#I mean. she would probably rock it and I assume the various LIs would agree

[secretsimpleness]

Fan service.

Shepard (custom), Liara / Mass Effect (c) Bioware

#mass effect #mass effect fanart #bioware #comic #liara t'soni #commander shepard #custom shepard #shepard #liara #n7 #I mean. she would probably rock it and I assume the various LIs would agree #but it's a matter of /principle/..! #and liara; your time hath come; be welcome in thy first comic etc! #so. I recently indulged my whims and got a late birthday present from the bioware gear store #(I can't believe they did not name it 'bioWARES' but I digress) #and after the anxiety over ordering from across the world I finally got two shirts in my post box (a snarky garrus + the grey warden sigil) #and it seems this idea came along with them. whoop de do. #spring has really come crashing over here and it's a bag of mixed blessings and worries. we shall see how it goes. #and there are so many children out selling flower pins! I never used to see them where I lived before but they are everywhere. #half of them looks on the verge of giving up lol the poor dears. I also hated selling pins.

[theartofdreaming1]

Partners - Part 9: Meeting Mary

Rating: T

Pairing: DickBabs

Summary:  After investigating some more, Dick and Barbara have finally found out where Mary and her son are hiding. Now, all that's left to do is figuring out a way for Mary to trust them... My DickBabs police officers AU.

You can also read this chapter at AO3 or start from the beginning on my blog

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On their next free weekend, after some more sleuthing, Dick and Barbara made a trip to Snug Cay’s Most Beautiful Hiking Trails. Close by the adjoined parking lot, a couple of rental cabins were scattered along the edge of the woods, not too far from the summer camp at which Mary Wallmer used to work as a counselor in her highschool years.

“It’s actually quite pretty here,” Dick commented when he got out of the car, eyes roaming over the nearly empty parking lot with its big map sign detailing its various hiking trails. Well-marked entries into the woods lining the three sides of the parking lot invited visitors to go for a walk.

“Mhm,” Barbara murmured absent-mindedly, rummaging the backseat of the car for their jackets and backpacks, filled with snacks, bottles of water and a map of the area - props to give them the inconspicuous looks of a couple out for a hike.

She handed Dick his stuff, then put on her own gear.

“Maybe we should consider actually coming here for a hike at another time,” Dick suggested conversationally, while Barbara re-checked the most recent location of Redhorn’s son - product of her latest digital scavenger hunt - with the positions of the cabins on her map.

“You mean when we’re not tracking down a potential witness that could help us topple the entire system of corruption of a city?” Barbara replied drily, packing the map away.

She pointed east, towards the side of the woods that was closer to the bay, “Cabin 7 is over there.”

Hands in his pockets, Dick started to walk leisurely in the direction Barbara had pointed, a cheeky grin on his lips: “I guess that would be more convenient, sure."

Barbara rolled her eyes, then slipped her arm into his: “Let’s sort this thing out first, shall we?”

Dick’s expression lost it’s cheerful air and smoothed into a more serious one.

“Right, let’s go over our approach again:” he agreed, now focussing on the task at hand, while they were heading towards their destination, “We’re a couple that went out for a hike and when we wanted to head home, realized that our car wouldn’t start. Unfortunately, both of our phones don’t have any reception out here so we’re now stuck wandering around, trying to find someone who would let us use their phone.”

He looked at Barbara for confirmation.

The redhead nodded: “Exactly.”

“And you really think that all this deception is necessary? It’s not exactly inspiring trust once we tell her the actual reason why we’re here.”

Barbara let out a sigh.

“I know, I know,” she admitted, deflated, “but I think we won’t be able to get a foot in the door otherwise - everything she thought she knew turned out to be a lie; the person she had trusted the most turned out to be in the thick of the scheming and corruption that’s been ailing Blüdhaven for the longest time… Would you trust a pair of strange cops who claim to have come to help you and contend that they have a plan for bringing down said corrupted system that has permeated seemingly every nook and cranny of the ‘Haven’s society, including the sphere of your own home??”

She let the picture she’d painted hang in the air, then shook her head sadly.

“No,” she said grimly, answering her own question, “I don’t think she’d hear us out if we presented our case to her, straightforward. She’d only grow more terrified and slam the door in our faces…”

“Leaving her more afraid for her life and her son’s without listening to our offer to help them out, most likely causing Mary to try even harder to go into hiding,” Dick supplied, finishing Barbara’s thought.

“Mhm.”

Dick let out a sigh, unable to argue with his girlfriend’s logic: “Fine, initial deception it is… Oh, look,” he exclaimed, pointing to a wooden cabin which was hidden away off-trail, almost entirely concealed by the grouping of fir trees lining the path, “that’s got to be it!”

Barbara consulted the geolocation marker on her phone she had created based on the online activity of Redhorn Jr. (even though the teenager had refrained from posting anything on his social media accounts, he still had been watching YouTube videos via his phone, which Barbara had used to backtrack his and his mother’s whereabouts): “I think you’re right.”

They left the larger path along which the cabins were scattered and followed the narrow trail covered in crushed rocks and fir needles. They discovered the wooden sign marking the wooden cabin at the end of the trail to be number 7; it had been completely obscured by the low, thick branches of the fir trees.

“So this is it?”

“Gotta be - the GPS coordinates match the location at which Redhorn’s son liked a video about three hours ago.”

In the shade of the cabin, Dick noticed a red toyota with a familiar looking license plate: “Hey, that’s Mary’s car, isn’t it?”

Apparently, all their prep hadn’t been for naught: “Yes it is.”

“Alright, so this is it… You ready?”

Barbara took a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for the task at hand.

“I’m ready. You?”

She caught Dick’s eye and saw the determined look on his face.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Together, they climbed up the three stairs to the cabin’s porch and knocked softly at the door.

***

They heard the sound of shuffling of feet behind the door, but no one answered it.

“Hello, is anyone there?” Barbara asked in a tentative voice.

Then, the door opened slightly and revealed a frightened blue eye which nervously examined the two young adults lingering on the porch.

Having discussed during their car ride that it would probably best if she took the lead early on (assuming that Mary would probably perceive a woman as less threatening), it was Barbara who addressed their supposed stranger in a friendly, if slightly embarrassed manner:

“Oh, hi! We’re so sorry to disturb you, but my boyfriend and I just returned from our hike around these parts - only to discover that our car won’t start and neither of us have any reception on our cellphones; may we use your phone to call roadside assistance? That would be incredibly helpful.”

The wary expression on what had been visible of Mary’s face had dissipated by the time Barbara had reached the end of her prepared speech and the door was opened fully now, revealing an unassuming woman of 5’2’’ and stocky build. Her blonde (probably dyed) hair was wavy, about shoulder-length, and framed a round, open face. Faint lines around eyes and mouth indicated her age to be around forty.

“Oh you poor things!” the middle-aged woman exclaimed emphatically, any hint of her previous mistrust completely vanished, “Of course you can use the phone here! Come in!”

And with that, Mary stepped aside, motioning for the two strangers to enter the cabin.

It wasn’t difficult to see how Redhorn had managed to conceal his wrongdoings from his wife for so long - she was downright guileless.

To be honest, Barbara couldn’t help but be surprised that Redhorn’s thugs hadn’t found Mary yet - once they had, it would have been all too easy for them to take a hold of her; it was probably for the best that Mary had sold the house of her deceased parents before she had stumbled upon the evidence of her husband’s criminal activities - this way, she couldn’t seek refuge in her childhood home even if feeling tempted to do so… and Barbara wasn’t all that convinced that Mary was cunning enough to have recognized that as a bad move on her part.

While Barbara was reflecting on the naivety of their potential informant, Dick engaged with Mary in idle small talk, making introductions, thanking her for her kindness and answering the many questions of the talkative and curious woman, such as where they were from and what had led them here?

“We are from Gotham City,” Dick explained, elaborating on the narrative he and Barbara had prepared beforehand (which wasn’t based completely on lies), “We’ve been meaning to take a break from the city for some time and decided to check out the hiking trails of Snug Cay - which definitely deserve their positive reviews online! Too bad our trip had to end with car trouble,” he concluded with a grimace so believable and sympathetic, Barbara would have been convinced of his story if she didn’t know any better. A born performer, indeed.

“Such bad luck!” Mary exclaimed empathetically. “But don’t you worry, we will get this fixed in no time! Let me show you to the phone; I think there should also be some brochures of nearby businesses and a phone book…”

She led Dick and Barbara to a small end table in a semi-secluded corner in the hallway next to the entrance door. Three doors lined the hallway wall; muffled yells of excitement sounded from behind the one closest to them.

“Don’t mind that,” Mary said nervously, giving a strained smile, “my son is not a nature lover such as you two - he prefers to play on his phone or gameboy or whatever it is called.”

“Ah, I’m familiar with the kind,” Dick nodded knowingly, ”I’ve got a teen brother who is very much into gaming.”

He gave Mary one of his disarming smiles:“How old is your son?”

“Thirteen.”

Dick grinned: “Yeah, the wonders of nature don’t particularly score with that demographic.”

Mary let out a laugh, then opened the drawer of the end table that contained the phone book and brochures.

“You should be able to find some number of a road assistance service in here.”

Thinking that it might be for the best to give Dick a little more time to build a rapport with Mary, which hopefully were to improve their chances of being heard out later, Barbara took the stack of papers out of Mary’s hands.

“Thank you so much,” she said warmly to the older woman. Then, after exchanging a meaningful glance with Dick, she motioned at the phone: “I’ll take care of it.”

“Sure thing,” he replied, his expression letting Barbara know he understood her silent message.

“We’ll leave you to make your call,” Mary responded kindly before addressing Dick: “Would you like something to drink, Richard?”

He smiled: “That would be great, thank you.”

***

While she was looking up the name of a local car mechanic (just in case) and pretended to make a call, Barbara could hear the other two engage in a friendly chat with one another.

By the time Barbara made her way back into the main room, she found Dick and Mary sitting in the living room, with Mary comfortably seated on the couch and Dick occupying one of the arm chairs. The blonde woman was grilling Dick about his private life.

“You two make such a gorgeous couple! How did you two meet?”

“Um, we first met each other at work, actually. We got assigned partners.”

“How fortuitous! If you don’t mind me asking, Richard, what do you do for a living?”

“Um,..-”

Barbara could tell that Dick was starting to sweat a little, so she made her move to intervene.

“Ah, there you are!” Mary exclaimed happily when she noticed Barbara return from her ‘phone call’, “Did you get everything sorted out?”

“Oh yes, someone will come over soon.”

“Wonderful!” Mary responded smilingly, “Is there anything else I can do to help, my dear?”

Barbara directed a meaningful at Dick and carefully sat down in the other empty armchair: “Actually, yes, there is one more thing…”

The helpful older woman nodded attentively, ready to help. Barbara felt a little bad for what she was about to do; still, this was in Mary’s best interest as well as theirs.

“You see,” Barbara began, her voice dropping into a hushed tone,”we know about your husband and the social calendars you’ve kept all these years - We think that they could help us with our cause.”

At that, Mary blanched and a panicked look appeared on her face, her eyes nervously flickering over to the door of the room her son was currently occupying.

“We’re not here to hurt you!” Dick was quick to add, ”We can help you, offer you protection - get you and your son far away from the ‘Haven and your husband’s influence, so you guys are safe.”

The poor blindsided woman twitched anxiously, as if she wanted to get up and run, but froze when Barbara moved to get something from the inside of her jacket.

It took Barbara a few seconds to realize what Mary must have suspected.

“Don’t be afraid, I’m not-” she began hastily, before breaking off. She then slowly, carefully, produced her badge and ID from the inside pocket of her jacket, putting them down on the couch table, right in front of Mary. Dick followed her example with equally cautious and measured movements.

“Here,” Barbara gestured at the evidence laid out in front of Mary,”the two of us are officers at the BPD; but we are from Gotham, originally. We have nothing to do with Blüdhaven’s corrupt elite,” she explained calmly, while the older woman’s gaze fluttered nervously between the ID cards on the table and the two officers seated next to her.

“Barbara’s father helped clean up the corrupt police force in Gotham,” Dick further supplied, ”and we want to do the same in the ‘Haven.”

Mary didn’t say anything; the poor woman only looked frightened.

“We have found a few officers who have the same goal,” Dick continued to explain in a composed voice, “and we are now building up a case against all the corrupt politicians and police officials - including your husband.”

Mary winced, her eyes now fixed firmly on her knees.

“It would be very helpful for our case if you could give us those notebooks you’ve kept all these years,” Barbara went on, “regardless of whether you’d be willing to testify against your husband or not.”

“You don’t have to do either of those things, of course,” Dick hastened to reassure Mary, who at last dared to cast a tentative look in his direction, “for now, it is much more important to keep you and your son safe.”

“Exactly,” Barbara nodded fervently. She noticed that Mary seemed marginally calmer than before, appearing to be listening intently.

“We know that your husband has involved some of his people to look for you two,” Dick said gently, ”and frankly, a lot of his cronies have some very worrisome reputations.”

“And this is where we come in,” Barbara jumped in, “I know some people at the FBI who can help you get out of the reach of the criminals that have been running Blüdhaven as of yet.”

She handed Mary two business cards. Clammy hands gripped the cards tightly.

“Here are the contacts of the two agents that can help you. I have worked with them before on a case of corruption in Blüdhaven; they passed the background checks I conducted on them to ensure that they are not connected to any Blüdhaven elite with flying colors - they are trustworthy.”

Mary looked at Barbara with big eyes; the business cards still in a vice grip.

“I… I don’t know-”

Dick gave Mary a reassuring smile: “You don’t have to decide right now.”

“No, but you shouldn’t wait too long,” Barbara warned emphatically, “If we can find you here, it’s only a matter of time until your husband or his cronies will figure out a way to find you, too.”

“I… I don’t know what to do,” the poor woman stammered, distressed. She looked pleadingly from Dick to Barbara, as if waiting for them to tell her what to do.

Of course, that was not what they had come for.

“Ultimately, you will have to decide on your own what is best for you and your son - I know that all of this must be overwhelming and that we’re just two random strangers that appeared out of nowhere,” Dick said sympathetically, “You didn’t ask to get dragged into this, you just want for you and your son to be safe-”

Mary nodded energetically, “Yes!”

“We can’t tell you what to do - You have to be the judge on which course of action you want to take,” Barbara stressed.

Averting her eyes again, Mary only nodded meekly.

“Personally,” Dick mused aloud, causing Mary to look up again “I’d say your safest bet is to call these numbers,” he tapped the business cards Mary was still clutching tightly, “These FBI agents will get the two of you out of here, someplace safe.”

Mary’s lips parted as if wanting to say something - but in the end, she only pressed them together and fiddled nervously with the cards in her hands.

Dick exchanged a telling look with Barbara, who pulled out a burner phone and put it on the table.

“Here, take this,” Barbara said, “there is one number saved in there - it’s to a safe line which only Dick and I can access; it can’t be traced. This way, you will always be able to reach us - if there’s anything you think we can help you with - call that number.”

This gesture seemed to finally have broken the dam. With a trembling hand, Mary reached for the phone, staring at Dick and Barbara with teary eyes.

“Is this real?” Mary asked in a quiet, shaky voice.

“This is real.”

“And… And it’s not a trick?”

Dick gave an encouraging smile: “It’s not a trick. I promise.”

A brief pause followed, then: “Okay.”

***

They went over the particulars again, making sure that Mary would know what to expect when reaching out to Barbara’s contacts at the FBI. Once they had settled everything, Mary brought up the one thing that still remained unresolved:

“And… And the notebooks?”

Barbara cocked her head to the side, a friendly smile on her face: “What do you want to do with them?”

Mary fiddled nervously with the phone in her hands.

“I don’t know, I just- I just want to be rid of them, I suppose,” she said, sounding tired. She sighed deeply.

“You want them, I assume?”

“It would be useful for the case we’re building,” Barbara admitted honestly, “but if you don’t want us to use them in our case, you don’t have to hand them over.”

There was a long pause while Mary was mulling over it.

“No, you should have them,” she mused,”I think that’s why I took them with me in the first place - I knew that they were valuable evidence, I just didn’t know what to do with it… Or maybe I wasn’t ready to admit to myself that - that my husband is a criminal.”

Gently, Dick put a reassuring hand on Mary’s shoulder.

“We’re sorry.”

“No, it’s fine, I’m fine,” Mary said shakily, making a dismissive gesture before getting up from the couch, “I’ll go get them.”

The blonde woman hurried away into the hallway and disappeared behind the door furthest away. Dick and Barbara could hear the clunking of a floor board being moved and scraping noises. Soon after, Mary returned, three small black pocket calendars in hand: “Take them.”

Barbara took the unassuming, but invaluable notebooks and stowed them safely away in her backpack.

She smiled warmly at Mary: “Thank you.”

Suddenly, the other door in the hallway opened and a skinny boy of thirteen shuffled out. “Hey Mom, when’s dinner- who are you guys?”

The teenager stopped short, eyeing the two strangers suspiciously.

“Alex!” Mary exclaimed, jumping up from her seat on the couch. She quickly regained her composure, though: “These are Richard and Barbara, they went hiking in the woods but then had car trouble and no reception - they asked to use the phone to call for some help.”

The teen regarded Dick and Barbara with narrowed eyes. Barbara had the slightest inkling that Alex was by far not as unaware of their precarious situation as his mother might assume.

“I thought I heard some knocking about, like, an hour ago.”

The boy cast a challenging look at the two ‘visitors’, but Dick just countered smoothly: “We had to wait until they could send a mechanic, chatted for a bit and lost track of time.”

As she gathered up their backpacks and jackets, Barbara added: “I’m sure someone from Larry’s should arrive at any minute.”

“Oh yes! You should get going, it would be awful if you missed the mechanic!”

“Yeah… Plus, we wouldn’t want to delay your family dinner any more,” Dick remarked brightly, winking at Alex as the three adults made their way to the front door. The boy seemed to loosen up a little, although his eyes remained alert.

At the door, Barbara seized the opportunity to express her gratitude: “Thank you so much , Mary, you saved our day.”

The older woman blushed.

“Don’t mention it,” she responded humbly, “I’m just glad I could be of service. And… And I'm really glad I got to talk with you two.”

Dick gave an affectionate nod.

“Take care.”

Mary smiled brightly.

“You, too! I hope everything works out well… with your car.”

“Thanks!”

Dick and Barbara said their good-byes and followed the path back to the car, leaving cabin 7 behind. They didn’t exchange a single word on the way back.

Once they had entered the car, Barbara finally looked at Dick, a big smile on her face. She felt dazed and utterly exhilarated at the same time.

“I think… I think we’ve done it?”

She was met with a wide smile that matched her own:

“We’ve done it!”

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To be continued... here.

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Notes:

Nightwing #71-74: This is entire chapter is very loosely based on this story arc. Basically, Dick learns that some of Blockbuster's goons are trying to get to Mary because of the meticulously kept social calendars she has in her possession and wants to protect her - which leads to a chase to some of Europe's most famous cities (Rome, Paris, and London). For this story I decided that Mary's hiding spot would be less extravagant and instead some place familiar to her, somewhere she had felt safe before. In the comics Dick also tries talking to her in full Nightwing gear, but Mary is too frightened to hear him out; Babs is the one to point out that Dick Grayson might stand a better chance to get to chat with Mary than a masked vigilante - here, Babs gets to intervene a lot sooner (she is more practical and efficient than Dick in that way, I think). While Babs deals with their task at hand in a more pragmatic way, I decided to have Dick be the one who is better at quickly building rapport with Mary - this way, they make the perfect team to get the job done (technical skills/logistics + people skills)

Oh, and I decided to name Mary's son Alex because comicvine states Chief Redhorn' name to be "Francis Alexander", although I can't recall for the life of me where that name ever appeared (the only times I remember Redhorn's first name being mentioned, it was always "Delmore" ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

#dickbabs #dickbabs fanfiction #dick grayson #barbara gordon #I write sometimes #dickbabs fanfic #my fics: partners

[count-demonlord-of-decadence]

Impromptu: Introduction of Power

We’ve officially moved from The Nameless Theater to a operational dance club called P.H.; which secretly stands for Pheasant Humiliation. The move reduces our cleaning and maintenance cost by 47.3% and features a fully functioning kitchen. The clubs owner is my friend and fellow libertine Risa Kawajiri, though running the club will keep her from attending ‘Impromptu’. But before we reveal the minutes of this event, let us first describe the locale as there won’t be time to describe them later; but by no means shall it distract from our tale.

The exterior of P.H. is in no way unique or distinguished from the other buildings in the area. The interior of the first floor is just as interesting as the exterior, save for the excessive use of valour. Upstairs is the VIP room with more valour and six televisions for viewing various sporting events. It is only through an electronically locked door on the ground floor labeled ‘Staff Only’ (as opposed to employees only) one can access to our setting. Follow me as I have an electronic key card that allows access. Follow me into a dimly lit corridor with a thrice turning, ADA certified ramp to another door also electronically locked which the key card opens. On the other side is another door much like one finds in a modern bank allowing passage to one person at a time. This third door requires a five digit PIN unique to each guest; thus preventing undesirables from entering. I have provided one for you (85491), so come along as we enter…

...A brightly lit club with gold plating, mirrors and reclaimed wood wherever possible, bringing the word gaudy to the mind of most who see it. Assuming we entered through the Southwest door, I shall describe the layout desoil from the aforementioned starting point. Immediately to the right is the men’s lavatory, along the West wall is the bar, followed by the buffet. The kitchen is behind the bar. The Northwest corner is the supply room servicing both the kitchen and the stage. The stage is along the North wall with a DJ booth in the Northeast corner. The East wall is a lounge area with couches and tables with a variety of pipes, bongs and hookahs ready for use. In the southeast corner is the women’s restroom, followed by the other entrance with a unisex lavatory in between the two entrances. Their architecture and style differ in no way from the rest of the club. The dance floor was in the middle.

Now let us turn to the night in question. Ah but gentle reader, I must first take a moment to beg of you to prepare your heart and mind for a telling of an adventure most impure. Many of the actions we shall depict will, undoubtedly, displease you. This we know. But there amongst you a few whom this tale will warm to the point of arousal. We cannot guess who amongst you will fall into which category, all we can do is relay the facts as best we can given the details of this evening. Think it of as a buffet, some dishes you’ll like, some you won’t, but you needn’t eat them all. Take what you like and leave the rest for others to decide for themselves.

And now, with no further delay or warnings, we present the minutes of the event called, ‘Impromptu’.

There are 19 (counting your dear narrator who does have a role in this drama) attendees at Impromptu, the first we must mention of course is the ponytailed assassin from Thursday; we never did learn his name. He is naked and locked bent over in a pillory bolted to the stage; facing the lounge area. His feet kept apart by a metal spreader locked around his ankles and locked to the stage. His mouth is held open by a dentist's gag. The second guest we must mention is Ling-Li Chang, mistress of the Purple Dragon Triad. She was dressed in a sailor suit, gagged and cuffed ankles and wrists to a wheelchair. A head restraint was attached to prevent her from turning her head, and support the wire speculum that held her eyes open. She was positioned as close to the stage as possible but ensured she could see the whole stage.

The 17 others were all to play a game. Each would be given a turn to subject ponytail to whatever their dark imaginations could conceive of; but whoever killed him would have to pay a thousand dollars to every guest who didn’t their turn. They drew numbers to determine the order.

We’ll skip the hour or so they spent treating this as an everyday social event, making small talk, sampling the food, making each other’s drinks and get to the examples of how it wasn’t. With that the first number was called. It was Lucas (no surname), built like a UFC middleweight; he’s a veteran member of The Syndicate who participated in the raid on Ling-Li’s villa. His past is a mystery to all, but one could speculate he was an American with military training. Lucas simply struck ponytail about the face 14 or 16 times with his fists. He clearly didn’t hold back.

Next was a woman, short, nearly 100 kg most of which was muscle. She had short hair and wore blue jeans, a grey t shirt and a red flannel shirt over it. She place a cage on his limp prick and began massaging his anus and testes with sensuous oils to encourage an erection impeded by the cage. All the men winced, hissed and/or groaned at the sight. A discussion of whether or not he was capable of preventing an erection was possible and all agreed; not with the technique our heroine used. There was an applause at the end.

Number three was an obese white MtoF transexual who went by the name Luna Turquoise; easily voted best dressed of the evening. Luna made sweet tender love to ponytail. There was a spirited debate among those on the dance floor as to how cruel this was. Sure he was sexually assaulted but he wasn’t maimed or disfigured. Also planted the thought that this would be the most pleasant thing to happen to him seem the worst torture of all. Others took the position that not removing the penis prison was the worst. Let us finish the minutes and you, dear reader, can determine what was the worst single event he suffered.

A Japanese dominatrix, unanimously voted second best dressed of the evening, though her name escapes me, took her turn next. She gave him 50 strokes with a bull pizzle on the buttocks. Nearly 30 of those strokes landed in between his cheeks. Following was Christof Select, attending his first such party. He was welcomed with gentle teasing and gratitude. He showed no signs of first time jitters as he shoved filthy and salted bamboo shoots under ponytail’s finger and toenails. He sipped a pair of manhattans and sang Norse folk songs the entire time.

Thérése (no surname), sixty-two, hailing from the bowls of France. She looks like a skeleton, has no hair, no teeth, a stinking mouth, and ass seamed with scars, it’s hole is of excessively generous diameter. She forced her fetid ass and cunt on to the subject’s mouth, rubs it all over his face. She produces some of the most foul smelling farts and queefs as she does so. Her orgasam is intense and she shouts blasphamies as it happens.

Amir Kusein, dressed in an Armani tuxedo and hold his fourth dirty snowball (Pour irish cream and peppermint schnapps over ice in a medium rocks or old-fashioned glass. Top with milk, stir, and serve in "Old-Fashioned Glass" and no garnish) had been moping the night because he couldn’t bring his dog. There was a lively discussion among the attendees about animal participation during the preamble. Suffice to say they were excluded, and Amir was disappointed. He satisfied himself while dropping teaspoons of boiling peanut oil onto ponytail’s back and buttocks. He ejaculated into the subject’s left ear.

Cammy Williams, a veteran member of The Syndicate who participated in the raid on Ling-Li’s villa. She wore an Alice in Wonderland (animated) cosplay with bunny ears atop her head. She was standing at the buffet feasting on teriyaki shrimp when her number as called. She dashed to the stage, wasted no time and showcased her MI6 training by dislocating his right shoulder and breaking a rib in one ferocious elbow strike. This produced a scream and a puddle of urine from the subject that brought a cheer from the attendees. She then returned to the buffet. No one else had teriyaki shrimp that night.

Viktor (no surname), a veteran member of The Syndicate who participated in the raid on Ling-Li’s villa; and probably the largest man you’ll ever see. He wore a white gym shirt and green gym shorts that hide nothing. When questioned about his lack of shoes he replied he liked the feel of the filth on his feet. Brandishing the third largest member of the night, he sodomized to the direction of those on the dance floor, letting them control the tempo, depth, strength, etc. of his penetrations. He finished by discharging into the crowd. They were delighted.

The woman that followed is best described as actress Constance Zimmer (though it couldn’t possibly be her) cosplaying as Edea from Final Fantasy 8. Notably, she was controversially voted third best dressed at the event. She firmly planted her shoe heel in the subject’s anus and proceeded to use a megaphone to verbally abuse him with every degrading insult and invective she could shout in the time permitted. She had spent the last 19 hours memorizing them in preparation for this moment. Most took this moment to use the restrooms or hit the buffet; unless they wanted teriyaki shrimp.

A man I only ever heard called, and I do beg your pardon for this, Arse Splitter, is 28 years old. He has the look of a satyr; his majestic prick is bent saber fashion, it’s head, or glans, is enormous, it is eight and three eighths inches in circumference and the shaft eight in length. A fine curve to this majestic prick. Sodomized the subject in a manner true to his name. Many of the ladies attending wished to try him out, but learned his leanings were only for men’s asses.

Nina White, a veteran member of The Syndicate who participated in the raid on Ling-Li’s villa. She was dressed as a playboy bunny and had just been spurned by Arse Splitter when her number was called. She found large chunks of ice and used them to break eight bones in his hands. It matters not which ones or in which order it happened. It is enough to say it took considerable effort on her part, three chunks ice and only ended because her time was said to have expired.

Up next was a man who made his living as a professional Dennis Rodman impersonator, dressed in a Yves Saint Laurent wedding dress and had been very bitchy since he didn’t make the top three for best dressed. One by one he used a straight razor to cut off the subject’s toes and shoves them up his ass with a member that also fails to make the top three of the night. He discharged when the tenth toe came back out.

A squat woman dressed as Pennywise the Dancing Clown from Stephen King’s It (2017) viciously fists the subject and beats him with a one pound plastic weight in a crudely drawn sock puppet. In her, fist, is the remote for her vibrating panties. Her orgasam is so intense, so flfilling, she falls. After she falls out of him, he voids  his bowels upon her. She then has a second orgasm more intense and violent than the first. Viktor has to carry her off the stage to the lounge where they fornicate, forever tainting one of the couches.

Next was a muscular 6 foot 3 inch tall, black, MtoF transsexual cosplaying as Juliet from Lollipop Chainsaw. She tries to pull out ten of the subjects teeth with two pair of the filthiest pliers one ever did see, failing to get three. She then holds the subject’s tongue with a pair of the pliers and stabs his tongue with a pair equally filthy screwdrivers, both phillips and flat. when asked she revealed she kept the tools in the bowl of a portable toilet used by the homeless. She doesn’t stay for the orgy that follows these minutes.

The penultimate guest was Heather Camden dressed in a Star Trek TNG engineers uniform, rank Lieutenant Commander. She dumped three table spoons of some caustic powder to his mouth that reacted with the water in his mouth in a very acidic way. It produced some voluptuous gargled screams to which she frigged herself. She howled and appeared in seizure when climaxing. The woman, who’s name I cannot remember though I know she went second, carried Heather off the stage.

Last was me, your narrator gentle reader. I simply stab his six or seven times with an ornate early 18th century German smallsword; taking great care to ensure none of the wounds is fatal. The subject is then freed of his bonds and rushed to a competent emergency room. Our heroes then have an orgy the likes of which I’ll leave to your imaginations based on the information you have now. Though i must confess Viktor, Ms. Pennywise and Thérése had their own private orgy which Ling-Li was made to watch, apart from the main one. When it was over Ling-Li was returned to her corpse decorated villa with the understanding of what happens to those who fuck with The Syndicate.

#Evilcorey's pointless fiction #pointless fiction #fiction

[lolainblue]

Phoenix -- Chapter 9

t/w  vague light smut

  Normally I would have let things sit for a few days but I since was acutely aware of how little time remained before Jane left again I called her the next evening to see if we could spend some time together on Sunday. We made arrangements for me to pick her up and take her to brunch, but she called early that morning to let me know she was behind with her preparations for her trip and wouldn't be able to make it. We rescheduled for later that day but I was convinced she had gotten cold feet and so I moped around all afternoon, expecting her to call back and cancel again. When my phone rang twenty minutes before I was due to leave to pick her up I thought my suspicions had been confirmed, and I wasn't able to completely hide the irritation in my voice when I answered.

  “I'm sorry, did I catch you in the middle of something?” Jane asked uncertainly.    “Well I was just getting ready to come get you but I'm guessing that's off the table again?”    Jane made a sort of growling noise on her end of the line. “I was just calling to suggest that you come over here instead of us going out. We need to talk and I'd rather not do it in public.”    “I'm sorry. I guess I just assumed...”    “You know, I warned you about this right up front. I'm very busy, Jared, and if my unpredictable schedule is too much for you right now...”   “It's fine,” I cut her off quickly before she could try to find a way to back out of this altogether. “I was just disappointed that I might not get to see you again before you left for your tour. Cutting this off before it gets started is the last thing I want to do.”   “Would you like me to make dinner? We can order out if you'd rather but with you resuming your tour again next week I figured it was one of our last chances for a meal that didn't come from a take-out container for a while.”    “You don't have to go to any trouble, Jane. I'm happy to just spend an evening with you.”   “it's no trouble, really. I love to cook, and I don't get to do it nearly as much I want.”    “Well, it sounds like you're already set on cooking for us. It sounds great. I'll see you in about a half an  hour?”    “Sounds perfect.”    I hung the phone up with a frown. How many times had I been frustrated with the woman I was dating who had complained about my own hectic, unpredictable schedule? How many brunch and dinner dates had I missed over the years? Jane and I had been on one date, why was I acting like she was already mine?    I was reproaching myself enough for my irrationally clingy behavior so I tried not to focus on the generally panic-inducing “We need to talk.” statement from earlier in the conversation. After all, she wanted to make me dinner, that was a good sign, right? Jesus, Jared, get out of your head. You're as bad as Shannon. I finished getting ready and headed over to Jane's.        Jane answered her door with a warm smile for me. She wore another simple dress, pastel greens and pinks in clean lines, and her now strawberry hair hung loosely down her back. She had a kitchen towel over one shoulder and she was barefoot. She looked incredibly comfortable and happy to see me and I relaxed immediately. “Hey, come on in. I just need to get things put in the oven and then we can have that chat. Would you like me to get you something to drink?”    “Maybe just some water?” I asked as I followed her into the house. She ushered me into what I assume was the living room and excused herself. While I waited for her to return I looked through the contents of her shelves. They were filled with small art pieces from her travels, mostly African nations as far as I could tell, although most of the globe seemed to be represented. I carefully picked up a few of the pieces, resolving to ask her about them and their stories when there was more time for conversation.   “Hey,” Jane said, tapping me on the shoulder and startling me. As she handed me the bottle of water she had retrieved she noted the piece in my hand, a steel cutout sculpture of two figures in cultural dress, and smiled. “I picked that up in Nigeria two years ago,” she said. “It's one of my favorites.”    “You'll have to tell me more about it,” I said as I carefully placed it back on the shelf.    “Once I finish in the kitchen. I'll be right back.”   She disappeared again and I returned my attention to the room's contents. In addition to the varied small pieces, there were two large tapestries on the walls and collection of pictures of Jane with various scenes behind her. A lot of them were her in cold weather gear with mountains in the background. I was amazed as I looked them over. She had come so far from that wistful girl in the diner, the one who hid her notebooks from me and talked of a world she'd never seen. I realized I didn't know her very well at all anymore. Then again, how well do you ever know someone you've just started seeing? There was still plenty of time for us to get to know each other and write our own adventure.    “All right, what are you smiling about?”    Jane had returned to the room,  sipping something from a rocks glass, towel no longer slung over her shoulder. At some point, she had put on a pair of flats with skulls and little pink roses on them. I felt my smile grow larger. “Great shoes,” I said. “Still Jane the horror fan at the end of the day I see.”   Jane smiled and pivoted her feet, showing them off. “They're some of my favorite shoes. But you didn't answer my question.”  “I was just enjoying looking at all the spoils of your travels,” I lied. “I should set something up like this but I'm not really that organized.”    Jane gestured toward a little settee near the window and we both took a seat. “I'm sorry about this morning. My assistant quit with no notice on Friday and I was meeting someone the publisher recommended in hopes of finding a new assistant before the tour started.”     Jane had an assistant? Well, that was a perfectly good reason to cancel at the last minute. “Shit, that sucks. So did you find someone?”    “I think so, yeah. She seemed very competent, she had great references, she's worked for an author before and even better, she's completely free and can join me on the tour on Thursday so I'll only be alone for two days.”   “That's amazing. I'm glad you'll have someone.” I remember Roger's concerns about Jane being alone on tour. Hopefully having an assistant there would help. “How long had you had the last one?”   “Two years.”    “And she just quit on you?”{   “She found out she was pregnant and didn't want to spend her first trimester throwing up in strange bathrooms I guess. It's fine. Sometimes things happen.”    “I guess.”    “So...” Jane pulled out a coaster and sat her drink on the end table next to her, an ornately carved affair that was probably another trophy from her travels. “I guess there are some things that we should probably get straight right up front. That way if this isn't what you want or if this isn't going to work we can stop now and stay friends.”  “What did you have in mind.”    Jane narrowed her eyes and looked me up and down and I got the distinct impression she was trying to gauge what she thought my reaction would be. “So, we can see each other, we can be dating, but that's as far as I'm willing to go at this point.”    “I'm not sure what you mean by that, Jane.”    “I'm not your girlfriend. You're not my boyfriend. I want to keep this casual.”    I was confused. “Wait. You haven't been seeing anyone at all for four years, I show up, and suddenly you want to date around?”    “No,” Jane said with a shake of her head. “I want you to.”    “Shouldn't that be up to me.”    “It is, of course, it is. But...” She reached over and took my hand, her soft fingers pressed tightly against my palm. “it isn't about me wanting to see other people. I'm trying to take some baby steps here. You need.. a lot of … attention,” she stuttered, choosing her words carefully. “I can't be solely responsible for that or for your happiness. I'm not ready for that. We're going to be apart too much for that. If you don't want to see anyone you don't have to but I want  you to feel free to if you're lonely or need... companionship.”    “You think I'm incapable of being faithful,” I inferred.    “That's not it...”   “I'm not Shannon,” I said bitterly.    “I know that.” Jane's voice was tight and clipped and I immediately regretted what I had said. “It's exactly like I'm telling you. I need some time to learn to do this again, without any pressure. If you don't want to see anyone else then don't. But please don't tell me about it. I don't know if I'll feel jealous if you're with someone else but I'm pretty sure I'll feel guilty if you're lonely because of me. And if you change your mind,...” Yeah, I could see how that scenario went, me proclaiming my fidelity and then suddenly not. “I just want us to agree to keep things casual for now. That's all. We can always change our minds later.”    I wanted to agree. It seemed so easy. I got to have Jane and a free pass to have all the extracurricular fun I wanted too. But I realized I wouldn't really have Jane. Just because I was confident she wouldn't be dating anyone now didn't mean that situation couldn't change too. I hated to think I was simply easing her back into the dating arena just so she could stroll off into the sunset with someone else, but what else could I do at this point? She was being honest. She was setting boundaries. The least I could do was respect them.    “I don't really see as how I have much choice. We'll keep it casual if you want. But you'll let me know if that want changes, okay?”    Jane brightened and placed her palm against one of my cheeks before kissing the other one. “I promise.”    I didn't let her pull back, quickly closing my arms behind her and drawing her in

for a real kiss. She didn't resist, snuggling into my arms with a contented sigh, her own arms winding across my shoulders and crossing behind my head. We stayed like that until the kitchen timer went off and Jane slipped out of arms reach before returning to the kitchen.   I took a minute to calm down and adjust myself before following her, the rich scents of spices reaching my nose long before I caught up with her. “Something smells amazing,” I noted as I watched her plating food.    “I hope you like it. I know you're vegetarian too but I realized I have no idea how you feel about spices so I tried not to make it too overwhelming.” I peered over her shoulder and saw her mounding brightly colored lentils and peas on a plate. “It's ...”    My brain suddenly made sense of the garlic, ginger and North African spices tickling my nose. “... misir wot!” I exclaimed.    Jane grinned broadly. “You know it?”   “I love it!”    She pointed to the other two mounds on the plate. “That's gomen wat and ater kik,” she explained as she finished plating up the Ethiopian dishes she had prepared. “I've got bread in the oven. Could you take the plates to the table, please? The dining room is right through there.”     The table was already set with flowers and lit candles and I placed the plates at the waiting settings and waited for Jane to join me. The food was perfect, and as we at we traded stories about both of our adventures in North Africa, the awkwardness of the previous conversation fell away. Jane was as bright and curious as always, and her natural storytelling gifts shone as she related tales of her travels to me.   I helped her clean up once the meal had ended and we returned to the room where we'd had our previous conversation. Jane pushed a button on the wall and the larger of the two tapestries slid back, revealing a large television screen. “I thought a movie would be a nice way to wrap things up,” she suggested.    I let Jane choose something, not really caring what was playing as long as I got to hold her. We snuggled together on that settee again, Jane's back to my chest, her hair falling across my arm as I wrapped it around her. I couldn't resist running my fingers through that hair as the movie played in the background, twisting strands of it and smoothing it away from her face, tucking some behind her ear or stretching one errant curl that escaped her straightening iron. Jane seemed to enjoy the attention, sighing contentedly and snuggling deeper into my lap.   Once the movie ended Jane stood up and stretched her arms over her head. “Would you like to take a walk?”    “Nuh-uh,” I said, reaching for her waist and pulling her back into my lap. I smoothed the hair from her face one more time as I tilted it towards me. She felt the same way in my arms now as she had that night at the hotel, an odd bit of good fortune I couldn't quite accept as real. I wondered if she would ever truly feel like she was mine. Maybe she wasn't supposed to. Maybe that was the magical thing that kept relationships going for sixty years – that complete and utter awe that the other person is still there every morning, that out of all the people in the world, they choose to share their stories and their breakfasts with you, they choose to learn with you, explore with you, grow with you. That they choose you at all. Or maybe that's not it. Maybe this something else. Either way, it was nothing that I had felt before and the newness of it was thrilling.    I turned Jane around, lying her against the small sofa and pinning her underneath me. There wasn't much room, and we shifted positions until we fell on the floor in a tangled mess. Jane roared with laughter, immediately sliding her arms around my neck and pulling me against her again. I was lost there in her arms, kisses sizzling between us like loose electrical wire, when I heard a commotion and a door slam.   Jane groaned against my neck. “Roger must be home from his date. Don't make too much noise Maybe he'll just go straight to his room.”   Dutifully I held Jane in silence, listening to the noise coming from the kitchen. I heard Roger's voice and waited for what I assumed would be Gretchen's but the next sound was another male voice. Confused, I looked to Jane but her forehead was creased as she was frowning in confusion herself.    “Wait here,” she said as she slipped out from underneath me.    I listened to Roger and his companion giggling in the kitchen as glasses clinked and a refrigerator was opened and closed. The laughter stopped abruptly and I knew Jane had joined them.    “Hi, Jane. Where's your new emo boy-toy?” Roger slurred. “I know that's his truck in the drive.”    “Don't worry about where Jared is. What the hell is this?”    There were some murmurs and then footsteps and then a door closed. I could only assume that Roger's friend had been shuttled off to go somewhere else so that Jane and Roger could talk. “What the hell does it look like, Jane?”    “It looks like you're back to slutting it up, that's what it looks like.”   “Well, look who's gotten all self-righteous all of a sudden.  All that celibacy is going to your head, Sister Jane.” Roger sounded extremely drunk, drunker than I think I had ever encountered him being.    “What about Gretchen?” Jane hissed back at him.   “What about her?” Roger asked. Unlike Jane's stage whisper Roger's voice rung out loudly with a lack of discretion that only belongs to the thoroughly intoxicated. “We had one date. What's the big deal?”    “You know exactly what the big deal is. And how fucking drunk are you?”    “Oh my god you need to get laid! Have you always been this much of a drag or am I just now noticing?”   There was a long pause and I gritted my teeth and tried to resist the urge to go in there and defend Jane. I knew it was none of my business and I had no idea what was really going on, but I hated hearing Roger talk that way to Jane.    “Roger, I don't know what the fuck has gotten into you lately but you're being a complete asshole here. You're the one that told me it's only cool if everyone is on the same page. Are they, Roger? Does Gretchen know you're out picking up random guys? Does this guy know you're supposed to be seeing someone?”    “I don't have to explain anything to you. We both know Jared is somewhere in this house. That's super classy, by the way. Running around with your ex's whore of a  younger brother.”    I felt the steam pouring out of my ears as I stood up and headed back into the kitchen. Before I could get there, however, I heard another door slam and when I found Jane she was alone, standing at the kitchen island, gripping it so tightly her knuckles were white. Her eyes grew wide when she saw me.    “I'm sorry, Jared. You didn't deserve that.”    “You're damn right I didn't. What the hell is up with that?”    Jane shook head and picked up the glasses Roger had presumably gotten out before their little tiff. “It's a long story...”    “I have time.”    She looked at the glasses in her hands, then back at me. “I'm sorry, Jared. It's late. Could we maybe call it a night?”   I took the glasses from her and reached for her waist, pulling her gently against me. “If that's what you want.”    Jane nodded and gave me a perfunctory kiss. “I'm sorry. I know it's not fair. I have a little free time tomorrow evening. Could we maybe try this again?”    Whatever genial mood Jane had been in had dissolved, and pressing the issue at this point wouldn't have changed that. She was probably right. Better to try again tomorrow. “I'll call you in the morning?”    She nodded and walked me back out to my truck.        The house was completely dark when I got home, and I was lost in thought as I turned the evening's events over and over in my head. I was a little discouraged by Jane's reluctance to dive headlong into a relationship but I had to admit it was sensible. I was encouraged by the rest of the evening, however, even if had come to an awkward and abrupt end, but the night still had one more gift to give me. I was completely caught by surprise when I turned on my bedroom light to find Shannon sitting in the middle of my bed, and I jumped involuntarily.    “Fucking hell, Shannon. You scared the shit out of me.”    Shannon sat the drink he had been holding down on the nightstand and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “You've been with Jane,” he said flatly. “Don't bother denying it, I can smell her all over you.”

@thepromiseofanend@msroxyblog@nikkitasevoli@llfd1977@mustlove6277@fyeahproudglambert @little-poptart@snewsome756@guccilowell @monicasanoli @lady-grinning-soul-k  

#shannon leto fic #shannon leto fanfiction #jared leto fanfiction #jared leto fic #30 seconds to mars fanfiction #TB: Phoenix

[putschki1969]

Interview Translations ~ 10th Anniversary Film Pamphlet

Note: Sorry, this is long overdue. I’ve just been crazy busy with work and planning my Japan trip in summer. There’s some nice stuff in those interviews but nothing too exciting so I opted for summaries instead of proper translations (scratch that, I ended up doing a proper translation). Without further ado, let’s get to it. Enjoy!

~ Keiko Solo Interview ~

-- It’s been ten years since you debuted with your single “oblivious”, what did you feel when you first listened to the demo tape of “oblivious”? The demo tape I listened to was sung by Wakana. But it wasn’t just “oblivious”, the tape also included many other songs we would sing later such as “Kimi ga Hikari ni Kaete Iku”, “Kizuato” and “Seventh Heaven”. They were all sung by Wakana. At that time I wondered, “who is singing these songs?” They caught my interest because I was unfamiliar with these kind of melodies and I had never sung such songs before. “What kind of song is this?”, “What kind of world lies hidden within this song?” Wakana’s voice made me feel all these things.

-- What kind of music had you been singing and listening to until that point? Back in the day I listened to a lot of Western music such as R&B, rock and dance music, at that time all I did was “listen” to music. It wasn’t until I came across Ozaki Yutaka-san’s music that my interest in music changed, “listening” turned into “singing”. From then onwards music was all about “singing” for me. 

-- Compared to that music “oblivious” was quite a different genre, wasn’t it? It was totally different! It sounded very mysterious! Of course she is human...but because Wakana was singing it the song didn’t even feel human, it felt ethereal. That was super mysterious!

-- When you overcame all the hurdles of trying a completely new genre with Kalafina’s music did you ever feel something akin to joy? Yes. In the beginning I didn’t feel any kind of joy. It wasn’t until about one or two years ago that I felt like I could properly express Kajiura-san’s music, that I felt like I could do it justice. When I look back at our interviews from the time of our debut, I really wasn’t able to say anything substantial. I think it took me about five to six years to be able to sing  Kalafina’s songs properly. When I think about it now I realise that all these years I must have suffered from some sort of inferiority complex. That’s why I saw it as my duty to get rid of all my weak points.

-- What kind of weak points? Could you give an example? Well, this is just my personal interpretation...when you sing Kajiura-san’s music, a song might evoke 10 kinds of emotions within you but if you end up expressing all ten of these emotions, I feel like it will ruin the song. For example, during my solo parts it’s very difficult for me to control my volume whenever I have to sing a higher range than my usual bass voice. Singing 「utatte ～ ho ～ shi ～ i ～*」with the same volume is no problem for me now but back then I’d sing 「utatte ～HO（with emphasis on the “ho”） ～ shi ～ i ～」. My “ho” would always end up being too loud. There was just too much force in my throat. By singing like that, by emphasising the “ho” of “hoshii” the feeling behind the line changed, instead of 「uttate hoshii - I want you to sing」 it became 「uttate HOSHII* - I WANT you to sing」. For me that ruined the song. I have had troubles like that with each and every song so all these years I have seen it as my task to get rid of all my shortcomings. That’s the hidden side of my activities as part of Kalafina.

-- Your first meeting with Wakana-san was long before you recorded “oblivious”. What kind of impression did you have of her back then? All I remember from that time is her singing. I was actually shocked. I felt like her singing was quite dispassionate and indifferent. Back then I was crazy so maybe that’s why I felt like that *laughs* We didn’t sing any emotional songs during our events* but in Wakana’s case there was just nothing there that caught my attention. She had always been a true vocalist with her classical and high legato voice so I guess she didn’t really fit into that kind of event, I thought she was probably singing quietly in her own little world. Now I know that she is actually lively and loves to talk but back then I had no idea.

-- What impression did you have of Hikaru-san’s voice when she joined Kalafina? When I first heard her voice I felt a sense of translucense. I immediately wondered, “what kind of girl is this?” We had received a demo tape with our next songs and we were told, “there is this new girl singing the demos”. When I listened to her voice I thought it was very clear.  I felt there was a lot of pureness to it.

-- So it felt very natural? As if she were a natural born singer? Yes. I don’t have many memories of that time but I know that when we met at the recording studio for the very first time we didn’t talk at all, I just watched her. I am not shy or anything but when it comes to girls I just like to wait and see how things go. When I watched her I felt a a very mysterious and slightly scary aura around her, I can’t explain it, it’s not something I feel about her now. And all of that was coupled with the gloomy lighting of the recording studio *laughs* I can still remember how Wakana enthusiastically agreed with me and was all like, “yes, yes, totally!” I don’t remember much about that time but it still feels very nostalgic.

-- Throughout the years ever since you got together as a group you have distributed certain roles among the members. I feel like the progress of Kalafina’s music has happened largely due to your supportive “leadership” role. While your supportive role might have started with chorus work, am I right to assume that this supportive role naturally expanded to include areas that are not music related? I think that’s exactly the case. Originally Kalafina was known for “Wakana’s voice”, that was our trademark. Those comforting high notes falling gently from the sky. And on the other hand we had a world created by Hikaru’s clear voice. I was somewhere in between providing harmonies. During this period I got closer to them and I wanted to feel what was inside their hearts. I can’t recall which live it was exactly but I still remember that deep within myself I wanted to make sure that Wakana was able to concentrate on her singing. So during MCs and interviews I’d take the lead and draw attention to myself so Wakana would have time to prepare for lives. After all, if Wakana’s concentration wavers our songs don’t work, if she is unwell it is conveyed through her voice. That’s how I just naturally started doing these things, little by little this became my assigned role. Whether it is wrapping up MCs or taking care of various live-related worries during our rehearsals, I felt it would be a good thing to take these things upon myself. I thought that would be the least I could do to make sure that our audience could enjoy Kalafina’s music at its very best. That’s pretty much how I got my role.

-- Isn’t that really hard? ...it is! *laughs* Especially since I am not perfect by any means. But in order to support others I can’t afford to make any mistakes so in all earnesty I devoted a considerable amount of my time to Kalafina’s music. 

-- One word to describe your 10 years as part of Kalafina? For me...it was all about “learning”... I learned a lot about music and I learned a lot about people.

-- What do you mean by you “learned about people”? I developed an interest in people. The way people live, the way people think etc...”That’s interesting!”, “I wanna know more!” Something changed within myseld and I was suddenly interested in people, I really learned a lot in that regard. Before my time in Kalafina I didn’t care much about other people. This interest is the source of our very first live activities and it is the most intense learning experience in my entire life.

Keiko got the same questions as Wakana about her reaction when she heard about the documentary (at first worried then joyful). How she felt about the location shoots for the movie (she had fun in Shibuya and walked around areas where she hadn’t been in around six years. She got the chance to reflect upon many things) and some thoughts regarding their 10th Anniversary Live (it was the perfect cumulation of 2017. She felt enormous happiness that day) Nothing new there...

*1) She is referring to her solo lines in “seventh heaven” *2) I guess she means it came off as too commanding or something *3) In case anyone is not familiar with Wakana’s and Keiko’s pre-Kalafina activities => Back in 2005/2006 they had already been signed up to Space Craft and they were taking part in various music events. Wakana was singing in a stage play called “Herstories” and both Wakana and Keiko (Kaori and Ayaka Ito as well) took part in a regular event called “Female Voice Party”.

Scans of the pamphlet can be found here

Next up: Hikaru’s Solo Interview | Previous post: Wakana’s Solo Interview

#kalafina #my translations #translations #summary #10th anniversary film #10th anniversary film pamphlet #pamphlet #interview #keiko

[dentalrecordsmusic]

Will Wood Interviews Will Wood

I’m going to be honest: I get a lot of press releases and most of them get thrown in the trash. They are, of course, entirely positive information about the given artist and therefore entirely boring. However, when I got a strange (unnecessarily big) package in the mail containing three (3) pieces of glitter, a very small gentlemen’s hat, and the following interview of Will Wood answering questions from himself, I felt it was important enough to pass along to our readers. 

AN INTERVIEW WITH WILL WOOD

BY WILL WOOD

In this pre-apocalyptic wasteland of whataboutism and Russian disinformation, it can be difficult to pick all the pyrite from the proverbial pan. That’s an idiom now. In the old days, knowledge was banned and burned and buried in temple ruins and conquered libraries. It was suppressed and scarce and it took a hungry mind and a passion for discovery to shine light onto dark ages. The information age is upon us now – and while we can all tap into a bottomless well of knowledge at any time, we are no better off. The light is already so bright, the sound so deafening, that anything you have to show or say is already washed out in the cacophony. We still know nothing, because while we can see so much, we cannot distinguish illumination from illusion.

That’s what attempting to prepare for an interview with Will Wood taught me. Some information checked out, but everywhere I looked I saw misprints, inconsistencies, lies, theatrical exaggeration, errors, and the constant churning of the rumor mill. I read everything from errors in basic information, to full-blown criminal accusations. For instance, one source claimed they had found he had a home in a town called Glen Ridge, when in reality his P.O. Box is in Glen Rock, and his home is in Egg Harbor. Another source said he once kicked a pregnant woman in the stomach at a Renaissance Faire.

I like to think I prepared as well as anyone could have. Which means I prepared quite poorly. So arriving at the beach outside the B.L. England refinery in Egg Harbor New Jersey where Mr. Wood agreed to meet me had me feeling like a dead man walking. He was standing there in a bright green trench coat and aviator sunglasses, holding a steel briefcase. He greeted me with a firm handshake and a slight bow before sitting right down in the sand and lighting a hand-rolled cigarette.

Q: Do you do drugs?

A: I had a really bad trip on a low dose of antipsychotics recently. Don’t drive until you’ve adjusted to a medication. Almost ran over my own car.

Q: What are your thoughts on the affect social media has had on the arts?

A: I’m fairly certain Mark Zuckerberg technically holds the copyright to all of my intellectual property and he’s a demon lizard. But hey, that’s showbiz.

Q: Is it challenging to be openly queer in the music industry?

A: Nobody cared about my feelings until I put on makeup. I’d wear dresses more often but I’m getting paunchy from too many trips to Golden Corral. I never get my money’s worth but I always try. And the harder I try, the less its worth.

Q: So you came here from North Carolina a few years ago, what was it like making that adjustment?

A: I had to lose the accent because people kept asking me if I played country music.

Q: Do you like working out here?

A: You see that lighthouse? It’s actually a cosmetically enhanced sulfur-scrubber. It reeks of eggs for miles. I work out of a back room at Lee’s Food, which also reeks of eggs. Yes it’s a real place. Probably not for long though.

Q: And you like that?

A: Have you ever tried filing your income taxes on a fold-up card table in an 85 degree spare bedroom while eight staff members shout at each other in Mandarin while trying to make Japanese food to serve in a Korean restaurant and your daughter is running in the back door holding the neckbones of a great blue heron asking you to hold on to it while she tried to find the head?

Q: That sounds like a no.

A: I didn’t say that.

Q: What’s it like trying to raise a child? Is it difficult to juggle family life and work life?

A: Mildred is getting old enough to take care of herself. My partner and I skipped most of the ugly years where they’re too stupid to talk or eat on their own and they scream at you to pull your tit out in the middle of Thompkins Square Park. Then again, lots of people in Thompkins square park will do that to you.

Q: Okay. So. Is it difficult to juggle family life and work life?

A: You just asked me that.

Q: Right, but you-

A: We were going to adopt a little boy and name it Oliver but the orphanage thought we were being funny so they shoved a moody tween at us and lost the paperwork. But let’s not talk about Millie. I don’t like her getting attention from press, I’m sure you can see what that’s doing to Jacob Sartorius and that kid from “It.”

Q: Does press attention bother you personally?

A: Look, this is going to sound like some Sean Spicer shit. But a lot of press out there about me is just plain false. For instance, someone quoted me as liking Billy Joel back in 2015. I said a lot of stuff in 2015 I didn’t mean but I have always been a staunch Elton John man. Even though his lyrics are trash. His lyricist’s lyrics, I mean. He should just write his own, his lyrics can’t be any worse than that walking beard’s drivel.

Q: And… so, the inaccurate reporting- does it bother you?

A: Let me put it to you this way. Imagine if someone said that you liked Uptown Girl without your consent.

Q: You seem to be very critical of other musicians, you’ve been quoted repeatedly as saying “I hate music.” What makes you feel this way?

A: When you hate 99% of something, it’s most efficient and pretty effective to just say you hate that thing. A Nazi who gets along well with 1% of Jews is still a Nazi. Most of the world’s music is painfully banal or no fun to listen to.  

Q: What sort of music do you like then?

A: Anything by Green Day. Everyone seems to laugh when I say that but it’s entirely true. Billie Joe Armstrong is my biggest songwriting influence and the world needs to know that.

Q: One of the defining features of mental illness is the manner in which it inhibits “functionality,” but short of suicide as a risk to one’s life its difficult to say if there’s a clearly objective definition of healthy psychoemotional functionality. We can really only work with one’s ability to reconcile their personality with cultural norms, and their own idea as to how comfortable they should feel in their own skin on a regular basis, which is also partially informed through socialization. One can cite psychosis and acute mania as definitive examples of why its necessary to consider various mental and behavioral traits as medical concerns, but its also worth noting that in some cultures throughout history hallucinations and what would appear to be delusional states have been valued and seen as sacred.

Is mental health seen as a medical problem only because social systems with enormous power have designed ways to remove nonconforming or negative natural phenomena through medical intervention, and if so, should we be more distrusting of psychiatry and the ever-changing spectrum of mental health diagnoses? Should we really call them sicknesses?

A: We only see the flu as a medical problem because physical medicine exists. Before the study of pathogens began to arise, it was simply seen and spoken about as a part of nature, and sometimes seen as divine or diabolical intervention – much like the examples of mental illness you gave. All health concerns ultimately amount to levels of social functionality, the individual’s personal experience, their mortality in extreme cases, and the illness’s threat of compromising those things in others. This is everything from cancer to the common cold – the only distinction is that we as a culture identify with our minds in ways we do not our bodies. This is ultimately arbitrary, and a socialized distinction, as the brain is a physical organ, our sensory organs are part of our mind’s subjective experience, and the body is inseparably connected with the brain as one singular organic being.

When one realizes this fully, one could likely start to see that what you are saying is true, but does not challenge the validity of the science itself. It is important to participate in this newer and complicated field of science wisely, and draw your own distinctions between problems that need medical attention and don’t, (only you can tell how much a physical injury hurts) but that does not mean that there cannot objectively be a disease. The importance of considering mental illnesses as diseases and giving diagnoses lies in our ability to communicate and interact with the topic – accurate and mostly agreeable language must be used to classify ideas and phenomenon. It was giving names to certain psychoemotional and behavioral states that first allowed scientists to organize the information necessary to invent life-saving interventions in therapy and medication. Seeing mental well-being as a medical concern the way we see physical well-being is not only accurate, but useful.

Q: Are you getting tired of writing this?

A: Well it’s good character work. World-building.

Q: Is any of what you said true up there?

A: It actually is but since I’ve made up a couple fun little things in interviews or used flowery language in the past a lot of people just assume everything I say is theatrics now. You know?

Q: I guess that makes sense. I’ve made some stuff up in my writing before too, I get it.

A: That wasn’t a question. As a matter of fact, that was an answer so you should be A and I should be Q.

A: That’s stupid. Just because you asked “you know” doesn’t mean we need to switch the only thing that identifies us in the article.

Q: Wait hold up though, my last response was also an answer, so I should still be an A.

A: Wait, so who’s going to be A, and who’s going to be Q?

A: You’re going to be Q now, because you asked who’s going to be Q. You’re the questioner.

Q: Isn’t this going to get confusing?

Q: I’m Q now too because I have to ask you if you have a better idea. Put a question mark on there so I can stay Q, that way people don’t get confused. ? Yeah right there just like that.

A: Why don’t we just use our actual initials, since it’s become less of an interview and more of a conversation? Should I be Q? It’s a response but it’s-

Q: Why didn’t I think of that?

W.W.: Oh, you did think of that.

W.W.: That’s true, I did.

W.W.: You shouldn’t have, it’s as stupid as the switching of Q’s and A’s.

W.W.: That was your idea, so we’re even.

W.W.: First base.

W.W.: THE WILL WOOD AND THE TAPEWORMS THREE YEAR ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATION IS HAPPENING MAY 25TH AND 26TH WITH A VERY SPECIAL IN-STUDIO PERFORMANCE BY WILL WOOD AT THE VERY PLACE WWATT’S FIRST ALBUM “EVERYTHING IS A LOT” WAS RECORDED! TICKETS TO NIGHT ONE ARE ALMOST GONE AND VIP PACKAGES & TICKETS TO NIGHT TWO ARE LIMITED TO GO TO WWW.WILLWOODANDTHETAPEWORMS.BIGCARTEL.COM NOW AND SEND ME YOUR MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEYVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Purchase tickets here, or buy them at the door at Backroom Studios. 

Catherine Dempsey has no idea how Will Wood got her address. She is scared. You can follow her on Instagram.

#will wood #will wood and the tapeworms #new jersey #punk rock #cabaret punk #interview #catherine dempsey #music news

[almostafantasia]

tenderly, tragically, beautifully

Summary: In which bad things happen to the people who deserve them the least and Lexa learns that although cancer can be treated, the scars it leaves behind take much longer to heal.

Read on AO3.

Trigger warning: Clarke has cancer in this fic but it’s non-terminal and she doesn’t die. There’s a fair amount of angst though.

She feels as though every pair of eyes is watching her from the moment that she steps through the school gates. Which is just paranoia at its absolute finest because the reality is that not a single person is actually looking at her, but with the very obvious way in which the other kids are deliberately trying not to stare at her as she walks up to the red brick school building, Clarke might as well have a giant flashing sign above her head.

A giant flashing sign reading this kid has cancer, with a vertical neon arrow pointing down at her.

Clarke knows that they all know. Even if Raven hadn’t already filled her in on everything that happened while she was in the hospital, this is high school so gossip spreads faster than a race car speeding around an asphalt track.

“Yo.”

Raven makes an unnecessarily loud entrance, clattering into the row of lockers beside Clarke’s and dropping her shoulder bag to the floor with an unceremonious thud. It catches the attention of those nearby, but upon realising that Clarke is there, those heads quickly turn away for fear of being caught staring.

“Everyone’s treating me like I’ve got a deadly virus. It’s cancer, it’s not contagious!”

She raises her voice with this last bit, startling the group of freshman boys who cross to the other side of the corridor in order to give Clarke a wide berth as they pass.

“Clarke,” Raven hisses, resting a comforting hand on Clarke’s shoulder.

“I’ve been here for two minutes and I already wish I was back in that stupid hospital,” Clarke complains through clenched teeth, taking a heavy textbook out of her bag and throwing it into her locker with slightly more force than actually necessary.

“They probably all heard the word ‘cancer’ and assume that you’re on your deathbed,” muses Raven.

“I’m not.”

“I know,” Raven agrees, as she reaches out to give Clarke’s fingers a reassuring squeeze with her own. “You’re going to be fine, you’ve just got a few shitty cells in your body.”

“John Murphy’s got more shitty cells in his body,” Clarke comments, as the shaggy-haired boy saunters past the two girls with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his leather jacket, giving Clarke the side-eye as he passes.

“Well unlike Murphy, your shitty cells are going to be killed by the chemo. He’s stuck with his for life.”

Clarke appreciates what Raven is trying to do, but that doesn’t mean that it works. As grateful as she is for her best friend’s insistence that she’s going to survive this new obstacle in her life, it doesn’t really detract from the fact that she has months of having her body pumped full of chemicals to get through first.

“Raven…”

“What? I’m just letting you know that I’m sticking by you no matter what.” With a wicked smile, Raven adds, “I’ll always be your best friend, even when you go bald.”

“Oh god, don’t remind me,” Clarke whines, shutting her locker and turning around to lean against it dramatically.

“You finish treatment just before Thanksgiving, right?”

“Yes,” Clarke nods, wondering in which unpredictable direction Raven’s train of thought is heading this time.

“So you’ll be rocking the cutest pixie cut in town by Christmas.”

Clarke lets herself imagine it for just a second. She hasn’t had her hair shorter than shoulder length since a disastrously bad haircut at the age of ten, but when she pictures herself with much shorter hair, barely long enough to curl ever so slightly around her ears and the top of her neck, she smiles slightly. Mostly at the realisation that with virtually no hair to have to deal with each morning before school, she’ll be able to get out of bed a whole fifteen minutes later than usual, but also at the thought that with minimal effort and a bit of strategically placed styling cream, she can probably make herself look hot as fuck.

“Thanks Raven,” Clarke smile gratefully.

But Raven’s brain is always moving way faster than Clarke is able to keep up with and she’s already onto the next thing.

“Hey, do you think the chemo is going to give you superpowers? Wouldn’t it be awesome if you got x-ray vision or invisibility or something even cooler?”

“Raven…”

Class is weird. Raven walks her to the door of her classroom like a mother dropping her young child off for the first day of kindergarten, and when Raven departs with a final wave over her shoulder, Clarke feels exactly like that scared five year old, out of her depth in a world that seems far too big for her.

It’s pretty much exactly the same routine in the classroom as it was out in the school corridors, except that now, in this more confined space, Clarke can’t really do much to pretend she hasn’t noticed how everybody is behaving around her. Each pair of eyes fall onto her as she passes, then glance away when they realise who has just walked by.

And then the hushed muttering starts. Clarke’s classmates must be seriously misinformed about the symptoms of cancer if they think that she isn’t able to hear the whispering as she makes her way to her usual seat on the far side of the classroom.

As the clock on the wall just above the teacher’s desk slowly ticks away towards the start of another day at school, the desk next to Clarke remains empty. Finn Collins, the desk’s former occupant, who Clarke is ninety-five percent certain was flirting with her in the few weeks leading up to the discovery of the tumour in her back, has moved to a previously empty seat in the back row next to Atom. It’s too much of a coincidence for Clarke to blame this on anything but the cancer. Who would want to flirt with her when there are plenty of other much prettier, much healthier girls in the school to flirt with, all of whom are still going to have a full head of hair in a few months’ time?

“Hey.”

Ten minutes into her first day back at school and already so used to being treated like a bomb that is waiting to go off, Clarke actually startles in her seat a little bit when the girl in the seat in front of her turns around to say hello.

“Oh, hi Lexa!”

Lexa Woods was Clarke’s elementary school best friend until the two of them slowly drifted apart as they grew up and their interests changed. Not to say that they no longer get along, but that they move in different circles now, with nothing more than a polite smile if they pass in the school corridors.

Until now.

“This is for you.”

Clarke’s eyes widen in surprise, then her entire face twists into a confused frown as Lexa places a thick ring-binder down on Clarke’s desk, upon which lies an envelope.

“Um, thanks,” Clarke replies tentatively, picking up the envelope and sliding her finger into the small gap at the edge to tear it open and remove its contents.

It’s just a card, white with pastel coloured butterflies surrounding the embossed words ‘thinking of you’ in a pretty cursive font. Surprised, Clarke flips it open to read the message inside.

Dear Clarke,

Wishing you all the best over the coming months for a speedy recovery.

Lots of love, Lexa xx

It’s pretty much exactly the same as the twenty other cards she has at home from various relatives and friends of the family, empty words that don’t really detract from the potentially life-threatening illness that resides in her body, but it somehow means so much more coming from Lexa than from anybody else. Coming from Lexa, who could quite easily have done exactly the same as Finn and everybody else in this godforsaken school and blatantly avoided having to go anywhere near the girl with cancer.

“And this is everything that you missed while you were in hospital,” Lexa continues, opening the folder to display the thick wad of handwritten notes inside, neatly colour-coded and underlined and separated into subjects by labelled dividers.

“Lexa, what the…?”

“You missed two weeks of school and you must be really behind in all your classes so I wrote out my notes again so that you could have a copy,” Lexa explains hurriedly, a pink flush rising to sit on her sharp cheekbones. “If there’s anything you don’t understand when you read through it, I’d be more than happy to go over it with you.”

“Lexa,” Clarke sighs, feeling a rush of affection for her former best friend as she flicks through page after page of Lexa’s impeccable handwriting, laid out under clear capitalised titles and broken up with nearly drawn diagrams and tables. “You shouldn’t have.”

“It was good revision for me,” Lexa shrugs, as if the gesture is insignificant.

“Wait,” frowns Clarke, as she reaches one of the coloured dividers and enters a different subject, “do you even take Chemistry?”

“No, but I know Monty through the debate club so I borrowed his notes and copied them out,” Lexa answers. “They might not make much sense because I didn’t understand a lot of it but I’m sure that Monty would be able to explain it if you need help…”

“Lexa, this must have taken you hours…”

“Yeah, well you’ve got cancer, it’s the least I can do to help.”

The word hits Clarke like a fist in the gut. It’s been two weeks since the diagnosis, two weeks where Clarke’s mind has been consumed with nothing but that one singular word going around and around in her mind until she’s half crazy. But Clarke realises that maybe the problem is that the word has only been in her head since the diagnosis – nobody around her has been brave enough to say the word aloud since the doctor who gave her the bad news two weeks ago. Even her mother, a doctor herself, skirts around the word at home, as if saying it out loud makes the whole situation far too real to comprehend.

It’s just a word, it shouldn’t hurt so much.

Except that it’s not just a word anymore, it’s a way of life. It’s chemicals being pumped into her body, and being ignored by even those who used to flirt with her, and the inescapable unsettling worry that despite the assurances of the oncology nurse, maybe she isn’t going to make it to the other end of this ordeal with her life.

“Sorry, did I say something wrong?” Lexa’s voice pulls Clarke out of her thoughts with a lurch, and she shakes her head to focus herself back in the real world.

“No, it’s just…” Clarke tries to explain, her voice just a croak as she tries to push past the lump that forms in her throat. “It’s still quite new to me.” Trying to articulate aloud for the first time, Clarke continues, “It’s weird because it’s all I think about but it still takes me by surprise sometimes. I’m so used to everybody skating around it like they want to pretend that it’s not happening, so it surprised me how forward you were.”

“Sorry,” Lexa mumbles, bowing her head apologetically. “I shouldn’t have…”

Reaching out a hand to touch Lexa’s shoulder in reassurance, Clarke says, “Lexa, it’s fine, I…”

But she doesn’t get the chance to finish. The classroom door clatters open as the teacher enters to start the lesson, and within an instant Lexa is facing the front once more with wide, attentive eyes.

The teacher’s eyes scan the classroom as his voice fills the room to get their attention, but he stumbles mid-sentence when he spots Clarke in their midst. There’s a moment that feels like an eternity, a moment in which Clarke knows the teacher is trying to decide whether to acknowledge Clarke’s return to his class, a moment in which Clarke wants nothing more than to melt into the hard plastic chair as if she has never even been here at all, but then it passes, and the class continues as if nothing has happened.

As if Clarke doesn’t have cancer.

But she does.

“Lexa,” Clarke hisses, when the teacher turns his attention to the computer and pulls up a powerpoint presentation for the lesson. Lexa turns around to frown inquisitorially at Clarke, who forces the resentment out of her mind and the sadness from her eyes as she smiles gratefully at her former best friend. “Thanks for the notes.”

Lexa thinks about it a lot, probably way more than she should think about somebody who she so rarely speaks to these days, but it really plays on her mind. Why somebody so young, somebody with such a bright future, somebody with so much joy and happiness and vitality should get diagnosed with cancer when there are so many bad people in this world that it could happen to instead.

It sucks, and Lexa isn’t even the one with cancer.

She almost wishes that she was. And yes, she knows that’s a terrible thing to think and that she should be grateful for her own good health, but it’s the truth. If there was a medical procedure that could suck the illness from Clarke’s body and transfer it to her own, then that’s exactly what Lexa would do. Clarke has everything; a big friendship group full of nice people that nobody in their year group seems to dislike, good grades, good looks, and an aspiration to be a doctor. Lexa, meanwhile, feels as though she has nothing in comparison - only a few people that she would consider friends, two parents who somehow manage to straddle the line between loving her too much and not loving her enough, and an unhealthy dose of anxiety. It should be her that has the cancer, but instead there seems to be an unjust system of reverse karma in place, where bad things happen to good people.

There are bad people in the world, and there are good people. And then there is Clarke. Clarke, who is so good and pure that Lexa isn’t entirely convinced that she isn’t an actual angel reincarnated in human form. Clarke, who on the second day of kindergarten, helped a tearful and bruised Lexa back to her feet after being pushed to the ground by John Murphy, then declared them to be best friends for life, though only after kicking Murphy in the balls for hurting Lexa in the first place.

Nobody deserves to be diagnosed with cancer less than Clarke.

Lexa almost wonders if Clarke’s illness is karma punishing her. Perhaps fate is saying a massive fuck you to her, not to Clarke, by forcing her to stand by helplessly as the girl she loves suffers. Because there is absolutely no doubt that Lexa does love Clarke. She’s known it for about a year, though she’s probably loved her since the day that six year old Clarke offered out a hand to help Lexa get back to her feet.

But what hurts the most is knowing that there’s absolutely nothing she can do to help Clarke, nothing she can do but sit by and watch as Clarke’s health deteriorates and the side effects of chemotherapy kick in.

Lexa has never felt more helpless.

Lexa almost doesn’t recognise the girl who walks into class the following Thursday morning with bright pink hair. Nothing has changed other than the hair colour – she wears the same worn out jacket she’s owned since freshman year, the same slightly pitiful frown that’s been on her face since the diagnosis a couple of weeks ago – and yet the vibrant pink that frames Clarke’s face makes it seem like she’s an entirely different person from the girl with the beautiful golden tresses that Lexa has known for most of her life.

“Clarke!” Lexa gapes, as Clarke drops into the seat beside her, Lexa having moved back a row now that Finn Collins has taken up his new seat at the very back of the classroom. “I – wow!”

Though Lexa, quite deliberately so, does not ask for an explanation for Clarke’s sudden and drastic makeover, Clarke gives her one anyway, as if she feels like she has to justify her new fashion choice.

“I’ve always wanted to dye it,” she shrugs, reaching up with one hand to play with a single pink curl, “and I might not have hair for too much longer so it seemed like as good of a time as any to get it done.”

As Clarke glances away, a brief moment of sadness passing across her face as she does so, Lexa’s insides lurch unsettlingly at the thought of Clarke’s hair falling out against her will. She quickly remembers that Clarke will be taking the day off school tomorrow for the first of many chemotherapy treatments, which explains the unexpected change of hair colour mid-week, and just tries to imagine for a second how terrified Clarke must be at the prospect of going into hospital for such a daunting treatment.

Lexa flails silently for a moment, wondering what, if anything at all, she can say that might ease Clarke’s mind ahead of her hospital visit but nothing comes to mind that won’t do more harm than good. Lexa settles instead for saying something a little different.

“The pink really suits you.”

Eyes wide with surprise as she lifts her head to look up at Lexa, as if she hadn’t been expecting the compliment at all, Clarke softly mumbles, “Thanks,” before reverting back into a glum silence for the rest of class.

Clarke’s absence on Friday, despite her only sharing a couple of classes with Lexa, feels somewhat akin to Lexa having to spend the day without one of her arms. She’s a mess for pretty much the whole day, distracted with pondering thoughts of where Clarke is, of what the doctors will be doing to her, and of hoping that none of it is as bad as the scary word chemotherapy makes it all sound.

When she arrives home from school that afternoon, Lexa collapses on her bed with her phone in her hand, the screen unlocked and opened on a message conversation with Clarke, but she hesitates with her thumb hovering over the keyboard before she sends anything. Nothing that comes to mind quite seems right for the situation - casual well-wishes seem too impersonal and asking how the treatment went seems far too invasive and unsympathetic.

Lexa exits the conversation and locks the phone with a sigh, shaking her head in dissatisfaction. She wants to be there for Clarke, she really does, but there’s no class at school for how to be a good friend to somebody with cancer and it’s not really something that Lexa can do on intuition alone.

She decides, forty minutes later and after some assistance from her mom, on a simple Facebook post; an old photo of the two of them with their arms around each other and toothy grins on their faces at Clarke’s eighth birthday party, which she captions “Found this looking through some old stuff - partners in crime since kindergarten!” and then tags Clarke in it. Nothing fancy. It’s simple, it’s irrelevant, and it will hopefully let Clarke know that Lexa has been thinking about her all day.

She definitely doesn’t spend the next few minutes eagerly refreshing her new feed, waiting for a notification that lets her know that Clarke has seen the post.

It never comes.

She doesn’t know what she was expecting, if not a comment then perhaps at least a like, but each time the little red bubble pops up in Lexa’s notifications, it is with somebody else’s name and not Clarke’s. A selection of school friends like the post, both from their high school and old friends who knew the girls back around the time that the photo was taken. Some names are ones that Lexa doesn’t recognise, presumably friends of Clarke’s from elsewhere. Octavia Blake reacts to the post with a red heart that Lexa wishes came from Clarke instead.

The first comment is from Raven; “Double denim? Griffin, you were such a style icon!”

It hurts more than it should, two minutes later, when Lexa’s post remains unacknowledged but the little blue thumb icon appears underneath Raven’s comment with Clarke’s name next to it.

Clarke is back at school on Monday morning, almost as if she was never gone. There’s no indication that she missed a day of classes for the first of many life-saving medical treatments, no missing hair, no hospital gown or big sign around Clarke’s neck saying I had chemo. And Lexa curses herself for even thinking that things would be different.

(She decides that Clarke’s pale skin and tired eyes are just a figment of the imagination that is looking for something different in Clarke’s appearance.)

“Hey,” Lexa greets Clarke in their first class of the day. “How was the … uh, the treatment?”

Raising a single eyebrow at Lexa, Clarke replies, “You can call it chemo. That’s what it is.”

“Sorry,” apologises Lexa, feeling the mild burn along her cheekbones that is no doubt accompanied by a pinkening of the skin there. “I’m just new to all of this.”

She regrets the words the very second that they leave her mouth. The way that Clarke’s face falls, disappointment filling her blue eyes as her brow knits into a furrowed frown, is enough to inform Lexa that what she has just said was insensitive on every level.

“You’re new to this?” Clarke asks, her voice soft but laced with bitterness.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” Lexa says dejectedly. “That was insensitive of me.”

Lexa is more disappointed in herself that she would care to admit. She’s spent more than a little bit of time this weekend on her laptop, googling questions like what to say to a friend with cancer and the overwhelming number one piece of advice she could find was to not make it about herself and how she feels about Clarke’s diagnosis. And yet, all that research is for nothing as she lets herself down within the first thirty seconds.

“It’s fine,” Clarke assures her, though Lexa can’t help but feel that this isn’t fine at all, nor will it ever be until Clarke’s treatment finishes and she gets the all clear in however many months’ time. “I get it, you want help but don’t know how. The best thing you can do is to just act normal.” Lexa nods along earnestly as Clarke reaches out a hand and rests it tenderly on Lexa’s forearm, before continuing. “And Lexa, I appreciate what you’re trying to do. You’re treating me like a human, not like a time bomb. That’s more than I can say for most of the rest of the assholes in this school.”

“I’m sorry,” Lexa attempts to apologise a final time, but the arrival of the teacher for the start of the lesson means that she isn’t given the chance to take her apology any further.

“By all means, come on in,” Clarke says to Raven, pushing open her bedroom door as she leads her best friend inside. “But fair warning, it looks and smells like a hospital.”

Clarke wrinkles her own nose as she steps into her bedroom, the nasty smell of cleaning product invading her nostrils. Her bedroom doesn’t really feel like home much at the moment, the various medications prescribed to her for combatting the side effects of chemo scattered haphazardly across all available surfaces in the room. The smell, despite her desperate pleas, comes from her mother’s insistence of giving the room a thorough disinfect almost every other day so that Clarke doesn’t catch anything while her immune system is reduced.

“Jesus Christ,” Raven blanches as she follows Clarke into the room, lifting her hand up to her face to cover her nose and mouth. “Do you not have any air freshener?”

“I’ve asked my mom to get me some,” Clarke answers. “She insists on keeping this place spotless. I’m already sick, a few germs isn’t going to do any harm.”

Raven’s hand reaches out to Clarke’s, her fingers clasping around Clarke’s wrist to get her full attention.

“Hey. No. Mama G is a medical professional, you listen to what she has to say, okay?”

“Jesus, Raven,” Clarke whines, dropping onto the bed with a plop that rumples the freshly washed sheets. “Are you my mom now?”

Raven launches herself belly first onto the mattress next to Clarke, propping her head up with one elbow as she sends a wicked smile in Clarke’s direction.

“Shut up,” says Raven, rolling over onto her back, where she steals half of the pillows and cushions that decorate Clarke’s double bed and sets them up against the headboard behind her. “Are we gonna watch a movie or what? It’s so awesome that you’ve finally got a TV in your room.”

Shrugging and reaching for the remote control that sits on top of a pile of untouched pamphlets from the hospital, Clarke points it at the brand new television that sits on top of the dresser against the opposite wall and says, “Cancer perks.”

The end of the school year and the start of the summer break between Clarke’s junior and senior years of high school comes around two weeks later, shortly after her second chemotherapy appointment, and Clarke has never been more grateful to have a couple of months off school.

She can already feel some of the changes in her body – most notable is just how lethargic she’s starting to feel. Clarke has always been the number one advocate for power naps but since starting the treatment, she’s found herself passing out pretty much everywhere, including in class, though two hours of calculus on a Monday morning is probably enough to send anybody to sleep.

The other thing is her hair. It hasn’t started to fall out yet, not properly, but Clarke has started to notice a bit of thinning. Each pull of her hairbrush through the newly-dyed pink hair tugs strands out from her scalp that get caught around the bristles of the brush and when she showers, there is slightly more hair than usual to pull out of the drain at the end. It isn’t noticeable in the mirror yet, but Clarke knows that the worst part – when actual clumps of her hair start falling out in uneven patches across her scalp – is almost imminent, and she’s grateful that she won’t have to go to school during this in-between stage.

Lexa is thankful for the arrival of the summer break. Junior year has been a lot of work and she knows that her final year at high school will be even more tiring. As much as she’s looking forward to throwing herself headfirst into another year of challenging schoolwork and college applications, the two months she has before that to mentally and physically rest is exactly what she needs right now.

And yet, three days after the last day of school, she finds herself already missing the crowded corridors and the uncomfortable plastic chairs.

Well, maybe not those, per se.

She finds herself missing Clarke.

Their friendship is by no means rekindled to the level that it was at before they started drifting apart in middle school, but Lexa likes to think that they’ve reached the point once more where they can text each other and make social plans without it being weird.

Clarke, on the other hand, seems to disagree.

Lexa Are you free today? We could catch a movie or get lunch if you like! Or something else, I’m open to suggestions.

Clarke I’m pretty tired actually. Think I’m just gonna stay at home.

Not yet disheartened, Lexa is already prepared with another suggestion that might suit Clarke a little better.

Lexa I could come over and we could watch something at yours?

Clarke I think I just want to sleep tbh

Lexa tries to think of something to say, anything to let Clarke know that she’s always going to be welcome to hang out with Lexa later, but everything she tries typing out just falls flat. She doesn’t want to seem needy, doesn’t want to force Clarke to exert herself any more than she’s physically capable of doing right now, doesn’t want to make Clarke feel guilty for the way that the side effects of the chemotherapy are inhibiting their social interactions.

She just wants Clarke to know that she isn’t alone.

Lexa No problem!

Clarke stands in front of the mirror and adjusts the beanie on her head for what is probably the hundredth time in the last ten minutes.

“You look good,” Raven says. “Don’t worry about it.”

Except that Clarke is worried. Because Octavia is throwing a party tonight and Clarke has been coerced (by Octavia, by Raven, even by her own mother) into attending and it’s the first time she’s left the house for anything other than a hospital visit in the three weeks since school finished. And the first time in almost as long that Clarke has worn anything except for pyjamas.

Not to mention the fact that it’s the debut of her new hairstyle. If you can even call a patchy buzzcut a hairstyle. Hence the beanie.

“Are you sure people aren’t going to notice?” asks Clarke, turning to look at Raven, who is sprawled across Clarke’s bed, playing on her phone as Clarke gets ready.

Pushing herself up into a seated position, Raven grins up at Clarke and answers, “The only thing people are going to notice is how hot you look. Because damn girl.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not,” Raven insists, shaking her head. “Everybody is going to wish they were you.”

Clarke arches an eyebrow, because she’s pretty certain that there is not a single person in the world who would want to be a kid with cancer.

Raven doesn’t miss the look that Clarke shoots her and she jumps up to her feet, crossing the room to stand beside Clarke as they both look at Clarke’s reflection in the mirror.

“You’re hot,” Raven tells Clarke again. “The colours really suit you, your tits look great in that shirt, and you’re totally rocking that beanie. Fuck the cancer, you’re awesome!”

And for just a moment, Clarke believes it.

Parties aren’t always Lexa’s thing. She not a huge drinker, nor does she like big crowds of people, not to mention the fact that she doesn’t fall into the right social circles to get invited to most of the parties thrown by the kids in her year at school.

But for some reason Octavia Blake, who has never taken the time to talk to Lexa much off the soccer pitch that they share during training for the women’s varsity team, personally insisted that Lexa just had to come along to the party that she’s throwing tonight.

It’s not Lexa’s scene at all. Music thumps from two loudspeakers positioned on either side of the living room, questionable drinks are being poured into cups from a large keg being manned by Octavia’s college-aged brother, and sweaty bodies are crammed into every corner of the Blakes’ small house. But Lexa doesn’t get invited to parties often and she’s determined to at least try to enjoy this one.

(Her attendance has absolutely nothing to do with the possibility that tonight might be the first time she sees Clarke since school finished for the summer. Nothing.)

There’s a big shout from the already quite tipsy Octavia when Raven arrives at the party, and Lexa’s eyes desperately squint towards the door for Clarke.

And there she is.

Oh boy.

Lexa doesn’t know if it’s the jungle juice catching up with her or if the sight of Clarke entering the room behind Raven is really that mesmerising, but her head starts to swim a little bit. Clarke looks a little thinner than before, a little more tired, but Lexa hardly notices that because Clarke is still just as beautiful as ever. There’s a dark gray beanie pulled over her head, hiding her hair (or lack of it, as Lexa quickly realises may be the case), but it just emphasises everything else. The sharp plane of Clarke’s jaw. The blue in Clarke’s haggard eyes. The dip of the neckline on Clarke’s rather revealing tank top.

Jesus Christ, when did Lexa become so fucking gay.

Lexa’s heart is racing, and the only thing that stops her from passing out, or from locking herself in a quiet and soundproof room for the duration of the party, is that Clarke has an expression on her face that matches the same startled-slash-terrified feeling that Lexa has too.

And so Lexa pushes her own anxiety aside and makes it her main aim to make Clarke feel as comfortable as possible in this scary new environment. Lexa takes a sip from her drink for courage, then plasters a smile on her face as she pushes through the crowd to cross the room and welcome Clarke.

“Clarke!” Lexa beams, her smile genuine as she throws her arms around Clarke’s neck in a greeting. “I didn’t know if you’d be here tonight.”

Lexa didn’t know, but she hoped.

“Yeah, Raven came to my house and basically dragged me out of bed,” Clarke shrugs. “Also, my mom threatened to cut off the wifi at home if I didn’t leave the house. She’s worried I’m becoming a recluse. I swear parents are supposed to worry about kids going to wild parties and getting involved in underage drinking and sex, but apparently when you get cancer they actively encourage it.”

“Then why are you complaining?” Lexa teases Clarke. She gestures towards the kitchen, then asks, “Do you want something to drink?”

Clarke squints at the plastic cup in Lexa’s hand, inspecting its contents with a wary gaze, before she answers, “Sure. Why not?”

Clarke’s hand seeks her own so that they don’t get separated as they slowly navigate their way through the mass of drunk teenagers, and Lexa tries to ignore the erratic pounding of her heart in her chest and the feeling of Clarke’s warm palm against her own. It’s stupid to get so worked up about such meaningless platonic intimacy, but this is Clarke, who gets Lexa’s pulse racing by just looking at her. Lexa knows that being with Clarke in that way is beyond her wildest dreams, but even an act as simple as having Clarke’s hand squeezing her own as she leads Lexa towards the kitchen, is more than Lexa thinks she deserves.

“Are you having another?” Clarke asks, when they make it to the keg where Bellamy is pouring his homemade concoction into plastic cups and distributing it to the teenagers that surround him.

Lexa glances down at the cup in her hand and takes a moment to think, before knocking bag the dregs at the bottom and nodding as she passes it across to Bellamy for a refill.

“So,” says Clarke, when they both have their drinks, leading the way out of the kitchen and through the glass doors into the back yard, where the music is quieter and the air much cooler than the warmth indoors that feels heavy with the scent of cheap alcohol and teenage sweat. “You seemed surprised to see me here tonight, but I’ve never seen you at a party before.”

“Yeah, parties aren’t usually my thing.”

They reach the far side of the yard, where a rusty swing set stands under the branches of a tall oak tree, and Clarke sits on the seat, looping one of her arms around the chain to keep herself steady, while Lexa stands nearby.

“What’s different about tonight?” asks Clarke.

“Octavia was very persuasive,” replies Lexa. She takes a quick swig of her drink for courage, and then continues, “And I was hoping you’d be here. I wanted to see you. To know that you’re doing okay.”

The cover of the darkness, lit only by the crescent moon ad a few twinkling stars in the sky, does a good job of hiding the blush that rises to Lexa’s cheeks when she confesses that seeing Clarke was a motivator for pushing herself beyond her usual comfort zone.

“I’ve been bad at replying to your messages,” says Clarke. “And I’m sorry for that. Sometimes I just don’t have any energy and then I forget and…”

“No!” Lexa protests quickly, holding up a hand to stop Clarke before she can apologise any further. “You don’t have to say sorry. I probably text you way too much.”

“I like that you message me,” Clarke says in a soft voice. “It’s nice that you think of me.”

“Of course I think about you,” says Lexa, laughing softly under her breath, because there is hardly a moment that goes by where Lexa isn’t thinking about Clarke, even subconsciously. “You’re … I mean, you’re you.”

“What do you mean by that?” Clarke asks, an inquisitive smile on her face.

Lexa’s cheeks burn in embarrassment and she’s grateful that it’s late enough that the shroud of darkness hides her red-tinged cheeks.

“You’ve always been special,” Lexa shrugs as she answers, avoiding eye contact with Clarke out of fear that she’ll fluster and stumble over her words. “You were my first friend in Kindergarten. Do you remember that?”

“I do,” replies Clarke, and when Lexa finally looks up, it is to find Clarke grinning fondly at the memory. “Murphy pushed you over and I kicked him in the balls.”

“My hero,” says Lexa, mockingly fluttering her lashes in Clarke’s direction.

“God, even back then you were an adorable nerd,” Clarke teases, taking a swig from the plastic cup in her hand.

“Wait, you think I’m adorable?”

“I don’t think I said that,” Clarke denies resolutely, though Lexa can see that she’s trying to fight a smile that gives away the truth.

“You definitely said that,” insists Lexa.

“I also called you a nerd,” Clarke reminds Lexa matter-of-factly.

“Yes, but that’s old news.”

They fall into silence, and as Clarke gently pushes herself back and forth on the swing with her feet against the lawn, all Lexa can see are flashes of memories from years past, of two small girls chasing each other around the nearby playground and seeing who can fly the highest on the swings before losing their nerve.

“I’ve missed this,” says Lexa, smiling to herself at the memory. “Missed us.”

“So have I,” agrees Clarke, scraping her feet against the grass to bring herself to a standstill. “We should do this more often. Hang out, I mean. If you’d like to.”

Lexa’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Yeah, I … I’d love to!”

Lexa can’t remember why she was ever so worried about coming to this party in the first place.

The thing about promises is that they are easy to make and even easier to break. So when Clarke and Lexa promise to spend more time together, to rekindle a friendship that has been not much more than a pile of ashes since middle school, it’s far too easy to just let things continue how they did before the party.

It’s not that Lexa doesn’t try. Because she does. She sends Clarke occasional messages, links to things she’s seen online that she’s found funny, photos of the mundane happenings in her day to day life, little anecdotes that she thinks Clarke might enjoy. And Clarke replies most of the time, but it’s very rarely more than a one word answer or a laughing face emoji. When it is something more, the conversation fades out within the two or three messages after that.

Lexa tries her best not to push Clarke, because as much as she wants Clarke’s friendship to be the same permanent fixture in her life that it used to be, she also knows that Clarke is having a difficult enough time right now without having to fend off the unwanted attention of a former best friend who has a massive fucking crush on her.

When three weeks have passed since the party, three weeks since they promised to spend a little bit of time together, three weeks in which virtually nothing has changed since before their conversation at the party, Lexa decides to attempt to initiate a face-to-face meeting.

Lexa Woods Do you want to hang out later? We could have a movie night? You wouldn’t even have to leave your bed!

She doesn’t have to wait long for Clarke’s reply.

Clarke Griffin Yeah, might be fun

Lexa Woods Cool! I’ll bring popcorn! What time do you want me to come over?

And that’s it. There isn’t a reply to that message. Lexa checks her phone over and over again, just in case she has accidentally missed the ping of her text tone, but there’s still nothing. She assumes that Clarke has fallen asleep, that her message goes unanswered for a completely legitimate reason, but Lexa soon starts to second guess herself and doubt begins to creep into her mind.

Maybe Clarke doesn’t want to hang out with her.

Maybe Lexa is being too pushy.

No, Lexa tells herself. Clarke likes you. Clarke wants to spend time with you. It’s not her that’s pushing you away, it’s the cancer.

With that in mind, Lexa slips into her shoes, grabs a jacket, and decides to head over to Clarke’s house.

When Lexa arrives at the Griffin house, she is nervous.

Nervous that Clarke won’t be in the mood for socialising and that she’ll be turned away at the door.

Nervous that she’s going to be invited inside and will have to somehow find a way to cope with spending two hours watching a movie with a girl that she’s basically in love with.

The fluttering of her heart is almost enough to make Lexa go home of her own accord before she can enter the house.

Lexa musters all of her courage and raises her hand, tapping on the front door sharply with her knuckles. While she waits for somebody to answer the door, Lexa’s heart pounds so hard that she can hear the blood rushing through her ears.

It feels like an eternity that Lexa is waiting on that doorstep, but the door finally swings open and Abby Griffin peers inquisitively at her.

“Hello, can I-?” Abby stops mid-question to peer closer, and recognition seeps across her face as she realises who is on her doorstep. “Lexa?”

“Mrs Griffin,” Lexa nods, smiling politely.

It’s been years since Lexa has been to the Griffin house, years since she’s seen Abby, and though things have changed – there are different cars on the drive, a new rug in the hallway just behind Abby, more gray in Abby’s hair and more crinkled lines around her eyes and mouth – Lexa feels like no time has passed, like she’s still a bright-eyed middle-schooler visiting for a slumber party with stolen candy and whispered secrets beneath the sheets long after the rest of the house has fallen silent.

“Please, call me Abby. And come in!” Abby steps aside, welcoming Lexa into her home and closing the front door behind her, before she continues, “It’s good to see you. It’s been far too long since we had you in this house.”

Lexa nods in agreement, and then asks, “Is Clarke around? We said we’d have a movie night.”

“I haven’t seen her for a while,” Abby answers with a frown, pausing to think before she speaks again. “She came down and made herself some toast just after two but it’s been quiet since then. She’s probably been sleeping.”

“Oh, okay,” says Lexa, trying to mask her disappointment.

“You can go up and see her if you like,” suggests Abby. Abby’s eyes widen as she has an idea, and she explains to Lexa, “I tell you what, I haven’t planned any dinner tonight so we could order pizza for your movie night. How does that sound? Why don’t you go and wake Clarke and ask her what she wants on her pizza? You remember where Clarke’s room is, don’t you?”

“That sounds great,” says Lexa, the anxiety from earlier starting to be replaced with comfort as Abby makes her feel welcome in the place that used to feel like a second home.

She can only hope that Clarke does the same.

Leaving Abby alone downstairs, Lexa ascends the staircase to the upper floor of the house and makes her way to the door that she knows leads to Clarke’s bedroom. And yet again, she hesitates outside the door as nerves begin to rise within her gut at what she might find inside.

After two deep breaths, Lexa knocks lightly on the door and then, when there is no response, she pushes it open and peers inside.

Clarke is asleep. That much is apparent straight away. Her eyes are closed, her mouth slightly agape, and she snores softly. One of her arms is flung casually above her head on the pillow, while Lexa can just see a few toes decorated with chipped red nail polish peeking out from beneath the covers at the foot of the bed.

The most glaringly obvious thing in the room, and Lexa tries her best not to stare at it for too long, is that Clarke has no hair.

Lexa always knew that Clarke was going to end up losing her hair at some point, but she immediately regrets not preparing herself for the sight. Clarke’s scalp is stubbly, like the hair has been shaven close to her scalp at some point in the last few weeks, but the little hair that remains is thin and wispy, like that of a newborn baby before their proper hair starts to grow in thick. It only adds to the childlike image that Lexa gets of Clarke, sprawled out on her bed like an infant taking a nap, and Lexa wants nothing more than to wrap Clarke up in bundles of blanket as she presses soft kisses to her forehead and whispers promises to keep her safe.

Grateful that Clarke is asleep and therefore unable to witness Lexa staring at her almost-hairless head, Lexa forcibly drags her eyes away from the sleeping girl and takes in the rest of the room. Though it’s still the same room that Lexa remembers from her childhood visits, it’s much different. The room feels smaller and less inviting, is Lexa’s first impression. It smells clinical in here, but that’s not it. Across the dresser, there are an assortment of medicines in bottles and boxes, labelled with names that are just as terrifying as they are long. Lexa had no idea that cancer treatment required so much medication.

A giant corkboard leans against Clarke’s closet door, upon which Lexa can see various information pamphlets from the hospital pinned up with brightly coloured pins. Most of the corkboard is dominated by a huge yearly wall planner, which Clarke has decorated with coloured stickers to denote which medicines she needs to take on which days, as well as written in all of her hospital appointments. At the bottom of the board, there’s a handwritten sign that says 12 days to next treatment, with a homemade flip chart to change the numbers as she counts down. Around the edge of the board, Clarke has pinned up a few inspirational quotes, and Lexa smiles to herself as she reads one in particular - scars are like tattoos but with cooler stories.

It’s all very strange to Lexa, seeing the evidence of Clarke’s cancer all over the same bedroom that she used to have playdates and slumber parties with Clarke in, but the reality of it sinks in a little more that it has before. Lexa feels a tinge of sadness at the realisation that this is what Clarke’s life has become now, but also a huge swell of admiration for how Clarke is refusing to let the cancer take her down without a fight.

When Lexa glances back at the girl still soundly asleep in the bed, she feels as though she’s looking at her in a different light.

“Clarke?” Lexa says in a hushed voice, crossing the room and sitting down gently on the edge of Clarke’s bed, trying not to cause the mattress to jolt suddenly under her weight as she takes a seat. Lexa is torn between wanting to wake Clarke up to spend time with her or leaving her to continue her peaceful slumber, but it is the selfish part of her brain that wins out in the end. “Clarke, it’s me. Lexa.”

Clarke stirs ever so slightly and Lexa reaches out with one hand to brush the back of her fingers against Clarke’s warm cheek, stroking the soft skin tenderly. Clarke leans into the touch, and her bleary eyes flicker open just a fraction.

“Your mom is going to order pizza for dinner,” explains Lexa. “Does that sound okay?”

Clarke lets out a little grunt that Lexa assumes is an affirmative, and so she continues her line of questioning.

“Great, what do you want on yours?”

“Cheese,” mumbles Clarke sleepily.

“Just cheese?” Lexa asks for clarification. “No other toppings?”

“No.”

Clarke rolls onto her side towards Lexa, tucking her legs up to her chest as she curls up and pulls the covers over her shoulder. Her eyes are closed once more, as if she never stirred at all.

“Do you want me to leave you to sleep?” asks Lexa, her voice just a whisper as she tries not to startle the sleepy girl beside her.

Clarke lets out a low hum that Lexa interprets as an affirmative, and Lexa slowly gets to her feet, careful not to disturb Clarke as she crosses the room and backs out into the hallway, closing the bedroom door with a soft click.

Once she is back downstairs, Lexa relays Clarke’s pizza order to Abby, as well as her own, then takes a seat on the couch in the Griffin’s living room.

“She’s fast asleep,” Lexa says, once Abby has phoned the pizza restaurant and placed their order. “It was almost like she was talking to me in her sleep.”

“She does that,” nods Abby. “Sometimes I can go into her room and have an entire conversation with her and she’ll have no recollection of it when we speak later in the day.”

“Wow,” gasps Lexa. “She must be really out of it. Does she spend a lot of time asleep, then?”

“You could say that,” Abby laughs softly under her breath. “Now, Clarke has always enjoyed her sleep. It’s difficult enough to get her out of bed in the morning at the best of times, but since she started the treatment, she spends most of the day in bed. She’ll surface a couple of times a day for a snack, but it’s rare to see her awake for more than a few hours at a time.”

“I…” Lexa starts, but then trails off, wondering if the way her thoughts are going aren’t appropriate for a conversation with the mother of a cancer patient. But Abby looks at her with warmth in her eyes and an encouraging smile on her face, and it makes Lexa feel a little like there isn’t a wrong thing that she can say, and so she continues, “This is probably going to sound really ignorant, but I’ve never known anybody with cancer before, and seeing somebody go through all of this is so different to how I imagined it to be. I don’t mean that to sound so…”

“No, Lexa, there’s no need to say sorry!” Abby is quick to shut Lexa down for she can start apologising. “I’m a doctor – I deal with people suffering from all sorts of things on a daily basis, and I even did a placement in an oncology ward when I was a student doctor – and there are things about Clarke’s treatment and the side effects that surprise me.”

Lexa smiles gratefully at Abby’s words, and then continues, “It’s just, media makes it seem like cancer is about your hair falling out and being connected to a machine by a tube.”

“And there is an element of that to it,” Abby interjects.

Nodding, Lexa adds, “But it seems like it’s so much more than that.”

“There is,” agrees Abby. “You also have to remember that not everybody experiences cancer in the same way, so the way that Clarke’s body responds to the chemicals fighting off the disease is not necessarily the same way that mine would, or yours.”

“Clarke is … I know it’s stupid for me to be saying this when it’s mostly my fault that we aren’t as close as we used to be.”

“Lexa,” says Abby, reaching across the space between them on the couch and resting a comforting hand on Lexa’s arm. “You and Clarke have been an important part of each other’s lives. It’s perfectly natural for you to be affected by what she’s going through.”

Lexa smiles gratefully, Abby’s words doing a little to quell the guilt that Lexa feels for finding it difficult to talk or even think about Clarke’s health.

“Clarke is special,” Lexa confesses to Abby. “Clarke has always been there for me. She’s been looking out for me since the day that we met, and it feels like it’s my turn to repay that favour, to look out for her.” Lexa pauses, before she admits, “And I’m worried about her. She doesn’t seem the same as she used to be.”

Lexa wonders for a moment if she has said the wrong thing, when Abby’s brows furrows and her eyes fill with sadness at the changes she’s seeing in her only daughter.

“She’s not,” agrees Abby. “And she may never be. But whatever she may seem like now, she’s going to be a much stronger person when it’s all over.”

Lexa is reminded of another one of the quotes she saw pinned to Clarke’s corkboard up in her bedroom - Cancer is always going to lose, because though it tries to make you weaker it only ends up making you stronger.

“To quote Kelly Clarkson; what doesn't kill you makes you stronger,” says Lexa, and Abby laughs softly at her words.

“Mom?”

They both startle at the sound of Clarke’s voice, having not heard her descend the stairs, and look up to find Clarke rubbing her tired eyes as she enters the room,  wearing pyjama pants and an oversized hoodie.

“Who are you talking to? I thought Dad was away toni-” Clarke stops mid-sentence when she notices Lexa. “Lexa?”

Lexa gives a meek little wave. Clarke looks completely surprised to see Lexa in her living room, as if she doesn’t remember either inviting Lexa over or even the short conversation that they shared in her room earlier. Lexa remembers what Abby said about Clarke often having entire conversations that she’s too tired to remember later and realises that must be the case.

“Told you she wouldn’t remember,” Abby's says, quiet enough that only Lexa can hear her.

“I came up to your room earlier to ask you what you wanted on your pizza,” Lexa explains to Clarke, smiling kindly in an attempt to reassure Clarke that it’s completely fine if she doesn’t remember. “We had a conversation.”

“We did?”

“Pizza is on its way,” says Abby. “Probably about half an hour.”

“I don’t know if I’m hungry,” Clarke protest, her voice feeble. She drops into one of the armchairs and curls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them to keep them close to her body as her head drops back against the cushion behind her.

“That’s fine,” Abby tells her. “But it’s there for you if you want it. Lexa says you two are having a movie night.”

“Oh shit, I totally forgot about that!” sighs Clarke, eyes widening as she remembers inviting Lexa over.

“Language, Clarke!” Abby scolds Clarke, though there isn’t actually any trace of anger in her voice.

“Sorry,” mumbles Clarke.

“I can go if you want me to,” says Lexa, trying to mask the disappointment as she makes to get up onto her feet.

“No!” says Clarke quickly, leaning forward in her seat slightly and letting her feet slide onto the floor as if preparing to chase Lexa if she tries to leave. “Stay! Please?”

Lexa drops back into her seat perhaps a little too eagerly, just pleased that she’s finally going to be able to make true of the promise they made at Octavia’s party and spend some time with Clarke. If her heart picks up its pace in her chest, then Lexa vehemently ignores it.

“Let’s use the den,” says Clarke. The Griffins have a room at the back of their house that they call the ‘den’, a small-ish room with a couch, a television, and several towering bookshelves along one wall, and Lexa remembers the room well from her childhood visits here, she remembers eating chips in front of cartoons, and making a fort to hide from the grown-ups. “My bedroom is too much like a prison.”

Lexa nods, her only concern being Clarke’s comfort at all times. If Clarke would rather host their movie night in the den, rather than the bedroom that has become almost like her own private hospital ward at home, then Lexa isn’t going to put forward any complaints.

“That sounds like a great idea,” says Abby. “Why don’t you girls go and set up in there? There’s some spare blankets and pillows up in the spare bedroom if you want to make it more comfy in there. I can bring the pizza to you when it arrives.”

“Thank you, Mrs Griffin,” says Lexa.

“It’s Abby,” replied Abby, a twinkle in her eyes, “and you know that, Lexa!”

They build what can only be described as a nest on the couch in the den, cocooning themselves in a warm bundle of blankets and cushions while they choose a movie from Netflix. When the pizza arrives, Abby brings it through to them and smiles at the sight of their heads peering out from under all the blankets.

The pizza box sits between them on the couch, resting on a small cushion, and they help themselves to cheesy slices while the movie plays in the background. Despite her earlier protests that she wouldn’t be hungry, Clarke’s stomach gives a traitorous growl when they lift the lid, and she manages almost two slices before she gives in and says that her appetite has gone.

Clarke falls asleep about halfway through the movie, and with her stomach full and the nest of blankets keeping her cosy, Lexa can feel her own eyes drooping with the onset of drowsiness not too long afterwards. She tries to fight it, to stay away and watch the movie, but her eyelids are heavy and she quickly succumbs.

When Clarke wakes up, she is uncomfortable.

Which is weird because she’s bundled up in blankets on the soft couch cushions in the den, with Lexa fast asleep against her side. She should be the epitome of comfort.

There’s an unsettled feeling in Clarke’s stomach, and it takes her a few sleepy moments to realise that she feels nauseous. The need to be sick is not an urgent one, but it is there, but as soon as she realises that she’s feeling queasy, it takes over her entire body and she can’t think of anything else.

Clarke tries to extract herself from the blankets without disturbing Lexa, but with the other girl asleep against her side, her head resting on Clarke’s shoulder, it’s a harder task that it seems. The blankets are tangled around their limbs and as she tries to remove herself from their warmth, Lexa stirs against her and her eyes blink open.

“Are you okay?” Lexa asks, her voice raspy in her newly awakened state.

“Just gonna go to the bathroom,” Clarke says, trying not to let her discomfort show. The last thing she wants is for Lexa to worry about her.

Lexa looks on in concern, but she nods silently and lets Clarke leave, helping to remove the blankets so that she can make her escape.

Clarke knows the drill by now. She reaches for a hair tie and pushes her hair back into a loose bun, then sits on the edge of the bathtub within reach of the toilet basin. She takes deep breaths, trying to stop the bile from rising in her throat, but by this point she knows it’s going to happen.

When she can’t fight it anymore, Clarke leans over the basin and retches, emptying the contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl. When she doesn’t think she can be sick any longer, when there is nothing left to throw up, Clarke scrabbles with one hand for the flush, while the other reaches for a square of toilet paper to wipe the disgusting dribble from her chin and lips.

“Clarke?”

As if things couldn’t get any worse, Clarke glances up from where she is huddled on the bathroom floor to find Lexa leaning against the doorway with concern on her face. The very reason that Clarke rarely has friends over at her house is because she doesn’t want them to see her like this, but the illusion that she’s dealing with cancer with her dignity still in tact is lost the moment that Lexa lays eyes on the way that Clarke is clinging to the toilet seat with her own drool coating her lips.

“Go away, Lexa,”

“Can I do anything to help? Do you need anything? Water?”

Clarke is loathe to ask for help, but her throat burns and there’s an acidic taste in her mouth and water sounds like heaven.

“There’s a bottle of water that I left in the den,” Clarke reluctantly says to Lexa.

“I’ll go get it.”

Lexa hurries out of the bathroom obediently like a dog rushing to fetch a ball, and Clarke is only left alone for a moment because the commotion brings her mom along in Lexa’s absence. Abby enters the bathroom and takes a seat on the edge of the bathtub, rubbing a soothing hand up and down Clarke’s back.

“Clarke, are you okay honey?” she asks.

Clarke glances up and puts on a forced smile, as she replies sarcastically, “Peachy.”

Lexa returns with the water bottle, filled with fresh water, and gives it to Clarke with a worried expression still on her face. Clarke accepts the bottle with a grateful nod of her head and takes a huge gulp, swilling the water around her mouth to wash away the taste of her own vomit, before she spits the water into the toilet basin and takes another sip to actually drink.

“Lexa, I don’t want you to see me like this,” says Clarke, now that her throat isn’t quite so dry and scratchy.

Though Lexa looks as though she wants to say something, she remains silent.

Pushing herself up into a standing position, it is Abby who comes up with a solution, leaving Clarke on the bathroom floor beside the toilet as she says to Lexa, “Lexa, how about I make up the spare room for you and you can sleep there tonight?”

Lexa keeps staring at Clarke with a frown on her face, eyes full of pity and something else, before she finally glances up at Abby and nods silently. Abby ushers Lexa out of the bathroom, leading her down the hallway, and it is only when Clarke has been left alone in the bathroom that she lets herself break down, tears cascading down her cheeks and her chest heaving with sobs as she collapses on the bathroom floor and just cries.

School starts up again at the end of the summer and so begins Lexa’s senior year.

Clarke doesn’t show up on the first day, nor on the second, and when she does finally show her face on the third day, she looks wearier than Lexa remembers, and her words are much more negative.

“I just don’t want to be here,” complains Clarke, when Lexa meets with her during morning break to give her a copy of Lexa’s notes from the two days she’s missed. “I don’t see the point.”

“Of course there’s a point!” Lexa tries to assure her. “This is senior year, your last year!”

“And what?” shrugs Clarke dejectedly, slumping against her locker. “I have to miss school for appointments but what about the days like yesterday where I physically couldn’t get out of bed? I’m tired all the fucking time!”

“I’m sure the teachers will be able to help you catch up on the work you’ve missed,” Lexa suggests.

“The teachers don’t give a shit,” replies Clarke. “I’m not in school enough for them to care. They’ve already written me off as a hopeless case. I’m just a kid they’ll talk about in a few years, like ‘remember when we taught that girl with cancer, such a sad story’. That’s all I am to them, a story.”

“Then I’ll help you!” promises Lexa. She hates seeing Clarke like this, hates how the cancer seems to have drained all of Clarke’s positivity. “I can come over to yours and help with the stuff that you miss and it’ll even help with my own revision.”

“I can’t ask you do so that.”

“I want to,” Lexa shrugs, her voice soft.

Clarke looks at Lexa in confusion, her eyebrows furrowed into a frown, like she’s trying to work out why Lexa hasn’t written her off in the same way that nearly every other person in the school has.

“But why? There’s no point. My life lost all its worth the moment they did the scan and found a tumour.”

Clarke chokes on her words towards the end, and Lexa catches her reaching up to rub at her eyes, as if wiping away tears. Within a few seconds, Clarke’s chest is heaving with sobs and her cheeks are damp.

“Come on,” says Lexa, putting an arm around Clarke’s shoulder and guiding her into the nearby girls’ bathroom.

There are two girls in there when they enter, standing at the mirrors touching up their eyeliner, but upon seeing Clarke in tears, they seem to sense the need for privacy and quickly gather their belongings, vacating the bathroom to leave Lexa and Clarke alone.

“It’s okay,” Lexa soothes Clarke. “Let it out.”

“Why me?” sobs Clarke. “What did I do to deserve this?”

“Nothing” says Lexa, as she pulls Clarke in for a hugs and wraps her arms around Clarke’s shoulders. Clarke’s own arms circle loosely around Lexa’s waist and her head falls on Lexa’s shoulder, her tears soaking the sleeve of Lexa’s t-shirt. “You did nothing. You don’t deserve any of this and it makes me so mad that it’s happening to you.”

“I had it all planned out,” says Clarke, another sob tearing through her body as she trembles in Lexa’s arms. “I was going to get a good GPA and go to med school and become a paediatrician but none of that is going to happen anymore.”

“It can still happen if you want it to,” Lexa tries to reassure Clarke.

Clarke pulls herself out of Lexa’s embrace and walks into one of the toilet stalls, emerging a few seconds later with some toilet paper scrunched up in her hand, which she uses to dab at her eyes and then blow her nose.

“That’s the other thing,” Clarke says to Lexa, tossing the used tissue in the nearby trash can. “I’m not sure I even want to be a doctor anymore. Why would I want to spend the rest of my life working in a place that reminds me of what I’m going through now?”

“Then that’s fine,” Lexa answers without hesitation. “There’s still so many other things you can so. You can still go to college without deciding what you want to major in yet, or you don’t have to go to college at all if you don’t want to.”

Clarke’s eyes narrow and she looks at Lexa with an expression on her face like she doesn’t understand why Lexa is so insistent that Clarke’s life isn’t as bad as she thinks it is.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” asks Lexa.

“Being so nice to me.”

Clarke still looks at Lexa with incredulity in her eyes, like the very idea of somebody showing her kindness is one that she can’t begin to fathom.

“Do you remember in Kindergarten when you helped me up after Murphy pushed me over and then kicked him in the balls?” asks Lexa, and Clarke’s glistening blue eyes soften with traces of amusement as she nods through her tears. “You’ve always had my back and now that things aren’t so great for you, I want to have yours.”

Lexa omits the part where she’s basically in love with Clarke and would do anything to ensure her happiness.

“I mean, Murphy hasn’t done anything but if you want to kick him in the balls anyway, it would really cheer me up.”

“Noted,” smiles Lexa.

Though her cheeks are blotchy and there are red rings around her eyes as evidence of her tears, Clarke is no longer crying and Lexa is grateful that she seems to have cheered up a little. She thinks that seeing Clarke like that, seeing the emotional impact that the cancer is having on her, is far worse than it is to see all of the physical changes on Clarke’s body. Even seeing Clarke hunched over a toilet bowl emptying her stomach that time Lexa went over for a movie night was more bearable than this, because at least Lexa knew that the nausea would pass. Seeing Clarke so upset and feeling like there is nothing she can do to help only leaves Lexa feeling completely helpless, and she wishes that there could be steps for her to take to ensure that Clarke doesn’t have to feel like her life isn’t worth anything now that she’s sick.

“Seriously, though,” Lexa tells Clarke, who has now turned to the sink and is splashing water over her face from the faucet. “I’m here for you. I know that things aren’t going your way at the moment, but I don’t want you to ever feel like you’re alone, because you’re not.”

Clarke’s eyes are still red and the skin around them puffy from her tears, but there’s something much deeper in them as she looks at Lexa, like maybe she might be finally starting to believe that what Lexa is saying is true.

Something changes in Clarke.

Lexa hardly notices it at first, because in many ways nothing changes at all. Clarke still misses a lot of school and when she does show up, she is still just as weary and down about her situation as she was at the start of the school year, keeping her head down on her desk for often entire lessons and secluding herself from most of her peers during break and lunchtimes.

But there’s definitely something different too. Something in the way that Clarke’s eyes seek out Lexa’s in the school canteen and her tense shoulders relax visibly as she comes to sit at Lexa’s table. Something in the way that Clarke will always choose to sit next to Lexa in the classes that they share, even if she ends up sleeping on her desk for the entire lesson. Something in the way that Clarke has started inviting Lexa over to hers after school every now and then so that Lexa can help her with the work she’s missed, even though their ‘study sessions’ usually end up with them binge-watching TV and reminiscing about memories from years past until their cheeks hurt from smiling too much.

Lexa likes it. Well, she doesn’t like that Clarke is still struggling, but she likes the way that even though Clarke is having a tough time, she’s giving Lexa the chance to try and make it a little less difficult.

Clarke has her last treatment in early-November and Lexa spends the entire day glued to her phone. Or at least as glued to her phone as she can be at school without the teachers noticing it and confiscating it from her. She checks it as often as she can, waiting for a message from Clarke to say that she’s out of the hospital so that she can congratulate Clarke on making it to the end of a gruelling six months of chemotherapy.

There isn’t a message, but when Lexa checks Facebook during her lunch break, there’s a post from Clarke at the top of her feed, dominated by a goofy selfie of Clarke at the hospital with a dumb filter that distorts her face and gives her a pair of animal ears.

Lexa taps the ‘like’ button instantly, then scrolls down to read the caption that Clarke has posted below.

Clarke Griffin 34 minutes ago Last ever chemo today! It’s been a difficult six months but I’m coming out the other side stronger and I couldn’t have done it without the most incredible support from the best friends and family I could ask for. Thank you to each and every one of you for sticking by my side during these tricky months. I love you all! All there’s left to do is to wait for the scan to confirm that the cancer is gone and then I can start growing my eyebrows back!

Lexa’s eyes prickle with tears and she wipes them away immediately, before anybody else can see her crying in the middle of the school canteen, but Lexa can’t stop the smile that spreads across her face with the growing pride that she feels for Clarke and the struggle that she has overcome as she types out a comment on Clarke’s post.

Lexa Woods So proud of you and the strength that you’ve shown! <3

It doesn’t come close to expressing what Lexa is really feeling, but when the notification pops up a few seconds later telling her that Clarke has replied with a heart emoji of her own, Lexa hopes that maybe it’s just about enough.

On the day that Clarke goes for her final scan and gets the all-clear from the doctors, who tell her that the chemotherapy has been successful and that she’s in complete remission, they go for milkshakes and donuts to celebrate.

“To you,” says Lexa, holding up her milkshake glass when the waitress brings them their drinks, and Clarke meets it with a soft clink of her own against Lexa’s, “for being the strongest and bravest person I know and kicking cancer’s butt.”

“To you,” adds Clarke, keeping her glass raised even after Lexa lowers her own, “for sticking by my side when so many others turned their backs.”

Lexa wraps her lips around the straw and sucks up some of her milkshake, sighing at how refreshing the drink is, before she puts the glass down on the table.

“Of course I stuck by you,” Lexa shrugs. “I just didn’t want you to feel alone.”

“I appreciate it,” smiles Clarke. “As long as we’re still going to be friends now that I’m healthy again?”

Clarke has genuine concern in her eyes, like she actually thinks that Lexa might stop being her friend now that she no longer has the excuse of wanting to help Clarke through her difficult times.

“Of course we are,” Lexa promises Clarke. “I’ll always be your friend, even when you have hair again!”

Clarke’s face cracks open into a grin and Lexa flushes with delight at having made Clarke smile, a sight that has been so rare over the last few months. It’s nice to see Clarke relaxed for once, instead of exhausted and void of hope, and Lexa can’t tell if Clarke is actually more radiant than before or if it’s just Lexa imagining things. Either way, Clarke looks beautiful as she sips on her milkshake, even more so when she smiles, and Lexa is reminded of all the un-friendlike feelings she has for Clarke as her heart stirs in her chest and makes its presence known by thumping rhythmically against her ribcage.

To distract herself from her racing heart, and to stop herself from doing anything stupid like telling Clarke that she looks beautiful and accidentally confessing her love, Lexa gestures to the box of donuts on the table between them and asks, “Powdered sugar or chocolate sprinkles?”

“Like you even have to ask,” grins Clarke, reaching for the donut decorated with chocolate icing and multi-coloured sprinkles.

The cancer might have gone, but Clarke’s social anxiety definitely has not, and the nerves that she feels upon entering the party that Octavia is throwing at her house for half their year is almost overwhelming. Her hair, barely starting to grow back and still a closely shaven fuzz on her head, is hidden beneath a comfortable gray beanie, and even though it has been months since she had long hair, Clarke still feels self-conscious about her current look.

The other partygoers greet her as if nothing has changed, as if she hasn’t spent months going in and out of hospital appointments and barely showing up to school. There’s the people who have always been her friends, even through it all - Raven wraps Clarke in a tipsy hug when she first sees her, Jasper greets Clarke with a fist bump and offers to pour her a drink from a suspicious-looking homemade concoction stored in an old plastic water bottle, Octavia drags Clarke straight into the middle of a makeshift dance floor in the living room and starts grinding up against her instead of Lincoln - but there’s others, people who have barely acknowledged Clarke during the last six months, who greet her and smile as she passes as if she has never had cancer at all.

It’s weird and Clarke doesn’t like it.

When Clarke has finally managed to escape from Octavia’s inappropriate dancing, using an excuse of needing to go somewhere a little cooler, Clarke makes her way to the slightly quieter kitchen and pours herself a drink.

“So the cancer is gone, huh?”

Clarke glances up, bottle of soda in one hand and a red plastic cup in the other, to find Finn smirking across at her. Finn, who was definitely flirting with her before the diagnosis, but who hasn’t even looked her way since, let alone spoken to her.

“Well,” says Clarke, trying not to let her disinterest in conversing with Finn creep into her voice. “I’m in complete remission, so…”

“So you’re basically cured.”

Clarke knows that she used to be attracted to Finn, though in this moment she can’t possibly remember why. Perhaps the chemotherapy has killed all traces of the former attraction along with the cancer.

“Finn, it…”

“When is your hair going to grow back?” asks Finn.

He must think that he’s flirting, because he wears a smirk on his face and leans closer to Clarke. Clarke decides that they must be living in alternate universes, because Finn clearly thinks that his advances are wanted, while Clarke is struggling to think of anywhere she would rather be less than here with Finn.

Except for perhaps the oncology ward with a tube pumping chemicals into the port on her chest, but it’s an incredibly close call.

“What if I like it short?” Clarke replies haughtily, folding her arms indignantly across her chest.

Still undeterred, Finn says, “I think you look really pretty with long hair. You know, how it was before.”

“Well, if you like it short then I guess I have to grow back.”

Finn completely misses the sarcasm in her voice because instead of getting the idea that Clarke doesn’t care about what he has to say and backing off, he instead leans yet closer and says, “How about we go and talk somewhere a little more private?”

It takes all of Clarke’s self-restraint to stop herself from rolling her eyes.

“And by ‘talk’, you mean hook-up?” she asks him, raising her eyebrows in disbelief.

“Well, I guess. If you like.”

Clarke loses it.

“No, Finn,” she snaps, spitting his name out like it’s a nasty taste on her tongue that she can’t wait to be rid of, “I don’t like. I don’t like the way that you think you can ignore me for six months and then as soon as I finish my treatment, you decide that it’s okay to start flirting with me again because you no longer have to deal with a girl who has cancer.”

“Clarke,” whines Finn, “I only meant that…”

“Well, guess what, Finn?” continues Clarke, barely allowing herself time to take a breath before she launches off again, not giving Finn the chance to try to wriggle his way out of this one. “I’m always going to be the girl who had cancer! You don’t go through something like this and just forget about it. This experience has changed me and I’m not the same girl who had a crush on you last summer. And if you didn’t want to be around for that change then that’s on you.”

“Clarke…” protests Finn.

“Finn, I don’t care,” Clarke tells him bluntly. “If you didn’t want to be my friend when I had cancer, then you don’t get to be my friend now that I don’t.”

Clarke is pretty proud of herself for that one, but she becomes aware that her rant at Finn has drawn a little bit of attention from the handful of other people in the kitchen. They watch her with mild fear on their faces, as if worried that she’s going to turn on them next and give them the same kind of treatment that she’s given Finn.

But Clarke is done ranting, and from the way that Finn is finally silent, Clarke thinks that maybe she might have got through to him.

Clarke decides that she has to make a quick exit to escape the judgement of the other people in the kitchen, but when she looks up at the door out of the kitchen, she notices that Lexa is standing there watching her, and Clarke realises that she must have seen the entire exchange with Finn.

With her conversation with Finn fresh in her mind, Clarke realises that Lexa is the only person outside of her tight-knit friendship group who has even looked Clarke’s way during the last few months, let alone tried to support her through the biggest challenge of her entire life, and the realisation has everything clicking into place.

Clarke pushes past Finn and walks towards Lexa, grabbing Lexa’s hand with her own on her way out of the kitchen and pulling Lexa with her.

“Come on, Lexa. We need to talk.”

We need to talk.

Put together in that order, they are probably four of the most ominous-sounding words in the English language, but Lexa has no time to process what they might mean or what Clarke wants to talk about. Clarke’s hand grips her own and Lexa is being dragged down the hallway of Octavia’s house, past a few other kids in their year, until Clarke opens up the front door and leads Lexa outside into the chilly December air.

“Clarke, what…?”

Clarke kisses her. Like actually kisses her, lips gently moving against Lexa’s while one of her hands comes up to tangle itself in Lexa’s hair.

It’s not at all what Lexa imagined their first kiss to be like - and Lexa has probably imagined and re-imagined a thousand different scenarios in which she and Clarke share a first kiss. Lexa has pictured it being tentative and clumsy, she’s pictured it being fiery and fuelled by lust, she’s pictured it taking place right after Lexa has delivered a smooth line to knock Clarke off her feet, and she’s pictured it happening in the darkness of her own bedroom late at night during a slumber party. In fact, had you asked Lexa just thirty seconds ago, she probably would have said that there is not a single version of their first kiss that she hasn’t already imagined.

But she never once imagined it to be like this, never thought that it would happen on Octavia Blake’s front step while a party rages on behind the closed front door, never expected that Clarke’s lips would be so soft or that her hand would caress Lexa’s scalp in the way that it does, never once predicted that Clarke kissing her would make Lexa’s heart beat in her chest like it’s having its very own high school house party in her chest.

Lexa tries to be as present as she can be, a task which is a lot harder than it seems when her entire body feels like it’s floating off the ground and soaring into space. She tries to kiss Clarke back, and she lifts her own hand to cup Clarke’s jaw, where her fingertips dip just beneath the soft material of the beanie that Clarke wears and her thumb traces patterns along the bone of Clarke’s gaunt cheek.

The kiss is a bit of a surprise - as far as Lexa is aware, her feelings for Clarke have been entirely one-sided until now - and Lexa can’t help but wonder what has changed in Clarke’s mind to bring them to this point. When Clarke draws back from the kiss to change the angle, Lexa pulls back from the kiss, though she keeps her hands on Clarke to hold her close, trying to let Clarke know that this is just a temporary pause, not a permanent halt on their kissing.

“Clarke, what…?

“Finn was hitting on me and it made me realise that there’s only one person I want to be doing that,” explains Clarke. When Lexa stares at her dumbfoundedly for a few seconds, not quite believing what she’s hearing, Clarke elaborates by saying, “You.”

Lexa’s jaw drops open like she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing, even though she already has the physical evidence that Clarke wants her from the way that her lips are still tingling from the recent pressure of Clarke’s mouth sliding against her own.

“Listen, this isn’t going to be easy,” says Clarke, dropping the hand that is buried in Lexa’s hair so that it’s draped around her neck and bringing the other one up to match it. “I still have to go to the hospital for tests every few months and there’s always a chance that the cancer could come back. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but mentally I’m a bit of a fuck up right now.”

“Clarke…” protests Lexa, shaking her head.

“What?” shrugs Clarke. “It’s true! I’ve still got a difficult journey ahead of me but I want to make that journey with you. I want you to still be by my side, because I can deal with the cancer - not very well, I admit - but I can deal with it. I don’t think I could handle not having you in my life.”

There’s a question in Clarke’s eyes, as if she’s waiting for Lexa to promise that she’s never going to leave. Lexa can’t find the words to do justice to the way that she’s feeling, so she decides to do it with actions instead. Her hands tighten on Clarke’s waist, pulling her closer as she leans down for a second kiss that feels like Lexa is arriving home.

“Just to be clear,” Lexa mumbles against Clarke’s lips, “are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”

Clarke lets out a little noise, something that Lexa decides must be the audible version of an eye roll, before she answers, “Yes, idiot. Be my girlfriend?”

Lexa doesn’t know how she manages to keep kissing Clarke when her mouth is threatening to crack into a huge grin, but she manages it, only pulling back for long enough to say, “Yes.”

#clexa #clexa fanfic #clexa fic #clarke griffin #commander lexa #fanfiction

[poppy-battenberg]

“i used to see every color. but slowly, it started to fade. not into black and white and gray. just various shades of red. my mother drinks liquid red, my father smokes sticks of red, my brother laughs in the color red. the only pigment my camera captures is red. what i would give to see pink just once.”

NAME

Charlotte “Charlie” Tyr

AGE

Twenty-three

PARENTS

Electra Conduit & Kaelen Tyr

OCCUPATION

Victor of the 150th Games (Hell), mentor for District Three

BACKGROUND & GAMES

It was evident from a very young age that Charlie had acquired her parents’ tendency toward quietness, perhaps because she saw just how much her brother made up for all their silence. To say she never made a statement would be incredibly inaccurate, though. Her first word was “no” and it became her favorite to use over the years. Tantrums were never her forté, but her pout looked so like a scowl and glare it was difficult to ignore such an intense expression on a young face. Whatever protective barriers were put up to try to block the real world from her - including the Games - she tore down quickly and ferociously. She wanted nothing to be kept secret from her, wanted nothing more than to strip herself of her naivety even at a young age. And it turned her sour early.

Charlie inherited her father’s silence but not his ability to fill in the gaps with an expressive face and mannerisms. She could lie without any obvious tells, though she doesn’t see the point in keeping the truth, no matter how hurtful, away from someone. If it loses her friends, or trust, so be it. At least she’s honest. She doesn’t have half an idea about the kind of lies that circulate throughout Panem, but she knows lies are what made her mother insistent on avoiding the summer carnivals, what left her parents riddled in scars, what killed the man her brother was named after. Perhaps the only person she’d be willing to lie for is her brother, as he’s the only person who can really bring out a lighter, more childish side of Charlie that she tried to lock away very early in her life. Her parents never wanted her to be so closed off, but who were they to try to set an example of openness?

The first camera Charlie got was from her Uncle Blaise, actually a hand-me-down to him from her father that he thought it was time for her to have. The thing was outdated and essentially a piece of junk, and she wasn’t sentimental enough to really care whose it’d been before, but it peaked her interest. The flashes startled her at first, but soon enough, she was begging for a newer version, different lenses, a more protective case, a renovation to the large closet in her room to turn it into a dark room. Taking pictures was the only time she felt she was really saying anything, and her pictures grew over time from no more than practice shots of flowers and buildings around the city to up close and personal shots of people from the poorest parts of the Capitol, the redlight district at night, candid shots of mentors as they watched their tributes die. All her pictures are kept in a safe in her room, the pictures that tell the true story of Panem. Her wall is plastered in the pictures of the buildings damaged by the second rebellion that brought about the seasonal Games. If she ever chose to find a way to reveal the pictures on a broad scale, she’d certainly end up in jail. And honestly, she doesn’t care. She’ll spend the rest of her life in a five-by-six if it means she can share the truth.

A five-by-six would be nothing next to the actual hell she was put through in the 150th Games. As usual, she went to Three for the Reaping, technically a citizen even if she spent most of her time in the Capitol. She was eighteen, meant to only have her name in the drawing for a few more years, and then she was supposed to be free. She never had any reason for tesserae, and the Reaping Day was the only time she let herself be optimistic and assume that she would be fine. The 150tht Reaping proved her wrong as her name was called. Her camera had been in her hands and as she started walking toward the stage, the only thing she could think to do was take pictures of the crowd staring at her as she went onstage, the Peacekeepers trying to lead her there and push her camera away. When she got on stage, she refused to say anything, just lifted her camera and took a picture of the crowd.

She was then herded onto the train. Then to stylists. Then to her room. Then to training. She’d never realized being a tribute was so like being cattle, but she took pictures the whole way. The device was never out of her hands until she was forced to place it down before entering the catacombs, and it was soon replaced by her great-grandfather’s watch that she tucked into her pocket securely. Never in her life had she been so terrified, and never had it shown so profusely on her face as she entered the tube leading up to the arena and turned to wave good-bye to her stylist. As she was lifted into the arena, she had no idea when she was actually out of the tube until she realized the air had become a bit fresher. Everything was pitch black, and unlike other years when it was darker, the tribute clothes didn’t have any kind of light on them. She’d been dressed in no more than some black cargo pants and a black tank top and black combat boots.

The countdown began, but it was all that could be heard in the darkness. Charlie wondered if she might be asleep, if it might all be a dream, if she might have somehow passed out in the tube on the way up. All those fears were erased in an instant when the Head Gamemaker announced that the Games were to begin. The moment the phrase was out of their mouth, the entire arena went up in flames. It went right through the center of the circle of tributes and caught onto the frame of the cornucopia, beginning to burn the objects inside almost immediately. It took Charlie only moments to realize she was, quite literally, in Hell.

The flames started to spread, and Charlie barely had time to jump down and take off running on the cracked, dry ground in the central sector before her podium went up in flames. Any tributes who remained standing on their podiums were soon burning like witches on a pyre, and some tributes were risking their lives to try to grab something from the Cornucopia. Charlie turned her back on it all, racing in any direction she could. Fire shot up randomly out of the ground, geysers of flames and molten rock. The heat in the arena was nearly suffocating, and she could feel herself getting dehydrated rapidly. She couldn’t stop moving, even if it meant that she came to a very slow pace. From everything she saw, any tribute who stood still suddenly found themselves atop a geyser waiting to send them up in flames.

The first thing the Gamemakers sent at them was a shower of black, igneous rocks, some of which were flaming. Charlie received a half-full canteen but refused to drink from it until she knew she would probably be on the verge of unconsciousness or death unless she hydrated herself. It was almost impossible to hear the canons over the rocks and the roaring fire, and she had no idea how many people she was left with. She managed to find some caves where she hid, but not before a flaming rock hit her hard in the back, leaving her with a severe burn between her shoulder blades that had her on the verge of tears anytime she tried to move her arms. Ointment came, but it was near impossible to apply it herself.

Part of her wondered then if she might be able to hide out in the cave for the entire length of the Games, but she should have known better. At the end of the first day, sixteen names were projected on the red sky above the arena. She managed to sleep restlessly for just a couple hours before she was awoken by something warm pooling around her face. When she opened her eyes, she found a pair of opened, shocked eyes staring at her. The eyes of her district partner, who’d probably come to find her and stay with her until she woke up because they’d agreed they’d help each other out. His throat was slit, though, and the blood pouring out of it was gathering beneath where Charlie’s head was resting on the cave floor. Her head snapped up quickly to see one of the Careers standing over her with a bloody knife, obviously pulling back his arm as he prepared to plunge the knife into her throat, too. Charlie’s grip on the strap of the canteen tightened instantly and she swung it up to hit the knife out of the girl’s hand. She scrambled to her feet as the girl tried to go for the knife again, swinging the canteen again to hit the girl as hard a she could in the head. The Career seemed relatively dazed, and Charlie took advantage to dive forward and grab the knife. Spinning onto her back, she threw it as hard as she could at the girl and watched as it went right through her neck. She was used to targets that didn’t bleed, and the sight of the crimson seeping out as the Career fell to the ground left Charlie completely frozen.

Another canon went off right before another liquid suddenly came underfoot. Charlie stood up quickly, knife in hand and canteen over her shoulder as she looked around the cave that was only lit dimly by the fires in the distance. The substance filling the cave was black, and smelled unlike anything Charlie had ever experienced. It was absolutely awful. Before Charlie could decide what to do, the black bile no longer dribbled out from the distance of the cave but a rush of it came out. The knife was torn from her hand by the current, slicing along her arm as it was pulled away. She was toppled and flipped around by the substance, just barely making it to the surface before she thought her lungs might burst and gasping for air. Looking toward the caves, she saw that they were barely visible as the bile poured out of them, dousing the flames around the arena as the current was enough to drown anyone without enough swimming experience or muscle mass. It carried Charlie across half the arena, thinning out and depositing her near a mass of rocks that looked incredibly unstable. The moment she hit them, a pile fell on her and pinned her wounded arm to the ground. The bile had gotten into her burn and cut to certainly cause infection, and then she was certain the rocks had broken the bones in her lower arm.

As Charlie tried to take it easy and keep herself hidden among some of the larger rocks, curled up and unmoving, she heard movement. She recognized the taunting voice of one of the tributes from the outer districts who’d always gone after Careers during training. He’d apparently done the math to figure out who was probably alive, calling out the names of the tributes whose faces hadn’t been projected in the sky the night before. He seemed to know how to maneuver through the rocks, and Charlie became increasingly panicked as she heard his voice coming closer and closer, until a dark shadow suddenly fell over her. She looked up to lock eyes with the tribute for only a second before pushing against one of the rocks she’d been trying to hide behind with all her might, pinning his lower body to the ground beneath it as she heard the distinctive sound of his bones breaking. Her movement caused another avalanche of rocks, greater than any of the others before, and she soon went tumbling down along with the rocks as she tried to avoid being buried. Her ankle twisted and the rocks pelted every inch of her body, but she managed to survive the fall. Looking up, she could see where the tribute’s body was beneath all the rubble, and a few minutes later she heard a canon go off.

Her body was exhausted, and she just barely managed to finish off the canteen and eat some granola that had been sent to her before she had to lie down completely again. Her whole body was throbbing with pain, and she had yet to move away from the debris of the rock avalanche. A part of her knew that if another avalanche occurred, she’d be buried and die, but she couldn’t force herself to move. She fell asleep again, surrounded by the rocks as a barrier, and didn’t wake up for hours. When she awoke, it was just in time to watch a volcano going off across the arena. Before she’d even pushed herself up, another cannon went off. She started running as fast as she possibly could in the direction away from the volcano, so intent that she didn’t pay enough attention to where she was going. She tripped over a rock in her way, and toppled head first into a pool of the black bile that had been created after the flood. She was completely disoriented, and had no idea which way was up or down. She started swimming but she didn’t dare open her eyes and she had no idea how to tell where the surface was. Eventually she couldn’t do it anymore, she had to stop holding her breath, and her body started to float down through the liquid as her body and mind gave up.

Beneath the surface, she hadn’t heard the final two canons for the other remaining tributes go off. Something wiry wrapped around her waist suddenly, and she was pulled out of the pool, covered and dripping in the black fluid as the hovercraft’s rope started to pull her up toward it. Charlie began to sputter, turning her head to the side to spit out the bile and regain her proper breathing. It wasn’t until she was on the hovercraft that she even realized what had happened: she was the victor of the 141st Games.

Charlie didn’t go to her mansion in the Victor’s Village in Three, and she has yet to ever see it. She bought an apartment in the Capitol, over near where some of her mom’s old friends had their clubs, and didn’t leave it until her Victor’s Ball. They dressed her in black for the ball, a long, draping dress so it looked like the bile that had poured off of her as the emerged as the barely living victor. She set it on fire during the Ball, while still wearing it. Once as naturally fearful of fire as any rational human might be, the Games didn’t increase the fear at all - it made it seem like nothing. She didn’t even flinch when the flames touched her legs, and threw a glass at the people who rushed to put the fire out.

After the Ball, she retreated back to her apartment and only interacted with people if they came to see her. The only time she left the place was to go out and take pictures, but even that barely satisfied her for a time. She didn’t watch the 151st and 152nd Games aside from a replay of the victory moment, and it took a group of extremely determined stylists to convince her to come to the Victor’s Ball for the 153rd Games. Slowly, she began to go out again, because a friend would only agree to eat somewhere across the city or someone promised a fun, and safe, event was happening outside of her neighborhood. It was all an evident attempt to keep her from permanently becoming a hermit, and it worked. During the 154th she helped mentor from the sidelines, and it brought out more determination in her than she’d felt even in her own games. She started to get more into her groove of mentoring - hardly a soft approach - but the deaths of her tributes during the 155th struck her hard and she skipped the Victor’s Ball. She was determined to bounce back though, mostly with her brother’s encouragement. 

Though the Black Eagles have always been on Charlie’s radar, there’s still something about them that she finds skeptical. She knows her parents feel the same, but they’ve also been through enough failed rebellions or rebellions that ended worse than they started to know what to do. What worries her is Jett’s growing interest in the group, mostly because she doesn’t trust he won’t act reckless if he gets in too deep.

TRAITS

+ resourceful, attentive, honest

- distant, pessimistic, blunt

CONNECTIONS

Jett Tyr (older brother)

Open to any and all connections, so please message me!

#au week #next gen au #au bio #charlie takeover #not happy with the graphic but oh well #i couldn't not play my babe

[fantasticnewtimagines]

*Wounded* Newt x reader

◘ Anonymous asked: 

Hey! I was wondering if you could do an imagine where reader is hurting (like some type of sickness or wound idk, you decide, haha) and hides it from everybody but then the pain gets unbearable and she can't hide it anymore, maybe even passes out? In other words very angsty at the beginning but then a lot of cuddles+kisses+fluff at the end!:D You're an amazing writer and I wish you all the best in the future pieces♥️😊

♦ Thanks, hun! That means a lot! I hope you enjoy!! 

It was earlier that day Newt had received word that a an Antipodean Opaleye was being held captive by some wizard’s in New Zealand and planning to take her eggs to sell illegally. The moment Newt heard the news, he knew he needed to help the poor creature out.

“It should only take us a few hours to get there.” Winding in-between people, Newt held his case tightly and you tried to keep up as best you could behind him. The train whistle blew and he sped up even more. “Come on, Y/N!”

Picking up your pace, you reached your hand out and grabbed a hold of Newt’s. Jumping on to the train, you quickly showed the man your tickets before making your way to your compartment. 

“If the information I have is correct, we should find the dragon here,” pointing to a spot on the map, you nodded as you looked back up to your beloved magizoologist. You adored his admiration and love for magical creatures, but sometimes it got a bit exhausting. For instance, you had been enjoying a nice cup of tea in your hotel room when Newt barged in saying plans had changed and you were heading out to New Zealand this very moment. 

“And what do we do when we get there?” you asked. 

“The men who told me said there will be others waiting who will help me rescue him”.

“The men, they’ll be arrested, right?”

“Yes.” Smiling, Newt enjoyed the thought of locking up the horrible people who mistreated creatures. 

Turning to look out the window, you watched as the train picked up speed and began it’s journey towards New Zealand. The humming of the tracks and the feeling of the vibration made you somewhat lethargic and you gently rested your head a top Newt’s shoulder. The wizard hardly cared and only scooted closer. You drifted off rather quickly and before you knew it, you had arrived.

You were surprised when the first thing you did when arriving was find an Inn. 

“Alright.” setting the case down on the bed, Newt fumbled in his pockets for a moment before turning to meet your gaze. “Here is some money. I should be back soon. Don’t go too far off-”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you’ve never been in this area before and I just want-”

“No no no.... you think I’m staying behind and letting you go out there yourself?” you placed your hands on your hips and raised your eyebrows at him. “I didn’t say yes to coming all this way just to be left while you go out there alone and-”

“I won’t be alone, Y/N.”

“I don’t care! I’m going with. That’s what we do. We fight our battles together.”

“This isn’t a battle for you to fight.” growing mildly irritated with you, Newt brushed his finger’s through his hair while he let out a large puff of air. “It’s dangerous.”

“Newton Artemis Fido Scamander. We are a team. We are doing this together.”

“No. We’re not.” Newt’s voice became more stern and his facial expression almost angry. It wasn’t until he gently placed a hand on your cheek that his eyes softened and became the gentle and loving ones you knew and love. “I love you, Y/N, and I can’t let you walk in to such danger, not while I can prevent it.”

“I love you too, Newt. And I can’t let you walk in to such danger either...”

Newt smiled and leaned in pressing his forehead against yours. “I know, love. But please... please sit this one out.”

Feeling defeated, you sighed and finally agreed to it. Placing a kiss to your lips, Newt grabbed his case and headed for the door. “I’ll be back soon. I promise.” And with that, his blue coat disappeared behind the door.

Pacing the room for what was probably the hundredth time, you stopped and looked out the window. It had been almost three hours now and there was no sign of Newt. Growing worried, you sat down on the bed when you heard a crumpling noise. Scooting over slightly, you picked up the map and your eyes landed directly on the circle Newt drew placing the area where the dragon was. 

Your wand was placed on the bedside table and you felt the urge to pick it up. Fighting against it, you closed your eyes and tried to think happy thought. Unfortunately, all you could see was Newt getting caught and-

That was it. You grabbed your wand, the map and headed for the door. Screw Newt’s request that you sit this one out. You were not going to risk losing the man you loved.

After asking several strangers how to get to your destination, you came upon what looked to be a an abandoned junkyard. Walking over the various broken objects, you scanned the area wondering where on earth a dragon could be. It wasn’t until you noticed something glistening off in the distance that you hurried over. Following it, it only led you towards a shoe which you knelt down to look at. How on earth had this been shining? It was nothing more than a tattered old boot. Reaching down to examine it, you were suddenly spinning in the air. Landing harshly on stone and gravel, you quickly tried to stand as you noticed all around you spells being thrown every which way.

“OVER THERE!” 

“THIS WAY!”

Dozens of aurors rushed past you, throwing spells at what you assumed to be some of the men who were holding the creature captive. 

Realizing the shoe had been a port key, it all fell in to place. The people responsible had tried to hide their whereabouts. 

Trying to make your way through the fighting, you suddenly fell to the ground as the giant dragon came in to view. It was still chained down and trying to escape. It’s vivid red flame lit up the night sky and it’s heat reached your skin. Landing on the ground, you clutched your wand tightly as you shot back up, running towards the trees for shelter. 

The shouting grew louder and you felt your heart racing in your chest. Peering from behind the tree, you tried to make out where Newt could be but found no sight of him at all. 

BANG!

A spell hit a nearby tree and you ducked down to avoid any flying objects. The tree cracked and fell to the ground. Panicked, you began running in the direction towards the dragon. If one thing were certain, Newt would be somewhere near it. 

More flames flew in to the sky and it lit up the area perfectly. Spotting Newt, you picked up your pace. It was then one of the men spotted you and cast a curse your way. Catching you off guard, you fell to the ground. The sharp rocks hit your side and you felt it sink in to your side. Fighting to get back up, you were struck again. Falling to the same side, the pain only grew as you felt something else pierce your side. 

Crying out in pain, you immediately grabbed the object. Pulling out broken glass, you dropped it to the ground. Your blood stained hand shaking, you used your other hand to raise your wand and cast a curse back at the man. Successfully hating him, you pulled yourself up, hand still clutching your wound. You could feel the blood coating your blouse and running down towards your skirt. Clutching your black coat tightly to you, you told yourself you had to be okay. You needed to help Newt. 

Getting to your feet, you wiped the blood off on to your coat and made a run towards the wizard.

“Y/N!?” 

Falling to his side, Newt looked at you angrily before realizing he didn’t have the time to properly scold you. 

“What are you doing here?! I told you to stay put! Do you have any idea how dangerous it is out here? Never mind! Just, stay behind me!”

Ducking behind the wizard, Newt pointed his wand at the chains holding the creature down and just he tried many times before, cast a spell at it. The spell hit point on and the chains broke free. The dragon let out fiery flames once again and Newt ducked down, wrapping you in his arms for protection. The auror’s caught sight of the creatures release and immediately began casting a charm to hold the creature in. Almost all the men had been caught and once they were gone, Newt would finally be able to inspect the dragon for injuries before setting him free back in to the mountains.

Newt helped you up, rubbing the dirt off his pants and checking to be sure no more men were hiding. 

“We’ve retrieved them all.” A tall middle aged man approached Newt, giving him the okay to inspect the Opaleye. 

“Are you okay?” Turning to you, Newt gave you a quick look over before going over to the dragon.

“I-I’m fine.” You lied. 

“You sure?”

“Yes. Go. Don’t worry about me.”

Giving you one last look over, Newt walked over to the dragon. You watched as Newt approached the creature quietly and slowly. Everything the wizard had one told you about these magnificent creatures all came flooding back in to your memory. Smiling, you watched him tenderly inspect the beast and speak with the remaining aurors. 

The pain in your side suddenly returned and you clutched it, trying to hold in your scream from the pain. Telling yourself it wasn’t as bad as it felt, you would take care of it when you returned. Newt would never need to know and maybe after this, he’d let you tag along with any future rescues.

“He’s clear of any wounds. They will let down the charm and he will be released and free to live.” Smiling, Newt looked at you wrapped you in his arms. Holding in the need to give out a squeal from the pain, you nuzzled your face in to his chest as he whispered in your ear, “Don’t ever do that again, okay? I could have lost you....” Caressing your back, Newt held on to you for what seemed like hours until he finally pushed back. Giving you a smile, he tangled your arm with his and with a sudden pop, you both apparated back to the Inn.

Newt nearly passed out the moment you returned. He had fallen asleep while still in his white button up shirt and vest. You were sitting on the bed, making absolutely certain he was asleep. Hearing his tiny snore indicated he was and you slowly rose from the bed. 

Gently you began to unbutton your blouse and slip it off. The blood was caked on to the side and it stung a bit as it pulled away from the open wound. You bit your lip to hold in your scream. The blouse landed on the ground and you looked down to your side. Tears immediately emerged from your eyes and fell down your cheeks as you saw the gash in your side. It was clear you were going to need something more than just a simple warm washcloth to fix this. 

Now only in your stockings, skirt and bra, you grabbed your blouse off the floor and wrapped it around your waist. You needed to stop the wound from bleeding, you knew this much.

Turning to check that Newt was still asleep and quietly set his case on the floor. Leaning down, you undid the locks and lifted the lid. Looking back once more, you gently descended down the stairs in to the case.

Landing in side the tiny hut, you hurried over to his work table and began grabbing the various books he had staked upon it. One of these was sure to have a recipe for a healing potion. 

Turning the pages vigorously, you began to feel light headed and woozy. Your hands began to look like blurs as they fumbled to turn the pages. 

“Here....” Finding the page, you quickly read the ingredient list and began grabbing the various plants and herbs. Your hands struggled to grasp on to them and you kept trying to hold them tightly. 

Vial. You needed a vial.

Turning around, you made your way towards where Newt kept his vials and grabbed one. It slipped from your grasp and you heard the shatter echo through your ears. 

I can do this.... I can do this... You kept trying to tell yourself you were okay. It wasn’t until your legs began to feel as if they had become liquid and your vision began to fade that you knew you needed Newt’s help. Unfortunately, it was too late and the world around you had already gone black.

“Y/N?! Y/N!” 

Your eyes opened slowly and all you could see was a mesh of colors and what sounded like Newt’s voice. 

“Look at me, Y/N.... that’s it...” Newt’s warm hand caressed your cheek and he suddenly came in to clear view. Tears were streaming down his cheeks and he instantly hugged you to his chest. Lifting you quickly, Newt placed you on the cot. Your eyes closed again and it felt as if all the energy and life in your body was draining away. The sound of things shifting around vigorously faded in out and it was only moments later when your head was being titled up and something was being placed to your lips.

“You can do it... c-come on, love...”

The liquid slipped down your throat and you struggled to keep your eyes open. Newt’s hand was placed on the back of your head and he waited for you to swallow. 

“J-just a little more, okay, love? Y-you can do it....” His voice was shaky and you could tell he was holding back the urge to burst in to tears. 

Mustering up the strength, you took the last sip and closed your eyes. The world went dark once again.

Waking up, there was a dim candle lit beside you, a cool washcloth on your head and the familiar smell of mint and lavender. It was clear you were still in the hut within Newt’s case. 

Turning your head, you tried to piece together through your blurry vision where Newt was. As your eyes adjusted, he came in to view and you found him sitting in a chair across from you, his arms crossed and his head leaning back against the wall. 

Removing the wash cloth, you gently lifted yourself up to a sitting position. The sound of the blankets rustling got Newt’s attention and his eyes shot open. His vivid green eyes, still red from crying, looked directly in to your E/C ones and he wasted no time in closing the space between you.

“Oh, God!” Rushing to your side, Newt’ wrapped you in his arms, sinking in to the bed as he side beside you. “I-I thought I was going to lose you!” He cried. His face was nuzzled in to the crook of your neck. His hand tangled itself through your hair as he placed a hand to the back of your head. Rocking you back and fourth in his arms, he cried before placing both hands on either side of your face.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again!” He cried. “Ever!” His tears streamed down his face as he kept his eyes locked with yours. Your heart broke as you saw the pain and suffering you had caused him.

“I...I....” You wanted to explain but you knew nothing would make the situation any easier or better. 

“Do you have an idea how close you were to death?”

You blinked, not knowing how to answer him. Newt dropped his hands from your face and stood up, pacing the room. You sat there, not knowing what to do or say. He just paced back and forth, his hand over his face as he struggled to find his next words. 

Stopping, he turned to look at you again. “I can’t lose you, Y/N. I can’t.”

“I’m sorry....” Your words were almost inaudible as they came out almost softer than a whisper. The tears in your eyes stung and you began to cry. Rushing back to your side, Newt wrapped you in his arms and held you tight. Your arms wrapped around him and you cried in to his shoulder. 

“I-I never meant to-to...” you could barely speak and Newt only shushed you.

“Shhh....” Cradling your head, he kissed your temple and rubbed your back gently. “I know you didn’t mean to let this happen. I know that.”

“I only wanted to h-help.” You sobbed.

“I know.” Pushing you back, Newt looked in to your eyes and brushed the fly away hair out of your face. “I thought I lost you, Y/N. And... and I don’t know  what I’d do if I ever did. I didn’t want you to come because I wanted to keep you safe. I never meant for you to worry or feel like you weren’t capable of helping me. I just can’t bear the thought of ever losing you.”

You gave Newt a smile and nodded, knowing his words were genuine. “I-I know. I won’t ever do that again.”

Newt smiled before placing a gentle kiss to your forehead. He lingered there a moment before replying, “You’re the creature I value the most and I won’t risk losing you.”

That was MUUUUCH longer than I anticipated! I was hoping to post the next half of Taken tonight but I’m extremely exhausted. Sorry, guys. I promise though to have it done and up soon! 

Also, I wrote this while listening to the soundtrack of The Theory of Everything and the music added so much more feels to the ending. 

#newt scamander imagines #newt scamander #newt scamander x you #newt scamander x reader #fantastic newt imagines #fantastic beasts and where to find them #fantastic beasts fanfic #fantasticbeasts #fantastic beasts