#-age i consider them to be in my head frozen eternally instead of how old they'd be by the end of the traveler's journey which was-

[pinkseas]

girls will put an EXTENSIVE amount of thought and research into their next couple of planned fics and THIS IS THE THANKS THEY'LL GET FOR IT.

#aly.writing #i literally hate it here #the next 2 im working on i want to get ages solidly figured out and also itll just be helpful to give myself a timeline in general even- #-for stuff like boy best friends which'll be happening in the future #and the [redacted] fic which will be in the future also. and the other WIP which will be moreso in the past but ages are important #TECHNICALLY i shouldve done this for desiderium too to more accurately write characters like barbara and kaeya. because i wrote them at the #-age i consider them to be in my head frozen eternally instead of how old they'd be by the end of the traveler's journey which was- #-definitely a MISTAKE but hopefully/probably not a huge one? idk i definitely couldve done better but. i will going forward at least #kinda glad i decided to style the fic the way im styling it though #a) im gonna be forced to learn how to do Very Slightly Fancier things in ao3 to formet #b) i DO get to figure out ages and such just based on my own perception of the characters and itll be a good base timeline for what i write #actually fuck redacted im just gonna start tagging these as im talking about them so i dont have to go back and sort through later #30 seconds posting #aly grief fic #<- i can replace that tag w/ something better once i have a title for it rn i mostly just have the basics

[shurisneakers]

harmless (vii)

Summary: Bucky volunteers to go stop a small time villain, but nothing can prepare him for what exactly he has to deal with. (Bucky x villain!reader, drabble series)

Warnings: cursing, existential crisis, frustrated bucky, dramatic reader, lil bit of angst, clint barton being a lil shit

Word count: 3.4k

A/N: hey shoutout to @ugherik for suggesting a spin on the “A PLATYPUS!??!“ [perry puts his hat on] “PERRY THE PLATYPUS!???” thing. i used it in here, it’s a really small part and probably missable but i tried!! also i like the next chapter better than this one, i just wanted to put this here so it doesn’t seem abrupt <3333

here’s

my ko-fi

if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Series Masterlist

Bucky can’t stop staring at the mirror.

He wishes it was for narcissistic purposes. He had enough reason for it to be. His age may be a hundred but he had the youthful exuberance of a very drained sixty year old.

But no, it wasn’t because of the steel cut jawline or thousand gigawatt smile.

After last week’s mini-spiral, he does what almost half the videos on TikTok warn him not to do.  

He got a haircut.

Everyone’s reaction stopped him from following it up with an ear piercing, but he can’t confidently say he didn’t at least consider it once. Maybe a neck tattoo. 

He pulls at a lock of hair. It’s not even longer than his finger.

What did he do-

“It’s just a haircut, man,” he says to no one in particular, almost like he’s trying to reassure himself.

He runs his hands through his hair. It takes lesser time than he was used to.

Steve had told him he looked good. But then again, Steve wore a fugly costume 90% of the time, what did he know?

Clint acknowledged it and didn’t outright call him ugly, which he supposed was a compliment. Wanda simply smiled at him.

“FRIDAY?” he reaches out.

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes?” comes the automated reply.

“How are you?” It took him some getting used to her, given that she was constantly listening to everything, and in general seemed to go against the universal idea of privacy. 

But his therapist told him he needed to form friendships. 

She didn’t mention it had to be human ones.

“As good as ever. Is there anything I can help you with?”

He wants to ask her what she thinks of his hair until he realises fashion advice from a faceless AI is a new low for him. Maybe ‘Do you think I should crawl into a pit and die?’ would be more appropriate. 

“Never mind,” he dismisses instead. “Any messages for today?”

“A reminder to buy a harder bed because you can’t keep sleeping on the floor.” Ah, that was on Sam’s recommendation three months ago, but he wasn’t going to stop any time soon. “And a text from a contact named Nuisance saying to meet them at the attached location in thirty minutes.”

“Where is the location?”

“The local sports centre.”

“Isn’t that closed today?” 

If he had to go out in public looking like this, maybe he could wear a cap and sunglasses and no one would recognise him. Unfortunately, as he was reminded several times before by anyone with an iota of common sense, it was a stupid disguise. 

Beanie it was, then. Bare minimum. 

“It is, yes.” Fewer citizens to worry about.

“Okay.” He hesitates in front of the mirror again, adjusting the hat on his head. “Thank you, FRIDAY.”

“You’re welcome, Sergeant.”

He stares at the little tuft of hair at the front that refused to stay down no matter how much he shoved it back.

“Come on, man,” he exhales in slight despair. “Whatever.”

____

The lock of the door leading to the pool is easy enough to pick. He can see how you got in without a hitch even though it was closed. 

The deck around the pool was absolutely drenched in water. No one was using it, there was no reason for water to splash out unless it was deliberately kept like this.

He catches sight of you easily, being that you’re the only two people there. You were standing at the end of the hall, head ducked as you scrolled through your phone.

The door closes behind him with a soft thud.

You don’t look up from your mobile when you start talking, “What do you think 6 year olds like?”

Because James Barnes, carbon dated to 1917 and therefore certified young person, would definitely know the answer to this question.

“I don’t know. Lego?”

“Just how much money do you think a teacher makes-”

You stopped mid-sentence, finally lifting your head to catch his eye. He stares back at you, steps faltering when you don’t move.

"Who are you?" you squinted.

What

"It's me," Bucky says, tugging off the dumb beanie and using it to gesture vaguely towards himself. Fuck, he shouldn’t have worn it, it was ridiculous anyway-

"You sound like him..." You narrow your eyes. “You don't look like him.”

Great

He rolls his eyes before putting on a mock scowl. Can't have Bucky Barnes without a sense of eternal disgruntlement.

"Oh hey, that is you." You grin. "You got a haircut."

“I did.” He suddenly feels the awkwardness increase. His fingers fidget with the beanie.

“Nice.” You nod in acknowledgement.

He wants to hit himself at the words that just spill out before he could think about it. “You hate it.”

“I never said that,” you snort. “And since when does my opinion matter?”

“It doesn’t.” But now he wants to know what you think since he didn’t trust anyone else to tell him honestly.

“Must cut down on time in the shower, huh?”

It did.

He shrugs. He shoves the beanie into his back pocket.

“Was it a crisis haircut?” How did you kno- “Are you going to get bangs next time?”

“Shut up,” he says lamely, a dull burn in his cheeks. 

“I know a place where you can get hair dye for cheap. Not technically FDA approved, but I think purple streaks are a good place to start-”

“What are we doing here?” he interrupts, sighing.

“Skinny dipping. Take off your shirt, Barnes.” 

“Funny,” he says dryly, eyeing your shoes when you straighten up.

Ice skates.

“Fine, pants then.” You don’t make any effort to move from your end so he does, walking closer to you. 

“What are those for?” He doesn’t hide the annoyance from his voice when he points at your feet.

“Oh, these?” You look down at them. “Yeah, I’m going to freeze the pool.”

That seems... mild compared to the shit show you wanted to do last time.

“For?” He halts where he is. 

“’M gonna take my friends ice skating.”

“Is that all?” He wants to make a comment about the fact that you have friends but bites it back.

“Today is just a trial run. Tomorrow I’m gonna go freeze the East River.” There it is.

“The East River is not your personal ice skating rink.”

“Not yet it isn’t.” You lift up a middle finger.

It was too early for you to flip him off, even by your standards.

He raises an eyebrow.

Your face scrunches in confusion. You follow his gaze to your finger. “Oh yeah, no, that’s a freeze ring.”

Only then he notices a ring around the finger. From where he was standing he could make out the blue stone that adorned it.

“Joy.” He rolls up the sleeves of his black bomber jacket. “Let’s get this done with, then.”

“No no, wait.” You hold up your hand and he complies, having nothing to lose anyway. You pull out your phone and press a few buttons before shoving it back into your bag and tossing it aside.

The soft sounds of a piano start playing from a boombox near the corner of the room. A child starts singing following a series of knocks.

His eyebrows furrow. “What the fuck is this?”

“The Frozen soundtrack.” You beam at him. “I thought it was fitting.”

He doesn’t know what that is and at this point, he’s too afraid to ask. He can vaguely make out the lyrics being about a snowman but he isn’t too concerned.

He takes one step forward. You immediately point your fist at the ground in front of him, forcing him to jump back when a blast hits right in front of his shoes. Suddenly he gets why the floor is covered in water.

It sounds like a series of cracks as the water starts freezing over, a layer of ice now separating him and you.  

"You ready?” The mischief was woven in your voice as the blasts continued throughout the deck, effectively turning the entire floor into ice.

Bucky takes a step tentatively forward. Not bad. He takes another. Okay.

The third one is when shit starts to hit the fan. His hands shoot out to hold onto his balance when his footing slips from beneath him.

His Nike sneakers aren’t used to snow. They’re used to well manicured lawns and pavement trips to Starbucks and marble floors of the compound. Not swimming pool decks covered in ice.

He can hear you singing in the distance and every time he looks up you’re a little further away, making sure every inch of space is frozen.

It takes him a while to get over the initial fear of breaking his skull and just move forward swiftly with short steps. A goddamn penguin is what he looked like.

“There you go, you’re getting it,” you chirp as you whiz past him. He reaches out to grab at you, only to miss by an inch. He staggers, arms flapping wildly to regain his stability.

He hears crackling beside him. He gets a second or two to watch ice crystals spread through the water before turning it completely solid. You step onto the now frozen pool, testing your weight with one leg before cautiously getting on.

A triumphant smile emerges on your face. “Awesome.”

He manages to press himself against the wall as a form of support. 

There is no point to this whole thing. He knows this. It’s been well over 6 weeks and there is genuinely no point to this.

He realises it again when he moves from side to side, body erupting into a waddle. 

Why is he doing this. He doesn’t get paid extra. He doesn’t get any kind of compensation. All he gets is more wisecracking geniuses, embarrassment and the mortifying ordeal of getting caught imitating a penguin.

The song changes to a woman singing about doing something for the first time, forcing him to pay attention to it. He hears something about ball room and balls and tunes right back out.

Bucky manages to find his way to the actual pool since that’s where you’re twirling around, opting to land on his mental arm in case things go wrong. He takes a sliding step forward, followed by another. Maybe he can do this. 

“If a 200 pound super soldier can stand on this, I suppose it’s strong enough,” you muse, watching him slip and slide as he tries to invent makeshift ice skating.

Unfortunately, his method doesn’t have any brakes, so while he’s too busy trying to move forward, there’s no way to actually stop. He finds this out very soon when he almost launches himself off the edge of the pool.

Something yanks him backwards and back onto the ice.  

“Honestly, this is utterly useless since you can’t really do anything but it’s the most fun I’ve had all week,” you admit when he goes sliding towards the middle, arms flailing.

“You had to pick fuckin’ ice of all things.” He thinks that maybe he’s getting a hang of this. He can definitely move faster than what he was doing like, 10 minutes ago. It’s not like you were going anywhere, anyway. 

“I like to keep things spicy.”

He stays where he is to glare at you. You mouth the words to the song, watching his every move whenever it interested you. 

Okay, change of plan; a temporary distraction till he figures out how to actually get the ring from you. He settles on skating towards the edge of the rink slowly, taking a step off, slipping almost immediately when his foot comes in contact with the deck. 

“Where are you going?” you yell over the music initially but immediately break into song when it ends in a crescendo.

He takes a knee, lifting his metal arm up before driving it into the ground. It shatters magnificently, leaving small shards of ice at his disposal. 

He picks up one of them, waiting for you to complete your dumb twirl. He takes aim, and-

“Ouch, what the fuck?” You stop your off key singing to rub your shoulder where the ice hit you.

He wordlessly picks up another piece to throw at you, hitting you squarely in the leg.

“Stop that!”

He may not be able to move as fast but he can definitely throw. 

“Give me the ring,” he commands, stretching his arm behind his back before releasing another piece to hit your forearm. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” There’s nowhere you can skate to avoid his stupidly good marksmanship. 

“You gotta do what you gotta do.” He shrugs, breaking another patch of ice to replenish his ammo. “Hand over the ring.”

“Over my dead body,” you shriek when a particularly big piece lands next to your feet. You knew he missed that shot on purpose.

“I feel like I’m finally acting my age,” he says casually, finding your darting about in order to avoid him more fun than he initially thought. “Can’t throw pebbles at meddling kids so this is the next best option. Thanks.” 

“If you acted your age you’d be in a casket, Barnes,” you hissed, finding that skating in zig zags helped your cause, but not by much. “I’d be- you bitch- I’d be more than happy to help you get there.”

You raise your arm, ready to send another blast to freeze the water that was starting to melt around him, hopefully, keep him where he was if it froze around him. 

He flinches. You notice immediately, hand dropping slightly when you realise what it looked like.

“I’m not gonna freeze you,” you say, softer than you intended. From what you knew, he had enough and more experience with that and you weren’t going to contribute to it. 

He swallows thickly, giving himself a little shake of his head as if to jolt him out of his train of thought. 

Another piece of ice hits you in the leg. You let out a string of curses at him.

“The more ice you make, the more I have to throw at you, Y/N.” He waits for you to regain your balance when you nearly take a stumble. 

“Shut up, you’re so immature.”

“Remind me whose plan this was again?” No point waiting for you to regain your balance when you fall over only a few seconds later. 

He gathers a few shards in his beanie, tucking it into his belt like a little makeshift rucksack just in case before venturing out on the main rink again. 

It’s more difficult for you to stand without railings to guide you, giving him enough and more time to make his way towards you, staggering and skidding. 

Both of you looked ridiculous. 

“Stay away, fiend.” 

“Ring first.” He holds his hand out in front of you. He even considered pulling you up if you just made things easier.

Next thing he knows he’s on his ass on the ice beside you. 

“I hate you,” he groans, watching as you inch away from him on your knees.

He doesn’t really have any other options so he shoves aside the humiliation and gets on his knees, using his arms to drag him along the ice.

“For the love of Christ, none of us are winning here. Just give me the ring.”

The bitch from the soundtrack sings about letting it go but he won’t. 

“Never,” you shout, sliding away from him as fast as possible. 

You make use of the fact that the top layer of ice is starting to melt, using the ring to freeze it again. His knees and fingers get stuck as the water freezes over but he has super strength. It barely takes him a second to free himself. 

“Great,” he huffs, just settling down on the ice, ignoring the sting of cold that was spreading through his limbs. Running after you wasn’t going to work; he needed a way to get the ring. 

“You won last time, I’m not letting you win again.”

“Are we seriously keeping score?” He watches as you scramble towards the edge.

“No one likes a loser, Bucky.” You use the pool stair railings to pull yourself up.

“Explain why you have friends then.” He can’t help himself this time. 

“Hardy har har.” You roll your eyes. 

He doesn’t make an effort to move. Instead, when you take a step back into the rink, he raises his arm and pummels it into the ice, just to annoy you. 

The ground damn near shakes, pushing you dangerously towards losing your balance again. 

“Are you crazy?” Your arm shoots out in front of you to keep you from falling headfirst. 

“No.” He does it again. This time there’s a crack in the ice. “I’m just very tired.”

“If the ice breaks we’re both gonna be underwater, you moron!”

“Fine by me.” He shrugs. “Freeze it again. I’ll just find different ways to ruin it for you.”

You glare at him. He raises his arm above his head again.

“Fine! Fine, stop.” You eye him as he lowers his arm. 

He reaches for his stash of ice pieces from earlier, throwing one at your shoulder again.

“Boy, I swear if you don’t stop doing that-” you duck when another one comes at you. You had no idea he could be this annoying. 

It suddenly hits him, like a lightbulb going off in his brain. He wipes his hands off on his jacket, getting on all fours before slowly managing to pick himself up again. 

He looks at you, tilting his head slightly like he was studying you.

“What?” you ask suspiciously, eyeing as he starts inching closer towards you. “What are you thinking?”

It’s like watching a newborn deer stumble its way through the world, albeit more gracefully, until he starts picking up speed. The motherfucker was going to mow you down.

The skates are useful but not so much when an extremely determined bumbling oaf is barrelling towards you, his speed beginning to match yours even without equipment. 

You don’t know why you’re running, you don’t know why he’s chasing after you but when you see the end of the pool you take a sharp left only to have him knock right into you, sending you both sprawling.

You land half on top of him, breaking your fall but it doesn’t stop the very loud groan that escapes your mouth. He’s already in the process of sitting up straight, giving you less time to analyse what just happened.

“What the fuck was that for?” you speak through gritted teeth. “Fuckin’ acting like the both of us have free healthcare.”

“You refused to give up.”

“So your plan was to tackle me like a quarterback?” You threw your hands up.  

“One part of it.” He drags himself to the edge, away from you. 

“There's more to your monkey brained plan?” He doesn’t look at you. The ice around the pool has more or less melted, letting him gain proper footing on the floor before he stands up. 

“Oh, yeah.” He turns to you. “The other’s a trick I stole from Stark.”

Bucky holds up the ring. Your jaw slightly drops, eyes searching your finger for the now missing piece of tech. 

“Suppose that’s two points for me?” 

You’re impressed. You also want to stab him. So you do the next best thing.

“When I imagined you holding a ring in front of me, the circumstances were very different,” you comment.

“Bye, Y/N.” He spins on his heel, not even giving you a second’s worth of reaction. You found it amusing.

He heads towards the door, clothes all wet. He empties out melted ice water from his beanie before stuffing it into his pocket. Just when he’s about to leave, you remember something. 

Do you mean it genuinely or just because it has an effect on him? 

“Just for the record, Barnes, about your hair-” you call out, earning his attention from over his shoulder. “I think you look really good either way.”

The world may never know. 

You swear you can see the corners of his lips quirk upwards before he turns around again. 

He slips on a block of ice, cursing and clenching on to the door to keep him upright, quickly yanking it open and leaving before he has a chance to embarrass himself further.

Smooth.

Next part

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mcu fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff #bucky angst #bucky barnes angst #harmless fic #winter soldier x reader #Winter Soldier #bucky barnes #bucky

[ddarker-dreams]

Out With the Old. Yan Childe x Reader [COMM]

Warnings: Brief mentions of injury and blood, typical yandere undertones. Word count: 3.2k. Notes: i absolutely loved writing this!! i never realized how badly i needed a yandere childe that’s so obviously whipped for his darling. :’))

i.

“Dearest [First],

I can only imagine the look that must be on your face as you read this. Don’t be too harsh on me for saying so, but I promise not a day goes by where I haven’t thought of you. Now stop scowling at the letter, it won’t do any good, after all; it’s just a piece of paper. I’d hate to come back home to see that you’ve aged from all that frowning at parchment.

Somedays I wake and fail to notice I’m in Inazuma instead of Snezhnaya. The scenery has its differences, of course, but it’s only when I realize I can’t see you that it truly sinks in. Writing this, I realize your judgment about my honesty only appearing in written form rather than in person is true. You’ve always had a penchant for keeping me in line, haven’t you?

Not that I can blame you.

You’ll be relieved to hear that the reason for my being here turned out to be a simple misunderstanding. There’s no grand coup d'état waiting to unfold amongst the lower ranks, so, unfortunately for me, it turned out to be a waste of time. On the bright side, that means I’ll get to come back home all the faster.

Tonia tells me that you’re doing well and I’m glad to hear it. I know your parents aren’t that fond of me, which is a smart call all things considered, but I hope they’re both in good health. Let me know if they need any help with their shop and I’ll see what I can do. Just don’t let them know it was from me, or they might blow a gasket.

When I come home, I wonder if I’ll see your face among the crowd on the pier this time.

At the very least… consider not discarding this letter like the others. Really, I can’t tell who is more stubborn, me or you.

-Yours eternally, Tartaglia”

This is the first letter of his that you’ve bothered reading in some time, as he made a point of mentioning. It’s difficult to identify the exact feelings his handwriting and characteristic word choice inflicts upon you, ranging from relief to exasperation. He has some audacity, refusing to see you in person for months on end, only to carry on as if nothing happened between you.

With the letter in hand, your mind wanders back, hoping to find some hints of where it all went wrong.

You remember the words said to you on that late, fateful winter evening. The confident timbre of his voice then still resonates in your head at random, never muffling despite the years that have passed, ringing as clearly as a bell. Does he ever think about it? It’s hard to say.

“One day,” Ajax, or Tartaglia as he claimed his new identity to be, had told you, “I’m going to conquer this world.”

His breath materialized in front of him as white, vaporous wisps. There’s something about that particularly frigid season that felt like magic, more so than the Cryo Vision wrapped snug around your neck. You bit back a scathing remark and instead focused your energy elsewhere. Your gloved hand raised and hovered just above his split lip, a prominent frown etched onto your face at the fresh wound. Likely the first of many to come, you lamented.

Your Vision pulsated with life and light blue shone through at your command. The tender, bruised flesh on his lip began to close, before it faded away altogether. Tartaglia raised his hand to gently touch where it had been, now nothing but a faint memory.

With that out of the way, you placed your hands onto your hips and gave him a stern look. “I wish you’d stop saying things like that. It’s going to get you into trouble one day.”

He laughed and waved off your concern.

“If only. Things have been so dull lately, I wouldn’t mind stirring up a little trouble.” Tartaglia hummed, much to your displeasure. It was no secret in your quaint hometown of Morepesok that this boy had been spiraling down a dangerous path. Your parents said as much and even encouraged you to break off ties with him. This just won’t do, you thought.

“Ouch!”

You flicked his forehead and offered up your most intimidating glare. “So you are capable of feeling pain, huh? Good. If it keeps you out of fights, then I won’t heal you anymore.”

Tartaglia rubbed the spot and smiled sheepishly.

“You say that, but I’m sure you’d change your mind if I came to you all bloodied and battered. You’re just that kind of person.” When he paused to reflect, you raised an eyebrow and challenged him.

“Now what’s this? I’m what kind of person, Ajax?” You pinched his cheek, much to his vocal displeasure, mischief gleaming in your eyes. “Say it loud and clear this time.”

“The kind that always looks out for others, even those who don’t deserve it.”

Your arms fell limp by your side. At that moment, your heart twisted in a way it never had before. It could only compare to how it felt when Ajax had stumbled back home after missing for three, long days. You weren’t sure if you had heard him right — his eyes widened as did yours like he felt equally surprised — and he rushed to save himself. The flush that dusted over his face was most certainly not from the cold weather.

Tartaglia shot up and made way for the door at a record speed. “I told my old man that I’d be home before dark. He already worries about me enough as is, so... I’ll be on my way. See ya around.”

Your rebuttal was slow as your tongue felt frozen. Tartaglia waved to you over his shoulder and took off, leaving you to wallow in your muddled thoughts. What exactly had he meant by that? Why did his gaze soften and his usually boisterous voice drop in volume?

Questions flooded your mind, questions that wouldn’t be answered for years to come.

ii.

You’ve always found this area of Morepesok to be serene. There’s no buzz of the community gathering, chattering about the latest gossip and notable news, no vendors vying for people passing by to purchase their fresh early morning catch. The surroundings are nothing but peaceful, and most importantly, silent. In the summer, there’d only have been the sound of the rushing rivers that are now frozen over and humming insects.

Twigs and dry leaves crunch behind the tree stump you’re hanging out at, signaling an approaching figure.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Tartaglia sits down next to you, blades of grass rustling against him as he did so. You don’t bother to look up, instead feigning interest in your fingernails, staring at them intently. Anywhere other than his face, which most likely than not would be boasting his trademark grin. Seeing the fake expression that he plasters on daily would only add fuel to the fire that rages inside.

Your lips part after an uncomfortable silence settles in, the atmosphere growing tenser by the second. “So you’re a Harbinger now, huh?”

“You don’t look impressed like everyone else,” He notes, his language notably more tentative than usual. It strikes through your heart, piercing flesh and blood, your fingers curling painfully tight. If he notices, he decides not to comment. Tartaglia gives you the time to process your overwhelming thoughts as if it’d make any of this easier on you.

“How could I possibly be happy about that?” You snap your head, catching how he’s momentarily caught off guard before it’s covered up just as fast. “This… this is going to be the death of you, Ajax. And Archons, the worst part is, I know me saying that won’t matter in the slightest. That death would just be the result of a fulfilling fight to you.”

Your breathing grows erratic, to the point you’re forced to stop speaking to regain yourself. He doesn’t dare utter a single word — uncharacteristically silent — watching your every movement with calculating precision. It’s taking all your strength to keep yourself together, not wanting to come undone in front of him, feeling weak just for showing this much. This is why you were hoping to avoid him, but figures he’d go out of to seek you out.

“And if I don’t die? Would that make a difference in how you feel?” He challenges, tilting his head, voice dipping in volume. “You can be honest with me, [First]. It’s not just that you’re upset about. No, there’s something else.”

He knows you too well and it’s beyond frustrating. Your body language might be difficult for others to read, but not Tartaglia, who picks up on every little nuance with ease.

Your lower lip trembles. “I hate that this is what you’ve become.”

“So that’s it then,” Tartaglia nods his head, once, coming to terms with it as soon as the words left your lips; like he already knew it all along. “I figured as much, but to hear you say it… haven’t you heard of mincing your words before?”

Hugging your knees to your chest, you internally plead with yourself not to let the nonchalant words get to you. It’s his way of dealing with strife to act unbothered, you know this, and still, it strikes deep. What if this isn’t a façade, but who he really is now? That boy you knew and grew up with — Ajax, your dearest friend — he may be physically sitting next to you, but his soul is gone. Whatever happened in those hellish three days changed him forever. Now his flesh and bones are nothing but a vessel urged on by bloodlust.

How ironic, you think. That your Vision lets you heal physical wounds, but not the unseen kind, which runs deeper than any gash could hope to. Maybe you were a fool for thinking you could fix him, revert him to how he used to be like nothing ever happened. Or maybe he let you try just to earn more time together for whatever twisted reason. Knowing that once reality settles in, you’ll go someplace far out of his reach, where he can never get you back. Sitting here, you realize that it won’t just be you losing him. He’ll also be losing you.

Is that why he is sticking around? To prolong the inevitable?

“When I look into your eyes,” you clear your tightening throat, not willing to let yourself cry. “There’s… there’s no light, no humanity, and you know it. That has to be why you chase all those stupid fights, all so that you can feel alive again.”

Tartaglia allows you the room to ramble without interruption, your venomous feelings that have long festered gushing out. When you work up the courage to look up, you find Tartaglia frowning, staring far off but at nothing in particular. So even he can sometimes be rendered to a loss for words, huh?

He sucks in a deep breath through his nose, the chilly air invading his lungs. “You’re wrong about one thing.”

Another cautious pause. He’s giving this a lot of thought.

“My fighting is not for the sole sake of the adrenaline rush, as enjoyable as that is,” he scratches the back of his neck and forces a laugh. “It’s so that I can get stronger. I told you, didn’t I? That I intend on conquering the world. To do that, I need to be the strongest, or else I can’t fulfill my promise.”

Your lips part, eyebrows furrowing together in irritation, but he places a finger to your lips before you can tear into him. The leather feels cool against your skin, and it’s just now that you realize how close he is to you. Having been so absorbed in your emotions, you failed to notice his stealthy movements, the two of you now shoulder to shoulder. Your heart thrums, reminiscent of that day ages ago.

“When the entire world lays defeated at my feet, what I want is to have you by my side. Until that dream of mine comes true, I’m afraid I’ll have to continue making you sad, but know that it’s for a reason.”

Tartaglia pulls his hand back, his finger lingering just a second over your bottom lip, finally allowing you to speak your piece.

You’re drawn like a moth to a flame to his lifeless eyes, which have seen more bloodshed in the past few months than you could ever fathom. Murmuring, you find it within yourself to respond, albeit so quietly he has to cant forward to hear. “If you accomplish just that… who’s to say I’d want to be by your side? The side of a killer?”

“Hm? Did I ever say you had a choice in the matter?” Tartaglia returns your inquiry with a bold one of his own, one that sends you recoiling in astonishment. He lets the words settle like fresh snow on the ground before laughing them off. You cross your arms over your chest, making your displeasure over his comment evident.

“Please, I’m kidding! Don’t look at me like that,” he puts his hands up in mock defense. “Ah, it’s suddenly feeling colder than usual. You’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you? I never thought that humble [First], the child of the town’s apothecary at that, would be so bold as to freeze me to death.”

Your nose wrinkles up and you hold back a laugh, swatting at his shoulder. “Yeah, right. Like I could ever stand a chance against you in battle.”

“You might be surprised! I could make a warrior out of you yet. Think about it, Her Royal Highness the Tsaritsa saw fit to bestow a Vision upon you, didn’t she?” He accents his words by pointing to your neck, where you prefer to keep your Vision. Subconsciously, your hand raises, delicately touching the icy gem.

“I’m not like you,” you shake your head at his jest. “Hurting others is the last thing I’d ever want to do, trust me.”

He hums, your words taking him back, memories flashing in his mind. “I know, that’s why I’ve always done it in your stead.”

“Whoever would’ve thought fending off bored kids with a wooden sword would escalate into you climbing the ranks of the Fatui.” Had it not been for the final part of the sentence, you would’ve found it endearing to reminiscence back to your early childhood together. Still, the frost around your heart melts at the sweet memory, despite your attempts to keep it hardened. This goes to show how much I cherished it, you muse.

Lips curling into a smile, you take him by surprise and lay your head onto his shoulder. His muscles go tense, body unresponsive to the affection you used to bestow upon him in heaps. It’d been so long that he forgot the warmth you radiate like you were the sun incarnate. He had once commented that he expected a Cryo user to be cold, only to be delightfully surprised by how warm you were.

“Maybe I was always terrible, and you just didn’t notice?” He proposes, to which you snort.

“That most certainly is not the case. I’m a better judge of character than that.” You scoff at the mere idea. No, little Ajax had been nothing but a darling, there’s no doubting it. Wherever you’d go, he’d follow as if his life depended on it. There was hardly ever a time where the two of you wouldn’t be seen paired together.

“You’ll get no argument out of me there,” Tartaglia rests his head on top of yours like he used to. The circumstances have undoubtedly changed, but it’s nice to feign ignorance for a few minutes. “Say, you remember when we used to sneak off and meet here, right?”

“How could I forget?”

Tartaglia nods his head in agreement. “I was always dragging you into trouble, even then. I’m not one to dwell on the past, but I guess it’s hard not to when we’re here.”

Now that he mentions it, it wasn’t an immediate shift into his now unhinged personality; like all things, it began as a gradual descent. You should’ve noticed something was awry with how frequently he’d come to you, boasting injuries of all sorts. Each was accompanied by a rehearsed explanation as not to alarm you. Unfortunately for him, in a small town such as this, word travels quickly. It was inevitable that you’d find out the bitter truth behind his wounds.

Maybe you always knew but didn’t want to face reality.

“There was this one time in particular that always stuck out to me,” he closes his eyes, reflecting. “When I said I intended to marry you when we got older, or whenever you’d have me.”

You’re amazed at how Tartaglia recounts it without so much as stuttering, the humiliating memory sending your head spinning. There were so many memories he could’ve mentioned and that’s the one he decides to go with? You’re certain he’s messing with you at this point.

“I-I thought we swore never to mention that again!” You exclaim, blood rushing to your cheeks.

He blinks when you abruptly lift your head and shrugs off your concern. “I don’t remember ever agreeing to that. It was you who kept insisting to take a vow of silence on it, for whatever reason. Personally, I find it cute, you were so eager to accept my proposal then.” 

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. This irksome teasing quality had reared its head alongside his other new shortcomings. The best way to deal with it, you’ve learned, is to keep the conversation going. Dwelling on it for too long never ends well.

“So, Liyue, huh?” You recall the gossip from the marketplace earlier. Some locals were fussing over the news that the Fatui’s latest Harbinger, Tartaglia, would be sent abroad for more work. There were murmurs of excitement over how a child from this seaside town managed to make it so far up the ranks. And to think they used to bemoan Ajax’s violent streak, you remember. Now that it’s beneficial to them, they sure have changed their tune.

“I wonder what it’ll be like,” he muses. “Anthon seems to think the people there eat rocks, for whatever reason.”

“Kids always say the craziest things unprompted.”

He seems agreeable to that statement. Neither of you utters another word for some time, instead thinking of both the past and the future. It’s not a comfortable position to remain seated in, yet neither you nor he complains about it. For a few brief, glorious seconds, everything almost seems normal again.

“Hey, [First].”

You hum in response. Tartaglia’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly, his eyebrows knitting together in contemplation. In the silence that follows, you swear you hear a sound akin to electricity crackling, the hairs on the back of your neck standing from the drastic shift in atmosphere.

“I meant what I said. Someday, you will be by my side. I don’t care what it takes, I’ll make it happen; even if you come to hate me.”

“Because once you make a promise… you keep it.”

And he intended to do just that.

#childe #yandere childe x reader #childe x reader #tartaglia #yandere tartaglia x reader #tartaglia x reader #genshin impact #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact imagine #yandere #yandere x reader #my stuff #commissions

[random-imagines-blog]

Love Peas {Hiram Lodge x Reader}

Requested by: Anonymous Wordcount: 1894 Summary: Hiram comes home after a very rough night. Notes: Mentions of death

Shifting under the covers, you heard a noise coming from downstairs. The house was usually quiet save for the murmur of the appliances and electronics, a sound that you had gotten used to over the months of living here with your boyfriend, Hiram. So each and every footstep on the ground sounded like a racket. You laid still, expecting the security system to trigger, saying that there was an intruder, but it did no such thing. The power was still on, you could hear the hum still, that little electrical buzz that was your constant background noise. So that meant whoever was in your house had the keycode. Hiram.

There was even more clamor from downstairs. A groaning sound. Now you knew for sure it was Hiram. You’ve heard him, unfortunately, be in pain on more than one occasion through your relationship. It was the price that he paid for being in the ‘business’ that he was.

You swept the blankets off of you, your bare feet touching the cold wooden floor. You pulled your robe closed over your pajamas as you made your way quickly to the door, through the hallway, and then started down the stairs to see what the damage was this time. You were always terrified that he was going to come home covered in blood, battered beyond repair. That you were going to hold him and hear nothing but the death rattle right before he would be gone. It was a scene that ran through your nightmares. A scene that if it were in front of you, you were ill-prepared to deal with.

There was nothing lazy, or just-woken up about your movements. Foot descending after foot on the runner of the stairs, keeping the chilliness of the hard floors at bay. Through the moonlight coming in through the windows, you were able to see a form just slipping out of the foyer, making it’s way to the kitchens. “Hiram?" You asked, reaching the bottom of the staircase and turning to follow. He was hurt, though there was no blood on the floor. There wasn’t a trail leading after him. But by the way that his leg was sliding behind him, it looked like it was broken at the very least. You flicked the switch and the kitchen came to life with bright lights, revealing everything. Under those florescent s, there was no room to hide.

Though Hiram was trying pretty hard to hide.

He sat down on the floor, head leaning back against the wooden cabinets. He was bruised, but that was an understatement. He was severely bruised. Black eye. Split lip. His usually perfect hair was tousled in a not-unattractive way but the very fact that he hadn’t immediately took a come to it scared you a little. If that was the state of his face, you were very concerned about the rest of him. You got down on your knees next to him, ignoring the discomfort, nervous to even touch him. He looked like he would break if he did.

“I can explain...” Hiram started off by saying, but then realized that he wasn’t going to be able to talk his way out of this one. He’d look up into your face, and then would immediately try to cut off the eye contact, looking down at the ground instead.

“I think this is going a bit beyond the first aid box’s capabilities,” You winced upon seeing the other side of his face. Oh lord, even that eye was starting to swell up. He was close to being a human bruise at this point. That poor, gorgeous face of his. “Maybe we should get you to a hospital. Is anything broken? How did you get home?”

“Cab,” Hiram admitted, ignoring your first question. “The driver was - taking care of things while I left.”

“Christ, Hiram,” You groaned. You got up to your feet, dashing towards the bathroom to get the first aid kit that was in there. The amount of times that you had to replace this thing. The pharmacy probably thought that you were in an abusive relationship. You came back to see that he hardly moved, other than to wipe a bit of blood that was coming from the deep cut in his bottom lip. You sat back down beside him, opened up the first aid kit, tore into a package that contained an alcohol wipe and started to blot.

“Do we got any ice packs?” Hiram moaned. You stood up to go and check, looking through the contents of the freezer. You rummaged past the frozen vegetables, frozen pizzas, bottles of alcohol to find that - no, there were no ice packs in the freezer.

“Have to do with some vegetables,” You said, grabbing a bag of frozen peas. You held it up to his face, pressing it as tenderly as you could against the rougher looking eye. He hissed, and brought his hand up to grab it, only to show you how damaged that looked too. Bloody knuckles were the least of his worries. “We’re going to have to get that looked at,” You said, pointing towards his hand.

“It’s fine,” He muttered, letting it rest on the bag, which was resting on his face. It looked like it hurt. You didn’t know how he wasn’t crying out for a hospital. You would be if you sustained even half of those injuries.

“As much as we love peas in this house, I don’t think they’re going to be granting you any miracles,” You said, and went back to dabbing with the alcohol wipe. “Your lip is going to need stitches. The cuts too big. It won’t heal right.” “So call my Doctor,” Hiram growled, grumpily. By instinct, you slapped the top of his thigh, making him gasp out in pain and drop the frozen bag onto the ground. It broke open, the little green vegetables scattering across the tiled floor.

“I don’t care how hurt you are, you don’t talk to me like that,” You said, shaking your finger in his face. “I’m just worried about you. I don’t know how many more of these you can take before you have some serious internal injuries. Even Houdini died from a punch to the stomach, and you’re not nearly as good at escaping trouble as he is.”

“Mi amor, comparing me to a dead man,” Hiram groaned, pushing peas off of his lap. You got up again, your legs getting a work out from all of the squats that you were doing tonight, and grabbed another bag of frozen peas. It was weird that there were so many, but even rich people buy stuff that’s on sale sometimes. It’s how you stayed rich.

“You keep this up and you will be a dead man,” You quipped, putting the fresh bag on his face, holding it this time instead of letting him do it. “At least let me look at you, please?”

He finally gave a nod, and you slowly lifted his shirt to see all of the markings and bruises that were on his abdomen. His torso looked like a Jackson Pollock painting with the different shades of colors everywhere. You winced, bringing the shirt back down. You really hated seeing him look like this. You’ve been pleading with him to retire since the last time that he had received a beating like this. Or at the very least, hire someone younger to take his place in these fights. He was getting too old for this. “You should see the other guys,” He quipped.

“I don’t doubt it. And what were they - half your age?” You asked, raising an eyebrow, moving the bag from one eye to the other. “Hiram, my love, don’t you think it’s about time that you think about retiring? We can move away from Riverdale. We can get a spot on the beach somewhere, where it never snows. Where it’s never warm. Where the only damage you have to worry about is getting too much sun. Getting burned. But I’ll take care of you and always put sunscreen on you. Aloe vera if you do end up getting burned. Just - think about it, okay? For me?”

“I can’t give up my business like that,” Hiram shook his head, not even considering the possibility. You sighed. You knew that was going to be his answer. You hadn’t been expecting anything else. And yet you were still disappointed. As per usual. “I cannot be seen as weak or everything that I’ve done so far will have been for nothing. All of that work. I can’t pull out yet.”

“Of course you can’t,” You sighed. “At the very least, can you plan on it in the future? I don’t want to be putting this bag on your eyes when you’re well into your seventies.”

“Do you think we’ll still love peas then, mi amor?” He asked, breaking into a smile despite what must be a lot of pain, especially in his lip area.

“I think the better question is will I still love you them,” You teased. pressing a kiss onto one of the few parts of his face that wasn’t mottled with bruises. “But yes, to both. These are lovepeas, don’t you know. Rumor says that if you put them on the black eye of the person that you love, you’ll be together until the ends of the Earth. Or until there are no more peas. But given how the bees are dying out, that might not even be until the ends of the earth.”

“And your creativity is why I love you, and why I always come home,” Hiram said, taking your wrists around his hands. You smiled gently, loving that he cared about the weird side of you. Not just the well made-up person who was always by his side at work events. He always had a way of making you feel like you were someone special. Someone worth adoring.

Now if only you could actually get him out of the criminal business and move somewhere like Mexico where you can lie on the beach together.

“Do you love me enough to let me leave for a moment to call the Doctor? I am worried about this lip of yours. I need it stitched up and better so I can kiss you again.”

“Yes, I suppose I love you that much.” His thumbs would rub at the underside of your wrists for a moment, and then he would gently release you so you could get up and walk back to the bedroom where your cellphone was waiting. Even leaving him that long seemed like an eternity. You called the doctor while you were on your way back down the stairs, hanging up as you entered the kitchen, just in time to see Hiram picking one of the frozen peas off of the ground and popping it into his mouth.

“What are you doing?” You asked, going for the broom and dustpan to finally clean that mess up.

“Oh, I thought these were the feel-better peas. You eat a couple and then you feel all better until the end of time?” He’d ask, showing his very rare funny side. You laughed and shook your head.

“Let me clean these up then I’ll get you to your chair. The doctor is on his way.”

#Hiram Lodge #Hiram Lodge x reader #Hiram Lodge oneshot #Riverdale #Riverdale oneshot #oneshot #one shot #request #hiraml #x reader

[richieisabastardman]

Saviour - Barry Berkman x Reader

Summary: After a hit gone wrong, Barry walks the streets looking for help. He manages to find it (and much more) in the strangest of places (Fluff/Sexy stuff?). 

Word count: 2559

Warnings: Body Injury, Blood, Stitches, Swearing, Sexual Situations (not smut)

Notes: This fic is set somewhere in the middle of season two of Barry, no spoilers (I don’t think). I just finished season two of Barry and wow. I decided to write something because face it Barry is hot. Hopefully you enjoy it! I’m going to continue my Richie Tozier series but I think I’ll be writing more Barry oneshots as well.

Barry’s experience with excruciating pain was vast. A gun wound here, and a stab wound there, were all realities of Barry’s past. However, as he walked down various empty LA streets clutching his arm (which was bleeding profusely) he really thought he may die. Worse than that, he was much more scared by the thought of death than he ever thought he would be. Blood continued to drip down his arm, forming a trail behind him as he continued walking. A hit gone wrong. That had been happening to him a lot recently, he thought. He considered that he may be getting too old for this work. In contrast, he also considered that he may be beginning to get used to normality. The last couple of months of dating Sally and going to his acting class had left him feeling normal. It was comfortable.

That’s why when Fuches had called him and told him there was an opportunity to make some cash, he had expected to hang up the phone or at least give Fuches an earful before he blocked him. Instead he had agreed. He had told Sally he couldn’t help her run lines because he was meeting an old friend. He was also quick to get back into routine, putting on a black hoodie and grabbing his guns. He didn’t even care how much the job was going to pay.

Barry stopped walking, planting himself in the middle of the road. He wasn’t sure where he was, but he knew he was too far from home to make it back on foot. He shut his eyes, swaying slightly with the cool breeze that blew past him. It was a quiet night, and he could hear the faint sound of cars not too far away. He considered calling an uber before he remembered his phone was broken, smashed by the man he eventually managed to kill. Realising he had no other ways to get home, he considered laying on the sidewalk and bleeding out slowly.

Just as Barry began to lower himself to the ground, the deafening sound of a helicopter hovered above him. He raised his uninjured arm to shield his eyes from its light. As it passed, he lowered his arm, his gaze fixating on what the remaining light of the aircraft illuminated. A crucifix stood tall on top of an old building. Observing the stain glass windows, Barry realised it was a church. He began to scuffle towards it. At worst I die in a church  Barry thought. Perhaps if there was a God he would take this into consideration when determining his eternal fate.

As he reached the doors, he silently pleaded that they were open (though to whom he was pleading, he wasn’t sure). He let out a sigh of relief at the sound of the door clicking open as he rested his uninjured shoulder upon it. He stumbled into the church, trying his best to be quiet as he shut the door behind him. He limped between the pews, attempting to find a room in which he could mend himself. The large hall was lit only by candles along the walls, which left shadows dancing upon them. Barry’s eyes darted around the room, following the dark shapes. He reached the front of the hall, staring up at the statue that stood tall there. A large wooden cross with a man nailed to it, his arms and chest covered in red paint. Staring at the crown of thorns upon his head, Barry removed his hoodie with his uninjured hand. He only stared for a moment longer before averting his gaze and continuing his way through the church.

Moving to the side of the statue, he found a room filled with various boxes, all stacked upon each other. Barry rummaged through the material but groaned when he found nothing that could help him. He exited the room, looking to the back of the church to see if he had missed any other doors.

“Holy shit”

Barry flinched at the sound of a woman’s voice beside him. He looked over to the statue in which he was near only moments ago. A woman, at least half his age, stood in front of it. Her eyes were running along his body, wide in what he assumed was fear. She held a box, similar to the ones within the adjacent room. Barry stood frozen, unable to even respond to her exclamation. Her eyes stopped wondering as they reached his own. To Barry’s surprise, she smiled.

“Need some help?”.

 ~

The man continued to stare at you, his eyes wide and one of them bruised. Despite his tall frame and dark clothing, you felt no fear in his presence. You could see his arm was injured, as a damp spot on his hoodie was visible even under candlelight. You put the box you were holding onto the ground, moving towards the man slowly. He moved backwards ever so slightly at your movement.

“There’s a first aid kit in the back room” you explained, gesturing behind you.

The man appeared as though he would not move until he nodded. You smiled at him again, walking to the room. You could hear his footsteps behind you, heavy but slow as they followed your own. You turned on the light and pulled out a chair in which the man sat.

“It’s your arm that’s fucked up, right?” you asked, reaching up onto a shelf in order to pull down a large red box.

The man watched you intently. He nodded his head once again.

“Okay well you’re gonna need to take that off” You said, gesturing towards his hoodie. He pulled the cloth off of his body, revealing a tight grey shirt underneath. The shirt was also stained by a circle of blood around his left shoulder which was dripping steadily down his arm. “That needs to go as well” you stated. The man looked at his shoulder and the stain and then back at you before removing the piece of clothing.

Now that he was shirtless you could see the extent of the wound. It gaped, blood violently seeping from it. It was too thick to be caused from anything other than a knife. This guy must have really pissed someone off you thought.

“What’s your name?” you asked, pouring alcohol onto a clean white rag.

He watched your actions closely. His eyes never appeared to leave your form, darting from your hands to your eyes to your legs. You almost thought he wasn’t going to respond until he softly replied.

“Barry”

“Barry” you repeated, nodding your head as you placed the rag onto the man’s wound. He let out a loud hiss followed by a range of cuss words. When you had cleaned the wound you moved back to the kit, finding a needle and thread.

“What’s yours? Your name I mean” Barry asked. He voice was so quiet that you almost didn’t hear him speak.

“Y/N” you replied. You lifted the needle and thread you had prepared in front of you. “I have to sew it up, so this next part is going to really suck” you stated.

Barry nodded his head, muttering a “It’s fine”.

Barry’s jaw clenched as you stuck the needle into the skin around his wound. You both took in a deep breath, though for different reasons. You threaded the needle through, doing your best to seal the wound.

“you’re lucky I have first aid training” you joked, attempting to distract Barry from the pain of the needle.

“Oh yeah?” he was gritting his teeth and his eyes were squeezed shut. You could tell he didn’t want to speak but you were glad he did. Mostly because it meant he hadn’t passed out on you.

“No, I actually don’t. But I did a sewing class once”

You tried to avoid adding I’m also totally just improvising right now and hoping you don’t die.

“Why are you here so late? Are you a nun or something?” Barry asked, snapping you back from your thoughts.

You laughed at his question, but he continued to stare at you, waiting for an answer.

Barry groaned as you stuck the needle into his skin again. He grabbed your hip with his free hand in order to hold onto something through the pain. You allowed him to squeeze you as tightly as he needed to. You also ignored the inappropriate warmth you felt within you at his touch.

“I’m sorry” you whispered, and he released the tension in his face, looking up at you. His eyes were wide, but no longer did it appear to be because of fear. There was a hint of awe? Relief perhaps? You weren’t sure.

“Its okay” he said, shaking his head.

“I’m not a nun” you finally replied. “My brother is a priest here and he isn’t too great with organisation. I’m helping him clean up the place”.

“Is he around?” Barry asked.

“No. He’s visiting our parents over the weekend” you said, and he nodded.

A comfortable silence fell over the two of you as you continued your work.

“I’m almost done” you said, finishing up the stitch.

When you were finished you moved away from the older man, going back to the kit to find a band aid to cover the wound. Once you had done that you walked back to the kit, tidying it up in order to place it back on the shelf. Barry took his shirt from the floor where he had previously thrown it and put it back on. He sat back down in the chair, watching you organise the red box. You heard him call your name softly and you looked up at him, smiling sweetly. “Thank you” he said, and you nodded in acknowledgement.

Before shutting the kit, you grabbed two pills. You walked over to Barry and stood in front of him, opening your palm to reveal the two small white circles. “They aren’t morphine but they’re all we’ve got” you said, and he grabbed them, placing them into his mouth and swallowing them dry. As he stared up at you, you noticed just how bruised his right eye was. A deep purple tinge stretched below it, and it appeared to be beginning to puff up. Absentmindedly, you placed your hand on Barry’s stubble covered jaw and cheek, rubbing it gently with your thumb. His breath hitched at the intimacy of your action, but he hissed when you accidently touched too close to the bruise.

His small cry of pain broke you from your trance, and you dropped your hand quickly. You weren’t sure what had possessed you to act so intimately with this stranger. However, his wide eyes and injured body made you feel protective of him. Barry’s eyes never left your face as your gaze dropped to his knees in embarrassment.

“Why would someone do this to you Barry” you asked. The words you had spoken, and the care behind them, stirred something within Barry. He lifted his large hand to your neck, gently pulling you down to meet your lips with his own. He kissed you softly, his hand making its way to rest tangled within your hair at the back of your head. You let out a hum of content and then one of discontent as he pulled out of the kiss, sitting back further into his chair.

You stood above him, lighting drumming your fingers on your lips as you looked around the room. Barry cleared his throat, scratching lightly at his stubble. “Sorry” he said “I don’t know why I did that. I didn’t mean to do that. Not that you aren’t beautiful but… that was…” he shook his head.

You nodded and smiled an apologetic smile, though you weren’t sure what you were apologising for. He seemed so lonely, you thought, as he stared up at you with those eyes again. You knew he couldn’t have been in a good place, considering the state he was in when he got here. Probably a gang war gone wrong you considered. You had heard about all the gang activity in LA before you got here, but you didn’t think you’d have it limping into your brother’s church. You also didn’t think it would be six feet tall with very broad shoulders.

“Should I get you an uber?” you asked, offering a hand to Barry so he could stand up.

He took your hand and the moment he did your body tingled. He lifted himself up but didn’t release himself from you, choosing to stare at your interlocked hands instead. He released your hands finally and you sighed, missing his warmth until he pulled you toward his chest, wrapping his arms around you. Something terrible must have happened tonight for him to act like this with a stranger you thought. However, you realised you didn’t mind what was currently happening. For some strange reason, it felt right. His arms were wrapped tight around you and you let him hold you. You rubbed his back with your hand, feeling the taught muscles underneath. He placed his face into your neck, resting his head upon your shoulder. The position must have been a strain, you thought, due to his height. However, when he nuzzled himself ever so slightly into your neck, your realised this was something you needed just as much as him.

“I just need-“ he mumbled into your neck.

“I know” You whispered, interrupting him “I know”.

He pulled away from your neck, moving to your face so he could connect your lips once again. His kisses were skilled but hesitant. Despite his hesitation, his actions drew a warmth from you that you hadn’t felt in a long time. His hands moved down your arms slowly, resting on your hips. Your hands were around his neck, playing with the hair that lay at the back of his head. He moaned into your mouth and you almost melted against him. He moved you around slowly, still kissing you, so that you could sit on the table within the room. He placed himself between your legs and you wrapped them around him, pulling him closer to you. His hands on your thighs, he kissed down your neck and you moaned, pulling at his hair. Suddenly, he froze. Leaving a final kiss on your collarbone, he brought his face back up to yours and let out a sigh. His eyes were shut, and he was breathing heavily, trying to calm himself down.

You brought a hand up to his cheek once again and he opened his eyes, staring into yours. “It’s okay” you smiled, and he nodded.

He untangled himself from you and moved to pick up his hoodie, which was still on the floor. He walked slowly towards the door, but stopped just before it, turning towards you. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again quite quickly, unsure of what to say.

“If you ever change your mind, I’m here every Sunday. My brother makes sure of that” you joked, and he smiled a tight, closed-mouth smile at you, nodding his head. You watched Barry leave the room, walking into the dim light of the church hall and finally out onto the dark LA street from which he had come.

#barry berkman x reader #barry berkman imagine #bill hader x reader #bill hader imagine #barry #bill hader

[calenheniel]

Helsa Week 2020, Day 7: Free

Seeing

Frozen | Oneshot | Hans, Elsa | Drama | K+

She often found herself drawn to her father’s coronation portrait in the library, waiting for the day he might look back at her, and see her, for the woman she had become. 

FF.Net | AO3 | Wattpad | deviantArt

Author’s Note: Based on a prompt from long ago: “Why did you do it?” Takes place shortly after the end of Frozen, but hints at some of Elsa’s internal conflict leading up to Frozen 2 (though I will never consider that film to be canon, and you can’t make me!). I can never get enough of their (imagined) conversations. It ended up being happier (?) than I expected.

@helsa-week​

»»————-　❈　————-««

“Your Majesty.”

She didn’t look up from her mountain of papers, scanning the page in her hand with intense concentration.

A cough echoed in the room. “Your Majesty.”

She glanced up for a moment, her pen never ceasing in its scrawl along the signature line. “Yes, Kai? I heard you the first time.”

The older man frowned, pulling back his shoulders. “I was asked to inform you that Prince Hans of the Southern Isles will be sent back home today.”

She paused. “Hans.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Kai confirmed. “If you may recall, the trip was delayed a week due to—”

“Repairs on the ship that needed to be done after I…” she finished, and then trailed off. She grimaced. “Yes, I remember.”

She greeted his gaze, and noticed behind him the ever-present coronation portrait of her father.

“Remind me, Kai: when was that portrait painted?” she asked suddenly.

The older man blinked, then turned around to face the object in question. “Ah, well, let’s see… it was probably about a week after he was crowned.”

She tapped her pen against the paper below. “He must have been nervous, becoming king at such a young age.”

“Younger even than you are now,” Kai noted, looking back at her with a small smile. “He would’ve been proud, seeing how far you’ve come.”

She returned a half-hearted smile, and touched the crown atop her head with some self-consciousness. “Sometimes, I forget what he looked like,” she admitted, looking sheepish at Kai’s confusion. “I mean, I know his portrait is right there, but…”

“It’s not him,” Kai finished for her. “I know, Your Majesty. But I believe he is still here, in spirit, watching over you as always.”

Her teeth grit at the words of reassurance. “I want to believe that, but…” she managed, unable to stifle a frown. She stared at the painting again – at the hands grasping the orb and scepter with such seeming steadiness, at the posture upright and proper, at the eyes frozen in place for eternity, looking past her into an unknowable void – and suppressed a shudder, dropping the pen to the page. “I don’t think he can do that anymore.”

The silence that followed her remark lay like a heavy snowfall in the room until she cleared her throat.

“When is Hans’s ship due to sail?” she asked.

“In a few hours, around 3 o’clock,” Kai answered after a moment, taken off-guard by the question. “Is something the matter, Your Majesty?”

She took a deep breath, tracing the outline of her pen. “I’d like to see him before he leaves. Can you bring him here?”

Kai’s brow lifted. “Your Majesty, that’s—I really don’t think that’s advisable, given how dangerous he is—”

“I’m well aware of that, but you know I’m more than capable of defending myself.” she cut him off, conjuring a snowflake for effect. Seeing his concern, however, she sighed, evaporating the magic. “Obviously, he should still be restrained in some way when he is brought here. And the guards should be posted just outside the room.”

Kai frowned. “It’s not his physical strength that worries me, Queen Elsa. It’s… his way with words,” he explained. “He fooled us all, not just the Princess.”

Her eyes tightened. “I know, Kai. But it won’t be like that this time. I promise.”

His lips pursed. “I hope so, Your Majesty. But what about the Princess? If she finds out he’s here—”

“She won’t,” she said, “because no one is going to tell her.”

They stared at one another, and at length, Kai swallowed. “As you wish, Your Majesty. I will bring him here within the next hour.” He bowed and left the room, his hands clenched behind his back.

She watched those hands until they were out of sight, and then looked down at her own.

They were shaking.

»» —— ««

She paced the floor of her father’s library – her library, now – and tried to steady her breathing.

Ice tendrils had been creeping from her fingers every so often in the last hour as she waited for him, snowfalls starting and stopping around her, her breath coming out in cold puffs. Kai’s words of warning hung in the air like a storm cloud, obscuring her vision, and her crown felt heavier than before.

She clasped her hands behind her in the same way that he had done, hoping that it would calm her. Instead, feeling her skin bare, without gloves – a sensation that was still so new and foreign – unnerved her further, and eventually her hands found their way back to her sides.

A heavy knock on the door jolted her to attention, and she finally stopped, though her heart continued to race. She licked her lips on instinct before speaking, finding her mouth suddenly dry.

“Come in.”

As the thick oak doors opened, she felt and heard every thump in her chest with alarming clarity, though she took care to look unaffected as she caught sight of the prince.

She allowed herself one last, deeper exhale. “Close the doors, please,” she instructed the guards. All four of them – the two who had brought in the prince, and the two stationed outside her door – blinked at her in surprise.

“But, Your Majesty—”

“I’ll be fine, Leif,” she interrupted the oldest guard. “Now please, if you will—return to your posts, and close the doors.”

Leif frowned in disapproval, shooting the prince a threatening look, but did as was commanded of him, maintaining eye contact with his queen until the doors were finally shut.

Her attention turned back to her guest, and the thump returned louder than ever.

“Your Majesty.”

Her stomach turned.

“Hans.”

»» —— ««

“I hope you’ll excuse my poor appearance,” he said, his bare and shackled hands gesturing at his dirtied uniform. “I didn’t have the chance to clean up before this, so I look more or less like I did the last time we met.”

She ignored the jab. “I was told you’re leaving today, on the French ambassador’s ship.”

He rolled his shoulders back, standing upright. “So I was told as well. Though I wasn’t expecting to see you again before I left.” He eyed her hands with wary interest, and then met her hard stare. “May I ask why I have the pleasure of being called upon by Her Majesty for a… private audience?”

She frowned and crossed her arms, and then looked away, gazing out the window at the mountains in the distance. She listened carefully to the jangling of his cuffs, assuring herself that he had not stepped any closer, and breathed.

“Why did you save me?”

She heard the surprise in his voice. “Why did I—I’m not sure what you mean, Your Majesty.”

She glanced at him, and then towards the window, directing his gaze there. “Up on the North Mountain. You brought me back here, alive,” she repeated, “and I want to know why.”

“I told you in that cell that I needed you to stop the winter,” he replied, his brow furrowing. “You were the only one who could.”

She frowned. “Don’t lie, Hans. There’s no need for it anymore.”

He matched her expression. “I don’t know what it is that you want, or expect, me to say.”

Ice crept up her crossed arms from her fingertips until she noticed him staring at it—at which she reddened, disappearing it again. “You could’ve let me kill Weselton’s men, and then killed me, married Anna, ruled Arendelle like you planned to,” she explained. “Or you could’ve just killed all of us, and blamed it on me. Everyone would’ve believed you either way, after seeing what I did at the coronation ball.”

She looked up at her father’s portrait briefly, behind and a ways away from Hans, and felt filled with dread. She pushed past it, asking again: “But you didn’t. You brought me back here, to that cell. Why?”

His gaze narrowed at her. “Because I’m not an idiot like Weselton,” he retorted. “And I’ve spent enough time in libraries reading up on old folklore to know that killing you wouldn’t necessarily have done anything about the eternal winter.” He eyed her meaningfully. “And, as it turns out, I was right. Magic could only be undone with magic,” he said, adding with distaste: “That is, if you consider love to be magic.”

She glowered at him, and then took a few steps closer, stopping just within two feet of him. He regarded the move with suspicion, but did not budge. “Something tells me you’re not satisfied with my answer,” he remarked.

“Because there’s still something missing from it. Because…” Her face flushed suddenly, and she placed a hand over it to calm herself. “You saw what a danger I was to myself, to others. But you still thought you could… what, control it? Convince me to ‘come back to the light’?” She shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. Someone like you should’ve known better, should’ve—”

“Killed you?” he interrupted, earning a dark look from her. “Is that what you wanted?” At her silence, he sighed. “No. I didn’t think so.” His brow rose. “I didn’t see someone who wanted to die, on that mountain. You were fighting for your survival—desperately so.” He added: “I respected that.”

Her cheeks pinked, and she looked away from him. “You don’t respect anything,” she muttered, “especially not me.”

A strange light came into his eyes.

“Is that what this is about, Elsa?”

The informal address, coupled with his predatory look, made her skin crawl and the air grew colder. “What are you talking about?”

He suppressed a half-smile. “I understand, it’s a… difficult question to ask,” he replied, “especially to someone like me.”

She frowned. “Stop being cryptic. It’s not in the least bit interesting.”

He continued to eye her with discomfiting attention. “Then be honest. Ask me what’s really been on your mind, all this time.”

Ice traced the outlines of his cuffs and stung at his already raw and red wrists, making him wince. She scowled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hans,” she repeated through gritted teeth, “so if you’d like to keep your hands, you’d better come right out and say what you mean.”

She watched as he struggled to answer, frostbite creeping into his skin, his breath coming out in shorter bursts.

Don’t be the monster they fear you are.

Her eyes widened as she stepped back, and she clutched her hands to her chest, the ice retreating from his binds with them. He gasped and shuddered as it did, rubbing his hands together for warmth, glancing at her all the while.

She turned away, unable to face him. “I—I didn’t mean to do that,” she stuttered. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I do.”

»» —— ««

The room came back into focus.

“You do,” she repeated in disbelief.

“Yes,” he replied, “because I understand the instinct to lash out when you’re feeling trapped. I’m the same way.”

“Don’t compare yourself to me,” she snapped, her temper alighting anew. “Don’t pretend you understand, or know, anything about me. You’re just trying to get a rise out of me, to catch me off-guard so that you can harm me in some way, like you did to Anna.” She took two steps closer to him, her hands clenching into fists. “But I’m not her.”

“No, you’re not,” he agreed, staring down at her with unabashed fascination. “In many ways, you’re hardly alike at all. And isn’t that why you brought me in today?” There was an unsettling sort of understanding in his look. “To prove that you’re different; to prove that I chose wrong.”

Her skin boiled under his gaze. “That isn’t true,” she seethed, feeling an odd heat spread throughout her body until she was nearly shaking from it. “I don’t have anything to prove to you.”

“Of course not,” he nodded, “but…” He paused to raise an eyebrow. “It seems to me there’s still a part of you that wants to know.”

Her lips were dry again.

“Know what?”

He took one step forward, leaving only a foot of space between them.

“Why I chose the Princess, and not the Queen.”

»» —— ««

She couldn’t hide the color of her face from him—not when he was that close.

“Anna already told me why,” she said, frowning. “I was ‘preferable,’ but ‘nobody was getting anywhere’ with me—those were your exact words, I believe.”

“She – and you – have a good memory,” he returned, making her frown deepen. “Yes, I did say that. But that explanation wasn’t good enough for you, was it, Elsa?” He craned his head forward a little, his expression dark and knowing. “You thought – no, you knew – that there must be another reason. A better reason.”

Her skin was crawling again, but in a way that felt unfamiliar.

She almost choked on her words. “And what, exactly, would that be?”

He smiled. “Do you want the real answer, or the answer that you want to hear?”

“There’s no difference,” she rejoined, her voice cracking. “I only ever want the truth.”

“Oh, Elsa,” he countered with a sigh, his head falling back, “I really must beg to differ.” When he peered down at her again, there was something akin to pity in his eyes. “What you want, I think, is for me to admit that I was wrong: that I should’ve gone after you, tried to woo you and become King of Arendelle through you, and not Anna.” He paused to take in her enraged, fearsome blue irises. “You want me to tell you that I was a fool.”

Her teeth ground so hard together that her jaw hurt, and she found her mouth too dry to form a response. He studied her appearance closely, and continued: “Well, Elsa, if that’s what you want, then yes: I admit that I was impatient, and was looking for the easiest way in—which, unfortunately for your sister, happened to be her.” At her warning look, he added: “Which was, of course, terrible of me to do. Especially when her older sister happened to be a much better match.”

The crawling sensation reached her stomach, and she nearly gasped at the sensation.

“You disgust me,” she spat.

“I know,” he said. “And that’s perfectly reasonable, given what I’ve done to you and yours. In fact, I’m being shipped back to certain punishment at home for it.” His eyes tightened. “But that doesn’t mean you haven’t thought about it. That you’re not thinking about it, still.”

He smiled at the appalled shock that spread across her features at the comment. “And that’s the real answer, Elsa: that I’ve thought about it, too. More than you can imagine.”

The heat in her stomach was unbearable, but she couldn’t break eye contact with him. “I’m sure you have,” she said, though with less repulsed conviction than she’d wanted to convey. “You’ve had an extra week to think things over, after all.”

“I’ve thought about it for longer than that,” he replied, causing her cheeks to flush anew. “I was just distracted, before, by my poorly-plotted ambitions.” At her eye-roll, he continued: “On that mountain, when I saw what your powers could do… it moved me, Elsa. Like nothing else had in a long, long time. And if I’d been smarter then, if I’d been thinking properly, I—”

He paused for effect, and she couldn’t help but take the bait.

“You’d have done what, Hans? Tried to ‘get somewhere’ with me, while I was weak and vulnerable and out of my right mind? Use my powers to your own ends?” She scoffed. “Yes, I suppose that would’ve been like you to do. But you didn’t. And even if you had,” she went on, “do you really think that I would have fallen at your feet, just like that? Especially after that… inane display you put on with Anna at the ball.” She glared at him. “I knew you were just a stupid pretty boy chasing the crown, and I wasn’t proven wrong.”

A grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “So that did bother you,” he remarked. “I thought you might’ve been a little jealous at the time, but I wasn’t sure ‘til now.” He chuckled a little. “I can’t say anything for certain about what might’ve happened, had I acted differently,” he admitted, “but… neither can you.”

She wanted to deny the claim outright, but her mouth was drier than ever.

»» —— «« 

The silence in the room was suffocating.

“That’s not true,” she said finally, her lip trembling as she met his stare again. “I know I wouldn’t have. I know it.”

“You don’t sound too convinced, Elsa.”

Her eyes crackled. “What does it matter? You made your choices already, what’s done is done—and now we’re here.”

“Indeed we are,” he concurred, peering at her. “But is this where you want to be?”

“I am where I belong,” she snapped, “and soon you will be, too.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s so,” he said, his lip curling at the reminder. “But that won’t stop me from thinking about it. And I don’t think it’ll stop you, either.”

Her head tilted up until she was sure that he could see her contempt. “I told you, Hans: don’t pretend like you know me, or my thoughts. You don’t know a damn thing.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “You’re right: I don’t know you,” he echoed her, “and I can’t know what’s in your mind.” His olive eyes gleamed under the afternoon sun that streamed in through the windows. “But I see you, Elsa.”

Her blood pulsed under her skin, and tears pricked at her eyes. “I don’t believe that,” she murmured, shaking her head. Her gaze traveled up, and stopped.

He glanced at the crown atop her head. “Is it so hard to believe that someone could see you as you really are?” He followed her eyes to where they rested on the portrait of the old king, and sighed. “Oh, Elsa. You know he probably never did.”

Her jaw was tight as she blinked back her tears. “I know,” she replied, turning to him. “I can’t rely on his pity anymore, and I certainly don’t want yours.” 

He looked surprised by her hardened expression, and she continued: “I know the stories you told Anna about your brothers, and of how cruel they were to you. If they’re true, I can only imagine how lonely you must have been growing up.” Her stare was probing. “And that’s why you think you understand me: because you think we’re not so different.”

He frowned at the remark. “Elsa, I…”

She drew closer to him again, and glared at his downturned lips. “Perhaps we aren’t, Hans. And that’s the real reason, isn’t it? Why you could never really want me.” The sun retreated behind the clouds, casting her in shadow. “Not if you pity me, as you must pity yourself.”

He flinched under her interrogation, opening his mouth to speak—and then closed it again, chuckling dryly. “I guess you’ve got me all figured out, Elsa,” he muttered. “So there’s nothing left to say.”

She paused to study his face, noticing every bit of dirt caked into his skin and hair, and stepped back. “No,” she agreed, “I suppose not.”

She held his gaze for a few moments longer, and then walked to the window, observing him in the reflection behind her.

“You should go,” she said, her head turning halfway over her shoulder. “The ship will be leaving soon.”

She heard his cuffs clink as he stepped back. “Then I’ll be going. Goodbye, Queen Elsa.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and by the time she was ready to speak – to say anything at all – he had already left the room, the doors closed after him.

Alone, she found her gaze drawn to her father’s portrait once more. He continued to stare into the distance, never looking back at her—never seeing her, just as Hans had said.

She turned away from the painting at the thought, looking back towards the window, and regarded her reflection. It seemed different from before – as if her features had been imbued with a new and strange light – and she wondered if it was real, or just a trick of the sun as it escaped the clouds, illuminating the earth in a warm glow.

Is it so hard to believe that someone could see you as you really are?

Her heart thudded dully at the recollection as she stared, watching as her eyes sparkled like sapphires, a rare smile forming on her reflection’s lips.

“I see you,” she whispered to it, tracing those lips on the glass with her fingers.

Her tears fell even as her smile grew.

“Maybe for the first time.”

#helsa #helsaweek #helsaweek2020 #helsaweek 2020 #frozen #frozen fanfiction

[charliejrogers]

I’m Thinking of Ending Things (Or, What Many Will Think About Midway Through This Movie)

You may be expecting a long review for this movie. I mean, let’s be honest, I dissected the shit out of Birds of Prey, to the point that it was almost inappropriate for the kind of movie it was. But this movie? The arthouse classic-to-be from the much-revered Charlie Kaufman (both writer and director here), I’m Thinking of Ending Things? A movie filled to the brim with symbolism and which refuses to commut itself to any one point of view or plane or reality? This guy’s gonna write about it for fucking eternity.

Well, no. It won’t be the case. Why? Because I don’t think I really got it. Sure, I could try to wax poetic about my thoughts on aging, time, whether there’s meaning in relationships, meaning to our lives (all themes the film raises and which serve as its central core) But it would just kinda sound bullshit coming from me.

So, yeah, this isn’t much of a plot movie. It starts with a young woman (Jessie Buckley) waiting in the street of a snowy quiet country town’s downtown for her boyfriend, Jake, (Jesse Plemons) of one month (or longer?) so that the two can join Jake’s parents for dinner. Despite taking this proverbial big step in her relationship, she’s wondering (evoking the film’s title) whether she should end things. Or is that really what the title is about. Like everything in this movie, every piece of dialogue every character, every suggestion of a chronology, things are laden with a second meaning. Part of your enjoyment from the film will derive from whether or not you enjoy being strung along for 135 minutes without ever really understanding what’s going on, what’s really being said, who these characters really are, or when/where the hell are we in the world?

Despite those tantalizing and exciting questions, I’m here to warn you now, nothing big or exciting happens in this film, at least by conventional movie standards. We watch the couple drive to the Jake’s parents’ house and that takes about 25 minutes of film time. We’re in the house with his parents for probably about 45 minutes. Then the drive home takes another 20-25 minutes. The scenes about driving are just that: two people in a car talking to one another without much event. It’s like the car ride scenes from your favorite buddy/road trip movie but with all the fun adventures taken out. Instead what we get are long, confusing conversations more akin to Matthew McConaughey’s time spent in a car on True Detective.

But one thing becomes exceedingly clear when we finally get to Jake’s parents’ house: the film’s banal settings (a country road, a farmhouse, a rural high school) belie a truth about the film. It is not set in our reality. Jake and the woman’s conversation on the car ride is full of reflections on the nature of time, aging, depression, and life. Jake is a slightly insufferable intellectual. He’s the kind of guy who says he doesn’t know a whole lot about musical theater and then proceed to list 15-20 musicals of various fame and obscurity. The whole scene feels as quirky and just-shy of overwritten, i.e. par for the course of a pretentious art house film such as this. But the mannerisms of Jake’s parents are more than can be attributed to a quirky film. His mother is a jealous, possessive neurotic played by Toni Collette in a way only she could and a twitchy, and his father is a lecherous rival obsessed with his girlfriend played by David Thewlis (a favorite actor of mine). And throughout the meal, the confident, know-it-all we knew from the drive regresses into the behavior of a weak, embarrassed child. These are caricatures taken word from word from a textbook on Freudian psychology more than they are believable humans. The film admits and confirms the Freudian aping rather explicitly.

But just when you think you understand what the film’s up to, it switches course. After dinner, the woman starts to explore their house and starts a journey through time (but, again, with none of the excitement that sentence would normally imply.) It’s my second favorite sequence in the film (the first being an interpretive dance that occurs towards the film’s end… yes, it’s THAT kind of film). It’s filmed and framed in the trappings of a horror movie, but there’s no jump scares or horrible truth to be found. It’s how I imagine someone would adapt the tone of the superb video game Gone Home (yes, I’m one of THOSE people). But yeah, there’s no horrible truth… except if you consider the inevitability of human decay and disease to be a terrible truth. Every room the woman stumbles upon finds Jake’s parents appear to be a different age and health than when she first got to the house, ranging from a mother decked out in 50s/60s apparel to old, feeble gentleman. From there the movie continues to refuse to stay in one place and becomes odder and odder. It’s then I realized to think of this movie of a totally abstract piece of art, like the dream sequences of The Sopranos or Buffy.

So what do I think is going on? Obviously spoilers for here on out. Despite getting the majority of the screen time, this is NOT a movie about the young woman. At the very beginning of the film we are introduced, briefly, to an older, portly gentleman in his late 70s, looking out a window. The film cuts back to that exact same room and window 30 seconds later, but in the old man’s place is Jesse Plemons’ Jake. From that I take it to mean the two are the same person, with Plemons representing the older Jake younger self (or imagined younger self). Alongside the main plot, we occasionally get images and short scenes of the older Jake, a janitor at a rural high school who lives alone. The intellect (or perhaps false sense of intellect) of his younger self is clearly not meeting its potential. He is mocked by students for his age and fragility. What I think we’re watching is this older Jake trying to make sense of what it means to be old and who is currently on the verge of suicide unable to see its meaning. Although I compared the film to a dream sequence, I don’t think it’s fair to reduce the whole thing to Jake’s dream. More I feel like we are seeing a manifestation of Jake’s subconscious thoughts on screen play out.

Who is the young woman then? I’m not sure. I doubt she represents any actual woman – she’s given a variety of names. She almost plays the part of our (and his) guide into Jake’s subconscious like Virgil to Dante, but she’s more than a void. I think she represents what Jake would want in a woman in his life, a confident woman who can see through Jake’s faults (but notably sees them and sees them clearly). She’s not overtly sexual like the women at the ice cream who clearly make Jake uncomfortable. But yet, it’s telling that even in his deepest, most private thoughts that I think we’re seeing, he cannot imagine that even his ideal woman would want to be with him.

We get lots of reasons for why Jake thinks things are like this. Clearly he holds resentment for his parents, even if he feels like it’s cliché to do so. But time is his true nemesis. For me the most telling scenes for my understanding of the movie comes at the end with the interpretive dance, which shows Jake and the young woman (or, at least, stand-ins for those two) engage in a beautiful display of courtship, love, and marriage, only for the young Jake stand-in to be violently by a representation of the older janitor Jake. Clearly Jake thinks of his current self as something wholly distinct from his younger self, and that the creature he is now, a creature created by time, has destroyed who he once was. Like many of us (or as many of us think), he peaked in high school, the last place where people gave him awards for being who he is. This detail adds a sadness to the fact that he works as a janitor at one now. And it is notable that the film’s journey ends there, at a high school, where inexplicably he is being awarded a lifetime achievement award. Achievement in what? It’s unclear. What is clear that the person receiving the award is not the janitor Jake, but the younger Jake (Jesse Plemons) with old-age make-up on. With his dying breath he is able to see the self he loves, his younger self, grow up and live the life he wanted. There’s no sense at all of his present circumstances or person. Then we cut to a shot of janitor Jake’s truck buried in snow, presumably (on my interpretation) with janitor Jake frozen inside, dead.

So ultimately whether or not you like this movie depends on your tolerance for head-up-its-butt dialogue about the grand questions of life combined with its purposefully obtuse presentation. As one of the biggest douchebags I know, I liked it, but didn’t fall head over heels for it. The only other associated Kaufmann production I’ve seen is Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, but from what I understand, this movie is Kaufmann at its Kaufmann-iest. I have a great respect for the planning and thought behind every second of the film and I can honestly say I was never not entertained. I loved the film’s mood and atmosphere and that I was always on my toes. It’s a movie that truly has gotten better as I’ve continued to think about it over the last three days. But still, I don’t think I always understood what was going on and it’s a little too obtuse/abstract for it to be an all-time classic. I respect that for some people this may be their favorite movie of all time, and for others it may be a crock of shit. I’m somewhere in the middle, and cautiously recommend this film to those of you who are open to some abstract art in film. If you are, definitely try it out, you won’t forget it. If you are not open to it, skip it; you will have no qualms about endings things early.

***1/4 (Three and one-fourth stars out of four)

#charlie kaufman #i'm thinking of ending things

[clansayeed]

Bound by Choice ― I.i. The Godmaker and the Nile

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ PART I ⥽

— Rome, 44 B.C. 

The Roman Empire has reached a tipping point. A time of peace will drown in the blood of Caesar. Lovers open their home to hostiles, a seer withers under the burden of knowledge, and a lotus blooms in the moonlight.

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Valdas welcomes his Maker to Rome.

WARNING: this chapter contains explicit sexual content

note: This piece briefly references the events of Choices book: A Courtesan of Rome

[READ IT ON AO3]

Rome, 44 B.C.

“Would you abide anyone else keeping such ill time?”

“That’s not how this works, my love, and you know this.”

“How dare I expect a guest in our home to arrive in a timely manner.”

If there is more to be said Isseya does not say it; protests dying on her lips the moment she catches sight of red eyes and a dark brow arched particularly high.

He watches them fondly though — remembers being her age, the swell and ebb of passions in the body tumultuous to say the least. And, of course, their love knows it comes from a place of deep consideration and respect. They would never dare do him such an insult.

Cynbel comes up behind the pair of them, arms resting on waists both slender and cut of hard muscle. Leans in to inhale the breath of them with the faintest whisper of lips on their skin.

“Forgive her, Our Beloved One, she knows not of the matters she speaks.”

Which is the wrong thing to say; earns him a flash of bared teeth and her silken body wrenching from his touch. “Speak for me again and lose your tongue.”

“Not my favorite of your newfound habits, Isseya.”

“It keeps you quiet.”

Valdas croons at the bickering pair of them. All is forgiven in his touch.

“She’s gotten mouthy, Cynbel.”

“Really,” rolling his eyes, “I hadn’t noticed.”

When the anticipated lectica arrives over the sloping crest of hill at the edges of their estate attitudes change. Cynbel comes to Valdas’ left hand, Isseya at the right. Behind them the heartbeats of servants made to work well into the midnight hour rumble like dozens of tiny footsteps. Not that he holds any lingering attachment to the withering lives of mortals — but he hopes their guest doesn’t put them in need of even more help.

Isseya’s temper does that well enough on its own.

He chances a look out of the corner of his eye—finds he isn’t alone in the concern echoing in his younger lover’s dark gaze. Both of them roaming aching looks over their Maker’s expression for any hint or sign of discontent.

Godmaker or no, they would see themselves ripped limb from limb if it meant pleasing their beloved. Even going so far as to see the one who Made their Maker cast out from Rome, the Empire… even the coil of the living.

But they had their chance to talk Valdas out of allowing his Maker—a man never once mentioned before his announced arrival—under their roof. They had tried, and they had failed.

Now they must suffer the consequences.

The figure who steps out of the lectica is… not entirely what Cynbel had pictured when he was forced to accept the man as more than a figment. There’s a part of him that smirks proud when he sees his Beloved is taller. As though that matters somehow.

He, of course, towers over them all. But there lies nothing new.

Pale skin and dark hair that falls in well-groomed waves over his shoulders; a beautiful face framing eyes that bring to mind the far-off memory of sunny afternoons without a cloud in sight. The Godmaker is, as they all are, a creature of perfection. He would expect nothing less.

Though it would have been easier to be smug had he been a hideous cur of a thing. Vulcan, perhaps; powerful but wretched among his kind.

“Gaius,” says Valdas—and in a voice only his lovers would know as falsely placating—with arms offered wide and the barest bow of his head, “too long, too long.”

With pink lips, Gaius looks upon Cynbel’s Lord and God with a satisfied bemusement and smile. But he does not approach. Turns instead to brush aside the thick lectica curtains with the backs of his knuckles. When a hand grabs his from the vehicles depths Cynbel feels Valdas grow tense beside him. Knows no doubt Isseya’s anger has already tripled her wrath.

Who does he think he is, bringing a courtesan with him to a house not his own? The fucking gall.

There’s a familiarity to the vision of her that Cynbel must suffer. Complexion rich and warm with a dark-haired crown that falls to her shoulders. There they are bathed in moonlight and the woman’s eyes of kohl and sheer dress have her more suited to a morning the likes of which none gathered could ever see again.

All things that remind him of smoke and ash, of flames leaping to the skies and screams echoing from the deepest wells to the harbors near.

With the Godmaker’s attention turned to his whore, Cynbel reaches out to brush his fingertips along the inside of his lover’s wrist. The touch isn’t returned — doesn’t have to be. They have known one another in ways that would make the Roman pantheon tremble. It is enough.

“I offer to you your Queen Kamilah,” says the Godmaker without so much as a fucking glance, “and to you my darling, my first son Valdemaras and his line.”

His Queen. On the contrary, Cynbel was getting awfully tired of titles and royals and the whole mess of it. First Caesar and his Dictator Perpeuto nonsense, now this?

He came from a land before kings and emperors and dictator perpetui. What were kings compared to the wrath of gods? Better gods than the Romans imagined up, too. Ones who were not so easily swooned by gilded temples and soft gifts of incense, jewels, and other wealth.

Real gods demanded blood. And oh what riches they would give the one who offered the most…

The nod Valdas had given his Maker was minimal; the look he gives his supposed queen is even more so. Something cold in his dark gaze eases, though, as she spares him the same physical affection but has the decency to address him “Domine.”

Their God places a hand at either of their backs; ever one to flaunt his wealth. “Cynbel of the Riedones,” who bows because that is his place beneath them—she who joins him, “and Isseya of the Veneti.”

“Welcome to Rome.” And she hides her hatred of her role in this place well; gestures to the doors to the main house open behind them. Where candle light flickers and the smell of baked dates wafts on the wind. “A meal has been —”

“We have much to discuss, Valdemaras.”

Their darling stands frozen as if struck by a heavy hand. Interrupted, and on her own property. Some have been murdered for far less where they stand.

For the barest moment Cynbel, too, loses himself — lets his carefully schooled expression falter into a twisted snarl of anger and slit pupils. His mistake and not one to be repeated, not as Gaius glances between them utterly disinterested.

“Have you something to say?” And when they do not answer; “I thought as much.”

His hosts aren’t spared a second look. Could be no more than statues as he passes them with a flourish of his military cloak, his exotic Kamilah at his heels, and “Valdemaras, to me!” barked as a master summons his hound.

The remaining lovers are left standing on their own doorstep; nothing more than strangers. This is a new side to Valdas — one Cynbel has never seen… and wasn’t that a blessing he never knew he had.

Isseya pushes her way into his arms — Cynbel takes her gladly. Presses his lips on the seam of her hair and forehead and lets them linger.

“No wonder he never spoke of what made him.”

“Not all are as lucky as we.”

Her blunted teeth nip at his collarbone. “We were blessed by a god.”

“And no divine gifts come without a price. Consider this our Herculean trial.”

With her mouth twisted in the way it is nothing good could ever come of it — her sharp tongue an admirable trait in passion but easily confused for a dagger anywhere else — so he stifles her with an open-mouthed kiss; drinks in her words lest they get her killed.

The doors to the exedra are closed long enough for Isseya to grow bored of waiting, to force Cynbel’s hand in giving her a suitable enough distraction that she not risk their lover’s ire with foolish acts. And as things usually go when any form of punishment is involved the pair end up falling entangled on their bed; bare skin like fine art under the steady eyes of a dozen candles and in knots of flesh. Impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.

He leaves her smeared with blood and wine and other lovely things; Venus depicted in the fashion of those ravenous Old Gods. Has the decency to wait until she is sound asleep before gathering himself in a cloak for his nightly journey into the winding depths of Rome herself.

Can’t help himself when he stops at the doors still shut tight. Valdas’ muffled voice interrupted by his Maker — frequently.

The sight of Kamilah, a bright stain against the dark frescos that decorate the walls, is some comfort at the very least. They may not be worthy to disgrace the Godmaker’s presence but neither is she.

“Know this,” he waits until she looks him in the eyes before he says it, “among my beloveds and I you will never be named Queen.”

He would take the shift of honey to crimson in her eyes to be a challenge — were he not familiar with all of the other signs screaming out to him from her body. Familiar to him both before this life and no doubt long after it. For hunger is a pain not even the immortal can escape.

“Do so with care, but sup upon the staff if you need.” He expects her to take up the invitation right away and when she does not… “What, do you need the Godmaker’s permission for that?”

“I answer to no one.”

“Ah, she speaks,” and Cynbel isn’t shy in showing what amusement he gets from her frustration, “and here I was starting to wonder if she even understood Latin.”

“It is not… my birth tongue, no.”

“No, that would be the tongue of the Imperator’s little Pharaoh-wife, yes?”

She may have been looking at him before, but now Kamilah seems to see him for the first time. The hunger there, ever-lurking as it always did with their kind, but wrangled back against sharp intelligence.

Reminds him a bit of Isseya, to be honest.

“Do all Romans speak so crassly about the Pharaoh?”

“Are you daring to assume me Roman?”

“He who speaks Latin in the city of Rome thinks himself anything other than a Roman?”

She is not outwardly wrong, and that she speaks her mind is a refreshing thing from an outsider. He loves them dearly, his God and his kin, but three hundred years is ample time for mortality to begin to bore him.

“No, they do not,” he finally answers, “but I have seen the splendor of Alexandria with mine own eyes. That she thinks Rome more amenable is… not a proof of her wit, at the least.”

So much of the moonlight has already been wasted waiting for belated guests. Any longer here dawdling and he won’t make it to his appointment.

So Cynbel does the unthinkable. He offers her his arm.

“I have an engagement I cannot miss. You can drink your fill of the streets. My Beloved One and the Godmaker may be hours yet.”

Kamilah stands but leaves his offer untouched. “And your wife?”

“My what?”

“The lady—Isseya.”

The mere thought of it—enough to curdle the last remaining drops of his pleasure. “— is not my wife. Worry not, my beloved is well-filled in more ways than one and needs to sleep it off.”

A quip even the strongest of wills could not resist. One that makes the woman recoil from him as if burned by sunlight and makes Cynbel throw his head back in laughter. Something the men with their whispers and secrets can no doubt hear.

It stands to reason Valdas and this Kamilah are of the same ilk, but as Cynbel learns on the road to town that could not be further from the truth.

“No wonder you look wasted away,” and he actually does feel sorry for her and the hunger gnawing at her flesh and bones, “the world is not as it was when I was Turned… armies marching across the world this way and that. How irksome it must be to fill your newborn belly.”

Kamilah’s brow ticks slightly. It does that a lot, he’s noticed. “I want for nothing, and take what I desire.”

“Or does the Godmaker offer it to you on lavish plates?”

As the letica brings them further through the winding chambers of Rome’s heart she watches, doesn’t answer until they are deep enough within.

“Why do you call him such?”

“What name do you carry for him?”

No matter how many bastard babes are born of Caesar and Cleopatra the reality remains the same. Two lands, two empires at war with one another for so long cannot be united by such meager means as legal marriages or parentage. The Romans will always want more. The Egyptians will never let them have it. That much is known.

And seen, too, in the way Kamilah turns away from the sights of the city with revulsion. “In my lands he is known as the Undying Centurion. No more than a rumor whispered among encampments to keep one alert through the night watch.”

“Doubtful that rumors have such sharp teeth.”

“As I learned firsthand.” Does she know the ghost of her hand across her throat, fingertips lingering on gold glittering there; a priceless apology?

Their eyes meet across the darkness of the space. Finally Cynbel shrugs.

“He is the Godmaker because he is, simple as that. He that gave blood and life to Our Beloved, the Made-God Valdemaras.”

“Gods cannot be made.”

“No?” Memories of the old days brighten in his eyes, bring a wistful smirk to his lips as his tongue snakes out to taste the memory of bloodshed long gone. “Such a shame. I shall have to break the news to him kindly.”

He owes this woman nothing and no word likewise. Her people have had gods and temples long before she was born; will no doubt have them long after her immortality has run out. Unless she is of wicked luck — a great possibility judging by her sharp wit.

She could never understand life before her great empire. The kind of life led by wanderers; by those the Romans called heathens and Gauls. How it felt to find a voice in the neverending silence of solitude — to have it call her name. To have it desire her, crave her; taste of her and let her taste in return.

Because his business is better left uninterrupted, and because Kamilah draws the eyes of every beggar and market keep the moment he helps her out onto the streets proper, he undoes the fastening on his cloak and places it neatly over her shoulders. Leaves no room for arguments as he waves off the carriers and begins the now-familiar journey onward.

At least she can keep up.

He watches her turn her nose up at several of the beggars that slumber on the streets of their route. “Tell me Alexandria has no urchins and I will call you a liar.”

“I’m sure they are plenty.”

“Then try not to look so fucking insulted by their presence. For however long you and the Godmaker stay in Rome creatures such as these will be your lifeblood.”

Starve for long enough and one learns to turn away nothing, not even the skeletal throats of Rome’s disgraces.

His words hang in the heavy night air between them. Nothing more than a mention but the question, once begged, cannot be undone. How long will they be here? How long will the home of his darling and Their Beloved be spoiled by their presence?

And what toll will it take on Valdas; who already seemed weaker at the mere thought of his Maker taking breath nearby?

“You share his bed.”

To Kamilah’s credit, she isn’t phased. “Indeed.”

“And his secrets, do you share those as well?”

“Would I share them with you if I did?”

He looks at her sharply. “Why have you come to Rome?” Why have you come to ruin everything we’ve built?

But the answer lies not on her lips; rather in her gaze. The warm glow of the nearest torches casting shadows deep on her cheek and a defiance that he’s sure was part of her allure — part of what the Godmaker saw in her.

She doesn’t know, and it’s killing her.

“I see.” Stepping back; continuing along the cobbled streets as they twist and turn deeper into the labyrinth of poverty and strife. All familiar sights to him by now.

“How much further?” Kamilah asks eventually and the lisp of her words is familiar. Even the filth of urban living cannot quench her thirst.

“Patience, little lotus, patience.”

They arrive. Cynbel comes to an abrupt stop in front of a darkened doorway; the wood thin and torch still smelling heavy of scorched oil. Behind him Kamilah takes in the length of the alley with a furrowed brow. This part of the city is heavy; with death as much as life.

Both are hard realities to face. “It will fade with time,” he tells her unprompted; doesn’t know why… maybe because he needs her quiet, complacent — maybe because he remembers the youth of this life less fondly than the rest, “see a lifetime or two and their faces blur until you look at them as you would a beast before supper.”

He raps harsh knuckles against the door. Thin wood trembles — holds.

“How many lifetimes have you seen?”

Cynbel doesn’t answer.

The door opens to a young man, olive face messily framed by dark curls and eyes still trying desperately to cling to sleep. Cynbel knows he’s expected, but says nothing. Has been here enough times to know this one, the third son if memory serves, apprentices early with the tanner.

“Domine,” he greets, steps aside as always to allow entry but the sight of Kamilah behind makes him falter.

“I trust my guest will be shown the same hospitality.” It isn’t a question. The boy nods; silently takes in her beauty before he remembers his place and moves out of the way.

As with most doorways he ducks over the threshold as he enters. Feels Kamilah keep pace beside him as the tanner’s boy fumbles through the dark to lead them onward. The vampires accompanying him, however, have no such trouble.

The boy stops in front of a closed door and opens it without announcement. “Nona, he’s here.”

The rest of the house may have found rest but Nona, his appointment, has not. Likely that she hasn’t in some time judging by the dark circles under her eyes and the sluggish way she looks at her visitors from the middle of her bedroll.

She rubs the heels of her palms into her eyes and blinks away her sleeplessness. Moves to clamor her frail body up but Cynbel raises a hand to stop her. “Don’t exert yourself. I apologize for my tardiness.”

“I knew you would be late.”

“Mm, I should have expected such. I have —”

“— a guest.” I knew that, too, says her tone.

When the visitors are fully inside young Nona’s room, the boy is content to leave them; is always content to leave his youngest sibling in the company of a strange man with how well he pays the family.

Rather he than another, Cynbel justifies.

“Before you go I have a request,” he ignores the speeding of the man’s young and struggling heart, “bring your elder brother. My guest has need of him.”

Kamilah takes offense, that much is obvious. But the brother nods with a mumbled “yes, domine,” and departs.

“I promised you a meal for joining me.”

“What are we here for?” When Nona lights the candle nearest her Kamilah takes the girl’s gaunt face in fully; the blazing in her eyes purely human, purely a woman’s concern. “Cynbel, enough.”

“You do not command me.”

“If you harm her —”

She’s cut off by a trembling Roman hand. Cynbel takes it in his own, brushes his thumb over her knuckles until the spasms cease. For all of the venom in Kamilah’s warning Nona does not look at her with fear or fright. At first Cynbel had taken it to be the ignorance of youth but now — now he knows better.

Now he knows she is simply too tired to be afraid.

He takes his usual seat beside her and, as always, Nona lets him carry the heavy burden of her. Closes her eyes as his fingers card through her hair and breathes — so very, very human.

“You look unwell.”

“A fever, nothing more.” But it’s a lie. Told not for his benefit but for hers. Willful ignorance to the thing that’s eating her alive. He can do nothing more for her than he already has — not without gaining his lovers’ attentions. And this, her, is better left a secret for everyone’s sake.

But Kamilah… well. There’s opportunity in youth. Valdas saw that in him, as he sees it in her. Perhaps loyalties have not been cemented just yet.

Obviously the Godmaker cannot keep all of those he creates chained.

“Have you the strength to keep our appointment then?” he asks; voice barely above a whisper.

The ninth daughter sighs—sags with the weight of it—and picks herself up from him. “Yes.”

Kamilah, now no more than an insect on the wall, watches the girl as she brushes aside golden hair, places two fingers on the vampire’s temple. A shudder overtakes her and he feels the coil of the woman’s muscles, readying herself to break the building’s foundations to separate them.

“Ease yourself, Kamilah Sayeed, the Golden Son will not harm me yet.”

And doesn’t that do it — freezes her like painted marble in shock and building confusion.

“How… do you know my name?”

“Nona here knows many things.” He answers. Leaves the daughter of Egypt breathless.

“A seer?”

“Of a sort. She knows that which was, is, and may yet be.”

They are watched with rapture, Kamilah taking in the full understanding of what this young girl is, of what they do here.

But before she can speak again the door opens at the return of her brother, now joined by another; similar in face but taller, more filled around the edges.

Gingerly Cynbel removes Nona’s hand and he nods to Kamilah. “Go and feed. I trust the Godmaker has taught you how and I do not need to hold your hand.”

“You are mad — to think I would leave you alone with her.”

“Didn’t you hear the girl?” He certainly had.

He will not harm me… yet.

Yet. A new and ne’er-before-spoken prophecy. An answer to a question he did not yet know to ask for.

Perhaps it is the presence of so many eyes that causes the younger vampire to relent; though with no attempt to mask her unwillingness. Or, more likely, the hunger has simply become too much. Draws her to the newcomer like a moth to a torch out of the bedroom and back the way they had come.

This time he closes the door himself.

Cynbel sags against the doorway; an exhaustion and release only three people have ever been given privilege to see. One of them is in this room — and is only allowed so because she is not long for this world. He takes comfort in that.

“It was as you said. The Godmaker came and he did not come alone.”

He turns to see Nona’s eyes swimming with tears. How they sparkle in the flickering flame; how they dance. They bring him to her side in an instant and she does not fear what he is — not anymore. Lets them fall because she knows he’s there to brush them away before they pool at her chin.

“Each time… I hope — I hope I’m wrong. Just once. All it will take is once.”

Sometimes he wishes that, too. Especially given what she told him the last time they met. Her words echoing like the bells of war in his head.

“Until that day there is work to be done, sweet girl.” Not that she’s given a choice; he takes her hand and places it back at his temple. No more distractions, no more excuses. “You promised.”

One he intends for her to keep until her dying breath. Whether it come tonight or a decade from now.

And when her head hangs he holds that up, too. Grasps her chin firm and clear.

“You promised me, Nona. You promised.”

“I promised.”

“Yes, you did. And I will not leave until I get my answer. I need to know, Nona darling. I need to know the events you foresaw; why—how—or-or when, when Valdas is going to kill me.”

That the brother is left teetering on the edge of his own grave doesn’t come as a surprise when Cynbel finally allows Nona to rest.

“Too busy pouting petulant to heal him?” He scoffs and pushes Kamilah aside, hauls the boy up carelessly by the arm. The wounds aren’t messy — she learned how to make a clean and almost untraceable kill at the very least.

Listen to him. He sounds like a tamed beast. Where oh where have gone the days of cracked-open ribs and hearts left to bloom bloody in the sunlight?

He’s met with no more than a kohl-rimmed glare, huffs an angry “fine, I’ll do it myself,” before opening a fanged mouth and puncturing the flesh of his palm. There’s nothing ‘concerned’ in the way he smears his blood across the boy’s neck and drops him back on the stone bench to rest.

“I need information only she can provide. So for now — try not to let her brother bleed out like a suckling pig!”

“Raise your voice at me and learn what happens to those who do.”

Raw as he is her attitude is the last thing he needs. Needs, instead, the comfort of bodies tangled with his very much alive and very much not rotted from the inside out. I won’t let it happen. I won’t, I won’t.

I’ll save us both, sweet girl. This vision will not come true.

His rage is blind; finds him with a hand around Kamilah’s neck squeezing just shy of popping the damned thing off, finds him back in the alley with splintered wood digging needles into his bare arms.

“Go on then,” he seethes, can taste the blood on her breath so close to him and doesn’t shy away from the cravings that bring out a harder edge, “belly full and the Godmaker as your own — you may very well put up a decent fight.

“But I’ve been doing this for over three hundred years, little newborn. When it comes down to it, you simply will not survive me.”

Maybe she will. If Nona’s vision comes to pass — most certainly she will.

Cynbel wrenches himself away; looks down at his hands and can’t stop — can’t stop seeing his own blood slick there, the feeling of cold steel sliding warm inside him. It makes him feel weak; fragile in a way the hunter had thought himself incapable of any longer.

Finite in a way only they could cure.

When his eyes flicker up he sees Kamilah standing there, unwounded, and a cool clarity to that which looks back. Young though she may be, hers was never a body to inhabit a fool.

She knows. Maybe not the truth, maybe not even the vision both he and the little seer have suffered thrice now. But she knows something has him scared.

I won’t. I can’t.

I —

Each time he visits Nona he knows. Knows the eyes he feels on the back of his neck with each brand his lovers burn onto his lips in kisses belong to Kamilah. Knows that the little lotus with her honey-golden gaze and her silent stoicism is well aware of his activities even if Valdas and Isseya are not. That each time he returns before the first dregs of morning light bleed into the skies above this strange youngling creature knows more of him than the bodies with whom he has shared everything.

How relieving it is to have that; not to bear the weight of his burden alone. To feel as though if he ever did need to confide in another — not that he would — that he could corner her rather than leave the thoughts to fester and rot in his head.

The Godmaker and his Queen take to Rome with ease. Cynbel and Isseya watch in the shadows at each forum, each congregation as Valdas is forced to flaunt his Maker to yet another member of the Senate, yet another decorated General and heralded soldier. Gaius wins each of them over with ease. And when Kamilah finally chooses to open her pretty mouth so does she.

“Another foreign delight to grace these halls,” muses a portly scholar over the lip of his wine, “though one must wonder if she carries the same wit.”

Judging by the look she skillfully hides behind the curtain of her hair, one must not wonder at all.

As Cynbel and Isseya are never far from their god’s side, so is Kamilah similarly close to Gaius. The five of them becoming something of a fixture in Roman society.

So when she is absent on one of the most important nights of the season it’s not something to be missed. As if Isseya’s glee could be contained.

Dutifully at her side — they always must play the married patrons in these affairs, it’s become something of a game between the pair of them — Cynbel watches Marc Antony take his Isseya’s hand to bestow a kiss to the back.

“Your hospitality may very well outlive us,” croons the General against her skin; Isseya preens under the attention—always has, “I had hoped to attend one of your forums upon my return and, may I say, it far exceeds my expectations.”

“What is beauty without a gathering to appreciate it?” And maybe lesser men would feel the first knots of jealousy in the way she looks at the General through half-lidded eyes. But both of her lovers know this game she plays; that she would just as soon bed him as she would eat his tongue right out of his mouth.

Honestly he can see the appeal.

Antony’s head raises to roam eyes over Cynbel, who takes the look in stride. There is always an exchange of power to be had in moments like these. To challenge that exchange is to challenge a man personally. Sometimes there’s nothing he would like better.

He knows the things whispered when they think the sun-haired man who towers over them cannot hear. That they gossip about his sexual activities is no insult to him, but rather an unknowing insult to their own ignorance.

But they are Roman. Ignorance is as much a part of their trade as war and conquering.

He greets Cynbel, “Pathicus,” yet the smirk falls from his expression at the near-delighted grin it pulls to light.

Would the Godmaker not threaten wrath for ruining the evening, Cynbel would take immense pleasure in affronting the man further. Perhaps falling to his knees with a sweeping gesture to lift up the leathers of Antony’s uniform to publicly suck his --

“Here I was under the impression we were to be graced with beauty this night. Yet all I see is Marc Antony.”

Valdas speaks to the man as an equal when he approaches—Godmaker at his side with the same smugness radiating from him as always. Their Beloved has always spoken to the General as if they were old friends but such is how the game is played.

His lovers know the truth; know the only reason Antony respects his outsider’s opinion in the Senate is for the military clout he earned in order to make them comfortable here.

“No mortal man can have it all.” The men clasp hands in familiar greeting. Out of everyone gathered for their salon only the four vampires present notice the momentary strain of Antony’s muscles — how he tries and fails to win in a silent contest of wills.

“Not that it stops him from trying.”

Valdas withdraws for no sake of his own. Steps back as he’s done a dozen times this last fortnight and offers up Gaius on a marble dais.

“I present Gaius Augustine, my mentor.”

Antony looks between them with a curious frown. Comes to the same conclusion as everyone has insofar; out of the pair of them one would not assume Valdas as the junior of the pair.

But unlike the others Antony has the stones to address it. “Not quite removed from the prime of your youth, Augustine?”

“My life has been blessed by many gods, and in many ways,” Gaius does not allow Antony the option of turning away his hand, “but the pleasure is mine. I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time, General.”

Valdas gestures wordlessly for a servant bearing a jug of wine to approach; gives both men a smile and dismissing nod before he turns to bask in the eyes of his devoted ones.

Isseya’s irritated frown isn’t lost on him, brings him to her side with an arm swept around her waist and lips tickling at her temple. “Ease yourself, darling. You look positively murderous.”

“Am I out of place to think it?” she snaps; uses the folds of Cynbel’s toga to mask the intertwining of their fingers at a shared side.

“Of course not. Were I a mortal to have heard the word uttered with mine own ears he’d not have a mouth with which to say it a second time.”

Fuck, he’s so in love with them. “It means nothing to me.”

“It does to them,” Isseya jerks her chin to the gathering of hogs called men of status and learning, “which ultimately is all that matters.”

“Not tonight.”

And it’s the first time his lovers have seen the Valdemaras they worship since the Godmaker’s arrival. Cool and calm and in control of everyone; everything around him because he will always be generations ahead of even the brightest mind.

The sight is as beautiful as it is terrifying. Beautiful in that any flicker of the vengeful god he fell in love with is desperately needed, and terrifying in that there’s a part of Cynbel that thinks — against his wishes — of Nona’s prophecy looming ever-closer.

Valdas sips his wine as he continues — low enough that only they may hear; “The only thing that matters tonight is securing the attentions of both Antony and the Pharaoh Cleopatra. If they cannot be convinced to be complicit they must be ignorant — such is our only chance.”

Cynbel has a hard time imagining Antony joining the ranks of conspirators that Valdas has aligned himself with. “It is decided then?”

“If not in words, in spirit.”

“I heard a courtesan attempted the same act mere days ago.” Isseya smiles at the stares both her lovers give her; basks in them. “You have to admire a woman such — think us demure and reap a barren harvest.”

“Rest assured, Isseya my sweet, not even fools would call you demure.”

His words earn a snort from Cynbel, who quickly covers it up with a large bite of stuffed date plucked from the closest tray. Lucky for them all attention is being rapidly soaked up by the final guest to arrive for the evening.

Not every day even they host a real Queen.

Isseya takes her leave of them with grace; parts the crowd with her mere presence and begins the well-rehearsed placations of the Egyptian beauty.

Neither Cynbel nor Valdas miss the hunger that gleams in Gaius’ eyes; bright even with the vast room between them — a chasm and the Godmaker the hydra at its bottom.

His god takes him bodily; fills the void left by her with every inch of him. That he does so without a drop of concern for the thoughts of others will always baffle him. It shouldn’t.

Valdemaras always gets what he desires.

“Shame the little lotus would miss tonight of all nights.” He sighs; an afterthought. Only in that it reminds him of his appointment come the next night.

“All this care to conceal ourselves and you would choose now, with the rewards close at hand, to expose us?”

There’s an edge of surprise he isn’t expecting and it’s enough to tear him away from brief glimpses of turquoise veils and the sudden thundering of over a dozen heartbeats. Valdas, too, seems unsure of what he means.

But before he can speak, Valdas gives an “ah,” and understands.

“Kamilah and the Pharaoh are kin. Distant cousins, if I’m remembering correctly. To see her here after she was presumed dead is a risk Gaius will avoid at all costs.”

Suddenly her lashing tongue back that first night makes all the more sense. Though…

“If he worries so about exposure perhaps he ought not to leave so many bodies in the streets.”

“My Maker was never one to allow himself to suffer hunger, true enough.”

“We’ve been in Rome nearly a lifetime. Eventually we will have to retreat. It will be the only thing left.”

“I’ve been thinking the same.”

Cynbel’s eyes flutter closed, the touch of a soldier’s roughened palm tickling at his jaw as his god demands of him a kiss; such a meager offering in comparison to the rewards he receives for it. Allows the bend of him to conceal them for the most part — gods do not raise themselves to meet their supplicants.

“And where will we go after Rome is behind us?”

“Anywhere you and our darling girl desire.”

Still blinded, he can’t help the twitch of a grimace those words expose in him.

“And who will join us?”

Valdas’ grip grows tight on his chin; forces him to look into the eyes of his Lord and love. How could he ever hurt me? When even the necessary death-into-rebirth gave him such sorrow? You’re wrong, seer, you’re wrong.

“None,” says Valdas clipped — even angry perhaps, “none but you and I and Isseya. How it has always been and how it will always be from now until the end of time.”

Cynbel doesn’t mean for the word to come out so broken, it does anyway.

“Promise.” A demand of divinity. His first, though not his last.

“I vow—for this and every turn of the sun onward. I vow, Cynbel my Golden Son, I vow.”

The last two words breathed into his lungs, the world around them nothing more than a muted fog on the moors of his human life. He vows. So it must be true.

It must.

definitions:

lectica: an open vehicle transported by two or more carriers often used by nobility and the rich elite

exedra: an exterior room in the shape of a semi-circle, one suitable for conversation

‘Pathicus’: a (blunt) term for the receptive partner in the sexual relationship between two men; intended as an insult that Cynbel takes with pride

#bloodbound #gaius augustine #kamilah sayeed #bloodbound fanfiction #choices fanfiction #oc: cynbel #oc: valdas #oc: isseya #oc: nona #oblv: bound by choice #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

[blightmantra]

@dlishmagi​ said: Anchor in meltdown and Taeros in constant pain, he watches the Qunari rush through the eluvian, and he only gives pause to his chase to look back at Symphony. Eyes focus on hers and he bites his lip. Will he be back? No, he will come back; he must. But still, he doesn’t leave without an “I love you”, accompanied with a quick signing before leaving through the eluvian. And when he returns... It’s after what feels like ages, legs giving out almost immediately. His left arm, gone.

       he promised her a life together, away from all this after years of putting her fragile heart through so much suffering. symphony never thought it possible, if she were being completely honest. she never thought there would ever be a future with him. why would there be? his life was not his own to promise to another, it had always belonged to the inquisition and even mythal herself. he was unafraid and forever prepared to lay down his life on his whim for his cause, of course he would die young. she need not be shocked on the day of his death, because it was forever looming around every corner like a shadow. what a terrible thing it was mourn her love when he still yet lived.

       it wasn’t until he asked to marry her that she realized he had intentions of living past tomorrow. he wanted to devote his life to her happiness and share a lifetime with each other. he wanted to live for her.

       maybe it was finally time to put her guard down. she was to be his wife one day, and she had a life together to look forward to. they need only brave this storm together and only then will nothing ever tear them apart again. they would marry under the stars with their families at their sides, they would share a home and have children, and if the creators were kind they would grow old together.

       he PROMISED her this.

       blood trickled down her temple as they all regained their footing and caught their breath. after defeating on onslaught of demons, qunari, a monstrous beast such as saarath, as well as the shockwaves that taeros’ mark that sent her back hitting the pavement over and over again... her body finally said no more. her bones ached with every movement she made and she was only able to stand with the help of bull. their road ended here. in their weakened state, viddasala would surely kill them all one by one before killing solas. they needed to look for some other way to help him before his arm killed him and everyone around him.

       as her mind raised to think of something, anything in that moment, eyes drifted towards taeros who stood in front of the final eluvian. his own eyes cast an apologetic look at the three, but mainly at symphony. not once had she ever seen that look. it was a new one, and everything in her PRAYED it wasn’t what she think it was.

       she slowly shook her head. ‘ no... ’ she continued to shake her head. ‘ you’ll die. she’ll kill you... ’ she assumed her fear had vanished when he had promised a life together. the nightmare was finally over and she need not fear anything in this world ever again. this is what he had promised to her.

       i love you, he signed. and just like that he turned away from her, possibly turning away from the life they could have shared and the memories they could have formed. he turned it all away because it was something that world demanded he do. the world was being plunged into chaos yet again and he was the only choice they had, even if he had no chance to stop any of it all. even if it would could kill him.

       she gaped at his figure as he disappeared into the mirror, frozen in place as if she could not believe what she was witnessing. in a matter of seconds the once glowing mirror shattered and instead grew murky and unusable. taeros was gone. all three of them were left baffled.

       ‘ no... ’ she was the first to break the silence, moving to make her way closer to the eluvian only to be held back by bull. ‘ let go of me! ’ she shoved his arms away, causing her to stumble to the floor momentarily. she struggled to get on her feet again, but the moment she did she climbed the stone rubble that doubled as steps to the broken eluvian. heart pounded in her ears until it was all she could hear as she climbed, scraping her knees and hands in the process. 

       once she had finally reached to the top, all she was met with was her own teary reflection. her reflection shifted and swayed almost like bloody water, and she watched her own face fall, the gravity of the situation dawning on her. taeros was actually gone.

       ‘ no... no, no, no, no, this can’t be, ’ her breath grew rapid as she pressed her hands against the mirror, unable to enter it. after several attempts she began to pound on the mirror. ‘ no, this can’t be, this isn’t right! he... ’ the lump in her throat grew larger and larger until she could no longer speak. she dug her nails into the edges in an attempt to tear out the frames, searched the back of the mirrors as if it would hold to key to reopening it once again. it was an upsetting sight watching her scramble to do the impossible.

       ‘ please... ’ she squeaked out, pounding on the mirror one final time. ‘ he promised we would be together forever. ’

       she fell to her knees, wracked with grief. defeated. that could have been possibly the very last time she would ever see him again, and she just stood there and watched him do it. allowed him to walk into his own death without berating him and telling him how stupid of an idea that was. did she also have a share in the blame of all of this? she would never forgive herself if that was the case. the world had finally gotten what it wanted.

       ‘ come back... ’ she watched her reflection let out a mournful weep. 

       cole sat cross legged beside her, mourning with her as she buried her face in her hands. the sun was quick to set as they waited until it grew cold and uncomfortable. she would wait an eternity for him if she could. she would plant herself like an unmovable tree, watching and waiting for him to come back to her just like he always did. flowers would sooner bloom from her bones before she would ever leave this mirror.

       and an eternity they waited, or something similar in feeling, before there grew a stir within the mirror’s murky reflection. ‘ symphony, look! ’ cole let out an excited gasp, gently shaking her shoulder after momentarily forgetting that she could not hear him. for a second she considered ignoring him, afraid that he would suggest finally leaving the mirror, accepting his fatal fate. but she spared a glance upward, almost blinding herself as they all watched the eluvian flicker and shimmer until it lit up the darken environment, breathing back to life.

       the first thing that they noticed was his arm extending outwards, before a foot came to lead him out. ‘ taeros... ’ she let out a gasp, but unfortunately it was a short lived excitement as he came stumbling to the floor, landing right on her lap as she was ready to catch his fall. ‘ love, i’m here, ’ she cupped his cheeks, investigating his face to see if she could notice any recognition in his eyes. it seems he was falling in and out of consciousness.

       ‘ he’s badly hurt... ’ cole’s voice shook as he pointed at his arm. symphony tore her eyes away from his face to look at... his arm. it was gone, even his mark. his warm blood trickled and stained her legs. it was than that her instincts as a healer kicked in.

       ‘ bull, we need to leave now, ’ she commanded, calling on her magic to at least help slow the bleeding for now. making quick work to remove of her armor and top, she tore at her clothes until only her undershirt protected her from the cold. she used the torn cloth to stop the bleeding further as bull made his way closer to him. her heart raced but she refused to let panic set in. ‘ we need to get him back to the winter palace this instant. ’ thankfully the qunari didn’t need to be told twice, watching him as he effortlessly lifted him into his arms, careful not to disturb the bandaged stump that was once his arm.

       it was an intensive procedure but they were quite lucky that taeros wasn’t awake for most of it. he had lost of a lot of blood and needed several stitches to help seal off the severe wound. he would be weak for several weeks, but knowing her love, sym had a feeling that he would be walking by tomorrow.

       his return caused such a dramatic uproar between the notabilities in attendance but at the very least they had the common decency to allow him time to recover in peace without having nations hounding him with questions and demanding answers from his still recovering mind.

       her heart was weak by the end of it all, and refused to leave his side until he opened his eyes again whenever that may be. she watched his pale face as he struggled to breathe in his slumber and she couldn’t help but feel guilt slowly creep into the back of her mind. she was afraid of what his reaction would be, knowing he would not take the news of his missing limb well.

       ‘ i’m so sorry, my love, ’ she whispered to him, hoping he could somehow hear her from the fade. she leaned down to press a hard kiss to his forehead before resting her head on his chest, drifting off into her own slumber.

       it had been a handful of hours since she had last slept, but really, it had been YEARS since she had last rested.

#dlishmagi #CHAR || * Symphony #long post cw #|| AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #|| READ UP BITCH

[siarven]

NaNoWriMo Update #4 - Final

Hello friendsssss!

It is 01:49 on the first day of freedom except I’m moving straight into fluffcember *eyebrow wiggle* but shhh I have no idea how long I will keep up with that xD (yes it took me that long to decide on an excerpt shush)

...and I am tired... 

but also happy?

I wrote maybe 35k that can actually stay in the story. Which are words that I like, which I am going to keep. Which is far too little considering that this is what my final statistic looks like-- 

But then I remembered something!

I also did a lot of worldbuilding lore, and I figured out my DAMN PLOT, something I WAS STUCK ON SINCE MARCH, and my characters make so much more sense now, and I had a breakthrough regarding the changes I made to the characters, and how it’s going to affect the ending, and ahhhhhh the ending is WORSE now, but ALSO SO MUCH BETTER, and more meaningful, and asdkfjsldf

I may be dissatisfied with how many words actually ended up in the manuscript, but I shouldn’t discount all the words I used to discover things about my world, and to explain it to myself in ways that made sense, and to have an actual reference library of my own world that I can look at when I forget details. Before, all my stuff was... partially from 2014, partially still accurate, some of it from 2016, some of it from last year, pieces of all of them still right, but most not ... and some files are still like that. 

BUT I CLEANED UP SO MUCH, AND IT MAKES SENSE NOW.

I can’t discount that.

So while I may be very dissatisfied with the wordcount that ended up in my manuscript, I got damn far in terms of transitioning into the third draft, and making it easier for myself in the long run, AND FIGURING OUT THE DAMN ENDING. :’)

AND I WROTE A TON OF WORDS!!!! Even if most of them are stupid. XD

So heyyyy 

Excerpt

Here is a smol excerpt, from Elinor’s POV, below the cut... It’s very first-draft-y, and I’m still not sure about her character voice. Or any of that. But this is the gist of it, and I hope you like it :’)

You do not wait when you get summoned by the Regulator.

You dress in your best clothes, get your hair tidy, make sure to polish the Mask, and then you leave. You make sure not to run so you don’t sweat when you get there, but you do walk fast. 

You do not let the Regulator wait.

My thoughts are in shambles when I arrive at his estates. I’m still not over meeting my sister and mother, but even less over… the other thing.

Can’t even think about it. Too much tied to that, too much pain, and—

Take a deep breath.

You can do this. 

…I can do this.

While the rest of the city is basically a collection of houses stuck on top and next to each other, sorted into Levels and made to stabilize each other into tower form, Level Eight isn’t quite like that. It’s more like a million individual rooms than houses, haphazardly called Asimdrium. I still think it’s not an actual word, but everyone calls it that, so I guess it’s one now?  

The only place that doesn’t fit is the sprawling complex belonging to the Regulator. He rarely leaves it, only adding to all that mysticism… and now he’s summoned me here. I never much thought about him before—everyone meets the Regulator once in their lives, during the Testing, but few see him again after that. 

What does he want from me? And why in the dead of night instead of at a more reasonable hour? I have to get up early tomorrow. It’s not fair—

He’s probably busy. I shouldn’t question him like that. 

… no, in fact I mustn’t. He’s the most powerful man in Merreadon. The second most-powerful one in the entirety of the Empire… 

And he knows my name.

Alright, to be fair… he knows everyone’s name. Still, he does not summon most people to his office at such a late time. 

I take a deep breath— …I hope it's not connected to Ben… —knock on the door to his office. 

Nothing moves, and nothing happens. For a few moments I just stand there, heart straining against my ribcage, fluttering like a caged bird, trying to escape with every iota of its feeble strength. 

Close my eyes. 

Take a step back.

He will answer my knocking. 

He summoned me.

It feels like ages until the door finally moves, basically noiselessly. 

I kind of expected there to be someone else, a secretary, maybe, someone like that. 

But no.

It's the Regulator himself, in all his scary glory. 

He is the only one with a Mask quite like this, this… creepy. He is also the only one with such an imposing presence, or, well, at least here. There must be others in the other big cities, or at least in the capital cities of the different provinces.

“Good evening, Elinor Arborea”, he says. His voice is calm. Basically inflectionless. For a moment I have this really weird scene in my head in which he stands in front of a mirror, practising how to creep people out the most, testing around with the way he says certain words. Of course he's much younger in that scene.

…though it's really hard to tell how old he even is, exactly? And somehow that gives me hope. If he's not dead yet, the rumours must be true. There must be a way.

“Good evening, Regulator. Sir”, I say, trying to sound as dignified as I can manage. I kind of fail, but, well, I haven't had time to practise in front of the mirror, either. You have to take what you can get, right? And I don’t even have a mirror. 

I can't tell what he thinks at all, I can't even see his eyes behind the Mask. It's like there's a shadow clinging to it, hiding every sign of him being an actual person. Maybe he isn't one? Has anyone ever seen the Regulator without Mask? Maybe he's dead. Maybe he's just a walking corpse—

“You know already”, he says. For a second, I am terrified that he can read my mind, and that he’s addressing my corpse-fears. Then I realize that he must be talking about Ben. No… 

“Yes.” My heart is going mad. I can feel it. It won't be long until it escapes.

“In that case I will spare you the explanation.  As you probably know very well, you are a talented and hardworking young woman, showing great promise within the Asimdrium. I have been paying special attention to you for a while now, and today that might… pay off. For both of us.” He pauses. I have no idea what to say, and besides, there’s only dread and fear inside of me. I wish I’d never come. 

“Your brother is of… let us say, special concern to me. I have a proposal to make that will let both of us get what we want.”

He stops talking. I get the disconcerting feeling that he's staring at me from deep within his Mask.

I've never felt more uncomfortable. Except maybe at the Testing, don't remember much of that, though. It was a long time ago. This… it feels like he's staring through me. Into me. As if he can read my thoughts just by looking at me. As if he can hear my heart. I feel laid bare, on a far deeper level than mere nakedness. 

“Alright?”, I ask carefully, trying to suppress the tremor in my voice, the fluttering traitor living in my chest, the shiver running down my spine, like tiny frozen spider-feet. 

“I want you to go home”, he says, and for a tiny moment I think I have died and gone to the Eternal Sanctuary, that things will be alright, that I will get to go home—

“… sometime during your evenings, and to then report back to me on how your brother is doing.”

It doesn't matter that I can't read his face, his voice, or his body language. 

He paused like that on purpose. 

It tells me several things about this entity, this mystery, this man—because now I know for sure that he's still human underneath all of that. Maybe he's no longer the person he once was, but he's still unmistakably a person. A petty person who likes playing with people, in fact. 

Which is something of a relief, to be quite honest. Who knows what to expect from an animated corpse, or some other kind of inhuman creature posing as one? 

It still doesn't explain his eye-shadow but I guess that must be a Regulator speciality. 

“You want me to go home in the evenings to check on my brother because you want to keep an eye on him and can't go yourself?”, I ask, doing my very best at not mentioning the word spying. 

“Exactly”, he says.

~~~

But also, if you got this far. Let me rant a tiny bit. XD Dreams is going to be very long, I think XD I made a handy graphic:

Let’s hope I manage to cut some of those 35k words. XD or make the rest shorter XD

(yes that is my excel outline, it escalated a bit, but it helped immensely in figuring out how elinor impacts things, especially with the timeline, I usually just have an unsorted doc with notes in it aaahhhh)

especially since this is Part One: Dreams in more detail :))))))) AKA, just the red part.

I doubt Draft 3 will be less than 200k, to be honest. Whyyyy

@warmbones​ @wilde-writing​ @thereisnothingwrongwithbeingmad​​ @authordai​ @madmoonink​  @lynnafred​ @prismalicht​ @sincerestaffect​ @romenna​ @zekethegm​ @hypnocutiegypsy​ @random-stuff-thrown-into-a-pot​ @els-writes​ @randooooooooooom​ @asttralhell​ @paper-shield-and-wooden-sword​ @jellybeanwriter​ @kittensartswriting​ @purpleshadows1989​​  @raiswanson​​ @ettawritesnstudies​​​ @writingwordsanddrawingpictures​​

#nanowrimo 2019 #nanowrimo #dreamshadowexcerpt #nanowrimo was kinda horrible but I know 100000% that I would still be stuck on the elinor plot if I hadn't participated #so heyyyy #that's something isn't it #also my scrivener project would still be a mess #I mean #it is #partially #but IT'S SO MUCH BETTER NOW #not bad for a november of mental breakdowns and self doubt #and anxiety #can't forget the anxiety #yaay #I will continue writing it I guess #BUT FIRST COMES FLUFFCEMBER #>:D #or maybe fluffcember sort of also happens on the side #we shall see #I still don't have a plan #ahh #it's ok #it's fine #i'll be fine #hope you have a nice december everyone <3

[foolgobi65]

Ah do Krishna and Bhishma in Hogwarts

this is so late i cant even say anything im so sorry but still i hope u like it!! i really enjoyed writing for it and surprisingly enjoy writing these two together more than i expected – i always make bhishma nicer and better than he is in canon but i also truly think that krishna brings out the best in him. thank you for the prompt!! please send more since i def have more time now that it is summer

1.

Bhishma does not watch the trial – like most of the Wizarding World, he listens to it broadcast on the radio, barred from the Wizengamot by his vow to pass the family seat through the blood of Satyavati. Bhishma does not watch when the boy Krishna is brought into court in chains and at the wandpoint of five aurors, does not watch when Kamsa stands from his seat at the head and accuses a child of treason, of exposing magic to muggles, of genocide secondhand – for that of course is what the Magical World apparently has to fear from their muggle counterparts.

“I disagree, Uncle.”

As one, the Wizarding World gasps. It is Him, then, this boy Krishna. The Chosen One, the fulfillment of a 20 year old prophecy that keeps Kamsa’s sister Devaki and her husband Vasudev falsely imprisoned to this day. It is Krishna who, 15 years ago, had the audacity to be born even inside the pit of human despair, whose disappearance from inside Azkaban had hastened the death of Wizarding democracy in the guise of Kamsa’s Emergency.

“You admit that you are their son?” Kamsa for once speaks for the entirety of Wizarding Britain. It is the question every person wants to ask, after years of Kamsa’s iron fist slowly strangling Magical Britain’s throat in pursuit of his predestined killer. “You admit that you want to kill me, the Minister for Magic.” Bhishma scoffs at the way Kamsa, claims democratic legitimacy even as a dictator.

There is a sigh that travels through the radio, deep and long, one that seems more suited for a man of Bhishma’s years and experience than Krishna’s sixteen. The whole of Magical Britain pauses for breath.

“I do,” Krishna says, voice calm at what every listener knows clearly to be a death sentence. “I am.”

Kamsa’s voice shifts to a register of glee. “This is treason!” No assembly could be complete without Kamsa’s favorite word. The punishment for actions against the Minister have grown more and more stringent in the last decade in wait for this moment, where Kamsa has set enough precedent to order an immediate execution. Neither Bhishma’s power nor his vows allow him to breach the doors of the Wizengamot. After all this time the Emergency will end like this, he thinks in sudden, overwhelming despair: the body of Devaki’s son cold on the ground, his death broadcast throughout Kamsa’s new kingdom.

But then, incredibly, over the radio Krishna begin to laugh – the sound grates against the tautness of Bhishma’s nerves for all that it is full of joy, of reckless abandon. It is only later that Bhishma will realize that the discomfort he felt at that moment was not discomfort at all – hope had been lost so long that he had forgotten what it felt like, swelling inside his chest, burning inside of his veins.

“You are untrained,” Bhishma hears Kamsa sneer, the last of Krishna’s laughter still echoing against the Wizengamot stone, “you are untrained, and with magic so low that you were not deemed worthy of a Hogwarts education. You cannot kill me.”

A gasp. “The chains,” someone shouts, “they’re gone!”

Members of the Wizengamot are not allowed their wands in session, and while Kamsa and his aurors are almost certainly armed, there is none amongst them that would banish the boy’s chains. Krishna has no wand, and what Kamsa said was true – a boy untrained, with so little magic that Hogwarts records did not deem him worthy of an invitation, could not have banished his chains.

And yet.

“You’re right,” Bhishma hears amidst the uproar, and then in the silence that follows he hears a slight rustle, the sound gentle enough that it could only be clothing shifting against skin.

“I am untrained,” Krishna says, tone as easy with this fact as if he were listing the color of his hair.

There is a click, and then Bhishma hears an explosion.

“And yet, Uncle,” Krishna says before the shock fades and the screams begin, “you are dead all the same.”

2.

There is a great furor in the aftermath of Kamsa’s assassination: the Wizarding World is unprepared for the death of its benign dictator, only more so when faced with its cause.

“I will take him,” Bhishma announces, blowing open the doors and standing carefully outside the Chamber. “The boy Krishna.” He blinks as members of the Wizengamot move so that Bhishma can have a clear view of the proceedings inside. Krishna, who he assumed would have been hurried out of the room instead sits cooly on the ground, hands busy with some sort of contraption. Bhishma does not speak of his brief childhood amongst Muggles, but he remembers something much larger, something that could not have been concealed under clothes.

“It is a gun,” the boy confirms, face blank as he refuses to meet the Wizengamot’s gaze. Kamsa’s bloody body cools on the ground only a few meters away. “Father purchased it after my uncle sent the Grindylows four years ago.”

Bhishma clenches his jaw. Kamsa’s obsession was renowned, but every new example of its consequences is cause for disgust– under the Emergency all dissent has been quelled as Kamsa combed both Magical and apparently Muggle Britain for those who stepped out of line, in seeming solidarity with Devaki’s mythic son.

Today’s trial had been triggered by a dementor attack on a Muggle hamlet, repelled, Kamsa claimed, without his official sanction by a sixteen-year-old boy without enough magic for a Hogwarts invitation. Or at least, that is what they had assumed.

“How did you repel them?” Bhishma hears from a member somewhere in the gaggle ahead. Whether they mean the grindylows or the dementors he does not know.

Krishna stands, neatly slipping the gun into his waistband. A moment passes where he gazes at the crowd in front of him, the most powerful of the British Wizarding population, people who together decide the present, who bend the arc of the future. Each person, later, will claim that in that moment Krishna was looking only at them, was laying bare their personal ambition, their excess, their very essence.  

Bhishma standing tall behind the Wizengamot threshold feels small as he has not in more than a hundred years, suddenly a child once more clutching at his mother’s fingers inside the halls of the Kuru family home, waiting to be claimed by a father he had never known.

“He is one of you,” Ganga had told Shantanu, “so you must keep him safe.”

Bhishma locks eyes with Krishna and nods – he is not Shantanu, has no ties of blood, but the boy will be safe all the same. Krishna exhales, closes his eyes, brings his hands forward, and pulls.

The room gasps together as swirling spikes rise from the stone. Everyone is frozen at the sight, eyes glued to the floor Krishna mutates in perfectly deadly concentric circles. He has no wand.

“By Merlin,” someone whispers, the tones are familiar enough that Bhishma’s believes it to be Vyasa, court witness and the first son of Bhishma’s venerable stepmother, Lady Satyavati herself. The muttered oath is more accurate than he thinks he means. Bhishma swallows at a display of raw talent the types of which he had assumed no longer existed.

Krishna opens his eyes. As one, the Wizengamot steps back – only Bhishma tries to step forward, catching himself only at the end when his toes threaten to cross his self imposed boundary. A small, wry smile graces Krishna’s lips.

“Hogwarts it is, I suppose.”

3.

The decision to release Vasudev and Devaki are released even before Kamsa’s body is taken away – that is an easy decision after all, taken by people racked with guilt at the plight of two individuals without even a magical core to sustain them locked in Azkaban for almost half their lifetimes. Vasudev, only son of the late Surasena whose family sat on the Wizengamot for generations, is a squib. Even worse is Devaki, half sister of the half-blood Kamsa, the first Muggle to know the eternal chill of the dementors outside her cell. That they even live should be considered extraordinary. That they managed to produce a child, that said child could grow despite it’s magicless mother’s physical malnourishment and mental torment, that the child was born and lived and left: this is what even the Magical World can only consider a miracle.

And yet, there is not a wizard alive who would consider the pair after such an ordeal fit guardians for any magical child, much less one of Krishna’s apparent abilities. Bhishma is the Headmaster of Hogwarts, and so any child of school-attending age comes under his jurisdiction. Bhishma also remains the Grand-sire of the Kurus, who now count Surasena’s daughter Pritha one of their own. His great-grand nephews may lawfully call Krishna Vaasudev “cousin,” and when Bhishma looks to the other families who might claim the same connection, Damagosha and Vridhasharman avert their eyes.

“A vow,” Vyasa calls out, shedding the guise of humble stenographer at this time of crisis. “I want you all to swear an Unbreakable Vow that you will never reveal what you just saw.” He glances at Bhishma, still standing outside of the room, and looks away, biting her lip in an now uncharacteristic show of emotion. He turns to Krishna.

Krishna shrugs, closing his eyes once more and pushes at the air above the floor. The spikes smooth, leaving the ground as it was before.

“It is May,” Bhishma says into the silence, as they all try to envision the shape of this new world. “I will take Krishna until September, when he will be enrolled as a fifth year at Hogwarts.”

The Wizengamot, unruly and contentious even at the best of times, assents.

The Kuru family home was once the pride of Wizarding Britain, teeming constantly with life and activity and culture. When Krishna, having been instructed in Floo usage, tumbles out of the Great Fireplace, it is almost like that again. The entire family, from Dhritarashtra to Kunti’s Sahadeva is gathered, voices echoing off of the famed ceiling Hogwarts’ Great Hall is said to have been based on. Bhishma clears his throat, and as one, they turn.

It has been years since Bhishma has been able to command the room like this, at least outside family feasts – but even those slowly dwindled as the children came and left Hogwarts. He would not claim enjoyment in this moment, but perhaps deep down there is something of satisfaction.

“This is Krishna,” he calls out, though from the looks on his family’s faces this is something they already know. “He will be staying with us for the summer from now on.”

“Actually,” Krishna says from behind Bhishma, “I have to go home.”

Bhishma turns on his heel. “What do you mean you need to go home?” It is a tone of voice that has quelled even Duryodhana at his most irascible, and yet Krishna only raises a brow. Bhishma presses on, ever aware of the studied stillness of his family behind, all trying to pretend that they are not in the room. “Do you even know what you have done? Kamsa had the backing of powerful men, crafted an auror force almost slavishly devoted to his every word. Do you think they won’t try to kill you if you set foot outside our door?”

Again, in the face of danger, Krishna only laughs. “My parents, Nanda and Yashoda, are Muggle. My entire village is. If I am in danger, then what are they, who have no knowledge of this world, no power to protect them from retribution.” Krishna purses his lips. “If you mean for me to live in this world can you guarantee me their safety, their well being, and their happiness until the day they die of natural causes?”

Bhishma cannot. “What will you do?”

Krishna swallows, looking uncertain, even lost for what Bhishma believes to be the first time since he set was dragged into his trial. “Mother does not understand, she never has. Everytime Kamsa sent another monster, she demanded we move, as if every place we lived in was cursed instead of it being me. I tried to tell her when they came, but she only cried and begged for me to leave it all and come home. The memories will haunt her, when I don’t.”

Bhishma, whose mother left him on Shantanu’s doorstep and told him to never look back, who still remembers her every day since, feels a wash of sympathy for what Krishna must do.

“Only them?” Bhishma does not question if Krishna knows how to erase his parents’ past – for one, memory erasure outside of Ministry authority is one of the High Crimes even in times of peace. Yet, to work with the Ministry in this case would only put those poor Muggles at risk. It is the nature of the Wizarding World, he knows, to forget inconvenient parts of people’s past: Bhishma who was once the half-blooded Devavrata now stands the venerable head of the Kuru clan. With his birth parents still alive, no one will question who raised Krishna Vaasudev. Bhishma will go to the Ministry himself and make sure the relevant documents are destroyed.

“And a girl as well,” Krishna says, lips turning of their own accord into something of a wistful, longing smile. “I asked her to come with me, but she refused.” Bhishma, whose easiest pledge was the one in which he forswore a wife, in that moment can only feel a voyeur.  

His voice, when he speaks, is gruff. “You will be back in September?”

“Before that, even, if I can,” Krishna says, nodding at the silent Kauravas still gathered motionless in the Kuru Great Hall. “I look forward to meeting you all in the future.” His smile slips into something just slightly sad. “It will be nice to still have a family when I return.”

4.

For a single moment, Bhishma feels fear when Krishna is sorted into Slytherin. It is the house Kamsa had been sorted into, a half-blood almost dripping with charisma and eager to climb as high as the ladders would take him – and then to construct further rungs where they stopped. Is this to be the fate of the Wizarding World, to only exchange one tyrant for another?

It is a moment that shames him, he who is supposed to look at the four houses with only benign indifference. Yet he is not the only one who seems wary, a strained type of silence seeming to follow the boy whenever he enters the Great Hall at mealtimes, which is all Bhishma sees of his students at school. For weeks, everyone waits for the knut to drop, for Krishna to bend rooms to his will and gather supporters at his feet.

A month passes, and Krishna Vaasudev continues to eat alone. Every once in a while one of Drona’s Hufflepuffs tries to catch his eye when he enters, her face falling when she is ignored time and time again.

“Subhadra,” Drona mumbles, “Second year Muggle-born.” He frowns “No,” he says, seemingly in anticipation of Bhishma’s next question. “I don’t know why.”

Another fortnight, and Bhishma has almost convinced himself that what he saw before was an illusion, or perhaps a stroke of fate that overtook the young Krishna’s body. Perhaps the Chosen, when their prophecies are fulfilled, become one with the rest – what Bhishma recalls of Krishna’s smile, his triumphant laughter, has faded with Kamsa’s influence over Magical Britain. He thinks this, and then he stumbles upon Krishna laughing like Bhishma remembered with someone in an abandoned classroom.

“Grandsire!” Krishna’s companion rises and Bhishma is shocked to his core to recognized Arjuna, famously private, and almost notoriously sullen bounding to Bhishma with a smile Bhishma has not seen in years. Each of his great-grandchildren have made their peace with knowing that Bhishma at Hogwarts cannot be the Grandsire from their homes, but Arjuna, in particular, has always been scrupulous about maintaining the distance between student and teacher, Great-grandfather and favorite son. Bhishma in his surprise, and in something of a slight longing for affection from his favorite, allows himself an embrace.

“Arjuna,” Bhishma smiles, helpless at the sight of Arjuna’s grin, no matter the cause. “What are you doing here?” It is not a warning, or even truly a complaint – the pair is not out of bounds or our after hours, but it is curious to find Arjuna outside of his room when not in class, stranger still to see him in the company of someone not his brothers. It is almost extraordinary to know that Arjuna has been laughing.

Arjuna’s face smoothes into something that Bhishma struggles to name, until he realizes it is something like contentment, so alien to the character of his Arjuna, always taut with one anxiety or another.

“Krishna is teaching me how to cast a patronus.”

Bhishma raises an eyebrow, looking past Arjuna to the other boy who has risen but stands, ankles crossed, leaning against the wall in what must be carefully constructed insolence.

“A patronus is complex magic,” he hears himself say, and it is. But Krishna Vaasudev was brought to the Wizengamot for warding off the dementors, and he had never answered the Wizengamot’s question that first day. Krishna smiles, bypassing the question implied.

“Ask the Headmaster, I’m sure his answer will be the same as mine.”

Bhishma raises another eyebrow. “I can’t cast a corporeal patronus,” Arjuna says, his wry smile so different from his carefully controlled frustration when faced with an obstacle he cannot overcome through single-minded practice. “Krishna thinks it’s because my memory is too weak.”

Bhishma frowns. Normally, especially with children so young, he would attribute this to a lack of control over one’s magical core. But Arjuna has trained so long that he remains in school as a matter of formality, his control over his power already a thing approaching legend.

“I would agree,” Bhishma admits, “if only because I have seen you accomplish more complex spells with less training.”

Arjuna snorts, turning towards Krishna so that Bhishma, his headmaster, his beloved Grandsire can only see his back. “Like you said, I am an utterly miserable individual.”

Bhishma stiffens in anticipation: when Arjuna was only a child of prodigious talent and surprising will, his anger would fill the room. It is something that takes time and talent to decipher, but his magical aura so used to the weight of Arjuna’s iron control seems to seep into the air around him, swelling until the rooms feel like they are made of rainclouds, each on the verge of bursting. Arjuna, who is always so careful with his anger and measured with his words, has not spoken like this since he received his Hogwarts letter.

Krishna only rolls his eyes. “Is this what you’re like with all your friends? Besides, you seemed quite happy a few moments ago.”

When Bhishma concentrates, Arjuna’s aura is the same as it was before. His mind strays to Krishna’s words – does Arjuna have friends? Arjuna has brothers, cousins, and perhaps he even has Drona’s son Ashwathama. But Bhishma would call none of these a friend, and when he looks to his great-grand nephew, who looks faint at the thought, he feels a pang of regret for the training regiment he demanded of so young a child. Forced to outstrip his peers, and in the company of men so much older for so many years it is easy to see the boy’s self imposed isolation as fear, or awkwardness. Arjuna’s shoulders are newly stiff, and Bhishma can only thing that he must have been very lonely all these years, even if he never showed it.

“Oh,” Arjuna says, poleaxed. “Is that what we are?”

Bhishma slowly begins to step backward, but he is still in the room when Krishna’s face melts into something brimming with empathy. For that, Bhishma thinks, he could forgive almost anything. At the very least, he can begin to trust. “I’m certainly yours,” Krishna says, eyes locked with Arjuna, “but whether you want to be mine is up to you.”

“Yes,” Arjuna says, soft, disbelief warring desperately with hope. “I am.” It echoes to Bhishma like a vow. I am. I am. I am.

5.

Krishna Vaasudev, as told to Bhishma by his instructors, is a bright student. Eager to learn, with near perfect recall and an apparent childhood history of reading a Muggle-born neighbor’s old textbooks. The mystery of young Subhadra is thus solved: the Muggle-born sister of a Muggle-born Gryffindor graduate, Balarama, both of whom lived, until this May, in the village named on the records Bhishma destroyed. Bhishma thinks, and recalls Balarama towering at 17 followed by the sniping shadows of Bhima and Duryodhana, each desperate to learn Beating from the greatest talent Hogwarts has seen in generations.

“Krishna knows the theory,” every teacher repeats, “but it is the execution where he struggles.”

That’s only to be expected, they add, “considering the poor boy’s circumstances.”

Bhishma nods politely, and asks for an interview.

“Is there a reason,” he asks when the pleasantries have been disposed of, “that your teachers believe you to be only slightly more capable than a squib?”

Krishna, sipping at the tea he has been offered, puts down his cup to laugh. “Many, but I assume you have at least one theory that concerns you more than others.”

Bhishma grunts, taking a sip from his own cup. “I watched you transfigure the stone that makes up the foundation of one of the cores of Magical Britain with your bare hands. You should be able to change a teapot.”  

Krishna hums, and it is as if somehow it is he, the sixteen-year-old, is in control of the conversation instead of Bhishma. “It is different, with a wand. I never had one before.”

It is a lie, but a very good one. There is just enough truth that it might even have worked if Bhishma himself was not one of the few capable of wandless casting.

“No,” he corrects, “the wand inherently acts as a focus. If it was difficult, your teachers would report that you were struggling with too much power, not too little.”

Krishna smiles: wide, and golden, and knowing. A test, then, instead of a mistake. “I had wondered if the rumors were true. I’m glad not to be as rare as the Wizengamot reactions made it seem.”

“I did not bring you to lie,” Bhishma says, but when he leans back in his chair he finds himself pressing his lips together to keep them from twisting up in response. Curious he thinks, that where he might have been enraged he is instead amused. He thinks of Arjuna, of how small he had sounded when he asked if he and Krishna were friends.

The patronus. “How does Arjuna know that you can cast a patronus?”

Finally, Krishna seems caught off guard. “Because it is Arjuna,” he says, voice slightly snappish, as if that were all the answer needed. And in a way, to Bhishma of all people, perhaps even to Bhishma alone, it is. “He needed my help.”

Krishna sighs, standing up. “I am not a threat, Headmaster, and if you need me to prove it I shall.” His gaze for once is hard, shoulders straight and eyes blazing. “Expecto Patronum.”

Krishna Vaasudev calls forth his guardian with the same tone someone might order a meal, and when Bhishma looks to Krishna’s hands neither is gripping a wand. His hands are slightly in front of his body, molded as if they caress the edges of something, as if they seek to shape life from an invisible lump of clay.

Where there was nothing, suddenly there is. Krishna Vaasudev’s patronus spreads its wings, taking one lap around Bhishma’s study before flying to perch on Krishna’s shoulder. Extraordinary.

“That is a phoenix,’ Bhishma says, staring at the bird with trepidation. With exultation. “Which means you lied – you are in fact the greatest threat I have ever seen.”

#puppyloveblog24 #mahabharata #krishna #bhishma #mahabharata fic #maya writes #i think this version comes off nicer to bhishma than he is in canon but that's mostly because i think he comes off best when with krishna #also im not entirely sure what the wizengamot looks like so i had vyasa just like.. chilling for no reason lol #not super sure how any of this universe really works out tbh #i dont even know what krishna's job is #like the politics are probably distressingly similar to canon given how they rule by hereditary seats #but do they need a political fixer/diplomat/go between? #which is what krishna is literally #i dont even know how jarasandha works other than like the equivalent of a wizard ceo funding kamsa as his pet dictator? #i think kamsa had way too much power given that hes basically a two bit no body to everyone else #but i didnt really know how else to do this #if anyone has ideas please send!! i really enjoy this verse and would like to write more in it!! #alSOOOOO IM SO SORRY THIS WAS SO LATE OMG!!! #i hope you like it... so so so late :( <3

[michelles-garden-of-evil]

Episode 16 Review: Jean Paul’s Latest Detained Guest

{ YouTube: 1 | 2 }

{ Synopses: Debby Graham | Bryan Gruszka }

{ Screencaps }

I wasn’t going to start working on another review until next week at the earliest, but I have been re-watching the Agatha episodes from Desmond Hall and, oh my Great Serpent, are they terrible! I don’t wish to spoil too much of what happens then because those reviews are a long way in the future, but I will say that (1) I can’t stand Agatha Pruitt and (2) while some episodes of Desmond Hall Part I have decent writing, in others the writing is very, very, very bad. I can’t help but feel sorry for the fans of both this show and Dark Shadows in early 1970, because Agatha would have been swanning around Desmondton getting on everyone’s nerves during the same period as one of the least-loved arcs on DS, the Leviathan arc.*

Normally, I would type out my complaints about Desmond Hall in the OneNote notebook where I take screencaps and save them for when I write those episode reviews in a year or two. However, I felt that I had to mention the awfulness of Episode 91 in this post, because that is what compelled me to return from my hiatus early. I needed to remind myself why I like this show enough to dedicate a whole blog to it, and so I took a (metaphorical) trip back to Maljardin to re-watch and review Episode 16.

Our mascot!

On the last episode, Jean Paul hired Reverend Matt Dawson to conduct a funeral service for his wife Erica, still frozen in the cryonics capsule  and awaiting her resurrection by THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES. Now Jean Paul--who has changed into a very nice pinstripe suit--is showing Matt the crypt at Maljardin where the capsule is located. “Even with the electrical connections, the compressor and cryonics capsule, I think this probably will be the best place for the service,” he says to the horrified minister. “Don’t you think, Reverend Dawson?” All Matt can do is smile and nod in response while privately questioning the life choices that led to this moment.

He’s probably thinking, “I left my ministry to stalk a 20-year-old full-time for this?!”

Jean Paul continues interviewing him. “You have no objection to a service without a burial?”

“No,” Matt shakes his head. “I have officiated at many such services, where the body is usually placed in the family crypt.” Considering that the vast majority of families don’t have family crypts--at least not in their basements--I think that he’s humoring Jean Paul. After all, he’s seen so many red flags already--the isolated island, the extreme secrecy, Jean Paul’s reluctance to tell anyone about Erica’s death, the whole cryonics/resurrection thing itself, and now his insistence on conducting the funeral service around a cryonics capsule.

He questions the idea that a body held in cryonic suspension can be brought back to life, and Jean Paul continues to deny that Erica is forever dead. He also continues to insist that the usual laws of nature don’t apply on Maljardin, and that on that island he is God:

Yes, Reverend Dawson, your new client thinks he’s God. There’s another red flag for you, Matt, that Jean Paul Desmond is not a client that you want to work for and you should probably cancel the agreement, give up on Holly, and try to get off the island while you still can.

Jean Paul tells him of a man who was allegedly brought back to life after dying in a blizzard, and who lived three decades as “a soulless corpse, like a zombie” before dying again. After saying “zombie,” the camera cuts to Quito who is spying on them, confirming that Quito is indeed a zombie--although, considering that Quito has emotions (which he expresses through body language) and pets whom he clearly loves, the “soulless” part is unlikely.

Did he offend Quito when he called zombies “soulless corpses,” I wonder?

It’s at this point that handsome devil Jacques takes over and starts trolling Matt. “You are a theologian trapped by your own logic and teachings,” he remarks with a mocking smile. “When you run out of answers, look to the fire god. He’s got some new ones, new for even you.” Which goes over about as well as proselytization usually does: that is to say, not at all, especially without one of those poorly-written smiley-face tracts that are absurdly popular with Christian fundamentalists. But Jacques, unfortunately, is straight out of copies of SMILE THE FIRE GOD LOVES YOU and so has to resort to confusing Matt (and us) with non sequiturs instead:

Jacques: “I don’t advocate or procrastinate.” (That has to be a line flub.) “I live and let live.”

I’m surprised he didn’t bring up the age-old theological question about how many angels can fit on the head of a pin and awkwardly try to connect that to the situation as well.

Matt storms out and Jacques stays behind to gloat. “I haven’t had so much fun,” he quips, “since one of my colleagues fiddled while Rome burned.” This reference to the Roman emperor Nero is without a doubt the clearest evidence so far that Jacques is indeed supposed to be the Devil, who at some point came to occupy the body of Jean Paul’s ancestor.

Back in the great hall, Matt returns to stalking Holly, who once again rejects him, because stalking only leads to mutual love and committed relationships in bad romance movies. He insists that he has something important to say to her, and she agrees to listen, but only for five minutes. He insists that Elizabeth doesn’t like him and that he followed her to Maljardin because he “thought [she] might need [him] for protection, guidance, maybe even comfort.”

According to StrangeParadise.net, this is an allusion to a real person, Reverend Harold Davidson, described in more detail on this page. I won’t copy Davidson’s bio on here because of its length, so I’ll just quote Holly by calling him a “lecherous minister.”

She rejects him, he leaves with his proverbial tail between his legs, then she proceeds to mope while sprawled in Jean Paul’s favorite chair for arguing with Jacques. Alison finds her there and asks what’s wrong, so she starts to explain before Matt arrives again and interrupts by insisting that he’s not trying to keep her from her inheritance like she claims. He’s right, but that doesn’t change the fact that Elizabeth is using him to do just that. Now it’s Holly’s turn to flounce, and she does it with more gusto than Reverend Stalker.

He talks to Alison, who fills him in on the whole situation, speaking again about how Jean Paul thinks he’s God and also about how Matt is now a prisoner on Maljardin.

Alison explaining the concept of a detained guest to Matt.

Matt suggests that Alison get Raxl to try to reason with Jean Paul, unaware of how well that didn’t work out a week before, He insists, though, that “perhaps these Tarot cards [that Vangie gave him in Episode 14] will sway her.” Although Alison is skeptical and so is Raxl upon her arrival, that all changes when he gives her the pack of cards and tells her that Vangie said “that [she] should use them for everyone’s good.”

She knows instantly that Vangie has predicted that Maljardin is doomed.

An interesting conversation between the two follows. Matt reveals to her that she should contact Vangie at “the third hour” (3 AM, also known as the “witching hour” or “demonic hour”), which means nothing to him but “everything” to her. She recaps for him about Jacques Eloi des Mondes, the conjure doll, and the silver pin, mentioning that “the power of the Great Serpent made him an eternal prisoner” for three hundred years.

Raxl: “Jacques Eloi Des Mondes! It must be he who walks. It must be!"   Matt: "Impossible!" Raxl: "You believe in God, but what about His work?” [I think this is a line flub for “word,” which would make more sense in context.] “I trust the Tarot cards, but what about the words of the woman who reads them?" Matt: "I'm a messenger, not a convert." Raxl: "One conjure doll, one silver pin. If that pin were still driven into that doll's head, we would all be safe."   Matt: "Raxl, that is witchcraft!" [And reading Tarot cards--a form of divination--isn’t?] Raxl: "Do you feel safe, Reverend?"

He gazes at the portrait of Jacques without another word until Jean Paul returns, explaining that he had to apologize to Quito after inadvertently hurting his feelings earlier, most likely with what he said about zombies. He asks Matt if he’s started preparing a speech for the funeral service, and an argument erupts between the two of them:

Did I mention yet that Jean Paul is more than a bit of a control freak?

Jean Paul decides that maybe Jacques had the right idea as far as the detained-guest thing went, and so puts the island on lockdown: “There will be no further trips to the main island and no trips even for mail until a matter between the Reverend and his conscience is resolved.”

Jean Paul is a male example of what is known in certain fandoms as a yandere, or a character who is madly in love, enough to hurt and even kill anyone who they believe is standing between them and their love interest.

Meanwhile in the basement, Raxl performs a ritual to contact the Conjure Man using Vangie’s Tarot cards while Quito enters the Not-So-Hidden Temple. And with that, the episode ends.

Raxl and the Tarot cards.

This was an interesting episode, with Matt as the central character for a change. The major theme of this episode seems to be belief, and how, whether seen through the lens of science (Alison), Christianity (Matt), or voodoo (Raxl), Jean Paul’s plans to revive Erica appear crazy at best and dangerous and/or sacrilegious at worst. There’s also the suggestion that Erica might return as a zombie, which does not seem to bother Jean Paul as much as it should (make of that what you will). Did it make up for the badness of Episode 91? Yes. It’s genuinely a good episode, even though some of the lines don’t make sense--but I think that at least most of those are line flubs.

Coming up next: Raxl sends a message to the Conjure Man, so Jacques decides to interfere. Also, Jacques’ portrait becomes much stranger.

Notes

* I don’t know the exact original airdates for most episodes of Strange Paradise. Maljardin aired from October 20, 1969 to January 19, 1970 in Canada according to StrangeParadise.net, but the show premiered in the United States on September 8, making the US six weeks or 30 episodes ahead of Canada. The YouTube user retronewfoundland has the endings of several episodes on their channel with the original Canadian airdates. The nearest episode to Episode 91 that retronewfoundland has a clip from is Episode 84, with the airdate of February 17, 1970 (a Tuesday). This means that (according to my calculations) Episode 91 would have most likely aired in Canada on February 26, and in the US six weeks earlier on January 15. Either date places it contemporary with the Leviathan arc, which lasted from November 14, 1969 to March 27, 1970 (source).

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#strange paradise #gothic soap opera #review #ian martin #maljardin arc #week 4 #episode 16 #the blue suit of sexiness #chalcko (quito's bird) #creative line interpretation #cryonics capsule #dark shadows #detained guests #great serpent #non sequitur #on this island i am god #sp and religion #tarot #yandere #zombies

[whumptasticwednesday]

Lost in the past (Kit Walker -American Horror Story Asylum)

Alright so if you don't recall Kit remarried a girl named Allison after ax-murdering Grace and Alma lmao. So because I don't want to use y/n, I'm just going to use Allison considering that is the name of his Wife. Alright, that's all I wanted to say. Enjoy.

-Jimmy

Word Count- 1,795

________________________________________________________________

The night started as usual. Timmy and Emily were stationed on the living room rug playing with toys and such. Kit was in the kitchen, cutting lettuce and dicing tomatoes for dinner. Sunlight flooded in from the bay windows, and the euphoric sound of the record player in the dining room filled the space with a warm tone. Kit's mind was at peace, which is not something he can typically admit.

Since Briarcliff Kit's life has been a whirlwind of sleepless nights and flashbacks. Nothing is simple anymore. He can't spend the day out with his family without the perpetual fear of something triggering a flashback. The worst part is not knowing, having no idea what might send his brain into a paralyzing adrenalin rush. It's a terrifying reality. If he ever did anything that put his Wife or, god forbid his kids in danger, he wouldn't be able to live with himself. He would very well rather shove a bread knife through his throat than have to live with the immeasurable guilt of knowing he put his family in jeopardy.

In the garden, Allison took a deep breath, letting the sweet, warm air of spring calm her busy mind. She took a moment to appreciate the relaxing ambiance of the great outdoors as she headed back inside after picking some vegetables for dinner. A smile tugged on her lips as she admired the delicate pastel flowers she and the kids planted, just beginning to bloom. She took the time to enjoy the little things in life when she could. It helped her in dealing with the trauma Kit suffered and continued to suffer with. It can be a lot sometimes. But she knows that she has to stay strong for him. She closed her eye's for a moment, letting the air finally escape her lungs as she headed back inside to help Kit.

The front door creaked as Allison pushed it open, sliding off her shoes as she walked inside. She set the basket of vegetables down on the counter. Walking up to Kit, she wrapped her hands around his waist, trailing kisses down his neck.

"How was work?" She asked, giving him one last kiss before turning her attention back to the basket of vegetables.

"Slow," Kit responded, adding some uncooked spaghetti noodles into a pot of already boiling water. "But that's not a surprise. We're always slow."

"Mommy! When will dinner be ready?" Timmy asked, peeking his head over the counter. "I'm hungry!"

"Be patient, go back into the living room and play with your sister." Kit intervened, running his fingers through Timmy's shaggy hair.

"Daddy!" Timmy giggled. Emily came running over, pulling on Timmy's sleeve. "I bet I can jump higher than you," Emily teased.

"No you can't, I'm the best jumper in the whole world!" Timmy yelled as they ran out the sliding glass door and into the back yard.

"Don't go too far; dinner will be ready in 10 minutes!" Allison yelled after them. "It's like they never run out of energy."

"Reminds me of when I was their age." Kit said, staring out the kitchen window at his kids playing in the yard. A smile spread across his face. Those kids meant everything to him.

"Whatcha' thinking about?" Allison asked, resting her head on his shoulder as she looked out the window with him.

"Nothing." He took a deep breath, "The spaghetti looks about done, want to get the bowls ready?" She nodded, kissing him on the cheek.

"Here let me do that." Kit insisted, taking a stack of dirty plates out of Allison's hands. "You just relax."

"Alright, if you say so. But I wasn't the one at work all day." Allison said, sitting down on the couch next to Emily and running her fingers through her curly black hair. "You should be the one relaxing" Allison reached to the end table and picked up her copy of Little Women. The spine cracked as she opened it to where she had left off, as Kit began washing the dishes.

"Oh my goodness!" Allison exclaimed after a long moment of silence, catching Kit very off guard. Distracted, Allison didn't pay attention to the sound of colliding dishes and Kit’s disgruntled grunts. "I can not believe that Amy would turn down Fred's wedding proposal! They were meant to be together. Now, who is she go-"

"A-Allis-s-s-on, I-I think I h-hurt my sel-lf." Kit interrupted, Allison's eye's went wide as she realized what just happened. She quickly jumped off the couch as she saw his shoulders begin to quiver.

"Okay, Okay, calm down. it's alright." She started, running to his aid. He stood, frozen, in front of the sink. Wide-eyed staring down at a jagged cut across his palm, his blood ran in thick crimson rivers into the sink where the steak knife laid. She looked up at his expressionless face, his mouth was slightly parted, and his eyes seemed unable to look away from the seemingly neverending cascade of blood draining from his cut. His eyes suddenly shifted. Allison thought for a second that maybe it was going to be okay. That she would bandage him up and they would go to bed happy and peaceful. That he would be able to rationalize the severity of the situation and realize that he's okay, but it's never that easy. Not for him. Not for someone with a mind as damaged as Kit’s. In his mind, any unplanned event could cause a lifetime of traumas to flash before his eyes. She can see the panic begin to set in. It starts in his face, he grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. Everything moved in slow motion as Kit fell to his knees, his hands pressed to the ground, blood splattered the peeling linoleum floor. His breathing accelerated, and his heart began to pound against his ribs like an animal trapped in a cage. "Kit, baby, I need you to breathe," Allison begged placing a hand on his shoulder. Kit's body jerked away as he backed up, his back slamming against the old kitchen cabinets. His chest heaved as his blood slick hands grabbed fistfuls of his dark brown hair. Blood slowly dripped down his face, staining his pallid skin. He looked up at her with his manic eyes, his breathing now distorting into a labored wheeze.

"P-p-please, don-nt" He started, his vision disfiguring as if he was looking through a fish-eye lens. "Plea-ase d-d-don't try t-to he-elp. I don-t-t wan-t-t to hurt y-you." Tears began to drip down his face; hiccups racked his body as he placed his hands over his eyes — blood smearing across his face.

"I'm not afraid of you Kit. But you need to calm down," Alison said inching closer to him.

"No! No, d-d-don't touch me" Kit screamed trying to back away further, but instead, slammed himself into the kitchen cabinet again.

"Mommy?" Emily whispered, sticking her head out from over the counter. "What's going on?"

"Emily, I need you to listen to me. Go get Timmy and go play in your bedroom," Allison said. Emily nodded as she wiped stray tears from her cheeks.

"Oh god, oh god w-what d-d-id I do." Kit exclaimed, pulling his knees to his chest and squeezing his hands into tight fists. His nail beds began to turn purple as his breathing became even more erratic. He squeezed his eye's shut and his face twisted into a distorted grimace as the flashbacks started. All of the torture he endured being replayed over and over again. He cried as if his brain was being shredded from the inside. From his mouth came raw gut-wrenching cries. Allison stifled a cry of her own. There was nothing she could do except watch. Watch as her husband sat on the kitchen floor, covered in blood, shaking so violently she thought he might single-handedly cause an earthquake. He felt like he was losing his mind; he was unraveling like a spool of loose thread. The whole world felt like a blur.

"You need to slow down your breathing. Take some deep breaths" Kit could tell Allison was talking to him, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not understand what she was saying. "You're not at Briarcliff anymore" He could feel himself screaming, saliva dripping down his chin. But he is trapped in what feels like an eternal silence. The only sound he can hear is Dominique playing over and over in his head. It's engraved it's self into his brain like the grooves of the record. "You're at home, with your family" He could feel his face becoming hot as pins and needles crept up his arms starting in his fingertips. Kit felt like he was gasping for breath, his esophagus spasming, sending him into a seemingly unending coughing fit. His cheeks began to feel cold, and his hands clammy, he couldn't even tell if he was crying anymore. His body was starting to go numb. He peeled his eyes open, but thick salty tears blurred his vision. He wiped the spit from his mouth, smearing blood across his lips. His whole body felt numb, and his head felt like a weight upon his shoulders. He didn't even notice Allison's arms wrapped around him, her hands rubbing soothing circles on his back. His body couldn't take much more of this. His vision began to lag. Next thing he knew, he had been completely engulfed in darkness. No more crying. No more screaming.  The only thing he could feel now was his heart, beating as if he had just run a marathon.

Allison looked down at the boy lying in her arms. Silent tears crept down her face as she held him. Drying blood matted his hair to his forehead, and stray tears leaked from his closed eyes. His chest rose and fell with labored breaths. The kitchen was scattered with bloody handprints that she hoped would wash off. But that was the least of her concerns right now. She wasn't sure what to do next. After a long moment of silence, Allison felt a small hand tap her on the shoulder. She wiped her eyes before turning her head around to see Emily and Timmy. They gave her a small smile and sat down next to her; she pulled them in closer. A sob she didn't even know she was holding back erupted from her chest.

"Is daddy going to be okay?"

“I hope so”

________________________________________________________________

Alrighty, that was... an experience. I don’t know how to feel about this but enjoy! 

#Ahs #americanhorrorstory #americanhorrorstoryasylum #asylum #Kitwalker #TimmyWalker #Emilywalker #AllisonWalker #whumptasticwednsday #wednsday #kit #walker #evan #EvanPeters #fanfiction #americanhorrorstoryfanfiction #evanpetersfanfiction #kitwalkerfanfiction #whump #evanpeterswhump #kitwalkerwhump #whumpee #ptsd #kitwalkerptsd #flashbacks #EvanThomasPeters #ThisSucksLmao #AlmaWalker #Rats #ahsasylum

[lamentalia]

Alfred - Chapter 3 - Part 2

★

It’s late afternoon before Mattie gives the ok. Alfred had put in a decent effort but gave up the surveillance in favor of his astronomy book a while ago. The cats here are not much fun to watch. After he’d seen the same three cats walk across the village square two or three times each he tapped out and left the rest to Mattie. They both know his attention span is not long enough. Besides, Alfred’s more of a “rolling with the punches” kind of guy.

They’re posted up in a large, leafy tree growing behind one of the building structures on the outside of the square; one that has good cover and vantage. It was easier than they thought it would be to get here. The grassland they’d traveled over provides negligible resources, so the cats have naturally ignored it. There is also only a smattering of trees on the north side of the village center and the pathway that leads through these trees appears to be neutral territory. It’s little wonder, really, the only things that had been living up north of here were Alfred and Mattie and monsters don’t often wander outside the cover of forest. There’s no real need for security on this side.

Halfway through a paragraph on a theory about how the Two-Canes used to study the stars, Alfred hears a short exhale. He looks up hopefully to see Mattie’s resigned profile. He cocks his head in a silent question and Mattie gives him a nod. Yes! Alfred takes a moment to view their surroundings. No one’s looking this way.

Grinning, Alfred grabs his packs and carefully, silently, climbs down the tree to land behind the building. He waits for his brother to reach the ground, too, before speaking in a low voice.

“Glad we can do this before the sun starts setting, it would be pretty awkward to crash in on them at night.”

“Yeah… I thought about that.” Mattie replies. “How do we want to do this?”

“Well, we’re pretty sure the Chief’s house is the one farthest upstream in this area, yeah?”  Alfred decides to carry the pack of food in one hand by its shorter handles for easy access instead of slung over his shoulder. “I figure we go in that direction until we can catch someone’s attention.”

Mattie sends him a disgusted grimace, then responds a moment later, morosely. “Ugh. I hate that I don’t have any better ideas than that.”

“Haha! My time to shine, Mattie.” He says with a winning smile. “Let’s go.” 

★

They backtrack slightly into the woods before turning back onto the path so as not to let on that they’d been spying for the greater part of a day and wander casually, (and nervously) into the village square.

They look around, pretending to catch their bearings and keep an eye out for anyone who might be out. The stream looks pleasant as it rushes through a canal built into the center of the square. Three bridges cross it. Alfred approaches the middle most bridge looking for anyone who might be out.

Luckily a craggy looking cat exits a nearby building. He looks shocked at first and then aggressive, with ears way back and defensive posture upon seeing Alfred wave him down. Alfred stops waving but keeps his hand up in a placating manner.

“Hey! Hi.” He says. He keeps smiling sheepishly despite the way his voice cracks just a bit on his opening line. This is the first time he’s ever met a cat outside of his own territory (not counting that time with Gilbert when he and Mattie were kittens,) and he’s surprised at how unsettling it turns out to be. He clears his throat and pushes on before it can get to him. “We’re heading to Ransen and we’d like to pass through here. Would you mind taking us to see your chief? We’d like to give our respects and trade our goods for their blessing.”

Alfred indicates the overstuffed pack and the cat now looks defensive and confused. He can see a hint of curiosity spark in his demeanor, though. Several doors and windows around them crack open and Alfred can see glinting eyes shining behind them. This is kind of… weird. Okay… Maybe his theory was wrong and they’re not openly trading with outsiders. Somehow.

Mattie’s hand grips Alfred’s coat and its obvious he’s getting jumpy. Time to up the ante. Slowly, so as not to alarm anyone, he moves his free hand to his bag and unbuckles one side to reveal the dried fruits, roots, bundled grasses and nuts within. The cat’s eyes go comically wide and shift between Alfred and the bag a few times before he responds.

“Where did you two come from…?” He asks in a hostile, yet deeply curious manner. Alfred continues to smile in as friendly a manner as possible. Which is pretty dang friendly!

“Up north, near the coastline.” Alfred says and the cat only looks more distrusting.

“And how did you get there?”

“Uh. We were born there? That’s where we live. Er. Well. Did live, up until very recently.”

The craggy cat calls out what seems to be a name and a young tom goes to his side immediately. He looks tired and thin and only slightly younger than Alfred and Mattie. The craggy cat murmurs curtly to the young one who then runs off to enter the chief’s house.

“Follow me.” The craggy cat says, turning to walk in the same direction. Alfred looks to Mattie who gives him a thoroughly nervous look, but so far so good, it seems. The two follow him inside the house.

The young tom is sitting by a side wall by the time they enter. An elderly cat sits on the floor at a low table with another elder and a middle-aged cat. The three of them glare at the twins suspiciously. Their escort dismisses himself. Alfred plasters his smile back on and is about to speak when he feels a light squeeze on his tail. Not enough to hurt (this time) but enough to distract his attention. Alfred glances sideways at Mattie and notes his stony look and steady, alert ears. It’s a look that might convey polite seriousness to a stranger but says ‘Be Alert and Be Quiet’ to Alfred. Not that he has any experience with this look or anything.

“I hear that you claim to be from up north.” The old cat says, crossing his arms. His ears are forward but he radiates vehement dislike. “I also hear that you wish to trade for safe passage through our village.”

He leaves it at that. After a quick glance at Mattie, who only blinks placidly, Alfred replies.

“Yes, sir.” He holds the bag of food out to show them its contents. “Er. May I?” He indicates the table before the three cats sitting on the floor. The chief only nods sharply, not taking his eyes off the two of them. Alfred gently places the bag on the table. The middle-aged cat on the left opens the bag further and the elder cat on the right calls the young tom back over. He hurries over and, as if he’s already understood what he’s supposed to do, takes three randomly picked pieces and eats them.

Huh. Weird. The young tom returns to his spot against the wall.

“Where did you find this?” The chief asks.

“It’s our winter store.” Mattie says, suddenly. “We’ve been gathering it since Spring. Sadly, there is not much, considering. The land in our territory is becoming barren and has finally been invaded by the Void. It cuts off a direct route to Ransen and so we come to ask if we may pass through your village.”

Wow. Mattie’s pretty good at this! Two of the faces before them are looking slightly less distrusting at least, even if they’re not looking much less hostile.

“Since we’re headed there anyway, it would be a waste to leave it behind, so we brought it as a gift to you, sir.” Alfred adds.

“And how am I to believe you were born and raised in that cursed, monster-infested land?” The chief says harshly. “The witch Wuti does not permit anyone to trespass, to say nothing of letting anyone live and raise a family there.”

Alfred is taken aback. That was a name he very rarely heard. There wasn’t much need to say it around the house, after all. It also sounds like this chief fears “Wuti” and does not seem to know about her death, which is useful if a bit upsetting. Alfred glances at Mattie once more who has finally returned the look. Alfred grabs Mattie’s hand and looks the chief directly in the eyes.

“Yes. Hehewuti is our mother.” Mattie says with the convincing tone of a loving son. All three eyes are back on them and frozen solid.

“She sent us ahead and instructed us to give you this gift.” Alfred says.

“We mean no disrespect, chief, but we ask that you please refer to her by her real name and not in such a distasteful manner.”

“Particularly when speaking to us.” Alfred finishes with the barest hint of an edge in his words. The warning in their voices is no act.

The silence that follows seems to last an eternity.

★ TBC ★

#lamentalia #hetalia #aph #axis powers hetalia #axis powers ヘタリア #hetalia fanfic #hetalia fantasy au #aph america #aph canada #aph fanfic #aph fanficiton #hetalia fanfiction #Alfred F Jones #Matthew Williams #Chapter 3

[blaindersonkummel]

Klaine Fic: I’m A Sure Thing

Written for Day 6 of Klaine Advent 2017 Prompt: “Fraction”

Summary: After an exhausting day at school, Kurt is sidetracked on his way home by two figures in an alleyway. One seems to be an older man. The other, a prostitute - a boy Kurt may have seen before. Title taken from the film Pretty Woman. Trigger warnings tagged on AO3.

Word Count: 2100 - Read on AO3.

Kurt was tired. After a day of demanding dance rehearsals, voice lessons, and physical comedy acting 101, followed by two subways and a bus, Kurt was ready to get home, get into bed, and sleep for twelve hours.

The umbrella hanging on Kurt’s arm swung side to side as he trudged his way home, his apartment calling his name from ahead. As he made his way towards his building, however, something caught his eye.

Across the road, under the darkness of ten o’clock at night, he spotted two people, half in the shadows of the alleyway by the building, and half lit by the street light above.

Moving closer, however, Kurt was taken aback to see who the two people were. The first, a guy with salt and pepper grey hair, maybe in his mid-50s, dressed impeccably in a designer suit, topped by a dark trench coat which was likely to cost more than a month’s rent on Kurt’s apartment.

The second person, however, Kurt recognised. He had seen this man - well, boy really – before. The boy in question had been spotted by Kurt numerous times on this street, usually by the alleyway or on the corner. Yeah, Kurt was pretty sure this guy made his living on that street corner. And the boy’s clothes tended to confirm that suspicion.

Today, the boy had his curls loose and his eyes lined in a smudge of black liner. His clothes had tastefully fashionable rips in both the white t-shirt and the sinfully tight pair of black skinny jeans he had on, all topped with a pair of knee-length lace up boots and a bright red vinyl jacket.

Seeing these two together any other time of day may have made Kurt glance over at the sheer contrast of their ages and outfits. The thing which stopped him in his tracks, however, was the fact that the older gentleman had the boy pressed up against the side of the building.

Kurt’s eyes widened as he took in the sight. The boy had a strange expression on his face as if he was experiencing both the ecstasy of having a man pressed against his body, plus the boredom of a job he had performed plenty of times before. Kurt wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d seen the boy check his nails over the man’s shoulder as he mouthed at the boy’s neck.

Kurt suddenly caught himself staring and felt like such a creep. It was no business of his how the guy earned his living and how the other guy got his kicks. Moving onward, Kurt quickly reached the steps leading up to his building. He took them two at a time, making sure not to glance over his shoulder at the gorgeous boy, lest jealousy overcome him at seeing the man on top of him.

He was about to put his key into the front door when he heard a scuffling of rather loud noises behind him. Ignoring his rule and turning around, he was quick to catch sight of the boy pushing the man away with both hands.

“We didn’t agree on that!” the boy said, frustration evident on his face. Kurt wondered how many times before he’d had to do that.

“God, Devon, what more do you want from me?” the guy seemed to shout back, “I skipped out on my wife’s damn event mixer to come see you!”

The boy looked affronted at this.

“Yeah, so you picked me up, took me to your place, fucked me for an hour, and brought me right back again. We were out of your door in under five minutes. That’s got to be a record, John!” the boy – Devon, apparently - practically yelled this part, before his voice softened and he looked down at his boots, dejected. “If you’re not going to stick to your promise, you can just give me the money now and we’ll be done.”

The man – John – instantly seemed to have a red mist descend upon him and he stepped in to Devon’s space again. Kurt was frozen in place, straining to hear what was being said.

“Excuse me?” he asked, his voice threateningly aggressive as Devon backed into the wall.

“You heard me,” the boy responded shakily, obviously trying to sound more confident than he was feeling.

“I’m sorry,” John sneered, “What on earth gave a slutty little bitch like you the impression that you can talk to me like that, huh?” the guy now had a venom in his voice that Kurt didn’t like, his words setting off alarm bells that Kurt really should intervene.

Devon looked hurt, perplexed, and just plain scared at this point.

“You didn’t seem to have such an issue with this slutty little bitch when you were fucking me into the mattress half an hour ago!”

The cracking sound that came was so loud, it broke Kurt out of his frozen stance. John had just slapped Devon right across the face, sending the young boy to the ground into a dirty puddle below. Devon’s hand flew to his face, holding his cheek where Kurt could see a bright red mark already forming.

That was the last straw. Shoving his keys in his pocket, with a huge rush of adrenaline, Kurt beelined right across the road towards the man. However, as he got nearer, Kurt was frozen again by a flash of something black and silver in the guy’s hand.

Devon looked up at this moment and locked eyes with Kurt, obviously having only just spotted him. His expression seemed to plead for help as he lay shivering on the ground in pain.

“Oh Devon, you’re really going to regret that.”

John then raised his right arm, pointing right at him as the black and silver flashed in front of Devon’s eyes. A gun.

Devon drew in a sharp breath and snapped his eyes shut, waiting for this to be over.

But no shot came.

Instead, there was a loud thump, followed by an even louder second thump. After what seemed like an eternity, the boy slowly opened his eyes.

Instead of a jilted ex-lover aiming a gun at his face, there stood another man. The gorgeous, much younger (but still older than Blaine), scared-looking man, breathing deeply and clutching something in his hands.

Devon sat bolt upright and surveyed the scene. In front of him lay John, face down in the puddle, his Armani suit completely ruined. The man above them, it turned out, had a death-like grip on a long, thin umbrella. It took a second for the puzzle to click that this guy must have knocked John out in one clean sweep before that gun could do some irreversible damage.

Still breathing heavily, Kurt looked down at the boy on the ground, eyes wide and heart racing.

“Are you- are you okay?” he asked, desperate to make sure this boy wasn’t in need of medical attention.

“I-“ Devon tried, but he just couldn’t get the words out. He tried again, but they just weren’t coming. He was shaking like a leaf.

Kurt managed to swing his leg over the man on the floor and walk across him to stand next to the boy.

“Devon?” Kurt asked, the boy neither nodded, nor shook his head, just looked at Kurt in shock, tears in his eyes. “Here, let me help you up.”

Kurt then held his hand out and miraculously, he took it, allowing himself to be pulled up on shaky legs as he stumbled. Kurt managed to catch him by the shoulders and steady him, a few tears beginning to leak now.

“I think you should come inside. I only live in that building,” he inclined his head towards the other side of the road. “We should get away from here.”

Allowing himself to be moved, Kurt steered Devon by his shoulders towards his apartment, helping him up the steps and into the warm entrance of the building.

When they got upstairs, Kurt sat Devon on the sofa as he ran to get some blankets and make a cup of tea. In all honesty, Kurt didn’t know what the hell he was doing, but he just knew this boy needed someone right now and that person happened to be Kurt.

When he brought the tea in to the living area, Devon had the blanket wrapped around his shoulders and thankfully, he seemed to have stopped shaking and got some colour back in his face – other than the bright red mark across his cheek, of course.

“I brought you tea,” Kurt said gently, moving to set it on the table in front of him and taking a seat on the same sofa.

It was only now that Kurt realised he had absolutely nothing to say to this boy. He was about to make some superfluous comment about any topic he could think of when the boy spoke.

“Thank you.” It was so soft, but it was crystal clear. He reached forward and picked up the cup, holding it in shaky hands to his lips.

“Look, Devon, if you need me to call anyone-“

“Blaine.”

Kurt stopped mid-sentence here, mind catching up.

“Do you need me to call Blaine?”

“No,” he said, the absolute tiniest hint of a smile on his lips at Kurt’s response. “I’m not Devon. That’s my middle name. My name is actually Blaine.”

“Oh.”

Kurt must have looked momentarily stumped but he suddenly felt stupid for not realising it sooner. Of course a prostitute was unlikely to use his real name. As tonight proved, it was a seriously dangerous profession to have on the streets of New York. You couldn’t be too careful.

With neither knowing how to respond, Blaine took another sip of tea, but his eyes stayed glued on Kurt’s face. Kurt could swear they held the smallest hint of lust directed at him.

Blaine lowered his cup and licked his lip, possibly not attempting to look seductive, but Kurt considered it to be overtly so, coming from this boy. “Okay, then,” Blaine began, “What do I call you?”

“Oh, ermm… I’m Kurt.”

“Well, Kurt, I must say I am seriously, seriously, happy to meet you. If you had got to me a fraction of a second later, I doubt I’d be drinking this delicious chamomile.”

Blaine gave a coy smile then and another sip of tea, but without a doubt, all Kurt could focus on were the scared eyes of a child staring right back at him.

“How… old are you, Blaine?”

“I’m twenty one!” he replied, far too eagerly.

Kurt gave him a pointed look and his guard immediately fell down, along with his head.

“I’m seventeen.”

Kurt felt kind of sick. How on earth did a seventeen year old, beautiful, quick-witted boy like Blaine find himself staring down the barrel of a gun on the sidewalk?

“Oh Blaine,” Kurt said, hurt in his voice, “How did this happen?”

“Well,” Blaine sighed, dipping the tea bag in and out of the water to have something to occupy his hands with. He took in a deep breath. “It’s kind of a long story…”

~

After an hour of talking, Blaine’s tea having gone cold and forgotten on the table, Kurt went to get Blaine some clothes to change in to, offering him the sofa to stay. Blaine fought back, refusing such a kind offer but Kurt insisted.

Instead, the pair changed clothes in the bedroom and seemed to continue their conversation sat across from one another on Kurt’s bed, legs crossed.

When that got to be too uncomfortable, the pair lay down on their backs, looking up at the ceiling as they exchanged their stories:

“I was bullied in high school.”

“I got beaten up at a dance.”

“My mom died when I was eight.”

“My dad never accepted me for who I was.”

“I don’t have many friends in the city.”

“I lost my virginity when I was fifteen.”

By the end of their talk, the pair were exhausted. So, when Kurt woke up at 6am, he was sure he had only slept about an hour. The shock came when he opened his eyes and saw that, not only was Blaine still there, he was fast asleep on Kurt’s chest, his beautiful face pain-free for the first time that night.

Kurt didn’t wake him. Instead, he tightened his arms around him and chose to go back to sleep for as long as possible. He just wondered what kind of topping Blaine would like with Kurt’s famous blueberry pancakes he’d be making in a few hours. But that could wait, for now.

#klaine advent 2017 #klaine advent: fraction #klaine #klaine fic #prostitute!blaine #my fic

[bublp0pr]

UT Shower Thoughts (i.e. random questions/thoughts about life)

*What if the reason that Frisk find Papyrus’ mail box is empty is simply because he’s not lazy and actually bothers to check and empty it frequently?

*If so much fanfiction suggests that Sans treats ketchup like alcohol... then why is it ok for him to pour an entire bottle of the stuff over Frisk’s food?

*Maybe the reason that those flowers from the surface flourish in the throne room maybe because sunlight shines through the barrier and reaches it.

*...Am I the only one who find it strange that Asgore grows facial hair... over fur?

*Why is there weather Underground? Magic? If so... have you ever thought about the monsters whose magic made that possible? Because that’d be an awesome job. *In fact... if magic can control the snowfall in Snowdin, then why not just use that to cool the Core?

*If Asgore named Snowdin, does that mean that the Inn was likely the first building monsters set up there? (There! We just built an inn here. And it just snowed. Let’s call this place Snowed Inn! //Uhh, did you say Snowdin?// Sure! Let’s go with that!) *Hang on a sec. Even better idea: what if Snowdin was originally called Snowed Inn but the person who made the welcome sign was the same one who did the Librarby and the misspell just stuck? 

*Normally the way the ground works is that it gets hotter as you travel deeper into the earth. Was the trip from the Ruins to Hotland actually a decline with the elevators making up the difference at the end? ...Or is Mt Ebott a dormant volcano?

*Is Grillby made of the same sort of fire magic that Asgore and Toriel use?

*I wonder if Tsunderplane ever lands or if she just... hovers everywhere because she doesn’t have to worry about running out of fuel.

*Do more normal animals like snails and spiders technically not classify as monster citizens? Is that why it’s ok to eat them? Thats... well, that’s pretty messed up. No wonder Muffet has a vendetta.

*A lot of monsters were pretty chill to be hired to hunt someone down and kill them. In fact, Mettaton was able to get in touch with a lot of shady people at very short notice for this (literally shady lol) ...is there some sort of organised crime functioning within New Home we don’t know about?

*Does Asgore know about Temmie Village? Like, is it an acknowledged place under the rule and management of Asgore? Or is it... just... Tem thing.

*When they say that the products are “made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders”... how does that work? Because monsters turn to dust when they die... so something made of spiders would just have monster dust in it, right? Or do I have to fall back on spiders not counting as monsters.

(we interrupt your reading for an completely unnecessary tangent) Mannn. New headcanon: spiders existed under Mt Ebott BEFORE monsters were trapped there. Because you just do find spiders in caves and stuff. And Muffet befriended them at one point after that. Like, the whole concept of animals being a neutral party in the whole war. asdgjhjkl this makes the whole Muffet’s death in the genocide route worse for me because the spiders were people that she bonded with. People who understood her and she did everything in her power to manage their issues because of it. Forget monster-kind. She cares more about spider-kind. They’re her surrogate family ,;_,;

*How does Toriel use a phone if her ear flaps are actually covering the phone when she presses it to the side of her face?

*If Papyrus collected the bones from his fight with us - they didn’t just dissipate after the fight - does that mean that all those spears Undyne threw at us are all just lodged into the cavern walls of Waterfall somewhere?

*We don’t know how old Papyrus and Sans are obviously. Under this logic... technically Papyrus could actually be a teenager in the game. I mean, his behaviour and role in the plot would all still fit if he is. I... I’m seriously trying to contradict myself here but none of my arguments are holding ground... Papyrus could be a teenager.

WAIT. WHAT? NO... BUT... I’m not sure how i feel about this... I need to lie down. Has the fanbase been conditioning me to expect an adult Papyrus this whole time??? Have I assumed that since all the cast is older than Frisk, they must be under the role of adult and Frisk under the role as kid without considering that age is a lot more fluid than just child and adult???? My brain hurts. 

*How does the nice cream guy include messages on his nicecream? I always assumed it was like an icecream cone. But i guess it could just be more of a frozen treat in a wrapper situation.

*When a Loox closes their eye... does they blink or wink?

*What if Alphys only wears glasses to look smart like the anime stereotype? I wouldn’t put it past her...

*Do you ever wonder if Alphys has an additional surveillance system hooked up for the garbage dump to make sure that any anime trash that could possibly arrive doesn’t get lost in the streams of other garbage and fall into the abyss?

*Shopkeep jobs are like the safest position you can be in the game. If Sans and Papyrus had spent more time at their stations rather than facing the human in the open, they would have interacted like shopkeep NPCs and they’d have been safe. Take your own advice Pap lol.

*Toriel gets stuff for her butterscotch cinnamon pie from those buildings at the dead end you find the toy knife... wait. Does that mean are there people there?

*I wish I actually got to see New Home. Instead I just followed some grey express route path through it to Asgore’s castle. Lame.

*What if dinosaur fossils are monster corpses from the war? They’re not extinct. Just trapped under Mt Ebott...

*Toriel and Asgore are both boss monsters, which means they don’t really grow old ever. But never anywhere does it say they were born around the same time. Asgore could be 200 years older than Toriel and it’d make no difference. Creepy.

*What if Temmie’s instincts to think muscles r gross is an evolutionary thing and at one point in their deep history of Tem they learnt not to trust them.

*Never anywhere does it say that Papyrus’ spaghetti tastes bad. The only description given is ‘indescribable’. People just assume that if he learnt from Undyne then it must taste bad.

*Do you reckon the ruins were always purple? Or do you think Toriel painted it that way?

*Getting all your entertainment from the dump must suck. Spoilers everywhere you look when editions come down out of order would kill Alphys.

*Everyone always brings up conspiracy theories for how Sans and Papyrus could have been born like skeletons are an irregular form of monster and maybe even have connections to dead humans... but ghosts being related to eachother brings up no questions whatsoever?

*If monster food can’t expire... then why are there so many fridges in the game?

*It was never really made clear to me if it’s the home in the Ruins or the home in New Home the one that Chara and Asriel lived in before they died. I’m pretty sure it’s the one in New Home? If that’s the case... Toriel make an exact replica of it in the ruins for some twisted reason. That or maybe they just templated the one in New Home based off the one they must have built when monsters were originally cast underground. That’s a story I’d like to hear

*Do other monsters hear their themes playing when they battle? Or is it all in Frisk’s head?

*Am I the only one who sees eternally waiting in the room Toriel told you to stay in an ending to the game? Like, if you quit right there the game would technically satisfy enough to be over. The human dies of old age waiting for Toriel or she eventually returns and they live happily ever after. The end.

*Mettaton really lucked out with what he chose to become fully corporeal with. If he ever regretted his decision, he can just completely re-customise himself to be whatever he wants. Kinda hard to do that as a dummy.

#shower thoughts #undertale #undertale trash #my mind is a really weird place to be right now #but some of these things are pretty cool #i wonder if anyone will actually read through these...? #eh #maybe maybe not #i tried to keep the UT in my head quiet and failed remember? #no going back #i actually started spamming these as individual posts then changed my mind #glad i did that