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aminiatureworld · 3 years

Text

Interest II

Characters: Kaeya, Xiao, gn!reader

Word Count: 3,020

Warnings: Swearing

Premise: Sometimes emotions can be confusing. In those times it can be easier to shut down. After all, wouldn’t finding the truth out be scarier?

In which the reader assumes their character is disinterested, and pulls away.

Author’s Note: I wrote a lot tonight! It was nice to write for multiple characters again, made me feel like the good old days, or something.

Hope I’m finally getting back on schedule and hope you enjoy!

Kaeya

If Kaeya flirted with you, he also flirted with all of Mondstadt; or so you kept telling yourself.

You liked the cavalry captain, you liked him a lot. It was easy to like him, as easy as breathing air. The thickets of romance, the awkward looks, the stilted conversations, the dying words. None of those things existed in Kaeya.

If there were roses there were thorns too, and though you tried to convince yourself that this emotion, this easiness was something good, there was a part of you that fought back at the idea. The reason things were so easy with Kaeya was because of one simple reason. He didn’t like you. Or not the way you liked him. Kaeya flirted with all of Mondstadt after all, and you were merely one library assistant in the middle of an entire country. Your existence wasn’t one for the history books. Not compared to the man that you’d managed to fall hopelessly in love with anyways.

At first you tried to ignore those voices, that cynical side of yourself that existed only, it seemed, to make you unhappy. You weren’t necessarily an optimist by nature, but you were a bit of a hopeless romantic, and flirting or not you at least hoped to get your point across. Delivering Kaeya’s library requests first, always going up to him at lunchtime to talk, even giving him a special gift for the Windbloom festival. You really did try, you didn’t think that the opposite could be argued. Still things continued on as relatively normal however, Kaeya’s flirting never seeming to grow particularly towards you. Eventually it became harder and harder to avoid the voice in your head sneering you were wasting your time. Or maybe you were just tired.

Either way the answer seemed to be obvious. You knew when the answer was to count your losses and move on, and surely this was one of those times. Kaeya wasn’t going to see you as a partner, he just wasn’t. That didn’t mean he wasn’t kind, or that your conversations with him weren’t lovely, or even that you weren’t still in love with him. Still, wasn’t it time to move on to kinder winds? You wanted a clean break, wanted an end to your painful waiting; didn’t want to experience that clench in your heart when you watched Kaeya flirting with someone else as the point just drove further and further home. You wanted reprieve, and the only way to do that was to admit the obvious. This wasn’t going to happen.

So you gave up, or did your best attempt at giving up. You still spoke to Kaeya, the gods knew you probably couldn’t stand not speaking to him. You still tried to keep as light as before, tried to retain the dynamic, for something was better than nothing. Yet your days of simply chasing after him were over, and as you settled into you schedule of new normalcy you found, though things weren’t necessarily easier, at least they seemed simpler. Besides, how much had really changed? Kaeya most likely didn’t notice.

“Kaeya, the manuscript you requested on Liyue trade history came in yesterday. There were also a few other things that came in, though Lisa told me they’re classified.”

“Oh Lisa, always a stickler for rules. Would you like to know what I requested?”

“Like you would actually tell me,” you snorted. “No, I’m fine. It’s none of my business.”

“Aw,” Kaeya pouted slightly, crossing his arms in front of him. He seemed to be doing that more often these days, though maybe you were simply imagining it. “Where’s your sense of adventure darling? You seemed to have lost it somewhere.”

“I’m just following rules,” you pointed out.

Something had shifted about the conversation at some point, and you were suddenly feeling an undercurrent that hadn’t been there before. Finding it uncomfortable you quickly removed the space between you and Kaeya, reaching out to place the brown paper wrapped books into his hands. Taking them Kaeya lifted an eyebrow. Turning around he went to put them on his desk.

The momentary reprieve in atmosphere you felt quickly died, as before you had time to turn around the cavalry captain was back, this time leaning closely towards you.

“What is it?” You asked. This was certainly Kaeya behavior, but it still startled you nonetheless.

“You’re acting funny.”

“What? I’m acting completely normal.”

“If you say so.”

But the tone conveyed that Kaeya didn’t agree one bit. A smirk painting his lips he turned around, though something bitter seemed to flash behind his eyes, and for a moment you wondered if he had somehow caught on to the secret you’d been hoping to keep to yourself.

After that things seemed to continue on as normal for a few weeks. If Kaeya’s books were secretly transgressive, they certainly weren’t doing anything actively, and life as an assistant librarian to the Knights of Favonius retained its languid, unhurried pace. Still a part of you had never forgotten about that weird snippet of conversation, one which was doing a surprisingly good job at eating away at you.

You were almost relieved when Kaeya brought the matter up again.

“Is something wrong darling?”

“You asked me that two weeks ago Kaeya.”

“Really? It’s been that long? I must be neglecting my duties,” he let out a careless sort of laugh, before his eyes steadied. “I was hoping that this time I might get a more honest answer.”

“So you think I’m lying to you when I’m saying nothing’s wrong?”

“Yes.”

“But I’m not! How could I be lying to both you and myself.”

“I find that doing such a thing is a surprisingly easy task. Nevertheless, even if you aren’t lying, there is something wrong.”

“And what would that thing be, Mr. Expert?” For some reason this conversation was aggravating you. Maybe because you couldn’t decide whether or not he was right.

“I don’t know, I was hoping you could tell me. I can’t say sorry for something I’m not aware of, I don’t know what I did. You do though. So the sooner you tell me what’s wrong the sooner things can go back to normal.”

“What do you mean by normal Kaeya? If anything this is more normal. Not that things have changed that much. I’m sorry I don’t deliver your books first, if that’s what you’re complaining about. But frankly, I don’t see what you’re so upset about? You’ve got plenty of other friends, so why are you complaining to me?”

Maybe it wasn’t your best use of logic, but your ability to circle around the focus of the conversation, the unspoken emotions that still burned through you, was somewhat lacking.

“This is not normal. I’m not talking about library books, I’m talking about friends. Or maybe avoidance. You’ve been avoiding me lately, even if you aren’t doing it completely. It wounds me, you know. My dearest companion, what did I do to earn their ire?”

“You did nothing.”

“That’s obviously a lie.”

“It’s not.”

“It is,” Kaeya voice was clipped, matching your same tone. Even now he was shifting himself to better fit the atmosphere in the room, something you normally valued so deeply.

“It’s not. It’s really not! That’s the problem Kaeya, don’t you see?” Tears that had threated the corners of your eyes were now burning across your vision, as your emotions finally broke through the paltry excuse for a dam you’d been building. “You’ve done nothing, you’ve never done anything. You’re always nice, and flirty, and a bit shameless. And that’s fine! It’s not your fault that you don’t feel like I feel for you. I don’t want to make you feel guilty. You flirt with everyone, and that’s fine. I don’t care! I really don’t. I don’t want to burden you. Still, can’t you just let me feel upset by it? Can’t you just let me give up? Do you know how painful it is not to give up? Why won’t you let me at least do that, but no! Instead you come in here talking about how everything’s different, as if I’ve offended you, or as if you worry would change anything. Of course it won’t! And it shouldn’t! But damn it Kaeya, I just want to be upset!”

By this time Kaeya had closed the space between you two, wrapping his arms around you and running soft, slightly cool, fingers through your hair. You nestled into him, despite yourself. You were so tired and so angry, and right now it didn’t really seem to matter who you cried on as long as you were crying on someone. Letting yourself be carried away by your emotions you let your ragged breathing unleash itself inside the walls of Kaeya’s office.

Eventually you calmed down. Though you expected Kaeya to step away when your breathing evened out, instead he remained there, continuing to run comforting fingers though you hair, his other hand gently cradling your shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that was the reason.” It was simple, direct. Undeniably Kaeya.

“What else would be the reason,” you grumbled.

“I don’t know. It’s why I asked. Thank you for answering me.”

“You forced me into it.” There was no true venom behind your words. You were sure Kaeya knew that.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“No.”

“Not yet?”

You shook your head. “Not yet.”

“That’s alright. Now’s not the best time anyways, since I ought to look my best. Not that I don’t look amazing already, but I should dress up for an occasion such as that. Still, I hope that eventually you’ll allow yourself to live in a way that doesn’t make you unhappy. Sometimes we can’t do that. This time you can.”

“Maybe.”

“Good. I’ll be waiting for you darling, and you know how impatient I am.”

“What if you have to wait for a long time?” You were feeling quite contrary.

“Then I’ll wait. After all, I’ll have quite the reward for my patience.”

You smiled into Kaeya. Despite yourself, you knew it wouldn’t be that long.

Xiao

With Xiao, the question was always boundaries. How far is too far? How far is not far enough? It was an endless maze, even if it was a maze you would gladly continue to explore, sure that the light at the end must lead to something truly beautiful. Still, you didn’t exactly need your emotions to come in and complicate something already so difficult to navigate.

At first you tired to ignore, to take a page from the book the yaksha you’d so hopelessly fallen for had written. Yet if was much harder than it ought to be, for loving Xiao seemed to come as naturally as breathing, and no amount of looking for faults seemed to be doing much to change that. After all, everyone has faults, and nothing could change the innate goodness you saw in Xiao, the wonder and light that he carried with him, despite his millennia of hardships.

At first you thought to tell him, to cross that border, find that boundary and test it with all the patience it had taken to test and cross those other boundaries.

“Xiao?”

“Mmm.”

“I, I have something to tell you.”

“What?”

“I, I made you some Almond Tofu!”

Xiao let his eyes widen with characteristic surprise, before leaping down nimbly from his perch to take the dish you brought out from behind your back. You watched as he ate it happily, warmth running through your veins. Nevertheless a part of you cried in frustration, perhaps even pain, for you knew you had failed to do what you had set out to do.

It wasn’t simply that you feared losing Xiao’s friendship, feared losing his respect. It was the boundaries, those invisible lines you were so careful not to step over. Xiao needed those boundaries, you knew he did. Though he had told you very little about his past, what he had told was horrific, and you hardly doubted that Xiao’s survival, his failure to spin into madness, was because of those walls he’d carefully constructed around himself. You wanted him to shed those walls yes, to slowly emerge from the darkness which he held around himself. But you weren’t ready to push him to do so, or not very much at least. It wasn’t truly in your nature to do so anyways.

So you expressed your feelings as best you could, with tofu and flowers and all the kindness you had to offer. When you weren’t working, spending your time sewing for a high-end Liyue shop, you were with Xiao. A part of you assumed that it would be enough, that if you gave Xiao enough of your time and enough of your attention the barriers would magically break down. One day you’d wake up and they’d be gone and you’d be happy, having never pushed things too far.

As nothing truly seemed to change however you grew slowly discouraged. You weren’t really aware of your flagging hopes, not really. It was more that you were busy, you were so busy. Besides, Xiao hadn’t expressed much sadness over losing your company. Perhaps he was secretly relieved, perhaps you had pushed too far at some point and he hadn’t told you. Maybe it was best that you give his boundaries time, and not push it too far.

Even looking back it was hard not to call the logic sound, or at least sound to you. In some ways you and Xiao were cut of the same cloth, and though that brought with it an understanding, it also brought its own set of issues. Neither of you were willing to walk over the line that the other drew, even if you could not see where they had actually drawn it. Even if not doing so was painful, the fear of what pain might come if you did was too great a discouragement.

So you began to slowly fade away, without being entirely aware that you were indeed doing so. You were busy after all, and Xioa was most likely too. He was still a yaksha after all, a being whose life was almost completely disconnected from your own. Surely it wouldn’t be that surprising if his views were similar? Maybe you truly had crossed a line, and that was why he never seemed to enquire after you. Or maybe it was that you hadn’t mattered all that much in the first place.

It was a wet, cold autumn day. You sighed slightly as you unlocked your door, having gotten drenched by protecting a bold of fabric you were bringing home to cut and pin. Letting out a huff, you opened the door and went to take a nap. You must’ve been tired, for it took a few seconds for the screech of surprise to leave you mouth at the sight of the unexpected intruder waiting for you.

“Xiao! You scared me!”

You stared at the yaksha, very much surprised by the sight of him. Your surprise had very little time to register though, being quickly replaced by concern for the storm so clearly gathering in Xiao’s eyes.

“You were gone for so long.”

“I’m sorry Xiao. It’s just been so busy you know, everyone’s preparing for the change in season. Besides…”

“Besides?”

“I didn’t want to bother you. I mean, I know you also have a job, and though I want you to find happiness outside of it, I don’t want to pressure you.”

Xiao’s facial expressions evidently conveyed that he was not impressed. Searching for the right words you let your gaze drift towards the floor. You weren’t sure that you were ever going to be ready for a conversation like this, but certainly not in the state you were now. Still, you owed Xiao some sort of explanation. Of course you did.

“I’m really sorry Xiao. I should have found time for you. It’s completely my fault.”

“That’s not what I want.” Xiao’s tone was gruff, frustrated. You found the frustration mirrored within yourself.

“What do you want?”

“I,” Xiao flushed. “I don’t want you to apologize. I’m not blaming you for anything. You shouldn’t apologize for nothing.”

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

Xiao shook his head. For a moment he just stood there, eyes stormy. Slowly though he reached out to take your hand. You found the act surprisingly comforting. You had missed Xiao’s hands, delicately built, calloused beyond believe. They felt comforting and warm and safe, and you wished you could never let go of them. Drawing strength from that you slowly raised your gaze slightly.

“What do you want, Xiao?”

At first Xiao said nothing. Perhaps he was staring at a line, contemplating whether to cross it. You had half the mind to apologize again, but managed to stop the words from coming out. You knew that it was just a force of habit. Besides, Xiao hadn’t said anything yet. A small spark of hope burned inside you, the hope that something might go well.

There was a gentle tug on your wrist and suddenly you were in Xiao’s arms, his hair gently tickling your nose.

“This,” he mumbled. “I want this.”

For a moment you felt yourself freeze in shock, but soon enough you found yourself melting into his embrace, wrapping your own arms around him. Xiao was warm like a heater, warm beyond that too. It was as if there was something in his soul. Gentle, flickering, it brought you happiness that you never thought you could imagine. You wanted to bask in it forever, it was worth any twists and turns you might have to take to reach it.

“Don’t disappear again.”

“I won’t.”

“I should have come earlier.”

“It’s alright. Hey, Xiao?”

“What?” Xiao’s arms tightened around you slightly. You didn’t want to talk much more either.

“What do you think of me?”

Xiao let out a soft snort. “I thought that was pretty obvious.”

“What?”

“I love you.”

It was more than you could have ever hoped for.

#genshin impact #kaeya x reader #kaeya alberich #xiao x reader #xiao #alatus #Genshin Impact fanfiction #scenarios #fanfiction #my writing #requested #gn reader

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omgreally · 3 years

Text

Shelter

Din Djarin/F!Reader Almost E, I Swear, Eventually Warnings: Speaking of swearing - some, idiots who should bang already not doing the thing, slow-burn-mutual-pining-friends-to-lovers-with-angst, probably as manyof my favourite tropes as I can think of to throw in there too! smut to follow.

Summary: What is a Mandalorian without a ship, a clan, or a Creed? Lost, that's what. Untethered. A torn cloak tossed by the wind. So he goes to the only place - the only person - he can think of: You. A smuggler with less scruples than friends, and somehow, you ended up with the Mandalorian as one of them. As for what's next, neither of you know. It's up to you to muddle it out - together.

Part One Here / Read on AO3

Part Two

Mando is wearing the helmet when he joins you for breakfast.

You shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s the fact that he’s still here more than anything else that makes you do a double-take.

There’s something subdued about him as he slinks into the kitchen like a wounded cat, late enough that you’ve already finished eating.

You woke early this morning, expecting to find him gone as if he was never there. Gone to leave you wondering if you imagined the time a helmetless Mando turned up in the middle of a rainy night and kriffing upended everything you thought you knew about him.

As you half-expect, he doesn’t say anything to you while you fix him a plate of food. He just sits silently at the counter - the very counter he had you shoved up against last night.

You try not to think about it as you place the plate in front of him along with a mug of steaming kaf, all without meeting his mirrored gaze. You’re not sure why, but you really, really don’t want to talk about it, despite promising him you would.

Instead, you clear your throat and say, “Sleep okay?”

Mando pauses his swirling of the mug, and the familiar angle of his visor tips towards you. “Fine. Thank you.”

His voice is stiff - oddly formal - sounds slightly muffled on the sibilant consonants through the vocabulator. You like his voice, but you decide you like it better unfiltered.

A way, you remind yourself, that you never should have heard.

You don’t ask him about the helmet. It’s just the unspoken rule between you: You don’t ask, and he doesn’t mention it.

Like last night. You won’t ask, and he doesn’t mention it.

You’re not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

“You can relax,” you tell him. “This place is small, but off the grid. Safe,” you summarize, leaning against the cabinet behind you.

“Nobody seems to visit this planet,” he agrees with you, painfully neutral. You snort derisively.

“Yeah, no shit. That’s why I chose it.”

The helmet bobs in a nod, and you picture a pair of dark, sad eyes. You look away and sip your kaf and there’s silence between you, more awkward than usual.

Eventually, the silence is broken by a soft hiss ing sound, and you glance back at Mando and watch as he lifts his helm with a thumb to drink from his own mug. You know the shape of the lips that press against the ceramic rim, more intimately than you ever expected to. Again, you look away.

Fuck. You’re too old for this, approaching middle-age. And you only got this far because you’re tough . Looking at the Mandalorian right now, you don’t feel tough at all.

“You got a plan? Where you’re gonna go after...this?” you wonder aloud, unable to take the tension any longer. The helmet lowers back into place, and you purse your lips in a frown.

“I think I’m supposed to reclaim Mandalore.”

“Huh?” Your brow wrinkles, your whole face now screwed up in confusion. Mando sighs, the great shoulders heaving in a shrug, and he shakes his silver head.

“Never mind.”

“Right.” You both sip your caffeinated cups quietly for a moment. “Nice spear, by the way.”

You hadn’t had time to comment on it, rising prickly from over Mando’s shoulder like a flagless mast of warning. He glances back at it as if he forgot about it, then shrugs again.

“Beskar, right?” Again, something you’ve never really talked about. You’re a weapons smuggler and he is a walking weapon. Somehow, by ignoring that fact, you were able to form a close business relationship. But the one thing you don’t do is talk about the Beskar.

You didn’t do a lot of things until last night.

“Yes.” He sounds cautious, shifting into a wary stance without seeming conscious of it. You sigh aloud.

“Relax, Mando. I’m not gonna try to steal the armour off your back. Yeah, yeah- ‘try it and I’ll kill you’, I know,” you intercept before he can say it, and he leans back as if in contemplation, just… staring at you.

“I know,” he says at last, and then he lifts the helmet to sip at his kaf. Without looking away.

“You put it back on,” you say, breaking another rule as you take a seat next to him.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The helm tilts down. “Habit,” he says. Almost sadly.

You reach out before you even mean to and touch his wrist, the space in between his glove and his sleeve you didn’t even realize was exposed. He withdraws like a tortoise, retreating back into his silver shell.

“You can stay as long as you like,” you say, pulling back as well and spinning away in the same movement. “I have a job tonight, but I trust you not to burn the place down.”

All Din hears is ‘I trust you’, and he’s suddenly, impossibly glad he chose to don the helm today. You turn away, and he blinks so quickly his gaze blurs before he frowns and looks down, at his hands - clenched into fists.

“Thank you,” he croaks, woodenly, at your back. You twitch as if the words are blaster bolts missing you by a hair’s breadth, and nod without turning. Then you’re just...gone.

Din doesn’t know why he came here. He’s not even sure if he’s glad he did or not. But it just seemed to make sense , it was the one place he hadn’t been yet, the one he knew he could rely on to be there .

Ironic, considering the fact you’re a criminal.

He hasn’t known you that long, not in standard years, but it feels like longer; he doesn’t even remember where you first met, or how. Your circles intersected with his somehow without being diametrically opposed, and that’s how it went on for years, a not-quite arrangement whenever the two of you fell into eachother's orbid. So Mando became a good customer, - when he had credits, and an absent one when he wasn’t. And that seemed to suit you, too.

Aside from that (and your foul mouth), you’re a bit of a cypher. You told him about this place while dead-sober, looking him straight in the visor and saying ‘ If you ever need a place to go, remember these coordinates. You’ll know when you’ll need it .’ And you were right: He did.

Mando looks into his mug, at the lukewarm kaf cooling dark in its depths. He sets it down and pushes himself to his feet. He hesitates before he reaches up to tug the helmet off and, gingerly, he tucks it under his arm as he sets out to find you.

He finds you in the office. It’s really more of an armory; the walls are lined with weapon racks and arms of all description are stacked on the desks around a console. He examines a suspiciously moist -looking vibroblade before forcing himself to meet your gaze, and you cross your arms, your jaw set.

Din remembers the feel of that jaw under his mouth - the shape of your lips - the heat of your skin, and he finds his hands curling into fists again of their own volition, the leather of his gloves creaking.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to repay you,” he says. It’s a woeful summary of everything he almost wants to say to you. You tilt your head, and your expression softens.

“Mando, don’t be ridiculous. You know you’ve always got an open line of credit with me.”

It’s true - he has. But he’s never had to use it much up until now. A few thousand credits here and there, and you knew he was good for it; Mando always paid up, with interest when he had the currency. The life of the bounty hunter was tough, occasionally work was irregular, and you understood that. Your business ebbed and flowed in much the same way.

You know this is different, though. You know that because of his face. A face he’s letting you see, for a second time.

A dark, perverse little part of you wonders if he’s going to kiss you again.

You still haven't talked about it, and that suits you fine. What would you say? Probably some bullshit like it was because of the alcohol, or head trauma, or something. It doesn’t matter. If he’s going to pretend it didn’t happen, you have no choice but to play along.

“Din,” he says, and you’re struck by the hollowness of his voice. “My name’s Din.”

He tosses the helmet onto the desk in front of you. It lands with a clang and rolls onto its side facing you, and you stare at the vacant gaze of the sideways visor in half-horror, half-amazement.

“I hope that covers it,” Mando intones. You reach out as the impossibly smooth surface of pure Beskar shimmers up at you. It’s smooth and cool beneath your fingers and strangely personal, like it’s got some kind of weight you can’t understand as you lift it from the bench.

You turn to Mando and press the helmet back into his hands. “This doesn’t belong to me,” you tell him as you look up, up into his dark, dark eyes. He’s close enough to touch - close enough to just lean up and brush your mouth against his jaw, his chin, the tense surface of his lips-

But you don’t.

Instead you give him a nod, a firm pat on the shoulder, and try not to inhale as you brush past and slip from the room.

Again.

You only hope he doesn’t follow you until you can get your expression under control - and your breathing.

#shelter #din djarin/reader #din djarin/you #mando/reader #mando/you #mando x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fic #mandalorian fic

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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

Note

prompt: after their father died, the Nie bros were raised by Wen Ruohan, and are forced to survive in the backstabbing tangle of Nightless City politics.

Congratulations! You have also won the “I didn’t mean to write this much” fic prompt lottery, to the tune (again) of about 30k. I hope you enjoy!

Note: any fic warnings will be only on Ao3

Fire and Light (ao3) - part 1

“It’ll be all right,” Nie Mingjue murmured to Nie Huaisang, who was curled in his arms, shaking and terrified. The carriage rumbled and lurched around them, traveling down the long path to the Nightless City, where they would now be staying. “It’ll be all right. We’ll manage, somehow.”

He didn’t believe a word he said, of course. How could everything be all right?

Their father was dead. Murdered – it was rather unquestionable at this point. Wen Ruohan had broken his saber from a distance, driving him mad, and Nie Mingjue had known it was Wen Ruohan, but no one had believed him. No one had wanted to help, to intervene, to take action. Even at home, they’d just started resigning themselves to having to take care of Lao Nie as he died by inches when the murderer himself had shown up at the Unclean Realm to ‘help’ them in their moment of need.

Even half-mad, their father had tried to fight back.

Wen Ruohan had put him down like a rabid dog, wringing his neck and tossing him aside.

He’d then announced that Nie Mingjue and Nie Huaisang, now orphans, would be brought back to the Nightless City and taken into the Wen sect to be his wards, to be appropriately reeducated and brought up well. Brought up properly.

And as for the rest of the Nie sect –

At least they survived, Nie Mingjue reminded himself. Even if they have to work for the Wen sect, even if the sun banner flies in the Unclean Realm…at least they’re not dead.

At least Huaisang is with me.

He didn’t know what to expect when they arrived. He didn’t think it would be anything good.

Their rooms in the Nightless City were large, but cold.

They were wards of the great Sect Leader Wen, they were told when they arrived. That meant that they would be treated with respect, as if they were truly young masters of the Wen sect. They would get the best tutors, the best clothing, the best food and drink…they would be masters of the world, if only they bowed their heads and were obedient.

(If they were not obedient, they would be punished. The exact nature of that punishment remained – unspecified.)

“Are they going to hurt us?” Nie Huaisang whispered late at night, curled up in Nie Mingjue’s bed. He’d been hiding in his own, shaking and terrified, until Nie Mingjue had crept out to check on him, daring the unspecified punishment if it meant confirming his brother was all right. Obviously Nie Mingjue couldn’t leave him like that, so he’d brought him back. “Are they going to do to us what they did to a-Die?”

“No,” Nie Mingjue said, with moderate confidence. “They’re not. They’ve put in too much effort, made this all too public, to kill us now. Though I’m not ruling out the possibility that they might freeze us to death by accident. How is it so cold here? It’s south of Qinghe! The climate should be more temperate, not less! And have they never heard of tapestries?”

“Da-ge…”

“Don’t think I don’t feel those ice-blocks you call feet at my waist!”

Nie Huaisang giggled, as Nie Mingjue had intended. “You’re being silly, da-ge.”

Nie Mingjue pretended to huff angrily, tossing his head like a bull, and it made Nie Huaisang giggle again, the way it always had. “Fine, fine,” he grumbled. “I’ll keep you warm, I guess. It’s my duty as your da-ge, isn’t it?”

“What’s my duty?” Nie Huaisang wanted to know.

“To be my spoiled brat of a didi, of course,” Nie Mingjue said, the way he always did, but this time Nie Huaisang shook his head in denial.

“Now that we’re here,” he clarified, looking at Nie Mingjue with wide, trusting eyes. “What do you need me to do?”

Nie Mingjue knew, as Nie Huaisang did not, why their lives had been spared: it all lay in that word, reeducated. They would be indoctrinated into Wen sect beliefs, Wen sect customs, and by the time they were sent back to rule Qinghe as Wen Ruohan’s puppets, they would be more Wen than Nie. Even for him, it would be difficult to resist; for someone as young as Nie Huaisang, with his childish memories already slipping through his fingers like sand, it would be virtually impossible.

Asking him to resist would serve no purpose but to torment him when he inevitably failed.

“Be happy, didi,” he finally said, and pressed his lips to Nie Huaisang’s forehead. “Be happy as you can, as you always have. Don’t let them take away your smile.”

The next day, they were introduced to Wen Xu and Wen Chao, the actual young masters of Qishan, sons of Wen Ruohan. Wen Xu was a handful of years older than Nie Mingjue, eighteen to his nearly-fifteen, while Wen Chao was less than two years older than Nie Huaisang. Neither of them seemed happy to see them, scowls fixed firmly on their faces, sneers of disdain twisting their lips.

“Do you train the saber?” Wen Xu asked Nie Mingjue, who raised an eyebrow of ‘what do you think I train’ in return. “A boorish weapon, but then I suppose your ancestors were butchers.”

“I look forward to taking classes with you,” Nie Mingjue said, thinking to himself that one didn’t have to be especially clever to know the history the Nie sect proudly proclaimed at every turn. “They’re clearly very enriching.”

Wen Xu blinked at him and then turned his face away, his lips pressed together – whether in annoyance or, possibly, a sense of humor very deeply buried, it was difficult to tell.

“Father has expectations of you,” he finally said instead of responding to Nie Mingjue’s jibe, and there was no humor in his face now. “You’ll meet them, of course.”

Unspoken was that they couldn’t afford not to. Either of them.

Nie Mingjue lowered his head. His entire sect – all his cousins, aunts, uncles, whether surnamed Nie or not – were back in Qinghe, closely watched by Wen sect commanders. There was a sword to their throat, and therefore also to his.

He, too, could not afford to disappoint Wen Ruohan.

Wen Xu’s shoulders relaxed a little when he saw Nie Mingjue’s submission – he had clearly been charged with their care, and had just as clearly worried about his ability to fulfill his mission should they choose to rebel – and he nodded, more to himself than to them. “There’s classrooms, and training grounds,” he said. “I’ll show you where they are, as well as the dining room – there are set times for meals, and attendance is mandatory – and of course the necessaries. You don’t need more than that, at least to start.”

“Are there rules we should keep in mind?” Nie Mingjue asked, thinking about his brief visit to Gusu.

“Many,” Wen Xu said. His expression was stormy. “Some of them are even spoken aloud.”

“Da-ge! Da-ge!” Nie Huaisang ran up to him, lip quivering and eyes glistening wet with tears. It was a very sad, even heart-rending sight; it used to send Nie Mingjue into a frenzy to see him like that. But by now he’d learned better and he didn’t even blink, even though Wen Xu faltered, his sword twisting off in the middle of their spar as if he expected Nie Mingjue to lose focus at a key moment and injure himself. He wouldn’t, of course, and he instead used the moment to tap Wen Xu’s sword pointedly with Baxia, claiming the point. “Da-ge, I fell down again!”

“Excuse me,” Nie Mingjue said to Wen Xu, and turned to kneel before Nie Huaisang. “Did you, now?”

“Uh-huh!”

“And did you hurt yourself?”

“I did!” Nie Huaisang stuck his hand out. There was, maybe, a bruise on his wrist. If one squinted. It was probably just mud, actually. “It hurts awful, da-ge. Kiss it better?”

“That doesn’t really work,” Wen Chao scoffed, only a few steps behind Nie Huaisang.

“Shut up, it does,” Nie Huaisang shot back, temporarily forgetting that he was supposed to be pitiful, and turned back to Nie Mingjue. “Well, da-ge?”

Nie Mingjue nodded solemnly. “It’s my job,” he agreed, gathering Nie Huaisang up into his arms and pressing his lips to the ‘wound’, using the motion to infuse a little bit of spiritual energy as well. Not enough to actually make a difference, and certainly not enough to justify Nie Huaisang promptly declaring himself all better, but he liked to do it anyway – a little connection between them.

Wen Chao looked at them both in suspicion, his brow wrinkling. “That doesn’t really work,” he said again, but his voice was weaker this time, more questioning.

“It does too work,” Nie Huaisang announced. “Maybe if you’re really nice, I’ll let da-ge fix you up too next time you fall down.”

“I’m not going to fall down! I’m not a baby like you!”

“Everyone falls down sometimes. There’s nothing shameful about it,” Nie Mingjue said, and pointed to a bruise on his own face. “I myself fell down just a little while ago. Your brother helped. Several times.”

Wen Chao gaped at him, even as Nie Huaisang giggled.

“And Huaisang? You’re already very good at being a big baby and we all know it. You can stop practicing your skills at any time.”

Nie Huaisang rolled his eyes at him, still laughing.

Nie Mingjue ruffled his hair and sent them both away, Nie Huaisang in the lead and Wen Chao following after, the latter shooting strange looks back at Nie Mingjue over his shoulder.

“You’re too soft on him,” Wen Xu said from behind him, even as Nie Mingjue rose to his feet. “He won’t thank you for it, later.”

Nie Mingjue shrugged. “Later is later,” he said philosophically. “Now is now. Can you show me that move you did earlier, kicking out my feet? It was very well done.”

Wen Xu stared at him. “The one – where I knocked you to the ground?”

“That’s the one. Do it again, just slower; it’ll be hard for me to pick it up, otherwise.”

“You’re just asking – no, never mind. Don’t you care that I beat you with it?”

“…no?” Nie Mingjue hazarded. Was this some sort of weird Qishan Wen hang-up? “How am I supposed to learn if I don’t lose?”

“In training, like everyone else.”

“That’d only teach me how to win when everything goes right,” Nie Mingjue pointed out. “I want to learn how to win even when I’m losing. Here, you show me that and I’ll show you the trick I did this morning, with the disarming.”

Wen Xu tensed up. “I don’t need your tricks.”

I don’t need your pity, he meant, and Nie Mingjue didn’t understand him at all. Wen Xu was at home, his little brother safe, his sect secure – why would Nie Mingjue pity him?

“Consider it a favor to me, then,” Nie Mingjue said, thinking back to how his uncle used to handle the especially prickly tempers in their sect, which was never short on them. “My grasp on the move isn’t that good – teaching it to someone else is the best way for me to improve my own understanding.”

Wen Xu hesitated for a while, thinking it over as if he thought there was some sort trap in the offer – what trap it might be, Nie Mingjue wasn’t sure – but then he nodded.

“All right then,” he said arrogantly. “I won’t even count it as a favor. Consider it a gift, since you’re so new here.”

They were there for about a month by the time they met some other people their age.

It was enough time to start to get used to the monotony of it all. They woke up in the morning and were free until breakfast – Nie Mingjue often got in some extra saber training, Nie Huaisang usually slept in – at which point they would meet in the cold, miserable dining hall with enough space to fit two dozen people but which only ever had the four of them, being served by voiceless servants.

They would remain there for enough time to burn a stick of incense at minimum, half a shichen at the maximum, and then they would proceed to their classes. There would be alternating classes and training, all based on some mystifying schedule that seemed to change every day but which clearly had some sort of order based on the boredom with which the Wen heirs regarded it, but always lunch and dinner in the same cold dining room, all alone, same as ever.

It was therefore a surprise when they came down for breakfast and found two other children there: a pale-faced girl about Wen Chao’s age or a little older and a skinny, shy-looking boy closer to Nie Huaisang’s. They were wearing Wen colors, but that didn’t mean anything – so were the rest of them. Neither Nie Mingjue nor Nie Huaisang had been allowed to bring any of their Nie robes to the Nightless City other than the ones they’d been wearing, and those had been splattered with blood. Nie Mingjue had carefully preserved them and still intended on finding a time to go try to see if he could salvage them in the wash, just as soon as he figured out where the laundry was.

His own new robes, in garish Wen colors that made him feel sick every time he looked down, itched and pulled on his body when he moved – they were badly sized. It seemed the seamstresses of the Nightless City hadn’t been expecting someone of his size and shape, although the array of robes he’d found in the closet made him realize, with gut-churning nausea, that he had been expected, that Wen Ruohan had prepared in advance to receive his new wards long before he had committed the act of murder to obtain them.

He hadn’t complained about the discomfort of the badly sized clothing – he hadn’t dared – but Wen Xu had been irritable about it for days now. Based on his rants, it seemed like he suspected that someone had made the robes ill-fitting on purpose to restrict Nie Mingjue’s full range of motion, a scheme designed to make Nie Mingjue humiliate Wen Xu in front of his father when the right size clothing finally did come in.

Nie Mingjue didn’t understand the calculations Wen Xu made, the paranoia involved – who would do something like that? why? what would even be the point? – and he didn’t especially want to, either.

He looked at the other two children. The girl stared down at her food, not making eye contact, but the boy stole glances at him – perhaps he and Nie Huaisang were as much as of a surprise to them as they were to him.

“Good morning,” he said to them. “My brother and I are surnamed Nie. What about you?”

Wen Xu snorted loudly, rolling his eyes. “They’re Wen,” he said scathingly. “Our cousins, from one of collateral branches of the family; the ones in the mountains. Father has taken the two of them on as his wards on account of their unfortunate circumstances and promising talent.”

“Unfortunate circumstances?” Nie Huaisang wondered aloud, and Nie Mingjue sighed to himself at the sheer rudeness of the direct question. “What’s so unfortunate?”

“Our p-parents are dead,” the boy told him quietly, stuttering a little.

“Oh,” Nie Huaisang said. “Ours too.”

There was a moment of silence, the entire room disbelieving, and then Nie Mingjue started laughing.

The sound of his laughter verged on the hysterical, hurting his throat, but he couldn’t seem to stop. Not because it was funny, of course, it wasn’t funny, would never be funny, it was still raw and burning and painful. It probably would be for the rest of his undoubtedly short life. But news travelled fast in the cultivation world, and while he couldn’t say for sure, Nie Mingjue suspected he’d be hard pressed to find someone who hadn’t heard about Wen Ruohan murdering the old Nie sect leader and taking his children by now.

Judging by the horrified expressions on the Wen cousins’ faces, they definitely had, and the sheer awkwardness that paralyzed the entire room just made the entire thing pathetically – well, laughable.

“Da-ge!” Nie Huaisang hissed, cheeks turning red, but he was smiling a little, too, mostly out of the infectiousness of Nie Mingjue’s laughter. “Don’t embarrass me!”

Nie Mingjue leaned over and ruffled his hair. “Extra etiquette lessons for a week.”

“No!”

“Someone has to teach you to think before you speak,” Nie Mingjue said, still chuckling involuntarily with the aftereffects of his bout of inappropriate humor. “Not every thought that passes through your brain has to reach your tongue, you know. Consider holding some back. Cultivate an aura of mystery.”

Nie Huaisang grumbled and went back to picking at his food.

“Aren’t you going to punish him?” the girl asked suddenly. She was staring straight at Nie Mingjue. “You didn’t embarrass him. He embarrassed you.”

“I’m his older brother,” Nie Mingjue said with a shrug. “If he’s not embarrassed by me and I’m not mortified by him, something’s clearly wrong –”

“Da-ge!” Nie Huaisang wailed.

Nie Mingjue put some extra meat into his bowl to apologize for teasing, and Nie Huaisang subsided, making faces at him as he did.

“You’re weird,” Wen Chao announced.

Nie Mingjue didn’t think so, but all the Wens averted their eyes away from him as if they were silently agreeing, so maybe he was.

It turned out that the girl’s name was Wen Qing and the boy, her brother, was called Wen Ning.

“Don’t any of you have courtesy names?” Nie Mingjue asked, a little desperately, and it turned out that the Wen sect had the strange tradition of referring to people by their given names until they were properly acknowledged. Acknowledged as what wasn’t specified, but they all seemed to have a sense of definitiveness about it, as if expecting it to happen at some distant date.

Qinghe had the exact opposite tradition – given names were for immediate family only, sometimes a secret kept just to the parents, and everyone else went straight to using the courtesy name almost immediately after the first month ceremony.

“But you haven’t done anything by then,” Wen Ning said, worrying his lip with his teeth. Nie Huaisang had been devastated to discover that despite being small and thin as a stick, Wen Ning was exactly three weeks older than him – he’d been looking forward to calling someone didi for once, and now he was off sulking about finding himself the youngest yet again. Nie Mingjue was sure he’d get over it quickly. “Nothing impressive, nothing worthy of acclaim…what can a baby possibly do to deserve getting a name so early?”

“They were born, they are alive,” Nie Mingjue said. “What more do they need to do? Isn’t that worthy of recognition all on its own?”

He got strange looks again.

It turned out that Wen Qing was the talented one of the pair – she was training to be a doctor, and all her teachers spoke very highly of her.

“That’s wonderful,” Nie Mingjue said, and meant it. “Medical skills are a rare pearl that ought to be treasured; with the world always in need, there can never be too many doctors. I look forward to being treated by you in the future.”

Wen Qing blinked owlishly at him. It appeared that she was unaccustomed to praise.

“If you ever need someone to practice on, let me know,” he tried – he knew pretty words were far from his forte, and actions were better anyway – but that didn’t seem to help.

“I’m not good at anything,” Wen Ning volunteered, wringing his hands. “Jiejie refused to leave me at home by myself, but I’m not - good. At things.”

“Everyone is good at something,” Nie Mingjue assured him, the words coming much easier this time – he knew this particular routine well, given Nie Huaisang’s routinely poor physical performance in a sect that placed such a premium on it. “Some have strengths that are lauded by society, others merely ones that give color to it, but both are valuable and worthy of praise. You will find your talent, given time.”

Wen Ning appeared rather dazed by the concept. “But – what if I look for my talent and it turns out I really am no good at anything?”

“Then you’ll be good at being cared for,” Nie Mingjue said firmly. “Someone has to keep us older siblings in business with something to do.”

“Oh,” Wen Ning said, hugging himself until his face turned red, and then he ran away.

Nie Mingjue watched him go, feeling a little helpless. He hadn’t meant at all to be cruel, or condescending, or whatever it was that had so affected Wen Ning. Why was it, he wondered, that whenever he addressed those surnamed Wen, everything he did seemed to end up having the wrong reaction?

#mdzs #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #wen xu #wen chao #wen qing #wen ning #wen ruohan #my fic #my fics #this is the one that had a one-sentence summary #it was supposed to be short!#chuplayswithfire #fire and light

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slightly-nerdy-rambles · 3 years

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Robstar Week Day 4: Memories (Prompt: Survivors)

This was an interesting fic to write, because the "yearly Titans' anniversary" aspect of it gave me a chance to dip into a rough timeline I recently calculated for when different parts of the series happened relative to one another. Looking back, there's a lot of pretty crazy stuff that went down in the last two seasons... it's no wonder Beast Boy was itching for a vacation by Trouble in Tokyo.

Something else this oneshot brings up is my headcanon for what exactly was going on with Tamaran when Starfire was taken by the Gordanians. I plan on going into more detail in a future story, but enjoy these little tidbits for now.

Memories

For Starfire, the anniversary of the Titans' first meeting would always be complicated.

She was beyond thankful to have met her dearest friends, of course. Thankful for the new home she had found on Earth, too. And it had been a triumphant day, all told: her escape from the Gordanians, meeting these curious and kind new people who were willing to risk everything for a stranger, the final thrashing of Trogaar's gang and release of their other prisoners.

That was why, when the year came around again and Cyborg and Beast Boy inevitably put together some form of Titan-versary party, she was happy to join in the festivities and reminisce on the year past. But there was also a reason why, as soon as the day wound down enough that she was confident she would not be missed, she would steal away to spend time alone in her room or on the Tower rooftop.

That first year, Robin had eventually come looking for her and, perhaps inevitably, asked if something was wrong. They hadn't known much about each other's lives before the Titans then — it was something of an unspoken rule that the team had, that nobody was expected to divulge such information until they were ready — so all she had told him was that she had not been the only target of the Gordanians, and that for her, the date held as many sorrows as it had joys. That had been enough, and for the next few years he had kept the others busy and left her to her moment of solitude.

That changed on the fourth anniversary of the team's founding. Starfire had retreated to her bedroom just as the sun finished its descent below the horizon, and was flipping through an album of photos she'd picked up on her last trip to Tamaran. This part of the night was almost routine to her now, so the sudden gentle knock on the door nearly startled her off of her bed.

"Star? It's me," Robin's voice called softly from the hall. "Is it okay if I come in?"

Strange. With their unspoken understanding, Robin was the last person she would have expected to interrupt her evening.

Despite this, or perhaps because of it, she wasted no time in getting up and opening the door. "Is something wrong?" she asked.

Robin rubbed his arm. "Not… really?" He sighed. "Look, I'm sorry for barging in on you right now, but I just thought… I dunno… maybe you'd like just a little company."

Starfire only considered his offer for a moment before nodding. It wasn't like he didn't understand why it was a complicated anniversary for her. In truth, by now they had come to learn just about all of each other's stories. And she was rarely one to turn down good company.

"I think I would like that, actually," she said, stepping aside to let him enter. Robin gave her a small smile and a nod, but the two of them were silent for a moment as they went in and sat down on the edge of her bed. They remained that way for several moments more — not awkward or unsure, just quietly gathering their thoughts as the weightier parts of the year past settled over them both.

Finally, Robin sighed and flopped back. "So," he said, "looks like we've survived another year."

Starfire hummed in agreement and leaned back on her elbows beside him. "Has it truly been only a year?" she asked. "I do not believe we had even known about Trigon's prophecy at the Titans' last anniversary."

Robin groaned and rubbed his masked eyes. "Yeah, that would have been right around Raven's birthday. And now we have to deal with Slade again…"

"...And we have been called on more space missions..." Starfire supplied.

Robin snorted. "Yeah, some of those went better than others. And they somehow still didn't manage to take up half of all the travelling we had to do…"

Starfire dropped onto her back. "X'hal, there are still some days when I feel out of place just from being home again."

"I know what you mean." Robin didn't offer more commentary than that, and Starfire allowed her eyes to drift closed and rest for a second or two.

They opened again when she felt his fingers curl around hers, and she turned to see him looking at her with a shy little smile on his face.

"But… At least it hasn't all been bad, right?" he asked.

Starfire smiled back, and shifted over to plant a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Indeed it hasn't," she said softly.

With a sigh, she sat up and turned back to her photo album, nearly forgotten with the arrival of her visitor. It was still open to a set of pages showing off her family, back when she'd been what Earth would calculate as about ten years old. Back when everything had been simpler, before the Gordanian attack that had cost her mother’s life and stolen away her brother, before Blackfire had usurped and banished their father and shattered what little sisterly bond they had left.

"I think that is why we are able to continue on, even in the difficult times," she said a little absently as she ran a finger over one of the images. "Because we can still find and create joy in the midst of hardship."

Robin propped himself upright and leaned over to give the album a closer look.

"I'm sure she'd be proud of you," he said softly, brushing a finger over the image of her mother. "I know Galfore is."

Starfire hummed and leaned against him. "I hope so. The best I can do is try to honor her memory with my actions."

The two of them lapsed into another comfortable silence after that, and as they sat there, she realized that she felt… lighter, somehow, than she normally did at this time of year.

Yes, there was a reason why Starfire needed some time away from the usual celebratory atmosphere of the Titans' yearly anniversaries. But, she supposed, that didn't mean she had to spend that time alone.

#Teen Titans #Robin #Starfire #robstar #robstarweek #writing #prompt #fanfiction #Is anyone interested in seeing that timeline I made?#I had to write it twice because I forgot to back it up the first time and then my hard drive died

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s-lily · 3 years

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Loki in Thor

So I decided to watch Thor's MCU movies (again), this time paying special attention to Loki's POV, and oh boy! You know, I've always had a problem with Thor (2011), aka Loki's First Existential Meltdown, but this time it was too obvious and painful to watch (especially with access to all deleted scenes).

Spoiler ahead (but you know... from the 2011 Thor movie)

Let's take just a second to acknowledge that after he's told he was adopted, Frigga is the only one who validates him. She goes >>You are my son, and I love you. Here is Asgard, it's yours until Father awakes, my King<< he was so confused at the moment, and he didn't even want to take the scepter! A very important piece in Loki's journey, so what the studio decided to do? They deleted it! They justify everyone's (mostly the Warriors Three and Lady Sif) suspicion about him being evil. Well, he's not!

Honestly, Thors' friends are a little dense. Even without the deleted scene, let's recap the events: The King is indisposed (Odin is having his beauty sleep), the firstborn unavailable (Thor's has been exiled), and the apparent Regent unwilling (Frigga is worried for Odin and wanted to stay at his side), but somehow making the second born, Loki, the acting ruler is so treacherous. He must have surely stolen the throne! (note the sarcasm here)

Ok, I'm going to give them the benefit of the doubt because he didn't want to undo Odin's last order (although it's not like they need Thor back. Asgard was not in imminent danger or something. Basically, they are just unhappy that their best friend can not go out to play because he was grounded). But - insert frustration mannerisms here - Seriously? What did they expect? It's not like Odin is dead. He is going to wake up, and when he does, who will be the one in trouble because Thor is back? Ding! Ding! Ding! Exactly! Loki.

Not to mention the emotional turmoil in which Loki is at that point. He's not Odin's son, plus he's telling himself he is unworthy, a monster, a relic waiting to be used. He wants to prove him wrong, that he is worthy. He even goes to Earth and tries to lift Mjölnir, but he can't, and again he is reinforced with the idea that he is unworthy.

Now that we're are on Earth, let’s talk about why did he tell Thor that Odin is dead because of him? Surely he is evil, isn't he? Well, not really. I admit that telling Thor that was mean, but I think he is merely projecting his own feelings. Remember, Odin fell asleep meanwhile he was arguing with Loki. It's Loki's fault Odin is vulnerable, he feels guilty, but at the same time, Loki hasn't had the opportunity to overcome his existential crisis when talking to his father, and Thor is the only one who is available to work it out.

What about Frigga? You may ask. Frigga already validated him. She loves him, and he loves her. There is not more unfinished business with her. On the other hand, he has a lot of issues with Thor.

Sibling rivalry is normal, even Disney's perfect duo (Elsa and Anna) has some of it. Do you remember Anna's song about being like a little extra button? Probably not, because it's an outtake song - insert frustration mannerisms here - but look at it, and you'll know what I'm talking about. (More Than Just the Spare is the title). The point is that all the unspoken brother rivalry has multiplied it with the revelation of his true nature. Every single favor Odin had with Thor over him, no matter how minimal, now it's an open raw wound. He's envious more than ever.

Funny thing. Loki is the most sincere in this movie. In the deleted scene before the coronation, he said to Thor that sometimes he is envious, but never doubt he loves him (why delete it! it was only 3 minutes long! and the brotherly banter was great). He said to Thor in the final battle that he never wanted the throne, that's clear as crystal in the deleted scene when he is made King (again! why deleted such important 4 minutes!), and it's proved it again when he told Laufey he only showed them the way into Asgard to protect it from Thor's idiotic rule for a while longer. Please pay attention to the "a while longer" it means he has accepted Thor would be the king, he was at peace with that (even when Odin has told them both were born to be king), but he knew his brother was not ready, so he put that stunt with the Frost Giants in motion to prove himself right (he never intended to put Asgard at risk, he knew, as Odin said, it was the act of a few doomed to fail, he only wanted to ruin Coronation Day). He is sincere and confesses to his brother's friends he is the one who told the guard to go for dear daddy to stop them (which backfires because now Hogun and Sif think of him as a traitor. Just because he did the right thing to do! Even when all of them knew that going to Jötunheimr was a bad idea).

The sad thing is that Thor doesn't even know what is happening. He's on Earth having his Hero Journey until his friends find him (and gave him their version of the facts) and now his little brother suddenly turned vicious, and he doesn't know why.

Now, I want to rant about Heimdall. I understand the Warrior Three dislike for Loki (he is Thor's annoying little brother who always tags along, most likely to be the snitch, and who to Asgardian standards is not a skilled warrior because he prefers to use magic and tricks instead of brute force). However, Heimdall is supposed to be this wise man, yet he treats Loki, a Prince (don't forget about it), with disdain and disrespect. He has watched all of Loki's life. He's watched him grow. He knows he is a mischief kid, probably a little spoiled. (who would blame him? If someone messed with him, here comes big brother Thor at the rescue. If the thing turned serious, he is the second born of All-Father Odin. I would like to see somebody fight that. And hell sure, he's mommy's little boy, so he probably got away with a lot of things. Actually, that's probably what made him the Good of Mischief. Ok, I'm rambling now, back to the main issue) Heimdall knows he is clever, and honestly probably more apt for political affairs than Thor at this point, but when Loki is named king, he seems unable to show a little bit of loyalty. He's blind because Loki bypassed his all-mighty sight. Yikes! Chill out!, now he knows how everyone else feels.

Finally, the last blow. Loki said to Odin (and still refers to him as Father - I'm not crying, I'm not crying) that he could have succeeded. Wipe out all the Frost Giant, he could have eliminated all trace of his monstrous side. He said "for you" as in for you to be my only father, for you to accept me as your son, and not a relic to trade with, and what Odin said? No. (I'm well aware Odin said "No" more in like >>that's no the way, you're my son no matter what<<, and not like >>I don't accept you<< ) Loki is in a lot of emotional distress here, and he is hanging off the Bifrost's cliff, he feels rejected, he feels unworthy, so he let himself go. He drops loose from his father's scepter lets himself consume in the void of space.

And the hope of surviving wasn't on his face.

#marvel #loki meta #loki #thor #loki series #post: mine #// PS I don't include the genocide attempt on the Frost Giants as a villainous act because later on we learned in Thor Ragnarok from Hella #that Odin's morning tea was made just of that.

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loeyluvr · 4 years

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intoxicate me

pairing: jaehyun x fem!reader

word count: 3.4k

warnings: cursing, sexual themes

genre: friends to lovers!au

summary: when you and your best friend began to end the nights together in less friendlier ways, it was nothing but ways to get laid, at least that was what it started as. you couldn’t have fallen in love with him, could you?

you couldn’t remember when your story began exactly. you couldn’t pinpoint the exact day or the exact time reckless nights filled with solo cups and music turned way too loud became the start of something entirely different. when those reckless nights began to end with your limbs tangled in his. when the music that blared below began to lull you to sleep in his arms. it was an unspoken rule between you two, that you’d always end the nights with one another. and that rule had yet to be broken.

it was always the same. a routine. every morning you’d wake up with the sun pouring through his curtains as the hangover from the night before came hurdling in with it. the reluctant removal of his hands that were always wrapped tightly around you, as you peeled back the thin sheets that separated you from him. you weren’t friends with benefits, technically, or dating, it wasn’t that simple. just two horny friends who found relief in each other. at least that’s how it was before you began to find yourself yearning for more than the nights you spent together. it was fun you’ll admit, to always be guaranteed a hookup no matter the occasion. no strings attached, no specifics, hell you never spoke a word about what you two were doing once the buzz of the alcohol was gone and sobriety hit. but when it was there it felt like heaven. too good to be true. but you later learned that the hard way.

today was no different. you felt the warmth of the sun meet your exposed skin before you turned to see it. your face buried deep within the duvet, too stubborn to meet it eye to eye. the bittersweet moment of waking up in his arms only being a temporary relief in itself before you had to remove yourself from them completely and pretend it never happened. even though you both knew you’d be there tomorrow morning anyways.

you felt his hands next, pressed tight against your stomach as he held you to him, so close you could feel the heat of his chest sending warmth down your whole body as you melted into him. then it was his chin, nestled into the crook of your neck. his breath leaving goosebumps as it tickled your skin gently, blowing your hair just the tiniest amount. his stubble grazing your shoulder as his chest moved up and down softly. there was something different about his touch this time, it was more gentle and needy opposed to lazy and unintentional as if he moved to you in his sleep with a different purpose in mind. you noticed this shift in his hold a few weeks ago. more reluctant to let you go as you spent more and more nights together.

this time, in particular, had started pretty simple. you were buzzed and insisted on jaehyun watching an episode of your favorite show with you, just remembering it to be on tonight. even in the middle of one of his notorious parties. causing you to drag the tall idiot through rooms of winding bodies in search of his room. you didn’t miss the looks some of the girls would give you though. jaehyun got around to put it lightly, and almost everyone wanted to sleep with him. the thought alone made you want to gag. so as each glare landed on his and your stumbling figures you made sure to meet them with winks. giggles flying from your mouth as he couldn’t help but join in. the two of you eventually finding it. but even in your drunken states, jaehyun managed to get into the show more than you, something that seemed to happen every time, even if he was reluctant to admit he was a sucker for tv dramas. giggles and gasps being the only thing to accompany the tv and the music blaring from downstairs. and just like that, the night ended with your hands on him as his landed on you.

you turned to face him as gently and quietly as you could while picking up his outstretched arm. which was easier said than done as it was wrapped tight around you, unmoving. you shook your head lightly as you felt the grip tighten, somehow. it was almost taunting like he knew you were planning to move. you sighed as you attempted to remove it once more, concocting a plan. it worked and you eventually were able to unleash the death grip he held on you but not before earning a dissatisfied grunt from the sleeping giant behind you. you laughed softly at the childishness he held even in sleep. but you rolled over quickly and placed it right back where it was, gently removing his head from your shoulder and letting it fall onto the pillow. the grip tightened immediately once more as his fingertips began to dig into the skin left exposed by your movements. smirking at your success. your eyes scanned over him, mesmerizing every feature on his sleeping figure as if it would be the last time you’d ever have the chance to. and you found your fingers winding through his messy hair that fell along his forehead. him smiling involuntarily at your actions. his hair had a natural waviness in it, it wasn’t quite curled but it wasn’t quite straight. one of your favorite things about him. his natural hair that was, as he always wound straightening products through the strands. but that was jaehyun for you, the always well put together person he was. your best friend. and you were glad you had the privilege of seeing him like this, his polished look gone. usually composing of pin-straight hair combed meticulously until every strand was in place, tucked in shirts, paired with the perfect jewelry to tie his looks together, that you had consequently had to pick out for him. in its place leaving fluffy hair and plump lips that you’ve felt yourself melt into time and time again. you’ve always seen his softer and more approachable look as opposed to his charming and polished one. and it wasn’t like you were complaining.

your fingers continued to dance along the brown strands and for a moment everything felt ok. but you knew it wouldn’t last though because this was apart of the bittersweet moments you shared each morning. and you were sure the worst thing about them was knowing you were experiencing one. the fleeting feeling as you try to mesmerize every detail as you become aware that its end would eventually come. and every time you’d done this you still never got over just how breathtaking he was. it was something you were sure you’d never or would ever get over.

you weren’t sure how you managed to last this long. deeply and disgustingly in love with your best friend without cracking and cutting this whole unspoken thing off. every morning it hurt more than the last to sneak away and leave things unsaid. you wanted so much more. the moments of softness and tenderness he showed you was something you wanted at all hours of the day, not just the ones he spent drunk. you sighed as the pain of the hangover began to creep back in, joining the heaviness of your heart sending your head into the pillow behind you.

withdrawing your hand to massage your temple. your action caused a stir in jaehyun as you opened your eyes to see his flutter open, as they adjusted to the brightness of the room, just as you had done.

of course, you didn’t always sneak away, sometimes you’d wake up after him or sometimes before and would carry on conversations when the other woke up. or you’d just lay there together, him greedily holding you to him, as you were both well aware of his sobriety. and when those lingering moments together began, that’s when you knew you had gotten more than you bargained for.

his eyes adjusted and met yours. and you laid there taking one another in. his eyes were soft and sleepy and yours were bright and gentle. he smiled at you and it was the best sight you were sure you had ever woken up to. a blush crept onto your cheeks as you offered one back.

“good morning sleepy head” you spoke first as he shook his head. your voice breaking the comfortable silence.

“good morning sleeping beauty” he chuckled before you flicked his forehead. causing him to dramatically fling his head back, acting as if you had done way worse.

“heyyyy” he whined. “what was that for” as a pout began to set in.

“dunno” you giggled before disappearing under the covers, prompting him to follow you. “oh so that’s what we’re doing” he scoffed playfully a giggle daring to escape his pink lips, as he snuck his head down to meet yours.

“hi,” you breathed. the warmth underneath the blankets becoming suffocating with him with you. you were sure it was just the heat and not the way his hand still grasped your waist.

“hi again” he replied as you found yourself eye to eye. and before you could open your mouth to speak he pressed a quick kiss to your nose. and giggled. and god did it make your heart lurch. you frowned involuntarily, which he took note of immediately.

“i’m sorry-“ he replied but you cut him off. and pressed one right back to his. his ears immediately turning bright red. a habit of his that you adored. always turning bright red whenever he was nervous or embarrassed. you didn’t have time to linger on that though. as his eyes still had concern in them as you leaned back and rested your forehead against his.

“your morning breath is absolutely awful by the way,” you said leaning back and watching his mouth open. the look of concern leaving his eyes as quickly as it entered.

“you’re so MEAN” he replied feigning hurt, his pout returning. “please go brush your teeth before i kick you out of this bed” you replied holding your nose.

“it’s my bed,” he said his eyebrow arching. “and it’s your breath making it disgusting.” he rolled his eyes before giving in. he snuck his head back up above the covers as you were left alone under them. you soon heard his heavy footsteps round the corner of the bed and descend into the bathroom, hearing the light click on. you giggled and waited for the water to turn on but it never came. confused, you peeled above the covers and there he stood with his hands planted on his hips. a playful smirk on his face.

“what did i-“ you began but were cut off this time as he threw the covers off you and before you could adjust to the cold on your bare legs you were hoisted over his shoulder.

“jung jaehyun put me down,” you yelled as you beat your fists against his back. blowing your fallen hair out of your face as you rested on his broad shoulders. your face was crimson and you were glad he couldn’t see that.

“nopeeee” he replied drawing the e out. he giggled before dashing to the bathroom, feet thundering through the room. you sighed as you felt him finally make it to the sink, this time with you. he plopped you down on the counter with a smirk as you crossed your arms in annoyance. taking in the way he held the goofiest smile you had ever seen. teeth flashing. making your heart race. the frown daring to make its return as you pushed it away. becoming painfully aware of how much damage you were doing to yourself by letting these moments happen.

he giggled at your state before reaching behind you and plucking the toothbrush he kept for you out of its container. yes, he kept a toothbrush in his bathroom just for you. you shuddered. this causing you to snake your way out of your lingering thoughts. and without missing a beat he reached behind you again to grab the toothpaste, while continuing to giggle to himself. after he put toothpaste on it he looked back up at your confused face, one mixed with genuine confusion and with annoyance as the cold counter you currently sat on began to sting the back of your legs.

he shifted his position before nudging your legs with his free hand. getting the message, you move them apart as he found his way between them.

“open,” he said. you quirked an eyebrow at him.

“i’m a big girl i can do it myself,” you said as he rolled his eyes, his other hand drumming on the counter beside you. you began to reach for the toothbrush before he swatted your hand away. stubborn as always.

“you’re so annoying just open your mouth.” it was your turn to roll yours as he waited. you sighed before opening your mouth and he didn’t miss the opportunity before the toothbrush was gliding along your teeth. he grabbed your chin and titled your head back just a little while he worked. a look of determination never leaving his face. you couldn’t believe he insisted on brushing your teeth for you. you would never understand him. he worked quickly and efficiently before pulling it from your mouth, his hand dropping your chin before finding its way under the brush as he took it out, preventing any toothpaste to leak onto the floor.

you watched as he turned the tap on and rinsed the bristles before moving aside.

“spit” he ordered. “but i swallow,” you mumbled as the toothpaste rendered your voice muffled. he rolled his eyes as he tapped the sink. “yeah i know that now can you spit it out.” and you giggled to yourself as you spit. him rinsing it down with a disgusted face and before filling up a cup of water and handing it to you. you rinsed and spit again.

“good girl, now that wasn’t so hard now was it?” he asked with an, “i told you so” look. the pet name sending butterflies into your stomach. you flicked his forehead again and he ruffled your already messy hair. you giggled before he left to brush his. you were lost in thought and were more than confused at his actions. you were shaken from them again, however, as he picked you up again. this time your legs wrapped around his waist.

“damn we’re already in this position again?” you asked and without looking up you knew he rolled his eyes at your remark.

he dropped you gently on the bed, leaving you to your own accord as he raked through his closet. he was treating you like a baby and you were confused but didn’t question it, jaehyun was always the weirdest person you knew. he was back again with quickness along with a hoodie and boxers both his, thrown over his arm.

“here,” he said simply, dropping the clothes onto your lap. “i have to shower, i assume you can dress yourself” he prompted a hint of humor in his tone.

“why are you treating me like a baby” you muttered in mock annoyance. even though you were quite fine with what he was doing.

“the least i could do was give u clothes and if you thought my breath was bad...” he trailed off, earning a glare from you. but he shrugged as you rolled your eyes. acting as if it was the simplest thing in the world. but then came the after-effects of the high you felt from his actions and your mood shifted.

“i’m going to order breakfast,” you said quickly. he raised his eyebrow as you moved around him from your spot on the bed and slid through the door. you felt your heart drop in your chest. and this was the worst it’s ever gotten. you were so fucked. that wasn’t something you just do with a hookup. granted you were friends and have hooked up too many times to count. but he had never been that loving and caring with you. going out of his way to take care of you. to spend time with you after. and the way each action made your heart soar scared the absolute shit out of you. the way the most disgustingly cute things had your palms sweating and heart racing.

you scurried through the hallway, throwing the clothes onto the counter. raking your hand through your hair. before pulling open the drawers looking for takeout menus. you were all over the place and didn’t notice the pair of warm hands that slid around your waist. causing you to freeze as his head found your shoulder and landed a soft kiss on your neck.

“penny for your thoughts?” he asked softly, squeezing you gently. and that’s when it became all too much.

you turned around to face him. “jaehyun we can’t do this anymore.” the words barely escaped, your throat tightening. your hands finding the expanse of his chest as you pushed him away. he took a few steps back, his expression was unreadable as you calmed yourself down, taking deep breaths. internally freaking out. eyes moving from him as his pierced yours.

“i agree,” he said. you wish you could've hidden the hurt in your eyes from him, but you knew he saw right through them even if you couldn’t meet his gaze.

“um i’m glad we agree” you stammered before trying to escape from the small space between the counter and him. hoping to get away from him before the tears you were holding began to fall. granted it was your proposition but you didn’t want him to agree.

“let me finish,” he whispered and you ceased moving. he moved closer as he spun you around again pushing your fallen hair out of your face. your throat was tight as you balled your fist to control your emotions, fingernails digging into your palm.

“i don’t want to do this anymore either,” he spoke quietly as his forehead wrinkled in thought. fingers dancing along your cheek as he began to think out what he was going to say next. “but i don’t want to be just friends either” he trailed off as he watched your reaction. and you couldn’t help but laugh, one of almost relief at his implications you hoped you had interpreted right.

“so if not friends and not whatever this is, then what?” you asked. he giggled before pulling his lip between his teeth. you giggled too, realizing this was the first time you had spoken about your situation.

“as girlfriend and boyfriend, idiot.” and even though it was a serious moment, it earned him another thump on his forehead. “i’m confessing my love to you and you thump me?” you giggled. “yeah.” and he began planting kisses all over your face as you continued to giggle.

“so will you be my girlfriend?” he leaned back and asked again.

“only if you’ll be my boyfriend.”

"fucking finally" you and jaehyun spun around in suprise at the other person in the room, separating in the process, eyes landing on, jaehyun's roomate johnny eating yogurt on the couch.

"since when have you BEEN here?" jaehyun asked, eyebrow raised as you began laughing at the fact neither of you had noticed his presence before having a mini soap opera in his kitchen.

"Um since this morning i kind of live here you know," he quipped back taking another spoonful of his yogurt.

"ok smartass," jaehyun mumbled as you couldn't help but laugh again earning a glare.

"but on a serious note, since like an hour ago before you guys did your thing," he said, using his spoon used to emphasize the amount of time he had spent watching you two. jaehyun sighed rubbing his face, earning a playful shove from you.

"as long as you'll be my boyfriend," johnny began again, his free hand doing none other than air quotes, as he quoted you. "y/n i never took you to be such a romantic." his hand dramatically clutching at his chest in sarcasm making your cheeks turn bright red as jaehyun engulfed you in a hug, hiding your embarrassed expression.

"change of plans we're going out for breakfast," he mumbled throwing a spoon at johnny who was still giggling at your embarrassment.

"have fun lovebirds" he called as you and jaehyun left, the door closing behind you, jaehyun mumbling under his breath. nothing like johnny to make your lives that much more interesting.

a/n: long time no see! hope this wasn’t too bad, let me know if you have any suggestions or any requests, all feedback is taken with open arms. i ended up writing this a few months ago when i was in my feelings over jaehyun and decided to edit and post it now. make sure you wear your masks and stay safe! see you in another 6 years! LMSFMS

send me a request! masterlist

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misstooni · 3 years

Text

Let It All Unbreak You

"Sit still, both of you!" Malik snapped, Bakura and Atem fidgeting as he attempted to disinfect and bandage their wounds, "you exist a few thousand years and apparently you think you're invincible..." he muttered, shaking his head.

"It's cold!" Bakura hissed, pulling away. Atem was being less vocal, largely out of pride, but still visibly flinching at the sting of the bactine and digging his fingers into the arm of the couch.

"Honestly, how did I end up with two ancient Egyptian idiots for boyfriends?" Malik sighed, "There. All bandaged up, you can stop being babies now."

"Is that any way to talk to a pharaoh?" Atem challenged, teasing.

"What's a pharaoh to a non-believer?" Bakura quipped and Malik snickered in response. Atem fake-pouted, not catching the reference.

"Alright now. The takeaway here is don't go picking fights with people bigger than you," Malik grinned smugly, enjoying being the tallest of the trio, "You don't have shadow game powers anymore, and most people aren't going to play by your rules." Bakura muttered that he only got hurt trying to stop Atem from getting his ass kicked.

"Those men were harassing that woman, though! Surely you can't have expected me not to step in?" Atem frowned, indignantly, planting his hands on his hips.

"No, and that's why we love you." Bakura sighed, running the fingers of his uninjured hand through the pharaoh's hair. It was coarse and feathery, and Atem leaned into his hand like a cat getting scratched behind the ears.

"At least you picked up the incense and flowers," Malik sank onto the couch on the other side of Atem and joined Bakura in playing with his hair, softly shaking his head. If he had been there... well, he wasn't sure things would have gone much differently. He could've held off one boyfriend, but not two.

"Oh! Right, that..." Atem jolted up, "Are... are we still going to go?" he looked at Bakura expectantly, as did Malik. Ultimately, it was his call.

"I..." Bakura furrowed his brow, "I want to go. Before I change my mind." The other two nodded soberly.

"Well, we should get cleaned up before we head out." Malik said, getting to his feet. The other two followed suit, Bakura trailing a bit behind. After changing into clean clothes - a loose-fitting boatneck shirt for Bakura that covered his bandage without being too tight and a dark-colored button up for Atem - and making sure they had everything they needed, they set out from their apartment.

Since the trio lived in Domino - and since Atem and Bakura had spent the most recent years in their memory inhabiting modern Japanese teens - they had adopted some cultural customs, as well. When Atem had joined the relationship, he had suggested - perhaps partly out of guilt - purchasing a marker stone in the cemetery for the people of Kul Elna. Bakura had gone back and forth on the idea for a long time before agreeing. While the other two wanted it to be his decision alone, Malik had suggested that it might be a good thing to do. This, however, was the first time they were all visiting together. Bakura had chosen the date: the anniversary of his - or rather, his and Zorc's - final match with the pharaoh. It was the only concrete date he had, but it still seemed somehow fitting.

The walk there was quiet, an unspoken tension in the air. Malik and Atem couldn't help but keep glancing at Bakura, who kept his head down to avoid their gaze. The trip only took about fifteen minutes, but it felt like an hour. Once they reached the torii gate at the entrance, they paused, the weight of the moment settling in on them.

"Well, this is it." said Malik, "Are you ready?" he looked to Bakura.

"As ready as I can be..." Bakura nodded, hesitating before hiking up the stone steps beyond the gate. Atem and Malik were right behind him.

After entering the cemetery proper, Atem picked up a bucket and ladle from an area near the temple. The cemetery was silent, the chirping of birds and cicadas seeming to halt once they stepped inside. They wound their way through the rows of stones, the marker they were looking for in the far left corner, in the shade of a large Japanese maple. There were only a few weeds growing in the cracks, but moss was beginning to form on the stones from the lack of light.

Putting a pair of gardening gloves on, Malik started pulling the weeds while Atem filled the bucket with water. Bakura stood somewhat numbly under the tree, caught between dissociation and a torrent of emotions.

Witnessing Atem - a pharaoh, the person he once hated more than anyone in the world - on his knees, pouring water on the marker stone and meticulously scrubbing it clean of moss and dirt, was what broke him. He collapsed to his knees, breath hitching in a stifled sob as he began to cry. Malik immediately stopped his weeding and wrapped his arms around Bakura. No words, just holding him, forehead pressed into the mess of white hair. Atem continued to clean, sad eyes drifting toward his boyfriends. He could not imagine what the thief king must be feeling right now.

Once he had finished scraping off the last traces of dirt, Atem placed a few sticks of incense in a simple censer on the stone's base and lit them. The smell of musty earth and spice wafted through the air as Malik consoled Bakura, seeing the child who had lost his entire village and not the thief king who defied the gods. Bakura recognized the scent. Frankincense. Something used to cleanse the bodies of the dead in ancient Egypt, a luxury his people had never been given. Atem had deliberately chosen it for the people of Kul Elna, wanting to give them some small shred of the rites they should have received thousands of years ago. He ladeled a scoop of water from the bucket and poured it over the stone - he'd had Yugi and Ryou explain and re-explain the proper practice to him beforehand to make sure he did it correctly.

After taking a moment to compose himself, Bakura gently set the bouquet of white chrysanthemums and red spider lilies next to the incense. In Hindu and Buddhist belief, the spider lilies were supposed to help guide souls to the next life, and while Egyptian beliefs were different, he hoped the sentiment carried. The three knelt in front of the stone and placed their palms together, offering up prayers for the dead. While he wasn't sure the people of Kul Elna could even still make it through the Duat to the afterlife, he wanted to hope. If he and Atem could be pulled back into this world after passing, then anything was possible. As he pondered, he felt a hand on each shoulder. Malik and Atem had finished their offerings and were looking at him softly.

"Thank you," He mumbled into their shoulders as he pulled them close in a hug, "I'm... I'm glad we came." They stayed like that, embracing, for a long time. There was pain there, there always would be, but as long as Bakura had love like this, he would be able to persist.

#kingshipping #the royal takeover #vae victis #yugioh #malik ishtar #thief king bakura #atem #hurt/comfort #my writing

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jaskiersvalley · 4 years

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I JUST READ SALT IN OUR WOUNDS. Chair feeling alone on a battlefield, surrounded by brothers in arms, but not at all his brothers. Feeling ostracised because he doesn't want to see the murder of innocent people. Coming across Eskel as he escapes Nilfgaard, and the two bonding from there. Eskel making his own family in Cahir! Eskel defending Cahir from the other witchers when they're cold to him! I love your writing, it always makes me feel so many things 🧡🧡

Have I ever told you that I love you? Because I do. This is exactly the kind of follow-up I had been thinking about. And I adore the fact that you all but reached into my heart and pulled this out as a prompt. Thank you.

CW: The whole of Kaer Morhen’s residents are selfish idiots.

Not once in his long life had Eskel thought he would rather be on the Path than back at Kaer Morhen. But there he was, relieved to be out of the old keep and grateful that his loneliness was the regular kind that he had grown used to. The isolation of winters with his family had been a new kind of hell that he didn’t really cherish. At least out on the Path, his alienation from the rest of society was the usual, he expected that. But not in his own home.

Over winter a lot had happened. Nilfgaard spread more and Eskel’s usual area for work was now the front line of the war. He discovered it the hard way, could hear the fighting and smell death but curiosity still got the better of him. He crested the small hill and watched as the battle wound down. Nilfgaard was victorious once again and the army cheered wildly as surrender was conceded.

The apparent leader of the Nilfgaardian army approached the enemy who was on his knees. The soldiers pressed close, bayed for blood. While every instinct in Eskel screamed to intervene, to protect the defenseless, he didn’t. Witchers didn’t get involved in human affairs. In the end, his meddling would have been superfluous as the Nilfgaardian general lowered his sword and gestured to the battle field. The enemy would be allowed to collect their injured and dead.

Any breath of relief Eskel may have had was snatched away as the Nilfgaardians started rebelling against their general. Not outright assault but there were murmurs, a few comments of “spineless bastard” and “wet blanket” which carried over the fields to Eskel.

Out of curiosity, Eskel stayed and watched. The armies cleared away the bodies and worked methodically. However, he only had eyes on the general. Nobody seemed to talk to him, once or twice when he tried to initiate something he was scoffed at or outright ignored. By the evening, when the army settled in their camp, Eskel saw an all too familiar story. The soldiers were all huddled up in groups, sharing food, joking and laughing. Meanwhile, their general was sat on the peripheral, a lone figure huddled over a bowl of food. Eskel almost smiled at the way his head dropped forward once or twice as he nodded off.

Eskel himself settled down for the night, telling himself he was there to make sure no nasties came about as a result of the battle. A handful of wraiths would be quite unfortunate after all. He woke up to shouting and jeering. The fires were still burning bright in the camp and Eskel could see a group half carrying, half pushing a reluctant figure. They locked their general in an iron maiden and laughed merrily as they set it closer to a fire.

Witchers didn’t get involved in human affairs. Eskel decided there was still enough human left in him that he could ignore that rule. Without a second thought, he took off towards the camp.

Soldiers backed away from him, probably finding him too monstrous to dare challenge. For the first time, Eskel’s looks and demeanour worked in his favour. He barged into the camp and marched up to the iron maiden, ripping it open.

“By the Law of Surprise I claim him,” he declared, pulling a sweat soaked and weak body from the chamber. It wasn’t how Law of Surprise worked but it didn’t matter. Eskel couldn’t stand by and watch someone be humiliated and tortured for being a decent human.

In the end, Eskel had to carry his human rescue out of the camp because he was too weak to move. Obviously the battle then being stuck in a metal torture contraption near a fire had taken their toll. Back at his own camp, Eskel laid the man on his bedroll and offered a few sips of water every once in a while. When the shivering finally started up, Eskel was there, tugging an old horse blanket over him.

“Thank you,” the man managed to force out of his throat before falling asleep.

The next morning Eskel watched the Nilfgaardian army pack up and move out. He didn’t notice until too late that his rescue was lying on his side and watching silently with him.

“I don’t think they’ll bother you again.” Eskel said by way of greeting. “But you can stick around with me for a few days to be safe.”

A few days turned into a week. Then two. Cahir seemed perfectly at ease, keeping the company of a witcher. When pressed, he simply shrugged. “You’ve treated me with more humanity than anyone before.”

The unspoken “I like you” was still heard all the same. Months went by and still Cahir was by Eskel’s side, choosing the hardship of the Path day after day, even when there had been ample opportunity for better futures for him. A man of his skills and talent would find no problems getting a job in a court.

Seasons changed, the heat of summer gave way to the cool of autumn. All too soon, Eskel was going to have to head towards familiar mountains for winter. He was surprised to find he was dragging his feet.

“What happens if you don’t go?” Cahir asked. It wasn’t like he had anywhere to go all winter either. So Eskel did the right thing.

“Come with me. Spend the winter in the place I used to call home?”

The past tense wasn’t lost on Cahir but he didn’t mention it. Instead, he graciously accepted the invitation.

Come winter, they ascended the mountain together. It wasn’t easy for a witcher so it was downright impossible for a human but Cahir doggedly followed. Their reception at Kaer Morhen was as frosty as the weather. Ciri had screamed and Geralt scowled. If those two were unfriendly with Cahir, logic followed that Jaskier and Yennefer wouldn’t be enamoured either.

Training was difficult, especially because the others seemed to not want to train with Cahir. They had each other where they could unleash their full might and if they wanted to go easy, Ciri was still needing education. It left Eskel to clash swords with Cahir though, more often than not, they ended up hiding in the battlements and looking over the others.

Any hope of Lambert or Aiden proving to be a bit more open were dashed on the second night when Aiden made a passing comment about Nilfgaardians needing to be put down like sick pigs.

“Just as well I’m of Vicovaro,” Cahir had said softly. Not that it made a difference.

Eskel’s last hope was Vesemir and Guxart. Except they cornered him before he could ask.

“I’m glad you’ve found a companion, it was about time you stopped being alone,” Vesemir started.

Guxart finished though. “But did you really have to settle for a human?”

“Jaskier’s human,” Eskel bit back.

“Jaskier’s also ingratiated himself with a powerful sorceress and Ciri adores him. Between them and Geralt, they’re bound to find a solution.”

“I still think that boy has Fae blood,” Guxart grumbled. “Our point is, even Lambert managed to find someone suitable.”

Eskel’s eyes burned even though witchers couldn’t cry. Even worse was the fact that they were in the kitchen and within full hearing of everyone in the dining hall.

“I think you’ll find that Cahir is suitable enough for me.” He’d finally had enough. “He chose me. He wants me. And you know what? I want him too. Being able to love him is enough for me.”

Vesemir stared at Eskel, unused to having resistance from his golden witcher. The obedient one who always nodded. He looked to say something but Eskel was on a roll.

“You’ve all found yourselves a slice of happiness, a family. And I was so happy for you even when you forgot about my existence in favour of those you loved more.” Taking a deep breath, Eskel’s voice dropped to a hiss. “So don’t tell me what my happiness looks like. And don’t you dare try to take it from me.”

Pulling his back straight, Eskel’s nose scrunched up in disdain and he turned, head held high as he marched out of the kitchen. Nobody dared look at him except for Cahir who quietly rose from the table and followed him out.

Not twenty minutes later they appeared downstairs again, bags packed. Going down the mountain wasn’t going to be easy but they would risk it. Eskel didn’t want to spend another minute in the keep amongst those who begrudged him his choices. At least they had a destination in mind, Cahir had described his home in Vicovaro, they would try and make it there.

“Where are you going?” Yennefer asked from the doorway. The others were obviously eavesdropping behind her.

“Anywhere but here,” Eskel bit out, unwilling to share information with her.

“I’ll open you a portal, name your location.”

Cahir was the one to ask for Vicovaro. They were allowed to grab their horses and Yennefer, bundled up in a coat, followed them out. She opened up a portal and offered them a nod.

“I hope you have a good rest of winter.” As aloof as she had been, Eskel knew she wasn’t the real issue. “And I hope to see you both again next winter. I might have something by then to help your predicament.”

It was a nice enough sentiment but it was too little too late. Eskel stepped through the portal with Scorpion behind him, followed by Cahir and his steed. Somehow, he didn’t think he would be back.

#eskhir #geraskier #laiden #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #eskel #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #cirilla fiona elen riannon #lambert #aiden #vesemir #guxart #long post #tldr: eskel makes his own happiness

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prince-toffee · 3 years

Text

Villains

Part Two

The room was empty and bare. The room was very plain, no paintings or pictures hung or framed, no personalised items, no trinkets or mementos. The space was devoid of any personality or warmth. This partially due to the fact that everything personal was moved out of the room, and also the fact that the person whom once occupied these living quarters wasn’t one for forming close personal attachments. Shadow Weaver sat on a beautiful ornate wooden chair at the centre of the sterile room. She watched the blank dark green wall as she took a long sip from her glass of red wine.

That room was once hers. When she officially aligned with The Horde, she was given her own bed chamber as she had to live in The Fright Zone as an unspoken rule. Where else would have she been accepted? She had no where else to go. She was pleased with what she was given, the room was quite large, she had a queen sized bed, her own side bathroom, with a toilet, shower, sink, and bath all included. The bath in particular became a favourite location, useful in relaxation after a long day of dealing with cadets that made her blood boil and her blood pressure rise. Over time she did personalise the room, add various scented shampoos and what not, some artistic and yet horrifying paintings, and a study with all her work - reports, cadet exams, notices, and request forms over which she lost her mind too many times.

Her quiet pleasant contemplation was cut short as Force-Captain Cobalt’s voice invaded the room through the data-pad which leaned against one of the wooden legs of the chair she sat on. The blue porcupine man cleared his throat, “Umm, Sha- uh, Lord Shadow Weaver.”

“Speak.”

“All your personal belongings have been moved to Lor- to Hordak’s old Sanctum. But there’s another emergence that requires your attention.” Weaver sighed, she responded by saying she would be there in a few minutes. She downed the glass of wine in seconds, it was a good year, shame she couldn’t have savoured the taste, she had saved that bottle for a victorious occasion. And she couldn’t have thought of a better occasion.

The witch just discarded the glass by simply throwing it away, it shattered on impact, of course. But the brand new leader didn’t care. Not anymore. She was in charge, no consequences, it felt so freeing. The scarred woman shifted her mask over her grey face and moved out. She did not admit to another soul the fact that she was ashamed of her physical appearance, she never betrayed a weakness, she was distant therefore safe. There was logic and reason to her outfit - a frightening mask to deflect any questions about her face, a high collar to hide her neck, and then a layered robe to allow no part of her scarred, wounded, burned body to be seen. She implemented the opposite tactic to Hordak, he choose to show some flesh, some key areas of his body that were healthy and strong to deflect any suspicion or conspiracy of him being otherwise. Anyone who saw Hordak, as rare as it was, they all thought the dark Lord was a modern Adonis. Nobody suspected he was in fact a sick frail man who was slowly falling apart.

Shadow Weaver knew about Hordak’s ‘sickness’, and vis versa. There was a deal between them, both knew each other’s weakness, and so they formed a partnership to support one another. Hordak had the Black Garnet in his possession after acquiring the Scorpion Hill Kingdom, and so he handed the magical artefact to Shadow Weaver, he knew the Garnet was useless in his hands, he had no knowledge therefore no ability to utilise the Garnet. But Shadow Weaver could. She was brought in as his Minister of Magicks to advice the Horde in the magical ways, how to defend against magic, and how to weaponise magic in offense.

The rune stone gave her sufficient life force for her to leech off of, never again was she hungry. And she wielded the awesome power of the elemental mineral. In return Shadow Weaver took the spotlight off of Hordak, the duty of truly commanding the Horde’s forces, leaving Hordak free to do... whatever he did. Weaver never knew what Hordak did in his ‘Sanctum’, all she ever managed to get out of him was the fact he was working on a secret ‘experiment’, and she knew that much was a slip up. It didn’t matter now anyhow, all of Hordak’s secrets were going to be hers and if not, then they don’t matter anyway.

She waltzed through the corridors and hallways of red and green metal, pipes, and cables, at a leisurely pace. Unlike Hordak, who’s heavy metallic footsteps always alerted the soldiers ahead of time in the corridor, Shadow Weaver made no sound, didn’t allow any trooper to get ready, they had no idea she was coming. She scared the hellfire out of everyone she passed. They always jumped in shock, straightened themselves out and stiffened. Weaver liked that.

The noise of double doors sliding open marked her entrance into the throne room, her throne room. Her commanders turned to her and bowed. She liked that too. “Speak.”

“Lord Weaver, while we were breaching Hordak’s Sanctum, which was harder than we thought it would be, a lot of booby traps, we got around a dozen treating wounds in the infirmary. But anyway when we got in we acquired all of his personal belongings mostly just tech. One of his personal data-pads gave off a ping, some sort of automatic notification. It was a signal sent from an outpost in the Northern Reach in the frozen wastes, apparently the computers there have detected some new First Ones tech.”

“Ah perfect! That’s exactly what we need!” Shadow Weaver heard the vent being kicked open, only then when she lifted her head up to the high ceiling did she see the short purple woman descend to her to the floor. This. of course, was Entrapta the Princess of Dryl. Shadow Weaver didn’t like her much, she was the one to whom Hordak was going to give the Black Garnet. They didn’t see, but her face soured as her arms folded. “Have you briefed her about the power grid?”

Cobalt sighed, “I was about to.” It seemed that the Princess had interjected herself into Horde matters and into the command structure. She swung around like she owned the place. And Hordak would’ve probably let her walk all over him too.

“Well, since I’m here already I’ll explain. The Fright Zone’s power grid, a surprising intricate system that transfers power all around The Fright Zone keeping everything running, over heated. Meaning it’s stopped working, coolant systems have failed and ruptured expelling scolding steam through the corridors, a powerful and dangerous feedback surge has been created leading to the destruction through explosion of the main power-generators. Multiple floors are on fire. In Layman’s terms: It’s bad.”

“We are not imbeciles, Princess, do not treat us as such. You are not in command here, so I would watch your tone with me! You are only here, but I permit it.” Weaver pointed her finger at the hovering woman.

Entrapta looked down at the grey finger of the sorceress and then turned around, “Mmm, no, I am here because I want to be.” She began to stride across the throne room using her hair. Shadow Weaver still didn’t know if the purple tentacle hair was a magical ability or a technological aspect. Either way she followed the Princess. With a simple wave of her hand she dismissed her Force-Captains, its not like they wanted to stay around her so Cobalt, Grizzlor, and Octavia left without any further convincing. The witch kept up with the Princess. She made no sound when she walked, but the purple woman somehow knew she was close enough behind her to hear her, “As I was saying, the power grid can’t hold the amount of power it transmits, so we need a strong conductor, maybe a regulator too. That’s why the signal from the Northern Reach is a mighty convenient occasion. First Ones tech is ideal for the job. My recommendation: Send an excursion to the outpost, excavate the tech, transport it back here and install it in, solving the issue.”

“I didn’t ask for your ‘recommendation’... but that is a decent solution.” They passed the throne and moved forward through a thin hallway of pipes, as they reached its end a door slide open. Past it they entered a sort of a corridor round-about, another door in front of them. The corridor curved around to multiple doors, opposite the doors were windows of one way glass looking over the landscape of The Fright Zone.

Shadow Weaver noted the burn marks and metallic plating torn and shredded, signs of damage caused by an explosion. The booby traps the Force-Captains spoke of. All disarmed, she hoped. The Sanctum doors opened, Entrapta entered first, Shadow Weaver followed close behind. Hordak’s Sanctum was a dimly lit tall box, computers all around it with data Entrapta couldn’t wait to get into. Various tech scattered around. To contrast all that were Shadow Weaver’s own belongings moved from her old room to her new one. “I like the paintings, good taste. I’ve got paintings too, back at home. But I prefer little cute big eyed kitties, rather than abstract horrific rorschach-like depictions of inner turmoil of anxieties. Hm, perhaps representing repressed and or traumatic memories. Interesting.”

Weaver raised a brow as she narrowed her eyes, “Uh huh. Thank you.” She was spot on. Her eyes could barely keep up with the Princess. She seemed very excited. She finally stopped dashing across the room madly and stood still at the centre of the room. Her pigtails split into multiple ends each tendril plugging into a different computer or any other data-holding devices, her hair fuzzed and the ends of each tendril lit up in a bright purple, on the boarder of being pink. The light moved inward towards her head in pulse-like motion. Weaver guessed, correctly, that Entrapta was downloading the information into herself.

“Oh, that’s fascinating.”

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure.” Before Shadow Weaver could ask any follow up questions from the corner of her eye she noticed a grey blur dashed across a higher scaffolding, accompanied by sounds of small footsteps scuttling about. She looked up to see a pair of small yellow luminous eyes.

It was Hordak’s tiny bat creature, Hordak seemed to have been close and appreciative of the creature. Whether it was a pet to him or like a child she did not know. All she knew was it was an annoying tattletale - spying, recording, and telling on people, completely loyal to Hordak in the way a child tells their parent on a sibling in return for candy, or chin scratches in this instance. The creature hissed. It clearly did not like Shadow Weaver, she did get rid of its creator.

“Cute.”

“What?”

“The hybrid, I think it’s named Imp. Fascinating little miracle of science.”

“Ugh, it’s as useful as a rodent. And twice as infuriating.” She said that like Imp wasn’t there in the room with them, he heard that and launched at the sorceress, biting her in her finger. The dark magician yelped and shook her hand in a cartoony comedic manner, a few seconds of the motion and Imp’s grip loosened and he flew through the air and landed in Entrapta’s hair where she brought him closer to her and gave him some soft scratches under his chin. He softened in her arms and pressed his cheeks against her shoulder. He stock his tongue out, and mouth farted at Shadow Weaver. Weaver growled and sighed.

“I’m getting the feeling you don’t like me.”

“What inclination makes you say that?”

“Oh just about anything and everything you do.” Entrapta unplugged from the tech and finally turned to face Shadow Weaver. She gave her a genuine smile, warm and well-meaning, “How about a dinner?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re clearly not a fan of mine, and this might be a beneficial social experiment to let us know each other better, since we’ll be working closely together for the foreseeable future.”

“Heh, what makes you think we’ll be ‘working closely together’?”

“You do want to know what this Hordak had been working on, don’t you? Do you know anyone else who can comprehend this sort of stuff?”

“I... I suppose not.” It was true, she didn’t, so Entrapta was important. But she wouldn’t admit that, and she would certainly not go to a dinner with a Princess. Before she could scoff any further, she heard a shy voice clear its throat. Weaver turned around to face it. It was Scorpia. Princess Scorpia.

“Umm, Ms Weaver, the uh, the excursion transport is ready. What are our next orders, ma’am, sir, m’Lord, Lady, Shadow Weaver... sir.” The Scorpion Princess awkwardly informed, her large red claw raised up to her temple, saluting. Two or three drips of sweat rolled down her face. For being so huge and muscular walking-rectangle she was very shy and small.

“What transport?!”

“Oh I was the one who requested it.” Entrapta replied. Entrapta moved through the room past the new Lord and moved to Scorpia. She handed the bat baby to the Scorpion Force-Captain, the hybrid boy kept attempting to chomp on Entrapta’s hair. Scorpia cradled the batling, whom now moved onto biting the hard claws. “We should solve the problem as soon as possible, so I gave a go-ahead.”

Shadow Weaver’s hand instinctly went up to her face, her muscle memory told her to rub her nose in exhausted irritation, but of course her mask blocked her hand. “Fine. Go. Fix my fortress.” She waved her hand to dismiss them, Scorpia and Imp moved out swiftly, only once she moved out of frame did Weaver notice that Catra stood behind her. The cat was sweating, clearly very nervous, she didn’t say anything, and followed Scorpia out. Entrapta hanged behind.

“Dinner. When I get back. We’ll talk. Takes around four hours to get to the outpost, four back, and a day in-between for excavation. So in three days, at 7, The Fright Zone cafeteria. I’ll cook.”

#shadow weaver #entrapta #hordak #spop imp

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dindjarindiaries · 4 years

Text

Adore

summary: The voice in Javier’s head speaks and he finally gets the courage to pass it on to you. (Quit, part two)

inspiration: Staying with the Cashmere Cat feat. Ariana Grande theme, this one’s based on their song “Adore,” which you can listen to here for the full reading experience.

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

warnings: angst, insinuations/brief descriptions of sex, fluff

rating: M

word count: 1.784k

masterlist • part one (quit)

Javier sits at his kitchen counter this evening leaning over a glass of dry whiskey. Though his actions solely focus on nursing the glass in his hand, his mind is elsewhere—as is his heart. The image of you laying so ethereally next to him this morning, face lit up only by the sunlight that peeked through the blinds, created an ache so deep in his chest that he was afraid he may never recover from it. Hours later, even after a full day of work, it’s still there.

It’s been there for a long time, now—maybe not as prominent, but there, sitting at the back of his mind and heart. Javier never wanted to bring it to the forefront because he knows it’d be a dangerous move. You’re already using each other as it is and Javier knows what he’s capable of when it comes to anything more. Even after seeking closure with his ex-fiancée, Javier still feels nothing but shame and embarrassment as a result of what he’d done to her. He can’t risk doing the same thing to you.

But nothing stings more than to be with you in such a way and never get to treat you the way he wants to. The way you let him kiss you and fuck you mindless without a single protest—and vice versa—might be therapeutic, especially in those moments where he feels broken beyond repair, but it also tugs at his heart. It feels good, but it doesn’t feel right. He puts his heart and soul into every action, he always has, but when you’re not even able to recognize that it goes so much deeper than that, then what’s the point?

Javier feels sick at the idea of this arrangement running on and on with him secretly wishing he could have more yet holding himself back from it. He’s not sure how you feel and he’s not sure he wants to find out. Either way, he knows it’ll break his heart. If you’re in love with him, then Javier will be devastated at the fact he can’t treat you the way you deserve to be treated. If you’re not in love with him, Javier will be devastated at the fact his feelings aren’t reciprocated. It’s a lose-lose situation for him and he just keeps wondering how the fuck he let himself get so close to someone again.

Things were different before they got Escobar, when he felt more young and carefree—though he never cared less. He always cared about every woman he shared a bed with, sometimes to a dangerous amount that keeps him up at night when he remembers what happened to some of them, but he never thought about anything more than the emotional and physical release and neither did they. Javier was a fool to think he could recreate something similar with someone as beautiful and caring as you, especially now that he’s on his own in Bogotá. He’s had too much time between ventures in Colombia to think about his past mistakes and regrets, to realize that he truly does want to connect more deeply and emotionally with someone so that he doesn’t feel so fucking alone all the time.

Now, he’s starting to find that with you, but he’s trying so damn hard to avoid it because he doesn’t want to hurt you. But he can’t deny it. He adores you.

Javier thinks about you all the time. He thinks about your heart, the way you brush his hair softly to ease him to sleep and watch to make sure he stays at ease—especially on those nights when he can’t do much else other than cry and fuck. He thinks about your body, how beautiful it is and how perfect it feels with his own. He thinks about your mind, how you always respect him and his boundaries and never think of him as just an item to be tossed aside, no matter how many times you use each other for release. Javier thinks about you more than he should and that’s what scares him the most.

That’s why his heart feels as if it’s leaping out of his chest when your delicate knock sounds at his apartment door.

Javier chugs back the rest of his whiskey, standing up from the counter and jogging over to the door. He’s still in his work clothes because he hasn’t been able to think about anything but you today, and when he opens the door to see you standing there in your work clothes as well, he realizes the same thing must’ve been happening to you. The way your eyes glitter at him with the threat of tears makes his heart shatter in his chest.

“What do you need, hermosa?” Javier practically breathes in greeting, stepping aside to let you in.

You toss the bag you’ve been carrying aside as soon as he closes the door, reaching for the collar of his shirt as you pull his face dangerously close to your own. “Kiss me,” you practically beg, and there’s a shaking in your voice that Javier doesn’t like. But it’s your unspoken policy: no questions asked. He doesn’t get the luxury of knowing what the hell is bringing you so close to tears no matter how much the thought of you being hurt destroys him. It always does.

So, he relents, letting his mouth meet yours in a way that feeds the fire growing in his stomach yet tugs so familiarly and painfully at his heart. He lets you guide him in the same way you’d let him guide you the night before, your hands mussing his hair and your fingers working feverishly at the buttons of his shirt. The only time he takes control is to lead you into his bedroom where it’s more comfortable, and from there he lets you take off what you want to, force him back against the pillows, straddle him and brace your hands against his chest as you move and cry and shout in all the ways you need to. Javier figures it’s the least he could do for you—and he stills enjoys it, enjoys this, getting to feel you and watch your body move so beautifully above and with his own, painted by the glows of the streetlights coming in through the blinds.

When you lose all control, he takes care of you, letting you fall into his arms as he holds you tight against his chest. You’re still breathing heavy and there are tears more silent now that fall from your eyes. Javier wishes he could dry every single one of them, hopes that he’s not the cause of them, but instead remains quiet as he brushes a hand through your hair and leaves a kiss there every once in a while. Your head is resting on his chest, one of your ears pressed right up against his heart, and he wonders if you can hear how quickly it’s beating not just from your recent actions but also from this close and intimate touch. Javier can’t hide from the way his heart is beating entirely for you and he hopes you can somehow sense it.

The voice in his head returns to urge him on. Tell her, it soothes him. Tell her how much this means to you. She deserves to know. Javier knows the voice is right. He knows that he wants to be able to help you through whatever’s got you wound up, even if that broke the rules. He knows that he’s willing to let you do the same for him. He knows that he wants these rendezvous to mean something more, to be a shared experience of love rather than a fuck to get rid of pain.

He knows that he loves you, and he knows that you deserve to hear it.

Your breathing slows and now Javier’s almost certain that you’ve fallen asleep thanks to your emotional and physical exhaustion. His hand continues combing through your hair, but now his lips brush over your ear, gentle and ready to speak whether you’re listening or not. “It’ll be alright, hermosa,” Javier promises you, his rough voice so low and soft that it barely passes through his lips. “Te quiero.” I love you.

Javier had convinced himself you were asleep, so when your head lifts from his chest to look into his gaze, his heart almost jumps right out of his chest. Your eyes have widened and the tears stains on your cheeks have started to dry. Javier loses himself in your sparkling gaze. “You do?”

The hand that’s still in your hair now brushes a piece of it away from your face, Javier’s fingertips brushing gently over your temple as he refuses to let himself escape your intense gaze. “I do.” Javier swallows hard, suddenly feeling panicked at the way he’s just disclosed such personal and possibly damaging information. “It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way. I just… I had to tell you.”

You shake your head slowly, a smile growing on your lips as you rest your forehead against his. “I do, Javi. I—I didn’t think you felt the same way.”

Javier furrows his brow, brushing another piece of hair behind your ear. “Is that what brought you here tonight? Was I the one who hurt you so badly?”

You lift a hand to cup his cheek before you speak, and Javier never breaks his gaze with you as he awaits your answer. “It wasn’t your fault. If I’d told you how I felt—.”

“If I’d told you how I felt—.”

“I think we both hurt each other by not being honest, Javi.” You let out a soft chuckle that tickles Javier’s skin. Your fingertips begin to brush down his face, making Javier’s chest burst with affection as he watches that same kind of light flicker in your gaze. “What now? I don’t think we can just be friends anymore, and I know you said you weren’t ready to commit, but…” you trail off, as if trying to think of some way to make this work.

“I’m willing to try.” Javier finishes the thought for you. “I can’t just let you pass me by like I’ve done in the past, hermosa. You truly do mean too much to me.” He leaves a gentle kiss on your lips that’s slower and softer than anything you’ve shared before, pulling away to hold your face between his hands. “Te adoro.” I adore you.

All you can do is smile before you seek another one of those same kisses, allowing you and Javier to finally have the taste of the love you’ve both been yearning much too long for.

permanent tag list: @mikahid @bestintheparsec @stilllivindue2spite @givemethatgold @xbrujita @mandalorianspace @blushingwueen @sevvysaurus @myakai13 @thisis-theway @beskars @rachelloveseveryone @theindiealto @hiscyarika @burningsoulbloodyheart @wickedfrsgrl @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @bookwafflefangirl @charliepeaceout @cable-kenobi @ezraslittleblondestreak @hdlynn @your-pixels-are-showing @b0n-chann @nettyklecan @javier-djarin

#get rid of the longing #we can't let them know we yearn!#idk what this mini series is but #yee heckin haw #javier peña x reader #javier pena x reader #javier peña #javier pena #narcos #dindjarindiaries

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sanktagenyas · 3 years

Text

ok so i finally watched those last three episodes. i said buckle up it’s time to suffer and by the saints did i ever suffer. i just knew the darklina scenes were gonna be rough to watch. it was already rough reading the scenes as they were written in book one. i mean the darkling just shines with his intelligence in that chapter, doesn’t he? threaten the man she loves? well the other man she loves? check! tell her she betrayed you when the reality is you’ve been telling half truths all along and didn’t trust her to make her choices? check!

buddy this isn’t how you apologize. in the show itself it’s pretty much the same back and forth that leads nowhere. you lied to me! you ran off because my mother told you i’m not who i say i am without giving me a chance to explain! you’ve been lying or bending the truth since we met! YOU TURNED YOUR BACK ON YOUR COUNTRY!

by that point i was just like chill the fuck out man you’re about to decimate many many countrymen and you know it. i loved that the stop they made was all about him getting revenge on the man who attempted on alina’s life, that was very unhinged of him and i was HERE for that shit but everyone else in that port? every other woman and child and man on that port? not all of them played a hand and he just went ahead and had them slaughtered without batting an eye. and it’s not like he has some kind of safeguard for grishas does he? how does he know there’s no grisha wherever he’s expanding the fold? some could be in hiding because they fled, because they didn’t want to serve the king. oh well he doesn’t really care about those people does he? we all saw how he spoke about those deserters to arken.

also he could NOT handle alina’s harsh truths about how his own actions are harming grisha close to him even though he claims that every choice he’s made was to protect them and empower them. when she brought up genya i was like yes you better look down you motherfucker! you did this to her, you delivered to her abuser over and over.

we saw his backstory, some of it and he acted out of grief and rage. he toyed with magic he did not understand and of course he didn’t intend this but his reaction to the fold once it was all said and done was definitely foreshadowing what he was to become. i created something he said defiantly. you created something you don’t have control over. and now he’s done it again somehow, he’s got brand new creatures following him at the end.

i actually felt for young aleksander for losing the woman he loved but the arrogance and the recklessness he showed there is still the same arrogance he has now. he thinks he has thought his plan through but that’s just working off the assumption that no one opposes him ever otherwise he went ahead and put a target on grisha’s backs. he definitely put a target on alina’s back although i know that was never the plan. the fact that when he has a perfectly good remedy to the fold, a chance to actually fix his mistakes once and for all he turns its back and decides to make it ten times worse, chooses ruling via fear over hope is jusr a sign of how far he’s gone. and he didn’t waver once not even when alina was pleading with him that he could have made her his equal, that they could have stayed together and made ravka safe together if only he gave her a choice, he was still manipulative and lied to her face.

at this point i just don’t think his love for her outweighs his belief that he knows what’s best for ravka, what’s the best way to protect grisha. because he doesn’t care about anyone who isn’t grisha at all. he was persecuted like so many others. he won a war for a king centuries and that king turned on him. i’m sure he’s looking at the current one knowing that once grisha have exhausted their uses that king will turn on him too. the fold is just a different kind of war and if he wins that one for the king the darkling already knows what the outcome will be.

so to summarize this whole darkling commentary here i understand where he is coming from, i understand the fear and the rage and the desperation. it’s not working out for him though. he’s feared but he’s alone. for every ivan there’s a zoya. for every man who’s blindly loyal to him there’ll be someone rising up to oppose him eventually. and if it’s not his own people it’ll be non grisha folks. he has the second army working for him still, but he is alone. and that’s no one’s fault but his own because alina was willing to work with him.

speaking of alina i loved every second of her rising up to oppose him telling him she never needed him. she may have fallen in love with him but she never actually needed him to be powerful, she only needed to free herself of the restraints she’d put on her powers out of fear. i also thought that the way she freed herself of his control made more sense than it did in the books.

i have hope for darklina still despite all that’s happened despite how positively full of rage ans resentment she is because she still loves him, she still listened when he pleaded with her that they needed each other if they wanted to deal with the fold. of course there’s the slight issue of him lying directly and manipulating her to do his bidding and of course the fact that he took her power from her. the only thing that was her and he perverted it for his own gain. i think it just might take more than a year for her to forgive him i’m afraid. i don’t necessarily see a path to redemption right now but reconciliation? alina can be merciful, she can be forgiving. i think all it would really take is just one selfless act, one show of good faith. if he keeps pursuing her and mal and keep trying to rob her of her agency however i don’t see them ever having any kind of closure.

i don’t think i need to expand much more on my thoughts on malina. i’m not feeling what the show wants me to feel. i’m not seeing them as these soulmates that belong together. to me they’d be better of as best friends. the darkling didn’t make her strong he tried to steal her strength for his own use but mal doesn’t make her strong either, she relies too much on him. mal actually was pretty damn resourceful when left on his own. i unfortunately couldn’t say the same for alina. co-dependant love is not better than toxic love and darklina’s toxicity (most of it) comes from the lies and from the darkling repeatedly choosing for alina. he’s not brave enough to just tell her what he intends to do and let her decide whether to align herself with him so he lies and he deceives instead. not much he can do to undo it now but he could help actually destroy the fold if he wanted to. i don’t know if he’ll ever come around to it though.

the darkling visiting mal with the sole purpose to rub it in his face that alina and he are immortal and so eventually mal will die and then he could just swoop in was just peak comedy. the way he delivered that line too you’d think he was talking to an insect not another human being. it was brilliant. mal echoing that same line but ending it with “the past will do it for me” was pretty good, nice quip i’ll give mal that but also terribly ironic when you see the ending.

team crows remains the highlight for me. kaz and inej and their unspoken love for each other is just killing me. i can tell there are personal traumas there that i don’t know about (gotta read those damn books and quick) what with kaz not being able to help tend to her wounds and the fact that there were moments were i could see there was maybe a kiss about to happen or an embrace (at the end when kaz let alina go free and made a deal not to rat her out) and it just didn’t happen. there’s a story there about kaz and his distaste for being touched/touching others. jesper is just here to look pretty, shoot shit and be the most charming person in any crowd. i’m in love. also someone give him his goat back for the love of god.

nina and mathias were entertaining for sure. with all that banter and all these jabs i should have really seen them falling for one another coming. i felt like it was perhaps a bit rushed but i guess there’s nothing like almost freezing to death together to make you reconsider your views. you know the whole saving of lives thing can really bond you. the waffle date was adorable. was not expecting nina to just brand herself a traitor for him and she’s damn lucky fyedor came on that mission because i’m pretty sure ivan wouldn’t even have offered to keep her name out of the report. she and mathias ended their story both heartbroken and separated. i really hate that he thinks this was all intentional. really hope she’ll join the crows on their next con job. and i also cannot wait to see the look on heleen’s face when kaz buys inej’s freedom.

i was not at all expecting zoya to turn against the darkling. that’s what happens when you turned down one of your fuck buddies, aleksander they get bitter and then they leave you to be eaten alive by volcras. ok but in all seriousness she did the right thing and i hope she finds her family even if they’re not alive so she can say her goodbyes.

oh and completely unrelated but since i talked about heights of comedy before i really need more sassy! darkling in my life. he is everything. that quip about his speech. the way he said adorable like he was gagging on the word. him just letting david be his dorkiest self and raise his hand before speaking, that little put upon sigh. i love sassy! darkling almost as much as jealous and petty darkling which is saying a lot. just more of that. it humanizes him, i’m tired of villains who are forever stoic and stone face.

i think i about covered everyone and everything that happened in those remaining episodes. all in all shadow and bone is an amazing adaptation, really faithful to the first book. they made some changes to the characters which in turn changed some dynamics (alina actually admitted she wanted to be with the darkling. out loud. to his face. book!alina would never and book!darkling would never cry in front of her.) but it made for surprising viewing. it also made me become even more attached to some characters (the darkling let’s be real) which made me care more which is why i was livid when they started making a lot of terrible no good choices.

i was just really blown away by this show and the way the grishaverse was brought to life and above all major props to the actors who all just seemed to be born to play their respective roles.

#shadow and bone spoilers #sab spoilers #darklina #alina starkov #aleksander morozova #inej ghafa #nina zenik #mathias helvar #jesper fahey #kaz brekker #zoya nazyalensky

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mimik-u · 4 years

Text

Flower Child (Chapter 14): Night

AO3 Link

6:10PM:

For the last fifteen years, Jay Zircon had been Diamond Electric’s top lawyer alongside her sister and fellow counsel, Gilda. Whatever lawsuits the company faced—and it had faced more than its fair share—the pair headed the legal team which incisively ensured victory for their illustrious CEO, Yellow Diamond.

Where Gilda was aggressive and willing to snipe beneath the belt, a style that suited their similarly minded boss, Jay was more circumspect in her methodology, able to work through all the variables of a given case to create a slower but undeniably thorough position. When the two of them worked together, they made a dichotomous but somehow remarkably fluid team.

They didn’t lose very often.

They couldn’t afford to lose given the status, prestige, and formidable demand of their employer, who also didn’t lose.

Very often.

(Yellow Diamond had lost her only child four years ago, and it was clear to everyone, to all who knew her, that she hadn’t been the same since.)

The Zircons worked together often in the sense that they were continually forced into close proximity to each other by the nature of their jobs and painful holidays with their aging mother… but as far as working together in a more metaphorical sense went, aliens would invade Earth first before the siblings would ever find common ground for longer than a day.

And somehow, aliens were less of a far-stretch.

“I’m looking at all the facts now, and I truly think, if I-I’m allowed to be frank, Mrs. Diamond, that it is in our best interest to settle for this particular case.” Jay’s voice trembled as she carefully addressed the figure at the head of the conference table.

Arranged in a black three piece suit, Yellow Diamond was simply—there was no other word for it��striking, a slightly slouched but otherwise imperial statue cut from marble in her hardback chair. There was always an air about her, an impression, that she was an impenetrable fortress, her tall walls fortified with sharp weaponry and stone.

Her architecture was magnificent, but in its harshness and angularity, all lines and geometrical edges, it always emphasized an implicit message: She was a woman who it would be unwise to cross.

She stared between the sisters impassively, finger interlocked below her sharp chin as she listened, though Jay couldn’t help but notice that the CEO’s attention was divided between them and her phone, which sat dormant on the table, a silent specter.

“That’s your go-to solution, isn’t it?” Gilda scoffed, her arrogance impressively balanced in the haughty tilt of her nose. “Settle. What is this? A petty traffic ticket? We shouldn’t be settling anything! We could have them on the ropes if we just—”

“Gilda!” She interrupted incredulously, splaying her hands forcibly on the table. “Loosen your cravat so you can see the big picture for heaven’s sake! The factory‘s waste has been unlawfully leaking on a protected reservation for twelve years. We can contest that until we’re blue in the face, but no judge on this green earth is going to rule in our favor.”

Her sister opened that insufferable mouth of hers, likely to argue some asinine point that Jay would spend the next thirty minutes trying to meticulously deconstruct, but the familiar tango was harshly interrupted by the ringing of a phone that was neither of theirs.

“Quiet!” Yellow Diamond hissed, fluidly pulling the device up to her ear, and there was a viciousness in her ordinarily well-regimented face that neither lawyer felt particularly equipped to contest.

So they blanched into obedient silence on either side of the tense CEO.

Gilda uncomfortably picked at her portfolio.

“Blue? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

On the other end of the line, the woman who Jay knew to be Yellow Diamond’s wife, seemed to reply.

Fifteen years was a long time to have known the Diamonds, and during that span—all those days, weeks, and months—Jay understood both very little about them and an incredible lot.

Fifteen years ago, Pink Diamond had been a precocious ten-year old who had accompanied her mother to work from time to time. She used to play on the elevator, zipping from the lobby to the fortieth floor constantly, as though it was some exciting game called Annoy the Poor Elevator Attendant. Jay had been awkward and clumsy then, a young lawyer still trying to find her footing as the newest addition to one of the most elite legal teams in the entire city, and one of her most vivid memories from that time was the youngest Diamond accidentally bumping into her on said elevator, causing her to spill her scalding coffee all over her favorite portfolio.

The child had apologized profusely and even proffered her own jacket as a napkin because she was sweet like that—if a little impish. Freckles crossed the bridge of her nose like trailing dandelion dust; there was a gap in her mouth where she’d just lost a tooth.

For a couple of years there, Jay became familiarized with the heiress’s occasional presence in the building. She was the shock of pink hair bobbing impatiently in the elevator, and she was the flash of red converses heeling off down the hallway and around the corner. She was the lone bubbly voice in a sea of sober business droning. She was ten, and then she was thirteen, and then she was sixteen, obnoxiously jingling the keys to her new convertible around everywhere, as though just begging someone to ask about them.

She was the rare smile on Yellow Diamond’s unbending mouth—crooked there, stiff.

Almost reluctant.

But undoubtedly there.

And then, just like that, she was gone.

The hallways of Diamond Electric felt a little less… vibrant without the spontaneity of those red converses and the climbing octaves of that high, lilting laugh.

Mischievous.

To the last.

As for Blue Diamond, Jay could only claim to have seen her maybe a handful of times in the course of her employ at DE, though only one occasion was stark in the lawyer’s well-ordered recollections.

At the trial where Pink Diamond’s killers were sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole, the Zircons’ euphoria at having argued their cased well was immediately tempered as the entire courtroom watched a tragedy unfold before their eyes. There was no applause as Yellow Diamond stood and held her wife in her arms.

There was only silence.

And baited breath.

And a mutual, unspoken, dirty relief that they were not the Diamonds and only passive voyeurs to what was assuredly unspeakable misery.

That night, Jay and Gilda were quite polite to each other as they taxied away from the courthouse.

A mutual, unspoken, dirty truce.

“No, no, I’m, of course I’m not busy,” Yellow said, standing up with an abruptness that startled the Zircons. She was already halfway to the door before at least one of them recovered their wits.

“But, Mrs. Diamond!” Gilda interjected. “The lawsuit. We—”

“We’re done for the night,” Yellow called over her shoulder, a brusqueness in her voice that left no room for argument. “We can reconvene in the morning.” “But—”

The door slammed on Gilda’s final protestation.

A framed picture of the Empire City skyline comically fell from its place on the wall at the force of the exit, landing facedown on the floor with a pathetic ker-clunk.

Jay glanced down at the neatly compiled packet below her—the efforts of at least two weeks worth of joint research.

They had barely made it past page four; there were fifty-two pages total.

“Her head’s just not in the game anymore,” Gilda sniffed, scooping up her own papers with a roughness that wasn’t entirely impersonal. “Hasn’t been in years now.”

“Gilda,” Jay chided sharply, her voice low, but even she knew that whispering was an exercise in futility.

Their boss was long gone.

“Oh, don’t give me that holier than thou nonsense, sister mine. You know it. Everyone in this office—nay!—this building knows it.” She shoved her portfolio back into her briefcase and closed it, harshly palming the brass clasps. “Our stalwart leader has been compromised.”

“She’s still grieving obviously. She’s taking care of her wife…”

Gilda only shook her head, standing up from her own chair. Her impeccable coif—tall and vaguely impossible looking—gleamed beneath the warm overheads.

“And I’m sympathetic towards her,” she said. “I am. But you cannot run a multibillion dollar business on sentiment.”

It was an effective closing statement to which Jay Zircon had no reasonable rebuttal.

Her sister swept out of the conference room with a last harrumph of contempt, while she alone remained, the last diner at that long, empty table. She shuffled a few of her papers absentmindedly and glanced out of the yellow-tinted windows as the sky slowly turned over to night, charcoaling.

Sentiment.

This company had no use for it.

6:44PM:

The conversation had lasted maybe ten minutes, two of which were lost to clumsy silence as Yellow Diamond navigated from the conference room to her office around the corner, closing the door behind her with a resolute click.

They spent three minutes more on useless pleasantries because that was just what a phone call between two spouses who didn’t really talk anymore entailed.

The barely breathed, Hello.

The awkwardly returned, Hi.

The shuffling of their reluctant breaths, all static and white noise over the line, before Yellow ripped the bandage off with all the indelicacy she centered her brutal facade around, exposing the wound raw.

Did you mean it? Are you sure you’re… okay ?

Because the bleak truth was that she wasn’t sure she believed Blue when she said that she was fine. Four years of perpetual mourning had taught her entirely too much about silent, grief stricken nights and very little about belief, hope, and all of those other empty platitudes. Blue Diamond could say that she was fine and leave a suicide note in the wastebasket three hours later. Blue Diamond could promise that she was okay, only to dissolve on a balcony full of sun because she was light five minutes ago… and now—and forevermore—she was not. She could build a cathedral out of reassurances and condemn it to the ground with just the thought, the remembrance, and the overwhelming absence of Pink Diamond, who haunted them both perpetually and always.

They’d been in the ruins for four years now, and the bottom line was that Yellow Diamond didn’t trust mere words.

And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t trust Bl—

Pleasantries and silence—that was what a phone call between two spouses who didn’t really talk anymore entailed.

There was breathing, and there was the swelling darkness just outside the gold colored windows of Diamond Electric.

In and out and in and out.

Inhale.

Exhale.

And there was a long pause as Blue Diamond collected her thoughts in that quietly precise way of hers; she was always so meticulous in how she used her words, as though they were instruments to be handled with delicate care.

Yes? She replied gently, her voice lilting upwards as though she was asking a question. And no… perhaps both at the same time if those emotions can coexist without contradiction… Yellow, I—

What? Because Yellow had abruptly cut in, unable to stand the tension.

So impatient to the last.

Unfailingly.

The coldness of the office pressed upon her like a vice, its hard edges sinking in her skin. She dug her fingers into the smooth surface of her desk as though to ground herself, but there was nothing to hold on to but the grains. It was always like this when she talked to Blue; the expansive scope of her world narrowed down to her and her alone. Gravity meant nothing; time meant nothing; everything in the world meant nothing.

Except.

And always.

Blue.

I’m sorry, she simply said.

It was only two words; they landed in the pit of Yellow’s stomach like a blow.

I’ve hurt you—immeasurably—in all these collected years, and I’m sorry for that, Yellow, she continued, her voice soft, for all the immeasurable, collected hurts. I am.

Two weeks ago, Blue Diamond had been lying catatonic in her bed, decomposing.

And now, she was apologizing for four years worth of hurt.

It was inconceivable.

Impossible.

It felt wrong.

Surreal.

Why? Yellow’s voice was strangled in her throat, dry and parched. Why now?

Why not a year ago when Yellow knelt by her bedside and pleaded with her—begged her—to stay goddammit? Why not all those hundreds upon hundred of nights that she had slept in the study on a damn leather couch, keeping one eye on the half-opened door in her study, even in the throes of sleep? Why today, of all days, when the consummate businesswoman was in the middle of yet another crucial meeting she would easily abandon all for the sake of one person?

Why?

The question scratched her chest; it punctured her beating lungs.

Why now?

And why… why was Yellow never enough?

(She had wanted to be enough.)

I visited a boy who is fighting for his life today, came the quiet reply. And it reminded me, quickly, of how fragile this all really is.

She had paused then.

The unspoken name nestled between them; the memory of their daughter wreathed her neck.

Pink used to love coming up to this very office just because she liked spinning around in her mother’s chair. Her shoes would briefly flash against the floor just so she could gain momentum, and then she would spin, spin, spin, her head tilted back in the beginnings of a long laugh.

Yellow glanced at it then, the worn leather shining dully in the light glancing in from the windows.

It was completely and utterly empty.

I have to go, Blue. Sorry. I stepped out of a meeting.

She had dismissed the meeting.

Oh, I—

We can talk when I get home tonight.

And then she had clicked the phone off unceremoniously and shoved it across the desk as though it offended.

Ten minutes.

For the last twenty, Yellow Diamond had been sitting in the darkness of her office in that damn leather chair, nursing a glass of scotch between her trembling hands. She downed one smooth shot and then another; she drank and she drank until the expensive decanter was all gone, and the after notes of vanilla and barley and peat smoke burned her aching mouth. She drank and she drank, rummaging through her liqueur cabinet with a kind of desperation that made her feel less like a human and more like a rabid dog, hunting for just a drop of water.

Anything to take off the edge.

She drank until all the memories went away, until four years worth of them were walled off by the dulling buzz of Lagavulin.

And when a single tear crept down the hardened architecture of her face, collecting pitifully on the point of her sharp shin, she was so damn drunk, that she didn’t even know what she was crying about anymore.

Why?

Why now?

And why was she not enough?

She had wanted to be enough.

The beginnings of stars rose from the fire of the sky, and Yellow Diamond watched them as they crashed and burned.

7:01PM:

See, the trouble started when the vending machine near their hotel room stopped working.

Nose wrinkling, stomach rumbling for the want of a snack that would tide her over until Greg got back with pizza, Amethyst tried shaking it, kicking it, and even pleading with the stupid thing all for the sake of a Twinkie she knew probably wouldn’t even taste that good.

But to no avail.

The Twinkie gods hated her apparently.

And so, with a sigh that sounded a hell of a lot more like a groan, she punched the refund button and got her dollar twenty five back in quarters before deciding to try the vending machine in the hospital lobby, moving along the smooth, carpeted floor with new purpose. The rubber sole of her left boot flapped noisily as she walked, having come loose a few weeks ago; she’d been meaning to get it repaired, but between work and Steven, time had been less of a quantity that she possessed, so much as it was something that she chased after.

Every second was a gift, and every minute was a fucking lottery.

There was an elevator ride down and accompanying elevator music, jingling and jangling rhythmically to the beat of her antsy nerves. And there was a text from Vidalia asking how Steven was doing, which she didn’t know how to answer, so she just didn’t reply. (V would get it better than most. Her hubs was a quiet man, so she knew the language of silence entirely too well, whereas Amethyst was still getting the hang of it. Silence was a stalker she had spent half of her life trying to avoid.)

And finally, there was the elevator prying itself open into an atrium that was darkening with the gathering night. Only a few visitors remained, scattered in various hardback chairs and wearing the same tired, careworn faces.

Amethyst didn’t doubt that she looked the same to them.

Because these were faces, sure enough, of loving someone and being afraid to lose them. There was a depletion to the act, a necessary consumption, that united them together beneath the flat roof of the Empire City Regional Medical Center.

They were exhausted—all of them.

So damn weary.

Amethyst had already slumped halfway to the vending machine when she saw her.

One of those same tired, careworn faces.

But a very particular tired, careworn face at the same time.

Blue Diamond, looking incredibly uncomfortable in the chair upon which she sat, her metal cane gleaming by her side.

Amethyst flicked her phone upwards so that the home screen briefly flashed on—it was 7:07. Hella late, and yet, the old lady was still here, looking for all the world like someone had killed her cat or something equally as egregious. Her plump lips were all twisted in a quiet, gnawing sort of frown as she played a little with her long hands on her lap.

Her eyes stared at the ground, but Amethyst could tell—the woman wasn’t really seeing it.

And there was something so singularly sad about this image.

Vulnerable.

That made Amethyst push her Twinkie quest to the back of her mind.

Shoving her curled fists into the pockets of her joggers, Amethyst took one step and then another across the tiled floor until she was standing right in front of the puzzle of Blue Diamond, the multibillionaire who had worn a bathrobe to a cemetery.

And she knew it was insensitive of her to think that way. Regardless of the woman’s faults, numerous though Amethyst assumed they were, she hadn’t asked for her griefs to be handed to her on a silver platter.

She hadn’t asked to be undone.

To be fair, though, no one ever did.

That was just the dice of life, rolled across a slanting table.

Snake eyes.

Sorry.

Better luck next time.

“Anyone sittin’ here?” She asked gruffly, jerking her thumb towards the empty chair on Blue Diamond’s left.

Startled from her solemn reverie, Blue looked up then, mouth parting slightly in a soft ‘o’ of surprise as recognition pinched her silvery brow. She shifted in her seat, hunched shoulders straightening with an understated kind of elegance that Amethyst had come to closely associate with Pearl.

This wasn’t an especially welcome analogy, though. After all, while she’d gotten used to Pearl’s various quirks by now, for a long time there—years even—she’d always felt… condescended by her in a way.

Patronized.

Small.

That feeling took a long ass while to go away with a person whom she considered to be one of her closest friends; how much longer would the sensation last with a total effing stranger, especially the very one she was, like, supposed to hate just on mere principle?

Amethyst ran a habitual hand through her hair in the awkwardness of it all and shifted her weight from one shoe to the other, rocking back and forth. The sole of the left one went flap, flap, flap.

“You’re… one of Steven’s guardians, yes?”

“Yup, one of many.” And then, because she knew that probably didn’t clarify matters, brusquely added, “Amethyst. I was the one who brought him to your suite the other day. Can I sit?”

She once again gestured pointedly to the chair, raising a lavender brow in such a way that more or less communicated, Jeez, woman, get it together.

“Oh, yes! My apologies,” came the appropriately abashed reply. “Please. Be my guest.”

And so, with a little more force than was necessary, Amethyst threw herself into the empty seat, ass already chafing against its hard bottom, the tips of her boots just barely scraping the clinically white floor.

She could feel Blue Diamond’s tallness next to her more than she dared to look at it for herself; her presence was overwhelming as it was without having to look at her dead on—the shadows turning circles beneath her huge eyes, the parentheses around her quivering mouth, and that air of misery that the twenty-nine year old knew well enough without needing to observe it in a perfect stranger. Out of the corner of her eye, though, she could see that the woman had gone back to staring at her wrinkled hands, templing them delicately on the blue fabric of her lap.

“My valet is coming to pick me up,” she offered without prompting, “but I believe traffic is delaying her.”

“S’always cray cray around this time of night,” Amethyst returned knowledgeably. She couldn’t claim to like Empire City, but after a few months of driving up here so often, she supposed she at least couldn’t refute that she knew it. “Lotsa idiots out n about.”

“Reckless, are they not?”

“The absolute wooooorst.”

And both of their mouths briefly quirked at exactly the same time before silence fell between them again, clumsy and awkward, like an entity still growing into its feet.

They were talking about traffic.

Neither of them really wanted to talk about traffic.

Amethyst broke the stillness first, studiously continuing to not look at her companion. Instead, she drew her leg upwards into her chair, so she could pick at her boot some more.

Flap, flap, flap.

“So you saw him, huh?”

It wasn’t necessary to evoke his name; after all, she was pretty sure that the image of him laying in that hospital bed, all swarming with tubes, haunted the both of them even now, invading the sanctity of their minds and eyes.

Flap, flap, flap.

She was going to tear her shoe to shreds if she kept it up.

(She kept it up.)

“I saw him, yes,” Blue agreed quietly, her fingers stilling in their cathedral position. One thumb was balanced carefully atop of the other, bricks without mortar, construction without foundation. “I... wasn't ready… he was so small... and I almost looked away... I'm ashamed to even admit it."

The confession was broken into tiny fragments, each splinter slow and painful in the rolling of her accent.

Amethyst couldn’t help herself then—restraint had never been the name by which she was known.

She was blunt.

She parried back, “You still could, y’know. You don’t have to be here for this.”

You don’t have to put yourself through this if you can help it.

(We can’t help it.)

“Not your circus, not your monkeys, and all that jazz.”

And maybe that was the crux of it, the beating heart behind the entanglement of her reluctance when it came to the wealthy woman sitting next to her. The Crystal Gem couldn’t understand why someone, anyone, would willingly partake in this exhibition when they had every blessed out in the world. Blue Diamond didn’t have to care for Steven. She didn’t have to be here. She could go back to the fiftieth floor of her penthouse suite and wall herself away from one care of this world more. Just from her looks alone, Amethyst could tell that she couldn’t afford another loss, and yet, she could absolutely afford to get away from the possibility of another loss if she just, well, left.

If she hurried.

Before the boy who was kind enough to extend flowers to random ladies in the cemetery could worm his way into a heart that had already had its reckoning.

But—and Amethyst was just now realizing this with the force of a collision—maybe that was the crux of it, too.

That simple goodness of a proffered hand had been enough.

It had changed a life.

Maybe, quite possibly, it had saved one.

“I… just got off the phone with my wife,” Blue Diamond whispered, “and she asked a singular question to which I couldn’t provide the answer. Why? Such a simple beast, and yet a devastatingly complex one.”

Why Rose all those many years ago?

Why Steven now? Why couldn’t they find him a damn kidney?

Why couldn’t life give them one damn break?

Why?

The familiarity of the question rose like a lump in Amethyst’s throat.

“I’ve looked away from her—from everything, really—for so many years, even before my daughter…” The woman trailed away, her voice hitching. It took her a few seconds to regroup. She placed a steadying hand on her chest. “… and now, for reasons I cannot necessarily explain myself… I don’t want to anymore. Maybe, Yellow, it is because a child in a cemetery told me that it was quite possible to still feel the pain of my loss and still live? Maybe, Yellow, it is because I sat upon a balcony with him and envied the hunger he had for life, and wondered, for the first time in years, if it was still possible to obtain a modicum of it for myself? Maybe, Yellow, I saw him in a hospital bed today—sick—and it reminded me of a truth that I’d long forgotten.”

Amethyst chanced a peek at Blue Diamond then, stole it ashamedly, as though she was a child reaching a hand into the cookie jar.

The dim incandescence of the overheads crowned her silvery head in soft, white light as she glanced upwards, her half-moon gaze angled to a spot that the Crystal Gem couldn’t quite see.

She almost looked beautiful—a portrait in melancholy, all feathery brushstrokes.

Steven would have thought so anyway.

Hell, he was the type of person who would have even said it.

“And what that’d be?” She asked.

What was the answer to that devastatingly simple, that horribly complex question, Why?

If there was even an answer at all.

What truth had a woman as seemingly erudite as Blue Diamond so guiltily forgotten?

Blue looked down then, a strand of wavy hair falling between her eyes. It curled a little at the end.

“Why?” She murmured, her strained voice barely above a whisper. Amethyst had to lean in just to catch what she said next. “Because I love you, Yellow—so much. That is why.”

The rawness of the proclamation, the sincerity of it, seared the both of them, landing cleanly between them like the precise swing of an axe. It was always such a vulnerable gamble to admit to love, and perhaps it was even revolutionary to proffer it as the solution to why.

Why am I trying?

Why am I still here?

Why can’t I look away, Steven?

Because I love you—so much. That is it.

That is all.

And that is why.

It was a simple phrase, and it was a profound one. It was scarcely said; in Blue Diamond’s case, it was forgotten.

“You should tell that to her,” Amethyst suddenly said, and just for a moment there, it didn’t matter that the person in question was the dread Yellow Diamond, her mortal enemy or whatever.

Just for a moment, Yellow Diamond was merely a person who was loved by another.

“Exactly like that,” she pressed before glancing away, her bangs falling across her eyes. She played with her busted shoe again as heat clambered up her face—flap, flap, flap. It was surreal to be sitting here, giving advice to a woman so different from her and so alien. It was only chance that they were both sitting here—here, of all places—beneath the roof of this hospital.

Tired and careworn.

Alike but not especially.

Perfect strangers.

Connected simply by a flower and a boy.

Now it was Blue Diamond’s turn to stare; her tall, sickle-shaped eyes were drawn to the noise of flap, flap, flap, which made Amethyst self-conscious about the fact that the woman was likely wearing a designer dress.

Damn these rich people.

“I fear it may be too late. I’ve done my damage.”

“Maybe,” Amethyst shrugged. It was all she could do. “But ya won’t know until you’ve tried.”

They were both silent again. Outside the glass windows, the world had taken on the dull purple of night, pulling it over its shoulders like a cozy, star-spangled nightgown.

“Thank you… Amethyst.”

Blue Diamond offered her a parenthetical smile of an olive branch of a truce; it was a reluctant little gesture, still stiff and foreign on the mouth of someone who looked like she hadn’t smiled in years.

“Nah, don’t mention it, dude," she shrugged.

It was not forgiveness, nor was it absolution.

But it was a tiny concession.

It was a tired half-smile pulling at her lips.

“I needed the reminder, too.”

7:39PM:

Traffic in Empire City was always a risky gamble of a business, especially at night when the only rule of the six lane seemed to be, “Everything goes, and good luck with the going, buddy, old pal, my friend.”

Having spent years driving up here with Rose for various doctor appointments and then relearning the routine all over again with Steven these past few months, Greg liked to fancy that he could navigate the beast as well as any boardie from a small beach town could ever claim to. But even still, all the ample driving experience in the world was no match for what a car wreck could do to the flow of vehicles streaming down the neon lit highway.

Somewhere a little up above his van, there was a cacophony of sirens—red and blue and shrill and insistent. In the passenger seat, the pizzas he’d picked up nearly an hour ago were cooling, the rich, greasy smell of them sidling up to his shoulder temptingly. He thought about taking a bite because it was late and he was hungry, but ultimately decided against it.

Amethyst would never let him hear the end of it.

So he thought about the accident up ahead and hoped that no one had been seriously injured. (He had his doubts, though. There were so many sirens, wailing.) His van slowly crept forward as the cars ahead were painstakingly navigated around the ruins. People honked up and down the endless line because patience wasn’t Empire City’s strong suit; the big city, the golden apple, didn’t wait for anyone, least of all everyone, and sometimes, it felt like everyone in the world lived here, a population made of skyscrapers and cars and brilliant lights.

But thinking about the wreck didn’t entertain him for very long—his apologies to those affected—so he thought about the soulful tunes crooning through his staticky radio. Some R&B band from the eighties whose name just barely escaped him. They sung about love and loss and red Corvettes that shined beneath the hot, sticky sun. Greg’s thumbs slapped the wheel rhythmically to the melody, picking out the notes with an easiness that might have made old Marty proud on a good day.

But then the music suddenly shuddered off, the jockey apologizing for the inconvenience.

They’d try to get the station back up shortly.

The silence was unbearable.

So he popped in the closest CD, thinking it was his relaxing music compilation.

But nope.

It was death metal, the sudden explosion of the heavy bass and snare drums nearly sending his car veering into the next lane over as his hands jerked on the wheel.

“Wrong one!” He panted, chest heaving with feral panic. “Stop! Eject!”

And with a slap harder than intended, he punched the panel of buttons at random, the noise screeching to a stop, the CD comically popping out like toast from a toaster.

Ding.

And silence filled all the empty spaces once again.

In the silence, Greg had no choice but to think of Steven.

He took great gulps of air, his shoulders still shaking from the reverberations of the abruptly snuffed music, and could find no more distractions.

This was the end of the road on an endless road of snailing cars.

His hands clenched painfully around the wheel, the images revving across his mind’s eye—unbidden, quick, ugly, and unwanted.

His son.

His only son.

Laying in that hospital bed.

Dying.

Was this all life had to offer? He wondered to himself, and in the place of noise, there was emotion; there was sadness and horror and anger roaring up the column of his throat.

Rising.

Leaking.

Dripping.

Down his ruddy cheeks and into his beard.

Down his throat.

Draining.

Loving people who were gonna always leave him in the end? Finding home only for it to immediately forsake him? Maybe old Andy had had it right, always up there in that great, blue oasis of sky—never touching the ground long enough for people to find him and love him and hurt him.

Maybe there was something to the idea of giving up.

But no. “Stop that,” Greg scolded himself harshly. “Stop.”

He’d spent his entire teen years running away from his folks and all their shiny expectations, so he was done running away. He had told himself that the moment he kicked Marty outta his van and turned it back around to Beach City and its sprawling sands—to the little oceanside town and the big woman with pink hair.

Right then and there, he’d been ready to accept the consequences of his actions.

The starchild had grown into a man.

And that meant staying the course, no looking back or skywards, no regrets or what-could-have-beens.

For Steven Universe, he would stay until the end… no matter what that end happened to be.

That was responsibility.

And that, above all, was love.

Love was solidity, and it was thereness, and it was warmth.

It was patience, and it was risk that never quite guaranteed reward.

Love was staying.

Even when things got tough, and maybe especially when they did.

(Stay, he'd pleaded with Rose when Dr. Howard turned the ventilator off. He had held her hand. He didn't want her to be alone.)

(Please, he begged as the lines that measured the beating of her heart began to falter and fade away.)

His bushy brow furrowed in quiet sympathy as he finally maneuvered around the scene of the accident, going slowly as a traffic officer signaled him on with a hand and a whistle. He saw the carnage out of the corner of his eye, all twisted metal and climbing smoke. What looked like a Nissan had plowed right into the back of a fancy lookin’ black town car, not unlike the one which had brought Blue Diamond to the hospital earlier…

His heart lurched.

But then he thought about it.

He considered.

Nah.

Couldn’t be her.

From what he understood, her high rise was somewhere past the hospital.

8:54PM:

“Pearl, go home before I tell Gunga on you,” Kiki teased, but all the same, there was concern in her voice, a hint of seriousness that didn’t quite mark her playful threat as simply playful. It flashed in the depths of her warm, brown eyes. And it brushed against Pearl’s shoulder with a gentleness she had come to expect from the younger Pizza sister.

The two of them were both working behind the bar of Fish Stew Cuisine tonight, the restaurant Kiki’s father and grandmother owned. It used to be just a casual place for locals—then called Fish Stew Pizza—but with time, effort, and a considerable amount of increased tourism when vacationers realized that there was a lovely beach here to visit and trash, it had expanded into one of Beach City’s finest restaurants.

It was a slow night, though, rain coming down in heavy sheets outside the tall, glass windows.

At this late hour, only a few diners remained, casually enjoying their dinners to the rhythmic tattoo of the storm—mostly regulars, people who understood that through rain, hail, sleet, or snow, Fish Stew would always be here for patient guests, arms open wide and plates steaming with good food. The amber light strewn from the dusky lamps made the place feel warm, as though it was full of quiet fire, flickering in so many overhanging hearths.

Pearl swiped persistently at a stain on the glass she was cleaning.

She’d been working on it for five minutes now in the absence of a new customer to tend to.

“I can’t just leave,” she returned exasperatedly, still scrubbing away at the mark. She was starting to think that it was yet another lost cause.

(She seemed to have a penchant for those lately.)

“I promised to work until closing.”

And I have to.

There are bills to pay and possible surgeries to fund.

But she didn’t say this part aloud; she didn’t want to put that weight on a seventeen-year old who meant well.

“Girl, closing isn’t ’til eleven, and you’ve been here since two,” Jenny Pizza laughed, glancing up from her phone long enough to do so. She was Kiki’s older sister and a bit of a rebel to the boot. Though she was technically on the clock, too, she had been sitting on the other side of the bar for the past half hour now, sending something she called “snaps” to her friends. These “snaps” often involved her making funny faces at her camera, ninety percent of these compelling her to poke her lips out. “Go home, and get some shut eye. Seriously.”

“Seriously,” Kiki parroted, snatching the glass from out of Pearl’s hands when she wasn’t looking.

With a certain primness, she chunked it into the nearest recycling bin as the bell on the door pealed, signaling an incoming customer.

“Kiki!”

“The new ones are coming in next week anyway,” the girl only replied with a shrug of mischievous shoulder. “Now, Pearl, go the eff home. We got this. Right, Jenny?”

“Mhm.” Jenny made a vague noise of agreement without looking up again. “Yeah, you’ve got this, Kiki. Get it.”

“Well,” Kiki only rolled her eyes, “I’ve got this anyway.”

Two massive arms, both scarred and tattooed, slammed down on the countertop then, and Pearl’s mouth immediately twitched into a smile to see that it was none other than Bismuth, a local construction worker for the city and a fellow Crystal Gem. Her spectacularly colorful dreads were thrown upwards into a haphazard ponytail, and her mouth was wide with one of those trademark Bismuth smiles, all lopsided, shining with white teeth.

“Pearl,” she scolded in that wry way of hers, “are you givin’ these pretty ladies trouble again?”

“Yesssssss,” Kiki replied, already starting on the woman’s usual order. (Jerk chicken and eggs.) “Homegirl won’t go home even though she’s been here all day. Just look at her.” The teenager gestured vaguely at Pearl’s body. “She looks dead on her feet.”

“You’re being incredibly rude tonight, you know,” Pearl huffed, unable to resist the urge to glance down. There was an unidentifiable stain on the collar of her shirt.

She hated unidentifiable stains on the collars of her shirts.

“It’s for your own good,” she replied sagely, turning away as her saucepan began to sizzle on the stove. With Jenny also occupied, Pearl was left to the mercy of Bismuth, who’d always had a way of seeing through her, down to her deepest core.

Nothing escaped those dark eyes of hers, not a tool, not a loose screw, not the quiet, aching sadnesses of a friend. With a self-assuredness that Pearl had always lacked and a gentleness that she had always loved, her old companion reached across the bar and placed a calloused palm atop of the pale ridges of Pearl’s knuckles, covering them completely.

“C’mere, sugar,” she said softly, “and tell me all about it.”

“It’s late,” Pearl whispered automatically, glancing away. She always had some excuse or another. “And you’ve been working. You must be tired.”

“Hell,” Bismuth snorted as Kiki pushed a soda towards her, “if I’m tired, then you must be exhausted. The kid’s right. You look it.”

“The kid’s always right,” Kiki chimed in knowingly before moving away again.

And so, as the breath of rain continued to hiss on the roof, Pearl drew up a stool and sat across the bar from Bismuth, her hand warm beneath the other’s surprisingly gentle touch.

And they talked.

Softly.

Pearl told her everything.

She told her about the cemetery and Steven and the tiny hibiscus flower that passed from his hand to that of Blue Diamond’s, watching as Bismuth’s expressive face twisted in the same sort of horror and disgust that she herself had been grappling with ever since the bathrobed woman had somehow made her way into the entanglement of their lives. And Pearl told her about the last trip to Empire City, how Steven had almost needed a blood transfusion, and how that almost had become their reality when he’d collapsed in the beach house, hitting those wooden slats with a thunk that still echoed in the hollows of her head.

“I yelled at Amethyst,” she whispered, horrified, trying to withdraw her hand from beneath Bismuth’s.

Bismuth’s grip only tightened.

“I said some horrible things.”

“We all say horrible things,” the woman only replied, looking down, ever so subtly glancing away. Fifteen years ago, she and Rose had had a falling out over how to protest Diamond Electric. They hadn’t made up before she died. “The fixin’ part is what matters.”

And so Pearl, swallowing hard in acceptance of this lived-through truth, went on and on until her voice was scratchy from the strain of it. She told Bismuth about how small Steven was in the hospital bed and how sickly. She told her, fingernails digging into the grains of the bar, about how Priyanka Maheswaran, who always had a solution, didn’t really have an answer. She told her about the IVs and the wires and the blood transfusions and the possibility of a feeding tube.

And she told her, without saying a word, that she was scared.

Admissions did not come easily to the woman, but they were written across the physiognomy of her entire body anyway.

The desperation leaked from her pale eyes.

And all the sleepless nights lined her pointed face.

And there was a stiffness in the way she held herself, so harshly, with studied discipline.

But by definition, discipline was necessarily repression, and repress, repress, repress was the motto and model by which Pearl lived her life. It was the lone vanguard which kept her from shattering to pieces on the floor—just another mess for Kiki to sweep up with the rest of the clutter.

It was her last defense against total dissolution.

When she had nothing, at least she could put a smile on her face and pretend otherwise.

“So it’s been a long week,” she smiled wearily at the end of this.

She smiled because the alternative was to fall apart.

"To say the least.”

But, again, that was the thing about Bismuth.

Nothing escaped those dark eyes of hers, not a tool, not a loose screw, not the quiet, aching sadnesses of a friend.

With that familiar self-assuredness, her old companion rose from her seat and walked around to the other side of the bar.

“Bismuth, wait, I—”

And then, without hesitating, she crushed Pearl into her strong arms.

The engineer smelled faintly of oil and flavored tobacco.

Peppermint.

Crisp and sharp.

“To say the least,” she only agreed as Pearl’s lower lip began to tremble.

Her arms were limp, useless, by her sides, hanging over the edges of the stool.

“I’m fine,” she tried. The word fell flat on her tongue. “Really.”

“I don't doubt that you are. I never would. But you don’t have to be, hon,” Bismuth replied softly, her breath kindling warm against her ear. “You work so hard… and you care so much… that it ain’t a crime to need some tender love n care, too. It ain't weakness to be kind to yourself, Pearl."

Pearl was frozen, statuesque, even as the world somehow continued to spin around her. Diners chatted, rain fell, and the eggs sizzled in their frying pan. Everything and everyone else had their place in this world.

She wasn’t sure where that left her and all the griefs she so tightly wrapped herself around—scars and still-bleeding wounds.

“How can I break,” she asked, her voice tight, “knowing he’s lying in that hospital bed? What right do I have to fall to pieces when what he’s fighting is a hundred times worse?”

Somehow, Bismuth had an answer to this, too; she seemed to always have an answer.

She rubbed gentle circles into Pearl’s back.

She didn't let go.

“Pain isn’t a competition, Pearl,” she admonished. “When you’re hurting, you’re hurting.”

There was a matter-of-factness to this statement, a sense of finality, and perhaps that was what did it in the end; the raw truth of it confronted her, and it scalded her, and it forced her to confess.

Pearl shattered, and Bismuth was there to scoop up all the pretty, broken pieces.

“It hurts all over,” she admitted as the tears wrenched themselves loose from her eyes.

“I know, sugar."

Outside the restaurant, the rain continued to beat its relentless dirge into the Boardwalk, the sky falling in shards and unholy music, all needle sharp notes.

If the crescendo screamed, it absolutely roared.

10:03PM:

Outside the window of Room 11037, night wrapped its velvety arms around a sky shivering with stars, and Garnet, attentive of every wire and tube, wrapped her warm arms around Steven as they laid in his hospital bed together, watching a late night re-run of Crying Breakfast Friends. This was the episode where Pear betrayed the stoic Spoon’s trust, and all the assorted breakfast people cried about it for a good seven minutes of the show’s eleven minute runtime.

For some odd reason, the animation on Spoon’s tears was exceptionally well done, the liquid fluidly running down the curvature of their face as they wailed incoherently.

“Wahhhhhhhhhh.”

(Not for the first time, Garnet absently wondered who had been paid to write this.)

Beneath her, Steven sniffed noisily, bringing up the less-encumbered of his hands to swipe tentatively at his nose; it was an awkward movement with the oxygen cannulas in the way.

“You’ve seen this one before,” Garnet teased softly, her voice landing somewhere in his dark hair. “Twice that I know of. It can’t be that sad anymore.”

She waited for a laugh and a witty retort—for a remarkably insightful analysis into why it was okay to cry over crying breakfast utensils—but one wasn’t forthcoming, even though the child’s shoulders were conspicuously shaking.

She looked down at him then, catching a sliver of his face in the light wash of the television; tears streamed silently from his eyes and down the sunken hollows of his face, down into the collar of his gown, down past the spiral of wires.

“Steven.” Garnet propped herself up with an abruptness that was almost violent, though when she cupped his face between her long fingers, her touch was exceedingly gentle. “What’s wrong?”

But Steven shook his head, burying it into the front of her sweatshirt as a low whine escaped past his anemic lips.

His chubby fingers twisted into the fabric next to her stomach.

“Steven!” Panic slipped up the rungs of her voice.

She looked around wildly her for the call button on the railing, but they were surrounded by so many tubes and blankets.

And it was dark.

And Steven was crying.

“Garnet,” he finally moaned, “my back hurts.”

It was a common symptom with his disease. Because the kidneys were located right below the ribcage, his upper back often spasmed when they were being particularly bothersome.

At home, they would give him medicine and press a heating pad to his spine, hoping against both hell and hope that the warmth would sooth the worst of the pain.

Here in the hospital, they could give him morphine.

They could even sedate him.

Make the pain go away for a few hours if that was mercy.

(Once, after a particularly bad attack that’d almost brought them to the hospital, Steven had described the pain like being stung by a jellyfish over and over again, as though its tentacles were wrapped around his torso, wringing him out all over.)

“I have to get a nurse,” she said automatically, her throat dry. He clung to her so tightly that she didn’t dare move an inch. On the TV, Spoon was still crying, their keening overwrought next to Steven, who cried so quietly these days that it was almost like he hated for anyone to hear.

“They’ll drug me?” He asked astutely, the sound muffled in her shirt.

“Yes.”

“It’d make me sleep.”

“Maybe... yes.” Garnet couldn’t see where he was going with this until his fingers tightened just a fraction more where they gripped her.

Her lips parted.

And there was silence.

And there was crying.

And there was understanding most of all. It scorched Garnet and simply ruined her.

“You don’t want to go to sleep.”

It was a statement, hoarsely dragged from her mouth.

She received a minimal head shake as her answer.

“You’re scared.”

And somehow, she knew the veracity of her words before he nodded his assent into her chest.

Steven was scared to fall asleep—afraid, maybe even terrified, that he wouldn’t wake up. The horror of it, the awfulness and the unfairness, and the cruelty of it rose up in Garnet’s chest like a tsunami, a fire, a hurricane, a storm.

Yet, she remained immobile.

She didn’t move.

What could she even say to that?

What was she supposed to say?

Words were insufficient.

(She couldn’t even reassure herself.)

The small TV screen suddenly faded to black as Crying Breakfast Friends ended, and the credits rolled, the show’s elegiac theme song playing softly in the background, all piano notes and somber violin strings.

It was a little easier, at least, when she couldn’t see his face.

“I’m scared, too,” she admitted.

It was only three words, but they exacted her, and they excavated her; heat clambered up her cheeks, settling somewhere behind her burning eyes.

Steven’s shoulders briefly stilled, though all the machines keeping him alive continued to whir on.

“Y-you are?”

“All the time.” Scared to touch him, scared to even look at him. Scared that one day, she would wake up and he would be gone, a shell finally reclaimed by its shore. Scared to leave this hospital room lest she miss a single moment, and scared to stay if that meant watching him go. Scared that they wouldn’t find him a kidney in time, and scared that if they did, they couldn’t afford it.

Garnet was a wreck, barely holding together.

She was Garnet.

She had to hold together anyway.

“And sometimes, Steven,” she whispered, hugging him to her chest as much as the tubing would allow, “that is what love is—being scared and moving forward anyway.”

Into the darkness, hand in hand.

Without the promise of safe return.

Her mothers had done it.

Rose Quartz had done it.

And the footprints they had left behind were big to fill, but Garnet didn’t have to fill them; she just had to follow their lead.

Steven was quiet for a couple more heartbeats still before he slowly withdrew his head from her chest to look up at her; he didn’t quite let go of her shirt; he took ragged, rasping breaths, his shoulders heaving to the rhythmic whirring of his heart monitor.

“You can call the nurse now.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

It was all she could manage.

“And, Garnet?”

“Yes, Steven?”

“I love you.”

10:45PM:

Cooling down after a long day of work was always struggle for Priyanka, whose mind was such that it was perpetually working ahead to the next day of work—all the patients she had to do rounds upon, all the charts she had to fill out, and all the procedures she had to meticulously prep for, spending as much time in the hospital’s library as she did the operating room.

If the table of her head wasn’t perpetually well-set, her thoughts surgically arranged on a porcelain plate, scalpels placed in descending order by size on the adjacent napkin, then the doctor felt unmoored from the trait which made her feel fundamentally herself.

Her precision—unerring, diligent, and unpretentious.

She checked and double-checked and was a better nephrologist for it. By the nature of the temperamental organ she was dealing with, her patient mortality rate was high, but no one, by the nature of her methodology, could say that it was because of human error.

She checked and double-checked, trying to quantify every conceivable possibility before they could make themselves known in the real world, and when she neglected to deconstruct a hypothetical, which was a rarity in and of itself, she would chastise herself for it both before and better than anyone else ever could.

Priyanka Maheswaran was a study in precision, never shirking away from the reward that often laid at the end of hard labor.

But what no one had ever told her was that a side effect of being precise was being so damn tired.

All the time.

She struggled to cool down, and she was exhausted. She desperately wanted to sleep, but her mind whirred and whirled and calculated and thought. The dichotomous interplay of these qualities led to her sipping hot tea in bed with a pinched expression on her face as her husband stretched out next to her, reading his tattered copy of Crime and Punishment and sometimes laughing aloud when a line struck him as funny.

“Ha,” he snorted after awhile of this before replacing his bookmark (an old grocery store receipt) in his new spot and closing the heavy tome. “I love Dostoevsky.”

Lips pressed to the rim of her nearly empty mug, Priyanka arched a sharp brow at him, smiling wryly.

Her husband was a dork.

“Should I be jealous, dear?”

“Naturally,” Doug returned, reaching over to place the book on his nightstand before turning back towards her. “Dostoevsky has it all. A great grasp on existentialism and a beard for days. He could tone it down on the heavy moralism, though.”

“That’s what you said about Tolstoy,” she reminded him with a tilt of her head. “Good beard, too much sermonizing.”

“It’s a running theme,” her husband admitted sadly, and then, catching each other’s eye, the two Maheswarans suddenly laughed, the sounds loud in the otherwise quiet room.

It was moments like these, after nearly seventeen years together, that kept them going strong. They loved each other, and they liked each other, and they especially liked to make each other laugh.

Even if it was about something as specific as Russian literature titans.

And maybe especially if it was about something as specific as Russian literature titans.

“We’re going to wake our daughter up,” Priyanka finally said, setting her mug down on her own nightstand. In the lamplight, the dark ceramic gleamed. Her phone, sitting next to it, showed that she had a new message from one of the surgical interns she was training.

She’d open it in a minute.

Knowing the group of fools she’d gotten this year, whoever it was had probably stabbed themselves with a syringe.

(Again.)

“It’s never too early for Connie to have an opinion on old Russian men,” Doug chuckled, but he, too, was settling down as the heaviness of night began to sweep across them both.

He sighed fondly and took her hand then, intertwining their fingers on top of the blankets.

Priyanka wasn’t much of a touchy-feely person, but her husband absolutely was, and she knew, from all the coagulated years of having been married to him, that this simple gesture was about being close to her, about reacquainting himself to her presence.

So she didn’t let go.

Instead, she squeezed once, resting her head against the backboard of their bed and closing her eyes for the first time in what felt like days. The darkness was nice and inviting, blanketing her head like a cozy throw.

It was just all the thoughts, buzzing like bees at the velvety, black edges, that made it so unbearable.

Patients, charts, and procedures.

And Steven Universe most of all.

She worried for him constantly now that he was in the hospital; she carried his sunken face with her everywhere that she went; he made her half-sick.

He forced her to become undone.

Caring.

It did something to her.

“You look tired, honey,” Doug said softly. “Shall we put a nightcap on the evening?”

Priyanka opened her eyes again and nodded ever so briskly. She tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear and let out a small, exacting sigh.

“I think that’d be in order,” she agreed, and it was a sign of her exhaustion that she acquiesced so easily. Usually, he had to plead with her to close down shop for the night.

These weren’t usual times.

Without letting go of her hand, her husband twisted away and turned the latch of his lamp with a click, thrusting half of the room into darkness.

And she was about to do the same when the rectangular light of her phone caught her attention again.

Instead of just one message from her intern—a perky blonde named Dr. Stephens—now she had eight of them in total and a missed call.

The doctor always put her phone on silent when she drank her nightly tea so she didn’t have to be a doctor for fifteen minutes.

She could simply be Priyanka.

Her stomach clenched.

An influx of messages was never a good thing; her mind raced ahead of her; it anticipated the worst.

“Hon?”

Doug’s questioning concern pressed against her side, and Priyanka found herself clenching his hand all the tighter as she used her free one to pick up the phone, unlocking it with a quick swipe and clicking the message app with a suddenness that was brutal.

Monday, 10:57PM:

Dr. Stephens: DR. MAHESWARAN!!!!!

Dr. Stephens: UNOS JUST CALLED.

Dr. Stephens: WE HAVE A KIDNEY FOR STEVEN UNIVERSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dr. Stephens: Car crash on the lower East Side. The donor is brain dead, but all their other organs are viable.

Dr. Stephens: And they’re a match for Steven.

Dr. Stephens: Seriously. I’ve checked and double-checked.

Dr. Stephens: This is our person.

Dr. Stephens: The surgeon at Empire Gen’s gonna perform the harvest procedure tomorrow morning at 10AM, and I told them you’d be there.

In the half-darkness of her room, Priyanka held that phone aloft like it was priceless gold and let out a breath she had been holding for a very long time. Her shoulders heaved with the sensation of it, the feeling, the emotion.

Of goddamn relief.

Warm, sweeping, glorious relief.

A kidney.

Steven Universe was getting a kidney.

#bellow diamond #blue diamond #yellow diamond #steven universe #pearl #amethyst #garnet #priyanka maheswaran #yellow zircon #blue zircon #jenny pizza #kiki pizza #greg universe #bismuth #s: steven universe #mimik-u #flower child #hoooooo boy this is a long ass chapter

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anxiouslymalicious · 5 years

Text

Losers Club Plus One Part 2

Richie Tozier x daughter!reader series. Read part 1 here!

A/N: Thank you so much for all the positive feedback! Here comes part 2! It’s almost 4,000 words so you might want to take some time to read through this. As mentioned in the previous part, trigger warnings apply, this is IT so shit might not be too easy for some people and I’m trying to be as close to the movie as possible, but some things might be closer to the book and stuff.

I hope you enjoy!

Y/N was rather quiet on the ride to the restaurant. Richie, in his nervous manners, tried to tease her into talking to him, told her where he got beat up by the Bowers again ‘because they were intimidated by my dashing appearance’ he told his daughter with a grin, but she was lost in her thoughts. Not only lost, Richie thought, she looks like she is drowning in her own mind. He didn’t blame Y/N though. He couldn’t. Not when he remembered how shaken he was after his first encounter with IT. How much he tried to deny that what he had seen was real and true, how often he told himself that the encounter with the Paul Bunyan stature was nothing but a dream and how scared he was after Bill, Big Bill, had almost been killed by a picture.

“Listen, what you saw there- “

“Is that why you didn’t want me here, dad? That… Thing? Whatever that was?” Y/N interrupted her father mid-sentence, her voice hoarse and thick with unshed tears. After the whole encounter with IT, the young girl showered faster than she ever had before in hopes of getting rid of the dirty feeling all over her skin, the goo that seeped out of the thing she stabbed and the blood. Not only the blood that covered the man’s arms, but also her own blood. Richie had tended to the wound on her forehead and cleaned the other smaller scratches that IT had left on her body. It hurt him, physically hurt him, to see his daughter like that, he cursed himself for taking her with him but what choice did he have? She was left on his doorsteps as a baby, with only a card, telling him the little girl’s name and that she was the result of a one-night stand Richie couldn’t remember, a result the mother didn’t want to deal with, but no name of the mother. And, although most of the neighbourhood was nice, Richie didn’t consider any of them an option for her, after all, he didn’t talk to them much. He didn’t even know their names. His manager might have been an option, having spent countless hours with Y/N as she grew up, but he was already pissed off at Richie’s sudden departure, surely, he wouldn’t do the pair another favour. Leaving Y/N alone at home was the last option, but what kind of option was that? Richie wasn’t even sure that he would get out of there alive, did he really want to leave her alone like that, probably with nothing more than a call by Mike telling her that her father wouldn’t return? Just the thought made Richie’s heart ache beyond what he thought was possible.

“We called it IT. I’m sure the other losers can help me explain. Because, fuck, I don’t know how to explain this shit to you. I don’t even know if I understand any of this.” Richie replied. Ever since they arrived in Derry, he had been strangely serious, noticed Y/N.

“It’s alright.” She mumbled before leaning against the car window. The cold was very welcome, the steady hum of the car helping her ground herself. She still couldn’t grasp what had happened not long ago, but she was sure there would be a logical explanation. Right?

Her thumb flew up to her face and the girl nervously bit down on the nail, careful not to bite it off, but trying to find something to take her mind off. She could have played some stupid game on her phone or tell one of her friends what had happened, but she didn’t feel like either of them. Especially not when she knew that her friends would get a room ready for her at the local nuthouse.

“It’s not, we both know that. That stupid clown is lucky I wasn’t in the room. Would have done the job myself and ripped his head off for going near my baby.” Richie fell back into an angry grumble. His hands tightened around the steering wheel and the car sped up a little. Y/N lifted her head from the window to look at her father. After his eyes started burning again short before leaving for the lunch, Y/N managed to convince him to take out his contact lenses and wear his glasses instead. He reluctantly agreed, although he hated how big his eyes looked behind the thick lenses. It reminded him of his childhood. How the other kids made fun of his coke-bottle glasses. How often Bowers broke his glasses and Richie shamefully had to tell his parents that he would need a new pair. The glasses made Richie feel self conscious and insecure in his appearance.

Richie’s eyes, although they appeared huge behind the thick glasses, were narrowed. He looked like he had been through hell already and Y/N was sure that they hadn’t seen the worst yet.

“Dad?” Y/N asked desperately. Richie hummed in reply, not taking his eyes off the street and the passing cars as he drove through the familiar yet unfamiliar streets, passing buildings he tried to remember. It was hard though. Richie often wasn’t sure whether a house had a few exterior changes done, was still the same as it had been when he left, or if it hadn’t existed altogether when he was a child.

“I love you.” She continued in a soft voice, searching his face for a reaction. Immediately, his face softened, he looked more at ease after hearing those words, like he hadn’t failed completely at his job as a father in those last hours. His body relaxed lightly, leaning back into the seat, his hands less cramped around the steering wheel.

“I love you too. And I know that I don’t tell you often, but I’m actually very happy that you were the fastest swimmer and your mother didn’t swallow.” Richie replied with a grin, taking his eyes off the road for a second to watch her face, knowing that his words would earn him at least a small smile from you. And, lo and behold, the girl scoffed, a grin on her lips as she punched her father’s shoulder gently, in a playful manner that he knew too well.

“You’re disgusting.”

“If I am, then so are you. I made you, remember?”

“How am I supposed to remember when you can’t remember shit?”

“Low blow, shitface, low blow.” Richie laughed. The first of many hearty laughs of the night, but they didn’t know. The atmosphere shifted. Somehow, the duo felt as though they finally had some air to breathe, the car didn’t seem to suffocate them anymore. Y/N felt relaxed, like whatever the thing was that attacked her earlier couldn’t get to her. Not right now. She was safe with her father. And her father was safe with her.

It wasn’t long until they arrived at the restaurant, parked the car, but didn’t get out.

“Why aren’t you moving?” Richie asked his daughter, not daring to look at her and opting to look straight ahead, watching the leaves of the bushes and trees in front of them move with the wind. Occasionally, he heard a car moving behind him to park, followed by a muffled babble of voices growing quieter as they walked away from their car. Y/N mimicked her father’s actions.

“Why aren’t you?” she asked in return. Richie pushed her lightly before taking a deep breath and stepping out into the unfamiliar air around him. Nothing in this street was like it had been when he left his hometown, Mike had obviously chosen neutral ground, something that wasn’t connected to bad nor good memories. Something that wouldn’t make them feel like they were forcing themselves to, once more, become the young, mismatched, dorky group of losers when they really were middle-aged losers with rather average and boring lives. Lives that they enjoyed, but boring for the most part.

A light breeze. Chirping birds. Everything around them seemed strangely alive for a town in which people are murdered every day, Richie thought as he watched his daughter get out of the car before he locked it, taking her inside.

As soon as they entered the restaurant, they could feel the air buzzing with excitement. Wild chattering, children squealing, the clattering of plates and cutlery echoed to their ears as their noses were filled with the overwhelming smell of food. Y/N felt her stomach growl aggressively, her hand shot up to cover her stomach as her cheeks heated up in embarrassment.

“Time to feed the monster.” Richie told her, his hand resting on her back as he led her further into the restaurant. Mike was quick to spot his old friend, walked towards him and greeted the man with a hug.

“Richie. Good to see you.” Mike told him honestly, feeling the smaller man hug him a little tighter in return. “You too, Mike.” Richie replied with just as much honesty before he pulled out of the hug.

“This is Y/N, my daughter. Couldn’t leave her behind all on her own. Too much of a baby.” Richie introduced his daughter, who interrupted him with a surprised ‘hey’ before shaking Mike’s hand, ever so polite. He chuckled, although the surprise was clear on his face.

“I didn’t think someone so polite could be related to Richie Tozier. It’s nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m Mike Hanlon, an old friend of Richie.” Mike told the girl as he opened his arms to engulf her in a hug. She accepted the hug. Mike’s heart felt warm as he held the girl for a short moment, feeling like he had just become an uncle. Maybe he had. Maybe it had been an unspoken rule that people who used to be so close, shared a trauma like the losers had, grew to be uncles and aunts of each other’s children, but they hadn’t talked in 27 years. Were they still close enough to share a bond of such kind?

Richie grinned, his hands in his pockets as he watched proudly how his own flesh and blood bonded with one of his best friends, just like he had ages ago. It was like he was watching a younger version of himself although Richie thought that Y/N looked a lot more like her mother than him. He still couldn’t remember the woman, how she looked, what she was like, but in his mind, he built a version of her with all the unfamiliar features in Y/N’s face and her behaviour, her likes and dislikes.

“Is everyone else already here?” Richie suddenly asked, pulling himself out of his daydreams. He pushed his glasses back up his nose, it had slid down the bridge of his slightly sweaty nose, then looked towards the man whose face showed tiredness and exhaustion, overpowered by sheer happiness. Mike looked just like he did when he was a kid, Richie thought, just a little older.

“Everyone except Stan. But I’m sure he’ll join us later.” Mike explained, pointing towards a little room, exclusively reserved for the Losers Club, plus one who no one knew was coming yet. The duo followed Mike, Richie first, then Y/N. She felt like she should stay back for a bit, let them enjoy the moment together. So, as the men entered the much quieter room, she stayed at the door, moving behind it a little to watch the men and the woman hug each other, vividly talking about the things they just started remembering after Mike called. Once her father reached a slightly smaller man, she could see something else in his eyes. A smirk grew on her lips as she watched a banter ensue that he had never seen before. Her father was acting different than with all those women she had seen him with at afterparties or other events.The women he flirted with but never took home. There was something about the way he carefully, but tightly embraced the man, the way Richie’s eyes looked, how his smile reached his eyes, how he focused solely on teasing the smaller man.

Y/N giggled, deciding to keep an eye on the two men for the rest of their trip to Derry as her eyes travelled over the other people. A woman with vibrant red hair talked to a tall man, his hands cramped into his jeans pocket. He had dark hair, a goatee and looked rather attractive. But, as he was talking to the smaller woman, who seemed like she was aware of Y/N standing in the doorway, although her eyes were fixed on the man in front of her, a shy smile on her lips, he looked nervous. More nervous than Y/N would expect. And she wondered what caused it. Was it the fact that he was back in Derry? As she understood, all the losers hadn’t seen each other in decades, and it would be understandable if all of them were jittery to meet each other again. Or was it maybe the woman who made him so nervous that he had to rub his sweaty palms on his jeans every other minute?

Y/N’s eyes wandered further. Another man was talking to Mike. He looked a bit more relaxed, but tense nonetheless. His hair was brown, like the other men’s. It was a lighter shade though, and, besides what Y/N thought might be a reddish tone in his hair, she noticed a few grey hairs. She locked eyes with said stranger who waved at her with a shy smile. Y/N felt like a little kid once more, desperately looking for her father as she felt an anxious tingle on her skin. He, however, was still busy teasing the man who looked exasperated, but happy.

“Hey, uh, Richie? I think you might have a fan.” The man said, nodding towards Y/N. Her eyes widened as her father grinned at her, motioning for her to come over and join them.

“As much as I hope that she is a fan of my work, she also is one of my better jokes. This is my daughter, Y/N.” Richie proudly stated, taking in the shocked faces of his friends. As he spoke, Y/N followed his motions, stepping into the room with quick steps until she reached her father’s side. Richie wrapped his arm around the jumpy girl’s shoulder, in hopes that he would calm her just a little. Despite the way he was acting, Richie was just as tense as everyone else about the situation. He thought that deep down all of them knew why they were here, but they were blissfully ignoring the real reason.

“Don’t act like this is such a surprise now. Women could never resist my charm.” Richie was now grinning as his daughter giggled lightly next to him.

“We’re just surprised someone like you would ever have children. I pity your wife, but mostly the kid. She had to spend her whole life with you, assbag.” the man Richie had been bickering with replied before directing his attention to Y/N. “I’m Eddie and I’m so sorry you had to grow up with Richie as a father. I bet he’s just as bad as he was when I had to spent time with him.” He continued to introduce himself, sending her a wink at the last part. Y/N laughed shortly, nodding in agreement, before the two broke out in an awkward movement, not sure whether to shake hands or hug. Y/N finally settled for hugging him shortly before moving on, introducing herself to the other figures in the room.

Soon, the laughter died down and the Losers plus one settled down at the table. Y/N was sitting on one side of her father, Eddie on the other. The bickering went on, new memories resurfaced every few minutes and Y/N felt herself being pushed into the background. She didn’t mind, but she had to admit that she felt uncomfortably out of place with all the adults. Not because they were so much older, she thought as she watched them interact, no. The people at the table were all children. She just felt strange as everyone kept glancing at her seat, expecting someone else to sit there for a split second before remembering that he wasn’t there.

After a more than satisfying dinner, the waitress brought fortune cookies into the room. Everyone excitedly grabbed one, opening them eagerly in hopes of making fun of whatever the cookie was going to tell them, but Richie dropped his own just as quickly as he had taken it. Disappointment was clear on his face.

“Either fortune isn’t on my side or these people are shit at making fortune cookies. Mine just says ‘could’.” Richie said, leaning back in his chair. Confusion erupted in the room as the other losers opened theirs, finding single words in each of theirs. That was the last calm moment before everyone was trying to make a sentence out of the words. The strangest combinations came to be. But there were still a few fortune cookies left unopened.

“Y/N have a cookie. What does yours say?” Richie asked as he passed his daughter one while Bill was busying himself opening the last one. But before Bill could read out what it said, which admittedly made his heart drop to the pit of his stomach, all eyes were on Y/N. As she had cracked the cookie open, warm red liquid sprayed out of it, staining her shirt and skin. She could feel a queasy sensation in her stomach which worsened to before unknown levels as she read the message inside the cookie.

“You’ll float too, just like Stanley.” She read out loud before rushing out of the room, out into the street, doubling over and throwing up near the sewer drain. Hot tears stung in her eyes as her knees grew weak and she finally had to kneel near her own vomit. Two warm hands placed themselves on her shoulder, before pulling the girl into a warm body behind her. Y/N struggled at first, not knowing who exactly was hugging her, squirming against the body until she heard her father’s raspy voice.

“Shh. That bitch won’t get you. It’s alright.” Richie mumbled into Y/N’s hair as she let loose, crying desperately into her father’s shirt, painful sobs wracking through her body.

“This is why we have to go down there again and kill IT. IT will kill each one of us if we don’t fight it. Don’t you want your daughter to be safe?” Mike argued while Eddie kneeled down next to the pair, passing the girl a tissue who gratefully took it. She mustered up the best smile she could before croaking out a ‘thank you’. Eddie just shook his head with a sad smile, patting her shoulder lightly. Richie had to fight back his own tears.

“Yes. I want to keep her safe more than anything. That’s why we’re going back to that fucked up hotel, pack our shit and fly the fuck home. I’m not going to let her stay here with that psycho clown running around, attacking and threatening my baby.” Richie yelled back, holding her shaky body closer to his own equally shaky body.

“He’s right, Mikey. I thought this was going to be a fun meeting. You should have told us why we were actually coming back.” Eddie joined in on the discussion, helping Richie and Y/N to their feet. Meanwhile, Beverly had called Stan’s number that Mike had given her, curious to find out whether IT’s threat, Guess Stanley Could Not Cut It, was true, what he meant exactly. It was only when she heard a painful sob at the other end of the phone that she realised that it wasn’t just an empty threat. Beverly felt her blood run cold, like it was actively freezing in her veins, as the other losers stopped talking, trying to listen in on the conversation between Bev and Mrs. Uris.

“We’re all very sorry, Patty.” Beverly said before the line went dead and the remaining losers were left in tears, with heavy hearts and thick tears that they tried to blink away. An angry exchange ensued with Richie suggesting to ‘undo’ the promise before storming off with his daughter under his arm, Eddie by his side.

Beverly and Ben left next, not nearly as angry, but mainly heartbroken at finding out about the suicide of someone they loved. Bill and Mike were the only ones left at the Jade of the Orient.

Bill felt shaken up. Stan was dead. And Y/N was just a kid. Admittedly, she was older than they had been when they faced IT for the first time, but she shouldn’t have to face those things at all. No kid, no person should ever face IT. After Richie had lashed out at them, he felt even worse about her being in Derry than he did when he first spotted her. She was actively threatened, and Bill was aware that, for the time she spent in the small town, even if it wouldn’t be for long, she would need to be protected at all times by each of the losers. She was the only losers’ child, as Mike had pointed out throughout lunch, which was strange. After all, Bill and Audra had wanted a child and somewhat challenged their luck until their current project started, Eddie, Stan and Bev were all married so surely something could have happened, but somehow nothing did.

Bill shook off that thought. His eyes travelled back to the sewer where Y/N and Richie had been sitting just a few moments ago. And, as his gaze rested on the devilish thing, he was sure that his ears caught a children’s laughter.

“Please, just let me show you something. Afterwards, you can still decide if you want to leave. But I need you, Big Bill. Please, please stay. People are dying.” Mike pleaded. If there was one person who could get the losers to stay, it was Big Bill. The guy they all had looked up to as some sort of a leader, now as much as they had as children. The roles hadn’t changed over the past 27 years and they wouldn’t change in the next 27 years.

Bill reluctantly agreed, well aware that he would stay with Mike, no matter what he was about to show him.

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ajokeformur-ray · 5 years

Text

Guardian angel//Arthur Fleck + Joker//Nightmare comfort.

@she-he-or-it - you sent an ask in for something soft with our boi but I could only reply to it privately for some reason? So I’ve had to tag you this way for your request because it wouldn’t even let me save it as a draft. I hope it’s what you had in mind! <3

Arthur’s contains mentions of cigarettes, Joker’s features actual smoking. Swearing in both. I think I’m incapable of not swearing in my writing lmao.

Arthur Fleck

Word count: 1, 240.

You awoke with a loud gasp as you sat fully upright, your head swimming from the sudden movement. Your chest heaved with every breath, your heart was pounding in your head and your hand was clutching at your sheets; the ironed material wrinkling under your firm grip.

You were awake, you were alive.

It hadn’t been real.

Black tendrils of the night seemed to move just beyond what your eyes were able to see in the dark, and you gripped the sheet beneath you tighter, your eyes trying not to stare too hard at one spot for too long. You knew that your eyes played tricks on you in the dark, and after what you had just dreamed about, well... you really didn’t need any help in making the fierce remnants of your fear worse.

You reached out a hesitant hand into the impenetrable darkness, fingers probing the air for a familiar touch. Cotton beneath your fingers. You gasped, gripped the material. Arthur!

“Arthur!” You whispered, the word barely making a sound because you hadn’t spoken for hours. It was either really late or really early in the night, but the way that Arthur was slowly snoring beside you told you that it was late enough that he had naturally fallen asleep, the scent of cigarettes still heavily in the air. He hadn’t been sleeping long. You felt guilty and went to pull your hand back, not wanting to wake him up just because you had had a bad dream.

But... Arthur had always told you, right from the first day that you moved in with him, that you could wake him up for anything. You had had a bad dream, you wanted a cuddle and you couldn’t because he was laying in the wrong position, you just wanted to hear his voice. Arthur was there for you, and he had always needed to be needed, to be loved, and if you sat there in the bed right beside him without waking him up for the comfort you so desperately craved, he would be upset with and because of you. He would think that you didn’t need him to comfort you, that you were fine by yourself, and he had enough hurt as it was. He had felt more hurt in his short life than most felt in an entire lifetime, and if something as small as waking him up because you were still scared about a dream you couldn’t even remember was something that would comfort Arthur’s own unspoken but very evident insecurities, then who were you to deny him?

To deny Arthur was to deny yourself.

It was therefore with a surer grip that you shook whatever part of Arthur that you had come into contact with. It felt like an arm, and tentatively did you move your hand. You felt warm, solid flesh. That was no help, but his breathing was right next to your ear, so... so this was his arm or his shoulder. You could work with that.

“Arthur!” You hissed, panic blooming in your chest despite yourself. Was he dead? No, stupid, he’s breathing. Goodness, but you were illogical when you were scared and the room was dark and you had had a nightmare.

“Arthur!”

A stir beside you. A low, sleepy groan.

You closed your eyes in relief. It wasn’t enough though. You needed more of him. Would he ever be able to give you enough? He had given you his whole self, the good, the bad, the beautiful and the ugly, and you most often felt as though you would never be able to get enough of your enigmatic love.

“Please wake up!” You mumbled, mostly to yourself.

A tired moan. “Y-Y/N?”

“Yeah,” You smiled despite the guilt brewing in your stomach. Arthur worked so hard and slept so little and here you were waking him up because of a nightmare like a child not wanting to be without their safety blanket for a single night while their desperate parents washed it. You knew you were doing the right thing, however - Arthur would be upset if you sat beside him but didn’t seek him out for the comfort you needed. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. What is it? Are you okay?” All traces of sleep were gone from Arthur’s voice as he sat up in bed. Every part of him was trained on you now.

“No,” Yes. “I had a nightmare.” I don’t even remember it now.

Arthur’s hand somehow found yours immediately, his fingers intertwining with yours. “Tell me about it.” He squeezed comfortingly and you gave in. You followed his silent tug - he knew you so well and he was able to read you just by your silence, even when neither of you could see anything. Love exploded in your chest and you went to him, sinking into his reassuring touch with a sigh.

You told him the very little you could remember, using a little bit of creativity to cover up the fact that you really didn’t remember most of it. You didn’t lie, but you filled in the blanks with whatever you thought you remembered. That wasn’t the same thing at all, right?

Arthur remained silent until you were finished, his breathing deep and steady as he hugged you to him.

“That would never happen to you.”

You smiled, unseen by Arthur but he felt it against his skin. Love and affection bloomed within him. He knew you had made some of the nightmare up, your voice had told him everything he needed to know, but he was enamoured with how you knew him so well, so intimately, that you had gone against your own judgement to wake him up just to prevent his insecurities rising. He would thank you properly in the morning, he decided.

You would both also pay for this late hour in the morning but neither of you cared. How could you? With your hectic schedules, any time together was to be treasured.

“How do you know?” You shuffled closer, wanting to be on Arthur. You wanted to feel him against all of you.

“Because you’ve got me,” There was such a beautiful lilt in his voice. He was confident in his ability to protect you. He had come so far from the shy, beaten down and broken man he had been when you had first met him all that time ago. “I’d never allow anything or anyone to hurt you.”

“My hero.” You half teased. Arthur couldn’t possibly know just how much he had changed your life, changed you for the better. All he had done in reality was to hold up a mirror to you, to show you your true self, and you had followed him. You would follow him anywhere and when the time came, you would follow him into death. A life without Arthur Fleck was no life at all.

“Thank you for waking me.” Arthur decided in that moment to come clean. He was good at hiding his pain, at hiding his torments, but he could never hide anything from you, not even the good stuff. “I know you made some stuff up.”

You gasped. “Shit, I only meant - “

“I know,” Arthur hummed, “Thank you. You did it for me. So I was needed.”

“Ohhh~,” You sighed softly, gripping him to you, “I’ll always need you.”

“That better be a promise.”

It was. Oh, it was.

Joker

Word count: 1, 227.

You came back into consciousness slowly and then all at once. You had been drifting on a cloud of uncertainty; you were awake but you didn’t know why. Slowly did pictures fill your mind, ones that you had seen somewhere before: Joker lying wounded by your feet. Joker dead. Joker gone. Missing. Deceased. He didn’t want you anymore. He was your murderer. You were his murderer. He was locked up in prison or in the State Hospital. Over and again did these images fill your mind one after the other, never stopping, never faltering, and then your eyes snapped open and you saw nothing but the dark. These thoughts had been the reason you had woken suddenly, then.

Instantly did your hand shoot out to the other side of the bed, looking for the object of your tortured thoughts. The bed was cold, empty. Joker wasn’t beside you. Were those images right? Had he died? Where was he? You tried to rationalise it. He had gone to the bathroom, or maybe he hadn’t come to bed yet. But he had... you knew he had. You had been lulled to sleep by the feeling of his nicotine stained, slender fingers in your hair, his lips at your ear as he murmured his love for you again and again. Those images rose to the forefront of your mind again, bobbing to the surface of the ocean that was your being, and they demanded to be seen. Once seen, however, did they stay, and your fear, in an equal measure, rose to the top of your throat; and you were up and out of bed before you had even registered the thought that you had to find your love. Joker was all that you were able to think about, his stage name echoing inside your head like a mantra, the volume increasing by the second as your sense of urgency grew stronger.

Despite your best efforts, you had only ever been a slave to your emotions. It was a cruel trick that those who felt deeply, hurt deeply, and you were no exception to the rule.

Joker Joker Joker Joker Joker -

You cracked the bedroom door open and stepped into the living room. Your eyes scanned the room, fell over him, passed him, and then darted back to where he was sat on the sofa. Never before had you experienced such a dizzying rush of several emotions all at once. Happiness, relief, joy, love... Joker’s green eyes were trained on the television, a cigarette dangling elegantly between his painted lips, but as you shut the door behind you and hovered beside the television, unsure of how to proceed now that you had quieted you mind, did he glance at you. A quirk of his lips. He was glad to see you, if a little bemused. It was three in the morning, after all. Never mind what he was doing awake still fully dressed, his face still painted, what were you doing?

“Oh, thank fuck.” You sagged against the bedroom door in relief, a hand over your heart. You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to feel the panic that was beginning to slip away, your heart pounding a tattoo against your rib cage like it was threatening to break free of its protective barrier, your hands trembling. You inhaled deeply, exhaled carefully, and opened your eyes to see Joker right in front of you.

You fell against the closed bedroom door in shock - when had he moved? - and Joker chuckled. “Nervous, are we?”

You nodded. “I had a - I had a... mm. Nightmare. You. Dead. Missing. Locked up. All of that stuff. And I... I had to see. I knew you were okay but I didn’t know, you know? And - “

Hot hands cupped your face. Joker smiled gently and leaned in to kiss you. He stepped closer so that you could feel all of him against you - wordless comfort was his speciality - and he kissed you until you couldn’t even remember your name, your toes curling into the aged and stained carpet. His lips were hard on yours, his tongue doing sinful things, and the sound of your heartbeat was so loud that you vaguely wondered if he couldn’t hear what he was doing to you.

Joker released your lips but he didn’t leave you alone as he kissed along your jawline, down your neck and then began to suck on the point right above your jugular. Your eyes rolled back, your head fell back against the door, and as you sighed happily and moved your fingers into Joker’s dark green hair, he lifted you up by gripping the backs of your thighs; his hands trailing down your body like he was mapping over unfamiliar territory. Except that he knew his way around your body, and he was aware of everything that he was doing to you. So great was his addiction to you that he barely even wanted nicotine; he craved you just as surely as he yearned for oxygen.

“Let me take you to bed, hm?”

You nodded breathlessly and wrapped your legs around his thin, bony waist and allowed him to open the door and carry you to bed. Gently did he lower you onto the sheets, which were still warm. Joker didn’t bother to turn any lights on. He would only have to turn them off later, and he just couldn’t be bothered with that. Wordlessly did Joker assure you that you were both alive. It may have been three in the morning, but your day started early. You would pay for it later but you couldn’t bring yourself to care about anything more than feeling Joker all around you, in you, his hands and lips making you quite forget why you had ever been afraid in the first place.

Joker had used his body to distract you. Seeing you coming into the living room pale, shaking and seeming unaware of how badly your body had reacted to whatever your mind had conjured up while you lay in Morpheus’ embrace had distressed Joker greatly. Even though he had teased you, hearing your voice tremble as you tried to speak had tugged at his heart in all the wrong ways. Seeing you scared was just wrong. If you weren’t smiling or laughing, then he just wasn’t loving you properly, and Joker wouldn’t have that; couldn’t have that. A being as heavenly as you, a being as sinful as you, was only allowed to know the most tempting of sensations, the most delicious of sweet tortures.. Touch had always comforted both of you, such a tactile couple were you, and if words couldn’t reach your ears, then he would have to use extreme measures. Truthfully, neither of you were complaining about his methods, exhausting though they were.

One couldn’t feel fear if one was feeling something altogether more delicious now, and that was what Joker’s intentions were. In truth, he often had bad dreams of your own death, so he knew well how important it was to be reminded in a way that left no room for argument. Your greatest shared fear was the loss of the other, but it was only further proof of your love, and that was the most wonderful gift to come out of the darkness.

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