfect. You're goodness incarnate. I love you. I need you." His voice sounds foreign to himself. Desperate and teary and full of fear. But that's just the effect Tav has on him. He can be weak in front of them. He can be vulnerable.

Lips press against his before he can even look up again. He let's his eyes slip shut, and he sighs into it, allowing himself to melt into the safety of them. There's no heat behind it. No heavy breaths or searching hands. Just chaste, gentle and caring love. Safety.

They pull away before he's ready but place another kiss against his forehead. They sit on the bed beside him and pull his head against their chest. They whisper sweet nothings to him, promises of care and safety.

"I'm here, you're safe. All is well, everything is going to be okay. I'll protect you. I'll keep you safe." They hum into his hair.

He feels something stir within himself, and he makes a decision then and there. He may have broken his oaths, but he's making a new one to himself. Tav, the guardian of the world, the bringer of peace and safety. He's going to protect them with his life. He'll be there for any fight, any pain, any troubles. For the rest of their lives. He will be there. A gaurdian's gaurdian. And this oath, he will not break. No matter what.

#bg3 #baulders gate 3 #bg3 zevlor #bg3 spoilers #zevlor #tav x zevlor #zevlor x tav #zevlor/tav #tav/zevlor

[hecatemoon87]

Hecatemoon87 Presents An Alternative Universe: Alfie Solomons

Chapter Two: Redemption

For more chapters - masterlist

It had been three full days since Alfie had been thrown into a prison cell. He wasn’t overly fond of being incarcerated, but he didn’t have much choice in the matter. With this time lapse, he started to become sober. And as the Egyptian sun climbed into the sky on the third day, his body ached from the heat and from the withdrawal of alcohol.

In the past, Alfie had never touched alcohol, not even a sip. His mentor, Avrom, was very dedicated to the faith and that helped Alfie keep in line with his own faith. But now, nothing mattered and alcohol was Alfie’s cure-all. Stewing inside his cell, his ears perked up as he heard the sound of a small ruckus brewing in the prison yard. He stood up and moved toward the barred door. Resting his arms on the horizontal bar he watched as a woman and a British guard argued their way over to his cell. 

“Do I look like I care? Honestly, I will see him this very instant,” the woman said, her hips swaying seductively as she quickly walked.

“Miss, really, I must say, this is highly irregular,” the officer said, trying to keep pace. 

“She don’t care what is highly irregular,” Alfie said, amused. “Isn’t that what the lady just said?”

The woman finally stopped just in front of his prison cell. 

“Hello, Alfie,” she said, unamused. 

“You’ve come to recuse me, Nailah?” Alfie asked, a charming smile on his face.

It was Nailah Eidelberg, Avrom’s daughter. 

“Do not flatter yourself,” she said, giving him a rather stern look. 

She took an extra moment to look him up and down before speaking again.

“What have you done to yourself these last two years?”

“I’ve been reinventing meself, luv,” he replied. 

Nailah moved closer to the cell to inspect him and wrinkled her nose. 

“You reek of booze,” she complained. “Father would be absolutely horrified.”

“Sure, but he’s dead now, innit he?” Alfie said. 

He watched her face darken at his comment, she came even closer, inches from his face. 

“Miss, please stay back from the prisoner,” the guard asked. 

She ignored the guard and glared at Alfie. 

“Thank god that he is dead. He would have been heart broken by your current state.”

Alfie felt a pang in his heart, knowing full well that she was correct. 

“Why are you here, eh? Did you come all this way to punish me for my transgressions?”

“No, I have not, although you certainly deserve it. I’m here to offer you redemption,” she said. 

“Redemption?” he asked, confused. 

“Yes, and by the looks of it, you require it badly,” she said. 

No later than an hour, Nailah had Alfie released from prison. She took him back to the flat she had been renting in the better part of the city. It consisted of a small, but clean room. It contained both living quarters and a bedroom in an open concept space. A large window was open toward the city, the horizon could be seen as the sun baked the stone buildings and the breeze shifted the leaves of the palm trees. Indigo-dyed cotton curtains hung by the window and intermittently fluttered into the room as the wind passed by.

“You need a bath,” she said, picking up a small bell and ringing it. 

A moment later, the door opened and a petite young woman entered the room. Nailah spoke to her in Arabic and the woman nodded and left the room. Alfie looked over and saw that a porcelain tub was in the corner of the room, right out in the open. After a few more moments passed, three servants entered the room carrying hot water and fresh towels. They did their work quickly, filling the tub, placing the towels on a side table and setting an unused bar of soap on top of the towels. Then, just as quickly, they left the room. 

“Alright, get clean,” Nailah said, picking up a book. 

She walked over to a chair off center of the room and began reading. 

“Right now?” Alfie asked, looking over at her.

She turned a page and nodded, “Yes, this instant, you stink.” 

Alfie shrugged and began peeling off his sweat-stained clothing. He dropped the garments into a pile next to the tub and slipped into the warm water. Alfie grimaced, the heat of the water was a bit much when the outside temperature was nearing 36 degree celsius. Nailah must have heard him suck his breath in.

“Stop being such a baby,” she said. 

She stood up and walked over to him. Alfie looked at her with surprise, but then soon realized her intentions as she crouched down and gathered up his clothing. 

“I think I shall have the servants burn these,” she said, looking at him with disapproval. 

“Yeah, whatever, hand me the soap will ya?” he said, extending his hand.

She spotted the bar of white soap that rested on top of the towels. She picked it up, then, ignoring his hand, dropped the soap directly in the center of the tub. The impact caused the water to splash up and hit Alfie in the face. 

“Thanks, luv,” he said, sardonically. 

“You’re very welcome,” she said flatly and walked out of the room with his old clothing. 

Alfie took the bar of soap and began washing off the grime from his body. As he performed the mundane task, his mind drifted to Nailah. She was a dark hair, brown eyed beauty. Her father, Avrom, was a German-Jew who had married an Egyptian woman. Nailah held all the lovely features of her Arab mother, but also had the cold logic and intellect of her German father.  When Nailah turned eighteen, her mother decided it was time for her to go to London and receive a proper English education. By then, Avrom had already been mentoring Alfie for several years. 

When Alfie had met Avrom, he was nearing seven-teen years old. The man had noticed that the boy was attempting to enter college, a son of an absent father and of a washer woman. Avrom had offered Alfie a chance at becoming more and offered him mentorship. That is when Alfie became interested in archeology. Avrom was the only Jew in his field of work and encouraged Alfie to pursue the same career path. So naturally, he would have met Nailah. Alfie kept on his best behavior around her, but he found her too enchanting. He would be her first kiss and he would eventually take her virginity when she turned twenty-two. 

His relationship with Nailah was a complicated one. The two were finicky about what they wanted in a relationship and most often went their separate ways. Avrom had known about their little love affair and only once did he ask Alfie if he intended to marry Nailah. When Alfie said he would, but Nailah was being difficult, Avrom simply smiled and dropped the matter. Overall, Alfie had known Avrom for eighteen years and Nailah for thirteen. His bond with both of them was strong, so the reason why Nailah was acting highly passive-aggressive with him was understandable. Alfie had not gone to the funeral and he had been avoiding Nailah’s letters for over a year now. 

He brought himself back to the present when Nailah had returned to the room. He looked down to see that the clear water had turned to gray and that he was now clean. As she placed a set of new clothing down on the bed for him, he climbed out of the tub and dried himself. He wrapped the towel around his waist and lumbered over to the bed. She once again exited the room and when she passed, Alfie caught her eyes drifting over his body. 

“Do you want me to get dressed, luv? Or should you get undressed and join me in bed?”

She sighed heavily, indicating she did not find him humorous and left the room. By the time she came back, Alfie was dressed. He wore a fresh white-linen shirt, a black vest and black trousers. His leather boots had not been cleaned, but he didn’t care and put them on anyway. Upon her return, she held a closed razor blade and cup of shaving cream. 

“Don’t like the beard?” Alfie said, stroking the long and tangled beard on his face. 

“When you keep it groomed, yes. But you look like Moses after he wandered the desert for forty years,” she said, placing the shaving gear into his hands. 

Alfie got to work and shaped his beard back to a shortened state. After he was done, he wiped off his face with a towel and eyed himself in the mirror once more.

“Why don’t you get a bigger flat? Fucking pea-sized in here,” he said. 

“Frivolous spending,” she said, walking up to him. 

She inspected his beard with her eyes and nodded with approval. 

“There, you look almost human again,” she said. 

“So glad you’re pleased,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. 

She narrowed her eyes at him as if she were assessing what to say to him next. 

“I found it,” she said, cryptically. 

“You found what?”

“An’Kah,” she said. 

“That isn’t funny, Nailah,” Alfie said, grimly. 

“I’m not trying to be funny, I found the location.”

“Not possible, I’ve tried, it doesn’t exist, end of story,” Alfie said, waving his hand in the air dismissively. 

“You stubborn mule, I’m telling you I found it,” she said, walking over to the nightstand in the room.

She opened the drawer and extracted a piece of paper, unfolded it, and handed it to Alfie. He hesitated before taking it. He looked down at the paper, it was a smooth drawing of a map of modern Egypt. His eyes drifted over the paper and landed on a small red dot in the middle of the desert, perhaps fifty miles outside of Cairo. Besides the dot was Nailah’s careful cursive writing, “An’Kah”. 

“How?” he asked. 

“After you didn’t find it, Father was so sad. Toward the end, he only talked about you. You were the son he never had and your loss was his loss,” she said, walking toward the large window. 

She paused to stare out upon the city. Alfie watched a breeze come through and push her soft blue skirt back, her dark hair was down and it too lightly fell back from the wind. 

“I decided to do my own research. Based on my findings, I feel ninety-percent confident that that is the location of An’Kah.”

“You did all that only for Avrom, eh?” Alfie said, giving her an incredulous look.

She turned to face him, “Well, no.”

“Ah, you still love me then?” Alfie said, grinning. 

Her expression transitioned from a pensive look to disgust. 

“When did I ever say that I loved you?” she snapped.

“What about all them times when you whimpered it as I fucked you back in England? You loved it when I filled up your cunny,” Alfie snapped in return. 

Her cheeks reddened slightly. “That’s…that was different, I was…compromised,” she said. “And don’t talk like that! It isn’t respectable!” 

“Compromised, sure…” Alfie said, nodding in annoyance. 

He walked up to stand just an inch in front of her. She was only slightly shorter than he, but she stared back at him in defiance. Although he was upset with her lying about not loving him, he liked to see her fierceness. And seeing her again after more than two years, he knew for a fact that he loved her. 

“And I’ll talk how I want to, luv. Now about this bloody expedition, what have you got prepared?”

“You agree to it then? You’ll help me find An’Kah?” she asked. 

“Let’s get one thing out of the way first. And it’s important. No matter how much you beg for it, I ain’t giving you my cock, alright?”

Nailah was accustomed to Alfie’s unique way of speaking. It actually didn’t bother her, she rather enjoyed his tendency to be a bit of a brute. But she had made a promise to herself to be more sophisticated and galivanting around with bad boy Alfie Solomons was simply not acceptable behavior for a lady. 

“Mr. Solomons, you are appalling,” she said. 

“Mr. Solomons? Now, are you trying to get me randy?”

“Alfie!!” Nailah said in exasperation. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll fucking help you,” Alfie finally said. 

“Good. I’ve reached out to all my contacts already. I was simply waiting to talk to you about it. We will begin preparing tomorrow,” she said. 

“Right, now where am I going to stay? My place ain’t exactly paid up, might not be able to go back,” he said. 

“Oh, that’s fine you can stay here,” she said, a little too sweetly. 

“Yeah?”

“One of the servants has a dog, you can share living quarters with him. He’s a very good boy, unlike you,” she said, yanking the map out from Alfie’s hands.

#alfie solomons #alfie solomons au #tom hardy #tom hardy fanfiction #tom hardy fanfic #tom hardy fan fic

[captaincravatthecapricious]

In Which I Project

Jon has some sort of neurodivercence and it is making work hard.

@janekfan

cw Jon is really really getting down on himself about what his brain is making hard, so cw for that and internalized ablism relating to things like rsd and executive dysfunction.  Jon also takes this out on his coworkers, because that is how Jon can be.  This chapter is a bit heavy with a hopeful end. If there is a chapter two, it will have a lot more fluff, promise.  (The reason Jon doesn't have a diagnosis is because I am projecting and I am not 100% what all is going on in my brain, this is just my experience.)  Also mentions of alcohol and food.  

Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.  

Why is he like this?  Why can’t he just fucking be a normal, functional person. Why does his brain behave like a backed up, broken drain.   He can’t think today.  

He’s been staring at his computer since 6:30 this morning.   He’s been here eight hours.  And it isn’t like he isn’t getting anything done.  But it’s not what he meant to do.  

He was going to check his email, record a statement, do some filing, check Martin’s work, then do some follow ups and check his email again before going home.  

Well.  He checked his email.  Then he noticed a flaw in what he filed yesterday so he had to fix that.  Then the loo was out of toilet tissue and he had to go chase down that, because the building’s maintenance tends to skip the Archives half the time.  (Which is usually fine because it’s used by four fairly neat people, but doesn’t help when they run out of things).  Then Elias had requested a meeting.  And that sent Jon spiraling because he wasn’t supposed to have a meeting today.  That was supposed to be tomorrow and while it’s nice that he doesn’t have to do that tomorrow it threw off his whole day and now he just feels like he’s going to cry or pass out or break his jaw by clenching it so hard.  

He can’t do it.  

He tries to make himself record a statement.  He does.  

But he can’t open the file.  

He can’t.  

He wants to scream in frustration.  Which, of course, is when Martin walks in.  

Jon doesn’t mean to yell.  He really doesn’t.  He doesn’t know where this vitriol comes from.  Was he always like this?   He doesn’t even remember what he says, just the acrid taste of bitter words on his tongue.  

When Martin flees, he tries to open the file again but the color and whine of the lights breaks down on him and his dragging fatigue.   

He tries to loosen his jaw.  Wiggles it side to side.  It pops, but ultimately goes back to tense.   It’s starting to give him a headache.   

He can’t do this.  It’s barely lunch.  He’s gotten nothing done.  

He tries to open this statement.  

He opens his email instead.  

The library wants his books back.  

He’s tired.  He means to gather his books and bring them up, but he ends up cleaning his desk and making notes on half researched statements he forgot about yesterday.  

That puts him off balance.  He hates not finishing.  It makes him feel on edge.  Like the world is going to drop from below his feet at any moment.  Like, in forgetting, the world has already dropped from beneath him, and he’s been walking on empty air and delusions.  And if this has already happened, how can he be sure it didn’t happen before.  

He finishes cleaning and files the loose statements away.  

He finally remembers to drink some water.  

He rubs his eyes against unshed tears and exhaustion.  It’s too bright.  Too loud.  

He takes his books up to the library.  

Hannah in the library tells him to remind Tim to return his books, she he does that.  

Jon is.  Edging towards …probably a nervous breakdown, if he’s honest with himself, by the time he stands before Tim’s desk.  

And Tim isn’t going to relinquish his books without a fight.  

“You can give Martin a rest or I’ll tell Hannah that you lost her books.”  Tim crosses his arms.  

It’s reasonable, Jon knows.  He’s behaved childishly.  This is more than warranted.  But, unfortunately his brain isn’t working.  He’s caught up in the disappointment in Tim’s tone, and again, the floor drops from beneath his feet.  Stomach dropping.  He tries to convince himself that, no, Tim doesn’t hate him.  All he as to do is agree or apologize which he should do anyhow.  But.  But what comes out of his mouth is something along the lines of, “Tim, I’ll thank you not to try to run my department.   This is hardly professional behavior.  Who do you think Hannah is more likely to believe?”   

This wouldn’t have been so bad, if not for the force and anger in his tone.  Misplaced confusion and frustration and exhaustion.  

He turns on his heel before Tim finds the words to argue.  

This is it.  

He’s ruined everything.  

Tim will never talk to him again and Sasha won’t either because he was rude to Tim.  And of course Tim’s mad at him because he was a prick to Martin.  

It’s all his fault.  He should have been able to stay on task.  He’s an adult, damnit!  

He finally opens the file but he hitches a sob before he can squeeze the introduction out of his tight jaw.  

He can’t do this.  

He can’t do this job.  

He can’t sleep at night and work all day.  Can’t even feed himself or get to the store once a week.  

How the fuck did he make it through school.  He’s a worthless mess.  

Georgie knew it.  

He wants to scream.  

They’re talking about him.  They must be.  That shouldn’t matter to him.  He’s their boss.  Besides, he was right even if he was rude about it.  Martin does make irritating mistakes.  He could have been more professional about handling it, but he still had to say something.   And Tim.  Tim had no right to bargain that way.  He has a responsibility to the library, and trying to use it as leverage against Jon is ridiculous.  

But at the same time.  There are the closest he has… had to friends.  Tim was his friend.  Right?  

Had he made that up too?  Has some memory of some earlier misdeed fallen out of the torn hole in the pocket of his memory where he looses things like hours, tasks, sleep, meals, meetings, half-finished statements on his desk.  

Why is he like this?  

He gets some more work done.  But none of the stuff on his list.  

He tries to make himself read the statement, again.  But he doesn’t.  

It’s late.  He’s left with lingering taste of disappointment and discontent.  

Today’s been a wash.  

He looks angrily at his scribbled to do list on the neon sticky note, from the stack Tim gave him back in Research.  Nothing’s been crossed off.  Statement has been circled twice.  He rubs at his eyes.  Tries to wipe away the tension headache.  Remembers to take a drink of water, finally.  It’s been hours.  It does help, a little, soothes some of the anxious desperation and crushing despair.  He wonders how much of it would be soothed if he got himself a hot meal.  How would it compare to the relief of finished that statement.  

But…. he won’t be able to go home and sleep if he doesn’t finish, because he won’t be able to relax until he gets it done.  

He allows himself 5 minutes to cry.  He sets a timer.  

It doesn’t help.  Doesn’t even offer the release he’d been hoping for.  

He dries his eyes with his sleeve.  

He reads the statement.  And scolds himself for taking all day to get to it.  It wasn’t hard.  It wasn’t even that bad.  It was a foolish statement that reeked of mischief and falsehood.  And he wasted his whole day avoiding it.  

He cries again, then.  No timer.  

He leaves his office.  He’s finally done with the day.  It’s edging on 21:00.  He feels like shit.  Of course he hadn’t brought a lunch, why would he have enough brain cells to do that?  He did make a halfhearted attempt at breakfast.  But that was a lot of hours ago, and he’d barely managed a few bites before his anxious stomach had stopped him.  He doesn’t feel hungry now, but he knows he is by the shakiness if his limbs, the over-lightness in his head, the irritation at himself still thick in his veins.  

He still has to get himself home.  

Then he hears footsteps on the stairs.  He thinks about going back to his office, but the idea of going back in there makes his head spin.  He’s spent too long in his office.  Christ, he just wants to sleep.  Just wants to be in bed without having to get home and make dinner or order dinner or shower or get in bed.  He just wants to be there.  Just wants to be there and sleep of eternity.  He angrily brushes away a stray tear.  

Of course, it’s too late now to try to hide, and eh certainly can’t hide how rumpled and tear-stained he is.  So he stands there dumbly, some archaic part of his brain reasoning that if he stays still, maybe no one will see him.  

Tim sees him.  Tim is laughing on his phone, pleasantly buzzed, and fumbling for the jacket he most likely forgot before going for drinks.  At least it’s still fairly early.  At least Tim still cares enough about his job to wrap it up at a decent hour.  He spots Jon, and hesitates.  Jon doesn’t look like he’s doing well.  He trails off mid chuckle.  “Sorry Sash, I’ve gotta go.  I’ll talk to you later, yeah?  Had fun tonight.”  

What does he say to Jon, who’d been a right ass earlier.  Jon, who is now teary and frozen, staring at him with exhaustion and mortification.  

He makes a decision, making a conscious choice to make himself smaller and softer.  “Hey, come back to mine, I’m going to buy you dinner.  As my boss, you’re a prick, and I haven’t forgotten that.  But as my friend, you need a curry.  Maybe we can sort out my asshole boss and my upset friend at the same time, yeah?”

#the magnus archives #tma #jonathan sims #tim stoker #timothy stoker #my words #my fic #hurt/ comfort #cw food #cw alcohol #cw internalized ableism

[shutupaboutandraste]

hi and welcome to DWC :). how about 'Sweltering' from the summer prompt list, for Iron Bull/Cullen or Bull/Cullen/Lavellan? thank you!

Thank you! I was super excited to do the second because I haven’t gotten to write my Lavellan yet so thank you again!

Words: 970

Pairing: Bull/Cullen/Lavellan

For @dadrunkwriting 

Fuck. Ferelden. Summers. 

Growing up in the wilds of the Free Marches, Icarus Lavellan was used to warmth, but this humidity was absolute misery. Stripped of his shirt and trousers, down to just his smallclothes, Icarus was still sweating buckets, unable to escape the sweltering heat. When he had chosen Elgar’nan’s vallaslin when he came of age, he had told the Keeper that it was because he wanted the sun to always shine on him. Now, he’d just kill for rain. 

Sweat beat down his neck as he untied his pinned back hair, taking the small bit of leather to tie it up in a loose bun to keep his locks off of his neck. A fan sat on the chess board next to him, but he didn’t have the will to pick it up and fan himself off. Instead he just groaned, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the chair. To be honest, he was hiding. His nature was prone to shyness and for anyone to see him like this, he would be greatly embarrassed. 

“Boss, you feelin’ okay?” Except for that voice. 

Icarus groaned, looking up to see Bull and Cullen-- who was still in his full commander regalia because he was insane apparently-- appear, most likely to play a game of chess. Not most likely. Obviously. Since Icaurs was taking up a chair at the chess table, taking up a chair. 

“Do you think if I cast Winter’s Grasp on myself I’ll get cooler?” he asked. 

“You’ll get ice burn,” said Cullen, “I saw it happen to a mage at Kinloch once.” 

Instead of replying, Icarus just sunk lower into the seat. Bull snort, finding the other’s discomfort funny apparently. Icarus thought of himself as rarely irritable, but he certainly preferred the colder months. This was a nightmare. Much to his chagrin, Bull scooped him up. The Qunari was sticky with sweat. Upon closer inspection, Cullen was also dripping from the heat. 

His dear commander was always so firm on staying prim and proper. And Bull was always so warm, fenedhis. A lithe hand shoved at Bull’s chest trying to pull away, but he felt weak in the heat. Eventually, he simply gave up, slumping into overly warm arms. Sweat wafted into his nose, which curled up instinctively. Everyone reeked of sweat today, he was sure he was just as bad. 

“It’s too hot to play out here,” announced Bull, “And, Commander, you’re gonna get heat stroke if you stay in that any longer. And as much as I love gettin’ you out of those clothes--” 

Cullen’s face flushed a bright red, “Bull!” It had already been fairly pink from the heat, but now he was cherry colored from his forehead down to his neck. 

“--we should probably find a place that’s cool.” 

Icarus shifted uncomfortably, “The...The cells right? It’s cooler underground.” 

Bull smiled, “Hey, now that’s thinking.” And it was probably just what Bull was thinking.

The three men headed across the fields of Skyhold, watching everyone deal with the heat in their own way. Many of the soldiers had stripped down to their smalls, armor sitting nearby in case of an emergency. Cassandra had seemingly disappeared from her usual post, but that was most likely in her own search for a place to stay cool. Dorian was sitting the the shade with a book, sitting in a loose fitting undershirt and light trousers. He gave them a wave as they passed before going back to his reading. 

Once they were finally down beneath Skyhold, Bull wandered until he found a room where they stored food. While still on the warmer side, it was certainly degrees cooler than it was outside. Sitting down, Bull carefully laid Icarus down on the ground. Which, much to his delight, was blissfully cool. A low, please moan came from the back of his throat as he curled up happily. A low, rumbled laugh escaped Bull, “Easy there, kadan, I’ve got a chess game to play. Can’t get distracted now.” Icarus groaned, covering his face shyly. He knew exactly what Bull was implying and it was still far too hot. 

Cullen had pulled off his wrap and chestplate until he was down to a sleeved undershirt and trousers. Bull snorted as they began to set up the board, but Cullen didn’t heed him any mind. It hardly mattered that he had sweat through the layers-- he didn’t need to get anymore naked. They were playing chess. He was in no mood to repeat losing all his clothes again. 

“Commander,” said Bull, “For every knight or rook I take, you’re taking off your clothes.” 

Cullen scoffed, “I will not.” 

Icarus laughed softly, “You should. It adds to the stakes, doesn’t it?” 

“Inquisitor!” he scolded softly. Usually more shy, Cullen realized that the heat must have finally gotten to his head. Or, perhaps, and far more likely, Icarus didn’t want him to get over heated and suffer. Instead of replying, Icarus gave Cullen a very kind weak smile. Beneath its weight, Cullen buckled, “Alright.. But only if you do the same.” 

“Ha! Now, we’re talking,” Bull all but cheered, “Hey, whoever gets a checkmate should be able to take off Boss’ underwear.” 

A small hand smacked the side of Bull’s knee, soft and weary with exhaustion, “No.” 

Bull broke down into laughter, pressing a kiss to the top of Icarus’ head. As if in protest, Icarus scooted his way to Cullen’s side of the board. A gentle hand came down to gently stroke at the side of his hand. Though it was a bit prideful, Cullen allowed himself a smirk of victory as he let his fingers soothe the Inquisitor. Bull, despite everything, smiled fondly at the two of them. 

Cullen set his last pawn down gently, “Shall we begin?”

#dadwc #da drunk writing circle #da #dai #cullen rutherford #iron bull #the iron bull #inquisitor lavellan #icarus lavellan #bull/cullen/lavellan

[gingerwritess]

Theo, my girl, my idol, my star, my main bitch, I gotta read about the first time that Loki is seen out and about after he's been released pleeeaaaasseeeee (and some sexual tension wouldn't hurt)

part 18 of predating idiots, in which you speak with that idiot for the first time since…everything happened. (he hasn’t exactly been released, but close enough ;))

warnings: long ass chapter with blood, injuries, pain, alongside some denial and awkward moments :))

Life without a fake-boyfriend has become rather, well, quiet.

No more surprise visits with only the excuse “I’m dying” being given, no more lying about the exceptional dates you’ve been on…no more ridiculously attractive doctor on your arm.

No one’s stealing your bagels anymore. That’s a plus.

But work is slow, suddenly. The weight of the secret, sneaking Loki into your office to eat and sleep and rushing him home on lunch breaks for a shower, was, in it’s own twisted way, exciting.

Loki admitting to the fact that it’s been “centuries” keeps floating back into your consciousness. You continually choose not to dwell on it.

Your first day back after Tony gave you a four day weekend to recoup went smoothly, without a single hitch nor a word from your special alien. Asking about him while trying to remain casual didn’t get you far, so you resigned yourself to a quiet day at your desk, sometimes sending Marcus off to make copies for you when even he looks bored.

“I’ve gotta admit,” he pipes up one day from his station at the doorway, “I kinda miss Lucky. Thought maybe I’d get to stop a bad guy, that’d look good on a résumé.”

You shake your head with a laugh, scrolling through a file of release records. “Sorry you’ve got to just watch me all day. Can’t be the most exciting thing.”

“I don’t mind.” He shrugs. You don’t look up.

Another day ticks by, then another, and then a whole week and you still haven’t heard a single bit of accurate information regarding Loki.

Plenty of false information is circulating though, and you pick up bits of pieces around the break rooms and bathrooms.

“Yeah, he got the chair, they wouldn’t have kept him alive.”

“No, they’re rehabilitating him. He’s of use, he’s basically another Thor, don’t you think shield would want to hang onto him?”

“What, make him a new avenger?” The voice by the sinks laughs, and the faucet shuts off. “Just what we need. Another superhero. Jesus, I can’t keep up.”

Break rooms are to be avoided as of late, since you can’t go near another coworker without them jumping you with questions, assuming you must know what happened to him.

“Wish I knew,” you always reply. It’s not exactly a lie.

This fine morning, you pass the god of thunder on the way to the copy room. He gives you a grimace of a smile, lifts a hand, and turns to walk back the way he came before you can call out to him.

Strange. You haven’t seen Thor since the day Loki confessed.

Assuming he’s been busy helping his brother, you hadn’t worried about what he’s been thinking of you. Granted, his impressions of you haven’t been of the greatest, most respectable caliber, from asking you if you were attracted to his brother to watching you rip his brother’s shirt from him while straddling him on a bed—

Yeah, it’d be better not to dwell on what awkwardness Thor may have started to feel towards you. You’d rather not know his thoughts.

Then the next day, Thor is there again. You manage to get in a wave this time, giving him your politest please-don’t-talk-to-me smile and heading for the copy room again.

This time, the god follows you, fidgeting with the strap of mjolnir.

“I would like to talk to you,” he announces, trying to lean casually in the doorway. It doesn’t work well for him, so he straightens up and goes back to fidgeting with the hammer, staring at you.

“Okay…go for it.”

“I’d like to-to—” he breaks off and clears his throat. Finishing your copies, you turn to him with your eyebrows raised.

“Yes?”

“I’d, uh, like to apologize.”

Your brow knits in confusion and you cock your head at him. “What for?”

“Not to you,” Thor clarifies with a nervous laugh. “Sorry. Do I owe you one?”

“No, not really, I guess.”

“I’d like to apologize,” he tries again, “to, uh, to my brother. You know, Loki.”

“Ah.” You nod with a tight smile. “Yeah, I’m acquainted with him.”

Thor lets out a relived laugh at that, tossing mjolnir in the air and catching it. “Of course you are. The only trouble is, I don’t quite know how.”

“And you’re coming to me because…”

“Because you may know this Loki better than anyone.”

“Right.” Biting your lip, you stare at the crease in Thor’s brow. This Loki. A bit of a terrifying thought, really, but he may be right. However unpleasant, your interaction may have been the first semi-normal one Loki had had in a long time. “Well, um, how can I help?”

“How…bad is he?”

That’s a loaded question, and you pretend to look through your papers while you think. “He’s in a bad state,” you venture to say, “he’s definitely hurt. Somebody hurt him, and not just physically.”

“Right. Alright.” Thor nods, tossing his hammer back and forth between his hands. “I can work with that. Sensitivity, I’m getting good at that.”

“Good for you,” you laugh. “Be careful with him. I mean, I don’t know him very well. But I know he’s not one to open up, so…go slow. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the apology.”

In all reality, you have no idea if Loki will give a shit about Thor’s apology, but in theory it sounds like a good thing to happen. It can’t go terribly wrong.

“Just be gentle with him, will you?”

Thor nods. “Of course.”

You rifle through your papers, gaze dropping to them to avoid his. “Where, uh, where is he, by the way?”

Your stomach flips at the sound of the question leaving your mouth, but hopefully you can pass it off as casual curiosity, keeping your gaze trained intently on the papers in your hand.

“The healing wing,” Thor replies with a growing smile. “The two-hundred and third room. I am sure my brother would be happy to see you, my lady.”

“He hates me,” you answer way too quickly, flashing him a forced smile and pushing past him. “He won’t—no, he doesn’t—heh. Just curious. Thanks.”

—

Curious enough to go find him on your lunch break, that is.

Room 203 is a drab white room that reeks of disinfectant, one single bed in the center next to stacks of monitors and a cot-like couch beside it. It’s an improvement from the cell, you’ll give them that, but the pure white gives you a headache the moment you enter, and Loki still looks trapped.

Trapped, and deliberately expressionless upon seeing you sneaking through the doorway.

“Hello.”

He says it carefully, eyes narrowing at you as you wring your hands with a sheepish grin.

“You’re, ah, looking better.”

More like an angry cat who just had to resign itself to the fact that baths are inevitable, but better nonetheless.

“I feel like my limbs have been filled with lead,” Loki replies. He limply tries to lift his arms for emphasis.

“Nothing a god can’t lift, I’m sure,” you laugh, taking the few steps needed to be by his bedside. His piercing gaze tracks every one.

Checking his water jug and the tray of food still untouched by his bedside, you give him a mildly disapproving look, one he certainly disapproves of. “I bet you’d feel better if you ate something.”

“Not interested.” He sinks back into the pillows, watching you with hawk-like precision. “Why are you here?”

You give him a casual once-over, disguising it with a quick look about the room, as well. His arm is in a sling—that’s new, he must be cooperating at least a little if they’ve been treating him.

“Uh, curious,” you decide to answer. “I’m curious, just, y’know, want to make sure you’re being treated right. You healing up?”

Loki nods. Yes, he is healing, technically, but at a glacial pace that’s nearly historic for asgardian abilities. Maybe he had pushed his limits a little too far with all the illusions and covering undressed wounds for so long.

Your not-so-discrete scrutinizing of his shirtless body doesn’t slip his notice and reopens a whole other wound, but he can’t think about that right now. Or ever.

“You’re wearing a sling,” you lamely point out, desperate to fill the silence, and mentally slap yourself.

“That I am,” Loki replies, and can’t help the smug little smirk that starts to turn the corners of his lips. You’re a bit out of sorts—this could be fun. “Did you miss me, darling?”

Your face goes sour, crinkling at the nose. “Don’t call me that.”

Loki breathes deep with a grin, and Dr. Laing takes his place in the bed, lounging much more seductively, injury free and on his side, with an arm draped over his hip.

“You missed me, didn’t you.”

“If you weren’t on the verge of death and in a hospital, I would slap the shit out of you.”

Laing laughs as he fades back into Loki; it’s a tired sound, scratchy and painful and rattling in his chest, but somehow he manages to sound so disdainfully full of himself that you don’t know if you want to soothe his aches or cause him a handful more.

He does look better though. Weak, definitely still as weak as before, but better. Not so gaunt.

“Have you been eating well, then?” You ask, pulling up a chair beside him. “You’ve filled out a little.”

“Define well,” he replies with a quirk of his eyebrow.

“More fast food, I take it.”

“If I wasn’t close to death before, I am now.”

“Well, take what you can get.” You reach over and give him a pat on the arm, just one awful pat before you think better of it and immediately hate yourself for doing that. “So, uh, what was the verdict? On your…y’know. Crimes.”

Loki shifts on his pillows, trying to sit up a little straighter, and his blanket slips further down to his hips as he struggles to with one arm.

“My crimes…right, trying to conquer the planet. Those crimes.”

Without thinking, you lean in and straighten his blankets for him, tugging them back up to lay just under his arm.

His voice dies in his throat, and he stares.

You stare, too, but unfortunately at the bruises littering his ribs and the scar racing right over his heart.

“There you go staring again,” he says, clearing his throat. “Are you quite finished?”

Ripping your gaze from his chest, you meet his narrowed eyes and swallow thickly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Are you…are you using any illusions right now?” You gesture at him, emphasizing his relatively scar-free face.

“I may be,” he replies.

“Why? You should be healing, not hiding anything.”

His eyes roll and he sighs. “I do still have some semblance of a reputation to uphold. Maybe no longer with you, and something must be done about that, but as for the others, they don’t need to know any more.”

“I don’t really care about your reputation,” you tell him, and he laughs as if that were obvious. “Or any image you’re trying to make of yourself, just so you know.”

“Oh, you did miss me, mortal.”

“No,” you snap, “I just…well, I don’t want you getting any more hurt than you are. And…maybe might have been a tiny bit worried.”

The last part you blurt, staring out the window with a burning gaze. You would like him to know, just for the sake of knowing that he’s not necessarily alone in this, but when you say it out loud, like that…

Loki appears to have swallowed something sour, when you glance back at him, and he stares at you.

Confusion, maybe?

Or maybe just shock. Or maybe he has morphine pumping through his veins; that’s a very possible answer.

“Are you on morphine?” You whisper when he doesn’t move, still staring. “That stuff can kill you, y’know. Careful.”

Slowly, he nods, lips parted.

“I…am.”

“On morphine?” You give him a sad smile. “That’s why you’re being friendly. Well, by your standards.”

“No,” he cuts in, cocking his head at you. “Still using an illusion.”

You nod, glancing down at your hands in your lap. “I figured. You can take it off now, I’ve already seen the worst of it.”

Room 203 falls silent for a moment, nothing but the air conditioning whirring in the background as a wave of green energy passes over Loki’s body.

“Just for you,” he clarifies when you look back up at him, “only for you.”

“Of course. I won’t tell.”

Taking a steady breath, you scoot forward in the chair and begin your inspection, ghosting along the parts of him you can, too used to cleaning him up to the point where it’s almost routine. He sits quietly, you point out to him which bits he should really show the others, berate him again for waiting so long to tell the truth.

“I lie,” he murmurs, and you almost catch a smile playing at his lips. “It’s what I do.”

“Roll on your side,” you simply respond. “You’re letting them treat your back, aren’t you?”

He grimaces, but doesn’t move. “In a way.”

“Please? Can I see?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“I don’t know if you realize this,” you exhale, exasperated already, “but I’m a little more trusted here than you are. I can help you, if you’ll let me.”

He squares his jaw, fighting with himself for a second longer—then rolls his eyes yet again and turns to face the other direction, exposing his back to you.

“Loki, come on.”

“I tried,” he cuts in before you can berate him further on the hideous state of his lashed back. “Really, I tried, but they can’t treat them yet. It’s not a flogging like any that have happened on Midgard, believe me.”

The thought of something worse than a flogging makes your toes curl, and you gingerly brush your fingertips over his shoulder before the sight makes you retch; one of the few unmarked patches of skin left on his back.

“You’re still bleeding.”

He nods, face turned from you. “I would imagine so.”

“Bled through your sling…” a quick look around finds the spare cloths and towels in the cabinet under his bed stand, and you take a couple soft rags. “Want me to, y’know, clean you up?”

He’s silent for so long you wonder if he’s fallen asleep, but then he nods, just once.

“I would–I would appreciate that.”

His whole body jerks with every few dabs of the cloth, trying to at least stop the trickling and sop up what’s pooled in the bony dip of his shoulder blade.

You try to tell Loki which cuts desperately need stitches, but he just chuckles dryly and explains that these cuts aren’t meant to heal; that they rip and open any stitching or bandages applied to them. Each attempt to close the wound is predestined to worsen it.

“So you’ll always have these?”

“Until I can find a way to heal them,” he grunts, letting you help him sit up, “yes. It’ll be wonderful for when I’m feeling nostalgic.”

The sling, as it turns out, is covering a much deeper gash than the rest, one that the skin around the edges looks burnt—but weirdly enough, also looks almost crystallized where it should be scabbed. Almost…icy.

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just continue in silence to switch out his sling, sick to your stomach. Nothing you could possibly have to offer, any assistance from anyone on earth could make up for that.

It’s been a couple months now, since New York. There have been no other attacks, clean up has been relatively successful with the camaraderie of the nation. The avengers have been assembled, tested, and proven effective.

Loki’s in custody, no longer hiding, no longer blackmailing you into keeping his secrets while he runs. He hasn’t stepped out of line since, he’s been offering his knowledge, he’s been cooperating.

Yet he’s the only one still bleeding.

“Loki,” you say quietly, glancing at the door, “are they actually helping you?”

He gives his shoulder a testing roll with a wince. “That’s too tight,” he tells you, tugging at the fresh sling. “I’m being treated. Accordingly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve received the help I need.”

“I don’t believe you,” you reply with a huff, fighting with the knot in his sling. “I mean, has Thor even come to see you? He told me he wants to talk to you, but he’s the only person who’s mentioned you…”

Loki gives you a nod when you finish with the sling, finally lifting his head to look at you with an illusion-less face, ripped flesh around his lips where a cord stitched him silent.

A fist closes around your heart, clenching it and leaving a hollow ache in your chest. Your skin burns at the sight of him.

“You’re staring again.”

“Sorry.”

The stitching was crude, unevenly spread along his upper lip, and the left side has a couple gashes where the skin is torn all the way through. Must’ve had to rip out it himself.

“Don’t victimize me,” he warns. “Don’t make me into something I’m not. Don’t.”

Your jaw clenches, eyes flitting from his lips to meet his gaze. “How do you expect me not to?”

He drops his head back to his pillow, shutting his eyes.

“You should leave.”

“Yeah.” You stand, and he doesn’t open his eyes. The closer you look, his scars are fading again, back under the facade you broke. “I probably should.”

Before you can stop yourself, your hand moves to touch him, just once on the back of the hand that’s draped over his chest. He grabs your wrist before you can.

“I don’t think I trust you,” he whispers, eyes still shut tight.

A lump catches in your throat. “You–you can, you know.”

“I know.” He takes a shaking breath, wincing as his blood soaks the pillows. “That’s why I don’t.”

—

You give him a week.

You hadn’t gotten even half the answers you had gone in there for, leaving with more questions than before, if anything.

It’s hard to tell if he was pleased to see you.

So you give him a week. No visits, no telling him he needs to eat, no mention of him behind his back.

That week passes as normally as it could be.

By the next, you find yourself outside room 203 once again, psyching yourself up to just walk in there and cut right to the chase, not giving him even an inch over you.

But you open the door and he’s on his stomach, fists ripping the sheets as a nurse with a needle stitches the lashings on his back shut.

He’s bleeding. Badly.

“No,” you blurt, “stop, don’t do that–”

Your tongue falls limp in your mouth, and completely against your will, you walk straight to the couch beside the bed and sit.

Nothing you can do will allow you to move, and you spend the next few minutes struggling against invisible bonds, shouting silently into oblivion that you’re making it worse, horrified at the sight of Loki’s serene expression as he stares at you.

You can see it getting worse; each stitch undoes the last, reopening the wound from the beginning so that by the time she’s moved to the next cut, the one just finished is a fresh, open wound.

Even with his face perfectly calm, his gaze stone-set on you, his body betrays him. He jerks with every pierce of the needle, the vein on the side of his neck bulges, and he’s ripped the sheets by his fist.

It looks like pure agony, and you can’t do a single thing about it.

So you sit there, frozen to your seat and silenced, until the nurse gives up and apologizes for another failed attempt, promising that they’re trying to find a type of material that can hold as she tries to soak up the blood. She wraps his torso and he stays silent the entire time, knowing full well that nothing will change, and doesn’t move after she’s left the room.

You take a deep breath as Loki does, and the restraints on your body and tongue fall away.

“What the hell, Loki?!”

“Please don’t yell.”

“I think it’s warranted,” you cry, stomping over to his bedside. “You have a death wish, god, you–you–what the hell were you doing?!”

You’re shaking, half from the horror of having to sit there and watch him endure that, but mostly from rage—he could’ve stopped her.

“Why the hell didn’t you say anything?!”

“Shh…”

“Oh, don’t you shush me, I’m so sick of this–I-I can’t believe you made me watch that—”

A cold hand curls around your wrist and yanks, and you fall to your knees by the bedside, nose to nose with the god of mischief.

“Let me bleed,” he grits out, each word ripped painfully from his throat.

“What?”

“Let me…let me bleed.” This time it’s on an exhale and his eyes close, his hand dropping from your wrist.

You can’t find it in yourself to move away from him.

“Why’d you do that, you idiot?”

Half his face squished into the mattress, he manages a hoarse laugh. “Punishment for my sins.”

“That’s not your call,” you hiss, grabbing him by the arm. “You need to roll over, you’re laying on your injury. C’mon, move.”

He actually obliges and the two of you struggle to roll him onto his uninjured side. It’s not exactly comfortable, for either of you, and you realize after the fact that you had to practically hug the guy in order to haul him onto his side.

That’s probably why he went so stiff.

And…why he’s staring at you as if you’d sprouted wings, trying to catch his breath.

“Sorry,” you mutter, a little out of breath yourself from trying to lift him. “You’re a fucking masochist, you know that?”

“Oh, don’t act so surprised.” He forces out another laugh.

Always laughing.

Always bleeding, always laughing. It’s exhausting, not to mention unbearably irritating when you’re nearly writhing in pain for him.

“Do me a favor, darling.”

“Don’t call me—oh, wait, do you want me to slap you?”

Another dry laugh, but this one sounds truer.

“Don’t make me beg,” he grins, and you almost find yourself wanting to grin back; it’s a breath of fresh air, after all the blood and pain. “Please, would you do this for me?”

“Yeah.” You can’t help the tiny smile you offer back, hidden behind your exasperated sigh. “Yeah, of course.”

“Tie my hair back?”

You swear his cheeks burn bright red, but he doesn’t let his empyrean expression waver, sinking subtly deeper into the pillows and handing you a thin strip of leather.

“Sorry,” he says when you take it, voice muffled, “it only gets matted with blood if I leave it down. I’d cut it, but I can’t be wasting strength on that in this condition—”

“I get it,” you assure him with a smile. “Don’t worry. You’ve already ruined your reputation with me.”

“Right. Thank you for the reminder.”

Biting back a grin, you pull the strip of leather between your hands. “I’ll do it, on one condition.”

“You are unbearably difficult.”

“Thank you.” You lean towards him, a tiny, smug grin just turning at your lips. “You answer any question I ask while I’m doing it. And no lies, trickster.”

He mulls it over for a moment, halfheartedly glaring at your smug self. You do look sure of yourself, leaning onto his bed, eyes narrowed playfully, his leather cord taut between your fingers. Daring him to disagree.

It’s not a bad look. Confidence, he supposes. Power.

The day has reached sunset, and in this moment of weakness Loki can’t help but notice—the light filtering through the lone hospital room window hits your face in a rather flattering way.

That, or maybe it’s been so long since someone smiled at him, laughed with him, teased him—maybe it’s…nice.

Maybe it’s been missed.

Maybe…that would be alright.

―   ―   ―   ―

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#loki x reader #loki reader insert #loki imagine #loki slowburn series #loki angst #loki fluff #pre-dating idiots #loki requests #loki fanfiction #loki drabbles #loki laufeyson

[rokachan]

~~Burn into ashes~~

“Tanglemaw? I could use some sleep I think…” Bleary from working diligently, Roka scrubbed at her eyes with the palm of an ink-and-grime-covered hand, blissfully ignorant of the disaster she spread. Pushing up from the makeshift desk in her Goblet apartment, she stumbled off across the room, dodging the skittering forms of seedlings. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been working, but she knew she was exhausted. Couldn’t recall the last time she’d poked her head out the door, but knew she’d set aside her linkpearls to her closest friends, and the mask that connected her to Togy in order to focus on her work. A couple suns? A sennight? Probably. Those seemed right.

Heels dragged until she sank to her knees, crawling onto the writhing rug that stilled with a fitful gurgle and wrapped possessive tendrils around her good leg. “I know, Groany. I know. I’m not going anywhere until I get a few bells of sleep, yeah?” The ‘rug’ seemed appeased but maintained a possessive clutch of the thin limb it ensnared. “Tanglemaw, keep the room nice and still, just for a few bells? Illumination as well?” One of her prized specimens. What a wonderful girl. The bioluminescent lighting dimmed to a faint glow, just enough to see if Roka woke suddenly, and the heady scent of jasmine filled the air. Groanalot’s grip on Roka’s leg eased slightly as the ageing rug relaxed, and Roka’s lids drooped heavily. Sleep would be nice.

Blissful dreams of her partners. Her friends. Sweet as spun sugar. It was a rare thing, to enjoy such utter content in her dreams. It wasn’t just rest, or quiet, but happiness she found until an idea crept into her dreams like a dark cloud. Slowly staining the blue skies and pulling her away from people. It was the idea that woke the tiny catte with a jolt, startled to sitting upright, ears pricked painfully alert.

“Bloody Twelve I think… That just might…” She was scrambling to her feet even before her hand disengaged from Groanalot’s grasp, pawing at the vines claiming her with frustration and snapping at the ceiling. “Tanglemaw light! And stop the- GROANALOTLETGO! -No more sleep! I need to be awake, NOW!” It was chaos, trying to get her head rightly cleared of the rich perfume and the effects of the spores that dulled her senses, begged her to return to slumber. It would be so easy to lay back down and worry about this in the morning.

No.

No she needed to tackle this while it was fresh before it faded away to the ghost of a memory and drove her mad. Huffing she settled back at the makeshift desk, shoving aside papers and grasping feverishly for vials. Colourful liquids splashed within their glass confines, some discarded back from whence they came while others were selectively set in places of honour before her.

A wiser person might take caution, they might sit down and consider an idea. Plan it out. They might question the reactions of things. A wiser person would likely know better than to leap from a drugged sleep into a science experiment with nothing more than a dream for guidance. At the absolute least a shred of wisdom would have seen protective gear used, or locked away the seedlings while she worked.

Roka’s intelligence might be high, but her wisdom? Roka’s wisdom was often overruled by reckless abandon. Especially when she was excited. And the near vibrating Miqo’te was certainly excited, mumbling to herself as she snatched a large bottle of concentrated morbol saliva. She paused for a moment to inspect it, seeming to have a thought, a smile tickling the corner of her lips. Whatever spark her brain cells produced was not one of caution though, and on she went with her movements. Vials and bottles left open, she didn’t mind the offensive smell from some of them and none were deadly to inhale, notes scribbled with one hand absently. It wasn’t even legible, not really. Nothing registered until… Failure. An obnoxiously muddy concoction that reeked indescribably, even by Roka’s peculiar standards, was hastily corked and pushed away. Well… That was disappointing.

It was late though, she could try again later, but for now… For now she just wanted to close her eyes for a few minutes. Folding her arms, the catte leaned to cradle her head in and rest against the desk. It was meant to be momentary, just long enough to shake off the disappointment before returning to sleep on the rug, but she dozed. Tanglemaw helpfully filled the air with sleepy spores once more, unbidden, and cast the Miqo’te into deeper slumber. The saplings were still roaming, unbidden to rest again just yet.

Like any pet left unattended, Roka’s morbols were want to do very important morbol things, and at the most inopportune bell possible. Exploration of her desk being chief among the things the little seedlings found interesting to do. Bottled clinked softly, tipped over and knocked askew. Contents spilling free, pouring onto the desk. The largest of her bottles, the prized concentration of morbol saliva, that had been kept close at hand as a key focus in her project, thunked heavily when it was tipped over, the content glugging out and spilling over exposed arms and the nape of neck. Down her back.

Tanglemaw’s spores were often a blessing, the line of morbols Roka had bred to aide in sleep were terribly efficient, and even now as the concentrate roused her with bubbling, furiously spitting skin and the smell of flesh rending, her body fought her to just… Go back to sleep. Hands pawed at her ear, trying to hit the linkpearls that she always wore. Finding them gone. They were settled right where she left all communication, all distractions, on the bookshelf. It was a momentary panic, agony, and then…

~~To rise with double the power~~

Roka groaned. Rubbed her eyes against the light filtering in through a window. The hard floor beneath her drawing her to reality. The Elysium lobby? She must have dozed off here by the fountain. She didn’t remember coming here, but… Well… She’d be lying if she didn’t say she occasionally forgot how she got to one place or another. Got so caught up thinking she forgot all about the how and where. Glancing again at the fountain, she thought it odd that there looked to be stones out of place beneath the water. As if something had burst out. Maybe the pressure from a pump? It wasn’t her job to know the fountain’s workings, but she’d make note to mention it to someone. It would be fixed and good as new in no time, she was sure. The company was good like that, never letting things stay wrecked.

Accepting this little oddity, the creature shuffled to her feet and stretched. Ears fluttering and tail arching as she worked muscles that felt- New? Fresh? Unused. The normal aches that accompanied a night on the floor were blessedly absent. What a nice surprise! With a smile of too-sharp teeth, she hummed. It was a new day, and whatever odd dreams she’d had, she was home and well. She could tell someone about the dreams later, but she had such a terrible urge just now, something she simply had to do.

#ffxiv #drabble #where has my idiot been all this time #roka #long post #very very long post #ic writing

[misfitgirlwrites]

You’re Mine (Post-spray Jeremiah x Female Reader)

@psychobitchtess​ Here it is!

WARNINGS: NSFW (18+), female reader, smut, death, blood, oral sex (female receiving), language, multiple orgasms bc this is canon now Jeremiah enjoys overstimulating you

Y’all some hoes

Ever since you ended things with Jeremiah, you’ve been anxious. For good reason too, you did catch on to his…slight change as time went on. You always felt like you were being watched and it made you take a few extra precautions after ending things.

You ended up moving, to avoid surprise visits from him, and unless you were going to work, you rarely left your apartment. After nearly a month of looking over your shoulder, you finally began to relax a bit and even decided to start getting back out there. More of a rebound than anything else; as much as you hated it, you still had doubts about leaving Jeremiah. You looked at yourself in the mirror, smoothing out your dress before taking a deep breath.

“Everything will be fine,” you mumbled.

Once you heard a knock on your door, you left your room and quickly made it across your living room, opening the door and relaxing a bit. You couldn’t just let Jeremiah and your anxiety control your life. What’s really the worst that could happen?

“_____. You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you smiled and glanced down at your outfit again, “I was hoping I didn’t go overboard.” You looked up again and froze, meeting bright green eyes behind your date. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion as you tried to warn your date of the man behind them but it was too late. You jumped slightly once you heard the sound of a knife cutting through flesh and you took a small step back once your date slowly fell to the ground.

“They were right. You do look beautiful.”

You looked up again and for a second you thought your mind was playing tricks on you. “J-Jeremiah?”

He looked so different. His eyes, his skin--you were at a loss for words.

“Did you think I would just let you go out with them?” He arched an eyebrow, twirling the knife in his hand before moving over your date. If they weren’t dead before, they most certainly were now. You watched with wide eyes as Jeremiah’s knife sunk into your date’s neck.

“What the fuck!” you screeched, stumbling back.

Jeremiah’s eyes stayed locked on you as he stood up straight and kicked your front door shut. He enjoyed watching you scramble. It was like your brain couldn’t keep up with the situation.

With shaky hands, you fumbled with your cell phone and Jeremiah rolled his eyes. The click of a gun made you freeze and your eyes hesitantly met his again as he clicked his tongue.

“Phone down.”

Your fingers wrapped around your phone tighter and you took a sharp breath once he narrowed his eyes.

“Now.”

The cellphone fell from your hand onto the floor and a grin grew on the man’s face.

“Very good, _____.” He stepped over the dead body in front of him, moving towards you. Your feet felt like they were glued to the ground. You were still trying to figure out what happened.

When did his skin get paler and when did his eyes get that shade of green? Was he wearing contacts? Why did he dye his hair darker? Your mind was racing, this wasn’t the Jeremiah you knew.

“You must be very confused, I know.”

His voice brought you back into the situation at hand and you realized how close he was now. He reeked of blood and it made you wonder just how many people did he kill before actually making it to your apartment? You tried to back away but he grabbed your arm and kept you from moving.

“W-Why are you here?”

“You’re a smart girl, _____. You know why I’m here.”

“Jeremiah--what the hell happened to you?”

“Long story. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you everything once we leave.”

“Leave? I’m not going anywhere with you--we aren’t together anymore!”

“No, no. We are. You just got scared. Fear makes people do irrational things.”

“Irrational things? What do you call showing up to my apartment and killing my date?!” You snapped. “I moved! Were you stalking me?”

“Stalk is such a strong word. I was making sure you were safe. That is something a good boyfriend does, right?”

“If you were my boyfriend sure.” You closed your eyes, feeling the gun press against your neck.

“You insist on saying that? After you found out about my brother you never looked at me the same.”

“Because you lied to me! Because for half of our relationship I thought your name was fucking Xander! If you can lie to me about something as simple as your name then why should I trust anything you say, Jeremiah?” You opened your eyes and took a shaky breath but glared up at him. “I didn’t leave you because of your brother, I left you because you’re fucking crazy just like him.”

As soon as the sentence left your mouth, Jeremiah pushed you back against the wall.

“Crazy?”

You tried to push him away but he kept you pinned against the wall.

“Darling, I’m anything but crazy. What I plan to do isn’t just destruction. I plan to rebuild and that’s something my brother would never think to do. But that’s not why I’m here,” he gripped your face and pressed his body against your own, “I’m here for you.”

“Let me go.” You grabbed his wrist tightly and tried to squirm away.

“No matter what you think or say and no matter where you go, you’ll always be mine, _____.” Jeremiah held you still and looked into your eyes as he spoke. “I’ll kill anyone who gets in my way of you.”

You couldn’t respond--you didn’t know how to. He was too close and that was the only thing racing through your mind right now. Once you didn’t respond, Jeremiah took it upon himself to do what you both wanted. He kissed you roughly, moving his hand from your face down to your neck. Your hands gripped his jacket tightly and you tried to push him away but you ended up pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. It didn’t take long for Jeremiah to begin hiking your dress up and you kicked your heels off.

“What exactly are you scared of, _____?” Jeremiah pulled away a bit and kissed along your jaw, “you moved, you changed your number, deleted your email. Did you think you could get away from me?”

His kisses moved down to your neck and you didn’t respond until he lightly pressed his gun against your lips.

“Well?”

“Jere--”

“Even if you left Gotham I would’ve found you. But you didn’t because you knew you couldn’t leave me.”

“Jere, please.”

“What do you want, _____.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to respond. You both already knew the answer. Jeremiah moved his gun, “answer my question.”

“I-I want--” you couldn’t say it. He just killed someone right in front of you yet you want him. You really want him. There was something about this new side of him that left you wanting more.

“You want what?”

“You.” You responded quickly and before you could say anything else, his lips were on yours again. Jeremiah eventually pulled away and eyed your dress.

“Take it off.”

He didn’t have to tell you twice. You were out of the dress much faster than it took you to put it on. Jeremiah picked you up and tossed you onto your couch before climbing over you, taking off his jacket. You watched him as he trailed kisses from your neck down to your stomach. It felt like your body was on fire.

You started to press your thighs together but Jeremiah noticed and moved down, spreading them apart.

“You were always so eager, _____.”

You could feel his hot breath against your skin and you were nearly shaking. You could feel his knife trailing against your thigh along with a bit of blood from your date since he didn’t bother wiping off the knife. He cut off your panties then your bra and tossing them to the side before beginning to kiss and nibble your inner thigh.

“J-Jere please.”

“Hm?”

“Stop pleasing me please!”

“If I want to take my time then that’s exactly what I’ll do. I don’t plan on rushing.”

“Please,” you bucked your hips a bit and gasped once you felt him press his tongue against your clit.

His movements were slow and he drank in every moan, gasp and whine he got from you. His pace was almost torturous and he only moved faster when you gripped his hair and tugged at it, nearly begging. He quickly brought you to an orgasm and you cried out. You didn’t realize how tense you were until you relaxed, trying to catch your breath.

“No breaks yet.” Jeremiah licked his lips and sat up, rubbing his thumb against your clit. You jolted and tried to grab his wrist but he grabbed your hand and moved his thumb faster.

“Fuck! Jere--”

“I’m not done.” He quickly slid two fingers inside of you and you moaned loudly.

“You’re so wet, _____.” He cooed.

“Shit,”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted this to happen. Look at how excited you are,” Jeremiah grinned, curling his fingers, “are you close again? Cum for me.”

Your body was shaking when you came again. He slowly pulled his fingers away and licked them clean before loosening his tie and starting to take off his shirt. You leaned forward a bit, grabbing him and pulling him in for another kiss. Jeremiah quickly took off the rest of his clothes and pushed you back against the couch. His hands roamed your body, trailing lightly up your thighs then your sides. You arched a bit but closed your eyes.

“You’re mine, _____. I want to hear you say it.”

You took a sharp breath once you felt him place a kiss very close to your clit. “Wait--shit!” Your head flew back once he started to suck on the oversensitive bud. He didn’t stop until he pulled another orgasm from you. He pulled away a bit and licked his lips.

“Say it.”

“I-I’m yours, Jeremiah.” You breathed out.

“That’s right,” he began to eat you out again and chuckled once you let out a cry. Your body was shaking.

“Jere, please--too much!”

“No. Not yet.”

You cursed loudly as he continued his torment. When you came again he finally moved away and gripped your legs tightly, lifting them up and moving in between them.

“You want more, don’t you, _____?”

“I want you--please,” your shaky hands went up to his hair as he positioned himself. There was no need to tell him twice.

You let out a moan once you felt him slowly push inside of you. You gripped his hair tightly and tugged on it a bit once he began to move. His pace was very slow, making you whine out.

“You’re acting like this now but you had no problem trying to replace me.” Jeremiah arched a brow.

“...I could never replace you.” Not only was it what he wanted to hear, it was true. You were only really looking for a distraction--hopefully a long term one. But there was no going back now.

Jeremiah leaned down a bit more until your noses were touching, “I know.” He picked up his pace after that. His thrusts were fast and hard, your building orgasm was almost painful.

“Are you close again?” He grinned, his fingers focusing on your clit again, “so tight around me.” He groaned as you squirmed.

“Holy shit, Jere! I don’t think I can--”

“Yes, you can, _____. And I’m being generous, I just want one more out of you.” His thrusts got harder and he rubbed your clit faster.

“Fuck! Please--”

“Come on, darling. One more. Cum for me.” He cooed in your ear.

That was more than enough to send you over the edge. You yanked at Jeremiah’s hair as you came and feeling him cum as well only dragged out your own orgasm. You closed your eyes and slowly let go of his hair as he pulled out of you. You focused on trying to catch your breath.

“I want to make sure we’re on the same page, _____.”

You opened your eyes once Jeremiah wrapped a hand around your neck.

“You’re mine. And I don’t share. Understand?” He grinned as you nodded.

“Yes.”

~~~

Jeremiah Valeska Tag List: @toasterking​ @psychobitchtess

Requests are open! If you’d like to be tagged in my Jeremiah fics or anything else, please let me know! My asks and inbox are open to all!!

#jeremiah valeska x reader #jeremiah x reader #jeremiah valeska imagine #jeremiah imagine #jeremiah valeska #jeremiah velaska #gotham jeremiah #gotham #gotham imagine #gotham fanfiction #gotham x reader #x reader #mgwrites

[pollylynn]

Title: The Glass Cell WC: 1600

“You know reality isn’t fiction, right?”  — Dr. Clark Murray, A Death in the Family (1 x 10)

She wears a dress of her mom’s to prom, he decides. He imagines it in detail—cut-work lace over taffeta in bright emerald green, a satin empire waist band a shade darker, a full A-line skirt. He envisions her with mismatched quasi-punky hair hanging down to half hide her dramatic eye-makeup. She stands out, of course. In a sea of off-the-shoulder, halter neck, heavy fabrics in primary colors—crayon red, royal blue, black, black, white, white, red again, with an ill-advised plunge neckline. She stands out. 

She likes her date, though she doesn’t exactly let him know that. He imagines that, too. She doesn’t exactly let anyone know that she likes this boy on the verge of being a man, because she’s not sure that she’s supposed to. He’s quiet and sensitive. Not a dork—not outright unpopular, but a dark horse candidate for asking her in the first place, and her unexpected, unhesitating yes had sent shockwaves through the eleventh grade. 

She is awkward on the dance floor. She is a vision in her mother’s dress, but there is architecture to it. There is a hidden foundation that requires time travel of her ribs, her spine, her hips, and her date—the boy on the verge of being a man—has no idea where to put his hands during the slow songs. She has no idea where to put hers, so she locks her fingers behind his neck. She breathes Let’s get out of here well before Boyz II Men get to the spoken-word part, and they do. 

They race across the ballroom with their fingers linked, laughing like fools. They leave her friends, his friends, the tiny intersection of their friends to gawp as they bang through the double doors.They roam the streets around the hotel in a spiral pattern, talking and talking. 

She shivers and pulls the cream-colored silk-and-seed-pearl wrap close around her. With well-intentioned gallantry, he tries to drop his tuxedo jacket over her shoulders. He misses, and they both watch in horror as the long tails drag through something nameless and awful before he can catch it. 

The hem of her dress is dirty and her mom’s dyed-to-match pumps with their rhinestone butterfly clips will never be the same. But they share french fries at a nameless diner. They share a tentative kiss in the back of a cab as the boy escorts her home. They share a burning, frenzied, back-against-the-glass follow-up in the doorway of her apartment as the sun comes up. 

She misses curfew by a lot. Her mom brings her coffee and toast in bed long after morning has tipped over into afternoon. She asks a million impertinent questions about the boy she likes, about the evening, about her plans to save up for what should be an astonishing dry cleaning bill. 

This is how it happens. This is what he decides. 

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

She sprains her ankle on move-in day. He knows. He sees clearly how the events unfold. 

She has a plan. She has keys in hand by 8:01 am. She has a spot for the van with her things, hardly a block away, and her second-hand office chair can serve as a makeshift dolly. She has almost nothing. It’ll be two dozen quick trips, she figures, but the apartment is full of junk. 

Oh yeah, the creepy building manager tells her, last guy skipped out. 

The junk is her problem, apparently. Her problem. She plumps down on some kind of ottoman and immediately regrets it as an oily smell rises up. It’s not just the ottoman, though. The whole place reeks of food and animal fat. She registers the distant clatter of dishes, of silverware, and the hiss of a hot grill rising up through the floor. 

She props her elbows on her knees and her chin on her fists. She wastes ten precious minutes of the three hours before she has to have the van back contemplating the space that is smaller, dingier, filthier than the unit she saw when she signed the lease. 

She hauls herself up and lugs the ottoman and a broken laundry basket full of dirty t-shirts with her down to the dumpster. She bumps milk crates full of electronics odds and ends down the stairs. She carries awkward lamps like jousting lances. 

It’s a box of kitchen things that does her in. It’s a mile wide and heavy. She knows she should unpack and repack it. She should make two trips, three, four, but she’s tired of this. She misses a step. She goes down to the landing. She can feel the rush of heat into the ankle she has wrenched badly. 

There’s a neighbor—a pair of neighbors—who hear the commotion. They rescue her, Cleo and Pete, who are just a little older than she is. They extricate her from underneath the box. They help her into their apartment and give her an ice pack. They give her a stiff drink and an ace bandage. 

They share stories about the guy who skipped out in the middle of the night—his questionable activities and his even more questionable taste in music. They order pizza and won’t take her money when she offers. The three of them agree that the building manager almost certainly collects clown paintings by serial killers. 

They insist that she spend the night on their couch. She protests. She tries to put weight on her ankle, then gives in. She spends her first night not in her first apartment staring at a ceiling that belongs to strangers with tears leaking from the corners of her eyes because her fucking ankle hurts. Because she doesn’t have the money to pay for another day of the damned van. Because her mother is dead and she is alone in the world. 

He knows all this. He sees it clearly. 

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

He cannot picture the shadows on her skin in that basement room. He sees the backs of his own hands criss-crossed infinitely with weak, unflattering light coming in through the cage. But he cannot see hers. Would her fingernails be as neat and no-fuss as they are today, or would they have been ragged with the pain of all the long years before she made it that far? 

Would she—and the possibility is like a lattice work of burning hot ice spreading through him from the inside—would she have gotten the chain for her mother’s ring when she first put on the uniform? Was there a time in that dingy apartment—in her college days with her dad drowning and her left wrist as yet bare—was there a time when when she would have slipped it on her finger each morning instead of ducking her head to let the delicate links of a think gold chain slither down over her collar bones?

He doesn’t know, any more than he knows if she would have risked the rickety table with its hard, back-breaking chair. He cannot say whether she would have waited for the most desolate hour each possible night, then set to work right where he did, or if she would have, instead, arranged herself on the cracked tile floor, knees drawn up and hunched over the tight beam of a penlight. 

He looks for signs of her in the creases and ragged edges, the rusty indentation of an ancient paperclip removed and replaced, the corner of a thin stack torn away along with a now-missing staple in a moment of frustration. He scours the faded, triple-carbon paperwork and holds the glossy, terrible photos at an oblique angle to the light from his desk lamp, the light from his computer screen. In the riot of smudged, overlapping fingerprints he wonders which might be hers. 

It’s no use, this afterthought of a search. She is nowhere. There is no detail remembered from his own few hours spent in that basement room, no physical trace of her presence in the file itself that sparks the rush of absolute clarity with which he envisions her at the junior prom, her on move-in day at that first three-story walk-up that smelled of chicken wings. 

She is nowhere, because he has never once bothered to imagine her—not once. He relives the abrupt sting of her rapped out pair of questions—You don’t think I’ve haven’t been down there? You don’t think I haven’t memorized every line in that file? He sits, staring at the file now with tide of shame advancing, receding, advancing. 

He didn’t think. In all these weeks, he has not once thought about the space between the wound delivered and the scars she bears. He has not once thought about the dreams she must have cast off, what it must have cost her to forge a path to that basement room. He has not once considered what those long years must have been like. He has never stopped to ask himself how the woman she is now—the relentless, fiercely intelligent, extraordinary woman he has come to know—could ever have come to accept her mother’s death as a random, wayward event.

He thinks now. He asks himself now. He tries, now, to picture the shadows on her skin, the tense outline of her body and the tight beam of a penlight. He tries to imagine that lonely work, but he can’t. 

She is gone from him. She is nowhere.  A/N: This is an especially weird not!thing. I had to decide that Castle has the actual Johanna Beckett file that he’s taken, not just copies. That doesn’t make much sense, but the autopsy photos look to be originals, complete with labels and handling wear. Fixation on those details is just a distraction from how not a thing this is. 

images via homeofthenutty

#Castle #Caskett #Castle: Season 1 #Castle: A Death in the Family #Kate Beckett #Richard Castle #Johanna Beckett #Jim Beckett #Fic #Fanfic #Fanfiction #Fan Fic #Fan Fiction #Writing #Interrogatives?

[dungeons-and-sides]

Give Me One Good Honest Kiss

Hey, all, welcome to part of Virgil’s and Deceit’s backstory! It takes place about eleven months before the campaign and kinda explains why Deceit and Virgil are the way they are with each other now. Mod Sid and I (Mod Angel) wrote this together over the last month, and we hope you enjoy! 

 The title is a line from Mitski’s song “Nobody.”

Ships: (past) Anxceit

Warnings: alcohol, sympathic Deceit, mentions of torture, kissing

       Dee is honestly surprised he hadn’t ended up in a jail cell sooner. That isn’t to say he’s never been thrown in one before. No, with stealing and running and fighting since he was a kid, Dee had become fairly familiar with small town jails. What was surprising was that he hadn’t gotten himself locked up in the two months since Virgil left.

       Two months ago, Dee was planning to propose. Two months ago, Virgil Abett broke up with him. Two months ago, Virgil ran away from him as fast as he could. And Dee had gotten reckless since Virgil left. Most nights he was knocking back drink after drink in whatever tavern he stumbled into, making increasingly shady deals with untrustworthy people, and caring less and less about keeping up appearances of being even human-esque. 

       But tonight was the first time in two months his actions really caught up to him. He had been on his second shot of vodka when everything went to hell. A dwarf who Dee had stolen a considerable amount of diamonds from burst through the doors of the tavern and instantly brandished an axe. Dee convinced the human next to him to help defend him, and quickly it turned into fairly bloody bar fight. Of course, the bartender called the police, and explained it was Dee who started the whole thing. With a busted lip, clothing reeking of alcohol, and skin just every so slightly shifting to reveal scales, it was easy to pin him as the main offender. 

                                                          ~~

        Dee sits alone in the jail. They took his weapons and his gold, but the spider necklace he’s had since he was fifteen stays hung around his neck, and the purple engagement ring stays hidden in the pockets of his pants. (He carried it around with him for months waiting for the right moment. Once Virgil was gone the habit continued). The cell is cold, and the alcohol still running in his system is making it hard to keep his human form. Across his body scales shift back and forth into skin. He’s acutely aware of his chest, and he is sure his left eye is shining bright gold. Dee has never been good at keeping one form. Alcohol, adrenaline, and trying not to cry over his ex-boyfriend certainly didn’t help.

        He shuts his eyes and tries to think of nothing. It used to work when he was a kid. He could focus on the sounds around him and keep his body semi-stable. For a moment his mind is empty, and all he is aware of his is the itch of his constantly transforming skin. It doesn’t last. The room is too cold. He’s never done well with cold. He pulls his cloak around himself. Except it’s not really his cloak. It’s too long for him, and it’s a shade purple he’d never pick out for himself, and worse of all it still smells like Virgil. Virgil had left most of his clothes in the rush to get away from Dee. It would be easier if Dee only thought about their fights, the mean things they would shout at the top of their lungs, and the sight of Virgil running away from him.

        But he couldn’t just remember the bad; their 1st kiss and 30th kiss would get muddled. The nights they stayed up laughing and talking about things they’d never say to anyone else. The way Virgil would brush fingers over Dee’s scales. It hurt to think. It hurt more much to forget.

       It hurt too much, and the jail cell was too cold. 

       He needs to move on. Get a bad haircut and fuck some hot dude who he’ll never see again. He needs to be like normal people who get broken up with. But when has Dee ever been able to be normal?

       Dee lays down on hard floor, yanks the cloak even closer to him, and wills himself  to sleep. He dreams about a cottage on a hill. Inside Virgil would be humming a Panic! at the Elf song while making french toast. It is quiet and domestic. Dee has his head on Virgil’s shoulder, and they are happy and safe in a way they never got to be growing up.

                                                        ~~

       When Virgil gets shoved in the jail cell, he was surprised to see that he isn’t alone - didn’t officers try to keep criminals separated? - but when he sees who it is, he stopped short. Didn’t even notice the officer leave. Deceit is asleep, and Virgil can swear he’s smiling. Virgil hopes its a good dream - he hates what he knew he must have done to his boyf- his ex. Virgil takes off his hoodie and puts it around Dee’s shoulders, knowing that even with a cloak that Virgil is pretty sure used to be his, Dee must be cold. It is too cold in here, but hey, a half elf can stand it. Certainly, Virgil knew he could stand the cold more than Deceit can; it is a miracle he is even asleep, to be honest. All Virgil can do now is hate himself for the past, and wait for Dee to wake up. 

       An hour and a half later, Dee opens up his eyes, and for a minute Dee thinks he is either still dreaming or he has travelled backwards in time. Leaning against the wall across from him is a lankly half-elf with stupidly swoopy bangs, a band t-shirt, and ripped fishnet leggings. His shoulders feel heavier. He looks down to see Virgil’s purple patchwork hoodie hung around his shoulders.  If this was real – if Virgil had also gotten thrown in jail – Dee had not heard the officer open the gate. He and Virgil had always had a knack for accidentally running into each other. It was odd that this hadn’t happened sooner. Unless, that is, if Virgil had been purposefully hiding from him.

       “Virge?” Dee cringes at how happy his voice sounds.

       Virgil looks down at him, seemingly expressionless. He tries to be stone cold, but hates it. He wants Dee to know that he still loves him, that he didn’t mean to run for so long. Virgil was sure that Deceit hates him - why wouldn’t he? So Virgil would make Deceit think that he hates him too, to lessen the heartbreak. 

       “What are you doing here?” Dee asks, carefully.

       Virgil walks over and offers Dee a hand up. Too obvious, but whatever. I can’t not help him. Virgil thinks to himself.

                                                              ~~

       Dee tightens the hoodie around his shoulders unconsciously. Neither the hoodie nor the cloak beneath is doing much to keep him warm, but both are covered in Virgil’s scent of lavender and apples. He doesn’t trust himself to touch Virgil because he doesn’t think he’ll be able to let go of him again. But would that really be so bad? He grabs Virgil’s hand and does everything he can to stop himself from melting into the touch. 

      Fuck, Deceit was grabbing his hand. Virgil tightened his hand, never wanting to let Dee go again. Virgil pulls him up, and they both let their hands linger in one another’s grasp for a little too long. 

      Virgil lets go first, and Dee tries to reach back out, but stops himself. Letting go hurts more than the bottle that got smashed over Dee’s head earlier tonight. 

       Letting go of Deceit’s hand hurts more than the torture Virgil recently was dealing with, until tonight, anyway.

                                                          ~~

       “What are you doing here?” Dee repeats a little more aggressively and urgently. 

       “That’s not your business anymore, Deceit.” The way Virgil says his name, says the name Virgil coined for him, makes Dee physically nauseous. It’s full of poison and contempt instead of annoyance and love. 

       It hurts Virgil to talk to Dee like that, to say his full name like that. But he has to. He had to protect him - especially from the people that Virgil had just escaped from. If he could make them think that they hated each other, all the better for his ex. Virgil was doing this to protect himself and Dee. If only he could convince himself of that.

       “Besides,” Virgil continues, “it’s not like I could’ve done anything worse than you did to end up here.”

       Dee forces himself to have some of his normal confidence, “Oh please, you’re the one whose fingerprints are on every crime we did together. I did the talking. You’re the one who actually did the crime.”

      Virgil almost smiles at their old familiar banter, before remembering he doesn’t have the privilege of smiling with Deceit anymore. He knew exactly how to hurt Deceit, though, and would never want to- but he also knew he had to.

      “I’m not the one who murdered multiple people.” Virgil winced internally. Dee bares his sharp canines, “The only reason you’re still alive is because I saved your ass.” 

       ‘How many times, Dee? How many times did I fail you?’ Virgil thought, his heart breaking every moment he looked at his former boyfriend. He would never say that aloud, though. He couldn’t, not now. 

       “How long have you been waiting to tell me that lie?”

       “I don’t lie to you!” Any part of Dee’s body that was still holding on to his human form melts away revealing the truth, scales and all.

       “All you do is lie to me!” There are tears blinking out of Virgil’s eyes. He hopes Deceit wouldn’t notice. 

       “You can’t really believe that, can you?” Dee steps close enough to Virgil that he could reach out and touch him. 

       Virgil wishes he could hold Deceit, could melt into his arms once more. But he can’t, not ever again. 

       “I don’t know what to believe. I can’t trust you. I don’t even want to look at you.” Virgil couldn’t help but realize that if Dee were telling the truth, that their roles would be reversed - with him as the liar. Too bad that that wasn’t the case. This hurt too much, he couldn’t do this. He hated this. He just wants to kiss Deceit.

       “I was just trying to keep you safe,” as Dee speaks he can’t stop himself. He reaches to touch Virgil to cup his face. 

       “Stop saying that. Stop lying. For once just stop.” Virgil wishes that Deceit wouldn’t pretend to still love him. Virgil had hurt him too much. So why does he lean into Deceit’s hand? 

       They stay like that for a moment, breathing in sync, and looking into one another’s eyes.

       “Virgil,” Dee says in a much quieter voice, “I’m not lying. You are the only thing that has ever made sense to me.” Dee wants to tell Virgil how much he doesn't want their relationship to be another thing he ruins. He wants to be able to go back and fix things. To know how to love in the right way. But he can only shift his skin, not his actions.

       “I… Dee, I…” I want to tell him the truth. I want to kiss him. I want to… I want him. Virgil could soon hear nothing else. 

       “Vir-” The name is cut off by Virgil’s lips.

                                                           ~~

       Kissing each other  is uncomplicated. It’s something they know  how to do right. It’s perfectly familiar. Their mouths move together, a dance they’ve rehearsed for years and years. Virgil pulls them together, and Dee pushes them up against the bars. There’s no room between their bodies, and if Dee doesn’t think too hard he can’t tell where his forms stops and Virgil’s begins. It’s so close to how things were just two months ago. But there’s something different. Under all the sweetness there is something decaying, and neither of them can run from it. Yet they stay kissing, hoping against hope that they can make this moment last. Hoping as one that they can stay like this, until they can’t.

       “I love you,” Dee whispers against Virgil’s bottom lip. He doesn’t mean to say it. He doesn’t think about how much those three words have changed in only sixty days.

       Virgil stiffens, and his hold on Dee’s waist loosens. “Do you have to? Isn’t me leaving you enough? Why do you hate me enough to lie like that?”

       “I don’t lie to you.”

       “I can’t know that.”  Virgil can’t know. He wishes to anything that he could.

      “I’ve never lied about loving you.”

       Virgil takes his hands away from Dee but keeps their bodies close. It would be so easy to fill the gap; both of them want to. Yet neither does. 

       “Vee, let’s just start over. Let’s go back to normal.” 

       “No.” Not with you hating me while I love you more than anything. Please, stop breaking me. Virgil silently begs after the short, clipped answer he gives.

       “We’ll make it work. I’ll be better. We could be happy again!”  The weight of the engagement ring in Dee’s pocket feels three times heavier. 

       “No!” Virgil quickly lets Deceit go - why torture them both even more? Virgil doesn’t even notice the tears. 

       “Why not?” Dee’s yelling now, and he’s pretty sure he’s crying too.

       “I don’t want that anymore. I can’t want that anymore.” Not if you don’t want me too. I hurt you, you don’t want me, why are you trying so hard to convince me that you do?

       Something constricts inside Dee’s chest, “I don’t get it. Why does it matter? So I killed someone, so what? It wasn’t the first time. You didn’t care about the other times. Why now? Why is this enough to make you run away from everything we had- from me?”

       “I- I don’t know. I was scared, and I don’t want to be scared of you. I can’t love you if you frighten me.” Virgil winces at the straight lie - but he won’t tell Deceit. He won’t burden him with the knowledge of what Virgil has been going through for the last month and a half. 

      “This isn’t fair!” Hot tears are sprinting down Dee’s face, “You were supposed to be my happily ever after.”

       “...And you were supposed to be mine! You used to be mine!”

       “So what, you just want to throw away the entire life we had together?!” Deceit shouts.

       I don’t, but you do. You hate me. I miss you. Virgil winces. “I can’t love you anymore.”

       “Don’t you mean that you can’t love people like me? Murderers, monsters, and everything in between?” 

       “Stop putting words in my mouth.” Virgil stares him down.

       “Then say what you mean.” 

        Virgil doesn’t answer, and turns away from him.

                                                        ~~

       They haven’t spoken to one another in fifteen minutes, but they’re sitting on the cold ground side by side. Neither could say how they ended up there. Dee’s left knee is dangerously close to Virgil’s right. An old contact of Dee’s is supposed to bail them out in the morning, but that’s still hours away. 

       Two months ago if they had been thrown into jail together they would be cuddled together or planning their escape or kissing. Now they aren’t looking at each other, and any words spoken seem to die on the cold concrete of the cell.

       The uncomfortable quiet is worse than the cold. Deceit doesn’t have Virgil’s jacket anymore - he threw it at Virgil’s back as he walked away from their conversation.

       Dee wishes he could ask if they can travel together again. He doesn’t though because he doesn’t think Virgil would say yes. Two months ago, Dee should have asked a very different question that he didn’t know if  Virgil would say yes to. 

       Virgil wishes he could ask Deceit to stay. To be with him again. But he knows he can’t, knows that he can never be with him again after what he’s done to his boyf- to his ex-boyfriend. 

       In the morning, Virgil walks to the tavern, and Dee quickly makes his way out of the town.  

       It’s only later that they both realize that they never said goodbye.

#deceit adder #Virgil Abett #mod sid #mod Angel #anxceit #dnd fic #dnd backstory #virgil sanders #deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit

[flutteringphalanges]

                                          Mirabile Visu

Summary: Sister Agatha Van Helsing discovers she’s in over her head when a competitive game of chess ultimately results in her becoming pregnant with the child of her worst enemy, Count Dracula. Now tied by a bond deeper than blood, the two must learn to coexist and adapt in a world that could be potentially hostile towards their offspring. Parenthood has never looked so batty.

Characters: Dracula/Agatha Van Helsing

Chapter: 12/?

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N:  So we had to put my seventeen year old cat down early this morning. I've had him since elementary school. While I was writing this chapter, he came up to the table and sat with me one last time. This chapter is special, not due to the content, but because it was our last time together. Anyway, thank you so much everyone who read and left a review for the last chapter. It means the world. -Jen

                                           Chapter Twelve

                                     Zoe Van Helsing's Residence

                                                Present Time

As the sun began to set in the west, the orange glow of the day spilled past the open curtains of Sorina's window. For hours now, the young woman had remained tucked underneath her covers, finally getting the sleep her body so desperate craved. Agatha sat in a chair close by, her eyes still fixated on her unconscious child as they had been since the beginning. Over a century had passed since she had witnessed Sorina sleeping, and though her heart ached for her, she took comfort in the sounds of her soft snores.

"How is she?"

The former nun turned her head to see Dracula standing in the doorway. He'd been downstairs watching the news as reports broke out about the mysterious fire that had started in the Jonathan Harker Foundation. Numerous bodies had been found, too burned to immediately identify. Everything inside had been destroyed too. Machinery melted. Records turned to ash. As it turned out, not much was known to the public what the institution was or stood for. From what he gathered, nothing could be traced back to them.

"Still asleep," Agatha sighed, watching as her husband drew nearer. "And Jack?"

"Passed out on the couch," and she could tell from his voice he still wasn't too keen on the other man being here. "Why don't you let me take over. You need to rest."

"I'm fine," she assured him. "I'd rather stay here with her." Despite the many hours they'd been there, neither she nor Dracula had spoken much. "She looks so peaceful. I can't help but think back to when she was just a little girl." Agatha rested a hand on her stomach, still far from looking pregnant yet. "It still hasn't set in that we're going to have another either. Not like we've had much time to process things as it is."

Dracula touched her shoulder lovingly and she leaned against him. Sorina shifted underneath the blanket, but didn't wake up. Everything felt so surreal. One moment she had been on the burning deck of The Demeter, the then tiny Sorina clinging onto her for dear life, and the next she was standing on the sandy beach of Whitby over a century later. Her mind was reeling, trying to process it all. And yet, everything felt so slow, so calm as she gazed at her daughter.

"How are you feeling?" The count's voice pulled Agatha from her thoughts as her attention flickered to meet his eyes. "You need to feed. I'll contact Frank and see how soon he can retrieve some blood."

"I don't want anyone else to die, Dracula," his wife sighed tiredly. "There's been enough death today, some of which I am responsible for. I don't believe in killing, you know very well about that. I'm done with the suffering."

"I know," and she was slightly taken aback by how sympathetic he sounded. Especially when it came to their disagreements on obtaining blood-well, when it only involved his feedings in the past. "I promise you that anything Frank does will be legal and humane. I'll make sure of it."

Agatha merely nodded, turning back to focus on Sorina. The uncertainty of how she would be once she woke up felt unsettling. As the minutes wore on and the sky became darker, the former nun finally stood up to stretch her legs. She walked over to the window with the intention of drawing the curtains closed when she heard the bed creak softly.

"Mum?"

The vampire turned to see that her daughter was now sitting up, comforter pushed aside. Sorina blinked wearily as Agatha hurried back to her side. Though she was trying her best to hide it, the halfling could tell her mother was trying to mask her concern, her lips forming a forced smile.

"Hi, darling," she murmured, tucking a lock of hair behind the girl's ear. "You've been asleep for quite awhile."

"Where's Jack?" Sorina mumbled, rubbing the side of her face.

"He's okay," Agatha assured her. "Downstairs sleeping with your father."

Sorina's eyes grew wide. "You left him alone with Dad?!"

"Easy," the vampire grabbed Sorina before she could stumble out of bed. "He's fine, I promise. Your father hasn't done anything to him. He knows better than to do that."

Her shoulders slumped and the halfling let out a heavy sigh. The more alert she became, the faster the memories of today resurfaced in her mind. Zoe. The woman that had grown up with her. The only family she thought she had left until just a few days ago. Gone. The anguish was still there, but now trapped under a layer of numbness. To feel anything was exhausting, so she tried not to.

"I want to see Jack," Sorina finally said, breaking the silence.

Agatha didn't object as Sorina rose to her feet. She followed from behind, noticing her daughter tense as she walked past a closed door. It could only have been Zoe's room. Who knows how long it would be until the young woman would be able to muster up the courage to go inside. That didn't matter right now. Sorina would do what she wanted when she was ready.

The television in the living room was still on, but the channel had changed to what appeared to be some antiques show. Towards the front door, Dracula was busy talking on the phone, his brow furrowed as if he was in a heated conversation. Perhaps Frank wasn't being as helpful after all. She turned to see that Sorina had already found her way over to Jack. The young man's eyes opened as the girl knelt down in front of him.

"Hey, Sunny," he gave her a weak, crooked smile. It was evident that he was still in a lot of pain. But he did his best trying not to worry Sorina about it. "Nice to see your face."

"Goofball," she smirked, but the amused expression faded when she noticed him wince. "Are you okay? Where does it hurt?"

"I'll survive," Jack assured her, grunting a little as he moved to sit up. "I've had worse. Remember when I told you about the time I fell out of a tree and broke my arm? This is nothing compared to that."

"You really need to work on your lying," Sorina frowned. "You've at least taken something for it, right?"

He seemed to hesitate, mouth pressed into a thin line. "Your mum found some painkillers in a cabinet for me. I took a few of those."

Sorina knew by the way he was acting what medication he was referring to. It wasn't your average, over the counter pill. No. It was one of Zoe's prescriptions. Something that had been prescribed to her for whenever she was feeling particularly ill. She bit her lower lip and merely nodded. At least it was going to good use.

"I don't see why my request is coming off as difficult to you," Dracula said coolly, pacing back and forth. There was a pause that seemed to only deepen the vampire's frown. "I'm not asking, Frank, I'm kindly telling you what I require and what my family requires. After everything I've experienced as of late, I'd highly suggest you avoid getting on my bad side." Another pause and the vampire's nostrils flared. "Yes, yes, I suppose that would do. Inconvenient, but better than nothing. I'll see you in a few hours."

He ended the conversation before the other man had a chance to finish. Exhaling, Dracula slipped his phone into his pocket.

"Frank said it'll take him a few hours to obtain some blood, but rest assured it will be done." His eyes flickered over to his daughter and the young man on the couch. "Micul mea liliac, I'm so glad you're awake." Ignoring Jack, who clearly reeked of nervousness, he went to Sorina's side. "Are you hungry? Can I get you anything?" Dracula could almost feel Agatha's stare. Her silently nagging him to extend his hospitality to the boy. "Or you?" He asked in a very flat manner.

Both vampires were very new to the modern world. The fact that her father alone had adapted so fast to using a cell phone was surprising enough. Sorina wasn't even sure her mother knew how either a stove or an oven functioned. Hell, she still struggled with it. Zoe had always been the one to cook, the halfling nearly burning the house down a few times. Not that she was really hungry anyway. As she opened her mouth to turn down his offer, Jack cut her off.

"Pizza," he said, looking directly into her eyes as he said it. "With extra pepperoni."

                                                             XXX

The doorbell rang and Sorina shuffled over with a wad of cash she'd retrieved from one of the chest drawers. Three pairs of eyes watched as she twisted the knob, pulling the door open to reveal a rather scrawny looking teenage boy. Somewhat thrusting the money into his hands, muttering he could keep the change, she took the box.

"Exactly what is pizza?" Her father inquired, curiously eyeing the cardboard square as she set it down on the coffee table. They decided it was best not to make Jack move around.

"Cheese, dough, tomato sauce," Sorina stated, mumbling off the ingredients. "Sometimes pepperoni. It's pork."

"You always did have a taste for pig," the vampire remarked fondly. "Though certainly not in solid form."

"I haven't consumed blood for decades," the girl stated with a grimace, grabbing a slice. "It isn't exactly accepted by society-I mean, I don't have to survive off of it. But," out of the corner of her eye, she saw Agatha's soft frown. Something that reminded her of her mother's rebirth and new dietary needs that she was still coming to terms with. "I guess we do what we can to live."

The room fell quiet as both Jack and Sorina began to eat. Her appetite still wasn't where it normally was,and the halfling found herself picking at the toppings. At least pizza seemed to fare well if stored in the fridge.

"I never got to officially congratulate you," Jack said, putting an end to the silence. "On the new baby. I was an only kid myself. It'll be nice having a sibling, I bet," his gaze flickering between Agatha and Sorina.

"Thank you, Jack," and the vampire's smile was genuine. "Dracula and I haven't really had the time to process it. We'd always planned-well, desired another child. But didn't quite realize how quickly it'd happen."

"I suppose one might say I have very impressive and potent seed," the elder vampire smirked, earning him a smack on the arm for his wife. "What? I was only being honest."

"Our daughter doesn't need to hear about your capabilities," Agatha glowered as Sorina tossed her plate onto the table. Even if she was hungry before, she certainly wasn't now. "Your social skills leave much to be desired." She shook her head letting out a long sigh. "Anyway, Sorina was a lovely baby. I must admit I didn't have much experience around children. Nuns don't exactly have a family life besides their fellow sisters."

"Your life was truly dull until I came along," Dracula stated simply. "Tragic, perhaps."

"Yes, our introduction was certainly a positive one," his wife rolled her eyes. "You showing up unannounced, quite indecent I should add. You made quite the impact, I'll give you that."

"And you loved me for it," he grinned.

"No, I believe at the time I wanted to kill you," she mused. "I found myself feeling that often in the beginning. Especially when you practically kidnapped me and locked me away in that castle of yours."

"Now backtrack just a minute," the vampire held up his hands in seeming defensiveness. "Firstly, you willingly came-a trade off between you and Mina. That isn't kidnapping...more like mandatory you come with me, or I'll make you regret not doing so."

"A true romantic," Agatha snorted, unable to hide the small smile that graced her features. "And then there was chess."

"Ah, chess," he nodded fondly. "Now that was interesting."

"And something we won't go into detail with in front of our child," the former nun added quickly. "Anyway, where was I? Oh! That's right! Sorina. Yes, she was a good infant. A little nippy though. Inherited her teeth from her father."

"A fine trait indeed," her father added, his gaze meeting Agatha's. "Fond memories."

The vampires' eyes stayed locked on one another until their moment was interrupted by the doorbell. A look of annoyance briefly flashed across Dracula's face as his gaze broke away from Agatha's. Muttering about Frank he made his way over to the door.

"I'll put the pizza away," the former nun said, lifting the box up. "It's rather amazing how far ice boxes have come."

As she walked away, Jack's attention turned to Sorina. He looked off. Uncertain. And as he waited until both of her parents were out of sight, he took a deep breath.

"Sunny," he began. "Today was...well, I truly am sorry about Zoe. She was a good woman."

"Thanks, Jack. That means a lot coming from…"

"When Dr. Bloxham pointed that gun at you and it went off, for a moment I thought I'd lost you," the young man swallowed hard. "Sorina, you're the most important person in the world to me. And I know I'm not really all that special, or incredibly good looking…"

"Jack."

"And you're beautiful, Sunny. Like, I've seen the way other men look at you. And I know you could probably have any one of them you wanted…"

"Jack."

He exhaled. "I guess what I'm trying to say is…"

"Jack!"

Finally, the young man stopped his rambling. "Yes?"

"Just shut up and kiss me," Sorina smiled, leaning forward so their foreheads touched. "Took you long enough."

From the shadows, Agatha and Dracula stood quietly watching, the male vampire's grip tightening around the sealed container of blood he'd been given. As their lips met, anger and an urging sense to protect bubbled in his chest. His eyes darkened, and as he stepped forward with the intention of stopping the two, his wife grabbed his arm. He turned to look at her, the woman's gaze firm.

"Let them," she said gently.

"But," he began to protest. "She…"

"They deserve to be happy," Agatha continued. "She's not a little girl anymore."

Of course she wasn't. How could he have forgotten that? He watched as his daughter giggled, her eyes brighter than he'd seen them since they'd been reunited. He wasn't fond of the idea. To him, no one deserved Sorina. She was, after all, the most precious thing to him. But Agatha was right, as much as he hated it. She was. As always.

"Come," she smiled, reaching down to grasp his free hand. "Let's go have a drink and give them some privacy. Then we can rest. I'd like to watch the sunrise tomorrow with you."

Dracula nodded his head, giving his wife a grin. "I'd like that very much."

#Dracula #Dracula 2020 #Agatha Van Helsing #Dragatha #Dracula x Agatha #Dracula on Netflix #Mirabile Visu

[treatian]

The Chronicles of the Dark One:  The Dark Curse

Chapter 216:  Romancing Magic

Cora stared at the golden thread he'd spun in his hands and then finally grabbed it herself to examine. He watched as she rubbed it hard between her fingers as if searching for paint or some other trick to explain what she'd just seen. Finding none, she looked back up at him.

"You want to help me?"

"No," he answered honestly. "I want you to help me. And you will, because the future…is my gift. Well, in a manner of speaking." It was the first time since he'd inherited the ability that he actually thought of it that way, but he wasn't willing to relinquish this lead he had on his son now! And better yet, he had the feeling Cora was not willing to relinquish this hope she had that her life might not just be spared but improved. A fine bed over a cot of hay would be appealing to any man or woman…didn't he know.

"What could you possibly get from me?" Cora demanded with a roll of her eyes as if she thought the entire thing was ridiculous. If only she knew just how long he'd waited for this moment.

"Funny you should ask. Can you read?"

With a snap of his fingers, he crafted a contract, one that Cora was eager to take in her hands and begin skimming. The jolt she gave when she got to the fine print was small but still present. But the look she gave him as she held that contract in her hands…it was suspicious.

"My firstborn child?"

He nodded, moving around the little stool to stand beside her. "She is quite important."

"She?"

"Yes, I see the future. Weren't you listening?"

Cora's eyes drifted away from him, and she let out a small sigh, almost one of relief. He supposed it could be emotional for a woman to hear news of her first child and also painful for someone to suggest they would take it away, but fortunately for her, that wasn't what the contract stated and nor would he do such a thing. He wasn't an idiot. Now that he had something of a timeframe, there was too much to do in order to get himself together and find Baelfire. He didn't have time to raise a child. He'd leave that to her mother. All he wanted was the ability to be in her life and teach her magic, that wonderful, glorious power that quivered just beneath her mother's skin. But only if she accepted this deal!

"Anyway, I only get my payment if you live past tomorrow."

"You can turn all this straw into gold by morning?" Cora questioned.

He nodded. "And you can parade in front of the royals and demand the hand of the dimly lit Prince!" he pronounced. "And have them kneel before you. That's what you want, eh? You want them to kneel-"

"No."

"-I… No? What?" he questioned, turning back to her.

No? No, to what? No to his offer? Or no to his deal? It was a critical question! And he was more confused than ever because he couldn't understand the answer of "no" to either of those? No to one and she died, no to the other, and she'd never get the respect she deserved at had to undoubtedly crave after the life that she'd led. No? How could she turn him down?

"Teach me," she finally requested gently but with insistence. "Don't just do it. Teach me. Make it part of our deal."

Well…wasn't this an interesting twist of fate. It was his job as the Dark One to be the tempter, to be cunning and clever to suggest the best deal that would give him what he wanted while letting her feel like she had just won. There were no negotiations involved, and yet…

The power within her burned bright, like a beacon in the distance that issued warnings, it called to him now, tempting, desirable, and the skin on her shoulders didn't exactly hurt either. So, this was what it felt to be tempted, to feel want for someone other than his son. She was a worthy opponent. But he wasn't going to be fooled. He wasn't going to be caught up in her twice. He needed Regina, not Cora. Cora's knowledge of magic would only make the hold she'd have on her daughter stronger than his own, and he couldn't have that. Besides…she was nothing next to his Belle.

He let out another small laugh. "You are a spicy one, aren't you? But look around you, dearie, you're in no position to bargain. It's my way or no deal."

That was what he should have said to her. That was what he should have insisted upon when Cora asked for magic. He shouldn't have taught the bitch as much as he did, he shouldn't have had an affair with her, he shouldn't have ever come so close as to nearly give a piece of himself away that was reserved for his True Love.

That memory with Cora wasn't his best to look back on…but it was certainly one that he wished he'd seen through more than others. Especially because of the heartache she'd caused him but also because he was certain if he'd been allowed to have a hand in training Regina, she wouldn't have been as needy as she was today.

Another visit from the former Evil Queen. It figured. She went around acting as though she was powerful, but at the first sign of trouble, it was right back to him. She'd slipped in with dinner, but this time she hadn't used a camouflage spell, but rather one she'd fixed on the outside. She'd shifted her appearance into that of a mouse, started nibbling on an apple he'd taken a bit of that morning, and then tossed out of the cell.

He knew it was her and not an ordinary mouse because he could smell magic on her, powerful Dark Magic like he hadn't been in the room with for years but would always recognize. It was the same magical signature that his Curse reeked of. He could feel it giving him power, overcoming the magic of the mines. He could leave if he wanted to with that magic. He could end this torment and go back to his castle. Live out these days before the Curse in comfort. Oh, how he longed for the comfort of home! Of anything beyond this! But the magic he had was here for another purpose. He had to store it away.

When the guard left, it was just the pair of them in the cell, but he waited until he heard the footsteps fade farther down the hall. "It's just us, dearie," he muttered. "You can show yourself."

In a cloud of black magic, she was suddenly standing before him again. She moved her neck to one side, excising the last of the uncomfortable magic before she stepped forward.

"That Curse you gave me," she explained, holding the scroll he hadn't been in the same room with for years up in front of him. "It's not working."

And somehow, that made him angrier than anything inside this cage. She had all she needed to cast that Curse; why wasn't she doing it?! What was taking her so fucking long to do it! Oh…he knew, or at least he could take a guess. But with any luck…he could light a fire under her and make it so that she finally moved!

"Oh, so worried," he smiled, tapping his fingers together. "So, so worried. Like Snow and her lovely new husband."

"What?!"

"They paid me a visit, as well," he smiled, stepping up to the bars. "They were very anxious…about you and the Curse."

"What'd you tell them?!" she roared, stepping up to the bars.

"The truth! That nothing can stop the Darkness!" he announced with a flourish before sneering down at her again. "Except, of course, their unborn child." Regina balked, her eyes opened wider, and he felt her heartbeat quicken. Nothing like the promise of losing everything to force the little witch to get a move on it. "You see, no matter how powerful, all curses can be broken. Their child is the key. Of course, the Curse has to be enacted first."

"Tell me what I did wrong."

"For that, there's a price."

"What do you want?"

"Simple," he spat. Being in here had given him time to think, time alone in his own head as he hadn't had for over a century, and he knew what he wanted from it. He never wanted this again. He wanted resources, and he wanted power in any way that he could get it! Fortunately, after a talk with a werewolf about this new place they were going to, he knew how he needed to get it. In a World Without Magic, there were two ways to get what he wanted. The first was money. But the second was to have power over the one who had power in the first place. And his student was suddenly desperate enough that he thought she might give it. "In this new land, I want comfort. I want a good life."

"Fine. You'll have an estate. Be rich."

"I wasn't finished!" he snapped. "There's more!"

"There always is with you," Regina sneered, shaking her head. He ignored her comments and climbed the bars, standing high above her for his final most important request.

"In this new land, should I ever come to you for any reason, you must heed my every request. You must do whatever I say. So long as I say…' please'!" he shrieked, laughing at her, letting her think he was going mad because sometimes he felt like he was. But if she thought he was going mad...the request would seem less harmful than it actually was, less suspicious.

She sighed without interest, unaware of what she was about to give away. The realm may not have magic in it now, but one day it would; the Curse would bring its own magic with it. Not much, not until he'd finally enacted a spell to bring it into that land, but it would be there. And he wanted to use as much of it as he could. "You do realize that should I succeed, you won't remember any of this."

"Oh, well, then...what's the harm?"

"Deal."

He snorted as he backed away from the bars. It was done. All he needed to do was give her answers, and he'd be ready for the new world. He prayed it would come soon.

"What must I do to enact this Curse?" Regina questioned.

He couldn't be entirely positive where she'd gone wrong but seeing as how she was still standing there, without tears in her eyes, he could think of one significant thing she'd either skipped over entirely or chosen to half-ass out of love. "You need to sacrifice a heart," he instructed.

"I sacrificed my prized steed," she interrupted.

He flew at her. Launched himself at the bars of his cage, reached through and grabbed her by the neck, taking in the wonderful sensation of Dark Magic flowing from the Curse, into her, and now into him. Oh, it was just as seductive as the first day he'd touched it. It deserved the finest of everything to come to fruition! If she thought that her horse would do…she clearly had no idea how to romance magic.

"A horse?" he growled, letting the magic flow into him. "This is The Curse to End All Curses. You think a horse is going to do? Great power requires great sacrifice. The heart you need must come from something far more precious."

He'd attacked her, but her heartbeat evened out as she listened to him…but now it was pounding again, pulsing so wildly he could feel it in her neck. "Tell me what will suffice," she ordered with a calm voice.

He grinned, looked her in the eye, and whispered, "The heart of the thing you love most."

She snatched him by the wrist at his declaration and pulled herself free. "What I love most died because of Snow White."

That was true…years ago! Now she was all grown up, and there was one she loved even more, one who had shown her loyalty beyond measure despite what she had become. He smiled, recalling the vision of her looking at her father through the bars of her own cell, "the one I love most." That was where she'd gone wrong. Love made people truly blind.

"Ooh. Is there no one else you truly love?" he asked, dragging the back of his fingers over her perfect cheek. He'd done everything that he had to do to get her ready, but this was the final test he couldn't pass for her because he hadn't! He'd had the Curse in his grasp, and he'd had someone he loved in the dungeons! He'd let her go, let her die because he wasn't strong enough to kill her himself. Regina had to be! She had to want it more than she wanted the man she loved. He was helpless to do anything else but wait.

"This curse isn't going to be easy. Vengeance never is, dearie. You have to ask yourself the simple question. How far are you willing to go?"

The Evil Queen stepped forward so that she put her own face between the bars of his cell. "As far as it takes," she whispered. Good.

"Then please don't waste everyone's time and just do it," he begged. "You know what you love. Now go kill it."

Without another word, she turned, transformed herself back into a mouse, and walked out of the cell, leaving him behind. She'd taken the Dark Curse and all the magic it offered with her, but his skin still hummed with it. Now! He had to do it now! Before he gave in and used that magic to leave before he lost his opportunity.

He flew to the wall where the parchment was and held it between his hands, and then he transferred it. He used every ounce of energy and magic he had to push all the magic the Dark Curse had given him into that parchment until it glowed with blackness and burned his hands. He dropped it in the dirt with a shock when it ended. Behind him, he could hear guards walking in the outer corridor. He didn't know what time it was, but he wasn't going to take any risks. He scooped up the burning parchment, took out the magical quill and the squid ink, and retreated to his little alcove. He dipped the quill into the ink, and it provided enough power for the quill to absorb the energy of the Curse and transfer it into him as he wrote one word over and over and over again.

"Emma."

It was his trigger word. Now, when the day came that he heard that word again, it would be in the other world. He would wake. He would help her break the Curse he'd worked so hard to create. Much to Regina's displeasure, he'd remember the deal they'd just made, and he would be sure to use it.

He wrote the name until there was no longer any more space left on the paper, and power buzzed through him, tied him to the curse and now to this cell. The magic spent, there was no leaving now. He had only to wait.

#Rumbelle #Rumple #Rumpelstiltskin #Dark One #Cora #Queen of Hearts #Golden Heart #Regina #Evil Queen #ouat #ouat fanfiction #fanfic

[gilsy]

Cigarettes (crush x reader)

I paced to the end of the hallway with speed, towards the door that opened up to bright lights of reality escape and destress, to the alley behind school that no teachers nor students hung around. Looking down to my watch, reading the time. 12 minutes left to lunch. Pushing the old and crusty wooden door open, I found my hands working its way into my skirt's pocket to grab my box of cigarettes. Opening it, taking one out and then clamping it in between my lips, I shuffle my bag for the lighter.

Snap! Where's my lighter? Great, must be in my locker! I dread going into that place, that old building reeks of pale scholars that spend their youth studying in that prestigious-for-no-future cell. Studying is great and all but I see no sight of letting my youth rot away day by day in those classrooms.

   "Here,"-- A guy I didn't recognize approached me and brought me out of my trance. He seems tall, broad and muscular but not too; suggesting to light my cigarette, I gratefully accept. His thumb pressing down on the trigger while his right-hand hovers over the lighter to block the wind. Inhaling the fresh nicotine, I awake. I take a few paths before spotting him smoking too. After a brief silence which was refreshingly comfortable, and certainly not awkward, I spoke up.    "Do you smoke here often?"    "Yea, you?"    "Yes, me too. How come I never saw you here before then?" I suggested.    "I used to smoke under the tree beside the school, in the parking lot," I then mouthed an 'I see.'    "What year you in?" I voiced.    "13 and science,"    "12 and science too... Takin' all three?" I wanted to know him better. All in fact, maybe I could finally have some company while I smoke and chill. My friends don't smoke, they don't even drink or eat supper. Teen life huh? They're stuck in that cell all day long with a too-good-to-be-true healthy life.     "Nope, took business in place of biology."    "Ah- me too. I took geography instead of physics. So what made you change your smoke spot?"    "Sun's getting wild as summer comes,"    "I see. At least I can get company now," I state, and he chuckles at this comment.    "I'm (c/n). You?" He sticks his hand out for a shake.    "(y/n),"    "Pretty name" he mumbles.    "What?" I swore I heard him say something.    "Lunch?"    "Sure."

#crush #literature #dialogue #cigarette #crushxreader #school #highschool #highschoolscenarios #fiction #fanfiction #im new to this #crush scenarios #crushscenario #lovescenario #wemeet #newpost

[trashcanband4]

Father Daughter Duo CH. 8

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3  Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

Chapter title: Yet Another Day. Setting: The Prison. Warnings: Rape, Non-customary situations, suicide attempts.

I sat straight up in the bed gasping for air and covered in sweat. My fingers clawed at my neck in an attempt to remove the imaginary hand that had only been a very realistic part of a nightmare. When I had caught my breath I climbed down off of the bed and peeked out of the cell. The sun wasn't up, but it wasn't far from it and Daryl was sound asleep on the perch. If he was still asleep the others might be too and I desperately needed a bath. So I grabbed a small draw string back pack out of my bigger bag and filled it with my shower supplies. I made sure my gun was loaded before I put it in the waist band of my pants at my lower back and secured my knife to my belt before I tiptoed out of my cell and past a quietly snoring Daryl to the door that led out to a set of stairs that would take me to the court yard. The door made a slight sound when I shut it, and I froze waiting for Daryl to wake up and come after me, but he never did so I kept on walking.

I had gotten to the gait that led out of the court yard when Rick's voice stopped me. "Where are you goin'?" I let my shoulders slump and turned around to look at him in the dim morning light. "Sean doesn't want you goin' anywhere by yourself."

"Yeah, I know. That’s why I was trying to be sneaky. Apparently it didn't work." I said with a roll of my eyes and crossed my arms over my chest.

"Apparently not, now where are you going?" he looked at me with suspicious eyes and I decided it wouldn't be worth it to lie.

"I was going to wash up at the lake." I said dropping my arms to my sides and taking a few steps toward him, "If you haven't noticed I kinda reek."

"I actually haven't." Ugh how could he not have? If I could smell myself I knew others could too. "Everything stinks now days and you're not allowed to get those wet." Aw damn, I forgot about that. “No come back inside.” he put his hand on my back and started ushering me back inside.

"So I'll hold my hands out of the water." I said exhausted with a shake of my head. "I need a bath. I can't walk around here smelling like this anymore. It’s driving me insane." I argued and turned to go out of the gate.

"Okay, fine, but I'm coming with you." I spun around smacking him in the face with my ponytail.

"No, you most certainly are not." The hardness of my voice matched that of his face. "I'm a big girl I can take care of myself."

"Really?" he asked crossing his arms over his chest. "That’s why you've tried to kill yourself, twice?" Eer! Why won't people just leave me the hell alone?

"It's my choice. My decision and if I don't want to be here anymore then you and my father have no right to stand in the way of that." I said angrily while talking with my hands.

"I agree." I opened my mouth to keep arguing only to shut it when what he said sank in.

"What?" he's a cop and he's going to let me kill myself?

"I agree." Huh, okay… "but your father doesn't. If you die on my watch he will blame me." I guess he has a point. "So I'm going with you."

"Aw freakin' A. Are you kidding me? I don't need some stranger watching over me and ogling my goodies." He laughed which only pissed me off even more.

"I'm not a stranger, and I've already seen you naked." I couldn't help the heat that flooded my cheeks.

"Fine, whatever." I gave up knowing that I wouldn't win and started walking not bothering to look back and see if he was following. When we got to the lake I made myself pretend that he wasn't there, stripped and walked out into the cool water keeping my hands out of it.

"So what kind of music do you like?" I heard him ask from behind me and I turned to see that he still had his back turned.

"A little bit of everything, but mostly country. Why?" I answered knowing what he was doing.

"Just trying to get to know you." No, he was making me talk so that he would know I was still alive. "How old are you?"

"Twenty two, twenty three, who knows now days?" I took a deep breath and dunked my head under water before I walked out and started washing my hair and body. I was trying my best to keep water off of my bandages, but little droplets still managed to seep into them. Oh well, maybe Hershel wouldn't get too mad at me if they got a little damp.

"Did you go to college?" he asked while I was walking back out into the water.

"Nope." I answered before I stuck my hands back up into the air and sunk down letting the current wash the soap out of my hair. I was about to stand back up when my foot slipped on a rock causing me to be pushed sideways and my hands to fall below the water line. I had almost regained my footing when a strong arm wrapped around my shoulders and pulled me up out of the water and onto the bank. "Rick, let me go!" I shoved at him and he released me letting me stumble back. I put my hands on my knees and coughed trying to catch my breath before I glared up at him.

"What are you thinking?" he asked raising his voice. "Do you really want to do this to your father? Do you know what you not only dying but, choosing to leave him would do to him? Do you think that he would be able to just move on like you are nothing to him?"

"Why are you yelling at me?" I asked shocked from the sudden explosion.

"Because you were being stupid and tried to drown yourself again. Did you really think I wouldn't stop you?" he was still yelling at me.

"I wasn't trying to drown myself." I said standing up and crossing my arm across my chest as I grabbed my bag and pulled out my towel. "I slipped on a rock and fell." I wrapped the towel around me and went to hide behind a tree while I changed. He didn't say anything back. "But for the record, my father would be perfectly fine without me. All I do is hold him back."

"No, he loves you; you're the only family he has left." He said sounding kind of sad. "He wouldn't be able to live without you."

"How do you know? You don't even know him." I asked as I pulled on a converse t-shirt and picked up my pants.

"No I don't know him, but I can see how much he loves you and I know what I would do if something were to happen to Carl." He said and I took in his words letting them sink in. He was right. Dad hadn't gotten over mom. He had started drinking because we lost her. Rick was probably right about what Dad would do if he lost me too.

"You're probably right, but I still don't forgive him for what he did." I said as I pulled my pants up and stepped around the tree while putting on my belt with the knife secured to it. "I understand Dad's reasoning, but I don't think I'll ever understand why Merle did what he did. I'm not even pretty." I scooped up my bag and gun off of the ground before I started walking back to the prison.

"Well you're defiantly not ugly." He argued from behind me and I couldn't help the sarcastic laugh that erupted from me as I stopped walking and turned around to look at him. 

"Pfft, please, my hair's always a mess, my arms are flabby, my eyes are way too big for my face and now I'm all scarred up." He smiled and shook his head.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but…" the way he looked into my eyes made my stomach do flip flops, "You're very pretty." I don't know why, but what was going on brought out the old me. The me that turned to mush around men.

"You're lying." I accused meekly and looked at the ground.

"I wouldn't lie about something like that." He said defending himself and I looked up at him.

"Don’t pity me Rick, I don’t need it." I said in an exasperated breath and turned to walk away but I was stopped when his hand caught mine and I turned back to him.

"I do not pity you." He said it quietly with my hand still in his. "And your eyes are the most attractive thing about you. Kinda reminds me of Lori when she was Younger." He said and I could tell he sincerely meant it. But remembering that he had a wife I pulled my hand out of his and started walking back to the prison.

When we got to the cell block we went separate ways. Rick went in through the holding room and I went in through the door that lead to the perch, which thankfully was empty. Once in my room I sank down on the bed and let my head fall into my hands exhaustedly. Even with a shower I still felt dirty.

I was putting my almost dried hair up in a ponytail when my father knocked on the door frame of my cell. "Hey, just wanted tell ya that we're about to go." I asked him where without looking away from the mirror. "We're gonna find the commissary." That got my attention.

"Who all's gonna go?" I asked hoping he wouldn't leave me here with these people.

"Rick, Hershel, Glenn, Daryl and me." All of the men except Carl and T dog. I was glad that I was going to have a break from all of them, but I didn't like the fact that I would be left with just women and T-dog.

I don't want him to go, he said he would be safe, that there was safety in numbers, but nothing is ever safe and I was still mad at him. At the moment I was sitting on one of the metal tables watching Maggie and Beth kiss their father before he walked out into the hall and Rick sent Lori a look that I couldn't even begin to understand before he too walked through the opened gate.

Glenn clung to Maggie for a few seconds while my father was looking at me. I managed a small smile and a nod that he knew meant be safe. We had used this silent exchange while we were on the road and didn't feel like talking. Then he followed Glenn through the door and Daryl nodded to all of us before he walked out. I just sat there and watched the white wings on his back disappear into the darkness of the hallway. No one offered each other any reassurances; we all knew they were pointless and untrue. No one could say "They're going to be okay" and know that for a fact, but it was Maggie who came over and talked to me.

"So you must be feeling pretty useless huh?" I looked up from the floor at her. "I mean with your…wrists and all." She motioned to the now un-bandaged horizontal stitches and sat down on the table not far from me. How did she know that I had been feeling useless? "So, I brought you something." She handed me a hard back book. The pink moon on the cover suggested that it was a teenager's book, but it looked interesting all the same. "It's not great, but its somethin' to do if you like to read." I shrugged and set it off to the side. So far, Beth and Maggie were complete opposites.

"Thanks." I looked around the room to see that everyone was still in here. I got the feeling that this group had been together for a long time and had grown to take comfort in each others presence. This only made me feel like I was interrupting their harmony. "I'm sure it'll come in handy." I said with a genuine smile.

"So what did you and your father do before y'all found this place?" she asked trying to strike up a conversation and for once I didn't shut it down.

"Well mostly we just drifted around from place to place, taking what we needed and staying as long as we could before another herd came rolling in. What about you guys?" She shrugged and said that they had done the same thing. We spent a good while talking, and I actually liked her, we had an okay amount of things in common.

When the men came back, they didn't come alone. They were followed by five guys, prisoners, who had survived in the cafeteria since the beginning of all of this. They all looked equally scary in their own ways, but one stuck out more than the rest. The Hispanic, or Latino or what ever he was. There was something different about his eyes, a type of craziness that I had never seen before, not even in Merle. After a yelling match between all of them in the holding room Rick, T Dog and Daryl brought them outside. 

"Who were they?" Beth asked looking around at everyone.

"Prisoners, the huge guy is Big Tiny, the short nigg-” my dad stopped himself from saying the word when his eyes landed on T-Dog, “uh, short guy is Andrew, the bald headed one is Oscar, the red headed guy is Axel, and the one with the dark ponytail is Tomas." Tomas, he's the one that gave me the heebie jeebies.

Hershel looked like he had seen a ghost and Beth walked over asking him what was wrong. "I almost lost my leg back there." Beth started panicking asking him what happened. "We got surrounded, there were walkers everywhere and there was one laying on the floor that I thought was dead, but it wasn't. It reached up and grabbed me when I wasn't looking. Sean killed it before it had a chance to bite me. We ran into the cafeteria to get away from the biters, that's when we found those people." So my father saved Hershel? He looked at my father with the eyes of a truly grateful man. "You will never know how much that meant to me. You kept me with my daughters." He wrapped his arms around Maggie and Beth for a family hug.

"I'd just like to think ya would do the same for me if the time ever came." My father replied. We were all standing near the closed door of the holding room when the prisoners all came back in and Rick left T Dog and Daryl to guard them while he explained to us what was going on.

"We're going to help them clean out a cell block in exchange for half the food left in the cafeteria." There were several sounds of disagreement, but no one really said anything. "I've made it very clear that they are to stick to their own cell block. We won't have any problems out of them." His words were sure and his face was hard, but I didn't believe him. His eyes settled on Lori where she stood with her hand on her belly.

He kept on talking but I blocked him out and turned around to look through the closed bar door behind me. Tomas was standing with his hand on a gun that was shoved into the waistband of his jumpsuit as he stared at Daryl, but my movement caught his eye. That’s when I really noticed it, that level of insane that was almost inhuman. A sickening smile spread across his lips as he looked at me and winked. Daryl followed his gaze to me before he made a motion with his head telling me to back away. I did, but not before seeing and hearing what happened next.

"Don't even look at her." Tomas kept looking at me licking his lips and Daryl charged on him hitting him in the face with the butt of his crossbow. "I said don't fuckin' look at her." I didn't know if I should appreciate what he did or hate him for it. But I turned back to Rick catching the last bit that he said.

"But it's too late now to venture into the halls so they'll be locked in cells until tomorrow morning."

Rick went into the holding area and not long after the building was filled with angry voices. The prisoners where putting up a fight about having to sleep in cells. All the men where hollering at each other save two, Big Tiny and Oscar. They were just standing back watching the other men argue.

In the end the five men won. They where given sleeping bags and put outside. Rick and Daryl locked all the entrances to the building. We ate a meal of canned food from the prisons stock then we all headed to bed. My dad stopped me before I could go up the stairs. "Hey, why don't you move into my cell tonight? I don't like those men being just outside."

I shook my head and hugged myself. "Thanks for the thought Dad, but I'll be fine in my cell." For once he didn't push the subject and settled for a side hug that made me want to cringe before we went our separate ways.

I walked up the stairs and Daryl was already lying down on his makeshift bed. "Night." He called as I walked past him and I said the same back with an awkward wave over my shoulder before I disappeared into my cell. I changed into a pair of pink Nike athletic shorts and a black tank top. I climbed up the ladder, snuggled into the warm blankets and drifted off to sleep.

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[neuxue]

Wheel of Time liveblogging: The Gathering Storm ch 38

Egwene faces some important questions and understands some important things and it’s all lovely and then the last page BLOWS IT ALL AWAY HOLY SHIT THAT’S A THING THAT JUST HAPPENED

Chapter 38: News in Tel’aran’rhiod

Egwene! This seems like an appropriate POV shift after the last chapter(s). Chapter, mostly. It fits, because of course Rand and Egwene parallel each other in many ways, as I have no doubt already bored you to death with on multiple occasions, but an Egwene chapter seems like perhaps the only way to follow…*waves nervously in the direction of the previous chapter* that, because while there are many many parallels between these two, the difference – as I have also no doubt bored you to death with on multiple occasions – is in their mindsets, and in how they approach those parallel events and issues and obstacles. And so to go from one to the other is (probably) a good way to transition in a way that provides a smooth continuity as well as a marked contrast.

I say all of this having read exactly one word of this chapter, so maybe I should not be getting ahead of myself.

So Egwene is locked in a cell, which means this is definitely not a perfect awful things to happy delightful things tone shift, but then, I wasn’t really expecting it to be. I’m expecting more of a ‘this is what I must do and so I will do it even as it damns me’ burning of hundreds of people from existence to a ‘this is my situation and I will do all that is in my power to bring something good from it because that is the choice I have made’ resistance-but-also-healing from within tone shift.

The conversation thus far looks something like this:

Siuan: “Let’s stage a prison break.” Egwene: “No.” Siuan: “Aw, come on, you’re no fun anymore.”

Lightly paraphrased, of course.

Siuan: “Also they might kill you.” Egwene: “…point.”

So at least Siuan gets to plan a prison break. She should get Gawyn on board; it might keep him occupied. Or at least keep him from fucking everything up (again).

“If Elaida cows them, she will act quickly. The woman’s punishments can be swift as a stormwind, take you unaware. I know that for certain.”

“If that happens,” Egwene said pointedly, “my death would be a victory. Elaida would be the one who gave up, not I.”

And so here we have another of those not-quite-parallels not-quite-inversions between Egwene and Rand. It’s the way they both currently view the possibility of their death. Neither sees it as a defeat, or as something to fear. Both see it, to some extent, as a form of victory. But while Rand arrives at that thought through despair and self-loathing and pain he has had to endure for too long, and sees it as something he deserves and as the best he can hope for – an ending – Egwene sees it as an affirmation of agency. If she dies, she dies in power. If she dies it is because she has chosen not to give up her fight, not to put down the burdens she has taken on. If she dies it is a victory, not because she seeks death or an ending, but because it would ensure that her goals are furthered and hopefully achieved. Rand wants to die because he no longer looks to a future; Egwene will willingly die if it means saving the future she works towards. Rand sees it as his fate; Egwene sees it as her choice.

“An old acquaintance of yours recently arrived in camp.”

“Really?” Egwene asked absently. “Who?”

“Gawyn Trakand.”

Sigh. Please just break up with him; you deserve so much better.

On the other hand, at least she knows he’s there – given how communication in this series usually goes, I’m almost surprised. And if she knows he’s there, she can take that into account. Or send a message to him to mind his own business for a little while. Or something.

She managed to keep her form locked into that of the Amyrlin, however, and forced her thoughts back to the moment, driving herself to be casual as she responded. “Gawyn?” she asked. “How odd. I wouldn’t have thought to find him there.”

Siuan smiled. “That was nicely handled,” she said. “Though you paused too long, and when you did ask for him, you were overly uninterested. That made you easy to read.”

“Light blind you,” Egwene said. “Another test?”

A good test, though. Or maybe that’s just me – I like these sorts of things, even if this feels more Sanderson than Jordan to me. Still, it’s absolutely the sort of thing Siuan would ensure Egwene knew: how to mask her true reactions one way or another, and deceive the messenger without truly lying.

I suppose it’s also good that Egwene still has reactions and emotions, unlike SOME PEOPLE I COULD NAME. It’s one thing to hide them; it’s another to rm -rf the whole damn system.

“I should think that the time for testing me has passed.”

“Everyone you meet will always be testing you, Mother,” Siuan said. “You must be prepared for surprises; at any moment someone could throw one at you just to see how you respond.”

That is very, very good advice. Harsh, perhaps, but true. Hers is not a role or position that allows her to take her guard down. Ever, really.

Also that reeks of foreshadowing.

“Gawyn hasn’t said much that I could hear. I think he’s here because he heard that you were captured. He arrived with a spectacular flurry, but now he stays in Bryne’s command post, visiting the Aes Sedai regularly. He’s mulling over something; keeps going to speak to Romanda and Lelaine.”

“That’s troubling.”

That’s an understatement.

For Egwene’s reasons too, I suppose. I was thinking more about the extraordinary potential Gawyn carries in his pocket to make a mess of things, but it’s true that the implication here of divisions in the camp is…a problem.

Not a new problem, but a growing one.

Romanda on one side, Lelaine on the other, with a shrinking slice that doesn’t want to take sides.

Hey it’s a fractal! The Aes Sedai split in rough thirds between Elaida, Egwene, and Option C; then one of those groups split into rough thirds between Romanda and Lelaine…okay sorry I’ll stop.

*definitely does not start drawing out the Fractal of Aes Sedai Uncooperation*

The Tower may be fracturing along Ajah lines, but the rebels are not free from division and discord themselves. And truly healing the Tower means finding a way to bring allof those together.

“Factions and breaks,” Egwene said, getting up. “Infighting and squabbling. We are better than this, Siuan.”

Or she’ll make them be better than this, by sheer force of will.

It’s hard for any group to remain truly unified towards a single purpose, though, especially when there’s power involved. Just look at…uh…literally anywhere in the entire world.

And in this particular world, Rand’s trying to hold nations together but has just failed to establish a truce with the Seanchan. Egwene’s trying to bring the Tower together, but even her own faction is threatening to splinter apart. There is a greater threat, and they all need to be united to face it, but that’s countered by all the forces of division, all the disagreements and differences of opinion and outright hostilities. So this is where people like Egwene and Rand come in, or should, but that is far from an easy task.

For now, Egwene’s about to lay down the law for the Hall. They should know by now that this rarely ends with anything other than Egwene getting her way, so we could just skip the whole ordeal and go straight to that end result, no? No. Alright. Fine.

“I worry about how hard you’re pushing yourself. The Amyrlin needs to learn to ration her strength; some in your place have failed not because they lacked the capacity for greatness, but because they stretched that capacity too thin, sprinting when they should have walked.”

It’s like a version of or variation on Nynaeve’s talk with Rand in A Conversation with the Dragon. A softer version, perhaps, because Egwene isn’t tearing away her own humanity piece by piece, but she is in her way giving everything she has and sparing very little for herself. It is how she has always been; Egwene does not do things halfway. She throws herself in wholeheartedly, even when there is a risk. She does not let herself rest, does not pace herself.

And yet…well, we all know how I think this ends. One of the things I’ve suspected for a long time about this series is that Egwene will not survive it. And in a way, if I’m right, it would be yet another parallel/inversion between her and Rand. I think Rand, who thinks he must sacrifice everything he is, and who longs for the ending of death, will find a way to live, and perhaps to find himself again. Because death is something he seeks out of despair and fatigue and self-hatred. Whereas Egwene…this is who she is.

There are some lines she has to draw between Egwene al’Vere and the Amyrlin Seat, and she’s had to change to fill that role, but she hasn’t torn away parts of herself to do that. She’s grown, and become more herself. She has made these choices and embraced what they require. It’s not a rejection but rather an affirmation of self, and while as a result she may feel pain, she does not inflict it upon herself, nor does she see it as something she deserves. Egwene does not hold back or fragment herself to try to preserve some part of herself. And so it would be true to her character to give everything, including her life, and to do so willingly. It would be fitting for her, because it would be a choice, and true to everything she is, whereas for Rand it would be…not defeat, precisely, but certainly not triumph. Because for him it would not be a choice so much as it would be the only way out of something he never truly chose. Victory – or maybe fulfilment? I can’t think of quite the right word – for him would be getting to be himself in the end; getting to have a life he chooses, getting to live free of this fate that was set upon him. Whereas victory – or fulfilment – for Egwene may well be to be absolutely herself at the end, to hold nothing back and to give her life for the world.

So…yeah, I worry about her pushing herself too hard as well. I just don’t think she’s going to stop doing that. I think it will very likely mean her death. But if that’s the case, I also don’t think it would be a…meaningless death. It would be one of those sad-but-not-tragic sorts of deaths. Where it’s sad but in its own way it’s a kind of fulfilment of character.

Or I could be wrong.

That’s always a very strong possibility.

“My days are spent in solitude, with the occasional beating to provide spice. These meetings at night help me survive.”

“Is it difficult to endure?” Siuan asked softly.

‘Well, I’m kept in a cell that is essentially a box and beaten regularly but nah, this is fine’.

(Egwene does a better This Is Fine than I do).

Then again, it’s hardly her first captivity. But where Rand’s subsequent captivities only made his fear of confinement worse and dragged him even deeper into distrust and hardening himself, Egwene has – unsurprisingly, given how these two characters’ arcs relate – gone in almost the opposite direction.

Egwene’s response to being collared – and the way she reacted when freed from it – was similar to Rand’s response to the box. Different in scale, because one happened in book 2, when Egwene was still just coming into her power an done happened in book 6, when…well…They will pay. I am the Lord of the Morning. But while Egwene definitely still carries some of that trauma and resulting fear of being collared, this doesn’t compound that. In part, it helps that it’s not the same kind of captivity. But it also helps that she sees a purpose in it; this is a part of the war she’s fighting, and she does it for the White Tower. She embraces pain because there is a reason for it – not because on some level she believes she deserves it. She embraces it so that she can endure it, but does not use it as a form of self-flagellation in order to harden herself. She instead learns to accept it. And she doesn’t tell herself ‘this is what comes of trusting’ or ‘this is what comes of not being strong enough’. She doesn’t internalise it, even as she embraces it.

Because she has chosen this.

“It just occurred to me. This is what it must have been like for Rand. No, worse. The stories say he was locked in a box smaller than my cell. At least I can spend part of the evenings chatting with you. He had nobody. He was without the belief that his beatings meant something.”

Oh Egwene. There’s something so…almost cathartic about seeing her say this, seeing her understand. Because that puts her in a group of maybe…one or two other people? And she gets to the heart of it in a way, but understanding that fundamental difference between their situations: he was alone, and without the reassurance that this served a purpose. Whereas she can hold to that, and she can reach out to some of her support base, and know that there is a reason for her pain.

It’s a rather perfect illustration of the whole ‘parallels but inversions’ pattern of their storylines – there’s a very obvious point of similarity in that they’re both held in a box and beaten (at Elaida’s direction, no less)…but that’s where the similarities end. And that’s how so much of their stories have been: points of similarity in terms of the situation, and then nearly opposite approaches or responses to it.

Also this is lovely because it shows so clearly how  she still cares about Rand, even if the Dragon Reborn is a problem to be dealt with.  

“Each day I endure is another proof that Elaida’s will is notlaw. She cannot break me. Her support from the others is eroding. Trust me.”

Siuan nodded. “Very well,” she said, rising. “You are Amyrlin.”

And here we have the value of strength rather than hardness. Rand smiled when he was taken out of the box and beaten, but it was the hardest thing he had ever done; it was a brittle sort of defiance, because he was being broken. He had no one but Lews Therin and nothing to hold on to except the belief that this is what comes of trusting Aes Sedai and so he tried to endure but it was such a brittle endurance. Whereas Egwene can draw strength from those she trusts, because she still has those connections. Egwene can embrace pain knowing it serves her purpose. And so Egwene cannot be broken this way. She’s not grimacing in defiance and desperately holding on; she’s suffering but her belief and determination and sense of self are intact.

“I always believed you had potential,” Siuan corrected. “Well, you’ve fulfilled it. Some of it at least. Enough of it. However this storm blows through, you’ve proven one thing. You deservedthe place you hold.”

It’s a nice moment, and yet another sense of a character’s growth completed or all but completed, a readying for the ending. They’re all coming into who they are, who they have been becoming for the last eleven books.

Well.

Rand is something of a special case. He’s also reaching what feels like the culmination of a path he’s been on since almost the beginning, but in his case it’s a nadir rather than an apex. And yet, I think that’s a necessary step in his case, the darkest hour before the dawn.

Egwene is, rather understandably, reluctant to leave Tel’aran’rhiod because embracing pain is all well and good but there’s no reason to hurry back to it if you don’t have to.

I feel the same way waking up on Monday mornings.

Egwene had long since stopped being unnerved by the eerie lack of people in Tel’aran’rhiod. But this camp was different somehow. It looked as a war camp might after all the soldiers had been slaughtered on the battlefield. Deserted, yet still a banner to proclaim the lives of those who had occupied it. Egwene felt as if she could see the division that Siuan had talked about, tents clumped together like bunches of sprouting flowers.

The strength of the rebel camp is waning, with Egwene no longer there to hold the centre. Deserted but with a banner to proclaim those who occupied it is pretty much right on the nose. They’re still ostensibly holding to their position, but without the impetus or heart she provided. It’s a brittle thing, now, a hollow rebellion. She doesn’t have much time.

Because this is a part of the division of the Tower – it is divided within itself and against itself, and so long as there is division, there will be weakness. If she is to unite it, she must unite the whole Tower; she held the rebels together for a time, but that’s not enough when there’s a greater division still unhealed.

It was healthy to have the women planning and preparing; the trouble was when they began to regard others of their kind as enemies, rather than just rivals.

You could expand that to all of humanity at this point, Egwene.

And this is where I sort of wonder if maybe…could Egwene be the one to finally achieve a treaty or some kind of peace with the Seanchan? They’re moving on the Tower and she’s trying to unite the Tower from within and she very much has a history with the Seanchan – she’s the first of the main characters to have such a history – and it would be a way of bringing a sort of closure to that part of her arc. A way of healing or moving on from what was done to her, and laying the foundations for something better.

So what if their attack on the Tower is a way for her to unite the Aes Sedai, but then a chance to perhaps offer the Seanchan a truce rather than defeat? What if Elaida’s Foretelling about Rand facing the Amyrlin and knowing her anger is tied in some way to the dual but opposite prophecies of Rand binding the nine moons to serve him and the Dragon Reborn kneeling before the Crystal Throne?

And if that’s how the attack is thwarted, if she ends it by forging some kind of truce between them, it would be a rallying point for the Tower around her as well, because she would be the one who not only foretold this attack but saved them from it and future ones…

Rand failed to make peace with the Seanchan, and his and Egwene’s arcs have so long been this series of parallels and opposites, so it would be fitting for this to be another one. Rand to walk calmly to peace talks and everything to fall apart as both sides immediately turn to their own attacks afterwards, and Egwene to face a battle and come out with a peace treaty. There would be a very nice symmetry to something like that.

What if the White Tower didn’t unseat Elaida? What if, despite Egwene’s progress, the rifts between the Ajahs never healed? What then? Go to war?

There was another option, one that none of them had brought up: that of giving up on reconciliation permanently. Setting up a second White Tower. It would mean leaving the Aes Sedai broken, perhaps forever. Egwene shuddered at the prospect, and her skin itched, rebelling against the thought.

But what if she had no other choice? She had to consider the ramifications, and she found them daunting.

Yeah that’s about as much a solution as balefiring a fortress is mercy. But it’s a sign of how much she’s grown and matured that Egwene forces herself to consider the possibility of failure, and to actually think through what it would mean. What the other options are. What she’s committing herself to, and what will happen if she doesn’t succeed. Because she could fail. She’s about as determined as it’s possible for a person to be, but she’s not infallible, and there are things she cannot control, and it could all still go wrong. So she forces herself to face what that would look like. Even here, locked in a cell. Even as she has to hold fast to the belief that her pain means something. Because she also has to look at the possibility that it won’t.

Also…the Aes Sedai have been broken since the Breaking of the World, really. Ever since the male Aes Sedai went mad and saidar was left unbalanced by tainted saidin. And there is a second tower already: the Black Tower. The Asha’man, separate from the Aes Sedai.

She would bring the White Tower Aes Sedai to her side. Elaida wouldfall. But if not…then Egwene would do what was necessary in order to preserve the people, and the world, in the face of Tarmon Gai’don.

Determination and conviction, but that undercurrent now of pragmatism and realism. It’s not an easy duality to hold. She’s come a long way.

Ah, good old need. Possibly the closest this series comes to deus ex machina on the regular but hey, sometimes you…uh…need that. I suppose it’s really just letting any character be temporarily ta’veren in the World of Dreams. Of course, ta’veren is that wonderfully paradoxical way of circumventing deus ex machina by turning it into a part of your worldbuilding, so…fair play. Surrender to control?

What did she need to know, what did she need to see?

Wise questions to ask, all things considered.

It’s something else I like about how Egwene has grown: she hasn’t lost that core of stubborn determination that has seen her through so much, but she has gained an openness to advice and an acceptance of the fact that she does not and cannot ever know everything, that she might be wrong or might be missing something. And the corresponding ability to seek out and be open to whatever that might be. It reminds me of what Lan said to Rand, about a portion of wisdom being the understanding that you can’t know everything, and that sometimes what you’re missing is the most important piece. And a portion of courage being to go on anyway.

She presses on, but she also looks for guidance and advice when she knows there’s more. She uses need here not to find a solution to her problems, but to see what the Pattern thinks she should know or see, to see what she might be missing, because she’s willing to be shown it, and to take it into account.

(It would be nice if more people did that in real life from time to time).

Need takes her to a fire, apparently. How…*looks at last chapter again*…ironic.

In the middle of a camp of the Tuatha’an. I think maybe I see where this is going.

She could almost hear the flutes and drums, could almost imagine those flickers from the firepit to be the shadows of dancing men and women. Did the Tuatha’an still dance, with that sky still full of gloom, the winds so full of ill news? What place was there for them in a world preparing for war?

But what place is there for war, in a world that has no place for dancing? What purpose is there to that war, if not to allow for life? Without that, you end up where Rand is: looking only to the war and its victory, and not to the reason, or to anything that comes after. And at that point, the only purpose is war itself, and what future is that?

If I were a slightly more cynical person than I am, I might respond with ‘the one we live in’ but apparently in this, the year of our lord two thousand and nineteen, I still retain some semblance of optimism.

Maybe that’s just because it’s my favourite season and I have an excellent playlist of classical music on in the background a full mug of the world’s best green tea sitting right next to me, so nothing can look too bad.

(I am absolutely a caricature of myself in this moment).

For a moment, she let her gown change to that of a simple, woollen Two Rivers dress of green, much like the one she’d worn during her time visiting the Travelling People. She stared into those non-existent flames, remembering and pondering.

…In a moment, she would step out of Tel’aran’rhiod and return to her wounds. In a moment she would face the Aes Sedai outside, and become the Amyrlin again. But for now, she only wanted to sit, and remember an innkeeper’s daughter named Egwene al’Vere.

Couldn’t help myself, sorry.

Best not to wonder what has become of Aram, Egwene. That way lies madness, pretty much literally.

Yes, this group would still dance. They would dance right up until the day when the Pattern burned away, whether or not they found their song, whether or not Trollocs ravaged the world or the Dragon Reborn destroyed it.

And that’s what they’re fighting for. This gets into Sanderson’s ‘journey before destination’ a little bit, but is also absolutely consistent with the way Jordan has painted the conflict: it’s not just about winning the war. It’s about how, and why, and what you do with the life you have even when the apocalypse is hanging over you.

It’s what Rand has forgotten, and what Egwene has held on to. Neither of them can truly control the Pattern – well, okay, Rand’s certainly been making a go at it lately, and I suppose almost tearing it to pieces would sort of count in a way maybe I guess – but while Rand has been pulled into the view that this means he has no choices, Egwene takes the opposite view and claims what agency she can. It’s not just about what’s coming; it’s about how they face it.

Had she let herself lose sight of those things which were most precious? Why did she fight so hard to secure the White Tower? For power? For pride? Or because she felt it really was best for the world?

Was she going to suck herself dry as she fought this battle?

Well…in answer to that last question, I think very likely yes. But the whole point is that she’s asking herself these questions, asking herself why. What is she fighting for. What purpose does this serve. If she chooses to give herself to this – the key word there being chooses – what is she doing it for?

They’re the questions Rand cannot ask himself, because that would mean holding on to some form of hope, and that’s too painful. And because he does not believe he has any choices, so it would hurt too much to taunt himself with the notion that he could choose to fight for something, that he could choose how and why to fight at all, that he could choose what has already been chosen for him.

They’re facing the same vital questions, these two, and yet they again end up on opposite sides. Because Egwene sees choice, where Rand sees only necessity.

Yet I think this is exactly where Rand needs to end up – just as need has brought Egwene here, to remind her.

She had chosen – or, would have chosen – the Green and not the Blue. The difference wasn’t just that she liked the way the Greens stood up and fought; she thought that the Blues were too focused. Life was more complicated than a single cause. Life was about living. About dreaming, laughing and dancing.

I have very little to add to this, because…yes. She gets it. It’s not just about getting to the Last Battle at any cost, or even about winning the Last Battle at any cost. It’s about what that cost is paid for; it’s about the future a victory would enable. And in looking past that single cause, there’s a way to find choice again, rather than simply duty. Duty is ‘I must win this battle’. Choice is ‘I will fight this battle so that there will be a future in which people can live a life beyond this war’.

This is also probably the first explanation of Egwene’s Ajah preference that makes sense to me. Even if it is a little ironic that Egwene al’Vere, who throws herself completely and entirely into everything she does, thinks the Blues are too focused. But this is part of that realisation, I suppose – that she needs to remember why she’s doing this in the first place. That it can’t just be about the cause, the way it could for someone like Moiraine, who took that as her own way of accepting and choosing fate.

It reminds me of what Vandene said to Moiraine: “Blues. Always so ready to save the world that you lose yourselves.” And a character like Moiraine…part of her strength is that she can do that, and somehow still remain herself. They need someone like her, who can do that, but that’s…not something that works for every character.

Blah Gawyn blah.

She loved him. She would bond him. Those desires of her heart were less important than the fate of the world, true, but they were still important.

This, precisely. Ignoring the fact that it’s Gawyn, but aside from that, she getsit. She is allowed to want things. She is allowed to care, allowed to make choices. She can prioritise her duty and the needs of the world – and that prioritisation is pretty key here – but  that doesn’t have to exclude her ability to be a person with wants and desires and choices. She doesn’t have to deny herself those things that make her who she is. Because at that point, what is there to hold on to? What point is there to fighting at all?

And Rand has, at this point, decided the opposite. “I don’t know how human the Dragon Reborn can afford to be.” He cannot want anything, because he is a force and a tool and a weapon, not a person. He cannot choose anything, because he is the Dragon Reborn, a piece of the Pattern and nothing else. And so he has torn away or suppressed anything that makes him Rand, and in doing so has lost that source of strength that he views as a weakness. He has lost that surrender-to-control ability to face his fate and yet choose it, because there is a reason and a purpose for him to do so, beyond it being required of the Dragon Reborn. And that makes it so much harder to endure, and takes him closer to this cliff edge of ‘it would be easier, it would be merciful, to just end it all’.

That’s not strength; that’s shattering.

Though the sky bubbled in black turmoil, something cast a shadow from the Tower, and it fell directly on Egwene. Was this a vision of some sort? The Tower dwarfed her, and she felt its weight, as if she were holding it up herself. Pushing on those walls, keeping them from cracking and tumbling.

Rand shadowed by a mountain, Egwene shadowed by the Tower. Dragon and Amyrlin; Dragonmount and the White Tower. And some small light atop each, casting that shadow onto them.

She stood for a long while there, sky boiling, the Tower’s perfect spire throwing its shadow down onto Egwene. She stared up at its peak, trying to decide if it was time to just let it fall.

No, she thought again.

Again it comes down to such a simple and yet monumental difference in the assertion of agency. Both Egwene and Rand, Dragon and Amyrlin, are shadowed by the symbol of their role. Both feel its weight, both struggle to hold it up.

Yet in Rand’s case, he sees that mountain as something he must carry, until the time comes when he can die and be free of it, because that is the only way. For Egwene…she looks at it, and wonders if she should just let it go, and decides not to. She chooses this. And that makes it more bearable.

I Rand’s case the mountain is a…pressure, a weight on him, seeking to crush him. In Egwene’s case it’s still a weight, but she sees her role as supporting it, holding it together rather than struggling underneath it.

Anyway I love the way they are so similar and yet so opposite; I know you probably couldn’t tell from the last several thousand words.

It’s just such a good way of highlighting those differences, and in doing so showing indirectly where the core of Rand’s own struggle is. And also showing the importance of Egwene’s choices and mindset, as we’ve seen where the opposite leads. Both storylines and arcs play off of and complement each other, so that together you get something slightly more than the sum of their parts.

And back to the waking world and pain.

She did not complain. No yells, no cries, no begging. She forced herself to sit up despite the pain, smiling to herself at how it felt.

Her refusal to cry out or beg or show them discomfort is not a strain on her in the same way as it would be if she were resisting this pain, or if she had no belief that it was for a purpose. But because she embraces that, there’s a much greater depth and strength to her endurance and defiance. It feels less brittle, more sustainable.

She sat back down, cross-legged, and took deep breaths, repeating to herself that she wantedto be locked in this room.

That deliberate assertion of agency, to remind herself of the strength it brings. Of course it helps that she actually could escape if she decided to – that this is actually in many ways a choice – but it’s the recognition of it as such, the decision to cast her situation in such a light, that makes the crucial difference, I think. That’s what so much of her story is based in: the hero-by-choice rather than necessity. The importance of choosing, even when it just means choosing what is necessary, or choosing to follow what is asked of her.

The words, repeated in her head, helped stave off the panic at considering yet another day within this cell.

While locked in a box, her mantra becomes an assertion of agency and choice, while Rand’s became a litany of self-flagellating anger and admonishments to never trust again, to be harder.

What would she have done without the nightly dreams to keep her sane? Again, she thought of poor Rand, locked away. She and he shared something now. A kinship beyond a common childhood in the Two Rivers. They had both suffered Elaida’s punishments. And it hadn’t broken either of them.

That last part is somewhat debatable, but what I really like here is the depth of compassion and respect she shows. She doesn’t equate their situations and claim superiority. She’s also already acknowledged the differences in the specifics of their situations, and thinks she has an advantage here by being able to reach out in dreams, and by having the comfort of knowing this means something. And given that she is currently imprisoned and in pain and suffering, that kind of compassionate understanding is…impressive.

I’ve spent a lot of this chapter contrasting the way she and Rand deal with situations that on the surface are similar, but I want to reiterate that my point isn’t to say Egwene is superior because of the way she looks at and handles this, nor is it to try to quantify their relative degrees of suffering. But there’s a reason we’re presented with these two similar yet different situations, and a lot of it is to highlight those aspects that are different, and to let us begin to understand why. It’s easier to see how they each end up where they are when you have something to contrast it with.

And Egwene, also, doesn’t make the comparison as a way of claiming superiority, or as a value judgement of any sort. It’s a source of similarity to her, when so much has pulled them apart. They shared a childhood, and now they share this, horrible as it is. But in that, she chooses to focus on shared strength. There’s a great deal of implicit respect in that; that and this empathy are going to be important, I think, in holding them together and allowing them to face the Last Battle as allies, even when so much of their roles puts them at odds. It won’t be easy, but they have these underlying threads to help them (in a way that Latra Posae and Lews Therin perhaps did not…)

Also, Egwene? This is definitley not the first or only thing you two share beyond the Two Rivers. You two should compare notes sometime, when you uh…have a break from saving the world.

She would not break, particularly not while she could spend the nights in Tel’aran’rhiod. In fact, in many ways, those were her days – spent free and active – while these were her nights, in inactive darkness. She told herself that.

She tells herself that, because so much is about perception. Perceiving it as her choice, believing it to be. And perception is so much of the difference between her and Rand, as we see over and over when they face these parallel events and moments in their respective stories. She sees herself as choosing while he sees himself as chosen, and so much of the differences spiral from there.

Time for her regularly scheduled torture except wait no it’s a change in the routine. Probably not for the better, given that this is Katerine.

Ah. Elaida’s given up on imprisoning Egwene, probably because it’s having no effect whatsoever, and has decided to shift the blame to Silviana.

And Katerine is the new Mistress of Novices. That makes her the third confirmed member of the Black Ajah to hold the position in the series (if we count New Spring). This is some Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor level curse.

Elaida was more competent than Egwene had assumed.

Unfortunately.

That’s part of the problem: Elaida’s just competent enough to maintain a position that allows her incompetence to ruin everything. She’s like those people you run into at almost any company who have clearly been promoted just a little too high, but they’re not quite incompetent enough to be removed from their role, so instead it’s just a mess.

After spending so long locked up, it felt wonderful simply to be able to walk.

I’m reminded so strongly here of that part of Rand’s imprisonment where he hallucinates just…walking. You could extend that to his entire role, really; all he wanted at one point was to be able to just…be. Something as simple as just walking, free of chains or responsibilities or a destiny.

But she’d won. The realisation was just beginning to dawn on her. She’d won! She’d resisted the worst punishment Elaida could contrive, and had come out victorious!

This freedom is a victory to Egwene, in a way Dumai’s Wells was…er…not, for Rand. She’s not completely free, and she hasn’t completely won, but it is a victory nonetheless. Whereas Dumai’s Wells was far more decisive, and yet significantly less triumphant.

And everything looks brighter, even as she knows she still has more to do. (As after Dumai’s Wells everything looked darker, even though it was a very thorough ‘win’). It’s all about perception.

Why does Egwene keep referring to Elaida as ‘the Amyrlin’? Why does she give Elaida that title, when she claims it for herself? Is that just a Sanderson slip?

Saerin wants to talk to Egwene and is going to put up with exactly zero (0) bullshit from Egwene’s Red minders in her efforts to do so.

“Being seen in your company can be rather worth that risk, these days. I wanted to determine something.”

“What?” Egwene asked, curious.

“Well, I actually wanted to see if they could be pushed around.”

Ha. I like her. It’s just the right level of petty. And on a less petty note, tides have definitely shifted in the Tower. Still not enough for Egwene to claim a full victory yet, but what was begun in Honey in the Tea has continued and gained momentum, it would seem.

“[Reds] see it as a major failing on Elaida’s part.”

“She should have killed me,” Egwene said with a nod. “Days ago.”

“That would have been seen as a failure.”

She’s so matter-of-fact in discussing the possibility of her own execution, in terms of its strategic merit. Perhaps again because she has made her choice, and will see it through. She accepted the possibility of execution early on; she has contingency plans around it now, of course, but when she said she would be willing to die for the Tower, she was not lying. And so, once she’s accepted that and made it just another part of her choice – not something to be sought out but also not something to be fought if it could serve a purpose – she can look at it clearly.

Ah, so there’s more to the story of Silviana’s removal.

Oh damn.

“Silviana demanded to be heard by the full Hall while it was sitting,” Saerin explained. “She stood before the lot of us, before Elaida herself, and insisted that your treatment was unlawful. Which, likely, it was. Even if you aren’t an Aes Sedai, you shouldn’t have been placed in such terrible conditions." Saerin glanced at Egwene. “Silviana demanded your release. She seemed to respect you a great deal, I should say.”

Slow clap for Silviana. Wow. That’s quite a move to make, given Elaida’s entire reign as Amyrlin and what she’s done to those who have defied her. But this is where Egwene’s strength pays off: she gave Silviana, and perhaps has given others, the impetus and reason to find theirs. Silviana watched firsthand as Egwene held to her convictions day after day, despite being beaten and punished for them, despite Elaida and everyone else. And so Silviana has now done the same. She has faced the Hall and refused to back down or bow to Elaida’s demands, despite the consequences. Egwene has given her, and given the others, an example of that core of strength and conviction, even if it means defiance. And now that has taken root.

“She denounced Elaida, calling for her to be removed as Amyrlin. It was…quite extraordinary.”

Yeah, Silviana’s kind of awesome.

This could be another turning point; the other Aes Sedai have seen Egwene’s example, and perhaps been swayed by it in some cases, but now it’s not just the novices who have been won over. Now, Silviana has taken up Egwene’s example and made it plain for all the rest to see, and where one has gone, others may follow. It’s not about whispered hints or veiled requests for advice anymore. Now the call has been made not just by a rebel Amyrlin dressed as a novice, but by a member of Elaida’s own Ajah, from within the Tower, in front of the Hall. That’s harder to ignore, and once that first step has been taken, once that particular threshold has been crossed, it’s much easier to carry momentum.

“What did Elaida do to her?” 

“Ordered her to take up the dress of a novice,” Saerin said. “Just about caused an uproar in the Hall itself.” Saerin paused. “Silviana refused, of course. Elaida has declared that she is to be stilled and executed. The Hall doesn’t know whatto do.”

And so Elaida has done exactly what Egwene tried to hint or warn the others she might: carry her power too far. If she demoted Shemerin, what is to stop her from demoting any who disagree with her? If the Aes Sedai let her get away with these things early on, it will only enable her to push them further…and now she has. And so it comes to a head, because now Silviana, unlike Shemerin, refuses to accept that from Elaida. While Elaida has now ordered execution for someone who stands up to her and dares to defy her in something she should never have had the power to do anyway. It’s forcing the Hall to actually make a choice now, to take a side.

I want credit for making it through that entire paragraph without a single reference to real-world politics.

“Light! She mustn’t be punished! We must prevent this.”

There’s a certain amusing irony to hearing this from Egwene, who adamantly refused rescue or aid from her own faction when she was captured and subjected to Elaida’s punishments.

“Prevent it?” Saerin asked. “Child, the Red Ajah is crumbling! Its members are turning against one another, wolves attacking their own pack. If Elaida is allowed to go through with killing one of her own Ajah, whatever support she had from within the ranks will evaporate. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised, when the dust settles, to see that the Ajah has undermined itself to the point that you could simply disband it and be done with them.”

“I don’t want to disband them,” Egwene said. “Saerin, that’s one of the problems with Elaida’s way of thinking in the first place! The White Tower needs all of the Ajahs, even the red, to face what is coming. We certainly can’t afford to lose a woman like Silviana just to make a point.”

There’s so much division, and so much anger between the Ajahs and the Aes Sedai in general, that it’s hard to put aside some desire for revenge or even just to see the ‘other side’ get what they ‘deserve’. But this is where Egwene’s ability to see past that, to seek a true unification of the Tower, becomes so important. Because someone has to be able to look past that.

Yes, this could undermine Elaida. But it’s not really about undermining Elaida anymore; as Egwene realised earlier, it’s about uniting the Tower, which is a similar fight in some ways but a very different one in others. It means she can’t let this continue as another step in the conflict. She can’t let the Red Ajah dissolve just to make a point, to get some kind of payback for the dissolution of the Blue, because all that does is serve more discord.

But to be able to keep so strongly to that conviction after being mistreated and held prisoner and beaten because of them is…impressive, to say the least.

“Do you really think you’re in control here, child?”

Egwene met her eyes. “Do you want to be?”

Saerin’s response is, appropriately (translated to modern English): Fuck no.

It’s a good response, not just because it’s a clever retort but because it’s genuinely a good question. And a good way to make someone stop and think for a second. Who would want to inherit this mess, and be held responsible for almost inevitable failure? (Sometimes I feel just a little bit sorry for Theresa May).

It’s another strength of Egwene’s; or rather, another complexity of the situation she’s come to fully understand. This isn’t about power, or about who gets to be Amyrlin, or even who’s right and who’s wrong. It’s not about winning. It’s about preserving the Tower, however that can be done.

So Saerin’s off to stage something of a prison break of her own, and Egwene’s turning this into an object lesson for the Reds watching her.

Barasine doesn’t want to go watch one of the tenser moments of Tower history because she promised to hold Egwene’s shield, Egwene realises she might actually be the only adult in the room and pinky-swears not to touch saidar, Barasine’s not biting, so Egwene just sends a novice for some nice hot forkroot tea because she is so beyond done with everyone’s shit.

Egwene actually drinks the forkroot, too. It’s like when she started laughing while Silviana was beating her. She’s reached this level of both commitment and understanding to the actual cause and the actual problems that need to be addressed, that from this perspective everything else looks so ridiculous. She’ll have to drink forkroot to get the two Reds to try to prevent the collapse of their own Ajah? Fine, just put some honey in it had have done. There’s a sense of urgency to everything, but all the individual pieces just look so…small. So unnecessary, so petty and ridiculous and why would she even pause for half a second if she can easily find a way past it? What does a little forkroot matter, compared to the fact that the Tower is falling apart from within?

“Hello, Egwene,” Verin said, taking a sip from a steaming cup of tea.

Probably not forkroot this time. But more importantly, um, what? Verin what are you doing here and how did you get here and why?

“I have work to be about.”

“Hmm, yes,” Verin said, taking a calm sip of her tea. “I suspect that you do. By the way, that dress you are wearing is green.”

W

H

A

T

DID SHE JUST.

DID WE JUST FIND OUT.

DID VERIN JUST PLAY HER HAND.

Verin just played her hand.

She just.

That.

What.

It’s not even the fact that she can lie that’s so surprising; that much, I sort of suspected though I’ve never been sure (and even now, there are at least two options).

But first giving that letter to Mat, and now saying this straight out, to Egwene. Dropping the cover she’s kept for…the entire series and based on her thoughts, a very long time before that…

This is her endgame, somehow. So what is it? And why? Why here and why now and AL;FSLEKAJRS VERIN OH MAN.

“Yes, I thought that might get your attention,” Verin said, smiling.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Next (TGS ch 39) Previous (TGS ch 37)

#NO KIDDING THAT GOT MY ATTENTION #VERINNNNNNN #Wheel of Time #neuxue liveblogs WoT #The Gathering Storm

[tere706]

Love is Blind - Chpt 15

(I’m not happy with this chapter. I basically hate it. And I’m even more mad because I can’t exactly say why I’m so unhappy with it. I’ve had most of it done for a day and half and I’ve just be re-reading it and glaring. Just take it and I’ll move on to the next chapter, where things happen.

Also, thank you to everyone who has stuck with me during this journey! And to all the people who’ve joined on! It means a lot to me and I love comments~ 

If you’d rather comment on AO3, me and my fic are under the same name~

tagging: @inumorph, @dark-night-sky-99, @liadreyar-dragneel, @lunalustrix, @thirstyforvenom, @mltcp

Words: ~1800)

Pain.

Liz woke to pain. She was lying on her side, resting on something soft, but lumpy. Her head throbbed when she tried to move. It made her stomach roll and-

She lurked to her knees in time to throw up, throat burning in pain as she heaved. Her world narrowed to the splitting pain in her head, the rolling ache in her abdomen, and the burning in her throat. She barely managed to push herself away from the mess before she collapsed onto her side again. Liz curled up as much as she could, shuddering as she tried to push the pain aside. What had happened? Where was she?

The last thing she remembered was going out for snacks when… Aaron! She jerked, trying to sit up before moaning and curling up again. Aaron was alive. And she’d… somehow gotten hurt. The air here was cool, either she was inside or it was night. It felt good against her face, her skin felt tight and hot like a sunburn. She could distantly hear cars, the sounds of gulls, and ringing. Though that last might have been from her injury. Liz didn’t trust her sense of smell yet, her nose was running after throwing up and besides, this area probably just reeked from it.

Normally, Liz wasn’t the type to lay around and wait for help. But she had no idea where she was, how long she'd been here, her long cane wasn’t right by her, and she was in pain. She was fairly certain by now that she had a concussion, but she didn’t know how severe it was. Was there bleeding inside her head? She’d been unconscious, if she fell asleep again would she slip into a coma? Liz couldn’t wait and hope, but the thought of trying to move made her stomach roll and cramp again.

“H-hello? Help. Anyone hear me?” Liz’s voice was a bit hoarse. It felt like sandpaper had been scraped down her throat. Some of that would have been due to throwing up, but it also felt almost burned.

There was a metal thud from somewhere further away, the sound echoed softly. Ah, so she was inside somewhere.

“Elizabeth?!” Hurried footsteps came toward her. “Oh, gross. Elizabeth, are you awake?” Aaron sounded so worried and relieved as he came to kneel by her side.

“Water?” She croaked, still curled up with her misery.

“Oh, yeah! Uh, hold on.” Liz could hear him scramble back to his feet and away before coming back and pressing a plastic water bottle into her hand. “Do you need help sitting up? You look… awful.”

Well, dignity be damned. Liz wanted to be able to drink the water without throwing it up again. “Yes, please.”

Aaron carefully wrapped an arm around her shoulders and helped her to sit up against his shoulder. “Okay, here. Drink it slow.” His voice was an anxious, tight whisper.

Liz wasn’t about to argue with him on that. She took slow, small sips of the water. With luck, she’d be able to keep this down. Now if only her headache would recede.

“Aaron.” Ah, yes, much easier to talk now. “Where are we?”

Leaning up against the young man’s shoulder, Liz could feel him tense up. “Somewhere safe. For now. It’s near the piers.”

“Okay. What happened?”

“You fell down and hit your head. We were arguing and I guess you slipped.” Aaron said quickly as he pulled away from Liz, leaving her to hold herself up. “I brought you here.”

This wasn’t going to go well. Liz could almost feel it. “Alright, Aaron. I’m sorry I worried you. But I should probably go to a hospital. I think I have a concussion.”

Aaron was pacing a couple feet away from where she was sitting. “No. Not yet. I didn’t… you didn’t let me explain before. About why I can’t go back to the cops.” He had suddenly stopped pacing and dropped to the ground in front of her. “I really need you to listen to me. To… to understand.”

All Liz wanted was some ibuprofen and to crawl into her bed. But Aaron was here and she had a sinking feeling that he was becoming a danger to himself and others. If he felt she was the last person he could rely on and she pushed him away… “Okay, I can’t go anywhere, Aaron. I’m here and I’ll listen to whatever you need to explain.” She tried to keep her voice calm and even rather than hurt and close to panic.

“I…” Aaron had jumped back up to his feet and started pacing again. “I don’t want you to be scared of me. I would never hurt you. You have to believe me. You’ve helped me so much and I… I need you to believe me.” His voice had risen toward the end until it was almost a desperate wail.

“You’re upset. Take a deep breath, okay? In through the nose and out through your mouth. You have to calm down before you explain yourself. Focus on what you can see, on what you hear.” It would certainly be faster to get the story out of him if he was calmer.

It sounded like he took her advice, but he still kept pacing. If it helped with the nervous energy, Liz was fine with it.

“I’m not normal.” Aaron blurted suddenly after taking another ragged breath. “A… a couple years ago things… started happening around me. I didn’t want to tell anyone. I’m not a freak!”

“I would never call you that.” Liz murmured soothingly.

“Yeah.” He paused in his pacing for a few moments before starting again. “Just, remember… I would never hurt you. I never wanted to hurt anyone! Things just… happen around me. I can’t… it’s harder to control now. It’s like the fire is under my skin and when I get upset it just… leaves me.”

Liz frowned as he spoke, setting the plastic water bottle aside. “Fire? Are you talking literal fire?”

Aaron once again stopped his pacing and was silent for a long minute. “Yes. Literal fire. When I get upset, I make fire. I don’t know how or why, it just happens.”

She felt her heart slam against her chest as things started lining up. The gas station fire. Aaron’s fear and panic when it had been brought up in the holding cell. The police station fire. Liz swallowed heavily as she remembered the wash of heat before she passed out. The sunburn like feeling on her face and her sore throat. If it was as out of control as Aaron was implying… this was a very dangerous situation.

“So, those things that happened weren’t on purpose?” Liz asked softly, struggling to hide the tremor of fear in her tone.

“No! No, Elizabeth, I swear, I never wanted to hurt anyone! I didn’t mean for… for any of that to happen! You have to believe me, please. I’m not crazy!”

Liz nodded a little. “I do believe you. You have plans for your life, a good life. You wouldn’t want to mess all that up.” She kept her voice as soothing as possible.

“Exactly! You know me, you know I didn’t want to do those things!” He sounded so relieved, sitting back down near Liz.

“Okay. I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell me. What do you plan to do now?” She had plenty of ideas for what they should do now, but she didn’t want to anger or upset him again.

There was an awkward silence for several moments before Aaron answered. “I… I don’t know. I don’t know what to do! They must know about… about me. I know police stations have cameras. They’ll put me away forever.”

“Aaron… I think your fear is getting the better of you. You didn’t have control of yourself. They can hardly blame you for that. Yes, you probably should have come forward about this sooner so someone could help you, but you’re still a minor. You were scared and it was accident. They aren’t-“

“They will!” It sounded like he’d leapt back to his feet and was soon pacing back and forth again. “I thought you’d understand! Normal people treat anyone different as either lesser or a danger. No one thinks of you as a capable person because you’re blind. No one will believe that I’m innocent because I have scary, mutant powers. I’ll be labelled a danger to society.” Aaron’s last words came out as a growl accompanied by a sudden increase in the temperature of the air.

“Aaron?” Liz’s voice came out closer to a squeak than she wanted to admit. Her stomach rolled again, head pounding away. At least this time she didn’t throw up.

The heat vanished. “Shit. I’m sorry. I promise, I’m not going to hurt you. Look, why don’t you rest? I’ll go get something for you to eat and some more water. Then we… we can plan how I’m going to get out of this.”

“I’m hurt already. I need to go to a hospital.” Liz tried to sound firm, but she was scared. She was scared of the situation and for the first time, she was scared of Aaron.

“I can’t. It was risky enough trying to find you. And hospitals have cameras and security. I can’t… It’ll be okay. I’ll be back in a little bit. Just… it’ll be okay.” He seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as he was convincing her. His voice was becoming more distant as he walked away while talking.

“Aaron?! Don’t leave me here!” She dropped all pretense of calm. There was panic in her voice and the attempt at shouting made her head throb, ears ringing louder.

His reply was distant, echoing back to her. “I’ll be back!”

Liz bit her lower lip, trying to fight back tears. She curled back up on her side and clutched the plastic water bottle close. She had to stay awake, couldn’t risk slipping into a coma or something. And if she heard voices, she could call out for help. Despite her best intentions, tears slowly fell. Liz was scared, alone, and in pain. There was no guarantee of help coming.

A shaky breath escaped her, almost a dry laugh. Of course help was coming. Ven and Eddie would look for her. Liz had no idea when they would be able to find her, but she knew they would be out there searching. She suddenly jerked in surprise and fumbled at her jacket pocket, trying to find her phone. It was gone. Either Aaron had taken it, or she’d dropped it in the alley. Liz sighed, trying not to let the defeated feeling creep over her. She wasn’t alone. Not really.

Please find me. I’m not ready to say goodbye.

#love is blind #venom x liz #eddie x venom x liz #venom x eddie x oc #angst #so much talking