#more of my adventures into comics about sick as hell women

[folansstuff]

david lopez and david navarott's style fits laura so well goddamn

really liking all-new wolverine so far, im glad laura kept the title into the krakoa era, even with all the clone fuckery, she's so perfect

#x-men #all-new wolverine #laura kinney #wolverine #x-23 #more of my adventures into comics about sick as hell women #its a deep and high-quality well #shout outs to cinnamonginger for putting me onto it

[sachigram]

Syzygy

“Shizuo didn't ask for any of this, but maybe there is such a thing as being in the right place at the right time.”

((click here to read on ao3!))

Shizuo hates places like this.

Sure, he used to bar tend. It was actually one of his most favorite gigs before that bastard flea got him arrested and fired, but that was a swanky place, rarely any incidences to invoke the wrath of the muscled bouncer usually lurking in the corner. This place is another story entirely, and Shizuo is considering asking if Shinra has any ibuprofen on him to combat the reverberance of the bass in his ears.

It's not anyone's fault but his own. Shizuo could have said no to coming out. He wanted to, but Celty asked him, said it wouldn't be fun without all her friends there, and Shizuo reluctantly agreed on the grounds that Shinra treat him to drinks and bar food, preferably wings. Shinra has delivered on his end of the bargain, but no one else deemed to show up but the three of them, Kadota and the gang citing they had something else to do, which is likely staking out in front of the comic store to await the release of some closet manga. Shizuo is tipsy, has a headache, and is a third-wheel.

He grinds his teeth, looks around to distract himself while the two lovebirds across from him snuggle it up in the dingy-ass booth like it's the finest linen in the country. There's no one worth paying attention to. Pretty women are all over, lining up the walls and dressed in—what could be considered clothing, if one was feeling generous. Shizuo can recognize their appeal, but he doesn't want to strike up a conversation with any of them because...what would he even say? Besides, he doesn't think he'll meet the love of his life in a place like this. People always say it happens when you aren't looking.

There isn't a band playing tonight. Sometimes local bands get gigs here, and Shizuo wishes there was one on stage to distract himself with, but instead electronic music is blaring, the lights are dim, and the bar is so packed that Shizuo doubts he could get another drink without standing there like an asshole for a few minutes. He sighs heavily, tongues his teeth, considers throwing the table into the dancing crowd, decides against it. He looks up when he hears his name being called.

“What?” he asks, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

“I said you don't look like you're having fun!” Shinra says, leaning over the table to holler into Shizuo's face. Shizuo throws a balled up bar napkin at him.

“I wonder why the fuck that is,” Shizuo huffs, crossing his arms and leaning back into the booth.

“I'm sorry. You can go if you want to. I know this evening didn't turn out how I described.” Despite just being text on a screen, Shizuo can feel the emotion in Celty's words, and he knows her tone would be apologetic if he could hear it.

“It's fine, I just— It's loud.”

“It's a bar!” Shinra shouts. If Shizuo is tipsy, Shinra must be wasted, and he's certainly getting more handsy with Celty than Shizuo would like to be witness to.

“No shit.”

“Really, Shizuo, you can go! We probably will soon too. Shinra is an awful drunk, he's likely to cause a scene soon.” Celty's screen is almost too bright in this low light. Shizuo considers his options. What the fuck else is he going to do, sit here for another hour? Watch the scantily dressed women turn down advances from desperate men? He could even go into the graffiti-laden bathroom, if he was feeling adventurous.

Going home really is the most appealing option. It's not his fault no one else came. Shizuo should have been smart and ditched as well, seeing as Shinra only ever wants alone time with Celty anyway. Besides, the wings were too greasy, and Shizuo is pretty sure he has leftover yakitori in his fridge from overestimating his appetite two days earlier. Worst case, he'll just eat some ice cream and call it a night. It sounds above and beyond what he's currently doing.

He's getting ready to say he's on his way out when a scent catches his attention. A familiar scent. His fingers grip the table, cracking the wood underneath as his eyes scan the crowd. Surely Shinra didn't invite Izaya, right? This was supposed to be a friendly gathering, and there's nothing friendly about that parasitic fucker. But—no. Shinra wouldn't have done that. Shinra knows better. But as Shizuo watches Shinra drunkenly slosh whatever the fuck is in that glass down the front of his shirt, he wonders is Shinra actually knows anything at all.

It takes longer than it normally would for Shizuo to locate Izaya. There's a lot of people in here for one, and for another, Izaya isn't dressed in his usual attire. He ditched the coat, has opted for a short sleeved black T-shirt that appears to be artfully tucked in to some light gray plaid slacks that are rolled up around the ankles. Shizuo has never understood that “rolling up” bullshit. Why buy pants if you have to do that to make them fit? Just wear shorts if you want them shorter! And of course Izaya would be one of the idiots indulging in the trend. Of fucking course. Shizuo grinds his teeth, prepares for a fight, but Izaya...isn't alone?

A tall, well-dressed man is guiding Izaya through the crowd, a hand settled between Izaya's bony shoulder-blades. They settle at an empty table by the bar, and Shizuo watches with the impossible realization that Izaya didn't come here for him.

For some reason, Shizuo feels sick to his stomach. He blames the shitty wings.

Izaya already has a drink in his hand, and so does the well-dressed asshole. They're talking, and Shizuo can see Izaya smiling, laughing at whatever the hell is being said. Well-Dressed reaches across the table, touches his fingers to Izaya's, and Izaya pulls his hand back, makes a playful admonishing gesture before resting his chin in his hand and giving a sultry gaze back to the man.

“What are you looking at?” Shinra asks suddenly, and Shizuo tears his eyes away from Izaya's pouty lips. So Shinra has no idea Izaya is here? That means Izaya really is here with someone for...a date?

It doesn't sit well with Shizuo. At all.

“I need a drink,” Shizuo says, downing the rest of his and standing so quickly it rattles the table. He hurries to the bar, settles at the corner, not really caring how long it takes for the bartender to get to him because that's not why he came over here. It's very loud with everyone talking over the thrumming music, but Shizuo focuses on as much as he can on what Izaya is talking about.

He has to make sure Izaya isn't scheming something, right? The guy he's with could be bad news. They could be planning trouble.

“—glad you could come out with me, Izaya-san.” Well-Dressed's voice is deep, and apparently he's on a first name basis with Izaya. Shizuo turns his head a bit to see the guy's fingers have once again settled over Izaya's.

“Your choice of venue is...surprising,” Izaya says, taking a sip from his drink. “It's not usually where I conduct my business, but I'm always up for a change of scenery.”

“Come now, surely you know this isn't just a meeting,” Well-Dressed says. “You came here looking absolutely gorgeous, after all. Did you dress up for me?”

Shizuo grinds his teeth, forces himself to stop so he can keep listening.

“Ahaha! Well, I never reveal my secrets, you know? You said to wear whatever I wanted.” Izaya takes another sip. “I'm glad to know you find it appealing.”

“I do. I do. You always look amazing, Izaya-san, but you look especially so when you're here just for me.”

“Now, now, Touma-san. You're being very touchy. If you start too forward too fast, you'll burn out soon.”

“Oh? Do we have plans later?” Well-Dressed, Touma-san, asks.

“Who's to say? The night is young, after all. I'm only suggesting you pace yourself. If you pass out, I'm certainly not going to feel pity for you,” Izaya says.

“How cruel!” Touma laughs, downing his drink in one go. “I like that about you, Izaya-san. I promise I'll be coherent for whatever you want me for later.”

“A bold promise,” Izaya says, following Touma's lead and drinking the remainder of his glass. “Who knows what I could want? It's a risk you're taking.”

“I'm a gambling man,” Touma all but purrs. Shizuo tastes bile in the back of his throat.

“Can I help you?”

Shizuo looks up to see the bartender is in front of him at last.

“Uh, yeah, I'll just...have a beer,” Shizuo says absently, still trying to focus on Izaya.

“What kind?” The bartender asks, sounding impatient. Shizuo hears Izaya laugh again, feels insane with the need to know why.

“I don't care! Anything!” Shizuo snaps, and then quieter he adds, “I'm sorry, no, just— Your choice, your favorite. It's my last of the night, so surprise me.”

The bartender goes off to do just that, leaving Shizuo back to his eavesdropping. A new voice has joined the two, and Shizuo turns a bit to see a woman hovering around the table, chatting it up with Izaya.

“Thank you for your patience!” she's saying, a tray in her hand. “It's so crazy tonight! But we expected it, right? What can I get for you?”

“I'll take another Macallan, rocks. And you, Izaya-san? I'm treating you, of course.”

“Here you go,” the bartender says as he returns, setting a glass of beer in front of Shizuo. “Do you want to try it first?”

“No thanks, that's great,” Shizuo says, fishing some money out of his pocket. He can always force Shinra to pay him back later. Speaking of Shinra, Shizuo should probably go check back in with Celty. But then how will he know what's going on with Izaya?

Shizuo sighs, tastes the beer. It's good.

What's he even doing here? He didn't want to come out at all, and now he's spying on Izaya, who is obviously not plotting anything, and just wants to fuck this douchey Touma guy later. Shizuo doesn't know why that bothers him so much, but it does, it does, and the fact that it does pisses Shizuo off to no end because he can't figure out why it would.

He should just go home. Finish this beer, say his goodbyes, go home, sleep off these weird, drunken feelings. He decides to do that, but first, he looks over at the couple one more time when he hears the waitress return.

She's very pretty, and she seems to think Izaya is either also pretty or nice or maybe both, because she strikes a conversation with him, a small flush on her face, and Izaya is nothing but pleasant in his responses. Shizuo growls at the thought, because she doesn't even know Izaya, and maybe this Touma guy doesn't either, maybe Izaya is the problem, so Shizuo looks at Touma just in time to see the glimpse of Touma's hand over Izaya's glass before quickly retreating and—

And.

“Fuck,” Shizuo says, realizing what it is he just saw. He considers his options, puts a hand in his hair and yanks. What the hell is he supposed to do in this situation?! Since when should he be the one to save Orihara Izaya?! “That fucker can handle himself. And if not, he'd deserve it. This whole thing is fucking—stupid, ugh, I'm pissed off,” Shizuo mutters to himself, drawing a few looks from those around him. Angrily, he chews the inside of his cheek. “It's not my problem. It's not like I wanted to be here or see that. Nope. It's his own damn fault for going out with shady trash.”

“Are you...okay?” A man to his right asks.

“Fuck off,” Shizuo snaps, and the guy runs away. Shizuo turns again to Izaya, sees Izaya take a drink from the glass, and Shizuo doesn't think, can't think as he marches towards Izaya's table, clearing a path through the crowd by shoving and not caring who gets mad about it.

“Shizu-chan!” Izaya almost shouts, and Shizuo takes one second to wonder how drunk Izaya is already before he yanks Touma out of his chair by his collar. “What a surprise.”

“You know this clown?!” Touma sputters, and Shizuo snarls at him, lifts his feet right off the ground.

“He's an old friend,” Izaya says with a grin, and Shizuo is too late to stop Izaya from taking another long sip of the drink, but Shizuo does manage to reach back and slap it out of his hand before anymore damage is done. “Well,” Izaya huffs. “That was just unnecessary.”

“This fucker put something in your drink!” Shizuo snarls first to Izaya, and then he shakes Touma back and forth, makes the bastard's head bobble like a toy. “You think no one here would notice something like that, huh?! You think everyone is stupid? That I'm stupid?! Are you CALLING me STUPID?!”

Izaya observes the shattered glass on the floor, frowns, and looks up at Shizuo with an entirely bizarre expression. Izaya should be concerned, he should be pissed, he should be asking Shizuo to kill this worthless guy, but as it is, Izaya is only watching Shizuo with a dopey grin on his face, and then he stifles giggles behind his hands.

“Oh no!” Izaya says, seemingly unconcerned. “I'm in real danger now! I've really done it this time.”

“What the fuck—“ Shizuo starts, but he's distracted by Touma's fist connecting with his face.

“Actually,” Izaya lilts, “Touma-san has really done it this time.”

To Shizuo's credit, he only punches Touma once or twice before flinging him across the entire room. Touma collides with a wall, lands in a crumpled heap of limbs, and doesn't stand back up. Shizuo stands with his fists clenched, ignoring the shock of the crowd in favor of turning back to Izaya, who is—trying to flag down a waitress for more drinks.

“Izaya!” Shizuo snaps, slapping the table and making Izaya almost jump out of his own skin. Izaya grins and looks up at him, makes a real show of giving Shizuo his undivided attention.

“Yes?”

“Did you fucking hear me?! That guy drugged you! He put something in your glass and you drank it!” Shizuo shakes the table a bit more, but Izaya only laughs again.

“Yes, I heard, and that's very unfortunate. Nothing I can do about it now. Boo, Shizu-chan, I think you scared everyone away,” Izaya says with a pout.

Shizuo sees red.

“How are you not getting this?! Who the fuck knows what he gave you? Shouldn't you be—I don't know, scared? You need to go to the hospital before it kicks in!”

“Relax, would you? It was probably just a roofie. It wouldn't be the first time.” Izaya stands, stumbles a bit, and turns to face Shizuo with such a dramatic flair that Shizuo honestly wonders if Izaya will hit the ground. “Besides, why would you care? Shouldn't you be trying to kill me now?”

“I—“ Shizuo begins. He thinks of a lie, but that's bullshit anyway, and what does he care what Izaya thinks? “I won't fight you when you're like this. It wouldn't be fair, and I'm not sleazy and underhanded like you.”

“How noble of you,” Izaya says. “I'm very impressed. Remind me to send you a fruit basket later. Or...a tub of Milk Bones.” Izaya suddenly bursts into laughter, and Shizuo is so baffled he forgets to be angry. “Get it?! Because—it's a dog treat—and you love milk...!”

“How much have you had?” Shizuo asks. He never thought he'd see Izaya like this. Getting drunk together is something friends do, or strangers who have no reason to dislike each other yet. Seeing an enemy in this state is...otherworldly.

“Oh, I don't know. Touma-san was boring. Did you hear him? Hey, were you watching us?” Izaya's gaze sharpens, and Shizuo feels himself jolt to attention, but then Izaya is giggling again. “He was so uninteresting that I wanted to drink myself stupid!”

Shizuo hates to admit it, but he knows Izaya well enough to know this isn't like Izaya at all. Izaya is careful, quick, untouchable. Izaya allowing any of this to happen seems like an impossibility, and Shizuo is waiting for Izaya to pull a knife out and say, “just kidding!”

“That's really fucking stupid,” Shizuo says, and Izaya stops laughing as abruptly as he started.

“Well, you are an expert in stupidity.” Izaya sighs and then he turns on his heel, sways, rights himself before he tumbles over. “See ya, Shizu-chan. Remind me to thank you later!”

Shizuo reacts before he can think better of it. He reaches out and grabs Izaya's collar, yanks him backwards until he's falling, and then Shizuo picks him up under the armpits like Izaya is a diseased stray that might bite him.

“Shizu—! Put me down!” Izaya snaps, kicking his feet out in what very much resembles a tantrum.

“Shinra is here. You should go home with him so you don't die.”

“I don't want to go home with Shinra! I want to get another drink!”

“And you don't fucking NEED another drink, I-za-ya!”

“Like you care what I need! Why are you—ugh, put me down! If you aren't going to snap my neck, I don't want you anywhere near me!”

“As if I want to be— Wait. Why would you want me to snap your neck?!”

Shizuo's violence didn't do much in thinning the crowd. The place is still packed, and it takes a while to carry Izaya back to where Shizuo was sitting earlier with his friends, especially because Izaya is fighting against being carried. Of course, Shinra and Celty aren't there anymore. Why would anything be easy?

Izaya seems to have worn himself out. His limbs are hanging by his sides, and from what Shizuo can see, Izaya is pouting very openly.

“Fuck. They left already,” Shizuo hisses. He doesn't know how long he's been gone from the table, but he can't be mad at them for assuming Shizuo was already gone.

“Can you let me go now?” Izaya asks. Shizuo shakes him around violently, and the next thing Izaya says sounds like “Guh.”

Grumbling to himself, Shizuo carries Izaya out of the bar and into the chilly night air where it's quieter. Seeing Izaya silhouetted in the neon lights of the city is a much more familiar sight to Shizuo, but he can't pretend any of this is normal behavior for them. Izaya has resumed trying to kick him, and based on Izaya's increasing giggles, Shizuo can tell Izaya is still drunk as shit.

“You know, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says in a whimsical voice, “if you hadn't thrown Touma-san across the bar and let him crawl away to safety, we could have asked what he gave me.”

“I didn't think about asking him anything. He deserved to bleed.”

“You rarely think, so I suppose I can't blame you. Just let me call a cab home! I'd much rather pass out in my own bed.”

“Shut the fuck up a minute, flea,” Shizuo growls, pulling his phone out of his pocket and selecting Shinra from his contacts. He holds Izaya by his collar now. “If he says you can go home and die, you can go home and die.” As much as Shizuo would love for Izaya to suffer, Izaya being drugged and left to die isn't something Shizuo can let himself live with.

If anyone is going to kill Izaya, it's going to be Shizuo. Shizuo is the only one who's earned it, and if Izaya doesn't stop kicking him, Izaya is going to die tonight for another reason than drugs.

“Shizuo-kun!” Shinra's voice fills his ear suddenly. “We couldn't find you! You went home, right?”

“No. Listen, Izaya is here—“

“Izaya-kun? Oh... Um, Shizuo-kun, I'm really not someone who hides bodies...”

“Shut up, it's not that! I saw Izaya get drugged, and I need to know if he can go home!”

“Drugged?” Shinra sounds...very unconcerned. Why the hell is Shizuo the only one taking something like this seriously? “Well. Is he conscious?”

“Yes.”

“Vomiting? Is he cognizant? Does his heart seem fine?”

“He's—the same as always. He's drunk, but he's not acting anything other than drunk. Hang on...” Shizuo shakes Izaya a bit. “Is your heart fine?”

“How would I know that?” Izaya asks as he dangles.

“You should be the first to know if it wasn't!” Shizuo hisses. Izaya's collar twists in his hand, and Izaya turns enough to face him, a deadpan expression on his face.

“Clearly it's beating,” Izaya says slowly, like he's talking to an infant. “I can't say whether that's good or bad, since it means I'm alive to suffer in your company.”

“He's as fine as he ever is,” Shizuo says into the phone, trying very hard to restrain the urge to throw Izaya as far as he can and see if Izaya skips like a stone.

“It was probably something to make him lose consciousness. The biggest concern will be making sure he doesn't choke to death on his own vomit, but he should be fine,” Shinra says.

“Okay, then I'll bring him to your place so you can monitor him,” Shizuo says, and he balks as Shinra laughs outright into his ear.

“Oh, no, I don't want him here. Celty and I have plans.” Shinra's tone suggests all kinds of things Shizuo doesn't want to think about.

“Plans can be put on hold!” Shizuo snaps, and he hears Izaya sigh heavily.

“My Celty can never be put on hold! Besides, I'm incredibly drunk myself. I can't monitor anyone properly. You could take him to the hospital, but otherwise, there's nothing else I can do or suggest.”

“You—what?!” Shizuo is left speechless as Shinra hangs up on him, leaving him alone in dealing with Izaya, who Shizuo doesn't even like.

“Well,” Izaya says, “that was certainly a helpful conversation. You have the best ideas, Shizu-chan.”

“What the fuck, he just— Has everyone gone crazy but me?” Shizuo asks, and Izaya laughs.

“Aw, is this the first time Shinra has chosen Celty over you? It's okay, you get used to it,” Izaya says. “Now then, you heard him. I'll be fine! I'm sure you can sleep much easier at night knowing I'm alive and well and plotting your demise.”

“Fuck you, he said you needed monitoring. I'm dropping you off at the hospital.”

“They won't accept me as a patient if I don't want to go,” Izaya says. “Besides, I'm beginning to doubt you saw anything at all. Maybe you just wanted to ruin my date! Pettiness is unflattering.”

Shizuo sees red, shoves Izaya against a wall and sees a flash. He finds himself wrenching a knife out of Izaya's hand before he tosses it to the side and glares into Izaya's stupid smug face.

“Yeah? And look where your date got you! Here, with me, because no one gives a shit about you or whether you die! How's that feel, I-za-ya? How's it feel to know if you didn't wake up tomorrow that no one but me would even notice?”

Izaya's eyes are wide, and if Shizuo didn't know what to look for, he'd honestly think Izaya didn't care. But Izaya looks baffled, and it takes just a few seconds too long for him to reply.

“It doesn't matter,” Izaya says, and Shizuo flattens him further into the wall.

“It matters. You think you can hide behind your stupid words and try to convince yourself you're above being scared, but I'm not buying it. I've never bought anything you've said, and I'm not starting to now. You wanna go home and die alone? Well guess what, even that's more than you deserve.” Shizuo lifts Izaya up again, starts walking towards his own apartment.

“Stop it— Shizu-chan, just put me down, I hate this! I hate you! If you take me inside your monster hovel, I'll destroy everything you own!”

“I don't own much,” Shizuo says. “And I know you hate me. I hate you, too. The best payback I can think of would be making you die in my company.”

Izaya pauses in his thrashing, chokes in a way that makes Shizuo worry he's about to be barfed on, but then Izaya is laughing loudly in a way Shizuo has never heard before. It's not forced or sarcastic or...asshole-ish like Izaya is. It's genuine.

“How cruel!” Izaya cackles. “I didn't think Shizu-chan could be so vindictive! You're right; that's about the worst fate there is!”

Shizuo could argue an even worse fate would be Izaya left in the hands of that Touma creep, unconscious and...

“Hey,” Shizuo says suddenly, unable to contain his curiosity. “That guy, do you think he was gonna kidnap you and kill you?”

Izaya scoffs. “No. He wasn't thinking with anything but his dick. He's been trying to fuck me for a while now, and ordinarily I wouldn't have even entertained him, but his boss is a good client of mine, and I thought Touma-san might be full of useful information. Unsurprisingly, he wasn't. He was boring and touchy.”

Shizuo grits his teeth at the idea. For once, Izaya's using of people isn't what Shizuo is angry about.

“That fucker,” Shizuo hisses. “Taking advantage of anyone like—that. It's lower than low, lower than dirt. I should've killed him.”

“Even if it was me?” Izaya asks. “He'd deserve death even if it was just me he was taking advantage of?”

“Shut up. No one deserves that, not even you.”

Izaya laughs again, but it's so bitter it makes Shizuo wince. “You really are cruel, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo doesn't ask for an elaboration. He doesn't think Izaya would be honest with him anyway, but then again, aren't people always saying drunken words are sober thoughts? What about roofied words? How the hell is Izaya still conscious anyway?

When he opens his door, he's happy to be out of the cold, and even happier to be home. Like this, it's easy to forget about Izaya, who is now draped across his back and...possibly unconscious? Izaya has been silent for an eerie length of time, and somehow Shizuo hasn't been stabbed yet.

He dumps Izaya onto the couch, and Izaya lands in a heap of limbs before immediately sitting upright and looking around, his face absolutely gleeful.

“Shizu-chan! Your place is a lot cleaner than I thought it would be! But then again, I assumed you slept hanging from the ceiling. Maybe you do? Your bedroom is this way, right?” Izaya asks as he rolls to his feet and starts towards Shizuo's room.

“Oi! Sit back down!” Shizuo hisses, yanking Izaya backwards and tossing him onto the couch. “This couch and my bathroom are all you have access to! If I see you anywhere near my room, I'm beating the fuck out of you.”

“Scary!” Izaya crosses his legs and grins up at Shizuo. “So then. Are we having a slumber party?”

“I'm waiting for you to pass out. Oh, also...” Shizuo goes to his fridge, pulls out his leftover food, and doesn't bother heating it up before devouring it. Izaya watches him with obvious fascination, and Shizuo hates the pinpricks he feels at knowing Izaya's keen gaze is on him.

“Do you want some water?” Shizuo asks, feeling like an alien in his own home.

“Well, it would probably help,” Izaya says. “Have you got any alcohol?”

“You don't need alcohol, you shitty fucking louse. You're fucked up enough.”

“I feel sober!” Izaya says, but his flushed face and swaying demeanor beg to differ. “Just the water then. The sooner I sober up, the sooner I can get away from you.”

Shizuo grits his teeth as he pours Izaya a glass of water, and when he stomps over to the couch, he shoves it at Izaya so forcefully that the water sloshes out of the glass and onto Izaya's chest.

“How are you gonna act high and mighty even when I'm doing you a favor? You should be fucking thankful that you aren't in a ditch somewhere!” Shizuo growls as Izaya frowns down at the water on his shirt.

“I never asked for your help,” Izaya says before he looks up and meets Shizuo's gaze. Ordinarily, Shizuo would be creeped out by Izaya's unnaturally red gaze, but as it is, Izaya just looks exhausted and maybe even scared. He's just too proud to let it show.

“Yeah? Well, you better be glad I gave it to you anyway. You could be out there getting—“ Shizuo pauses, huffs, and turns to go back to his food.

“Raped,” Izaya says, because he can never leave well enough alone. “I could be getting raped, is that what you wanted to say?”

“For fuck's sake, Izaya, shut the hell up and pass out already.”

Unsurprisingly, Izaya doesn't. He sips at his water and looks around before he tries to stand. Before Shizuo can even yell at him, Izaya stumbles backwards, misses the couch, and lands sprawled in the floor with the water glass completely emptied on him.

Sighing, Shizuo tosses the empty food box into the trash before he makes his way over to Izaya, who bristles visibly and narrow his eyes up at Shizuo as if daring him to say anything.

“You're a goddamn mess,” Shizuo says because Izaya needs to hear it, or maybe just because Shizuo likes needling him. Either way, Shizuo leans down and picks Izaya up again.

“I thought I wasn't allowed in your room...” Izaya says, his voice slurred and heavy with impending sleep. He's clearly fighting it with all he has, and Shizuo wonders just how many times Izaya has been drugged before.

“I'm chaperoning.” Shizuo shrugs and tosses Izaya on his bed before he tries to find dry clothes for Izaya's small, flea-like body. He has sweatpants with a string, so that'll work. As for shirts, he has plenty of T-shirts he wears on his off days, nothing fancy like Izaya is accustomed to, but if Izaya complains, Shizuo might just punch him.

When he turns to Izaya, he's surprised to see Izaya sitting up, though he looks far from cognizant. He's swaying, catching himself, and trying and failing to focus on Shizuo.

“Can you get undressed?” Shizuo asks him.

“Oooh... Shizu, how naughty...” Izaya says with a giggle, and then he's trying to tug his wet shirt over his head. It gets caught at his elbows, and Izaya rolls off the bed and into the floor with a resounding 'thunk'.

“Fucking flea... Stupid fucking drugged annoying ass flea,” Shizuo mutters to himself as he goes to Izaya and helps him up again. “Alright, lift your arms, you can do that much.” Izaya does, and Shizuo does his best to avert his eyes as he removes Izaya's shirt and helps him into the dry T-shirt.

“Smells good,” Izaya murmurs, and when Shizuo looks at him, Izaya is holding the collar of Shizuo's shirt to his nose and inhaling happily.

“What the fuck?” Shizuo asks, wondering what planet they're on.

“I said...you smell good,” Izaya says a little louder, glaring at Shizuo as if Shizuo has yanked this confession from him without permission.

“Okay? Take your pants off.”

Izaya pouts at him and shakes his head.

“Izaya! Take your—!” Shizuo yanks Izaya's hands away from the shirt collar and tries to make Izaya undo his pants, but Izaya merely stands there looking like he might cry. “What's wrong with you? I'm trying to undress you so you can sleep comfortably!”

“I hate you,” Izaya says with his usual ire, and then, inexplicably, his voice is breaking and he's hiding his face in Shizuo's giant T-shirt. “I hate Shizu-chan so much!”

“Yeah? Well I hate you right back!” Shizuo hisses, and he undoes Izaya's pants before yanking them down. His renewed anger makes it easier to ignore the fact he's undressing Izaya Orihara in his bedroom. “But even if you're fucking horrible and I don't want you here, I'd rather you be here than with some creepy douchebag, so help me out!”

“You should've left me! I'd be fine, I'm always fine!” Izaya is practically sobbing by this point, and Shizuo is helpless to do anything but watch Izaya cry with his pants halfway down his thighs. “You were right to say no one would care, so why should you? I don't want your pity!”

“Too bad,” Shizuo finds himself saying. “If you wanted it, I wouldn't give it to you. I hate people who want pity for the sake of being pitied. But right now...”

“You never do what I want,” Izaya says with a sniffle. This time, when Shizuo pushes Izaya gently towards the bed, Izaya allows it, and Shizuo is able to get the wet pants off and replace them with the sweatpants. Izaya is skinny, so Shizuo has to tie the strings as tightly as they'll go.

“There. Isn't that better?” Shizuo asks. He's always been pretty good with kids, which is exactly what a wasted Izaya is reminding him of. “You'll feel better when you sleep.”

“I'm not tired,” Izaya says, emerging from the shirt at last to show Shizuo his red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks.

“Right,” Shizuo says. “Well, when you are, it'll be better.” He almost laughs when Izaya nods very seriously, as of Shizuo is saying anything other than common sense. Shizuo tries to back away, but he finds one of his hands being held hostage by both of Izaya's. “Flea,” he says warningly, not trusting Izaya to not have a hidden knife on him somewhere.

“Your hand is one big—callus,” Izaya announces. He turns Shizuo's hand over and examines it. “You should moisturize.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Shizuo mumbles, trying again to pull away, but Izaya seems like he might cry again if Shizuo does.

“Isn't it weird...” Izaya says, and then he's just holding Shizuo's hand, looking up at Shizuo with his watery gaze. “You're like a regular person like this. A human.”

“I am a human,” Shizuo snaps, not ready to hear Izaya's usual spiel about Shizuo being an unlovable monster.

Izaya just nods and looks down again at their joined hands. “I love humans,” he says, and then he sniffles again. “But humans don't love me.”

“Izaya,” Shizuo sighs. “You need to sleep. You'll hate that you said all this in the morning.”

“I'll be unhappy either way!” Izaya snaps, and Shizuo wonders where the hell this is going, or if he's ever actually...had a conversation with Izaya before? He doesn't think so, at least not one where they weren't actively trying to antagonize or kill each other. It's weird to be in Izaya's space, to smell his scent, to be able to see his eyelashes. Shizuo wishes he was drunker than he is, and then he remembers to mourn the full beer he left at the bar.

“You can't pretend like you don't know why people hate you. You've given them every reason to.” Shizuo's gaze is hard as Izaya meets his eyes. “You know that.”

“Why is it so wrong to want to see the worst parts of people? Isn't that what love is—to see those parts, the parts they want to keep hidden, and love them anyway? Can you say you love someone if you aren't willing to accept the worst of them?” Izaya asks, his grip tightening on Shizuo. “I love all those things! I love them, and everyone looks at me like I'm a monster! And then, you! You have so much love and you don't even deserve it!” Izaya finally lets Shizuo go, throws his hand away like it's poisoned.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Shizuo asks, genuinely feeling more confused than angry. “Tricking people into revealing what they hate about themselves just to use it against them won't ever get you anywhere. Aren't you supposed to be some kind of genius? How could you think that would work?”

“Nothing works anyway,” Izaya says. “You hated me before I even did anything to you, after all. Wasn't it nice of me to give you actual reasons?”

Shizuo frowns, thinking back to the day Shinra introduced them. Izaya was beside Shinra, clapping at the violence Shizuo exhibited, and Shizuo thought to himself that Izaya was making fun of him, or worse, that he liked violence when Shizuo himself hated it and couldn't escape it. Shizuo admits to himself, and has for a long time, that his hatred of Izaya wasn't justified at first. But in the end, he thinks it was instinctual, and he just knew Izaya was up to no good.

“As if you care what I think,” Shizuo says. He's ready to get out of this room. Izaya can have the bed, he doesn't even care. He's just ready to get Izaya sober and out of here.

“I do care,” Izaya says softly, and Shizuo feels his brow furrowing in disbelief.

“God, how drunk are you?” Shizuo asks, and Izaya grins.

“Very. I'm being honest with you, after all.” He reaches again for Shizuo's hand, and Shizuo debates only for a few moments before letting him have it. What's the harm? Izaya likely won't remember any of this, and keeping him complacent is in Shizuo's best interest if either of them are going to get sleep tonight.

“So you care what I think? And that means you get to try to ruin my life and get me killed all the time?” Shizuo asks as he watches Izaya drunkenly play with his fingers.

“Not all the time,” Izaya says with a pout. “I just like your attention.”

“My attention?”

Izaya laughs, traces one of Shizuo's calluses with smooth fingers. “Wasn't it effective?”

“...Go the fuck to sleep, Izaya.” Shizuo still has a headache, but now he thinks it has less to do with loud noises and the alcohol he consumed earlier and more to do with Izaya being a weirdo. He remembers now why talking to Izaya is impossible. It's all riddles and lies and bullshit. It's much easier to just try to kill him.

“Do you think I'm lying to you?” Izaya asks.

“I know you are.” Shizuo glares as Izaya kicks his legs out, narrowly missing Shizuo.

“I'm not! I just—“ He pauses before a wicked grin spreads across his face, and Shizuo's hackles rise. He keeps his eyes peeled for the glint of a knife. “I never thanked you for saving me, did I?”

“As if you'd be sincere,” Shizuo says.

“I'll give Shizu-chan something! Something he's never had.”

“I don't want—“ Shizuo is suddenly yanked forward by Izaya, who is exhibiting more strength than he should have, but Shizuo has no time to think or say anything before he feels the softness of Izaya's mouth against his own.

It's impossibly gentle. Shizuo has never kissed anyone before, but before his mind can catch up with who he's kissing, he feels Izaya's hands thread through his hair, feels Izaya shift and move closer, and when Shizuo curls his fingers in Izaya's collar to throw him against the wall, he feels himself instead pulling Izaya closer, chasing after the softness of Izaya's lips when Izaya begins to pull back.

“Mm,” Izaya hums, licking his own lips. “How's that for sincerity?”

“Izaya—you...” Shizuo's mind catches up rapidly with what happened, and he feels anger he's never felt before overtake him. “What the fuck!”

“I can't be blamed for it being subpar, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says absently. “Kiss me when I'm sober, I'll make it up to you.” He crawls under the covers, clearly not the least bit worried about Shizuo or his wrath. “I'm sleepy now.”

Shizuo roars with rage, worries about the neighbors, and then gets even angrier. He storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him as he flops face-first into the couch, screaming into the cushions.

Fucking Izaya. In the morning, Shizuo is going to be as loud as possible, is going to torture a severely hungover flea, and then he's going to make Izaya wish he'd never been born. After that, he's going to beat the fuck out of Shinra for leaving this situation up to him. As it is, he realizes he has to make sure Izaya isn't sleeping on his back, because he needs Izaya to be alive in the morning to torture.

Shizuo slips back inside the room to find Izaya is curled on his side, his face buried in Shizuo's pillow. Shizuo grimaces as he considers sleeping on the floor. After the night he's had, he convinces himself he deserves to sleep in his own bed, and if Izaya has a problem with that, Izaya can fuck right off to Hell where he belongs.

Shizuo maintains as much distance between them as he can as he settles into the bed, but Izaya doesn't move at all and is clearly dead to the world. Shizuo relaxes and comforts himself with thoughts of vengeance in the morning, and is finally able to fall asleep.

The first thing Shizuo notices when he jerks awake is that he doesn't think he's slept much at all. The room is still pitch black aside from the light flooding under the door from the bathroom. The second thing he notices is that Izaya is gone, and there's an awful retching noise coming from the next room. Sighing, Shizuo gets up, and he finds Izaya throwing up violently into the toilet, but thankfully, there isn't vomit anywhere else, so at least Izaya made it this far.

“I hoped...” Izaya rasps, “that it was a dream...and I wasn't really here...”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says. He winces as the vomiting continues. He heads to the kitchen, grabs Izaya another glass of water, and then he picks up his cigarettes and goes back to the bathroom, setting the glass beside Izaya before sitting down on the floor near him and leaning against the wall of the bathroom doorway.

“What are you doing?” Izaya asks weakly. “This is gross enough without you seeing it.”

“Barf doesn't bother me,” Shizuo says as he lights his cigarette. “Kasuka used to get sick a lot. He didn't like being by himself.”

“So you...sat with him while he vomited?” Izaya asks with a weak laugh.

“No, dipshit. I sat with him afterwards, but it's not like you'll be done anytime soon.”

Izaya looks like he wants to argue, but then he's retching once more, and Shizuo shakes his head as he takes a deep drag on his cigarette.

“I guess this is revenge enough for you ruining my night,” Shizuo says. “I might still punch you later, though.”

“That would be fair,” Izaya says softly. He folds his arms over the seat of the toilet, rests his head in them, and adds, “I'm so glad your bathroom is clean.”

“As if you could complain if it wasn't.”

“Oh, I don't know. I'm good at complaining.”

Shizuo snorts and reaches over to pet Izaya's back in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. Kasuka used to appreciate it. If Izaya minds, he doesn't say so.

“I don't suppose you have a spare toothbrush?” Izaya asks after a few silent minutes. Shizuo frowns.

“No. I don't usually have people over.”

“Mouthwash?” Izaya prompts, and Shizuo shifts to look through his cabinet under the sink, putting his cigarette in his mouth to free his hands.

“I have this kind,” Shizuo says before handing Izaya the bottle.

“This is the alcohol free version,” Izaya notes with a clear look of distaste.

“I don't like the burning.”

“The burning is how you know it's working.”

“Use it and shut the hell up!” Shizuo snaps, and Izaya sighs before doing just that. He spits into the tub and then settles back with a groan, using his foot to flush the toilet.

“I should probably get going soon,” Izaya mutters.

“Are you okay now?”

“Well, I'm as sober as I'm going to get tonight. I'm more concerned about the massive hangover I have coming my way. I doubt either of us wants me trapped here all day—“

“Hey,” Shizuo says, almost interrupting Izaya, who glares at him for it. “How often does this happen to you?”

“The drugging? Only once before.” Izaya sips at the water Shizuo got for him.

“Did...anything happen?” Shizuo asks warily.

“I don't know. It was a long time ago.”

Shizuo's expression must speak volumes, because Izaya sighs before continuing.

“I met with a client about locating someone. The story sounded far-fetched to begin with, but he was offering a lot of money, and he seemed so ordinary that I didn't think about anything happening. When he offered me tea, I drank it. And then I woke up in an alleyway outside my apartment building the next day.”

“Flea...”

“I went to the hospital and they said it didn't look like...that had happened. But other things could have.” Izaya sips again at the water. “It doesn't matter. He's dead now, and I'm still alive.”

“So that means you won or something?” Shizuo asks warily.

Izaya shrugs. “Sure. But I wasn't the one who killed him. I didn't even have a hand in it, if you believe that. Turns out he killed someone's daughter, and her father was pretty high up in the Russian mafia. He got what he deserved, in the end. If anything it was my own fault for underestimating him and not looking into him further.”

“Something like that isn't your fault!” Shizuo snaps, and when Izaya grins at him, he feels his anger rising. “It's not, okay, that's victim blaming bullshit, and if he did something to you, it's because he was fucked up and it's not to do with you!”

“But Shizu-chan,” Izaya says playfully, “I thought everything wrong was to do with me.”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo says. “This is different.”

“Unfortunately, things like that happen and will always happen. I'm usually more careful about meeting people, but foolishly I believed Touma-san wouldn't try anything in public. I suppose it could have ended up a lot worse.”

“No shit,” Shizuo says.

“And this time, I didn't wake up all alone, after all.”

Shizuo looks to Izaya, expecting him to have a playful grin or a teasing leer, but as it is, Izaya is gazing down into his water glass thoughtfully.

“I suppose I said...things. I hope you can pretend I never said them,” Izaya says.

“How much do you remember?” Shizuo asks.

“Enough to be embarrassed. I'm sure that's pleasing for you.”

“You kissed me.”

Izaya makes a choking noise that would be comical if he didn't look so mortified. Shizuo knows he isn't imagining the blush spreading across Izaya's cheeks.

“Ah, okay, we can ignore that, if you want. I was drunk.”

“Fuck that,” Shizuo says. “That was my first kiss, asshole. Take responsibility. It wasn't even good.”

Izaya chokes again, with laughter this time, and Shizuo grins back at him stupidly. What a night it's been.

“I'm afraid I can't remedy that right now unless you want to kiss me when I just threw up,” Izaya says, and his smile is so genuine that Shizuo can't look away from it.

“Wouldn't taste much worse than the first time,” Shizuo says, and Izaya laughs again.

“How cruel! Okay, I deserve that. You really are getting in all your jokes now. I thought for sure you'd draw them out a while to torture me more.”

“I will. Pretty sure that was all I had.” Shizuo flicks his cigarette into the sink and runs water over it before standing and offering a hand to Izaya. “C'mon. You can sleep here and leave tomorrow.”

“You want me to be gross here all day?” Izaya asks, looking at Shizuo's hand much like he did the night before, with wonder.

“I'll take my chances.”

Izaya takes Shizuo's hand, and Shizuo leads him back to the bed. Neither of them comments on Shizuo flopping back beside him. Someone has to make sure Izaya doesn't choke to death on vomit still, even now. Shizuo doesn't trust that it's over, and clearly Izaya isn't taking it seriously.

He falls asleep much easier than he did the first time, and he wakes once to find he's tossed an arm over Izaya and nestled behind him. Blearily, he thinks to himself that Izaya's scent isn't bad, especially when it's mixed together with his own. He doesn't move, and he falls back into unconsciousness with the bite of Izaya's scent sharp on his tongue.

When he wakes again, Izaya is gone.

***

“Really, I was impressed, Shizuo-kun! I thought for sure when you called and said you were with Izaya-kun that you would kill him!”

Shizuo is at Shinra's and Celty's place, politely drinking tea while Celty goes off on Shinra for not telling her about what was happening that night. Shizuo knows she'll forgive Shinra. She always does.

“Have you checked on him? Izaya?” Shizuo asks, interrupting them. They both turn to him.

“Not since it happened. Izaya-kun will be fine. He's always fine.”

Something about that statement infuriates him, and when he stands, his teacup hits the floor, shattering as he advances on Shinra.

“What the fuck kind of friend are you?! He was drugged, could have been raped and killed, and you were so focused on having Celty that you didn't give a shit?! That's wrong. It's so fucking wrong! No one is fine after that!”

“Shizuo, please calm down!” Celty's PDA pleads with him, but he barely glances at it.

“I'd punch your face in, but you wouldn't understand why I was doing it,” Shizuo spits at Shinra, shoving him once, but even that's enough to make Shinra topple backwards. “I'm sorry,” he says to Celty. “But he shouldn't think what he did was okay.”

He leaves before they can say anything else to him, also before he can do more damage, and he doesn't even know why he cares so much. Izaya is awful, has ruined so many lives, including Shizuo's. But when he thinks back to all the shitty things, he sees Izaya's crying face as clear as day, feels the depth of that loneliness, because he's felt that way before too, like an outsider looking in no matter what he tries. And sure, it doesn't excuse or forgive anything, but after seeing an actual human side of Izaya, it's impossible to pretend he doesn't care at all.

His feet carry him home, and he's surprised to look up and see Izaya standing outside his door, a paper bag in hand.

“Ah, I hoped you'd still be out,” Izaya says, and he holds the bag up. “Your clothes. I washed them. I thought it was the least I could do.”

“Thanks,” Shizuo says, feeling dumb as he takes the bag. He can't stop staring at Izaya, who looks as he always does, infuriatingly smug and not a hair out of place.

“Right. Well, we can put this behind us now! Next time I see you, I'll fully expect you to be trying to bash my head in.” Izaya smirks at him before trying to walk around him, and Shizuo finds himself grabbing Izaya's coat sleeve.

“Wait. You still haven't accepted responsibility,” Shizuo blurts, and Izaya gazes up at him confusedly.

“About— oh. What would you like me to do? Let you punch me?”

“No, I already almost punched Shinra just now. I think punching is starting to lose its luster.” Shizuo keeps hold of Izaya, tries and fails to think of how to articulate what he wants. He isn't good with words, never has been, but for once in his life, Izaya being so damn perceptive comes in handy.

“I see. So then, would you accept dinner? On me, of course, to make up for my many transgressions.” Izaya's wearing that smile again, the real one, and Shizuo finds himself laughing.

“There isn't enough money in the world to buy enough food that you'd need for that,” Shizuo says, and his grip on Izaya morphs into something less harsh until it's more of a gentle touch on Izaya's arm than anything else.

“It might take a few dinners,” Izaya says, nodding in agreement.

“More than a few.”

“Well then,” Izaya says, turning and reaching behind himself to tug on Shizuo. “Shall we?”

#shizaya #Shizuo Heiwajima #Izaya Orihara #Roofies/date rape drug #this is probably the softest fic i can write of these babes lol #happy bday izaya here's some drugs

[7deadlycinderellas]

The Starks at War, 1941 part 2

AO3 link

(who knew all I needed was something called the “Abandoned WIP challenge to finish another chapter of this?)

Arya doesn’t stop shaking the whole way home, through to the next day. Asha accompanies her, sympathetic, but distant. The bus ride is hell.

When Arya walks through the front door, Jojen and Bran are playing cards, but stop immediately to look at her.

“Arya-” Bran starts, stuttering, “Mother?”

Arya feels a sob choke out, then get stuck halfway.

“How did you know?” Asha asks.

“Radio,” Bran says, pointing at the wireless set by the front window, “It said that the Germans hit a military hospital- the one we knew you were going to.” His voice suddenly becomes thick, and Arya realizes he sounds double his newly fifteen years.

“We were scared, we thought it might be both of you.”

Arya slumps down in her chair.

“It was stupid, really,” Jojen comments, “painting crosses on the roofs of all the hospitals. Just gave them something to aim at.”

“If half the stories out of France are true, it is our error to expect any kind of fair play from Nazis.”

Arya feels like she can barely move.

After a time, Asha stands to leave.

“I’ll spend the night at the inn and leave in the morning.”

She leans down to clap Arya on the shoulder.”

“You know where to reach me.”

Once Asha leaves, Arya slumps and clutches her face in her hands.

“I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it,” is all she can whisper to herself.

Autumn begins to turn over the coming weeks. Arya sleepwalks into it. Gilly ends up being the one who goes to the church to report. There are no remains to bury.

Sansa calls multiple times a week.

She keeps asking if they need her to come home. They all push her off. Winterfell isn’t home as it was, and they won’t bring her back if she is needed elsewhere.

She’s begun to settle in in London. The flat she shares with Margaery is tiny, just a bedroom and kitchen. The two beds they’ve managed to drag in barely have enough room between them to walk.The walls are papered, but it’s fading and peeling. The heating doesn’t always work, what with the coal shortages. Often at night, the two of them simply pull on all of their clothes before crawling into bed.

The tenement building’s shelter is outside. When the air raid sirens bellow, they have to shove on their slippers, grab their masks and barrel down the stairs among the other flat-dwellers. Praying that all they will hear is the sirens and not the whine of an incendiary or the gait shattering boom of an explosion before they manage to cram themselves inside.

Sansa’s begun adjusting to the work as well. She spends all day in the tiny gray office, editing and retyping papers, sometimes helping Margaery do translations. Sometimes, even work is interrupted by air raids.

She can’t stop thinking of what Catelyn would have said to see her now. With her short cut hair and simple office clothes, she looks nothing like the debutante she dreamed of being. This was not a world her or her mother would have even thought to be part of.

She’s good with idioms, her supervisor notes, so at least she can take pride in that. She was always good at French in school, longing one day to go there, to see the sights and the glamor for herself.

One night when they’re at home, eating some cobbled together vegetable medley, cooked in a pan, Margaery comments,

“I think I’m going to cut my hair. I’m sick of having to set the whole mess at night.”

Sansa nods. She had been surprised when watching Margaery do her hair the first time, to see how hard she worked to make it perfect. Without the curlers at night, one side would curl up perfectly, and the other would hang straight pin straight, stretched out by its length.

“They do say long hair is terribly old-fashioned.”

Margaery sighs when it’s finished, touching the ends as though she can’t believe it’s gone. But now the sides curl properly, and she won’t have to do anything but wash it and wrap it all up before bed.

“My mother used to put it up for me when I was little, the way she did when she went out,” she comments idly.

“You never told me what happened to your mother,” Sansa tells her, suddenly keenly feeling her own loss that she’s spent so much time shoving down deep inside.

“She died of the flu- not the big one, just the usual one- when I was ten. My father was never the same after that. I’m not sure any of us were.”

Sansa is quiet. She understands really. She’s almost appreciative that she hadn’t been at home most of this entire past year. She can’t imagine how her mother must have taken her father’s death. While the pair had never been the most demonstrative of their affections, their children were very secure in the fact that the two had loved each other, and that not all married couples were as lucky.

Margaery glances down at herself.

“She always wanted the best for me. Nothing specific, just that I would be happy and the best person I could be. She was the only one I think. Everyone else has their own ideas about who I am and exactly what I should aim for.”

“What do you want to do? What would make you happy?”

Margaery’s expression is pensieve.

“I wish I’d applied to go to university. I’d like to study political science. I’d like a proper little flat, near a park, one that’s not been bombed. Maybe I’ll marry, but only if I meet someone I want to. Maybe I will when the war is over.“

It has been strange, Sansa thinks, leaving school behind and seeing Margaery for who she really was. She had always thought they were friends, but here she’s stripped bare. She’s not a prefect, or head of the French club, or the beautiful polished girl Sansa had idolized. Here she chips her nails and ladders her stockings and forgets her hat just like everyone else.

That doesn’t mean Sansa doesn’t still look up to her though. She fits right in at the office, even with most of the others being London born girls who left school at fourteen and knew they would end up working if they didn’t marry. Many of them were pleased to work in an office, rather than in a factory, or worse, in service. Sansa sometimes feels tongue tied around them, and not just because the Starks have always had a few people employed in service.

Before October, both of them get letters inviting them for an interview with the same Baelish that Margaery had said recognized Sansa’s name. The instructions have them both come to a tiny, bare bones hotel room during lunch hour. Sansa’s stomach grumbles while she’s outside waiting  for Margaery to finish her turn. Her stomach is not eased by her own interview.

Petyr Baelish isn’t a tall man. Sansa’s used to looking most grown men in the eye, and finds that when he stands, she’s actually looking more at his hairline. He has dark hair, going somewhat gray, a neat mustache and an overall aura of having everything under his control.  

He asks her dozens of questions, some of which she doesn’t even understand. But by the time it’s done, she has a job offer.

And a new, horrifying, realization, about the nature of the office where she’s been working.

Her and Margaery both, are, on paper, enlisted in the FANY, the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. In practice, they were brought aboard the organization that became known as SOE for secret operations, and being sent to Scotland for their training.

Sansa cringes at the slightest thought of what her mother would say. But her mother is dead now, and this gives her the slightest hope for vengeance. Vengeance. That was one of those words so beloved in those awful twopenny comics Arya and Bran devoured.

It doesn’t take long before she wonders what on earth she was thinking by accepting.

Even reaching the training school is rough. The terrain in Scotland is difficult. By the time they reach the facility, they are all exhausted, hungry, soaked through with rain and covered in scratches. And when they reach it, the real fun begins.

Sansa never once in her life thought she would someday learn to shoot a gun, or disarm a man, or be required to carry a suicide pill. These skills are not second nature to her, so she has to work at it. When her eyes threaten to prick full of tears and her throat threatens to close up, she thinks of her mother’s face, dead now for no reason, and no one coming to save her, or Sansa or anyone. No one is coming to save them.

She learns to parrot back the goal they are told. To resist the enemy by any means necessary. There aren’t a great many women in training with them, but there are far more than Sansa would have expected. Too many in England have lost loved ones in this war. Too many have seen their homes destroyed.

Learning telegraphy and morse code are much easier, even if they are still totally foreign skills for her. She goes back through Arya’s letters, remembering her speaking of learning these things for Girl Guides. These at least, don’t make the bile rise in the back of Sansa’s throat at even the thought of using them.

One night, she sits on the end of her bed and puts her head in her hands. Margaery has the bunk above her. There are bunks here, it’s like being back at school again.

“What’s wrong?”

Sansa’s shoulders slump as she responds.

“All I can think is how much my younger sister would prefer learning all of this than me. She always loved science fiction and pulp magazines and those awful two-penny adventure comics. And when I called home last, she sounded so angry...she needs to feel like she’s contributing as much as us, but she can’t. She’s sixteen, she’s tiny and she’s stuck at home still.”

Margaery frowns, deep in thought.

“Your sister Arya...you said she’s only sixteen?”

Sansa nods.

“She’ll be seventeen at the beginning of next year.”

“Then let her be a child if she can still, we don’t know how long this war will last. Besides, from your stories, she always sounded like such an impulsive and ill-refined girl.”

Sansa sniffs. Her stories had always been terribly unfair to Arya. She might still prefer running about outside, but she hadn’t thrown a tantrum in ages, and the shouting and even the insults were a thing of the long past. They might never have been as close as sisters in Jane Austen novels, but they hadn’t fought each other in so long.

Except when they did.

“She is.”

Margaery smiles, and plays with one of her gloves.

“Know why Baelish had been head-hunting us?”

Sansa shakes her head.

“Because aristocratic women are good at a great deal more than picking out dresses and fixing their hair. We know manners, and pick up rules of etiquette with ease. We are good at talking to people and getting them to tell us things. And we are excellent at keeping up appearances under pressure.”

Sansa nods, and tries to put on her face.

And it is very easy to see why Margaery was selected. Her French is perfect and she has a great deal of knowledge of French geography, culture and fashion. Information that it turns out, Sansa has picked up quite easily having hung on Margaery’s words when she was just the glamorous school prefect.

And it’s so much easier to keep her face on in the dorms than out in the training field with a weapon in her hands.

One of the instructor’s compliments Sansa on her accent.

“A bit breathy, true, but the disguise of an excited young girl can be very handy. Very few would doubt the intentions of one.”

When the both of them get near to finishing training, Baelish’s assessment claims they would both make excellent radio operators. Even Sansa’s not naive enough to believe that’s a safe occupation, like Baelish insists. Mum had seemed fond enough of him, but Sansa doesn’t trust something in his gaze.

This is what sticks in Sansa’s mind as Margaery and her are sent off to parachute school. The first day of training, she stares out the window and wishes she were more like Arya.

That same day, Arya gets the telegram.

The months since Mother had died were hell. Arya has kept up with the girl guides when she could. She helps out with the WVS, who seems nearly as lost without Catelyn as she does. She helps Bran stumble through the paperwork needed to keep the family affairs in order. She tries to help Gilly with little Sam and Weasel.

She writes Gendry whenever she can. His letters are always so sweet, so understanding, but he can’t write often. And she doesn’t know if her own letters actually capture even half of what she feels.

He writes that he wishes he could come see her, but the Navy is stingy with leave, and when he gets a day, he’s stationed too far away to make the train ride south in the time given. Sometimes, selfishly, Arya wishes she could ask him to come anyway, but she can’t. She won’t get him in trouble because of her.

The day the telegram comes, she’s about to burst as it is. It’s only a few days after America has entered the war, wrapping her mind around that was hard enough.

She’s in the kitchen, staring at the paper when the others trickle in for lunch.

Bran notices first, Arya’s stony white face.

“What now?” he asks.

Arya’s hands are holding the card still, but her fingers are shaking.

“It’s Robb,” her voice says, low, dead. “His plane was shot down over France. They have no idea what’s become of him.”

Without meeting his eye, she hands the telegram to Bran, puts her hands on the table. Then she lays her face down on top of them and cries.

None of them could have known what was going down in France at the moment.

Robb was a competent pilot. He wasn’t a natural like Jon was, but he was good enough. This was very little comfort when his plane was currently on fire and quickly losing altitude.

He tried to radio out assistance, but the controls are dead. Robb’s head is throbbing from where it slammed against the inside of the cockpit and he can hardly think. It’s only through sheer luck that he manages to get his parachute on and leap from the rapidly descending plane and pray as he bails out for the ground.

The air rushes around him for only a split second it seems before he collides with the ground so hard that it feels like he’s being manhandled. He thinks he hears something crack, but he can’t stop to think. All he sees is blurs, all he hears is ringing and all he smells is blood and smoke. He tries to stand and run, but his body isn’t listening.

Eventually, one of those blurs comes closer, and grabs him, by the arm, pulling roughly. His legs screech in protest, his lungs wail, but it keeps pulling, and eventually the world begins to return to him.

The figure pulling him, he eventually sees is a woman. Young, perhaps in her twenties, with dark hair. She wears a heavy, dark green coat and her footsteps are heavy.

Eventually, the image of a barn comes into sight. The woman pulling him stops, moves something, and the next that Robbs knows, he’s being shoved into what seems like a hole in the ground.

“Stay quiet. Don’t make a sound until I come back for you. Not a single word, or you’re dead.”

Robb tries to stop himself from blacking out, but he doesn’t succeed.

When he comes to, he takes inventory of his surroundings. Dirt, a lot of dirt. A couple of what look like potatoes in one corner. A root cellar, most likely. The inhales and all he can smell is dirt too. His leg is on fire, and much of his skin is too. He fears when he wakes up fully, the pain will be so bad it makes him pass out again.

He can hear people outside, somewhere, faintly. He follows the woman’s advice and pretends he’s dead. He hears planes overhead, and gunfire too. He hopes his squadmates are alright.

Robb’s not sure how long it is before the cellar door cracks open and he jumps, squawking in pain, but the woman from before pulls him out again and leads him to the farmhouse.

“I told them where I saw your plane go down. I told them I saw it on fire and was worried about the trees in the wood. I didn’t say anything about your chute, I burned it in the hearth.”

After she leads him in and lays him upon a wooden chair, she retrieves a glass and tells him to drink the liquid inside. It’s bitter, and he sputters, but she pushes it to his lips again, and after that, he fades in and out.

When he finally wakes, there’s the sound of a kettle whistling.

“Not real tea, I’m afraid, but dried mint is good enough to pretend.”

She sits across from him. Even still in pain, Robb can’t help but notice that she’s lovely. He sips the mint tea and tries not to choke.

When he finally gathers the mindfulness to speak, he picks his first question carefully.

“What’s your name?”

The woman sighs, before taking her own cup and sitting in the other chair.

“Talisa.”

“Talisa,” he says, feeling the name on his tongue, “I’m Robb.”

“I suppose we should use each other’s Christian names, given we’re going to be stuck here together for at least six weeks” she admits. Then she gestures at Robb’s leg, which she has immobilized with splints and thick rolls of bandage cloth. “Don’t try and move. I couldn’t set a proper cast, but I did my best. Don’t ruin all my hard work.” Dimly, Robb realizes he is covered in cuts that are also bandaged.

Robb is flush with gratitude.

“Thank you,” he says. He examines her bandaging. “Are you a nurse?”

Talisa nods.

“I was going to be, before-” she waves her arm out, “All of this.”

Robb glances around the farmhouse, and realizes the place is empty, but has the signs of other people having lived here before. Four chairs around the table, more cups than one person would need.

“Do you live here by yourself?”

Talisa nods, sadly.

“My father died when I was young, of a fever. I was born in Guernica. When Franco bombed it, me, my mother and my brother escaped and fled here. My father was French, so getting asylum was easier.”

“Guernica,” Robb muses, rolling the word around in his mouth, wondering where he’s heard it. “That’s in Spain right?”

Talisa purses her lips before answering.

“I guess it was too much to expect England to have reported too much on our own little war. But yes, Guernica is in Spain. The three of us came here and worked this farm. Then the Germans came. It had barely been three years. Seems like such a little time of peace.”

She turns away, and Robb chooses not to press her.

“Once your leg heals enough, I’ll pass you off to the resistance, and they can see about getting you home.”

“The German’s won’t get suspicious of you?” Robb asks. He doesn’t want to bring any trouble to her.

“That’s no matter,” she insists, “It’s not like you can go anywhere on your own, and anything I can do to be a thorn in the side of the Third Reich, the better.”

Talisa drains her cup at this point, pushing it back down against the table, and briefly shuts her eyes.

“It’s probably not good to admit, but I am happy that at least I’ll have someone here to talk to this Christmas.”

Christmas, Robb thinks. He hadn’t even realized.

Christmas 1941 is hellish for his own family.

Jon can barely eat any of the Christmas dinner the servicemen are given. It feels like ashes in his gut.

Sansa is given a break over Christmas, but the next day is when they’re supposed to be given their first parachute lessons. She cries herself to sleep, in fear. Fear for herself, fear for her brother. In her more fanciful moments, she imagines parachuting into France and one day bumping into him on the street. Perhaps he’d lost his memory, she wonders, her mind a Hollywood fantasy.

Arya and Bran are still at Winterfell.

Bran is overwhelmed. The work that has been left in his lap threatens to consume him, even as he had wished so hard to be useful.

Arya feels nearly dead inside.

The past two Christmases without Robb and Jon had been bad enough, but at least there were his letters. Now she can’t read them without wondering if they’re the last she will ever receive.

On Christmas Eve, no tree, no lights, no Christmas dinner, Arya stares out her bedroom window. Father, Mother, Robb gone. Jon, Sansa and Gendry far too far away. Bran overwhelmed, even Gilly, Sam and Weasel ash-faced.

They see Rickon so little it’s as though he’s slipped away.

It hardly feels like Christmas at all.

Maybe it would be better if she weren’t here too. One less mouth to poorly feed.

She leaves her bicycle, and her books. She takes Gendry’s letters, and she wonders if she’ll be able to receive any more of them.

The day Arya turns seventeen, she calls Asha Greyjoy, asking if her offer still stands.

#game of thrones #A Song of Ice and Fire #fic #ww2 au

[budgie2budgie]

 -GET TO KNOW ME-

You have to make a simself and put whatever you wish there, traits, anything about you.  After the keep reading thingy are +100 questions I found that you can answer if you want, but you don’t have to (it’s tiring as hell) 

tagged by @xrattrap & @twinklepixels, <3 

tagging: @thesimsblues, @magnasimblr, @floppant, @anotherplumbob, @eslanes no pressure! it’s hard work! lol

1. What is your full name? mia 2. What is your nickname? budgie? 3. Birthday? feb 5 4. What is your favorite book series? uhm.. *blank* 5. Do you believe in aliens or ghosts? no..? 6. Who is your favorite author? liv strömquist 7. What is your favorite radio station? spotify’s weekly discovery... 8. What is your favorite flavor of anything? lemon 9. What word would you use often to describe something great or wonderful? super 10. What is your current favorite song? lux prima - karen o 11. What is your favorite word? so many... lol 12. What was the last song you listened to? slow dancing in the dark - joji, i blame @floppant​ 13. What TV show would you recommend for everybody to watch? i love dick! 14. What is your favorite movie to watch when you’re feeling down? *blank* 15. Do you play video games? duh! 16. What is your biggest fear? losing people (and animals) i love 17. What is your best quality, in your opinion? i’m good at picking my fights 18. What is your worst quality, in your opinion? way too lazy 19. Do you like cats or dogs better? cats 20. What is your favorite season? early spring 21. Are you in a relationship? yes 22. What is something you miss from your childhood? my granny 23. Who is your best friend? N 24. What is your eye color? Blue 25. What is your hair color? blackbrowngrey 26. Who is someone you love? oh so many 27. Who is someone you trust? my man 28. Who is someone you think about often? my niece, she’s the best 29. Are you currently excited about/for something? yes, konstfacks’ (art school) christmas market tomorrow :) 30. What is your biggest obsession? music, food, sims - in that order 31. What was your favorite TV show as a child? oh, probably somthing that teached out “make your own barbie bathtub out of a milk carton” 32. Who of the opposite gender can you tell anything to, if anyone? my brother 33. Are you superstitious? nah 34. Do you have any unusual phobias? no? 35. Do you prefer to be in front of the camera or behind it? behind 36. What is your favorite hobby? pottery and sims 37. What was the last book you read? stoner - j. williams 38. What was the last movie you watched?  20th century women on netflix 39. What musical instruments do you play, if any? a tiny tiny bit piano 40. What is your favorite animal?  cats 41. What are your top 5 favorite Tumblr blogs that you follow? i have more favorites than that! 42. What superpower do you wish you had? teleporting 43. When and where do you feel most at peace?  swimming in “our” summer lake 44. What makes you smile? the end of this video! 45. What sports do you play, if any? sports... ugh, running, RARELY, and sometimes i go to my friend’s yoga class... other than that, nothing :/ 46. What is your favorite drink? hot - coffee! cold - beer 47. When was the last time you wrote a hand-written letter or note to somebody? thursday, to my colleague 48. Are you afraid of heights? nope, or ok maybe if i had to walk on a glass floor on the 122th floor 49. What is your biggest pet peeve? greediness 50. Have you ever been to a concert? yes! it’s my favorite thing to do! 51. Are you vegan/vegetarian? yes 52. When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up? a dentist lol 53. What fictional world would you like to live in? - 54. What is something you worry about? my sick cat :( 55. Are you scared of the dark? yes, and i hate being that 56. Do you like to sing? yes, but only when i’m alone! 57. Have you ever skipped school? oh yeah 58. What is your favorite place on the planet? our summer cottage 59. Where would you like to live? in a bigger city somewhere else, toronto (fav) or NY, or belfast, loved belfast. 60. Do you have any pets? two cats 61. Are you more of an early bird or a night owl? night owl 62. Do you like sunrises or sunsets better? sunrises. 63. Do you know how to drive? NO! O_O i’m a biker 64. Do you prefer earbuds or headphones? headphones 65. Have you ever had braces? no 66. What is your favorite genre of music? singer-songwriters 67. Who is your hero? there are so many cool people out there, cheers to them all! 68. Do you read comic books? yes 69. What makes you the most angry? small-minded people 70. Do you prefer to read on an electronic device or with a real book? paper! 71. What is your favorite subject in school? art 72. Do you have any siblings? half siblings: 2 brothers, 1 sister 73. What was the last thing you bought? a kimono online! 74. How tall are you? 166cm 75. Can you cook? yes. 76. What are three things that you love? clay, pop-up books, new music. 77. What are three things that you hate? racism, intolerance and animal abuse <- what rat said 78. Do you have more female friends or more male friends? female 79. What is your sexual orientation? straight 80. Where do you currently live? sweden 81. Who was the last person you texted? my dad 82. When was the last time you cried? last week 83. Who is your favorite YouTuber? - 84. Do you like to take selfies? no. 85. What is your favorite app? uhm... instagram? 86. What is your relationship with your parent(s) like? “normal” 87. What is your favorite foreign accent? french 88. What is a place that you’ve never been to, but you want to visit? japan! 89. What is your favorite number? - 90. Can you juggle? no 91. Are you religious? nope 92. Do you find outer space or the deep ocean to be more interesting? the ocean 93. Do you consider yourself to be a daredevil? not really 94. Are you allergic to anything? no 95. Can you curl your tongue? yes 96. Can you wiggle your ears? no 97. How often do you admit that you were wrong about something? every time, if that’s the case 98. Do you prefer the forest or the beach? beach 99. What is your favorite piece of advice that anyone has ever given you? hm, *blank* 100. Are you a good liar? maybe? ;) 101. What is your Hogwarts House? hufflepuff 102. Do you talk to yourself? all the time 103. Are you an introvert or an extrovert? both! 104. Do you keep a journal/diary? i have a bullet journal 105. Do you believe in second chances? yes 106. If you found a wallet full of money on the ground, what would you do? celebrate! jk, probably try to find the owner? 107. Do you believe that people are capable of change? yes 108. Are you ticklish? yes 109. Have you ever been on a plane? yes 110. Do you have any piercings? in my ears 111. What fictional character do you wish was real? O_o... *blank* 112. Do you have any tattoos? no, only because i can’t decide what i want to have on my body FOREVER 113. What is the best decision that you’ve made in your life so far? made a bold move even tho i was scared 114. Do you believe in karma? yes, and she’s a bitch 115. Do you wear glasses or contacts? contacts 116. Do you want children? nope 117. Who is the smartest person you know? my friend S 118. What is your most embarrassing memory? ugh, do we have to? 119. Have you ever pulled an all-nighter? yes 120. What color are most of you clothes? black 121. Do you like adventures? sometimes 122. Have you ever been on TV? no 123. How old are you? what did you say? 124. What is your favorite quote? “i'm steady on my feet till it hit me on my teeth“ 125. Do you prefer sweet or savory foods? both, sometimes at the same time.

#non sims #saviorhide #me me me #this took FOREVER

[praphit]

The End: (Spoiler Free!)

I promise! NO SPOILERS! Though, I must say, if you're trying to avoid spoilers, you're currently doing a terrible job of it.

Plus, you havent seen it yet? What's wrong with you?! Quit fooling around with me and go now!

But, I digress.

"Part of the journey is the end"

We never want anything good to end. We never want anything to end badly.

I would say that this movie is about how we journey more so than how we end, but I'll get to that later.

Let's start off by paying homage to the beginning:

RDJ (Tony Stark)

- This dude had fallen off the map (at the time) - he had fallen off the wagon, the wall, the chain, the train, the mountain... if one could fall off of it, he was doing so , but Marvel put their confidence in him. No one knew how successful this whole thing was going to be. Not only were they trying to sell us a previously precarious actor, but a character who's a self-centered asshole... who profited off of war.

But, BOOM, Iron Man showed us that being an asshole could look good and make a lot of money.

CAPT AMERICA

- played by Chris Evans who had already failed as a superhero. 

But, more than that, just look at Capt

He looks ridiculous. He's corny. A lil self-righteous. And who fights with a frickin shield? He was a military man, so he has access to all kinds of weapons (not to mention all that I'm sure Tony Stark would make for him), but nope! - he says "Gimme me a shield; that's all I need!" In fact, that's a lil cocky now that I think about it. Plus, they had just showed us that being rich asshole was the way to go, now this (the opposite)?

BUT, America is short on solid leadership. We're crying out for someone to consistently believe in; not perfection, but someone who's at least all in. Marvel gave us that in Capt. Over time, we grew to love this man. Not to mention, that beard he rocked, 

and the ass of America (you’ll get that later).

Idk about y'all, but I'd follow Capt anywhere. If Chris Evans were to dress up like Capt America, and recruit people for a war (any war), I'd legit go! He IS Captain America to me.

SCARJO as Black Widow... how do I put this?

In the beginning, she was simply a pair of boobs in tight black. 

Now, I don't mean that's actualy what she was, but that's how many saw her. Black Widow carried with her the power to be objectified, and not just by men. I can remember when there were rumors that women in the industry were jealous of Scarjo, saying she's only getting quality roles cuz she's a pretty face.

She proved the doubters wrong though. She is and has been a great actress! Black Widow is seen now with the respect that she has always deserved. Honestly, if I can't have Capt lead me, my second choice is Widow.

We can go on and on, right??

HULK - we had two Hulk failures before Mark Ruffalo, but he has played him perfectly, and they finally got the Hulk right.

Hawkeye... 

Well, I kinda feel like his superpower is being lame, so that's ok :) There's one in every group. And can we all agree that bow and arrows as a main weapon is just stupid? Dude, there are people shooting guns at you! You've gotta take the time to pick out the correct arrow, aim, and... you know what?? never mind. He's Black Widow's boy, so he's alright with me. And it adds to my point that no one knew this would work.

And who knew that Chris Hemsworth would end up being their comedy anchor??

I never thought the Thor movies would work. I never thought that The Avengers movie would work (no way they could make all of the characters work together in a movie), but I have never been so wrong:)

We've laughed with them and cried with them, and were brought to the end by Thanos' snap with them. 

I can still remember what the theatre felt like after leaving "Infinity War" - people felt lost, confused, and kinda angry Not me of course, I was that jerk rooting for Thanos:) In "Infinity War" we got to see Thanos' side of the war. He doesn't see himself as a villain. I agree with his philosophy of balance.

Now, I would never choose him over The Avengers. I feel like the Avengers would make good bosses. They'd have bonuses, allow for a union (maybe), and definitely have pizza parties. Thanos might appreciate my loyalty and sacrifice me (literally) for higher production in the same breath.

One might say "Why not use the stones to create more resources?" I'd reply "But, then we don't learn anything."

The team definitely learned some hard lessons here. But, that brings us to this part of the journey "The End" -

Who do you blame? Do we just look at Thanos as the villain? Do we go with "Shit Happens"? A will of a higher power? Or are the Avengers culpable in anyway? It's all up for debate.

Anyway,

I break down this movie into four acts -

1 - ? (something I won't share:) 2 - Dealing with loss 3 - Hope 4 - Action (most of it is saved for the end - this is mainly a drama)

FIRST, the act I won't be talking about. Instead... many had theories and wishes going into this film, allow me to share some of mine.

I was hoping for a revelation that Thanos has been Stan Lee the whole time.

He rips off his mask in Mission Impossible fashion. We find out that he did the snap to get rid of characters that he really didn't care for. The Avengers respect Stan so much that they don't try to fight him, instead they simply move on. In doing so, Tony and Capt America realize their love for one another. Tony decides he'd rather marry Capt over Potts (his current fiance). This makes Potts furious and she storms off.

They have a big wedding with a shawarma reception. The ants from Ant Man perform at the wedding. 

Meanwhile, Potts teams up with Thanos aka Stan Lee, they gather all of characters forgotten in each series:

Natalie Portman, Jennifer Connelly (not her fault that old Hulk movie sucked), Terrance Howard... so on and so forth.

Stan Lee, Potts, and the scorned attack The Avengers, and there's an epic battle to bg music by Drake. 

PERFECTION RIGHT?!! I'm not saying that any of that happens, but I'm not saying that it doesn't.

2nd Act - Loss

Like I said, this is mainly a drama. They do a really good job (as always) at pulling out the humanity in these characters. All of the team are dealing with loss. Some remain strong on the outside, some move on, some move on poorly, some become self-destructive, etc.

The humanity in that is something we can all relate to. Loss is something that we all continue to experience and learn how to cope with every day. They're painting this real picture with a comic book series. Crazy, right??

Big help from great actors though.

RDJ always brings it; no surprise there. But, for me, Chris Evans and Scarjo shine the brightest as far as bringing the drama. Seriously, when Scarjo cries we cry.

Act 3 is about hope.

... even if that hope may be false. Again the humanity brought out in the characters here is what makes it work. Hope is an interesting thing -  Some deny it, some embrace it, some don't want it, some twist it, etc.

And again the acting and writing in this area is superb. I include the writing as well, cuz they know how to blend in humor with all of this tragedy. Chris Hemsworth is the man here! He is the rock of comedy in this movie. And I can't say enough about Mark Ruffalo - in fact I've knighted him as one of my dads. He's perfect for the role, but don't you also just want to play catch with him?

I just want to go to a ball game with Mark Ruffalo; am I alone in that? - probably:)

Lastly, we have act 4 - ACTION

And while this is mostly a drama, they make up for it at the end. Now, Marvel has that formula, and they stick to it here. They find everyone they can (who's still alive), CG them up to the max, and toss them in the ring. - And I don't say this in a bad way. Sometimes, the big CG ending in these types of movies ends up being a lil overwhleming or not well thought out, but not here - the writing and the choreography and the CG continue to hold up through the end.

The funny thing about all of the people that they throw in is some of them you probably won't even remember. Some of them don't have any lines - you just see them fighting in the background. Some people only show up to stand there in silence (what an easy day of work).

Everything leading up to a fitting poetic end.

Grade: A

The end was dope, but it's all about the journey, baby! We don't have too much control over when or how the story is going to end. You never know what could happen: sickness, drivers who simultaneously text, aliens (honestly, that's how I wanna go... battling aliens), our doppelgangers eliminating us and stealing our identities (a growing concern for most), ghosts...

I came across this pic while looking for ghosts 

- THAT is a sexy ass ghost. Cheer up, fellah, I think she digs you! If ghost start killing people by means of paranormal sexiness, perhaps I'd sign up. If only we got to decide how we go.

But, no one talks about the end of our lives, people reflect on the life journeyed  - unless you die in some hilarious manner

Some of us will be like Iron Man - starting out an asshole, but becoming a hero.

Some like Groot - your life gets blown up and you get to start fresh

Some will become something a bit mutated due to the sins of others

Some will get tagged on to the adventures of others cuz they shine so brightly :)

Still others will start lame, get lamer, and die lame :)

Hell of a movie. It's been a hell of a journey. Thanks, Avengers peeps!

#The Avengers #avengers endgame #john praphit #praphitproductions.com #Scarlett Johansson #Chris Evans #mark ruffalo #robert downey jr #tony stark #praphit #marvel #Marvel Comics #movies #Movie Reviews #lessons for life #samuel l jackson #thor #chris hemsworth #ghosts #Thanos

[katie-dub]

The Princess of White Chapel (8/12)

Dr Killian Jones is having a terrible day. He’s got a mission, he’s got a time machine, he’s got … drunk. What could possibly go wrong?

AO3 | Tumblr

Rated M for alcohol use, violence, minor character death, frank discussions of depression and grief.

Thank you all for reading, liking and reblogging. I loved your amazing responses to the last chapter, I get a kick out of seeing what you think! I love this chapter - in fact, from here on out I love all the chapters - shit’s about to get real guys! My betas @ultraluckycatnd and @distant-rose made every chapter of this fic better - never more so than this one, which is full of London details that I couldn’t have included without help. @princesse-swan made my header - thank you to the @captainswanbigbang mods for matching us up, I couldn’t have asked for a better artist! 

Now on with the show...

The first thing Killian noticed upon waking up on Saturday morning was the refreshing breeze tickling his nose and filling the room. When he'd gone to sleep the air was heavy, an impending storm looming over the city. But somehow the air had cleared without a crack of lightning or peal of thunder. He might have been suspicious at the sudden change if he weren't so grateful for the reprieve.

For the first time in forever he could breathe easily (or perhaps it was only since last Tuesday, not that the British were ever needlessly melodramatic about the weather). Air. Sweet, fresh air. He greedily gulped it down.

The second thing was the soft chink of crockery bumping together. Emma.

He opened his eyes and sat up slowly, peering over the back of the sofa at her. She was rifling through the mugs in his cupboard and he watched, fascinated, as she searched for some unknown treasure.

Despite needing to reach up into the cupboard, she was stiff and tense, pausing often to just listen. She's like a frightened animal, he thought, on the alert for an imminent attack.

At one point two mugs knocked together with particular force resulting in a large crash. She tensed further still, shoulders flying up and slightly crumpling in on herself in what could only be described as a full-body wince. She froze, listened hard, damn near stopped breathing. She waited. Waited. Killian found himself mimicking her and hardly daring to breathe, not willing to share that she had already woken him, too intrigued by what he was seeing. Then after an agonisingly long few seconds she moved again and he too breathed a sigh of relief.

He could tell the moment that she found her treasure. The tension was gone instantly and she punched the air, doing a little wiggle of excitement. She grabbed her holy grail and pulled it out. It was a large white mug that curved inward at the base. The words “would you like an adventure now or shall we have our tea first” were emblazoned across it in an elegant handwritten scrawl. He couldn't help but laugh that this ridiculous gift from Belle - who knew his affection for Peter Pan (even if he did have an intense dislike for the eponymous character) - was her object of desire.

He realised his mistake at once.

She froze. He cringed. Busted, seemed to be their simultaneous thought.

Emma turned around slowly, hugging the mug to her. “How long were you watching me? Why didn't you tell me that you were awake?” she questioned, her accusing tone hard to ignore.

“Just a moment!” was his defensive reply, a moment too long, you creep, his inner demon hissed at him. “I didn't want to - I didn't mean -” he sighed and started over. “I'm sorry. I was trying not to startle you and honestly I was curious about what you were so desperate to find, but that was kinda creepy and, yeah, I shouldn't have done that. I don't want to make you uncomfortable.” Stop talking you babbling buffoon!

He expected Emma to lash out at him, perhaps remind him of some boundaries, but to his surprise she simply blushed and set the mug on the counter.

“Oh it's nothing,” she brushed off, “that's just the perf- a good size. For tea. If you happen to like that sort of thing.” She shrugged and slumped back against the counter in such a forced gesture it was almost comical, a parody of nonchalance.

Killian eyed her thoughtfully, realising that she wasn't used to having nice things. Or not used to being allowed to keep them. “You have it, love,” Emma's eyes lit up but she simply shrugged again, trying desperately to convey utter indifference. He knew only an equally strong display of indifference from him would induce her to accept it now. “I don't much care for it anyway, Belle should have known better than to get me a mug with that demon Peter Pan's words written on it.”

“He comes to your realm too?” she gasped in horrified amazement, the mug temporarily forgotten.

“Err, no? I just don't like the character in the book.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Perhaps that's just lingering bitterness on my part that he didn't steal me from - from normal life.” He had inadvertently almost revealed too much of his sorry beginnings in life, perhaps after feeling as though he intruded on Emma, she deserved his vulnerability.

But this felt too much.

Something about her though loosened his tongue, he felt a strong kinship with her that he could not explain. What could he possibly have in common with a princess? And why did she have that look in her eyes that he so often saw reflected in the mirror - the look of an orphan? She was a mystery. One he couldn’t solve without giving up his own secrets. But he wasn’t ready yet - maybe he wouldn’t ever be.

“So, you want to go get some new clothes this morning?” He asked, breezing past the awkward moment.

“I don’t need any - I’ll be fine in what I have.”

“Didn’t we cover this last night? Hardly seems fitting for a bad ass motherfucker to go around saving the realm looking like they might be doing a walk of shame.” Emma’s eyes narrowed at his words. He couldn’t be sure if his meaning was unclear or if she was just deeply unimpressed by it, but he felt the need to clarify. “Not that I think a lady should be judged by her clothing - never judge a book and all that - I just think that something more practical might be helpful.” Plus the tabloids will have a fucking field day if they catch sight of her performing magic while scantily clad, he thought. Right or wrong, this society was obsessed with women’s clothes and she didn’t deserve to be attacked over something that held no bearing over her ability to help.

“You’re right. I just feel like I owe you so much. Everything that you’re doing - that you’ve done. It’s a lot.”

“I’m not sure if I can ever do enough to make up for taking you from your realm. Possibly forever.”

There was the smallest grimace of pain that flashed across her face at his words. The most fleeting microexpression. If he weren’t studying her so intently he might never have noticed. But he was and he did and he felt sick at hurting this wonderful person. “This isn’t forever.”

“No?”

“I believe you can do this.”

Bloody hell, he didn’t deserve this utter faith in him. He’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone so completely on your side, to just know that he would do the right thing. That he could fix this. It had been so long since he’d had this.

Since Milah.

And once again he was stuck in a cycle of shame. Distressed at letting Milah down. He’d forgotten her. No. Not forgotten. But he’d lost her inside his stupid brain that couldn’t figure out how to save her or how to keep her memories fresh and alive.

Stop it.

He couldn’t do this again, not right now. He needed to break free of this cycle of shame, torment, and regret that was making him sick, keeping him stuck.

He took a deep breath of that clear, sweet, fresh air and closed his eyes. He felt a light touch on his arm. He started and looked back up into Emma’s disconcerted face.

“You okay in there?” she asked. “All this faith can be pretty intense, can’t it?”

He nodded slowly, intrigued. He’d found himself beginning to think of her as an open book to him - it never occurred to him that he might look the same to her.

“I think we understand each other pretty well, you and I. You think that I’m - what was it you said - marvellous? something like that? You’re so sure that I can just do this all so well, and that’s really … great. But that doesn’t make this less scary because what if I can’t? You want me to trust that you’re right. Well, this is me saying to you that you should trust me. It’s ok if you don’t believe that you can sort all this out, because I’ll believe in you enough for the both of us, got it?”

Killian felt embarrassingly close to tears at Emma’s emotional plea.

God this was one of the things that he missed most about having a partner. Milah’s support meant everything to him, and even when he didn’t - couldn’t - believe in himself she was always there for him. He’d lost so much when she died, and not just because she was gone, but because he shut himself off from the possibility of having someone else be there for him. He couldn’t let her be dead, he needed her not to be dead, so he tried to will her back into existence. And now that he was finally beginning to really come to terms with her loss - to accept that perhaps there was someone else who could be a true partner to him - he would have to lose her too.

The universe was laughing at him.

The universe felt a lot like Gold with his stupid high pitched giggle. He wanted to punch the universe in the goddamn face. Or maybe that was just Gold. But for once he wanted to show the universe, or Gold, or whoever that he could be better than this, that he wouldn’t be destroyed again.

He was ready to heal.

“Yeah, let’s do this. Don’t stop believing, hold on to that feeling.” He tried to be serious, but he smirked at the stupid reference, even if he was going to have the Glee rendition of that song in his head for the rest of the day.

Emma cocked her head to the side. “Why do I feel like you’re quoting something at me?”

His smirk turned to a laugh. “Because I am.”

She punched the air in delight. “I’m getting good at recognising these references of yours,” she said with a cheesy grin over her face. “Now, can we stop with all this serious talk and eat something? I’m starving.”

It took them far longer than it should have to get going that day - lingering over breakfast and both having lazy showers as though they didn’t have an important mission for the day. Maybe it was just that “purchase a new wardrobe for the princess” didn’t feel quite as significant as “fix whatever gaping wound in reality you’ve created”, but he didn’t feel the urge to rush.

They ambled down the city streets, past tall blocks of flats and two storey brick buildings. Past building work that was sure to make some flat owner incredibly pissed off that the grand view of the London skyline that they paid extra for was about to be blocked out. Past grand architecture, which clearly impressed and possibly even awed Emma in the way that London architecture often did with newcomers when to Killian it had become simply the bog standard backdrop to his life, and past scruffy shops, which did not.

They reached a barber’s shop with golden awning, ornate lettering announcing it to be the imaginatively named BarberBarber. A hipster sat in a vintage leather barber’s chair in the window, no doubt paying extra for the “authentic old school touch that money can’t buy” as he had his beard sculpted into the latest facial hair du jour.

Killian paid the shop little mind, turning right and walking through an impressive set of metal gates into a covered market.

He casually looked at Emma out of the corner of his eye as they strode through the stalls selling leather bags in a variety of shapes of satchel, all manner of quirky signage to suit your every interior decorating whim, scarves in every colour and pattern imaginable, tasteful abstract art, vintage pocket watches and other antique fripperies to suit the discerning hipster and foods of all varieties.

Milah used to love it here. So bustling and full of life. Excellent for people watching. Great for bargains. Occasionally offering hilarious items that they could only guess at the use of - usually ridiculous suggestions made in hushed whispers into each other’s ears until they had to quickly move on before earning the seller’s ire. He was letting Emma into a part of their London, and he desperately hoped that she approved.

Judging by her wide eyed looks of wonder, curiosity, and, occasionally, complete confusion, she did.

He made a beeline for a stall he always loved that sold genuine vintage band t-shirts at knockdown prices. They rifled through the racks, looking for possibilities. Emma made Killian smile by pulling out a ginormous Beatles Yellow Submarine t-shirt her eyes shining with glee and holding it up to herself.

“Bit big, don’t you think?” he commented, arching one eyebrow.

She blushed. “I’d wear it as a dress with a belt. I don’t know. I like yellow. But … yeah, it was a stupid idea.” She started to put it back, looking crestfallen, but he stopped her, feeling guilty for mocking her.

“If you like it, it’s yours.” Her smile lit up her whole face and Killian knew then, he would do anything to see that smile again.

They continued on, taking in different stalls and gathering up things that she would need, before it occurred to him that she would need underwear. He was certain that she wouldn’t appreciate him trailing along as she bought panties and bras so he pressed money into her hand and gestured her towards a suitable stall, fiddling with his ring as he waited.

She returned soon after, face flaming red. She clearly had bought something, but she was clearly deeply flustered by the experience.

Knowing he’d probably regret it, he took a deep breath. “Everything okay, Swan?” he asked, scratching at his ear.

“I - I -” she looked around awkwardly and leaned in close to him “- I don’t understand the corsets you have in your realm.”

“Oh!” He felt his own face redden as blood rushed to his face and he tried hard not to picture what she did - or possible did not - have on under his shirt. “Perhaps I could ask Belle to join us later and help out?” he asked, hoping that his voice hadn’t really risen an octave as he spoke, although he rather suspected that it had.

“Seriously?”

She was utterly incredulous and he could tell that this was the wrong thing to have said. “Yyyyeesss?” he said slowly, unsure what else to do.

“She’ll hardly believe that I’m really your colleague if I don’t know anything about… bras I think the sign called them?” Killian opened his mouth, honestly unsure of what the right answer might be to this excellent point. Emma sighed in frustration. “It’s fine, I’ll just go without.”

He really wished she hadn’t told him that. He made a show of looking away, so as not to stare at her chest. As he did so, he thought he caught sight of a familiar - and unwelcome - face in the crowd. But when he looked again, there was no one he knew in sight.

“Killian?”

He was still scanning the crowd suspiciously when Emma got through to him. He had no idea how long she’d been talking for. “Hmm?” he asked absentmindedly.

“I was just asking what’s next?”

“Oh love, you’re in for a treat,” he said, eyes gleaming.

He took her on a tour of the street art that was in and around Brick Lane. Emma gasped at the fine detail of the giant hedgehog on Chance Street, scowling at Killian when he laughingly clarified that such creatures did not in fact, exist in this realm - not at that scale, at least. She ‘awww’ed at the cute figures by Stik that were sprinkled around the area, wondering at how the artist conveyed so much with such simple drawings. She exclaimed at the vibrant colours they saw from numerous artists as they walked on by, loving the energy they brought to otherwise dull buildings.

Two moments stood out for Killian in amongst all of the beauty they saw.

He had a specific piece that he was eager for her to see, a large black and white heron on red brick. Emma was awestruck by the piece, gazing at it for several minutes in quiet contemplation.

“Thank you for showing this to me,” she said, eyes sparkling, “I can see why you love it so much.”

This filled Killian with pride and he couldn’t help but beam. “Milah painted it.” He smirked as Emma’s jaw dropped in surprise. “The council tried to cover it up a few years back but the community revolted.” He was boasting now and he didn’t care. “She always loved that street art was transient, that one day it might suddenly disappear, but to know that something she made is so special to other people, people who maybe didn’t even know her…” He gazed up at it, feeling a lump in his throat. “It means a lot.” He turned away before Emma could respond and strode off down the street, trusting her to keep up with him.

Later, he brought her to a car park that was covered in street art, walking past an artist holding spray cans, their fingers stained with colour and the chemical scent of paint in the air.

The door slammed open, and Killian crept out of their room, grinning at the sight of Milah gulping down a drink at their kitchen counter. Her curls tumbled down over her hoodie and she wore scruffy trousers, paint speckled across her clothes and coating her fingertips.

He snuck up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. He inhaled the scent of spray paint that always clung to her when she’d been creating on the streets. “You been painting, my love?”

Milah laughed and leaned back against his chest. “What gave it away?”

“Well you look awfully dirty, perhaps I could help you with that? These clothes need to come off for a start.” He grabbed her zipper and tugged on it.

She batted his hand away and turned in his arms to grin at him. “Something tells me that I’ll end up dirtier after your help.”

He licked his lips and wiggled his eyebrows. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” And he surged forwards to kiss her...

Killian was nearly knocked down by the force of the memory slamming into him. It had been years since he’d recalled Milah with such perfect clarity. He could practically feel the memory, could taste it, and it was all thanks to that smell. He was stunned. Perhaps he had been wrong to cut himself off from the art scene, if it could’ve kept Milah alive to him so completely.

“Everything ok?” Emma had at some point taken his hand in hers, and she was gently stroking it. Her face was a picture of concern. He hated that he’d worried her.

“Never better,” he said, putting thoughts of Milah to one side and tugging her into the car park. “In fact, looks like there’s a new piece for us to see. I wonder what it might - oh.”

He stopped short. Emma barrelled into him and they both stumbled. He pulled her into his side, placing his hand about her waist and pointing towards the freshly painted scene.

It was Emma.

She was radiating confidence, arms loose at her sides, wearing clothes similar to those she had worn when she first arrived in London, but with some key differences. Her vest was not worn on top of a shirt, and was fitted to her body, her boots stopped mid-thigh and she wore short shorts. There was a golden circlet across her forehead and her blonde hair flew out around her face. She stared down the viewer, looking strong and powerful, arms held loosely at her side, a lightsaber clasped in one hand. Light shone out from her like she was a goddess amongst men.

And alongside her were the words:

Our Saviour

A true Wonder Woman

The Princess of White Chapel

“Is that me?” she breathed, breaking away from him to move closer to the painting.

Killian smiled at the way she reached out as if to touch it, but stopped herself at the last second. “Aye, love. I’d say it’s a good likeness.”

She cocked her head, reading the words, and half turning to him, but seeming unable to quite tear herself away from the sight. “What does The Princess of White Chapel mean?”

“You’re in White Chapel. It’s this part of London.”

She frowned at turned to him. “But how could they know what I am?”

“I don’t think they were being literal. See this and this?” He stepped towards her and pointed to the lightsaber and circlet in turn. “That’s Leia’s weapon, and Wonder Woman’s crown, they’re two incredible, feisty and badass princesses from our popular fiction. They’re showing that you’re just like them, so you should be known as our princess.”

Emma choked up a little at his words. “Oh. Oh, that’s…” She didn’t finish the thought, just stared hard at the sight, until she was ready to leave.

But the day wasn’t overtaken by intense emotional moments, they were able to laugh at the funny art, to grimace at the dark and distressing and revel in the joy of the creativity that adorned the walls all around them. Where yesterday it had pained Killian to be so reminded of Milah’s love of art, today it was a comfort, a way of honouring her.

The only dark cloud was the constant sense Killian had of being watched. Time and again he thought he saw an old ally out of the corner of his eye, only to find that she’d disappeared when he turned his head. It was unnerving. If she was around there could only be one reason: Gold.

Emma hadn’t been keen to try any of the curry places they’d passed on their meanderings so he was taking Emma to one final gallery on their way back to catch a bus to Borough Market, where he was sure she’d find something she’d like. From the poncy wording of the exhibition listing, he wasn't entirely sure what to expect, but it could usually be counted on to provide more examples of amazing street art. Stolen Space with its sleek painted black brick frontage nestled in between ominous looking tall fences with spiked tips (which felt slightly counter to the whole purpose of showcasing street art in Killian’s opinion, but what’s life without irony?). But, before he could open the door, she flung her arm out to stop him.

“Why does it say Wish You Were Here on the windows?” she cried out in alarm.

“Name of the exhibition I expect,” Killian replied, unsure what the issue was with this innocuous phrase.

She turned to him, exasperation spread across her face. “Don’t you people understand how dangerous wishing can be?” she hissed indignantly.

He laughed, and anger flashed in her eyes. He sobered at once. “I’m sorry, but we don’t believe in wishing here. That phrase is just a platitude that people write on postcards.” She had relaxed as he talked but still looked wary - at the word postcard her nose scrunched in confusion. “Notes that people send home from their holidays. It’s meaningless, just a way to say ‘thinking of you’, what’s the harm?”

Emma rolled her eyes. “God people in your realm are so stupid.” “Hey!” Killian butted in indignantly, not appreciating the slight to his intelligence. “Wishes always go wrong,” she continued, “they shouldn’t be taken lightly.”

“You’re taking be careful what you wish for a little too literally, love.”

“Really?” Her mouth had dropped open in disbelief. He hadn’t thought she could be even more mystified by him than she already was, but apparently her incredulity knew no bounds. “So you do know that, you just choose to ignore it?”

Killian started to feel like they were having two entirely different conversations. “It’s just an expression,” he said feeling more than a little defensive over Emma’s continued ire.

Her face darkened and her voice went quiet. “You wouldn’t say that if you’ve seen the pain that wishing can cause.”

“Bloody hell,” he breathed out, face softening as he realised that Emma herself must have been somehow hurt by a careless wish. “I didn’t mean to upset you. We don’t - there isn’t -” He broke off, dropped his shopping bags and ran his hand through his hair. He wanted to find the right words to soothe this situation. “Wishes don’t come true here, it’s easy to be careless about something fictional -” Emma looked indignant “- I know that where you come from they are a fact of life, but here, they’re just another fairy story. I’m sorry for being so thoughtless.”

Emma studied her feet “sok,” she mumbled to the ground.

He stepped closer to her, intending to wrap his arms around her and comfort her, but he felt that prickle on the back of his neck of being watched and it made him anxious to leave. “Let’s skip this place and go get food shall we?”

They hopped onto the 47 and climbed up to the top deck of the red double decker bus. Emma was quiet on the journey, content to gaze out the window at the sights, until she spotted Tower Bridge as they made their way across the Thames. “Isn’t that where Lily landed the other day?”

“Yep. That’s Tower Bridge, it’s a major attraction.”

“Typical Lily,” Emma said, rolling her eyes.

“We’re on London Bridge - and we need to get off in a minute.”

When they were off the bus and walking towards Borough Market, Killian couldn’t help but wonder where everyone was. Usually this area was teeming with tourists and locals alike and while the streets were hardly empty there were still far fewer people around than he’d expect. It made him feel nervous, and he was already on edge.

When they made it to the market and he started to guide Emma around the stalls, he began to relax. It was hard not to, with the way she lit up at the sight of all the sweet treats on offer. He tried pointing out all the amazing savoury options, suggesting venison burgers, homemade pastas, cuisine from all over the world. But she still chose a salted caramel cronut the size of her fist and did a little wiggle of happiness, her eyes going wide with excitement as she took her first bite.

He good naturedly shook his head at her, as she refused to even try his duck fat chips. “These chips are actually legendary, are you sure?” he asked, taking one before stowing the rest in a paper bag as they walked by the Thames.

She shrugged. “My mom was taught how to use a bow and arrow by Hercules, legends don’t impress me much.”

“OK, so you have actual legends for family friends, my poor chips never stood a chance with you.”

“I’d definitely rather take a bite out of this cronut than Hercules any day.” Killian nearly choked at this unexpected innuendo, while Emma grinned mischievously, delighted at her own joke.

When he’d recovered from his coughing fit he asked somberly, “does he not quite measure up to the legend? The size of his herculean tasks not all that he claimed?” This earned him a smack. “You wound me, Swan,” he yelped with a grin.

Food purchased, he steered them towards the Tate Modern, aiming for the grassy area in front of it where they could people watch and he could finally settle down to enjoy his chips.

When they arrived it was already crowded with people driven to find any patch of grass they could to enjoy the sun in. An alarming number of whom had clearly been exposing far too much skin while wearing far too little sun cream and there was a veritable rainbow of sunburn on display. A few bold people had beer bottles in their hands, clearly ignoring the ban on public drinking in the area. Several people had picnics, most lazing on towels and blankets, but an ambitious pair had brought out a small picnic table, chairs, and appeared to be slicing up roast ham with a carving knife. Killian shook his head at some people’s idea of a picnic.

They found themselves a spot near a living statue performer who was sweating in silver paint and a silver suit. Killian had tossed a fiver into the man’s hat, feeling sorry for the poor bloke in the heat, marvelling at the endurance of both the man and his make up. He began a jerky robotic dance routine in thanks, which caused Emma to yelp and throw up her hands into attack mode in alarm.

“Relax,” he said with a laugh, gently pushing Emma’s hands down. “It’s just a performance.”

“Oh,” she replied, looking a little sheepish and laughing at herself. They settled down on the grass and he finally tucked into his chips.

“What do you think of it here?” he asked.

“It’s lovely, reminds me of a place back home.”

“Yeah I love it h-” He broke off as he yet again saw the ghost from his past. He had a chip halfway towards his mouth when he spied her, lurking at what she obviously thought was a discreet distance away. Ursula. She was undoubtedly following him and he couldn’t ignore her anymore.

“Long time no see!” he called out, dropping the chip back into the box as he stood up, instinctively placing himself between Emma and Ursula, at a distance though she was. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but we both know that’d be a lie.”

“Screwed up anymore lives recently?” Ursula replied cheerfully nodding towards Emma meaningfully as she strode towards them.

He seethed at her words and clenched his jaw, knowing that she was entitled to her anger. If he weren’t sure she was working for Gold, he’d even feel bad for her, knowing how he’d destroyed her life. As it was, he knew better than to respond to her jibes. “I’m sure that Gold has you out watching me, so just let him know that I’m not that easily intimidated.”

Ursula shook her head, as she closed the gap between them, a picture of innocence. “I have no idea what you mean, I’m just out enjoying a lovely summer’s day, like you and the lovely Emma.”

His nostrils flared and his jaw ticed as he took a deep steadying breath, trying not to let the use of Emma’s name get to him.

“Killian, what’s going on?” Emma stood up behind him, gently touching his shoulder to get his attention as she spoke. He turned to her, ready to offer her reassurances when Emma’s eyes went wide. “Oh. Fuck.”

He spun around immediately, kicking himself. He was sure that Ursula wouldn’t actually make a move today, or he would never have antagonised her.

What he saw was entirely unexpected.

The creature before him still looked like Ursula - after a fashion - their faces with their gorgeous smiles, chocolate eyes and dark skin were identical at least. But that’s where their similarities ended.

For one, the Ursula he knew tended to wear stylish, tailored clothing and was always impeccably dressed. Whereas whoever this was was wearing a fitted corset that accentuated her breasts and flared out at the hips, sculpted leather gloves that reached up past her elbows and an elaborate headpiece that looked to Killian like a cross between a tiara and sea foam.

For another, this creature had tentacles erupting from beneath her corset and slithering across the pavement and into the road.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, staggering backwards and bumping into Emma.

“Hook!” the creature snarled, glaring at him with murderous intent. “Do you know how many years I’ve waited to get my tentacles on you?”

“I - I - I don’t believe we’ve met,” he stammered, as a tentacle snaked closer to him.

“Oh move over, that’s Ursula the fucking sea witch!” huffed Emma. She shoved him sideways as though being attacked by an angry mermaid (what do you call a creature that’s half woman half octopus? Killian wondered, a little hysterically) over a case of mistaken identity on the South Bank were a common occurrence.

She rushed forward with her arms stretched out before her. Bright light blazed out from her hands.

The blast hit Ursula in the chest. She staggered backwards with the impact, crumpling in on herself. The tentacle that was almost upon them recoiled and reached up to her chest protectively.

Her head snapped up.

“Oh! Princess Emma! I didn’t recognise you,” Ursula jeered. “Consorting with pirates? What will Mummy and Daddy think?”

Killian was bewildered by the witch’s words. Judging by the confused glance Emma sent his way, so was she.

He was dimly aware of many things around him. The living statue shrugging off his jacket, picking up his hat and settling down next to them saying “I can’t compete with this”. A crowd of onlookers gawking and filming. There was the screech of brakes as a cyclist slammed to a halt, leaping from his bike as it slid out below him, coming to a stop just feet away from the tentacles.

(He also had a niggling thought to be annoyed at the constant Captain Hook jibes about him, just because he had lost his hand.)

“Oi what the fuck mate?” the cyclist yelled at them in his thick cockney accent. He clearly had no sense of self preservation.

One tentacle reached out lazily towards the bike, coiling around the middle of it and squeezing.

Metal scrunched as the bike was crumpled as easily as if it were paper. The tentacle flicked it lazily into the Thames where it landed with a loud splash.

Killian could hear more shouting. Londoners really needed to learn some chill. And possibly watch a goddamn Marvel movie once in a while. Now was the time to get the fuck out of dodge, not yell at sea witches with the ability to crush bikes with their bare tentacles.

Tentacles, thought Killian, the hysterics bubbling out of him.

“You shouldn’t have done that fucking Octopussy!” the cyclist continued. Perhaps they should start to include the rules of surviving apocalypse scenarios in cycling proficiency, mused Killian.

“I'm going -” but the cyclist didn't get to finish his entirely futile threat to the monstrous tentacled woman, because another tentacle had knocked him out.

Killian shook his head, unsurprised at the fate that had befallen the unwisely feisty cyclist, then looked up to assess how best to help.

Emma was firing magic at Ursula who countered with blasts of her own murky purple magic. Emma's pure light magic was clearly stronger, but Ursula’s tentacles gave her an edge. Four of them seemed to be struggling against invisible restraints, but the rest were writhing, thrashing and lashing out.

His mission was clear: take out the tentacles.

His possible methods to do that were less so.

His prosthetic was far stronger than a standard issue one and could potentially damage a tentacle, but that would require gripping and squeezing one, which given their speed seemed unlikely. He scanned for available weapons, thinking mournfully of those that Lily had destroyed the night she sent his lab up in smoke. Perhaps he should replace his stash.

Carving knife: most suitable weapon, required running to the pair with the overambitious picnic, and trying to persuade them that he should have their knife while there was a dangerous creature within spitting distance and leaving Emma alone. Also risk that they’d just stab him with it themselves at seeing him hurtling towards them.

Broken bottle: easier to access quickly, risk of damage to himself and possible others to procure it.

Keys: in pocket, potentially useless against the sea witch but right to hand.

He grabbed his keys in his right hand, laced them between his fingers and made a fist around the keyring. Wolverine claw it was not, but it should cause some damage.

Now, how to fight a bloody tentacle?

He knew hundreds of ways to hurt a man - the precise points to hit with a swift blow and cause maximum damage. But do octopuses even have pressure points? He racked his brain for knowledge of the animal; crazy smart, wily and incredibly strong was all he knew. He was sure he'd read tales of octopuses escaping their tanks into sewers or simply to visit friends.

Perhaps distraction was the best thing he could offer.

A potentially foolish plan sprang to mind. He moved to action before he could second guess it.

“MOVE!” he barked at a gathering crowd who scattered, shrieking. He sprinted past Ursula away from Emma towards a busker with drums that he’d spotted at what he hoped was a safe distance away.

“May I?” he asked the drummer, who had stopped drumming to watch the action and now silently handed over his drumsticks.

He turned to face Ursula’s back.

“OI! URSULA!”

He banged as hard as he could on the drums as he shouted.

Ursula had turned to the noise as he hoped.

“Hey sea bitch!” he called cheerfully, striding closer to her, “you want to kill a human? Well I’m the worst human around!”

She snarled and lunged.

A blast of almost blinding light from Emma hit her in the back and she fell to the floor rendered immobile.

The air shimmered and Ursula the monster was once again Ursula the human.

“What happened? Where was I?” she cried out in alarm. She looked up at Killian and glared. “Gold will hear about this,” she snarled and ran off.

“Be sure to give him my love,” he taunted.

The crowd around them burst into wild applause. Several of them surged towards him, pressing money into his hand and complimenting them on the performance. He pushed through them all in a daze, brushing off the living statue who wanted to know how they did their special effects. He stumbled over to Emma who’d found her way back towards their abandoned shopping bags and his now cold legendary duck fat chips.

He flopped down beside her, sighly sadly at what was left of his eagerly awaited food. He stretched out on the grass, giving his heart rate a few minutes to return to normal, before he sat up and fixed Emma with a winning grin. “Well, Swan, I hope you don't mind my saying, but I think we make quite the team.”

#csbb #cs ff #captain swan #ouat ff #cs fic #katie dub writes #tpowc

[nationalsupersagency]

Notes on “Crisis in Mid-Life! & Other Stories” Issue 1

So I had the pleasure of reading this comic and Issue 2 yesterday (and by yesterday, I mean the day I started drafting this post) after I returned from the mall. Honestly, I was expecting them to arrive later. Literally, as I drove out, I noticed a flat package on my front porch, backed up, pulled back into my driveway, and kept them in the car until I got home. I was excited to read them and was not disappointed.

There are two variant covers you can buy for each issue and I choose Gurihirus covers because I found them far more appealing. J Bones variations reminded me of the Boom Studios comics.

Each issue has three little stories. Two continue through other issues and one is a small adventure with Jack-Jack.

Anyway, here we go.

An * indicates potential canon information that can be helpful in writing fanfictions.

There are spoilers down below, so if you prefer to read the comics to learn what happens, steer away from here.

Crisis in Mid-Life! Part One

First, I’d like to say that I LOVE Gurihirus art style. By far my favorite and the characters look adorable. 

We begin at a black and white flashback with young Mr. Incredible.

He’s performing the classic ‘hit a mode of water transportation with a champagne bottle’ bit.

It was the nations first ‘Swordfish-Class Nuclear Submarine’ at Munciburg Naval Base*

A piece of scaffolding crumbles and the submarine starts to fall.

Mr. Incredible is able to hold the vessel up until everyone is able to get away, then he is able to place it down without sustaining any damage.

This moment is remembered in history as his “Greatest feat of strength.”* 

Fast forward back to the swinging sixties.

The lady interviewing Mr. Incredible says she was in Kindergarten when that happened.

Mr. Incredible is back to do the same thing basically but to a ‘Sunfish-Class Submarine’

I had to look up ‘sunfish’. Seriously. Here’s what they look like.

Google it and you’ll find weirder pictures.

When the reporter, Brenda, asks Mr. Incredible if it feels like old times to be back again, he answers, “It’s really about our brave men and women who serve on these submarines.”

Mr. Incredible is about to begin, when the ceremony is interrupted by Bomb Voyage.

Has Bomb Voyage not aged at all or is his makeup covering his wrinkles? He looks the same.

Oh, but he can speak English now. Guess they didn’t want to squeeze subtitles into the bubbles.

He blows up the support of the submarine, and basically, history repeats itself. 

Mr. Incredible catches it. However, he feels outweighed. He is unable to wait for civilians to run so he can put it down. It falls on him.

He’s under there for ten minutes before bff Frozone comes to his rescue.

Bomb Voyage got away. Again.

“Typical of his diabolical escape plans. He knew I’d catch the sub and save those people instead of chasing him. He must also have known this model’s heavier than the last one.”

No one got hurt, which is good.

The submarine captain tells Mr. Incredible the Sunfish-Class Submarines are three tons lighter than the Swordfish.

Reporter Brenda runs back up to Mr. I and goes, “Is your age finally catching up with you?”

Mr. Incredible claims he’s in the prime of his life! 

Frozone is Mr. I’s best bro and gently pulls him away from an uncomfortable interview by claiming there could have been other reasons why he couldn’t hold the submarine up.

He also tells his bro, “They’ll forget about this in a few days.”

Low and behold, guess what makes the front page of Munciburg Herald.

‘Is It Time For Mr. Incredible To Hang Up The Tights?’

Supers were just made legal again and poor Mr. Incredibles power may be declining.

Bob and Helen are at the Nation Supers Agency Medical Center.

Apparently, the NSA has a clinic/hospital for superheroes only, as I had believed they did.*

And Bob and Helen are there in civilian clothes, no masks, so it doesn’t look like they need to suit up to get examined.*

Helen is making him go to make sure he’s not sick. Bob thinks they’re wasting their time.

Doctor tells him he’s in good health.

“See Helen?”

“You’re aging though.” says the doctor. “You can’t expect to do everything you could in your prime.”

“But I’m in my prime right now!”

Helen is just like

The doctor tells Bob he’s not in his physical prime.

Bob is like

Back at home, Helen is trying to reassure him that he’s not all washed up, all while telling Dash not to run around the table, making sure Violet remembers her backpack, Dash remembers his jacket, and telling Jack-Jack diapers don’t go on heads. 

“You don’t need to qui-- VIOLET! YOUR BACKPACK!”

Bob decides to see Rick because he might have dealt with aging superheroes before.

Ricks is back with the NSA, out of retirement. Shortest retirement tbh.*

“I’m not in the best shape either,” he says. “But I’m wiser.”

He shows Bob a framed picture of his son, Rick Junior.

That’s right. Dicker has a son and his name is Rick Junior. He even has his fathers nose.* 

Junior graduated from the Academy (what academy you ask, I don’t know) with Honors.

“I look at him and I know I’ve passed on my knowledge... He’s my legacy and that makes it all worth it.”

Lightbulb goes off in Bobs head as he remembers he’s got three legacies.

Back at the Parr home, Dash is making Violets room messy after she just cleaned it.

Her walls and drawers are white. Her bedsheets are purple. She’s got clothes, books, a bag of chips, and some stuffed animals including a bunny which I bet is named Mr. Skipperdoo. 

Violet traps him in a force field and demands he cleans her room back up.

Pride leader Bob steps in.

Instead of telling Dash to clean up Violets room, he’s like, “You’re doing it all wrong. You want to mess up someone's room so they’ll have to clean it, mess it up like they would.

Uh... what the hell Bob. Dash is gonna start doing that now.

Then Bob advices Violet not to step on clothes when she’s invisible or people can see the indents of her feet.

Violets got Captain America socks. I think she’s low-key a fan.

The kids are all, 

Downstairs for family bonding time.

“Experience is the difference between a good hero and a great one.”

Basically, he tells the kids he’s gonna start training them and they’re pumped.

Helen is a bit concerned though.

Violet tells her it’s a family bonding experience. Dash adds that she mentioned how important it is to learn to use powers responsibly. 

Helen gives in, thinking in the end that it’s not a super bad idea as long as Bob behaves, but she’s still a little worried.

Bedtime Story Part One

When Jack-Jack shapeshifts after dinner, his tummy gets upset.*

He’s in his demon form jumping on Bobs bed. Bob says he’ll tell him a bedtime story if he behaves.

Jack-Jack becomes a baby again.

Bob goes into Story Mode. “This is the tale of the hero who saved the rest of the heroes.”

Superheroes in the Glory Days had an annual conference called “The Summer Crossover” and it was held at this swanky hotel called the Chez swank Hotel.*

It’s across the Metroville Bridge.

“We’d have seminars on subjects like super/civilian balance, secret hideout feng shui, and escaping the deathtraps in your own mind.”

Secret Hideout Feng Shui

Escaping the Deathtraps of Your Own F****** Mind

That sounds metal af.

So in the panel, I see Psycwave, Blazestone, Macroburst, Dynaguy and Plasmabolt but who is the other guy? He literally looks like a walking shit. Could it be...?

The main villain of this story is Baron Von Ruthless. We get to see a little of him.

So Big BVR was in a giant robot with lasers that sucked all the powers out of the supers except one. Any guesses who?

No?

Why, none other than Mr. Incredible of course!

Bob mentions here that there’s a super named ‘Junior Sidekick’.

Bob claims he took out the giant robot with one punch.

Dash and Violet barge in, calling bs on their dads claims.

And Bob is like, *gasp*. ‘I’m so offended you think I made this up.’

The kids start pointing out what’s wrong with his story/

Bob goes, ‘Ok, so I left out some parts. You think you can handle the real thing?’

“Could be a scam to trick us into some forced family bonding time...” says Violet, still loaded with sass.

The kids take their place on the bed to listen to dads story.

A Relaxing Day at the Park

This is the Jack-Jack story.

So, as we all know, the Parrs live in a nice house. Unsurprisingly, there’s a nice children's playground nearby.

Bob puts Jack-Jack in the sandbox then sits on the bench to chill.

JJ is playing in the sand and having such fun when he sees an animatronic turtle with a bunch of balloons. There’s a baby about as big as he is, trying to get these balloons but he can’t reach.

So the baby resorts to crying.

Jack-Jack sees the turtle as a bad guy that stole the balloons and decided he must take action!

His laser eyes blow up the turtle and somehow, the balloons don’t float away. JJ gives them to his new pal.

Bob only closed his eyes for a second and Jack-Jack had wandered off.

He sees the blown up turtle and goes, ‘Yikes. We’re not coming back here.’

So those were my notes for Crisis in Mid-Life & Other Stories. I will try to get to the second issue soon. 

#dark horse comics #incredibles 2 #comics #mid-life crisis

[fluorescentpipedream]

The End of the Time War

(The alternate Master)

The Master sat on the edge of oblivion. The doors to his TARDIS open as all light and sound swirled into nothingness. The ruin of the Time War now before him in the endless void, there was nothing left. Outside those doors, his people, his planet...his eternal enemy was now nothing but dust. It was called the war to end all wars and it had been that. Letting out a breath, the Master stared into the void before closing the door and laying his head against it.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

The drumming. The never-ending drumming. Even at the end of his world, the end of his people the incessant drumming in his mind. He tapped at the door with his fingers, following the pattern of the drum in his head. One. Two. Three. Four. He had assumed it was a warning about the war that was to come but if it was still here, it was some sickness left behind with him now. He suddenly laughed, if for no other reason than to keep from crying.

Pushing off the TARDIS door he walked across the short ramp leading up to the console, what was left of it that is, and stared down at it. There was a time when this whole creation was in magnificent shape, it had been designed by his longtime friend, lover, sometimes companion and once in a while, his enemy, The Doctor. The TARDIS or Time and Relative Dimensions in Space was a way of traveling through time and space while seemingly remaining unseen, undetected. Time Lords were supposed to sit by and watch as the races of the universe lived their lives, fought their wars and died without anyone ever knowing why. But those two...the Doctor and the Master, they couldn’t just sit and watch for all their lives. They had to be out in it! And this is what it brought them. Daleks and the end of their world. He and the Doctor had remained outside of the conflict, not wanting to get involved and for some reason trying to hold onto what was already slipping from them. After the fall of Arcadia, however, the Doctor bid his friend farewell and joined in the battle. His TARDIS remained, only a shell of what she once was but he was with the rest of them.

Angry, the Master slammed his fist into the console. There was a whir of light before an image of the Doctor appeared in front of him: Koschei, my friend above all else. We were going to see the stars together, visit every universe and meet them all. I should have known it wasn’t meant to be...but I knew you. I knew you’d find my TARDIS and you’d get away. If you’ve found this, it means I’ve succeeded in closing off the war...it’s a time locked zone now. Nothing but rocks and faded memories and that, my friend, is what they must do. They must fade and be forgotten if anyone has a hope of being safe. All the meaningless death, all the loss...the evils that took place there, they must be forgotten. I want you to go, continue our dream to see all of them, every world upon world, every star in all the universes. But you must never return here or dream of bringing us back. Let Gallifrey die. Let me die.

“Friend...” They fought mercilessly. Before the Daleks had risen against their people in Skaro, before the war, before all of this, it had become a game to him and a mission to the Doctor to stop the rogue Time Lord. The drumming in his head had been driving him mad since the Academy since he was taken at the age of 8 to a rift in time and space and stared into it. Some go mad, it’s known. But some become inspired and some...they run away. The Doctor had stood in front of the rift and stared into the endless possibilities, worlds, their destructions, and their rebirths and he’d been inspired. The Master looked into it and saw nothing more than twisting, writhing darkness and from it developed the ever-present drumming in his head. It drove him mad, though the jealousy of the Doctor’s successes over his own didn’t help much. He was in groups, he had friends and was far more popular than the Doctor ever was...hell he was in a band for a time, but the Doctor always made out like the better man and as much as he loved the man, he hated him for his successes. His interests were in helping people, while the Master wanted to learn from their Old Ones, take the knowledge they had and use it to bend people to his will.

He scowled at the face of the Doctor in front of him. He was younger when he had been when they started traveling. Both of them had been old men but thanks to their people’s natural line of defense, whenever death took them, they could regenerate and start over. The Doctor in the image had short, slightly spiky hair and bright eyes. He looked goofy and for some reason, the Master hated him for it. Of all the possible incarnations he wound up looking comical. Tapping on the console the image disappeared and he was left alone again. He knew why Gallifrey, their people, his friend and the war must be forgotten. The last great horror of the Daleks had been the creation of the Nightmare Child, the perfect Dalek and ultimately the greatest horror of both species’. It was destroyed, by some trace of luck, by its creator and in the same instant, the entirety of the war was swallowed by the Time Lock, where it could remain now in exile and revilement by all. “Maybe it should be forgotten...”

Sighing, he walked down a spiral staircase and down into the unseen parts of the TARDIS. His ship now...his vessel to take him wherever and whenever he’d like to go. He didn’t know...the Last of the Timelords as a madman with a ship to take him anywhere and everywhere but...where was he going? 

He started walking, examining the TARDIS and all of its infinite rooms. All the while, the drumming beating through his skull. Through the library of endless books on anything and everything. One. Two. Three. Four. Past the vaulted doors of the laboratory. One. Two. Three. Four. Down past the swimming pool, the closet, an over-exaggerated bedroom with a four post bed and ultra soft quilts and blankets...One. Two. Three. Four. He paused for a moment at the baby room and felt his breath catch in his throat. He and the Doctor had tried something once, and for what it was, it was beautiful. Pulling the nursery door shut, he wondered how their daughter was before pushing the thought out of his mind. He’d lost so much, he didn’t want to relive the day they gave her up as well.

Onward through the rooms, he traveled, skipping over game rooms, sick bay, and the ballroom...”That’s new”, he chuckled before finally stopping in the middle of a room full of pictures, old sonic screwdrivers, art pieces and memories from every one of the Doctor’s adventures. He had no idea how long he’d been walking through the bowels of the TARDIS, it felt like a journey of its own. It’s bigger on the inside, everyone always mused but no one ever seemed to know exactly how big it was. That was the gift of the TARDISes, they could be as big or as small, as elaborate or as plain as their pilots wanted them to be. They were both infinite and finite and could be anything. He used to have two before the worlds collapsed and for their part, they had been more glamorous than this hunk of wood would ever be. But they were gone now, lost on Gallifrey or possibly demolished in the graveyards where the others had been. Somewhere under all the repetition in his mind, he hoped that the Doctor would find one of his ships and come out of the darkness.

Anger built up in him as he suddenly lashed out, knocking over scientific dials and a massive grandfather clock to the ground, destroying everything around him in a cacophony of clangs and crashes, screaming into the void. He carried on like that until finally collapsing into the middle of the disastrous mess he’d made, his hands clapped over his head and rocking softly on the floor, sobbing helplessly. “Don’t leave me alone. Damn you, Doctor...don't leave me like this.”

How long he stayed in the middle of nothingness, he did not know. The TARDIS had moved on her own, beginning to travel slowly away from the black hole where Gallifrey and its people now resided, likely still in the ever constant war with the Daleks, while the rest of the universe breathed a sigh of relief that it was finally over. They’d made this mess, the Time Lords, and now they’d done their best to end it. When at last the Master had felt that he could move again without screaming and kicking out in anger, he realized that the movement around him had stopped. The usual whir of the engines was still. The TARDIS had stopped.

Pushing himself up, he wiped his eyes and started back the way he’d come, though the insides were different now. There were clocks and dials, mysterious scientific devices bubbling or twitching and the bedroom was a bit less than it had once been. It had a more Victorian style look to it, with a fireplace, several bookshelves with more modern books about everything from the Lives of the Ood to the known histories of the Sontaran people. He smirked, walking out of the room and followed the grand staircase through the closet where he found a full-length mirror in the middle of the Doctor’s various clothes. He had everything in here, suits and ties, modern clothes, traditional pieces from all different races and even some women’s clothing. Seeing as they could be anything when they regenerated, being a woman wasn’t completely out of the question. The Master himself had been, for a time. He’d gone by Missy then and for a little while, Mommy...shaking his head he pushed that image out of his head as quickly as it had appeared. Why was he so nostalgic all of the sudden? The baby was now an adult somewhere...and both of her parents were gone.

Staring at his reflection, he raised an eyebrow. It had changed. He was expecting short, cropped brown hair and a mad look in his eyes but a large smile. Truthfully, he didn’t look that different....only maybe an older version of himself but he had still changed.

“Ahh...” He cleared his throat and raised his hands for a moment, looking down at himself with renewed curiosity. It seems in his stress and extreme sadness, his body had decided it was dying and regenerated, without him even noticing. Parched, he licked his lips and looked at his reflection. He was an older version of himself, perhaps, though not half as mad looking at the very least. His hair was grey, which was new...it hadn’t been grey ever, and he had a beard as well, which he ran his fingers over as he shifted from one foot to the other, admiring the new look. Why the regeneration cycle decided to age him was beyond him, but it made things a bit easier at least. The clothes he was wearing remained the same as well, though his new form looked a bit ridiculous in the Earth, 1970s leather jacket and colorfully striped shirt. Chuckling, he removed the coat and hung it up before beginning to sort through the clothes hanging on every hook, bar, and cord around him. The Doctor’s closet was in disarray, though it always looked like that. There were clothes from every era, and probably every planet hanging or sitting here and there and everywhere, though as he pulled and pushed his way through the weirdness, he realized that not all of these things -were- the Doctor’s. A good portion of his clothes was here now as well, though his style hadn’t changed that much through all of his regenerations, the most drastic was Missy’s Victorian dress and her love of anything frilly and slightly macabre. He pulled back a few things and found the dress in the back, which got a rise out of him before he moved on to the next pile of things.

His style was simpler than the Doctor’s, where his friend longed for color and a bit of laid-back fun, the Master was almost always wearing suits and kept a very monotone look to his choices. It helped him blend in more than having some ridiculously long scarf dragging the ground. Keeping with the dark pants, he found a black dress shirt and a waist length, angular black jacket and put it on. It was wool of some kind and had a high collar with an embroidered red line around the seams. Regarding himself in the mirror, he turned this way and that before buttoning it and smiling to himself. It was a crooked grin but traveled into his now dark eyes and caused them to light up. His new, salt and pepper hair looked good in this new outfit and for better or worse, this was the look for him now. He had an air about him, as though he was inherently better than all those around him, though....that wasn’t new either. The Master always held superiority over people, that was part of his personality.

The rest of the TARDIS remained mostly the same, though the carnage around the console was now cleaned up and resembled more of a working ship rather than a menagerie of buttons, dials and spinning parts like the Doctor had kept it. He liked pushing buttons far too much, the Master mused, but in all his annoyance with his friend, he still missed him. There was an image to the side of the console, saved by the TARDIS no doubt, of the two of them together. It wasn’t an overly happy memory, the Master though, The Doctor had found him on Earth in one of his more maddened states, trying to destroy the creatures the Doctor loved more than anything....more than him he thought. What they had was different, but he could never be the companion or even last as a lover for long, even though he’d instinctively changed himself for the Doctor several times, trying to be what his friend would want him to be, tried to be the good guy, the nice guy...ultimately he could never be enough. The Doctor was inherently good and after everything he’d seen and done over his 900 years, the Master was the exact opposite of that.

He sighed, flipping up a switch and turned on the CV, taking a moment for his eyes to adjust to the new color on the console and tilted his head. The TARDIS had piloted herself to Earth, her favorite place because it was her former pilot’s favorite place, and had left him in the middle of New York City. The chameleon circuit was still broken, though humans seemed virtually unaware of any change around them in their hustle and bustle going this way and that. It didn’t surprise him that the Doctor newer fixed it. “It’s more fun this way!” He had said. The Master laughed in spite of himself and reached into his pocket, finding his screwdriver. Taking it out, he pressed a button on the side which caused the spring loaded tip to pop up. Some time ago he had taken his sonic screwdriver and turned it into a laser. Faster, more efficient and honestly...it was a lot cooler than the Doctor’s had been. He marveled at it before pushing the tip of it back down again and putting it back in his pocket once more.

“Alright...Earth, 2018, let’s see how you’re faring at the hands of a madman!” He laughed and opened the door, taking a deep breath with renewed lungs before stepping out of the door, closing it behind him. On the CV behind him, news feeds were running about the current president and the new threats he’d spawned during a seemingly nightly diatribe. A rogue Time Lord would be the least of their concerns. Still...the thoughts worked their way to the surface and the Master paused in the middle of Times Square. 

“What kind of man should I be, Doctor? The savior of these people...” He looked around and everyone had their heads down into the screens of their phones, ignoring everyone and everything around them yet seemingly able to navigate a world they weren’t even experiencing. “Or their destruction?” He was never the good guy...could he potentially find a companion in this rabble and travel through time with them like the Doctor had done? Shrugging, he locked the door to the TARDIS and started walking.

#the master #alternate universe #the time war #john simm

[insanityvirus13]

My Red String Story

I’ve been getting back into the “Red String of Fate” thing, and I decided to create a little short story. I would make a comic, but I know I’d take years to finish it XD So my bad story-writing skills will have to suffice.

Dedicated to 2 beautiful people;

Sam - My Boyfriend of 2 months now

Derin - The original “Lover boy.” I’ll never forget you.

My Red String was cut. Might as well rip that band-aid off now. Yup, my red string was cut. Not exactly in the way you think, but it was cut.

I used to have a soulmate. We met as teens, and he was wonderful. He was like how everyone talked about their soulmates. Funny, sweet, kind, carefree, adventurous, caring, loving, and just absolutely, wonderfully perfect. I loved him so much. I still love him. I’ll love him until the end of time itself and than some. He was taken from me though. The man who was my very life and soul was taken from me. The man who gave me a reason to live was taken from my life... and I can’t ever get him back.

A hit and run. It was supposed to be me but he... he saved me. He threw me out of the way. While I was left with cuts, scrapes and a sprained ankle & wrist, he was left for dead. I was at least there for the final goodbye but that didn’t stop my heart from dying that day and my string disappearing.

When he died... our string snapped in two.  That day now left me without 3 things. I was now left without a soulmate, a string, and a heart.

I didn’t love anyone for a long time. I loved family and friends in the way everyone does, yes. But romantically, my love for anyone was just non-existent. Believe me when I say I tried. I tried so damn hard. I tried to believe the men and women who said they could “fix me.” I tried to make myself believe their attempts we’re working. I tried to force myself to love the few people who had affections for me. After a while though, I just gave up. I gave up on trying to let people “fix me” and just gave up on trying to fill the hole in my heart. 

I was always pestered about not moving on, about not trying to find a new potential soulmate, that I HAD to have another one. That I HAD to love someone. While I got used to it, I also started to get really sick of it. I HAD a soulmate once, and now he’s gone now. What else did you want from me? I had no string to guide me, no path to follow. I was all alone.

I was fine on my own. Don’t get me wrong, I did get lonely, but that’s normal for anyone. I did miss the man who used to make me whole. I missed him every single day and I still miss him, but I learned to move on. For him, his memory, my love for him - I learned to survive on my own.

For almost a decade, I was on my own. For a decade, I had to deal with people talking about their soulmates or future soulmates. For a decade, I had to be alone. For a decade, I had to fake a smile and talk about my own “future soulmate.” For a decade, I actually forgot what it was like to genuinely love someone.

....

And than he came running into my life.

We met in a semi-peculiar way. I was on Discord talking with a few friends of mine, when one of them invited me to a sever. He knew I was really into anime and all things geeky and said he thought it would “fit my style.” I decided to give it a go. The name of the server was “The Anime Grail” and it was pretty much just a NSFW server for anime. It did have SFW chats and a “General Chat” that was meant to stay mostly SFW, but it’s purpose remained the same. As weird as the server was to me, I was bored anyway and needed something to occupy my time. After all, gaming & drawing did get boring after a while and Youtube can only occupy you for so long.

When I joined the server, the first 2 people I met we’re the founders of the server.

Alt and Prime

While Alt was definitely nice, and we’d soon become good friends, it was Prime who I became quickly interested in. Somehow, me and Prime just... clicked. We got along so well, you’d think we’d known each other since grade-school. We became very fast friends and talked almost everyday.

If I’m to be honest, I’m kind of surprised I hadn’t realized sooner the affect he was having on me at the time.

I became happier and more cheerful, more optimistic. I was more hopeful and even had some confidence in myself - something I hadn’t had in God knows how long. I always looked forward to get on, always eagerly awaiting every message from him. Even just the simplest heart emoji brought a smile to my face. Hell, if I was ever in a crap mood, just hearing his name brought my spirit up.

Than one day, he complimented my figure. I finally decided to post a slightly revealing selfie cause I was feeling bored and confident, and he told me how much he loved the way I look. He loved my every look and wish he was there with me.

You’d think I’m sick with how red I got, haha. But what got me was the way my heart was skipping a beat.

My heart was doing somersaults, I had a horde of butterflies flying in my stomach, and all I could think about was him loving me. It just hit me like a sack of bricks.

I wanted him. I wanted, him so much, and I wanted him and only him. I never wanted someone so damn much since...

I was scared at first. I shouldn’t be falling for him like this. He already has a soulmate. I’m not his soulmate. He’s in love with someone else. Somebody’s waiting on him. But... I stopped caring. I have no idea why but, I just stopped caring. I didn’t care. The less I cared about those thoughts, the deeper I fell for him. It became bliss, really.

The tension was high with us. We always found a way to flirt with each other, get revealing, “joke” about... other things, etc. Our friends always teased us that we should get together. It took my best friend, Wolfe - bless her for doing this, really - to make us face the question when she asked us both directly.

What were we?

I was so afraid of this moment. So afraid of rejection. So afraid to be let down. So afraid for my heart to be broken once again. But than, by God’s hand, it went like this;

Prime: I mean, it feels a bit empty to just call it Friends w/ Benefits, don’t you think?

Absentia: In all honesty, it kind of does... I don’t know. What do you wanna define as us?

Prime:  I mean, I don’t... I... Do you... want... to make this something more?

I hovered over the my keyboard. How the hell do I respond to that? I subconsciously looked to my ring finger, where the old string lied. I followed the string and noticed  something strange... I couldn’t see the end of it. It was... blurry to me. I furrowed my brow in confusion and looked back to the screen, staring at the message. Absentia: You don’t... have someone else?

Prime: No.

Absentia: No soulmate?

Prime: I’ve never had a soulmate. My string’s never lead anywhere.

Absentia: I can relate in a way

Prime: How so?

Absentia: Mine.... isn’t here anymore. My string leads nowhere anymore.

Prime: I’m sorry. He must’ve been good to you.

Absentia: ...Everyone’s tried to “Fix Me” after that one.

Prime: Only you can “fix” yourself. I just want to be there when you need a helping hand...and, hopefully be something more to you if you’re ready for it.

Absentia: Are you asking what I think you’re asking?

Prime: Will you be mine?

Absentia: Yes!

I never loved someone more that day. It really was the happiest day of my life. I was close to tears. I didn’t think it could get better.

Than my hand got pulled.

I looked down and saw my string. I stood up and got pulled out of my chair towards the window. I looked at the string, and couldn’t see the end! It went on for miles, and I realized.

Prime: What the fuck?!? My string just pulled me!

Absentia: OMG SAME!

Prime: You don’t think...?

Absentia: HOW YA BEEN SOULMATE! 💞

Prime: HOLY SHIT 😃💘

I never thought I could love again. I never thought I’d be truly happy again. I never thought... I’d have someone like him in my life again. But you changed all that. You two are so similar in so many ways and yet so different. Don’t worry, I know you’re not him, but you really do remind him. And I thank you for that, for just being you.

I know he’d be happy for me that I could finally move on. That I finally have someone again who can care for me as much as he did, and vice versa.  

I loved you Devilin, I always have and always will. Thank you for making my life beautiful when you did. And I love you Sam. Thank you for making my life absolutely wonderful, and I can’t wait to see you~ 💛💜

After Note

I’ve been alone all my life, and I truly though it would stay that way. I fell in love once but... well, let’s just say this story is from real-life experiences. I thought I would never love again, but than you came spiraling into my life in the strangest way possible. How I fell in love in such a short time after we met I will never know. How you felt the same is an even bigger mystery. But when we met, we clicked like we knew each other for decades, and... heh. Well, I guess I’ll just leave it at this.

I’m thanking God everyday that I got to meet you and be yours~

I’m also starting to wonder if I should believe that the Red Thread of Fate is real... 

You’re to thank for that 💘

#red thread #red string #red thread of fate #short story #one shot #historical fiction #mythology #story dedication