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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

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The Quiet Room

- Chapter 6 - ao3 - (previous tumblr pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5)

The Lan sect’s rules said Learning comes first, and that was because learning was the root of all things.

Humans were changeable and ever-changing, molded by their heritage and their environment; it was through careful education that they learned to comprehend goodness – it was only through constant learning that they could keep themselves walking on the path of righteousness.

Learning from books, learning from others, learning from one’s own mistakes; it didn’t matter.

What was important was that you couldn’t stop learning.

You had to keep moving forward.

Lan Wangji had for some time entertained the thought that his life had stopped when Wei Wuxian’s had. It had felt as though it had: it felt as if his heart had been irrevocably shattered, like a priceless vase that had once contained all his tender feelings – all those feelings that, lacking their container, would now slip through his fingers forever, leaving him as empty as a soulless puppet. He’d thought he was doomed never to love again, never to learn again, all his mind consumed with nothing by memories.

He’d been wrong, of course.

Even with Wei Wuxian gone, he was still learning.

There were his recent meditations on the subject of silence and noise, for one.

There were his wards, for another.

Lan Sizhui was a polite and thoughtful child, inquisitive but a little shy and hesitant, a little fearful to assert himself – a little too quiet, in a way that Lan Wangji was starting to be able to recognize as being not good, a silence and reticence born of concern and anxiety rather than genuine introversion. Luckily, there was also Lan Jingyi, who was and had always been the liveliest and most spirited of children, and yet he, too, was just a little bit too loud in a way that reflected his own method of displaying anxiety, another startling realization that was brand new.

Lan Wangji had always associated quiet with reserve and self-control, noise with carelessness and recklessness, but being in the controlled chaos of Qinghe and really sincerely listening to it, accepting it, came with its own set of revelations. He found that there were people who were naturally loud and those that made themselves be loud, just as there were those who were quiet and those who were forced into quietude. Lan Jingyi worried just as much as the next person, but he displaced those feelings through distraction rather than through the force of his willpower, taking on the role of clown or hero as suited each moment, unafraid to cast himself in the role of aggressor if it would allow Lan Sizhui the chance to play the mediator. The subconscious division of roles allowed Lan Sizhui to feel useful and in control, reducing his anxiety, while Lan Jingyi got to feel taken care of, which reduced his own – it was good, in a way, but after some consideration Lan Wangji carefully took them both in hand and told them that they would need to be more thoughtful about it.

Lan Sizhui could not, should not, always have to be the peacemaker, always yielding and kind and gentle and quiet: he deserved to be loud, too. He deserved to be assertive, to be heard, to feel entitled to take up space regardless of his utility to those around him. He should never feel like he had to pay in service for the right to exist.

And by the same token, Lan Jingyi shouldn’t feel burdened to always have to be the one to take the first step, always acting as the driving force, the loud and opinionated one. He should have the opportunity, and the obligation, to think through what he was doing or saying, to be thoughtful and careful, to sometimes yield if he wished; he should be granted space of his own to make sure that his actions were what he wished them to be rather than some impulse.

Lan Wangji only wished he’d had the wisdom to tell Wei Wuxian the same thing while he’d been alive.

He’d been so short-sighted when he was younger, at first unable to recognize how he felt about the man and then unable to figure out how to speak with him – he’d been unable to break his own habitual silence, and equally unable to see the depths concealed in Wei Wuxian’s brash arrogance, especially towards the end. Like Lan Jingyi, Wei Wuxian’s reckless courage was genuine, especially in the happy days of their youth; like Lan Jingyi, when things got bad, Wei Wuxian had taken refuge in more of the same, building himself walls made of noise that were designed to keep everyone out.

Wei Wuxian might have been noisy and loud, right to the very end, but in his own way he’d been just as alone as Lan Wangji in his excess of quiet.

The next generation, Lan Wangji thought fiercely, would do better.

He felt comforted by that thought.

The children were chewing over Lan Wangji’s words as they walked along the outmost ramparts of the Unclean Realm, already inured to the glittering barrier that hung in their sky, full of arrays and inscriptions – they were accompanying Lan Wangji on his daily walk.

The Nie sect’s doctors had a very different regimen for curing illnesses than the Lan sect’s, he’d found. Thirty-three strikes of the discipline whip: in both places he’d gotten stitched back up, but while the Lan sect doctors had allowed him to retreat into seclusion, prescribing medicine and rest and self-reflection, the Nie sect doctors insisted on coupling medicine and meditation with exercise. Intermittent and gradual exercise, meant to increase flexibility and reduce muscle atrophy – it wasn’t really that different from what Lan Wangji had been left to do on his own back at home, but he found that it was easier to struggle against his stubborn body when he had company to encourage him to take that extra step beyond his limits, their voices pushing him when his own willpower was insufficient. Even the silent presence of the two children, walking beside him, helped him find the reason to keep going.

Truly, there was much to consider on the subject of quiet and noise, of loud and soft, of loneliness and isolation and how no amount of either introversion nor extroversion could alone save you from them.

Lan Wangji was still thinking it over when he heard a new noise.

It was also an old noise, painfully familiar from all those days of war – before he even consciously identified what the sound was, his back had straightened, his legs sinking into a prepared pose, his mind already summoning his spiritual energy to the forefront in case he needed to defend himself.

Cultivators, flying on swords at speed.

Lan Wangji looked up and saw them: men and women both, a small group – a forward scouting troop, small enough to be subtle and sneak ahead to see what was happening but large enough to ensure someone would be able to return to the main force and warn them if they did find something.

They were dressed in the colors of Yunmeng Jiang, and it was Jiang Cheng leading them.

Lan Wangji’s back stiffened.

He had not seen Jiang Cheng since the massacre at the Nightless City, although he’d heard the stories of how he had turned against his own shixiong and led the greatest of the forces that besieged the Burial Mounds. He’d decided then that he’d never wanted to see Jiang Cheng ever again – he hadn’t been able to comprehend how Jiang Cheng could do a thing like that to Wei Wuxian, who he’d loved.

He still didn’t understand, but he thought, perhaps, that he ought to be a little less hasty in judging others by his own standards.

He’d done enough of that.

“Hanguang-jun!” Jiang Cheng called, seeing him, and pulled ahead of all the other Jiang sect cultivators, leaving them hanging back warily. Lan Wangji turned to face him, conscious of the two young children still clinging to his hands and now half-hiding behind his robes – conscious, too, of the shimmering but translucent barrier that divided them from Jiang Cheng, the barrier that had been raised to protect the Unclean Realm from Lan Wangji’s own brother and all the mistakes he had made, well-meaning as they were. “Hanguang-jun, good, you can tell me, what is the meaning of…”

Jiang Cheng trailed off, his eyes suddenly wide and almost bulging from the force of how hard he was staring at Lan Wangji.

“Jiang Wanyin,” Lan Wangji said politely in greeting – or, well, politely enough.

“Lan Wangji,” Jiang Cheng said in return, his voice sounding strangled. “What…happened?”

Far too much to explain, so Lan Wangji didn’t, just waited for Jiang Cheng to continue with a more specific question.

“I mean, uh. The beacon went off,” Jiang Cheng said. He was still gawking, looking as though he were about to fall off his sword any second. “The – you know the one, the one that shows when a sect’s barrier defenses have been activated. I thought...”

He’d assumed there was an invasion, Lan Wangji realized, and had rushed over at once to try to help forestall it. It was a reasonable assumption, and a noble response: having once lost everything without being able to rely on the help of others, Jiang Cheng now sought to be the help that he had not had.

It was the sort of thing a righteous person would do, and in line with what Lan Wangji thought he’d known of Jiang Cheng’s character.

And yet…Jiang Cheng had still turned his back on Wei Wuxian.

Time and time again, he’d turned away fro him.

“I came to find out what happened, why they put up the shield,” Jiang Cheng continued. “I brought people with me to help, though I left them back a ways so it wouldn’t be an insult. And now I’m here and – and you’re here – and you’re…just…it’s…Lan Wangji, what happened to your forehead ribbon?”

Lan Wangji arched his eyebrows. “Is that your primary concern?”

Jiang Cheng waved his hands around, almost flailing, and Lan Wangji couldn’t quite help but feel a sudden stab of amusement – and then of sorrow, because the flailing was almost painfully familiar. He had seen Wei Wuxian do much the same when he encountered something unexpected, whether some threat or some new maneuver by the Wen sect or, in one notable instance, the unanticipated appearance of a fish in a place where one would not normally expect fish to be.

“I have taken a leave of absence from the Lan sect,” Lan Wangji finally explained, deciding to be magnanimous and take pity on his former comrade in arms. “The Nie sect has permitted me to remain with them while I determine my next course of action. As for the shield, there is no imminent invasion. The situation is – complicated.”

Jiang Cheng huffed. “You don’t say!”

Still, the explanation seemed to help steady him, somewhat, and Lan Wangji observed that Jiang Cheng did not look his best: tired, with circles under his eyes and an unhealthy skin tone. Too much work, too little rest, and probably nightmares…because of what had happened to Wei Wuxian, perhaps? But if so, why had he done it in the first place?

“I cannot let you in,” Lan Wangji added, even though technically he had one of the only remaining guest tokens that still functioned. Jiang Cheng nodded, seemingly having expected that. “I can escort you to the sect leader’s quarters to have your request for admission approved.”

That the person approving the request would probably be Nie Huaisang, Lan Wangji did not say – not so much out of caution, which would probably be justified, but rather out of a completely inexplicable urge to see Jiang Cheng start flailing once again upon finding out.

Was this how Wei Wuxian felt all the time?

Interesting.

He began to walk again, the children at his sides slowly coming out, and Jiang Cheng did him the courtesy of not mentioning how slow and stiff he was, although Lan Wangji thought he remembered enough of Jiang Cheng’s mannerisms to interpret the twisted grimace on his face as he glanced over time and time again as a look of concern.

After a little while in which Lan Wangji walked and Jiang Cheng floated alongside him on his sword, the Jiang sect cultivators lagging behind by a respectable distance, the children getting over their fear to start looking around again, Jiang Cheng finally cleared his throat.

“There’s a medicinal blend of herbs that can counteract the anti-clotting effects of the discipline whip,” he said. Lan Wangji glanced at him: Jiang Cheng was staring forward, not looking at him at all any more. “It makes it heal faster. I can pass the prescription along to the Nie sect’s pharmacists, if you like.”

Jiang Cheng had also been struck by the discipline whip, Lan Wangji suddenly remembered. It had been a matter of deep embarrassment for him during the war, making him reluctant to remove clothing even when they were rancid with blood and poisonous fumes.

“Thank you,” he said, and for some reason the children took that as their cue that Jiang Cheng was actually all right and burst out in a flood of questions.

Lan Jingyi wanted to know how Jiang Cheng’s clothing had gotten to be such a vivid shade of purple, while Lan Sizhui was more curious about his sword and how shiny it was – the concerns of children, unburdened by the memories or concerns of adults. Their questions made Jiang Cheng smile, and Lan Wangji thought briefly of the orphaned Jin Ling, who had been temporarily given to Jiang Cheng’s custody to pick up some of the traditions of his maternal sect. A fancy way of saying that the Jin sect wanted him out of the way for a few years until he was worth teaching their own ways to, but Lan Wangji suspected Jiang Cheng would have taken any excuse at all to remain close to his kin.

“What, now children aren’t too noisy for you?” Jiang Cheng asked Lan Wangji, and for the first time it occurred to Lan Wangji that the tossed out words, broken off and abrupt, might be meant as a friendly tease.

“I am reevaluating my relationship with silence,” he said, and Jiang Cheng smirked, amused.

“I bet you are,” he said. “Nie Huaisang alone would drive a man to distraction…”

Lan Jingyi laughed and clapped and that, and, inspired, Lan Sizhui followed suit.

And then, suddenly, Jiang Cheng frowned.

“A-Yuan,” he said, and Lan Wangji was suddenly cold from head to toe, the chattering of the children suddenly too loud in his ears: he had forgotten that Jiang Cheng had also visited the Burial Mounds. “That’s – that’s A-Yuan, isn’t it?”

“Jiang Wanyin…” Lan Wangji started, his voice sticking in his throat, then trailed off. He did not know what he could say that would work to convince Jiang Cheng that he was wrong when he was right, but neither could he admit to the truth. Even if Nie Mingjue had been kind enough to allow Lan Wangji to come to the Nie sect to stay, and to bring the two children with him, that had been under the premise that they were Lan sect children. If he ever found out that Lan Sizhui had been born surnamed Wen…

Nie Mingjue would not hurt a child, he was too righteous for that. But he might not be inclined to let that child grow up in his sect, either.

Jiang Cheng’s face was twisted in a strange sort of way, as if he couldn’t decide to be angry or relieved. “I thought he’d died,” he murmured, more to himself. “I thought…what is that?”

Lan Wangji was momentarily confused by the question, focused as he was by the terrifying implications of Jiang Cheng’s discovery, but then he saw that Jiang Cheng’s gaze went further into the distance.

He turned to look, then felt twist of unpleasantness deep in his belly: there was his brother in the sky, flying to the main gate on Shuoyue, and beside him was Jin Guangyao.

Why did you have to bring him? Lan Wangji thought, unhappy, but he already knew the answer to that. His brother trusted Jin Guangyao. Why wouldn’t he bring him?

If only he would trust the rest of them as much as he trusted that liar.

“We can discuss Lan Sizhui later,” Lan Wangji said, careful to emphasize both the surname and the courtesy name he’d given him – painfully obvious now that he thought about it, though at the time it had seemed only appropriate, the only name he could bestow that fit – and quickened his steps. “Now that my brother has arrived, things will become difficult.”

He wondered, a little bitterly, if his brother had even noticed that he was gone, or if he had been so thoroughly forgotten in his enforced ‘seclusion’ that it hadn’t even been thought of as a possibility.

“Lan Wangji!”

Lan Wangji came to a stop at Jiang Cheng’s shout. Suddenly full of anger, he turned his head back – surely Jiang Cheng didn’t hate Wei Wuxian so much that he wouldn’t let the matter of a small child go, even in the midst of a crisis?

Jiang Cheng was pointing into the distance. Strangely enough, it was not in the direction of the main gate, where Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao were even now landing, but somewhere even further beyond.

“Do you see it?” Jiang Cheng demanded, and his eyes were suddenly wild, his breathing disordered; he seemed far more disturbed than he had when he’d recognized A-Yuan. “Lan Wangji, tell me that you see it!”

Utterly lost, Lan Wangji focused his gaze on the far horizon. It was the same scenery as he’d seen there the past few days, the interspersed richness of the low valleys that quickly arced up into the mountains that surrounded the Unclean Realm. There was nothing there that was unusual…

Lan Wangji spotted a very faint glimmer.

Sun, he thought, the reflection of sun – sun off steel.

All of a sudden, he wasn’t on the ramparts of the Unclean Realm but standing beside Jiang Cheng on a rough-hewn fortress barely worthy of the name, watching the horizon grimly as the damned Wen scout’s flare did its work and the amassed forces of Wen Chao’s troops began to move inexorably in their direction. They would come, he had known, and they would kill them all if they could; it would take everything they had to stop them, and to survive long enough just to retreat once again.

For some of them to survive.

“Invasion,” he heard someone say, their voice hoarse, and only a moment later realized it was himself who had spoken. “Invasion…it’s an army!”

“It’s the Jin sect,” Jiang Cheng said, staring blankly as if he couldn’t believe what his eyes were telling him. For once, Lan Wangji understood him completely; he was similarly shocked. “They’re wearing gold, you can see it from here…the Jin sect has sent their armies here? How could they even think to dare? Chifeng-zun will annihilate them!”

Lan Wangji’s throat worked, and for a moment he felt drowned in the quiet once more, his voice not wanting to cooperate with him, his entire being willing or even wanting to return to the solace of seclusion if it would only mean that he wouldn’t have to hear the horrible din of war once more. But he was not a coward, and would do what he must – even speak of things that felt impossible to be spoken.

“That complicated situation I mentioned,” he said, and Jiang Cheng turned to look at him. “My brother has either conspired with or was duped into assisting Lianfang-zun in an attempt on Chifeng-zun’s life through destabilizing his qi and inducing a qi deviation.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw dropped. “They did what?!”

“Chifeng-zuns remains alive, but is confined to his bed,” Lan Wangji continued, ignoring the interjection. “Nie Huaisang was the one who ordered the shield raised, saying that there might be an attack – I thought he was overreacting, but apparently not.”

“If Jin Guangshan can take over the Unclean Realm while Nie Mingjue is incapacitated, he can say that the incapacitation is worse than it really is,” Jiang Cheng said, abruptly getting it. Lan Wangji had forgotten how much he enjoyed working alongside those from Yunmeng Jiang, Wei Wuxian most of all but also in his absence Jiang Cheng, who was smart and did not require too many words to understand. “Everyone knows Nie Huaisang’s a good-for-nothing – it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for the Jin sect to claim that they came here at the invitation of the Nie sect to ‘rescue’ them, and remained in order to manage the sect on their behalf. Better that than have Chifeng-zun recover and come after you in vengeance!”

Lan Wangji nodded.

“But surely they didn’t think they’d be able to get away with it? Even if they could manage it for a while, as soon as the confusion cleared up, all the other sects would throw a fit…”

“Jin Ling,” Lan Wangji said, and Jiang Cheng blanched, seeming to realize the problem at once. His beloved nephew legally belonged to the Jin sect; if he dared to protest their actions, wouldn’t they be sure to take him away? As for the Lan sect, Lan Xichen would have been implicated through his actions – they could hold his participation over his head, forcing him to pick between supporting them and losing face for the whole sect, which would in turn weaken it. And that was assuming that Jin Guangyao didn’t somehow manage to talk Lan Xichen into thinking it was all for the best regardless…

There were only four Great Sects left, now. If the Lan and Jiang did nothing, who would be left to stand up for the Nie?

“I have to get inside. Nie Huaisang will need my support,” Lan Wangji said, but instead looked down at the children beside him.

“Go,” Lan Sizhui said, releasing his hand and stepping back away from him. “I’ll take Jingyi and hide in the room we’re staying in. You won’t need to worry about us – go, do what you need to!”

Jiang Cheng flinched as if he’d been struck.

Lan Wangji glanced at him. “The Jin sect army,” he said. “However unlikely, there’s still a chance that we are misinterpreting their motives.”

“I’ll go find out what I can,” Jiang Cheng agreed at once. “How many there are, what can be done…I’ll find out and report back.”

Lan Wangji tossed him the guest token he’d been given. “Be cautious,” he said. He still hadn’t forgiven Jiang Cheng for what he’d done in the Burial Mounds, but he was willing to wait until a better time to talk it over with him – now was not the time to try to gain understanding.

Jiang Cheng nodded and left at once, and Lan Wangji saw the children off, then hurried to do the same.

By the time he made it to the main hall, his brother and Jin Guangyao were already there, and Nie Huaisang was confronting them with nothing more than a fan gripped in white-knuckled hands and a glare.

“– dare you talk as if he’s gone mad, as if he can’t be trusted?” Nie Huaisang was shouting. “You should know how seriously we take such words here!”

“It is because of that that we are worried,” Lan Xichen said, and now it was Lan Wangji’s turn to flinch. His brother’s voice sounded just the way it always did, comforting in its familiarity: he sounded calm and patient, thoughtful and wise, sure of himself. He sounded as if he knew better than anyone else what was right and what was wrong. “Huaisang, you don’t know how much your brother has been worried about suffering the way your father did. He knows that qi deviations can be subtle as well as harsh – he understands that his reason might be the first to go –”

“And so you took it upon yourself to decide that for him?” Nie Huaisang sneered. “You keep saying that he understands, that he would understand, all that. But that’s a lie, isn’t it?”

“Huaisang, please,” Jin Guangyao said, his voice just as gentle as always. “You know we only want what’s best for your brother.”

“Do you?” Nie Huaisang said, but he was still looking at Lan Xichen. “You knew he hated the quiet room, er-ge. You knew that he’d never wanted anything to do with it – it’s not like that was anything new! That was something he’d said repeatedly, year after year, month after month, for his entire life. You knew how he felt about it, and you decided to ignore what he wanted in favor of what you wanted. How is that wanting what’s best for him?”

“I was only concerned for his health,” Lan Xichen said, sounding injured by the accusation. “I had nothing but good intentions…”

“Your intentions are immaterial compared to your actions,” Lan Wangji said, and they turned to look at him, both of them surprised – maybe they really hadn’t noticed he’d left the Cloud Recesses.

Well, he thought bitterly: they’d notice now.

He took a step into the room, then another.

“Your actions are this,” he said, ignoring the way his brother stared at his forehead, unadorned by the ribbon that had been there ever since he’d been a small child, receiving it for the first time from his uncle as a precious gift. “You did not trust or respect your elder brother’s word. You disregarded his decision, treating him like a child who can’t be trusted to make up his own mind – you put your own desires ahead of his, and in doing so, betrayed him. Did you really think he’d thank you for it?”

Did you think I’d thank you one day for authorizing our sect’s attack on the Burial Mounds without ever having to explain yourself? Even our uncle respected me enough to tell me at once what he had done and let me decide how I felt about it, accepting the consequences of his actions!

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen murmured. “You’re still healing, you shouldn’t be wandering around…where is your self-restraint?”

Where is your forehead ribbon, he meant, and Lan Wangji shook his head.

“Wangji, you don’t understand,” Jin Guangyao said, and Lan Wangji stiffened at the unasked-for intimacy of the address. “Whatever da-ge said to you, whatever he did, you cannot allow others to guide you by filling your heart with incomplete echoes of what you have lost. You will never forgive yourself.”

Lan Wangji was so furious that he could not speak. Was Jin Guangyao implying that Nie Mingjue had, what, seduced him? That Lan Wangji held his love for Wei Wuxian so cheap that he would have his head turned by the first person willing to make up to him in such a fashion?

“I should hope you know my da-ge better than that, er-ge,” Nie Huaisang said coldly, still speaking only to Lan Xichen. “Or is this something else where you will believe the words of that lying dog over everyone else and the evidence of your own reason to boot?”

“Huaisang, that is unwontedly cruel, and uncalled for,” Lan Xichen said, tearing his eyes away from Lan Wangji. “Whatever Wangji has decided, I do not blame Mingjue-xiong for it.”

Implying, Lan Wangji supposed, that it was Lan Wangji that was to blame for it.

“Put the blame where it belongs,” he said stiffly, staring at his brother as if looking at a stranger. “Was I to leave Chifeng-zun where I found him, half-dead and dying in our jingshi where you left him at Lianfang-zun’s incitement?”

“You think I don’t recognize that I’ve done wrong?” Lan Xichen demanded. “I will speak to Mingjue-xiong and apologize – I will explain my reasoning and let him decide how I can make it up to him. But please, there is no call for you to be cruel to A-Yao. Do not blame him for my mistakes.”

“What about for his lies?” Lan Wangji asked. He took a breath, sharp and unhappy, and suddenly it was desperately, urgently necessary to know the truth. “Brother, tell me you didn’t know. Tell me you weren’t in on it – that you didn’t try to kill Mingjue-xiong in order to cover up your affair.”

“What, kill, you think I would try to…Wangji! Affair?” Lan Xichen exclaimed, and he seemed genuinely shocked. “No, Wangji, you’ve misunderstood entirely! It’s not like that at all. Mingjue-xiong and A-Yao, they were once lovers –”

“No, we weren’t,” Nie Mingjue said.

They all turned at once. He was standing at the door, all but clinging to the doorframe to keep himself standing; he was swathed in bandages and still stuck with needles. None of them had heard him or seen him approach – he must have heard them shouting and dragged himself over.

He sounded tired. He sounded quiet.

He looked at Lan Xichen.

“I was never Meng Yao’s lover,” he said. “Not now, not before, not ever. And Xichen…you knew that, didn’t you?”

#mdzs #lan wangji #lan sizhui #lan jingyi #jiang cheng #lan xichen #jin guangyao #nie huaisang #nie mingjue #my fic #my fics #the quiet room #you may want to reread previous chapters to get caught up

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ieattaperecorders · 3 years

Note

“I’m rambling again aren’t I?” and “Is that okay with you?” for the jmart prompt please :)

Cannon compliant, 1.4k, set at the end of S4. Prompt from here.

---

Cash only, no IDs, change directions at least twice. That was what Basira advised, so they were taking a roundabout route - train to bus to train again, a walk to another station, and then a third train to the outskirts of a town near a village near an isolated cabin. Someplace to hide.

Each time they stopped Jon would grab maps and brochures to stuff in his pockets, studying them carefully during quiet moments. Something about being prepared to act as if they were headed to a different destination if anybody asked.

Nobody did ask, and in any case Jon would have probably looked weird and suspicious, throwing in needless details about whatever place they were meant to be visiting. But it was painfully endearing, the way he poured over them, concentrating like he was prepping for an exam. One hand holding the brochure, the other usually clasped over Martin's or pawing at the fabric of his sleeve.

At one point, Jon's hand absently came to rest on Martin's knee. He flinched -- surprised at the unfamiliar contact, at the intimacy. Then he covered Jon's hand with his own, keeping careful around the edge of the wide, angry scar Jude Perry had left.

It had been so long since anyone touched Jon gently. It had been so long since anyone touched Martin at all.

* * *

There'd been a quick, fearful trip to Martin's flat so he could pack a bag. Jon barely let go of him the entire time, as if scared that he might still disappear. (Maybe he was scared. Maybe he was right to be.) He frowned when, after only a few minutes, Martin zipped up a small bag of clothes and toiletries and said that he was ready.

"You . . . may want to look around a bit," he said softly. "See if there's anything else you want to take. We might not be able to come back here."

"Thought the idea was to get in and out quickly. And shouldn't we be traveling light?"

"We can spare another minute. Besides . . . ." he bit his lip. "You might want to keep a few things. Even if they don't seem important. You may end up missing them if you lose this place."

Martin glanced around. The truth was he'd been living sparsely for a while. Bit by bit, he'd boxed up and donated most of his personal things over the last several months. It had just felt right.

(Jon's flat was long gone. He only had the small satchel he'd been carrying, and a plastic bag of thrift store clothes that Basira had gotten for him.)

He ended up grabbing a few books, a notebook he hadn't written in for a while, a couple of cheap pens, and a scarf that he'd always liked. The small carved box his grandfather had given him ages ago went in the bag too -- he'd never found anything to put in it, but he'd kept it all these years and it still smelled pleasantly like cedar.

Despite Jon's insistence they could spare another minute, he spent the entire time Martin packed bouncing restlessly on his heels, his gaze flicking back and forth between the windows.

"God, it's cold in here," he whispered.

". . . Is it?"

"Yes. Colder than outside . . . noticeably so," Jon looked at him sadly. "You can't feel it?"

Martin shook his head. He hadn't noticed.

"Suppose I'm used to it," he said.

Gravely, Jon nodded. He took Martin's hand and squeezed. Martin held back for a moment, then pointed out it was hard to pack with one hand, and Jon awkwardly let go. Another minute and they were done.

As they made for the door, Martin noticed Jon shivering and thought Basira ought to have gotten him a heavier coat.

"Hold on."

He made a detour to the closet, grabbed one of his thicker jackets and held it out. It would swim on Jon, but at least it was something.

"Dunno if it works on supernatural cold spots, but it'll be cold in Scotland too," he explained. "You'll want more than a windbreaker."

Jon stared at him for a moment, then swallowed heavily and nodded. As he put it on, folding the sleeves back so his hands would fit out, Martin noticed him wiping at his eyes.

Was he tearing up? Why? It was only a jacket, one Martin was probably going to lose anyway.

Jon held his hand all the way to the train station.

* * *

They didn't talk about the Lonely on the train. They didn't talk about any of it there, not the Institute, the entities, the attack. It was all too risky if they were overheard.

Instead, Jon talked about the places they weren't going, the things he read about as they went. Describing historical points of interest or natural features, sometimes adding a jarringly morbid fact that Martin was sure he hadn't gotten from the brochures. He suspected part of it was an attempt to engage him, as Martin found himself going long stretches saying next to nothing.

It was nice, though, listening to him chatter on as if they were out on holiday. Sitting there with the landscape going by, the rumble of the train around them and Jon talking about some landmark or another, Martin could pretend they were just out seeing the sights. Traveling on their own time, without a care in the world.

As it got late into the night, he realized the train car they were in was empty. It was the last one that ran, and there hadn't been many on it to begin with, so it wasn't much of a surprise. But with no one else there, they had a chance to speak more freely.

"Jon?" Martin nudged him, interrupting his description of a stone burial site a few miles down the line.

"Hmm?" Jon started, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry. I'm rambling, aren't I?"

"It's not that. Was just thinking . . . I know the plan is to keep moving, but we'll have to wait for the morning train anyway. Wouldn't make a difference if we got a cheap hotel room or something tonight, would it?"

"Oh . . . no, I don't think it would," he shuffled through some papers in his lap, peering at the train schedule. "Actually, in that case we may want to take the next stop, rather than going to the end of the line. There's a motel near the station that could be perfect. It's cash only, and the only security camera is over the safe."

"Did you See that?"

"Not deliberately. There's just, ah . . . " he winced, "been a lot of really gruesome murders there."

"Ah. Right." Martin raised an eyebrow. "Are we going to get gruesomely murdered if we stay there?"

"Well it's not a service they provide."

"But we do have murderers after us."

"True . . . and I don't think this place would be much protection if they caught up. But the same could be said about a bench outside the train station," Jon shrugged. "And I don't believe it's supernatural, just a bit shady. Which is probably what we want at the moment."

Martin nodded. Then, with a smirk, asked "does it have a pool?"

"Yes. And so many people have drowned in it."

". . . Hmm."

Jon's deadpan look broke into a smile. "I've no idea if there's a pool. Probably not."

"Pfff," Martin reached an arm out over his shoulders, and Jon leaned into the embrace, smiling. "The Beholding didn't think to list amenities, then? Not even an evil laundry service or, like, a continental breakfast that eats you?"

"Thankfully not."

"Good enough for me, then."

He felt Jon chuckle against him and leaned back, yawning loudly, thinking about how nice it would be to lie down in a bed. Jon shifted a little and sighed, looking at him with a smile.

"I love you," he said. Soft and warm, as if he'd said it a thousand times before. As if it was natural and obvious and easy.

Martin must have gone noticeably tense, or maybe his expression changed, because Jon's eyes widened and he looked down, fidgeting. Worried he'd made a mistake.

"Is that, ah . . . okay with you?" he added weakly.

Almost dizzy with it all, Martin let out a breath that turned into an unsteady laugh. He felt tears pricking at his eyes, and he squeezed Jon tighter.

"Y-yeah," he whispered, "yeah Jon. S'good."

#Anonymous #tma fanfic #jonmartin #tma

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lulu-zodiac · 3 years

Text

Hidden in Plain Sight

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Jeremy Bradshaw

Tags: Early seasons Dean, pre-podcast Professor Bradshaw, denial, unresolved sexual tension, bickering, smut, gratuitous owl references, case fic

Summary: It's the fall of 2006, and a string of grisly deaths linked to local lore brings Sam and Dean to the village of Bridgewater. There, Dean finds himself working closely with the frustrating and unexpectedly compelling Professor Bradshaw.

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Dean feels about as comfortable in old colleges as he does in churches. There’s the same sense of exclusivity, that same reverence of things Dean has spent his life stuck on wrong side of. This campus even feels a little like a church, with its old architecture and sprawling ruby ivy and slit windows like narrowed eyes. His footfalls echo heavily along the cold stone corridor, making him feel uncomfortably aware of his own existence.

The door he’s looking for is old and made of oak, nestled in an alcove near the staircase, with a small plaque on it that reads Professor J Bradshaw.

Dean pauses for a moment, then knocks abruptly, suddenly noticing his knuckles are still smudged with earth. From within, a muffled voice instructs him to enter, and he does so, wiping his hand surreptitiously against the side of his leather jacket.

The first thing that hits him is the sheer volume of books in the room; they clutter every available surface, piled high in front of the big bay window like a strange line of defense. There are stacks of loose papers everywhere too, haphazard but clearly organized, some held in place by empty coffee mugs or odd-looking artefacts. The air is bright and warm, like this room catches the sun when it’s slow and mellow in the afternoons.

The second thing that hits him is the man sitting at the desk.

He doesn’t look up at Dean’s entrance, continuing to scribble away in a leather-bound notebook with intent dexterity, seemingly utterly lost in his own thoughts. He’s not what Dean expected; surprisingly young, maybe approaching forty, with a sharp jaw and tousled hair that just brushes his broad shoulders. When Dean clears his throat awkwardly, the man finally looks up with striking blue eyes that immediately pin Dean in place.

“Yes?” his voice is inquiring and several octaves deeper than Dean would have imagined, low and gravelly. He sets down his pen, looking at Dean with piercing focus.

“Uh – hey. Professor Bradshaw?” Dean feels distinctly self-conscious.

“Who wants to know?” the man closes his notebook with a snap and stands with surprisingly fluid ease, eyes still intent on Dean as though he’s cataloguing him.

He’s wearing a faded navy-blue sweater with the sleeves rolled up, slightly crumpled shirt tails poking out at the hem, just visible.

Drawing on years of sizing people up, Dean guesses that the guy probably has no one to go home to at night. If he goes home much at all, that is; the office has a distinctly lived-in look. It’s strangely reminiscent of the makeshift home feel of the impala’s interior.

“Um – Dean. Dean Collins,” Dean answers hastily, suddenly realizing he’s spent a little too long looking. “I’m uh – a student in one of your classes,” he lies the best way he knows how: with a charming smile. “I was wondering if you’ve got a moment? I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions about your work.”

“Come in, please,” Professor Bradshaw sits back down behind his desk, and gestures for Dean to close the door. “Take a seat.”

“Thanks,” Dean shuts the door and awkwardly removes three hardback books and a small, slightly drooping fern from the only available seat in front of Professor Bradshaw’s desk.

“Sorry – let me –” Professor Bradshaw leans over the desk to relieve Dean of the books and the plant. Close up, Dean can see faint lines softening the corners of his vivid eyes, and when he breathes in, he catches a hint of peppermint and the musk of warm skin, strangely compelling. Their hands brush for a moment as Professor Bradshaw takes the items, and Dean flinches, jerking away and planting himself firmly on the chair.

“So – Dean, yes?” Professor Bradshaw settles back into his seat. He’s still looking intently at Dean, gaze startlingly blue.

Wordlessly, Dean nods. He doesn’t know why he can feel the heat creeping up his cheeks.

“You’re not in any of my classes, Dean,” Professor Bradshaw says, with a slight edge to his voice. He reaches for a half-drunk mug of tea on his desk, expression skeptical.

Dean feels his stomach drop. “Uh, yeah – I’m new, just transferred a couple weeks back,” he bluffs quickly, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. He feels strangely flustered, visible.

“No, I don’t think so,” Professor Bradshaw says, flatly. “I believe I would have noticed,” he adds, wryly, with a kind of impatient warmth in his expression that makes Dean’s cheeks flare with heat all over again. Professor Bradshaw merely swallows a mouthful of tea and sets the mug back down, still looking at Dean. “So. Who are you?”

“Alright,” Dean puts his hands up in mock-surrender, smiling wide even though he feels stupidly on edge, knocked off course. “You got me. I’m – uh – a journalist. My boss has me writing a piece on local legends, and I was hoping to pick your brains. Heard you’re the expert on all that stuff around here, and thought I might be in with a better chance of talking to you as a student instead of some annoying reporter.”

“I see,” Professor Bradshaw leans back in his chair, contemplative. A shaft of sunlight filters through the bay window behind him, illuminating a hint of tawny in his dark, untidy hair. Dust motes hang everywhere like suspended snow. “Well, luckily for you, Dean, I find that my students can be just as annoying as reporters. And I still talk to them on a daily basis.”

Dean grins a little awkwardly, “Yeah?”

“Of course, I do get paid to do that,” Professor Bradshaw adds, dryly. “But perhaps I do them a disservice. Some of them are really quite inspiring.” He pauses, raising his mug to his lips. It has an owl on it, Dean notices absently. An overly fluffy one, with a slightly threatening glare. “I daresay I can spare five minutes. What is it that I can do for you, Dean?”

“Uh, so you study the supernatural, right?” Dean asks, clumsily. His hands are sweating where they’re shoved in the pockets of his jacket. “Ghosts and demons and all that shit?”

“I study the lore and mythology of supernatural beings, and why it’s important to humans to create such stories,” Professor Bradshaw clarifies, shortly.

“Right, got it,” Dean agrees, hastily. “But you’d know a bit about the Bridgewater coven?”

“I am familiar with the legends, yes,” Professor Bradshaw replies, reaching for his mug again. There’s an ink stain on the side of his index finger, smudged deep blue. Dean fleetingly wonders if it would rub off easily if he touched it, if it would leave a ghostly imprint on his own skin.

“Yeah – uh – so there’s been quite a lot of interest in the coven recently,” Dean blusters, annoyed with himself for how stupidly flustered he feels, “You know, since those bodies were found last week? At the burial site in Bridgewater Forest that’s associated with the legend? Yeah. Well, anyway, I was – hoping you might be able to tell me a little more about the legend of the coven.”

“I don’t see what the recent tragedies could possibly have to do with the legend,” Professor Bradshaw narrows his eyes skeptically.

“Right – yeah – nothing, I’m sure,” Dean lies hastily, “But the location of the crimes has definitely raised awareness about the existence of the legend, and that’s what we really want to provide for our readers.”

“Well, certainly, I can tell you the history,” Professor Bradshaw replies, briskly, “In fact, I teach an undergrad course on witchcraft in history and my lecture this Wednesday actually covers the legend of the coven. If you want a more detailed, nuanced version, you’re more than welcome to come along then – it’s at 11am in the Milton building. But I’m happy to give you the short version now, if that would be helpful?”

“Thanks – yeah, that’d be great,” Dean says, gratefully. “On a bit of a tight schedule today.”

“Well, the local legend about the Bridgewater coven has existed for almost two hundred years,” Professor Bradshaw starts, and immediately Dean can picture him talking in front of a lecture theatre full of kids. He’s a natural, something inherently captivating about the way he speaks. “In the 1800s, this village was an important site of religious pilgrimage. However, according to the legend, the village was also home to a small coven lead by a witch named Iris. Iris’s coven was said to have lived in secrecy in the forest on the outskirts of Bridgewater for years, and not to have troubled the village people. However, by 1816, the legend claims the coven had become very hostile, specifically towards the church. There were fears the coven had begun indoctrinating – or bewitching – members of the congregation.”

Professor Bradshaw pauses, swallowing another mouthful of tea. The muscles in his throat work, drawing Dean’s attention to the way his pale blue shirt isn’t buttoned up properly. He’s filled with the sudden, inexplicable urge to button it up correctly.

“More and more people started disappearing in connection with the coven,” Professor Bradshaw continues, setting his mug back down on the desk, and Dean jerks his gaze guiltily away from the line of his throat, clenching his hands into fists inside the pockets of his leather jacket. “The rapidly diminishing congregation lived in terror. The remaining members of the church all turned against each other. Then, at the height of local hysteria, Iris is said to have murdered Blanche, the minister’s daughter, in what is portrayed in the lore as some kind of statement of the coven’s power over the church.”

“Bet that didn’t go down too well,” Dean remarks, sardonically.

“Quite,” Professor Bradshaw catches Dean’s eye, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Anyway, according to the legend, the tragedy of Blanche’s death united the warring members of the congregation. They captured Iris and entombed her alive, using her own magic against her to keep her trapped. Iris’s death broke the spell on the members of the congregation who’d been indoctrinated against their will, and peace was restored to the village. The few remaining members of the original coven fled and were never seen again.”

“Wow,” Dean raises his eyebrows, “Very love-thy-neighbor.”

Professor Bradshaw snorts, “Yes. Religious leaders in the 1800s were renowned for sitting down and resolving their problems through compassionate discussion,” he remarks, dryly.

“Okay, but what about the other versions of the legend?” Dean asks, trying to remember the things Sam had told him to ask about, but drawing a total blank. His brain feels weirdly scrambled. It’s hard to remember what happened before walking into Professor Bradshaw’s office. “The other stories about the coven I’ve come across so far all seem pretty different.”

Professor Bradshaw frowns slightly. “It’s true, there are many conflicting accounts. Which is often the case with legends, being human constructions of the past,” he regards Dean slightly disapprovingly over the rim of his owl mug, a kind of skeptical stubbornness in the set of his mouth. “It’s not about knowing which ‘to believe’ – it’s about looking at why historically people have favored one version over the other and what that tells us about them.”

“Right, yeah, but aren’t legends often based on fact?” Dean pushes.

Professor Bradshaw pauses, contemplatively, “Yes. That’s certainly true in some cases.”

“Do you think it’s the case in this one?”

“Possibly,” Professor Bradshaw replies, haltingly. His expression is serious and he hesitates for a moment before elaborating; “In fact, I’m currently writing a paper about the historical figures who feature in the legend of the Bridgewater coven.”

“Yeah? Which ones?” Dean presses. He’s used to having to fake interest to get information out of people like Professor Bradshaw, but for once, he finds he’s genuinely interested. There’s something compelling about Professor Bradshaw’s evidently obsessive quest for obscure answers, something that resonates with all too much familiarity.

“Iris, predominantly,” Professor Bradshaw replies. “I’m very interested in the historical reasons women were condemned as witches. Often, it’s as simple as jilted male lovers using accusations of witchcraft as a means of revenge, or the women using herbal remedies that threatened contemporary male ideas of medicine and the body. Sometimes it’s to do with female homosexuality and society’s unacceptance of same sex relationships or women as sexual beings. Of course, it wasn’t uncommon for gay men to be condemned for witchcraft either. But statistically, more homosexual women died as a result of such accusations.”

“Uh – right –” Dean swallows, looking away. His hands are sweating again, and he wipes them surreptitiously on the insides of his pockets. Clearing his throat, he changes the subject, suddenly remembering the other thing Sam had told him to ask Professor Bradshaw about, “What about the runes?”

“Ah yes, the runes on Iris’s supposed tomb,” Professor Bradshaw’s gaze is suddenly inscrutable in a way that makes Dean’s heart thud uncomfortably in his chest. It sweeps over Dean, lingering and unnervingly blue for a moment, before he continues, “Very interesting. I’ve been studying them a great deal as part of my research. The true nature of them has always remained a mystery, and any attempts to discern their meaning haven’t fitted with the legend at all. I believe they may be key to understanding the history behind the creation of the legend. But,” he smiles, wryly, “It’s not an easy task. They’re unlike any runes I’ve come across anywhere else before.”

“Can I see?” Dean asks, partly out of interest, and partly for some way of distracting himself from the way his heart is still thumping uncomfortably fast.

“You’d have to visit the forest burial site to see them in person, but I do have a couple of sketches of the lines I’m working on at the moment,” Professor Bradshaw gets to his feet and crosses to the cabinet by the window, pulling the top drawer open.

The fall chestnut trees outside smolder amber behind his silhouette, midday sunshine pale gold and still where it filters through the window. Time seems strangely irrelevant. Dean watches as Professor Bradshaw flicks through a green binder, fingers quick and dexterous, skilled and uncalloused in a way Dean’s have never had the chance to be.

Dean swallows and looks away, ignoring the thud of his heart as he stares around at the rest of the room. He clocks a bunch of compendiums of mythology on the bookcase nearest him, and two other eccentric and slightly neglected looking plants. There’s a thick plaid rug on the couch in the corner, not quite concealing a plate of half-eaten toast. On the windowsill, there’s a little tin mug with a toothbrush in it that makes Dean wonder again just how often Professor Bradshaw goes home at all. He finds himself wondering whether Professor Bradshaw has always had nothing but an empty house to return to, or whether that’s a more recent development. He’s definitely old enough to be going through a divorce. The thought sits uncomfortably in Dean’s chest for reasons he doesn’t particularly want to identify.

“Here we are.” Professor Bradshaw’s gravelly voice, suddenly much closer, makes Dean jump. He glances around to find Professor Bradshaw standing beside him, holding out a sheet of paper. The smell of warm skin and peppermint catches Dean off guard, stronger this time, and still strangely compelling.

“Uh – thanks,” Dean says awkwardly, taking the proffered page. He feels Professor Bradshaw’s fingers brush against his fleetingly, warm and ink-stained.

Dean swallows, forcing himself to focus on the page in front of him even though his cheeks are hot with something he doesn’t want to think about. The sketches are good, a few strange vaguely Norse reminiscent symbols drawn hastily with accompanying, scrawled notes in the margins. There’s something about the runes that niggles at Dean’s brain, familiar and unfamiliar all at once, like something he’s known his whole life but can’t put his finger on.

“These are interesting,” Dean he frowns, tracing his finger along the two last symbols.

When he glances up, he finds Professor Bradshaw looking at him intently, blue eyes inscrutable. “Yes,” he says, leaning back against the desk and folding his arms across his chest. “Those are the ones which struck me too,” he’s speaking a little quieter, low voice distracting Dean from why the runes are so familiar. He hopes he can remember them, that Sam will be able to place what he can’t about them.

“So, uh, this tomb. The one with the runes on it – that’s definitely where that guy’s body was found last week? It wasn’t just nearby or something?” Dean forces himself to ask, ignoring the way his heart is suddenly thumping again. “And the girl found the week before – she was directly linked to the burial site too?”

Professor Bradshaw clears his throat, unfolding his arms. “I believe so, yes.”

“And that doesn’t seem – I don’t know – a little strange, to you?”

“Human beings committing violent acts against each other is generally something I find a little strange,” Professor Bradshaw replies, in clipped tones. “But beyond that – no. Now –” he breaks off, glancing at his watch. “I’m afraid I have a seminar to deliver in ten minutes,” he confesses, and there’s something unfinished about the way he says it, something almost reluctant. Like he half wants to stay here talking with Dean.

“No problem,” Dean stands, and takes a last glance at the sketches before handing them back, trying to commit them to memory. “Thanks, Professor.”

Their eyes meet as Professor Bradshaw accepts the page, and the room suddenly feels very airless, a pause suspended between them. Neither of them moves away.

This close, Dean can see miniscule flecks of grey like tiny stars lost in blue of Professor Bradshaw’s eyes, the way that his full lips are slightly chapped, like maybe he worries them between his teeth when he’s thinking. They’re soft pink and warm-looking, and Dean wonders fleetingly if they taste like peppermint tea.

“It was nice meeting you, Dean,” Professor Bradshaw says, gently, and his eyes are so blue.

“Uh – yeah – you too. Thanks. I’d – uh – I’d better get going,” Dean stammers, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and cursing the way his cheeks are suddenly flaming with heat. His thoughts churn unsteadily; he ignores them the way he’s learnt to.

Still feeling strangely wound-up, he nods awkwardly at Professor Bradshaw and turns reluctantly towards the door.

“Wait a moment, Dean –” Professor Bradshaw’s voice halts Dean in his tracks as he reaches the door, and Dean turns expectantly, heat thumping a little painfully.

“Yeah?”

“Here – you’re welcome to borrow a couple of books on local history,” Professor Bradshaw is pulling a couple of books down from the overflowing cabinet by the window. “They should have a bit more about the legend of the coven that you might find interesting. Divergences of the legend and so forth. I’ll need them back by Thursday morning as I’m teaching a class on them in the afternoon, but you’re welcome to borrow them until then if they’d be helpful.”

“You sure?” Dean takes the proffered books awkwardly, and swallows the strange disappointment sinks in him like a stone as Professor Bradshaw steps back again. “Thanks.”

“As I said, I’m also giving a lecture on Wednesday where I’ll be examining the history behind the legend of the coven. I meant what I said - you’d be more than welcome to attend,” Professor Bradshaw says, sincerely. His eyes are intent, and there’s a hint of something almost like hopefulness hidden in the depths of his gravelly voice. Working on long ingrained instinct, Dean chooses to ignore it.

“Thanks, I’ll – I’ll see what my schedule’s like,” Dean replies, haltingly.

“Of course,” Professor Bradshaw agrees. He turns back to his desk.

“Can I ask –” Dean pauses, watching Professor Bradshaw stuff another notebook and a stack of handouts into his briefcase. “You said you’re writing a paper about the runes at the forest burial site– do you go to there much?”

Professor Bradshaw glances up, distractedly. “Yes, I spend time there every week.”

“So you haven’t noticed anything – I don’t know – anything unusual when you’ve been there recently?” Dean ventures.

“Unusual how?” Professor Bradshaw closes his briefcase with a snap and looks up at Dean properly, eyes narrowed with sudden skepticism. It’s stronger than the hints Dean has caught at other points during their conversation, sharp and blue, a world away from the observant warmth of a few moments ago.

“I dunno – odd noises, sudden drops in temperature, shadows –”

“Just what are you asking me?” Professor Bradshaw demands, voice clipped and defensive.

“Have you seen anything like that?” Dean presses, stubbornly. Irritation prickles his skin.

“No, I haven’t,” Professor Bradshaw says, bluntly. “And you know why? Because yes, I study the supernatural – but it’s not real, Dean. I don’t know what kind of sensational article you’re writing about local lore, but I can assure you, lore is all it is.” He winds a striped scarf haphazardly around his neck, and grabs his briefcase off the desk. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a class to teach.”

Sam is eating some gross looking granola yoghurt pot with a plastic spoon when Dean eventually clambers back into the car, feeling distinctly frustrated.

“You took your time,” he remarks idly, raising an eyebrow as Dean adjusts the mirror with an unnecessary amount of force and turns on the ignition.

“Goddamn waste of time was what it was,” Dean mutters mutinously, pulling out of the space and then immediately being forced to hit the brakes when a cluster of students cross the parking lot in front of him. He grinds his teeth and resists the urge to honk the horn. “Thought I was getting somewhere but he completely shut down the minute I asked him if he’d noticed anything weird at the burial site.”

“Suspicious?” Sam frowns, through a mouthful of granola.

“No, don’t think so. Just really damn touchy,” Dean drums his fingers impatiently against the wheel as he waits for the students to move, “And a bit of an asshole. I dunno, suppose working in his field he’s probably used to people thinking he’s just some lunatic who believes in the supernatural.”

“And does he?”

Dean snorts. “No way. He’s got a real bee in his bonnet about it. You’d think someone who’s spent the last twenty years with their head buried in books about ghosts and covens and demonic possession might be a little more open to the idea,” he shrugs, and gives in to the temptation to lean on the horn, reveling in the brief satisfaction of making the students jump and scurry out of the way, “But no. The guy’s absolutely blind to it all, and could rival you on stubbornness.”

Sam purses his mouth in annoyance, but doesn’t rise to the bait. “Get anything useful at all?”

“He did lend me a couple books,” Dean admits, nodding in the direction of the backseat. “Have to take them back on Thursday morning, though. He needs them for some class.”

“He leant you his books?” Sam raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Dean shrugs, skin prickling in annoyance, “What of it?”

“Dunno, that’s just,” Sam swallows a mouthful of yoghurt, “Pretty trusting. Academics usually treat their books as if they’re their first borns.”

“Don’t mess them up when you read them, then,” Dean says, dismissively, as they pull out onto the main street. “You find out anything useful about the victims?”

“Not really,” Sam leans back in his seat with a sigh, “Both from middle class, religious families. Seem to have been pretty well liked by people. Hard to establish any link more than that. The wife of the guy that was killed last week seemed a bit cagey, though,” he shrugs, “Might be worth a second visit to see if she’s holding out on us about something.”

“Right,” Dean drums his fingers impatiently against the wheel as they wait for a light to change. It’s starting to drizzle, tiny flecks of grey hitting the windshield. “Are we still definitely thinking ghost?”

“Seems like it,” Sam affirms, “The way the victims died definitely points to a vengeful spirit. But the place they were killed – connected to the burial site associated with the coven? I don’t know, I was thinking maybe it’s no ordinary ghost. Maybe it’s the vengeful spirit of a witch, and that’s why it’s so powerful?”

“Hm,” Dean mulls it over, flicking the windscreen wipers on as they continue to wait. They squeak slightly, repetitive and familiar. “You could be onto something there.”

“Yeah?”

“Professor Bradshaw was telling me about the local legend of the coven. Apparently, its leader was entombed alive by a bunch of angry churchgoers,” Dean steps on the accelerator as the light finally changes, and the rain-slicked village slides past in a blur. “That’s got to be some pretty good vengeful spirit material right there. And you said the victims were both religious, right? Can’t be a coincidence.”

“Why now, though?” Sam frowns. “It’s been what – two hundred years? There must have been plenty of churchgoers who walked by the burial site before now.”

“Dunno,” Dean shrugs, staring out at the rainy smudge of fall colors. The chestnuts trees lining the street are the same smoldering hue of amber as the one outside Professor Bradshaw’s window.

They drive in silence for a few moments, wipers squeaking.

“Okay,” Sam says, at length, “So I’m thinking – we go check into a motel, get through as much of these books from your professor as we can while we wait for the rain to stop, and then check out the burial site later this afternoon before it gets dark?” Sam asks, chucking his plastic spoon in the empty yoghurt container.

“He’s not ‘my professor’,” Dean says defensively, and suddenly has to step a little too hard on the breaks to avoid running a red light.

“Alright,” Sam says, slowly. “Okay.”

“Anyway, yeah,” Dean blusters, hastily, ignoring the weight of Sam’s gaze on the side of his face, “Works for me. But first,” he flicks on the indicator and pulls into a space near a little line of local shops. “Food. Not that yoghurty shit you’ve been eating. Real food.”

The forest is steeped in quiet in the way all ancient places are, fall singing the leaves on the gnarled branches that claw their way towards the fading gold of the late afternoon sun. Dean breathes in the wet, cloying smell of moss and follows Sam’s careful path through the trees. There’s a chill in the air, but the handle of Dean’s blade is hot in the palm of his hand.

“How much further to this place?” he hisses at Sam’s back, swatting a frond of bracken out of his face and casting his gaze edgily through the twisting branches and burnt amber.

“Nearly there, according to –” Sam stops so abruptly that Dean nearly collides with him, throwing out a cautionary arm.

“What?” Dean whispers urgently, instantly drawing his blade. His heart is racing now, whole body tense, coiled, ready to attack. His gaze flickers rapidly through the mess of branches and he stands on his tiptoes, trying to see past Sam’s stupidly large frame. “Sammy,” he hisses, impatiently, when Sam doesn’t immediately answer, “What is it?”

“There’s something there,” Sam breathes, almost inaudible. His posture is still, alert. Dean can see Sam’s hold on the gun in his back pocket tighten.

“What kind of something?” Dean whispers, craning his neck to try and see. The light seems somehow dimmer already, the fading sun sliding further towards the ground. When he breathes in, the smell of wet leaves is stronger, now that they’re in the heart of the forest. His heart is thrumming so fast but everything else feels suspended in time, unnaturally still.

“I think it’s a person,” Sam murmurs, and somewhere close, Dean hears the brittle rustle of dead leaves, loud and unnerving in the wooded quiet. He watches the quickened rise and fall of Sam’s shoulders as his breathing suddenly sharpens. “They’re holding something. They – shit, Dean, they’re coming this way.”

Dean reacts immediately and on nearly twenty years of protective instinct; he shoves Sam out of the way and stumbles out into the clearing, blade brandished in front of him.

---

#did i really just create a new ship tag on ao3 just because i couldn't get the idea of early seasons dean and pre-podcast jeremy meeting?#yes #yes i did #feedback truly makes my day <3 #crossposting from ao3 #bridgewater #bridgewater podcast #supernatural #dean winchester #jeremy bradshaw #dean x jeremy #spn fanfic #dean fanfic #my stuff #my posts: fanfic

57 notes · View notes

wendimydarling · 3 years

Text

Cover the Mirrors

Summary: Amber is earning a masters degree in mythology and folklore; when a handsome stranger sweeps her off her feet, she’s left wondering how, and struggles to keep up with his lifestyle.

Pairing: Vampire!August Walker x OFC (first person reader)

Word Count: 6826

Warnings: Alright, we ready to get into the menu of delights we will be reading today? Okay but seriously, if you are triggered by anything on this list, it is your responsibility to not read this work of fiction. The warnings are as follows: manipulation, subtle exhibitionism, fingering, penetrative sex, mention of oral (male receiving), biting, clawing, choking, blood, male violence, gore, non-con, rape, spitting, fear play, primal play, breeding, mention of death, torture, and potentially cannibalism, if you squint.

A/N: Okay so this story is based off of this thread where @killjoy-assbutt-1112 gave me a fic title, but I added another twist to it that I’d been brewing for months; I was excited about it but now I’m not. Whatever, I’ll give it to you anyway. Sources for my vampire lore came from here and here. Cover art was made by me; August was drawn by the amazingly talented @cheyentjj and has been used with her permission. Thank you so much to everyone who brainstormed with me, and a special thanks to @agniavateira for betaing!

“If you look at the Slavic region, vampire folklore runs rampant. One especially interesting specimen is the Pijavica. The Pijavica (translated “leech”, or “drinker”) was a rare species of vampire— traditionally male, and a powerfully strong, cold-blooded killer. The potential for conception is most commonly believed to be through the incest of the deceased with his mother during his life, though some believe that one can be created through the exceptionally malicious and evil acts of the deceased before his death.

The birth of a Pijavica is attributed to many different causes, including suffering an “unnatural” or untimely death such as suicide, excommunication, improper burial rituals, or even simple causes such as an animal jumping or bird flying over either the corpse or the empty grave, being conceived on certain days, or being born with a caul, teeth, or tail.”

I paused my typing, fingers leaving the keyboard in order to brush loose strands of hair from my face. Around me, the baristas of my favorite coffee shop were buzzing like worker bees in an old hive; they were gearing up for the lunch rush, and I realized I’d been here four hours already.

This place had long been my go-to study zone. It was small; there was just enough hustle and bustle to keep me from descending too deep into the abyss of studying and yet, it had the respect of the patrons that a library does. The owner, Fred, made sure that conversations were kept in hushed tones, courteous to those of us who needed to work in noise instead of quiet.

“If ya wanna be loud, go sit at a Starbucks!” He’d huff at those who didn’t heed his warning.

My eyes took in the familiar surroundings as I stretched. An oversized wood-burning fireplace filled the wall next to the vintage cash register; it was sandwiched between two built-in bookcases housing stories of all kinds that were meant to be read and enjoyed. The old stone clackling ran all the way up the wall, and a custom mantle made from an old oak tree that had fallen in Fred’s backyard sat delicately above the firebox. Yes, this shop was magical. It held a special place in my heart, and I’d visited so often that old Fred had deemed the table I sat at as “my table”. It was always kept reserved for me.

I reached for my coffee without looking; my brain needed more caffeine. I’d spent months on this master thesis, and yet for some reason, the notion of vampires was such a struggle. I didn’t understand the fear of those who lived back then. The origins of bloodsuckers were chaotic, the “treatments” laughable and still, people were willing to kill their own offspring over such nonsensical superstitions. Cold drops of stale roast hit my lips in a harsh reminder that I’d finished my previous dose. I sighed heavily and dropped the cup to the wooden surface of my table. Eyes closed, I laced my fingers around my neck and drew my elbows together to stretch my spine. Coffee. I need more coffee.

“Having trouble?”

A man’s baritone, smooth as whiskey interrupted my thoughts. My body jolted at his leisurely tone, and I nearly tumbled off the chair as my eyes snapped open to view the intruder. Sitting across from me was anything but a man; I was in the presence of divine artistry, two breathtaking orbs of gray-washed sky centered below auburn curls that adorned his perfectly symmetrical face. A sharp nose pointed to his strong jaw, while an amused smirk tugged at the corner of lips that I’m certain could send even a nun to her bedroom for self-maintenance. He wore a crisp, pinstripe suit, the buttons of his dress shirt undone sinfully low, revealing a smattering of additional curls.

My oversized turtleneck sweater and leggings suddenly felt subpar.

“The name’s Walker,” he mused further, gesturing a large hand toward the empty paper tumbler that was now lying on its side. “What were you drinking?”

“I--I um,” I fumbled with my words, embarrassed by my sudden inability to form a proper sentence. “I had a flat white? With two extra shots of espresso.”

The man named Walker had the cup in his hand and was out of his chair before I could blink; he was already ordering another coffee by the time I managed to process his intentions. I watched him hand the barista a bill I couldn’t see, but by the shocked expression on her face at the man’s declination of the change, it must have been a sizable amount. He sat down at the table again and stared at my chest unabashedly, making it clear he wasn’t just looking but imagining as well.

I should have been offended or felt objectified, but instead I felt drawn into his gaze.

“Having trouble?” He asked again, gesturing this time at my laptop.

“How long were you sitting there?” I blurted out, still too flummoxed to answer his question. Walker laughed and I swear, time stood still. Never in my life had I heard something so beautiful.

“Long enough.”

His reply was short and cryptic, a dismissal of my burgeoning curiosity. The barista chose that moment to bring two orders of coffee to the table, offering both of them to Walker by mistake. I took in her awestruck countenance, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that if my face matched hers I’d sink to the floor and die of shame. That notion shook me from my stupor and I was finally able to address his question.

“It’s my master thesis,” I explained, taking a sip of the scalding liquid he handed me. “I’m a History major, with an emphasis in mythology and folklore.”

I took another sip and tapped my phone, large numbers greeting me on the screen. Numbers that told me I was extremely late.

“Oh my god I have to go, I’m so sorry!” I apologized, scrambling to pack my things. In my haste I knocked my drink off the table. Resignation sunk in deep, submission to the knowledge of further humiliation at the impending spill. None came however, as Walker caught the drink in his hand before it crashed to the dark tiles.

“Thank you,” I murmured, gawking at him in bewilderment. Who was this man?

“It’s my pleasure,” he said, standing to help me collect the remainder of my books. “I’m interested in your thesis, could we perhaps discuss it over dinner? I don’t want to keep you from your next engagement.”

“I—” I stared at him, his face open and inviting. I’d been asked out before, but never this abruptly, and never by someone who looked and behaved like him. It sounded like an adventure…or a good story to tell on girls’ night at least.

“You know what, sure. Why not?”

I scribbled my number onto a napkin and slid it his way, grabbing the rest of my gear and heading toward the door. As I pushed against the hard metal, Walker’s large fingers caught my wrist, wrapping around it like ivy wraps around a lamppost. They were cool to the touch and yet somehow, my entire body immediately felt heated.

“We forgot first names,” he chuckled, “I’m August.”

I grinned sheepishly, pulling my arm from his surprisingly firm grip. The clank of the metal door handle resonated with the introduction I threw over my shoulder as I left the warmth of the shop and the handsome man behind.

“Amber.”

It took August a full week to call me. I felt like a fool; Did I leave on a poor note? Had I offended him somehow? Did he simply decide to change his fucking mind? I was kicking myself for saying yes; how could I have agreed to go on a date with a complete stranger? Now that I was no longer in his flustering presence, I began to see reason again. I knew nothing more than this man’s name, and the fact that he was more than likely rich. He could be a cold-blooded killer for all I knew, and I had every intention of telling him off.

I was in my apartment when he called. Still stuck on my thesis, I was currently unable to determine how best to explain the theory behind the sexual appeal of vampires. In my frustration, I hung upside down over the side of my bed, reading a book that discussed the many different works of literature revolving around vampirical romanticism and hoping the blood rushing to my brain would help me ascertain how to go about my explanation. The book was written by two authors who essentially argue the whole time, one of them convinced that the human fascination with vampires stems from the cannibalistic nature of bloodsucking or that it alluded to other bodily fluids such as semen, whereas the other stood firm in his belief that it held a much simpler cause; it was nothing more than the presence of oral fixation and sadism that caused the fantasy to plant its seed.

My phone vibrated but I ignored it, too engrossed in my book to be bothered with answering. I was so close… the answer was right there, it just continued to escape me. It wasn’t until my phone vibrated a second time to notify me of a voicemail that I put the pages down and picked up the electronic device.

The moment I heard August excusing his delay in calling to a work emergency, I immediately sat up and hit redial. There was something in his voice that made my heart quicken and my pulse race; it made the hair on my arms stand on end. I regretted sitting up so fast as it rang, the blood surrounding my brain draining quickly into the rest of my body. August answered on the second ring.

“Hi, Amber.”

“I—hi.”

I rolled my eyes then flinched in pain, congratulating myself sarcastically on how pathetic that response sounded with a slap of my palm to my forehead.

“Please, allow me to apologize again for waiting so long to call,” August insisted, seemingly unphased by my lack of vocabulary. “I still intend to take you to dinner, that is if you haven’t written me off completely.”

“No it’s fine, I totally get it,” I assured him. I had completely forgotten my earlier annoyance. He had explained it after all, and it could happen to anyone.

“Perfect. I’ll send a car tonight then, at seven. Wear something revealing please, I wasn’t able to see that pretty little neck of yours last time.”

My insides shook with an unexpected pang of shocked arousal at August’s request. The sexual confidence saturating his tone had me instantly reduced to nothing more than a deep desire for him to drag me to my knees by my hair. Why I wasn’t offended by the dominantly abrupt way this man spoke to me, I’ll never know. I put on the best flirty air I could manage in my stupor.

“I think I can manage that. Might have to charge you though.”

August laughed for the second time since I’d known him and I smiled, proud that I’d caused such a melodious sound to grace this earth.

“I like your spirit; you’re gonna be fun. I’ll see you tonight.”

“I—okay bye,” I managed to say before he hung up. I stared at my phone stupidly, as though I thought he was going to call again. Instead, the large clock face glared up at me like it always does, an ever present reminder that I live on a different plane of time than the rest of the world. I fell back on the bed, thinking about the man named August.

He likes my spirit? I hadn’t really shown him much, I’d been unable to do anything but stammer and trip over my words like a schoolgirl would when confronted by the cutest jock at school. What could he possibly see in me? The woman I truly was, the one I knew was underneath the bumbling idiot finally answered me. You’ve got three hours, Amber. Show him what you’re made of.

Resolve set in, and I bounced off the bed and walked toward my closet. For whatever reason, he’d chosen me, so I was going to let my confidence in that thought override all the self-doubt that was threatening to surface. I pulled my favorite dress from the hanger and set out to work. He wanted revealing? Then revealing is what he’d get, but I was going to do it my way.

The car was punctual, though I was less so. I scrambled to put diamond studs in my ears while being driven to some unknown location, my nerves making my hands shake. Once again, the notion that I could be driving to my death crept up my spine, but I brushed it off. Rich men send cars, it’s what they do. And I am an intelligent woman, I wouldn’t let myself be put in that situation.

Would I?

Touching the final stroke of Red Wine lipstick on my lips, I pulled my loose curls over my shoulder to expose my neck and put my things in my vintage black clutch, staring out the window at the ancient building that housed the most expensive club in town. I was suddenly grateful I’d chosen such a fancy dress. I fidgeted with the soft hem of the sleeve at my wrist, drawing it back and forth between my fingers while I waited for the driver to come to a stop.

I saw August there waiting, looking sharp as ever in another expensive three-piece suit, buttons undone just as low as the first time. This time however, I felt much better matched to his attire, and my confidence rose right next to my excitement. August came down the steps to open the door and I took his hand, hiking the burgundy velvet up to my thigh so that I could exit the car smoothly. The heavy fabric dropped to the ground the moment I freed it from my grasp, allowing August to study how I’d chosen to honor his request.

August drank in my covered form, taking in the way my dress hugged my curves and accentuated what it needed to. His eyes darkened as they lingered on the single large triangular section of bare skin that started at my shoulders and came to a point between my breasts, and I watched his tongue dart out of his mouth softly. He looked downright hungry. August stepped closer, fingertips grazing the flesh on my collarbone before he fastened his grip onto my nape and inhaled the hair at my temple deeply, pressing his lips to my ear.

“You are simply mouthwatering,” he growled, low and possessive. His hand released my neck and slid down to the small of my back, sending a shiver down my spine. My insides quivered at his touch, fragrant drops of dew pooling rapidly in the flimsy lace that guarded my mound from potential intruders.

“You wanted to see my ‘pretty little neck’,” I teased his earlier arrogance, lifting my skirt to traverse the steps leading inside, “I thought I’d frame her for you, give her the spotlight.”

August cocked an eyebrow at me in amusement, sensing my challenge. His fingers dug into my hip a little harder than necessary as he guided me through the establishment with nothing more than a nod to the hostesses. Apparent jealousy marred the face of one, and I thought I saw a hint of worry on the other. We were gone before the emotion could register in my mind.

I was escorted to a private booth in the upstairs of the establishment. While the first floor was crowded and full of people, the second floor was empty; August had requested it for our use alone. I could hear the hum of nightlife below, the haunting, non-lyrical melody of a soft alto wafting over the balcony as we walked past, the whispered promise of an enchanting night. A few tables and chairs were strategically placed on the floor, hugged by back-to-back rounded booths on either wall. Light ethereal curtains hung on either side of them, offering privacy from the guests who would typically sit in the next box over. August led me to the corner booth nearest the balcony so that we could look upon the stage if we chose.

“Our table, milady,” he joked, leaving a wet kiss on the back of my hand. Though the charade was seemingly in jest, it could not have been farther from it. His piercing eyes never left mine and I gasped at the feel of his brazen tongue on my skin. The suggestion of what he could do with it hung thick in his gaze, lacing the air with the succulent first tendrils of decadent tension. Playing along, I took a sharp breath and curtsied. I stayed low as August stood to show him the appeal of my figure at this angle, tilting just my head to look up at him. He stood there, head held high like a king, and the smile I received at my display was downright sinful.

“What a treat you are,” he murmured, cupping my chin briefly. My breasts swelled as I stood, consenting August the claim to chivalry by way of settling me into the alcove. He swept my hair over my shoulder again, trailing a single finger down my neck in admiration before taking his own seat. My insides were nothing but a pile of kindling, and every touch he gave was a spark that threatened to ignite the dry leaves into a burning flame of need.

The courses came and went just like those moments, every phrase emphasized with physical intimacy of some kind, whether it be just a gossamer brush of his fingers on my ear or an intentional grasping of my hand. He went as far as to boldly stroke the back of his knuckle along my cleavage, making me dizzy with desire. Each touch was avaricious—like he owned me—and I had zero qualms about letting him.

We ate our fill, but August made no move to leave the comfort of our small corner. With the noise of people below dulled by the far reaches of our seclusion, it was easy to converse. I told him more about my master thesis and the Pijavica, how they could read minds and enjoyed the power of persuasion, how they were impervious to all but decapitation, and how only their offspring could kill them. He listened intently, sharing tales of his own career. It was how I discovered that he was a doctor.

“I don’t practice anymore though, I prefer to study and learn. Specifically, I’m attracted to tears.”

“Tears?” That struck me as odd; it wasn’t often you came across someone who had such a unique field of study. “Why tears?”

August swirled the whiskey in his glass and downed it abruptly. He subtly indicated to our attendant for another before continuing his explanation.

“I’ve always had a fascination for the small things, things that people don’t seem to think matter; the mind-body connection, you know? For example,” he brushed a thumb over my cheekbone, “Did you know that the cellular structure of tears looks different based on the type of tear?”

August cupped my neck with both of his hands, tilting my head this way and that, his calm features set in measured focus as he spoke.

“Basal, reflexive, emotional... they all look different.”

I closed my eyes, letting him caress my skin. August’s touch was intoxicating, addicting. Even his scent was an aphrodisiac to my senses. I couldn’t get enough of it, lured ever closer to his sturdy frame, letting him manipulate my body how he saw fit. He nuzzled my hair, his soft spoken words dripping with lust into my ear.

“In fact,” he went on, “Even among those categories they differ, dependent on the stimuli.”

I could feel his breath on my neck, his lips surrounding the pulsepoint in my veins as he spoke, my jaw his destination. A hand snuck under my skirt, skimming along my trembling skin toward the seeping treasure that awaited him at the end of his journey. I spread my legs willingly, inviting him into my deepest of secrets. August hummed as he went on, sending spirals of tingling vibrations through my chest.

“The sting of onions, the sadness of grief… the satisfaction of overwhelming pleasure.”

“August…” I breathed, but my voice was severed as August simultaneously laid claim to my mouth and my womb. Thick fingers penetrated me in the same moment as his probing tongue, and it was in that moment I knew I was lost; August Walker could pull everything from me and I wouldn’t care; I’d want it, need it. He had spent all night teasing me, testing me, manipulating me and filling me with nothing but a desire for more, leaving me empty and wanting. He had succeeded, I now craved him above all else in this world.

August lifted my skirts, hoisting me with little effort to straddle his lap and I cried out in shock. The sound of my sudden impalement on the thick steel of his manhood was camouflaged by the crowd of people below; no one heard the echo of carnal awakening that sang through the air. When had he undressed? I bit my lip as he sank deeper into my core until the salty bitterness of copper and iron stung my chin. August’s eyes fell to the red droplet, darkening until the only color left in his pale irises was the very absence of light. With a hideous growl he ravaged my mouth, tasting every inch of my bruised lips with the hunger of an animal that’s been caged for far too long.

Thrill and terror tangled themselves in my mind, weaving an intricate web of wanton desire inside of me as August took me right there in the booth. Time itself seemed to halt, the room disappeared. Were we still in the club? Was it still the dead of night? Did I still require oxygen to breathe? Or was my life source now August’s touch, the light in my very soul dependent upon his kiss?

I didn’t notice when we left, nor when we arrived at a house that overlooked the city. I didn’t notice the lock on the basement door, or the fresh garden in the yard. I didn’t notice the continual rising and setting of the sun. I didn’t notice when I grew hungry, nor when I grew tired. I didn’t notice, not anything but passion, need, and desperation.

I didn’t notice.

Sleep drained from my limbs slowly. I awoke to black silk caressing my skin, dim sunlight shining through the wall, diffused by a covering of clouds that hung in the sky. It confused me that it was coming through the entire wall, until I realized that said wall was simply one large window, and the room I found myself in was built into the rock of an obsidian cliff overlooking the city. The room was minimally decorated in dark tones that coordinated with the nature outside, save for a striking, golden painting of a woman crying on the far wall. I clearly wasn’t home, and last night’s events slowly returned to the forefront of my mind.

August.

August was, without a doubt, the most attentive lover I’d ever had. Memories of his lips, his scent, his god-like physique that was surely carved from marble entertained my thoughts, returning my mind to the pleasure I’d never experienced in my life. Chills ran up and down my skin, alighting in wonder as my hand drifted to my sex. My fingers found my petals, swollen from overuse, aching in the dull agony of satisfaction. I stroked them gently, soothing the pleasant tenderness, moaning softly as the blood rushed to swell my clit once more, my other hand slipping beneath the silk to join in the heavenly edging torment.

A sharp, sudden sting at the brush of my inner thigh caused me to cry out, my hands snatching away from their play. I sat up, peering beneath the sheets to discover a semi-circle of divots cut into my leg. Is that a… a bite mark? I pulled at the skin and felt the dried blood crack, a small pinprick of new red seeping through the scab. I lunged from the bed to stand in front of the full-length mirror in the corner and look for other signs or markings, but what I found made me gasp.

Bruises peppered my neck, chest, hips and thighs. A few other crescents were scattered amongst them, standing out against the dark patches that shaded my skin. I took a physical inventory then, feeling the soreness in my jaw from being stretched by his cock, the ache of my neck from having my hair pulled, the shaky feeling of muscular fatigue in my legs from being tensed by orgasm after orgasm. I thought I detected a slight sheen on my skin, but I couldn’t tell if that was from the tremulous bliss of a satisfying fuck, or if it was the sweat and oil caused by said satisfying fuck. Either way, I looked happy and content. I grabbed August’s dress shirt from the floor and threw it on as I left the room to explore.

The bedroom led to a hallway, the wall to my left still nothing but expansive glass that showed off the impressive view. On the other side were large, black and white abstract prints, hung evenly spaced against dark panels. To the left of each was a shadow box with an ornate glass vial inside; each bottle was thin, no longer than my palm and differing in design from the others. Tiny, intricate patterns were painted on the outsides in white, blue, and gold, and gold stoppers sealed each one. When I entered the main room, I discovered a curio cabinet that housed at least a hundred of them, and I leaned in to look at how varied each one was.

“Victorian tear catchers,” August’s voice was suddenly behind me and I whirled sharply, startled. He chuckled at my alarm and I laughed with him, enjoying that glorious sound.

“They’re beautiful,” I murmured, turning back to look at the delicate glass. August pulled me against his naked chest, nosing my hair and kissing my neck.

“Yes you are,” he whispered, earning an eye roll from me. August chuckled and opened the cabinet.

“Would you like one?”

“Really?”

I looked at him, stunned. He simply nodded his head in the direction of the vials and I examined them, selecting one that had a white pattern on it that looked like lace.

“Mmm, a good choice. Perhaps I can collect tears of ecstasy for you,” August whispered. The thrill of what he was implying awakened my senses, and I let him lead us slowly back toward the bedroom. I felt like teasing him, so I delayed a bit by asking about the art on the wall.

“What are those?” I pointed to the first print, a cross-hatching pattern that looked like it was made of sewing pins.

“Those are tears of grief,” he stated, stopping in front of each as he walked me gradually down the hall.

“A yawn,” he said of the next, a white background with dark, fern-looking splatters. August traced his mouth along my jaw, his hand dipping beneath the button of his shirt to play with the sensitive nipples he had rediscovered. I keened as he continued shifting us toward the kitchen, struggling to keep my composure. The next print was a much darker gray, and it looked like it was covered in snowflakes.

“Any guesses?” August asked, mouthing my earlobe in tandem with the flick of his thumbs over my hardened nubs. I whimpered, my knees weak in his lustful embrace.

“Uhm… cold air?” I rasped as he sucked on my neck. August chuckled through his nose, the vibrations of his voice rippling through my chest to connect with his teasing fingers.

“Onions.”

“Yeah okay.”

I tilted my head so that I could kiss him, but suddenly the thought of onions turned my stomach. I lurched, pulling away and gagging slightly. Instead of concern, August smiled knowingly, seemingly unbothered by my retching.

“I see morning sickness has set in. It’s a little early and I had hoped you’d be able to avoid it, but alas, that’s not the case.”

My head swam suddenly, confusion mutilating all thought. I backed away from him.

“Morning what? What are you talking about?”

August took a step toward me, placing a hand on my belly and lacing his fingers in the hair at my nape.

“Women always taste better after they’ve conceived. And I can keep them longer; they make much more blood when they’re host to a fetus.”

I pushed against him, turning away and vainly attempting to process his words. Pregnant? Taste better? Blood? My eyes focused on a card I hadn’t noticed earlier in the shadow box, a single word printed on it.

Bridgette

“Isn’t it ironic,” August mused, tracing my collarbone with a thick finger, “That five weeks ago, you had a chance encounter with the very thing you’ve been studying for months, and now you carry his child.”

The room spun. I couldn’t think; my brain refused to process the nonsense he spoke.

“Five—five weeks?! No that’s not possible, our date was last night!”

“It’s more than possible, sweet morsel. Think about it.”

Bile rose thick and acrid in my throat then, threatening to spill. Memories and time started filtering into my mind, replacing the fog with everything I’d lost. The last puzzle piece clicked into place, confusion all but disappeared and I was left with nothing but the cold, terrifying truth. Pijavica. Vampire. Monster.

I’d fallen into the clutches of a monster.

I did the only thing I could think of; I slapped him as hard as I could and took off through the house, ignoring the sharp pain of a chunk of hair remaining in his hand. My heart pounded in my chest, desperate to be free of this sudden nightmare. I slammed into the front door and grabbed the handle, a strangled sob catching in my throat when it wouldn’t open.

I rattled the door knob, panic consuming every fiber of my being. Suddenly, it wasn’t just my life I was fighting for; apparently there was a life inside of me that needed protecting. The child of a Pijavica that was depending on me to escape, so that he could come back and kill his father. I have to get out. I gave up on the door in anger, spinning around and looking for another way.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

I heard August’s voice again, but he was nowhere to be seen. His voice came louder, penetrating my mind. I have to keep moving.

“It was because of your name; they match your eyes.”

I whimpered at his words, sneaking my head around a corner to survey the living space for some form of an exit.

“Amber has a historical application, you see,” he went on, louder. I dashed over the floor, desperate to be gone from him. Door after door remained locked, and my terror grew with each attempt. Every now and then I could hear August, whether it be a rustle of fabric or the knock of his foot on the wooden floor. The scholar in me knew that it was on purpose, that he was luring his prey, giving chase to his food, and yet my rational mind refused to take charge. I was being led by my flight response, and his jarring monologue wasn’t helping.

“Throughout history, whenever a goddess cried it was typically tears of amber, save for the goddess Freya, who cried gold. You met her in the bedroom.”

His laughter echoed through the dark walls of his lair, and chilled me to my core. It was no longer a beautiful sound, but grating and horrible. I was nothing but a petty human to play with, some toy that he could eat when he tired of me. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I came to the last door. Dear God, please let this one open. To my utter relief, the door swung wide and I was met with stairs. Stairs went down, and we were on a cliff. Down was good. Down meant freedom.

I clambered down the steps and flung open the door at the bottom, stumbling into the room and falling to the floor in horror and fear. There in front of me, was nothing but mirrors. A maze of mirrors, each one showing me my trembling features, mocking me, letting me know just how fucked I was. I turned back, intending to go back up the stairs and try another way, but August’s silhouette stood at the top, preventing me from going back into the house. I heard a scream and realized it was my own.

Scrambling off the floor, I took off into the maze, blinded by my tears.

“Each of those girls made it this far you know,” August taunted. I heard the slam of the door and nearly choked as I ran. “You’ll die in this room, just like they did.”

His nonchalance, his continual unconcern about chasing me, his arrogance that he would no doubt catch me made me so angry. I raced from path to path, growing ever more frantic every time I reached a dead end. I didn’t even know if this room had an exit, I just knew I had to keep moving. I tripped over something as I rounded a corner, screaming when I saw what it was.

“I see you found Bridgette,” August chuckled, and I looked up from the skeleton to see his hideous face marred with a sinful sneer. I gasped and took off again, turning this way and that. Hitting another dead end, I doubled back and ran smack into August’s broad torso. He caught me and held me close as I screamed, ripping his shirt from my body. He spun me around, pinning my wrists between my back and his belly, trailing his fingers languidly over my naked frame in an inspection of his handiwork. My jaw was gripped in an iron vice and August forced my gaze to the mirror.

“Do you see what I see?” he mocked. I could only stare in horror, for nothing but my own terrified expression stared back at me.

August had no reflection.

“Out of all the patterns in the world, do you know which tears are my favorite?” August continued to torment. He inhaled my hair deeply, snaking his tongue along the length of my cheek, tasting the stains my tears had left in their wake.

“Fear.”

I heard August growl as I fought against him, his iron grasp caging me against his cool skin, more of the cursed moisture pooling in my eyes. Glassy drops fell, retracing a new path toward my chin but August just kissed them away, shoving me to the floor when my knees buckled of their own accord. He let go of my hands to fidget with his slacks, pulling me back toward him every time I tried to crawl away as a parent would to a petulant child. On the third attempt he snapped my knee, a scream tearing from my throat in my woeful submission to his desire.

Finally free of his clothes, August lifted my hips, lining his rigid cock up against my sweat-soaked folds. He dove into my treasure without care, forcing his way into the depths of my belly, stretching and tearing my walls until he was fully sheathed. Strong arms wrapped around me again, and I felt two sharp points prick the junction of my neck and shoulder. I cried out and thrashed in fierce protest, knowing that small pinch was just a warning of oncoming pain.

August’s teeth punctured my skin easily, shredding muscle and sinew until they hit bone. I howled in pain as I watched blood drip from the wound, a familiar crescent shape joining its brothers on my body. Searing heat shot through my neck with his first draw of thick plasma; the violent removal of blood causing an intense burn that I felt all the way down to my injured leg. August released my neck and I clapped a hand over the fresh wound.

I looked over my shoulder at him; his head was tilted down, mouth still full of my blood; the lack of a reflection behind him unsettling to my senses. August opened his wicked maw slowly, dark scarlet trickling from his lips onto the junction where my hips met his, run through by his sword. He looked up at me with a nasty grin, bloodstained fangs curdling my stomach. I closed my eyes and turned away as he swiped a hand through the mess. His fingers penetrated my core alongside his cock, deaf to my sobbing objections.

“You’d better open your eyes, pet… This needy little cunt is dripping, I’d hate for you to miss it.”

August emphasized his sick joke by grasping my hair, shoving my head to the floor, forcing me to look once more into the polished glass. My desperate wails for mercy were all that kept me grounded as I watched him thrust, my battered hole be stretched beyond capacity. Nothing but empty space plundered my core, crimson air bruising the very place within me that only just last night had been treated with such tenderness and care. Not last night. His slick fingers found my mouth and violated it effortlessly; no amount of pressure I could apply would break through his tough skin.

“God, you look so beautiful.”

August pulled me up and took to my neck with fervor, latching onto the broken sliver of skin like a leech. The more he drank, the weaker I became, until there was no resistance left within me. I could see the color drain from my bloody face, I could see black slowly creep into my vision, but I was powerless to stop it. August was in charge, he held my entire existence in his hands, and he intended to extinguish it. I closed my eyes again, accepting my fate.

I was going to die.

One of my favorite places to visit is a small outdoor cafe, very near the coffee shop where I met Amber. Mmmm. Amber. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of that tantalizing woman.

She lasted so much longer than all the others, you know. I was able to feed off of her nearly three full months as she hung there in my basement, until the last drop of her tantalizing nectar was finally extracted. She smelled of carraway and saffron, tasted of sweet mulled wine, and with the rich, heady, piquancy of her fertile womb seasoning each sinew, every inch of her opulent flesh begged to be consumed. I must admit, I should have dispatched of her sooner, but fascination overtook my curious mind as her own was consumed by insanity.

First it was freedom she asked for, and then death. Sometimes she would beg to speak to her mother one last time. But by the end, she only asked for one thing.

“Please,” she would whisper, “Please… Cover the mirrors. Just cover the mirrors.”

She asked so nicely, but how on earth could I hide such beauty? Her tears were just as rare, you see. They hold a beauty unmatched by any of the others that hang on my walls. I’ve never seen such a fear pattern like hers; it is more exquisite than the dawn of a misty spring day in the countryside, more beautiful than a woman at the height of euphoria. And they way they sparkled against her skin, lustrous tracks that wound down her temples and through her hair, glinting in the mirrors with each slow rotation of her inverted body... well, it was as if I was living among the stars. Adding her ashes to my garden was such a shame.

I sat at that little cafe, eyes closed, viewing the world through my enhanced scent. Each drop of bitter coffee, the pollen of a nearby bee, the oil in the bike chains of two clumsy humans as they rolled past; each note and fragrance alerting me to its owner. A familiar scent reached my nose and I turned my head sharply, focusing on it.

Carraway… Saffron.

I smiled softly, opening my eyes to greet the woman that now sat at my table. The honey irises that had intrigued me all those months ago met mine and I chuckled low.

“Amber.”

Read on AO3.

#august walker #august walker fanfic #august walker fan fiction #august walker fanfiction #august walker fan fic #august walker smut #vampire!august #non-con tw

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ithoughtthiswastwitterbutfr · 3 years

Text

WandaVision Episode 8 spoilers

Ok I heard this episode is sad so I’m prepared to cry and ruin my eyeliner.

I’m just emotionally preparing myself rq before I start I’m assuming a lots gonna go down cause the second episode is the finale.

I’m still not ready 2 minutes later lmao wait.

Okay hmm the title is called Previously On so we’re going back in time to her childhood based on the summary.

I think we’re gonna get more insight on her and Visions relationship and how it formed and hopefully get to see her relationship with her brother I’m starting now.

Ugh my TV is glitching

Okay we’re starting out in witch trials so it’s Agathas backstory the lady staring at her looks familiar. Oh it’s her mom

Her powers are blue here she’s into dark magic and the book in her basement is the stolen book from Doctor Strange im assuming she began learning dark magic from it l.

As they started to drain her. Her powers became blue and she starting to drain them back. I’m assuming the witches shared power and it was blue and now that it’s dark magic it’s purple.

Wow she killed her whole coven my draining them of their life and magic. Then she took her mother’s amulet so that’s the amulet she’s always wearing from the comics is.

She admitted her thoughts weren’t available and she was never under control.

Her accent is back because she’s angry because of her children being missing.

She possessed the fake Pietro from another universe she didn’t say he was from another universe she just said she couldn’t get to his body so she had to do possession instead of necromancy.

She picked up the fly now she’s chanting in Latin

She’s mind controlling and talking about how thousands of people can be under your control and all interact with each other with complex storylines which makes me think she wants Wanda power because she’s jealous she can do everything like transformation and mind control without having to study all the spells

“Magic on autopilot,” Dhe wants to know how she did this and she wouldn’t tell her and now she’s manipulating her with her own loneliness. She took a piece of her hair so now she has her DNA

Real reruns aka memories so she can look into them to see how she did it.

Her kids are crying out for in the basement so she’s gonna go with Agatha to save them I honestly don’t think the cries were her own.

OHHH MY GOD

All the movies her parents were going to sell were the decades and movies she did projected.

When Wanda walked into the memory she turned into her younger self,

The Dick Van Dick show is in the TV shape of the one Darcy used on the first episode so we know where she got her inspo for that one.

Everything outside makes me think this is the scene where her parents die.

The Stark bomb just hit and she’s looking around and can’t find her family yeah the Stark industry label is in front of her and she’s reverted back to Sokovian because she’s young and not the best at English yet I’m assuming.

The TV I’d still on and playing the show “At the end of the episode you realize it was all a bad dream,” I’m not sure why she said that part in English maybe because she’s referring to the show and movie nights are for English?

Agatha is asking if she used a probability hex to stop the bomb because Wanda reached her hand out towards it and that’s how she uses her powers.

Maybe Agatha is hinting towards Wanda being a natural born witch?

“So what I see here a baby witch obsessed with sitcoms and years of therapy ahead of her. Doesn’t explain your recent hijinks,”

Wanda used her powers subconsciously there and she’s probably using her powers subconsciously to keep Westview running and she used them subconsciously to get it started.

“The only way forward is back,”

She’s referring to Wanda not wanting to go back to Hydra I haven’t seen the scene yet but I’m assuming it’s because the testing was painful and because she now knows who hydra is and what it stands for.

“Don’t be scared you already lived it once,”

They have Loki’s sceptor of course im assuming they got it from SHIELD since they are SHIELD.

She didn’t have to touch the sample it just came to her on its own further proving she’s a witch but I don’t think she knows she moved it,

She touched the tesseract making the mine stone she then absorbed all its energy and passed out.

In isolation she’s watching another sitcom I just can’t figure out which it is.

I’m sure the episode on the TV is important “she hasn’t got any feeling,” maybe it’s about the Westview citizens or maybe it’s about vision being a doll or like a puppet and the brother is like “she hasn’t got any feelings” just like when Pietro or Fietro called Vision a popsicle an inanimate object

“So little orphan Wanda got up close and personal with an infinity stone that amplified what otherwise would’ve died on the vine. The broken pieces of you are adding up buttercup I have a theory but I need more,” This is probably talking about how if you don’t use your powers or learn to control them you stop having them but the infinity stone just made the powers she already had stronger. The name Scarlett Witch is starting to make sense now.

Another door another memory that I’d her watching Malcom in the middle.

She said the Avengers compound was the first home she had ever shared with Vision and with her family and country gone she felt alone so I’m assuming she’s with Vision cause he cured her loneliness.

Vision walking through the walls again she asking him to watch the sitcom with her. The sitcoms are important to her and she’s sharing them with him.

“So it is funny because of the grievous injury that man just suffered?” Vision

“No he’s not really injured,” Wanda

“How Can you be sure?”

“It’s not that kind of show,”

I think this is sort of related to the fact that nothing bad ever happens in Westview permanently like in Malcolm in the middle where the roof structure fell on the dad sure he got hurt but it wasn’t a detrimental injury.

He wants to comfort to her “The only thing that would bring me comfort is seeing him again,” Wanda about Pietro she felt the same with Vision hence why Westview is happening and why he’s back.

“I’m so tired, It’s just like this wave washing over me again and again it knocks me down and when I try stand up it just comes for me again and I can’t- it’s just gonna drown me,” How she explains her grief and depression we’re getting a glismpe of how she copes with death in her actual reality.

Vision says he’s always been alone he never experienced loss because he never had a loved one to lose.

“What is grief if not love preserving,” Okay damn Vision getting all deep.

Aww they just had a moment and now he’s laughing over the show how sweet. The awkward smile they did at eachother. How cute

Vision was dead and she wanted him back now we get to see how she stole Visions body back from her perspective.

All the news on the TV playing might not be revelant but it’s related to tamiles being reunited after the blip. So this is very shortly after the blip and some people might be right thinking it was almost directly after Tony’s funeral.

“He deserves a funeral at least I deserve it,”

They’re letting her take him probably to be able to paint her as a villain which is why Hayward cut out the first part of the footage.

She’s being shown him take apart and sawed she’s in pain seeing him practically dying again. Hayward called vision a weapon and Wanda is saying he’s not a weapon because he wasn’t and he didn’t want to be a weapon Hayward is hiding his true intentions of bringing him back to be his own weapon

“I just want to bury him. That’s all I want,”

She said she can’t do that she truly believes she can’t.

He won’t let her take $3 billion of vibranium to put in the ground she just wanted him to have a proper burial but Hayward provoked her and set her off.

She can’t feel him. A nod to how Vision said “I only feel you,” When he asked Wanda to kill him there is nothing left. She hot in the car and went to Westview she left and when she left she didn’t have Visions body.

She’s pulled up to place where she planned to grow old in with Vision and it’s been demolished this is the scene where she breaks down crying over it. And when she grieved she lets it get the best of her which is how she put the house back together without realizing she was doing it. Then that spread over the whole town and she is projected her own version of Vision. But I’m unsure if this is really Vision or not because then she’d be way more powerful than I ever believe to be able to create people own her own.

Oh wow she’s showing all the lights and it’s like she’s own set so she’s back to where Agatha had this all set up and she was the audience.

Agatha is choking the twins “I know what you are. You have no idea how dangerous you are. You’re supposed to be a myth. A being capable of spontaneous creation. and here you are using it to make breakfast for dinner.” Maybe Wanda was a prophecy before hand and she just never learned how powerful she really was and now Agatha is trying to feed off her powers I’m assuming she’s going to try to get Wanda to push her powers into her so she can drain her.

“Let go of my children,” Wanda with her accent coming back.

“Oh, yes your children and Vision and this whole little life you’ve made, this is Chaos magic Wanda. That makes you the Scarlett Witch,” Ugh yes one of those moments where they say a name of the movie or a character that’s basically it’s own movie I love it.

I’m gonna research Chaos magic and then I’ll reblog this again after I research some other things too.

End credits time. “Team is ready for launch,” They’re going to use Wanda own power to attack her using Visions actual corpse. He’s been brought back as the one thing he didn’t want to be. A weapon. I’m not sure who that was who powered it up but was it Monica’s contact?

Also doesn’t Agatha have Monica now if she was possessing Fietro? I have a lot of questions that I can’t get out right now

#wandavision theories #wandavisionedit #wandavision spoilers #WandaVision #wanda maximoff #vision #billy and tommy #billy maximoff #tommy maximoff #pietro maximoff #agatha harkness #director hayward #monica rambeau #Scarlett witch

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amintyworld · 3 years

Text

My Official Dream SMPsona: Flower

(I heard some of you guys wanted to see this, and this was pretty fun to make. Ask box is open, I’d love to talk about her more. I’ll have to work at drawing her later this week, so be on the lookout for that! Anyway, hope you enjoy! - Minty)

------------------------------

Name: Flower

Age: 16

Gender: Female

Sexuality: Straight Demisexual

Joined: September 22, 2020

Current Cannon Lives: 2/3

Alignment: Neutral Good

Fighting: Only skilled with a bow/crossbow, otherwise is absolutely terrible at PVP.

Look: Short brown hair, dark blue eyes, pale skin, black framed glasses, dark blue sweatshirt with black leggings and blue sneakers. Either wearing a light pink flower crown or a random flower in her hair.

-------------------------------

Quotes:

“I am NOT weak! Don’t you ever DARE call me weak!”

“You know what they say, Tubbo: Tomorrow is always another day, and it’ll probably be a better one.”

“I help because… because… because I want to. I need to. So many people are hurting, and I… I just didn’t want to add to that. If so much bad happened, we need a little good to balance, don’t we?”

“My name is Flower and I speak for the trees!”

“These are my cat babies, hurt them and you die.”

“STOP! Just… just stop, stop it please, I...I dunno what to choose, I don’t… I don’t want to choose, don’t MAKE me choose!”

“You deserve a grave, Ghostbur. Everyone deserves to be remembered, no matter what. It’s not about what they did while they were alive, they were people. They deserve to be remembered as a person. A person who tried.”

“You know Philza Minecraft, you’re pretty cool.”

-----------------------------------

Fun Facts / Headcanons:

Extremely Indecisive, especially when it comes to joining a group because she doesn’t want to hurt any of her friends. She always wants to make the right decision, but as the choices turn more grey she can get stressed and put pressure on herself, always worried about doing something wrong that sometimes she’ll go into a full panic attack. This can lead to frustration when she seems to just be helping all of them instead of just choosing one.

Always ready to help and lend materials to others whenever they need.

Has a cat named Rose and another named Lavender, is self-proclaimed ‘Cat-Mom’.

Loves giving gifts to anyone at any time for whatever reason - she loves making others happy, as well as giving others something to remember her by when she’s gone.

Made the land around her house a nature preserve and went to court over the matter when someone chopped down her birch tree.

Has a book full of inspirational quotes that she sometimes uses in conversation.

Is often called “weak” for her PvP skills by Schlatt, Dream, and a few times even Techno, which got under her skin all too quickly, leading her to desperately try to constantly prove them wrong, getting angry and upset when it doesn’t work. This leads to many of them picking on her and pushing her around since she can’t exactly fight back.

Always sees the good in everyone, even some of the darkest villains, which many say is naive. She sees people like Wilbur, Schlatt, Dream - as people hurting and in need of help. Of course, she doesn’t try to excuse what they’ve done, but she doesn’t like when people call them evil or monsters, because to her they’re not. Everyone has good inside of them, they’ve just lost that part of themselves, even ignoring it.

She lives by the golden rule and didn’t like when people celebrated Schlatt’s death or Tommy’s and made no gravestone for Wilbur. Treat people the way you want to be treated - do you want people to celebrate your death, or to never memorialize you or even give you a proper burial?

When her friends and allies turn against her, she’s never mad at them. Just disappointed in what they let themselves become, and holds no ill-will toward any of them.

After the Manburg v Pogtopia War, seeing all the heartbreak, destruction, and hurt that was caused she committed herself to spread a bit of happiness around, to bring it all back to balance and help people recover - planting flowers around New L’manburg, helping Phil settle in as well as helping to rebuild.

She grows closer with Phil and Tubbo during this time - Phil appreciated her kind spirit and help, which he said he’d repay tenfold, and Tubbo liked her support and help to rebuild, especially when he was forced to exile Tommy, she reminded her Dream put them in a tough spot, that there wasn’t much of a choice.

She turned her protected lands into a healing garden and invited any who needed it to visit - she added a bench swing and a small pond.

She once followed Phil to find Techno, and the two panicked, Technoblade almost killing her before Phil stepped in, vouching for her. She promised not to say anything if it would put them more at ease. When questioned by Technoblade on her intentions, her answer was pretty simple: “Look, I don’t really understand why you did what you did. You hurt a lot of people and caused a lot of pain. But I don’t feel like it’s my place to judge you, I don’t know the story and I don’t think it’s my story to know. I’m glad you’re okay, Technoblade.”

When she goes against the Butcher Army, Quackity pushes her around, asking what she thinks she’s going to do against four people with netherite armor and axes. She tries to fight but as always she gets beat up pretty badly. Finally, she just turns to look at Tubbo. “Look at what you’re doing, Tubbo. Please, this isn’t the way.” When they go toward Phil, she steps in front to protect him as the tensions rise and she loses a cannon life by Quackity after he gets so mad at her protests he snaps and gets rid of her.

After he escapes she goes to meet Technoblade in secret, asking for training. She realized that if she was going to do any good, she needed to get stronger. They make a deal for him to train her, but in return, she’ll have to be his eyes in New L’manburg in order to help out Phil. She agrees.

She continues to train as the days pass and eventually she helps Phil escape and get back to the safety of Techno’s house. The training continues when Techno has the time.

When both her teacher and her close friend side with Dream to destroy her home, she tells them that she won’t stop them or betray them, but she needed to protect her home, that her friends needed her. When Technoblade insisted that this was a betrayal, she reminded him that it wasn’t, that for the longest time she supported him and helped him even though she didn’t always agree with him, and now she’s asking that he does the same. She gives them some gapples and a couple of potions. “I’ll see you both on the other side. I’m sorry. Just… be careful, and do what you have to do.”

She moves her stuff just in case, knowing her friends, and cries with the others over the destruction of her home. When Phil finds her after, wanting to talk after his interaction with Ghostbur, she tells him that it isn’t the best time right now, trying to force a smile. “Hey, look - I’m happy for you, Phil. I’m happy that you succeeded, I just need a bit more than a minute, okay? We’ll talk tomorrow.”

She gives both Tubbo and Tommy on the Final Confrontation Day each a cookie and wishes them the best of luck, and was there, willing to risk another life to protect Tommy and Tubbo and stop Dream from causing more hurt and destruction than he already has.

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peach-the-owl · 4 years

Note

I think you not going to like this,74 and 87. But hear me out. child cries realize that it old group of the child after seeing the remain of child's old group. saying child fault after leaving the old group behind. But for Nein, they tell child the old group give their life to let child live. A burial for old child group, telling old group real goal, is see child a better future with new family they found. Yeah my English not good, but hope you like this. Try Destiny 2 Journey vocal 2 for this

It is done! So, I think I get idea, but I also decided to add in some creative liberties of my own, so to speak, because it’s the spooky season and who doesn’t love trauma! May have overdone it a little, idk but it was a fun ride. I hope it was worth the wait 😁

WARNING: This is gonna get a little graphic

Carry On

Mighty Nein & Child!Reader

74- Why are you crying? 87- It's my fault this happened.

You met the Mighty Nein several months ago when you were but a lone wanderer, concerned for a lost child they took you in hoping to help find your family. You told them that while you were traveling your family had been attacked by a strange looking group of gnolls, at least that’s what you could remember anyways. As you journeyed along you recognized the route you were taking, this was the same road you’d last saw your family and an eerie sense of being watched crept into you.

"We should be careful around here." You say huddling closer to Jester in the cart, she puts an arm around you and gives you a kind smile.

"Hey don’t worry about it, we’re always super careful." You wanted to believe her, but you’ve been with them long enough to know that wasn’t always true. The sound of rustling foliage catches everyone’s attention as these creatures that looked like gnolls jumped out and attacked.

It was like déjà vu, the long track down the road, assurance that things would be just fine, the rustling leaves that lead to an ambush it was exactly like what happened last time. Everyone sprang into action, while you were left in the cart trying to calm yourself, you look over and notice one of these gnolls was staring at you like it knew you somehow. You duck away from view and grab your weapon to defend yourself, the cart shakes as the gnoll jumps onto it and lets loose a cackle, something sounded off from the usual laughs gnolls normally made though. Even stranger is that it doesn’t attack you right away either, instead it grabs ahold of you before you can take a swing at it and covers your mouth to stop you from calling for help, it then proceedes to carry you deeper into the forested area. You can hear the shouts and sounds of battle grow fainter the farther in you go, you struggle and manage to wriggle free of this things grip and book it in the direction you could only assume you came from. Not looking where you’re going you trip on a tree root jutting out of the ground and stumble into a clearing, the area smelled rancid and upon looking around you could tell why. Bodies littered the area some more decayed then others, all of them twisted and mangled into strange positions, you could feel bile raising to your throat and had to physically stop yourself from vomiting.

"Isn’t it a beautiful sight? Such wonderful art." That voice, you knew that voice. Turning your head you see the "gnoll" remove its headpiece revealing a man underneath.

"Mr. Roland? You did this?" It was shocking, horrifying even to think that someone your family had once trusted would do something like this.

"Now don’t fret child, instead why not marvel at my latest masterpiece." He gestures towards something, you fearfully look over eyes widening and body trembling at the sight. Bloody bodies twisted beyond their limits with bones jutting out every which way, dried organs draped around arms and legs like they were fancy decorations, some of their faces were pinned up to look like they were smiling while others still held looks of agony. These people, this "masterpiece" was your family or what remained of them anyways.

"We… we trusted you." The words came out so fast and shaky making you wonder if you even spoke them at all.

"And it was a wonderful choice, just look at how amazing they turned out, in fact I should be thanking you." You give him a confused look. "You see if it wasn’t for your family doing everything they could to help make your escape I wouldn’t have this masterpiece at all. Perhaps I should let you flee again, after all you’ve brought me more people to work with and what a colourful bunch they are too." Your breathing hitched, this was because of you? They were like this because of you, and now the Nein were next… all because of you. Tears streamed down your face, vision blurring as the weight of the situation pressed down on you.

"Oh dear child, why are you crying?" He sounded as though he was mocking you now and as much as you wanted to look away or run you find your body having become unresponsive to your thoughts. When he speaks again his voice sounds as though it’s circling around you from all directions. "Could it be you feel left out? Well if that’s the case… I’ll be happy to have you join them!" You were too distracted to focus on his words or hear the loud thud along with a grunt of pain from behind you.

"Come on kid we gotta go!" Whoever was talking now you couldn't place their voice, still stuck on the horrific imagery that was now burned into your brain, it wasn’t until you felt hands on your shoulders did you finally react with a flinch. The sight of crimson eyes and lavender skin help readjust your focus. "Hey, hey, hey! Look at me kid, there’s no time for that we gotta go, now!" Legs shaking you slowly get up, only to stumble when you try to walk. With a swift motion Molly picks you up and dashes away from the clearing, your breathing was heavy and your head still felt a little hazy after what you just saw but you were still able to focus enough to see Roland give chase after you, a large slash wound across his chest and abdomen. Even with the nasty wound he still managed to gain on you, panic filling every part of your body the closer he got.

"B-be-behind you!" You managed to give a warning and with another swift motion your placed on the ground, hearing the sound of metal clashing before turning to see Molly blocking Roland's attack. You were able to see the road from where you stood but still found it hard to get your body to do what you wanted, feeling as though you frozen in place, so you did the only natural thing left that you could do…

You screamed.

Curling yourself into a ball, squeezing your eyes shut and covering your ears you let out an ear piercing shriek, soon gentle arms pick you up making you once again flinch on reaction but the calming voice that follows eases your worries a bit.

"It’s alright (y/n), you’re going to be okay." Fjord brings you out of the tree line and sets you down into the cart. "Wait here, I’ll be right back." You reach for him as he disappears back into the forest, slowly you lower your arms once again curling up into a ball for any sort of self-comfort, letting tears cascade down your face as the situation fully sinks in.

"It’s my fault this happened. They all died because of me, now I’m gonna lose two families." You sob to yourself thinking only of the worst outcome, so wrapped up in your own world you weren’t sure how much time passed, maybe a minute, maybe an hour you didn’t know anymore. The feeling of something soft and fluffy nudging against you pulls you from those negative thoughts, slowly uncurling yourself to see Frumpkin butting his head against your hand asking for attention. You place the cat onto your lap brushing your hands through his soft fur, looking around your eyes land on Caleb standing a few feet from the cart giving you a empathetic look, had he heard you? It’s not long after the rest of the group emerges from the forest, some of them looking more roughed up then others, most notable being Yasha and Beau.

"So anyone know about that creepy ass clearing?" Beau blurts out, getting a few glares from the party as she realizes her slip of the tongue. "Umm… sorry, the question still stands though."

"M-mr. Roland called it his art." You say it quietly, but still loud enough for them to hear.

"Who’s Mr. Roland?" Jester questions, with a curious tilt of her head. You explain to everyone how he was supposedly a friend to your family, helping with jobs and looking after you and your siblings when your parents couldn’t, and finally how when your family had been attacked several months ago you had thought he was aiding you in the fight.

"No one survived, except for me… they all died because of me." You hug Frumpkin closer to you as fresh tears streamed down your face.

"That’s not true-"

"How do you know!" You shout at Fjord, cutting him off and immediately feeling guilty for doing so, you still continue but softer. "He said it himself that they all died while I was running away."

"They died because you ran away or to help you run away?" You snivel as you think about it again, but it was still hard to focus on your own thoughts. There was, however, one thing on your mind that kept taking priority over all else you just weren’t sure if they’d all agree, better to ask now then never though.

"Can-can I ask you all to do something for me? It’s ok if you don’t wanna, but I was wondering if we could maybe… go back and give them a funeral, or something." As you spoke your words fade to a soft whisper, feeling embarrassed by the request, resorting to hiding your face in the fur of the cat still trapped in your arms. The party talks amongst themselves while you try distracting yourself by playing with Frumpkin's paws.

"Hey." Looking up you see Veth in front of you offering her hand for you to take, so readjusting Frumpkin you take it as she leads you off the cart again and back towards the tree line. While your walking she keeps her hand firmly in yours. "I know this must hard for you, are you really sure you want to go back and see the… aftermath?" Was it not for the situation you’d find it almost funny how despite being about the same height she still acts very motherly to you, or maybe it wasn’t that funny at all, either way you knew what you wanted to be done.

"I’m sure, I don’t want them to be left here as a crazy mans 'art project' they don’t deserve that and I…" You pause, the words catching in your throat. Veth gives you a few gentle squeezes for reassurance to continue, after a minute you find your words again. "I want say goodbye properly. Is that dumb, does that sound dumb?"

"No no, it’s not dumb at all, in fact that’s very brave of you. Some grownups don’t even have the nerve to say goodbye, so just know I’m proud of you for that." You give her a small but genuine smile. By now you had made it back to the clearing, and with some deep breaths you step into it see the rest of the Nein having already dug some holes in the ground to act as graves. The bodies of your family and other poor victims who fell prey to Roland already being placed in some, Caduceus being the one instructing everyone on the proper procedures. It took a few hours so by the time they finished burying the bodies the sky had turned to dusk.

"Is there anything you’d like to say?" Caduceus asks you softly, as if his words could shatter you if he wasn’t careful. You open your mouth but find it to be a struggle to think of something to say now, having been put on the spot in front of everyone trying to force any sort of sound out to no luck. Your face slowly turns red at the feeling of embarrassment that washes over you.

"I have something to say to them if that is alright with you." Caleb says, looking to you as if to ask permission, you tilt your head a little in confusion but nod. He steps forward and clears his throat. "I may not have known them, but if (y/n) is an example of their kindness and acceptance of others, then I can understand why they would do anything to keep them alive." He turns and gives you a gentle smile, you faintly return it.

"It always hurts to lose someone you love, but if I can learn not to let that chain me down and accept love from others again then you can too." Yasha surprised you with her sweet words but there was something uplifting about them that you couldn’t help but raise your smile at.

"My turn! Ok… may the Traveler bless your souls for sending us this sweet little child to call our own, ummm… that’s all I got." Jester pipes in, bringing a sort of joy to cut down the lingering tension, it almost makes you giggle.

"As a mother, I know I’d happily give my life again to protect Luc knowing that he’s still alive and will carry on my legacy." Veth says, almost reminestantly. It made you slowly realize that maybe your family did the same so you could carry on their legacy too, if that’s the case then you’d accept it.

"I do believe the kid's made things more lively since they joined and I for one wouldn’t want to trade that for the world." Maybe not as heartfelt of a speech as the others, but you honestly expected nothing less from Molly, he even struts over to you and ruffles your hair earning a small laugh from you.

"Wait, are we taking turns? Uhh… it’s been nice having someone to look out for and teach the ways of the world to, it always feels like we have a purpose even when we feel useless." Fjord stumbled over his words a little, not fully expecting everyone to contribute but found his grounding at the end, his and everyone’s words so far having helped raise you spirits more and more.

"Ummm… look I’m not really good at this emotional stuff but I’m glad your here with us." Like Molly, Beau's little speech wasn’t all that heartfelt but her words were genuine and that’s all you could ask for.

"You all did amazing, I’m proud." Caduceus says, he then gently places his hands on the ground and casts Decompose while muttering a prayer of safe passage for the deceased to the Wildmother. The area quickly sprouting various fungus’ and some (favourite flower/s) the clearing becoming a beautiful patch of nature once again from the horror show that it once was. You are then brought into a group hug, a warm feeling of true belonging coming over you.

"I’m really happy I found you." Tears slide down your cheeks, but no longer ones of sorrow, these were tears of joy.

"We’re glad we found you too."

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fieryphoenix0007 · 3 years

Text

Prologue/Introduction

In the beginning…

God created the heavens and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.

And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.

And God said, “Let there be light”: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.

Or so the story of Creation goes…

Same, too, to say, that this was also the story of Michael’s first triumph against Samael’s Great Rebellion.

They say that the Bible is the Word of God, His Story, and His message to humanity, however, many theologians never fully understand all the words written by the great apostles, prophets and scribes of God.

The writer themselves were puzzled with every word that came from the inspiration of God through their writing.

------------------------------ ------------------------------

Facing with the punishment of being banned from the promised land of Canaan, the writer of the first five books, the “Pentateuch”, Moses, the great leader of the Exodus of the Israelites from Egypt, determined to himself that he will write and record, scribe what the Lord inspires him to write.

He began with the words, “In the beginning…” notating the answer to the large mystery of ‘Where did everything started from?’

From Genesis to Exodus, how they escaped slavery from Egypt, and Leviticus and Numbers and Deuteronomy, Moses played a large role in starting writing the original manuscript of the Holy Book.

What is common on these books are that they present God’s power to the human realm, His influence, physically, on the Earth’s fundamental laws. The impossible made possible, the unthinkable made pursuable, and the improbable proven.

Little do we know about the spiritual creatures that help conjure these so-called ‘miracles’, or as the humans call it, ‘abnormalities’.

The power to bend reality into your will is something that cannot be achieved by mere human. The humans do have their wild imagination – concoctions to a colourful and advancing world, however, they can only so little to so much with their own bare hands and feet.

They are limited and cased into the laws of physics and the laws of the universe, whatever they can produce beyond those boundaries were theorized to be with the help of spiritual beings upon the will of God.

These spiritual beings took on faces similar to human, but were theorized to be genderless, their form changes according to their purpose and each of them has a different power that can bend even nature itself.

In reality, the appearance of each was uncommon to the human eyes, and mind, looking like sword, flames, ray of light, wheel, beast, and winged creatures.

They operated in the shadows, perhaps, secret agents, fashioned by God, effortlessly blending into the crowd to create opportunities for trials and temptations, and visited humanity time and time again in a particular way that sends shivers down your spine.

------------------------------

Moses was an Egyptian scholar. Years of his life focused on grooming and preparing him to be one of the great pillars of the dynasty of Egypt, along with his father and brother, the Pharaoh and prince regent.

In the middle of the great pyramids’ construction, some believed that Moses was the chief engineer in building those ginormous symbol of wealth and power of the Egyptian monarchs and elites.

Moses, the brother of the prince, standing in the midst of the crowd, proud of his lineage, and assisting his brother, the regent, on his projects and plans for the future of the kingdom.

He was always at the top of his game. His teachers taught him manners of the royalty, work ethics, and their religious gods, but nothing from his prestige education and training has prepared him for the upcoming events.

“Stop! Please!” An Israelite girl pleaded and kneeled in front of the Egyptian soldier as her salty sweat runs down her brows.

The slaves have been tirelessly put to work for almost seven days now by one of the nobles who felt that he would die at any moment.

Soldiers were assigned to monitor each and every slave to work and accomplish the great task of mounting one of the greatest pyramids of all time.

As women and the children were assigned to distribute food and water, the men, the older ones, and the young ones, were assigned to the heavy duty of creating blocks of mud and bringing them to the construction.

SFX: WAPOOSH! The sound of the whip echoed in the valley.

The Egyptian soldier just wouldn’t stop.

She looked away every whip, the sight of her grandfather, whipped to death for falling behind the line, blood oozes out of the pores of his back, blending in the mud and straw where the slave drenched as he fell behind the line, rashes start to appear as the straw’s unbearable dryness produced the itching reddish appearance as it touched and the heat torched the old man’s skin.

Moses was sensitive to these kinds of things, he doesn’t remember ever getting to know a slave, nor does he know that he was from one of the slaves, but his heart ached every time a slave cried out, his mind exploded in frustration every time he sees someone lashed to death.

He did not fully understand why, but his body followed his heart and mind, because of this, most of the Senate did not like Moses.

To them, he looked weak, sympathizing with the slaves. Though, the current Pharaoh keeps him in his heart as his son, and the current regent treats him like a blood-brother, you will notice a difference in heart.

“Father, I’d like a slave to be in my quarters.” The first time he heard this from his brother, the prince regent, it immediately broke his heart.

He realized he is still too weak to do anything, but now, now, that he’s the chief engineer, maybe, maybe, he thought, Maybe I can do something about this!

He quickly rushed to the aid of the old man with a collapsed lung, the soldier continued to whip the man to death until he submitted, wobbling standing up and tried to barely carry his load.

Of course, he wouldn’t be able to stand up - you’re whipping him to death!

He thought this through…

But it was too late, he grabbed the soldier’s wrist to stop, but the old man collapsed again and was no longer breathing, his unmoving body lay still half-buried in the sand and mud and the straw that he grew up to pick up in.

I thought I can save him.

He expected a wave of rejoicing of gratitude from the slaves, instead, a wild, deafening screech from the weeping of the granddaughter of the old man echoed through the desert.

He couldn’t comfort the girl, he couldn’t scold the soldier, he couldn’t punish the abuser, and protect the weak, stuck in the middle, he was faced with the greatest enemy of his life – the cruelty of his own father, or so he thought.

That night, determined to get justice, and to be the defender of the weak, the sneaky vigilante snuck through the darkness and struck quickly in the moonlight.

“No, please, don’t kill me.” The soldier appealed with his life.

But the more he beseeched for mercy, the more Moses got agitated, he remembered how the little girl implored for his grandfather’s life, and for that, he struck the blows even harder and harder, until there’s no recognizable feature in the man’s face.

A sigh of relief rushed down his spine as he finished the task, he succeeded in sending that soldier’s soul to hell’s hottest and finest rooms.

The relief quickly brushed down his face, and terror and panic soon came charging in. The clouds that covered the moonlight passed on and as the light hit the sand, his murder handiwork reflected in his eyes. His hands covered in blackish hard liquid, as the blood dried out immediately in the cold of the night.

What have I done?

Alas, he thought he was doing a righteous task by taking justice in his own hands, but what he took was his own innocence, and send it off to hell.

Sand! I’ll… I’ll bury him in the sand!

He quickly scooped his bloodied hands in the sand, cold and rough, gasping for air as he dashed to bury the body in the middle of nowhere. He knew that no secret in this world that will never be revealed, but hoped at the least that his family doesn’t find out.

As he was finishing his burial, his eyes nervously darted and scoped around like a cornered impala, waiting for the lion to strike.

There’s no one. Good.

He speedily head back to the palace, near at the river’s bank, and washed off his body and threw his clothes, the river stowed away with the bloodied evidence of his crime.

He looked at the silver moon, it was not a good sight. His eyes filled with the red-stained blood that splashed around while he bludgeoned the soldier to death with a sharp rock.

He wanted to go back in time, to undo what he did, but it’s too late, it’s already done.

Forgiveness from a god was familiar to Moses, they have customs and rituals indicated in their history paintings and drawings, but this was the first time he sought forgiveness from the God of the Israelites.

God, if you can hear me, please… please forgive me. I’ve been good, and I’ve helped many of your people. I hope You can help me this time.

Every one of the Egyptians was well acquainted with each other, though they treated the Israelites as slaves, their definition of family was still pretty close, hence, the next morning, the family of the soldier petitioned a searching party from the palace.

Alarmed by the missing soldier report, the Pharaoh quickly dispatched a team to rummage through the desert and the nearest kilometres of the borders.

And within that day, a few volunteers discovered a body, unrecognizable, near the borders of Egypt.

So… so fast, I… I need to get out of here.

God wanted to help Moses, though he murdered a man in the name of revenge, he was still the chosen deliverer of the Israelites out of Egypt, that was His plan.

Then…

God liberated Moses all from the anchor of his family, the pressure of Egypt and from his crime.

“Aren’t you the one who killed this man? Are you not an Egyptian as well? Why did you kill him?”

Someone whispered in the crowd.

Moses darted his eyes through the crowd, there was no one.

Who’s talking, then… who?

An old man has his back turned from Moses, and that’s when his heart spoke to him, Approach the old man, approach him.

And he did.

That voice steered him to something that he could not fathom, at the least for that moment, or for the next forty years.

He frantically stretched out his arms across the crowd and reached the old man’s shoulder.

“Wait…”

His face quickly turned pale and devoid of any colour, as if the blood came rushing out, the old man’s face, it was the dead old man, the unmoving old man, whipped to death, bloodied with his back, and rashes in his whole body.

“You killed him! You killed your fellow Egyptian! He killed him! I saw him last night!” The outlandish accusations of the old man seemed to be believable to the people around Moses.

The Chief of the Army quickly posed a wanted poster and notice for the head of Moses, the man who killed an Egyptian.

How is this possible? That old man already died, I avenged him.

His thoughts got scrambled quickly as puzzle as he packed up his things to escape justice for his murder charges.

Pressed by the elites and nobles, the Pharaoh, issued a warrant to arrest and punish Moses for the murder charges.

I have no other choice but go.

MOSES! MOSES! The echoing soldiers and army ready to arrest him were now threading to the gates of Egypt.

He quickly marched on to the death of the desert to escape his pursuers.

*Huff, Huff*

This isn’t working, this isn’t what I wanted. I only wanted freedom for the slaves. Fair treatment for everyone, how did it end up this way?

It’s too late, he was already miles away from the kingdom, in the vast desert. At least he knew how to find an oasis or something similar in this time of the day.

Exhausted, lingering between life and death, Moses continued to march on at the cold of the night, his eyes barren of any life and hope, not knowing where to go, what to do, and if there is any future ahead of all of this.

Then…

SFX: Thud, thud

His knee gave out, weakness due to thirst spread throughout his body and he suddenly fell on his knees, then his face on the sand.

It’s as if he had lost all hope, closing his eyes to oblivion, his ears started tingling, there’s sound coming from somewhere.

“Father, father…”

The faintest sound of a lady woke him right up, his eyes dilated of joy and hope. He pulled out his arms from the sand, and pushed his body upwards, along with his torso and his legs.

Flailing like his legs were going to give out, he struggled to find the sound.

Where… where was it?

“Aaa-, aa-, hee-“

He doesn’t have that much voice in him, the sand dried up his throat, there’s vibration from his breathing, but sound, there’s nothing much, he’s too weak to speak, or even shout for help.

“Father…”

The whispers were getting louder by a minute, in what direction were they coming from?

Moses closed his eyes, felt the wind and located where the whispers were coming from.

South-east! South-east, go, go, go, move legs!

And there it was, a small group of people, in tents surrounding a small oasis, supply of water, in the middle of the desert.

Moses’ eyes lights up even more, shone, and the only thing he could see was the well besides the oasis.

He ran and threw his face down at the water of the oasis, drinking, gulping, and-

“Haaaaaaaaaaa.” Gasping for air. He lifted up his drenched face from the well, and looked up to the Heavens, the stars, the skies, the moon, it wasn’t bloody red anymore. He clearly saw the shining light reflecting to the water and on to his eyes.

He wanted to cry his eyes out, but that’s not possible, he was still dehydrated from walking in the scorching hot desert for almost a day.

Regaining his composure, his eyes wandered the premises, there’s no one nearby, no one awake, no soul that could whisper what he heard and yet he knows what he heard, he remembers what he heard.

However…

There’s something weird about the place. Everything was quiet, no one was definitely awake, particularly different from the bustling evening of Egypt.

Something even weirder caught his eye. A sword plunged shallowly on the sand near the well caught his curiosity, he began approaching the sword. It’s a double-edged sword.

He was not familiar with this type of sword as Egyptians used a sickle-shaped, one – edged sword in their military.

He’d only seen double-edged swords in their library of pictures, the walls that described their history and glory.

In all the war pictures in those walls, he never saw a double-edged sword depicted in the drawings.

Enthralled by the sword, he grabbed tightly the hilt of the shining silver sword and quietly pulled it out of the cold sand.

“Moses.”

“Ha!”

Upon hearing a voice, he was startled and jerked off the sword out of his hands into the sand beneath his shoeless toes.

What was that? Was that the sword?

“Was… was that you?”

What am I doing, talking to a sword? Is this a full-on hallucination?

“Yes.”

It talked! It talked, it talked, it talked! What?

“What… what are you? Did you… did you save me and lead me here?”

Definitely intrigued, he slowly approached the talking sword.

“I am the messenger of God - the God of Jacob, the God of Joseph, the God of the Israelites.”

You? A sword? Wait, Israelites?

“So, it’s true, the God of Israel, is the true God?”

There are many Egyptians gods that we pray to, but… I never felt a connection.

Moses tried to grab again the hilt of the sword. This time, he made sure he tightly gripped the hilt.

“Yes.”

His heart skipped a beat, but he didn’t let go of the sword. Hard as it may seem but his mind accepted the fact that the talking sword is what led him there.

“What do you want?”

“Simple. To inform you something.”

“Some… thing?”

“You are of Israel, son of Jochebed, daughter of Levi, one of the sons of Jacob.”

“What? That’s… that’s… impossible.”

He gathered his thoughts, he’s an Egyptian, yet he has feelings for the slaves, pity, love, mercy, and the slaves are good to him as well, they knew something that he doesn’t.

Flashbacks came flooding in.

The time he felt pity for the first time for the slaves outside of the palace working on with the pyramids, and that time that he saw a little girl guiding him in the river, or that time that he remember in his dreams that an adult woman slave was singing him to sleep, those… those weren’t just dreams, they’re… they’re memories.

They’re… my memories?

“Your mother kept you alive in a basket for almost three years.”

“Pharaoh, your adoptive grandfather has decided to slay the male Israelites to avoid increasing the number of the slaves, he was afraid that a rebellion will happen if Israel were to outgrow Egypt and overcome them in numbers.” The sword continued the story.

“Numbers… wait, what? He… Grandfather…”

“The history is not one pleasant thing to remember. The children howled and whimpered, and their mothers wailed and bellowed their cries, it’s as if the Heavens closed again its windows, this time, against humanity.”

“So…”

The reason why many Israelites hated my grandfather was… was…

“The soldiers, along with their conscience, begrudgingly tossed the male infants to the Nile, only to be drowned, or subdued or eaten by the reptiles which roam about the river. That day, the Earth, the land, the waters grieved for the gifts of God shed blood unnaturally through the wickedness of the heart of Pharaoh.”

“Then… I… I was about to be killed…”

“Yes, however, your mother was able to get you hidden from the soldiers. Once she was fully aware that she will not be able to for the next years of your infancy, she… she prepared a basket for you to be able to float into the Nile. Guided by your sister, Miriam, Jochebed hesitantly watched you, and the basket sail within the most dangerous depths of the river to the chamber of Pharaoh’s daughter. That’s how you became the Prince of Egypt.”

His eyes opened wide, his knee gave out again, but not due to hunger, not due to dehydration, but due to shock, he also lost the power to hold the sword and it fell, blade-first into the ground.

“That’s… how do you know so much about me?”

“I already told you, I am the messenger of God.”

“If you have saved me, then…”

“Yes, you will be Israel’s deliverer, you will deliver them out of slavery into the promise land.”

“I… no, no, no… I just came out of there as a murderer! I’m a criminal, not some saviour, and who am I to… to…”

“You’re not just someone, God set you up to be the Prince of Egypt and the Deliverer of Israel, you are Moses.”

“How can I…”

“Believe. For now, learn the way of the priest and the shepherd. I will be reaching you again when the time comes.”

“When the time comes?”

“Yes. “

Moses, looking down, has realized his fate, and his life was a set-up to believe what’s in front of him, but now…

There’s an even bigger person than father, than the Pharaoh.

“Who… who are you?”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

As soon as Moses became curious about the sword, what emerged from the back of the sword raised his interest even more.

White, fluffy, and shining bird-like wings fluttered in front of his eyes, with a jaw-dropping beauty and elegant movement, the only thing that Moses can do is try to reach out the illuminating wings.

He let go of the hilt of the sword and thus, it hovers in the air.

“I am-“

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mrslittletall · 4 years

Text

Prompt: I Will Only Slow You Down

Fandom: Bloodborne Characters: Gehrman the first Hunter/Lady Maria of the Astral Clocktower, Laurence the first Vicar Word Count: 3.372 AO3-Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18718291/chapters/61718500

Summary: Maria and Gehrman are out of the hunt, but unfortunately, Gehrman manages to hurt his leg very badly...

(Author's note: There are different interpretations how Gehrman lost his leg, but in my book, he lost it during a Hunt.

Gehrmaria added because of spite, though I have to admit, the pairing starts to grow on me.

Warnings for blood/gore and graphic depictions of violence.) Written for @badthingshappenbingo The prompts marked with blood vials have already been filled out, the ones marked with madmen’s knowledge are planned.

I am still at a loss for Sensory Overload, so come into my inbox with a prompt!

It had happened so fast, that Maria needed a while to fathom what just had occurred.

She and Gehrman had been out on the hunt, like pretty much every night, searching for the beasts that escaped from the labyrinths as well as the poor souls who had managed to catch the scourge. Of course Maria and Gehrman weren't the only hunters, back in the workshop they occupied a few others, but there was a rule of thumb, the Hunters always had to go out on the hunt in groups of at least two. Naturally, Maria, as Gehrman's student and girlfriend, would always embark on the hunt with him.

They were what the other Hunters called a dream team. Maria's swiftness and her dexterity with the Rakuyo complemented Gehrman's style of fighting with a large scythe like weapon, which he called the Burial Blade. Gehrman had made all the weapons in the workshop himself and even helped Maria crafting her Rakuyo, so that she didn't had to use the blood blades from Cainhurst, which she despised.

So, when they had stood in front of three large beasts, Maria hadn't been worried. They would be able to hunt them down, as usual and even if one of them got hurt, the blood ministration in the church would make them good as new in only a few minutes.

Maria should have paid better attention, because after her and Gehrman had taken down two of the beasts, the third had got wind of a chance and when Maria turned around, her eyes turning wide at the sight of the wide open jaw, razor sharp teeth ready to tear into her shoulder, she felt how someone, Gehrman, it only could be Gehrman, tackle her and as she rolled off the ground, scurrying back up, splitting her Rakuyo into the dual blades, vaguely aware of having heard a pained scream, she saw that Gehrman's leg was caught in the jaw.

“Gehrman!”, she yelled and then dashed towards the beast, her Rakuyo cut deep into the beasts snout and it wailed and let go off Gehrman, who fell to the ground with a grunt. Maria didn't stop there, pulled one of her swords out and used both blades to cut the neck of the beast with precision.

Hot blood spilled on the ground and Maria kneeled down, checking on Gehrman. “Gehrman, can you hear me? Hey!”, she said and waved a hand in front of him. His eyes slowly came back into focus and as he recognized her, he said: “Maria, are you alright?”

“You ask me if I am alright, you idiot?!”, Maria half yelled. “It wasn't me who almost got eaten! Give me the first-aid-kit, you need help with that leg!”

“The leg... feels like its on fire.”, Gehrman groaned. Maria's gaze wandered down to Gehrman's right leg, the one the beast had chewed one and she gasped. It looked like a bloody, red mess.

“Oh no...”, she said. “We need to get you back to the church, quick. That looks bad... really, really bad.”

“Nothing what Laurence can't fix with his blood ministration.”, Gehrman said and gave Maria a pained smile. Even in that condition he didn't want for her to worry too much. It would have been charming, if Maria wouldn't have been worried sick about him.

“Gehrman, the first-aid-kit.”, she said again and he finally reached into his coat to give it to her. It included some alcohol to clean out wounds, a piece of wood to bite on and some bandages. Not much, but it had to suffice until they could get Gehrman back to the church.

She took her Rakuyo up again and cut through Gehrman's pants, carefully removing the blood stained fabric from the wound, Gehrman hissing in pain as she was working. Once she was done and could see the whole extent of his wound, Maria drew in a sharp breath.

The leg practically only hang on thanks to a few muscle fibres, the resulting wound was large and bleeding profusely. Maria had the impression she barely would be able to do anything for it. She at least needed to apply some bandages to stop the bleeding.

“We need to patch you up and get you to Laurence as quick as possible.”, Maria said and handed Gehrman the wooden stick. “I will clean out the wound and then apply a pressure bandage to stop the bleeding. It will hurt, but you have to hold through.”

“I trust you, Maria.”, Gehrman said and put the stick in his mouth, closing his eyes, awaiting the pain.

Maria worked as quickly as she could, cleaning out the wound, nearly turning nauseous as she saw how much blood the gauze has soaked up, carefully aligning the leg back to where there still was flesh, having the feeling that it would rip open the moment Gehrman would even think about straining that leg and then applied a pressure bandage. During the whole procedure, Gehrman winced, gasped and hissed, but not screamed once, even though he must have been in excruciating pain.

“Alright.”, Maria said, helping Gehrman up and supporting him, his right arm slung over her shoulder. “We need to get you back to Laurence now. Don't strain that leg of yours at all.”

“It's that bad, huh...”, Gehrman said, not having seen anything, but surely he must have felt how bad it was.

“It... it barely hangs on anymore. I just hope that no beasts will be in our way...”, Maria said.

Gehrman grunted in pain: “I thought so...”

“Don't talk, save your strength for walking.”, Maria scolded him and the both of them started the trek back to the Cathedral. It wouldn't be a long walk usually, but with Gehrman having a completely unusable leg and on the night of the hunt, they were lucky when they would make it in an hour and Maria knew, that every second counted.

As anticipated, the walk was unbearable slow. Gehrman did his best, but he literally couldn't step on this leg, he had lost a lot of blood and he was in a lot of pain. It surprised Maria that he even was still conscious. It must have been the doing of the holy blood, a normal human would have died only a few minutes after sustaining such an injury. Maria even had two blood sources inside of her, but she swore to her to never use the one that Laurence called “Vileblood”. She didn't want to have anything to do with Cainhurst anymore, that part of her life was behind her.

“How much... farther...?”, Gehrman asked, voice weak, breath shallow.

“We will be there. Soon. Hold through.”, Maria reassured him, even though they only had walked for about ten minutes. She needed to keep Gehrman conscious, the moment he would faint, everything would be over. As strong as she was, it would be hard for even her, to carry such a tall man as Gehrman. Gehrman had always joked about how glad he was, that Laurence was so small, because it made him easy to carry. Maria could understand that now.

The trek continued, slowly. Maria occasionally glanced at Gehrman, talked to him, made sure that he was still there with her, that he would hold onto her. They seemed to be in incredible luck that no beasts were in their way, but of course eventually their luck had to ran out as a few beasts appeared in front of them. Not the large ones, the small ones, but they still could pose a threat in high numbers. Especially for Gehrman, who was unable to fight in his sate.

“Gehrman, I take care of that.”, Maria said, taking a few steps back. “Sit down, don't move and by the Great Ones, stay awake.”

Gehrman nodded to her as she let him go, taking her Rakuyo and dashed towards the beast group, her blades whirling through the group, blood sputtering everywhere, but mostly on Maria. It was normal for a Hunter. They would always be covered in blood. If they were skilled, it would never be their own blood.

“Damn.”, Maria hissed as another group of beasts approached before she even had finished dispatching the first one. As fast and skilled as she was, even she could get overwhelmed and she hissed again when the beasts managed to give her a few good scratches and bites. They hurt, but they were nothing compared to the injury that Gehrman was suffering.

Thinking about him, Maria glanced back to where she left him, worried and wanting to make sure that he was still awake. That turned out to be a deadly mistake. The moment she turned her head, a beast used that moment of inattention to bite deep into her shoulder. Maria screeched in sudden pain, trying to get the beast off, all while a dozen others swarmed around her.

“Maria!”, she heard a voice screaming and then something flashed next to her and the pain in her shoulder subdued. She didn't knew what happened, but she used this chance she got and cut down all the beasts around her. As soon as she was done, she stood there, heavily panting, bleeding out of several wounds. As her mind came back from the thrill of the hunt, she remembered Gehrman and her eyes frantically searched for him, gaze shot to where she left him.

She had to realize in horror that he wasn't there anymore, instead, he was laying on the ground in-between all that beast corpses and... his leg wasn't attached anymore.

“Gehrman, CRAP!”, Maria shouted, looking at the leg. “Crap crap crap...”, she continued to mutter while she got the first-aid-kit out and applied a new pressure bandage, which already turned red once she was done. Then, she helped Gehrman up, hissing because of the pain in her shoulder, but she didn't care.

“We need to get you to the cathedral immediately! Maybe... maybe your leg can still be...” Maria's voice trailed off. “We have to take it with us!” She bend down and picked up the leg, then started walking, practically dragging Gehrman with her.

“Maria... you are hurt...”, Gehrman said, his voice barely a whisper.

“I'll live.”, Maria simply answered. It was true that her wounds were bleeding and hurt, but they weren't as life threatening as Gehrman's. A blood ministration and she would be as good as new.

“You bleed...”, Gehrman continued. “Just let go of me... it is over anyway... Save yourself, Maria... I will only slow you down...”

“Gehrman, NO!”, Maria yelled. “You come with me and you stay with me! You would never leave someone behind. Never. I won't let you behind!”

“...please don't risk your life because of me...”, Gehrman's voice quivered, it sounded like he was close to crying.

“And what should I tell Laurence? That I left you behind to save my own hide? Even though there still was a chance to save you?!”, Maria said. “I won't leave you behind. I get you to the cathedral and we get you fixed up. So stay with me, Gehrman. You can do it! I won't let you die!”

Gehrman didn't reply anymore and when Maria looked at him, she knew why. He had fallen unconscious. “Oh fuck fuck fuck...”, Maria cursed under her breath. She could see the cathedral just in front of them, so... she didn't had a choice, even if that would worsen her own wounds.

“I will carry you the rest of the way.”, she said and lifted him up, despite her shoulder screaming at her not to put any more strain on it, despite every wound in her body oozing more blood. Once she managed to secure Gehrman over her shoulders, she started to ran.

Maria didn't had any sense of how time had passed once she busted through the doors of the cathedral. She saw Laurence standing there, holding something in his hands. It apparently was breakable, because he dropped it when he noticed both Gehrman's and Maria's state.

“Maria... get him in immediately, I may still be able to save his leg!”, Laurence screamed, pointing at one of the blood ministration rooms and then hurrying away, muttering something like “gloves... where is my fucking mask... ”

Maria managed to get Gehrman down on a stretcher in the room Laurence had pointed out, when he barged in and pretty much screamed at her. “Get out! And get a blood ministration yourself, you are bleeding out!”

Maria left the room and as soon as she had, she noticed how the adrenaline in her body left her, she was overtaken by an excruciating pain and a deep tiredness. She sank down and sat right in front of the door. No... she couldn't fell asleep. She needed that blood ministration. Laurence was right, she had lost too much blood and if her wounds wouldn't close, she would surely die of blood loss. Or overtaken by her vileblood and that would be even worse.

She knew that Gehrman wouldn't be happy waking up with his girlfriend being dead and as much as she wanted to stay and see first hand if Laurence succeeded, she forced herself to get up and stumble to the next best blood minister, who gave her a blood ministration immediately. As she was lying on the stretcher, Maria couldn't fight the drowsiness anymore and fell into an uneasy sleep.

Once she awoke, her wounds were closed, her pain was gone and she jumped on her feet immediately. What about Gehrman? How much time had even passed? Minutes? Hours? Days? No, she doubted it had been days, she felt too fresh. Well, as fresh as someone who was covered in blood could feel. Still, she had to know about his condition.

As she ran into the direction of the blood ministration room in which Laurence had taken care of Gehrman, she passed his office, the door ajar, and saw him slumped over his desk. Maria stopped and barged into it.

“How is he?!”, she yelled, both hands slammed on the desk.

“Good morning to you too.”, Laurence said, not looking up. He had something in his hands that looked like the vials used for the blood ministration, just smaller.

“Laurence, I am not in the mood for jokes.”, Maria warned. “How is he?”

Laurence still didn't look her into the eyes. Maria's heart sank from her chest into her stomach, that wasn't a good sign.

“...He's alive.”, Laurence finally answered. “But I couldn't save it...”

“Couldn't... you mean...”, Maria's heart seemed to sink from her stomach even more down, right into her pants.

Laurence nodded: “...I couldn't save his leg. It was too late. The body wasn't accepting it anymore. I... had to amputate the stump from the knee down. The blood closed the wound from the surgery without trouble, but... it can't grow back a leg.”

“Oh no...”, Maria said. “Gehrman, I am so sorry. It is my fault. He lost the leg because I wasn't paying attention...”

“He said he wanted to see you once you wake up.”, Laurence said. “Go to him.”

Maria turned around and was on her way to the door, when she turned around to look at Laurence another time. He didn't look good, pale, dark circles under his eyes. They looked reddened too, had he cried?

“Have you even slept, Laurence?”, Maria asked.

“Of course not.”, Laurence practically snapped at her. “I have better things to do than sleeping!” He then put his attention back to the small vial with blood in his hands.

“...It has to do with Gehrman's leg, right?”, Maria asked.

“Just go to him.”, Laurence said. “And close the door once you are gone.”

It was clear to Maria that he didn't want to talk to her anymore, so she left, closed the door and made her way to the room Gehrman was in. A slight panic bubbled up in her chest. What if Gehrman would hate her? What if he never wanted to see her again? She couldn't help but feel responsible for his leg.

As soon as she stood in front of the door, Maria took a deep breath and knocked, announcing: “Gehrman, it's me, Maria. I am coming in.” She didn't wait for an answer and opened the door, entering into a dimly lit room, where Gehrman was lying in a cot.

“Maria.”, he said as she stepped next to the cot. “Are you alright?”

“You idiot! Why are you the one asking me?! Again?!”, Maria said, tears welling in her eyes. “I should be the one asking you!”

“I fear that I have been better.”, Gehrman gave Maria a weak smile. “Maria, I have to apologize. I put you under intense stress when I requested that you leave me behind. I am sorry.”

Maria couldn't help the tears spilling out of her eyes anymore. “You... why do you apologize? You lost your leg because of me! If I only had paid better attention...” Maria sat down on the edge of the cot and wiped her tears with her sleeve. It was still red from blood, she had ran straight to Gehrman, instead of taking a shower. That could wait.

“No, Maria, it was my own fault. I decided to barge in, because you are so important to me, that the thought of losing you made me act unreasonable. If I should have trusted in your abilities, then I wouldn't have lost my leg.”

“...Gehrman... if you hadn't thrown yourself between me and the beast, it could have been me on that cot, a limb lighter.”, Maria sniffled. “Stop trying to make me feel better.”

“I mean it.”, Gehrman said and Maria felt how his arms engulfed her and she felt herself falling down in his embrace. “That I lost the leg was my own fault. I plan to not let it get me down. I will be the first hunter with only one leg, you will see.”

“Gehrman...”, Maria said, turning her head to look into his eyes and then averting her gaze. “I am still sorry! I never wanted for something like that to happen to you! I need to get stronger as a hunter!”

“Then let's get stronger as hunters together.”, Gehrman said and released Maria from his hug, she slowly got back up, wiping her freshly shed tears away.

“Have you seen Laurence?”, Gehrman asked. “He seemed to have taken that whole leg thing worse than I have. He kept apologizing to me and cried his eyes out because he failed to save it. It was pretty similar to you actually.”

“He's in his office, working on something.”, Maria said. So he indeed had cried, she knew it.

“I thought so.”, Gehrman said. “He muttered something like that the blood ministration needed to become mobile.”

“That would explain the tiny vial with blood he was tampering with.”, Maria said. “Gehrman, you are really alright with that? Your leg is gone. It... it will never come back.”

Gehrman sighed and then replied: “I know that I never will get it back, that is why I decided to come to terms with it.” He gave Maria a squeeze and then chuckled: “As much as I love to see you, maybe you should take a shower, my love. There doesn't seem to be a single spot on you that isn't full of blood.”

“As if you are looking a lot better.”, Maria said, grinning the first time since she had entered the room. “I will clean myself up and then come back right away.”

On her way to the door, Gehrman called to her again: “Oh and Maria? Convince Laurence to get some sleep.”

Maria turned around with a smile and said: “You need to stop caring about others and care for yourself once, my beloved. After all, you have been the one who lost a leg.” (Author's note: So, how do you like my headcanon about how Gehrman lost his leg? It was actually the reason why Laurence started to experiment with the blood vials and came up with them. Because sometimes help is needed right away.)

#badthingshappenbingo #I will only slow you down #bloodborne #fanfiction #gehrman the first hunter #lady maria of the astral clocktower #gehrmaria #laurence the first vicar #littlewritesstuff #blood #gore #injury #that one is pretty dark

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crossdressingdeath · 4 years

Note

Unlike prev anon, I don't think that the absence of the Burial Mounds siege in CQL really makes JC look better because suddenly deciding to push your martial brother off a cliff after the death of your sister who died to save him doesn't make JC more sympathetic, he's directly causing the death of WWX while at least in the book, you could finagle your way around it by using the argument that the 1st siege didn't really kill WWX (it did make JC an accessory to genocide tho, so there's that)1/5

It's because for me, his act is really not all that unplanned, just like when he tries to strangle WWX and violently put all the blame on him after the fall of Lotus Pier, the gestures maybe have been spontaneous under the influence of strong emotions, but the feelings behind those gestures had existed for a long time deep down in JC's heart and just found their natural expression in that particular scene at that particular moment. JYL's spontaneous action when WWX was at risk of being2/5

stabbed was to throw herself in the way of the blade, LWJ's was to catch WWX, never mind that his wounded arm had to take the full weight of a man, and if shock made JC take stupid decisions he'll regret later, if he really loved WWX, JC might as well have decided to fight all the assembled cultivators to protect the man JYL died for or something else equally rash. But he didn't, because by that time, he was already pretty much hating WWX and JYL's death was the last straw (ironically, her3/5

sacrifice made WWX even less deserving of living in JC's eyes). CQL did soften JC's character by removing some of his most callous lines and just by the fact that JC is played by a beautiful actor who spends half of his time looking stylishly sad when he's not bawling his eyes out, which automatically generates more sympathy. Adding the WQ love story was a mixed bag imo because on one side, it made him look less like a Wen hater on principle and more like a very inadequate and cowardly4/5

leader, unable to stand up even for the woman he professes to love, but on the other side, we got that scene in prison where he's like hey, so I totally support the wholesale massacre of your relatives, including your brother, but you still down for marrying me? JC, do you want a black cape and a villainous laugh to go with those lines?5/5

Oh, it definitely doesn’t look good for JC that his instinctive reaction to his sister sacrificing her life for their brother is to kill said brother at the first opportunity. What it does do is offer some sense of legitimacy to the whole “JC killed his brother in his unrestrained grief and then spent the next 13/16 years regretting it!” argument. Not much, we’re still talking about the guy who murdered his brother, spent the time he was dead torturing anyone who reminded him of him to death, and tried to kill him again as soon as he came back, but... you know.

The WQ story was... a whole thing. It was genuinely cute at first! When they’re in Cloud Recesses, and even the Wen indoctrination camp, it’s JC being hopelessly in love with someone waaaaaaaaay out of his league and trying to woo her! And failing, because WQ clearly has no interest in him, but it’s all very courtly and sweet. And then... well, as you say, he’s fully supportive of murdering her entire family down to the youngest child but still wants her to marry him and is upset when she gives back the symbol of that offer and essentially tells him to fuck off. The only way that scene with her returning the comb could be better is if she came straight out and said that since he would clearly never offer her family his support and protection she’d rather die with them than marry him and live while her new husband slaughters them. Because it’s clear that regardless of any feelings she may have had for JC (I personally don’t think there were any, I think she only accepted the comb because she thought the offer of a sect leader’s protection might come in handy until she realized any protection he’d give would require her to abandon her family, hence why she gave it back instead of keeping it as a memento or even selling it), it was the idea that he wanted her to watch her family die from her safe, cushy place in Lotus Pier that really turned her off marrying him. That and probably one question: If he was willing to let the brother he grew up with die rather than defend innocents, what would it take before he abandoned his Wen wife?

#mdzs #cql #grapehate #wen qing #anon #asks

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margoshansons · 5 years

Text

Desperate Measures: 4/?

Bellamy Blake x Reader

Summary: After the death of one of her best friends, Y/N’s feud with Murphy gets out of hand and Charlotte betrays her.

Warnings: death, violence, gore, swearing, hanging, suicidal thoughts, suicide

Notes: buckle in, because this is a rough chapter, my dudes. Based on 1x04 “Murphy’s Law”

Wells was dead.

She had done nothing but ignore him since they landed on the ground, and now he was dead. Gone. Forever.

She would never get to see him again.

Never get to play chess with him again.

She couldn’t even remember the last thing she had said to him.

She couldn’t even feel the grief that ran through her body. She was numb, sprinkling dirt on the mound that represented his burial site.

The mound that represented all seventeen years of his life.

“May we meet again.” Y/N whispered, a small tear streaking down her grimy face. She stood up, turning around to see Bellamy standing there, arms crossed, his gaze soft.

“I’m sorry” He murmured, trying to reach out to her.

Y/N swallowed, gulping down her grief into her gut, pushing past the soldier and heading for the dropship, a head of blonde hair collapsing into her shoulder before she could enter. She wrapped her arms around Clarke’s mourning figure, the two girls silent as their emotions transferred over to each other, relishing in the comfort they gave each other.

“It wasn’t him” She whispered, pulling away and wiping the tears from her face. “Wells didn’t turn us in. My mom did.”

Her heart continued to rip, the numbness spreading further as Y/N offered her sympathies, “Clarke, I’m so sorry.”

The girl bit her lip, her voice thick with anger, “My own mother killed my father. How does someone do that?”

Y/N knew exactly how. “They see no other choice.”

“There’s always another choice.” Clarke’s anger radiated from her, mixing with grief over losing her best friend. She held her head high as she walked away, encouraging the others to continue building the wall. Y/N threw a look around, watching as the camp began to devolve into chaos. Octavia mostly sat with her thoughts, sharpening the makeshift weapons, while Murphy continued his tyrannical reign, abusing Connor as he struggled to lift a log.

Y/N exhaled, resigning to her circumstances as she joined Monty in the dropship, helping create a form of interspacial morse code.

She picked apart Octavia’s fried wristband, examining for any components that could help the two of them.

“Y/N” Monty called, stretching his way across the workbench, “Can you hand me those tacks?”

“Yeah” she responded, leaving her tools at her work station as she went to meet Monty’s demand, handing him the small bolts leftover from the crash. “How are you doing?” She asked, hovering as she watched him push the small tack through the hole he had created, trying to forget about the events of the morning.

“I should be asking you that question.” Monty responded, “But I’m doing okay, would be better if I could find some way to keep the bracelets alive for longer than five seconds.”

Y/N chuckled, the first smile that day. “I’ll keep checking my book and Octavia’s bracelet for anything we need. I’d love it if we could find some kind of solar transmitter.”

“On the ground where the biggest technology is spears?” Monty brought up, twiddling with Clarke’s freshly removed wristband, “Not likely.”

Another chuckle escaped her, turning around as she heard boots clang against the metal floor, meeting Bellamy’s cold gaze. The stoic leader was back. “How’s the radio coming?” He asked, hands on his hips.

“It’s coming.” Y/N responded coldly, crossing her arms. She really wasn’t in the mood to deal with him right now. “What did you need?”

“You” He spoke, catching her off guard. She stumbled backward at the news. “Jasper and Octavia found something, they wanna brief us in Clarke’s tent.”

Y/N nodded, grasping her jacket and slipping her arms through it as she passed Bellamy.

“Franco, wait--” He called, running after her so they were walking side by side.

“What do you want Blake?” She returned the favor, since he refused to call her by her first name. At this point, she’d honestly prefer the nickname, but he hadn’t used that since their fiasco in the cave.

“I wanted to say sorry” That stopped her in her tracks, his big brown eyes softening as he gazed down at her, fiddling with his thumbs. “For the cave, for Wells. For everything really.”

Warmth stirred in her chest, the gesture meaning more than she expected it to. Her stomach flopped, the hairs on the back of her neck stirring.

“Thanks” She choked out before heading into Clarke’s tent where Octavia and Jasper stood holding a knife.

Clarke’s eyes flickered as Y/N entered the room, grief still present in both girls as she examined the silver and yellow weapon.

“This knife..” Clarke realized, her blue eyes widening. “It was made of material from the dropship.”

“And that means?”

Y/N inhaled, insides threatening to collapse. “Someone in the camp killed Wells.” There was a traitor among them. A killer.

They had been sent down with a murderer unafraid of the consequences.

“We need to keep this quiet,” Bellamy responded.

“Why?” anger laced Y/N’s voice, something dark swirling in her chest at the thought of Wells’ killer going unpunished.

“So we’re just going to let a killer walk among us? Without punishment?” Clarke echoed Y/N’s sentiment, desiring the same thing she was.

Bellamy stared at the two women, eyes growing wide in fear as he caught the madness stirring behind both of their eyes. “That’s not what I’m saying Clarke,” He defended, “Believe it or not, letting the others think the grounders killed Wells is good for us. The fear of grounders is building that wall. It’s keeping us safe.” He let out a sigh, “besides there’s no way we can even tell who did it.”

“I can” Clarke bragged, holding the knife at an angle so the initials carved into them shone in the natural light.

JM. John Murphy.

“The people have a right to know.”

Clarke pushed past Bellamy’s protests, straight toward Murphy, brandishing his knife, accusing him of killing Wells. Y/N shot a look at Bellamy before following after her, desperate to gain some kind of closure for her friend.

“I didn’t kill Wells, the grounders did.” Murphy protested, trademark sneer written all across his face.

“Liar” Y/N called, unable to stop the visceral reaction pouring out of her. “You’ve hated him since he first stepped foot in this camp.”

“Yeah, a lot of people did Franco,” Murphy continued, defiance written across his face.

Octavia spoke up in her defense, “He tried to kill Jasper too!”

“What?” the younger kid traded a stare with Y/N, who shrugged before Jasper gulped down his nerves and faced his almost killer.

Murphy scoffed. “I don’t have to answer to any of you.” He spun to face the rest of the group, “I don’t have to answer to anyone!”

“Come again?” Bellamy asked, crossing his arms. Murphy met his gaze and a fearful look crossed his face. The first time any of them had seen Murphy so anxious since walking into this camp.

“Bellamy, please, you have to believe that I didn’t do this.”

Y/N watched as Bellamy refused to submit, uncertainty flashing in his eyes as he let out an exhale.

“Do you all want to live in a society with no rules?” Clarke asked, pleading to the people’s ethos, “Where people can kill without consequences? Where the guilty can go unpunished?”

“I say we float him!” Connor called, murder in his eyes.

Y/N moved forward, “We are not the Ark.” She reminded him. Even if Murphy did kill Wells that didn’t mean they had the right to choose who lived and who died.

“It’s justice!” he called, rallying the crowd behind him.

“It's not justice it’s vengeance!” Clarke announced.

By the time she voiced her protest, the crowd was already atop Murphy and Y/N became a bystander, breath hitching, chest heaving as they dragged his body through the mud, his face unrecognizable.

The numbness persisted, only replaced by anger as she imagined Murphy’s hands on Wells’ throat, the blood pouring over his hands while he sneered, Wells taking his last breath with Murphy’s victorious face looming over him. Suddenly, she couldn’t find a shred of sympathy remaining in her.

Her eyes met Murphy’s helpless ones, darkness spreading through her as the noose tightened.

“Bellamy should do it!” Connor called, ushering the leader forward, the crowd chanting his name, Clarke trying to appeal to the softer part of him. His gaze locked with Y/N’s. He was waiting for her approval.

She nodded, the same thought existing in their mind.

Attachment is death.

He turned around to face the accused, rushing forward and pushing the crate from underneath his feet. No hesitation. No attachment.

They would survive.

“What the hell are you doing?” Finn called from the treeline, moving forward to cut the rope, stopped by the mob underneath them. The madness continued, camp devolving until there was nothing but anarchy left in its wake.

He deserved this, she told herself.

He killed Wells.

He tried to kill Jasper.

He wanted to kill her.

“Stop it!” A small voice called, pulling her from her thoughts. A voice she recognized. “Murphy didn’t kill Wells!”

The crowd went silent.

“I did” Charlotte’s confession hung in the air, the pointed edge of the emotional dagger slipping deeper into Y/N’s heart as she struggled to look at this girl--this killer, with the same eyes she did only days before.

Bellamy brought her into the tent, asking the question on everyone’s mind. “Charlotte, how could you do this?”

“I was just slaying my demons, like you told me.” She defended.

Y/N spun to face Bellamy. What had he told her? What had happened in that cave while she was asleep? What could he have said to make her a murderer?

“She misunderstood” Bellamy explained, breath quickening. “Charlotte that is not what I meant.”

The girl shook where she stood. “Please don’t let them kill me.”

“We won’t,” Clarke promised, underlying anger lacing her voice, “But you need to understand. You killed someone Charlotte! Ended his life!” Charlotte met Y/N’s gaze, pleading with the woman she had grown so close to. “Please.”

“I told you to talk to someone!” Y/N scolded, disbelief coursing through her, “I told you Wells was there for you and instead you killed him!” She shook her head, stepping away from the younger girl, “This is your mistake Charlotte. You have to deal with the consequences.”

“Charlotte!” Murphy’s voice rang out, “Come on out here! I just wanna talk.”

Bullshit, Y/N rolled her eyes, storming out with Bellamy to face the tyrant, their presence comforting each other as a smirk drew itself on Murphy’s face.

Even if Charlotte had killed Wells, did that mean she deserved to die? Murphy did, she knew. But Charlotte was twelve, a child. Couldn’t they offer her mercy?

“Looks like the king and queen have decided to grace us with their presence,” Murphy quipped sarcastically, “I hope you’re not expecting me to bow down.”

“Go float yourself, Murphy” Y/N shot back, anger fading to the familiar emptiness she had been feeling all day.

“You already did that, remember?” His sneer was gone, replaced by the darkness Y/N had seen earlier. “Who’s gonna hang me this time?”

“I was just giving the people what they want” Bellamy justified, his own words tasting like ash in his mouth.

Murphy chuckled darkly. “Right, let’s see what the people want then.” He turned around, facing the group as he yelled out, “Who wants to see the real Murderer Hang?!”

Silence.

He chuckled again, “I see, so all of you are ready to string up me for nothing? But when this bitch confesses, you want to let her free?”

The fight that broke out hit Y/N by surprise. She brandished her knife, swiping at the people who approached her, her hand reaching around before lodging the blade deep into one of Murphy’s cronies, pulling the weapon from his thigh as he screamed, collapsing to the ground.

Her foot slammed into his face, knocking him out cold.

“Bellamy?” She asked worried, shaking the leader until he woke, promising her that they were going after Charlotte. His eyes fluttered open and Octavia helped pull him to his feet and Bellamy turned toward Y/N’s worrying figure.

“We’ll go after her,” He told her, “I promise.”

She nodded and the two grasped their pack, following Murphy’s tracks deep into the forest.

The trees offered no comfort this time, knowing Murphy was using it as cover from the others, and Charlotte was trapped with Clarke and Finn somewhere they couldn’t find her.

She had done this.

She had blown up at the girl.

She had hanged Murphy.

“Hey,” Bellamy grasped her arm bringing Y/N back to reality, “We’ll find her. She’ll be okay.”

She nodded, her response cut off by a scream.

They sprinted.

By the time they found Charlotte again, the girl was feeling self-sacrificial and Murphy had found them.

“MURPHY!” Charlotte yelled over Bellamy’s shoulder, “I’m here!”

Y/N gave an apprehensive look back, “He’s gaining” She warned, picking up the pace.

They broke through the tree line, the threesome skidding to a stop before the edge of a cliff, the ravine stretching into the depths below. Her chest heaved up and down and she twirled her knife in her hand, spinning around as Murphy broke into the clearing.

“Give me the girl Bellamy,” Murphy ordered, a sick smile across his face.

Y/N stepped forward, placing herself between the two men, ready to protect Bellamy and Charlotte from his wrath. “She’s a child.”

Murphy's eyes flashed red, “So was I.”

In a flash his arm was around her neck, the sharp blade of the knife held against her throat. The trees rustled, Clarke and Finn breaking through, horror widening their eyes as they gazed upon the scene in front of them.

“Hand over the girl, or Sparky here dies.” He gestured toward her, the knife digging further.

“No!” Charlotte called, sobs awakening, “Please don’t hurt her.”

Bellamy scanned the situation before him, grip still tight on Charlotte’s arm. Clarke stepped forward.

“Murphy, come on, we can talk this through” She pleaded, not wanting to lose another one of her friends.

“I’m done hearing you talk.” He tightened his grip, knife breaking through the layer of skin, “Ten seconds.”

“Bellamy don’t!” Y/N called desperately, clawing at her throat.

“Ten” Murphy threatened.

Bellamy’s pulse quickened, breathing shallow as he began to loosen his grip. He couldn’t lose her too. Not now.

“Nine.”

“I’m not worth it.” Y/N choked out, her windpipe close to getting crushed.

“Eight.”

“Please don’t!” Charlotte pleaded, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry, please I’ll come with you just let her go!”

“No!” Y/N urged, “Charlotte don’t. It’ll be okay, I promise. I’ll be okay.”

The little girl shook her head, tears streaming down her face as Murphy continued the countdown.

“Seven.”

Charlotte paused, “I can’t let anyone else get hurt because of me.”

“Six”

A breath.

“Five”

A beat.

“Four”

Charlotte ripped herself from Bellamy’s arms, throwing herself off the edge of the cliff, body plummeting into the ravine below. Murphy released Y/N in surprise.

“NO!” Bellamy called down as Y/N fell beside him, staring down into the abyss.

“Charlotte!” Y/N called down, grief shooting her through the chest, cutting through her endless numbness and setting her body aflame.

Her mom. Atom. Wells. Charlotte.

She was a bomb, lying in wait until someone came too close and then...boom.

Clarke sobbed beside her, Bellamy staring down in shock.

Her mouth grew slack, eyes unable to tear themselves away from the ravine until Bellamy stood, the sound of skin against skin pulling her upward. The soldier was atop Murphy, his fists pummeling into the delinquent's face, his screams ringing through the air.

“Bellamy stop!” Y/N called, reaching out.

Finn reached him first, pulling the older boy off of Murphy, “You’ll kill him.”

“He deserves to die!” Bellamy raged, anger ablaze in his eyes, face alight with an untapped rage that Y/N had never seen.

“No!” Clarke reprimanded, “We don’t decide who lives and dies. Not down here!”

“I swear to god if you say the people--”

“No” Clarke shook her head, “I was wrong. But we need rules! We can’t just live by whatever the hell we want.”

Bellamy snarled, “Oh yeah, and who makes those rules? You?” He threw a pointed look their way.

“From now on we will.” Y/N offered, calmly stepping forward. “All three of us.”

“So what?” Bellamy asked, still seething, “We just let him back into camp? After everything he’s done?”

“No--”

“Then what?!”

Y/N stared at Murphy, bloodied and covered in mud, barely able to stand. “We banish him.” She replied, catching the arguing leaders by surprise.

“And if he refuses to leave?” Bellamy’s pessimistic attitude was really starting to get to her again.

“Then we kill him.” Clarke offered, sending a cold look toward Murphy. Bellamy sniffed, his eyes latching onto the fresh cut on Y/N’s neck, the newly drawn blood sending him flying toward Murphy, dragging him by the collar to the edge of the ravine.

“I see you anywhere near here, and you’re dead.” He snarled, pressing his knife deep into his neck before throwing him headfirst into the ground, storming away.

Y/N shot a pitiful look his way, throwing her blunt knife to the ground, giving him more than one weapon.

His hoarse voice called after her, “You’re not like us. I saw your blood, you can’t hide your secret forever.”

She leaned down, hand squeezing a clump of his hair as she responded darkly, “I’ve kept this safe for eighteen years. If I get any ideas about you even thinking about breaking that streak, then I’ll hang you myself.”

She pushed his face deep into the mud, striding back to camp.

***

“You wanna do the honors?” Monty asked the newly recovered Jasper, a smile on both of their faces. The radio was finished. The would soon be able to contact the Ark. Some good had come out of this day after all. Y/N watched eagerly as Jasper plugged the cord into the port.

The device sparked, drawing electricity as the wristband fell dark.

A jolt of pain distracted her and she watched as her wristband clanged against the metal of the dropship.

Dark.

She leaned down, hands gingerly clenching the silver device, blocking out all sound as she retreated into her tent, the wind howling outside. What was she going to do now? Her family was up there. Her friends were up there. How many of them would follow down if they thought she was dead?

Her hand ran itself through her hair, a visceral scream exiting her mouth as she threw the useless piece of metal against the ground, hanging her head in her hands. It didn’t matter anymore. Her survival didn’t matter anymore.

She should’ve let Murphy kill her back there. What else did she have to live for?

Saltwater burned her skin as the tears fell.

The dam was broken. Her wall was being torn apart piece by piece.

“Hey Franco, Miller’s--” Bellamy stopped when he saw the state she was in, “--looking for you.”

Y/N turned away, trying to wipe away the tears as they came. “Go away Bellamy” She requested, not wanting to see anyone at all.

He didn’t move, hesitating instead. “You don’t have to be strong all the time.” He advised, settling in next to her. “No one expects you to.”

She laughed mirthlessly, “Everyone expects me to.” She breathed, voice hoarse, “It’s why I wanted Murphy to kill me back by the cliff.”

Whoops, there it was. Her secret was out.

“I’m a ticking time bomb ready to go off at any minute” She explained, the numbness returning as she stared ahead. “People would be better off if I just...disappeared.”

Bellamy gulped, “That’s not true. You had the option to float yourself and you didn’t” He reminded her, catching the engineer by surprise, “You chose Earth. Something in you wants to live Franco, and it’s time you listened to it.”

She smiled at the encouraging speech, the newfound warmth pushing back the emptiness as she watched Bellamy stand, his hand lingering on her shoulder before making his exit.

Her wall crumbled.

We getting some quality time! The pairing is coming together my people.

Please like, comment, and reblog!

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starbuck · 4 years

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Terror Notes: “Go For Broke”

well… I guess I’m really doing this! Some proper, bullet-pointed notes for each episode of The Terror, starting with ep 1: Go For Broke!

I wrote these out last night (and edited them this morning to make them readable - you’re welcome!) so I hope that y’all enjoy my thoughts and assorted nonsense! I tried to save my comments for points I actually wanted to make because I feel like they bring something to the table but I still ended up writing A Lot lol

I love that Crozier couldn’t even be bothered to be present in welcoming Sir John and Fitzjames onto Terror, making Little and Hodgson do it by themselves. One could argue that he had important captain-y things to be doing at that time or something but I’m not 100% sure that wasn’t the case.

idk if it’s just the angle, but I paused the episode just as the shot of the officer’s mess is coming in from above and Hodgson’s hands make me so uncomfortable. They look so bone-y and weird. (Just what you came here for, I know. Hand commentary.)

Cannot tell you how uncomfortable it is, after many rewatches, to listen to Fitzjames recounting in a casual, lighthearted manner 1) shooting people 2) people catching fire (and burning to death), and 3) their burning flesh smelling “like roast duck” (so, like something edible) and it’s even more uncomfortable to have the closeup be on Hodgson’s face as he laughs at the ‘roast duck’ comparison.

On a lighter note: I love that Fitzjames felt the need to remind everyone what size cherries are by illustrating it with his fingers. In case they forgot, I guess? As someone who occasionally speaks unnecessarily with my hands, big mood tbh.

I LOVE it when Fitzjames gives Little that affirmative tap on the arm after he compares Fitzjames’s injury to Lord Nelson’s. My friend Eli and I refer to it as The Fitzjames Arm Tap. I would like a Fitzjames Arm Tap, pretty please.

God, Sir John loudly setting his hands on the table to try to dispel the tension from the ‘birdshit island’ debacle as he attempts to change the subject is so funny. I’m gonna stop just pointing out things I find funny soon, I swear, but I just cannot handle this scene.

Between Hodgson looking horrifically embarrassed by Crozier’s outburst at Fitzjames and Little looking nervous when Crozier shoots him a look as Sir John says that there’s no reason to be concerned about the ice, it really does seem that they were having to ‘manage’ him even back in ep 1 when his alcoholism wasn’t completely out of hand.

Personal sidenote about this: My Pop-pop is often rude to workers in stores and restaurants (he doesn’t drink thank goodness but he has Alzheimer’s coming on which has worsened his temper) so I very much understand the feeling of being on-edge that an outburst is going to occur and trying to deal with the fallout when it does. Just going by my own experience, I can imagine Little apologizing to Fitzjames for Crozier’s rudeness as soon as they were out of Crozier’s earshot (not that anything Little could say would heal the deep psychological wound that Crozier created but hey, it’s something).

The way that Sir John brushes aside Dr. MacDonald’s and Crozier’s concerns about moving Young when he’s in such bad shape never fails to upset me but also ~foreshadowing for hauling the ill on boats oooohhh~

I said I was done pointing out random things that amuse me but the speed and agility with which Des Voeux pops out of the hatch and onto the deck after Orren falls into the water is just so funny. I could watch that two second clip on repeat all day. Might gif it so I actually can.

Is this a good time to point out that there’s also a scene in Moby-Dick where someone falls from high up on a mast and drowns? It’s in a chapter all about bad omens experienced by the crew of the Pequod and The Terror definitely has some similar vibes going on with the sun dogs displayed in the establishing shot of Erebus in that scene and David Young, a “warning of things to come,” on his way over.

The second(?) time I watched the part where Young tells Stanley that he didn’t think anything of getting headaches since he’s always gotten them, I had this thought pass through my head that was like “oh god, I had chronic migraines for years so I’d never have known if I had lead poisoning either!” but then I realized that this probably was not a relevant concern I should have.

Not sure I have any deep commentary on this but as Gore informs Sir John and Fitzjames about the blocked propeller, he’s standing in the same spot, in the same room as Goodsir will stand next episode to tell them about his death.

Also regarding this scene, I love how Gore waits for Fitzjames to give him the go-ahead to leave before actually going. I know that Fitzjames is his superior officer too but, since Sir John already dismissed him, it seems like waiting for Fitzjames’s approval isn’t really necessary, yet a nice thing to do. Perhaps this is a legitimate formality, but something similar happens later in this episode in the command meeting when Crozier asks Gore how many sun dogs he’s seen; he looks to Fitzjames and waits for his nod before answering Crozier. He doesn’t look to Sir John, he looks to Fitzjames. I know that we know essentially nothing about Gore but like.. underrated ship???? Just saying…

Ten nights ago, I was unable to get to sleep for at least an hour because I started thinking about David Young’s saying “I want to go to my grave as I am” and, of course, that ultimately doesn’t happen for him but also, this, like all things about him, is a “warning of things to come.” I’m pretty sure that no one else was properly buried until, arguably, Fitzjames and ironically, that was explicitly not what he wanted done with his body (and, since his grave was later looted by Hickey, similar to the way that Young’s autopsy ultimately achieved nothing, it didn’t really matter anyway).

I know that this happened exactly ten days ago because I forced myself to wake up and write it down in my notes app, lest I forget, which only prolonged my sleeplessness. I suffer for my analysis.

Ah yesssss Tozer’s lesbian haircut. We love it! Why does my hair not look like that when I take a hat off? I’d like to file a complaint.

Was just thinking the other day about how Hartnell being the one to notice that there was something up with the ice in ep 1 is followed up on with Blanky complimenting Hartnell’s ability to read the ice to Crozier in ep 7. I wonder if Blanky ever gave him like. ice-reading lessons after becoming aware of his interest and natural talent at it in ep 1? That makes me happy to think about.

The two people who we’re shown awoken by Young’s screaming are Sgt. Bryant and Morfin and like. Do I even have to explain why that’s an Oof?

The way that Goodsir hesitates before knocking on Stanley’s door and Stanley irritatedly closing his book before answering the knock in an exasperated voice would be comedic in any other context. If I’m being honest, it still makes me laugh. As does Stanley’s “As if that weren’t plain.”

I’ve pointed this out before but mmmmm... that shot of Stanley in profile with the open candle flame in the background… the foreshadowing in this ep is thicker than the smoke at… Oh alright, I’ll stop.

God, the autopsy/dive scene…. Collins being lowered down and entering the water paralleled with Goodsir’s initial cutting into Young’s corpse, the breaking up of the ice paralleled with the cutting of the bone-saw. But most significant to me is the parallel of what is seen/not seen and the long-term effect that this has. Collins sees Orren’s corpse (and then presumably never tells anyone about it), reinforcing his guilt over Orren’s death, the beginning of his mental health decline. Goodsir doesn’t see the cause of Young’s death in his autopsy and this not knowing about the lead poisoning until it’s too late to do anything about it is the cause of many of Goodsir’s later problems as well. And, to finish it all off, both the autopsy and Collins’ dive were ultimately for nothing (considering a spinning propeller is useless when your ships are frozen in).

Crozier and Blanky’s simultaneous face journeys as Sir John rambles on about how there’s nothing to worry about and they’ll find the passage any day now are truly legendary.

I wrote some pretty extensive tags on this already but man… Crozier’s comment about how not all of Sir John’s men returned from one of his previous arctic expeditions is just so nasty and awful. Like, yes, Sir John is wrong to undersell the danger they’re in and Crozier is advocating for the correct position here, but that was completely uncalled for and horrible to say, particularly in a command meeting, in front of so many people. And Sir John looks legitimately upset by it too. He gets over it quickly, at least on the outside, but I still feel really bad for him (and I NEVER feel bad for Sir John so this is weird for me).

“But of course we will not be abandoning Erebus, or Terror…” Let’s check back in six episodes and see how that’s going!

Crozier slamming his fist on the table to prove he’s not being melodramatic reminds me of this one post (that I sadly can’t find rn) about Jesus Christ Superstar that’s like “‘CUT OUT THE DRAMATICS’ Judas hollered dramatically.” It’s such an Overall Mood.

I don’t have a developed commentary on this at the moment but it’s an interesting reverse-parallel that Sir John had no concern for Young’s well-being when he was alive, ignoring Crozier’s concerns about moving him from ship-to-ship when he was in such poor health, yet now that he’s dead, Sir John is the one to recommend that Young be buried which Crozier is surprised by, and seems to feel is unnecessary.

There’s been so much amazing commentary already made about Young’s burial scene so I’ll skip it except to say that Hickey’s irritated sigh when he hears footsteps coming towards the grave is SO funny. That’s exactly how I feel when I know that someone is about to tell me something that will annoy me.

Goodsir was really getting into the emotion of Sir John’s “eulogy”/motivational speech before he remembered the promise he made about Young’s ring. Also, what triggered his memory was Sir John saying “We shall earn our loved one’s cheers and embraces,” so no doubt a reminder of the traumatic “Your loved ones will be there in Heaven to welcome you! :)” “I never knew my mother or father” exchange (or maybe just a reminder of the fact that he was supposed to get Young’s ring to his sister but just let me scrape a little humor out of this. God knows I need it).

The shot of Bryant praying in his hammock the night before they get completely frozen-in is honestly deeply upsetting to me. Especially considering he’s a marine so he Did Not Ask To Be Here, yet there he’ll die.

According to Melville, ship’s compasses occasionally spun round-and-round when a ship was caught in a severe storm and this was an incredibly upsetting thing to behold because of how disorienting it was. So, considering that, Fitzjames keeps his composure pretty well but he clearly has some reservations about how things are going and Sir John has no comforting-sounding remark about ‘Magnetic North’ to offer him now.

The bit where Sir John “sees” Crozier, on Terror, turn away from him with a half-smirk on his face is interesting because there’s no way he could have possibly seen Crozier’s expression at that distance and I’m doubtful that he’d even have been able to make out the identity of anyone he might have been able to see on Terror’s deck. So really, it speaks mostly to Sir John’s mental state; his seeing their getting frozen in as a loss against Crozier and imagining that Crozier would see it as a victory for himself.

Ugh the final shot is making me think about @catilinas’s post comparing a shot of the two ships stuck in to the shot of the ink drops from ep 3 and I am LOSING IT but I was losing it anyway because it’s 2AM now and my entire body feels like gelatin.

THANK YOU AND GOODNIGHT!

SEE YOU NEXT TIME!

#the terror #i'm REALLY proud of these!! this was so fun to do!#i definitely intend to do this for each episode #no promises for the timing on that but i legitimately have nothing better to do so lol hopefully ep 2 will happen soon!#hope y'all enjoyyyyyyyy #feel free to add comments if you like or you don't have to! whatever is good - i just appreciate anybody slogging through this lol

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nutty1005 · 4 years

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Wei Wuxian – An analysis on Xiao Zhan's acting Part 3

Part 1.1 – Wei Wuxian

Part 1.2 – Wei Wuxian

Part 1.3 – Wei Wuxian

Part 2.1 – Yan Bingyun

Part 3.1 – Period Dramas

Part 3.2 – Period Dramas

Original Article: https://www.weibo.com/ttarticle/p/show?id=2309404473348091412589 Original Author: 诗债累累

From Conscious to Subconscious, the Art Behind Crafting a Role

Let us quickly review the previous two articles:

1.1 Grasping the character’s base psychology by understanding the character’s childhood and teenage years.

1.2 Crafting the character’s theatrical actions during the Yiling Patriarch stage, using incite and conflict.

In this article, we will talk about the creation of Wei Wuxian, from the conscious to subconscious.

In Xiao Zhan’s portrayal of Wei Wuxian, his realism blurred the line between role and actor, and caused viewers to believe that he and the character were the same person. In his interviews and events during the publicity period for “The Untamed” in China, audiences were usually struck with the sudden realization that his personality is quite unlike that of Wei Wuxian. This was further amplified when “Jade Dynasty” was released – “Was the actor for Wei Wuxian the same actor who did Zhang Xiaofan?”

Following the timeline of this article, we should be currently at the point of “the invincible Yiling Patriarch” until his eventual death in the Never Night City. Using dramatic action, the incident and conflict came from the changes from war to postwar, i.e. winning was paramount before Sunshot Campaign; distribution of the spoils of war and political maneuvering became the main activity post war.

The changes in situation also created an opposition for Wei Wuxian.

(1) The fear of an uncontrolled power

This could be attributed to the natural instinct of the survival of the fittest. Even if the tiger would not attack you, you would feel threatened by his existence nonetheless, because he could if he wanted. The existence of Wei Wuxian became a threat.

(2) Orthodoxy (path of the sword) and unorthodoxy (path of the spells)

This basically stood for the difference in values, and in this, Wei Wuxian was a heathen. Values were something that meant nothing during times of crisis and war. For example, Lan Xichen said, “He had read all the books in the world to no avail”, or Lan Qiren said, “No eggs are spared in an upturned nest”. However, this would definitely become a problem in peace times.

(3) Wei Wuxian’s pragmatic altruism

This character cannot be bribed or restrained by worldly rules. He would not haggle, nor would he abide by norms. He was not self serving, he did not have any specific desires, maybe with the exception of protecting the Jiang Family.

(4) Breakdown of clan structure, because his existence could not be surpassed

In the Bloodbath of Lotus Pier, a new clan leader rose and joined the ranks of established clan leaders. However, Wei Wuxian became some sort of a special force on his own, an ace, one who could defeat tens of thousands on his own.

(5) The horror of demonic cultivation

This was overlooked in the Sunshot Campaign, but when peace times arrived, for one’s psychological comfort, they would judge those who were demonic-cultivated using their ethical and moral values.

This was the environment in which the character faced, and this environment has a very strong sense of realism. This is a classical trope, for example, under the benevolent ruler, a very strong general might be asked to relinquish his military powers and retire, but under a not-so-benevolent ruler, this general might be killed after completing his conquests.

This realism also stimulated the actor and the audiences. Audiences would have been drawn in and mesmerized by the sense of impeding tragedy and doom.

For the actor, with feedback with partnering actors, the above 5 points of opposition were able to arouse creative intuition. As briefly stated in my previous articles, Xiao Zhan’s handling of direct emotional scenes, i.e. scenes that required a direct reaction without much thought, was still quite halting, as though he would be thinking about his reactions, but for the scenes which required complex emotional outburst, he handled very cleanly.

Xiao Zhan’s understanding of his character during this period could be summarized in the following phrase: “What’s black or white, what’s good or evil?” Note that this refers to this period – this is not a conclusion of the character, just a status of the character. The gist of it was that it was impossible to determine what is right or wrong during such trying times, and hence whatever he did or whichever path he took, would have to answer to himself according to his values and morality. In terms of status, it meant that he would be swinging between black and white, good and evil, and he would only be faithful to his heart based on the current situation.

Xiao Zhan captured this status perfectly and showcased his intelligence as an actor. He did not simply portray this as an antihero, but instead, added layers of tragedy, self-conflict, and selflessness to his character.

During this period, most of Wei Wuxian’s actions should have been thoughtless. Most of his reflections would be related to whether he could have walked a different path from demonic cultivation (he could not), and whether his actions would really bring forth a better world after killing so many people.

This resulted in Wei Wuxian not providing any explanations for this actions, but instead, creating a system of philosophy for himself such that he was able to face his own values and morality. Once this system is not unified, it would break apart, and once it broke apart, it became highly sensitive to him. Xiao Zhan added this layer of fragility and high sensitivity, when Wei Wuxian met Nie Huaisang after his return – he dodged his arm, shrunk away from his touch and went into high alert, which reminded his viewers of his days in the Burial Grounds.

When Lan Wangji told him about how demonic cultivation would harm his spirit and possibly become uncontrollable, his reaction was to rebut, “How would you know the kind of person I am?” and thereafter, comforted by assuring that he would not have any problems.

When Jin Zixun refused to tell him where the remnants of the Wen Family were, he became conceited, his lips curling in a grin, his hands twirling Chen Qing. He almost drew Chen Qing like a weapon, as though he was telling everyone that he was a bomb ready to be set off. And he gave these famous words: “Who dares to stop me? Who can stop me?”

In the Ambush at Qiongqi Path, he was confident at the beginning that he would survive even though there might be traps. However, when Jin Zixuan died, he broke down. His performance showed two points – this was his brother-in-law, and this was his retribution.

At the Battle of Never Night City, Xiao Zhan’s emotions reached his peak, showing extreme arrogance and condescension, and he viewed his existence as an outlook of life and values. He had lost all sense of logic and rational thinking.

When facing Jiang Yanli, his performance became childlike, akin to a child who has made a terrible mistake.

When he jumped off the cliff, he had understood that this was truly his retribution, and his performance showed relief, liberation and atonement. Life was but a tragedy, and only death could put an end to all of this.

The emotions, action and psychological characteristics in all these scenes are connected and highly coherent, and encompasses the phrase: “What’s black or white, what’s good or evil?”. This was a conscious effort leading to the subconscious creation of the character.

Subconscious character creation requires the actor to be able to control and summon his inspiration, and you would need a lot of hard work on the conscious creation in order to do this.

When actors create their characters, knowing how to do so is easier than the action creation – the actor will need to temper his will, and get close to his character, and draw inspiration from the actor’s personal experiences. In order to experience the character, the actor will need to firm up his external actions to allow his audiences to have a fixed impression on the character, and then display the internal fluctuations appropriately. This would enrich the performance and create a drama that would be worth watching again and again.

With a complex character such as Wei Wuxian, Xiao Zhan has stepped into the school of acting through his painstaking hard work.

Author’s Note

With this, I end my analysis of the character, Wei Wuxian, because the scenes thereafter would be his reconciliation with himself, and would create repetitive analysis.

I would slowly edit and supplement this article, but there would be limits to this. This article was meant to create some food for thought, and I welcome friends to add pictures or videos to support this series of articles.

Upcoming would be an article on Yan Bingyun.

#xiao zhan #sean xiao #xiaozhan #肖战

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sirjustice1153 · 4 years

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Making of Gold

Gold made on roadside basement or tunnel on the hill or big tank on water or in soil or grass sand land and u step on orange within pumpkin leave on the soil or tangerine peel with hole on grass sand land or mango seed on pumpkin leave on watery clay land with tunnel b4 u hurl the heap with milk as from lofty high on a crane u can place the step on environment on metallic trays or from just where u r standing dude and boom ya Gold bars and with gravel makes gold medals and with grass or any veggies, cereal, seeds, hay, fruits and berries or anything makes other gold products, with silver u replace milk with water, coppers with thinner, titanium with mango juice and any precious stone or metal replace with another fluid or chemical or anything as u try employing the mega step on process as grind all veggies, fruits, berries, leaves and if not all like 10 samples and place in a container as u mark them to place each on such containers in holes made in 1 fruit, veggies, berries slashed thin outer peel but not in the mega mix and as well as make holes in any leave, stem, roots, animal flesh, bones, skin and of anything as polythene, paper, clothes, plastics, flowers, which u place on the samples of the grinned or smashed b4 u step on in surfaces such as bruised floors, smooth floors, grass sand lands, mud lands, floor tiles, plastics, gravel polished floors, plastic carpets and clothes ones, bed sheets, duvets, reeds, metallic plates, iron sheets, other roofing and clothing and big or small leaves of others plants not in the heap or the made on hole as above dude until u make what u know or not dude, but on the heap u can add acidified water or mineral water 4 better results dude

The world can tilt and pour out all the inhabitants on such continents until finished as they listen not 4 other to occupy such lands if all nations in it not generous or good to the poor as in Americas continents We got the Yesterday Riddim singers maybe to alter that move or just a nation as India can tilt on its south tip and water gets into the land to kill or its inhabitants and if not so like Germany tilt and all people get into the crust dude, all can happen if they relent not, if 1 above ya soften ya stand on him alone though tough on others as they believed in Charles Darwin theory of no God but now they know of Hell in Minneapolis which u cant play dice as send ya dignitary to come tell ya as no excuse dude. It will be more tolerable 4 the inhabitant of Sidion and Gomorah or Tire than of that city built on the hill at Judgement day in Minneapolis as the normal burning days are 7 day not forever as earlier thought dude but God extended the burning days with them up-to 100 days or more as i hear but with this current city whose in inhabitants not killed yet as above or using missile or weaker point within lakes on such lands as described earlier it will even be 100 years or forever dude as they got the evidence and proof as with DNA, bracelets, Radar sensor 4 bombs and more yet still playing dice bro. Better burn faster and go ya way dude as 1 week than prolonged, lost coin parable and road to Emaus with Christ dude as she Told me dude, tung tung tung tung 2 tungu tungu x3

Opening metals and walls to steal way or method to do, step on hay on cement fumes on bruised cement floor and do the WWE X-style dude or knock with a coin on the metallic surface or step on Sodom fruit within hole made on cactus on tiles or plastic carpet 4 concrete walls dude or step on hay with wet boxes on those floors as u can carry made 1 or wet cloth with acidified water on grass made hole pattern or on tangerine outer peel on such floors dude as u talk to the Devil dude

Even if u got ya own radar and still rude such weakness points along the lakes can be detonated from above when they overwhelm ya or from below the earth lest u be 1st than them or remove the lake. Dont worship God, make you know as u want good things and Good things are in developed world and Known that way, just respect the law and his name but not be fervently tied to church things dude. living long is not embedded in such dude as it can be ya excuse, living long dwells in respect 4 the weak and not joiners of things as mostly u r a loner as God grants ya longevity and drinking soda like Fanta and coke bottle top already open 4 long in ya sleep if u wake up as military men tought the same bro and staying in fresh circulating oxygen lands like Forested lands dude and using like normal water not refrigerated but cool dude

Like with samosa place few in any leave but mostly with medicinal value or on water, then step on such as above on those lands in tanks or hanging like dustbin container just below it step with either bare foot, shoes of rubber soul or plastic and sandles of any nature as this also affects the results dude, happens with thin and not with this and even with kiri kiri dude. They take any food as cereals, groundnuts, tea leaves or dough and more, wipe kinda on their running or kid nose or pussy clean or not or on wiped booty and make such much in the boom process b4 serving us with. Friends how can this be checked and even bathing water they immersed such on b4 doing the same as above. One might take the same and take to medical person to inflict an omen to those people doing the same as above so be warned dude. The above environment applies to githeri and mtura, only difference is time of making, in bright day light, looking the other-side or towards the heap, few or many people or under dark but using light dimmers or in complete dark dude or under moonlight bro, same applies to buyus and kebabs dude

With red building bricks when heap salted grass in sewer water, u step on hay within cut cabbage piece on floor tile, then carry the boxing like cylinder leather bag on ya arms elbow and u fuck a woman in Dodgy style dude in those containers placed on sand or soil or water at different heights dude or when planted grass with banner style option the photo pointing diagonally or sample brick next to hay dude, while with building blocks the heap should be cooked cassava in sewer water as u step on hay within tangerine peel in tiles chopping board soaked in pineapple on top hay or cooked cabbage dude while with stone u place hay within sewer water, step on tangerine amidst pumpkin leaves on tiles chopping hay on board soaked on acid, mineral water or cabbage and raw mango extract dude and with road side block like bars, heap planted grass in sewer water, then step on cut raw mango piece within pumpkin leaf on floor tile or bruised floor then on wood soaked on pineapple juice chop mango seed or hay dude. Road tar made when hay placed in sewer water, then on wood soaked on pineapple juice chop passion fruit after stepping on euphorbia inner white leave stick stem after peel but dry on wood in between book paper immersed on cooking oil as with other oil or detergent gives u another product as u can try dude, with body apply oil gives u E-tiny cars and even with cooking fat gives ya timers dude

Take the shaft of any machine with all wheels intact and place on sewer water, grass or in any heap then hurl with boiled neem/mwarubaine leave extract or juice after stepping on all grinned as above and boom that car or vehicle dude or the below part of old ships or water vessels or airplane dude mostly in made like deep pool roadside tunnel of big brown stone or big tank of any shape placed into soil or water at different heights dude and even with photos of such shaft folded or bent at different angles or styles b4 hurling with the same gives u those cars or machines as above and even with fabricated houses, aerial photos u bent or fold and hurl the same gives u those houses dude and with medicine u hurl with milk on aerial photos or take from above and folded and with anything dude locating the heap to step on to give ya what u want as u can do it many folks dude.The shaft even placed on banner makes such machines dude as u can try on both ends 4 durable parts and even with spare parts of any machine displayed on such banners dude

The water generator uses the thermostat technology place on ya body to charge like your phone as with thermos flask u can make a hole to fix many such and connect into series connect b4 letting the wires out the lid b4 like sealling those holes to keep the water hot much longer using like the glue or roofing tar or just use 1 thermostat and step it up dude as in the link below and can use a timer as with Nigerian or Uganda water generator to tie a coil to heat the water when it cools down as u have monitor it to set the timer dude

https://www.travelandleisure.com/travel-tips/cool-gadgets/biolite-camping-stove-review

https://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https%3A%2F%2Fae01.alicdn.com%2Fkf%2FHTB1_aXPdlDH8KJjSszcq6zDTFXaB%2F5200mAh-Power-Bank-External-Battery-Charger-for-Smart-Phone-Hand-Warmer-Temperature-Control-Pocket-Powerbank-for.jpg_Q90.jpg_.webp&imgrefurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.aliexpress.com%2Fitem%2F32841300564.html&tbnid=9pN5_rKa_YvBfM&vet=12ahUKEwiK_KjFl7HtAhUZ8IUKHT9BDjoQMygJegUIARDAAQ..i&docid=MOZPFEWGYbZawM&w=800&h=800&itg=1&q=charging%20phone%20using%20hand%20temperatures&client=ms-google-coop&ved=2ahUKEwiK_KjFl7HtAhUZ8IUKHT9BDjoQMygJegUIARDAAQ

The new burial way where casket fixed on drones which are removable or fixed to save people from burial expenses associated with hiring convoys dude as in the link below

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hLbvAFxprzw

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=14r7f9khK70

U want people to be with ya kids as u say the bad and when u realize u cant defeat them change the puzzle dude as u r monitoring if they can be with ya kid, dude who is poor and got power and can be killed as above easily, answer me dude, daily that way, Negro can t come here lest to kill ya as they have known how to make all ya treasures and cash-crops and even herbs artificially dude to remove the puzzle am feeling better to see them with those women when am here so taking a flight to like Canada who have seen i have left u Pi coins so what u want dude. We aint animals to live as cluster but as families dude get to the park then dude

Human hair and wig made much when place like in sewer water then step on hay on orange peel on tile or grass sand land b4 chopping hay on board soaked in mango juice or pineapple juice bro in the dark homies and even ladies purse, bags, Q-text, male wallet and belts of both

News paper made much likewise when u step on hay within book paper with oil traces on tiles and books on bruised floor or step on tangerine on placed on floor on tiles hay with made hole with fingers 4 books or 4 news paper place lemon peel in place of tangerine and chop pineapple soaked wood on it chilies or mixture of all veggies/fruits to bar u from such tussle when only place sample way or banner method dude on any fruit soaked board but mostly pineapple dude and with tissue when placed in sewer water step on tangerine on hole made on egg shell on the same or on Irish potato on such floor b4 chopping wood soaked on pineapple kale and cabbage 4 book like tissue rolls. Take or cut small cube pieces of every veggies, fruits or berries and even leaves as above not to be much b4 u chop on such woods and even with seeds and cereals, roots, stem, back etc and same applies 4 Xmas accessories like lights, trees, balloon, CD and paper work and the glittering Xmas materials but applying those methods on environment if u visualize making the same u see what u wanna make in cluster or much dude

PS5 PHOTO IN a banner sideways from net in like sewer water heap in a bucket in roadside dustbin way made container then step on hay on wood soaked on pineapple with grass sand land, the board, kinda, in sand b4 u chop kale on wood soaked in pineapple in the dark while with PS4 same photo on a banner slanting diagonally in buckets placed on the floor or iron tanks inside placed blanket or clothe lining b4 placing like sewer water, then step on hay on such board as above b4 chopping garlic on wood soaked on grinned pork meat stew or chopping board garlic and pork meat on soft wood soaked on pineapple dude and with D-lights like box the folded photo in like planted grass heap in roadside ditches lining of black polythene bag or of any color which gives it its color as clothe with holes with any machine, then step on hay on board as above b4 u chop kale on wood soaked on euphorbia milk. While the wireless electric truck made when such photo on the net placed on banner like on planted grass heap within coastal lands at night, step on tangerine on hole made on kale on such white sand, then chop hay on board soaked on tangerine juice or apple juice or on maize cob soaked in baby glucose water dude in such sand bro

#q #-texts #lip ban #bags

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