#And they’re all just starring at him in abject *horror* because— | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thepapergirlandthespiegelman · 3 years

Text

Castlevania Season 4: I’m not mad, just disappointed

Season 4 is poorly written fanfiction, which is...better than a lot of things could be, I guess.

Spoilers below the cut.

Content warning: trauma, sexual assault, psychological manipulation

The Gods Have Had a Change of Heart

Or, “Season 3 Blocked and Ignored”

Season 3 felt like the fabric of the universe had been twisted just to inflict additional pain. Season 4 overcompensates in the other direction; trauma evaporates, and good things happen for no other reason than to make our favorite characters happy.

The Season 3 finale left two characters in particular totally devastated: Alucard and Hector. Alucard is violently betrayed in a horrifying sexual assault by the first two people he’s spoken to since Trevor and Sypha left. He ends up killing them in self-defense and puts their bodies on stakes outside the castle, alluding to his father’s habit of doing so and potentially hinting at a turn toward evil. Hector is seduced by Lenore and then enslaved using a magic ring.

Yet at the start of Season 4, it’s as if these things never happened. Alucard is troubled, but not totally devastated, certainly not evil. Taka and Sumi are referenced in exactly one conversation with new character, Greta, in which she says the rather tactless throwaway line, “I had a boyfriend and girlfriend at the same time once. But they never tried to kill me.” Hector is nominally imprisoned, but immediately seems highly agentic, perhaps even more so than before. He studies, lays traps, and makes secret plans with other people. Furthermore, his relationship with Lenore is completely transformed. From falling to his knees in abject horror and despair at being enslaved, he suddenly switches to light banter, in what is apparently a basically okay, mutually enjoyed romantic/sexual relationship. Manipulative, selfish Lenore is now a sympathetic character struggling to reconcile her own role and feelings with Carmilla’s plans.

The events of season 3 happened, remaining canon in the most basic, literal sense. But the emotional weight attached to them has disappeared into thin air.

Not gonna lie, I did breathe a sigh of relief when I saw that Alucard and Hector were okay. I’m soft-hearted! I don’t like seeing characters I like suffer! I mean, conflict is important, and I can deal with (or even enjoy in a certain sense) seeing characters suffer if it makes sense and serves a narrative purpose. But as far as I can tell, the season 3 finale was nothing more than lurid, meaningless violence. I probably wouldn’t have continued watching the show if it devolved into nothing more than finding novel ways to torture the characters.

Still, it doesn’t feel quite right to pretend like nothing happened either. Or, really, not that nothing happened, but that those things didn’t matter, didn’t hurt, didn’t leave lasting scars. That’s...almost kind of worse.

But, I thought, I can sort of forgive this sudden shift in the stars, given that there may have been some sort of change in creative direction relating to Ellis’ decreased involvement with the show.* Plus, season 3 was insanity. It’s not like it was full of great writing choices, so if we quietly ignore some of them, maybe that’s for the best.

*I only later learned that Netflix actually chose to continue with Ellis’ season 4 scripts. It is not lost on me that maybe Ellis doesn’t know how to write about the lasting effects of traumatic sexual experiences or how power dynamics can make a sexual relationship problematic because he doesn’t understand that those things exist.

Characters Being Nobody and Nothing Happening

Pretty Pictures, Not Much Else

Unfortunately, the disconnect between seasons 3 and 4 isn’t the only problem with this season. Although I felt that season 4 was a bit less boring than season 3 (I particularly enjoyed some of the earlier episodes of season 4), it suffers from the same basic problems of Characters Being Nobody and Nothing Happening.

None of the characters experience any significant development, let alone any sort of coherent arc. Sypha has changed slightly, becoming more rough and jaded. I did really like the scene where she talks about becoming the kind of person who says “shit.” I think it really speaks to how entering into a relationship with someone means taking on aspects of their lifestyle, and how that can change you in ways that you can’t predict and therefore can’t exactly “agree” to. Sometimes those changes are good, sometimes they’re bad, sometimes they’re neutral, and sometimes it’s difficult to know. But you have to accept that you’re sacrificing some aspects of the person that you could have been if you chose to live completely independently, or with someone else.

Trevor really hasn’t changed since season 1 when he first decided to take up the mantle of hero again. Likewise with Alucard. Hector and Lenore change, as previously noted, but that change is sudden, jarring, and occurs completely off screen in between seasons 3 and 4. Carmilla dies as exactly as she lived: bitter, angry, and violent. Saint Germain just kind of...gets fucked over in a nonsensical subplot, which is its own whole can of worms.

We also get several new characters in season 4, none of whom have developed personalities or motives, nor do they develop any of those things over the course of the season: Greta, Zamfir, Varney, Ratko.

And nobody. Does. Anything.

Trevor and Sypha spend the entire season trying to explore and aid Targoviste, which comes to absolutely nothing. They’re unable to help anyone, Zamfir dies, and they end up just jumping through a magic portal to the actually relevant subplot in the finale. Carmilla literally does little more than draw maps until she’s ultimately killed. Hector plays a minor role in Saint Germain’s extraction of Dracula from Hell; otherwise, he and Lenore basically just exchange banter. Saint Germain does sort of do some stuff? But it’s often unclear how he’s made his connections, who the people who are helping him are, or what exactly he’s doing in terms of his magic beyond “whatever it takes to get back to his lover.”

Sure, there are fight scenes, but they feel meaningless. There’s no context, no stakes. There’s also a LOT of dialogue, and it is. Not well written. Exposition is embarrassingly clumsy at times, and the philosophical musings are cliche at best, muddled and confusing at worst. There’s just not all that much going on.

That is, except for Isaac. But more on him in a second.

What Kind of Show Is This?

When the plot line adapted from Castlevania III: Dracula's Curse ended with season 2, the show struggled to establish a new identity.

Despite nominally dealing with themes like whether humanity is inherently good or evil and how to cope with wrongdoing and loss, seasons 1 and 2 ultimately boiled down to a pretty generic action-adventure/fantasy plot with found family/power of friendship elements. Main characters Trevor, Sypha, and Alucard don’t really wrestle with big philosophical questions or suffer any major defeats. They know that they have to take down Dracula for the good of the world, and they work together as a team to do it, with a little character development relating to their various backstories sprinkled in.

Then season 3 happened, and things got weird. The trio is broken up for what feels like a pretty trivial reason—Alucard has to protect the castle and Belmont hold, I guess? And the result of that decision is that the dynamics for the three main characters are completely unbalanced.

Ellis openly admits that he basically went feral with the writing of season 3, and it shows. The messaging in seasons 1 and 2 was cliche, but consistent. The message of season 3? Anyone’s guess.

Season 4 reversed the darkening of tone from season 3, but shares its inability to pick a story and tell it.

Isaac is the Main Character

Always has been.

While I can’t say that his character or arc are perfect, I can say that he actually has a character and an arc. He starts off motivated by his fierce loyalty to Dracula, then has to struggle to find his purpose once Dracula is gone. He goes from subservient to agentic. He goes from fully endorsing the genocide of humanity and not caring about his own life to seeing some worth in humans and genuinely wanting to live. He has an interesting moment that deepens our understanding of what night creatures are, while also serving as an exploration of the meaning of one’s fundamental nature. Most importantly, these changes happen naturally over the course of the show. They never feel forced or out of the blue, and while I feel like even more could have been done with Isaac’s character, there’s a lot to appreciate about what is there.

If there’s any thread holding Castlevania as a single, coherent work together, it’s Isaac. Not only is his character the best executed and the most coherent over the course of the show, his character explores themes that are larger than himself and relevant to the show as a whole, like those mentioned earlier: misanthropy versus a belief in the value of humanity; the ability to go beyond one’s “nature” or initial circumstances; and how to respond to being wronged or losing something important to you. Exploring the individual lives of characters is great, but really good writing usually requires going beyond that to reflect on broader questions and ideas. Isaac is the only character here that serves that larger purpose.

Sorry...I Just Don’t Buy It

The season 4 finale is crazy, although in a different way from season 3′s.

Varney being Death makes no sense on several different levels. I’m not going to spend a lot of time picking that particular plot twist apart, but I will talk about why I think it doesn’t work at the largest scale, and how I think season 4 might have been done better.

Last minute twists with zero foreshadowing are rarely a good idea, and this is no exception. Why introduce this “Death” entity at the last minute to be the most important battle of the season? The finale of the entire show, even? Besides the lack of logic or emotional buildup, this robs the show of the opportunity to make use of the antagonists that it already has. Since Dracula died, Carmilla has been the obvious choice for a new big bad. Why hasn’t she done more?

Season 4 feels crowded with characters and plot lines that amount to nothing. Why not bring some of these characters together? If Carmilla is the main antagonist, how come she never meets any of the protagonists (except Hector, who is a pretty minor player in this ecosystem) or even affects them in any way?

Season 4 feels like maybe it was trying to make something out of season 3 and the model that it presented, but it ultimately fails to do so. The writers throw the trio back together at the end anyway, so why not have them rejoin sooner and work together? Maybe Sypha and Trevor’s past experience with Saint Germain could have helped Alucard and Greta piece together what he was plotting sooner, rather than all four of them being completely blindsided by it in the penultimate episode. (Sypha and Trevor know that someone is trying to resurrect Dracula, but they fail to find out any actual detail about the plans, despite their supposed attempts.) Have characters actually do stuff, figure stuff out, advance the plot!

Likewise, maybe Carmilla becomes aware of Saint Germain’s scheming, sees it as a threat, and tries to take him down. Maybe she tries to get involved and somehow use alchemy or the Infinite Corridor to her own benefit. What does it look like when power-hungry Carmilla, who wants to rule the world, finds out there’s an entire multiverse out there? That could easily set her up to be a foil to Saint Germain, causing him to realize that what he’s doing is wrong.

What actually ended up happening in the show feels disjointed and often empty. In particular, most of the events that happen in the last two episodes just don’t really work for me. I didn’t like Trevor suddenly sacrificing himself to this random, new, super powerful enemy, or how the gems and dagger that he found just happened to be the perfect weapon to kill this new enemy, or how he inexplicably returns from the dead.

This kind of thing is what I mean when I say that this season feels like fanfiction. Trevor comes back from the dead for no discernible reason other than that it would really suck if he died. Greta as a character seems to literally only exist to be Alucard’s girlfriend and support him so that he doesn’t have to continue to be alone and potentially turn evil. Alucard’s trauma from Taka and Sumi and Hector’s trauma from Lenore are both conveniently erased. Even Dracula and Lisa are resurrected somehow and get their happy ending. And it’s like, I guess I prefer deus ex machina to the opposite (Does that have a name? When everything is going well but then something terrible happens for no reason other than to make things worse for the characters?), but they’re both bad writing.

God. This isn’t even getting into what happened with the Council of Sisters. And I don’t even really like those characters, but that doesn’t mean I want to see their characters handled poorly.

I’m not sorry that I watched until the end, but I can’t in good faith recommend the show as a whole. If you’ve yet to watch Castlevania, just stop at the end of season 2. While there are some shining moments in seasons 3 and 4 (4 more than 3), it’s just really not worth it.

#review #thoughts #television #animation #adult animation #video game adaptation #fantasy #Netflix #Netflix Original #Castlevania #storytelling #writing #characters #plot #character development #vampires #Isaac (Castlevania)

44 notes · View notes

mulberrymelancholy · 3 years

Text

One step at a time

My @aftgexchange gift for @lemonboyjosten You said “hurt/comfort” and I couldn’t resist. Hope you enjoy it!

It was a good day, Andrew had decided.

He and Neil had gone to the zoo as per Nicky’s request – “They’re opening the penguin exhibit Andrew! Penguins!” – and even he couldn’t hide a smile when they waddled up to Neil and pecked his red hair curiously. It was small, an almost microscopic curve of his lips. Logically, Neil shouldn’t have seen it, but somehow he did. And he smiled back at Andrew. Small and secretive but warm and so full of love that it made Andrew’s breath catch in his throat.

Then he lost his breath when a kid dropped their bright-blue slushy on Aaron’s brand-new beige chinos.

It was a good day.

It was a good day, but Neil was sweating next to him in their bed despite the winter cold. He was trembling, murmuring so quickly and sharply that he sounded like a frightened animal, cornered with nowhere to run and no idea of how to escape. It sounded like he was begging and all Andrew wanted was for it to stop.

“Neil,” Andrew whispered, his voice rough with sleep. “Wake up.”

Neil didn’t respond, his breathes now coming in short shallow gasps that burrowed into Andrew’s heart and activated an instinct that he didn’t know he still had. He didn’t want to touch Neil when he was in this state, so he hovered just above him, bending low so that he could speak directly into Neil’s ear. “Neil,” he said softly. “You’re safe. You’re here. Wake up.”

Neil’s arms relaxed slightly and Andrew had the brief thought that he should probably stop crowding Neil’s personal space before a solid fist connected with his jaw.

Things happened in slow motion; Andrew sitting up on the bed, rubbing at his jaw, Neil blinking the sleep out of his eyes, looking slowly at his knuckles. Andrew could see the realisation dawn in his eyes, before a look of abject horror crossed Neil’s face and he scrambled out of bed. Andrew unsuccessfully tried to reach out to reassure him, but his hand fell short, and Neil sprinted from the room.

“Fucking hell,” hissed Andrew, watching him leave.

He found him on the roof a few moments later, a bag of frozen peas pressed to his jaw.

Neil was curled tightly, trying to make himself as small as he was that first day Andrew pulled him out of the fire. Only, this time Neil was trembling so violently that the long sleeves he normally wore to bed had slipped down his to his elbows and Andrew saw for the first time the scars that were so different from his own. Neil’s were round and deep, asymmetric and frantic, while Andrew’s were thin and sharp, betraying a system that Andrew didn’t even notice he had at the time.

Andrew dropped the blanket he was carrying around Neil’s shoulders, but the redhead didn’t respond until Andrew sat down next to him.

“Andrew I’m –“

“Don’t apologise.”

Neil looked at him sharply, and Andrew blinked at the moisture in his eyes.

“Why the fuck wouldn’t I apologise? I hit you, Andrew!”

“Because I was crowding you while you were panicking. That was my fault and I should have known better.”

Neil sputtered for a moment. “Y-you were trying to help. I shouldn’t’ve reacted –“

“I can take a punch, Josten.”

“For God’s sake, ‘Drew, that doesn’t mean you have to,” Neil whispered, his voice cracking. Andrew felt a twinge in his heart in response. “Fuck.” Neil whipped angrily at the tears flowing down his cheeks.

Andrew gently pulled his arms back down to his side. “You’re allowed to cry.”

Neil used his arms to clutch at the blanket and pulled it across his shoulders and knees as he sobbed quietly. Andrew didn’t say anything until he stopped sniffling, and by that time the skyline was already glowing in the soft orange that promised a bright dawn.

“I wanted today to start good,” Neil whispered, so softly that it was as if he would shatter the silence and everything else good in the world if he dared say what he wanted to. Andrew inclined his head to tell Neil that he was listening, and Neil smiled softly, his eyes tired. “It’s been going so well. I wanted to wake up this morning with both of us warm in bed and the sun coming in through the windows and now I fucked that up.”

“Healing isn’t linear, Josten.”

“I know. I know, but I-“ Neil wiped his hand over his face, burying it in his hair, clutching the back of his skull to pull himself even smaller.

“Yes or no?” Andrew asked.

Neil finally looked him in the eyes. “Yes,” he said instantly.

Andrew sighed, grabbing the blanket and spreading it across his shoulders as well. He tentatively rested his arm across Neil’s shoulders instead, and waited until Neil relaxed into him to let it tense. He pulled Neil close to his chest, letting his own body heat warm him up.

It was then that Neil noticed that Andrew had left his armbands behind. He stared at the methodical cuts. “Yes or no?” he whispered.

Andrew swallowed, but buried his face in Neil’s hair and inhaled deeply. “Yes,” he breathed.

Neil traced the scars, his fingertips so light that it was as if he though the pressure from his fingerprints would be enough to make the old scars burst open once again.

“I survived that,” Andrew said into his hair. He tapped Neil’s arm. “And you survived this too. We aren’t going to let the damn things get to us now.”

They sat in the quiet, as close as they could be, huddled under the blanket and watching the sunrise. Andrew played with a strand of Neil’s hair that was long enough to tickle his cheek, brushing across the freckles as if it were a paintbrush splattering stars across a broken sky. At some point, Neil started talking; about his father, a man so awful that he had spent most of his childhood years running away, about his mother, a woman so awful she had made him believe he could. Neil spoke about being pulled back, the war with the Moriyamas, the torture, the deal with the police in exchange for his and Kevin’s freedom. By the time he was done, the sun was high in the sky, but Neil’s hands were still cold and trembling, perhaps now more due to exhaustion instead of fear.

“We should probably feed the cats,” Andrew said, although he made no move to get up and do so. Neil was resting his head against Andrew’s chest, his side fitting perfectly. Andrew felt like they were a matching puzzle that he didn’t want to break.

Neil hummed. Andrew looked down to see that his eyes were closed, a soft smile on Neil’s face as if he were halfway to the blissful sleep he had missed that morning. It made Andrew’s heart ache.

“I’m going to pick you up, Neil. Yes or no?” he whispered gently. Neil hummed again, and burrowed further into his chest. “Neil?”

“Yes,” Neil yawned.

Andrew lifted him up with ease, cradling his legs and shoulders as Neil’s head stayed where it was. Andrew made sure the blanket was still covering both their arms. While he didn’t care what the other residents of Neil’s building thought, he knew that Neil didn’t want Matt or the others to see the scars he was carrying.

Kevin raised his eyebrows when he saw them walking down the stairs, but Andrew judged the dazed look in his eyes and decided he was too hungover to pay them much attention and just shrugged as he let himself back into the apartment.

The cats were clawing at his legs the whole way from the front door to the bedroom, but he the glare he shot them kept them mostly quiet. Neil woke up from the jostling when Andrew put him back in the bed, and mumbled a sleepy, “Drew?”

“Stay,” Andrew said, tucking the blanket around him and walking out, closing the door behind him once the cats had followed him out.

#aftg #aftg spring exchange #lemonboyjosten #my fic

47 notes · View notes

omsrandom · 3 years

Text

Love is A G̴̢̈́̿L̴̥̋͑Ȋ̶̥͈̥͋̉T̶̢͎̀ͅČ̸̪͍̏H̷̰͚̳͒ Chapter Preview: Speed Metal

for the lovely @insanely-creative-things! Happy birthday! The alternative title for this chapter is: Local Wine Uncle Takes Child to Illegal Street Races

“You know Soundwave is going to offline you if I get caught,” she hummed as she sat in the driver seat. Knockout’s laugh echoed through the speakers.

“If you get caught,” he reminded her. “You can’t stay in the ship all the time Shockie. Even hatchlings got to leave their nest more than you.”

She didn’t have a good rebuttal against that, instead just sitting back as they pulled up into the line. Almost immediately, the person to the right rolled down his window and keyed KO’s arm, making her cringe. “Just don’t kill him while I’m here,” she just asked. “I still have nightmares from when I broke my arm.”

The mech just let out a growl, and they shot forward, leaving her to sigh in resignation.

He was quick, she wouldn’t argue against that, but if she wasn’t bracing herself for every turn, no doubt she’d be slamming her head against the window at every bump. As they came up to the black car, she just turned her head away, hearing the tires squealing and the metal-on-metal crash as the human was sent soaring off a cliff edge.

“He’ll live,” the mech murmured, and she felt tension bleed out of her, replaced with a giddy sense of excitement.

“Then let’s finish this!”

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

The next day, she couldn’t stop her fifth yawn as she walked down the sidewalk towards where Bulkhead was supposed to pick her up. It would be her first time actually seeing where the physical Autobot Base entrance was going to be, and she messed it up by going out last night.

“You ok?” she jumped as Jack pulled up beside her.

“I didn’t think humans could yawn that much,” Arcee agreed quietly, making her snort.

“Just wait until finals come up,” she murmured. “If they’re anything like what I did online, all of us are going to be pulling 24 hours or more.”

“Ratchet won’t like that,” Jack agreed. “You did online classes? I thought you were homeschooled.”

“Uh, yeah, Up until, maybe, like, I was 12 or 13? Then S-my dad enrolled me online because his job was getting more and more difficult to do at home.” Jack just nodded, not looking too deeply into her answer. “Anyways, gotta go to, uh, Bulkhead? I think?”

“Good luck with Miko,” he chuckled, letting Arcee drive off. She’d deny it to this day that her little huff of laugh was anything more than slight fondness.

Things were… tense, later on. Miko had been blasting loud music through her phone, which helped keep Ashi awake, but… the Autobot base entrance wasn’t what she was expecting. It was a literal mesa base. No wonder they could never find it.

But that wasn’t a real concern. Jack was late.

Arcee made sure he was never late, so why, after two hours of being out of school, was he not at the base yet?

He wasn’t there when she went to the Nemesis portal spot, but no, she wasn’t concerned, ok?

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

Ashie yelped as someone picked her up, holding her in their hands. “We’re going out again Shockie,”

The redhead groaned at Knockout’s words. “I need to get this report done,” she argued. “While I still remember where the base entrance is!”

“One little race isn’t going to hurt hatchling,” Breakdown called from the next room, where he had a buff kit ready to go. “We both know Commanders Starscream and Soundwave will be the first ones to forgive you if a report is late.”

“But it’s still the principle!” she tried to argue.

“Ah ah! We’re going out, and nothing you can do or say will stop it,” the red mech’s words sounded as final as a nail in a coffin (whatever that meant) so she put on a long-suffering face and looked at Breakdown.

“How do you deal with him?”

“I don’t.”

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

“Are you getting enough sleep?” Jack asked quietly as they walked down the steps, and she just grimaced.

“Yeah, my brothers are just assholes,” she shrugged. “They like playing pranks on each other and shooting nerf guns in the middle of the night, and Dad put me between their rooms to try and stop it. I just got caught in the crossfire.”

“Ouch,” Jack hissed. “You should tell them to knock it off, at least until Mr. Gregory’s test is done.”

“I’ll think about it,” she hummed.

“Hey, I’ve been looking for you!” Both her and Jack turned around to see Sierra exiting the school. “The race, how great was that? I was like, yeah, go Jack!”

“Race?” she murmured, and Jack’s eyes widened.

“You can’t tell O-,” he cut himself off.

“Jack totally blew Vince out of the water with that sweet bike of his,” Sierra told her. “He promised to take me on a ride.” Something made her blood both boil and freeze.

“Oh?” she just choked out instead, hating how small it sounded.

“Before we met!” he tacked on. “Sierra, this is Ashi, my girlfriend. And Ashi, the race was no big deal,”

“You got that right,” Vince snarled, pushing between her and Jack, forcing her to take some steps back. “If you think you can run with the big boys: the circuit, tonight, 11 pm.” She glanced at Sierra, whose eyes were flickering between her and Jack before the teen’s voice caught her off guard.

“Deal,”

Oh, Primus, she was going to kill him.

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

She didn’t go to the Autobot base that day, instead going directly to the ship, to the medbay where Knockout was checking Megatron’s vitals.

“Shockie, what a wonderful surprise! Anything you need dear?”

“There’s a race circuit going on tonight at 11,” she said, getting straight to the point. “I need to be there.”

Knockout frowned. “Even I wasn’t going to have you go out three days in a row. What’s so special about this?”

She swallowed, knowing full well what was about to happen. He was the only one aside from Breakdown and Megatron who knew what the power of the words she was about to say was. “My soulmate will be racing in it.”

Knockout froze before turning to her in an accusing way. “You were supposed to keep us updated if you met them,” he reminded her quietly, too quietly for the mech. “Why didn’t you?” She shifted her gaze to her feet and murmured her response. “That was too quiet for my audio receptors to pick up. Louder now.”

“He’s…” her voice was nothing more than a whisper, but it seemed to echo through the room. “He knows the Autobots… he’s my key to getting behind their defenses.”

“Slag,” Knockout said, and she felt it. “Slaggit, hatchling, you can’t have anything normal happen to you, can you?”

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

When Knockout pulled up to the line, she was expecting Jack and Arcee, but definitely not Bumblebee, and the red mech seemed to feel the same as her if the quiet curses seem to say anything about it. “I’ll be quick,” she promised, exiting the passenger door and quickly weaving her way through the crowd to Jack and Bee. “Jack,”

“Ashi!” he snapped around, staring at her in surprise. “What’re you doing here?”

“One of my Uncles is racing tonight,” she stressed, shifting her gaze to Bee rapidly, hoping he’d get the hint. Judging by how pale he turned, he seemed to get it. “I just came to wish you luck, and there won’t be any hard feelings, right? Uncle K can be a bit mean in these things.”

“No hard feelings,” he echoed back. “You’ll be safe?”

“Only if you are,” she sighed, quickly going back to Knockout. “He knows you’re here, but not you exactly.”

“He knows you’re a Decepticon?” Ok, so maybe Knockout was still a bit pissed off at her.

“He accidentally got warped into our ship, and our first words were said while I was in uniform. And then we met out of uniform and it only took a day for him to realize who I was.” she still felt bitter over it, but just shrugged instead.

Somehow, Vince ended up between Knockout and Bumblebee, and she was very grateful for the blackout windows and the redhead teen tried to glance her way. “Creep,” she grumbled, bracing as the countdown started.

In a second, they were off, Bee and Vince instantly duking it out for first and second while Knockout stayed back in a casual third. “He’s not really trying to struggle, is he?” Knockout mused aloud, making her laugh. She did notice he was driving a bit more carefully, and she was thankful for that, even if he was watching Bee’s movements to do it.

Then, Knockout gained on Vince and spun him out, making her laugh. He continued driving forward, obviously trying to get first in what would possibly be the only friendly Autobot-Decepticon interaction for a while, when the yellow bot began to swerve, signaling that he had realized who was behind him. Knockout moved to follow him, and she realized in abject horror he had pulled his ion guns out.

“Knockout,” she warned.

“Relax. I don’t plan on hitting them. Fear is a good motivator.” he fired, and true to his word, every shot missed, and the two Autobot allied quickly left the drainage ditch in favor of an actual road with Knockout still following. Bee was suddenly trailing something, and it took her a moment to realize what it was.

“Oil!” She yelled, but she was a moment too late as Knockout spun, and by the time she was finished, she was feeling sick and seeing stars.

“Primus, Sparkie, you ok?”

She let out a wheeze and held a thumbs up. “Fucking shoot him for me,” she choked out. “I’m going to throw up in the ditch.” Immediately, the door opened, and she launched herself out of his alt-mode and onto the road.

As he started to drive away, she stumbled to the side, where she hung over the rails and…

Oh god, were they really hiding under a bridge?

Jack at least had the decency to look ashamed as he caught sight of her, but it quickly turned to disgust as Vince pulled up and got out of his car. Knockout screeched to a halt, backing up to her.

“It’s the school bully,” she murmured. “He’s an ass and a creep who can’t take no.” Knockout silently transformed, and her phone vibrated from her jean pocket. Taking a glance at it, she read:

Want me to teach a skeeze a lesson then?

Maybe her grin was a bit too feral as she nodded. The mech immediately reached down, pulling him up and tossing him into the air as he transformed. The teen was bound to the passenger seat, and without a thought, she hopped into the driver's seat with a grin. “Let’s go, Uncle K,” she giggled, and Vince’s eyes went wide as he realized who she was. He was knocked out not even a second later, so it was ok.

“What’re we gonna do with him?” she asked. “He’s only a year older than me, so he’s still technically a kid, not an adult.”

“So major body harm is out of the question then.” Knockout mused. “Psychological isn’t though. You said he couldn’t take no for an answer?”

“He’s made me his main target, but there’s probably a dozen other girls he’s tried this with before and it worked, otherwise he wouldn’t be so insistent.”

She finished up the final note just in time to hear cars circling the building, making her sigh. “Fun’s over,” she said.

“At least we got some enjoyment tonight,” Knockout sounded just as disappointed as she felt. She finished folding the papers up as much as she could while they were on the move, and as she finished stuffing them in Vince’s pockets, the sound of a semi-horn made her freeze.

Oh, Primus, they called in Prime??

The large mech immediately slammed them off the road, and it was only Knockout’s quick thinking of tying her down with straps that she hadn’t immediately been ejected as he slammed into a ditch. It left her in a daze, and all she could really do was just lay there, slumped over as Knockout frantically tried to get his back wheels on the ground.

“Stay online Shockie!” he called, thunderous footsteps getting closer and closer. As Prime easily picked Knockout up, she realized how much deep slag she was about to get into when she got back to Nemesis.

The passenger door was ripped off, and Vince was removed, and she could all but feel the disgust from Optimus as he grabbed her as well, throwing Knockout to the side. The mech transformed an angry, desperate look on his facial plates.

“Give her back,” he snarled, but he faltered as Arcee, Bumblebee, and Bulkhead all pulled up. “Slag you! Slag you all to the pits!” He drove off, leaving her alone, injured, and surrounded by enemies.

“Are you alright, Miss Lawrence?” Prime asked.

“Think you broke my ribs,” she murmured. “When you slammed into him.” he might’ve had a mask over his face, but just through his optics alone, she could tell how much that sentence hurt, and she planned on weaponizing it.

“Let us get you to Ratchet then,” he murmured. Bumblebee rolled a window down, showing Jack with a pained face of his own. A morbid part of her wondered if he had felt her pain whenever one of the ‘bots had shot her or not.

“This was my fault,” Jack’s voice was distant as if he was getting farther away.

“We must get these two to medical immediately,” Prime cut him off, and she noted in a sense of vindication that he was jostling Vince around while keeping her perfectly still. “Explanations can come later.”

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

She hadn’t even realized she had passed out until she woke up, once again in the comically large medical berth, IVs carefully hooked up to her. A glance at the clock told her that calling Soundwave would definitely result in death, so she just carefully turned it off and slipped it under her pillow. He knew how to remotely turn it off if he needed to talk to her.

“Should you not be contacting your parental unit?” Ratchet asked, making her grimace.

“I should’ve done it the second I realized something was off with the race,” she admitted. “Calling this late in the morning would just result in him getting angry at me.”

“Is he not usually angry?” Ratchet’s voice held confusion, so she just tilted her head. “The bruises and cuts across your body indicate you were attacked.”

“Are you trying to ask if my father…?” she trailed off, just staring blankly at him. “I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed when I’m in the base, Ratchet, but I trip over everything. I fell down the stairs a few days ago here and you didn’t react, so I just thought you knew not to get too worked up.”

“I-” the mech sputtered, turning away. “Your ribs are wrapped, no running or exercise for the next two months. Optimus would like to talk to you before you leave about what happened.”

“I got kidnapped, not much more I can say,” she shrugged.

The look he gave her told her she hadn’t been convincing enough.

#Transformers #Transformers Prime #TFP #Ashi Lawrence (OC)#Ashi #Jack Darby #Arcee #Bumblebee #Knockout #Breakdown #Optimus Prime #tw: mention of possible child abuse #but not really because the 'cons would happily die for Ashi #You cannot change my mind the Knockout would be THE WINE UNCLE #LIKE HE'S THE SAME COLOR AS WINE TOO #Love is a Glitch Commission #Love is a Glitch (Fic)

7 notes · View notes

amazonworrier · 3 years

Note

Brittany is terrified of the dark. The first time they stay over at Santana’s house (alternatively, while camping, staying at a hotel or anywhere you’d like), they forget a nightlight / there’s a powercut . Santana finds them in a mess, in the dark.

This went somewhere I was not expecting. Oops...

Santana Lopez has a lot of fears. She fears rejection, failure, heartbreak, pigeons… She's afraid of handmade puppets that look eerily too much like her, sleeping through her alarm on a work day, Rachel Berry during awards season or Kurt Hummel the night before a MET Gala. She fears being judged for who she is, or who she isn't, and has to be reassured up to three times a week that the recurring nightmare she has about losing her voice on stage probably won’t ever come true. It’s quite funny actually. To the rest of the world, Santana Lopez is tough. Untouchable.

Brittany knows better.

If anyone asks, Brittany will say she isn’t afraid of anything either, which is another thing that secretly scares Santana. Brittany will readily jump out of a plane, weave through traffic in stilettos, or even offer coffee to a wild bear if the opportunity arises… Their friends watch on in abject horror while she does things they’d never dream of doing, because fear has always been more of a minor inconvenience for Brittany than anything else. Most things are more exhilarating than they are scary. There is, of course, one exception to that rule.

She’s absolutely terrified of the dark.

Santana first discovers this deep, well-concealed truth of her’s during cheer camp of their freshman year. They were making out in the woods when Brittany’s flashlight died and, well, she kind of freaked out. She may also have cut her face after tripping over a fallen tree branch, and Santana had to clean her up (unrelated). It was embarrassing, but Santana had been really gentle with her, in a way she never really was with other people. Brittany vividly remembers it being the first time she felt those butterflies in her stomach that she later learned to call love.

They told no one of the incident, and Brittany’s crippling fear of the dark remained her and Santana’s little secret forever. That is, until the Great New York Blackout of 2022, which is what Brittany has literally just decided she’s going to call this awful moment in time they are living through right now. Because the power has been out for a while now, and… well, Brittany’s just remembered she’s not alone.

His name is Lincoln Lopez-Pierce.

They weren’t meant to have kids, and technically they didn’t have Lincoln, so much as they bumped into him at an orphanage two years ago, while Santana and Rachel were midway through another one of their hair-brained schemes to generate some good PR together. The two of them still have a tendency to be at each other’s throats a lot. It’s half the reason the public are so obsessed with them, but sometimes it gets taken too far and they have to ‘play nice’ for a while. The peace never lasts, but that’s fine too. Apparently, when the Tony award winning Broadway star clashes with the Grammy award winning pop singer, ticket sales go up for all involved. Brittany’s starting to suspect they’re feuding on purpose.

Anyway, not the point. The point is, Santana went to an orphanage one day and came home with a four year old kid.

Well, actually, it’s a little more complicated than that. Except, not really, because adoption is a lot easier when the Vice President of the United States happens to be the very same woman who paid for your honeymoon. But that’s also beside the point.

The point is that Brittany and Lincoln Lopez-Pierce are currently trapped in a dark living room because the power went out twenty minutes ago, and she’s doing her absolute best not to let their kid know how much she is freaking the fuck out right now.

“Did you find a flashlight yet?” comes Lincoln’s voice. He sounds brave, because he’s always had to be. But there’s an audible waver. He’s nervous.

“No,” Brittany answers calmly. It’s a total lie. She hasn’t even looked for one yet. How could she, when she’s curled up in a ball behind the couch? And she’s anything but calm. She’s a fraud. “Just stay still. I’ll come find you.”

A failure, and a total fraud.

She doesn’t move a muscle. She can’t. It’s like she’s frozen, or something.

Lincoln knows it, too. “I can go look, if you want.”

“Aren’t you scared?” Brittany asks, but she won’t pretend it isn’t a tempting offer. God, is she really considering making her son search the house for a light source in the middle of a city-wide blackout so that she doesn’t have to? What kind of parent…

“A little bit,” Lincoln admits. His voice lowers to a whisper. “But I’ll be okay.”

Brittany sighs, fighting a smile even in these crazy, life-threatening conditions. Because there’s a reason Santana ‘we’ll be the gay wine aunts, babe’ Lopez changed her mind the minute she met Lincoln, and it has everything to do with the fact that they’re two flavours of the same ice cream sundae. Lincoln’s as much of a fighter as his Mom is, and just as determined to prove it.

It would be wrong not to let him try at this point, right? “I think there’s one in the bathroom, above the sink.”

“I can’t reach there,” Lincoln points out.

“Fuck.”

“Mom told me that’s a bad word.”

“It is,” Brittany winces. “Don’t tell her I said it.”

Silence, then, “She told me that too.”

A door slams, then a dim beam of light fills the hallway. It illuminates Lincoln’s face for a brief moment, and Brittany’s breath catches in her throat at the sight of him. He’s not just nervous, he’s terrified. He’s been in the dark for twenty minutes, scared and alone, and she’s left him that way because she can’t get it together long enough to go and find a damn flashlight. This is all her fault.

It’s her fault.

“Britt?” Santana calls, “Are you home?”

And it’s not that Brittany’s forgotten how to breathe. She just can’t remember if it’s ‘in, in, out,’ or ‘out, out, in,’ and honestly neither of them seem to be working. Her head starts to feel fuzzy, so she buries it in her lap and tries to steady her breath. Then the beam of light trickles further into the room, followed by footsteps, and Brittany feels them both close in on her a few seconds later.

“Fuck, Brittany,” Santana rushes towards her, kneeling down to caress her cheek.“Are you alright?”

“That’s a bad word,” Lincoln reminds them quietly, as Brittany all-but collapses into her wife’s chest.

Santana startles at the voice. She props Brittany up in one arm, shining the light across the room with the other, to find their son, trembling in the corner. “Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”

It’s pitch black and her face is buried in Santana’s shirt, but Brittany can hear Lincoln’s cheeks turning red. “Mom said I could have the day off to teach Lord Tubbington Jr. how to ride a skateboard.”

Maybe Brittany’s cheeks turn red too.

“Oh, did she?” Santana drawls, only half-amused. Her hands stroke absently through Brittany’s hair. “I must’ve missed the memo.”

Later, Brittany figures she might have to answer for that. For now, all she gets is a gentle peck on the side of the forehead, before Santana is standing and making her way over to comfort Lincoln instead. Brittany sucks in a breath, trying to settle her racing heart now that there’s a least a little bit of light in the room. It’s around the time Santana reaches Lincoln that everything becomes blindingly bright again.

The lights are back on.

Finally.

Brittany shoots up to standing, dusting herself off before Lincoln notices the state she was in. She can handle Santana knowing she turns into a crumpled mess the minute the lights go off without her consent, but not their kid. No way. Parents are meant to be the strong ones. She read it on the internet once.

There’s a quiet giggle from the corner of the room. Santana has Lincoln cradled in her lap, and he wriggles playfully to get out of her hold, except he’s not really trying to at all. Brittany knows how much he loves it there. Santana whispers something in his ear. Her eyes are filled with mirth as they flicker up to catch Brittany’s in a way that warms her heart to see; because they were never going to be wine aunts, were they?

It’s probably because she’s so lost in thought, but Brittany absolutely does not register the fact that Lincoln is sprinting across the room until he pummels straight into the side of her. She takes a second to recover, but he��s small, so it’s not like it hurts. That much. Her arms wrap around his tiny little body by instinct.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” Lincoln mumbles, before taking off again; this time, towards his room.

Brittany watches him go, but she’s certain Santana’s eyes are already on her. She hazards a glance in her wife’s direction and her suspicions are proven correct. “You told him to say that.”

“No I didn’t,” Santana chuckles, closing the distance between them. “I told him to go to you. He did the rest on his own.”

All Brittany can do is sigh, because honestly, she’s a little angry with herself. As far as failure goes, having a meltdown in front of your scared child during a twenty minute power outage seems like a pretty big one. She finds herself reaching for Santana, right as her wife does the same. Their bodies do that sometimes. It’s like they’re itching to connect; to be whole. “I didn’t handle that very well.”

Santana’s hand glides up Brittany’s arm, tugging her in close. “You did the best you could.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Brittany spits, turning away. It’s the truth. She was useless, and... “He was so scared.”

“He’s fine,” Santana insists, catching Brittany by the arm before she can go any further. She examines Brittany carefully, as if hesitant to say anything else. “Now can we talk about you? Are you okay?”

It’s not what Brittany is expecting, and her stomach drops. Santana raises an eyebrow, as if challenging her, daring her to lie. She doesn’t.

“I froze.”

“I saw.”

“I can’t even protect my kid when the lights go out,” Brittany’s voice cracks, as she fights off tears. It’s ridiculous that she’s thinking about crying, but she is. “What kind of Mom does that make me?”

Santana’s answer is immediate, and without hesitation. “A human one.”

There’s a hand thumbing at her hip now. Brittany relaxes into the contact, only just realising how tense she’s been this whole time. Santana must sense it too, because she wraps her arms firmly around Brittany’s waist, yanking her in close, until their chests are pressed flush together. It’s a wordless exchange, like so many others they’ve had before. Brittany breathes with the steady rhythm of Santana’s heartbeat, knowing that in time, hers will fall into stride with it. That’s just how they work.

It takes longer than Brittany wants it to, but eventually a weight releases. She buries her head in her wife’s neck, sighing contentedly as Santana’s other hand sneaks down to rest in the back pocket of Brittany’s jeans.

“I hate the dark,” Brittany grumbles.

Santana hums, continuing to stroke gentle circles into the small of Brittany’s back as she rocks their bodies slowly back and forth. At this point, they’re basically slow dancing in the living room.

The next time Santana speaks, she sounds amused. “iPhones have flashlights, you know.”

It’s so random, and out of left-field, that Brittany stiffens. She pulls back just enough to look at Santana properly, only to find her standing there with the tiniest beginnings of a smirk on her face. Like she’s fighting it, because she knows Brittany’s still a little upset.

Then, there’s a shift in Brittany’s back pocket. Santana removes her hand, slowly extracting with it an object that Brittany hadn’t registered as something that was even in her back pocket until just now.

It’s an iPhone.

It’s her iPhone.

“Fuck,” Brittany breathes, knowing full well that the disapproving voice will trickle in from the other room within the next few seconds.

When it does, both Santana and Brittany echo its sentiment entirely.

“That’s a bad word.”

#anon #brittana #writing things #santana lopez #brittany s. pierce

14 notes · View notes

snowe-zolynn-rogers · 3 years

Text

Pairings: None

Word Count: 1,495 Words

Summary: The USJ training doesn’t go as planned.

Warnings: Fighting Mention, Injury Mention, Blood Mention, Near Death Mention, Death Mention, Weapon Mention, Stabbing Mention, Gun Mention, Shooting Mention, let me know if I should tag anything else.

Aizawa, We Agreed No More Cats: Chapter 3

A normal training exercise day is gone. Shinsou is staring at the villains down in by the fountain in abject horror like the other students did when they were told that this is real. He knew it was real the minute he saw them and he got his capture weapon ready like his new father was.

Everyone else was freaking out, but Shinsou felt oddly steady, even when he saw that giant monster. It was a weird calm that had settled on him. Like he knew what he was doing, as if he was standing guard between the hero course and these villains.

He wasted no time, immediately following Eraserhead into battle. He needed help, he couldn't do this alone. There had to be upward of two hundred petty criminals in the facility. He felt the training to fight them as if it was natural to him, even as his heartbeat thrummed in his ears.

"Hey, you're all stupid!" Shinsou yelled, quirk activated. He could have laughed when at least ten villains responded if not for the migraine and ring in his ears that came with that many people being under his quirk's control. He didn't wait and, instead, took them out left and right, using them as projectiles with his capture scarf to throw at their comrades.

His adrenaline was pumping way too much. Aizawa was fighting a blue haired guy, whose mist-like friend had disappeared, and Shinsou was taking out cronies left and right to to to get over to Eraserhead to help him. Aizawa was fighting their leader but he was still getting rid of minor players. Aizawa needed him.

He was hiding tears when he saw Aizawa getting his elbow decayed because of that blue guy because he wasn't able to do anything with a stubborn brute of a dude trying to swing at him and he wasn't able to do anything but dodge, let alone fight or get over to his dad to help.

A second of reprieve once he'd slammed the head of the guy trying to grab him into the ground, hard, was broken by that giant monster grabbing Aizawa. His heart nearly stopped as it fell and he heaved air. He couldn't lose a father he just gained, they didn't even have time to properly bond yet. They'd never even done anything as father and son yet besides their surprise fight against these villains.

The screech that thing let out was inhuman and he fell back, shaking, crying. He couldn't do nothing to help Aizawa, but his body just wasn't listening to him. He had to move. The screams that Aizawa's newly broken arms came with made him scramble to his feet, hands shaking, holding his capture weapon and he readied himself for whatever came.

"A brat fighting alongside a Pro. What a brave soul you must be, little one. How befitting of the UA Hero Course to rescue a pro when they're not even licensed yet! I'll revel the trouble you'll get in if you survive this." The blue man addressed him after taunting Aizawa. His adoptive father was being injured before him. He knew Aizawa would want him to run away, to hide. But he couldn't leave him like this.

"Leave him alone." Shinsou managed to whisper.

"Leave him alone? You and him took out half of the criminals I brought with me. A couple of them were friends of mine, you know." Shinsou's eyes bolted around as the man lectured before the mist man came over and told the blue one that someone got out.

Little boy blue with his dozen gruesome hand accessories seemed distressed, even said they'd go home. Shinsou was shaking still. Mist man was completely emotionless, could be because he was just a cloud of black smoke or because he actually didn't care.

That monster still had his father and he couldn't do anything about it. How would he even get that thing to respond to him? He didn't want that thing hurting Aizawa if it got violent under his control while trying to break free of his brainwashing either.

"Before we leave, let's make sure the Symbol of Peace is broken. Let's wreck his pride." The blue man moved before he could think and was suddenly over at where Midoriya, Asui, and Mineta were. He adjusted dials on his Artificial Vocal Cords faster than he thought was possible.

"We must leave before other Pros show up!" He used that mist man's voice with his Brainwashing.

"In a moment, Kurogiri." He responded, he actually responded. He could have cried, he probably was. The hand man was stunned and wasn't moving. But, before Shinsou could do anything, Aizawa's face had been smashed into the ground again and then, in what couldn't have been more than a split second, he felt pain aching in his own head with his ears ringing and rubble beneath his face.

"NO!" Midoriya? He felt blood under his hand and face. Was that his? Or was it Aizawa's?

"Dad." He forced himself up to his hands and his eyes open. He had to get them out. He wouldn't lose his father. He saw Aizawa in front of him, it was Aizawa's blood and his own under him.

He forced his knees under him and, seeing blurs of that monster and the blue man, he covered Aizawa sideways for a moment with his own body. Something instinctual told him he'd rather get hurt than lose the only decent parental figure he'd ever had.

The dizziness from getting hit into the ground again was a definite shock. He felt fuzzy, everything felt fuzzy. But he saw Aizawa hadn't been moved, hadn't even been touched.

He'd landed on his Dad's upper back sideways but he wasn't anymore hurt by that ghastly monstrosity. The monster was gone, so was blue boy. They weren't by him anymore, so he didn't care where they were.

"Dad. Dad, please wake up." Aizawa groaned in pain and that was all he needed. He forced his body up and he got his grounding, although dizzy, as he got to kneeling. He protectively grabbed the pro and slung his arm over his shoulder. He had to get them away. They'd both fought as much as they could, he had to get them to safety before they died fighting.

The minute he'd struggled to his stumbling feet was the minute AllMight had burst in. He watched as the whole building went eerily quiet at his arrival and then came the few villains they hadn't defeated were talking about the Symbol of Peace.

He didn't pay attention to what AllMight was saying. He didn't care. He was busy trying to stumble toward the exit. The villains that were standing didn't even bother with him, so he didn't bother with them.

"Get out of my way." He growled at AllMight as the stupid Symbol of Peace invaded his vision. He pushed on by him, he didn't care.

"Young Shinsou." AllMight put a gentle hand on his back and he was suddenly up on the second landing of the stairs. He could get himself out. He kept going, he wasn't going to give up.

He growled at a villain that dared enter his vision, dared enter his personal space. Dare touch Aizawa with clear intent to harm him. He stabbed her with a blade in the shoulder while shoving her down the stairs in her shock, and kept going.

He heard fighting in the background, he didn't care. The stairs were difficult, he had no time to focus on the fighting and he was sure everyone up top was busy with Thirteen. He had to get Aizawa out of here.

Hands came to help him up and he was vaguely aware that Sero and Uraraka were helping him up the stairs, Uraraka making Aizawa weightless so they could carry him easier.

A gunshot rang in his ears. He looked up numbly to see the UA teachers as they began taking down villains. He saw Snipe and his newly minted Uncle Yamada and Aunt Kayama.

"Help him. Please. Dad needs help." He was seeing stars as he let Aunt Kayama and Vlad King finally take Aizawa from him and he dropped like a fly with all his adrenaline gone down the drain.

He vaguely was aware that Snipe was the one to have caught him and he was doing so one armed as he was shooting at someone. He didn't quite care but he hoped his bullets went right for that blue guy and that monster.

He didn't have much time to really speculate on anything before he was passing out against a pro hero all while he heard Mina scream when she, presumably, saw the bloody condition he and his father were in.

Everything just simply went dark and he hoped he woke up in a hospital with a father still and not in a grave or going to a funeral.

Taglist: @everythingisstardust

14 notes · View notes

who-ya-gonna-call-winchesters · 4 years

Text

A Learning Experience - jack kline x reader

Sam and Dean Winchester leave their little sister behind on a hunt to be a glorified babysitter for a certain nephilim. Y/n introduces Jack to a bunch of new things like pancakes, grocery stores and chick flicks. A few harmless questions arise. Fluff.

Word Count: 2,154

masterlist

If anyone had told you a couple months ago that you would be babysitting Lucifer’s son while your brothers went out hunting without you, you would have laughed in their faces. But that was then and now you were cooking breakfast for two in the bunker’s kitchen balancing your phone against your head with your shoulder.

“Real nice move, assholes. A note. What a nice way to tell your sister you’re abandoning her”, you hissed.

“We’re not abandoning you, Y/n, it’s just a couple weeks. Jack isn’t ready to come with us and he shouldn’t be left alone”, Dean replied, “According to Sam.”

“Are you keeping the knives away from him?”, Sam asked in the background.

“I did not realize that was something I had to do but I think I’ll lock them up now”, you said.

“He’s not gonna hurt you, I’m worried about him hurting himself.”

“Great, so you abandoned me with a suicidal nephilim in a bunker that no one knows about.”

“It wasn’t my idea”, Dean grumbled.

“Shut up, De, I know you don’t like him but he’s just a kid”, you rolled your eyes.

Your oldest brother laughed, “You two are like the same age if you don’t wanna get technical-”

“Which”, Sam interjected, “is why I think it’s a good idea you stay with him at home. You can teach him stuff and make sure he takes care of himself.”

“I’m literally a babysitter. You guys owe me big time when you get back”, you said.

“Something I’m sure you won’t let us ever forget.”

“Goodbye, Dean”, you hung up the phone and plated the last of the pancakes.

After setting the table you cleared your throat and called out for Jack in your best mother hen voice. It echoed around the empty bunker for a few moments before you heard footsteps approaching and a head of blonde hair poked in from around the door frame.

“Yes, Y/n?”, Jack asked.

“Sit your ass down and eat, breakfast is ready”, you gestured towards the pancakes on the table.

“What are these?”, he asked, staring at the pancakes after he sat down.

You stared at him, “Are you kidding? They’re pancakes, you’ve never had pancakes before?”

He shook his head.

“Well, these are the best breakfast food in the whole world. I don’t really know how to explain them better than that”, you said, putting a couple on his plate and passing him the bottle of syrup, “I think, you’ll like them. You can put syrup on them if you want…”, You watched in abject horror as he drowned his pancakes in the substance before digging in.

Jack grinned through a mouthful of food, “These are good. I like pancakes.”

You laughed, “I’ll make them for you every morning as long as you don’t tell Sam about the amount of sugar you just ingested.”

Jack nodded, “Deal.”

After a couple days of making three square meals a day for a nephilim that seemingly never got full, especially of your pancakes, you had to make a trip to the grocery store. Syrup was at the top of your shopping list but you were running low on other actual essentials and you didn’t know if a nephilim could actually eat unhealthily but Jack was half human after all and Sam might appreciate you putting a salad into the boy.

You knocked on the door to his room, in between yours and Sam’s incase anything were to happen, and stuck your head in. He was reading, something you encouraged considering how many pop culture references your brother used, besides Harry Potter was a classic and you were showing him the movies as he gradually finished each book. Which was surprisingly quick before you realized that Jack didn’t sleep nearly as long as you did.

“Hey, Jack, you wanna get out of here for a little while?”

He looked up at you in confusion, “Sam and Dean said it would be best for me to stay here.”

“Well, I don’t see those dummies anywhere now, besides we need more food. It’s just a quick run to the store. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to though”, you said.

He shook his head and stood up, “No, I’ll come with you.”

“Cool.”

It really was supposed to be a quick trip to the store until you learned just how much food Jack had never had before.

“Do you normally get this much food?”, Jack asked, looking over the nearly full shopping cart.

“Living with Sam and Dean? Yes. But we’re getting a lot of stuff I don’t usually buy. It’s high time you lost your mac and cheese virginity”, you said as you examined the tomatoes.

“What is that?”, he asked tilting his head in a very Castiel esque manner, which you found absolutely adorable.

What? Mac and cheese? It’s kinda in the name, just macaroni and cheese-”

“No, virginity.”

You think you probably rivaled the tomatoes in how red your face was, “It’s uh…like when you’ve never done something before. But it’s just a metaphor, normally virginity pertains to um”, you paused. You really did not want to give Jack the sex talk in the middle of the produce section.

“Intercourse?”

You breathed a sigh of relief, thank god. Wait…

“How do you know what that is?”

“I saw something on Dean’s laptop-”

“Dean showed you porn?”, you hissed.

“Not exactly, it was just there”, Jack said nonchalantly.

You shook your head and put the tomatoes in the cart before dragging Jack off towards the registers. That was enough for today’s outing.

After about a week, you two had finished all eight Harry Potter movies and had moved onto the rest of Dean’s vast collection of movies. Over the course of your time alone with Jack you had learned he was a huge cuddler. The first time you had sat down on the other side of the couch, he pulled you closer by the second act. Not that you minded, Jack was warm and it kept the chill off, the bunker was drafty. It was only for that reason. Not because you were developing a huge crush on Satan’s son.

Tonight you were watching some romantic chick flicky movie you didn’t even know Dean owned. Well, Jack was watching it. You were nose deep in your book with one hand curled in Jack’s hair as he rested his head on your lap.

“They’re supposed to be in love, right?”, Jack asked.

“Yeah, that’s kinda the whole point of the movie”, you said, not looking up from your book.

“Then why is he hurting her?”

That got your attention, you looked up at the screen. The guy in the movie was pushing his female love interest up against the wall and gazing into her eyes with an intense smolder that made you shiver a little.

“He’s not. It’s kinda meant to be romantic. It’s building sexual tension”, you replied as the pair on screen started making out. “See? Now they realize they’ve been in love the whole time.”

Jack turned to look up at you, “How do you know when you’re in love though?”

“I don’t know, you feel all tingly and happy when you’re around someone you love. You really like spending time with them, I guess. These are some loaded questions. Haven’t you been watching the movie?”

Jack flushed, “I wasn’t really paying attention to some of it.”

You shrugged, “You didn’t miss much, most chick flicks are all the same anyway.”

The end credits rolled down the screen a few minutes later and you closed your book. Jack looked like he had zoned out again as you continued to play with his hair. He was probably tired. Even nephilim had to burn out at some point.

“I think I’m gonna head to bed. You look like you should too”, you suggested, pushing a few stray stands of blonde away from his forehead.

“Maybe. I’ll only wake up in a couple hours anyway. Can I stay up longer? I want to watch another movie”, he said, sitting up to let you up.

“Go ahead. I’m not your mom, you can stay up late if you want. Just don’t start Star Wars without me.”

Being a Winchester meant very few nights of peaceful sleep, luckily tonight was just the usual nightmares of being torn apart by various monsters. Nothing you hadn’t dealt with before. So when you woke up in a cold sweat, you shook off the fear and decided to grab a drink before going back to sleep. The clock read 3:00 AM in big red letters, so you had only been out for a few hours.

Jack’s bedroom door was shut when you walked past, so you assumed he had turned in sometime after you. You crept down to the kitchen as quietly as possible to avoid waking him. You grabbed a drink of water and checked your phone for any notifications, nothing from the boys yet but they weren’t supposed to be home until next week due to complications according to their last call. From somewhere down the hall you heard a floorboard creek. If Jack had woken up you would have heard his door, the hinges in the bunker weren’t exactly well oiled. The hairs stood up on the back of your neck and you set your glass down silently.

The hall was dimly lit but there was no sign of anything that could have made the noise. You sighed. You were just on edge from that nightmare, the bunker was decades old if ever there was the time to use the “house settling” excuse it was with this ancient building. You turned the corner back down your hallway and was suddenly slammed up against the wall. You let out a gasp that would have turned into a very loud scream if your eyes hadn’t met a pair of blue ones.

“Jack”, you breathed, “You scared the shit out of me.”

Jack stared you down silently. His grip on your wrists was tight and it made you wonder if he knew just how tight. His gaze was intense almost like…

“You can ease up a little bit there, tiger”, you whispered and his eyes softened along with his grip.

“I’m sorry. Did I actually hurt you?”, he asked nervously.

You shook your head, “I think I’ll live. What are you doing?”

His cheeks turned red, “In the movie, you said this was romantic.”

Oh. Now it was your turn for your cheeks to heat up.

“Jack...”

“I feel tingly and happy when I’m around you, Y/n”, he said sincerely, “You said that means I’m in love.”

“You’ve never been in love before, Jack. Love is more than just tingly feelings. It’s something that you have to figure out and learn on your own”, you explained.

“You don’t love me?”

That damn near broke your heart. You shook free one of your hands and caressed his cheek softly. “Jack, I like you way too much than I should already and could well be on the road to loving you. But I don’t want you to think you’re in love with me just because I’m one of the only people you’re around-”

He shook his head, “I’ve seen other people though. No one has ever made me feel like you do. I thought there was something wrong with me but it doesn’t feel bad. It feels good, like pancakes or grocery shopping or you playing with my hair.”

Forget being on the road, you had reached your destination. You were definitely in love with Lucifer’s son. His eyes bore into yours and you couldn’t take it anymore. You surged forward and pressed your lips to his. His hands landed on your hips as you threaded your fingers into his hair. The kiss was hot and messy, that was the only indication that this was Jack’s first time doing something like this. Of course he would also be a perfect kisser. You pulled away after a few more moments, breathing harshly.

Jack beamed at you, “Can we do that again?”

You laughed, “Yes, Jack. But maybe after a couple hours of sleep.” You swore he was pouting.

“Can I stay with you tonight?”, he asked, “I heard you earlier, you had another nightmare.”

“Did I wake you?”

He shook his head, “No, I haven’t gone to bed yet.”

That’s why you had heard creaking, it really was Jack moving around.

If anyone had told Sam and Dean Winchester a couple months ago that they would come home to find their little sister cuddled up to Lucifer’s son in bed, they would have laughed in their faces. But that was then and now Dean was looking absolutely mortified and about to blow as Sam dragged him out of the doorway so as to not wake them up.

#spn #supernatural #jack kline #supernatural jack #jack kline x reader #jack kline x y/n #fluff #supernatural fluff #one shot #supernatural one shot

178 notes · View notes

obeymeluv · 4 years

Text

Random Spooky Thing

Something spooky I thought about. I don’t know what really got me thinking about it besides spooky season and the fact that the boys are 5,000+ years old and have probably made secret friends/lovers with a few non-RAD humans over the years.

This is pre-RAD program, post-fall. Boys are still probably at odds with their new demon instincts or have just barely settled into them.

Trigger warning for scary situation. Namely: almost being a legit sacrifice for a demon summoning.

I also have personal headcanons that the bros used to be Avatars in heaven, but for the trait opposite of their sin (Lucifer would be humility, Mammon would be charity/giving, Asmodeus would be love (I guess?), Satan doesn’t count because I don’t think he was in the Celestial Realm when it all happened (based on where I’m at in the game). Beel championed a good harvest/abundance. and Belphegor had the blessing of reinforcement/encouragement/inspiration/productivity)

Lucifer’s got unexpectedly long so this part will have Lucifer and Mammon only. I have to study for exams and stuff TT_TT

Lucifer:

The concept of being summoned by dark magic is very foreign and forceful. He hates it, and he hates that this is what his life is now

There was a certain beseeching vulnerability to humans when they prayed - it was soft and glowing and he misses it

This is a rough yank, like he’s nothing more than a petulant child that needs to be dragged around. Or worse, some dog.

He spills out into the human world and it smells of smoke and brimstone and ground ingredients he’s starting to get familiar with

Lucifer’s used to being intimidating in an angelic way, but he can feel the magic spill off of him here. He can feel his aura manifest into something dark and terrifying.

His eyes now glow in the dark; he can see a reflection of them in the humans’ eyes.

They give a very archaic, overdone address (”O’ great Lucifer...”) and he doesn’t even let them finish before he’s scoffing.

The fall may have broken his wings and shattered his reality, but he’s still fairly arrogant and ready to lash out

There’s a beautiful smell that makes his stomach ache something ungodly now that he’s a demon, and Lucifer realizes with abject horror that a wounded human is somewhere in this room

Celestial Realm or not, his eyes still have the ability to see human souls and intentions. There seems to be a lamb among these idiotic wolves

He sees that dagger rise, the muffled wail enough to pierce his ear and Lucifer snarls as he snatches that hilt in an iron grip

It’s enough to break the human’s grip and send his hands down the dagger, spilling rancid blood

“If you wish to summon me, do it with your own blood. Lay yourself before me and beg.” he says in a voice that is so grating and booming that it makes him flinch a little

His voice was never like this in the Celestial Realm and it makes him angry that it will never be angelically velvety again. Just something semi-twisted and possible of corruption

Perhaps because of the blood or the injustice, Lucifer throws out his wings and punishes the mortal for their insolence. Then the others who try to dogpile him and throw their books at him and shout words that have no meaning.

His grip now crushes things, and he forgets. Pinching is basically stabbing. A shove is basically a fracture.

You’re sobbing uncontrollably when he approaches where you’re being held and Lucifer realizes that he looks a sight. Truly frightening. He never had these murderous impulses as an angel and still surprises himself when he falls to them. They’re still so new!

“Be not afraid,” the words are comforting but fuzzy. They feel foreign on his tongue. He pets your hair. “I shall do you no harm.”

He has to remind himself that he’s so much stronger in this form, tugging and ripping at the rope while trying not to break your little limbs.

You have this resigned trust, this hope, this faith that he will keep his word and it makes him miss humans. Makes him miss Lilith and how he’d catch her and Belphie sneaking around to watch them.

You ask him if he’s really Lucifer, like that Lucifer. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he is. Instead he says, “I am the Morning Star.” and insists on taking you home.

He will guide you home, the bringer of light.

You hug him and it’s the first burst of warmth--genuine warmth--he’s felt since the fall. “Thank you, Lucifer.”

He’s called back by a greater force--Lord Diavolo--and prefers to forget the whole thing happened. That he ate people. That they almost hurt you.

He secretly checks in on you from time to time but doesn’t have the courage to talk to you again.

Every time he looks at you, he’s emotionally drained for the rest of the day. He’s starting to understand what Lilith felt so strongly about and it just makes that gaping wound that much deeper.

He drowns his guilt in Demonus and damns his hypocrisy.

Mammon

He hates being summoned because it burns like when he fell

It reminds him of his body screaming in pain as he adamantly tried to hold onto his Holy Weapons during the fall. His body converted during the fall and Holy Weapons are sheer agony for demons.

The burns on his hands were deep and tender and took days to heal. He doesn’t even remember how he broke his wing, but he knows it drags and its lame. It can’t unfold as well as the other one.

Being summoned just leaves a bad taste in his mouth because he disagrees with being cast out, in general. Seems like some of those angels were morally corrupt, not them! How could what he and the others did be considered wrong?!

Mammon hates the fact that turning into a demon really ripped the veil off his eyes. He used to be a symbol of charity and giving, bringing joy to people, and now he just sees how nasty they are on the inside. Scummy, scummy people.

“What’s your business with the GREAT Mammon, hm? I’m a busy guy, ya know.” he stuffs his hands in his pockets as he looks disinterestedly around the room.

Dull souls, the lot of ‘em. Not a nice smell in the bunch! Some shiny bits and bobs he might take for his time, though.

Sometimes he bites his own tongue to try and fight off the demonic powers that converted him. To get his brain back on track. He doesn’t WANT to be so blunt and careless, so trained on shiny things. but it’s like he can’t help it!

It burns in his soul and sometimes he can hear his old self, his old ways, fizzling out like his wings as they disintegrated not long ago

The dumb humans start ranting about sacrifice and exchange and Mammon stops them cold, louder than them. It’s mostly the ‘older brother’ voice but he forgets that a demon is just scary to humans.

“Not really interested. What else ya got?”

No one expects that. He can tell. They take the thing off your head as if that will change his mind and something about the shininess of you catches his eye. Makes him feel kind of like a puppy.

Is it your soul? Your earrings? The genuine innocence of a human? How glittery your tears look?

He knocks them aside with his wings, stomps over to you, and picks you up (chair and all).

They start yipping about how he technically accepted the deal and how he needs to do their bidding or grant them a favor. “Hang tight, sweets,” Mammon sets your chair down before pointing out every technicality on how the deal wasn’t finished and the terms weren’t agreed upon.

Technically they just summoned him; they didn’t complete a pact ritual

“I’m takin’ that--he points to you--just because I can!” Mammon laughs at the dumb little humans. “You guys didn’t do your homework! I’m the Avatar of Greed!”

One of them tries to sneak around behind him and stab you (like that will change anything?!) and Mammon notices. He grabs the one in front of him by the face, throws him into the one by you, and just starts swinging

He doesn’t kill them, but he DOES raid their pockets of shiny things and interesting things.

Mammon takes the knife, the weird clasps off their ensembles, and breaks the chair to set you free. Debates on taking the screws, but tosses them over his shoulder (not good enough)

As an act of good will, you’re recruited to pillage this lame location they picked

He gets you home with a spell, some kind of homing magic, and just stands there looking at you quietly. He didn’t really look after humans like Belphie and Lilith did so he’s not sure what to do

The urge to comfort is strong but the genteel pat is corrupted by the desire to feel your earring between his fingers. Some guttural demon noise of glee comes out of him and it makes him embarrassed. He never used to make noises like that...

You unhook your earrings with a tentativeness that reminds him of the humans who left offerings at his alter, fretting over if they were good enough and wondering what they would bring.

You fold his big, tan fingers over the earrings and Mammon holds onto them for a while after he finds his way back to the Devildom. It’s his first gift as a demon.

He ignores getting yelled at and the little brothers pestering him about why he smells good, telling him that they’re hungry. and all their other little gripes.

Mammon never goes looking for you after that, trying to fill the ache in his soul with time and money and fame (oddly?) but he thinks of you often. He keeps your earrings in a special box at the front of his magic-locked hoard room. On his bad days, he’ll go sit in that empty room of knickknacks, open the box, and stare.

He picks up the little things, careful not to break them with his nails or strength. “You’re one silly human, aren’t you?” he smiles at the twinkling jewelry.

#Obey me!#Obey me! x Reader #Obey me! Lucifer #Lucifer x Reader #Mammon x Reader #Obey me! Mammon #Lucifer #Mammon

99 notes · View notes

doorsclosingslowly · 3 years

Text

Hell is just a beat away (2/9): Keen to show you the unhappy ones below you

Despite early promise, young Maul has turned out to be a disappointment, willfully delaying his training with secret attempts to make himself friends from scrap metal. He must be properly motivated, and so Darth Sidious sends him to a slave market on an impossible mission. It backfires. (A Star Wars: Darth Maul (2017) comic AU)

Warnings: accidental underage alcohol consumption, body horror, mention of sex slavery, violence against children, minor character death.

The attendant bends gracefully, smiling as she refills fine translucent cups. The first one is in front of Master Zalandas Fyaar, so the standard diplomatic protocol of privileging the Jedi emissary and guest apparently holds true even on this tiny corrupt world, and then comes that of the twi’lek’s own employer. The man who is Zalandas and Eldra’s new charge. His name is Martrey Woobudg, a tall harried human just like Fyaar, and the upstart frontrunner candidate for mayor of the capital of the Outer Rim planet of Teth. A second passes—a wriggling suspicion in the back of her mind, and then Eldra smooths it over—and then the beautiful twi’lek looks at Master Zalandas and bows and tops up the cup in front of Eldra, too, even though that one has barely been touched.

Woobudg and Master Zalandas pick up their drinks immediately, taking a break from hurried planning to praise the olid tea within. Eldra nibbles at the porcelain edge of her cup. The twi’lek attendant does not drink. She doesn’t even have a cup. Or a biscotti. Or a seat, and when fine hot droplets of tea splatter Eldra’s padawan tunic, and she realizes she’s actually biting down hard now on her crockery.

It’s not the fear of getting poisoned that holds Eldra back from enjoying her tea, although, considering they were called here after the third assassination attempt on Woobudg… maybe a little caution should be in order. It’s a serviceable excuse should Master Zalandas ask, anyway, even if it’s not the true reason, and neither is what Eldra privately decides is the painfully obvious and pointless braggadocio inherent in Woobudg serving imported Chandrilan tea, despite the well-publicized price-hike after last year’s ruined harvest there, and the fact that it absolutely genuinely does taste like unfiltered bantha piss. He’s serving his pricey swill to a couple of Jedi, moreover: to his protectors bound by duty, who do not revel in wealth.

It’s not that, though.

It’s not even really because this is only Eldra’s second diplomatic mission, and she’s sworn she’s going to take her job more seriously this time around. She’s going to make sure no-one, not even once, peeks in unnoticed through the doors and windows. That isn’t it either, and truthfully she’s paying attention far less than she means to.

It’s something far more petty and profane: the subtle spiced fragrance of the attendant’s perfume as she bends over Eldra to reach the china. Her dress, as expensive as the tea, made from rippling opaque silk in a slightly lighter shade of blue than the woman’s skin. It’s a fairly modest cut. Barely any flash of cleavage, despite Eldra’s vantage point. Chosen expressly for this meeting, Eldra thinks sourly, and who do you think you’re fooling?

It’s the attendant’s bearing, calm and open and as serene as any Jedi Master.

It’s the fact that Eldra’s still thinking of her as ‘the attendant’ even though she’s been flitting around the room for two hours now at least. It’s that she wasn’t introduced. It’s that she doesn’t have a cup. A biscotti. A seat.

It’s her teeth.

What would happen, Eldra wonders, if I asked her to come sit and have a drink with us? Besides the obvious, of course: Master Zalandas’ abject disappointment at Eldra’s dearth of diplomatic skill. Would the attendant keep smiling? Displaying her teeth? Or would she flinch the moment the hot nasty leaf juice hits them?

Because her teeth are white-lacquered, dainty, tiny, horrifying stumps. Eldra can’t stop looking at them. They’re almost worn down to the gums. Twice-sanded at least, probably. Once, to sharpen the natural edges further—Eldra runs her tongue over the edges of her own canines, her pointy incisors, like she’s been doing ever since researching for a class project the customs of the peoples of the polar tip of the northernmost continent of Ryloth, the place where she was told she’d been born—teeth sanded once, sharpened, and then, they were ground down again mercilessly to make them blunt.

“Another biscotti, Padawan?”

Watch your feelings, Eldra. Remember that you are a Jedi. Remember your duty. That’s what Master Zalandas means, and Eldra startles, self-conscious and guilty. She must’ve lost her bearing, been grabbing attention even with the question bitten back behind her lips. She nods, a quiet thanks for the reminder. She studies the window again, on guard for any assassin. She tells herself: this meeting is important. Martrey Woobudg is a reformer, an anti-corruption juggernaut, and his rise a chance to wrest Teth from out the criminal syndicates’ control and, ultimately, bring it into the regulatory orbit of the Republic once more. If he keeps his promises after he wins, the election will spell a sea-change for the poor, who’ll finally be able to go about their lives without paying massive bribes to every single government official they have the misfortune of meeting, and it will aid the rise of a stable middle class. It’ll keep out the Hutts, too. It’ll be a triumphant sign of progress. Woobudg is important. His safety is paramount. His fate determines the future of so many people; it’s so much bigger than the life of this one attendant. Eldra knows the brief.

And still, her eyes are drawn back to his twi’lek servant.

To his slave.

That’s why you sand down someone’s teeth until there’s barely anything left. Why you keep at it long after it hurts. Why the sharpest teeth are so popular on Ryloth in the first place.

No-one wants a sex slave capable of biting their throat out.

Dutifully, she attempts to listen again, to keep watch, but looking at Woobudg’s face it’s still all she can think of. Slaver, slaver, slaver. He’s important, and Eldra must protect him, and he’s a slaver.

Looking back at the attendant, she’s met by the serene smile again, full of awful tiny teeth.

Looking at her Master, she feels her own inadequacy.

Looking down at her own hands is no escape. They’re darker than the attendant’s, callused and oil-stained and nails half-covered with flaking black nail polish. They’re the hands of someone far too slowly growing into the knowledge that her body is a shell, a vessel, that she is a luminous being of higher purpose. They’re a Jedi’s hands, or will be, and through them the force flows and shapes the galaxy. They are the hands of someone who will know no emotion, but peace. They are the hands of someone who neither covets nor disdains expensive Chandrilan tea. They are the hands of a faithful servant of the Republic. They are the hands that will protect Woobudg from his enemies and facilitate the rise of Teth, come what may, because she knows right, and she knows duty.

She forces herself to meet Woobudg’s eyes when he looks at her, feigning attention, and hopes he didn’t just ask a question.

She fidgets with her twi’lek girl fingers.

⁂

Hiding and curled and dirty under the stranger’s ship in the now-deserted hangar, two hours after he crawled down there, Maul finally realizes he’s been underestimating his Master. This mission on Nar Shaddaa is not just a chance for the apprentice to prove himself. No, Master is wise and efficient, and he wouldn’t have a single purpose for anything He does when He could, instead, have a myriad. It’s not just a test of Maul’s skill and loyalty.

It’s also a series of lessons.

Yesterday, Maul had been so sure he knew the meaning of cold.

He’d read about it, after all, memorized all the ice worlds in the galaxy and the medical texts on hypothermia and studied the schematics of atoms bouncing ever more slowly off each other. He’d looked at holos of skin blistered and sloughing off from unwise exposure, and he’d been impressed. A little scared, maybe, and very excited to progress in his studies so one day he’d have a chance to experience winter. But Maul’s been hiding under the stranger’s ship for hours now, and Nar Shaddaa is cold. It’s not flashy, the cold, like the holos of icebergs and boiling water thrown up and coming down powder implied. It’s not exciting at all. The cold of Nar Shaddaa is quiet. It’s the floor leeching into Maul’s back and legs, until he can’t tell anymore where wet dirt ends and he begins. It’s uncontrollable shivering. It’s his nose leaking, leaking, leaking. It’s making him tired.

Mustafar bubbled and smoked, and even inside the training complex with its sophisticated uncounted layers of insulation—Maul had dug into the wall once, tunneling almost a quarter-way through with a droid’s breastplate repurposed into a shovel—even inside, during some of the periods that Maul had taken to calling ‘seasons’ after researching the planet of Naboo, it was often so warm Maul wished he was allowed to tear off his tunics, and an additional layer or two of skin with it. Sweating, panting, he’d read the word cold, and he’d wanted it badly. He’d dreamt, open-eyed, for so many hours, of himself rolling around in the cold white snow and chasing ice-weasels. But back then, on Mustafar, it was hot. And Nar Shaddaa is real, and it’s now, and it’s so so cold.

Maul can’t stay down here forever, or even for another minute. He wants to sleep. He wants to run, at the same time, to fight the Jedi apprentice until he meets victory or glorious death. He wants to have completed this mission already. He wants a lightsaber of his own, so he can hold it and bask in its warmth. He wants to sleep. Force, he wants to be asleep. He wants to wake up in his small boiling cell and realize this has all been a dream.

(He wants someone to hold his hand and say, “I’ll help you,” but that’s the most impossible thought of all.)

There is no point in wishing for anything, though. There has never been. He must act. He must stop sneezing. The slave auction will be in four days now, a short strip of time he just needs to overwinter somewhere, Maul tells himself, and even if he doesn’t want to go anywhere near Master’s Star Courier now that it has killed the teenagers that could have been Maul’s friends and the mangy brachno-jag besides, there are many other options. Many other ships. He’s curled down here, in the cold, under just such a ship.

He knows how to pick locks.

It’s not hard at all to gain entry to the ship, now that he’s thought of it. He could have done it in less than thirty seconds, if his hands were shaking less and he had the proper tools, the ones he’s been meaning to build himself for years but in Master’s complex on Mustafar there was little point and then he had to construct stilts and the vocoder-mask for his mission and he forgot—Maul could have sliced the lock in under twenty-five point five seconds, he decides, with the tools, but the ten minutes he actually fiddled with it were acceptable too, because neither the training-droids nor Master himself were there to witness it, and besides, he doesn’t have much practice yet. (He should lock the door again and re-slice it, and over and over, until he’s quick enough. He should. But there’s no-one here to watch, and Nar Shaddaa is cold…)

This one looks almost exactly like Master’s ship, on the inside. Maybe all starships do: a few red-plush benches around a low table in the main travelers’ compartment, overlooked by a massive idling viewscreen, two small side rooms with pairs of sleeping berths, a refresher with a sonic shower and a kitchenette and, most interesting of all, an unlocked engine room and a cockpit with a slightly different layout than the Star Courier had. Maul shall explore them in detail, as soon as he’s warmed up and fed and made sure there are no hidden traps in here. He didn’t dare take apart his Master’s property, but this ship belongs to someone who won’t, can’t, defend his claim against Darth Maul, heir of the Sith—soon-to-be Darth Maul, he corrects quickly—and power is the only true right in the galaxy. Through power he will gain victory, and what is victory in this situation but access to a stranger’s ship’s mechanics? A fuel tank blinks enticingly, and soon Maul shall learn its secrets.

Food first, though.

He upends his satchel over the low table and picks through his haul from the ill-fated convenience store visit. Bottles, ordered by color, to the left—a toxic orange looking one the furthest away, then brown, then the two water bottles with their beautiful waxing gibbous shape when seen from the top and the yellow labels with red writing—and the crinkly chips packages to the right, joined by the sandwiches and the jaw-mask and two pairs of huge glasses with dark lenses and wide red-black frames.

The orange drink is bitter and sickly sweet and probably poisoned, and when he pushes it away it tips over and spills all over the carpet. It deserved that ending, though. It was vile. It didn’t have the right to be drunken by a Sith Lord.

Trying to rinse the taste off his tongue is unsuccessful: the fancy water is bitter, sharp, oily, and Maul shudders. At least the sandwiches smell bright and meaty through their flimsi wrapping. They’ll mask the awful water he’ll have to sip from to avoid dehydration, and so he picks one, to devour while he explores the sitting area.

Perched in an overhead nook is a flickering holo of a weequay male kissing the top of a young weequay’s head, and he turns it off as quickly as he can.

The two blankets and five little pillows are far more welcome spoils, and so is the datapad wedged underneath one of the benches. Someone’s taped a scrap of flimsi securely to the back, too, with two neat rows of handwriting. A name, and then a series of numbers.

Maul types them into the datapad, and it lights up.

“Good evening, Johen,” the pad greets him.

There are pages opened already on the datapad, a search for restaurants on Coruscant and a school’s newsletter and—two catalogues. One of them is Grakkus’ slave auction, and Johen is already logged in.

It’s… in three days?

There must be a mistake. Master said it was in eight days, four days ago, and Master is never wrong, but there’s no slave auction on that date no matter which button Maul presses and where he navigates on the catalogue, just the one in three days, and then five days after, and another five days, and another…

Master doesn’t make mistakes. He knows everything, studied the secrets of the galaxy that the Jedi would keep suppressed, and the hidden weaknesses of far-off planets’ politicians, and every single one of Maul’s minute failures except for the secret dreams, and He would know the true date of this slave auction. He would not err, not when this mission is so vital to the grand plans of the Sith that he sent his own apprentice to complete it. He would never…

He wouldn’t…

But what He would do is test Maul.

A true scion of the Sith does not trust blindly in dates and dossiers, and Master knows that. He must have told Maul the wrong date to pass on this wisdom. He must have, and He didn’t even fear the risk that this momentous mission might fail, because He trusted that Maul would understand.

And Maul did.

Master made the right choice. It’s as if someone had pumped Maul’s chest cavity full up with helium, pulling him off the upholstery and into the cool air: he found the correct date, with time to spare. He procured food and drink and shelter by himself, anticipated the need to hide his childish face under a mask. He built a vocoder. He is powerful and devilishly clever, and more prepared to serve the Sith than anyone has ever been, in all the history he knows, and Lord Sidious knew this when He sent Maul to Nar Shaddaa.

Master has never put His true pride into words; despite the considerable skill of His tongue He likely never will, but this mission is plain proof of the sort Maul never dared to yearn for.

His Master trusts Maul’s skill.

The emotion is overwhelming, and Maul wraps himself up in his blankets, to trap the acknowledgement for a while before it can dissipate.

He is victorious already. He is vengeance. He is Sith.

He’s won three days early.

After half an hour, though, basking in his glory gets boring. His face is growing warm. He’s eaten two sandwiches, too, and forced down seven gulps of awful water. He should sleep, but he isn’t tired yet.

Maul doesn’t exactly know what to do with downtime. Or: he does know. On Mustafar, he had long stretches with nothing to do. Apparently, it’s physically impossible to keep training all the time. SRT-X (or Strut, as Maul had called it in secret) once put itself in front of Maul and showed articles to Lord Sidious, about a vain bodybuilder on Corellia whose arm muscles had eventually started breaking down from overexertion, and he’d nearly poisoned himself with the waste of his own overbulged dead muscle tissue. Strut didn’t survive that confrontation, which in retrospect Maul admits was completely fair. (At the time, he’d cried his eyes out, no matter how much Master had tried to make him to stop, but that too had been a valuable lesson: the Master is always right, and contradiction suicide. Even if the frequency of lessons had tapered off somewhat after that. Lord Sidious had probably independently decided to make Maul train less. He was wise that way.)

He’s had long stretches where he didn’t even feel like tinkering with his droid projects, or meditating, because occasionally the hatred just wouldn’t come. That was before Lord Sidious showed Maul what the Jedi had done to the Sith: nowadays, it’s much easier to feel hatred. (Or what passes for hatred, anyway. Mostly it’s nothing but protective anger, but that is just another failure he cannot admit even to himself.)

During those times when there was nothing to do, Maul often researched people. Master is a politician in His spare time, of course, as Maul overheard some years ago, and He makes people dance and shiver and obey with a single word. It’s almost more impressive than being a Sith Lord. To manipulate people… to talk them into being your friends… Maul might need that skill, especially in the future when he will become the Sith Lord and teach his own apprentice—he would need the skill just to find an apprentice—and so he started his research project. Which admittedly consisted of looking at the hololessons that Master left for him. But that was the best way to observe natural behavior. Which was why Maul watched them. Over and over.

He’s not brought the hololessons with him now, but he is in someone’s ship. Johan had a picture up with his child. Maul already learnt so much today, about cold and efficiency and never trusting anybody and stealing from supermarkets, and maybe there is something additional to learn here, about people. He wobbles back over to the small holo and brings it down to his nest.

There’s nothing else on the datadrive, though, nothing but the toddler cradled in her father’s arms. No instructions. No meaning. Maul tries to imagine what it would feel like, to be that small or that big, but nothing wants to move in his head except for the water strangely threatening to blur his eyesight.

His chest hurts.

His chest hurts, and pain is a message.

Maul wishes he knew what he’s being told.

He moves closer and closer to the holodevice—there must be some power trapped in there, to make him react this way—and then his nose bumps against the plasteel.

It hits the off button, and Maul is alone again.

He tries to fall asleep.

He counts: he nearly finished his mission. He learnt about cold, and efficiency, and not trusting, and probably something about babies. He found food and water and shelter. He nearly made friends with hooded aliens and a brachno-jag. He—

Maul shoots upright and logs back in to the datapad.

He’s forgotten to search the database for the padawan.

⁂

There is one location on Teth even worse than the tea room: the stage out in the open air where Candidate Woobudg is stubbornly campaigning for freedom.

That’s what he keeps shouting.

Freedom, with the might of the Republic guarding his back and his twi’lek slave kneeling at his feet.

Freedom, the people rallying below mutter. Eldra is walking amongst them, looking for threats, while Master Fyaar is standing grimly behind Woobudge. “Optics,” Woobudg had explained and Master Fyaar had acquiesced, and Eldra didn’t understand and did: the twi’lek attendant would look too much like a person, she thinks, if she was next to a Jedi who could have been her daughter.

Freedom! Freedom! All around her, and something pulls on Eldra’s sleeve. It’s the hand of a young red twi’lek man. He’s collared and his left breast is exposed, suckling a sullustan baby. The child’s family—slavers—are a few meters ahead, and that’s what must have given him the courage to beg, wild-eyed and hoarse, “Take me with you, please!”

Freedom!

“We didn’t…” Eldra looks away. “We did not come here to free the slaves.”

⁂

No padawan is listed anywhere in the catalogue for Grakkus’ slave auction. There’s no Jedi, no witch, no force-sensitive or force-null or Sith or any thing or any being in any way remarkable. Nothing, neither in any listing for any future auction nor in the archives of successful deals stretching six decades into the past. No padawan who is not for sale but just a member of Grakkus’ personal collection except a boy who died ten years ago. No references to a Jedi sold by a third party, or even any guest who might be a Jedi when Maul cross-referenced the user lists with holonet articles about his ancestral foes. Two Jedi artifacts, but it’s not like those count.

No person that could in any way be interpreted as the mission target that Master talked about, not even after Maul exploited a weakness in the catalogue’s search field to give himself access that Johen shouldn’t have had and scoured it all over again.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

No way to succeed.

He should have been afraid all along. Maul wasted two hours basking in premature victory and safety; he wasted three days being cautiously optimistic, when he should have been swallowing down his pleas for mercy ever since the very second Master announced He’d send him to Nar Shaddaa.

Send him to failfail.

There’s no padawan here.

What does it mean, that Master wants Maul to fail the very first mission he ever had? What did Maul do wrong? Why couldn’t He just punish—?

Master might have made a mistake, perhaps, Maul’s mind offers timidly. Maybe He’s seen news of a padawan that isn’t here, but Master does not make mistakes. Master knows everything.

Besides, it being a mistake—which it isn’t—wouldn’t make a lick of a difference to Maul’s chances of surviving his Master’s wrath.

Maul swallows a gulp of the oily water, then another, and it burns. That doesn’t make his mind stop spinning, makes him even more woozy and warm and nauseous, but his growing illness won’t matter anyway if Master wants him dead. If he doesn’t find a padawan, nothing will ever matter again.

He’ll be punished. He’ll deserve it. He’ll die.

Maybe this is another lesson. Maul is training to become the Sith Lord after all, and every true Sith must learn that failure is not an option. Their mission is too important for that. Revenge is too important.

(Even if it’s not really meant as a lesson, not truly, Maul has to believe it is. Otherwise, what else is there to do but wait for death?)

Maybe this is a lesson in improvisation. In overcoming terror. In never giving in.

There must be a padawan somewhere on Nar Shaddaa. Somewhere in this quadrant, at least. Somewhere in the galaxy. Master must have meant ‘Nar Shaddaa’ in some general sense that doesn’t just refer to the planet, or maybe the padawan He talked of was moved…

The one location where there definitely are some padawans is the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, Maul knows. But there are also several thousand armed and trained Jedi Masters there, and while Darth Maul will absolutely kill them all to avenge his fallen Sith brethren and sisters and siblings, he generally assumed it would happen at least one or two years in the future. That he’d have time to build a lightsaber before fighting to the death against the Grand Master Jedi, and also grow a little taller. His battle plans always took those things for granted.

Maul will just search the rest of the galaxy first for a suitable padawan, he decides, and keep the all-out assault on the Temple as a backup plan. That’s not cowardice: he only has a few more days and travelling to Coruscant will take a lot of time. It’s just efficient to try and find a padawan somewhere else first.

Maybe even somewhere on Nar Shaddaa. Maybe the owner of this ship just wasn’t interested in Jedi padawans.

Maul could get a different result on a different ship. He has to.

⁂

It happens too quickly for Eldra to process. The rally ends and the people disperse, and then there is a sound like static—and then she’s on her back with Master Fyaar’s heavy body on top of her. The air is shivering with the heat of blaster bolts and thick with the stench of burnt flesh and hair.

“Eldra,” Zalandas Fyaar rasps out. “Eldra.”

Eldra looks up at her. Master Fyaar’s blonde locks obscure her face, but they cannot hide the stripe of cooked skin at the very top of it, flecks of bone showing through. More than anything, Eldra wishes she could see her Master’s eyes, see the clear blue serenity that reminds her that all is as the force wills it. More than anything, she wishes she could see a mouth twisted in disappointment at Eldra’s failure to notice the ambush. Freckles. Worry-wrinkles. But Master Fyaar cannot raise her head, because she shielded Eldra with it, and—

“Eldra.”

Eldra raises her hand to Fyaar’s wound. She’s good at healing, she gets far better marks there than for diplomacy or geography or sports, and this is cauterized so there won’t be an infection, she just needs manipulate a few cells, to stabilize…

“You’re strong, child. You will not fall to the dark. I know it.”

That sounds like a goodbye. It doesn’t have to be. It won’t… “Master, please—” Eldra can heal her, she is healing her, the wound is closing a little.

“Always remember you are a Jedi.”

“Master—”

“Remember yourself.“

Jedi Master Zalandas Fyaar doesn’t die because she gives up. She doesn’t die because Eldra gives up, or because Eldra fails, or because survival was impossible: the man who pulls Eldra away from her dying Master simply doesn’t care that they need to touch.

He pushes Master Fyaar to the ground—“This one’s toast!”—and pulls Eldra upright by her left lekku, and no matter how desperately she fights through the pain worse than anything she has ever thought she’d bear, like her brain is being squashed and really that’s what is happening, like every thought she has has been replaced by puke-inducing pressure and she does retch and vomit, but still she fights, because if she can just get to Master Fyaar and save her then everything will be okay.

She fights until she doesn’t see the rise-and-fall of her Master’s chest anymore, and then she screams, and then she stops.

⁂

It’s the twelfth ship now. Same procedure as the last ones. Maul’s working through the entire shipyard ship by ship. Slowly, he crawls over and stands up and waits until the world stops wobbling, and then he slices the lock of the cargo hold. He searches for datapads and tries to access any slaver database he can.

Somewhere, someone must be selling a Jedi padawan. They just have to.

⁂

Something’s being shoved in front of her. A holocam, Eldra registers, to—shoot a picture for the ransom note? But why would they… it would suffice just to contact the Temple; they know where they sent Eldra and her Master; they know they haven’t been in contact; the must know that something went wrong.

Unless they don’t know she’s a…

“How do we want her?” the man holding the holocam asks. “Sultry?”

“Nah,” someone behind her back replies. “Feisty little Jedi like her’ll fetch more as a gladiator or something.”

So they do know. The Temple will ransom her, she’ll go home and everything won’t be okay because Master Fyaar will still be dead but—

“Growl.”

But she’ll go home—

“Growl, you little piece of shit!” the one behind her shouts, and she snarls. There’s a clicking sound. “Again!” she bares her teeth and gets another click, and another, and one more. There. They got the holo they don’t need, and then soon she’ll go—

Eldra screams when a hand twists her lekku.

She screams and screams, and when she calms down, she’s alone in a cell, on the ground, covered in fresh vomit and terrified and confused. I wasn’t fighting! I snarled for the camera, she thinks. I did what they asked me to do, there’s no reason… except they could. Because I’m alone right now.

Because they killed Master Fyaar.

They killed my…

And she…

“Remember yourself,” Master Fyaar said, her last words, and here Eldra is with her fists balled and gathering strands of hate around herself like a shroud. “Remember yourself,” and Eldra could hurt these people so easily if she felt for their cells and made them boil. Eldra could make it painful, and slow. It would be so easy.

So easy to fall.

“Remember yourself.”

⁂

Maul is sweaty and hot and he feels the way he did when he wasn’t allowed to sleep for days. He’s finished one half bottle of the awful water, and it hasn’t helped: everything is spinning and blurry and he’s still thirsty on top. He’s also inside his seventeenth ship and ready to give up on Nar Shaddaa. He’s been seeing the same nine slaver auction databases on repeat, and there’s considerable overlap between the offerings, and still nothing Jedi in sight.

I can’t fail, he thinks, and hits refresh again.

I can’t just fail my Master, and he’s about to exit the database and the ship and the planet when he notices the flashing window at the bottom right.

An alert!

An alert prominently featuring a twi’lek girl baring her teeth at the holocam, but the person is almost incidental to his interest.

“Jedi padawan for sale!” the headline screams in flashing red. “Freshly captured!!!”

So this is his enemy, his target, the prize he has to fetch to fulfill his destiny: she’s young, though probably older than him, and her blue face is badly cut up. There are deep purple bruises on both her lekku, and despite the anger and toughness she’s trying to display she mostly succeeds in looking terrified.

Hah, Maul thinks to himself. I knew the Jedi were soft. I wouldn’t be this weak, if I was captured, which never would happen in the first place because I am Darth Maul, heir of the Sith Order.

He looks at the picture again, trying to find his hatred. She and hers slaughtered the Sith on Malachor; they live in pampered safety; they know nothing of the Force. They—she would just as soon kill him, hurt him, traffic him if their fortunes were reversed. She is his enemy.

Still, she looks just like a person, alone and scared.

There is no point in looking at her image any more.

Maul studies the alert carefully. She is going to be sold tomorrow—not the date Master had told him of, but Maul already established that it was a test. She is going to be sold in the palace of Xev Xrexus, but maybe Master had misheard the name or it was yet another way of probing Maul’s skill. The terror Maul felt because of these tricks was a valuable lesson, a reminder of the utmost importance this mission held for the Sith Order and how inacceptable any kind of failure would be. Maul, moreover, has seen through it: he is completely equal to the task. He will bring the padawan to his Master, and not deviate from the plan for a single second. He is much more skilled than anyone else would be, anyone who isn’t an awesome Sith and therefore, he’ll perform admirably and easily, and Master will be proud. Master will pronounce him Darth Maul, and the many years of training will have paid off. He knows this. (Thinking it really hard, over and over, is the same thing as knowing.)

She’s been captured—

Master must have foreseen it. He is, after all, gifted in the art of clairvoyance he had told Maul, always already aware of the mistakes Maul might make at any point. So it makes sense, it does, that Master sent Maul to this planet days ago on a mission to buy a padawan that was captured two hours ago.

Master is wise that way.

He planned…

And…

By now, Maul is so tired and thirsty—his brain flashing Master knew and but why in quick dizzying succession—that even the relief of having succeeded can’t boost his energy anymore. He locks the ship, overriding any key fobs, and sets an alarm for well before the padawan’s auction. He takes a bite of the awful chips he acquired in the shop, and throws up.

⁂

“Smile.” He does. “Growl.” He does. “Not like that.” There is a slap, and then he arranges his facial muscles differently. He doesn’t know whether he’s succeeded, until he sees the approving nod, and feels the lack of punishment.

There is his body and there is him, and no connection between the two. If he had a mirror, he could make it look more natural, but only an approach. There is no joy here. No anger, or not the kind they would have him display. No future. There are no brothers to watch. There have been no brothers, ever since he was selected and taken off-planet, off-home, too many days or years ago now to count. These people’s expectations are a thick leather shirt, riverdunked and allowed to dry on the body, so tight that he can hardly breathe. There is no space inside for himself, let alone dreams or brothers or rage. There is only a face to rearrange, to the approval of a master.

A different master, soon.

Maybe that master will kill Savage. Maybe they won’t. One way or the other, this will the last ever auction he is sent to. Savage will make sure of that.

#darth maul #eldra kaitis #savage opress #dimtraces makes things #hell is just a beat away #i'm awful at crossposting but i actually managed to write something again!!!

14 notes · View notes

anotherdayinchuckletown · 4 years

Text

They’re Funny That Way

Chapter 3

A/N: Hello, lovelies, I’m rolling out this chapter about a month after I had originally planned to! Wonderful! Honestly, though, I’m really happy with how this one eventually turned out, and I hope you all enjoy it. We’re gonna be getting to that good shit soon, y’all, I promise. What can I say, I love me a good slow burn.

(cross-posted to my AO3 @ marie_deneuve)

Summary: Emma finds herself locked out of her apartment, leading to an unexpected meeting with her next-door neighbor.

Arthur's mission to conveniently bump into Emma again is proving incredibly difficult.

It's hard enough simply pinning down her schedule, with how sporadically she must leave the apartment. However, luck is on Arthur's side today, and he spots her in the hallway as he is leaving to run some errands that morning. His heart stutters as he recognizes her figure just before she reaches the stairs and descends out of view.

Heaven help him, she's even more beautiful than he remembered. He hasn't seen her since that time in the elevator - well, not in person, at least.

She has visited him every night in his fantasies - watching Murray with him while resting her head on his shoulder. Comforting him when harsh nightmares jolt him awake. Telling him that she's proud of him in that soft, melodious voice. That voice that's been echoing in his head and taunting him, driving him mad because he can't recreate her tone exactly, can't match her precise cadence on his own.

Last time they met, she had shaken his hand without a second thought. Arthur had been wearing gloves at the time as part of his work attire, and he'd been kicking himself for it ever since. She reached out and touched him, and he didn't even get the benefit of feeling her hand against his! Pressing that glove to his face as he slept that night had been mildly comforting, but it was no substitute for the real thing.

It's his one day off this week; he definitely has time for a little detour. Maybe if he runs into her somewhere along her way, makes it seem natural, she'll touch him again? He imagines how soft she must feel, how warm. He wants to pull her into his arms, tangle his fingers in her blonde waves, bury his face in the curve of her neck.

Those are the thoughts propelling him forward as he accompanies her through the streets of Gotham that morning, hood of his tan windbreaker up and obscuring his face. "Accompanies" may not be the correct word if one person is unaware of the other's presence, but Arthur isn't too caught up in semantics at the moment. No, he's much more preoccupied with following that streak of golden hair weaving through the foot traffic at a frustratingly quick pace. It's a good thing Emma doesn't share Arthur's talent for disappearing into crowds, he thinks to himself.

If anything, it's the opposite. Gotham City has a perpetual storm cloud hanging over it. Or perhaps it would be more apt to say that Gotham City is the storm cloud. Everything is a different shade of gray, the streets, the smog in the sky, even the people. She is the only splash of color for miles - all reds and blacks and spun gold, shining despite it being overcast.

He maintains several yards between them, knowing that if he gets caught prematurely, he risks scaring her off for good. The last thing he would ever want is for Emma to feel unsafe around him, and there is really no explaining this one away. Hi, I know this looks bad, but I'm that clown you were really nice to on the elevator a few days ago. Anyway, it's been a few days, and I just had to see you again because I can't stop thinking about you, even though we barely know each other. Have coffee with me?

Yeah, real smooth.

His insecurity is gaining on him, when suddenly, Emma slows in front of a store window - Cypi's Bakery, to be exact. Arthur swiftly ducks into the nearest alleyway, poking his head out to see what it is that captured her attention.

Her gaze is fixed on a chocolate croissant on one of the display shelves. She steps right up to the glass, transfixed.

It's the perfect opportunity to approach her. She's so close, it's nearly impossible not to make himself known and reach out to her. It's like the universe is dangling her right in front of his nose, teasing him. Look! She's right here! Come and get her!

What would he say, though? Scratch that, what would a normal person say? Try as he might, he can't quite find the words.

Seconds tick by, and Emma finally checks her watch, rolls her eyes, and with one last forlorn glance at the pastry, continues down the sidewalk. Several feet behind her, Arthur is rolling his eyes as well - he dawdled too long and missed his chance.

She has already rounded a corner by the time Arthur trudges out from his hiding spot, defeated. He tugs his hood down and attempts to straighten his ruffled hair with a sigh, Gothamites shouldering past him without so much as a glance.

Oh, well. Like he could have held the conversation without royally fucking it up anyway.

Perhaps this isn't a total loss - he can still buy her a gift. He knows what she wants now, after all. It will stretch his budget a little - unless he can ration out his cigarettes until the end of the week - but if it will make her smile, it will all be worth it.

He decides he'll wait a little while after she returns home, and then leave the box on her doorstep. With an anonymous note letting her know it's for her, of course.

Can't have that noisy brother of hers stealing her gifts.

______________________________________

One week.

One week, and Emma has already reached the end of her fucking rope with this building.

If it isn't the deathtrap elevator, it's the water heater. If it isn't the water heater, it's the absent staff. If it isn't the absent staff, it's the rusted spare key she's been given breaking completely off in her deadbolt, leaving her stranded in the hallway with five bags' worth of clothing and hygiene products.

Today, it's the spare key thing.

For a while, all Emma can do is stare in disbelief at the piece remaining in her hand, the way one might stare at someone running naked between the floats at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. She knows there's no one downstairs at the moment to let her in, or even to get the old key out of the lock. Eddie has the afternoon shift, so he's definitely at work right now. She could just wait at Sophie's for him to return, but she won't even be off for another hour.

It's a perfect cocktail, she thinks. And then she hates herself even more for making an alcohol metaphor when she just took that damn bartending job she doesn't really want earlier today.

She's meant to start working at The Harlequin this weekend, which means two more nights attempting to sleep on that awful air mattress before then. Her new one is set to be delivered sometime after that, and she had to pawn her wedding ring just to afford it. Despite the foul memories behind it, that ring was the only nice thing she had left. Now, she truly has nothing. She can't even get into her own home.

So what does she do? She thinks of the only honorable thing a lady can do in this situation, which would be to march back downstairs, go out to the payphone on the street corner, and call Eddie for help.

And then she does the opposite of that.

With a defeated groan, she throws down her bags and slides down the wall until she's seated on the floor. And keeps sliding until she's lying fully on her back, her bags strewn around her, pathetic puddle of bad luck that she is.

A part of her is ashamed of this private tantrum, and another part of her couldn't give less of a fuck anymore. Hasn't she earned the right to a couple meltdowns?

Emma is broken out of her reverie when the door to the adjacent apartment swings open. The person must not look down in time to notice the mess of a woman lying right outside the door, nor the shopping bags scattered like land mines.

It all happens so fast after that.

The person trips over one of the bags, and Emma has no time to brace herself before their entire body weight slams down onto her at full force.

She lets out a pained whine as the person's bony elbow meets her stomach, knocking the wind out of her. Her head instinctively jerks back, colliding clumsily into the wall behind her, and she briefly sees stars.

Clearly not expecting to effectively elbow drop some woman like a WWF wrestler, the person scrambles wildly on top of her, not helping her discomfort in the least. They flail backwards until they're sitting up on the floor next to her, and Emma finally gets a good look at them as she gasps inelegantly in an attempt to refill her lungs.

It's a man, older than she is, possibly in his early forties. The wrinkles adorning his gaunt face tell a story of utmost exhaustion, and he's dangerously thin, like he hasn't had a proper meal in ages. Brown curls float a touch above his angular shoulders, and his sunken green eyes...look quite familiar. The sudden hypoxia could just be playing tricks on her, though.

Those same eyes finally seem to focus in on her, and he looks at her like he recognizes her as well. She watches his expression quickly shift from confused shock to abject horror.

As Emma finally gets her diaphragm under control, she does her best to sit up, her abs screaming in protest. That'll be a nasty bruise. "Ugh," she groans out. "Holy shit, I'm so sorry! Are you all right, sir?"

The man pauses, thick brows furrowing. "I...I landed on you, and you're apologizing to me?" he asks, perplexed, as if the person who tripped him being repentant about it is the wildest thing he's heard all week. Here in Gotham City, it probably is.

His voice is soft, and upon hearing it, Emma shaves ten years off of her previous estimate of his age. He stares at her guiltily, as if he's just waiting to be reprimanded, despite the whole ordeal not being his fault.

Damn, where has she seen him before?

"What do you mean? Of course I am, I was in your way." Emma goes to gather up her things, still seated against the door to her apartment. "Let me just move these..."

"N-no, it's...it's okay!" the man stutters out. He rushes to stand, and even helps her to move the rest of her things up against the wall.

There's a long and awkward pause before he continues. "If you don't mind, um..." His eyes dart between her and his shoes. "What were you doing out here like that?"

"Oh! Ha, good question." Emma shows him the key - or rather, what's left of it. "It would appear that I'm locked out. It was either do this or throw myself off the roof, and I'm too tired to climb any more stairs today."

Emma briefly wonders whether she should be joking that way in front of a stranger. To her relief, he doesn't seem the least bit unsettled by her dark humor. He simply grins at her bashfully. His eyes briefly light up in turn, the spark so dim and fleeting that, had she blinked, she would have missed it altogether.

And that's when it hits her.

"I've got it!" she exclaims, clapping once. "I know where I've seen you before!"

"Y-you do?" The man appears startled.

"Yeah! It was bugging me, but I remember now." She points one red-painted fingernail at him. "You're that clown! The one I saw in the elevator on my first day here!"

He actually looks relieved at that for some reason, and he visibly relaxes. "Oh, right! I, um...forgot about that." He scratches at the back of his head. "I'm surprised you recognized me - or Carnival, actually. That's my clown name at work."

The irony makes Emma giggle. This skinny, timid man in a knit sweater and loafers puts on greasepaint and dances around at parties for a living... Somehow, she can't picture it, and she's even seen him in full costume. Right now he looks like a sad accountant. Or like Mister Rogers.

Sick of craning her head up to talk to him, she stands as well, brushing some dust off the sleeves of her black cardigan. "I can't say I've ever met a clown off the clock before," she says. "Your life must be a lot more interesting than mine."

His answer comes out slightly pained. "I really doubt that... What do you do?"

"I just became a bartender over at The Harlequin." Emma rolls her eyes and shrugs, smiling wryly. "It's a job. Hopefully a stepping stone, so I can get out of here before long." She gestures to her door. "Pretty sad that I can't even manage to get in today."

The man chuckles at her dry excuse for a joke - shyly, as if he's afraid of it being heard. Emma can't tell if she's being genuinely charming or if this guy just pities her. She hasn't been paying too much attention to his body language, so far down the shitter is her initiative to do so. She just wants to curl up in bed.

Being back in Gotham has been all right so far - preferable to the alternative, at least - but she can't seem to shake the cloud of dread that manifests each time she's not immediately busy with something. She figures it's stress-related. After all, there's so much to do in the coming months, just in regards to dealing with judges and lawyers. These things take ages, even if both parties are cooperative. She's not lucky enough to have the sort of divorce all little girls dream of...

She must have started to zone out because she's suddenly brought back by the man exclaiming, "I-I have pliers!"

Emma peers at him, quirking an eyebrow.

"For your door!" he elaborates. "I can't get you into your apartment, but I can at least get your key back!" Quieter, not meeting her gaze, he adds, "And then, you know, if you need to call someone...you're welcome to come in and use my phone."

Emma blinks, momentarily taken aback by this Good Samaritan. "Uh...yeah, that would be great! Thank you!" She reaches down and starts to collect her bags. "Good thing I bumped into one of the only nice people in the city."

While she's retrieving the last of her things, something at her feet catches her eye. There's a sealed envelope on the floor near where she was sitting earlier. Curious, she picks it up, and then balks at the name of the recipient.

"Woah!" She holds the envelope out incredulously. "This letter is addressed to Thomas Wayne! ...Did you drop this?"

Based on what Emma has seen of recent headlines, Thomas Wayne is a frontrunner in Gotham's upcoming mayoral election. As if Gotham doesn't have enough problems - the last thing the city needs is a pigheaded authoritarian billionaire running things. This guy who's been so kind as to help her couldn't possibly be a fan, right?

The man appears mildly annoyed, although not at her. Taking it from her outstretched hand, he says, "Yeah, I did. It's not mine, though - my...m-mother asked me to mail it." He rushes through that last part in a low voice, and Emma realizes he's embarrassed.

If he does still live with his mother, it's only natural that a man his age would feel insecure about it. She's always found the stigma silly, personally. What is Western culture's obsession with "leaving the nest" as soon as humanly possible, even to the child's detriment? Why, if Emma's parents were still around...

Never mind that.

She has no time to reassure her companion before he changes the subject. "I'll handle it later. I should help you first." With his free hand, he pulls out his key and goes to unlock the door to his apartment.

"Hang on a second!" Emma smacks her own forehead, and he freezes. "God, I'm so rude. What's wrong with me?" She shakes her head. "You're being extremely helpful, and I haven't even asked your name! Your real name, that is - I'd imagine it's not always Carnival, right?"

"Heh, right... My name's Arthur."

"Arthur," she repeats, not half minding the way it sounds in her own voice. "It's nice to officially meet you, Arthur."

Predictably, he looks flustered as he replies, "Yeah... Nice to see you again, Emma."

He unlocks the door, holding it open for her, and the smell of cigarette smoke mixed with high-end perfume wafts out. It's not her favorite scent in the world, but it's familiar - comforting, even.

Inside, gaudy pink plaid lines the walls, a sharp contrast to Eddie's taupe covered with band posters. The living room, or at least what she can see of it, is neat and tidy, despite the abundance of knick-knacks covering each surface.

Although, not a single family photo in sight, Emma notes. Some people simply don't have them lying around. She and Eddie are much the same way.

Lingering self-consciously in the foyer, she spots an older woman reclining in an armchair across the room. Arthur's mother, she presumes. Hearing the door, the woman turns and regards her, then Arthur, confusion plain on her features.

"Happy? I didn't know you were having company." Mild surprise colors her voice, affirming Emma's theory that Arthur doesn't get visitors often.

"It's just one of the neighbors, Ma! She's locked out!" he calls back. Squeezing past Emma, he slips into the kitchen and discards the Thomas Wayne letter on the counter. Rummaging through one of the drawers, he produces a pair of pliers rustier than the key that had gotten her into this mess.

"I'll be right back," he tells her. "The phone is in the hallway behind you, if you need to use it." And with that, he rushes back outside before she can even thank him.

Feeling Arthur's mother's eyes burning holes in the back of her head, she does step into the hallway, partly to call Eddie and partly to get out of her line of sight. Emma struggles to remember the number for his store, but breathes a sigh of relief when someone picks up on the third ring.

"G-String's, this is Ron."

Christ, she always forgets that's the name he decided on. "Ron, it's Emma. Is my brother there?"

Before he can answer, she faintly hears Eddie's voice in the background saying that, yes, he is still out of Pink Floyd's The Wall. "Yeah, he's right here, what's up?"

"Good. Listen, tell him I got locked out of the apartment, and I'm heading down to borrow his key." She dreads the walk. It's not far, but her arms are already sore from the shopping bags weighing them down.

Momentarily ignoring Emma, Ron starts talking away from the receiver. "Dude, it's your sister, she's locked outta the house... Okay, I'll tell her. Hey, Emma, he's on his way."

"What? I just said I'd-"

"Too late, he's grabbing his shit."

Emma groans. "Fine. Tell him I'm waiting for him in 8J."

"Will do." A pause. "So, uh... I hear you're single again-"

She hangs up.

She barely wanders back into the foyer when Arthur's mother surprises her by saying, "It's no use standing around over there. Sit down and make yourself comfortable, dear." She gestures vaguely to the sofa next to her.

Emma complies, stepping gingerly into the living room. She sits at the end of the couch, as far away as humanly possible, and sets her bags down underneath the coffee table, her arms crying out in relief.

"My brother should be here any minute," she begins sheepishly. "I'm so sorry to intrude like this, Miss..." She trails off.

"Penny," the woman supplies. "It's no trouble."

A stodgy local political forum is playing on the television. This is a particularly conservative broadcast by the sound of it, anchors harping primarily on Gotham's floundering economy and the ramifications of a potential garbage strike.

Penny is watching raptly, and Emma uses the opportunity to peer over at her. She certainly is done up to be sitting around at home. Sure, she's in button-up flannel pajamas, but she's also wearing a full face of makeup, and her graying hair, fading from strawberry-blonde, is curled. Underneath it all, the wrinkles on her face betray a beautiful visage. Emma feels oddly intimidated all of a sudden, trying to make a good impression on this woman who gives an air of having once been one of the most stunning girls in Gotham.

As if sensing her unease, Arthur returns. He hastily crosses the room and presents Emma with the other half of her key. "I'm sorry it took me so long... It was really in there."

She smiles gratefully up at him. "Oh, don't apologize. You totally saved my hide out there."

Still not quite on board with the whole eye contact deal, he busies himself by straightening up the coffee table. Lifting an empty mug, he looks up at Penny. "Oh, you finished your tea already. Want me to make more?"

"If it's not too much trouble."

"Of course!" He starts for the kitchen. "Emma, do you drink chamomile?"

She does, but politely declines, already feeling like she's taking advantage of his kindness. He only looks a little dejected by her refusal.

As Arthur bustles around the kitchen, silence descends upon the living room, save for the droning of the television. The subject has changed; the anchors have moved on from essentially blaming the working class for not making enough money to worshiping the ground their candidate Thomas Wayne walks upon. How original.

Penny practically lunges to raise the volume, startling Emma. "Did you mail my letter, Happy?" she interjects without looking away from the screen.

"I didn't make it downstairs yet." He assures her, "I'll do it before the mailman gets here."

"Don't forget. It's very important," Penny insists somewhat curtly.

"That Thomas Wayne is polling pretty high these days, isn't he?" Emma muses, attempting to make small talk.

Penny instantly perks up. "Yes, that's what everybody on the news is saying. It's a good thing he's running this year. He's exactly what this city needs, don't you think?"

Hardly, but Emma elects to keep her opinion to herself. Instead, she blurts out, "I met him a few years ago."

Penny looks positively awestruck. "You did, really? Oh, he's a wonderful man, isn't he?"

She did technically meet him, although she never spoke to him personally. It was at a benefit that Daniel had dragged her along to, so that he could network (code for smooth talk billionaires). They had conversed for a grand total of thirty seconds, shaken hands, and that was the end of that. He had come off every bit as arrogant and self-important as she would expect of the CEO of a multi-billion dollar industrial corporation. He and Daniel were two peas in a pod.

"...My husband seemed to like him."

The clattering in the kitchen stops cold.

The sudden absence of sound causes her to remember herself. "I mean, my ex - my ex-husband. Excuse me, I'm newly separated. Still getting used to it."

"So sorry to hear that," Penny tells her, not sounding in the least bit sympathetic. Not that Emma needs, or even wants, sympathy.

She instead returns to the previous subject, with Emma half-listening. Apparently, Penny worked for the Wayne family years ago, and is now chock-full of anecdotes from within Wayne Manor.

Emma smiles and nods along. Penny clearly sees her idol though rose-colored glasses, but there's no use telling her that. She must be delighted simply to have someone new to talk to, and Emma would hate to spoil it for her.

Arthur emerges with a steaming mug of chamomile tea and a facial expression that lets Emma know he's far sicker of these stories than she is. Nevertheless, he hands his mother the mug, giving her shoulder an affectionate pat.

The scene has her beaming up at the back of Arthur's head as something stirs deep within her. Something like the first sip of hot chocolate on a snowy morning, coursing through her veins and warming her from the inside out.

Before he can sit down, there's a loud knocking accompanied by a shout of "Hey, Em, you in there?"

"Ah, that's my cue." Emma gathers her things as Arthur hurries to answer the door. She says her goodbyes to Penny, but she's once again engrossed in her program and only offers a halfhearted "goodbye, dear" in return.

Eddie waits in the entryway, arms crossed, his voice booming in the otherwise quiet apartment. "Thanks for the excuse to break early today, ya lucky ladybug. You wouldn't believe some of the idiots coming into the store, you know what I'm saying?" He reaches down to ruffle her hair when she gets within range.

"Glad my misfortune was useful." She notices how Eddie completely towers over Arthur, whose hands fidget anxiously as he hangs back, unsure of what to do with himself. It's honestly sort of endearing how tiny he is, how she could probably lift him up if given the chance.

"I owe you one, Arthur. Knock if you ever need anything, okay?" Emma extends a hand, similar to their first meeting.

This time, Arthur immediately clasps her hand in his, with a grip that is equal parts firm and sweaty. "Okay, and the same goes for you." Eddie good-naturedly claps him once on the back, clearly taking him off-guard, and he drops her hand.

She's poised to head out when Arthur stops her, saying, "Oh, one more thing!"

He zips out of sight for just a moment before reappearing with a small, white box. "This is for you."

After all that, he's even giving her a gift? She starts to dissuade him, but he holds the box out toward her, close enough that social etiquette dictates she take it. And so she does, brows drawing together. "You're too nice, Arthur, thank you."

"Take care, man," Eddie says, finally ushering a confused Emma out the door.

When the door clicks shut behind them, he immediately fixes her with a long and pointed stare. For a second, Emma thinks he's pissed for having to walk all the way back home, but then he breaks the silence.

"So...you and the neighbor, huh?"

Emma tilts her head. "Me and the neighbor?"

"Lemme see this." He grabs the box out of her hands, ignoring her protests. A glance inside, and he shuts it again, raising his eyebrows at her in a nonverbal "I told you so" before handing it back and unlocking their door with a flourish.

"What? What is that face? What's in there?"

"A Cypi's croissant, Em? Oh, he's got it bad for you."

She snatches it back, indignant. "Ugh, you're delusional. I've met him once before; he probably just felt sorry for me." Although, she had really been craving one of those since she passed by the store on her walk this morning. What a happy coincidence.

"Don't be so naive. You have any idea how many girlfriends I've hit that place up for on Valentine's Day? You don't bust out the Cypi's unless you're seriously looking to drop some panties."

"Gross. Thanks for coming to get me, but never talk to me about panties."

It's strange to think that the seemingly mild-mannered, reticent man who gifted her a croissant has such a blood-curdling laugh. It would have been incredibly rude to bring it up today, when he had so kindly gone out of his way for her. Surely, there's a courteous method to broaching the subject? It would be unfortunate to hurt his feelings and topple the precarious acquaintanceship they were building.

She is pleasantly surprised that night when the walls are resoundingly, blissfully silent.

#arthur fleck #joaquin phoenix joker #joker 2019 #joker #they're funny that way #My fic

13 notes · View notes

plcasantnights · 4 years

Note

😰

Have you ever had a dream that felt so, so important while you were having it but when you wake up you just can’t fit the pieces together? The moment you wake up, everything slowly starts to fall apart again. The meaning behind them would remain a mystery but for weeks on end, you would think about the dream. You would think about the details, the importance of it. And even then, it would slowly slip through your grasp because none of it had ever been real in the first place.

Eddie used to have dreams like that. His pillow would be soaked in blood and sweat. His brother would make fun of him in the morning sometimes. But in the moment, all Eddie could remember was the look of horror on his face. Abject sharp horror that beats out the regular horror of walking around on Halloween. Beats out any scary movie at the theater. This was mortal terror he saw written on his brother’s face some nights. Written in the lines of a boy’s face who’d hardly been fourteen for a month.

Eddie doesn’t remember the dream anymore.

The place is monochrome. A wide opening of mountain range and trees, an alien maw of a sky that opens to no stars, just the strange swirling clouds that curl under the brilliant tubes of light ( strings, he understands ). They lash out against the sky, twitching and twirling like living things, like moving underwater, reflecting against the clouds and offering what little light there was in the world. Brilliant Red, and Green, and Blue. And the final. White, curling and intersecting with all of them, bringing them all together towards...

He would rush towards the place, through the black and grey trees. Eddie would feel his hear race, soar, the sharp sound of snapping under his feet moving him on. He needed to find the place where they all intersected. His eyes stayed above, towards the clouds, watching the giant streams of light in the sky. Watching the clouds swirl around them, directed by them, pulled by them. The tips of the trees swayed, bent towards them. The direction that the universe was shaped in was always bent towards them. Pulled towards Them.

He stumbles into a clearing filled with doors. They’re all marked, all old, all worn down and obviously used. The plaquards on all of them have been scratched out. They’re strewn about at random, sometimes just sitting in space, unused. Sometimes they intersect with other objects, not broken by them or grown into them but intersected by them. Existing inside, beside, and without the object. These aren’t what he’s looking for. None of them are what he’s—

He stumbles into a clearing filled with doors and he sees three beings. He sees a being of bright Red light, burning off of it like a fire, like pieces of it are flicking off, like it can hardly stand to be inside of itself. He sees a being of pure Green light. It curls inside of itself impossibly. Over and over and over again, recreating itself anew but remaining old. Old yet, older still. Forever and ever.

He sees a being of pure White light. It is blinding, it is stunning. It is impossible to look at yet Eddie can hardly stand to look away. It is pierced by millions of black pikes. Millions upon millions, it must be millions. It must be because the creature looks so hurt, so greviously injured, yet it stands. And it is the three of them. The three of them that he can hardly look at and yet he’s sure if he looked away he wouldn’t be able to come back here. It’s profound and unexplainable and he wants it to stay this way forever. He wants this here, forever.

The light intersects above them and it is brilliant. It’s like coming home, it’s like becoming complete, it’s like— Like—

The door that they all stand in front of is old and used. It’s worn and the paint is off-white, chipped. But the knob is a brilliant gold and looks nearly new. The name on it is carved, burned, scratched in. It’s right, whatever it is. It’s exactly as the world should be.

THE FAMILY.

He stumbles into a clearing filled with doors and he is whole again. He knows all he must know, he is with who he must be with, there is no shame and there is nothing else besides this.

He stumbles into a clearing filled with doors.

He stumbles in.

He stumbles.

He wakes up.

#🔑 ask #// some... lore #// and some writing

7 notes · View notes

hydrospanners · 4 years

Text

when a problem comes along, you must whip it

when an explosion rocks the palace where they're staying in the night, jedi siblings rhese and rea handle the situation with their usual grace and efficiency. this is a very serious fic. swtor act two. genfic; f!jedi knight x doc mentioned. no spoilers. 2700 words. ao3.

Crack that whip Give the past the slip Step on a crack Break your momma's back When a problem comes along You must whip it Before the cream sits out too long You must whip it When something's going wrong You must whip it

-- whip it by devo

In the end, Rea does more property damage than the bomb.

A year ago he might have let himself shoulder some blame for that, but now--Now Rhese is older. Rhese is wiser. And Rhese knows that his sister would’ve found her way to bringing the place down whether he’d done what he did or not. He has no bearing on Rea’s destructive inevitability, and he sleeps better at night now that he’s made his peace with it.

He doubts if the Duke will ever get a good night’s sleep again. Not everyone is used to being stirred from sleep by explosions in their rotundas.

Rhese can’t remember the last time he went more than a week or two without having his sleep interrupted by an explosion of one kind or another. He isn’t sure what that says about his life except that Rea is back in it.

The building was still trembling from the blast when his feet hit the floor, and he barely took the time to slide his lounge pants on before he went chasing after that familiar pulse in the Force, the powerful thrum of Rea’s presence, knowing she would already be wherever the trouble was.

He has regrets about that now. You’d think he’d know by now to never go anywhere Rea is without his lightsaber. You’d think he’d know to at least put on some underwear. But he was sleeping deeply and he’s always been a little slow to wake up. It’s the only defense he has for himself, for running into a clusterfuck like that half-dressed and unarmed.

When he found Rea in the great hall, he could see she wasn’t any better prepared than him. She was messy-haired, empty-handed, and naked from the waist down, wearing nothing but a shirt too clean and too tight in the shoulders to be her own. It was pretty clear what she’d been up to; Rhese just hoped her evening’s entertainment didn’t rush down with as little consideration for appearances as she had. The situation was bad enough without trying to avoid eye contact with Doc’s erection.

A dozen or so mercs and their assault cannons filled the hall with blaster fire like a driving rain, forcing them both to cover on opposite sides of the room, tucked behind the huge pillars that dotted the room. Normally a pair of Jedi wouldn’t even be inconvenienced by some hired muscle and a bit of blaster fire, but normally Jedi had lightsabers and plastoid armor.

“Rhese!” He could hardly hear Rea’s voice over the torrent of blaster bolts screaming through the hall between them. She started pointing at him. “Rhese! Behind you!”

He looked over his shoulder, muscles tensed for a fight, but no one was there. Nothing was there except the display case on the wall. The display case with the--the hilt of a--

Shit. She couldn’t be serious.

“I don’t know how to use that!” He shouted back.

Even through the haze of red, he could see her rolling her eyes. He could feel her rolling her eyes, somewhere deep in his soul. “Throw it to me, dumbass!”

Of course she was fucking serious.

“You don’t know how to use that either!” He shouted.

“Rhese!”

Stars fucking dammit. He looked at the case then back to Rea, hoping he had somehow misunderstood what she wanted, but she was just gesturing for him to hurry it up. Because of course she was. Of course this was her actual, entire plan. Of course this was going to happen.

Was one night of peace in a large, comfortable bed really so much to ask for?

“Don’t look!” Rhese shouted, then dropped his pants.

He wrapped the fabric around his fist, cursing himself for forgetting underwear, and crept toward the case in a crouch. He didn’t see any obvious security measures and there wasn’t time for a more thorough check. The mercs were closing in. There was nothing to do but take the gamble and hope the Duke hadn’t installed anything more serious than a burglary alarm.

Rhese punched the glass.

It shattered, exploding in every direction, lashing his skin, leaving tiny cuts across his face and his arms and his chest and his legs. His fist burned as shards of it buried themselves deep under his skin, even with the fabric of his pants to protect it.

He ignored the pain, too high on adrenaline and annoyance to care. The hilt of Rea’s No Good Very Bad Idea came free from its mount with a tug.

It seemed to quake under his touch. There was something stirring inside it, something wild and alive. The feel of it coursed up his arm, racing across his skin like electricity, calling to something inside of him, to some dormant part of his--

Fuck.

Rhese tossed the thing like it burned him. The hilt hardly left his hand before he felt the tug of the Force pulling it away from him, drawing it into Rea’s waiting palm. Part of him wanted to pull it back, to feel the cool, unyielding metal against his skin, to be the one with his thumb on the switch.

He smothered that part with a feather down pillow. Let her have it, he thought, a tremor running down his spine. I’m not the crazy one in this family.

Maybe he should have warned her. Maybe he could have saved the Duke a few million credits and all of them a lot of grief if he’d just mentioned what he felt.

But probably not.

Rea’s never let things like total ignorance of what she’s dealing with or the threat of possession by a potentially evil incorporeal entity stop her before, and he doubts she would have started today. He doubts anything would have kept her hands off that thing once she realized she had an excuse to try it out. He remembers how she’d looked at it on their tour, with that hungry glint in her eye, the gears of her scheming little brain turning so fast you could almost see the smoke pouring from her ears.

Things would’ve turned out the same, no matter what Rhese did or didn’t do. It was already too late for them the moment Rea laid her eyes on that thing.

She barely closed her fingers around the hilt before the blade was igniting in a shower of sparks.

If you could call it a blade.

It was a rope of electric blue light that fell from the hilt in long coils, graceful and deadly, crackling as it melted through the carpet and into the marble floor beneath.

Rhese had heard of lightwhips before, but never expected to see one with his own eyes, much less one that still worked. He hadn’t thought any still existed considering how badly the stories about them always end.

And now they have another story for the list.

Rea gave the thing an experimental crack, sending sparks flying as the thong streaked wildly through the air, a blur of electric blue that lashed across pillars and walls before snapping against a statue of the Duke’s great-grandmother, neatly severing the top half of her marble head. It shattered against the floor as the whip fell limp, leaving trails of lime scarring in the marble as it slid slowly to the ground.

The flow of blaster fire stuttered, some of the mercs evidently asking themselves what the streak of light scorching its way across the hall might mean for their plans. He doubted any of them were scholars of esoteric plasma weapons, but you don’t survive long as a mercenary without some sense of when the winds of fortune have turned against you.

Rhese ducked back behind his pillar before Rea made another crack. His night was bad enough without a firsthand lesson on the relative effectiveness of an ancient lightwhip against bare human flesh. He tried to shake the shattered glass from his crumpled pants, but it was no good. Tiny slivers were tucked so deep in the fabric he doubted he’d ever get them out.

He wondered if he shouldn’t just put them on anyway; he wondered if a little pain wouldn’t be worth sparing himself the humiliation of going hand-to-hand against a dozen armed and armored mercs while his dick flapped in the wind. Then he remembered whose hands would have to dig all that glass out of his balls later and thought better of it.

With another sharp crack, Rea brought the whip twisting back toward them, lashing wildly between walls and statues and--

“Fuck!” Rhese swore, rolling out of the way just in time as the tip of the thong sparked against the pillar where his head had been not even a second ago. “Can you maybe try not to kill me?” He shouted.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Rea laughed, then paused, narrowing her eyes at him. “Where are your panties?”

Rhese glared back, determinedly ignoring the blush creeping from his cheeks down to his chest. “You focus on the guys trying to blow us up. Let me worry about my panties.”

“You want my shirt?”

“No!” The only thing worse than going into a fight with his dick in the wind would be going into a fight with Doc’s shirt wrapped around him like a diaper.

Rea shrugged.

And then she was gone.

She soared through the air, bare-assed and gleeful, cackling as she spun the lightwhip into a whirlwind of a shield. Blaster bolts bounced off it in every direction, blue and red blurring together into a haze of purple light that surrounded Rea like a halo.

He’d had every intention of helping, of taking advantage of the distraction to drop some of their attackers as mercifully as possible, or at the very least without having to bisect them. But then Rea landed among them, whip lashing, and he watched in abject horror as it tore through their bodies and the walls as easily as if they were flimsi. He watched it snap and whirl and crack with abandon, striking like lightning at anything within twenty feet of his sister.

Before Rhese could decide if saving people who’d come here to kill him was worth the risk of Rea cutting something from his body he’d much rather have attached, a terrible crack echoed through the hall. A column, gouged and abused by the slashing of the whip, crashed to the floor between them.

The columns, as it turned out, were not entirely decorative.

The ceiling groaned where the column had stood just moments before, large cracks splintering out like a spider’s web from the place where the column broke away. Dust and debris poured from the crack, and the alarms finally began to wail as other cracks echoed through the hall, the other columns straining under the load.

Rea’s laughter and the sharp snap of the whip grew distant as the columns crumbled, and Rhese knew what was left of the mercenaries had tried to run. He knew she was giving chase.

He dodged chunks of marble and bits of gilded metal as he scrambled through the collapsing room, columns and pieces of ceiling smashing against the floor in turn. His nakedness was forgotten, and he hardly even felt the shards of glass and broken rock buried deep in the soles of his bleeding feet.

The nakedness is the thing he’ll regret most later, when he sees himself in the holos, dusty and bleeding and wearing nothing but a too-small censor bar over his genitals.

He follows the path of destruction, hardly noticing the household staff and other guests scrambling past him to escape the building. Definitely not noticing the way they were noticing him, running through the halls with his wang in the wind, screaming bloody murder at his sister.

It is not one of his finest moments.

He thought it wasn’t one of Rea’s either. As he was running through the halls, deflecting crumbling chunks of stone and durasteel with the Force, he was so sure she’d been possessed by the sweet pull of chaos he’d felt inside that lightwhip. He was sure that this time, she needed to be saved.

As usual, he’d been wrong.

Rhese heard a second explosion just moments before he spilled out into the palace’s rear garden, where the mercs and all their reinforcements were trying to clamber past each other through a hole in the outer wall that had not been there that morning. Rea was there too, strolling toward them almost lazily, snapping her whip in arcs so graceful she might’ve been making them her whole life.

It’s only then Rhese notices how there aren’t bodies and bits of bodies littering the yard. Only then that he realizes he hasn’t seen a single cut up corpse since the mercs she dropped at the very start of the attack.

It’s only then, standing in the courtyard ass naked and bleeding, with household guests and staff pouring in from every direction, their holocams live, that Rhese realizes what a complete and total dumbass he is.

Rea was never possessed by some dark force of chaos trapped inside a lightwhip. She wasn’t murdering mercenaries left and right in a fit of uncontrollable bloodlust. She was putting on a show. With her lightwhip and her crazed laughter and bare-assed acrobatics, she was just trying to scare them off.

And he fell for it.

“Fuck,” Rhese swore. Again.

Rea turned to him, a satisfied smile on her face as the lightwhip fell to the ground beside her in perfect coils “You okay?” She asked, the triumph in her eyes turning quickly to worry.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

A voice from the growing crowd shouted, “Yeah you are!”

Rhese felt another blush rising, setting his chest and the tips of his ears on fire. Laughter spread through the courtyard as he stood there, paralyzed by his own embarrassment.

Rea, taking pity on him for once in his life, stripped out of Doc’s shirt and tossed it to him. No one would ever laugh at her nakedness. He wasn’t sure what the difference was, but it probably had something to do with how she would never blush about it.

Rhese’s entire body was flaming red by the time he managed to cover what remained of his dignity.

And then, as they stood there together, filthy and bloodied and naked, the entire east wing of the Duke’s palace finally collapsed.

Rea watched it crumble with a smile on her face.

“You know,” Rhese observed, thinking of how gracefully she’d lashed the lightwhip back and forth when she was menacing the mercenaries out through the wall, “you didn’t have to destroy the whole thing.”

“Don’t you wonder why the mercenaries came to kill him in the first place?” She asked.

“To kill him?” Rhese stared. “I thought they were here for us.”

Rea rolled her eyes. “They would’ve brought bigger guns if they were here for us.”

That was probably true. Mercenaries didn’t stay mercenaries very long if they were stupid. “And you think they were after the Duke?”

He was a foolish, frivolous sort of man who was easy to dislike, but Rhese had difficulty imagining what he might have done that would be worth killing over. He didn’t even have much of value to steal outside of the palace the mercenaries had clearly planned to destroy anyway. That and the lightwhip they likely hadn’t even known about.

“You remember what he said this morning on the tour? About his family owning this place for centuries?”

The Duke had bragged about that quite a lot, and the fact that he’d doubled the palace in size during his time at the head of the family. Rhese nodded.

“He’s selling slaves,” Rea said, watching the Duke stare at his wrecked home in abject horror. “He used his own product to build the east wing. But our friend there’s not a very good salesman, and his supplier isn’t happy with him. This is what a negative performance review looks like in the slaving industry.”

Rhese thought for a moment, frowning. “We were never here to negotiate for a listening base on his land were we?”

Rea just grinned.

#swtor #swtorfic #jedi knight #nirea velaran #rhese velaran #the velaran legacy #hydrostuff #hydroswstuff #hydrofic #hydroswfic

8 notes · View notes

gold-from-straw · 5 years

Text

The Darkness Between Stars

Charles, Erik and Moira arrive back at the base just as Shaw kills Darwin. In that moment, exposed to Darwin's terror and pain, Charles snaps, and lashes out in pure rage. When he comes to his senses, everyone he loves is terrified of him, and there's a soft, kind voice at the back of his mind telling him everything will be all right.

But how can it be when a man lies dead at his feet?

My contribution for the @cherikzine, Bookends of the Same Soul, featuring dark!Charles and a fix-it of Darwin’s death - thank you so much to the organisers, I had such a great time ^_^ If you still want to get merch and a pdf of all the incredible content, you can find it all here, please have a look! Thank you so much to @ikeracity for beta-ing! Read on AO3 if you prefer!

The silence in the car was more awkward than it ever had been between him and Erik, had been since they’d left Russia. For the thousandth time, Charles considered… just a little peek. Just to see what Erik was thinking. Instead, he stared out of the window at the gathering dark as they drove back to the base.

What he’d seen in Emma’s memories was terrifying. Fantastic, to be able to see the past through the mind of another telepath, but the things he’d seen were horrifying. Shaw truly was a maniac, and even Charles’ firmly held belief that everything could – should – be achieved without violence was shaken.

At least they’d been able to get an early plane home. For a while it had seemed like they’d have to spend days in Russia before catching a transport back, and with tensions high between the children and the agents, Charles hadn’t been keen on that idea. Perhaps he and Erik could talk before they were sent off again on their next mission, clear the air between them. Charles stole another glance at Erik’s stoic face, wished he dared hear his thoughts.

And then reeled as the wave of terror hit him. “Oh, God, Raven… Moira, please drive faster – Shaw’s at the base… he’s found the children.”

He didn’t know how he survived the next few minutes, even on that short last leg up to the base. He clung to Raven’s thoughts, trying his hardest to reassure her without letting his own abject terror through to her mind, trying to reach the others. Erik held his hand outstretched, his power at its limit, hauling the car along the road faster than it could possibly drive under its own steam.

They tumbled out of the car, raced through the corridors, past dead bodies that Charles could barely notice, so fixated was he on getting to the children, getting to Raven.

And then, as they ran into the grass square in front of the common room, they saw Darwin, his skin glowing, his body burning to ash, and Charles screamed, fell to his knees as he heard Darwin’s terrified voice in his mind. He frantically tried to reach out, his entire being focused on the young man in front of him, trying so hard to adapt, to survive. Dying.

Shaw turned to go even as Darwin’s body drifted as ash on the air. Turned with a smirk as Erik raced forward, screaming at him, and Charles knelt on the grass, dug his fingers in the earth and broke.

It’s not so hard, he told himself so many times. You just have to be better than them. You have to show them that they’re not getting to you, don’t be angry. Anger never solved anything. You have to be… serene. Smile. They want to see you weak, they want to see you broken, don’t let them see that. You are serenity. You are peace. You are calm, and they can’t reach you here.

Charles’ power flooded out of his body, lashing in every direction, as vicious as a solar wind, and the only thought in his mind was vengeance.

He stood as everyone around him fell to their knees, all but the man who’d killed one of his people, his children. Shaw stood where Charles held him, every line rigid and vibrating, every thought one of fear. Charles forced his mind into every nerve of his body, in control of every twitch. His grief burned through Shaw so that if he’d been able to move his mouth he would have screamed with pain, every fragment of his soul raw and exposed to Charles’ fury.

He forced Shaw’s muscles to do his bidding, moved his legs and turned him around. Forced him to walk up to face him as his rage continued to roar through the minds of everyone nearby.

It took an effort to wrestle back some control, to release his friends – his family. Erik and the others slumped, whimpering and exhausted, but Charles had no time to care for them right now, not when all his care and all his attempts at goodness had got Darwin killed.

He snarled at Shaw, then snapped his fingers, and Erik stood beside him, breathless and terrified. Charles turned to him, frowning. “You don’t need to be afraid. He’s harmless now.”

He forced Shaw to march jerkily over to Erik, standing him still in front of the boy he’d tortured. “He’s yours,” Charles said. “I know you want to kill him. I know what you were planning all that time. I’ll hold him still, you can put the coin through his head now.”

“Charles,” whispered Erik, turning distraught eyes on him.

“What are you waiting for?” Charles snapped.

There was something prickling at the back of his mind, soft fingers, a butterfly emerging, and he shook it off. Twisted his grip on Shaw’s muscles so he fell to his knees at Erik’s feet. Erik staggered backwards, horrified.

“Do it!” Charles yelled, and Erik flinched. Turned his face away, but not before Charles saw the tears forming in his eyes. It infuriated him. “He’s here! He’s yours, kill him, isn’t that what you wanted? He killed your mother, he killed Darwin!”

--going on where am I—

Charles shook his head hard, trying to dispel the gentle sensation in the back of his skull. There was no time for gentle, no time for kind, not when men like Shaw still existed. Why was Erik not doing what he’d always wanted to do? Charles was helping him! Making it easy for him!

“Charles, please,” Raven whimpered.

Charles turned his snarling face on her and she cringed back. Something flared in his mind, something howled in anguish and wept, and the soft sensation held it, gathered it close. Charles wiped his face, forced back the sob, embraced the rage, dug it out of him, filled his entire self up with it.

He reached out with a thought and ended Shaw’s life.

Shaw fell as Charles’ power retracted from his lifeless form. The world took a deep breath, watching him, and Charles screamed.

Hey, it’s OK, kid, you’re OK, come here, I’ve got you.

Charles fell to his knees. The sensation in his mind grew larger, warmer, spread through his mind and wrapped him close. “What are you?” he shouted, clutching at his head. “What are you?”

That’s it, let it all out, but try and aim away from the others, yeah? You’re scaring ‘em.

The burning was like dragon fire, his rage a flame through every pore of his body, but the long breath was ending, and he felt empty. He clutched at the ground and sobbed. “Who are you?”

It’s Darwin… I hope you don’t mind. Look, come on, now, let’s get you up. You’re alright, man.

Charles opened his eyes as horror rushed through him, dousing the rage. He stared around at the circle of people, at his family… at all of them watching him in terror. At Shaw lying dead on the ground, because of him.

“Charles,” Erik whispered, approaching him slowly, arms held out like Charles was a wild beast. And he was… what else could he be to have torn someone’s life from them like that? What kind of monster was he? How could any of them stand to look at him?

Because he was a danger to them. They couldn’t afford to look away, they had to watch him to keep safe, of course. Charles clutched at his chest as the hole appeared inside of him, pain and grief and guilt burrowing deeper into his flesh than anything he’d ever felt. He stumbled to his feet, and Erik, strong, powerful Erik who wasn’t afraid of anything, flinched back from him.

Charles couldn’t hold himself together. He felt the fragments of his soul shattering further, ground to powder, and he ran from their fear, from everything that wasn’t hatred, because they should hate him. He was a monster. There was no way back from this.

***

You don’t want to do that, man.

Charles jumped and pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, trying to stop the continuous flow of tears. “It’s for the best,” he said, and turned the key in the ignition.

You know, I’m starting to figure this whole stuck-in-your-brain thing, Professor – I’ll make you come back.

Charles slumped over the wheel and let himself succumb to sobs, his body shaking, curling into itself.

Darwin’s presence in the back of his mind seemed to pulse affection through him. You’re alright, Prof. There you go. You’ve had a real rough day, huh?

“Please, please don’t be kind to me. I don’t deserve anything like that.”

And what gave you that idea? Darwin asked, a gentle frown in his voice.

Charles took a shuddering breath. “I killed a man… I just… I ended someone’s life.”

He felt the impression of a shrug. He had just killed me so… excuse me if I’m not mourning the guy.

“I hurt the others,” he whispered. “I… I lost control, I hurt all of them. I’m a monster.”

No, you’re not, Darwin said, and Charles could hear his conviction, just couldn’t accept it. I’m not saying that it’s OK to lash out like that - it’s not - but you’re not a monster.

Charles just wept, wishing he could believe him.

You know, I can feel you being all self-loathing, right? C’mon, enough of that. Plenty of people in the world who’ll hate you, you don’t have to do the job for them.

“I just… he just grabbed you… forced you to swallow all that energy and…” Charles gulped. “Oh God, are you OK, Darwin? I’m so sorry, I’m being so self-centred, and you actually… you died.”

Darwin took a deep breath. Or it sounded like he did, strange, the things a mind becomes accustomed to. Well… I thought I had, Darwin said. I thought that was it, no way could I adapt to that. But then there was your mind, so different to all the others, so much more space, and I just… I didn’t even mean to. My consciousness just hitched a lift.

“I’m so sorry this happened to you, Darwin.” He shook his head. “I wish we’d arrived sooner, we could have… could have done something.”

Looks like you already did something, Darwin said, amused.

The cold, sick guilt flooded through him again, and he lifted his feet onto the seat, wrapping his arms around his knees and wishing he could disappear, be nothing.

No, you don’t, Darwin said briskly. I’ve done that, and it’s better to be here.

Charles tried to control his breathing, tried to hold back his selfish tears, because Darwin was dead (was he?), and Charles had no right to feel like this, no right at all!

That’s not what I meant, Darwin sighed. I’m just… trying to make you feel better. But sometimes that means allowing yourself to feel worse for a little while. You don’t have to pretend that you’re OK.

Somewhere under Charles’ ribs, a leak turned into a flood. Charles sank into it, drowned in it, and yet somewhere around him he felt kind thoughts, patience and comfort. He didn’t think he’d ever felt that in his life.

***

A sharp tapping woke Charles, and he startled hard, banging his head on the car window.

“Why are you sleeping in the car?” Erik asked.

Charles opened the door and climbed out. He stood in front of Erik, his head bowed. “Uh… I didn’t mean to,” he said.

Erik stood, silent. Charles shored up his mental defences. He didn’t want to hear anything, none of what they were thinking about him. Especially Erik. As much as he deserved it, he couldn’t bear to hear Erik hate him.

“We need to leave,” Erik said at last. “Moira’s trying to clear things with the CIA, but there’s a lot of ill-will towards us.” He cleared his throat and shifted on his feet. “Ah… we need to… Moira suggested it would be best if they didn’t remember us.”

Charles blinked up at him. “Oh… yes, of course. I’m…” He swallowed down his immediate question – how could they possibly trust him? With any of this? Why weren’t they hounding him out of there? “Umm… yes, lead on.”

Erik nodded and turned, sharp and jerky. Charles followed, hoping that somehow he could make up for what he’d done.

See? That wasn’t so bad, was it? Darwin said.

“If you say so,” Charles murmured.

Are you going to be able to do what they want? Take everyone’s memories away? You’ve got a hell of a headache brewing up here.

Charles would cope. He would cope with a lot worse than some piddling migraine if only to win back a modicum of the trust he’d betrayed.

***

“They need somewhere to go,” Moira said afterwards, brisk and practical, and if Erik hadn’t dived into his life in a blaze of fire and passion and fury, Charles thought he could have loved her. “We can’t stay here, but a lot of these kids have nowhere else to go.”

Charles would have checked it with Raven. He wanted to check a lot of things with his sister, but she was staying well away from him. He couldn’t blame her. “I have somewhere we can stay,” he said softly. “If nobody… if that’s OK?”

Moira looked at him, met his gaze, and nodded. “Thanks, Charles. Don’t tell me where it is – plausible deniability and all that.”

She turned to go, and Charles clenched his fists. “Moira, wait.”

She stopped at the door. “It’s OK, Charles. Really. I understand.”

He hung his head and resisted the urge to wrap his arms around his chest as she walked out.

You know you have to tell them about me, Darwin said.

Charles swallowed hard. “How do I tell them? They can’t possibly believe me - I wouldn’t believe me. They’ll think I’m lying just to be able to stay around them!”

Darwin shot him a buzzing sensation, a bit like a pinch. You’re making an awful lot of assumptions. How about you give them a chance?

“I should give them a chance to get away from me,” he muttered, but he knew Darwin was right. It wouldn’t be fair on any of them to grieve Darwin when he knew he was still here.

They were gathered in the parking lot, every one of them with bowed heads. Alex was holding a hat, just a battered up old flatcap, and the way he was clutching it, Charles knew it must have belonged to Darwin.

He cleared his throat as he came closer, glancing up for just a moment, then ducking his head again. “I, uh… have something to tell you all,” he said. He could barely raise his voice above a whisper. “When Darwin was…” He trailed off. “Umm… his consciousness seems to have… latched on to me.”

There was silence for a long moment. It was Hank who broke it. “Well, he did say he could adapt to anything.”

The group seemed to let out a long breath. “What does this mean?” Sean asked. “Is he stuck there? Are you just gonna be, like, two people forever?”

I think my body will start reforming soon enough, Darwin said, sounding so ridiculously casual about it all.

“He thinks he’ll get his body back,” Charles said. “It has to reform, so it may take some time. I just… I wanted you all to know.”

“I bet we could speed it up,” Hank said, grabbing the hat from Alex’s hands. “I know a guy, McCulloch – he’s been doing some incredible work with stem cell research. If we can get Darwin’s DNA, we might be able to give his body a head start.”

Alex looked up at Hank, and then at Charles, his eyes red-rimmed and desperate. “Is he really safe?” he asked Charles.

Charles nodded. “As safe as he can be,” he admitted.

Alex let out a long breath, and the slightest hint of a smile formed on the corners of his lips. “Wow. That’s… yeah, OK. Wow.”

Hank put the hat in a bag that Moira handed him, and rushed up to Charles to tell him all he knew about this new technology in Ontario, and how if they could get an egg cell, perhaps they could replace its nucleus with that of a cell found in a piece of Darwin’s hair, or something. Charles smiled up at him, relieved beyond belief that at least one of his friends had overcome their fear of him. The power of science.

Even so, the drive to Westchester was awkward at best. Charles was still determinedly keeping his telepathy clamped tight, but he could still hear some of the awe that leaked through when Charles led them up to the mansion, his head bowed under the weight of his own childhood memories.

At least here there would be plenty of space to hide. That had always been the one advantage of this cold, heartless place.

***

I wonder if it is actually possible for me to die

, Darwin said casually as they watched Hank set up the pioneer samples of human cloning.

It’s something I’ve wondered for a while.

“I suppose you’d even adapt to ageing,” Charles murmured, his eyes fixed on the petri dish. Hank glanced at him strangely, but left him to it, as most people did since… everything.

The dynamic of the group had changed in subtle ways. Angel was gone, whipped away along with the other mutant by Shaw’s teleporter. Moira had gone back to the CIA. Alex followed Hank constantly, demanding information about the procedure, asking for the chances of success, fetching and carrying for him and trying to predict Hank’s needs so he could bring Darwin back that little bit sooner.

Look at him, Darwin sighed in Charles’ mind. He’s looking fine today. Someone should really tell him.

I’m not flirting with your boyfriend for you, Charles replied firmly. You’ll just have to wait and do it yourself.

Charles slipped out of the lab and through the corridors, a ghost in his own house again. It was a role he’d worn smooth over his entire childhood, easy to return to. Raven seemed to have done much the same – Charles had barely seen her over the last few days.

It was Erik who’d taken on Charles’ old role. Erik chivvied the children to dinner, encouraged Hank out of the lab, suggested they start to train their mutations, learn their limits and stretch them. He was gruff and reluctant, where Charles had been eager, but he was a natural leader. It was mere days before everyone looked for Erik when they needed something.

Charles wasn’t sure whether to be glad, or desperately sorry. He’d stolen Erik’s purpose away from him when he killed Shaw, and he could feel how lost Erik was some days – even with his telepathy bound tightly around him. At least being in charge of all these untrained mutants was giving him something to do. But it certainly can’t have been what Erik had in mind when he joined them. Had Charles trapped him in this new role, too?

***

Charles, Darwin called, and Charles woke up with a gasp.

“Darwin?”

The voice came again, from far away, and Charles realised that Darwin’s warm, comforting presence wasn’t in the back of his mind anymore.

Charles threw clothes on and raced downstairs, into the lab. “Darwin? Darwin, are you in here?”

In here! he called, and Charles pulled the door open on the incubator. There, in the petri dish, sat Darwin, only an inch tall.

So, turns out my DNA doesn’t need that many cells to get started on adapting, Darwin said cheerfully. Don’t suppose you could let me out?

Charles laughed. The muscles in his face that pulled his lips into a smile ached from disuse. He put the petri dish on the floor, lifted the lid and stepped back. Darwin started to grow – within moments he was standing in front of him with his old wicked grin, and Charles wept.

“Hey, Prof, don’t cry now, c’mon. It’s all going to be alright.”

Charles wrapped his dressing gown around him and led him into the kitchen, calling out for Alex and the others in a voice still afraid to be raised. They emerged one by one, staring at Darwin in wonder and joy, crying and hugging him, and in Alex’s case, refusing to let him go.

Charles stepped back and missed him, missed that easy affection in the back of his mind. And then instantly felt incredibly selfish. God, he disgusted himself, he truly did! He turned to slip away, and bumped straight into Erik.

“Sorry,” he murmured, hunching his shoulders.

Erik put his hand up to balance Charles. They stood awkwardly close for a moment, not looking at each other properly. Charles hated it, hated what he’d done to them, to their easy friendship. To the children’s innocence. He took a sharp breath and tried to slip past.

Erik tightened his grip on Charles’ arm. Charles looked up, wary, meeting someone’s eye for the first time in days. “I should…” Erik frowned. “We should talk.”

Charles slumped further, but nodded. Surely they were going to ask him to leave now? He deserved it, anyway.

They walked together out into the garden, down the wide steps and towards the balustrade. Charles leaned against it, staring out over the distant satellite dish in silence, trying to work up the courage to speak. How does one even apologise for something so huge?

“I’m sorry, Charles,” said Erik, and Charles’ head snapped up to stare at him.

“What on earth do you have to be sorry for?”

Erik hunched his shoulders, fiddling with that coin of his again. “I failed you. You gave me the chance to do what I’ve been working towards for half of my life, and I… I choked.” He swallowed. “You must think I’m such a coward.”

Charles grabbed his hand. “I don’t, God, Erik, how could I think that of you?”

Erik frowned. “I had Shaw right in front of me and I still couldn’t do it. You had to do it for me.” He looked up at Charles, meeting his gaze with deep, sad eyes. “I never wanted you to be in that position – it was my dirty work to do, I wanted to keep you out of it. All of you, and now…”

“I thought you must hate me,” Charles blurted. He let out a long breath. “I keep preaching this… pacifism, and then I went and used my telepathy in the most horrific way. I invaded all your minds, I hurt you, I terrified the children and then I… I went and killed him. In front of everyone, I just… I killed him.”

Charles started trembling, the shock of what he’d done washing over him once again, only this time, he was alone in his mind. There was no-one to comfort him, no-one to pull him back from the horror – but then Erik’s arms were around him, and he was so warm, his mind blanketing Charles’, even as he sobbed so hard he could barely stand up on his own.

Erik’s fingers stroked through Charles’ hair as he cried, hushing gently. He didn’t try to say anything, just stayed, comforted him in a way Charles had thought couldn’t possibly be real, patient and compassionate and protective.

“I’m sorry,” Charles whispered at last.

“No more apologies,” said Erik, his voice almost as rough as Charles’. “And no more hiding yourself away when the children need you, either. Your sister needs you.”

“I didn’t think they’d want me anywhere near them, not after they had to see that.”

Erik held his face, tilted it back so he looked up at him. “You did it to protect them, they all know that.”

“And I hurt them in the process – I had no control,” he reminded him.

“Then learn control,” Erik shrugged. “Or rather, learn to embrace that rage, direct it and use it. Don’t pretend it doesn’t exist.”

Charles sighed and nodded, leaning against Erik’s chest. He wondered how long Erik would allow him to stay this close. When he’d push him away, clingy, needy Charles.

“Never,” said Erik fiercely.

Charles’ head snapped up. “Oh, God, I was projecting, I’m so sorry, Erik, I just—”

“Stop assuming I want to push you away,” Erik said, wrapping his arms around him.

Charles relaxed once more, his body softening in increments as he leaned into Erik’s embrace, resting his face against Erik’s chest. Erik pressed his lips to the top of Charles’ head. The world turned on its axis, and the sun would rise again.

“You were right about him,” Charles whispered after a long time. He gathered his courage and pressed closer, craving that contact.

Erik didn’t push him back. Instead, he pulled him closer and ran his fingers down Charles’ spine. Charles felt like he was feeling the sun for the first time in his life. “What do you mean?” Erik murmured.

“I thought we could stop Shaw peacefully. Put him in prison, make him answer for his crimes, but… I saw him, all of him. There was no part of him that could feel any remorse for what he’d done.”

Erik sighed, cupping Charles’ head in one large hand. “I’m just so sorry you had to do something so against your morals. It was my dirty work and I… I failed you.”

Charles pulled back and held his face between both hands. “No – Erik, not at all. You took on this burden, but it should never have been yours. I don’t…” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I don’t regret killing him,” he admitted. “I regret hurting you all, I regret losing control like that, but… I think it was the only thing that could have been done.”

Erik shook his head. “I never wanted you to be exposed to it. I’m already broken, I was prepared to kill him.”

Charles felt something settle inside his chest, a serenity like moonlight on the great ocean of rage he’d been suppressing all his life. “Shaw didn’t deserve that from you,” he said softly. “He’d already taken so much from you. Why should he have that as well?”

Erik held his gaze and pressed Charles fingers up to his temple.

“Are you sure?” Charles whispered.

Erik nodded, and Charles’ powers fell into his beautiful mind with a gasp like he’d found his way home. A swirling, wordless maelstrom of grief and vulnerability and hope, of possibility, of a need to protect Charles, and a desire to be able to rely on Charles, equals at last. And under it all, a great pool of rage, and a warm serenity, and two men at the balance point, holding each other.

#Lyn's Writing #cherik #bookends of the same soul #Dark Charles #Charles goes a bit dark #angst #darwin lives!#darwin solves everything #poor erik #poor charles #everyone needs a hug

36 notes · View notes

dvp95 · 5 years

Text

hang on just long enough

pairing: dan howell/phil lester

rating: e

warnings: none

tags: public sex/blowjob, pwp, porn w/ feelings, that’s all this is

word count: 1,700

summary: Phil is meant to be the impatient one between them. Bingo squares: groping + public sex + 2010 (writer’s choice)

read on ao3 or here!

Phil knows he isn't going to win any awards for patience in the near future - he grazes while he waits for dinner to be ready, jumps in the shower before the water has warmed completely, gives up on games if he isn't having fun - but he's got a leg up on a bored, horny Dan.

In most situations, Dan has the type of handle on his self control that Phil could probably have, if he tried. He just doesn't see the point. Instant gratification is pretty great, and there's no reason to keep doing something that's not fun just because it might get fun later.

In this specific situation, Phil will happily take home the award for patience of a bloody saint.

"Dan," he whispers again, for the fourth time since they sat down.

"What?" Dan responds innocently, also for the fourth time. His hand stops its path up Phil's thigh once again, but it still doesn't retreat.

Phil doesn't know what to say, exactly. He's not sure if Dan is doing this to be a tease or if he's doing this to be a dick. As with most things Dan does, it's more likely some combination of the two. Phil's eyes flicker away from Dan, pointedly looking at their surroundings.

Dan had dragged Phil to the back corner of the bus, which hadn't seemed strange at the time. Now, Phil is wondering if that was calculated.

They don't have a lot of company on this bus, which is nice. It's early in the morning, still dark outside. Way earlier than Phil would have preferred to be up if there hadn't been the promise of a sleepy Dan waiting for him at the train station. There's an elderly couple behind the driver talking to each other quietly and a uni student still in club gear staring blankly out the window a few rows ahead of them.

Nobody is paying any attention to them at all.

While Phil is looking forward, Dan has decided to start moving his hand again. It's definitely intentional, whatever Dan's puppy eyes try to say, Phil just can't figure out what the endgame is here.

"Dan," he says quietly, because maybe the fifth time is the charm. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Dan asks, matching Phil’s volume. The faux innocence gives way to pure, unadulterated cheek. He's dimpling when Phil gives him a Look. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too," says Phil. He's already said as much at the station and over a shoddy wifi connection for the past three weeks. He's missed Dan so much it aches in his chest, like he can't breathe properly in the time between Dan's visits.

"Yeah," Dan says. His large, warm palm creeps further up Phil's leg, fingertips brushing Phil's inseam. "But I missed you."

Phil's heart pounds in his ears. As nervous as he is, his body is still reacting to Dan the way it always does, always will. He glances at the student again, who is completely in her own world.

"Dan." It seems like that is all Phil is able to say. "This is so stupid."

"Yeah, and?" Dan huffs a laugh, brushing his lips against Phil's jaw and flexing his big hand and, yeah, now Phil's dick has definitely gotten the memo.

"There're, like, other people here," Phil whispers. He already knows that Dan doesn't care, and the little shrug he gets in response just confirms that.

"They're not looking at us."

"Yeah, but," Phil says, then falters. Dan's palm is pressing against him through his jeans now, the touch familiar and new all at the same time. "But, we'll be at mine in like half an hour. So you could just... wait til we get there."

Dan is usually very good at controlling himself, better than Phil by far. Phil will eat an entire bag of marshmallows while he waits for a pizza delivery and drink his coffee as soon as it hits his mug.

Right now, though, Dan doesn't seem interested in waiting. He's restless from the long, late-night train ride and the evident desire to be touching Phil in any way possible.

"Tell me to stop and I'll stop," says Dan. As much as he's been teasing, there's nothing but sincerity there.

Phil feels a swell of warmth for this beautiful, clingy boy. He makes a big show of sighing before he worms his arm out from between them to pull Dan closer by the waist. He noses at Dan's ear, the metal of his piercing still surprising Phil whenever it touches his skin.

"Just... make it quick," Phil murmurs directly into Dan's ear. He feels Dan shiver, try to squirm away from the feeling instinctively. "Or I'll have an anxiety attack, for sure."

"Oh, will you?" Dan snarks.

Despite the sarcasm, Dan doesn't drag out the teasing any longer. His big brown eyes flicker over the other passengers, the driver, before he folds his lanky body half onto the floor. He has to kneel sideways to fit, his stupidly big feet poking out in the aisle. Phil’s torn between amusement and arousal as Dan starts working his flies.

"Oh," Phil breathes. He didn't expect that.

Dan snorts lightly and shakes his fringe out of his eyes to give Phil a surprisingly fond look. "You'd rather get jizz on the seat? Your jeans?"

"Definitely not," Phil says on a huff of laughter. He slumps a bit lower in the seat and angles himself diagonally to make it easier for Dan to pull his cock out of his pants, and that's a goddamn weird feeling all on its own. Phil is pretty sure his dick has never been out in a public place, doctor's offices and locker rooms notwithstanding.

Luckily, his dick isn't out for long before Dan curls forward and takes it in his big, warm mouth. Phil's eyelids flutter, but he can't close his eyes and get lost in the feeling the way he can when they're all holed up in his bedroom. He bites at his own lip and holds Dan's long hair out of his face for him. He splits his time between looking at Dan and making sure nobody is looking at them.

It's been too long, honestly. At this exact moment in time, Phil doesn't know why they don't spend all their time together with his cock in Dan's talented mouth. He likes it almost as much as Phil does - his eyes have long since fallen shut and he's making tiny muffled noises that Phil wants to care about, but he just can't bring himself to.

Nobody's listening, anyway. The noises that the bus itself is making are louder than Dan, and Phil is keeping his eye out for anyone turning around.

Dan opens his eyes as he takes Phil deeper, and Phil swallows a groan with the ease of someone who has lots of practice keeping quiet. Dan's tongue presses against the underside of Phil's cock with the soft vibration of a moan that doesn't reach Phil's ears. Phil thanks his lucky stars that he's lived in enough thin-walled places to be confident that he won't make any sounds he doesn't want to.

With anyone else, Phil might be embarrassed by how quickly he gets close, but this is Dan. Dan has brought him to the edge a hundred times since that first weekend, knows exactly how to make him fall apart. Besides, they can't exactly take their time right now.

Phil tugs lightly at Dan's hair in warning, and Dan closes his eyes again as he sinks down even further on Phil's cock. He doesn't risk taking it too deep into his throat, not with the noise that usually elicits, but Phil doesn't care. He could probably come even if Dan just sucked slowly on the head of his cock for hours, that's how wrapped around Dan's finger he is.

He tastes copper as he reaches his peak, teeth digging too sharply into his lip, and he can't quite muster up the mental capacity to care.

Dan blows him through it and then lets Phil's cock slip out of his pretty lips with a grin. He gets back into his seat with a little difficulty, the bus seats not really built for people of their height at the best of times. Phil has enough presence of mind to tuck himself back into his boxers and zip his jeans.

The sky outside the bus window is still dark. The dawn hasn't even broken yet, and Phil has already done something he never imagined he would. He wonders if Dan plans to keep this energy all week, because he's not sure his heart can handle that.

"So," Dan says, slow. He's smirking and curling close to Phil's side, so pleased with himself that it's radiating off him in waves.

Phil yawns. Only for Dan would he get out of bed in the early hours of the morning that he normally only sees when he stays up too late watching scary movies. The orgasm has made him even sleepier. "So what?"

It's a little funny how quickly Dan's expression falls into affront. "So...?" he says, pointed.

"I'll get you back at home," says Phil.

"What?" Dan squawks. For the first time, the uni student looks behind her with a perplexed expression. Phil gives her an awkward smile before he turns back to Dan.

"Not like this was my idea," Phil points out. He has to laugh at the abject horror on Dan's face as he realises that Phil really, truly, has no intention of getting him off in a public vehicle. "Don't worry, I'll make it good for you. Maybe after a nap."

Dan scowls and tangles his fingers with Phil's, the grip a bit too tight for it to be a sweet gesture. "Selfish prick."

"Impatient brat," Phil shoots back, and then they're just. Grinning stupidly at each other.

Maybe Phil's worse about waiting for things, generally, but it makes him happy to see how much Dan hates waiting for him, specifically. They don't need to live in the too-long moments between visits much longer and Phil, for one, can't wait.

#phanfic #phanfiction #dnp fic #words words words #bingo

40 notes · View notes

honestsycrets · 5 years

Text

No Thieves Welcome XVI: Exhale

❛ pairing | hvitserk x reader

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | hvitserk decides to ask his girlfriend out to prom. margrethe isn’t fond of that. death-- on the horizon.

❛ warnings | potentially offensive character death, teen pregnancy (18 years old), physical illnesses, hopelessness, eating pussy, murder, violence.

❛ sy’s notes | I’m really sorry.

It was a slippery slope.

On one hand, he could have gotten rid of Magnus. On the other hand, shitcanning his baby mama’s best friend when he already fucked her OTHER best friend? Not the best option. But whatever, he could work around this like he always had.

“He’s fuckin’ wit’ me and I’m gonna bust his teeth in. If I had proof that he beat Thora, I’d fuckin’ stick a weight on his ankle and chuck him in the fuckin’ sea.” Hvitserk hisses, ambling backward on his sneakers down the street. The main gates of the school was a stone’s toss away. “Bucked-toothed fucker.”

“If he makes a fuss, we’ll get rid of him. He’s not our brother.”

“We fuckin’ better. ’m tired of his bitch ass.” Hvitserk growls. “Bjorn can’t know.”

Ubbe grunts, a noise that signals he’s done with the conversation. “Are you working tonight?”

“At the docks with uncle. More shipping.”

“Like always.” Ubbe stops. Hvit stops along with him, looking at Ubbe curiously.

“What?”

Hvitserk turns over his shoulder, spotting a long, lithe blonde strutting in heels or-- no, boots, he realizes. Her hair is tight in a ponytail on top of her head, barely tinged. It swishes along her slight back, accentuating the perky ass he had been staring at for some time now. Couldn’t blame him. Torvi is one hot teacher.

“Who? Torvi?” Hvitserk laughs, punching his older brother on his upper arm. “Man, if Margrethe catches you doing that with a teacher,”

“Not my problem,” Ubbe says, checking his watch. Hvitserk has the sudden feeling that he already had done “that” with the teacher. “I broke up with her. Enginnsaðóttir!”

Well, at least he doesn’t have to worry about Bjorn’s reaction to his ex-wife porking his half-brother. Torvi would put him in his place. Hvitserk sighs, left out to deal with the thoughts buzzing around his head until you got there. He leans against the rod iron fence, hands shoved in a pair of rarely worn jeans, a size too fat for the slight pudge he’d gotten since spending nights at your house. Pebernødder cookies were not on his side.

“--just don’t talk to me! Go away!”

Hvitserk hears around the corner.

It’s your voice, clearly upset. He shoves himself off the wall, stomping to a stop in front of the sidewalk you were coming from. With this hands in his pockets, he stands with his feet slightly apart.

“The twins aren’t--” From behind you, he spots Magnus’s wily curls. “--safe.”

You spot Hvitserk, rushing forward to set your hand on his bicep. Hvitserk’s hand comes atop of it, nodding.

“I’d say she’s plenty safe. From you, of course.” Hvitserk drops his hand down to his twins in your stomach, bobbing his head as he considers his children. “But thanks, kid.”

Then swiveling on his foot, Hvitserk shows you inside school grounds. Usually, before class, he’d be taking you to get something at that cute little cafe. He’d buy himself some chocolates to idly snack on, pretending he was half interested in the class.

“C’mon babe,” Hvitserk opens the door for you, pressing on the middle of your back to usher you the ground level and up the stairs. It’s private enough that he corrals you into the corner, near a large window. “What was he talking to you about?”

Leaving.

“He was… he was just, just being stupid,” your eyes focus upon your hands. You find the astral rings that Hvitserk bought you for your first sonogram more interesting. A small buildup of tears is forced back. Hvitserk leans in, his hand at the side of your head.

A girl walks in, paying no attention as she hops up the steps toward class prior to time. Hvit runs his hand down the build-up of stubble. Not that he’s a man that grows much facial hair easily, compared to his chest, but he’s let it go just a bit.

“Don’t lie to me, huh?” Hvitserk lifts your chin, pinning you with force against the wall. “Bet he was telling you to leave me.”

You don’t speak. Knowing he was right, Hvitserk leans down to your stomach. He cradles your belly with two hands, placing a small kiss over the swell. A small puff of air slides out of his mouth before he stands up, caressing his hand over your skirt.

Hvitserk shifts to block any interlopers from looking in on what he was doing. You shift, pushing the leg closest to him out just so. Hvitserk runs his tongue over the top of his teeth, caressing the jagged surface. He seizes the opportunity to run his hand around your thigh, sinking between two thick thighs. Then, jerking upwards, he runs his hand over your soft panties, dipping between them and your precious skin.

“You’re not gonna fuckin’ leave me, righ’?” He asks, grinding his palm as he curves his hand within your panties. A soft sigh slips off your lips, tightening your cunt when you hear steps pitter patter closer. Hvitserk covers you from the eyes of others.

“No, never,” you hum.

Never. Never meant never. Never meant that what he had now— it would last. It had to. For him. For his little man or pretty princess. Hvitserk rewards you by gliding his fingers over your lips, rocking back and forth between soaked folds. The steps pivot up the stairs.

“Say you love me.”

You cling onto his arm, bunching up his dark grey t-shirt. Hvitserk glides his fingers around your cunt, poking inside once he knew he had you good and ready. It should be getting close to class time. Though, it was just a pep rally. It shouldn’t have mattered that much, right?

“Hvit…”

A smooth thrust of his finger leaves you breathless, grasping at his arm. Hvitserk seizes the moment to swivel around, dropping to his knees between your legs that graciously spread for him. Spreading you apart with his fingers, Hvitserk glides his tongue between your folds.

Underneath your skirt, you can hear his sloppy slurps only rivaled by his pleasured grunts. If there’s one thing you know he loves, it’s eating you out. Especially in public places, knowing no one will tell. His family? They didn’t have the best reputation. So as a few stray dumbasses stray in, he has no worries. You grip his bun, guiding him.

“Right… right there,” you whisper, placing your boyfriend just where you wanted for a quick fuck. He curls his fingers, nudging your clit with his nose while noisily slurping across your lips. Your soft moans hasten, lifting and dropping with desperation. With a flick of your hips, Hvitserk drifts back, patiently blowing cold air against your throbbing heat. He delves his tongue down to join his fingers, eating what juices came for him. His fingers slip out, allowing him to eat you with tongue alone.

“I love you…” you comb his hair down, running your thumb over his cheek. His eyes pop open, then soften, bringing his thumb to your pounding clit. He rewards you by rolling your clit between his thumb and index finger over and over, drinking up your pleasure until he hears your cry break into your orgasm. Thankfully, no one was there. Likely because the bells had begun to sound.

After riding out the pleasure with you, Hvitserk stands up, bringing your panties back up with you. Your hands are on his shoulders as you lean up to his lips, a hand behind his neck. You drag him down to kiss you, tasting yourself on his tongue in his closed mouth kisses. His smile against your lips breaks the kiss.

“You even taste pregnant.”

Of course, it would be Hvitserk to say that. “You don’t even know what pregnant tastes like.”

“Like you,” he grabs your hand, starting up the stairs to homeroom.

“You’re gross.”

“Yep!”

Magnus and you weren’t on speaking terms. Mostly due to your preference. After all, you couldn’t believe what he said. He almost killed Thora, he asserted. If there was one thing you were sure about, it was that Hvitserk loved Thora. More than himself. So it made this prep rally very lonely despite the fact that Magnus sat next to you.

The sun peeks behind pillows of fluffy clouds. For once, the rain let up. You sat with Hvitserk’s jacket lightly down your shoulders. Even though it was June, it was still cool. The last thing you wanted to do was get sick with your twins. You stomach sat in your lap, visibly round. It wasn’t as if you were that… pregnant, but you would be soon. Everyone knew that it was his. Perhaps that was why people mostly left you alone.

Two twirly cheerleaders leap one over another, twisting and turning into a playful flip one on top of another. Your hand, curves over your stomach, scanning for Hvitserk. It wasn’t as if there was assigned seating. You were… so sure that Hvitserk would have come to sit by you.

“Oh, hi (Y/N)!”

Margrethe plops beside you on the busy, metal bleachers. Her pretty in pink nails curl along the bleacher as she plops down, skirt swaying. She was in uniform for cheerleading, but you question why she isn’t down there cheering on the team. You unconsciously tighten up, anxious to see her beside you after tumbling down the bleachers last time. If she pushed you down this time…

“I had to see them up close!” she reaches out to set a hand to your stomach. “How cute are you all knocked up! I didn't believe it at first. I thought that Hvitserk was just spitting lies but, you’re getting all round and fat! Is it his? Or Ivar’s?”

Abject horror wears your features. That was one lie you did not want to get out. As naturally jealous as Hvitserk could get, he might believe such a terrible lie. You push the hand on your stomach off.

“They’re his,” you say.

“Leave her alone, Margrethe,” Magnus says beside you. “She’s got enough shit to deal with.”

Please welcome your football team! The intercom says. You make out Ubbe jogging across the field to Hvitserk, who you finally make out as handing a few sashes for the graduating portion of the team. They recently won their region. Ubbe was that all-star student. His grades? Perfect. Sports? Always training. His love life though, you wonder about when he shoots Mrs. Torvi that perfect smile. Wasn’t she Bjorn’s ex?

Hvitserk used to be right there with him which was why as Hvitserk swiped the microphone from his big brother’s hand after a speech on how gracious they were to have won. You begin a shake of your head, expecting him to drone on about how he had the perfect big brother.

“Baby mama!” The microphone whizzes in a metallic screech. Oh god, no. You form a cup around the sides of your eyes, pretending like no one was looking at the pregnant chick that so happened to wear Hvitserk’s old soccer jacket, slinking down your arms and framing your small skirt. “Come to prom with me!”

He was so fucking proud. The bleachers light up into whispers. Some saying, oh come on. You are almost too stunned to speak when some random fucker shouts, go baby mama! Beside you, you could practically feel the stinging heat from Margrethe. It was embarrassing. More embarrassing though was staying with someone like Margrethe. You pull the jacket on, zipping past her and anyone else for that matter down the stairs. The barrier between the stairs and ground level stops you.

“I’ll go to prom with you,” God help what you were about to say. “Baby Daddy!”

He laughs, something loud that echoes through the field. Hvitserk chucks the microphone at his big brother, sprinting across the field to where you were. On the bleachers, Margrethe is left gaping.

“He’s taking her?!” She bellows. “She’s fat!”

“She’s the mother of his children.” Magnus points out. “Who did you think he would take? You?”

Margrethe watches Hvitserk take a couple of long steps up the stairs in those cute skinny jeans that made his ass look just right. Her arms fold over when he embraces you, setting a kiss on your lips before the monitors make hissing whistles.

“He’s supposed to take me! He promised! He’s supposed to be mine!”

When a prime opportunity presents itself, Magnus had to take it. What kind of Ragnarsson would he be not to? Hvitserk deserved this. You deserved someone better. Anyone better than that man that kicked his face in and then thought he could intimidate him into submission. Although he could never do the dirty work himself, he was no chicken with his tongue.

“You should show him that then,” Magnus says.

“I will!”

The bleachers erupt as the pep rally is dismissed.

Night fell on the city. Hvitserk stood on the docks, receiving packages of illicit drugs mixed in with legal packages was just a part of the deal in working for his uncle and father. Rollo gave him the tablet with projected imports.

“Finished early, huh kid?” Rollo asks his nephew. Hvitserk nods in response, tapping the last checkbox labeled ( live arrivals: India. ) Hvitserk hands the packaging back to his uncle, shoving his hands into his warm black hoodie.

“That means I can go?”

“Yeah, your lady must be waiting for you,” Rollo informs, punching him on the shoulder. “Siggy is at home for me but I’ll clear down.”

“I’m goin’ to see a friend.”

For important reasons, Hvitserk leaves his car but walks down to the residential streets with his hoodie drawn up tight. A beautiful lily peeks from his pocket. At three in the morning, there was no one in the streets. A car here or there sputters along the abandoned, none noticing the stranger in black.

With gloved hands, he pops the window latch, pushing up the glass. His stomach tightens and yet, nothing came of it. A part of him wishes something had. Her father never set an alarm. He had one, but no, he never set it. Who would break in? The fluffy white cat in the window sill is jarred by his entrance but recognizes him when he draws down his hoodie.

“‘ey Janik,” he calls to the dog, whose head is raised. It settles down. Hvitserk pulls the lily free from his pocket, joining it with the bundle of lilies each a day older than another. Some yellow and dry, some pressed in a book marking ‘Month I, Month II’.

“Prinsesse…” he approaches the bed, not expecting a response.

There is none. Not that he expected any from his precious Thora, who lays in her bed helpless. Her eyes are open but nothing comes of it. Nothing but one stray tear, dripping down the corner of her beautiful skin when he kneels. It’s his.

And he wishes it was hers. Why can’t the tears dribble down her cheeks? Why she can’t move? To show him. He can’t reason why she’s the one stuck in her mind in this bed, the one place where she always…

“That would be my nightmare,” he recalled her saying. She laid beside him in the bed, glowing after sex. They watched stupid documentaries together. Vegetation vs Brain Death. “For my mind to go along with my body.”

“That bad?” Hvitserk brought her against his chest, letting her twirl her fingers through his sparse chest hair.

“To exist and not even know? It must be awful. I’d never like to be like that. So if I ever go like that, put me down.”

Hvitserk laughed, fifteen and stupid. “Don’t say that. You’re young and pretty. That won’t happen to you.”

“Just promise me,” Thora begged.

“Okay, okay. I promise.”

Hvitserk works his jaw, his teeth running over and over. He wasn’t going to wait. He… he couldn’t. If he waited, he would be breaking his promise to her. Hvitserk was anything but an oathbreaker. She wasn’t brain dead, but sure, he wasn’t going to wait for that to happen.

“I promised.” Hvitserk looks to the pillow they once shared. He’d slide it under her beautiful hips, take her from behind. Or sometimes, they used that fluffy white pillow to eat snacks on in bed and watch cheesy rom-com movies that he didn’t feel like watching. He picks it up, doing just as Ragnar told him to do. A flick here, another there with her machines and Hvitserk ambled toward her slowly, praying her father didn’t hear.

It had been long enough, he told himself. She was supposed to get more function. She didn’t have any more than she did then. He held out those first two weeks hoping she would get better. That if… if the doctor said, he didn’t have to do this.

Hvitserk bends his head down into his arm, a sob catching. This was pathetic. This was— this was her choice. But he caught himself hoping. Maybe years from now, maybe two, maybe six, maybe even twenty: she’d be alive. But she wasn’t, Ragnar told him. She would likely never be.

And, after all, this was her choice.

“Fuck…” he whispers, taking one last look at her. He longed to kiss her— just, just one last time. Her plush lips seemed so far away now. But Ragnar told him not to, and for his twins, he’d suffer without it. Hvitserk exhales a puff of air from his nose, rolling his wet cheek into his hoodie.

“It won’ be long, it won’ be— fuck I can’t.”

If you can’t do it, I can.

He knows it has to be him. He looks down to the pillow, then looks to the clock. 4:31am, the clock reads. Do it, he settles. Without looking back he settles the pillow over her face, pressing with enough force on his forearm that he knows will not allow her to get air. He’s not sure what happens next. If she was moving, or fighting, or not. He’s not seeing much of anything either, only sucking in his breath and praying to the gods that Thora’s father isn’t here to see.

They didn’t need to see this. The burden he had been carrying as of late… its too much. Now, knowing that he’ll discover her body, causes him to roll his cheek into his shoulder. 4:36am, Janik lifts his head. Hvitserk shushes him, turning his face down to Thora’s chest in what was her favourite white jammies, like a princess, his once was princess. 4:38am, he sobs when her chest stills. But he keeps that pillow close-- he, has to finish. 4:41am. Hvitserk slips the pillow under his hoodie and gazes over her beautiful waving hair. A lock of her hair sticks to her lips. Hvitserk takes it with him.

On weekends, you stay with Hvitserk.

You sleep on your side, your pillow between your legs in place of where Hvitserk’s should have been. Most nights were like this. Most nights, Hvitserk worked hard at night to support his family and with a nap between two and six when he got out of school. The bed bows underneath you. You would have turned, half asleep, but find that strong arms encircle your waist. His cologne, strong and comforting. The woody undertones soothe you.

“Mmmm, Hvit…” your eyes spread, looking to your phone that you’ve forgotten on the bed. 5:51am, it reads. Hvitserk hides his head between the junction of your shoulder and neck. It’s wet. “Hvit? Are you okay?”

“Yeah babe. I’m-- I’m okay. Jus’ stay there for me. I need you.”

In a few minutes, he’s not so soundly asleep. He missed her already.

Sy’s Notes II: I hope I wrote that death scene adequately. It was hard to find information on her state and what physical reactions would come of it.

@igetcarriedawaywithyou, @kylobien, @titty-teetee, @breathlessouls, @nejijjeoroo, @bcat1291, @readsalot73, @mslothbrok, @captstefanbrandt, @ailucascen, @michaeliskindahot, @cbouvier23, @naaladareia, @cbouvier23, @the-geeky-engineer, @lisinfleur, @tephi101, @akamaiden, @ethereallysimple, @venusloviing, @happylittlepuppydog, @beyond-the-ashes, @slutforrpg, @sparklemichele, @alicedopey, @lif3snotouttogetyou, @noregretsandyeteveryregret, @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol, @deathbyarabbit, @unacceptabletatertots, @beyond-the-ashes (no sig), @babypink224221, @ivarandersen, @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla, @moose-squirrel-asstiel, @icarus-fell-in-spring, @end-of-night, @gruffle1, @lol-haha-joke @arses21434, @smileyparrots, @miss-artemis-wild, @two-unbeatable-beaters, @wonderwoman292, @wish-i-was-a-mermaid, @killerb00sdeath, @heartbeats-wildly, @boo20017, @acacheofstrange, @shaelyn102, @smokealone, @shaelyn102 @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly--canthrope @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @two-unbeatable-beaters, @igetcarriedawaywithyou, @kylobien, @titty-teetee, @breathlessouls, @nejijjeoroo, @bcat1291, @readsalot73, @mslothbrok (no mix), @romanchronicles, @captstefanbrandt, @ailucascen, @michaeliskindahot, @naaladareia, @cbouvier23, @the-geeky-engineer, @dorned, @lisinfleur, @tephi101, @akamaiden, @ethereallysimple, @venusloviing, @happylittlepuppydog, @beyond-the-ashes, @slutforrpg, @hipsternoionlylikeunicorns, @mixedwiththemoon, @sparklemichele, @alicedopey, @lif3snotouttogetyou, @rubyquartzshades, @noregretsandyeteveryregret, @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol, @deathbyarabbit, @unacceptabletatertots, @beyond-the-ashes (no sig), @babypink224221, @titty-teetee, @ivarandersen, @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla, @moose-squirrel-asstiel, @icarus-fell-in-spring, @piebytheocean, @strangunddurm, @rekdreams247, @justacrush, @ivarswonderlust, @peachesnpisces, @elenawrit, @equalstrashflavoredtrash, @roxxck, @dylanowhyyien, @ilvebeenabad, @vikingsmania, @huntingbears, @my-little-wolfe, @seize-the-droid, @moondustmemories, @colourmeinblue, @ilvebeenabad, @queenmissfit, @hallowed-heathen, @neeadinghugs, @mblaqgi, , @triumphantreturnofpies, @dmv49, @attorneyl, @iconicvaleria-blog, @lovelynerdytraveler, @tierneygonzalez, @zabee113, @meganjudee, @sdcyumyum, @ms-allenbrown, @pancake-blonde, @ivarswickedqueen, @starkiddreamer, @austenkingmylady,@pinkrockstar19, @jeowjungkook, @end-of-night, @yaminax-kuss-a , @gruffle1, @arses21434@natalie-rdr, @tempt-ress, @thevikingsheaux, @poisonedjoinery, @smokealone, @chewythecatus, @laughinglikenialler, @lefrenchfrye, @mybarnesmyhero, @vengefulflange, @imcreepininyourheartbabe, @therealmrshale, @that-goodgirl, @supernaturalvikingwhore, @athroatfullofglass, @x-valhalla @dreaming-of-never-neverland

#hvitserk x reader #hvitserk/reader #hvitserk's heathen feast #hvitserk imagine #Hvitty x reader #hvitty/reader #vikings imagines #vikings imagine #VIkings/Reader #MODERN VIKINGS #vikings x reader #tw: character death #imagines #heed warnings #the vikings

148 notes · View notes