#like i guess i could be miraculously healed but barring that? i have to deal with this FOREVER

[ioannemos]

last seizure free day: yesterday 😑 have a temp prescription for the higher dosage of my meds, so i fully expect to turn into a zombie. thankfully i already have an appointment with a neurologist for later this month, but like. fuck's sake

#i am so TIRED #and i have the headache that won't quit #this is exactly the kind of shit that makes me suicidal not just bc it fucks with my emotions but also like. this is for life. #like i guess i could be miraculously healed but barring that? i have to deal with this FOREVER #and i DO NOT WANT TO and i won't HAVE to in HEAVEN so. can i just. speed things along. please. #UGH #please pray #personal #abbie needs a twitter #suicide #i'm not gonna. i know it would be bad. i know it's a permanent solution to a temporary (or in this case temporal) problem #and-yet. #BLECH

[the-wild-wolves-around-you]

hear those bells ring: chapter 3 (a deaf!bakugo x reader fic)

Summary: Bakugo wakes up with his hearing and a bunch of questions.

Pairings: Katsuki Bakugo x Reader; Katsuki Bakugo x You

Rating: M(ature)

Warnings: Blood, descriptions of gore, and adult language.

A/N: Sorry for the wait on ch 3, I had to work over the weekend. Anyway, hope you enjoy! 

~*~*~ No spoilers or anything. This is just a self-indulgent AU fic with aged up characters. Everyone’s in their mid-20s. Fic title is from a song called “Achilles Come Down.”

Ao3 Link: Here

Ch 1 Tumblr Link: Here

Ch 2 Tumblr Link: Here

Bakugo woke up confused, disoriented, and pissed off. 

He bolted upright, the taste of smoke and ash still on his tongue, but when he whipped his head from side to side, there was no fire, no burning asphalt, no villain, only the empty, dark expanse of his apartment. 

But something was still tugging at him, fucking incessantly, and it took him a moment to realize it was his phone alarm. 

Red eyes flicked to the device on his bedside table, and even though its continuous siren was like nails on a chalkboard, Bakugo found himself unable to move, unable to stop it. 

Because he could hear the alarm. Clearly. Loudly. 

He hadn’t been able to hear his phone alarm in weeks, not really. It was nothing more than a muffled tone that petered out toward the end as it rose in pitch and frequency. Thankfully, Bakugo’s internal alarm got him up most days around the sun, but he’d been late to morning patrols a handful of times. 

But now… 

Numbly, Bakugo finally reached out and tapped his phone. His ears rang slightly in the ensuing silence, but it was barely perceptible, nothing like the perpetual buzzing he’d been living with, like a hive of bees had taken up residence in his head. 

The quiet, after so long, was almost… unsettling. 

And it was all because of that woman. He was sure of it. 

Bakugo pressed his lips into a thin line as he thought about you, the memories of last night flooding back. The blurry image of your face, crouched over him, splattered in a thin mist of red blood and dusted with white plaster. He couldn’t remember much from right after he blasted that villain into the fucking dirt. He remembered the feel of glass breaking around him, and pain, a lot of fucking pain, but then it was black until you appeared. When he’d opened his eyes and met yours, he recalled thinking he should be in more pain, but then you spoke to him and derailed all coherent thought. 

Because he’d heard you. Clear as fucking day. 

That immediately drew his attention, and so did the blood all over your hands. 

There was a lot of it. Way too fucking much for nicking yourself on some glass or whatever bullshit excuse you gave. And Bakugo knew it was bullshit. You weren’t a convincing liar. Well, maybe to some idiot extras you would be, but not to him. He clocked the way you stuttered, the way you fidgeted and averted your eyes. And when you looked at him… fuck, your face was so goddamn guilty. 

Why, he had no idea. 

But he did know one thing. 

You had a healing quirk. There was no other explanation. 

Even if he hadn’t just miraculously recovered the hearing that a doctor told him he would never get back, there were a lot of other little discrepancies. His left arm, for one. Bakugo remembered how it felt when the villain’s asphalt wrapped around his limb, the burning, scalding agony of it. But now, the skin was just pink and barely blistered in some places. 

Then there was the blood. 

When he’d gotten home after ditching the crime scene, Bakugo had immediately beelined for his bathroom to take a shower. But, when he stripped off his hoodie, he realized it was heavier than it should be right before he noticed it was dripping onto his floor. Dripping blood. Without thinking, he’d wrung the hoodie out on the bathroom floor, and a fuck ton of red liquid seeped out of it. 

He had immediately dropped the jacket and started scanning his body in the bathroom mirror, but besides the shallow gash on his abdomen, the burned arm, and a few other minor scrapes and bruises, he was uninjured. 

But… his back was coated in red, and so were the seat of his dark jeans and boxer briefs. It was almost like… he’d been lying in a pool of blood. 

So, you had to be a healer. You just had to be. 

Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to confirm this since the cops had been circling you like vultures. He also hadn’t wanted to be bitched at by any more heroes, or the fucking media, so he made himself scarce. 

But he needed to see you again. Needed to hear the truth from your own mouth. 

And maybe he could coax you into a deal. 

The doctor Bakugo spoke to yesterday obviously hadn’t known what the hell he was talking about. He had made it sound impossible to fix the blond’s ears, and yet you’d somehow done it easily, in the middle of a fucking battlefield. 

With that kind of power, Bakugo wouldn’t have to worry about going deaf or designing stupid hearing aids with some company. 

With that kind of power, Dynamight would become Japan’s Number One Hero in no time. 

But first, he had to find you. 

Resolved, Bakugo shoved the covers off and slid out of bed, but before he could make it to his bathroom, someone started knocking on his front door. 

No, not knocking. Banging. It sounded like they were trying to break the fucking door down. 

“Bakubroooooooo!” 

“Gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Bakugo grumbled as he padded to his front door. He was only dressed in boxer briefs, but that’s what the idiot got for barging over so early in the damn morning. 

The banging persisted, growing louder and more fervent. 

“I’m fuckin’ comin!” the blond shouted just before he undid the deadbolt and wrenched open the door. 

Eijiro Kirishima, dressed in his Red Riot costume, blinked on the other side of the threshold, his fist still raised to knock. 

“What the fuck, bro?” he asked after a moment of just staring at Bakugo. 

The blond immediately scowled. “That’s my fuckin’ line. What are you doing breaking down my door at six in the damn morning?” 

“Excuse me?” his patrol and agency partner scoffed. “I’m obviously coming to check that you’re not dead since you’ve been MIA for over twenty-four hours.” 

“What?” Bakugo frowned. “I saw you yesterday morning for patrol.” 

“Noooooo,” Kirishima drawled like Bakugo was a particularly stupid child. “That was two days ago, bro. Then that night, I see you all over the damn news, and no one could get ahold of you all day yesterday. I would have come to check on you sooner, but I’ve been having to play damage control with the media because someone decided to blow up a residential neighborhood.” 

“Two days?” Bakugo echoed with a furrowed brow. He’d slept that long? 

“Have you been passed out this whole time, dude?” Kirishima groaned as he shouldered his way into the apartment. “I guess that means you got none of our messages?” 

“Our?” the blond grumbled as he closed the door and followed the redhead to the kitchen bar. 

“Yeah, Denki, Mina, Sero.” Kirishima waved his hand dismissively, marching over to the counter where Bakugo kept the fruit and selecting an apple from the wire basket. “I even asked Izuku to message you, just to see if he’d actually get a rise and response from you.” 

“I don’t need stupid Deku knowing about my problems, Shitty Hair,” Bakugo growled before he stomped over to his fridge to see what he had to eat because he was suddenly starving. 

“Well, that would imply I know your problems, Oh Great Lord Dynamight,” Kirishima snorted and took a bite of apple. “So, what the fuck happened the other night?” 

“I blew up a residential neighborhood,” the blond deadpanned as he turned on his stove, cracking a few eggs into a skillet. 

“Yeah, I saw that. I was more wondering about what led up to it.” 

“What the fuck do you think led up to it?” Bakugo snapped, rummaging through his cupboard for seasonings. “I was walking home from getting a drink, and a damn villain just popped up in front of me.” 

“From what I heard, there were other heroes there, too,” the redhead mumbled around another bite of apple. 

“Yeah, fuckin’ useless extras,” Bakugo sneered as he started to whisk his eggs with a pair of chopsticks, throwing in some leftover white rice and a bit of nori. “They obviously weren’t getting anywhere, and the bastard was tearing up the street, so I stepped in.” 

“To finish destroying the street?” Kirishima cocked an eyebrow, chewing noisily. 

“Fuck off,” the blond said with an eyeroll. 

Internally, though, Bakugo knew the redhead was right. He’d been sloppy, careless, probably still borderline drunk. But he’d just been so angry about the doctor’s appointment, his fucked-up ears, his bleak and silent future. He had just wanted to break something, hurt someone, consequences be damned. 

Except now the consequences were catching up to him. 

Fuck, he didn’t even want to think about what his citizen’s approval rating must be now. 

Silence stretched between the two pro heroes for several long minutes, in which Bakugo finished making his breakfast and Kirishima finished gnawing on his apple core. The blond quickly shoveled a few bites of eggs and rice into his mouth, but his scarlet eyes kept flicking over to the redhead. 

“How bad?” he finally asked. 

Kirishima, to his credit, had learned how to translate Bakugo’s curt grunts years ago. 

“Actually, if I’m being honest, it’s not that bad,” he sighed, tossing the apple core in the trash and scratching at the back of his head. “Could be worse. From the reports I read, most of the damage—besides the road—is superficial. Broken windows, charred and peeling paint, a few busted cars that we’re still trying to figure out if our insurance or the city’s will pay for. It also helped that you saved two people. That definitely softened the blow.” 

“Two?” Bakugo mumbled around one of his last bites. “I just remember the stupid extra on the street that I shoved out of the way.” 

As the memory flashed through his mind, Bakugo frowned. He’d shoved that extra out of the way and got snatched by a giant asphalt hand for his troubles. The blond’s red eyes dropped to his pink and blotchy left arm and then trailed over to his chest. He recalled the sensation of his ribs snapping under pressure, but now only a mild soreness lingered after he took a deep breath. Yet another inconsistency… 

“Yeah, two,” Kirishima said and drew Bakugo out of his thoughts. “Do you seriously not even remember your own heroics? And that girl had such nice things to say about you, too.” 

“Girl?” Bakugo snapped his head up. “The girl whose… apartment I fell into?” 

“Crashed into, dude,” the redhead snorted, but then he narrowed his eyes as a sly smirk tugged at his lips. “But yeah. Sounds like you remember her, huh?” 

Bakugo didn’t like the smug look on his friend’s face. 

“I remember her fuckin’ yellin’ at me.” The blond scowled. “Like I wrecked her place on purpose and didn’t just save her whole block from a lunatic.” 

“I mean, to be fair, if you crashed into my house, bro, I would have yelled at you, too.” Kirishima grinned. “But don’t worry, she’s fine. In fact, when she called the agency yesterday, she asked for you specifically.” 

“She did? Why?” Did she want to confess her healing quirk? Fuck, were there side effects Bakugo didn’t know about? 

“Bro, seriously.” Kirishima rolled his eyes. “You’re Japan’s Number Two Hero, and you saved her life. And, like Mina keeps telling you, you’re not as ugly when you stop scowling.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” Bakugo flipped him off before he went to dump the dishes in the sink. 

“Yes, dear.” The redhead smirked. “But, in all seriousness, she called to figure out how to file a claim with our insurance. Or at least that’s what she said, but she also asked how you were doing, and she actually sounded genuinely worried.” 

Worried that a random side effect was going to kill him? Or worried that he would say something about her quirk? She’d obviously hidden it for a reason, tried to lie for a reason. 

And Bakugo was determined to find out just what that reason was. 

“Yeah, well, I’m fine,” he grunted as he rinsed off his plate and put it on the drying rack. “Just a few scrapes and bruises.” 

“I can see that,” Kirishima said as he eyed the butterfly stitches stretched across the gash on Bakugo’s abdomen. “Well, I’m glad I didn’t find you dead in a pool of your own blood. That woulda been a real bummer way to start the morning.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Bakugo muttered before he averted his eyes to the living room window across from him. “So… what did you tell her?” 

“The girl?” 

“No, you’re fuckin’ mom,” the blond scoffed. 

“Oh, speaking of moms, you might want to text Mitsuki. I called her last night after you ignored my billionth text, so she’s probably going crazy wondering where you are.” Kirishima grinned and then immediately dodged out of the way as Bakugo hurled a fork at him. 

“You bastard!” Bakugo hissed. “Now, I’m going to have to see that hag this weekend or she’s gonna fuckin’ barge over here.” 

“Maybe you should turn the ringer up on your phone.” The other hero shrugged, ducking again when Bakugo chucked an apple in his direction. 

The blond scowled at his friend, but he didn’t reply. 

If you and your quirk were the real deal, Bakugo wouldn’t have to worry about missing a call ever again. 

When Kirishima realized the projectiles had stopped, he popped his head over the back of the couch and smirked. “But to answer your previous question, I told the girl we would handle the insurance claim on our end if she sent us her info. And I didn’t really have anything to tell her about you since, like I’ve said, I thought you were dead. Kinda. I was at least thirty percent sure.” 

“Have you filed the insurance claim?” Bakugo asked. 

“No.” Kirishima shook his head. “She hasn’t sent in the info yet.” 

“Well… we should go get it from her.” 

This caused the redhead’s eyebrows to shoot up into his hairline, and the surprise on his face quickly made Bakugo backtrack. 

“I just… want to get this shitshow over with,” he grumbled as he averted his eyes again, but he could feel a traitorous heat crawling across the bridge of his nose. “The longer her apartment’s all fucked up, the longer the press is gonna rake me over the coals. The hero ranking’s aren’t far off, and I’m not going to lose to Deku again over some stupid broken windows.” 

“Righttttt,” Kirishima drawled, but his tone was mocking. “Okay, well, I know the hotel the police have set her up at. After we swing by the agency, we can head that way… to get her insurance info.” 

He still sounded unconvinced and like he wanted to needle Bakugo more, but the blond changed the subject quickly. 

“Why do we have to go to the agency?” Bakugo asked, and he frowned as he glanced back at his partner. “Even if I lost yesterday, my next scheduled patrol isn’t till tonight.” 

“Oh, I know.” Kirishima nodded solemnly. “But Nao wanted to have… a word with you ASAP, if I confirmed you weren’t dead.” 

“Fuckkkkkkk,” Bakugo groaned as he dropped his head back. If there was anything Bakugo hated more than the press, it was his actual PR manager. That old hag was good at her job, which meant she was always up Bakugo’s ass about something, and he knew she was going to have a field day with this shitfest. 

“Yeah, I’d recommend coffee and preemptive painkillers before we head in,” Kirishima said. “Plus, some putting on clothes. Maybe we can stop on the way and get her something sweet as a bribe.” 

“No amount of sugar is gonna make that bitch nice to me,” Bakugo grumbled before he spun on heel and started marching to his bedroom. 

“Maybe flowers then?” the redhead shouted after him. 

Bakugo slammed the door in response. 

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

“This is fuckin’ ridiculous,” Bakugo growled around his cargo, kicking his foot out at Kirishima. “Why did I listen to you? I’ve had to go shopping twice today now.” 

“Come on,” his friend laughed as he dodged the blow, which made the bags in his arms crinkle. “You can’t deny the flowers and cookies sweetened ole’ Nao up.” 

“To you,” Bakugo muttered, shifting the package in his arms a bit. “She still yelled at me for fifteen minutes.” 

“Well, you kinda deserved i—yow!” Kirishima yelped as Bakugo kicked him squarely in the ass this time. “This isn’t helping your image, bro!” 

“No one even knows it’s us,” the blond hissed. 

“Yeah, I guess the hoodies and sunglasses help,” the other pro hero mused. 

“And the fact that we’re carrying all this stupid shit.” 

“It’s not stupid.” Kirishima frowned in that earnest way of his, which made Bakugo roll his eyes. “It’s thoughtful to bring gifts to people who are having a difficult time. Especially when you made that time difficult. You basically kicked her out of her house, dude, not to mention her shop.” 

A wave of guilt actually washed through the blond, which he didn’t like. It made his throat feel tight and his stomach churn, and he glanced away from the redhead with a scowl. 

“Tch.” He clicked his tongue. “It’s not like we aren’t gonna pay for it.” 

The excuse felt flat, even to him. 

“Still,” Kirishima said as he shifted the bags in his grip, pulled out his phone, and consulted the map. “It must be stressful. So, we’re going to be nice to her, alright? Which starts with the gifts.” 

“And how is a fuckin’ fruit basket supposed to help?” Bakugo asked as he glared around the overflowing mound of crinkling plastic and bright fruit that he held against his chest. 

“Uh, one, it’s practical. Her apartment’s all fucked up, the power’s probably still out if not inconsistent on the street, and she’s been living in a hotel for two days, so she probably hasn’t had some nice fresh fruit in a while. And two, it looks nice!” 

“We coulda just left this shit at the hotel,” Bakugo grumbled. “She has to go back there eventually, right?” 

After old Nao chewed his ass out, Bakugo and Kirishima had gone to the hotel the police said they’d put you up in. Except you weren’t fucking there, and the number you left with Kirishima when you called the agency was going straight to voicemail, so here there were, fucking trekking through the city with a bunch of useless shit. 

Bakugo just kept reminding himself it would be worth it when he got the truth about your quirk out of you. 

“Nope,” Kirishima said and drew the blond out of his thoughts. “The city only pays the first two days after an emergency, unless the villain caused all the damage, but, uh, that’s not the case here, so we’ll be accommodating her until her apartment gets fixed up.” 

“At the agency?” Bakugo asked as his red eyes clicked over to his partner. 

As the Number Two and Three Heroes, the two of them had built a solid agency together. Bakugo still didn’t care for a bunch of extras riding on his tailcoats, so they had few sidekicks, all of whom reported to Kirishima and left him the fuck alone for the most part. But they owned a nice, sleek building in a nicer part of town, and one of the floors was dedicated to individual rooms with beds and other amenities. They were usually used when Bakugo, Kirishima, or the other sidekicks wanted to crash after patrol instead of going home—which Bakugo did more often than not—but they’d never had a civilian stay on the premises. 

Until now. 

“Yessssss, at the agency,” the redhead drawled as a shit-eating smirk crawled across his face. “So, you’ll be seeing a lot of her for the next couple weeks.” 

“Wipe that stupid look off your face.” Bakugo scowled and shouldered past the other hero, who snickered as he jogged to catch up. 

“Take the next left up ahead.” 

“Shut up!” the blond growled, but he followed the instructions. 

This was good news, though. Bakugo wouldn’t have to trek to this shitty part of town more than he had to. 

And he’d have a healer just down the hall. 

They marched along in silence for a few minutes, keeping their heads down, but there wasn’t much foot traffic. Bakugo was lost in his thoughts, planning out the questions he was going to ask you once he could distract Kirishima, but the redhead suddenly stopped in front of him. 

“Hey,” Bakugo grunted as the fruit basket crinkled against the other hero’s back. He hadn’t even notice Kiri get in front of him again. “What’s the damn hold up?” 

“Holy shit, dude,” Kirishima muttered, staring out at the road he’d just turned onto. 

“What?” the blond grumbled, shoving past his friend, but then he stopped, too. “Oh… yeah.” 

The street in front of him looked much worse in the bright light of midday. The road was a torn-up mess, more patches of dirt and gravel than actual asphalt. Most of the large-scale debris had been hauled away, but black scorch marks covered the sidewalks in long, dark smears. The walls of several businesses also bore charring along the facades, but most of the damage was focused in the center of the street. A crater nearly six feet deep was carved into the middle of the road, and the buildings on either side were blackened, their broken windows gaping voids. 

And then there was the hole in what Bakugo remembered as your second-floor apartment. A tarp hung over the wound, but one of the corners had come undone, flapping in the wind and giving split second glimpses into the darkened room beyond. 

Guilt crept up on him again, but Bakugo shoved it down, hunching over the fruit basket and nudging Kirishima. 

“Come on,” he muttered before he started moving forward, and a moment later he heard the crunch of boots on gravel as the redhead followed him. 

There were more people on this street than on the last several, but Bakugo could immediately tell they weren’t customers just passing through. People swept sidewalks, clearing away the last of the rubble and glass in front of their shops. Then a few old ladies stood under one awning shaking their heads, their hands laden with containers of food or gifts. 

Guess Kirishima hadn’t been wrong with this stupid idea. 

Then Bakugo realized some of those people were starting to look back at him, so he ducked his head further behind the fruit basket, grateful for his hoodie and sunglasses. 

But then suddenly he was there, standing in front of your ruined shop. His red eyes immediately flickered upward, but if there was a sign there before, it was gone now, burnt to ash. 

“What kinda shop did you say this was?” the blond asked under his breath as Kirishima paused beside him. 

“I’m… not sure,” the redhead said with a furrowed brow. “I don’t think she said on the phone. No time like the present to ask, though.” 

Before Bakugo could stop him, Kirishima shifted the bags in his arms, lifted one hand, and knocked on the charred metal frame of the front door. 

“Hello?” he called through the broken windows, followed by your name. “Anyone in there?” 

“Shit!” The squeaking voice was followed by a crashing sound somewhere in the shadows of the store. 

Bakugo didn’t speak a lot of English, but he did know curse words, and the sound of it made his lips twitch in amusement. 

“Are you okay?” Kirishima called out. “Can, uh, we come in?” 

“Yes, I’m fine!” the voice answered back in flustered Japanese. The words were fluent, though, with barely the hint of an accent. “And, um, I-I guess you can come in, but—” 

That was good enough for Bakugo. 

The blond shouldered past his partner, boots crunching over glass as he ducked into the darkened shop, and Kirishima sighed as he followed. 

The interior, if possible, looked worse than the outside. The room itself wasn’t very big, but it was a mess. Two metal rods had been embedded in the left and right walls at odd angles, obviously caused from the explosions, though Bakugo couldn’t tell what they used to be. Several pieces of blacked mannequins were scattered through the debris, and one wall was a charred mess of shelving and fabric, spots of color peeking through the black ash here and there. 

In the back, left corner were the remains of a tri-fold standing mirror, the ones where you could see yourself from different angles. Large shards of glass were missing, though, so the image of Bakugo and Kirishima standing backlit against the street was fractured. 

Last but not least, in the rear, right corner of the store was a counter that was half collapsed to the floor, behind which stood an empty doorframe that Bakugo assumed led to the back of the shop and upstairs. 

And it was from behind this broken counter that you popped up with a dustpan in one hand and a tiny, handheld broom in the other. 

The first thought Bakugo had was your face was rather plain… but in a somehow pleasing way. Like if his eyes had scanned over you in a crowd, something about the line of your jaw, the slope of your nose, the delicate quirk of your mouth would give him pause. 

His second thought was that his first one was stupid. You were just some extra, of course you would be plain and unmemorable. 

But his third thought was something about the color of your eyes was captivating, in a way that was damn fucking annoying. 

“Sorry, I was just… cleaning… up,” you said, slowly trailing off as your eyes met Bakugo’s. 

He saw the recognition flare in them immediately, followed by fear, and he couldn’t help the frown that twisted his face. 

Why were you afraid of him? 

“No, we’re sorry for barging in here like this,” Kirishima barreled on, oblivious to the stare off the other two occupants of the room were engaged in. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Oh! I’m being so rude. My name is Eijiro Kirishima, or you might know me as—” 

“Red Riot,” you breathed, finally tearing your eyes from Bakugo’s, and you flashed the redhead a half-smile that trembled along the edges. “We spoke on the phone.” 

“Yes.” Kirishima grinned, pointed teeth flashing in the dim light of the shop, before his gaze flickered over to the blond beside him. “And this is—” 

“Dynamight,” you finished once again, and you looked like you were trying desperately to maintain eye contact with the hardening hero, but then your eyes clicked back to Bakugo. You didn’t flash him a smile. “We’ve met.” 

“Oh, yeah, right,” Kiri chuckled awkwardly, and his arm jerked like he was going to rub the back of his neck, but the bags in his hands crinkled and stopped him. 

“What… do you have there?” you asked, frowning at the bags and the fruit basket the heroes were carrying. 

“Gifts!” the redhead declared as he hefted his arms up, and then he shuffled forward over charred fabric and glass and extended the bags to you. 

You blinked at him for a second, but you set the dustpan and handheld broom on the counter, where they promptly slid to the floor since the whole surface was slanted. You winced at the loud clatter and tried to cover it up by taking the bags from Kirishima, which crinkled loudly again as they transferred hands. 

Bakugo would be annoyed if he wasn’t more grateful that he could actually hear the innocuous little noise. 

“O-Oh, um, you shouldn’t have, really,” you started as you peeked into the bags, and then Bakugo swore he saw your eyebrow twitch once you saw what was inside. 

“It’s not much,” Kirishima said, and he was finally free to rub the back of his head and neck as his smile turned a little sheepish. “But, what with the state of your… apartment, we thought you might need some new clothes! And comfy clothes are the best after stressful days. These especially are super soft, we made sure of it. And, if you don’t like them, you could always sell them for a good chunk of change.” 

The redhead winked at you, not in an overly flirty manner, that was just how he was, but your cheeks flared as crimson as his hair, and your eyes dropped to the floor. 

Bakugo took the split instant to get a better look at you and noted you were wearing patched, faded jeans, solid boots, and a bleach-stained orange sweatshirt with some English writing he couldn’t read. Usually, he didn’t really see what other people wore because he couldn’t give less of a shit, but somehow he found your obvious cleaning clothes… endearing. The orange looked good on you, too. 

Fuck, maybe you didn’t heal him as well as he thought. He had to be hemorrhaging into his brain to be thinking this stupid shit. Or maybe it was a side effect of your quirk? 

He needed to get you alone and get answers. 

“Well… thank you, this was very thoughtf—oh, wow, that is soft,” you murmured as you partially drew a sweatshirt out of the bag. 

Bakugo instantly recognized the forest green and orange color scheme, and apparently so did you, because your face twitched, and you dropped the garment back into the bag and traded it for fuzzy socks with Red Riot’s signature gears stitched into them. 

“These will definitely come in handy, my feet are always cold,” you said with an awkward giggle. Then you cleared your throat to cover up the sound. “Thank you, um, Red Riot.” 

“You can call me Eijiro, or Kirishima, whatever you’re comfortable with,” the redhead said with another easy grin. “We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, after all. Oh! We also got you a fruit basket, and I think there might be a few other sweets tucked in there.” 

Kirishima nudged Bakugo forward, and your face rippled through a range of emotions, like your brain was taking a second to catch up to everything the pro hero just spewed. First, flustered embarrassment colored your cheeks, then confusion buckled your brow, and your eyes widened before they looked at the fruit basket Bakugo was extending at you. 

“Oh, you can just put it down… um…” you trailed off as you turned to the counter and remembered it was half destroyed. Then your eyes jumped around frantically for some kind of flat surface, but the ruined shop didn’t offer any solutions. 

“Told ya we shouldn’t of brought this shit,” Bakugo grunted, shooting a scowl at Kirishima. 

“Yeahhhhh, we probably could have just delivered it to your room at the agency, my bad,” the redhead laughed. “But don’t worry, we’ll carry it back for you, along with any of your other things.” 

“My… things?” you echoed, sounding out the words like a child, and a frown marred your face. “I-I think I must be misunderstanding you, I’m sorry, I’m American. But did you say my room at the agency? As in… your hero agency?” 

“You’re American?” Kirishima asked with wide red eyes. “I wouldn’t have even guessed! Your accent is almost perfect, I thought you were maybe just from like the countryside or something.” 

“I thought you said we were supposed to be nice to her,” Bakugo snorted at his partner like you weren’t in the room, and he saw you frown at him out of the corner of his eye. 

“Oh, shit, no, that wasn’t what I meant!” Japan’s Number Three Hero immediately began waving his hands in front of his face, his mouth moving twice as fast. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I really think your accent sounds nice! It’s very cute!” 

Now, not only did your cheeks flush again, but the red hue traveled down your throat and across your collarbones, peeking out the stretched collar of your orange sweatshirt. 

Bakugo found himself half distracted by the sight, but the other half was wondering why he suddenly felt irritation flare up in his gut. 

“Okay, you don’t have to take her out on a date now,” the blond snapped, shifting his burden of fruit and plastic. 

“I-I think we might have gotten off track,” you stuttered as you clutched the bag of Dynamight and Red Riot merch to your chest. “You said something about your agency.” 

“Yes, right.” Kirishima cleared his throat. “We would have mentioned this in our follow up email after you sent in your insurance info, but—” 

“Oh, no, I’m so sorry!” you cut him off with a grimace, and you actually dipped your head and shoulders into a bow. “I meant to send that yesterday, but my laptop is broken, and my cell service isn’t great—” 

“No, no, it’s fine!” the redhead interrupted this time. “You obviously have a lot on your plate. I just meant that this might seem kind of sudden, but—” 

Fucking hell, this was taking too long. 

“You’re staying at our agency until we can pay for the repairs to your apartment and shop,” Bakugo said bluntly. If he didn’t step in, the two of you were just going to stammer circles around each other all day. “Starting tonight. We have rooms with beds and shit, so pack whatever clothes or crap you need.” 

Your mouth fell open as you gaped at Bakugo. “I… what?” 

“You deaf or something?” The words rocketed from his mouth before he could stop them, before he could even think about what he was saying, and he saw the way the question struck you like a physical blow. You flinched, your cheeks paling, and he saw dawning, guilty horror glint at the back of your eyes. 

He’d been right. You did do something to his ears. 

“Bro, you were just talking about being nice.” Kirishima frowned at Bakugo before he turned back to you. “Ignore him. We’re really sorry about the inconvenience this whole… incident has caused for you, but we’ll take care of everything you need until your shop’s grand reopening, so you don’t have to worry about a thing, okay?” 

You continued to stare at the two heroes in shocked silence, your wide eyes clicking back and forth between the two of them as you clutched the bags to your chest like a lifeline. 

“That is… all so generous,” you finally breathed, your tone rising in pitch like you were growing increasingly flustered. “It’s, um, a lot to take in.” 

“Of course.” Kirishima nodded fervently. “What else can we do to help?” 

“Could you leave?” 

Bakugo blinked in surprise and then had to stifle his snort. 

“Oh, no, I’m sorry!” you quickly followed up when you saw the redhead’s falling expression. “I didn’t mean… I just meant, could I have some time to process this? Um, alone? L-Like Dynamight said, I need to pack a few things, a-and there are some people I need to speak to before, uh… well, is it okay if I tell someone where I’ll be? Like, at your agency?” 

“Yessss?” Kirishima said with a confused frown. “Why wouldn’t that be okay?” 

“O-Oh, I just don’t really know how the whole hero and media thing works here,” you quickly lied, and Bakugo clocked the way you averted your eyes, the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed thickly. “I-I wasn’t going to post on social media or anything, I barely use that stuff anyway, but one of my customers, Mrs. Kojima, would be upset if I disappeared without saying anything.” 

“Aww, that’s sweet.” The redhead grinned before he glanced at the shadowed ruins around him. “What kind of shop is this by the way? I don’t think you mentioned.” 

“A-Alterations,” you said, ducking your face in embarrassment again. “My grandparents were a tailor and seamstress. I inherited this place from them.” 

“I thought you said you were American?” Kirishima asked, but not in an accusatory way. He was just too curious for his own good and didn’t possess much of a filter. 

Bakugo usually didn’t care for small talk, fucking waste of time if you asked him, but he found himself focusing intently on you, awaiting a response. 

“I am.” You nodded. “My parents were both born here, but they moved to the States after they married, and I was born there. After my grandparents passed, my dad was going to sell the shop, but I was looking for something… new, so I decided to move here instead about a year ago.” 

Bakugo pursed his lips at this new information. If you had a healing quirk, why were you patching up clothes in some little shop all the way across the world from your surviving family? Could it be because your quirk was dangerous? 

“Wow, that’s cool,” Kirishima said with an impressed expression that quickly turned sheepish. “Except about your grandparent’s passing. My condolences.” 

“Thank you,” you muttered, a small smile tugging at your lips, but then you quickly shook your head. “I-I’m sorry, didn’t mean to give you my whole life story, I tend to talk when I’m nervous.” 

“You don’t have to be nervous,” Red Riot laughed like he did when he was meeting shy little kids on the street, flashing his sharpened teeth jokingly and winking in an overexaggerated fashion. “I promise, we look scarier than we are.” 

“Speak for yourself, Shitty Hair,” Bakugo scoffed, which made you jump, like you’d forgotten he was there. 

And that rubbed him the wrong way for some reason. 

Kirishima merely smirked before he partially covered his mouth with his hand and lowered his voice into a stage whisper directed at you. “All bark, no bite, I’m telling you.” 

“Stop making me seem lame, you bastard!” the blond growled, but the effect was kind of ruined by the fruit basket crinkling in his hands again. 

This actually seemed to startle a giggle out of you, and the two heroes whipped around, one with a grin and the other a scowl. 

“See, you don’t need to be nervous,” Kirishima said before he slung an arm around Bakugo’s shoulders. “But we’ll get out of your hair for now so you can have some time to pack and everything. Don’t worry about picking up too much, though, we’ll have cleaning crews in here before we start the remodel, and we don’t want you to get hurt in here. If there’s stuff up in your apartment that you don’t want to bring with you to the agency but don’t want thrown out, make a list, and we’ll be sure to keep everything safe.” 

“O-Okay,” you said, still standing there with the hero merch clenched to your chest and a dumbstruck expression on your face. “T-Thank you again, Red--, erm, Kirishima.” 

“Of course!” He grinned. “I have patrol tonight, but we’ll send a car to pick you up—” 

“No,” Bakugo cut in as he locked eyes with you. “I’ll pick you up. What time?” 

The blond could see Kirishima shoot him a look in his peripherals—probably because they both had patrol tonight—but Bakugo ignored his partner, maintaining eye contact with you. 

You, meanwhile, squirmed under the explosive hero’s intense scrutiny, your face paling and flushing in turns. “I… no, you don’t have to do that, I can take the train—” 

“I insist,” he interrupted again, narrowing his eyes so you would realize he wasn’t going to back down. “Like Shitty Hair said, we caused this… inconvenience, so I’ll pick you up. What. Time?” 

You swallowed thickly, your throat audibly clicking. “S-Seven?” 

“I’ll be here at seven sharp,” Bakugo said. “And you better be out front or at least answer your phone this time.” 

You better not run, he didn’t say, but by the look on your face, you understood. 

“Seven sharp.” You nodded, biting your lip as a resigned expression settled over your features. “Got it.” 

“Great. See you then.” 

With that, Bakugo turned on heel and crunched his way out of your store, leaving Kirishima stuttering apologies in his wake. 

But that didn’t matter. 

All that mattered was, tonight, he’d finally get you alone and get to the bottom of your damn quirk.

#bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo katuski x reader #bakugo katsuki x you #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo x you #bakugo/you #bakugo/reader #bakugo katsuki/reader #bakugo katsuki/you #katsuki bakugo/you #katsuki bakugo/reader #bakugo katsuki #mha #my hero academia #bnha #boku no hero academia #my writings #fanfic #deaf!bakugou

[duckpatrolstories]

𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄, tetsuro kuroo x reader — ch. 4

— in which an unfortunate bartender in the wrong place at the wrong time get kidnapped by one of the biggest crime syndicates in the city.

female reader, original on wattpad, cw; swearing, death threats

word count: 1496 — first previous

When you come back to your senses, you're half expecting to be standing at heaven's gate. But the scene before you is anything but white clouds and golden roads.

You lay on a rather comfortable sofa in a spacious room. Floor-length windows line two of the walls, giving a bird's eye view of the bustling city. The evening sun setting on the horizon shines through the glass, giving the room a warm glow. The ceiling is high, a small, fancy and abstract chandelier hangs above you. Beside you, across from the sofa you lay on, a glass coffee table sits. And beyond that, an armchair with a man sitting in it.

You groan and place your hand against your forehead. There's a very prominent bump from where it came in contact with the ground. You can't remember what happened exactly-

Wait.

There's a man sitting in the chair.

You spring upright and snap your gaze back over to him. The sudden movement causes a headache to flare up, but you ignore it. Your pulse picks up slightly, the sight of the stranger making you uneasy.

"Good evening," he says in a smooth voice. You take in his appearance, and holy shit, he is illegally handsome.

The golden light paints him miraculously, illuminating his sharp, hazel eyes beautifully. His athletic physique is fitted perfectly with a dark business suit and crimson red tie. An expensive silver watch hugs snuggly around his left wrist, accentuating his hand rather nicely.

He sits with his legs crossed formally, a glass of whiskey hanging loosely in his fingers. As he raises the glass to his lips to take a drink, not once do his eyes leave you. They stare at you with an analysing intensity, almost as if he's gauging what you can do. What that might be, you don't know.

"How are you feeling?" he asks. "You've been out for the entire day."

"Who are you?" you ask wearily, feeling the need to protect yourself. You hug your arms around you and slowly bring your legs close to your chest.

The fact that you aren't dead makes you feel worse. You were kept alive for a reason, and that reason makes your stomach churn.

"Tetsuro Kuroo, the leader of the Nekoma gang here in Tokyo," the man answers, a charming smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "And I'm guessing you're [y/n] [l/n]?"

You furrow your brows at him. "How do you..?" you ask softly, your voice trailing off as confusion takes over.

"Don't worry, I didn't obtain my information in an overtly creepy way," he says and his eyes flick down to your chest for a second. "You're wearing a name tag."

You look down, seeing the plastic card pinned to your shirt. Right. You were working.

"I sincerely apologise for how you were handled," Kuroo says, taking a sip of his whiskey before continuing. "Hopefully it didn't cause you too much discomfort."

Oh, yeah, like an almost broken and bloody nose doesn't feel like Satan himself is trying to dig his fingers up there and rip out my sinuses.

You want to scoff at his ignorant words, but you refrain from doing so.

"What do you want from me?" you ask as you gently touch your fingertips to the bridge of your nose. You hiss at the severe tenderness of the bruise. It feels a bit swollen, as well. You wonder what it looks like. You have yet to see how much of a mess you are after getting beaten and kidnapped in a mirror.

"We just need to have a little talk," Kuroo says. He sets his glass down on the end table beside his chair. The glass on glass sounds loud.

He folds his hands on his knee and watches as you rub the back of your hand against your mouth and inspect it for dried blood, only to find none. It seems like you've been cleaned up. He holds his tongue and waits for you to finish checking over the wounds you've obtained.

As you run your fingers along the scabs on your cheek, you look at him. Your hand drops down and you wrap your arm around your legs. The scabs don't seem too bad. They'll heal rather quickly.

Taking your anticipating gaze as a sign to continue, Kuroo takes a breath. "You're kinda in deep shit right now. What you saw and heard behind that little bar of yours wasn't something for your eyes and ears."

I figured that much, Sherlock.

"And I don't want to go through the troubles of covering up a murder," he continues. "So, for the time being, I can't let you leave until I know you won't utter a word."

"What?" you blink at him. A part of you doesn't believe it, but the other that uses common sense sort of saw this coming.

"Your knowledge of that little... deal, so to speak, makes you a liability," Kuroo elaborates. His eyes dance across your face in a sort of curious way. "What my men and I are doing is rather illegal, and I can't have you run off and blab to the authorities when I've worked really hard to get to where I am, now can I?"

He quirks a brow at you. The question is rhetorical, so you don't feel the need to answer. Not like you want to, anyway. You're more worried about not being able to leave.

What does he mean by that? Where will you stay? Are you staying with him?

"Will you let me go home if I promise not to say anything?" you ask. It's a stupid question, but for some reason, you hope the answer to it is in your favour.

"I'm afraid it's not that easy," Kuroo says with a shake of his head.

"Why not?" you furrow your brows, getting a little snippy. You don't see why it's so hard for him to just trust your words. Besides, if you can't leave you'll most likely end up as a bed warmer, just as the men behind the bar intended. And you don't want that. "I'm one hell of a secret keeper. Can't you just let me go and pretend I never saw or heard anything?"

Kuroo is irked by your response. Don't you get it? Trust is something that's earned, not handed out like free food to the poor and homeless. And that rule is strongly enforced with the Yakuza.

He stands up and you swallow. He speaks as he walks across the spacious lounge and towards you.

"In case you've failed to notice..." he says lowly and stops directly in front of you.

You sink back into the sofa like a coward, not liking how close he is to you. He folds his hands behind his back and bends down slightly to get closer for intimidation purposes.

"...You are in no position to argue. I could easily have you killed right here and now and I wouldn't even blink," he threatens, his serious tone raising goosebumps all over your body. "But I decided that I'm going to show a bit of mercy. You should be grateful that you're still breathing."

You cast your gaze to the side submissively. His words are harsh, cold, and angry, and they have no trouble putting you in your place.

Kuroo straightens, staring down at you with scrutinising eyes. "My men and I won't hesitate to do what it takes to get what we want. And what we want right now, is for you to keep quiet."

"How... how do you plan on doing that?" you ask in a meek voice. You hate it. You absolutely hate it. You feel so helpless right now. But you didn't feel helpless when you were taking a beating last night. So why now?

"You'll be staying here," Kuroo says, backing off with a few steps away from you. He runs his hands down the front of his suit to remove any wrinkles and adjusts his tie. "It's the easiest way I can keep an eye on you."

You want so desperately to argue, but you can't. You know that it will be to no avail, that Kuroo's decision is final. But there's nothing you can do about it, except go along with it and hope that you can go home soon.

And as he said before, you're a liability.

You can't be let loose.

"I'll send in one of my men to show you to your room," Kuroo says as he turns on his heel and starts leaving the room. "We'll discuss the rules you will have to follow while living here over dinner."

You don't say anything to acknowledge him. You just keep your lips tight, your gaze still averted.

"Be a good girl and wait here," he says.

And with that, he leaves, his footsteps retreating with him.

#haikyuu mafia #haikyuu fanfiction #kuroo x reader #female reader #hq #kuroo x female reader #kuroo tetsurou #tetsuro kuroo #wattpad #kuroo tetsuro #tetsuro #tetsurou #tetsurou kuroo #kuroo tetsuro x reader #x reader #reader insert

[theslashmix]

I didn’t merely see

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31545329

Written for the LLSS prompt  “ Harry Welsh isn't as oblivious as everybody thinks he is. (ft. Winnix and/or Speirton not being that subtle after all)"

beta-read by @thrillingdetectivetales

will publish a translation/ rework of it in Italian

For some reason, people seemed to forget that Harry was an observant man. He was an officer, and in his modest opinion, a decent one. This meant that he must have a good eye for detail and an even better brain to put things together in a coherent manner: it thus surprised him a bit that people seemed to stop at his jovial façade, somehow separating it from the competence that he had shown on the battlefield. It was almost as if there were two of him- good ol’ Harry, always down for drinks and shenanigans, and First Lieutenant Harry Welsh.

He had known that Winters and Nixon were a thing since Toccoa, and had guessed that they had been for a while before that- since OCS, probably. The signs were all there, almost painfully too easy to spot for someone who truly watched, instead of just seeing: the little touches that lingered just a second too long; the brief stretches of time when no one seemed to know where they were; the constant invasion of each other’s personal space that wasn’t an invasion at all, because at some point it had gotten from being my personal space, to you’re welcome in it, and it was slowly morphing into our personal space under Harry’s very eyes.

He had wondered why on Earth Sobel hadn’t picked up on it, what with him hating Winters’ guts and desperately trying to find even the smallest fault in the man. After some more careful observation, Harry had come to the conclusion that it wasn’t so surprising after all, because Sobel, consciously or not, didn’t want to see it. It was glaringly obvious that Sobel was very good at lying to himself, and him hating Winters was a big, fat lie. He was not good enough at lying to himself that he would try to destroy Winters with that particular tactic, though.

 When Sobel was removed from Easy, Harry drew a big sigh of relief.

It had made him uneasy, back then. It was hard to reconcile the stereotype of fairies he had in his head with the reality of how the two officers were. They should have been effeminate, weak, hysterical: they weren’t. Winters was everything that the high brass could want in an officer and a soldier, and Nixon, despite his flaws, was a good man, and a good intelligence officer. Harry wondered for long hours whether he ought to report them: a lifetime of conditioning was hard to shake. In the end he didn’t: D-Day arrived too quickly, and he had other things to think about rather than trying to convince a court martial that Dick Winters and Lewis Nixon were a homosexual couple. Especially since he had nothing more substantial than a lame “well, they are often together” and his own impressions.

After Normandy, Harry actively decided that he would do nothing about it, even if he didn’t approve. After Normandy, the boys would follow the two officers just about anywhere, and Harry couldn’t in good conscience take them from Easy, because that would mean that more of the boys would die in the incompetent hands of Norman Dyke.

 After Bastogne and Foy, after Nixon had decided to stay in that freezing hellhole with them (and with Winters) instead of taking the much sought-after furlough stateside, Harry decided that he would actively cover for them, if that was what it would take to keep Dick and Nix with them. He decided that it was completely wrong that the world had decreed that the two of them shouldn’t stay together, because after the long scrutiny Harry had imposed on them, there was only one conclusion possible: the two fit so well together that God must have made them to be together. Their relationship evolved to its full potential in a way that shouldn’t have been possible, if what was between them was just sinful lust.

 Now it had fully become our personal space, and the two could hold an entire conversation in just a single, prolonged stare, like an old married couple. Even the boys seemed to be always talking about them as a package deal. “Winters and Nixon said that…”, “Yesterday Winters and Nixon…”, “Do you think that Winters and Nixon will…?”, “Where are Winters and Nixon?”

 There could be no doubt whatsoever that Nix belonged with Dick and Dick belonged with Nix, the same way that Harry himself belonged with his beloved Kitty.

He noticed the signs of the very same thing going on between Speirs and Lip in Haguenau. It was nowhere near as long standing as Dick and Nix’s relationship. If he had to pinpoint its starting moment, Harry would have guessed around Bastogne, at the earliest. Probably when Speirs had stopped going to Dyke for updates on Easy and had started to go directly to Lip. There was still a tentativeness around them, the sweet, hesitating exultance of discovering each other, the pressing need to be together and close as much as possible.

It was in the way Lip perked up as soon as he heard Speirs’ steps, and in the way Speirs’ eyes kept turning in the direction of the house where a sick Carwood Lipton was billeted with a worried frown, as if the lieutenant was magnetic north and the captain was the hand of a compass. It was in the way Lip murmured Speirs’ Christian name when they thought that nobody was there to hear them, and in the way Speirs had claimed the right to take care of Lip as if it was his God-given privilege, and woe betide whoever dared to interfere. 

He hadn’t known the true depth of it though, not until one evening in Haguenau when he had decided to go and visit Lip in his billet. The lieutenant had healed from pneumonia in a way that Roe had defined “miraculous”, but was still quite weak and needed rest. Harry hoped that a Hershey bar would lift his spirits a bit, and distract him from his desperate need to mother everything and anything that breathed. They should probably have him infiltrate the German troops, he’d have them tucked up in bed by 2100 sharp, and no sneaking out to invade Poland, is that clear Adolf?

Harry walked softly, making no noise in case Lip was asleep. As he got close to the flimsy door, he realised that Lip wasn’t asleep, and was in fact talking with none other than Speirs.

“- if you die, what good would you be to the boys?” Speirs was saying, with an exasperated tone that indicated that they had had this discussion a few times already.

“There’s no other second lieutenant, Ron. If I don’t take care of my duties, nobody else will, and the boys will go without supplies.”

“Car- you seriously think so little of the other officers that we’d let Easy starve?” There was an obvious subtext there- do you think so little of me?

“No!” Lip’s exclamation was scandalized and filled with frustration. “No, I don’t. But you all have so much to do already. You shouldn’t be doing my job on top of yours.”

“You’re talking as if you were purposefully slacking, Car. You aren’t. You are sick, you didn’t want this, and nobody thinks any less of you because of it.” Speirs’ tone was getting increasingly frustrated.

“But I can’t-”

 “No, I can’t, Car!” Speirs’ voice rose a little before the captain brought it back down. “I can’t stand the thought of you grinding yourself to the nub. I’m scared, Car, for the first time I’m truly scared in this goddamn war because I’ve got something to lose,” he said, and Harry was surprised to hear him admit such a thing. Hearing Captain Ronald “Killer” Speirs so vulnerable, admitting to his fear so openly with a voice raw with emotion, was something Harry had never even dreamed could happen, not in a million years. It must have cost him a lot to admit it.

“It’s hard enough that I have to send you into action knowing that you could die, but I can accept that because it’s out of our control. I can’t accept the thought of losing you to a pneumonia relapse, not when it can be avoided by you simply resting a bit!” Harry had never heard Speirs talk so passionately.

There was a rustle of cloth, and a muffled sob- they had probably embraced, seeking the comfort of touch and closeness in the very real solidity of each other’s body.

“Please, Car. Please. Do your best to live- I just can’t bear it,” murmured Speirs.

There could be no doubt left that the love between them was the real deal and not something wrong or twisted, not after hearing the pain in Speirs’ voice at the thought of losing his lover. It couldn’t be wrong, not when it could give back humanity to a man like Ronald Speirs, giving him something not only to die for, but to live for, which was much, much more important.    

 “Oh, Ron…” said Lip in a voice that was heartbreakingly tender, and Harry decided that it was time to go. He suddenly felt ashamed, as dirty as if he had spied on them having sex- no, not having sex, he amended. They would make love. He shouldn’t have eavesdropped. It had been a moment of deep intimacy between the two men, not only of the body but of the soul, and he couldn’t bear to spy on something so pure for a moment longer. Even though he had to admit that he was glad to know that there was something that had remained pure and unsullied despite the war.

It was a week later or so, when he heard Luz talking about how quickly Lip had bounced back from pneumonia.

“Couldn’t bear the thought of us boys being without their Mama Lip, especially now that he’s got Papa Speirs to take care of him,” he said wisely, and his audience nodded solemnly, unanimously agreeing that Lip and Speirs were a package deal as much as Dick and Nix were.

He knew then, with certainty, that Speirs and Lip belonged to each other the same way Nixon and Winters did.

Of all the things he had expected to change during the war, his perspective on homosexuality hadn’t been one, but he solidly counted it among the few, positive things to come out of that particular bloodbath. When Dick announced at the end of the war that he had decided to accept the job offer at Nixon Nitration, and Speirs that he would go to West Virginia “to see what opportunities I can find there,” Harry felt happy for them.

They belonged together, and they would stay together. Maybe there was some justice, in this world.

#hbowar #speirton #winnix #harry welsh #band of brothers #slash #ronald speirs/carwood lipton #richard winters/lewis nixon #ronald speirs #carwood lipton #richard winters #lewis nixon #sobel/winters but it's beyond one sided

[what-the--curtains]

Alliance

Chapter 5 – The Outsiders

(Mando x f!reader)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Summary: A new lead brings you to a new planet where you search for any trace of the child. Unable to locate him the two of you stop in at a Cantina and when a fight brings the two of you to a hotel new information comes to light, and not just about the childs whereabouts

Notes:Happy new year! Hope your all treating yourself and others with kindness! As always thank you for the likes and shares❤️❤️

TW:swearing, drinking, mentions of drug use/abuse

Tagged: @crazycookiecrumbles

Word count: 6.3K

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nar Shaddaa, Hutt Space, S-12

Exiting the ship you take in your new surroundings. The city was highly technological; filled with high speed trains, sky scrapers, constant noise and the richest and poorest members of the galaxy. It was a true Ecumenopolis and there’s no mistaking that you’re out of your element in it.

“You’re right.” You remark, causing Din to look over to you “I do hate it.”

“Here” he says, handing you a set of knives to go with the blaster he’d previously gifted you. “Bow and arrow would stand out and it’s best we blend in.” You take them, concealing the blades in the sleeves of your cloak.

“Anya, stay close” you whisper, pulling up the hood so as to shield the majority of your face from any passersby. The likelihood of you being recognized was exponentially higher than it had been during previous visits and anonymity was something that needed to be taken seriously here. Anya sniffs at the polluted air, miraculously picking up the child's scent in minutes.

The two of you pursue her with heads down, maneuvering through the crowded sidewalk lining the busy highway where speeders rip up and down the tarmac towards their destinations. She leads you off the main road and down a side street backlit by the various neon hues radiating off the signs attached to the strip of cantinas and clubs. Anya sits down and you and the Mandalorian exchange a look of confusion.

“There's no way the kid’s in a strip club,” he states.

“Ya I figured,” you snap back, the unintended harshness catching you off guard, “the water must have washed off some of the scent”

“What does that mean for our plans?” he queries.

“It means they just got more difficult.” You reach out through the force hoping the child may have caused a ripple in it recently, you can feel he’s one the planet, but there’s nothing to suggest his whereabouts. The situation wasn't being helped by the intermittent noise coming from the groups of intoxicated people moving between bars. You let out a groan of frustration causing a few nearby garbage cans to rattle and fall over subsequently startling a couple who were making out near them.

“C’mon, let’s find a cantina, cool off, maybe someone’s seen the scavengers that ambushed the base.” he offers, not wanting any more attention drawn to the two of you.

“Best idea you’ve ever had Mando.” You say, slapping him on the shoulder as he escorts you into one of the many cantinas lining the streets of the city.

The club was packed full of creatures from all across the galaxy. You’d seen places like this before, having even been inside them on more than one occasion. Sometimes clients wanted to take the gladiators out to show them off as a demonstration of power and wealth. The clubs were usually loud with dark corners, expensive drinks, illicit drugs and company you could pay for.

This place was no exception and honestly you’re surprised the Mandalorian had set foot in the cantina, you thought this would have quantified a den of sin to him and his creed. You push through the crowded dance floor taking a booth in a far corner in an attempt to disappear into the background. This task was helped by the dim lighting, loud music and general drunkenness of the patrons.

“What do you want?” you ask, pulling your hood down, feeling confident no one would recognize you.

“I don’t drink in public,” he explains taking a seat.

“And I don’t drink alone” you state, staring down at him.

“When was the last time you had to drink alone?” he asks. If it wasn't for everything you knew about his personality you would have thought that was some kind of line. Unfortunately, you must have been speaking too loud as your statement had drawn the attention of a nearby Balosar.

“Well I can make sure that doesn’t happen” the Balosar slurs clumsily placing a hand on your hip and moving his groin too close to your ass for your, or Dins liking.

“I wasn’t talking to you leave” you state calmly, and the man releases you walking off as if nothing happened, before the Mandalorian could even formulate his next move.

“Here’s the deal, I'll drink if you tell me about that trick of yours” he offers, watching the Balosar disappear back into the crowd.

“Deal” you say, turning to the bar. You make your way over through the mass of what we’re likely criminals or the ultra-rich, though oftentimes they fall hand in hand. This club didn’t smell like the lowbrow places you’d been to early on in your career, no it had that perfumed soaked scent of a millionaires mansion trying to masquerade the smell of fraud and blood that built it.

“Hey can I get two retsas, one with a long straw” you shout over the synthetic music blaring throughout the club to the Togruta bartender. You rest your elbows on the counter leaning forward, biting gently on your thumb as you turn your head, gazing over the crowd to where the Mandalorian was sat, absentmindedly stroking Anya’s head.

“Here ya are love” the bartender says, you turn back around to face her smiling as you hand her the credits and take the drinks back to the table.

“What’s this?” Din asks, picking up the straw slightly.

“Straw.” You say as if it’s obvious, taking a sip of your own beverage as you pull back into the booth “you can stick it up under your helmet. Then no one has to see your face”

“So how do you do that.” He asks referring to your ability to seemingly send people away.

“Do what?” you ask innocently, causing him to push the drink away,

“Fine.” you say, and he pulls it back towards him “the truth is I don’t really know how it works. Just does”

“Like magic” he states, maneuvering the straw under the helmet.

“Not a witch” you return, watching some of the liquid drain from his glass.

“The kid can heal can you?”

“No, I never learnt, I think only certain Jedis can. My specialities lie elsewhere.”

“Like the mind tricks.”

“Amongst other things but mind tricks are the simplest. Heads are easily influenced afterall.”

“Jedis'' he laughs audibly. It was the first time you’d heard him do so and you were taken aback by how pleasant it was. Sometimes it was easy to forget a human being was underneath all the metal.

“Why are you laughing? They exist.” you say smiling, still caught up in his laugh.

“I know I’ve met three now. I just think it’s funny that the kid is more qualified than you” He jokes. Your mouth opens, somehow feeling both admired and insulted by the man sat across from you.

“Say aren’t you a Mandalorian” a passerby interrupts

“No he’s not.” You say, sending him on his way with a flick of your wrist.

“You have to teach me how to do that.”

“You just have to put your mind between a state of complete serenity and complete control. Once you tap in, it’s easy enough to use, but you have to keep at it, it’s a skill and it's remarkably easy to lose.” You say gesturing for him to continue drinking. “Well that and a genetic predisposition for force-sensitivity.”

“Oh seems very easy,” he says.

“Well if it’s easy enough for a child to do.” You return.

“Did you use it to get the upper hand on me when we first met?”

“Maybe.” you respond finishing the last of your drink, only just noticing how lightheaded you were. It has been a while since you’d had a proper drink, but even so being this much of a lightweight wasn’t something you wanted the Mandalorian to know about.

“But you don’t use it all the time?” he prompts.

“No, not always safe. That why I was kept on Vryssa. Guess the empire, or ex-empire or whatever the hell they’re calling themselves these days, were hunting down any remaining Jedi” you explain, lightly tapping your fingernails along the empty glass.

“Can you choke people?” he asks, causing you your eyebrows to raise involuntarily.

“Only if they buy me dinner first,” you quip, watching as he finishes the last of his drink evidently not bothered by what you had just said “ but yes, I try not too unless absolutely necessary.”

“The kid tried it on Cara once.” he says laughing for the second time that evening.

“Fuck,” you snort, partially coughing up your drink “what’d she do?”

“She was beating me in an arm wrestling match.” he chuckles, more so at the sound you had just emitted than anything else.

“So you also need a kid to help you win an arm wrestling match?” you tease.

“Don’t start with me, I’d snap your arm like a twig if we went at it.” Did he know how what he was saying sounded? If so, what was he hoping to achieve by it? He’s about to ask another question when you put a finger up “More drinks” you say scooting out of the seat and making your way back over to the bar.

“Back so soon?” the bartender asks

“Drinking’s a specialty of mine” you say with a smile “Same as before please”

“Of course” she wipes her hands on a towel before heading back to make the order. You rock back and forth on your heels until she returns, but not with the drinks.

“If you’re looking for something stronger” she offers, pulling out a packet of what you recognize as spice. You’d done your fair share of it in the early days of the arenas. Trainers used it to control their more unruly fighters, and you found yourself falling under that classification more often than not. It had also come in handy when you had to deal with some of the less pleasing clients who were paying for your services. After you made it to the big times you were weaned off it by San who couldn’t have you overdosing and losing him money. Your hand reaches out for it but you stop yourself, knowing if you took it the Mandalorian would find out and you’d lose his trust. Something which you hadn’t realized mattered so much to you.

“I’m good for now, thanks though” she nods putting it back and returning with your drinks “If you change your mind, names Ynre come find me” you smile grabbing the drinks and moving back through the crowd. Sitting down you decide it's your turn to ask a question.

“How did you know I was a tracker?” you slide the drink towards him and he catches it with ease.

“ A bartender told me you’d helped him find his daughter, I thought you were isolated from the rest of the world.”

“Living has its cost even if you're off the grid” you begin “we needed credits as well, we offered our services to find those who had been taken, most of the time, all memory would be removed before they returned to the real world.”

“Why did you let him remember.”

“Somethings need to remembered, so they don’t happen again” you say, absentmindedly moving your index finger around the rim of the glass

“What’s it like.” He asks “Being one with the galaxy.”

“Pretty uneventful until you showed up in my life.” you say pointing a finger at him as you take another swig.

“Well I can’t imagine anything much happening on Vryssa. Is there anything on that planet except for mud and trees.”

“Some people like the mud and trees, it’s the poverty that stops most people from staying long. Mining isn’t the industry it once was.”

“So that’s what the planet is known for fuel?”

“That and the most hangings during the war, tall trees make for excellent gallows.” Having finished another round of drinks you go to stand up again, hoping when you went back you wouldn’t be offered the spice again. You weren’t sure you’d be able to deny it a second time.

“I’ll get the next ones'' he says standing up. You sit back down, breathing out a sigh of relief as you watch him walk over to the bar. As he reaches the counter you watch him order placing his hand on the bar turning to talk to a Twi’lek, Arkanian and human who had appeared around him. You take note of the body language, it’s plain to see what their intentions were.

Whether it was for the armour or something else you weren’t sure, but there was no denying the Mandalorian had something about him that made him undeniably attractive, even if his face was hidden. He allows a few of them to trace their hands over his armor, the helmet disabling you from gauging what he was thinking. As you watch the scene unfold you smile to yourself finding it somewhat amusing, but at the same time you feel a knot form in your stomach. You brush it off as you see him returning back to your table.

“Armour kinks really a thing then?” you ask nodding your head to the women who were still staring at him from the bar, as he hands you a drink.

“You have no idea,” he says,sitting back down. So he was experienced, you hadn’t been sure what his creed had said about sex. Your mind drifts back to the cave, causing you to wonder what else was going on under that armour. It was hard to say you wouldn’t if the opportunity presented itself, not that it ever would, most days you were unsure if he was even indifferent towards you and vice versa.

“Any more questions” you ask, freeing yourself from your thoughts, which you chalked up to the alcohol, not enough sleep and too much time alone.

“Are you sleeping?” you're taken aback by this question, why had he asked that. Noticing your concern he continues “When you fall asleep in front of me it’s hard not to notice the night terrors. You ask for me in your sleep. Do you know that? ” You did, but the nightmares were none of his business.

“Well if it’s your name I’m saying it really must be a nightmare, either way I couldn't tell you about them if I wanted to” you lie, hoping your smile would snuff out any suspicions.

“Are they about the fighting rings?” he asks, a sense of guilt hanging in the air.

“No, those stopped a few weeks in” You mumure, refusing to make eye contact with the helmet. He’s about to press for more information when a group of Zabrak walk in. You hadn’t noticed how late it had gotten and trouble usually starts after 1am.

“We should leave, gangsters and you’re too drunk to be of any use.”

“Shut up” you say, downing the last of your drink and cocking your head as if you had just proven some kind of point before pulling your hood back up. As you stand your foot gets caught in your cloak and you stumble. With one strong arm he stops you yet again from plummeting forward, catching your waist just in time.

“I’m not drunk, I just tripped!” you exclaim, trying and failing at hiding a smile as you stare up at him. If it wasn’t for the helmet you’d have seen the grin that had been plastered on Dins face for most of the evening as well. The two of you are almost out the door when you feel someone pull your hood down. The culprit, a tall, handsome man, has moved in front of you, blocking your exit.

“The huntress, you got out,” he exclaims moving towards you causing you to take a step back.

“You have the wrong person” you lie, trying to move past him but he steps in front of you again.

“I wouldn’t forget you, not after what we did,” he looks from you up to the Mandalorian “She’s worth every penny you spent Mando, the best,”

“She says she doesn’t know you. Now move.” Din interjects, succinctly cutting him off. You try again to move towards the door but once again the man steps in front of you.

“C’mon for old times’ sake.” He goes to pull you into him. Tiring of the interaction you drop down one of the knives with an aim of shanking him. Before you can, you hear the distinct sound of metal against skin as Dins fist connects with the man's face, knocking him out.

“Let’s go” he says, pulling your hood back up and ushering you quickly out the door, having now gained the attention of the group at the bar.

“Someone’s following us” you whisper, as Anya begins to emit a low growl. “bounty hunters. Five of them, I can take two if you get the rest.” Without looking at each other the two of you turn, in sync, to face your stalkers.

“Quite a bounty on you two.” One shouts, spitting out chew onto the street, “between the underground, the empire and the gladiators you’re the galaxy’s most wanted duo.”

“Walk away. While, you still can.” the modulated voice says as Din moves his cloak back, revealing the blaster at his side.

“Five versus a drunk Mandalorian and a girl. I like our odds. You don’t mind sharing do you Mando, we like to try the merchandise before we” The lead Zabrak drops to the ground before he can finish his sentence. One of your knives embedded deep in his throat you maintain eye contact with the other four Zabrak as their leader sputters out the last of his breaths. They draw their weapons and an array of blaster shots sound throughout the alleyway until only two of you remain standing,

“You okay?” The Mandalorian asks, giving you a once over.

“Ya, but you’re not.” You say gesturing to the knife currently lodged deep in his side. He reaches up to pull it out.

“Don’t,” you exclaim, grabbing his hand in yours, causing him to look down at you. You quickly release it, worried you may have just crossed a personal boundary. “ It needs to be removed carefully, it’s close to a vein. If you take it out you could bleed to death before we can patch it up.” you explain quickly. “C’mon there’s got to be a place around here somewhere.” The good news was there was a hotel in sight as you turned the corner, but the bad news was that it was upscale. Security would be increased and the knife currently embedded in the Mandalorian would stick out like a sore thumb.

Noting Din’s slowing pace, and aware of the knife's close proximity to a vein and how more movement could dislodge it, you opt to head into the hotel. You enter through the high reaching, stained glass doors depicting what appeared to be a ball of sorts. You sit the Mandalorian down in an armchair near one of the romanesque pillars lining the foyer, hoping to obscure him from the front desk.

Leaving Anya with him you make your way towards the desk, fortunately, due to the late hour late the lobby was essentially vacated. You look up, making eye contact with the concierge as you do, you pull down your hood hoping it would make you appear less threatening. You realize your error when you see a look of panic plastered on his face, likely caused by the flecks of blood marking your hands, neck and face. You see his hand reach for the phone. You make it to him as he's dialing, placing a finger on the hook switch ending the call before it starts.

“Please, we were ambushed on our way back from town, I’m here on a trip for my father. He's an ambassador, the Mandalorian is my bodyguard. We need a room, we can pay any price.” You plead apparently convincingly enough for him to place the phone back down on its receiver as he begins the process of checking you in.

“Seperate rooms I assume.” He says inputting the information

“No ones fine” you say. Noticing the look of judgment coming from the concierge, you continue “He doesn't sleep.”

“Don’t worry, everything here is kept very secret even from your father.”

“No... we… we’re not..” you decide to quit while you're ahead. He ends up offering you a cheaper rate for the room, you being an ambassador's relative and all.

“Thank you” you say sincerely as he hands you the key.

“How’d you manage that?” Din asks upon your arrival

“What can I say I’m an impressive negotiator” Helping him slowly to the elevator, looking back to the concierge offering him a look of thanks once again.

“You sure are.” he says as the elevator doors close, reopening again on the 21st floor.

“Not bad,” you murmur, taking in the room as you sit him down on the king size bed. “I’m going to get some medical supplies, don’t take that knife out until I’m back, and try not to die.” you say, tossing him one of two room cards before exiting the room, descending in the elevator to the main floor and exiting back into the street with Anya at your side.

The two of you dart through the alleys the street lamps illuminate the puddles forming on the pavement beneath your feet. You turn into the first pharmacy with an open sign and begin gathering the necessary supplies from its shelves. One of the benefits of being on a planet run by crime lords was the availability of cheap, illegal and oftentimes more efficient medicines. You’re reaching for a bottle of Shesharile Vodka to use as an antiseptic when you feel something watching you. You turn just in time to see a black cloak disappear into the adjacent aisle.

You follow it over to the next aisle but it moves just out of your view. You carry on into the next aisle, then the next, following the shadow frantically until you reach the cashier who gives you a side eye suggesting to you that there was definitely no one else in the store. You pay for the supplies and make your way back out into the rain which hits against your hood lightly. The soft padding helped to drown out the sense of foreboding that had been with you since you left the hotel. A nearby rib cat runs into a garbage can, making you jump. Startled, you look behind you, but there’s no one there. You shake your head, what was going on with you. It must just be the drink, or the lack of sleep.

You continue to tell yourself it’s just your imagination even when you hear your name whispered into your ear as you re-enter the hotel. Making a bee-line for the elevator you manically press the close door button, the elevator opens once you reach your floor and you swipe the key card. You rip the door open at the sound of the beep, briskly closing it behind you, chest heaving. Your panic worsens when you look to the bed and notice the Mandalorian was not where you had left him. Your eyes scan the room uncontrollably until you hear a faint buzzing coming from the bathroom. You swing the door open and look down to the floor where you see Din sitting. The knife lays next to him as he works at cauterizing his abdomen's broken skin back together. You bend over slapping his hand hard enough for it to retreat away from the wound.

“I said to leave the knife in.” You chastise stepping over him and squatting down to get a better angle of the gash.

“It’s fine, I've done this a hundred times,” he says nonchalantly, once again picking up the pen. After a few minutes of playing tug-of-war you manage to wrangle the cauterizer out of his hand taking it with you as you make your way back to supplies you’d bought. You pull the vodka and return to his side pulling the cork out with your teeth before applying a small amount of it to a towel.

“This might sting” you say as you wipe it against the lesion with gentle strokes. As you do he remains stoic, there’s not even a flinch. A notable sign of someone who was used to being in pain.

“I” he says, but you cut him off, preventing him from making a case for cauterization.

“Shut it, it could get infected, we have no idea where that knife has been. Plus stitches heal better than burns.” You state matter-of-factly, fetching the needle and thread from the supply bag.

Mandos POV

He can’t stop looking at your face as you stitch him back up, you were focused, but there was no sign of stress. You were calm, relaxed as if it was a second nature to you, something that was to be done absentmindedly. You must have done this before, maybe in the early days of fighting. Low brow gladiatorial battles were often messy and crude, you must have had your fair share of wounds when you were just starting off. His mind wanders to the comment you made about burnt wounds healing poorly. Had you seen the many that covered his body that night in the cave? Did you think he was hideous? Why did he care so much, seemingly all of a sudden?

“There. All done” you say, biting the string and applying some bacta to the now closed skin. As you stand up he notices a dark stain glistening through the back of your shirt.

“Wait,” he says quickly, trying to get your attention.

“What?” you ask, turning to face him still wiping his blood off your hands. He’s shocked you hadn’t noticed, based on the amount of blood the laceration was deep.

“You’re bleeding” he says, watching as you casually turn to look at your back.

“Come here” he says, taking another step towards you, concerned you don’t seem bothered by the news that you were bleeding profusely.

“I’m fine, it’s just a reopened old wound. I’ve had worse in the arena.” You say. Every time you brought up the arena, a twinge of guilt came over him. He wouldn’t let any harm come to you again, not while you were with him.

“Stop being stubborn.” He says. He’s about to grab you and force you down, but he rethinks his approach. Instead he places a leathered hand gently on your shoulder, turning you to face him.

“Let me help. Please.” This does the trick and he looks away as you remove your shirt which was now soaked through with blood. As you make your way over to the bed he sees the large open wound going up your back, it was red, swollen and bleeding. He puts some towels down on the bed and you lay down on your stomach. Upon closer inspection he notices the markings going up your spine. They were still prominent even amongst the healed over scars. His hand hover over the ancient scripture which matched up with those on your arms and face.

“Is it bad?” you ask, pulling him out of his trance and stopping him from tracing his fingers over your skin.

“Yes, it’s reopened a few times by the looks of it, did this ever heal?”

“Don’t know can’t reach back there” you mutter.

“It’s infected, it needs to be cleaned, and closed, it’s not deep but it’s too wide for stitches so it’ll have to be cauterized.”

“Just leave it. It’ll heal” you say pushing yourself up onto your elbows. He places a firm hand on your shoulder stopping you from fully extending upwards.

“Or it won’t and you’ll die and I’ll be back to square one.” He says, hoping it's enough to convince you to let him help you. He sighs a breath of relief when you lower yourself back down onto the towels. He positions himself over you, pouring some of the opened vodka into the lesion to cleanse it, noticing your back arch slightly as it does. He takes off one of his gloves, offering it to you.

“Bite down on this”

“This some kind of thing for you.” you ask, taking it from him.

“Or don’t cauterizing isn’t a walk in the park.” he says watching as you reluctantly place it in your mouth before turning your head back to face out the window overlooking the city below. Apparently it was a thing for him, but he shakes his head of any kind of desire in order to focus on the task at hand.

“This will hurt.”

Your POV

You feel the flame hit your skin, but you refuse to flinch, not wanting to appear weak in front of the Mandalorian. You remain still as he cauterizes your skin back together as the smell of burnt flesh fills the air around you. You find yourself wondering how high his tolerance for pain was, if he could essentially melt his skin back together without so much as a twinge. You found yourself exceedingly grateful for the leather which was likely stopping any noises being emitting unwillingly. He closes it up and you feel his hand go to your neck.

“I’m not dead” you say unmoving, your body was still in shock.

“You hadn’t moved in a while, I just wanted to make sure.” He says reaching for the salve,

“Leave it we may need it later.” You protest, but he ignores you, putting it over the wound, evidently not in the mood to argue with you. After a while you stand up and make your way to the mirror to check out his handiwork, not too shabby you think.

“Well now you’re not going to bleed out, you should get some rest” you say, throwing him his glove back before picking up your shirt and rinsing it out in the sink. You lay it out to dry over the radiator in the bathroom.

“You rest i'll take first watch” he says

“Seriously” you say emerging from the doorway “you lost a lot of blood.”

“I won’t be able to rest until the kid’s found.”

“No use to it if you're half asleep, off your game and get shot down one parsec in.” you retort. With that he accepts defeat and gets on top of the bed spreading out his legs and placing his hands behind his head. Careful not to disrupt Anya who was curled up on the bed's corner. You pour yourself a glass of the leftover vodka, swirling it around as you gaze out the window of the 21st floor. The city lights illuminate the sky as if it was daytime, you couldn’t understand why anyone would choose to live in such a place.

You gaze over to the Mandalorian, was he really asleep? He looked like he was, you’d never seen him splayed out like this before. Must be the only comfortable way of sleeping in all that clunky armour. You still couldn't wrap your head around how he kept it on all the time. Staring back out the window you imagine what life will be like once you’ve gotten the child back and you're free to lead a calmer life. After a few hours you hear the rustle of bed sheets. Turning your head you watch as the Mandalorian maneuvers off the bed with ease.

“Batteries recharged?” you joke, finishing the last of the vodka.

“I'm not an android” he replies, not having caught that it had been a joke. You make your way to the bed and get under the covers which were still warm from where he had been sitting a few moments ago. You rest your head back onto the pillows and shift to your side pulling the covers over your head to block out the lights of the city.

“What are you doing?” he ask

“I’m trying to get it dark enough to sleep.”

“I can close the curtains”

“And you'd just sit in a chair in the dark like some kind of weirdo?” he doesn’t respond after that and you doze off before another conversation can be started.

You wake up with the sun in your eyes, you must have de-cocooned yourself sometime during the night. Shit, you’d slept through the night. Not something you’d usually be upset at but you felt guilty for making Din take the majority of the watch.

“You should have woken me up, I would have taken another watch” you say sitting up in the bed and stretching your arms up to the sky, the tightness of the closed wound pulling slightly as you do.

“It seemed like a restful sleep. I figured you needed it.” You hop out of the bed and go to the bathroom pulling your blood stained shirt back on, muttering out a gross. The heat from the radiator had crusted the residue into the fabric.

“I’m gonna go get some towels from the front desk do you need anything” you ask scratching Anya’s ears and grabbing a room key. He shakes his helmet no.

You make your way to the desk, taking note of the assortment of well-dressed creatures moving throughout the lobby in the light of day. They stare as you pass through the lobby either disgusted by your bloodied appearance or suspicious of your intent.

“Must be a bounty hunter. I wonder if she has any idea what’s being auctioned off tonight. Should I ask” You overhear a woman ask as you pass by

“Good morning” a new concierge says.

“Morning, can I get some towels.” You ask, nonchalantly rifling through one of the many pamphlets littering the desk.

“Of course anything else madam?”

“ No, that's all thanks” you say, taking the towels. “actually yes this auction what’s that all about.”

“Oh yes the collector, he's having one tonight. Its location has been kept top secret. It changes each year to add to the excitement.” they explain.

“How would one go about getting an invite?” you implore, placing the towels back down on the counter.

“They usually find you. If you're rich, important or dangerous enough that is.” They say offering you a smile.

“Thanks” you say, formulating a plan the second you start your walk back to the elevator.

“I’m, so sorry” you say bumping into a woman who had been flashing around an invite when you had first entered the lobby. Slipping your hand into her shawl you grab the thin piece of paper pocketing it as she exclaims something along the line of how they're just letting anyone in these days.

As you re-enter the room you hear the shower turning off.

“You shower in that thing” you ask when the door opens.

“Not the towel.” He says “where are the clean ones?” he asks, tossing the bloodied fabric onto the floor.

“Got something better. A lead” you say throwing the invite on the table.

“We won’t get past the door, looking like this” he says. You hold up a finger and dial the front desk putting on the voice of the woman in the lobby.

“Hi it’s Mal Ytha” you say looking at the card, “the dress for tonight should be delivered to room 2108, yes its changed, thank you” you say hanging up the phone.

“How do you know it’ll fit?” he asks.

“She looked about my size.”

“If you’re planning on going in alone to get the kid, think again.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, invites got a plus one which means you get to be my bodyguard.” This gets a laugh.

“What” you say, his laugh still taking you by surprise, its sound not quite matching up with the gruff Mandalorian you knew.

“ It’s just a funny thought, you needing a bodyguard.” He says as you open the knock at the door.

“Thank you”, you say, taking the towels and garment that had just been delivered by a member of the hotel staff.

“Shine up your armour princess, the event starts in an hour and its inner city, so we should probably drop our stuff back off at the ship before we head in ” He nods in agreement.

You get back to the ship and drop Anya off with the rest of your stuff, not willing to risk bringing her into another auction room. You change in the cockpit, the bathroom was too small and you didn’t want to devalue the constitution of the dress, afraid it may cause you to stand out. If the rich could spot anything it was someone masquerading as one of them. Fortunately your ability to guess proportions were right and the dress fit almost perfectly. Dins rearranging the armoury as you lower yourself down his helmet doing a double take when you enter into his line of sight.

“Don’t worry I can still run and fight in this thing if needed.” you say, assuming that’s why he had been staring for so long. Little did you know he was staring because he’d never seen something so beautiful in the entire galaxy. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.

“I’m not worried.” He says clearing his throat, trying to get a hold of himself.

“Good”, you say slipping the knives into the pants concealed beneath your dress.

“Shall we” you say, gesturing to the door in front of you.

#mando x y/n #mando x you #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x y/n #star wars #alliance #chapter 5 #two idiots in love #slow burn #din dijarin x reader #din dijarin #din djarin #din dijarin x you

[caranfindel]

Recap/review 14.18: “Absence”

THEN: I am a Winchester! Which means I do awful and wonderful things! Like saving Sam (Saaaaaammmm!!!) and torturing Nick and doing Something Bad to Mary! And possibly losing my soul! Whoopsie!

NOW: Sam and Dean are just getting back to the bunker after the events of the previous episode. I assume they've given Donatello a ride home (which, as we've established, is x hours away), but maybe they stuck him in a cab like they did with Claire that one time. Maybe they found a car for him back at the abandoned warehouse. Sam drops his bag on the map table and they both start calling for Jack and Mary, but aren't too terribly concerned about them not being there. "They probably just stopped for a bite on the way back," Dean hypothesizes, when they settle in the library with a couple of beers. Um. Jack zapped them to Nick's cabin, didn't he? So what is on the "way back?" Are they going to zap to a McDonald's first? What is important is that Sam is still wearing that orange plaid shirt. And they're both pretty unperturbed, even for them, about what just happened.

Here's to another miraculous Sam Winchester survival. Gotta say, man, if Jack hadn't have healed you... you know, lately, it feels like we'd be up the creek without that kid. I mean, first he takes care of Michael, and then Nick...

I know, and he even got the blood out of my new orange plaid shirt, which means I can keep wearing it for this entire episode.

Yeah, I been meaning to talk to you about that. You've been adding a lot of orange to your wardrobe lately.

Just this shirt and that one jacket.

It's more orange than anyone needs. Sure, it fits you great, but so does that red and black plaid. Why don't you wear that shirt some more? Or that solid black shirt you have?

Sorry, but you know I'm a Texas fan. You're just going to have to put up with the orange.

At least I think that's how the conversation went. I could be remembering wrong.

I'm just saying. It's a lot of orange.

The point is, Dean appreciates Jack and recognizes everything he's done for them. Dean pulls out his phone to call her and they hear a buzzing, which is her phone, on the map table, right to Sam's bag. Sam, I know you're recently back from the dead (or near-dead) but it does seem like you would have noticed the phone there. (Also, how close is the library to war room? This makes it look like the map table is practically in the library.) Her keys are next to her her phone, and it's not until this very moment that I realize they didn't know she and Jack zapped to the cabin - they must have thought she and Jack drove there. Because obviously they didn't have a lot of conversation about it. Even though they had a long drive back and it does seem like Sam would have called his mother and asked how their end went.

Anyway. They're perturbed now. Sam tries to call Jack and we see him, staring, ignoring Sam's call.

Title card! (ha ha, I forgot we were still in the Now.)

The guys are making phone calls to all their contacts, and Sam reports Rowena has a spell that might be able to track Jack down. Oh, I love that Sam calls Rowena for help. LOVE IT. Dean gets a call from Cas and gives him the scoop. "Were they together?" Cas asks. “Alone?" Cas looks more Cassy than usual, and then tells Dean about the snake. "I don't think Jack is well, Dean," he says. Dean hangs up on him, which seems kind of rude, but neither he nor Sam act like the snake story is particularly significant. Then Sam gets the brilliant idea to track Jack's phone. (Sidebar: Should Cas be able to use his angelic powers to locate Mary and/or Jack? Discuss.)

Sam fires up the phone tracking website and expositions that they should be able to track him as long as his phone has power. (Listen, guys. You need Find My Friends. Best parent app EVER. It locates him in Nepal, but then he immediately appears in Peru. "Jack's flying," Sam says.

Eventually Jack tires of Paris and Lima and Madagascar and and flops to the ground back at the Cabin of Death, next to Nick's stolen truck. He pulls out his phone, revealing a low battery (so much for that plan, Sam) and several missed calls and messages from the rest of TFW 2.0. He has some flashbacks to happier times with Mary, and then in the background we notice someone standing on the porch of the cabin. They're wearing jeans, and their face is hidden in the darkness, and I'm open to the possibility that Jack actually zapped Mary somewhere instead of killing her (and according to the 14.17 poll, some of you are also open to this), so for a second I think it's going to be Mary standing there. But no.

On the TV:

Nick?

Hmm. Guess again. Hello, son.

At my house:

OH FUCK.

?

Sorry. I'm just really tired of him.

So, after Jack left to do more important things (Saaaaaaammmmmm!!!!), Lucifer made it back into the world? I mean, this is awful, but it would mean Lucifer is the Big Bad instead of Nick, so... not ALL awful? But it's not Lucifer either - "I'm your subconscious, or whatever," he says. Oh god, it's Hallucifer. Jack has his own version of Hallucifer, JUST LIKE HIS PRIMARY DAD. He's here to help, allegedly, though he doesn't seem all that helpful. "Buddy, you killed Mary Winchester. You cannot come back from that, and you know it." Well. I guess she's officially dead, then. Or is she? Where's the body? I mean, Hallucifer is just Jack's subconscious. So if Jack thinks he killed Mary, so does Hallucifer. That doesn't make it so. Jack tells Hallucifer that it was an accident, and he's all, sure, tell Sam and Dean that, I'm sure they'll understand. (It's funny because it's not true!)

Cut to the Winchesters, driving through the night. Sam expositions that Cas will meet them at the cabin (how do any of them even know where this cabin is?) and speculates that maybe Lucifer is behind whatever happened, not Jack. And maybe Jack thought he was being kind when he killed the snake. Because Sam is grasping for anything that exonerates his son (sob!). But Dean's not accepting it and doesn't want to talk about it. Then Sam's laptop or tablet or whatever he's using beeps with notification that Jack's signal has been lost. Uh oh. (So I guess that's how they found the cabin?) Oooh, yes, we actually get confirmation that it's in Longton "KA" (which doesn't exist and I suspect is supposed to be KS, SERIOUSLY, GUYS).

Longton KANSAS is 4.5 hours from Lebanon. In case anyone but me is curious.

When they get to the cabin, there's no sign of Jack or Mary or Hallucifer. Just the stolen truck. Sam goes inside and Dean looks outside and oh, who's going to be the one to find the body? First I'm sure it's going to be Sam, because there's a lumpy pile of blankets on the bed, but it must just be blankets, and Sam doesn't even look under them. He does find a body, but it's Nick, not Mary. And then I'm sure it's going to be Dean, because he comes across something disturbing outside and ignores Sam's calls. But what he found is... well, it's hard to see what it is in the dark. Apparently it's a blast zone. A big one.

Cas is sitting in his truck somewhere, having his own warm and fuzzy Mary flashback where she eats a candy bar after a hunt without washing her hands and refuses to let Cas heal her because she's still a little bit afraid of him. He tells her that, no matter what other things there are to deal with, Sam and Dean are glad she's here. "Finally they don't have to be so alone." Wow, that's a dumb thing to say. Mary agrees with me and says "Castiel, they were never alone. And if they were, me being here wouldn't fix that, since I'm always off doing other things." That's how I remember it, anyway. Reverie over, Cas gets out of the truck to face the music - he's at the Cabin of Death.

Inside, Sam is covering Nick's body. He and Dean have some concerned conversation about whether Nick deserved whatever Jack did to him and conclude that Jack must have made it as painful as possible or otherwise killed him in some inappropriate way. And there are very good, valid reasons for them to come to this conclusion. I mean, I can't think of them right now, after watching the episode twice and ruminating for several hours, but I'm sure something will come to me very soon. Let me just go check my Tumblr feed again. I bet they're there.

(Seriously. Nick looks like he was burned out by an angel. That's all.)

They're surprised when Cas walks in, because they didn't hear his giant truck or see his headlights in the dark Cabin of Death. They tell him they haven't found anything except the blast site that looks like something "angelic, but bigger." Dean theorizes that it could have been Lucifer, but Sam points out that Jack said he took care of Lucifer, and I'm not sure why they've reversed their positions. Because in the car, Sam was the one who thought it might have been Lucifer. Script mix-up? Someone brought Jensen the wrong pages? Anyway. Dean says "If he did something to her, if she is... then you're dead to me." Pointing as Cas, because Cas knew something was wrong with Jack. Well, that hardly seems fair. When he first told you the snake story, Dean, you didn't think it meant anything at all. But NOW, all of a sudden, it was some ironclad harbinger of doom?

"I was scared. I believed in Jack for so long. I believed that he was good. I knew that he would be good for the world. He was good for us. My faith in him, it never wavered, and then I saw what he did. It wasn't malice, it wasn't evil, it was like Jack saw a problem and he solved it, with that snake. What he did wasn't bad. It was the absence of good, and I saw that in him. But we were a family and I didn't want to lose that..."

And I'm going to stop here, because this is the most important part of Cas's speech. This is the core issue. Jack's not bad, he just might not be good either. He thought he was doing the right thing. And he's family. Is any of this familiar, Dean? Any of it at all? Cas also says that he wanted to "fix it" on his own, so he left and didn't tell anyone. Neither brother asks how he thought he was going to fix it, but I guess they'll get the story of the failed faux Samulet someday. Right now we just have Sam looking sad and guilty and Dean looking angry and guilty but mostly angry.

Sam's phone rings - it's Rowena. She says she was unable to scry Jack because "his energy is too unstable; it's like looking at the sun." And as for Mary? "I don't know what happened, or where she is, but I can tell you with certainty - Mary Winchester is no longer on this earth." At this point, I'm still ready to accept that she's been zapped to a different dimension. I mean, there's no body. But TFW accepts it as her being dead, and Dean starts throwing furniture and Sam is despondent and flinchy (and hoo boy, I love that combination.)

So what do we do?

What do we always do when we lose one of our own?

Bad things. Very bad things. He declares "we fight to bring them back." And they will call on Rowena, because "she's got the Book of the Damned; she's resurrected herself more times than we can count." (Not to quibble, but we've only seen her resurrected twice. You yourself have been resurrected more times than that, Dean.) He orders Cas to go to Heaven and find Mary, and orders Sam to tell Rowena they're on their way. Mmmm, angry bossy Dean. I like that combination too.

Another thing I like about this scene is that it's one of those times when Sam turns into the little brother. When he looks at Dean and asks "what do we do," because that's how this works.

So much to like.

We go to Rowena's place, and if you're wondering where she lives and how far it is from the Cabin of Death, you're not alone. She's working away on her spell, though it sounds like she says cumin so maybe it's actually a chili recipe, when someone bangs on her door. "That was fast," she says. But when she answers the door... oh god, it's Jack, and for the first time in this episode I actually feel some concern. DO NOT HURT HER, JACK. (Rowena, I apologize for not appreciating you when you first arrived on the scene. I adore you now and you must remain.)

She pretends she doesn't know what happened, asking if he's well and telling him 2/3 of his dads are looking for him. He admits he accidentally killed Mary by just thinking it for a second and oh, imagine how horrible that would be, if the awful things that popped into your mind for one second actually came to pass. Or maybe I have more intrusive thoughts than y'all do. Anyway. "I need to undo it," he says. "You need to help me undo it." She explains that the magic she normally uses has to be in place before you die, so he suggest the book (I adore the way she says book) and she tells him about the spell. It requires "enormous power" but simple ingredients that could probably be found in the bunker.

Someone bangs on the door again - it's Dean. Jack accuses her of stalling, but they only talked for like 90 seconds, so, okay. She asks him to talk to his "kin," but he grabs her arm. Sam kicks the door in (with hair in his face and yes it is hot) but it's too late - Jack has zapped her out.

Sadly, I have not found a gif yet, so this will have to do.

Cut to Cas at the Stairway to Heaven, calling for Naomi. No one responds.

Jack and Rowena appear in the bunker, and he pulls her along, but happens to notice some gouges in the floor. And now we get another flashback. Mary is trying to teach him how to handle a knife, and he keeps dropping it on the floor. She's all sweet and supportive and blah blah blah, and Jack says Dean will kill him for gouging the floor when they get him back, so this must be during the Michael!Dean period. Mary pulls the table over to cover the damaged floor, but who is that in the background? It's bearded Sam! Oh, long lost Beard of Despair! How I've missed you! (Is it fake? Is it real? Was this a deleted scene? Or did they plan for what was coming, and film this before he shaved it off? Does Jared just grow a beard that quickly? I DO NOT CARE.)

He feels bad for not being there for Jack while he was busy looking for Dean, and then he apologizes for complaining to her. But she's relieved not to be the only one with "parental guilt." Because they went through so much without her, and then things were "complicated" when she got back. "I'm just saying, parenting is always a struggle. You always feel like you're failing, but then you look at them, and somehow, they're amazing. Somehow, they're literally the bravest, kindest, most heroic men on the planet." Well, this is true. Very true. And I'm glad she's giving Sam the praise and validation he SO deserves but come on, Mary. What do you know about parenting? You did it for four years. When did you feel like you were failing six-month-old Sam?

YES, MARY, I WANT TO TOUCH IT TOO

Fade to Sam. Interesting that Jack's warm fuzzy flashback turned into Sam's. (It's because Sam is his primary dad! It is known!) They're still at Rowena's, and Dean is still ranting about Cas not telling them about the snake. EVEN THOUGH DEAN DIDN'T CARE ABOUT THE SNAKE WHEN CAS FIRST TOLD HIM.

Cas, Cas should have told us. As soon as he saw Jack going Dahmer on his stupid snake, he should have told us.

Dean, it wasn't just Cas. We knew Jack was dangerous. We always knew. Long before he killed Michael. You more than anyone. I mean, from the very beginning you knew. But, you know, we fell for him, because he had a good heart and a good soul. And then, he didn't. And that's on me, too, by the way. I mean, I'm the one that made the call to bring him back. He didn't ask for that. I decided for him. And you warned me.

Oooh. Sam. No. Because:

1) Dean didn't KNOW from the very beginning. He was, in fact, WRONG at the very beginning, when he thought Jack was evil. Jack was not evil, and you insisted on giving him a chance, and YOU WERE RIGHT. Jack becoming "evil" in the future (and he's not even EVIL, he's just naive and untrained and too powerful for his own good) wasn't anything Dean predicted.

b) Dean didn't exactly fight very hard to stop Sam from bringing Jack back. Seems like most of his concern was that it wouldn't work, not that it was a bad idea in and of itself.

Then Sam says "You know, after Maggie and the other hunters died, I just left. I just dumped Jack on Cas and left." Well, I'm not a big fan of "Maggie and the other hunters" (reminds me too much of "Sting and the Police" and I don't know why Maggie - or Sting - were so damn special that they deserved to be singled out as the only ones in the group with a name), but I also don't have any memory of Sam leaving after Michael killed the other hunters. And when he did, he wanted to take Jack, but Dean wouldn't let him. But Sam says he knew something was going to happen and he's wallowing in guilt. Dean admits that he also knew there was a risk, because of what Donatello told him about not being sure. Well, thank Chuck for that. I'm glad Dean's not letting Sam shoulder all the blame for something that wasn't his fault.

Angry Dean and sad Sam, two things I adore.

Back at the bunker, Rowena is gathering her cumin and other ingredients. Jack's getting impatient, and she tells him that she could have fought him, but she didn't. "Because you want the same thing the boys want. That I want." This is a beautiful, beautiful moment, with Rowena wanting what "the boys" want, but it's interrupted by Hallucifer, who doesn't even know why Jack is doing any of this. "To ease your guilt? But you don't have guilt any more, do you, Jack? Admit it. You don't feel anything any more." Well. Everything Hallucifer says comes from Jack's head, so what do we think about this? Does Jack really not feel anything any more? I disagree. If he didn't feel anything, if he didn't want Mary back, if he didn't care about forgiveness, why would he even bother? So I think our boy does feel something. Rowena is disturbed by Jack talking to his hallucination, but she carries on and finishes the spell. They have everything they need except the body. Oh.

Stairway to Heaven. Cas isn't going anywhere until Naomi talks to him. Someone finally shows up, but it's Duma.

Where's Naomi?

Well, I'd tell you it's none of your business, but you already know it's none of your business. Naomi just gets paid more than I do, and we've already got all the regular guest stars in this episode, so we had to cut some corners.

At least that's how I remember it. She tells him Mary is at peace in "a special Heaven" and "is complete" and he should just let her be.

Jack takes Rowena to the Cabin of Death, but Mary's body isn't there. He thinks she should be able to complete the spell anyway, but she says she can't. He wants to do it himself, but she says he's in no shape, and "disposition affects execution." She tells him that whatever he brings back won't be Mary, and refuses to help him and OH I'M CONCERNED FOR HER AND HE REACHES OUT AND PUSHES HER and she just ends up being shoved back into her apartment. WHEW. She calls Sam and tells him what Jack is doing, and that it won't work because there's no body, and Jack has snapped and they need to stop him." Necromancy is a delicate art, unpredictable under ideal circumstances. In his state, I fear your boy will bring back something terrible." WELL, THAT'S ENCOURAGING. (Also, Rowena is hilarious in this scene.)

Jack sits in the corpse-less blast zone and performs the ritual and a huge swirling purple cloud appears overhead and I'm thinking, is this our out? Is Jack going to summon something awful, something that can be the Big Bad so he doesn't have to? Please? He notices the Impala nearby, and uses his powers to stop it in its tracks. Luckily it's just right outside the cabin. Sam and Dean run toward him, and we see him looking down at whatever he has summoned, but he doesn't look happy about it. Neither do the Winchesters. "It didn't work," he says, before zapping out.

Oh, the thing he brought back is Mary. Well, Mary's corpse, apparently. Dean holds her and finds her still dead, and he's sad and we get his flashback, which is just Mary leaning on him, asleep in the car, and then Sam comes and holds Dean as he holds Mary and everybody's sad, we're all sad, so terribly terribly sad and we get a crane shot and it's a very lovely scene but I can't help thinking um, correct me if I'm wrong, but we do have that missing piece now, right?

Jack ends up at some industrial kind of place, where Hallucifer tells him there's no going back. "Cas, Sam, Dean, they're never going to trust you again. And you know what that means. You can never trust THEM." And oh, this is Jack's head telling him that. Poor baby.

Bunker. Sam has his box of treasures and he's looking at the few remaining family photos. He looks up, full of hope, when Cas comes in. But Cas tells him Mary is in Heaven and at peace. Dean shows up in time to hear this, and asks if he's just going to take Duma's word for it, because she's a known liar and also might possibly be that dude from The Empty. He says no, he actually saw Mary's Heaven, and we see her door with the dates 1954-1983 and 2016-2019 on it, which of course begs the question of what Sam and Dean's doors are going to look like.

He says he saw her with John (way to bury the lede, Cas), and they're full of joy. But was it really John? Haven't we established that most people are in their own individual Heavens, and if she has a John, it's just an avatar? I mean, John's name wasn't on the door. And I expect Dean, at least, to insist they try to bring her back anyway. But Sam says Rowena told him that what Jack brought back was just an empty replica, "incapable of holding life." (I mean, I feel like that sometimes.) "So what are we supposed to do now?" he asks. And again, Sam is looking to Dean to lead them through this, and yet he's got to know what they SHOULD do. He's got to be thinking of Mary, safe and happy in Heaven, and of ripping someone (anyone, no one in particular, right Sam?) away from that and forcing them to continue on Earth just because you can't be without them. He's got to be thinking of that.

"What we always do," Dean says. And the last time he said that, in this very episode, it meant we do something awful, we throw our own lives away or make some horrible bargain or damn the world in order to bring her back. But this time, it just means that we give her a hunter's funeral. And Sam doesn't look like he was ready for that after all.

So Mary gets a very dramatic pyre, and a montage? Did anyone else get a montage? Ellen, Jo, Bobby, Kevin, Crowley? JOHN? ANYONE? A FREAKING MONTAGE? NO. Grrr. Cas tries to get closer to Dean and Sam puts out a hand and stops him. Also, Sam burns a photo of her and I don't know why.

And finally, we cut to the library table where Sam and Dean carved their initials and we see they are joined by a M.W. Um. What about John? Didn't he get to carve his intials? (NO. Those are only for people who get a montage.)

Also, now that I'm going back to get screencaps, it doesn't look like her intials were there at the beginning of the episode. So she didn't carve them, one of the guys did. And not Dad's? Cold, boys.

You know, last week, like, five or ten minutes before the end of the episode, I thought if Jack hadn't cemented his place in Dean's heart already, he's certainly there now. Because he saved Sam. No matter what else Jack did or is doing or will do, he saved Sam. And I want someone to point that out. I want Sam to say "no, I'm not ready to give up on him, and you realize the only reason I'm here to argue with you is because Jack saved me, right? And if he is soulless, he lost it by saving our asses, right?" (Is this because I watched "Clip Show" a couple of days ago and watched Sam frantically try to soothe Sarah as she died from Crowley's handiwork, and I want Jack to get the same kind of second chance that Crowley got? Maybe.) Now, I realize killing Mary is more awful than anything Crowley (or any other enemy-turned-frenemy) has done to them. But it was an accident. And HE SAVED SAM'S LIFE. Come on. That counts for something.

(Sidebar: We also learned, in that scene back in season 8, that Crowley's mother was a witch. {blows a big wet kiss to the Continuity Fairy})

So, how do I feel about Mary being gone? Here's the deal. This show, at its heart, is about two (or three) men who have a giant bleeding Mary Winchester-sized hole in their lives. Filling that hole does not make for good television. And the Show tried to make her interesting and edgy by playing against what we thought we knew about her (she can't cook! she can't stay away from hunting! she sleeps with both Arthur Ketch and New Bobby!), it tried to make her both a source of conflict and a source of comfort, and ultimately (as far as I'm concerned) it just failed. She was so much more effective as that siren song of the impossible apple pie life. I said earlier and I'll repeat it here... the fact that they had to retcon all of these warm fuzzy flashbacks, instead of using actual clips, just shows how shallow these relationships were. There wasn't anything real to fall back on. And the way they spend these two episodes trying to make us care? It had the opposite effect on me. I'm glad to be shed of her.

But maybe that's just me. Maybe absence will make the heart grow fonder. We shall see. Come on and tell me what you think, and remember, no spoilers in the comments, please!

#spn #tv recaps #recap #14.18 #spoilers #beard of despair

[violetsmoak]

Appetence [7/?]

AO3 Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251420/chapters/47997634

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: Red Robin is investigating the disappearance of a friend and stumbles into a spot of supernatural trouble. He doesn’t expect to be saved by Jason Todd, miraculously alive five years after his death and now with the inexplicable ability to commune with the dead. Meanwhile, when Jason returned to Gotham he meant to maintain a low profile and not get involved with Bat business. That was before he found out how hot his Replacement is.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: N/A

First Chapter

Author’s Note(s): Apologies for the wait. As you may know I had an adventure with my dropbox wherein I backed up all my files because I had to restore my laptop, and all of the files ended up mixed up in the wrong folders and I've been tracking down files one by one for the past week. I hate technology. I mean, I guess I should be happy the files didn't get deleted, but it's still a pain in the ass to re-organize manually.

Beta Reader: I’ll get back to you on that.

________________________________________________________________

Tim stares at the business card in his hand long after Jason disappears, thumbing over the false name and phone number with a reverence once reserved for clandestinely captured photographs.

Victor Shelley, Paranormal Investigator.

He wonders if Jason was trying to be funny choosing that name. Given what Tim’s heard about him in the few instances where Dick or Alfred talk about him, and what he saw for himself in the past, he thinks it’s entirely likely.

God, Dick and Alfred.

He knows they’re going to be just as blindsided about this as Bruce when they find out.

If they find out.

Guilt flickers through him now at the promise he made to Jason.

Why the hell would he promise a man he doesn’t really know—a man he’s spent a grand total of an hour and twenty-three minutes in conversation with—that he won’t let his adopted father knows he’s not dead.

That he hasn’t been dead for years.

That he’s in Gotham right now.

Tim wishes he could say it was one hundred percent his shock at Jason being alive, but that would be lying to himself. His mind flashes back to Jason’s face, his slow smirk and the smooth, deep voice, and he swears, letting his head fall against the counter.

Apparently, I promised him because he’s pretty.

It’s a new feeling for Tim. He’s never been easily swayed by looks, but something about Jason is attractive enough to put him off-guard, or at least loosen his lips more than normal.

I thought I was over this…

“I know that face.”

Tim startles and glances up at the bartender—Trista—who he had forgotten was there. He’d forgotten he was sitting in a bar, to be honest.

“Judging by the ass on that man, I can guess what it’s about,” she continues in a wry tone. Then she’s sliding a shot of amber liquid toward him. “Here. To steady your nerves.”

Tim stares at the alcohol in numb confusion.

“That’s on the house, but only because he talked more with you tonight than I’ve seen him do with anyone since he got here,” she goes on. “We’ll both pretend I don’t know you’re underage.”

Tim is too flustered by everything she’s just said to do anything other than accept the shot under her knowing gaze. Then, he beats a hasty retreat from the bar as fast as humanly possible without it looking like he’s running away.

Distracted, he returns to his apartment in the Theater District, trying to parse the events of the night from an objective viewpoint. He’s not entirely sure he didn’t dream it all up, considering whatever that incubus did to him, and so he runs tox-screens on his blood and gives himself a full physical just to make sure.

Other than spikes in several hormone levels—adrenaline, dopamine, and serotonin—his results are normal. Nothing that would really alter his perceptions of reality, the way Scarecrow or Poison Ivy’s concoctions tend to do.

That confirmed, he should be able to leave the matter alone for now. There are more pressing matters to deal with—Dante’s continued disappearance being one of them.

But thoughts of Jason continue to assault Tim’s thoughts.

Something has been bothering him since his conversation with Jason, something he wondered before but couldn’t ask because Jason got skittish and made a run for it

How the hell did Constantine cross paths with Jason anyway?

Aside from his inexplicable presence in Gotham at some point in the past five years without attracting the attention of Batman, what would interest him in a teenaged John Doe with no identity or memory?

Sliding into the chair in front of the computer in the Nest, Tim calls up the autopsy report, even though he doesn’t really need to see it. He memorized it years ago. Still, if he’s going to investigate this, he needs concrete facts, not just his memory.

It’s not difficult to create a timeline of events, between Jason’s official death and now. Or to search a list of John Does at various hospitals in Gotham within the last five to ten years, whose condition upon admittance matches the description of Jason’s injuries at death.

He finds the information he’s looking for within twenty minutes.

As it turns out, things didn’t happen quite as neatly or quickly as Jason’s story suggested. His stay at Gotham General was a lot longer than he let on, and Tim’s stomach twists as he reads the medical reports.

Various physicians left their comments on the patient, a young man of about fifteen or sixteen, severely beaten and malnourished, picked up several miles from the hospital.

The file includes a mugshot of a heavily bandaged youth, head shaved from what records indicate were several procedures to repair brain bleeds, skull, and facial fractures. Bruises and swelling make his features almost unrecognizable, except to someone who has memorized pictures of that face since he was ten years old. Someone who knows the cut of that jaw and the color of those eyes, however bleary and vacant they are as they stare into the camera.

“God, Jason…”

Tim reads over the doctors’ notes that span the course of a year, cataloging how well the boy is healing considering the heavy damage he sustained, and how he would be considered a miracle patient but for the fact whatever happened to him caused significant brain damage.

Clear psychological damage, hearing voices, incapable of speech, easily upset.

On several occasions, the boy became unaccountably terrified, screaming and yelling and trying to claw out his own eyes. Sometimes it even became violent, and in his struggles, he put three doctors, a nurse and two orderlies in the emergency room.

I’m surprised it was only that many people. Considering his training, he could have done a lot more damage.

Eventually, he always had to be drugged and restrained.

Demonic possession, maybe?

It’s not the first thing Tim would think of, but if Constantine’s involved in all this, it would make sense. And coming back from the dead like Jason says he did, it had to have side effects.

Except, there’s no mention of anything superhuman or beyond the realm of possibility regarding Jason’s strength. Surely the doctors would have made note of anything beyond the abilities of a normal, scared teenager—especially in Gotham, where strange behavior was a sad norm.

No mention of anything resembling supernatural or metahuman abilities anywhere here.

Jason was eventually placed permanently in the psych ward and likely would have stayed there for the rest of his days, except the hospital’s budget was cut in his eighth month there. Space issues required moving patients to other hospitals, and—

“Oh, no. No-no-no, tell me they didn’t,” Tim murmurs, heart sinking as he scrolls down the page of the report, knowing exactly what he’s going to find.

They sent him to Arkham.

If Tim was horrified before by the notion of Jason’s resurrection and his condition afterward, it’s nothing to how sick he feels to learn that his predecessor was sent to the cesspool that is Arkham Asylum.

He needs to turn away from his computer for a few seconds and breathe, close his eyes and concentrate on not hearing the lilting, singsong voice and tinny voice in his head.

Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.

Ever since his kidnapping, it’s the one place in Gotham Tim won’t venture—he’s not sure what would happen if he did. Whether he’d suffer a crippling attack of flashbacks, or march into the high security ward and slit the Joker’s throat with one of his birdarangs.

If Bruce realized Tim honestly can’t decide which would be the worse outcome, he knows he’d be benched for the rest of his life. He might not be Robin anymore, but the Family would find a way.

It’s fear of that more than anything else that helps him get a handle on his panic, tethers him back to reality better than anything else. Tim takes another series of deep, grounding breaths, before he feels confident enough to be able to get back to his research into Jason.

At least they didn’t put him anywhere near the Joker, it seems, he notices as he goes through the room assignments and Arkham floorplans. That’s about the only good thing about it, though.

Jason’s ward was for the non-communitive patients, the ones the experts considered untreatable. The ones that get forgotten about in the mayhem of the monthly outbreaks and pandemonium.

Tim’s stomach clenches tight again as he remembers incidents and dates over the years where Batman visited inmates at Arkham to interrogate them on the latest escapes or crimes happening in the city, or just to test the security there. Based on the location of Jason’s cell and Batman’s usual route, there are times when the two were only a floor apart

Tim’s heart aches for them both.

They were so close to each other! If only they’d known—!

And just as suddenly as Jason was transferred to Arkham, all records of him vanish. There’s no information about patient transfers or deaths or releases; instead, like many a nameless patient to be lost to the asylum over the years, he just vanishes.

People don’t just vanish. And in this case, I know he didn’t.

Tim goes on to cross-reference the potential dates of Jason’s disappearance with any visitors to the asylum. It doesn’t take much to identify the only visitor to the asylum for a span of weeks as a certain Chandler Ravenscar—names which another quick search link to aliases used by John Constantine in the past.

That brings Tim to a whole other avenue of research, refocusing him investigation on Constantine himself and his movements over the past years. He tends to keep to the UK, but every now and again travels to various mystical hotspots around the world.

There’s a backlog of security footage to weed through, occultist forums discussing the man and his exploits. Half of what’s written about him online is clearly conspiracy theories, a quarter of it related to some punk rock band called Mucous Membrane and something to do with the Reagan assassination. Those who have actually worked with him either seem too terrified or pissed off to say much about him.

Even harder is finding a video of the man; cameras and other surveillance devices appear to stop working around him. It’s even more of a challenge to catch a glimpse of the teenaged assistant that starts being mentioned several months after Jason’s disappearance from Arkham.

A chance freeze-frame from an airport in Beijing, however, is all Tim needs to confirm it’s Jason.

It’s hours later when Tim sits back, exhausted but now having at least a general timeline of what happened.

One thing is for damn sure—I can’t take this to Bruce.

The story is too painful, too unbelievable. If it doesn’t break him all over, it will have him lashing out at Tim for making up stories about a touchy subject. There’s enough tension between them both right now that he’s likely to question anything suspect Tim brings to him.

Or he would insist it was a trick, that someone had faked all of this. He wouldn’t take Tim’s word for it, would investigate himself, prepare himself for an interrogation when what Jason needs is to have a face to face with his adopted father and mentor.

And Jason’s story still has too many holes in it for Tim to tell it, begging more questions than answers.

Like why Constantine took you from Arkham in the first place. And also…there’s one other thing that doesn’t make sense.

Well, a lot of things don’t make sense, but this stands out.

Tim goes back to the hospital records, scanning for the section where he remembers reading the information.

John Doe’s injuries in the medical files are all consistent with those in Jason’s autopsy, with every scar and broken bone accounted for and described.

Except for an autopsy scar.

That would have been the first thing medical professionals remarked upon when Jason was admitted, but it’s not mentioned anywhere. Which must mean that somehow, Jason no longer has it.

So why did that heal and nothing else did? Could it have something to do with what brought him back?

There’s a sudden dull, clunk in the background and the slide of elevator doors, and Tim glances up to watch Stephanie Brown stride into his base of operations.

“I was on the way out and Babs sent me to check on you,” she tells him. “Apparently someone missed work today without calling in and isn’t answering their phone.”

Tim startles at that, glances at the clock in the corner of his screen and swears when he realizes she’s right. He was supposed to be at Wayne Enterprises an hour ago. When he glances at his cellphone, he sees twelve text messages and three missed calls from Lucius, Dick and Bruce.

“I didn’t even notice,” he groans. He was so caught up in finding out more about Jason that he lost track of time. He quickly taps out a group message reassuring them he’s fine and will be in soon.

“At least being flaky is characteristic of billionaire teenagers,” Steph says as she wanders over.

Tim quickly minimizes his search and swivels around in his seat to face her. “Why are you even awake this early?”

Given the way she spends her nights, Steph made a point of having all of her classes in the afternoon. She’s possibly less of a morning person than Tim is, to the point where even coffee doesn’t make her a little more human.

“Blame my new roommate,” she grumbles, and that earns a surprised look because it’s the first time he’s heard of this. “Right, I didn’t tell you, did I? So, a couple of weeks ago this cat shows up on the fire-escape outside my window. And I didn’t mean to feed it, but it looked so sad and pathetic and I had to, so now it won’t leave me alone. What am I supposed to do? I don’t have time to be a pet owner.”

“Cat’s don’t actually take that much care.”

“That’s what they want you to think. And then one cat becomes two, and two becomes three and the next thing I know, I’m going to be the crazy cat lady on the block,” Steph complains. “And not to cool, sexy, Selina kind of cat lady but the sad, single shut-in.”

“You could never be a shut-in. No four walls can keep your raw joie de vivre inside,” Tim says in a flat tone.

“You’re just saying that because you’re my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.” She frowns in confusion. “Are we in an on-again or an off-again right now? I forget.”

Tim remembers Jason’s cocky grin and muscular thighs and his mouth goes dry. “Off. Definitely off.”

Steph’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline. “That was weirdly assertive. Am I sensing a pretty girl behind that sentiment? Do I need to give a shovel talk?” Something occurs to her and she scowls. “It’s not that Lynx chick, is it? Trust me when I say that would be a bad idea.”

“There’s no girl,” Tim mumbles. “Trust me.”

“Okay,” she allows, slow and still somewhat dubious. “But you’d tell me, right? If you were seeing someone? Only so I don’t go crossing lines or causing jealous rage or something.”

“There’s nothing going on, yes I would tell you, can we please move on?” Tim huffs. “Tell me about your cat.”

“He’s not my cat.”

“You fed him, he’s your cat.”

“Stop changing the subject. You’re being evasive—there so is a girl.”

“There’s no girl!” Tim groans, half tempted to tug at his hair. “Who could look at another woman after being with you?”

“I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or as an insinuation I was so horrible that I turned you off women for good,” Steph says, eyes narrowed in suspicion. A beat later, she tilts her head to one side as if something has occurred to her. “Wait. That’s it, isn’t it? It’s a guy. This someone’s a guy. You know you can tell me, right? That would totally be okay—would actually explain a lot, actually—you know, you liking guys—”

“One guy does not equate guys.”

“Oh my god! There is! There’s a guy!” Steph squeals. “Who is it? It’s that friend of yours, that went missing, isn’t it? Dante something? That’s why you’ve been so obsessed with finding him!”

“I’m determined to find him because he’s my friend,” Tim counters, a bit irritated. “The same way I’d be determined to find Ives or Bernard or anyone I cared about. And I’d be doing that right now if someone wasn’t distracting me.”

Two someones, but she doesn’t need to know about Jason’s role in it.

“And I’d believe that if you weren’t looking at me like you wanted to jump out of your skin. There’s something going on here, Ex-Boy Wonder.”

“There’s nothing going on.”

“Lies!”

“For something to be going on, you have to actually spend more than an hour with someone. You have to have known them for more than an hour.”

“Not if you have chemistry,” Steph points out. “Sometimes, it’s just like. Bang.” She grins. “And then you have to bang.”

Tim rolls his eyes.

“Do I need to give you the safe sex talk?” Steph asks with concern that’s only half teasing. “The gay-sex safe sex talk? Because to be honest, I don’t think I’d be able to do it with a straight face.”

“Steph, that was awful. As a former Robin, you should be ashamed.”

“And as a former Robin, you should be better at lying. So, spill. What’s going on?”

Tim studies her, chewing on his tongue; he knows she won’t let it go unless he gives her something. “Okay. Fine.”

“Hah! I knew it!”

“Not that. This is…something else,” he says. “Sort of.”

“Okay?”

“What would you do if…say you found out something really important to a person you care about. But you promised someone else you wouldn’t tell anyone about that something because of…reasons. Personal reasons.”

Steph crosses her arms. “Is this about me?”

“Not everything is about you.”

“Then it’s about Mystery Boy.”

“It’s not about—” Tim gives up, and then sighs, because it’s just easier to give her that one. “Fine. It’s Mystery Boy. He asked me not to say something that’s really important. I figure it’s because he wants to say himself in his own time. Except. Except it’s a huge thing.”

“Starbucks discontinuing pumpkin spice lattes’ huge, or ‘Hush trying to destroy B’ huge?”

“Closer to the second. Not dangerous like that,” he adds quickly when he sees her face. “It’s just…serious stuff that could hurt if it’s not handled the right way. Or if certain parties found out later and thought they were having stuff kept from them.”

“Well, now I’m curious…”

“I’m not telling you.”

“I know that. I’m just saying.” Steph sticks out her tongue at him, but then becomes contemplative. “I guess I’d keep my mouth shut. Or try to, at least. Stuff like that always tends to come out eventually. But if you’re worried it could hurt someone, maybe you can convince Mystery Boy it’s in his best interest to tell someone.”

“Yeah, that didn’t go over too well.”   

“Well, whatever you do, don’t get into your micromanaging, control-freak headspace,” she tells him. “That’s one of the things that torpedoed you and me, and if you want things to work out with this guy, you should respect his wishes.”

“I never said anything about wanting anything to work out with anyone,” Tim protests. “I just met the guy.”

“And somehow he got you to promise not to tell something that’s apparently really important. Which means you already value him somehow, and that only happens to you when you really like someone. Also, you might be able to straight-up bluff Batman or Ra’s al Ghul, but I know how you look when you like someone and don’t want anyone to know it.” There’s a beeping noise and Steph digs out her cellphone. “And with those pearls of wisdom, I have to get going. My mom found the cat and she’s having a conniption.”

She turns to leave, pauses once she enters the elevator and turns back around, jabbing a finger at him.

“Shower, eat, go to work, stop obsessing about stuff you can’t control—and don’t try to control stuff that’s not your business.”

Tim bristles. “Yes, Mother.”

“Oh, you did not just go there,” she growls as the elevator doors close and Tim grins until she’s gone.

He knows that Steph’s right, to a certain extent. This whole Jason thing isn’t his business—he was only ever an outside observer, a legacy after the fact. And even if it was his business, it’s not his predecessor’s sensibilities he should be protecting.

Ill-advised crush aside, he doesn’t have any connection loyalty to Jason Todd. He does owe Bruce—he should be going straight to him about this.

Except…

Except, Tim really doesn’t want to be added to the list of people who betrayed Jason’s trust. Especially given how fragile it is given their short acquaintance.

Tim groans and leans back against his chair, wishing for an easy solution. He’s usually able to figure out what to do, even when it comes down to the hard choices.

“Stop obsessing about stuff you can’t control—and don’t try to control stuff that’s not your business.”

Steph’s right.

He’ll do as Jason asked.

Or, at least he’ll give it a week.

If he hasn't figured out any other way to deal with the situation, he'll go to Bruce.

In the meantime—he has an investigation to get back to.

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

#jaytimweek2019 #jaytimweek #jaytim #fanfic #prompt: supernatural #jaytim fic #tim drake #drama #mystery #angst #romance #instant attraction #steph being awesome #tim being nosy

[sassycassie-s-writing]

“He Took Her”

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): DC, BatFam - Jason Todd/Red Hood feat. Bruce Wayne/Batman and the Joker

Rating: PG-11 (for heavy implications of torture)

Original Idea: This imagine

Notes: (Masterlist)(By Character)(About Me) Read with some caution, please, if torture and violence make you uncomfortable. @welovegroot

^^^^^

"I'm going to kill him," Jason muttered. "I've been too lenient before, letting him live after he killed me. But this is the last straw. I'm going to put the Joker in a body bag---and you can't stop me, B-man."

"What's brought this on?" Bruce asked, more curious and jaded than concerned.

"He took her," Jason retorted, fighting to keep his voice from breaking. With his helmet on, Bruce couldn't see that his second son's eyes were bloodshot and his cheeks were stained with salt. Jason refused to remove his helmet. He didn't want Bruce to see. He thumbed the edge of his gun, strapped to his thigh, imagining yanking it out and aiming right between Joker's eyes. He felt his imaginary finger pull the trigger, saw the flash, and heard the bang that was the gunshot. He took a deep breath.

"Jay," Bruce said. Jason's steel gaze flashed to his adoptive father's from under his helmet. "Just… be careful. And think about what she wants before doing anything impulsive. Because if you kill him in front of her, that will terrify her. Don't make her afraid of you. It's not good for relationships."

Jason stared at Batman thoughtfully for a moment. "We'll see. No promises, old man." He moved to leave.

Batman grabbed his second son's wrist. "I'm not telling you not to kill the Joker for me, Jason. I'm telling you not to kill him in front of her. Because I don't want you to lose her. She makes you happy. So, don't push her away in trying to get her back from him."

Jason grunted noncommittally, pulled out of Batman's grip, and got in the Batmobile. "I'm going to save her, whatever it takes."

^^^^^

I huddled in the corner of the supply closet. The shelves were bare of everything but a box of rat poison, some toilet paper, and a mop. The mop was broken and couldn't be used to bar the door.

Not that I'd be able to do that, chained as close to the wall as I was. I couldn't make it across the closet to the door.

I could hear cackling outside, and I knew what was coming---Joker would burst in, drag me out of the supply closet, and torture me for… fun, I guess. I couldn't bear much more. The bruises healed, and the littler cuts finally closed, but the large gash on my shoulder wasn't going away anytime soon.

No matter how many times I told him that I didn't know anything more than he did, he kept dealing me pain like a casino employee dealt cards---swift and sharp. He said he didn't care. He didn't want any information from me. He didn't want anything from me but my pain.

The door burst open, the way it always did. "Change of plans today, little lady," he said with a maniacal grin. "We're going up to the roof for a little fun!"

I shrunk against the wall, trying not to whimper as the wounds from yesterday started to smart.

Two goons hauled me to my feet and unlocked the chain holding me to the wall but left my cuffs on. They had rubbed my skin raw and were going to get infected.

As I was "escorted" (read: dragged) out of the supply closet, the Joker scooped up a crowbar. I gasped in fear as I was taken to the roof.

"Tie her up all nice and pretty. We're going to have a guest," Joker told his goons.

"What?" I breathed, confused, as I was thrown into a rickety wooden chair and tied up with ropes. The roof was flat, with a brick railing to keep anyone from falling off. I took shaky breaths as Joker looked around, tapping the end of the crowbar into his free hand like it was a baseball bat. All of my old injuries throbbed and ached.

"Shhh! Not now, lovely," Joker growled in the maniacal tone he used when he was trying to scare me. It worked every time because that tone meant pain. "Gag her mouth too," he ordered his men.

A bandana was forced through my lips and tied at the back of my head. I struggled against the ropes tying me to the chair and grumbled against the bandana.

"That's better," Joker mocked. "A little more peace and quiet."

Darkness descended over the city as clouds rolled in, thunder and flickers of lightning accompanying it. A proper Gotham storm. It had been a while since the last one---usually we just got plain rain of varying degrees of intensity.

A dark, hulking figure vaulted over the brick railing of the building and landed on the roof.

"Let her go, Joker!" a familiar voice snarled from the newcomer.

The man wore black trousers with a gun strapped to one thigh and a knife to the other, an armored black top of some kind---that I assumed was a full-body suit the trousers were covering---with a red bat-like symbol across the chest, a brown leather jacket, black combat boots, and a red helmet.

"Oh-hoo-hoo!" Joker exclaimed excitedly. He turned to look at me. "See, missy? I said we'd have a guest!" He turned back to the newcomer. "Welcome, Red Hood! I see you received my invitation."

"If by 'invitation' you mean the video of you torturing a hostage, then yes, I did," Red Hood retorted.

I struggled against the ropes, desperate to free myself and get off the roof before things got ugly.

Red Hood's head turned so I could see he was looking at me. "You okay, miss?" he asked.

I couldn't say much through the gag, so I just grunted a, "Mm," and tilted my head side to side, showing off scabs and bruises on my face and neck.

Had I been able to see Red Hood's face under his helmet, I was certain his expression would have darkened. His head tilted forward, and his hand clenched around the hilt of his knife as he glared at the Joker. His other hand drew out his gun.

"Now, now, boy," Joker said, completely calm and apparently not at all afraid of Red Hood tearing him apart. "Let's talk this out like men, shall we? I'll give you a choice. Me, or the girl. The very same choice you gave to Batman upon your miraculous return from the grave. Batman isn't going to approve of you killing me---and neither will the girl. And are you really going to shoot me while she's watching?" He grinned maliciously, snatched a gun from his goon, and stood behind me. I felt the gun barrel press against the back of my head.

I sucked in a deep breath, sitting up straighter and going stiff. Red Hood levelled his gun, aiming above my head.

The Joker laughed. "You've only got a headshot, Hood. I'm going to count to ten and shoot. So, are you going to disappoint your old man and the girl you love and finally going to get your revenge before I pull this trigger, or are you going to play the hero?" he goaded.

Red Hood shrugged. "I kinda like that first option," he said.

Before the Joker could even get the "T" in "ten" out of his mouth, Jason pulled his trigger.

There was a flash of light, a loud BANG!, a shout of pain, and a thud of a body hitting the roof. I flinched at the noise and shut my eyes. Whatever just happened, I didn't want to look. Didn't want to see.

Two more gunshots went off and the Joker's goons that had brought me to the roof also hit the bricks.

I heard the quiet shink of a knife blade being drawn from a sheath and felt the ropes around my body and the chair loosen, then fall away. "It's alright, miss, you're safe now. I won't let them hurt you anymore," Red Hood said. His hand held my wrist and tilted it to see the locks on my cuffs. He swore when he saw how raw my skin was. "Those are some bad wounds. Don't worry, we'll get you to a doctor." I peeled my eyes open, just barely, to see him picking the locks.

The metal bracelets fell off my wrist and clattered to the ground. I took a deep breath as he untied the gag around my head. I tried to get to my feet, but without the goons keeping me upright, I was too weak to stay standing.

I wobbled and stumbled forward. Red Hood caught me. "Whoa, miss. Be careful," he cautioned, scooping me up into his arms. "I'm going to get you out of here, okay?"

I nodded, my arms wrapped around his neck.

Once we were away from the warehouse, I rested my head on his chest. "Thank you, Jason," I whispered, barely louder than a breath. His grip on me tightened, holding me closer to him.

"I'll always come for you," he said. I could hear his voice quiver ever-so-slightly.

"Did you really kill the Joker?" I asked, almost afraid of the answer.

Jason chuckled. I felt it in his chest more than I heard it. "No. I shot him in the forehead with a miniature paintball. It'll hurt like crazy when he wakes up and it knocked him out, but no I didn't kill him."

"Why not?" I rasped. "You wanted to, didn't you?"

"Oh yeah," he replied emphatically. "But I'd never be able to live with myself if I killed him and lost you." He squeezed me tighter, unable to kiss me with his helmet still on and unable to take the helmet off because he was carrying me. "You mean too much to me."

We turned a corner and found the Batmobile. The cockpit opened. Jason set me in the passenger seat.

"We're going to get you fixed up, baby, okay?" he asked.

I nodded tiredly.

He stroked my face and removed his helmet just long enough to give me a kiss. Then he put it back on and got in the Batmobile driver's seat. The cockpit closed. The near-silent engine started up and the road breezed by underneath us.

Before we could get to the hospital, a doctor's office, the Batcave, or anywhere else, I fell asleep. I was exhausted and stressed. I deserved a nap.

^^^^^

Jason glanced at the love of his life, asleep in the passenger seat of the Batmobile. She was scuffed up, bruised, cut, and weak. She was the strongest person he'd ever met, and he'd never seen her so vulnerable.

It made him angry, livid, furious at the Joker for hurting her---for breaking her the way the Joker broke Jason. He clenched his hands around the steering wheel of the Batmobile and focused on the roads. Because if he focused on anything else, he'd probably crash. First, he had to get her to safety. Then he could find some more bad people to beat up.

He reached across the center console to feel the skin of her cheek. Her skin was cool. "It's going to be okay. You're going to be okay," he said aloud even though he knew she wouldn't hear.

#'He Took Her' #Jason Todd #Jason Todd Imagine #Jason Todd FanFiction #Red Hood #Red Hood Imagine #Red Hood FanFiction #DC #DC Imagine #DC FanFiction #BatFam #BatFam Imagine #BatFam FanFiction #featuring #Bruce Wayne #Batman #and #The Joker #Joker

[techcrunchappcom]

New Post has been published on https://techcrunchapp.com/nobodys-ever-seen-anything-like-this-how-coronavirusturned-the-us-election-upside-down-the-guardian/

'Nobody’s ever seen anything like this': how coronavirus turned the US election upside down - The Guardian

Mar-a-Lago was the place to see and be seen for guests who paid thousands of dollars for the privilege on New Year’s Eve. Diamonds and furs abounded on the red carpet. When Donald Trump arrived at his estate in Palm Beach, Florida, in high spirits and a tuxedo, he declared: “We’re going to have a great year, I predict.”

But earlier that day, a Chinese government website had identified a “pneumonia of unknown cause” in the area surrounding a seafood market in Wuhan. When midnight struck and 2020 dawned, no one could have guessed how this microscopic pathogen would turn the world upside down, infecting 15 million people, killing 625,000, crippling economies and wiping out landmark events such as the Olympic Games.

America is no exception. The coronavirus pandemic has upended the presidential election, which, on Sunday, will be just one hundred days away. It has changed the issues, the way the fight is fought and quite possibly the outcome. The nation’s biggest economic crisis for 75 years, and worst public health crisis for a century, is an asteroid strike that has rewritten the rules of politics and left historians grasping for election year comparisons.

“There is probably nothing the same as coronavirus,” said Thomas Schwartz, a history professor at Vanderbilt University in Nashville. “Obviously, you have issues that stir the public up: 1968 would have been Vietnam and the disturbances that had taken place in the cities. But nothing quite as universal and affecting such a wide band of Americans as the coronavirus. That is really new.”

Soon after that New Year’s Eve celebration at Mar-a-Lago, Trump would be acquitted by Republicans at his Senate impeachment trial and triumphantly brandish the next day’s Washington Post front page at the White House. In his own mind, at least, he was riding a strong economy on his way to re-election, while Democrats struggled to tally results in their Iowa caucuses or settle on a unifying presidential nominee.

Trump in February, in defiant mood following his acquittal in his Senate impeachment trial. Photograph: Joshua Roberts/Reuters

But the virus was on the move. On 22 January, Trump claimed that it “is totally under control” and is “going to be just fine”. On 2 February, he insisted he had stopped its spread by restricting travel from China. On 27 February, he said at the White House: “One day – it’s like a miracle – it will disappear.” And so it went on in what critics now say was a historic feat of denial and failure in leadership.

Covid-19 swept through New York, killing thousands of people. Trump declared himself a “wartime president” and held daily briefings in April but then reportedly “got bored” and switched emphasis to reviving the economy – seen as crucial to his re-election chances. Yet while the infection and death tolls ticked up, his approval ratings ticked down.

Now it seems the old maxim of “It’s the economy, stupid” will be replaced by “It’s the virus, stupid” as the defining issue for voters, not least because the suffering and death have a direct impact on the economy itself: Americans have filed 52.7m unemployment claims over the past four months.

Another famous campaign question, “Are you better off than you were four years ago?”, now seems purely rhetorical. The Trump campaign has been forced to abandon the slogan “Keep America great” in favour of “Make America great again, again”.

Schwartz added: “When Trump had the economy going gangbusters he had a stronger argument on his behalf that, despite his disruptiveness and unpleasantness, people were doing OK and things seemed to be moving ahead. But look at the polling on whether the country’s going in a good direction or a bad direction and, boy, did that spike with the bad direction since March.”

Trump was arguably an unusually lucky president for his first three years, not having to face the type of major crisis that confronted many of his predecessors, enabling him to persist as a gadfly reality TV star tweeting about celebrities instead of reading national security briefs. With the eruption of the virus, that luck ran out spectacularly.

America now has 4m infections and more than 140,000 deaths, the highest tallies in the world. Cases have doubled in the past six weeks even as curves flatten in Europe.

The president continues to defend his response, pointing to travel restrictions he imposed, 50m tests conducted – more than any other country – and mass distribution of ventilators. “We’re all in this together,” he said on Wednesday. “And as Americans, we’re going to get this complete. We’re going to do it properly. We’ve been doing it properly. Sections of the country come up that we didn’t anticipate – for instance, Florida, Texas, et cetera – but we’re working with very talented people, very brilliant people, and it’s all going to work out, and it is working out.”

The pandemic was a moment when Trump could have proved his doubters wrong. He did not rise to the challenge

But his niece Mary Trump, author of a new family memoir, said his handling of the pandemic has been “criminal”. She added: “It was avoidable, it was preventable and even if we hadn’t gotten a hold of it right away, the statistics are pretty clear. Two weeks earlier, what, 90% of deaths could have been avoided? And they haven’t been, simply because he refused to wear a mask because doing so would have admitted that he was wrong about something, and that is something he cannot do.”

The pandemic was a moment when Trump could have surprised the world and proved his doubters wrong. He did not rise to the challenge in the eyes of those critics. He failed to devise a national strategy on testing, rarely spoke of the victims, refused to wear a mask until recently and undermined top public health experts such as Dr Anthony Fauci.

Leon Panetta, a former defence secretary and CIA director, said: “If you operate on the basic premise that crisis defines leadership, then you’d have to say that this crisis has also defined the failure of leadership. That has without question impacted on politics in this country.

“It’s pretty clear that there are a hell of a lot of constituencies out there that feel that he’s failed to lead with this issue. There’s a sense that in many ways he’s basically said, ‘You’re on your own in terms of dealing with this’. He at one point said he doesn’t take responsibility for what’s happening with this virus and I think that sent a real message to the country that the president’s gone awol on the country at a time of crisis.”

Such is the backlash that multiple opinion polls show the Democratic presidential candidate Joe Biden leading Trump by double digits, and ahead in the battleground states that will decide the electoral college. The president’s best hope now might be an “October surprise” in the form of a coronavirus vaccine. There is no clearer example of how everything has changed than Texas, which no Democrat has won since 1976. On Wednesday, a record 197 deaths from Covid-19 were reported while a Quinnipiac poll showed Biden leading Trump 45% to 44%.

Filemon Vela, a Democratic congressman from southern Texas, said: “Since the beginning of the pandemic, President Trump and our own governor, Greg Abbott, have made tactical decisions that are now resulting in the killing of Texans en masse. Any rational thinking Texan would be crazy if they voted for Donald Trump, given the way that the state is being ravaged by the virus.

“Across the state, ICUs are full. Back in my home town, patients that should be in the ICU are having to wait in emergency rooms. Patients who can’t get into emergency rooms are having to wait in ambulances for hours outside the hospital. It is a catastrophic situation and I believe that, when November comes around, the people of Texas are going to remember it.”

A protest in support of Black Lives Matter in New York in June. Trump seized on the protest by attempting to stoke ‘culture war’ divisions. Photograph: Bryan R Smith/AFP/Getty Images

Against the implacable foe of the virus, Trump has repeatedly sought to divert and distract. He seized on the Black Lives Matter protests against the police killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis not with healing and compassion but by attempting to stoke “culture war” divisions over crime and Confederate statues. Still, the pandemic persisted.

Bill Galston, a former policy adviser to President Bill Clinton, said: “If the election becomes a referendum on the president’s handling of the pandemic, he cannot win. It’s as simple as that and so, barring some miraculously favourable developments in the next hundred days, he has no choice but to change the subject as best as he can.”

The pandemic has not only transmogrified the substance of the election but also the style. Democrats were fortunate to get most their primaries out of the way and mostly unite behind a nominee before the storm hit. Other rituals of the election year calendar – campaign rallies, convention speeches, presidential debates – will be unrecognisable.

So far, the altered landscape appears to be hurting Trump and helping Biden. In 2016, the Republican thrived on rambunctious rallies where crowds chanted “Build the wall!” and, referring to his opponent Hillary Clinton, “Lock her up!” The theatre seemingly gave him a blood transfusion of political energy while building a cult of personality for crowds, often in long-neglected small towns, who then fanned out to spread the word.

Last month, however, a Trump rally in Tulsa, Oklahoma, drew a disappointingly small crowd amid virus fears, and another in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, was cancelled. No more have been announced. The president has also been forced to call off Republican national convention events next month in Jacksonville, Florida, where he had been planning to make a splashy acceptance speech before a cheering crowd.

Democrats will also hold a delayed and pared-down convention in Milwaukee in August, with much of it migrating online. Biden, who at 77 would be the oldest president ever elected, has been able to lie low in his basement in Wilmington, Delaware, spared from the punishment of constant campaigning and awkward encounters that could invite his notorious gaffes. Instead the pandemic plays to his perceived strengths of empathy, experience and stability.

Galston, a senior fellow at the Brookings Institution thinktank in Washington, added: “Nobody’s ever seen anything like this and nobody knows what the net effect is going to be. I don’t know to what extent the raucous Trump rallies of 2016 were instrumental to his success but what we do know is that’s not a strategy that can be repeated in 2020.”

But there may be no greater demonstration of the pandemic’s reach than polling day itself, due to take place on 3 November amid health fears, a surge of mail-in voting and a prolonged count that Trump might seek to discredit and exploit.

This week more than 30 advocacy groups and grassroots organisations joined Protect the Results, a project to mobilise millions of people should Trump “contest the election results, refuse to concede after losing, or claim victory before all the votes are counted”.

Panetta, a former White House chief of staff, has heard similar talk from friends. “On conferences and Zoom calls and emails I’m getting concern that this is not a president who has ever shown a tendency to operate with a degree of class in accepting defeat and so there’s a sense that he will resist the results of the election if it’s close,” he said.

“I guess the hope for a lot of people I’ve talked to is that the election results are so clear that it makes it very difficult for the president to even pretend that somehow the vote was wrong.”

#Uncategorized

[miraculouspaon]

More Things in Heaven and Earth

Chapter Eight

AO3

“...don't know what happened,” Alya said, her voice breaking, “his mom’s doing something now, some magic healing thing, but she doesn't know if he's gonna make it, his dad’s there too but Adrien keeps asking for you, so…”

Nathalie was only half-absorbing everything Adrien’s friend was telling her. She was trying to stay calm, trying to stay unemotional, trying not to think about how completely she would be unable to live with herself if this whole goddamn soulmark mess got Adrien killed. She followed after Alya as fast as she could, trying not to think about anything other than putting one foot in front of the other.

If she'd been thinking, of course, she might have wondered why the hell Evelyn had bought real estate in this part of Paris.

“… said to take the back entrance, it's over here,” Alya said as they reached a large apartment complex. Nathalie followed Alya around the corner, into the side alley-

-and ran straight into Alain Carre.

Nathalie immediately tried to retreat, but she only managed to get about half a step back before her legs froze. Fucking sorcerers, didn't they have any other go-to moves? Nathalie settled for glaring at the man, but it didn't seem to faze or even interest him. “Well done, Miss Cesaire,” he said pleasantly, “that was perfect.”

“Was anything she told me true?” Nathalie demanded.

“You know, I really couldn't say,” Alain replied. “I don't actually know what she told you. I simply instructed her to come up with something suitably distressing, something that would get you here quickly and put you out of a rational frame of mind. From the way your heart was racing even before you saw me, it seems she came up with something excellent. What was it? Your soulmate injured, dying?”

Nathalie forced her voice steady. “My stepson.”

“Really? And that got you this worked up? I don't think I would have thought of that. Good thing I left it to her.” Alain turned to Alya and took a step towards her. Alya’s expression had gone blank, and Nathalie fought back a shudder at the sight of it. Alain looked into Alya’s dead gaze and began muttering some spell under his breath.

Slowly, Nathalie slipped a hand into her pocket. She wrapped a few fingers around the crystal Evelyn had given her yesterday and-

-and nothing. Try as she might, her fingers refused to break the crystal, refused to do anything other than grasp it loosely.

“You should know I don't like being interrupted,” Alain murmured, before going back to his spell. A minute later, Alya turned around and walked away without a word.

“What did you do to that girl?”

“Far less than other sorcerers in my position would have, I can tell you that,” Alain replied. “Most people who get caught spying on a powerful sorcerer don't live to talk about it. I, on the other hand, simply erased all her memories of me and the things she uncovered.”

“Oh, good,” Nathalie said sarcastically, “a benevolent captor. That's new.”

Alain snorted. “Compared to Ian, you mean? Yes, I'm sure.”

“You know, kidnapping me didn't work out so well for him,” Nathalie said, doing her best to sound intimidating.

“Lucky for me I'm not Ian, then. All right, let's see what you were up to in the middle of my spell.” Alain reached into Nathalie’s pocket and pulled out the crystal. He studied it for a moment, then grinned. “Cute. Evelyn’s?” He waved his other hand over it, turning it to dust in his palm, and let it fall to the ground. “Come on.” He took Nathalie’s arm, opened the side door, and pulled her inside.

There was an elevator not three meters from the door, and before Nathalie could even take a look around and evaluate her possible escape options, they were within it. It opened at the top floor, within Alain’s apartment, and he took Nathalie down to the end of a hallway before bringing her into a small room. Nathalie couldn’t help but roll her eyes when Alain pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “You certainly seem intent on repeating all of Ian’s mistakes, don’t you?” Nathalie asked wryly.

Alain sighed. “I know, I know,” he said apologetically, as he locked Nathalie to the room’s radiator. “If there was any other way, I assure you I wouldn't be doing this. But you and yours don't seem inclined to live and let live, if that girl you had snooping around is any indication. My back’s against the wall here. I need to get a step ahead and augment my power before Evelyn finds me herself. So you’ll just wait in here until I’m ready to sever your soul link, won’t you?"

Once Alain was gone, Nathalie counted out five minutes worth of seconds before picking the lock. Again. Trying not to think about how getting kidnapped was becoming a run-of-the-mill thing lately.

Slowly, she eased the door open and made her way into the apartment hallway. The floor was carpeted, and it was almost too easy to make her way down it towards the exit. She paused right outside one room. The door was closed, but Nathalie could hear Alain within, preparing God knew what. He sounded distracted, and so far Nathalie hadn't had any trouble keeping quiet. It was probably safe to carefully walk past the door and continue to move down the hallway.

Nathalie grabbed the doorknob, opened the door, and walked inside.

It was a small room, brightly lit. The back corner was blocked in by bars, transforming it into a small makeshift cell large enough for a few people at most, and every other inch of wallspace was lined with shelves loaded with books and ingredients. Alain was at the center of the room, sitting at a wooden desk covered in various vials, and he didn't bother looking up when Nathalie entered. “You're earlier than I expected,” he said calmly. “How did you manage to escape so quickly?”

“Picked the lock with a bobby pin,” Nathalie answered.

Alain nodded. “Well, that's what comes of not bothering with backup magic. I assume you did the same thing with Ian? I’ll miss him, but I’m afraid I can't say I'm surprised at his untimely demise. He always thought raw power could overcome any sloppiness, but of course there's no substitute for being careful. Hand me that green vial, would you?” Nathalie walked over to the desk, carefully picked up the green test tube at the far end of it, and handed it over to Alain. “Thank you.”

Nathalie watched him work for about ten minutes, occasionally handing him ingredients or tools as he asked for them. Slowly, she became aware of a nagging feeling in the back of her mind, the sensation of someone shouting at her from a great distance away. “Why… why did I come in here?” she asked, confused.

“I asked you to. Besides, what else would you have done?” Alain asked.

“Left this apartment. I was escaping.”

Sighing, Alain finally looked up. “Look into my eyes,” he said, and Nathalie immediately obliged. “Why would you escape? You don't want to leave.”

“No,” Nathalie agreed. “I don't want to leave.”

“You want to stay here and help me finish my work.”

Nathalie nodded. The nagging feeling was gone. “Yes, I want to help.”

Alain held up the large beaker he’d been working on. “Does this look more green or blue to you?”

Nathalie bent down and squinted at it. “It's viridian,” she replied.

“It's what?”

“Viridian. It's in the cyan family.”

“Neither of those words means anything to me.”

“Sorry,” Nathalie apologized. “Five years of being the personal assistant of a high-end fashion designer, I forget not everybody needs to be able to tell a hundred different shades apart at the drop of a hat. Cyan’s the blue-green spectrum. Viridian’s closer to the green end.”

“Shoot.” Alain pulled out an eye dropper and began slowly adding a clear liquid to the mixture. With every drop the shade changed ever so slightly. “This is where I could really use Ian’s help,” he muttered. “Shame you had to go and kill him.”

“Evelyn killed him.”

Alain waved a hand impatiently. “Same difference. I told Ian it was too risky, picking someone related to a sorceress like Evelyn, but any time he’d get a dumb idea like that he'd never let it go. I was surprised she was willing to go so far, though. I mean, I figured she might make some retaliatory trouble later, but outright killing another sorcerer? Why would Evelyn risk her life like that for someone like you? Or was it for her ex-husband’s sake?”

Nathalie scoffed. “Who knows why that woman does anything? She threatened to kill me herself last year, you know.”

“And you're still breathing? She must really like you.” Alain frowned. “I'm not looking forward to dealing with her, to be honest, but I'm sure you'll help me take her guard down when the time comes, won't you?” Nathalie nodded eagerly. “If she comes to rescue you at all, anyway. Do you think she will?”

Nathalie shrugged. “It might not be her who comes, I guess. Someone will, though.”

Alain raised an eyebrow. “Who else would come?”

“Chat Noir, Ladybug-”

“Oh, them,” Alain interrupted, relaxing. “Of course. The saviors of Paris will come to rescue you, will they?” He shook his head. “Don't worry about them, sorcerers have been flying under the radar of superheroes for decades now. And I highly doubt Evelyn would think of recruiting them to help, even if she knew how.”

“She knows how,” Nathalie replied. “Chat’s her son.”

Alain froze for a moment, and then he very carefully placed the eye dropper back in its vial. “For fuck’s sake,” he muttered angrily. “So not only do I have to worry about a sorceress of Evelyn’s caliber, I have to worry about two Miraculous holders as well?”

“Three,” Nathalie corrected. “My husband just reacquired the Butterfly one.”

Alain clenched his jaw for a moment, then abruptly stood and looked Nathalie in the eyes again. “Don't move from that spot and don't touch anything until I get back, understood?” Nathalie nodded, and Alain stormed out of the room.

For the first ten minutes, Nathalie didn't even think of moving. Alain said not to move. She was here to help Alain, wasn't she? So obviously she should do whatever he said.

Slowly, Nathalie became aware of a new feeling, a new urge. Was it boredom? Did she want to go find Alain, see if she could help him with whatever he was doing?

No. It was that nagging feeling again, that sense that she should be trying to escape.

Five minutes later, Nathalie picked up her right foot.

I should take a step towards the door. And another. I should leave this room, leave this apartment, get out, get back to Gabriel.

Nathalie put her foot back down where it had been.

If you don't get out of here, you're going to die.

Nathalie's foot was raised again when Alain finally returned. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Trying to leave,” Nathalie answered. “But I can't put my foot down anywhere other than where it started.”

Alain chuckled and walked over to her. “Look at me,” he said again. After a few seconds of staring into his eyes, the nagging feeling was gone. “Your resistance is through the roof, isn't it?” he asked, impressed. “For a regular person, anyway. You must naturally be incredibly stubborn.”

Nathalie nodded in agreement. “Sorry,” she apologized.

“No worries, no harm done,” Alain assured her. “And my defenses should be shored up enough to deal with everyone who might be coming for you now.”

“Oh, good,” Nathalie said, sighing in relief.

“Now,” Alain got back in his desk chair and resumed his work, “while you're helping me with this, why don't you tell me everything you think might be useful for dealing with the Miraculous users?”

 ~~~

 Nathalie had been answering Alain’s questions and assisting him with his prep work for about half an hour when there was suddenly a loud bang behind her. Nathalie turned, curious, to see her husband knocked flat on his back, his transformation quickly vanishing.

“Hawkmoth,” Alain said, standing up. “I was hoping, when your wife gave me the ridiculously long list of people that might show up to rescue her, that you'd be the first to come. After all, the ritual to sever a soul link becomes that much easier when you have both halves present. And since she gave me plenty of advance notice, it was easy enough to set up a field blocking Miraculous transformations. Teleporting right into the middle of it must have been excruciating.”

Slowly, Gabriel got to his feet. He took a step towards them, and Alain held a hand up, freezing him in place. “Let her go,” Gabriel said, grimacing, “and you might survive this.”

“Let her go?” Alain asked, with feigned confusion. He turned to Nathalie. “You don't want to leave, do you, Nathalie?”

Nathalie shook her head. “No, of course not.”

Gabriel’s eyes widened in alarm as he looked at Nathalie. She looked back at him calmly, and Gabriel glared at Alain. “What did you do to my wife?”

Alain studied Gabriel for a few seconds, then frowned. “Something I can't seem to be able to do to you, unfortunately. I wonder if that's a protection built into all Miraculouses, or if it's unique to yours? The Butterfly one does come with its own form of mind control after all, doesn't it? Well, arguably. It’s a rather esoteric form of it, so I suppose semantically one could object to-”

“When I don't return with Nathalie in the next three seconds,” Gabriel interrupted, “the rest of my family is going to realize something's gone wrong, and they'll be prepared to deal with it when they come for us. You are not a match for them.”

“Not now,” Alain agreed, “but once I harness your soul link, I'll have more than enough power to deal with Evelyn and the superheroes. In the meantime, I'm going to have to ask you to hand over that Miraculous.”

Gabriel glared. “Why would I do that?”

Alain sighed. “I hate to be cliche here, but I do have your wife.”

“You can't kill her, you need her alive for that stupid ritual.”

“True. ‘Alive’ is such a low bar, though, isn't it?” Alain glanced at Nathalie. “Nathalie, do me a favor and hold up your hand so I can pick which of your fingers I’ll have you break for me.”

Nathalie looked down at her hands. “Right or left?”

“Oh, let’s go with the right hand.” Nathalie held up her right hand, fingers splayed.

“Stop!” Gabriel shouted, panicked. He quickly fumbled with the brooch pinned under his tie, managed to unfasten it, and threw it at Alain. “There,” he said, as the Miraculous landed near Alain’s feet. “Just leave her alone.”

Alain kept his focus fixed on Gabriel. “Nathalie, pick that up for me.” Nathalie bent down, grabbed the brooch, and held it out to Alain. He glanced at it and scowled. “It's still bound to you,” he complained to Gabriel. “I suppose giving it up willingly isn't enough, you'd have to genuinely want to surrender its power. Oh well, at least you can't use it now.” Alain took the brooch from Nathalie and dropped it into his shirt’s breast pocket. “Still, I think just to be safe, and so I can finish my work in some semblance of peace, you’d better get in there.” Alain released Gabriel and gestured across the room to the open cell. Gabriel took one more look at Nathalie, then scowled and walked across the room. Alain turned his focus to Nathalie. “You’ve been very helpful, I appreciate it,” he said, “but I don’t really need any more of your assistance until later, and it’s a bit of an energy drain to keep refreshing my control over you, so why don’t you join your husband for now? I’ll let you know when I need you again.”

Nathalie nodded. “Alright,” she agreed, before following after Gabriel. Once they were both in, Alain flicked his wrist, the door slammed shut, and he returned to his work.

Nathalie stood still and watched Alain patiently. Gabriel put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her towards him. She ignored this, but didn’t fight it. It didn't have anything to do with helping Alain, after all.

Ten minutes later, Nathalie frowned. “Something… something's wrong. Why did I… I should…” She fell silent, but drew a little closer to Gabriel.

About ten minutes after that, she started shaking suddenly. “Nathalie?” Gabriel whispered, tightening his grip.

“Gabriel. Gabriel. I… I…” Nathalie’s breathing quickened and her eyes widened. “Oh, God.” Alain glanced up towards her for a moment, curious, then returned his focus to his work. Nathalie covered her mouth, horrified. “Oh God, Gabriel, what have I done?”

“Nothing,” Gabriel insisted immediately. “It wasn’t you, you couldn’t have-”

“I told him about Adrien!” she whispered frantically. “He didn’t even ask! Why would I do that, Gabriel? Why?” Gabriel sighed, then pulled his wife into an embrace and held her until her shaking subsided.

 ~~~

 “You wanted to give up all that power,” Nathalie whispered, breaking a long silence.

“What?”

“The Miraculous.”

“I didn't, not while you're in danger. That's why it's still-”

“I meant the first time. When you gave it to me two years ago. It wasn't bound to you then.”

“Oh.” Gabriel considered this. “Yes, I suppose I did.” Nathalie tightened her embrace and pressed her head to Gabriel’s chest.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I'm sorry I was so worried when you took it back, so nervous. You gave it up for the right reasons and you took it back for the right reasons, too.”

“You had every right to be nervous. I was nervous, too. I wish it had been worth the risk, I wish taking it back had been any use at all, but now we’re here. I'm so sorry,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head. “You don't even like soulmarks, you never wanted one, and now ours is going to get you killed.”

Nathalie sighed. “I never wanted one, true, but we were too stubborn to get together without them, weren't we? And these past two years, Gabriel, they've been so wonderful. I'm not sorry I got one, not anymore.”

“Shoot,” Alain muttered, looking up suddenly. “Evelyn’s here. With her son.” He looked over at Nathalie. “I’m not quite ready, so I’ll need you to take care of them.”

Nathalie scrunched her eyes closed. “Go to hell,” she spat.

Alain sighed and calmly walked over to the cell. “Nathalie, there’s really no use in resisting me.”

“I would rather claw my own eyes out than let you control me again.”

Alain chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but it doesn’t work that way. Eye contact helps, of course, but it’s hardly necessary. Here, I’ll show you. Open your eyes and look at me.” Nathalie immediately did so, and Gabriel felt her relax in his arms. “There, isn’t that better?”

Nathalie nodded. “Yes,” she agreed. “Much better.”

Alain opened the door of the cell. “Come on out, then.” Nathalie started for the door, but Gabriel kept a tight grip on her. She struggled, unable to break away from him, and began to grow more distressed the longer she was prevented from obeying. Alain raised an eyebrow at Gabriel. “Let her go.”

“Like hell I will,” Gabriel snarled.

Alain sighed. “Do we have to go through this again? You can’t protect her if I want to hurt her. Cooperate, and she won’t suffer. Keep resisting me, however, and…” Alain trailed off, then waved a hand in Nathalie’s direction. She instantly flinched and cried out. Gabriel immediately released her, as though her cry of pain had burned him, and Nathalie bolted out of the cell. Alain closed the door again. “Nathalie, I need you to pay very close attention to me, okay?”

Nathalie nodded. “Of course.”

“Because this next part is much more complicated than what I've been having you do so far, and I need to use a lot more power to pull it off.”

“I understand.”

“Good.” Alain took his index and middle fingers and placed the pads of them on Nathalie's temples. “Look right at me.” Power flowed from Alain into Nathalie, warm and intoxicating, and Nathalie smiled gently.

“Get your hands off her,” Gabriel growled.

“Nathalie doesn't mind, do you Nathalie?” Nathalie shook her head lightly, careful not to break Alain’s contact. “Alright, Nathalie, after I'm done explaining, you're going to leave this apartment. You'll go down the elevator, just the way we came in, and go outside to where Evelyn and her son are. You'll pretend you've managed to escape, and you'll make it very convincing. You'll tell them about the anti-Miraculous field, to earn their trust. You'll behave exactly as you would if you weren't under my control. Then you'll tell them I'm holding your husband up here. Tell them to come into this apartment, take a right, and they'll find him inside the third room on the left. Now, it's very important they enter that room of their own free will, understand? Say whatever you have to so they enter willingly. If you push them, if you force them, they'll be able to get out. Got it?”

Nathalie nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, I'll do that exactly.”

“Good girl. I'd like you to come back up with them but If they insist on leaving you behind for safety, don't fight it any more than you normally would. The important thing is to not arouse suspicion. You just return to me when it's safe for you to do so.”

Nathalie nodded again, then left the room.

#more things in heaven and earth

[donutandotherdonut]

A Tale of Two Donuts (100 Followers Special Transmission)

The Editor is rather shocked and baffled at the idea that his words are instantly transmitted to over one hundred enigmatic, unknowable human beings. To be honest, the Editor must admit that he finds it more that a little overwhelming to imagine the concept of a hundred people just knowing who he is, let alone wanting to hear what he has to say. We are at a loss. Mark this day on your calendar of noteworthy events; The Editor is almost never at a loss for words.

Anyway, it is with a mixture of pride and terror that I announce to you all that our followers here have exceeded 100. I would thank each of you, individually, if such a thing were practical. You all deserve it. I am a great deal less comfortable expressing myself here in the first person, for reasons which are complex, but this is a personal thank you from me (The Editor, that’s me... I admit it) to you.

Last year, during our break between seasons, We posted a general inquiry to gauge if there was any interest in hearing the story behind our username. It would be disingenuous for us to pretend that there was any kind of strong response to this inquiry, however, the fact is that the response was a non-zero quantity. That is, small as it may have been, there was a response. If you refer to the original post, you will see that the Editor set the bar very, very low as far as what level of response to this inquiry would warrant the full story. Well, my friends, our minimal goal was achieved, and so, we have no choice. The Editor has promised, so The Editor will now inflict this banal story upon you whether you like it or not.

But first, let me reprise my set-up for this story with a little copy-and-paste. Have any of you raised an eyebrow at this username, “DonutandotherDonut?” Did you assume it was an MST3k reference? Some riff or another, or some kind of reference to, ya know, the show I post about? Have you racked your brain for the obscure riff in the obscure episode of MST3K that contains the phrase “donut and other donut?” Have you come up with anything?

Well, my friends, if you have come up with something, I’d love to hear it, but I’m sure you’re wrong. The riff in question is only known to two people, kind of like a secret, but in this case the secrecy is incidental. Let me back up and pull the camera back a little bit, lest this whole thing seem purely self-aggrandizing. 

I’m sometimes impossible to watch movies with. TV’s just as bad. Do you all do it too? Do you, like me, have no control over it at all? Thousands of hours spent immersed in the mental waters of Mystery Science Theater have modified the functionality of my brain in some subtle way. I riff everything on every screen I see, and I can’t stop. It just comes out of my mouth, and I don’t even realize I’m doing it half the time. My MST3K viewing partner and I often speak of the special “gland” that has grown in our brains and secretes appropriately-timed wisecracks when an opportunity arises. Tragedy on the news, boring home movies, an infomercial on mute, it doesn’t matter. The riffs must flow. Have you ever seen Videodrome, my friends? It’s kind of like a banal, harmless form of Videodrome tumor.

Anyway, The Tale of Two Donuts begins about an hour into the first of the Dirty Harry sequels, Magnum Force, which is neither the best of films nor the worst of films. Somewhere right around the one hour, twenty minutes mark, our Title Character (Clint Eastwood) accompanies his Lieutenant (Hal Holbrook) into a cramped little room where ballistics evidence is examined. Harry, who has a sensitive matter on his mind, asks the technician present for some privacy, and the man takes a moment to gather his coffee and his two donuts before clearing out of their way. The riff leapt from my mouth fully-formed, like Athena from the head of Zeus.

“Well, okay, lemme just get my coffee, and my donut, and my other donut, and I’ll be on my way...”      - The Editor

And there it is, my friends, but it is a bit anticlimactic. It was said, chuckles were requisitioned and distributed, and the moment passed. I hope, friends, that you have also had a moment like this, when you had the perfect riff at the perfect moment, because it is quite a feeling, and a difficult thing to capture in words, and any story like this has a definite “you had to be there” quality. 

But really, I’m happy to tell you about a time that I was clever, and thought of something clever, and said it with clever timing, but I’m trying to make this story about more than just a highly niche boast.

DonutandotherDonut really stuck in my mind years later when, in an ongoing process, which must have lasted months, my aforementioned MST3K viewing partner and I were both racking our brains and turning them upside down and shaking them out trying to remember. The line itself had stuck, but none of the context, and we both spent what felt like ages trying to recall which MST3K episode contained this seemingly-mythical line about the donut and the other donut. She was (and sometimes still is!) our viewing partner for all kinds of material, and indeed she had been present during the original donut-riff viewing of Magnum Force. 

Eventually, it dawned on us, somehow, that the MST3K we sought did not, in fact, exist, and that the riff we so fondly recalled in Joel’s voice was never said by him but was, in fact, a fan original riff, delivered with (if I do say so myself) impeccable timing in the heat of the moment.

It was the seamless integration of the memory of this non-MST3K riff back into the body of actual MST3K-riff-memories that made this moment so legendary in my own mind, however, not just the act itself. Somehow, I had become so immersed in MST3K that my own mind was producing material that it didn’t recognize as its own. 

Not to digress too deeply, but I am a creative person who is cursed with that instant and profound loathing for their own work. My words stand out to me, as harsh and vexing as Comic Sans on an apology card. Broadly speaking, the only response I have ever had to my own writing is disgust. So, this was a profound moment, of, like, healing, I guess, or it planted the seed for what could later grow into healing. When I realized it was my own words that I had been seeking after, I had a sort of Road-to-Damascus conversion moment and, even though I still struggle with it on a smaller scale, this experience broke apart the great impenetrable citadel of my own self-loathing into a series of manageable strongpoints. It was nothing less than a miraculous breakthrough and, yes, what I’m saying is I was healed by Mystery Science Theater 3000.

Keep Circulating the Tapes.

#Editor's Note #keep circulating the tapes

[seekwrites]

September: A letter of Loss, Healing, and Closure

We did not fight for marriage to see it cheapened. — Bishop Yvette Flunder

“But it's a long, long while, From May to December, And the days grow short, When you reach September”… - Kurt Weill

It could've been the way the blue buckets hung off the wall that housed the food coloring and cutting utensils. Or the glimpse of the frustration on your face as you moved balances from one credit card to the next. Maybe it was selling of a home, and the buying of another. It could’ve been the way my body took space in our already cramped kitchen, or maybe it was the pound cake I put in the oven to feed someone else when all you wanted to do was eat too. I'm not sure what it was, but it was the beginning of the end, and although I knew it, I also knew it couldn't be. Not like this. See, in my mind this was just some marital shit we were going through, and like we had done before, we would get through it.

It was September, the 9th month of the year. The third month in the trimester of what God was birthing. It was laid it out plain before us. The miraculous turn of event that happened in July was the beginning of what I thought would be our destiny, or at least a part of it. I mean how could I post one cake on social media, and it turn into a business almost overnight. Surely God's hand was at work.

August, you had given me a birthday dinner, invited friends and family to come and celebrate with us, me, my life. June had proven to be difficult. My heart and lungs were attacked by blood clots that crept up from my knee and lit up my chest like fireworks leaving the Pulmonologist befuddled wondering; how was I still alive? Emergency surgery was inevitable if my life was to be saved, and healing would come at a greater loss...you.

My knee had begun to bother me that day in September. I knew I should've been resting per doctor’s orders due to meniscus surgery, but I had orders to fill. Me “negating” my health was agitating you. You thought I should be lying down with my leg elevated, but my hard headedness wouldn’t allow it. I was simply excited that people liked my product, and that my clientele was growing. I was two months out of surgery, in rehab, and doing well. Yes I still had pain, but I was under pain management. Yes I was on blood thinners, but healing all the same.

There was a shift in energy happening in that moment. I needed your help in the kitchen. I wasn't asking for much just that you would help me by sifting the flour. I mean, you had sifted the flour before. What was different this time? I wasn’t sure, but asking you to help me somehow turned into an argument that had been brewing in you for some time seemed like. I can’t count on one hand the amount of arguments we had in the 15 years we’ve known each other, nor the 3 years we were together. And I remember thinking to myself...why is this an argument? Doesn't he see what I'm trying to do here? Doesn't he see the hand of God at work? Doesn’t he see not only the work I’m doing, but also my repentance? I wanted you to see how thankful and grateful I was for you. I needed you to let me make up for the pain I caused you six months prior. I was sorry, and I thought the only way I could make you see that was by putting in the work. But you had been seeing something different all along, and what had been lying dormant in you injected itself into the chamber of your throat, and shot out of your mouth like a full metal jacket.

“YOU ABOUT TO LOSE THIS MARRIAGE.” You said it boldly, and matter-of-factly. Everything went silent, and the feelings that had been festering in you rushed over me like a tsunami, my spirit swept away like debris. Truth is I had already lost my marriage. You were already gone.

“Summer has come and passed, the innocent can never last, wake me up when September ends”…-Greenday

I'd been constantly thinking about that day in September. Trying to figure what happened to us. I knew there was a crack in our foundation. I also knew that I contributed to it, but it wasn’t too deep where it couldn’t be mended. So when you said I was about to lose to my marriage I wanted to be the blame for it. I assumed all the responsibility. I bathed in the guilt of my wrongdoings, and questioned everything about me as a man, a husband, and a human being. Was it my passion, and creativity? Was it my interactions with people you thought I shouldn’t have interactions with? Was it the nude pictures you found on my iPad that wasn’t of you, but lead you to question your very existence in my life as you compared your body to his? Was it the text message conversations you found on messenger? It all had to be to much, right? It had to be something that I did to make you decide to leave our marriage. I mean, why else would you stand in my face and utter those words? You see, I can take complete responsibility for my faults and wrongdoings, and assume it was me that caused the deconstruction of our marriage, but we both know that would not be the truth. And it’s not for me to call you out, or to say nasty things about you. I will not drag your name through the mud, nor create stories about you that just are not true. I love you to much for that even now, but there are some things that still weigh heavily on me. I’ve been carrying them for way too long, and now I must bring closure to them. This letter will read like the 5 stages of grief. Some of things I will say here will leave me open for judgement. I don’t care. All of my feeling are still valid and must be released in order for healing to take place.

I’ve been reading a book called Rebuilding by Bruce Fisher. It’s a book of tools and assignments that are designed to help one accept, heal, forgive, and move on from the trauma they were left with post-divorce. I was looking for any and everything that would help me understand the pain you left me with. So this letter to you is a part of the work I had to do to push me towards my healing. And the work was important, because it allowed me to ask myself what was it all for? Why would we write marital vows and not keep them? And if a vow was broken due to errors in human behavior why should we ever commit to love only for love to be proven a lie? I know I am a man who is able to love beyond loves capacity. A man who learned over the years to hold himself accountable. A man who showed remorse, and pleaded for redemption for my wrong doings never to hurt you in that way again, yet to be turned away after you said you forgave me. Yes, a man who is able to forgive the bullshit, because my love ran much deeper than that for you. But where was the love for me? And what about men like you who would share how too’s and ways to stick to it with others but didn’t believe it for yourself - at least not for the marriage that you said you wanted with me. How dare you? Come on man! You got me out here in these streets looking like a god damn fool. Naysayers were lying in wait hoping we wouldn’t make it, and you proved them all right. Well done.

I poured the best of me into our marriage, into my creativity, into our home so that we built a foundation of love that was unbreakable, no matter what you did, no matter what I did, and no matter what anybody said could ever tear us apart. And FUCK me for thinking that our experiences being married to women taught us more about ourselves - gave us agency to explore what it means to live authentically, and fully in who we are as same gender loving men. Guess not.

December made a year since we’ve been divorced. I didn’t think I would make it. Suicidal demons danced around me, sat on my shoulders and spoke in my ear - “there’s a bottle pills over there.”, “you should jump off the 288 bridge.”, “a gun is quicker” - haunting me for months thereafter.

I stared at a bottle of OxyContin that was on the edge of the bar one night in October. The next day I found myself in a mental institution...on a bed as hard as a rock…in a room with a 16 y/o who cuts into his wrist because he too couldn’t find a place of peace. Four dreadful days I spent cramped over a toilet violently throwing up my soul. The counselor asked me if I wanted her to call you. I said yes. I needed you to see me. I needed you to see what your absence was doing to me. I needed you to see how badly I needed you, how badly I needed us, but you denied me your presence. And her call gave you the freedom to enter back into our cramped apartment only to get your clothes leaving empty drawers and bare hangers to meet me in silence upon my return.

What happened after that I could never believe that you, my husband, the man I loved and trusted could ever be capable of doing. The blatant disregard for my health, my life, and livelihood was beyond sinister. Imagine being told that you no longer have insurance coverage after handing the pharmacist the prescription for medications that was saving your life. Nigga, I left a job that I’d been with for 15 years – good ass benefits – vested in the company - believing that you believed enough in me and in us, and in what we were building together, and this is how you do me? I emptied my saving to clear debt, to build another home, to start a business because you said out of your mouth that we were in this together, and I believed you, but it was all a lie. You took the money, and told the builder that we were busting out of the deal. You never picked up the phone to call and say anything to me until I called you about it, nor did you give me the chance to try to save the home. I had to call the realtor myself and hear it from them. How could you just throw it all away? What was the reason? Here I was stuck in an apartment, jobless, in school, under doctor’s care, fearing for my health, and my life trying to manage a new business, provide income for myself, pay rent and utilities, and all you could say was that you were tired. Tired? Are you fucking kidding me!!! Nigga, I left that hospital on antipsychotics! Do you know how many times I felt tired, but never gave up on us? Do you know how tired I was of the insecurities stemming from your weight loss surgery, and childhood issues, but I never gave up on you? Do you know how tiring it was letting you know you were perfect just the way you were over and over again? Yes, it’s tiring pouring into a person their goodness when they don’t believe it for themselves, but I did it because I loved you. There were so many things I could’ve been tired of. Like your ass not having a thought or idea about almost anything. About your mental lackadaisicalness, or the fact that you had no goals or purpose. I lost everything…my money, my home, and you just because you were tired. Fuck outta here with that bullshit.

We had a plan, a mission statement, and a marriage, and leaving when one gets tired wasn’t apart of it. And here we are two years later I haven’t seen you, nor spoken with you, and all I got to hold on to is that you were tired. You are a joke, a runner, a liar, and a thief who lead folks to believe you were something you were not. Ok, let me take a deep breath, because I don’t want this letter to be about me calling you every pejorative I can think of that lessens you as a man. I’ve come too far for that. It’s just that rehashing this is difficult. Plus, this is just the beginning of the damage you left me with. Listing the others would make this letter much too long and trust me this is already too much.

I thought I was losing my mind. So much we’d work to build. So much we had shared with each other… with the world. I was devastated. Again questioning the very fiber of my being, who was I? What kind of karma had caught up with me? Who did I wrong to deserve this type of treatment from someone who said they loved me? I couldn’t grasp it. I paced the floors of the apartment crying out to God pleading for understanding. I was angry and infuriated. I made despicable choices by posting my discontentment on social media. It was a stupid mistake, but sometimes when a person is in tremendous pain they do stupid things. I couldn’t think straight. Depression suffocated me. I was heartbroken, and grief-stricken. If I was to live another day I knew that I had to let it all go, because I no longer knew you, and I didn’t want to be your victim. You made a decision, and I had to deal with it.

“It’s September, yeah, you’ve been gone so doggone long”…-Johnny Taylor

Letting go hasn’t been easy. Just when I think I’m there I realize — not yet. You see, no matter how many times I say fuck you the fact still remains that I loved you, deeply, and I’m not sorry it wasn’t good enough. I did the best that I could. Could I have done better? Probably. Could you have done better? Possibly. But isn’t that how relationships grow? There’s so much I want to pack in, and unpack as I scribe these words on these pages, so many untruths, guilt, hurt , pain, associations gone awry, people who I called friend, lies you told your attorney, all had to be let go too, no matter the magnitude. No matter the loss.

I want to say thank you again for coming home that day and finding me on the floor collapsed and gasping for air. You moved swiftly. I felt your presence. There was always something about your presence that gave me life, and drives to be on, and stay on top of my game. However, I needed you to venture out into the world and bring something back to the relationship that would grow us up as a couple (not to be attached to my hip all the time), and for you to find your identity in spaces that could offer the same beauty that I saw in you. Maybe I got what I asked for. Maybe I was so caught up in what I had going on that I left you to ask yourself the questions, “What about me? What about my dreams?” I ponder if this was the case, and if it really were the case, it was never my intention to make you feel neglected in anyway. But why in the fuck am I saying this now? You knew this then. Yet you created stories about me that were not true. And I thought the communication we established between one another would allow you space to voice your concerns, evidently not. You painted me as a villain, an abuser, you used my personality against me all to make yourself look like the victim. These allegations had me do some real deep down soul searching, and sit in the truths that have worked against me.

• I have a mind of an artist. Can be scatter brain at times.

• I can be argumentative, especially if it has anything to do with black people, politics or religion.

• I have an opinion on almost every damn thing.

• I know that childhood traumas show up sometimes in the way I associate with people.

• I know at times my facial expressions speak louder than my words. And this tongue of mine, lord have mercy. It’s been known to be venomous.

• I know my ego can get a bit out of control.

• I can be filled with passion for a thing, and my passion can sometimes be overwhelming to those around me, misconstrued for anger, or even self-centeredness.

• I can be abrasive, stern, stubborn, ornery, strong willed, adamant, and sensitive about my shit.

• I am a truth teller even if it hurts me, or you

Now this is not completely who I am. I have some amazing qualities that work for m. None need to be listed here, because you know what the are. Listen, I’m not for everybody. All of this you knew 10 plus years before I asked you to marry me. Why would you say yes, and did any of this really warrant the demise of our marriage? Redundant, I know. But we laughed, and we played, and we traveled, and we prayed, and we loved, and we forgave. I mean bro, are these not the making of a marriage? Oh I forgot one thing, trust - that thing that is the easiest to lose and the hardest to gain. If you didn’t trust me anymore why didn’t you just say it? Why make this situation so devastatingly difficult? I guess your actions spoke louder than those words ever could. My mind wouldn’t allow me to rationalize your behavior. That part was the hardest, but I know now I don’t need to.

“Ba de ya, say do you remember, Ba de ya, dancing in September, Ba de ya, golden dreams were shinny days”…- Earth, Wind and Fire

We were both grown abled bodied men with careers and independence. We didn’t need each other for nothing more than the love we shared, the camaraderie, the friendship. Somehow it all started slipping away, slowly vanishing into nothingness. And the questions I once had have been resolved within me, and my resolve is this; I can’t, nor will I ever be responsible for what you don’t say. That shit belongs to you! I will not carry it any longer. I will not let it depress me. I will not lose another minute of sleep over it. There was a time that the husband in me wished I had known. Maybe I could've done something different. At least tried to fix it, made it better, even listened a little more, offered you a hand to hold, and a cuddle when you needed it most, but not anymore. Wishful thinking for something that’s dead doesn’t benefit anyone. It took me awhile to get here, but I’m here now and it feels good to be done. Just as done as you were when you walked out never to return.

I want to make aware that there is another truth here - your experiences of me. Whatever they were, however they were should be acknowledged as well. I admitted earlier that I am a lot. Shit, everybody knows this. But it does not release you from your accountability, and your silence, and unwillingness to communicate speaks more of who you are rather than who I wished you to be. See, some folks think that being quiet is dignified, or signifies being “done” with a situation, but what they miss is silence is also guilt, and guilt is complicit, violent, culpable and shameful. So, it doesn’t matter how cute you are in the reflection of your camera phone, or how sweet your disposition is to others, in the end your actions spoke truly of who you really are…good, bad, and indifferent.

I never told you what happen to me one morning after class. I had a moment that shook me. I was sitting quietly on the train when I heard a voice say “he doesn’t want to be here”. It was soft as if someone was sitting next to me whispering in my ear. There were very few people on the train. Most scatted throughout. This was months before the argument that was the catalyst for our divorce. I ignored it. But those same exact words I remember repeating to Kia that night you said I was going to lose my marriage. I was warned. That still small voice warned me. My subconsciousness was preparing me for that day but I ignored it, because I loved you. I was filled with the desire to make you proud to be my husband, and to be a good husband to you. Yes, you showed me signs of your fragility, timidity, and insecurities, but you also showed me your strength, and endurance, and that’s what I held on to. That’s what I believed in for us.

You weren’t strong enough to deal with me. You thought you were, but time showed us differently. I’ve finally come to grips with it. I’m not bitter, or angry. Disappointed? Yes, but grateful, because I hold no vacancy for anyone who chooses not to share space with me, even if I offered space to them at some point in their lives. I am clear that if it had not been for my light you would still be in the darkness. I say this not in a braggadocios way, but in what I know I bring to the table. You knew it too. That’s why you attached yourself to me. I’m not stupid. Neither are you. Everything is becoming so much clearer. You offered me light as well, in your own way. You taught me many things. Many lessons I have learned with you, and since you.

“Put away the old September blues”…-My Morning Jacket

The other day in therapy I was asked how would I respond if I found out you were dating someone else? I sat there for a moment, took a deep breath in, released it and said – he hurt me just as well as I may have hurt him. I wish him the best, and much success on his journey through life. As I drove home I ruminated over my response to that question. It was the truth. I do wish you the best, but it’s difficult for me not to think… here we are again with another hurt, broken, black homosexual man moving from relationship to relationship hoping to find what he’s missing within himself. God I hope this is not true. For the sake of all the single black men looking for love I hope you were responsible enough to do some self-work. But if not know there’s no judgement here just awareness. We all have our own crosses to bear, paths to tread, journeys to walk. I’m only speaking from my experiences with you. So, if there is someone else I hope you’re able to share with him the things you couldn’t share with me. I hope you stand firmly in your truth, and tell him who you really are and what you are capable of doing. I hope you tell him that there’s still a 400lb damaged insecure little boy trapped in your now 200Ib insecure grown ass man body. I hope you tell him that the gastric sleeve only took the weight off your body not the weight off your heart. And I hope you tell him about the childhood pains, pangs, and abandonment issues that show up in the way you abandon other people. In the way you abandoned your ex-wife, and in the way you abandoned me, your ex-husband. You owe him that. And I hope he offers you grace, and not shame you, or give himself an excuse to leave when he gets tired. I hope he loves you much more than that.

So as difficult as it has been for me to write this as closure, I have, and now I can truly be thankful for the experience. It was hard, but worth every tear, every pain, and every ache my heart once felt for you. I get it, you know, having to release yourself out of a relationship that you were not happy in to ultimately find your happiness. However, I will never fully understand the will to hurt someone that you said you loved as if I was nothing to you. But just like the old cliché says – hurt people hurt people. We are no different. My responsibility is accepting the fact that I chose you, and in choosing you I chose this experience, and I walk away knowing that I am not in control of the outcome. All things are lessons that God would have us learn.

I now I look forward to the many Septembers to come. The leaves will change colors. The wind will blow cooler. People will come, and they will go leaving us with lessons. My life’s work is to always get the lesson, and once I get it, try my best to do better, apologize if I hurt you, forgive, move on, and help someone along the way. This is also my prayer for you, because one thing I know for sure when a black man dares to loves another black man in any capacity this is still a revolutionary act.

[texasparamedicine]

You Called 911 For This??

Clearly not all 911 calls are for emergencies but trying to understand some of the caller’s complaints or their thought process can sometimes be downright mind boggling. I was working in Rodeo County one day when my partner and I got a call to a seedy apartment complex that we visited what seemed like every single day we worked. Almost all the inhabitants were on disability for some medical condition or another, yet they were mostly all completely non-compliant with doctor’s orders, as they seemed to spend nearly all day every day drunk or high on drugs.

We got called out to an apartment for an elderly man that had cut his finger. Dispatch had no other info for us as the patient had stated his piece then became irritated when asked questions relating to his emergency. Upon arrival to this armpit of humanity property, we couldn’t find the numerics to the guy’s apartment. We ended up taking the scenic route of the complex trying to find where we were going before realizing our first guess seemed to be right. Hauling all our first in equipment on the stretcher through the courtyard area of the apartment was a pain in the ass because the sidewalk was all busted up, (the fact my partner was five foot and a hundred pounds didn’t really help things either) and we had to use eye of the tiger focus to get where we thought we needed to go. Upon arriving where the residence should’ve been, there were no numbers on the door. There were numbers on the neighbor’s doors and we could deduce this was our winning destination, but again, there were no numbers. And even better, no one answered the door when we knocked. Concerned neighbors at this time started to stagger out of their depression caves with sweaty tall boys clutched in hand, and they began to offer their wisdom as to what we should do next. I ended up having to contact dispatch directly on my personal phone after calling a supervisor. We ended up having a neighbor call the front desk who then sent down someone with a key who worked for the apartment complex. With the help of this magical key we made entry and found that indeed no one was home. There was however a crack pipe on the table…still warm to the touch.

It didn’t take us long to happily try and vacate the premises to go back in service. The problem was that we hadn’t even technically left the property when dispatch got a hold of us again to let us know the patient had called back wondering where we were. What the patient forgot to tell dispatch the first time he called was that he was very thirsty and had decided to ride his bicycle down to the nearest watering hole to get some much needed refreshments. This time however he did provide an accurate location. When we arrive on scene at the proper destination, the patient is smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer outside the bar and having a private conversation with another highly respectable patron. It was such an important conversation the ambulance crew he had called 911 twice for had to wait for him to finish before he even acknowledged our existence. (Let that sink in.) He then proceeded to show us a completely healed wound on one of his fingers that had two stitches in it. The stitches could have been yanked out in five seconds and he would’ve been done with it and on his merry way. (But no, that makes sense.) What he wanted us to do was take him (and his bicycle…SMDH) to another town so he could go to the ER and get pain medicine.

After fighting the initial urge to beat the living shit out of this guy, I called my supervisor and told her I wasn’t going to transport this guy under this pretense. I was then advised to just go ahead and transport and be done with it. En route, he told my partner the ambulance was free to him because he was old. She was like, no, you’re getting a bill and if you choose not to pay that bill, that’s your decision. He had it in his mind that he 100% was right in that he didn’t have to pay for anything. That guy was in his own little world making shit up as he went along in life, like so many of our customers.

Another call that amazed me at people’s ability to think more good was when I was on shift at the Department and received a call for a lady whose leg hurt. The info we received from dispatch was that the patient had recently had a knee replacement and was now having trouble walking. (It’s a mystery medical condition.) We arrived on scene, and of course she’s upstairs, lying in bed just staring at us. Every question I asked her seemed to annoy her tremendously. Questions like, “How long ago did you have your knee surgery?” were met with answers like, “Two days ago...,” and followed with an accusing stare. She didn’t seem to catch what I was putting out there, so I said it aloud, “Ok, so you had surgery on your knee two days ago, and now you’re upstairs in bed complaining of knee pain…” No more information was given, she just continued staring blankly, leaving me hanging to try and figure out this jigsaw puzzle of ‘what the fuck do you want me to do about it?’ Further prompting revealed she indeed had a prescription for some pretty heavy pain pills, but no, she had not taken any of those. But miraculously, she did want to be transported to the ER to find out why her leg still hurt. Every family member on scene was agreeing with her like she was Einstein creating a new theory. Nodding their heads in agreement, “Yeah, baby, you need to go get checked out.” We ended up having to stair chair her down the most awkward designed set of triple stairs ever created, while she screamed dramatically demanding we give her something for pain. Apparently, taking her prescribed pain meds required too much effort in comparison to calling 911 and dealing with us.

Halfway down the stairs she told me she had to poop. This and the sound of dry heaving triggers an instant jump back and find cover reflex for me. Luckily, she did not have to actively poop while we were transporting her down the stair case. She goes on to say that she hadn’t pooped since her surgery. My partner informed her that this is common after surgery due to certain medications, and the surgeon typically informs the patient of this and it should be found in the aftercare paperwork. Again, all a bunch of wasted effort in the ongoing patient education vacuum.

Another call came in one night in the wee midnight hours to a frequent flyer’s residence. My partner and I had worked a very traumatic call earlier in the evening in which there ended up being a fatality, and we were emotionally tapped out. The patient’s wife opens the door and lets us in and then just disappears. We have no idea where she went, but we find the patient in his usual spot in the back bedroom, lying in a hospital bed. The patient is non-verbal and has Parkinson’s disease, and he looks as confused to our presence as we are at being there. I hunt down the patient’s wife and find her sitting in the dark in a side room looking through her purse. What and why she was doing, who knows, and at that point in the shift I could have cared less. I asked her what’s wrong and she gets up quickly, very annoyed with me and walks back in to the room where the patient is lying comfortably. She points at him and says that he keeps shaking and he won’t stop. My partner, who admittedly was not having a great run of things at the time with bad calls, freaks out and was like, “You called 911 for this?? He has Parkinson’s!! He’s going to shake…” He was bug eyed with his hands up in the air, as if awaiting an answer for an unasked question. I shook my head no at him with all I had like please don’t take the bait…it’s a bad road he was about to venture down. She looked at us in bewilderment and said the hospital should figure out why he’s shaking so much because it’s getting on her last nerve. We both sighed heavily and went about moving him over to the stretcher. The patient was just another prime example of one more day in the life of ‘You call, we haul.’

[opalmothnightingale]

Love as an Ablution

2- 29- 28 - 

Love with certain people seems to bring down ecstasy, purity, healing, sensual bliss, kundalini, new awareness and emotions and balance,...  Or maybe it’s not even love, whatever it is, these astral experiences and hallucinations.  It could be a one sided affair instead, that I hallucinate as being a love making experience, but for the other it doesn’t seem like that.  

Maybe for the other they feel no experience whatsoever.  I can only say I spontaneously begin hallucinating about people sometimes, and with some of those people, it is immensely healing for me...  Seeming to connect me with higher realms alignment, purity, healing, growth on all kinds of levels. 

 I don’t necessarily have to love those people in any kind of longer term way, and it’s like spirit is pouring healing on me, through the person and that is the bigger deal there, and I don’t need anything else from the person, if this love is brought forth and brought down to me, my soul, heart, energy, consciousness, mental and emotional states, my kundalini. 

So I would use this as a practice to experience this healing, purifying, spiritual development.  I would make it a regular practice with no need for a more lasting or complex attachment to the actual human through which this all flows to my being.  Even though it feels like I have to love the person, and I do feel that, but I don’t need more than that if it was not relatable or doable for one or both of us...  

Which is like the previous post, maybe life circumstances of something bar that from working at some level of things...  I don’t care.  

I will just take the miraculous love.  With certain people it feels like that.  It makes me think of the sexual rites that are a part of some spiritual traditions, and central to pagan beliefs in ancient times, I think.  It feels like maybe these people have something magical and complicated that is given to me through this love.  

Or even if it’s just a love hallucination on my part then I am fine with that.  I don’t know why I’m writing this but I guess I’m just telling the universe, yes, yes this is good.  

Yes I feel it’s pure and absolutely the highest experience.  It’s like it’s getting me closer to god, to the highest states I can find, the best person I can be.  What could be wrong with such a thing as this?  Thank you, to the universe, for this wonder.  

You know, I think saints commonly go into ecstasties and sexual experiences, or so it seems hinted at, if not outright said in such terms.  Spiritual ecstasies from the divine.

And, so,...  Yes,...  No matter,...  Despite what fearful and aversion filled things that people tend to believe,...  It just is not true,...  The baggage typically attached with sexual feelings...  Sex and god don’t have to be separate... \ Lol..  Or maybe, it’s not god per se, but the sexual feelings?  Yes they can be a part of the connection to god, ...  Just like this,...  spontaneous one sided feelings of “sex”, whether it’s god, or another who triggers it, ...  even if the “other” is not causing it, directly or...  whatever. 

Yes, but,...   But, to me, the feeling of the love and the lover makes it much higher,...  It’s so much higher and more powerful too, than if it’s just experienced as energy alone, with no “other”, even if that other is illusory indeed, in reality.  Maybe it is, maybe our human minds can’t understand that though.  

Because, may be, for some of us who are called to love...  If not all of us, not certain...  Some of though,...  We need a lover to feel ecstatic sexual energy like this and really merge into it, fully...  

So,...  Yeah,..  It’s just that,...  Maybe,

... maybe just our human minds and hearts might need a lover to feel it...  then to completely raise up to the greatest heights of healing and kundalini,...  and from there all the associated mysteries and miracles that accompany that whole experience...  

Which has been written about by many people, since ancient times in certain spiritual paths.

But really, sexual feelings do not have to be attached to people, attachments, personalities, but can be totally sublime, sacred, otherworldly.  At least, sometimes they can, and perhaps with some people or beings who are the conduit for this.  

Someone who it for all appearances, seems, ...  

How...  How is it?  I don’t know...  But,...  yes, they just seem to mysteriously opens doors or stairways appear, to heaven... whose energy contains these secrets of spirit, or they have some mysterious healing power...  

I don’t have to know how it works.  It’s a sacred love, I can see that as it affect me, so wholly, and it just pours over my whole life like a cascade of healing springs.  

Why is this happening to me?  But it reminds me of my forest spirit and the experiences he erupted in me that lasted for months, so like a kundalini awakening, yes,...  but I’m so glad it was accompanied by a lover and not just the energy on its own.  That made it trustworthy, beautiful, something to believe in and to seek and heal my life and feel love and support when I was so alone and abandoned, abused...  All that wiped away.  

[howboutdemwings]

The Morning After, first part. With @InMyOwnMhis and @BuyMyBlood.

Ambellina:

~During my foray into the black nothingness of my subconscious, time was of no consequence. I wasn't aware of where I was or what was happening to me after Rhancid had ravaged my vein with his fangs and all but sucked me dry. He could have done anything to me all he wanted and I was helpless to stop it. I knew I wasn't in the Fade, yet, I could still register the distant pain of my wounds he had given me. Whether or not I was still in his company, I hadn't a clue, but there was nothing I could do about that at the moment.

I was fine to remain trapped within my mind until I felt the warmth of something dripping down the back of my throat. Like a tap that slowly leaked into a sink basin, the liquid pooled until my natural instincts took over and I swallowed it down. Blood. Warm, delicious and desperately needed blood. Thank the Scribe Virgin herself for whomever had saw fit to aid me. The flavour was deep and rich, like a dark chocolate and it felt like a potent salve as it slid down my throat that I had worn raw from screaming for help.

Weak sucks and pulls against whatever body part had been placed at my lips happened as my body absorbed the energy afforded to me from the vein I had been so generously offered. Awareness had yet to join my reawakening party but that was quite fine by me, I didn't have the desire to divide my energy nor did I care to figure out just where I was while I took as much as I could swallow down between shallow breaths of air.

Gradually, I felt the shut down parts of my body come back to me. Senses I had lost began to register and my mind worked sluggishly to process any information it could gather. I could smell the blood I was taking in along with the scent of two males, and some kind of liquor albeit that was more muted but continued to linger in the air while hushed voices spoke. I couldn't quite make out what was being said, but relief flooded me at the realization that neither one belonged to the asshole who had tried to suck me straight into the Fade.

Despite my weakened state, my mind was the first to return back to a fiery state of anger and when my belly was full and I could feel my wounds begin the arduous task of self-repair, I called it quits on the vein, I had taken plenty enough to recover. I was forever grateful to the owner of that vein and as soon as I was physically able, I would see to it that my blood debt was paid in full and with interest. Until such time, I mentally clung to the hatred I felt at the way my plan had failed. My voice was still raspy as I spit out my malice for the male who had done this to me.~ Rhancid... piece of shit.

Jagger

-I could see what he had referenced in her improvement and I could feel my own vigor had lightened. The effects of my final tap of Haven's vein were all but negligible. Lassiter probably thought I was stone cold stupid for my perceived lack of comprehension. There were no Cliff Notes for my metric ton of baggage. Where in the hell did I even start to explain?

Fatigue set it. Mental. Physical. Spiritual.

All of the above. Check.

My moral elasticity had been tested without warm up, but even with the female looking a lot less like she was about to push some daisies, there was no euphoria that came from saving her life.

I wasn't hopeless, in fact it was somewhat miraculous I was on the edge of feeling content with what I'd done. Gave her a chance. And there was something else.

There was a foreign twist in my chest and it hit me when I thought about having done right by Lassiter. He'd returned my only possession of sentimental significance and then blew my ever loving mind. That...tenderness he'd exhibited had straight up unlocked a long forgotten door. A place I'd never ventured. The suffering for a male's approval.

Fuck.

Welcome to the Tilt-A-Whirl, mind. Only a lifetime supply of issues for a ride.

I was trying not to freak and on the verge of convincing myself I done the right thing, permanent stain in my DNA and all, when she woke. Within a few fleeting moments she confirmed in a succinct string of words my monstrous fears.

Rancid. My blood was rancid. The virulence of my blood had not been lost on a female just coming to.

Standing back up, immediately hit with a head rush, my arm shot out and my fist caught some of those feathers on the underside of Lassiter's wing. I tried to steady my watery vision to find those eyes of the angel's. I couldn't draw oxygen on my desperate inhales, but I forced out my plea.-

Heal her! Rancid... It's rancid! I'm begging you. I can't die knowing I ruined her!

-And there it was, the origin of my name, played out in my raw reaction. I was living up to the legend, no matter how hard I'd fought to deter the binds of my bloodline.-

Lassiter:

<Both brows shot up and did a mingling act amongst my multi-colour hair when the female finally spoke. And of course she couldn't be like any other creature just coming to after a near death experience. She had quite the silver tongue. Wasn't she supposed to have a case of the where-am-Is and what-happeneds?

I guess not. What's worse was that suddenly my comrade in life saving arms had heard her choice words and was hosting himself a shit show. That was rather unexpected, too. What the fuck was with vampires tonight? I was at a loss.

Before I could ask these two all the WTFs he shot up like a jack in the box and took a serious sway before attempting to grab ahold of my wing. My arms reached out to help steady Jagger as my white eyes looked at him with concern. His yelling wasn't unfounded and for once I wished I had Dr. Phil’s personal number so I could get some solid advice on how to diffuse this situation.

Both hands grasped at Jagger’s biceps, squeezing hard enough to stop his freak out and have him pay attention to me. I kept my voice level and soothing, hoping it would only serve to keep him from a full on panic attack.>

Hey. Listen to me. There is no way she's talking about your blood. If it was rancid do you think she would be able to speak right now?! No. She’d still be mute and waiting for death to open the door. Now, if it was my blood she drank, I could see her saying something like that because while I may be a servant of God, I offer zero nutritional value to a vampire and drinking my blood is like eating candy. <I broke eye contact from Jagger to look down at the female, sending her a proper chastising glare for her poor choice of words as I continued to speak.> Isn't that right, Blondie? Tell Jagger you weren't speaking about him.

Jagger

-Those strong hands came around my arms but the vice grip did a whole lot of nothing to stop the spin of my mind, heart and fractured soul. Lassiter’s words made their way into the noggin but ended up on puree with the rest of the contents in my blender, the only thing ringing clear was the word rancid. The culmination of my greatest fears had arrived and the walls were closing in. A part of me wanted to collapse into the angel, my gut telling me he could handle the burden, but the phantom threat of suffocation materialized with a toothy smile and a mean bite.

Last I checked, oxygen was critical to survival and I still couldn’t breathe. Judging by the gallop of my heart, I wasn’t dead yet but if I didn’t escape the straightjacket of my destiny, I was going to expire… Here lies Jagger, daddy’s shame, half breed, pretty boy scum. I didn’t want to be him and yet I couldn’t escape the injury his words and rejection had inflicted.

A surge of adrenaline had me ripping free of Lassiter’s hold and I couldn’t look at the female or verbalize any kind of explanation to him before I bolted like a bull out of the pen. There was only one way I could go and it was out where there were no walls. I was conscious when opening up the door not to let it idle, closing it behind me despite how things were fraying far beyond the edges.. No matter the obscenity of my blood running through her veins I wouldn’t subject the female to involuntary manslaughter via a bath of sunbeams. Lassiter would heal her of the filth that had been her savior. He had to.

He -HAD- to.

I collapsed to my knees after clearing the steps of my home, hyperventilating and squinting against the brightness of daylight. Everything I feared about myself been confirmed in the turn of a night. I couldn’t deal with anymore of my birthright coming to fruition but in some mind fuck, side effect of “saving” the female’s life, I had been less willing to walk away from my own. This was an deviation to what seemed a solid plan. The outlaw called will planted his ass at the bar of my fate and the stubborn bastard didn’t seem in a hurry to make any exit.

I worried my mother’s cross between my finger and thumb, praying for enlightenment, wanting the steadiness and security from it she’d brought to me in her too-short life. I came up empty, save for the realization that I was doomed to serve out my sentence of solitary confinement in the wasteland of my father’s depravity.-

Lassiter:

<My reflexes were slow with my attention zeroed in on the female, waiting impatiently for her to reassure Jagger to the point that when he tore himself free of my hold, I was useless to stop him. When he charged toward the front door, I had assumed he was pulling a me with a pacing routine but was proven wrong when his hand gripped the handle and he swung it open. Was he on fucking a suicide mission?!>

JAGGER?! What the fuck!

<I was shocked at the care he took to make sure the door was closed just as quickly as he had opened it and in an effort to ensure his safety, I vanished myself to the other side of it lest I put the female we had JUST saved at further risk. I was confident she wasn’t going anywhere and since she had been useless in reassuring him, she could sit tight where she was. My jaw dropped slightly when I didn’t find a pile of flaming vampire ash, but instead, the guy on his knees in the grass with his hand clutched tightly to the cross I had only returned to him less than thirty minutes ago.

At this point, I wasn’t sure what the fuck to do, this entire night, and now day had gone straight to hell and was hanging out with Devina and her wall of greasy trapped souls. As I stepped up behind Jagger, my hand fell to his shoulder and I gave it a firm squeeze, showing him my silent support before dropping down next to him. I waited a few moments for him to say something and when he didn’t, I filled the silence for him.> So...you can hang in the sun, eh?

Jagger

-It was shortly after I’d sucked in the sunshine via heavy pants that I heard the loud call of my name courtesy of Lassiter. I swallowed thickly, my brows pinching together while emotions went cyclone. In one utterance of my name there was desperation, disbelief, anger and… concern, a chord of emotions from a near stranger. Was that an angel thing? I tried to process how this dude I just met could be worried for me and became overwhelmed. To the male who held responsibility for half my DNA I had been a stain, unwanted, someone to discard or destroy. I kept swallowing, my eyes dropping closed when Lassiter’s hand gripped my shoulder, that squeeze like his earlier approval, fulfilling something I’d never known I’d needed, bandaging unseen wounds though I didn’t get how.

And then... he didn’t abandon me, instead popping a squat right next to me, dispelling all expectations I had been conditioned to. I ran a hand through my hair because my worry needed some kind of outlet then glanced to the side just as he asked about the sun on the tail end of a sigh. Was that relief? Another shocker. Yeah, his features were washed with relief and salt stung at the corner of my eyes because it stirred something buried way deep.

Fuck. Was this like Highway to Heaven, the vampire reality version?

Lassiter was rocking a hell of a lot more swagger and was easier on the eyes than Jonathan.

Shaking myself, taken aback by my own thought that shot through my mind like an arrow out of nowhere. Where was all this coming from? Blood loss? True insanity? Some sort of weird mind-numbing effect so I wouldn’t remember him when he was gone?

Hello chest pang.

Weird.

Maybe I really was losing it.

I scrubbed my hand over my face, hoping that it would work like some kind of off switch, but, yeah… nope. Trying to put chaos into order was only feeding the internal anarchy. I concentrated my effort on forcing myself out of the catatonic shell Lassiter was dealing with, muttering a few words.-

Yeah, you’re the first to sound pleased about it.

Lassiter:

<My ability to be patient as I waited out any kind of answer from Jagger must have been fueled exclusively by the exhaustion I could feel settling deep in my body. I was grateful for the time he needed to work through what I thought was a very simple question, because in those long moments of silence, I absorbed as much of the sun’s rays as I could. My wings fanned out in a wide stretch behind me, creating as much surface area as possible to recharge my energy because it was becoming clear very quickly I would not be seeing my bed and pillow any time soon. Nor would I be enjoying a Big Mac like I had wanted, nope. I had a couple of vamps with their super sized issues to chew through first. No doubt the two of them were bound to give me a case of indigestion from all the stress.

As my skin warmed under the heat of the sun and while I normally took great pleasure in the relaxation it brought me, I couldn’t take my eyes off the emotions displayed on Jagger’s face as he worked to find an answer for me. When he finally spoke, I had a hard time masking my surprise.>

Dude. Of course I’m pleased you’re not a smoking pile of ashes right now. The Bossman would have both my wings and halo if I failed now. Especially after all the shit that has gone down tonight. <I pushed both hands through my long multi-coloured hair, tugging on the ends and muttered a few equally colourful curses under my breath.> First the car wreck I had to redirect, then the female beginning her transition and the male who had to be convinced to help her. Followed by that one in there getting dumped in an alley by that limping cocksucker…and now you on a damn suicide mission. Fuck. This is what I get for bitching about being bored. Point taken, God. You win this round.

<My shoulders felt tight with recounting the stress of my night and just like I always did when worked up over a situation, I rose to my feet, toed off my vans and socks and began to pace. The cool, dewy blades of grass felt underfoot was different from the plush woven threads of the fancy-ass rugs in the hall of statues but the textures and contrast was just what I needed to feel my emotions settle and my head work itself clear. When it did, I stopped in front of Jagger and folded my arms across my chest, ready to get back to work.> You know she wasn’t talking about you, right? I can feel it. You just saved her from death with your vein, there’s no reasonable way she was actually calling YOU rancid. I bet the most valuable thing I own that she wasn’t talking about you, Jagger. Do you think you could go back inside with me so she can explain?

Jagger

-My heart did a little free fall in my chest as realization dawned when Lassiter explained his happiness at my still-breathing routine.

I had been an idiot. Yep. Hook, line and sinker, I’d fallen for the appeal of some kind of personal investment. Desperation was a bitch and I had forty years accrued. I resisted the urge to smack myself on the head for thinking in the turn of a couple of hours I could have actually earned approval for who I was. It was nice for the fifteen minutes it lasted, just to taste what my father had denied me. At least I wouldn’t die without knowing what it felt like. I wouldn’t hold the sins of my father against the angel. He didn’t deserve that shit or my head case on his plate.

But here I was. A job. A mission. Or whatever it was God doled out. My brain was far too scrambled to deal with technicalities. What was worse was the fact that I was someone’s punishment. Way to make a list, Jagger.

I kept the surging emotions locked up nice and tight, vacuum sealing them with an inhale before Lassiter stopped in front of me, rays of sun fanning out behind him. He wore the exhaustion of his eventful night in those moonlit irises of his, rimmed with the faintest tint of blue. When they locked onto mine, it was as if they held me physically in place. Despite the figurative smack to the head that came along with the realization I’d fantasized his acceptance, his barefoot pacing and disclosure of his own shit night worked like a rope I could use to pull myself out of the hole of my wallowing. It was time to hold onto my balls and prepare to deal with whatever the female inside had to say. I nodded.-

I’m willing to hear her out, but you’ve gotta promise me that if it’s my blood that’s rancid you’re going to do right by her, heal her like you did my face.

-I swallowed hard, because apparently stating that out loud made me feel something again. Christ… my night had been as fucked as Lassiter’s own. First with Assail and his bulldogs and then with all this. The sooner we got it all over with, the better. For both of us.-

Lassiter:

<Jagger’s easy agreement to my request had my hand shooting out in an offer to help him up, not wanting him to have any second thoughts or to decline me the way he initially had when I asked him to help save the broken female. As he put his palm in mine and I squeezed it to help him up, a bevy of feelings travelled up my arm. It wasn’t intentional and felt similarly to how the memories of his cross hit me, along with his feelings came the distant echoes of his past, trying to catch up like the slowest runner in a marathon. Resignation, disappointment, longing, upset and worthlessness were all rolled up in a nice neat package, topped with a bright shiny bow of rejection. Hello, complication.

My brows knit together as I gave Jagger a long, assessing look. How the fuck could one person host all those feelings? Keeping ahold of his hand, I stood firm where I was and zeroed my eyes on his, conviction shining bright as my voice came out low and full of authority.>

I have no idea why you’re feeling the way you are or why you seem to think there is something wrong with your blood, but I promise you that’s not the case. You wouldn’t have been able to save her as quickly as you had if it was lacking in any way. Just like I healed your face… <My free hand lifted to the spot Jagger had been busted open, fingertips brushing over his skin oh so lightly but enough that I could push my way into the shallows of his thoughts. Maybe I was cheating by using my powers or perhaps even padding the deck in my favour but I needed to get a leg up on the insight his touch had inadvertently offered me. What filled the big screen of my mind had me shaking my head and pulling the guy in for a strong armed hug, whispering low in his ear.>

I’m sorry you’ve had a shit show of a night, too, my friend. You have no idea how grateful I am for how you helped in a way I couldn’t.

<Choosing to focus on the events of Jagger’s evening rather than the emotional scars that had made themselves prominent, I released him, hoping he would stay none the wiser to my stolen knowledge. Pulling back on my mask of care-free nonchalance, I tilted my head toward the house only a dozen feet away.> I’ll meet you inside when you’re ready. <Nodding once, I left him no opportunity to say anything else and disappeared myself back in the house with the female, knowing exactly what needed to be done.>

[buymyblood]

Part One- The morning after (with @InMyOwnMhis and @HowBoutDemWings)

Ambellina:

~During my foray into the black nothingness of my subconscious, time was of no consequence. I wasn't aware of where I was or what was happening to me after Rhancid had ravaged my vein with his fangs and all but sucked me dry. He could have done anything to me all he wanted and I was helpless to stop it. I knew I wasn't in the Fade, yet, I could still register the distant pain of my wounds he had given me. Whether or not I was still in his company, I hadn't a clue, but there was nothing I could do about that at the moment.

I was fine to remain trapped within my mind until I felt the warmth of something dripping down the back of my throat. Like a tap that slowly leaked into a sink basin, the liquid pooled until my natural instincts took over and I swallowed it down. Blood. Warm, delicious and desperately needed blood. Thank the Scribe Virgin herself for whomever had saw fit to aid me. The flavour was deep and rich, like a dark chocolate and it felt like a potent salve as it slid down my throat that I had worn raw from screaming for help.

Weak sucks and pulls against whatever body part had been placed at my lips happened as my body absorbed the energy afforded to me from the vein I had been so generously offered. Awareness had yet to join my reawakening party but that was quite fine by me, I didn't have the desire to divide my energy nor did I care to figure out just where I was while I took as much as I could swallow down between shallow breaths of air.

Gradually, I felt the shut down parts of my body come back to me. Senses I had lost began to register and my mind worked sluggishly to process any information it could gather. I could smell the blood I was taking in along with the scent of two males, and some kind of liquor albeit that was more muted but continued to linger in the air while hushed voices spoke. I couldn't quite make out what was being said, but relief flooded me at the realization that neither one belonged to the asshole who had tried to suck me straight into the Fade.

Despite my weakened state, my mind was the first to return back to a fiery state of anger and when my belly was full and I could feel my wounds begin the arduous task of self-repair, I called it quits on the vein, I had taken plenty enough to recover. I was forever grateful to the owner of that vein and as soon as I was physically able, I would see to it that my blood debt was paid in full and with interest. Until such time, I mentally clung to the hatred I felt at the way my plan had failed. My voice was still raspy as I spit out my malice for the male who had done this to me.~ Rhancid... piece of shit.

Jagger

-I could see what he had referenced in her improvement and I could feel my own vigor had lightened. The effects of my final tap of Haven's vein were all but negligible. Lassiter probably thought I was stone cold stupid for my perceived lack of comprehension. There were no Cliff Notes for my metric ton of baggage. Where in the hell did I even start to explain?

Fatigue set it. Mental. Physical. Spiritual.

All of the above. Check.

My moral elasticity had been tested without warm up, but even with the female looking a lot less like she was about to push some daisies, there was no euphoria that came from saving her life.

I wasn't hopeless, in fact it was somewhat miraculous I was on the edge of feeling content with what I'd done. Gave her a chance. And there was something else.

There was a foreign twist in my chest and it hit me when I thought about having done right by Lassiter. He'd returned my only possession of sentimental significance and then blew my ever loving mind. That...tenderness he'd exhibited had straight up unlocked a long forgotten door. A place I'd never ventured. The suffering for a male's approval.

Fuck.

Welcome to the Tilt-A-Whirl, mind. Only a lifetime supply of issues for a ride.

I was trying not to freak and on the verge of convincing myself I done the right thing, permanent stain in my DNA and all, when she woke. Within a few fleeting moments she confirmed in a succinct string of words my monstrous fears.

Rancid. My blood was rancid. The virulence of my blood had not been lost on a female just coming to.

Standing back up, immediately hit with a head rush, my arm shot out and my fist caught some of those feathers on the underside of Lassiter's wing. I tried to steady my watery vision to find those eyes of the angel's. I couldn't draw oxygen on my desperate inhales, but I forced out my plea.-

Heal her! Rancid... It's rancid! I'm begging you. I can't die knowing I ruined her!

-And there it was, the origin of my name, played out in my raw reaction. I was living up to the legend, no matter how hard I'd fought to deter the binds of my bloodline.-

Lassiter:

<Both brows shot up and did a mingling act amongst my multi-colour hair when the female finally spoke. And of course she couldn't be like any other creature just coming to after a near death experience. She had quite the silver tongue. Wasn't she supposed to have a case of the where-am-Is and what-happeneds?

I guess not. What's worse was that suddenly my comrade in life saving arms had heard her choice words and was hosting himself a shit show. That was rather unexpected, too. What the fuck was with vampires tonight? I was at a loss.

Before I could ask these two all the WTFs he shot up like a jack in the box and took a serious sway before attempting to grab ahold of my wing. My arms reached out to help steady Jagger as my white eyes looked at him with concern. His yelling wasn't unfounded and for once I wished I had Dr. Phil’s personal number so I could get some solid advice on how to diffuse this situation.

Both hands grasped at Jagger’s biceps, squeezing hard enough to stop his freak out and have him pay attention to me. I kept my voice level and soothing, hoping it would only serve to keep him from a full on panic attack.>

Hey. Listen to me. There is no way she's talking about your blood. If it was rancid do you think she would be able to speak right now?! No. She’d still be mute and waiting for death to open the door. Now, if it was my blood she drank, I could see her saying something like that because while I may be a servant of God, I offer zero nutritional value to a vampire and drinking my blood is like eating candy. <I broke eye contact from Jagger to look down at the female, sending her a proper chastising glare for her poor choice of words as I continued to speak.> Isn't that right, Blondie? Tell Jagger you weren't speaking about him.

Jagger

-Those strong hands came around my arms but the vice grip did a whole lot of nothing to stop the spin of my mind, heart and fractured soul. Lassiter’s words made their way into the noggin but ended up on puree with the rest of the contents in my blender, the only thing ringing clear was the word rancid. The culmination of my greatest fears had arrived and the walls were closing in. A part of me wanted to collapse into the angel, my gut telling me he could handle the burden, but the phantom threat of suffocation materialized with a toothy smile and a mean bite.

Last I checked, oxygen was critical to survival and I still couldn’t breathe. Judging by the gallop of my heart, I wasn’t dead yet but if I didn’t escape the straightjacket of my destiny, I was going to expire… Here lies Jagger, daddy’s shame, half breed, pretty boy scum. I didn’t want to be him and yet I couldn’t escape the injury his words and rejection had inflicted.

A surge of adrenaline had me ripping free of Lassiter’s hold and I couldn’t look at the female or verbalize any kind of explanation to him before I bolted like a bull out of the pen. There was only one way I could go and it was out where there were no walls. I was conscious when opening up the door not to let it idle, closing it behind me despite how things were fraying far beyond the edges.. No matter the obscenity of my blood running through her veins I wouldn’t subject the female to involuntary manslaughter via a bath of sunbeams. Lassiter would heal her of the filth that had been her savior. He had to.

He -HAD- to.

I collapsed to my knees after clearing the steps of my home, hyperventilating and squinting against the brightness of daylight. Everything I feared about myself been confirmed in the turn of a night. I couldn’t deal with anymore of my birthright coming to fruition but in some mind fuck, side effect of “saving” the female’s life, I had been less willing to walk away from my own. This was an deviation to what seemed a solid plan. The outlaw called will planted his ass at the bar of my fate and the stubborn bastard didn’t seem in a hurry to make any exit.

I worried my mother’s cross between my finger and thumb, praying for enlightenment, wanting the steadiness and security from it she’d brought to me in her too-short life. I came up empty, save for the realization that I was doomed to serve out my sentence of solitary confinement in the wasteland of my father’s depravity.-

Lassiter:

<My reflexes were slow with my attention zeroed in on the female, waiting impatiently for her to reassure Jagger to the point that when he tore himself free of my hold, I was useless to stop him. When he charged toward the front door, I had assumed he was pulling a me with a pacing routine but was proven wrong when his hand gripped the handle and he swung it open. Was he on fucking a suicide mission?!>

JAGGER?! What the fuck!

<I was shocked at the care he took to make sure the door was closed just as quickly as he had opened it and in an effort to ensure his safety, I vanished myself to the other side of it lest I put the female we had JUST saved at further risk. I was confident she wasn’t going anywhere and since she had been useless in reassuring him, she could sit tight where she was. My jaw dropped slightly when I didn’t find a pile of flaming vampire ash, but instead, the guy on his knees in the grass with his hand clutched tightly to the cross I had only returned to him less than thirty minutes ago.

At this point, I wasn’t sure what the fuck to do, this entire night, and now day had gone straight to hell and was hanging out with Devina and her wall of greasy trapped souls. As I stepped up behind Jagger, my hand fell to his shoulder and I gave it a firm squeeze, showing him my silent support before dropping down next to him. I waited a few moments for him to say something and when he didn’t, I filled the silence for him.> So...you can hang in the sun, eh?

Jagger

-It was shortly after I’d sucked in the sunshine via heavy pants that I heard the loud call of my name courtesy of Lassiter. I swallowed thickly, my brows pinching together while emotions went cyclone. In one utterance of my name there was desperation, disbelief, anger and… concern, a chord of emotions from a near stranger. Was that an angel thing? I tried to process how this dude I just met could be worried for me and became overwhelmed. To the male who held responsibility for half my DNA I had been a stain, unwanted, someone to discard or destroy. I kept swallowing, my eyes dropping closed when Lassiter’s hand gripped my shoulder, that squeeze like his earlier approval, fulfilling something I’d never known I’d needed, bandaging unseen wounds though I didn’t get how.

And then... he didn’t abandon me, instead popping a squat right next to me, dispelling all expectations I had been conditioned to. I ran a hand through my hair because my worry needed some kind of outlet then glanced to the side just as he asked about the sun on the tail end of a sigh. Was that relief? Another shocker. Yeah, his features were washed with relief and salt stung at the corner of my eyes because it stirred something buried way deep.

Fuck. Was this like Highway to Heaven, the vampire reality version?

Lassiter was rocking a hell of a lot more swagger and was easier on the eyes than Jonathan.

Shaking myself, taken aback by my own thought that shot through my mind like an arrow out of nowhere. Where was all this coming from? Blood loss? True insanity? Some sort of weird mind-numbing effect so I wouldn’t remember him when he was gone?

Hello chest pang.

Weird.

Maybe I really was losing it.

I scrubbed my hand over my face, hoping that it would work like some kind of off switch, but, yeah… nope. Trying to put chaos into order was only feeding the internal anarchy. I concentrated my effort on forcing myself out of the catatonic shell Lassiter was dealing with, muttering a few words.-

Yeah, you’re the first to sound pleased about it.

Lassiter:

<My ability to be patient as I waited out any kind of answer from Jagger must have been fueled exclusively by the exhaustion I could feel settling deep in my body. I was grateful for the time he needed to work through what I thought was a very simple question, because in those long moments of silence, I absorbed as much of the sun’s rays as I could. My wings fanned out in a wide stretch behind me, creating as much surface area as possible to recharge my energy because it was becoming clear very quickly I would not be seeing my bed and pillow any time soon. Nor would I be enjoying a Big Mac like I had wanted, nope. I had a couple of vamps with their super sized issues to chew through first. No doubt the two of them were bound to give me a case of indigestion from all the stress.

As my skin warmed under the heat of the sun and while I normally took great pleasure in the relaxation it brought me, I couldn’t take my eyes off the emotions displayed on Jagger’s face as he worked to find an answer for me. When he finally spoke, I had a hard time masking my surprise.>

Dude. Of course I’m pleased you’re not a smoking pile of ashes right now. The Bossman would have both my wings and halo if I failed now. Especially after all the shit that has gone down tonight. <I pushed both hands through my long multi-coloured hair, tugging on the ends and muttered a few equally colourful curses under my breath.> First the car wreck I had to redirect, then the female beginning her transition and the male who had to be convinced to help her. Followed by that one in there getting dumped in an alley by that limping cocksucker…and now you on a damn suicide mission. Fuck. This is what I get for bitching about being bored. Point taken, God. You win this round.

<My shoulders felt tight with recounting the stress of my night and just like I always did when worked up over a situation, I rose to my feet, toed off my vans and socks and began to pace. The cool, dewy blades of grass felt underfoot was different from the plush woven threads of the fancy-ass rugs in the hall of statues but the textures and contrast was just what I needed to feel my emotions settle and my head work itself clear. When it did, I stopped in front of Jagger and folded my arms across my chest, ready to get back to work.> You know she wasn’t talking about you, right? I can feel it. You just saved her from death with your vein, there’s no reasonable way she was actually calling YOU rancid. I bet the most valuable thing I own that she wasn’t talking about you, Jagger. Do you think you could go back inside with me so she can explain?

Jagger

-My heart did a little free fall in my chest as realization dawned when Lassiter explained his happiness at my still-breathing routine.

I had been an idiot. Yep. Hook, line and sinker, I’d fallen for the appeal of some kind of personal investment. Desperation was a bitch and I had forty years accrued. I resisted the urge to smack myself on the head for thinking in the turn of a couple of hours I could have actually earned approval for who I was. It was nice for the fifteen minutes it lasted, just to taste what my father had denied me. At least I wouldn’t die without knowing what it felt like. I wouldn’t hold the sins of my father against the angel. He didn’t deserve that shit or my head case on his plate.

But here I was. A job. A mission. Or whatever it was God doled out. My brain was far too scrambled to deal with technicalities. What was worse was the fact that I was someone’s punishment. Way to make a list, Jagger.

I kept the surging emotions locked up nice and tight, vacuum sealing them with an inhale before Lassiter stopped in front of me, rays of sun fanning out behind him. He wore the exhaustion of his eventful night in those moonlit irises of his, rimmed with the faintest tint of blue. When they locked onto mine, it was as if they held me physically in place. Despite the figurative smack to the head that came along with the realization I’d fantasized his acceptance, his barefoot pacing and disclosure of his own shit night worked like a rope I could use to pull myself out of the hole of my wallowing. It was time to hold onto my balls and prepare to deal with whatever the female inside had to say. I nodded.-

I’m willing to hear her out, but you’ve gotta promise me that if it’s my blood that’s rancid you’re going to do right by her, heal her like you did my face.

-I swallowed hard, because apparently stating that out loud made me feel something again. Christ… my night had been as fucked as Lassiter’s own. First with Assail and his bulldogs and then with all this. The sooner we got it all over with, the better. For both of us.-

Lassiter:

<Jagger’s easy agreement to my request had my hand shooting out in an offer to help him up, not wanting him to have any second thoughts or to decline me the way he initially had when I asked him to help save the broken female. As he put his palm in mine and I squeezed it to help him up, a bevy of feelings travelled up my arm. It wasn’t intentional and felt similarly to how the memories of his cross hit me, along with his feelings came the distant echoes of his past, trying to catch up like the slowest runner in a marathon. Resignation, disappointment, longing, upset and worthlessness were all rolled up in a nice neat package, topped with a bright shiny bow of rejection. Hello, complication.

My brows knit together as I gave Jagger a long, assessing look. How the fuck could one person host all those feelings? Keeping ahold of his hand, I stood firm where I was and zeroed my eyes on his, conviction shining bright as my voice came out low and full of authority.>

I have no idea why you’re feeling the way you are or why you seem to think there is something wrong with your blood, but I promise you that’s not the case. You wouldn’t have been able to save her as quickly as you had if it was lacking in any way. Just like I healed your face… <My free hand lifted to the spot Jagger had been busted open, fingertips brushing over his skin oh so lightly but enough that I could push my way into the shallows of his thoughts. Maybe I was cheating by using my powers or perhaps even padding the deck in my favour but I needed to get a leg up on the insight his touch had inadvertently offered me. What filled the big screen of my mind had me shaking my head and pulling the guy in for a strong armed hug, whispering low in his ear.>

I’m sorry you’ve had a shit show of a night, too, my friend. You have no idea how grateful I am for how you helped in a way I couldn’t.

<Choosing to focus on the events of Jagger’s evening rather than the emotional scars that had made themselves prominent, I released him, hoping he would stay none the wiser to my stolen knowledge. Pulling back on my mask of care-free nonchalance, I tilted my head toward the house only a dozen feet away.> I’ll meet you inside when you’re ready. <Nodding once, I left him no opportunity to say anything else and disappeared myself back in the house with the female, knowing exactly what needed to be done.>