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whump-town · 3 years

Text

A Cumbersome And Heavy Body

Chapter One: Tired Of This Body

Summary: Stubborn until the very end, Aaron Hotchner isn't going to go down without a fight. It's just getting hard to tell the difference between fighting them and fighting the cancer.

Word count: 7,883

Author’s Note: ugh... well, here it is. Don’t be afraid to send me hate mail or leave a comment. I love it when I make you guys sad (in a loving way of course) :)) good luck you little shits and may the odds be ever in your favor (FYI, they’re not)

Warning: the subject of this fic is cancer and it’s treatment, cursing, maybe out of character (idk, man. hotch is weird)

I've grown tired of this body Cumbersome and heavy Tired of this body Fall apart without me

“I understand you’re here with concerns of a mass you found—”

He was shaving. The mirror fogged from his shower and the room heavy with steam. Leisurely, he’d wasted time getting ready. That particular morning, he’d gotten up before his alarm and he was happy for the distraction of the near-boiling water pouring over his back while the cold tile bites into his shoulder. An easy stress-reliever before the day fully starts.

Dragging a cool rag over his face he’d caught sight of a slightly swollen place on his chest. He’d dropped the rag in the sink and gently probed the area. He’d expected the sting of a bruise, not a knot of hard lumps.

It wasn’t a bruise.

“I regret to inform you—”

He hadn’t even known there were lymph nodes in the chest.

“Can you take your shirt off for me, sir?”

There’s a whole staff of people fluttering and dodging his eyes. A blur of motion as they work around him. Of them all, Hotch has already developed a soft spot for. Dr. Fitz and the glasses that are too big for his face despite his attempts to make them fit his face. There are rubber bands wrapped around the earpieces to push them tighter around his head and a piece of tape holding one of the lenses in. It’s strangely endearing.

No matter how many times Hotch tells Dr. Fitz that Aaron works just fine, he still nervously throws in the courtesy. He’s just like Reid and it’s that thought that makes him both comfortable and so unbearably alone.

With a nod, Hotch tugs his shirt out from where it’s tucked into his pants. The cold air hits his bare chest and he holds his breath for a moment, shivering slightly before he takes control once again. Foyet’s scars are on broad display for the whole room but, to their credit, none of them blink. They’re not here to dissect the scars covering his body or take stock of the weight he’s put on.

He just goes where he’s pulled. If he flinches when they touch him, no one comments. It’s for the better, mostly.

“The tattoo is going to guide the external beam radiation at your tumor,” Dr. Fitz explains once again. His hands tremble slightly as they hold the little needle in his hands. “It’s just three dots.”

Hotch nods, his mouth a little too dry. This whole process a little too much. He nods his understanding, fists clenched at his side to force himself to show no outward reaction. It doesn’t bother him as much as it should those dots are going to be with him forever. His first and last tattoo.

Forcing a steadying breath, he glues his eyes to the ceiling. It stings but it’s not unbearable. The needle digs into his chest, pushing the ink in. It’s the second and third dot that get him. His skin is getting hot, sore enough to make him gunt as the last one is placed.

“Not nearly as fun as a normal tattoo,” one of the other doctor’s observes. Hotch, blinking back tears, looks over at his other doctor. A woman whom he’d never have figured the “tattoo” type. His brain is a little preoccupied, worn down. He’ll get over not profiling her very well, he just might not forgive himself for the slip-up.

Hotch just… grunts. Not a real answer but the easiest.

He’s offered a hand up but he doesn’t take it. Shoulders sore and arms weak, he pushes himself up. Leaning to the side when his head starts to pound, his mouth really, really dry.

“Alright—” a cold gloved finds his shoulder. “You’re just panicking,” he’s reassured. “You need to breathe. In through your nose and out through your mouth.” The hand squeezes his shoulder but he keeps his eyes squeezed shut. It feels like he’s going to pass out. But… he doesn’t. He breathes as instructed and slowly, the room calms back down.

As he peels his eyes open, chest tight and hands trembling, he finds the room still every bit as busy as it was before his little fit. The world really doesn’t stop.

“Are you sure—,” Dr. Fitz twists and worries his hands. Obviously, he’s worked himself up too. Probably blaming himself for Hotch’s reaction. He should have let him take a break or warned him a little better. “Most people find it helpful to have someone here,” Dr. Fitz observes. “Do you— Do you want to call someone?”

His eyes drop to the floor, his mind-- Haley. She would be here. Cracking jokes and poking at his side. Things used to be so much easier with her around. There was this magic about her, a drug her presence doped him up. She would light the room up and hold his hand. She’s not here, though. She’s dead and he’s having a hard time convincing himself this isn’t some sort of penance.

Snuffing out a light like her, it was bound to have its consequences.

They’ve marked him and with his advanced stage, he’s got an aggressive treatment plan, and the radiation starts tomorrow. So, no. No, he doesn't want to call anyone. He just wants to serve his time. Besides, who would he call?

JJ? With two children of her own and a painfully busy schedule.

Reid? His mother occupies his mind as is.

Morgan? He’s grappling with a relationship with Savannah, attempting to salvage all of the complex things life has thrown at him.

Dave? Hasn’t he already lost a child? The last thing he needs is to sit here for any given amount of time and watch this.

And he’d never, never put Garcia through this.

“No,” he rasps, laying back down. “I’m okay.”

He closes his eyes and when a single hot tear runs down his cheek, he doesn’t wipe it away. I��m okay.

I’m okay.

There aren't immediate side effects and he’s not sure if that’s a relief or worse. He’s anxious, nearly sick with nerves. Would it not be simpler to just get sick already? To throw up or get sore or just— anything.

The machine hurts his ears. Fifteen minutes of lying perfectly still gets hard after about two minutes. The whole process exacerbated by the way the low hum of the machine makes his head feel like someone’s digging at his skull with an icepick through his ear.

He’s assured he shouldn’t start feeling any symptoms for a few days. Likely not until the second week of treatments.

It takes five days for a stitch in his side to take his breath for a moment, doubling over as he struggles to breathe for a moment. Chest tight and head fogged. They just add another pill bottle to the other whole collection he’s accumulated on his nightstand.

It feels like there’s an elephant sitting on his chest. A hand gripping a fist full of his hair and dunking his head back under the water. Ties binding his wrist to the bed. A knife buried in his side.

It feels like the ground he’s standing on is rumbling, shifting beneath his feet and at any given moment it’s going to pitch him forward. A free fall and he doesn’t know if he’s ever going to land on his feet.

He’s staring at the ceiling. Fists gripping the sheets as his stomach twists and churns. Swallowing around the uncomfortable burn in his throat, he turns his head to the side. Watching the movements just outside his bedroom window. Jack’s outside, kicking his soccer ball, and waiting for Daddy to come to join him. Hotch, will have to join him sooner rather than later. Even with the yard fenced in, anything could happen out there.

Funny. Just a few weeks ago, anything could have been blown under the rug with “at least it’s not cancer”. Now he’s plotting his will out in his head, making sure he covers every little thing. Who will lead the team? Where will Jack go? Can Jessica handle arrangements and should he start preparing the comfort letters now?

In the face of it all, he’d thought he could accept this. Life goes on. Things happen. He doesn’t want to die. All of those poems, the books, and the lies. “Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there. I do not sleep.” Well, that’s right shit, in his opinion. What comes next? Not light. Not hope. His body will succumb to cancer leaving behind the carnage of his actions.

Hodgkin's Lymphoma…

He’d known, in that morbid way his thoughts tend to twist, that he shouldn’t get his hopes up. That it would be silly for the doctor to smile, sympathetic to his plight, and advise him to talk to his therapist about this new progression of paranoia. For a pat on the back. Instead, he got the cold examination table under his back, and the nurse giving his trembling hand a squeeze as the needle had plunged into his chest.

It’s all been a haze since that phone call. Since the confirmation. Now he’s got more blood tests scheduled for Monday. That’s what his life is now. Radiation for fifteen minutes for four days a week. On the fifth day, he gets blood work drawn. They check for enzymes and cells. He doesn’t really care to understand.

He should. Don’t mistake the careless, numb ache thinking about all this gives him for complete inattention to detail. It’s just a little much for one person.

Hotch finds himself wondering what Reid would tell him about the whole process. Statics that would knock the wind from his lungs and odds that would make him feel just a little better. That he’s too old and too stressed out. That radiation aimed at his chest can harden his arteries and increase his already high chances of a heart attack. That he should have seen this coming-- his father died at 47. Lung cancer. A heart attack.

He should have seen it coming.

“Daddy?”

He has to lean into his nightstand as the ground warps beneath his feet. “I’m coming,” he manages, closing his eyes and blindly hoping that his door is shut and Jack can’t see him. He wishes he’d smoked more. Indulged in Dave’s cigars. Gone drinking with Derek. Danced like Penelope. Fuck, smiled more.

He didn’t even know there were lymph nodes in the chest. He’d gone to law school. Spent his early adulthood learning to read complex course material and how to cry softly in a room with another person less than five feet from him. Maybe he should have studied Biology… but then he’d just have to come to terms with the fact that this whole mess was bound to happen. Predisposed. Genetic and environmental.

His fault.

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

Six in the morning is not a typical time to be fielding calls from concerned police officials. “He—Hello?” Which, now that phone is tucked under his chin, and the call answered, he realizes that he should have checked the caller ID. As stated, is it six in the morning and he doubts anyone too important is calling him at this hour.

Unless, of course, his luck has finally run out and yet another political disaster has occurred. Leaving him to clean the wreck.

The other end makes a strange noise before he’s greeted with, “--finally! I was almost worried you wouldn’t answer!”

Oh.

Emily.

“Morning,” he greets, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. He’s a little too grumpy for this right now but she’s obviously called for a reason, her happiness seeping into tone, and he’s not going to purposely ruin that. How many hours ahead is London, again? Why is she awake?

“I was worried,” she admits. He can hear her working, the drag of her pen across paper, and the shift of the leather chair she’s sitting in. Even her keyboard clicking away as she multi-tasks. “Your last letter was nearly two weeks ago. Is everything good at home?”

Home. He smirks, she’s been overseas now for several years. Yet, she still refers to Virginia as home. The thought makes him shake his head. He’d never draw the conclusion out loud to her but he can imagine that little slip-up is one of the reasons that her on-again-off-again boyfriend Michael grows frustrated with her. It’s not her fault. It’s an understandable mistake but it certainly reflects a certain tone for her affections of London.

Her preferences.

“They’re fine,” he answers, evenly. “Jack’s doing well in school. Dave’s stopped hounding me about potential love suitors.” He pauses to splash water across his mouth, preparing to wash his face. “Garcia enjoyed last month’s tea flavor, what was it-- raspberry?”

He places his phone on speaker and sets it on the shelf above his sink. Ducking his head, he listens to her while he washes his face. Going about the habitual process of shaving. A comforting thing he’s always done. He’s got no preference when it comes to facial hair. A beard is just as easy as a clean face. It’s about shaving. It’s soothing. It’s one of the few things that’s remained constant in his life.

She’s talking-- he thinks about how the weather in London has hit a point in the season that she doesn’t particularly like. Raining and cold. That she wants to come home but she isn’t sure she should. Will she really be able to tear herself away from the Virginia weather? From them?

He’s half-way done shaving when his eyes drift to his shirtless chest.

He wonders how many times he shaved, how many mornings did he wake up before he realized-- before he saw the tumor or the lump or mass or whatever the hell the medical term is. He lowers his head, sighing in defeat but mostly anger. How’d he let it get to this?

“Anyways,” she sighs. Sounding every bit as tired as he feels. “How is home? How are you?”

He looks at himself in the mirror. His head is absent of reason. No logic or forethought.

“I have cancer.”

-------------------------------- Everything about Aaron Hotchner is traditional and simplistic. It’s not a bad thing. In the years that she's known him, she’s grown fond of that. It makes him predictable and reliable. Something that happens infrequently in people the older that she gets. A part of her does feel wrong for clinging to that, to him, but she cherishes his friendship. Through the ups and downs.

Their means of communication are letters. Once a week she can expect to find two to three pages of neatly written updates on her family across the pond. He’ll ramble about anything in those letters and that’s what she enjoys about them the most. There is no hesitation to tell her what he thinks. In those letters, she can find Aaron. Incredible soft, thoughtful Aaron.

It’s been two weeks since he’s sent a letter. Not to sound clingy but she’s kind of hurt. More so, she’s nervous to find out what’s taking up so much of his time. He’s routine with his responses. Almost every Thursday night she can curl up with his newest letter and a glass of wine and read about the BAUs newest adventure. It’s always a bonus when throws in his subtle little “I” statements. I miss you’s come rare but when they do happen it’s nice.

Sighing, she caves. It’s Friday, she hasn’t heard from him in two weeks, and she misses him. By the time she has his contact picture pulled up and the ring tone dialing-- his goofy picture from his badge grinning at her-- she realizes that her eleven am is his six am. Just as she’s starting to think he won’t answer it goes through.

“H--Hello?” he sounds like shit. Over the course of the last year, she’s managed to forget what he sounds like. His voice is startlingly deep which does surprise her just a little.

“Finally!” she mumbles. “I was worried you wouldn’t answer!”

He yawns and it makes her smile. “Morning,” he grumbles and she can hear him scratching tiredly at his face. She feels guilty for waking him up for only a moment. That is until she remembers he gets up at six. So it’s likely she called right after his alarm clock went off.

Tucking her phone between chin and shoulder, she turns her computer on. Settling in behind her desk and getting to work. “I was worried,” she tells him. Not sure if she’s meaning to sound mad at him for not sending his “everyone’s alive and well” letter or mad that she doesn’t know how he is. He’s thrown her off her routine. “Your last letter was nearly two weeks ago. Is everything good at home?”

Her worry bleeds into the statement but he’s too tired to feed it or make fun of it.

She can hear him huff softly, an almost laugh.

“They’re fine,” he answers softly. His voice is drowsy, “Jack’s doing well in school. Dave’s stopped hounding me about potential love suitors.” She hears the tap run, he pauses, and she can hear him splashing water on his face. “Garcia enjoyed last month’s tea flavor, what was it-- raspberry?”

She smirks, it was raspberry. Although, she doubts Garcia liked it as much as he says. She’s not a huge raspberry fan. Besides, Emily had sent that tea with one specific tea drinker in mind: him. The thing about Hotch is, he’s traditional, but he’s also complicated. That’s just Hotch for “I enjoyed the tea you sent”.

Really, she’d just wanted him to be introduced to more teas than his just his simple black tea. Be more creative. Have some fun.

“I’m glad Garcia liked the tea,” she says with a smirk. “She’s been texting me all week.” Pictures, texts, and a few Snapchat. Emily doesn’t entirely know how to use Snapchat yet but she’s getting the hang of it. “You guys being grounded is relaxing, I’m sure, but that woman’s got way too much time on her hands.” Emily shakes her head at the thought. Lovingly, of course.

“Anyways,” she runs a hand over her face and she lets out a sigh. “How is home? How are you?”

There’s a long pause on his end. All his busy movements coming to a halt. It makes her heart pick up its pace, her gut twisting. Suddenly, that knee-jerk thought, that stupid thought that something might be wrong feels true. She’s just about to say his name when his voice cuts through.

“I have cancer.”

Her first reaction is oh. At least she was right.

That is immediately followed by-- oh fuck.

“Are you…” she swallows thickly, work forgotten. “Have--” Where does she even begin?

He clears his throat, “Hodgkin's Lymphoma.” He answers without her actually having to ask. It feels to get it off his chest, literally. To tell someone. “I guess--” he makes a choked sound like the shock of this news is setting in again. “They have to put, uhm, ink to locate the right place. So, I… I have a tattoo of sorts now.”

She laughs a half-pained sound. “I’m sure Morgan doesn’t consider it to be a tattoo,” she manages around the tightness of her throat. She cringes at the thought, ink and a needle just digging into his flesh. Cancer invading his body.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment but when he does, she understands the silence.

“I haven’t told them.”

As much as she wants to be mad at him, she shouldn’t really expect anything different. He’s painfully shy and private. God knows if she hadn’t found him half-dead in the hospital after Foyet, he’d have gone as long as possible without telling them. He certainly wouldn’t have told them while still hospitalized.

It’s the same lack of forethought that goes through them, a moment of blindness. He’d felt the weight of restraints pulling his limbs down when the admissions had left his lips. She feels only conviction, “I’m coming home.”

It catches him entirely off guard.

She winces when he starts coughing. His first symptom since starting radiation. It’s a horrible sounding dry cough that makes her lungs ache just to hear.

The coughs fold him over, the force at which they leave his mouth is painful. What is it that makes coughing so painful? That’s never made much sense. It’s just air, right?

“Hotch?”

He rubs at his sternum, trying to externally soothe the muscles. “I’m okay,” he chokes. Shakily, his right-hand bears his weight as his left turns the faucet on. With his palm, he manages to sip a few mouthfuls of water. It just doesn’t stop the coughing. “I’m okay.”

She highly doubts that. There’s not a single thing about what she just heard that sounds “okay” by anyone standards-- certainly not his. “Are you going to work like this?” she asks. It’s hard to believe he’d allow himself to be seen in any state that isn’t tip-top shape. On that note, she also knows that way too good at putting on a show, and, for profilers, the team sucks at making that distinction.

The anger that evokes in him is undue. Admittedly, he overreacts. “I said I’m fine,” he barks. “I don’t need you checking in on me, Prentiss. I don’t need you here, too!” To watch. It’s bad enough, okay? That he’s going to have to tell his six-year-old son that he’s dying. Each morning a little more than the last and some days feel like he’s already half-lowered into the ground.

And the others. Reid and those sad eyes. The way Morgan won’t be able to look at him, just avert his gaze and storm out of the room. Dave’s crushing hug and JJ’s silent tears. Garcia… He can only imagine the raging in-betweens of what the news will do to her. Stress baking cookies he won’t be able to stomach. Knitting him hats, sweaters, and blankets with feverish vigor that he won’t be able to escape.

He could use one of Garcia’s love knitted blankets right about now.

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he relaxes his tight grip on the sink. Knuckles paled and fingers aching.

“Sorry,” Emily finally manages after the long moments of silence.

Hotch hangs his head, biting his lip hard to stop the flow of emotions trying to work their way up. “No,” he rasps, thickly. He sniffles, scoffing when he rubs his eyes with the back of his wrist, finding tears. “That was… inexcusable. I’m so sorry,” he leans down, body in half as he rests his forehead against the cool porcelain of the sink.

This doesn’t even feel like his body anymore.

“Aaron?”

There are tears streaming down his face, he’s too tired to fight them off. “Hmm?”

“I’ll see you soon.”

He hums in agreeance, unable to trust his voice.

“Take it easy, okay? I love you.”

The line dies before he can hasten out a reply.

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

She’s been waiting on a reason to leave London for longer than she’s willing to admit.

Her dying friend proves to be reason enough.

Clyde has obvious mixed feelings but he can’t hold her back. He and Hotch had gotten set on the wrong foot. The rivalry between the two men is childish but endearing. Almost nothing has made her feel as loved as the proud smiles they both wear when she greets them. Clyde overwhelmingly pleased he’d won her back to London and Hotch smug she’ll travel hours to come to see him (she hadn’t done that for Clyde).

Almost nothing beats that.

“Emily!”

Her eyes are scanning the crowd before her, searching for her mismatched ragtag family. Sore thumbs, bobbing up and down in the crowd, they wave her to them. She notices he’s not there immediately.

“Princess,” Morgan sighs her name into her hair and she turns her face into his shoulder. Drawing in the strength she can feel wavering with a new wave of anxiety washing over her. It helps that they’re here. Derek’s arms wrapped around her after what feels like a lifetime away.

It’s only taken her three decades but she’s found her family and she’s not letting anything drag her away this time.

Garcia pushes at Morgan, causing a choked laugh out of them all. “Stop hogging all the Emily-lovings!”

Morgan smirks, trying to hide the relief swelling in his eyes like tears. He gets one more good look of her, eyes combing over her before parting with a sad smile. Relieved.

There’s a blur of motion. She’s pulled to each of them.

Garcia hugs like she’s trying to crush ribs and Emily lets her.

Hugging Dave brings tears to her eyes. Fuck, she’s missed them.

“Don’t make me chase you,” Emily threatens when she spots Reid near the edge. Pulling him close she rests her head against his shoulder, happy when he squeezes her back. “I’ve missed you, boy wonder.” Her genius. Just as scrawny as when she left him. She doesn’t want to do that again anytime soon.

Dave claps his hands together, grabbing one of the three bags she’d dropped. “Let’s get lunch, kiddos. We can talk about London.” He winks at Emily and she knows that this is going to spin into a conversation about potential love interests. She hasn’t had love on the brain in a while.

London… not everything she wishes it was. Cold and rainy. Relentlessly.

For the first month, she was over there, all she wanted was to come home. She just kept waiting for the rain to ease up. Then there should be that wet, hot humidity that clings to everything. She’d hated that before but now she’d just give anything to have it. For Reid to drag her out for coffee and the sun to bring out the chipper inflection in Garcia’s voice.

How the sun looked on Jack and Henry’s little head when she’d run around the park with them.

Fuck London, she’s just glad to be home.

“So,” she’s allowed them their fill of questions. Things about INTERPOL and if she’s still leaning heavily on take out food or if she’s managed even the faintest bit of finesse concerning cooking (she hasn’t). Leaning onto her elbows, she asks the question that’s been bugging her for hours. “Where’s Hotch?”

Dave leans back in his chair and JJ’s the first to crack. Of course, her poker face just isn’t that great. Her eyes move to Dave, concern written across her face. They might not know but it’s not that hard to figure out they know something isn’t right.

Reid shifts uncomfortably, averting his eyes, and focus.

“Your guess is as good as ours,” Dave informs her. He settles back in his chair, arms crossing on his chest. “He’s…” he sighs tiredly. For a moment he just shakes his head. Rubbing a hand over the coarse hair on his face and then rubbing at his eyes. “He’s Aaron,” Dave mumbles. “Complicated and… reserved.” He looks at her now, zeroed in on just her. Just them.

Her heart races at just the thought of them knowing.

JJ clears her throat. She distracts her worry with rubbing her nail at the glass. “He says he’s at meetings,” she tells Emily. “Says--” she shakes her head, flustered. Upset. Pulling in a breath, she shakes softly as it comes in. “Every day, he sends me an update email. Just a list of things he expects to get done for the day or places he might be.” JJ tucks a strand of her hair back from her face. “Our jobs circle around each other, a lot. It makes my life easier if I can find him without running all over the place.”

Morgan turns his head, away from the conversation. Wishing to be uninvolved but unable to escape.

“He’s lying,” JJ concludes. She worries her lip with her teeth. “His lists are…” her eyebrows furrow as she struggles to say exactly what she means. “Last week,” she says with a nod, having come up with her perfect example. “He said he’d be in a meeting. Didn’t tell me where, he always tells me where.” Her eyes scan over the table, looking for more. “Something’s wrong and he won’t tell us.”

Morgan huffs, shifted now so that his arms are wrapped tightly around himself. His legs crossed, even. Distant. “I don’t see why we don’t just let him be.” His tone betrays what he’s really feeling. That anger and the vulnerability. His words are reflexive. He’s always pushed away when things get tough.

Emily wants to rise to his defense or to say anything but she can’t.

“Reid went into his office yesterday--”

Reid flinches. The memory or the feeling, he draws himself in. Shielding himself from whatever is being said.

Garcia looks down at her lap.

“He was asleep at his desk,” Dave finishes, despite seeing just how uncomfortable Garcia and Reid look. “Out like a-- Asleep like he hadn’t rested in a while. It took-- I had to shake him awake. He was warm to the touch and shaking.” Dave looks down to the table. “Shaking. He was weak and I’d known,” he looks up, frowning sadly. “I’d known something was wrong before but whatever is, we’ve got to get to the bottom of it.”

The bottom of it… God, they’re going to be devastated.

Lunch brightens. It’s forced to when the conversation shifts to the children. To Henry starting fourth grade and Jack’s in middle school now. Since when did those babies grow up?

Sooner than maybe she’s ready for it, she has to leave them. She’s too tired, too jet-lagged.

And maybe… Maybe she’s ready to bother Hotch. To reacquaint herself with his grumpy, silent nature. Isn’t it silly to think she’d hated him once?

Now she knows where his house keys are hidden.

The key hits the lock and she realizes how this might not be as great of a plan as she had planned it to be. “Hotch,” she calls into the dark. She peaks around, hoping if he’s home he’s not on edge. She’s seen him hypervigilant, she knows this is an awful plan. Even calling ahead might not have been enough. So, it’s more than brave for her to just come barging in.

She puts her back near the coat rack, still hunched into herself in case he comes barreling around the corner. He doesn’t. “Aaron?” His car is out front, despite the darkness of the room suggesting the house is empty. The blinds are drawn shut, blocking all-natural light into the house. The air is cool. “Aaron if you’re here please, please don’t shoot me.”

Shutting the door behind her, she progresses into the living room. The creaking of floorboards draws her attention to the other side of the house and she spots him.

He comes around the corner of the hall, from the direction of his room. Tired eyes move up to find her, his lip quirks into half a smile. “Emily,” he greets under his breath. He’d heard the door open but the binds weighing his wrist and ankles to the bed had been too much for him to lift. Pained and slowed, he’d made his way to figure out who was home.

Certain it’s not Jack, he should have had a little more trepidation about coming out here to investigate.

She approaches him slowly, soaking in every line and angle of his body. The way he’s favoring his right side is a new thing but the crescent moons under his eyes are a comforting familiarity. Pulling in a breath, she drags her eyes all the way up to him. He’s lost some weight and it just makes his cheekbones that much more hauntingly sharp. It draws attention to the scars on his face, thin and aged.

With a smile, she shakes her head at him. “Just as ugly as when I left,” she informs him.

He smiles tiredly, sighing at her playful taunt. It makes the hug she pulls him into relieving. The aches and chills he’s felt all day lessen as she wraps her arms around him. Something about the way her hand cups the back of his neck while the other rubs his up along his spine.

She’s standing on the tips of her toes, stretching to get to him. He leans down into her, closing his eyes. She just holds him that much closer. Against her, she can feel the beating of his heart. The way his nerves had amped his heart rate up and now, as the beat slows, the way he calms under her touch.

“How are you?” she asks quietly. They pull apart and she feels the absence of his warmth immediately.

He pulls in a weak breath, one he lets out a strangled cough. Shakes his head and offers a shrug. “I’m okay,” he assures her.

She doesn’t fail to notice how his right hand shakily reaches out to steady him against the wall. They’ve never agreed on the definition of okay and, so, it’s not that surprising they wouldn’t now.

Burying a cough into the elbow of his arm, he starts to tremble. His breathing takes a heavy quality as he stands there. It takes only a moment for him to draw himself up to his full height, swallowing down against the pain and forcing his body to bend to his will. If she didn’t know better, nothing would look wrong at all.

“Can I get you anything,” he asks, clenching his teeth to keep steady despite how exhausted he feels. “How long are you staying?” He knows she won’t actually answer that first question, so he steps by her and lets her follow him into the kitchen. Hyper-aware of the way he moves his body. Trying to look normal instead of stiff.

She follows him, watching for clues in the slips of his armor. One of the many benefits of having known him so long and knowing him well is that he can’t get much past her. “I’m staying for as long as I’m welcome,” she replies. It’s better than the truth, that she’s staying until he’s better.

He appreciates her choice of wording even if the truth is still there underneath it all. Leaving him the burden of the situation, which is considerably worse.

He sticks with a simple hum of understanding, knowing she’ll understand it as such. “Staying where,” he asks. Suspecting he already knows the answer. “Here?” He fills two glasses with water, desperate to soothe his dry mouth. Turning to her, he offers the first glass.

She accepts the glass without comment. “I didn’t think about where,” she lies, smirking over the glass rim at him. He shakes his head but doesn't comment. “Here would be good though.” She looks up at him and he shakes his head with a smile. “It would!” she defends. “I know you miss me and I could help around with Jack. If you won’t admit to it, I know he will.” Her smile twists mischievously, “besides, he’s my favorite Hotchner and I’ll make time to spend with him regardless of where I stay.”

He shakes his head but he’s already formulating how to move the guest room around to accommodate her. There’s not much in there. A bed with some regular looking sheets and two or three boxes of random things.

Putting her glass down on the counter she sighs. “We don’t need to worry about that right now.” Nodding her head back towards the hall she says, “you look miserable. Go to bed.”

He realizes that while she was talking he’s slowly started leaning more and more on the counter. Accumulating a lean to ease the aches wracking his body. She’s right. He looks miserable because he is. He’s exhausted.

“Do you need to take any medication?”

He shakes his head, not letting it bother him when she tucks herself against his side. Allowing him to lean into her. He doesn't but the warmth her body brings is pleasant enough to keep him going.

He took everything he needed this morning. The medicine for the radiation rash he’s developed across his chest, the preventative pills for the fibrosis that might build in his lungs because of the radiation, and a whole other list of things he can’t really remember. He just has the bottles on his nightstand and knows that most require two dosages.

His bed is warm and soft, his eyes closing against his will. Logically, he knows he shouldn’t let her see him like this. This is his battle and he doesn’t want to burden anyone else with it. There’s a comfort in sharing, though. Rather it be the brush of her fingers on his forehead, pushing back his crazy or the kiss she presses to his temple before whispering “get some sleep, Hotch”.

And, honestly, he’s tired of being alone.

“Emily?”

She turns in the doorway.

“Thank you.”

Someone has to be here. She wants to be here. “You’d do the same for me.”

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

Legs crossed, hair pulled into a half-assed knot atop her head she watches him curiously. He’s up an hour later than she’d expected. No coffee to go along with the egg he has for breakfast. Between them, they have an entire morning spent without nearly a word. Just a simple, “do you want an egg?”

He gets ready but not for work.

“What’re you doing?”

She gets ready too. For what, she’s not sure, but she’s interested none-the-less. Even if she thinks she knows the answer. It’s very interesting, she thinks, to step into the living room and find him staring dumbly back at her. No, not interesting. It’s fun.

Stepping around him, she pulls her coat off the rack. “Isn’t it obvious,” she asks, slipping her feet into the boots. “I’m coming with you.”

Flannel and jeans aren’t his typical go to but it’s a relaxed look. One she finds she doesn't hate.

He crosses his arms on his chest, eyebrows furrowed and a stern frown in place. Startlingly in control for a man she watched choke down half an egg before calling it quits. He hadn’t even had coffee. Now he shifts his weight, left to right. “Emily this isn’t--” he just stands with his mouth open. After a moment he shakes his head. “You don’t want to come.”

So it is treatment.

She pulls her jacket tight around her shoulders and without comment pulls his down too, offering it to him.

He takes it with a sigh, shaking his head, but pulling the sleeves over his flannel. With a sigh, he grabs his keys off the counter. He points a finger at her, looking every bit the father scolding a troublemaking child. “You’re not coming inside the hospital. It’ll be an hour. You’ll drive someplace else. I’ll text you when it’s done.”

She smirks, pleased she’s won this round. Placing two fingers to her temple, she gives him a mocking salute. “Aye-aye captain!” Today, she won’t push. He’s come this far, weeks into his therapy. If he needs some time, then he needs time. Just so long as he knows she’s here now.

Leaving him is harder than she anticipated.

She takes his seat, half-listening as he stands at the door.

“There an outlet about five minutes North,” he says. He watches her move the seat around. Trying to drag the seat closer to the steering wheel so she can actually reach the pedals. “It’ll give you something to do. There’s a bookshop up there too. I-- I take Jack there.” He runs a hand over his hair. “A coffee shop and a smoothie stand and--”

She catches sight of the grey through his hair. Looking away, she clenches her jaw. Worry the edge of the steering wheel. “Aaron,” she finally stops him. “I can take care of myself for an hour. I’m a big girl.”

He shakes his head, ducking to so she can’t see the blush creep up his cheek. “Right,” he manages. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

She nods, “an hour.” She waits until she can’t see him. Those doors closing behind him. Swallowing him whole. It’s just an hour.

She was gone for an entire year. More than that really. Years. What are years to a single hour?

The coffee shop is quant. She can imagine him here. Tucked away within the stacks of books. Reid would like it here. The covers are old but, she thinks with a smile, he’d find something, not to date. Seeking a classic and turning away when it’s not in its original translation. That’s where Garcia has always been his balance. She’d pull him from a rant and sit him down with a cup of tea.

How had Emily ever left them?

Her hands tremble as she runs a finger over those old book backs. Mostly, she wonders what Hotch must be thinking. Heaven or hell. If all the work they’ve put into this job will account for anything at all in the end.

If it’ll hurt.

Her phone goes off. Done. Simple enough.

“I brought you a smoothie!” She’s got his sunglasses on when she pulls up. Not even offering to get out of the driver’s side.

He’s hurting more than he cares to admit. Tired and the rash on his chest burns. Seeing her pull up, he’s glad she doesn’t do more than hook her finger into the sunglasses and peer over their edge at him. Climbing into the car he takes one look at the smoothie and shakes his head. It’s dark green and even if he were hungry he’s sure that isn’t very good. “No thank you,” he mumbles, leaning back into the seat. He tilts his head against the rest.

She’s not really in the mood for arguments. More so, he’s just gotten out of treatment and all he’s had is an egg. “You’ll drink it,” she informs him, putting the car in drive. “Maybe not now but eventually.”

He grunts. Doubt that. If he’s going to manage to stomach anything, it’s not going to be that. Besides, he’d got plans: take a nap. That slowly goes down the drain.

Emily turns up the radio, humming along to a song he doesn’t recognize.

Turning his head, he watches her drive. He hasn’t told her yet but he’s very thankful she’s come back. Even if he’s slightly tainted the return with… She’s here taking over his life. Worming her way into his spare bedroom. Force-feeding him weird green smoothies. He doubts she’ll stop there.

“Hotch?” He doesn’t wake up when she shuts the car off. From there on, she’s gentle. Careful as she extracts herself from the car. “Aaron,” she rubs his shoulder.

He pulls in a small breath, turning slowly to her. Half-lidded eyes find her, confused.

When they left the house he’d looked better. Better than now. Not so exhausted.

“You fell asleep,” she informs him, backing up as he sits up. He has to use the seat to get there but he makes it happen. She waits back for him, letting him take his time getting out of the car. All while holding that damn smoothie she’s convinced she’s going to make him drink.

He’s rubbing the sleep from his eyes when his phone goes off in his pocket. She turns at the door, waiting. He motions her on with a wave, taking the call. “Agent Hotchner speaking.”

She stops for a moment to watch him pull in the whole persona. Not Aaron who just fell asleep in the car but Hotch the rock. It’s sad, really, how quickly the one consumes the other.

She’s reading on the couch when he comes in.

He doesn’t say anything as he slips past, going back towards his room. He comes right back out. The loosely buttoned flannel is forgotten, replaced by a suit across his thin shoulders. Once, those suits had pronounced the sharpness of his body. The way his shoulders sit strong and straight. Now, that jacket doesn’t even look like it belongs to him.

“Where are you going?”

He only glances at her, ducking his head back to the task at hand-- putting on shoes.

She gets up off the couch, flipping the book text down. “Aaron,” she comes around the side. “You can’t go out there.” To work. It’s not healthy to go out there. He had fallen asleep on the ride home, not even twenty minutes ago. He won’t manage out there.

He turns to her as she steps into the room, scowl in place and a look of indifference pulled between them. All the protection he can garner for himself. “It’s not up for debate,” he replies. As if this is out of his control. He just can’t help but think it would be easier this way. It would hurt less, dying out there. A coherent death. He’d feel it. Quick and overwhelming.

But coherent. He’d know.

Not in a hospital. More machine than man. Unable to speak or too weak to think.

It would be better to die a hero.

“Aaron,” she calls, he’s just walking away. “You’re being unreasonable.” She wants to scream. To shout at him or grab him the collar of that oversized dress shirt and shake him. Force him to realize that he’s being stupid. Does he think she’s stupid? They both know this is self-destruction. Skipping treatment. Going into the field. All for this stupid image that he’s convinced himself is necessary. For who? Huh?

It’s better to suffer around people you love than to have them bury you. The only burden is the weight of your casket across their shoulders.

He turns, teeth clenched. Jaw set. “Am I?” he asks. His face has darkened, his cheekbones drawing his cheeks in. “I’m going,” he informs her, “regardless of whatever it is you have to say.”

He won’t look at her. That’s how she knows that no matter how illogical he’s being, he knows exactly what he’s doing. Back turned to her, he stops for just a moment. He knows this isn’t what he should. That this is neither his best option nor the right choice. Still, he opens the door. Stepping out he turns his head, eyes cast to the side. “I--” he shakes his head, he doesn’t know.

Before he can shut the door she calls his name out, fear overriding the anger. “Aaron,” she clenches her fists at her side. “Please be safe.”

His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows thickly. Glancing at her, he nods his head. At least he has the decency not to lie to her. To pretend this is anything but foolish and a death wish. He shuts the door behind himself without another word.

Leaving her standing there.

Waiting.

She’ll still be waiting that night when Reid calls her. Incoherent.

“I-- I don’t know what’s wrong Emily! He won’t-- He’s bleeding and I--I… He said to call you.”

She shouldn’t have let him leave.

@laiba-the-person, @emily-hottie-prentiss, @unionjackpillow, @clockedstar, @baumarvel, @blakeprentiss, @qvid-pro-qvo, @aaron-hotchner187, @ssalavellan

#tw cancer #haha assholes #I bet you thought I wouldn't hit you with a cliffhanger #emily is super involved in this chapter but the next chapter has lot more of the team in it #aaron hotchner hiding medical issues like he would #stubborn ass #you gotta love him tho #aaron hotchner #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #emily prentiss #derek morgan #david rossi #jennifer jareau #penelope garcia #spencer reid #bau

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indiavolojones · 4 years

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anon it’s like you’re LOOKING at my diary ヽ(｀Д´)ﾉ

2.5kish, gen, dia/luci.

“Before you do anything stupid that involves my permanent work on your body," the distaste radiating off of Lucifer is palpable, "Try an ear piercing first. It's plenty shocking to you business types, and a helluva lot less painful.”

“So, what do you say, Lucifer?"

SPECIAL THANKS TO @canonlucidia FOR BEING THE LUCIFER TRANSLATOR WE ALL NEED TO ELEVATE OUR FICS

“Huh,” Diavolo tilts his head, “I would have never guessed you were over eighteen.”

Lucifer's ID shows none of the telltale signs of forgery, nor does the man look like a teenager. Diavolo just likes to have fun with people that seem too serious for their own good.

Besides, it would be impossible for Diavolo to misjudge the man in front of him as a child—there are no children with eyes as hard-edged as Lucifer’s. Lucifer’s drenched coat is slung over his arm, the layers beneath thankfully still dry. His long hair is twisted up in a messy, haphazard bun—something about this man makes Diavolo think this is unusual.

Probably the impeccably tailored, expensive-looking vest and suit jacket. The watch peeking out from underneath his shirt sleeve is worth at least a couple hundred dollars, if Diavolo’s instincts are right. Minutes within meeting Lucifer and he already knows that this is a man that takes an incredible amount of pride into his appearance.

Lucifer narrows his eyes, but the effect is less than intimidating to Diavolo, who has faced far worse than severe looks. Besides, the dark, exaggerated bags under his eyes can’t lie. The proud jut of his chin and squaring of his shoulders be damned; Diavolo can sense his bluff a mile away. Lucifer is more likely to pass out from exhaustion than start a brawl.

“What an interesting business model, insulting your potential clients like this.” Lucifer retorts, and Diavolo thinks he’s probably terrifying when he’s had at least eight hours of sleep.

“There are plenty of other tattoo parlors around town,” Diavolo offers with another disarming smile, his arms crossing. An asshole customer is an asshole customer, no matter how pretty their mouth is.

“No,” Lucifer insists, “It has to be this one.”

“Okay… Then you’re going to need to relax a little, because it’s not often that I have people come in during a storm demanding a full back tattoo out of nowhere,” Diavolo shrugs, passing Lucifer’s ID back to him.

"I wouldn't do any work on you today anyway. You haven't paid the deposit and we haven't had a consultation meeting. Sorry, it's my policy." Diavolo shrugs, not very sorry all and Lucifer can tell. Lucifer looks like he's about to spin on his heel and march out the door, and Diavolo, damn his soft heart, holds up his hands.

"But… if you'd like, we can set you up for a piercing session. We've got an open slot and I'll give you a returning customer’s discount."

"I want the tattoo." Lucifer says, like Diavolo's stupid for offering anything else and he has to stamp down his own mild tinge of annoyance.

"And I get that. If you can afford my rates, I'm willing to discuss." Damn it, Diavolo knows the man is trouble, but Lucifer's mouth is so pretty when it frowns, as if affronted at the possibility of him not being able to pay. "But I can tell this is some kind of act of rebellion. I see types like you all the time."

"Types like me—" Lucifer repeats, suddenly furious, and Diavolo holds his hands up placatingly.

"Hear me out." He says, and Lucifer's mouth snaps shut at the interruption.

"You’d have to be blind to not see that this is part of some… bigger thing for you," Diavolo gestures at all of Lucifer, "And you're an adult that can make your own decisions. But for now, before you do anything stupid that involves my permanent work on your body," the distaste radiating off of Lucifer is palpable, "Try an ear piercing first. It's plenty shocking to you business types, and a helluva lot less painful. So, what do you say, Lucifer?"

Lucifer doesn't look keen on it, but he at least seems to be seriously mulling over Diavolo's offer.

More time passes where Diavolo grows more and more convinced that Lucifer is about to tell him to fuck off and walk out of his life. At this point, it would probably be for the best. Diavolo is a sucker for sullen, gorgeous businessmen with obvious emotional baggage—not that he'd realized that until a scant ten minutes ago, but Diavolo's always been a bit of a masochist.

As if the day's events have finally, truly weighed down on him, with a barely visible slump to his shoulders, Diavolo sees when Lucifer relents before he hears it.

"Fine."

Barbatos' workstation is immaculate as ever, and the other works with maximum efficiency to prep his required instruments.

“You’re the one that pierced my brother, Mammon,” Lucifer says, and something in Diavolo’s brain clicks. Mammon. Lucifer’s brother is Mammon—the very thought almost makes Diavolo burst into laughter.

Barbatos is nothing if not polite as he tips his head to the side, as if trying to remember Mammon. He snaps his gloved fingers, and nods.

“Ah, yes! He’s the one that passed out, I believe.” Lucifer looks strangely… delighted by that.

“I’ll be over there, then,” Diavolo says, leaning against the door frame and gesturing back behind him at the front office. Diavolo almost laughs again when he sees the clear alarm in Lucifer’s eyes, can hear the silent why aren’t you doing it before it’s said out loud.

“Barbatos is one of the best piercers I’ve ever worked with, you’re in expert hands,” Diavolo hums, soothing.

It somehow works, because Lucifer is lowering himself into Barbatos’ chair. Not a word escapes from Lucifer as Barbatos finishes prepping the earrings, two black studs that Lucifer had chosen from Diavolo’s display case. Lucifer actually looks a little pale, and Diavolo thinks it’s adorable.

“Unless… you’d like me to hold your hand, if you’re scared?” He teases, and Lucifer’s eyes narrow in purposefully unconcealed fury for one beautiful, brief moment. It shutters away as fast as it comes, and Lucifer is staring impassively at the wall before him.

“You may leave.” Lucifer dismisses Diavolo.

Diavolo hangs out, just to be a dick. Lucifer does not flinch, or sway in his resolve past that one moment of weakness. Barbatos finishes one ear—Lucifer does not react in the slightest—and moves to the next. He tilts Lucifer’s head gently to get better access, and it makes Lucifer have to look at Diavolo in the doorway. Diavolo gives him a brilliant smile, but Lucifer glares at him the entire time.

Diavolo loves it.

Diavolo doesn’t see Lucifer for one week; but he hasn’t received any terrible reviews on Yelp, and no department official has come knocking down his door with a surprise audit, so he thinks he’s in the clear. All in all, he chalks the experience up to some kind of weird twist of fate. He’s perched on a stool behind the register at the display case when the automatic doorbell chimes. Diavolo’s lips part to welcome the guest even before he looks up.

“Hey, how’s it—oh,” Diavolo says, finally glancing up from his newspaper, “You got bangs.”

Gone is the messy, windswept bun that Lucifer had his long hair tossed into, and instead, a short, layered cut has replaced it. It makes him look younger, somehow. Or maybe he’s just gotten more sleep. Lucifer reaches up to card a hand through his hair, pushing the now loose strands out of his face.

Diavolo spares a moment of silence to mourn that he never got to see how long Lucifer’s hair was in person, “It looks nice.”

He places his cheek in one palm, grinning at his client. It would be easy to miss the light blush on Lucifer’s cheeks at his comments, but Diavolo is more perceptive than most.

The blush on Lucifer’s cheeks intensifies, and he coughs into his fist. “Thank you. The hair was a nuisance, so I cut it off.”

Silence passes, and Lucifer blinks, as if he’s not quite sure why he overshared. Diavolo takes pity on him, and tries to continue the conversation.

“How are your ears healing, then? Are you—”

“I’d like to set up a consultation meeting.” Lucifer breathes, and Diavolo blinks at him. Then he sighs.

“Before that… I suppose I should apologize for my impudence the other day, Mr. Morningstar.” Diavolo says, finally, elbows propped up on the glass counter. He watches for Lucifer’s reaction like a hawk.

“How did you—” Lucifer’s lips remain tight, before realization dawns behind his eyes. "You saw my ID the other day."

He glares, no doubt wondering if Diavolo gone to the press with information of his spontaneous request. It would be like dumping chum into shark infested waters for them to hear how the otherwise resolutely tight-lipped eldest brother is doing. Too many people are already trying to pick at the man’s psyche for more garbage to feed the greedy masses.

“I barely even noticed your last name," Diavolo waves his hand in the air dismissively, "However… it's a little hard to ignore a face like yours when it’s been plastered all over the news,” Diavolo spins the newspaper around, sliding it across to show the grainy picture of Lucifer and three of his younger brothers at the last company gala. Lucifer's proud, intimidating stare is unmistakable in its intensity.

The headline ‘FALL FROM GRACE: Lucifer Morningstar Leaves Celestial Industries over Disinheritance Scandal with Brothers’ stretches across the page in blocky, damning font.

"I didn’t reach out to any media outlets. You can relax,” Diavolo huffs, “But really? Your first move after all this is to go and get a tattoo?"

“Do all of your consultations feel like interrogations?” Lucifer shoots back, lips turned down in a frown. He does not look down at the article, his gaze keeping level with Diavolo's.

Diavolo laughs, and holds his hands up, “No, not really. I only try to make sure my clients understand that this is too permanent and expensive of a decision to make on an emotional bender. Tattoo removal is possible, but it’s costly.” Diavolo lets his own eyes narrow in the slightest, “Considering you don’t have the fortune of a multi-billion dollar corporation to fund your whims anymore, I doubt you’d have the money to spare if this is something you regret.”

“Why are you antagonizing me over this,” Lucifer grits out, hands fisted at his sides.

“I take pride in my work, Morningstar.” Diavolo stands, inherently pleased to see that Lucifer’s furious gaze has to tilt up in the slightest to continue meeting his eyes, “I have no desire to see someone else's terrible work slapped over something I created."

"If you get paid, what does it matter?" Lucifer spits, clearly reaching his wit's end. Diavolo stares at him, silent, and Lucifer shuts his eyes. He exhales through his nose for strength, and cards a hand through his hair again, clearly unused to it still. When he speaks, his tone is genuine, and he sounds tired.

"I apologize," Diavolo blinks, not expecting the other to deflate as they have. When his eyes open again, they are alight with a fervor that Diavolo's breath catches at. “I have had…. An interesting week.” His smile is wry, too tangled up with hidden meanings that Diavolo isn’t sure if he should consider it a smile at all.

“I understand that this is permanent. As permanent as being disinherited publicly.” Lucifer’s stare is unflinching, his resolve ironclad and as spirited as Diavolo’s own, “Which is why I have come to request a consultation appointment, rather than demand you do it today. You are the only one who I want for this.”

Why rests on the tip of his tongue, but Diavolo knows the hard look in Lucifer's eyes, the kind of determination that refuses to be ignored, denied. It's entirely possible that Lucifer himself does not know why, only that he must. Diavolo keeps his gaze for another moment longer, fingers suddenly twitching for a habit that he quit long ago. Barbatos would kill him if he started smoking cigarettes again anyway.

Another moment, and Diavolo allows himself to smile.

"You could have scheduled a consultation online, you know," Diavolo laughs, and moves from around the counter towards his small side office.

"Come on," Diavolo says, but Lucifer does not move, still staring Diavolo down from his place in Diavolo's front desk area. Diavolo looks up at the heavens, exhaling ruefully, "I'm assuming you have an idea of what you want."

Lucifer only takes a moment to shake himself out of his stupor, the cool, almost snobbish expression back on his face.

"Of course."

Diavolo's laugh shakes the walls of the small office, and Lucifer's face is, amazingly, deep red. Diavolo is hunched over, hands gently sifting through the sketches.

"You're insane. Your first tattoo and you want a fully detailed back piece? Not to mention it's huge."

"We’re looking at somewhere between twenty and thirty hours of work. What if you can't handle the pain? Back tattoos can be rather painful, depending on where I'm working at the time."

"That won’t be an issue." Lucifer sniffs, back straight as he sits across from Diavolo.

“It’s going to cost you,” Diavolo warns. He knows what his work and experience is worth, and charges appropriately.

“Everything does,” he says, simply. He catches the quick glance Lucifer tosses at his now bare wrist, and remembers something about Lucifer wearing one of those fancy watches last time he’d seen the other. Had he sold it?

Diavolo hums, before looking back down at the sketches in front of him.

"Did you draw these?" Diavolo asks, impressed with the amount of detail. It'll be a challenge for sure, but if Lucifer wants to keep the tattoo exactly like the source drawing, Diavolo's confident he can do it justice. However… if Lucifer allows him to add his own touch... it'll be spectacular.

"My sister," he hesitates on the word, and Diavolo knows there's a lot to unpack behind that, and immediately labels that as 'definitely do not touch', "She was the artist of our family."

Ah, was. Lucifer's gaze darkens as he stares down at the papers, and Diavolo sighs. He runs a hand through his short hair, and leans back on the couch. Crossing his arms, he huffs when he looks at Lucifer again.

"Alright, you're crazy, but it's your money."

Other assorted headcanons/thoughts:

Not exactly sure what Lu’s desired tattoo is but it’s something like this pic

Lilith has like, Just Died. Is v sad.

Getting his ears pierced felt like absolute nothing to Lucifer, but having no point of reference he’s allowed to be a lil apprehensive. (“It’s like a shot, just… really close to your face!” Thanks, Mammon.)

Mammon has awful tattoos from different artists, but ever since he discovered this Diavolo fellow, they've all been coming out beautifully. Asmo has also gone! Lu doesn't trust online reviews, and while he takes what Mammon and Asmo say with a grain of salt, he can’t deny the quality he's seen of Diavolo's is phenomenal.

Diavolo's art style is similar to Lilith's.

All the brothers are around in this lil universe. for certain Reasons, it's just Luci/Mams/Levi/Asmo that have all been disinherited for now.

It's been several years since I got a tattoo so I pulled details out of my ass sorry for the inaccuracies

as always ty for reading (ノ°∀°)ノ⌒･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*☆

#obey me lucifer #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos #obey me fic #writing #dialuci #ch: lucifer #ch: barbatos #ch: diavolo #pr: dialuci

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arrivalation · 3 years

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2020: An Account

This year has been a nonstop, off-the-rails bullet train ride into what looked at first like chaos, but ultimately was a tearing down and reconstruction of my entire being. Because I know myself and I know I won’t remember much of this later, I’m recording it here. It’s hard to put some of this information out, but the universe regularly urges me to be more open. So here I go.

January

I got married.

It was, without contest, the absolute best day of my life. I’ve known since I was real little that I wanted to be married, that I wanted to be loved the way M loves me and to love someone just as much. I don’t know how to explain the feeling of having achieved that, and being able to share that with my entire circle. @abyssalsun made it down!! (my only regret is that @ladyoriza couldn’t make it, but I’m still so glad we got to make it to theirs). As often as I can, I revisit the memory of going to @chromecutie’s house afterward, thinking it’d just be the four of us there, and opening the door to find a whole impromptu surprise party happening. Everyone cheered for us when we came in. I played CAH with Mordred, my brother and his wife, and several friends from out of town. By all accounts, these people would never have been in the same room together, but they were, and it was transcendent. It’s been almost a year, and I still haven’t recovered from all the planning and stress; but now that I’m past it, I can say with relief that it was 100% worth it.

February

We bought a house.

Up until this point, I’d been planning a wedding, participating in house-buying stuff as best I could, interviewing for a job I ended up not taking, and dealing with life-long mental illness that was festering and reaching critical mass. But then stuff started wrapping up. The wedding happened. The house was ours. We moved in. I could finally fucking breathe. LMAO bitch you thought.

March

The pandemic reached us.

I guess by this point it had probably already been in the US for a couple months, idr. But it wasn’t until March that things really started happening. People started dying in droves. New cases spread like wildfire. I remember thinking that this would be the zombie apocalypse, because at this point, I don’t think the CDC knew much about the virus. In my anxious mind, that was a completely reasonable assumption. My boss had us all start working from home. We all thought it’d be just a couple weeks.

April

I settled into working from home.

It didn’t take me long to get used to it, maybe a week. I hadn’t yet gotten used to my new hour-long commute from the new house to work, and so working from home quickly became my new normal. But I didn’t know yet why working from home was so good for me. All I knew was that I now had the brain-space to process things. I had the energy to do yoga and cook and do hobbies, and the time to appreciate and care for the home I lived in. I could think more clearly because there was no one else around to distract me. There was sunlight I could bask in. I felt human for once, and that became vitally important and infinitely valuable to me. Despite that, I still struggled with extreme anxiety, panic attacks, and some of the worst depression I’ve suffered through since I was a teenager. Outside my house, everything was a fucking mess and no one had their shit together.

May

I went back to the office for a few weeks.

There was a lull in pandemic activity. My boss had us all start coming back to the office again. At this point, I couldn’t make heads or tails of reality anymore. Everything was changing, nothing was stable. I desperately needed to stay working from home, because that was the one thing that felt Good and Right, but I had no real argument other than, 'I just need to.' So imagine me, at this point a soggy, run-over sloppy joe, attempting to return to normal. As you might think, it was... bad. I cried and hurt all the time. I think I really freaked out my boss with the way I reacted to coming back to the office. But then the second wave hit, and we all went back to working from home again.

June

Uncle Mike died on the first day of the month.

My uncle had been sick for a while, but no one was expecting him to die so suddenly. None of us were ready for it.

I also died that day.

It might sound dramatic, but I mean it quite literally and honestly. Over the years, I had gained suspicion that I was on the autism spectrum. M graciously found me a psychiatrist that took my insurance (and happened to be right next door). I wasn’t even going in for that - I was seeking treatment for my anxiety and depression. But I had amassed a (very long) list of my symptoms, and I brought it with me and read it to my doctor. I wasn’t even a quarter of the way through the list when he stopped me. I’m paraphrasing here, but in effect, he said, “No, yeah, you’re definitely autistic.”

I remember the way my body felt. Like someone had detonated a bundle of TNT in my chest, and I was burning from the inside out. At the time, I didn’t realize this emotional immolation was purposeful and executed by the universe to get rid of this old structure and build a newer, better, stronger one. For about fifteen seconds after he said that, I was relieved that it had been that easy, that there was an explanation for everything that my ADHD didn’t explain. It made a ton of sense why my environment was so important to me. And then I felt something unnameable. It was obvious to my doctor that I was autistic. Had it been obvious to everyone else? Why hadn’t it been obvious to me? I read the rest of my symptoms to him in a daze. I don’t remember how the rest of the appointment went.

And then I burned quietly and ungracefully until I was a pile of ashes. I didn’t know this at the time, but apparently it’s common for newly-diagnosed autistic people to have such dramatic and painful reactions, especially if they weren’t well-informed on the condition. Which I wasn’t.

I started therapy.

I also started learning about my “flavor” of autism. It was arduous, embarrassing, isolating, and ugly. I became aware that I had been masking my whole life, and I was astounded by just how often I did so. What really crushed me was knowing that I’d always have to mask to protect myself. I also became hyper-aware of the things that made me Feel Bad. Inexplicably, I stopped being able to react to those things the way I used to. Previously, if something made a loud and unexpected sound, I would suppress my reaction, because it’s not cool to get mad about it. But I found I couldn’t do that anymore. I had no choice but to react the way I needed to react. I realize now that this was to make me aware of what things make me feel a certain way so I can either avoid them or learn better tools to deal with them.

The therapist I saw wasn’t specialized in autism, and she wasn’t any help in that area, but she did teach me some important things. Like, “Is it reasonable for me to feel ____?”

July

Black hole.

I don’t remember a whole lot from this month, except sifting my own ashes through my fingers and crying. Every day brought a new revelation, a new thing that clicked. All of it was helpful and very painful. My psychiatrist recommended medication, but I’d had a bad and long-lasting experience with medication as a teenager, so I suffered through the pain on my own.

I shouldn’t have. I got so low I didn’t want to be alive anymore. But I think it took reaching the bottom and feeling that much pain for me to get over my fear of pharmaceuticals.

I got into astrology.

I had been interested in it for most of my life, but it wasn’t until this point that I started studying it in depth. I discovered it was a language that I could use to translate so many things about my own life that I didn’t understand. It was a rulebook in a time when I desperately needed rules - but one just flexible enough that it taught me how to stop thinking in binary.

August

I got medicated.

There was a big adjustment period, of course. It didn’t cure me. But it did start to make things easier. And it helped to know that, even if I didn’t believe it at the time, I deserved to rest. I deserved not to feel so much emotional pain all the time.

I turned 30.

It was easily the second best day of my life. I learned a lot of important things, like that it’s important to be present, that I’m seen and loved (just the way I am!!), and that I deserve good things. M planned a whole day of surprises:

I woke up at my leisure and we had coffee on the couch. He got me a cute card with one of our inside jokes inside - I still have it.

We went to our favorite combination lunch place and bakery, which I believe was our first real outing since the pandemic started.

We stopped by a tattoo place. I almost got a tattoo.

He set me loose in Texas Art Supply.

We got dim sum for dinner.

We had a lovely virtual cocktail hour with @chromecutie.

He bought me an ipad!!

I became Spiritual™.

I had been agnostic for the past decade or so, slowly and subtly slipping into nihilism, without realizing how detrimental those ideas were to me. I’m not sure what I thought spirituality was before, but I wasn’t into it. I had always rolled my eyes at people who talked about “a higher power”, auras, and spirit guides, until I became that person.

My psychiatrist introduced some powerful ideas to me, ones that meshed well with my previously-existing idea of how the universe worked. I won’t get into details here. That’s a whole other post. Ask me though - I’d love to talk about it.

Anyway, I started (intermittently) meditating. I learned some exceptionally powerful stuff. I felt my scaffolding being erected.

September

I started learning who I am and why I am this way.

I started seeing a new therapist. She thinks like me. She follows my erratic, forking trains of thought. She sees me and offers real, actionable feedback and solutions. Working with her, I’ve gained the ability to see my life from a 30,000-foot view. I can see now why I’ve felt so lonely my whole life. I understand how my family’s dysfunction has shaped me. I know now that I have the opposite of a victim complex - by default, I believe I am so awful that I feel sorry for everyone who has to deal with me. Because that’s what I was taught to believe. Learning that I deserve to take up space, set boundaries, say no, and be wrong sometimes is still a hard lesson for me. But most days, I believe it now. It takes other people believing it and convincing me. I still need that reassurance often.

My parents sold my childhood home.

Mentally, emotionally, I still lived there. I was still the inverted victim, still beholden to my stepdad’s whims and my mom’s complete cognitive dissonance. This was a blinking neon sign from the universe that it was time to move out. My mom told me when the closing date was so I’d have time to drive down and look at the house one last time. I didn’t go, and I still don’t regret it.

I started learning my boundaries.

After my spiritual move-out, I learned I don’t have to jump when my stepdad holds out the little circus hoop. When he otherwise shows zero interest in my life but still baits me with passive-aggressive texts, I don’t have to answer!! What a concept! I don’t have to feel guilty for not talking to my mom more than I do. We have very little in common, and I still have a lot of things to work through regarding her.

I learned how not to be so reactive.

Or rather, I’m still learning. Something else I learned in therapy is that over the course of my life, I’ve developed a desperate need to defend myself and to justify every action or thought I have, even to myself. It’d been especially troubling at work. My RSD led me to felt stupid, incompetent, and unseen daily; if my boss complimented someone, I believed it also meant he thought I was stupid and bad and wrong, otherwise he would have complimented me too. If my boss said something that even remotely sounded like I’d done something wrong, I’d race to build an impenetrable defense: “This is the reason I did that. Here’s my line of thinking. Do you understand? Can you please understand?”

Now I know that so little of what everything everyone says or does at work is about me. I can appreciate a coworker’s accomplishment and also realize it doesn’t take away anything from me. I’m not stupid or incompetent, and I’m a valuable part of the team. A lot of times, my boss and I are on two different wavelengths - that’s because I think a lot faster, which can be frustrating for him sometimes. He doesn’t fully understand me, but that doesn’t mean I’m doing anything wrong.

October

I let go of an old friend.

This was especially hard, because I had known this person for years. We’d gone through a lot together, and we’d shared some really important and emotional story plots and characters. I had agonized over whether I was truly important to her or not. It didn’t matter how much I loved her as a friend, or how badly I wanted us to be close again and remain close. I had learned to read the universe’s signs, and it was clear it was time to move on.

November

The election happened.

I was expecting things to turn out badly, but I still hoped for something good. And then something good did happen. I cried watching Harris’ speech. I felt a tenuous hope that things might finally start looking up, societally. I still haven’t really let myself fully embrace that hope, but every time I see a court shoot down another lawsuit, or hear about trump’s own conservative republican supporters tell him, “Okay, buddy, it’s time to step down,” I feel a little better.

M and I went non-monogamous.

There’s so much I want to say about this, but it’s for another post. Suffice it to say that like every other experience this year, it has been unexpectedly challenging and ultimately a catalyst for priceless growth. I’m unfathomably grateful that we’re doing this together, for the things we’ve learned so far, and for how much closer this experience has made us, even when I didn’t think we could get any closer.

Turns out I’m not gray-ace.

I had identified as such for a couple years, which was why we wanted to try non-monogamy in the first place. On the surface, it perfectly explained my sexual personality. But every time I told someone my identity, I felt inexplicably sad. When I read about others having “normal” sex drives and “normal” relations with their spouses, I felt jealous.

Turns out I’m just traumatized, lol. Walking along this non-mono path has unearthed a lot of things, including this gem.

December

This was our first married christmas in our new house.

One of the handful of good things the pandemic has done for me was allowing me to back up my boundaries with hard evidence. It’s been difficult dealing with my stepdad bullying me about not coming over for thanksgiving, and having my mom subtly guilt me into making plans for next year already. But what I needed this year was a quiet holiday, instead of the usual weeks-long chaos, and I got it. And it was fucking delightful. I’ve dreamed of days exactly like that one - spending a tranquil morning with my spouse, sipping coffee and listening to music and eating treats. Deciding exactly how we want our holidays to be, because we deserve to.

I’m scared of what’s to come in the new year. I’m still an anxious mess, and some days I’m not strong enough to pull myself out of the spirals I throw myself into. I’ve gotten used to the pandemic holding my hand, allowing me to shelter in my home, helping me enforce my boundaries, teaching me who I am. When it’s over, I don’t know what will happen or how I’ll react or what I’ll learn next. I’m not finished rebuilding, but I don’t think that’s the point. I’ll never be fully rebuilt. But at least I’m figuring out the new layout.

#personal #void-Avatar

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bonesaldente · 4 years

Text

Caliginous I Darth Maul x Reader

Chapter 3: The Henchwoman

read this on ao3

read the last chapter here

words: 2700+

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This isn’t off to a great start. Lightsabers are not easy to fight against if you don’t have one yourself; there are few weapons that can hold up against the pure energy that makes up the blade, and those are hard to acquire.

Fortunately for you, the Jedi have visited your home planet of Kessel before and started trouble with your guild. You have never been affected personally, but as a precaution as well as for the simple practicality of it, you modified your sword with parts of a stun baton. If activated, an electric current flows over the blade, strong enough to block an incoming hit with a lightsaber, but not strong enough to cut through a person with near as much ease as one.

In a fight like this, it’s a purely defensive weapon.

You hold the light durasteel in your hands and activate the switch, preparing yourself for the first hit, which doesn’t leave you waiting for long.

You manage to block the first three strikes at you and try to use his growing proximity to your advantage: As he swings at you for the fourth time, a low attack directed at your legs, you jump up in the air instead of blocking it with your sword and use your now unoccupied left hand to land a punch at his throat, which doesn’t have near as big an effect on him as you hoped, but still gives you enough time to increase the distance between the two of you in an attempt to collect yourself again and somehow gain the upper hand. After all, you have an arsenal of weapons, while he seemingly came with only that lightsaber of his.

In a flash, you draw your blaster and fire at him, but he deflects the shots to the side using the red blade, then comes at you unexpectedly fast, almost supernaturally so. You barely manage to dodge his attack and his saber grazes your wrist, causing you to unintentionally open your hand and… drop your sword, the one thing keeping you alive.

All throughout your training you have learned one thing above all else: You are never unarmed. The idea then was that, as long as you have your body, you will fight, regardless of whether the opponent was stronger or more heavily armed than you.

So you keep going.

The high speed of the fight doesn’t allow for you to pick up your sword, so you move quickly towards the side to where there is more space, desperately trying to come up with a plan on how you can win against an armed Sith lord without wielding a weapon that can block his attacks.

Quickly, you realize that, here too, you are backing against a wall and the feeling of being trapped slowly but steadily sets in.

Regardless of its uselessness against a lightsaber, you get out a dagger from inside your jacket. Maybe if you manage to get his guard down, you will be able to score a hit. Most importantly, you need to get close to him again; his saber has a longer range than any weapon you carry, so as long as you’re at a distance, he’s got the advantage.

Only, you have no idea how to get close to him without literally being sliced in half.

He’s spinning the deadly weapon in his hand now while walking in your direction with the air of a predator about him, not looking threatened by you in the slightest. You hope he is underestimating you.

When he slices at you again, you duck under the incoming saber and his arm, rolling over the ground and whipping around while he still has his back turned to you. This is the opening you have been waiting for: Half blinded by staring into his lightsaber for so long, you push your dagger forward and get his side. Trying to get away from him before he can come at you again, you lunge to the empty space spread out before you, but you are caught mid-air by an invisible force.

And slammed into the wall that was previously behind you.

The impact makes you feel like you can hear your bones cracking and knocks the air out of your lungs, and when you try to refill them with oxygen, you can’t. Something is closing around your throat, and despite knowing it must be the force, you instinctively claw at the invisible hands around your airways.

Over your choking, you can hear the sound of his lightsaber retracting as if he has already won.

Your mind is clouded by the lack of oxygen, but the wheels are turning while you are searching your brain for a way, any way at all, you can survive this.

That’s when you get an idea.

Clutching the wall you are pressed against as if to use it to support your weight, you slowly move your outstretched arm closer to your body, closer to your belt.

Your opponent is too preoccupied with choking the life out of you to notice when you remove one of the new circular detonators from your belt.

‘The oval ones explode on impact, the circular ones have a five-second timer’, you remember the lady in the armory telling you.

You gently toss the detonator with a subtle flick of your wrist, mentally counting down the seconds.

4… The detonator is moving excruciatingly slowly, but it’s tumbling the right way.

3… The Sith has yet to notice the approaching threat.

2… The explosive device gets caught on a loose rock lying in the alley, still lying a few feet away from its target

1… You start to lose feeling in your legs, a numbing sensation washing over your body

The explosion presses you even deeper into the wall, if that’s possible, but suddenly you are free to breathe again and relief spreads in your chest, despite the almost unbearable heat enveloping you for a second, paired with debris cutting into your skin.

Your ears are throbbing and your hearing feels muffled when the initial shock subsides, but you feel alive and genuinely hopeful once more.

Your opponent has been thrown back by the explosion, giving you a small chance of escape. You push off the wall and scramble away from him as fast as you can, but the oxygen is only now re-entering your system and your legs are still wobbly.

Still, you are getting closer to a corner. You only need to round it, then he won’t be able to use the force on you, right? As soon as you’ve reached that corner you’ll be safe, you’ll be able to run, to hide-

Your hearing kicks in again and you can hear the Sith getting back on his feet, no doubt following you.

In a desperate attempt to hold him off, you start attacking him with your throwing knives, quickly spinning, throwing, and running again. He is blocking them easily with the force. You remember something you have learned from the same woman that had gotten hold of a Jedi’s lightsaber once: it’s easy for them to block objects with the same mass.

When you turn around the next time, instead of throwing another knife, you shoot at him with your blaster, followed by a knife from your other hand. This seems to throw him off, but it’s hard to tell because you are already turned around and on the run again.

The corner is getting closer, you’re almost there-

An invisible hand is reaching out to you again, this time wrapping around your ankle, and pulls back harshly, making you fall on your face.

The force pulls you back towards him mercilessly and the only thing you can do is turn around so you can at least face the enemy.

You come to a halt a few feet away from him, but suddenly it is like the force is completely covering your body, restraining all movement and effectively locking you in place.

You try to fight against it and free your body, but you just end up panting from the effort, not having moved an inch.

In your peripheral vision, you can see the man now stepping closer to you. He is no longer wearing his hood, it must have been blown back by the explosion, but you can’t see his face properly from your angle, still lying on your back.

What you can see however is that he is stretching his hand out again, ready to have the force close itself around your throat again.

Panic seeps through every inch of your being. This time, there really is no way out.

Unless?

“Wait,” you press out.

“What?” His voice sounds way too calm for having fought you seconds ago, it’s almost insulting.

“I’ve…” you struggle to get the words out against the grip of the force around you.

Almost imperceptibly, the hold on your jaw loosens.

“I’ve changed my mind. I will… work with you”

You hold your breath. There is little to no guarantee he’ll still accept your late change of heart.

“For me”, is all he says.

“What?”

“You will not work with me. You will work for me.”

“Whatever”, you utter, voice strained. You just want him to spare your life and, for maker’s sake, let go of your body. It feels like every single muscle in you is cramping up.

A second goes by and nothing happens, but then he lets go of you at once.

A sigh of relief escapes your mouth before you can help it, and you slowly crawl back on your feet, getting to face him in a more dignified position now.

The man standing in front of you is a zabrak. You haven’t encountered many of them in your life, and certainly none with a complexion as scarlet red as his. His intricate tattoos accentuate his features stunningly, his horns giving him an almost regal appearance. And, maker, he’s young, he can’t be much older than you are.

For one short moment, you just stare at each other, then, without breaking eye contact, his outstretched hand at his side summons your sword from the other end of the alley.

Spinning it so that the handle points in your direction, he extends his arm towards you.

It’s a strangely conciliatory gesture.

You hesitate one second, hand hovering above the handle, then take your weapon back.

Feeling the familiar leather wrapped around the steel calms you and the panic finally wears off as you return the sword to its place in the scabbard on your back.

“Get what you need to bring and meet me in three hours. I will wait for you east, at the edge of the forest.”

You take a deep breath while letting the realization of what you have gotten yourself into hit you.

“I will be there.”

You are about to turn around and leave, and so is he, when a thought pops into your mind.

“You never told me your name.”

Stars, your voice sounds hoarse.

A second of silence ensues.

“Darth Maul.”

Maul. The name is short and tells you little about the person behind it - it’s very fitting. Not, because it’s short, that is, but because of the cloak of secrecy that surrounds the man.

“Darth Maul… You know, if you’d just offered me to join you instead of threatening me, I probably would have said yes.”

He doesn’t respond, instead staring at you before turning around and leaving the alley.

You close your eyes for a minute when he’s gone, allowing yourself to reflect on what just happened. Your thoughts are spinning, uncertainty nags at you, and there is so much you still need to figure out—

One thing at a time.

First, you need to get to the Concinnity headquarters before they get busy. Training for apprentices starts shortly after sunrise and the first sunbeams are already peeking through the smog.

You leave the alley and pass by the sign that reads “Felicia’s—music and drinks”.

Kriffing hellhole. A detonator went off right next to their building and nobody even bothered to check what’s going on.

“This place is a nightmare,” you mumble to yourself, rubbing your burnt wrist which only now starts to make itself noticed by sending waves of pain through your entire arm.

The headquarters are unsurprisingly empty. You made it there before the apprentices get up, so the only ones who would be there are instructors and other contract killers. People you’ve known for most of your life, or rather been in the presence of—many make use of fake names and as a rule, everyone is cryptic; to a fault. They are people you can never see again after this day.

The Concinnity doesn’t allow members to leave the guild. Once they accept you into their rows, you’re in for the rest of your life, taking over instruction as an elder, but never leaving.

You head straight for the weapon chamber. If you’re leaving anyway, you might as well take something with you, that something being the one weapon you’ve always wanted to use but never been allowed to.

The lightsaber is kept behind a separate lock, making it obvious for anyone that it’s not to be removed without explicit permission. You ponder for a moment, then proceed to punch in the first code that comes to your mind.

The lock hisses as it opens, and you quickly grab the silver handle and shove it inside one of your pockets. Your eyes scan the room as you search for anything else that might be useful for your uncertain future with Darth Maul.

Maybe you should feel bad for taking their property, but then again, in these past few years you’ve contributed more than anyone else in the entire guild. For every job you executed, the Concinnity took 10 percent of the pay—allegedly. You have reason to believe they actually took more, seeing as payment always took place through Magnus, so you never really knew what the client paid—only what Magnus told you they paid. So, in a way, you’re taking what should be yours, right?

The only other thing in the room that catches your interest is some macro binoculars. They’re not special, but since you don’t know what’s lying ahead of you, you decide they could be useful.

With your loot, you leave the chamber and exit the underground complex faster than you ever have. It’s hard to believe this will be the last time you set foot in this place. As a child, you considered this your home, though when you grew up, you realized you were only an asset to the guild, no more, no less. Still, everything you know, you’ve learned here. Everything you are, the way you talk, walk, and breathe has been shaped in this place. It’s all you’ve ever known.

But this chapter of your life is over now, you come to understand. A new future awaits you, a future at the side of a Sith lord. You’ve become part of something bigger, whether you like it or not.

Your next stop is your apartment. It’s a small, worn down place just around the corner from the entrance to the Concinnity, barely big enough to house one person. Bedroom and kitchen are one room, the only other room being the tiny bathroom, not counting the walk-in closet taking up around half of the cramped space. It’s home to all of your gear, including clothing as well as weaponry. You aren’t home very often so you never came around to investing in a nicer place.

Now you’re glad about that.

It takes less than ten minutes to gather your belongings. They fit into one large bag that you can carry over your shoulder, only bringing the essentials: some hygiene products, a couple changes of clothes, two blasters in addition to the ones still on our person, and finally, the small trinkets you have the frowned-upon habit of collecting. They fit into a small pouch.

On top of everything you place some of the gear you’re in right now, your regular mission attire. In the end, you’re left with only your dagger and a blaster on you, everything else packed up and ready to go.

You don’t bother to take one last look at your apartment the way you did at the Concinnity. This place means very little to you and you don’t mind leaving it behind.

Checking the time, you see you still have over an hour left. It won’t be enough to get some sleep, which you could really use, but it will be enough to eat something before you need to go.

You decide to pay a visit to the market place. It’s not a very safe place, robberies and muggings taking place almost daily, and worse things happening behind the counters and under the tables.

Still, there’s good food, probably the only redeemable quality of the planet you hesitate to call home.

When you’re done eating, you decide to finally take off, taking your speeder—technically stolen and not really ‘your speeder’, which makes it all the more easy to abandon it once you are close to the edge of the forest and decide to walk the last bit.

Darth Maul doesn’t leave you waiting for long. He emerges from the woods without making a sound, only saying two words.

“Follow me.”

In a fight like this, it’s a purely defensive weapon.

You hold the light durasteel in your hands and activate the switch, preparing yourself for the first hit, which doesn’t leave you waiting for long.

So you keep going.

Quickly, you realize that, here too, you are backing against a wall and the feeling of being trapped slowly but steadily sets in.

Only, you have no idea how to get close to him without literally being sliced in half.

And slammed into the wall that was previously behind you.

Over your choking, you can hear the sound of his lightsaber retracting as if he has already won.

Your mind is clouded by the lack of oxygen, but the wheels are turning while you are searching your brain for a way, any way at all, you can survive this.

That’s when you get an idea.

Clutching the wall you are pressed against as if to use it to support your weight, you slowly move your outstretched arm closer to your body, closer to your belt.

Your opponent is too preoccupied with choking the life out of you to notice when you remove one of the new circular detonators from your belt.

‘The oval ones explode on impact, the circular ones have a five-second timer’, you remember the lady in the armory telling you.

You gently toss the detonator with a subtle flick of your wrist, mentally counting down the seconds.

4… The detonator is moving excruciatingly slowly, but it’s tumbling the right way.

3… The Sith has yet to notice the approaching threat.

2… The explosive device gets caught on a loose rock lying in the alley, still lying a few feet away from its target

1… You start to lose feeling in your legs, a numbing sensation washing over your body

Your ears are throbbing and your hearing feels muffled when the initial shock subsides, but you feel alive and genuinely hopeful once more.

Your hearing kicks in again and you can hear the Sith getting back on his feet, no doubt following you.

The corner is getting closer, you’re almost there-

An invisible hand is reaching out to you again, this time wrapping around your ankle, and pulls back harshly, making you fall on your face.

The force pulls you back towards him mercilessly and the only thing you can do is turn around so you can at least face the enemy.

You come to a halt a few feet away from him, but suddenly it is like the force is completely covering your body, restraining all movement and effectively locking you in place.

You try to fight against it and free your body, but you just end up panting from the effort, not having moved an inch.

What you can see however is that he is stretching his hand out again, ready to have the force close itself around your throat again.

Panic seeps through every inch of your being. This time, there really is no way out.

Unless?

“Wait,” you press out.

“What?” His voice sounds way too calm for having fought you seconds ago, it’s almost insulting.

“I’ve…” you struggle to get the words out against the grip of the force around you.

Almost imperceptibly, the hold on your jaw loosens.

“I’ve changed my mind. I will… work with you”

You hold your breath. There is little to no guarantee he’ll still accept your late change of heart.

“For me”, is all he says.

“What?”

“You will not work with me. You will work for me.”

“Whatever”, you utter, voice strained. You just want him to spare your life and, for maker’s sake, let go of your body. It feels like every single muscle in you is cramping up.

A second goes by and nothing happens, but then he lets go of you at once.

A sigh of relief escapes your mouth before you can help it, and you slowly crawl back on your feet, getting to face him in a more dignified position now.

For one short moment, you just stare at each other, then, without breaking eye contact, his outstretched hand at his side summons your sword from the other end of the alley.

Spinning it so that the handle points in your direction, he extends his arm towards you.

It’s a strangely conciliatory gesture.

You hesitate one second, hand hovering above the handle, then take your weapon back.

Feeling the familiar leather wrapped around the steel calms you and the panic finally wears off as you return the sword to its place in the scabbard on your back.

“Get what you need to bring and meet me in three hours. I will wait for you east, at the edge of the forest.”

You take a deep breath while letting the realization of what you have gotten yourself into hit you.

“I will be there.”

You are about to turn around and leave, and so is he, when a thought pops into your mind.

“You never told me your name.”

Stars, your voice sounds hoarse.

A second of silence ensues.

“Darth Maul.”

Maul. The name is short and tells you little about the person behind it - it’s very fitting. Not, because it’s short, that is, but because of the cloak of secrecy that surrounds the man.

“Darth Maul… You know, if you’d just offered me to join you instead of threatening me, I probably would have said yes.”

He doesn’t respond, instead staring at you before turning around and leaving the alley.

One thing at a time.

First, you need to get to the Concinnity headquarters before they get busy. Training for apprentices starts shortly after sunrise and the first sunbeams are already peeking through the smog.

You leave the alley and pass by the sign that reads “Felicia’s—music and drinks”.

Kriffing hellhole. A detonator went off right next to their building and nobody even bothered to check what’s going on.

“This place is a nightmare,” you mumble to yourself, rubbing your burnt wrist which only now starts to make itself noticed by sending waves of pain through your entire arm.

The Concinnity doesn’t allow members to leave the guild. Once they accept you into their rows, you’re in for the rest of your life, taking over instruction as an elder, but never leaving.

The only other thing in the room that catches your interest is some macro binoculars. They’re not special, but since you don’t know what’s lying ahead of you, you decide they could be useful.

But this chapter of your life is over now, you come to understand. A new future awaits you, a future at the side of a Sith lord. You’ve become part of something bigger, whether you like it or not.

Now you’re glad about that.

You don’t bother to take one last look at your apartment the way you did at the Concinnity. This place means very little to you and you don’t mind leaving it behind.

Checking the time, you see you still have over an hour left. It won’t be enough to get some sleep, which you could really use, but it will be enough to eat something before you need to go.

You decide to pay a visit to the marketplace. It’s not a very safe place, robberies and muggings taking place almost daily, and worse things happening behind the counters and under the tables.

Still, there’s good food, probably the only redeemable quality of the planet you hesitate to call home.

Darth Maul doesn’t leave you waiting for long. He emerges from the woods without making a sound, only saying two words.

“Follow me.”

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next chapter

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A/N: That was chapter 3, hope you guys liked it, feedback is always appreciated :)

@princessayveke

#darth maul #maul #darth maul x reader #maul x reader

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ramblinganthropologist · 3 years

Text

N7 Day 29 - Legacy

Summary: Sheapard and crew finally get to Archangel. Except... that’s not Omega, and he’s not Commander Shepard. Nor for the matter, is that Archangel. Hooray for TV magic?

---

To say it was hell there was putting it mildly.

“Hurry it up or he's gonna fucking shoot us too!”

Bo pushed him forward as they dove for new cover. All around them, it was chaos as all three merc packs converged on them. Every so often, a clear shot would take one out. One even hit him in the shoulder – thank you kinetic shields, for keeping his arm on. They were moving closer to the stairs, to their goal.

To Archangel.

The last push up the stairs was the hardest as he dove behind a partition and fired at a Blood Pack merc. They groaned, and then went down when Bo shot them again. One more remained, and he was soon put down by their guns. All they had to do now was head in.

He was in first, pounding on the door. Once it opened, they were in the sniper's nest. There he was, in blue armor with a modified rifle. Archangel only paused to aim once before he fired and a man went silent below.

Then there was the quiet as they got a break between waves.

Their small group faced him. He got up, and then his helmet was down on his seat. The harsh lights reflected off his carapace and the blue tattoos that matched the armor. His mandibles were twitching, like he couldn't believe it.

“Shepard.”

Garrus.

“I thought you were dead.”

The glowing implants embedded in his face were proof of that. Still, his heart pounded as he approached the turian. There was still too much space between them – especially with the mercs coming.

“Garrus Vakarian?”

He chuckled weakly – they had hit a few times. “In the flesh, what's left of it.”

His mouth went dry. “What are you doing here?”

The turian shrugged. “Just killing mercs. Nice of you to join me, there's plenty to go around.”

Clearly – the next wave was going to be coming shortly. If they didn't act fast – he glanced over his shoulder to check. They weren't there yet. He had time, and with time came the chance to ask a few questions.

He had been dead, they were warranted.

“What are you doing on Omega?”

Another weak chuckle from Garrus as he shifted position. “I got fed up with...”

And then his face went blank. “Shit... line?”

“Cut!”

There he went again, forgetting his fucking lines. They were never going to get through this scene alive.

At least this time, the director called for a break so the mighty Archangel could get himself together. Only he was pretty sure the real Garrus would be able to get his lines right. He'd probably also carry the fucking rifle right too – a shot like that would take his head off.

And here he thought turians went through training...

Ok, so he wasn't actually Alistair Shepard either, and this wasn't Omega. Instead, his name was Alex and he was still on the Citadel. They had gone to Omega for planning, though – Aria had even given her input. How they had gotten it out of her, he didn't want to know. He didn't need to know either; all he had to do was act and remember where he had to shoot.

“Is that the third time today he fucked his lines up, or am I seeing shit?” Bo – actually named Beau, ironically enough – was eating something to get her energy back. “Doesn't he normally have a stick up his ass about that?”

Alex rolled both his eyes and his sore shoulders. Even though it was just prop armor, it was still fucking heavy. He had been working out, but clearly it wasn't enough yet. Maybe he needed to do a few more push-ups...

Ugh, he hated push-ups.

“Maybe he had another one night stand and forgot to learn his lines.” He shrugged. “It's no business of mine.”

Beau rolled her eyes. “It is if you ever want to get out of here. Maybe you can bash his reason out of him.”

Ah. So they were sending him in. Last he checked, he didn't have Alistair Shepard's ability to talk someone to death. Still, they had time. So he shrugged his shoulders as he headed off to give his costar the come to Jesus moment.

Though was it still called a come to Jesus moment if the person getting the talk came from a planet where Jesus wasn't a thing?

Alex was soon on his way, looking around the set of the popular historical drama Mass Effect. It wasn't the first show based on the Reaper War of 2185 and what came before it, but it was being touted as the most accurate thanks to relying on primary sources and journals from the participants. Why nobody had read the journals before, he wasn't sure. Even before getting the role, he had practically memorized them.

Maybe it was the whole gay, transgender man saving the universe thing that had interested him. Wasn't like he was also gay or trans... oh wait, yeah, he was.

Well, whatever. He was in armor, and he was trying to hunt down a turian who didn't want to be found. Most of his costar's usual haunts were empty. So he was forced to keep going, wondering how uncomfortable the real N7 armor must have been to walk around in. His fake version was really starting to ride up a little in some crucial areas.

It was one of those “glad he didn't have testicles” times.

“Virius? Where are you, you couldn't have gotten far in 5 minutes!”

This set was empty. It was supposed to be Afterlife, but not even the asari playing Aria was lording over it. Instead, he found a turian sitting towards the back, half hidden in shadow. He too was still wearing uncomfortable armor – or at least it looked that way.

Turians just looked uncomfortable in general.

There was his costar. Normally, Macen Virius was the consummate professional bitching at him for every minor mistake. To say they hated each other was putting it mildly – the two couldn't stand each other on a good day. Every moment they weren't acting, they were sniping at each other. Maybe it was a difference in personalities, maybe the turian didn't like humans.

Either way, the feeling was mutual and he was a fucking bastard.

“I didn't ask to be followed, Jones.”

His voice was shaking. So was the rest of him for that matter. Alex cocked an eyebrow as he realized Macen was actually shaking the table he was in front of. Maybe if they had been friends he would've noticed and been worried.

Mostly he was just annoyed.

At least the couch stopped shaking when he added his weight to it. “Well, tough. For some reason people think a dye job and the fake implants give me Commander Shepard's gift of gab.”

“I'm here to inform them they missed the mark.” Macen's voice was a little stronger, though he was still shaking. “Here to gloat? I'll get it right when we start over, don't worry. Just remember to sound appropriately horny when you get there, it felt a little flat.”

That got Alex rolling his eyes. “Appropriately horny? Are we reading the same damn journals, Virius?”

“Yours may have been downplayed because Shepard was easily embarrassed.”

Yeah, and he doubted Garrus had written down 'Shepard wanted to get into my armor on sight' in his. The long-dead turian was a total sub, first off. Besides that, both of them were trying not to get killed by the merc alliance from hell. Even if they had been horny, there really hadn't been time to lay it out on the table.

Besides, Alistair had been dead for two years. Horny was definitely not one of his problems.

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say, Virius.” Alex rolled his eyes as he brushed hair from his eyes. He hated the season 2 look, but it was what the records said. He was having bad flashbacks to older roles, ones he didn't like to think about. “So, do you have a vibrator in there or something to make you shake so much?”

Macen scoffed, but he didn't stop shaking. “I believe a vibrator as a tool is in your character description, not mine.”

His voice lowered. “Shit... it won't stop.”

Honestly, Alex was amazed he hadn't noticed earlier just how tense the turian looked. His talons were clenched so tightly over his prop greaves that it was a miracle he wasn't puncturing right through the lightweight metal. His voice was coming out higher too – the translator was struggling to keep up.

If he didn't know better... he'd swear Macen was nervous.

…

“Shit. This is really freaking you out, huh?”

The words came out before his brain really had time to think about it. Even Macen looked surprised that he had said it – that made two of them. Alex had to wonder if he had been temporarily possessed by the ghost of his role to make him say it. Nope, it had been his accent...

Shit.

“Why do you care?”

That got the human groaning. “Because you're shaking like a fucking leaf and it's not like you! Something about this scene is freaking you out and I want to make sure we don't have to keep redoing it, because I know we're both fucking uncomfortable in this damn armor.”

Seriously, he had one hell of a wedgie and he was pretty sure he had a blister forming in more than a few places.

Much to his surprise, Macen chuckled weakly. “Well at least you're honest. I can give you that, Jones. No bullshit here.”

He stood, leaning over the railing that overlooked the fake club. “Playing Archangel... it's a really big deal. No one's really gotten him right over the years. He's either mad with power or lost with grief. They never get close to the mark and then suddenly it's thrown into my lap and they tell me good luck with it.”

His talons rasped against the metal as he twisted his hands uselessly. “If I mess up... I'm not doing one of Palaven's greatest heroes justice. Garrus' story deserves to be told the right way. And it scares the shit out of me to think I screw up and be one more fuck up in a long line of them.”

Briefly, Macen looked back. The look he gave almost knocked Alex back. To say he was desperate was putting it mildly. The turian was absolutely terrified as he felt the weight upon his carapace. No wonder he had been shaking so badly, it was a miracle he hadn't been crushed by it. Yet there he was, still in one piece.

…

“It's a heavy weight, getting it right.”

Alex joined him at the railing. He sighed, leaning forward. “I kind of get it... I mean, it's probably different playing Garrus... but Alistair's difficult too.”

Much to his surprise, Macen nodded. At least they could agree on that.

“Like... I'm playing one of the most famous transmen in human history. Somehow I have to pull it together and be the hero everyone expects. If I fuck up... shit, it's going to be nasty.”

Now he was starting to shake a little. “But... we both have to do it, don't we? We have to push through the anxiety and get it right. They gave us the job... so it's up to us to do it right. We have to bear the weight of history and make it look easy.”

He gripped the railing as tightly as he could. There, in that darkened set they both felt the weight pressing down on them. Though they were dressed for the part, neither probably felt anything like what they were supposed to portray.

But... he supposed that was the part of actors. They had to step into the role and do it right. After all, people had put faith in them. And there were countless people waiting for this scene and getting to see Archangel in action.

No pressure or anything.

“You know... maybe you have a little Shepard bullshit in you after all.”

Macen's voice was a little bit stronger as he straightened up. “Bear the weight of history, huh? What a human way to put it.”

Alex felt his cheeks color as he glanced to the side. “Excuse me for not knowing how a turian would refer to it.”

Another chuckle rang out through the dark room, but it didn't sound nervous. Nor for that matter was it particularly malicious. If he had to guess... maybe Macen sounded relieved? With turians, it was hard to tell. They had all that subvocal shit going on that he would never pick up.

But he had stopped shaking.

“You did your best, Jones. Nobody's ever going to come to you for a motivational speech, but you tried.”

There was that tone back. Yep, Macen was back to being an asshole. He was on the mend at last. Now maybe they could get back to wrapping this scene up. They had plenty of fight scenes to get through before Alex would enjoy him getting shot in the face. Oh... he was living for that moment right then as he stood up.

“You coming or what? Our break is almost over.”

Alex jogged to catch up, his shorter legs having to almost double to catch up to his turian costar. They shared a brief dirty look as they left Afterlife behind, heading back to where people were waiting for them.

“Also... thanks.”

Macen was gone before Alex could register what had happened – someone needed to touch up his makeup, his actual orange tattoos were starting to show under the blue face paint. He was left standing there, confused.

That... was weird.

Oh well. He returned to his original position, slamming his prop helmet back on for the reshoot. Beau was next to him, also setting up. Both got to watch as their turian costar moved up the stairs with the gait of a man on a mission. At least he was holding his gun right this time.

Good, someone told him.

“Whatever you did, it worked.” Beau had whispered that – the lights were dimming as things set back up for the big reveal. “Nice going.”

Sure... he wasn't sure what he had done, but why not?

Anyway, it didn't matter. In that matter of seconds, Alex had gotten himself back into Shepard's mindset as they started rolling. There were mercs in his way keeping him from Archangel, and he wasn't going to let him down.

Just one wave to go... and then the door would be safe to approach.

“And action!”

Time to become the guy who saved the universe again. No problem.

#n7month #ramblinganthropologist's writing #That Mass Effect Actor AU

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anthonyed · 5 years

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soulmate au: where you soulmate’s name is written on your skin [part1]

The first flash of memory is of a stripe of skin. Bold, black English alphabets, spelling out three different names; ANTHONY EDWARD STARK.

On nights when the war in his mind takes its forefront, he pulls out that piece of imagery and forces himself to breathe.

Slowly, once he’s sure he’s shaken the last of HYDRA off his tail and is safely concealed within a mass of European public, he nudges the slit in his brain a little wider and he unfurls from the rush of pain that comes with it.

More memories bleeds out of that gap; of guns and boxing rings. Of little girl and a familiar faced man. Of his finger tips across those three names and once he puts two and two together, he takes a sharp inhale.

Shaking legs lead him to the adjoined bathroom in the dingy motel room he takes cover in. And on his knees, he blinks back hot tears – what summoned them exactly, he doesn’t know – as he presses a palm over his shoulder. Fingers reaching desperately behind for those bold black letters which now he knows are imprinted just beneath the upper border of his right shoulder blade.

That skin he saw, that is his.

And it’s one name. Not three.

He knows that now. And the weight of that information leaves him breathless for fourteen days.

On day fifteen, he opens the browser - after watching a teen click away in the internet café for hours on end - and he googles the name.

On day fifteen, he decides to keep the name to himself, safely tucked beneath the snagged shirt he wears for days on end and to never tell another soul about it.

Much less, the man to whom the name belongs to.

Because, said man looks happy on the screen in front of him. In relationship with a woman called Pepper Potts and he doesn’t know in precise word how he feels about it. But it’s bad.

Then the world topples around him.

Suddenly he’s facing the man from his memory; a lot taller and heavier looking. But that face, he’ll know that face anywhere.

And there are guns ablaze. A tunnel falling behind him and then he’s on his knees on the very street he’d once prowled freely.

The last thing he remembers is a set of words, repeated over and over to wreck him from within.

The next thing he comes to is his left arm pinned between something heavy, ready to crush with a whisper of breath and his head a splitting disaster of pain.

A concoction of mess. Something unnatural and that which shouldn’t be.

A horrible mix of old memories, fragments of new ones and reality which makes him wants to scream, waves of nausea crashing within him.

He can finally put the right name to the man who confronts him; Stevie, with piles of newspapers under his feet. Something about it is funny that his muscles contracts accordingly and his face splits into a smile. All on its own.

But the throbbing in his head doesn’t cease.

Not even a little through the whispered conversation Stevie holds in a corner with his pal.

“If we call Tony…”

“No, he won’t believe us.”

“Even if he did…”

“Who knows if the Accords would let him help.”

“But it’s Tony.”

“You’re gonna call him?”

“Even if the Accords wouldn’t let him help, he’ll at least divert their attention.”

That’s how he found himself facing the man whose name is tattooed on his skin.

His soulmate.

“The rest of the winter soldiers are shot to death. A man named Zemo is behind this. Wanted to tear us apart from within. Saw a video of my parents getting murdered by your buddy here, not cool at all. Kind of hate you and Nat for not telling me but I can’t be mad to not knowing about seven wonders of the world when I could google it myself. So, you three.” The man points, the seemingly unending ramble of his slowing down as he points at Stevie, his pal and him, and he says,

“You’re hopping on the jet with Nat and I and we’re going to Malibu where I’ll drop the four of you off while I go back to New York and try to clean this damned mess without getting strangled by Pepper in the process.”

Pepper.

He knows that name.

It makes something twist horribly inside him - combined with that splitting headache he has going, he winces out in pain, walls crumbling all around him as he tries again to gather the rubbles, patch everything back together, futilely.

Two men reach for him.

One expected while the other, unexpected but not unwanted.

In fact, everything inside him purrs submissively as the man, Tony, or Anthony Edward Stark reaches for him. Snapping into splinters the second he catches himself and steps back.

“Bucky?” Stevie crouches in front of him. “You alright?”

Bucky - because that’s who he is - nods, eyes still fixed on nervous browns that a beat later, disappear behind a loud shade of orange. He blinks and drops his head down. Throat dry as he nods again, wishing Stevie would stop worrying about him. At least until they’re all safely out of here.

Three days later, he sees the man again.

Five days from then, he walks into an argument between Stevie and him. He doesn’t stay after he hears the man hiss, “They won’t trust him as long as the Winter Soldier is dormant in there, Cap and you know that.”

It’s a little over a month after, when he’s out under pelting rain when the man comes to find him.

“I know you’re big on the cold and stuff, but getting drenched in rain is still a health hazard, you know.”

He says as a way of greeting, leaving no space between them when he sits - thighs brushing with electric sparks - on the edge of the pool, legs dipping into chlorine tainted water up to his shins.

They sit in silence, listening to raindrops fall heavily into water, neither under any kind of shelters which makes him snort at the hypocrisy and he mumbles, “Pot, kettle.”

A delightful laugh bursts out his companion. Something that sends shivers up his stiff spine and he shudders, not from the cold but from the blooming emotion that overwhelms him entirely.

It’s unfair how much someone he doesn’t even know to have this much of an effect on him.

Strip him out of decades of control drilled into his bones. Bare him naked and raw with overflowing feelings for the whole world to see. An impossible feat that he does so easily.

It makes him want to hate the man, but he knows that’s a lie.

And the effect of the bond seems to go both ways. For the man opens his mouth with an audible breath, hesitates just a second and asks with palpable nerves,

“You know we’re soulmates right?”

#here's to once again hoping the keep reading line works #will upload part two tomorrow #or sooner #we'll see #buckytony #winteriron #soulmate au

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tea-cake-and-melancholy · 4 years

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Skull and Shackles-part one

Hello everyone! Stuck here in quarantine after finishing college (graduation, woot!) and decided to practice my heavily rusting fictional writing skills. Skull and Shackles is an Adventure Path from Pathfinder Roleplaying Game® owned by Paizo. The only thing I own is the original characters. Any writing advice would be welcomed. Hope you enjoy.

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This adventure does not start with the busy chatter of a tavern, no heroic call to arms against some great evil, not even with being arrested by a government that didn’t appreciate this group for sticking their noses where they don’t belong. This adventure starts with a dark room. The sensation of swaying and an incredible headache that may have either been accompanied by the taste that numbs the tongue or a whack. Impressment wasn’t just restricted to the Cheliax Navy, it extended to pirates as well. It’s been known that Press Gangs are known to skulk about inns, taverns, the streets at night and even pluck unsuspecting men and women from their very beds after a short chat concerning their sailing ability. That was the situation for this group of adventurers.

The first to awaken was a catfolk thief named Gumqu, a lanky feline looking humanoid creature with the head, paws, and tail of a cat. With grey peach fuzz and mismatched blue and gold eyes, she looked about to try and remember how she had gotten there. Ah, yes. She had just returned from her latest voyage on the “Old Renegade”, a ship that she had served for 5 years working on the rigging. Coming across a rather fat merchant ship, she decided rather foolishly to spend her earnings alone at the Formidably Maid a rather popular pirate tavern. Gumqu absent-mindedly rasped her tongue against her sleeve to take away the numbing and bitter taste off her tongue, feeling rather embarrassed to having fallen for such an old press-gang tactic. At least she can feel the outline of her thieves’ tools in her hidden pocket. Another from the pile stirred with a curse and a spit, human looking and irate to boot.

Anne Salis angrily looked about with dark eyes, cursing her luck and possibly fate for not being careful. Her husband always did warn her against drinking at the Formidably Maid with all those wayward pirates. Being the resident shaman for the Besmara, there was a priest though he took a 12-year fishing trip and had not returned yet, it wasn’t uncommon to getting free drinks from old salts who appreciated fair weather charms. She shook her headful of honey curls and clutched her unprotected scalp when the throbbing headache was aggravated by her swift movements. They took her hat but not her dagger in her belt, typical. She gnashed her sharp teeth and tried to stand but was prevented by the moving room and tangled bodied. Nevertheless, with that she inadvertently kicked a rather large half-orc in the ribs, shocking him to consciousness.

Ausk Oddfellow never failed to live up to his name. A shocking giant that can easily take up the length of the room. He slowly sat up while rubbing his now smarting side, looking like a picture out of those risqué nobles’ romance novels. Tall and muscular with a tiny waist, the symbol of Cayden Cailean (a flagon) hung around his neck and slightly messy black hair caused by the welt in the back of the head. He was tavern hopping, singing about various pirates and legends with his bestest best mate in all the world, Skender, who always works in his dark little alchemy shop. So, as any best friend would do, he dragged with away for a good time and maybe show him the meaning of fun. Well, on the way from Suffering Tiger Pub, The Boot and Helm, The Forest and Shield, Hovering Drake and The Clam and Whale Tavern, and the Formidably Maid, there was a scuffle in a dark alley between 2 blokes and a lady. Being the dashing bard that he is, of course he rushed to the rescue. Right before being knocked on the back of the head. Hard. He quickly looked around in panic! Where’s Skender?! As he is reaching over, his hulking green mass squished the figure next to him, causing an indignant shout.

Now Mordren Paella was typical for a pit-born tiefling; some had one or two minor imperfections that can be easily hidden or explained away, some are more…drastic. The only normal features she possessed was her height, black hair usually tied back and olive skin. Unfortunately, her abnormalities were drastic enough to detract from those features. From golden cat eyes, exposed fang-like teeth that frame her entire jaw, a left arm that resembled a blue dragon’s claw, bird’s legs to the barbed snake’s tail. Many had expressed that she was most likely the product of a god after a very heavy night of drinking. She was a witch that worked on various pirate ships as a cook. Never had a bad reference and no complaints with her small book of recipes that she can feel she still had on her person. She had left her hometown of Ilizmagorti, due to the heightened Red Mantis activity, to Port Peril. To celebrate, she went for a small meal and drink for the smooth trip. Seeing some sketchy characters at the corner of the tavern she and decided to leave, until the world started spinning and the floor was incoming fast. Nearby her was a rather angry “Must you be such a bumbling bugbear? Move over, you green lummox” a thwack barely missing her head and swatting the half-orc’s back.

The person in question was Skender Korzha; a half elf with mocha skin and high contrasting white tattoos on his arms that appeared arcane in origin. His black hair was halfway taken out of his ponytail and he feels a crick in his lower back after hours in an odd position. He knew that he should not have gone out with Ausk. Nothing ever goes well when he goes out with him. Granted, he is a flamboyant, needlessly boisterous, optimistic glass ¾’s full kind of bard but really he’s not a bad friend. However, based on the pounding headache and possible concussion, he’s gotten them into trouble again. He needed that brain, damn it. He checks himself to find what he had left, only to find a health kit. Wonderful. Trying to pull himself to sit up, he felt his sleeping leg being weighed down by someone who may just have beaten his friend in height.

The last in this room was a peculiar species of troll called the Va’al, hailing from the islands closer to Freeport. Though not nearly as muscular as Ausk, Hau'ri’s musculature was overshadowed by the sheer height. This was hidden by him being currently curled on the floor of this room. He slowly sits up and rubs his sore jaw, luckily his tusks were still intact for they were a pain to regrow, almost as bad as a leg or the inconvenience of a missing finger when you only have a max of 3 to start with. The only hair was the short light blue fur covering him from head to toe, bat like ears ringing from the beating he received just the other…time? Honestly, he doesn’t know what time it, not that it matters. His amber eyes scanning the room, satisfied that there’s more than him in this situation. He clenches his fist and quickly hides the brass knuckles that he always kept on him, chuckling at his luck.

It was at that time; a series of heavy footsteps came from above to then slam the door open violently. Bright light pouring from the handheld lantern blinds everyone inside, causing some to curse and some to hiss in discomfort.

““Still abed with the sun over the yardarm? On your feet, ye filthy swabs! Get up on deck and report for duty before Cap’n Harrigan flays your flesh into sausage skins and has Fishguts fry ye up for breakfast!” roared the stranger. He stands tall in typical pirate garb, this human male had probably has seen salt water more often than clear water used for more than cooking or drinking. Skin cracked from long days in the sun and gold teeth gleaming in a cruel smile as he used his whip to motivate everyone onto their feet. This took a bit of time before the group proceeded to follow him up the stairs of the ship.

As they were walking, Anne spat on the ground to her right, finally deciphering the taste in her mouth as taggit oil. A favorite of press gangs if they think they can get away with it. Put it in spicy food or particularly strong grog and you have between 1 to 3 hours with a dead to the world body. Cheap, easy to obtain and hard to overcome when ingested. Both Hau’ri and Ausk must bend down to clear their heads from hitting the beams above.

Once they’ve reached the top they were once again blinded, this time by the tropical sun hanging high in the sky. Looking about, they find themselves surrounded, 10 pirates not including the one that guided them there and ocean as far as the eye can see. Some were up in the rigging while others were scattered about on deck, all stopped to gawk at the new arrivals. Skender looks at the ship and can tell that it’s a three-masted sailing ship, 100 feet long from stem to stern, and 30 feet wide amidships. Decent but just one person short of manning it effectively without hardship. At the ship’s mainmast, on a high platform than the confused party in question, there stood two individuals. One was a broad, muscular human man with Garundi descent; a shaven head, long beard bound with braids and gold rings, and an eye patch. Based on his standing and finery, this was the captain in charge. The other to his right was a younger, balding man with a long black ponytail, wearing a long coat and carrying a well-used cat-o’-nine-tails.

The group was corralled towards the middle with 4 other recruits, a red headed human woman with a lovely tricornered hat, a muscular halfling brunette that could possibly bench-press Ausk, a human male with a blue varisian scarf wrapped around his head to protect his scalp and a rather fabulous male gnome bedecked in dandy purple attire. While the group was placed in a row, the captain smirked and finally addressed them.

“Glad you could join us at last!” his rasping voice bellowed over the crashing waves “Welcome to the Wormwood! My thanks for ‘volunteering’ to join my crew. I’m Barnabas Harrigan. That’s Captain Barnabas Harrigan to you, not that you’ll ever need to address me. I have only one rule—don’t speak to me. I like talk, but I don’t like your talk. Follow that rule and we’ll all get along fine.” He made his way to walk away, paused and spoke over his shoulder, “Oh, and one more thing. Even with you new recruits, we’re still short-handed, and I aim to keep what crew I have. There’ll be a keelhaulin’ for anyone caught killin’ anyone. Mr. Plugg!” addressing the man with the ponytail “If you’d be so kind as to make pirates out of these landlubbers, it’ll save me having to put them in the sweatbox for a year and a day before I make pies out of ’em.” Before walking away from sight. The new overseer, Mr. Plugg, descends to the Amidships where they stood.

“Now” he unhooked the cat-o’-nine-tails from his belt as he surveys the crew-to-be. “Time to see where you lot belong.”

#Skull and shackles #pathfinder #RPG #My writing #Chapter 1 #pirates

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buttsonthebeach · 5 years

Note

*whispering* solavellan sex on the Normandy

ANON. I don’t even know if you’re still out there, I’m pretty sure you sent this like a year ago, but I want you to know that I have been working on this prompt ever since you sent it!!!

Fun fact #1: I have never played any of the original Mass Effect games.

Fun fact #2: I had so much reading about them and watching videos and concocting headcanons that I accidentally put more energy into that than into smut?

(I’m sorryyyy I hope it was worth the wait if you are still out there)

@dadrunkwriting

My Ko-Fi || My Commissions (Slots currently open as of 10/4/19)

Pairing: Solavellan

Rating: Mature/Explicit (it’s right on that line - sexual content but not a lot and not the most explicit I have ever done)

********************

Solas was fairly certain that the new soldier Commander Shepard had brought on board the Normandy SR-2 was doomed to be just like all the others - more brawn than brain, all muscle and no substance. He tried not to let it matter to him too much. He was here to take advantage of Cerberus’s technology and resources to further his own research into biotics. Everything else was window dressing.

In the case of the new soldier, the window dressing simply happened to be rather striking.

She had skin like mahogany, and red, tightly curled hair worn in a flat top hair cut, and eyes like steel. Her name was Ellana Lavellan, and she was the first person to pull him out of the tight cocoon of his lab - really, out of the tight cocoon he’d woven around himself - in years.

“You know, I was under the impression that our doctor was a salarian,” she said when she first wandered in one day.

“I am neither a doctor nor a salarian, as you can see,” he said, gesturing at the insignia that designated him as a scientist. “You are thinking of Mordin Solus. His quarters are next door. My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions.”

She laughed, and it was a surprisingly musical laugh. He wasn’t sure why he expected all soldiers to be gunmetal and grim looks. She was off duty, and in a tank top that bared her toned arms. He took in her pointed ears. He’d known from her name, of course, that they shared at least a race in common. It had been many centuries since their people were considered a separate but lesser species on the planet called Thedas, but there was still a twinge of happy recognition at the sight of her. Every other member of this crew whose ancestors hailed from Thedas was human. There might be some commonality between them, at least, if they were both elves.

Then again, as she sauntered around the lab, her head cocked in curiosity, he saw the tattoo marking the upper part of her back. Three long, arched branches that likely continued all the way down to her hips. She was likely of Dalish descent then. Or, worse, one of the people who got such tattoos and had no idea what they meant.

Solas ducked his head, returning to the readout on his omnitool.

“Well, you have to admit it is confusing. Solus, Solas. What are you doing?”

She was leaning on his workstation. She smelled like gun oil. Usually people backed away by this point, put off by his arch manner. Why hadn’t she?

“Testing this new implant for Commander Shepard,” he said.

“Interesting. You’ll have to explain how it works to me, sometime. When are you off duty?”

That was how she did it in the end, how she drew him out - she was relentless. Like a hunter on a trail with everything to lose. Except she, like him, had nothing to lose. Her parents were long dead - victims of the same slaver raid on Mindoir that had taken Shepard’s own parents, apparently that was how they knew each other - and she had struggled to find a place for herself since then. She’d been in the Alliance military (another connection with their esteemed commander, who Solas had to admit was growing on him too) but left that life behind, hoping for a new start, only to be drawn back into danger once more. The Illusive Man had given Solas no reason to believe that the Normandy SR-2 would be an easy mission, but he was still surprised by the level of violence they encountered - by the bruises and blood he saw on Ellana whenever she passed his lab on her way to Mordin’s, needing healing.

“I thought you were a sniper,” he chided her after one particularly bad episode. He was holding her left wrist, examining a burn that radiated up the inside of her left arm.

“I am,” she said. “And I thought you were a scientist, and not a doctor.”

He had not asked to take her hand, to examine her. He dropped it. But she just reached out and touched his hand - a touch that burned, that brought back memories, that made him remember just how long it had been since he had been touched. He shivered and he knew Ellana saw it. Solas had been living under masks for years now. He knew she saw through them all.

“I’ll be okay,” she said. “I promise.”

He only had the privilege of watching Ellana fight once. Shepard was a formidable biotic herself, and rarely brought other biotics on her missions. But when they went in pursuit of someone called Archangel, she said she wanted the backup.

“I’d also like a measure of stealth,” Shepard went on. “And Jack is, well -”

“Not subtle?” Solas said, dryly.

“Very diplomatic. We’ll bring Lavellan, too.”

Solas tried to ignore the little thrill that ran through him at the thought. He wasn’t successful.

She was a wonder with her rifle. Swift, silent, precise, powerful. She made shots he would have thought impossible, covered him and Shepard with an instinctive ease and tactical awareness. He watched her when he could. He may have even been staring.

“See something you like, Solas?” She asked.

Precise as one of her bullets, blunt as a mallet, and her smile was so sly, and Shepard was distracted by the turian that turned out to be Archangel. Garrus Vakarian, no doubt, if Solas’s research was to be believed.

“Watching you was - impressive. You move differently than any other soldier I have seen. Almost as if it is a dance.”

Ellana slung her rifle over her back and leaned against a wall, her grey eyes alight.

“Are you implying that I am graceful?”

“I am declaring it.” The words slipped out before he could consider them, and that was the danger, wasn’t it, of stepping outside his cocoon, his lab, his routine?

“I was equally impressed by you,” Ellana said. “Your biotics - it’s like it’s totally natural for you.”

He shrugged, pretended he was not complimented, that her words did not light him up from the inside out. “Elves generally take to it better than other Thedosians. Have you read any of the theories that our people were once like asari, with similarly long lives and control over our nervous systems that produced effects so startling they were once called magic?”

Ellana looked away, rubbing the back of her neck. “I was too busy being a dumb grunt to read stuff like that. But I’ve heard of it a little. Maybe you could explain more sometime?”

“Of course.”

It was soft and easy after that, except for when it wasn’t, when they talked about her Dalish heritage, her fierce belief that there was something important about sticking to traditions, even if there was little basis in fact for them.

“Of course my tattoos aren’t what made me an adult,” she retorted one day. “But getting them made me feel connected to something bigger than myself. Is that really so bad?”

“But the implications that they were once -”

“Oh, fuck the implications, Solas. I’m tired of the implications. I live here, and now, and I was just trying to share something about myself with someone who I thought cared about me without it turning into a big fucking deal.”

Her voice rang against the metal walls of his lab. She appeared almost immediately ashamed of her anger. He’d noticed that about her too. That was his job. To notice things, gather intel, play the Illusive Man’s game long enough to figure out if it was true, if biotics were inherent to his race, if they could perhaps be made inherent once again, raising the status of all Thedosians in the Council’s eyes…

But so much of what he had been noticing lately was her.

“I am sorry,” he said. He reached out and touched her hand. He’d been getting used to that. Little touches.

Ellana Lavellan kissed him then, full on the lips, without even the slightest warning, and he was sitting on a stool and though she was a slight woman this made her a little taller than him, and he tilted his head back, let himself fall into the kiss, wrapped his arms around her and felt her warmth and life and just how much he wanted this. Wanted a life that was not just secrets and watching and never partaking.

Ellana pulled back, looked down at him.

“I hope that was okay,” she said. “You’re not going to report me to the commander for sexual harassment, are you?”

Solas kissed her again, hungrier this time, fingers digging into her muscles, the solid reality of her. The realest thing he’d felt in years.

“So you are tired of the implications, then?” he asked when they parted.

“Like I said,” Ellana grinned, sliding into his lap, straddling him. “Fuck the implications.”

Solas could not help himself, of course. He had to tell her that there were considerations. Well, fuck the considerations too, she’d said jokingly, but she respected his boundaries nonetheless. Because there were considerations. He knew more than even Shepard did. He knew that the supposedly disabled Collector ship they were headed to was a trap. He tried to tell Ellana not to go on that mission. To convince Shepard to bring Garrus instead.

“Don’t go soft on me. Besides - I have to beat Vakarian’s high score,” she said, and kissed him.

He knew that to the Illusive Man, all the people on this ship were merely pawns at play in a larger game. He had guessed at what that larger game might be. He had willingly chosen to be a bigger pawn in that game, to do the things the Illusive Man asked of him as long as he could continue his research. And he knew Ellana now - knew that she would not take any of this lightly, that she had a soldier’s sense of loyalty and honor, old-fashioned as the tattoos on her back.

And he knew that he wanted her in all the ways one person could want another. He knew with increasing clarity as time went on that he wanted her more than he wanted anything else.

But to turn his back now -

The formless shadow of what lay beyond the Omega-4 Relay loomed larger and larger, and in its shadow things grew clearer and clearer. Clear as Ellana’s grey eyes, clear as her perception of the world. They might not come back from this mission. And the Illusive Man would not care, not even if he lost one of his foremost biotics researchers, one of his best spies. And Solas’s work would not care if he was not there to finish it. He looked out at the vastness of space outside the Normandy and that thought grew clearer and clearer.

No one would care except for her.

So he went to her the night before they would make their last stand. Her room was small and cramped and her bed was even more small but she was alive in it, alive in her body, already stripped down to her simple training bra and standard issued underwear when he arrived and yet beautiful as any ancient nebula he’d ever seen.

“Are you sure?” she asked him, finding the buttons on his lab coat, undressing him, her eyes bright in the dark.

“I have never been more sure of anything than I am of you,” he said.

So he stripped off all the things that made her a warrior - the training bra, the briefs, the dog tags - and he stripped off all the things that made him a scientist, a spy - the lab coat and the gloves and every single mask - and he loved her. She was warm and firm beneath him and he slid between her thighs - lingered there a long time, just rocking back and forth, just kissing her, just feeling her, the silky drag of skin on skin - and there, in the darkness of space, he loved her, and she loved him. She rolled him over and took her turn on top, not pushing him inside her yet, not even asking him to touch her, to ease her own wet ache. She just felt, explored, touched.

And then when she did take him in her hand raise herself up, and sink back down on him, taking him within her - when she did lace both of her hands with his and pin them over his head as she rode him, as she kissed him - then she was so impossibly real, so impossibly alive, that Solas forgot of the possibility of death. There was only her, them, the light of distant stars, of his own biotics flaring.

“I love you,” she said, and from another woman’s lips it would have felt false to hear those words said when they were still joined, still making love. But this was Ellana, and Solas had watched her, and he knew she was nothing if not sincere.

“I love you,” he said, surrendering, bucking his hips up into her. “I love you, I love you -”

There were people walking down the hall outside - Taylor, Lawson, Tali, Thane, all on their way to some distraction or another, all of them waiting out the end like they were. They tried to fall silent, to move to a different position, each time they passed, and they wound up on the cold metal floor, cocooned in blankets, Solas on top of her this time, looking down at her, mesmerized, angling himself to make it good for her, so he would rub against her in all the right places, so he could watch her when she came, and she squirmed a hand between them to make it happen because she was nothing if not self-sufficient, but he did get to watch her, to feel her from the inside out as she came. Then he was gone too, wave after sweet wave, and it was all too much and too good.

“Hey,” she said in the aftermath, touching his cheek, drawing him back. “It’s okay, you know. It’s gonna be okay.”

He kissed her hand, pretended she was right, that the Omega-4 Relay was not on their horizon now. It was easier than it ever had been. The pretending. She made it easy, lying there in his arms in the nest they’d made on the floor. It was going to be okay. They would make it through the relay and what came after. They’d walk away from Cerberus, the Illusive Man, Shepard, together. They’d see what the world was like without all of those things, without masks. Together.

Solas slept, and waited for tomorrow.

#beach writes #mass effect au #ellana lavellan #da drunk writing circle

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late-nightdevil · 5 years

Text

i’m lonely, part one

read part two here

Word count: 3K

Warnings: none

Summary: loosely based of the song “fuck, i’m lonely” by lauv ft. anne-marie or where Calum dumped Brooklyn and now neither of them are happy

Authors Note: honestly this is shit and i’m sorry but i’m trying to get back into writing and practice makes perfect right?? requests & feedback are openly welcome!!

It’s been sixteen months since my life was destroyed.

Well, that’s a little dramatic.

It’s been sixteen months since my heart was ripped out of my chest, stomped on the ground, thrown into a pot of boiling water until it disintegrated into nothing but remnants of a girl who thought she could love a boy; leaving behind the broken pieces of her soul and no way to put them back together.

Okay, maybe I’m a little dramatic.

But who wouldn’t be after getting dumped by your boyfriend of two years, who doubled as your best friend for even longer? With nothing more than a pathetic, “I want to explore my options,” as a reason to break my heart?

Oh fucking well I guess, such is life. Situations like those are what lessons are bred from, and you learn to move on. It’s been an incredibly difficult ride, but sex, parties, and a lot of alcohol seemed to solve all my issues pretty efficiently. And by solved, of course I mean pushed so far into the back of my mind that I couldn’t possibly need to deal with them anytime soon.

So tonight, like any other Friday night in a hopeless college town, I’ll be attending a party at one of the many frat houses that thrive off of girls like me - girls who just want to forget.

“Brookie, have you seen your pink dress anywhere? I can’t find it.”

My attention is quickly stolen away from the current daze I was in, eyes locking in on Melissa swiftly moving my clothes back and forth in the closet. “What’s wrong with that you’re wearing?”

She huffed aggressively, as if the question was uncalled for. “Michael is supposed to be there tonight, I can’t wear jeans! Do you know how hard it is to be seductive in jeans?”

I mutter a smart, “it’s not hard if you do it right,” but it fell on deaf ears. Standing from my bed and walking behind her, my gaze settles on the dress in question in a matter of moments. “Here, go change. We’re supposed to leave in less than an hour and you’re nowhere near done.”

Her lips land on my cheek in a quick peck, following a ‘thank you!’ as she heads to the bathroom to get ready. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at her eagerness. Melissa has had eyes on the edgy guitar player for months now, but lacks the amount of confidence to do anything other than stalk him at every social gathering. Deciding on becoming her wing-woman, I downplay my outfit into a simple white crop top and high-waisted, distressed shorts.

Mel had been there for the break up as a shoulder to cry on and soon became an easy friend. She was sweet enough to introduce me to her group, a few more girls and a couple of guys who were all truly kind people. After learning of my situation, they all were very supportive and offered a hand in back up if I ever wanted to take revenge on the boy who tore me apart. Shocking even to myself, however, I never took them up on that offer. He switched majors and I never really saw him again, spending most of his time on a different side of campus, I guess. Better for the both of us.

She stepped out of the bathroom thirty minutes later, makeup and hair done to the nines. Her princess-like ambiance battled my simple attire, but it fit us well. I took my hair out of the Dutch braids I had it in, letting the waves fall naturally just below my shoulders. My simple makeup from the day would do fine, just a touch more of my trusty burgundy lipstick and I was ready to go. As if the universe was on my side, we both soon receive a text from the group chat, signaling their arrival. I grabbed my flannel, and Melissa, and headed out the door.

Fifteen minutes later and we pull onto the proper street, cars were lined up and down the entire block. Ashton, the lucky one who drew the straw for designated driver, soon parked near the house as someone else was leaving.

“Two am guys, meet back here.” He swung his arm over his girlfriends shoulder and made his way into the house before Melissa and me, along with the rest of the group.

“Alright Mel, we only have one mission tonight: get you laid.” She blushed softly and giggled at my blunt words, but nodded her head in agreement. “Just stay close, let me know if you see him first. I have a plan.”

I didn’t, really, but I’m quite good on my feet. I’m sure I can come up with something on the spot.

Arms linked, for now at least, I dragged her to the kitchen to help take the edge off and start tonight off right. I grab the first bottle of dark liquor I see, along with two red cups, and pour a shot in each of them.

“Cheers!” We say in unison, before repeating the glorious ceremony a few more times. The crowded living room soon draws us in, enveloping is in the mass of people who just want to dance their worries away. Our bodies move together as we face the opposite ways, still on the eager search for the dirty-blonde haired boy.

I can feel the small amounts of alcohol begin to make its course through my bloodstream, heating every ounce of my body that it touches. A familiar song comes on and I can’t help but lose myself in it; well, moreso the memories it holds. Flashbacks of nights spent together in blissful happiness seem to cloud my rational thoughts. The need to feel the comfort of his hands on my waist becomes an overwhelming feeling that I can’t, and really don’t want to, ignore.

I need another drink.

My body whips around to let Melissa know, but I find myself face to face with a stranger, my friend nowhere to be seen. Assuming she slipped away for the same reason I wanted to, I find my way back to the kitchen, but not before catching a glimpse of my pink dress; the only recognizable object peeking through the silhouette of a certain guitarist.

Good for her.

I continued my journey to the kitchen and quickly mix the first two things I found that made sense, vodka and lemonade of course, and filled my cup to the brim with it. Before I knew it, half the cup was down my throat, and I could soon feel the bass of every song synching to my heart beat.

“Rough night, Brooke?” Smooth fingers made their way around my waist and the smell of vanilla musk filled my nostrils. It was comforting, to say the least.

My body naturally leaned into his chest. “I’m alright, Luke. Just washing away some memories, s’all.” I shot him a reassuring smile, which he returned with a kiss on the top of my head.

Luke and I have both been through a rough break up recently and we’ve helped each other in various ways. He’s one of Melissa’s friends that I bonded to early on, he’s just so easy to talk to. Plus, you know, we have casual friends-with-benefits sex every once in a while. A great coping mechanism, really.

“You know I’m willing to help with whatever you need, babe. Just say the word.” He placed another kiss, this time low on my cheek, in a suggestive manner.

I considered taking him up on his offer, seeing as my mission has been concluded for the night. Just as I’m going to finish my drink and take him upstairs, I hear an unmistakable sound that brought chills to my spine.

Laughter.

Not just any laughter, but laughter I haven’t heard in over a year, and thought I’d never hear again.

Oh how I wanted to be wrong. To tell myself it’s just the drinks, the music, and how a bunch of people must have the same voice. How there’s no way in hell I’m about to face my fears while under the influence.

My first instinct is to run and hide, and not come out until it was two a.m. and my group would congregate together again. My second instinct, which seemed to be influenced by the liquid courage coursing through me, was to act like he didn’t even exist. To go upstairs with Luke and fuck his brains out, effectively forgetting this is even happening.

Both of those options flew out the window when he came into sight.

First it was his arm, littered with tattoos that I've traced with my tongue, and new ones that have yet to be touched. The bicep that seemed to flex whenever he laughed, as if he couldn't help but draw attention from every girl in the room with such subtleties. Then it was the shirt; red border on the sleeves and presumptuously on the collar as well, a clean white base seems bright against his tan skin. Words poked out, above and below a set of red lips, but my brain was too focused elsewhere to comprehend the letters. I wasn’t prepared for what I saw next. As my eyes traveled up his striking body, my sights set on the bleach blonde hair atop his head. A stark contrast to the black waves that were there before; and some part of me deep down really likes it.

I hadn’t noticed how tightly I clung onto the tall boy at my side, as if he could protect me from my thoughts. After gathering enough strength to stop my staring, I looked up at Luke, a silent plea escaping my lips. His features laced with concern as his eyes followed the path mine had just left.

His eyes grew wide with the realization of my dilemma and sprung into action. With an arm wrapped tight around my shoulders, he turns us around to head deeper into the kitchen. The back door comes into sight and just as I begin collecting my thoughts, a soft, curious voice rang through my ears, making me stop in tracks.

“Brooklyn?”

It was as if the world had gone silent. The dull thumping of the music, the monotone beat of my heart, and the dismal whispers of the crowded mansion disappeared as my name left his lips.

My muscles tightened as my senses heightened, the atmosphere grew cold and dry. I couldn’t speak even if I wanted to. Every ounce of my being was screaming run; run away, run and hide to the far corners of the earth, run and bury my head deep into the earth so that I could never hear him utter my name ever again.

But I couldn’t do it.

I stayed, planted in my spot, like I was waiting for a burning fire to consume me whole. What was mere moments stretched into hours in my mind. The next sound I could comprehend was the hoarse tone of Luke saying my name, and I immediately hated the way it sounded coming from his lips.

“C’mon, babe. Go outside. I’ll take care of this.” His arm squeezed mine protectively, which I usually find comforting, but right now I just want him to leave my side.

He urges me towards the door, but I stay still. My confidence slowly comes back to me and I utter a quiet, “no.” I was saying no to going outside, no to leaving my situation and problems behind. But it was more than that. “No, I can’t.. I- I need..”

What?

What do I need?

I need to continue avoiding my problems, pushing them deeper and deeper until they disappear again.

Or do I need to face him? Say all the things I didn’t get to say when he crushed my soul the first time?

Am I even strong enough to do that?

I threw back the rest of the drink in my cup as if it were water. The burning sensation felt good, soon helping me regain control of my not-so-sober thoughts. “I need to talk to him. Luke, just go outside, I’ll be right there.”

His eyes showed signs of disappointment, knowing there was no way he could talk me out of it. His eyes glanced over at the patient boy behind me before kissing my forehead tenderly. “Come get me if you need me, baby.” His tone rose loud enough that I’m sure he heard. This whole moment would’ve been truly endearing if it hadn’t been an act of protection. Luke and I were nowhere near being a couple, but that wouldn’t stop the jealous boy behind me from reacting to what he witnessed.

Luke walked out the back door and I slowly turned around, silently thanking the alcohol for the encouragement. His brown eyes bore into mine and my heart ached at the glimpse of pain inside them. We both took a step forward to close the space between us and I let go of the massive breath I’ve been holding in.

“Calum.”

“That’s some bodyguard of a boyfriend you have there. Didn’t expect you to.. move on, into that direction I mean.” His words come out slow and unsure, alcohol evident on his breath. His smell was intoxicating, a smooth mix of his signature cologne with the rum based cocktail still in his hand.

“He’s..” my immediate reaction was to explain myself, unfolding for him as if he even deserved a response. “He’s my friend. Just trying to look out for me.” I couldn’t take my stare away from his stern gaze, not breaking contact even to blink, as if he were afraid I’d disappear the second he looked away.

Our eyes searched each other’s souls for what must’ve been an eternity until I gathered the muster to speak again. “You changed your hair.”

A small smirk showed on his lips at the obvious observation. His eyes moved up to survey my hair, which has been dyed black and cut short since he last saw me. A finger came up slowly and wrapped itself around a dark curl, gently stroking the strand, admiring it. “You did too. It suits you. I really like it.” The smile on his lips grew a little, and I couldn’t help but mirror it.

The air grew thin once we went silent. Small talk didn’t feel right. I wanted to pull his body into mine, connecting us once more and never letting go again. Until I remember that I’m not the one who let him go the first time.

“I was looking for that flannel the other day.” He grinned wide enough for his teeth to show and my heart all but exploded. “I can’t believe I forgot that I gave that to you. It looks way better on you than it ever did on me.” His finger moved down to lightly trace the collar, dangerously close to my neck. His words were as smooth as butter and I was ready to melt into his touch, but I had to stay strong. Or at least act like I was.

“I never really got a chance to give it back to you.” I tore my attention away from his face, looking down at our feet. “Why are you here, Calum? I’ve never seen you on this side of campus. You hate parties.”

His touch left and I felt the atmosphere grow colder at the loss. “A friend wanted company. I owed them a favor.” He was withholding something from me, the sudden drop in his tone and lack of eye contact proved it. “What about you? I thought you hated alcohol.”

He gestures his cup towards my empty one and just a bit of anger boils inside me. Before I could catch myself, I slipped out words laced with bitterness. “It’s the only thing that’s been able to temporarily numb the pain.”

The look in his eyes turned sorrowful, as if he is just now realizing how difficult even simple conversation is for me. “Brooke.. I still think about you, about us..” He stepped forward once more, closing the space between us. The warmth radiating off his hand crept onto my cheek, barely skimming the surface before a shrill voice took us out of our trance.

“Cal! There you are!” A flash of blonde pulled us apart, grabbing onto his shoulders from behind, trying to turn him to face her. The reluctance in his eyes was noticeable, and his body visibly stiffened at her touch. He wants her here even less than I do.

“Vicky, give me a minute, I’m kinda-“ he tries to brush her hands off, but her eyes whole body slumps against his back. She didn’t like being dismissed. I didn’t like being lied to.

“It’s alright, Cal. You seem.. preoccupied.” I smack on a fake smile that I knew he could see right through. Placing my cup on the nearby counter, I peek back at the same face I’ve been dying to see for months, now dressed in a regret that I’d never expect. We stood silent, not the slightest bit of motion coming from either of us, as if our hearts had stopped together. As if the dream was over, and we were ready to wake up. I had to leave before it turned into a nightmare.

One last look in his mournful eyes and I was done.

“Goodnight, Calum. It was nice seeing you.”

#calum hood #one shot #fanfic #luke hemmings #ashton irwin #5sos #savvywrote #break up #make up #im lonely

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redhairdontcare732 · 5 years

Text

Sometimes it Snows in April

Author’s Note:

Hey all! This is my first attempt at an actual multi-chapter fic. This will be a Sweet Pea X OC story. I hope it goes well!

Anyways, I hope this first chapter isn’t too boring! It’s a lot of exposition tbh, trying to set up my new OC Bea and her relationships with everyone in Riverdale, not just Pea. I’m hoping that this will be somewhat of a slowburn, but I’m also impatient af so we’ll see! XxXx

As always feel free to comment or like if you want more!

Chapter 1:

Jughead’s POV

I groaned as I vaguely heard a gentle knocking on the front door of my trailer through my sleep induced haze. I groggily made my way to the front door, clad only in my boxers and a t-shirt, not really caring how anyone bold enough to be here before dawn would see me. I didn’t even have my beanie on, rather I clutched it firmly in my fist as I opened the door. I was surprised to see the sweet face of one Betty Cooper standing in my doorway.

“Betty? What time is it?”, I asked confusedly as I attempted to rub the sleep from my eyes. I briefly turned to look for a clock, perplexed as to why my girlfriend was here waking me up before my alarm.

“7:15. I wanted to catch you before school”, she stated softly before inching up towards my body and planting a chaste kiss to my lips as a way of greeting. I smiled briefly, the look quickly fading from my face as my brain caught up with my current state.

“Sorry, I have morning breath. You want coffee or something?”, I asked tiredly, heading for the kitchen of my small trailer and setting my beanie down on the counter. I rubbed my face once more, sleep threatening to overtake me where I stood. Don’t get me wrong, I loved Betty, but it was way too early for this. The Joneses were not known to be morning people, least of all me.

“No, uh I’m actually on my way to the library”, she replied quickly. “I asked Ms. Paroo to set aside all the books she has about cryptograms and ciphers. I thought it might help us crack the Black Hood’s code”.

I grunted in lieu of a response, hands reaching for cereal practically of their own accord. If I was going to be up this early you’d better believe I was going to at least get some food out of it.

“Which is something I was hoping we could do together, Jug”. she finished gently. I froze, an ominous chill running through my body. Most people would assume the chill was due to the macabe nature of our conversation, but anyone who knew Betty or I knew that this was pretty par for the course. No, my chill was in response to my tired brain finally recalling the way that I’d promised Toni that we’d work out the cipher together. I knew Betty was not exactly on board with me hanging out with anyone from the Southside Serpents, and she was definitely not going to be thrilled to hear that I’d been spending more time with the young Serpent girl. Scenarios flashed through my mind as every fiber of my being practically screamed for me to lie to Betty; surely no good could come from me telling her about Topaz right? But this was me, and this was Betty we were talking about. I hated lying to her, and though my instincts were telling me something very different, I decided quickly to come out with it. I cleared my throat in unease.

“Uhm….actually, funny enough, Toni of all people and I, we started working on that yesterday at the Red and Black. I can show you what we’ve got so far if you want”, I replied plainly, feigning nonchalance. I settled in with my bowl at the table, eyes avoiding Betty at all costs. I didn’t even have to turn around to know that Betty wasn’t fooled by my casual comment in the slightest; I could practically feel the way her body tensed in response, and I could picture the look on her face in my mind perfectly. Body rigid, posture perfect, eyes cast towards me with the most scrutinizing look in her blue orbs; her beautifully delicate features attempting to imitate impassivity but failing, and her lower lip tucked securely in between her teeth as thoughts took laps inside her mind wildly. I knew Betty like the back of my hand.

“Toni….”, Betty drawled, walking over to occupy the seat next to me. “...because let me guess, she loves serial killers”. I chuckled mirthlessly.

“She does have an affinity for the darker side of things, yeah”, I replied while taking a bite of my breakfast. Betty hummed in response, clearly not impressed or fooled by my attempt at indifference. I watched her take in my response, and as I did a new feeling of amusement overtook my still tired brain. Betty’s face was practically screaming in annoyance, and a small part of me was satisfied in its ability to elicit such a response.

“In that case--”, Betty started.

“In that case, maybe you guys could hold off on your little lover’s quarrel until oh I don’t know noon or so”, a voice called, effectively interrupting Betty’s train of thought. I immediately jumped to my feet, Betty not far behind as I took in the sound of the intruder coming from my dad’s room. I found the sight of a girl looking even more disheveled than I, walking down the hallway of my trailer while she yawned and rubbed her eyes with the palms of both hands. She had a couple of inches on Betts but was not nearly as tall as me, long legs taking easy strides down the hall as she approached. She was dressed for bed with a pair of plaid cotton pants for bottoms and a wrinkly black tank top for her shirt. The hair on her head was a mass of wild curls sticking up in every direction making her look as if she'd gotten into a fight with her bed and lost. Her right bicep was covered with a tattoo comprised largely of red roses, and based solely on her current appearance I’d wager a guess that there were others in places I couldn’t currently see. Her face betrayed how tired she was, hands still desperately trying to remove the evidence of her sleep as she approached where Betty and I tensely stood. I subtly angled myself in front of Betts as I took in the new arrival’s presence with apprehension. The girl did not seem bothered in the least by our evident shock and continued to walk into the kitchen before sitting in the seat across from mine.

“What in the actual fuc--”, I snapped before Betty cut me off.

“Bea?”, she questioned softly, stepping out from behind me and approaching the girl slowly, facial expression betraying a sense of hopefulness. The intruder’s face broke out into a small, tired smile, eyes appraising Betty and I with a fond look on her vaguely familiar features.

“Last time I checked”, she chuckled. Betty gasped lightly before practically tackling her with an embrace. My brows furrowed deeper in confusion as I took in the sudden turn my morning had taken; I still stood on the opposite side of the table, watching with an utter lack of understanding as Betts laughed and hugged my unwelcome houseguest with poorly contained affection. The wheels in my brain were turning around and around furiously as I attempted to make sense of the scene in front of me. Eventually the girls pulled apart, Betty turning to me and smiling brightly. Evidently my lack of comprehension was clear on my face because they both shot me amused looks.

“Jug, do you really not know who this is?”, Betty questioned incredulously. I rolled my eyes in response at the same time that the other girl snorted.

“Oh come on Juggie, Nancy Drew over here figured it out straightaway”, she accused.

Now I was officially confused. No one had called Betts ‘Nancy Drew’ in years; no one since…

“Bea?”, I practically choked as the realization dawned on my slowly. Now it was her turn to roll her eyes, though I could tell that she was somehow rather amused by the entire situation.

“Jughead”, she mocked lightly, standing up and walking over to where I stood, still frozen in place. I didn’t hesitate this time, arms flying to wrap themselves around her tall frame tightly. She responded in kind, hands coming to rest on my waist as she hugged me back with an intense sort of emotion. I couldn’t believe what was happening, my self-proclaimed other half was back in Riverdale after nearly ten years away.

She looked different, that was for sure, but now that I knew I couldn’t believe that I’d missed it. The resemblance was uncanny from her nearly 8 year old past self; Bea still had the same wildly curly dirty-blonde locks, the same round face (although age had thinned it out a bit), and the same look of self-assured confidence that she’d always possessed. The biggest giveaway though by far should have been her eyes; giant almond shaped eyes, irises a striking green with specks of brown. They were identical to my own, practically copied and pasted directly onto her face.

“What are you doing here Bea?”, Betty questioned as we distangled ourselves. Bea smiled lightly before taking her seat back at the table, Betts and I following suit.

“Well I heard through the grapevine that my uncle was in a bit of trouble and I decided the time was finally right to grace Riverdale with my presence”, she explained lightly, grabbing my bowl of cereal and helping herself to a bite.

I shook my head, still unable to process that this was actually happening. I mean this morning had started out with me being woken up at an ungodly hour by Betty and now I was sitting at my kitchen table with my cousin that I honestly thought I’d never see again. Bea and her father had disappeared from Riverdale without a trace when we were both around 8 years old. I was crushed when I'd realized that my best friend had vanished from my life, and that was one of the first times I'd seen my dad get well and truly drunk. Bea was my dad's niece by blood, the only child of his sister and the only thing he had left from her in this world. Bea had always been closer to my dad than her own, and I think he took her disappearance harder than even I had. Emotion overcoming me, I punched Bea lightly in the arm, glowering at her.

“Uhm ouch Jug”, she simpered, rubbing her bare bicep lightly. Betty frowned at me.

“Jughead!”, she scolded lightly. I shook my head, effectively ignoring her.

“Bea where in the ever-loving fuck have you been? How did you get in my trailer? How long have you been in town? And why in God’s name haven’t you contacted me once in the last 10 years?”, I questioned angrily. The shock and relief I’d initially felt upon seeing my cousin had faded and made way for feelings of resentment and indignation.

“Okay that’s a lot of questions before 8 am”, Bea mumbled, rubbing her eyes once more. My eyes narrowed even more, and I shook my head in annoyance. Bea seemed to soften upon looking at my expression, soft hand coming to rest on my own in a show of understanding.

“I know this all seems crazy right now, but for real I am not nearly awake enough for the full story. So pick like two out of those million questions and I promise to do my best”, she replied finally.

My harsh expression faltered for a second as I looked into her exhausted face, appraising her with poorly masked irritation. We sat this way for a beat or two, facing off stubbornly as Betty’s eyes darted between the two of us with a sort of anxious interest. Finally, I sighed, leaning back and thinking hard about what I really wanted to know.

“How did you get in here?”, I asked after a few moments. Bea’s face broke into an all-too-familiar smirk as she replied, drawing my mind back to all the memories from the happier parts of my childhood.

“Seriously Jug? I know it’s been awhile but I definitely still remember where Gladys kept the spare key. And knowing how you and FP operate I just assumed, correctly by the way, that it’d still be there”, she stated proudly. I chuckled at her now obvious explanation as a wave of nostalgia overtook me. Betty giggled lightly.

“Okay. Where have you been?”, I asked more gently than before. Bea groaned, rubbing her eyes once more and resting her head on her hand.

“Alright the Cliff notes are that dad ran us both off to Minnesota when he found out that FP and Gladys were planning to take me away from him, and that’s basically where I’ve been ever since”, she stated quickly. I swallowed the lump in my throat that had formed. My face softened fully as I eyed her exhaustion with more compassion than before. Betty shot a sympathetic expression to Bea, pulling her into another gentle hug in a show of silent support. Bea sighed once more.

“So if that's all, I'm going to let you get back to whatever you were arguing about before, as long as you promise to do so quietly”, she snipped to Betty and I, tossing a pointed look in our direction. Betty’s face tinged pink with embarrassment but I just rolled my eyes. “Jug I’ll see you after school and I promise we’ll talk then, okay?”.

“Wait you’re not going to school?”, Betty questioned gently. The blush had faded from her face and she was now looking at Bea with concern plastered across her features. Bea snorted once more.

“Yeah that would go over big. I’ll just walk into the office without any proof of address or legal guardian to speak of and demand to go to class”, she snickered. “Besides, you know me Drew, I never was as smart as you or Jug”.

With that she got up from the table and headed back down the hall towards my dad’s bedroom, presumably to go back to sleep. I laughed in disbelief at the comment she yelled back over her shoulder as she walked away,

“GET TO CLASS NOW CHILDREN.”.

Bea’s POV:

I drove up to the crack den that evidently passed for a high school in this town, the roar of my bike quieting instantly as I removed my key from the ignition. I removed my jet black helmet, shaking out my shaggy blonde locks as I did so. Already annoyed with the way the curls were tickling the back of my neck, I sighed and contained my hair swiftly into a messy bun. As I walked up the diapedated steps of the school lightly I also tied my black bandana around my head tightly in a fruitless attempt to keep the little baby hairs that didn’t fit into the hairband from attacking my face. I walked quickly up the steps and into the school, walking with a mission as I always did. I needed to find a certain raven haired, beanie wearing cousin of mine, and according to the text I’d gotten from Betty he now went to this dumpster fire of an educational institution. Rolling my eyes lightly, I walked through the un-manned metal detectors and briefly wondered if they were more for show than anything.

On a mission, I wandered the shitty school with a look that I’m sure clearly broadcasted my thinly veiled disinterest, taking note of all the graffiti and overwhelming amount of gang paraphernalia. I’d seen much worse in my life honestly, but I was a bit surprised that my sweet, brooding Juggie was caught up in a place like this. True, I hadn’t been involved in the minutia of his life for quite some time, but I’d always gotten the feeling that FP wanted to keep Jughead as far away from this kind of thing as possible. FP had always gotten after my old man for bringing me around the Serpents, but my dad (as was the case for almost everything) didn’t give a shit. I’d spent what little childhood I'd had in Riverdale at the White Wyrm surrounded by burly, scruffy looking gang members and I loved every second. Compared to my dad those scary looking men were practically teddy bears. I’d always been more comfortable in a place like this, even after we moved. I wondered how far Jug had gotten into the Serpent life, especially since his mom and sister bailed and FP'd been carted off to prison.

I didn’t have to wonder for long, because not far down the hallway I heard the distinct tenor of Jughead’s voice coming from a place I could only assume had been deemed a lunchroom. Smiling to myself, I headed into the area with my sense of purpose restored. I found my dear cousin standing near a lunchroom table where a bunch of young serpents sat huddled around a computer. At least I assume they were serpents, judging by the tattoos and the fact that I didn’t peg Jughead for the Ghoulie type. Although to be fair I'd never seen him as a Serpent type either.

In front of a piece of shit laptop coated in a thick layer of duck tape was a tall, dark haired guy with the Serpent crest tattooed on the left side of his neck. He wore a look of unabashed annoyance and poorly masked anger on his chiseled features, and I couldn’t help but find myself immediately intrigued by him. His inky black hair was soft and thick, a stray curl falling on his forehead tantalizingly. His hands were clasped up near his face, elbows propped on the table in a casual stance. His arms were bare, and his biceps were large and deliciously defined. On his right sat another young serpent, a bit shorter with more of a bronzed skin tone and a more convincing nonchalant facade dominating his sharp yet somehow gentle features. On his left sat the shortest girl I think I’d ever seen with her silky hair falling in effortlessly beautiful pink waves that I was immediately jealous of. My own locks were usually dry and a new level of unruly that the likes of Riverdale had never seen. Jughead looked as if he were going to be ill, and I felt my brows immediately furrow with concern. Shaking the expression off my face, I swapped it out for the casual mask I found myself portraying more often than not. I strode up to the table, arms crossed in front on myself protectively.

“Jug. Let's bounce, I wanna see my Jonesey”, I stated firmly once I reached the table. The unnamed serpent in the middle of the table cocked a brow at this but didn't say anything. Shame, I was almost hoping he'd start something. A face like that usually had a voice to match, and that was something I had to hear for myself. The other two serpents shared a look of confusion, but the tall boy's dark eyes never wavered from my own. I locked my gaze to his, partly because I was never one to back down and in part because I found myself being sucked into his dark brown orbs. They were, dare I say, mesmerizing. Deep, dark, and teeming with emotions that I was willing to bet he’d never share out loud if he could help it. Jughead was the first to speak up, grabbing me by the arm and leading me slightly away from the table.

“Bea what in God’s name are you doing here?”, he practically hissed. “I thought you were going to wait at home for me”. I frowned, yanking my arm out of his hold indignantly.

“Jesus Jug, chill the fuck out”, I snapped back.

“Jughead, aren’t you going to introduce us to our new friend?”, the pink-haired serpent girl asked plainly, interest evident in her voice. Jughead eyed her with a sort of annoyance; I’d nearly forgotten just how easy it was to rile him up and how much joy it brought me when I did. I smiled brightly, teeth and all as I walked easily up to the girl and stuck my hand out.

“I’m Beatrice Jones, but you can call me Bea. I’m Jughead’s most favorite cousin, pleased to meet you”, I stated confidently, shaking the small girl’s hand firmly. “And you are…?”

“I’m Fogarty, but you can call me Fangs”, the bronzed skin boy spoke up, eyes searching my body with poorly disguised interest. My eyebrow quirked up in a silent question, a small chuckle leaving my lips as I stuck my hand out to him as well. His thick eyebrows waggled at me in a silent flirtation and I couldn’t stop the amused giggle that escaped from my mouth. Was he serious? Did he think I hadn’t caught the stink eye he’d been giving Jughead not minutes before?

“I’m Toni Topaz, and please ignore Fangs he hasn’t been laid in a while”, the short serpent girl interupted while rolling her eyes. I chortled once more as I waved my hand to dismiss her apology. The tall serpent in the middle of the trio rolled his eyes as well, clearly over his friend’s antics. His eyes returned to me after a moment and seemed surprised to find me staring at him. He paused for a moment, expression unreadable, before speaking.

“Sweet Pea”, he finally said simply. I was right earlier, a face like that always meant a voice to match. His voice was a low bass, slightly gravelly but altogether pleasing to my ears. My mind briefly wondered what his voice would sound like in the morning; was it even possible that it could be deeper? Ever the master of concealing my thoughts, I nodded once before I turned back to an exasperated looking Jug with a face of pure ease.

“Great, so now that’s sorted, can we please go?”, I asked lightly, motioning to the exit with a cock of my head.

Sweet Pea’s POV:

My small rant directed at Jones about the idiotic Red Circle was swiftly interrupted by the sweetest voice I’d ever heard speaking up.

“Jug. Let's bounce, I wanna see my Jonesey”, the clear voice demanded with a sense of authority.

I looked over to find a tall girl I'd never seen before, my age, standing expectantly in front of FP’s kid with her arms crossed. She was clad in a dark outfit: tight black skinny jeans that had more tears in them than seemed logically possible, a dark grey v-necked shirt covered by a deep red flannel, a well-worn leather jacket, and clunky combat boots to finish it all off. Her fingernails were near impossibly short and painted black, a silver ring adorning almost every finger on her hands. I mean I thought I had a lot of rings but god-damn. Her body was well covered to my slight disappointment, but even so I could tell that she wasn’t like all the other girls in this town. She wasn’t overweight by any means, but she definitely had more curves than most of these Riverdale girls. Her darker blonde hair was messy, like she just threw it up that way and left it, and the way it was arranged atop her head gave my eyes access to every feature her beautifully round face had to offer. She had several silver studs in each ear ending with big gauges, a ring in her nose, and a stud in her eyebrow. Her eyes were an impossible shade of green, big and round and covered in a fan of dark lashes. She didn’t seem like she was wearing any makeup outside of the dark winged liner she chose, but I thought the basic look suited her perfectly. I appraised her with interest, though I was careful not to let it show on my face.

To my slight surprise, she stared back at me with a sort of stubbornness I wasn’t expecting. Normally my gaze was enough to either intimidate someone or make a girl blush and avert their eyes, but she matched my intense look with an expression akin to boredom. Our staring match was only interrupted once Jughead grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away from our table, muttering softly at her. She responded by frowning, thick eyebrows pulling downwards as she pulled her leather clad forearm back from him. I didn’t even know this girl and already I could tell that Jones had messed up; she didn’t strike me as one to be fucked with. Was she a northsider or something? She wasn’t a serpent for sure, I’d have known about her if she was, but she didn’t seem like the other northside trash Jughead brought around. I didn’t have long to ponder, because Toni (ever the vocal one of our group) spoke up and addressed the pair in front of us.

“Jughead, aren’t you going to introduce us to our new friend?”, my pink-haired friend asked plainly, interest evident in her voice. The new girl responded immediately, a dazzling smile overtaking her features as she strode back to the table quickly.

“I’m Beatrice Jones, but you can call me Bea. I’m Jughead’s most favorite cousin, pleased to meet you ”, her bell-like voice stated confidently, hand shaking Topaz’s hand firmly. “And you are…?”

“I’m Fogarty, but you can call me Fangs”, my best friend spoke up from my other side with his hand stuck out. The new girl (or Bea I guess) didn’t seem fazed by his interruption, but she did chuckle lightly at his attempts at flirting before shaking his hand as well. Of course Fangs was the first to act a fool in front of the new girl. I rolled my eyes in annoyance as Topaz introduced herself and apologized for him. When I glanced back up I found Bea’s mesmerizing eyes directed at me, features expectant. I paused for a moment while I struggled to think of a nonchalant response. I realized almost painfully that I hadn’t even said anything to her yet, and felt an emotion akin to panic overwhelm me. What could I even say to this mysterious badass looking girl in front of me without looking like an absolute tool? Realizing I’d been silent for what felt like an eternity, I went with just stating my name. Mentally I face palmed at my crude response, hoping to God that she hadn’t noticed my internal struggle. If she did, Bea didn’t let it show. She simply smiled and nodded, seemingly satisfied with my response, before turning back to Jones.

“Great, so now that’s sorted, can we please go?”, she concluded amusedly while cocking her head to the exit. Jughead sighed and shook his head, looking exhausted as ever.

“Bea why do you even need to see him now?”, he snapped while rubbing his forehead like he had a headache. Her eyebrow quirked up slightly before she crossed her arms once more, hip popping out defiantly as she glared at her supposed cousin.

“Because Jug, I didn’t get any sleep because of you and Nancy Drew so I’m awake now, and oh yeah because it’s quite literally been TEN YEARS”, she sassed. I couldn’t help but chuckle at her look of annoyance, especially since it was directed at Jughead. I wasn’t shy about my dislike for FP’s kid and I was honestly thrilled that someone else was on the same page. Although she did say they were related so that was a slight bummer.

“Wait you know FP? How come I’ve never heard of you before then?”, Toni interrupted before Jughead could retort. I spared a glance to the small serpent next to me and found her delicate features a mask of confusion. I furrowed my brow as well. How had we never heard of this girl? I knew practically every Serpent, in or out of jail. Surely if she’s related to FP she had to be affiliated somehow right? I turned back to Bea in interest. Her facial expression remained an unamused mask but I could see in her eyes a tiny spark of fear and discomfort, causing my brows to furrow in concern.

“My dad was Jailbird Johnny”, she muttered before averting her eyes from our curious eyes briefly. Jughead bit his lip before placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. I felt my eyes widen in comprehension as Toni’s jaw dropped. Fangs simply looked between the four of us, the confusion clear on his face.

“Who was…?”, he trailed off questioningly. Toni took a breath, looking to Bea for approval before answering. Bea noded lightly, and Topaz began her explanation to the newly initiated Fangs.

“Jailbird Johnny was a serpent during FP’s time. He was not exactly known for his, uhm, aptitude, but he ended up marrying FP’s sister so he was kept around until--”,

“Until he went bat-shit crazy, got kicked out, and moved me out of town”, Bea finished more harshly than I think she intended. I felt a pang of pity run through me with her admission; bat-shit crazy wasn’t a strong enough descriptor for Jailbird from what I’d heard. No wonder I’d never seen her around before. My old man told me that Jailbird had gone way off the deep end after his wife passed and was a hair length away from being kicked out of the Serpents. Clearly over this discussion, Bea cleared her throat before turning back to Jones.

“So, can we go? Visiting hours started hours ago and they won’t let me see him unless you sign off first”, she glowered. Jones sighed once more and I found my irritation with FP's son reigniting.

“Yeah I guess, just let me grab some stuff before we go”, he muttered seemingly annoyed. Bea smiled lightly in victory, face morphing back to the confident expression she'd previously worn. “Come on, let's stop at my locker and then we'll go”.

Bea rolled her eyes before taking a seat at our table next to Topaz.

“Please Jug, I'll just wait here. Not that I'm not down to explore more of this shanty you call a school, but I know for a fact that we're closer to the front doors from here”, she stated simply. Jones threw her a look of disapproval, eyes darting to our group quickly before returning to his cousin. I huffed in annoyance.

“What's the matter Jones? Ashamed to leave her with a bunch of snakes?”, I spat, eyes narrowed. Bea audibly and exaggeratedly gasped.

“He speaks!”, she snickered, feigning shock. I rolled my eyes while Fangs and Topaz laughed. Bea giggled lightly before turning her attention to Toni and speaking casually.

“So did you do that dye job yourself? Cause Jesus knows this rats nest could use a little love”, she asked, hand pointing upwards to her messy hair for emphasis.

Toni and Bea immediately launched into an animated conversation, while Jones excused himself from the lunchroom. I turned my attention back to my broken down laptop, effectively ignoring the easy conversation developing from my two friends and our newest arrival. True, Bea was intriguing, but I generally didn't take well to outsiders and I wasn't really interested in getting to know anyone related to Jughead. No matter how hot they were. My attention was pulled back to their conversation by the girl in question as I vaguely heard her ask me something I didn't catch.

Her gorgeous eyes were looking into my own with such genuine interest that I felt my heartbeat quicken slightly. Refusing to acknowledge this strange physical response, I furrowed a brow in silent confusion. She chuckled lightly, my wandering eyes not missing how the action caused her chest to bounce slightly with its force.

“I asked what's got you so invested in your screen over there Captain Intensity”, she restated sardonically. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and chose to simply ignore her instead. Fangs laughed out loud and Topaz giggled at the blonde girls question. I glared at my supposed friends; so much for no serpent stands alone.

“I mean is he always this broody, or am I somehow offending him?”, Bea jokingly asked Fangs. I noted with dissatisfaction that my friend had moved to sit closer to the Jones girl and was now so close that their arms were touching. I watched as he laughed and shook his head. I cocked an eyebrow at him a glowered, daring him to say anything. Topaz rolled her eyes from Bea's other side.

“No he's basically always like this”, she replied, ever unfazed. I turned my glare to her, arms crossing in indignation. “But, to his credit, some insane northsider just formed an anti-southside militia so he’s a bit more on edge”.

Bea’s eyebrows furrowed deeply into her smooth face, green eyes losing their twinkle and instead turning into green pools of concern.

“Anti-southside militia?”, she questioned softly, eyes finally settling on me once more.

Whatever smart-ass reply I’d formulated died in my throat as I found myself sucked into the undeniable pull of her gaze. I simply nodded, turning my laptop in an attempt to show her.

“See for yourself”, I stated as blandly as I could manage. No way I was going to let Fangs, Toni, or Bea get a hint of the strange attraction I was feeling for the new girl. Besides, like I said, I really didn’t want anything to do with FP’s blood. Shit was already complicated enough with his wannabe Northside son hanging around, I didn’t need his long-lost niece to come into my life and screw everything up.

Jughead’s ears must have been burning because he chose that exact moment to enter the lunchroom and call Bea’s attention away from me. Eyes still trained on my face, she stood slowly. Finally tearing her appraising eyes from me I felt myself release a breath I hadn’t even known I was holding. There was just something in her eyes, something dark that made me think that she saw through my front. Like she knew what I was really thinking and feeling. I was 99% certain I was just being stupid-- I mean I just met the girl 10 minutes ago for god’s sake-- but regardless, I couldn’t help but feel somewhat relieved to be out of her line of vision for the moment.

Topaz and Fogarty stood with her, both giving Bea a quick hug as she prepared to exit. Fang’s hands lingered a little too long on her waist for my comfort, but seeing as I made no moves to even stand, I suppose I had no reason to judge. I vaguely heard Bea’s cheery voice giving her goodbyes as I attempted to slow down the inexplicable way my heart beat wildly at the sight of my best friend hugging the new girl. Soon I felt a strange, but not unpleasant tingling sensation on my face as if someone was staring at me. I was certain she was looking at me now, but I chose to keep my eyes trained on the laptop in front of me rather than check for myself.

“Bye Sweet Pea, I’d say it was nice to meet you, but I’m pretty sure you’d hate the sentiment”, she chuckled. I ventured a look up to her face and was unable to stop my lips from curling into a smirk at her comment. She gasped once more, hand coming to rest on Jughead’s shoulder as if she needed support and the other flying to her plaid covered chest dramatically.

“I made the jolly green giant smile. Someone, quick, take a picture! This may never happen again!”, she exclaimed dramatically before winking at me playfully. Ignoring the way the simple action caused my hands to go clammy and my heart to race, I rolled my eyes and kept my smirk firmly in place.

“Only for you doll”, I replied sarcastically, hoping it sounded more passive than I was feeling at the moment. I noted with pride the way her smile seemed to widen fractionally at my comment before Jones turned to pull her away. She turned around and faced our group as she and Jughead left the cafeteria, saluting in mock respect as she exited.

#sweetpeaxoc #sweetpeaimagine #sweetpea #sweet pea #riverdale imagines #riverdale #southsideserpents #jughead jones #jonesoc #riverdale fic #sweet pea fanfiction #archie comics #fanfic #oc #sometimes it snows in april

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vb-fantrolls-et-all · 7 years

Text

Tovani: Greet the last customer ==>

Tovani: The evening sky is in it's last hours of darkness, and the side street of the East Alternia district was quiet. Most trolls were already hive, or heading that way. The dawning hours never filled Tovani with the kind of fear though. She had always chalked it up to a subtle side effect of her caste. Somnel was out, since the shop was near closing hours, and Tovani was just taking the time to sterilize tools, even though the lights were on and the door unlocked to passers by. Quick tempo dance music was playing, and the bird troll shuffled her feet and swung her hips in time, dancing for an audience of no one as she worked.

???: Footsteps echoed through the empty streets as Nemiri made his way towards Tovani's ink shop. He thumbed the small camera stowed away in the pocket of his loose jacket. He was back in the saddle, and ready to shake things up again. A small grin stretched his face as he thought of the repercussions that wouldn't come. He was un-fucking-touchable now. And if Glates wants a show, he was gonna give it to her. Nemiri stepped up to the door and got into character, timidly opening the entrance to her shop. "Hello? Sorry, are you open right now?"

Tovani: She stopped in place, turning to face the new voice. A new customer? Well, it was still dark out. "Hellohello! Yeah, I'm open. Come on in!" She chirped happily, setting the steel tools of her trade on the sterile towel to air dry from the disinfectants. "Though depending on what work you want done, there might not be enough time for much past a consultation. What are you in for?" She crossed the distance and stood behind the reception counter, extending a hand to him. "Name's Tovani. Nice to meet you."

???: He let out a sigh of relief and entered the shop, letting the door shut behind him. "Thank you so much, I've been looking all over for this place. You must be the great Tovani Paccai I've heard so much about! It's so great to finally meet you. I live a few towns to the south, and a few friends of mine got their ink here. You're basically a legend over there! So, I figured, why not get some body mods of my own done here? Though, I admit, i'm not too familiar with the process."

Tovani: She smiled warmly, graciously nodding affirmation to the praise. "Well, I wouldn't put "The Great" in front of my name, but I have had a good share of happy and repeat customers, so that speaks to itself, I suppose." She pulled out a notebook and a few sketch pencils from the front desks' center drawer. "If you are wanting a tattoo, then we'll probably have to set a follow on appointment, especially if you want me to craft custom ink for you. If you want piercings, that we should still be able to do tonight." She slide the pencils in hemospectrum order, left to right high to low, so the rust pencil was against her pinky. "What did you have in mind?"

???: "Well..." He started, a small frown breaking his previously-held demeanor. "I'm looking to get a portrait on my back. A dear friend of mine passed away recently, and i'd like to sort of...pay tribute to him. He meant a lot to me. That being said, would it at all be possible to use my own blood for the ink? I think that's probably the best way to remember him, right? I don't know, i'm still sort of on the fence about this whole thing..."

Tovani: "Oh, of. of course." She stammered, a bit of genuine guilt from dampening his mood. She reached over to an binder, flipping open about two-thirds of the way in, art of trolls and lusii in photographs now displayed. It was her art, her portfolio, to show her capability for that style. "We can definitely talk through a concept. And... as much as I love doing what I do, if you aren't sold on it, don't make a rash decision. This is permanent." She took up a black pencil, and leaned on her elbows. "What..." She paused, looking up at him. "I am sorry, I never got your name. That was rude of me."

???: "Oh gosh, where are my manners? I'm Mirien, though just Miri is fine." He said, looking down into the binder. "Wow! These are...really really good. Do you think if I gave you a picture you could do a quick sketch of him for me? I don't know how well his image is gonna transfer to paper. Or skin, for that matter."

Tovani: "Miri." She repeated, scrawling his name on the top edge of the paper. She responded to the compliment first, then continued. "Thank you. Once we get the concept ironed, out, I'll take a look at where you want it on you and make sure it's a good fit. It's my job to make it transfer to skin, don't worry."

???: "Oh, I have no doubt. I know i'm in very good hands." He slid his hand into his back pocket as he spoke, digging his wallet out and flipping it open. He looked through it for a few moments before pulling a folded up polaroid out of the transparent slot where his ID would be. "This is him. Please forgive the state of the photograph, this was taken a long, long time ago." He said, setting the photo down onto the counter face-down. The photo, when turned over, would be a picture of Nemiri's original form, before he was killed the first time.

Tovani: She put the black pencil down and lifted the olive one, reaching for the photo with her other hand. "No worries." Tovani flipped the photo over... and almost dropped the pencil. she managed to catch it before it hit the counter. "Were you wanting his face as the focus, or a full to shoulders bust?" It was a testament to her professionalism that she didn't flinch... much.

???: Miri was watching for a reaction, and he suppressed a grin when he got one. He tilted his head, frowning slightly. "Is there a problem, Tovi? I know, I know, he's very handsome, but you look like you...saw a ghost." He said, a small smile replacing his frown as he placed his hands on the counter. He laughed softly, leaning ever-so-slightly forward, his grin stretching his face as it widened. He stopped laughing and took a deep breath, leveling his gaze into Tovani's. "You have."

Tovani: She blinked twice at being called Tovi. Strangers and customers don't usually move to nicknames that quick... if ever. "I don't mean any..." The jadelood started to apologize, but the sound froze in her throat. Meeting his eyes, confusion mixed with the palpable 'something isn't right' icy prickles of fear. "Ok.. I guess." She back pedaled cautiously, moving towards the side wall, where she kept her revolver in a drawer under her work station.

???: "Good GOD, they do not keep you around because of your brains, honey!" He shouted, lifting his shirt to pull his glock from the waist of his pants before quickly leveling it at her. "It's me, baby. Like the new bod'? Get back over here. Now."

Tovani: She had made it to the counter, until the glint of steel made her stop cold. "Ne-" She choked on the word, freezing in place. "How?"

???: "Because i'm in love with a freaky sci-fi chick." He said, walking around the counter and making his way towards her. "I'm fucking invincible now, Tovi. If you kill me, there's a metric fuckton of bodies I can use to come back. And it's pretty fucking apparent that it works. You had no idea. And once you're gone, I can just drop this body and get a new one. I can hide in plain fucking sight, and there's nothing you can do about it." He said with a cackle, reaching out to grip her arm. "Lock the door."

Tovani: This was too much, and quickly turning into something that smelled like a nightmare. She pulled the drawer open and brought up the revolver her matesprit had taught her how to use. For once, she didn't hesitate. Once it was at Nemiri's center mass, she pulled the trigger, staggering back at the recoil's demands. "Get the fuck out of my shop!"

???: The bullet carved it's way into Nemiri, lodging itself into his abdomen. He let out a roar of pain as he fell, firing a shot into the ceiling when his body made contact with the floor. "Fuck you!" He screamed at her as he leveled his sights at her chest, pulling the trigger over and over, intending to empty the entire magazine into the Jadeblood.

Tovani: Tovani let out a shocked shrill scream as his shot lodging into the ceiling. Shock wouldn't let her legs work right. She wanted to turn and run. She had panic buttons and hidden escape routes just in in case things went bad. Why did they all see so far away? There was a burst of pain and a blossom of heat as the first shot sank into her flesh, leading the way for the rest of it's brothers as round after round tore jade holes through her chest. Her weapon clattered inert and heavy to the tile floor, and Tovani followed shortly after, crumpling into a pile. She gasped impotently, like a fish on the cutting board.

???: After a short while, the shots turned into clicks, a sound that was very soft in comparison to the volley of gunshots. Nemiri threw his gun to the floor beside him, cursing aloud to himself. He scrambled to his feet, nursing the bullet wound in his gut. "Fuck...Fuckin'...Shit..." He struggled to catch his breath as he made his way over to Tovani. He knelt down next to her and watched her grip onto life. "You know...I always kinda liked you...you had spunk, girl. I remember when you couldn't even hold a gun without looking like you were about to shit your pants, but look at you now! You tagged me good." He reached over to pick up her revolver, now stained with jade, and now olive, blood. "You chose the wrong side. You know that, right? Ah, who am I kiddin', you're in shock. I don't even know if you can hear me. Well, it's over now." He said, pressing the barrel of her own revolver against her forehead. "Thanks for playin'."

Those would be the last thing to cross through Tovani's mind before the bullet did, a fresh coat of jade splattering the floor under her. He placed the revolver on her chest, and lifted his hand to close her eyelids, leaving an olive streak down the front of her face. He stood, retrieving his own weapon, releasing the slide before replacing it in his waistband. He was trailing his own blood around the parlor as he searched around for a spot for the camera. Finally finding a decent hiding spot, he followed Ancill's instructions to set it up. Once it was on, he pulled out his phone to pester Glates. He started to walk out, but stopped at Tovani's body again, crouching down again next to her head. He brushed her blood-matted hair out of her face and chuckled. "What a waste. You had a lotta talent, you coulda been someone." He paused, frowned, and pressed his finger against the tip of her nose. "Boop." He laughed again, louder this time, then stood and exited the parlor, only a trail of his blood left behind.

Tovani: [Dead.]

#tw:guns #tw:blood #tw:character death #tw:gun violence #tw:murder #Tovani things

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saigontimemd · 7 years

Text

Andromeda/Ryder Meme

Wasn’t tagged by anyone but I’m doing it anyway.

Name: Scott Ryder (until I come up with something else)

Gender: Male

Race/Ethnicity: Caucasian

Eye Color: Blue

 Hair Color/Description: Brown and either shoulder-length or pulled back in a tight ponytail

 Skin (color, blemishes, tattoos, etc): He’s white and spent a lot of time in space. What do you think? Has an Arcturus Station tattoo on his arm, but he only thinks of it ironically.

 Misc Physical Attributes: Fantastic ass, knows it, is confident about it.

Preferred Romance Option: No idea. He’s playing this one by ear. He’s into flings, but he might actually fall in love if he gets out of his own way. He’s between a 2 and a 3 on the Kinsey scale.

Relationship with Alec and sibling (do they get along? etc.): Relationship with Alec Ryder is strained; Scott’s always been the more introverted, less mature of the two Ryder kids, but while Sara got to go off and mess about in Prothean ruins, Scott got assigned to Arcturus Station on his old man’s request in hopes that some combat time would make him grow up. Scott did a lot of things at Arcturus, but ‘growing up’ wasn’t one of them, and he’s got quite a bit of resentment built up from the whole thing. Relationship with Sara is top tier; they bonded as kids over music, science, and reading, and stayed in touch as much as they could when separated. She’s the reason he signed up for the Andromeda Initiative. Scott would’ve been fine to see Alec leave and never come back, but there was no way in HELL he was going to let his sister see a whole new galaxy without him.

 Projected BFF (the squad mate who isn’t bae but you always take): DRACK

 Dreams/Hobbies/Likes: Scott doesn’t have any long-term dreams or goals, really; he’s spent so much time in the shadow of his father (whether real or perceived) that he’s kind of given up trying to make a name for himself, instead just being content to do his own thing, living one day to the next and not really worrying about tomorrow unless it includes waking up in someone else’s bed. He plays guitar, and used to want to be an artist; he still sketches things and people from time to time, but never when he thinks anyone else is looking. He’s got really eclectic music tastes, but gravitates towards punk/melodic hardcore, and 1990s-early 2000s hip-hop. In spite of his entire military career being his dad’s idea, he does enjoy combat and sparring quite a bit. Has a habit of picking fights he knows he’s supposed to lose, if only to test himself.

 Fears/Dislikes: On an existential level, he’s deathly afraid of failure and disappointing people who believe in him, which is why he usually keeps everyone else at arm’s length through humor and self-deprecation. By the same token, he’s terrified of responsibility because that invites the possibility of disappointment; he figures nobody can ever be disappointed in him if they don’t have any expectations in the first place. He has quite a bit of natural leadership ability and excellent combat instincts, but he passed up promotion at Arcturus more than a few times because he didn’t want to have the rest of his squad depending on him in an official capacity. Honestly, he’s kind of a chickenshit - a well-meaning one, but still. He’s only got two real-life fears: open water where he can’t see the bottom, and drowning.

Other (what else should we know about your Ryder?): He’s so unprepared for becoming the Pathfinder that it’s not even funny. Scott isn’t selfish - his military record, numerous incidents aside, shows him constantly putting himself in danger for others, and when he’s a lot more altruistic of a person than he wants anyone else to know - but he is self-centered and immature. A big part of that immaturity is his own inherited stubbornness from his father; Alec sent him off to grow up, so Scott intentionally stayed immature out of spite. Now he’s going to have to grow up whether he wants to or not. Scott is also about 20% logic, 80% emotion, so that’s going to be entertaining. His gut instincts are usually right, but they’re still just gut reactions. Also, he secretly wishes he was a Krogan.

+++

In the original Mass Effect trilogy, my Shepard was very much an idealized version of myself: confident, charming, partially robot, and utterly selfless. Aside from occasionally socking fools in the face, he was about as Paragon as possible, and not just because I chose beforehand to just take those options, but because that’s what I would’ve done in that situation.

My Ryder, on the other hand, is probably going to be a lot similar to who I actually am: competent but effectively no self-confidence, hotheaded, geeky as shit, occasionally petty, and would pretty much bang anything that moves. Think Ash Williams from Evil Dead, except replace the egotistical overconfidence and brick for a brain with being entirely too nice and super-introversion. I’m happy to say I’ve got a lot better of a relationship with my dad than Ryder does, but, you know, drama. Bioware has said that Andromeda is going to be a transformative experience for the player character, that they’re going to go from being really inexperienced to becoming a hero, and I’m really looking forward to taking that journey with him.

#ryder meme #andromeda meme #scott ryder #mass effect andromeda #mass effect

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readbookywooks · 7 years

Text

‘Gods, that was awful,’ he said. ‘Mind you, so is this.’

Crew members scurried across the deck, cutlasses in hand. Conina tapped Rincewind on the shoulder.

‘They’ll try to take us alive,’ she said.

‘Oh,’ said Rincewind weakly. ‘Good.’

Then he remembered something else about Klatchian slavers, and his throat went dry.

‘You’ll - you’ll be the one they’ll really be after,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard about what they do-’

‘Should I know?’ said Conina. To Rincewind’s horror she didn’t appear to have found a weapon.

‘They’ll throw you in a seraglio!’

She shrugged. ‘Could be worse.’

‘But it’s got all these spikes and when they shut the door-’ hazarded Rincewind. The canoes were close enough now to see the determined expressions of the rowers.

‘That’s not a seraglio. That’s an Iron Maiden. Don’t you know what a seraglio is?’

‘Um …’

She told him. He went crimson.

‘Anyway, they’ll have to capture me first,’ said Conina primly. ‘It’s you who should be worrying.’

‘Why me?’

‘You’re the only other one who’s wearing a dress.’

Rincewind bridled. ‘It’s a robe-’

‘Robe, dress. You better hope they know the difference.’

A hand like a bunch of bananas with rings on grabbed Rincewind’s shoulder and spun him around. The captain, a Hublander built on generous bear-like lines, beamed at him through a mass of facial hair.

‘Hah!’ he said. ‘They know not that we aboard a wizard have! To create in their bellies the burning green fire! Hah?’

The dark forests of his eyebrows wrinkled as it became apparent that Rincewind wasn’t immediately ready to hurl vengeful magic at the invaders.

‘Hah?’ he insisted, making a mere single syllable do the work of a whole string of blood-congealing threats.

‘Yes, well, I’m just - I’m just girding my loins,’ said Rincewind. ‘hat’s what I’m doing. Girding them. Green fire, you want?’

‘Also to make hot lead run in their bones,’ said the captain. ‘Also their skins to blister and living scorpions without mercy to eat their brains from inside, and-’

The leading canoe came alongside and a couple of grapnels thudded into the rail. As the first of the savers appeared the captain hurried away, drawing his sword. He stopped for a moment and turned to Rincewind.

‘You gird quickly,’ he said. ‘Or no loins. Hah?’

Rincewind turned to Conina, who was leaning on the rail examining her fingernails.

‘You’d better get on with it,’ she said. ‘That’s fifty green fires and hot leads to go, with a side order for blisters and scorpions. Hold the mercy.’

‘This sort of thing is always happening to me,’ he moaned.

He peered over the rail to what he thought of as the main floor of the boat. The invaders were winning by sheer weight of numbers, using nets and ropes to tangle the struggling crew. They worked in absolute silence, clubbing and dodging, avoiding the use of swords wherever possible.

‘Musn’t damage the merchandise,’ said Conina. Rincewind watched in horror as the captain went down under a press of dark shapes, screaming, ‘Green fire! Green fire!’

Rincewind backed away. He wasn’t any good at magic, but he’d had a hundred per cent success at staying alive up to now and didn’t want to spoil the record. All he needed to do was to learn how to swim in the time it took to dive into the sea. It was worth a try.

‘What are you waiting for? Let’s go while they’re occupied,’ he said to Conina.

‘I need a sword,’ she said.

‘You’ll be spoilt for choice in a minute.’

‘One will be enough.’

Rincewind kicked the Luggage.

‘Come on,’ he snarled. ‘You’ve got a lot of floating to do.’

The Luggage extended its little legs with exaggerated nonchalance, turned slowly, and settled down beside the girl.

‘Traitor,’ said Rincewind to its hinges.

The battle already seemed to be over. Five of the raiders stalked up the ladder to the afterdeck, leaving most of their colleagues to round up the defeated crew below. The leader pulled down his mask and leered briefly and swarthily at Conina; and then he turned and leered for a slightly longer period at Rincewind.

‘This is a robe,’ said Rincewind quickly. ‘And you’d better watch out, because I’m a wizard.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Lay a finger on me, and you’ll make me wish you hadn’t. I warn you.’

A wizard? Wizards don’t make good strong slaves,’ mused the leader.

‘Absolutely right,’ said Rincewind. ‘So if you’ll just see your way clear to letting me go-’

The leader turned back to Conina, and signalled to one of his companions. He jerked a tattooed thumb towards Rincewind.

‘Do not kill him too quickly. In fact-’ he paused, and treated Rincewind to a smile full of teeth. ‘Maybe … yes. And why not? Can you sing, wizard?’

‘I might be able to,’ said Rincewind, cautiously. Why?’

‘You could be just the man the Seriph needs for a job in the harem.’ A couple of slavers sniggered.

‘It could be a unique opportunity,’ the leader went on, encouraged by this audience appreciation. There was more broad-minded approval from behind him.

Rincewind backed away. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, ‘thanks all the same. I’m not cut out for that kind of thing.’

‘Oh, but you could be,’ said the leader, his eyes bright. ‘You could be.’

‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ muttered Conina. She glanced at the men on either side of her, and then her hands moved. The one stabbed with the scissors was possibly better off than the one she raked with the comb, given the kind of mess a steel comb can make of a face. Then she reached down, snatched up a sword dropped by one of the stricken men, and lunged at the other two.

The leader turned at the screams, and saw the Luggage behind him with its lid open. And then Rincewind cannoned into the back of him, pitching him forward into whatever oblivion lay in the multidimensional depths of the chest.

There was the start of a bellow, abruptly cut off.

Then there was a click like the shooting of the bolt on the gates of Hell.

Rincewind backed away, trembling. :A unique opportunity,’ he muttered under his breath, having just got the reference.

At least he had a unique opportunity to watch Conina fight. Not many men ever got to see it twice.

Her opponents started off grinning at the temerity of a slight young girl in attacking them, and then rapidly passed through various stages of puzzlement, doubt, concern and abject gibbering terror as they apparently became the centre of a flashing, tightening circle of steel.

She disposed of the last of the leader’s bodyguard with a couple of thrusts that made Rincewind’s eyes water and, with a sigh, vaulted the rail on the main deck. To Rincewind’s annoyance the Luggage barrelled after her, cushioning its fall by dropping heavily on to a slaver, and adding to the sudden panic of the invaders because, while it was bad enough to be attacked with deadly and ferocious accuracy by a rather pretty girl in a white dress with flowers on it, it was even worse for the male ego to be tripped up and bitten by a travel accessory; it was pretty bad for all the rest of the male, too.

Rincewind peered over the railing.

‘Showoff,’ he muttered.

A throwing knife clipped the wood near his chin and ricocheted past his ear. He raised his hand to the sudden stinging pain, and stared at in in horror before gently passing out. It wasn’t blood in general he couldn’t stand the sight of, it was just his blood in particular that was so upsetting.

The market in Sator Square, the wide expanse of cobbles outside the black gates of the University, was in full cry.

It was said that everything in Ankh-Morpork was for sale except for the beer and the women, both of which one merely hired. And most of the merchandise was available in Sator market, which over the years had grown, stall by stall, until the newcomers were up against the ancient stones of the University itself; in fact they made a handy display area for bolts of cloth and racks of charms.

No-one noticed the gates swing back. But a silence rolled out of the University, spreading out across the noisy, crowded square like the first fresh wavelets of the tide trickling over a brackish swamp. In fact it wasn’t true silence at all, but a great roar of anti-noise. Silence isn’t the opposite of sound, it is merely its absence. But this was the sound that lies on the far side of silence, anti-noise, its shadowy decibels throttling the market cries like a fall of velvet.

The crowds stared around wildly, mouthing like goldfish and with about as much effect. All heads turned towards the gates.

Something else was flowing out besides that cacophony of hush. The stalls nearest the empty gateway began to grind across the cobbles, shedding merchandise. Their owners dived out of the way as the stalls hit the row behind them and scraped relentlessly onwards, piling up until a wide avenue of clean, empty stones stretched the whole width of the square.

Ardrothy Longstaff, Purveyor of Pies Full of Personality, peered over the top of the wreckage of his stall in time to see the wizards emerge.

He knew wizards, or up until now he’d always thought he did. They were vague old boys, harmless enough in their way, dressed like ancient sofas, always ready customers for any of his merchandise that happened to be marked down on account of age and rather more personality than a prudent housewife would be prepared to put up with.

But these wizards were something new to Ardrothy. They walked out into Sator Square as if they owned it. Little blue sparks flashed around their feet. They seemed a little taller, somehow.

Or perhaps it was just the way they carried themselves.

Yes, that was it …

Ardrothy had a touch of magic in his genetic makeup, and as he watched the wizards sweep across the square it told him that the very best thing he could do for his health would be to pack his knives, and mincers in his little pack and have it away out of the city at any time in the next ten minutes.

The last wizard in the group lagged behind his colleagues and looked around the square with disdain.

‘There used to be fountains out here,’ he said. ‘You people - be off.’

The traders stared at one another. Wizards normally spoke imperiously, that was to be expected. But there was an edge to the voice that no-one had heard before. It had knuckles in it.

Ardrothy’s eyes swivelled sideways. Arising out of the ruins of his jellied starfish and clam stall like an avenging angel, dislodging various molluscs from his beard and spitting vinegar, was Miskin Koble, who was said to be able to open oysters with one hand. Years of pulling limpets off rocks and wrestling the giant cockles in Ankh Bay had given him the kind of physical development normally associated with tectonic plates. He didn’t so much stand up as unfold.

Then he thudded his way towards the wizard and pointed a trembling finger at the ruins of his stall, from which half a dozen enterprising lobsters were making a determined bid for freedom. Muscles moved around the edges of his mouth like angry eels.

#Sourcery

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