he’s not a siren

Chapter 3:  Bitonality - the use of only two different keys at the same time

Summary: Merman AU. Their meeting is orchestrated by fate, conducting them one at a time to step on the stage. With the flick of the baton, in time, they will sing the same song, but only if they aren’t swept away by the ocean’s mighty waves.

Pairing: Ladynoir/Adrinette

WC: 4.5K

Parts: 1/2

Also: AO3//

Her name is Mother, the small hum one makes when they smile. The same short hum they make when they know the answer, too, for Mother always knows. That is her name now, the title part of her identity that ties her to him. For she is his mother and he loves her.

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not 2 start discourse but pepsi should never have been invented it tastes like filthy river water and the only reason i’m drinking it is because the pizza company i ordered from didn’t stock coke and i needed something carbonated to write this essay

It’s only in the third week of being on the run that he begins to write down the memories. The first two weeks, he was too busy looking over his shoulder, terrified that he would be caught–by his handlers, by the man with the blue eyes, by SHIELD, he wasn’t sure. He was verging on delirious with pain and exhaustion, fighting to keep running while his body healed from the injuries he sustained during the hellicarrier fights. The memories, when they did come, were confusing and terrifying and much too overwhelming, leaving him all but incapacitated until they released him back to reality again. Only when he can no longer taste the river water on each breath, when his reflexes do not recoil for every shifting shadow every hour of the day and night, does he find the presence of mind to desire a record of the scattered traces of history his mind spews out. 

Oh, but once he starts writing them down, it’s like the floodgates open. He spends the first three days holed up in an abandoned apartment in some large city–he couldn’t remember which if he tried–shaking off the vivid and overwhelming throes of memory just long enough to write down the newest thoughts. At first it’s all that same man from the bridge–Steve. Small and skinny and sickly, sometimes on the verge of dying with a fever burning him from the inside, sometimes raging and raring a brawl with brittle fists and endless resolve. Big and strong and miraculous, streaked in mud or blood or smoke, a flash of colours on a dull battlefield, emerging unscathed and impossible from a storm of fire, leaping headfirst into battle after battle after battle, curled next to his body in some frozen forest with a grin on his lips… 

And then the rest of it hits. Blood, and blood, and blood and blood and blood. On his hands, on his face, on his every inch of skin. Staining him through to the bones, until his heart can no longer tell his own blood from others’. Death here, death there, death again and again and again. Sometimes it’s kids. Sometimes it’s screaming women. Sometimes he can’t even tell, and that feels worse. Sometimes it’s far away, just a single bullet whistling precisely past a sniper scope; sometimes it’s close enough that he feels the blood splatter on his skin. He tries to keep those in separate pages, tries to keep the blood in those memories from seeping into Steve’s–but when his fingers tremble like earthquakes are erupting in his bones and his eyes can no longer tell ink from blood, it’s all but impossible. He has to give up on that quickly, and it feels like a betrayal; he spends that night curled around his first notebook, the one filled from start to end with nothing but Steve, and tries not to let his tears taint it. (He fails that, too.)

Once, he remembers seeing Steve in the middle of an assassination in Russia, and that’s when he realizes that not everything he remembers is true. He buys a red pen and goes back through every memory, every jumbled story dragged out of the dim vaults of his fractured mind, marking the ones that can’t be true, that go against what he’s learned from books and museums and endless Internet searches. A blue pen soon joins the red and the black, tracing uncertain circles around the memories that feel shaky and blurred, the memories whose truth are beyond his power to verify. 

It’s messy, with layers of ink and smudged streaks, with tattered corners and ripped-out pages, with fancy notebooks filled with crisp creamy pages and bits of napkin covered in tiny letters and food residue–but it’s messy like his mind, like him, and as terrible as most of those pages are, it feels a little bit like home. 

anonymous asked:

I remember when the show started and I was like wow I like this jace much better, he's still a bit of an ass but he's better, and he cares about alec!!!! he'll finally learn his actions harm alec and he'll be sorry!!! I was so naive lol

Pretty much, dear anon. This Jace we see now? 

This is Jace from book #1 where, after Alec was hurt, he cared for 2.5 seconds before his, at that point DYING, parabatai, completely evaporated from his mind. 

This is Jace from book #2 where he saw Alec fall off the ship and tasted river water in his mouth because Alec was drowning, and didn’t even try to save him. 

This is Jace from book #3 where he decided to go on a suicide mission without contemplating, even for a second, what that would do to Alec, the only fuck he gave was about Clary.

Yes, in all these cases he had a lot on his mind, but we are talking about his parabatai here, for fuck’s sake, the person to whom he is SOUL-LINKED! If you don’t give a fuck if THAT person is DYING or not, what’s the fucking point. And I really hoped we wouldn’t get to see that person on the show.