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dinogoofy · 3 years

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Scorpion/GN!Reader.

Might kiss you, might rip out your guts.- part one

If you think you've read this before, you've read the earlier version! I've edited and changed enough of the story to need a new post about it, so here it is!

A short summary would be that this is a enemies to friends to lovers fic between a winged reader and Hanzo Hasashi. It will be split in 2 or 3 parts!

I also feel like I should clarify that Hanzo is only referred to as Scorpion because the reader does not know his name until the next part.

MAJOR TW FOR DESCRIPTIONS OF GORE

You could still remember it.

The arena. The smell of the blood, the stench of death. The bodies you saw wheeled out in masses of champions. Blood spattered weapons and walls. A picture was clear in your mind of the horror you felt. Of the anxiety and fear you had to push down every moment you remained in that coliseum. After all the training you had been through, nothing could've prepared you for this.

Being a renowned half breed, one of earthrelm and outworld, you and all your feathered glory was never under the radar of the Gods. After spending your life in earthrelm with your mother, Raiden believed that he could trust you. He had tracked you down and informed you of the details months earlier. Asked you to ready yourself the best you could, earthrealm couldn't lose this. And there you were, stalking the hallways before your battle.

You were nervous. Who wouldn't be? You were a hunter, not a fighter. You tracked your targets from the sky, taking them down before they had a chance to truly fight back. Your fighting style had never been meant for a closed in fight like this. You had almost told Raiden no for that reason, but with the fate of Earthrealm in as the prize, you couldn't do so with a clean conscience.

You remember the little girl, the servant who was being harassed by a separate contestant. One that was sure to die, if you got your hands on him at least. You had separated him from her, roughing him up just a bit so that he'd run off. Keeping at least one person out of harm's way. You had no idea of the powerful ally you had just made.

When the arena was ready for you, it was safe to say that it was more than a bit overwhelming. The cheers deafened you, the bright white outside blinding your first steps out of the dark corridors. You had splayed your wings wide, trying to make yourself look bigger than you were. You kept your head high as your enemy entered the arena.

When scorpion's form stalked into the arena, your stomach had dropped. He was confident. He knew he was going to win. You hoped you didn't look as afraid as you were. He was a renowned powerhouse. Strength, agility, he had it all. You were at a disadvantage, the huge wings that sprouted from your back becoming a curse. It was nothing you couldn't handle however, you had been in tighter spaces than this.

Hadn't you?

The fight started quickly. You weaved out of his range and dodged his attacks. It was wearing you down. After narrowly missing a particularly nasty kick, you knew you couldn't keep this up for forever. Lifting yourself into the air to try and get an upper hand was easy. You circled the arena around him, preparing to swoop down on him from a nose-dive when-

"GET OVER HERE!" The blade pierced though your right wing, through the muscle and into the bone. A scream of pain ripped through your throat as you were yanked back onto the ground.

A string of explicit words left your mouth as the blade was yanked out. You got your feet just in time for Scorpion to charge at you again. You couldn't dodge this time. He managed to land a punch, but when you blocked the second you had a horrific realization that you were too close to him. There was no chance to evade the attacks easily now, he could just yank you back to where you were. You blocked his blows as best you could, landing a few hits of your own, when he reached a hand out and grabbed your wing.

The excruciating pain had burned itself into your memory. His hand lit up in flames in a split second, charring your wings. You cried out in pain, trying to push him off of you, but he remained unmoveable. Your wing caught fire, and the flames tickled and singed the feathers of the other one.

The pain was all you could think about as your lifeline burned and faded, and you hardly noticed when his blade ripped through your throat. He dropped you to the floor, the fire starting to burn out all the while you gasped and gurgled for air.

It went black quicker than you expected. You had died. What a pitiful ending. Slaughtered in the arena, killed while fighting a pathetic fight. All your years of training, and still you weren't good enough.

The first breath that came back to you felt awful.

The room was quiet. Muffled cheers and screaming was heard from outside the dark brick walls. You brought a hand up to your throat, wincing from the pain that erupted from the charred wing as you stretched. The wound was closed. It was healed. Small, delicate hands steadied you as you sat up. Kind brown eyes watched you with concern. It was the servant girl from earlier. You tried to speak, but let out a horrendous series of coughs. You took a deep breath when they finally stopped.

"I… I thought I was… What happened?" She gave you a tight-lipped smile, showing you her blood covered hands. Runes were carved into her skin. The child had revived you with a magic you couldn't recognize. Your intreage turned to concern as you reached out for her. Holding her hands gently.

You never learned how she knew such powerful magic, and you didn't press her about it. In fact, she never spoke. The servant girl beckoned you to follow her, and led you through tunnels underneath the raging battlefield. Twist after turn, corridor after another, she stopped at a small, empty room.

Three, dead end entryways sat in the circular surroundings. The small girl sat down, giving you a smile, before plucking a sharp, glass dip pen out of her pockets. Out of all the horrors you had seen, your stomach churned and wanted to revolt at the sight of the kind girl cutting along her hands.

Stroke after stroke, she created runes on the backs of her hands, connected them to the ones on her palms and intertwined their meanings. When she had finished, she pocketed the pen again. You went to call out to her, to ask if she was alright, but the words died in your throat as she slammed her hands onto the floor.

With a bright flash, blood ran from her hands, trailing across the floor in dripping, intricate lines. The streams of blood ran straight up the corners of the doorways, lining all three. She sighed deeply and the center doorway lit up.

It was a portal. To home. To earthrealm.

It was beautiful. The chance to leave it all behind. To go home. To rest and recover and… and live.

You couldn't leave her like this. Not without a thank you. Not without something of worth. The girl looks up at you as you move to stand in front of her, hands glued to the floor. She smiles, and in a raspy, broken, almost intelligible string of noises, she speaks.

"F… feather…?" You teared up at the sorry sound of the sweet girl's voice. And knelt down to her, careful of the lines of blood. With a wince, you plucked a feather from your one, good wing, one the size of her forearm. You gently set it in her lap, but she shook her head.

You understood what she meant. With a shaky breath, you finally look over at your charred, destroyed wing. The pain was easy to ignore as long as you avoided the sight. But know there was no ignorance, no pretending it never happened. Your bad wing twitched in a motion that had you crying out in pain, but amongst the remaining, once soft down that fell, a single, black, ashy, sooty, burnt feather fell to your knees. You gingerly pick it up, and give her a skeptical look before setting it in her lap with the other. She smiles again, softly. And bows her head to you.

You turned to look back at her after you stepped through the portal. She finally stands, and bows to you again as the portal closes.

You never saw her again. In fact, you never saw Outworld again. But even though you didn't believe that a feather offering would ever be enough to thank her, you did not forsake her gift to you. It took years for your wing to heal, for the feathers to grow back. A patch of scarred skin still remained where Scorpion's hand had touched you, but with the addition of many different salves and medicines gifted to you by kind strangers, the fluffy, beautiful feathers returned to you. Flight, However. Was harder to take back.

You read almost every book you could find- created every exercise, every lesson you would need. But the burns left behind nerve damage along with the scars. It hurt to move the places that weren't numb. But you couldn't lose this. You couldn't lose your flight. It was the one thing you would refuse to give up. Eventually, and you did mean eventually, you had it back. You were a little wobbly, sure, but once you got up there… once you got in the sky, floating along the wind currents, relaxing in the cool air… It was almost like you have never lost the ability in the first place.

You never fought again. Nor did Raiden ever ask you too. You imagined he still believed that you were dead, but it was none of your concern anymore. You left that life behind. It took years to heal both emotionally and physically from what happened, and in the meantime you realized that the life you had before… it really wasn't for you. You didn't want that pain again. Didn't want the chance to have everything taken from you again.

You sighed, flipping onto your back to glide along with the wind, wingspan on full display. You had taken up traveling after you had learned to fly again. Hopping country to country, island to island, exploring the beauty of your own realm. But all this traveling had started to wear away at you. You longed for home. For your old friends. For family. But you refused to settle back down, traveling despite your homesickness. You'd find a place eventually, but only once you had seen the world. You didn't want to die a second time without experiencing all the lands had to offer.

This time, you didn't actually know where you were traveling to. You had just been cruising along the wind current, relaxing in the sky. The lands below were lush and beautiful, the sky a cloudy grey. A nice, cloudy day had always been your favorite to fly in. Days like these being a kind reminder of the days you were young, and energetic, and still learning the sky. You close your eyes, breathing in the fresh air, the tenseness in your back completely disappearing as you glide. For a moment, all you felt was peace.

Your heart rate spiked as a scream sounded off in the distance. Your wings faltered, and you bobbed in the air. Regaining your steady glide after a moment. You frantically searched the ground, shaky hands flexing into fists. You spotted a Cliffside, eyes immediately focusing in on the small form hanging onto the edge.

It became harder to focus. You started to panic at the sight of a small boy holding on for dear life. One of his hands slipped away, and you flinched, almost dropping into a dive by reflex, but you had to stop and think as his final hand remained.

You debated with yourself on if you could carry him, or if trying would kill you both. He would die from that kind of fall. You could die from that kind of fall. Could your bad wing take it? You didn't know, but you were running out of time. You dropped into a nosedive as his strength gave out.

The adrenaline almost put you into autopilot, the wind against your face becoming your only sensation. You hadn't gone this speed in years. The base of your bad wing started to tingle at the thought, reminding you of just how numb the rest of it was.

Stop. Calm down. You can do this.

Your panic cooled into a still determination as you grew closer. The boy faced up towards you, eyes wide and panicked and scared. You fought the wind with your arms, finally looping around his waist.

You caught the little boy just 20 feet from the ground. He clung onto your shirt tightly as you started to slow, wings struggling to lift you up after how fast you were falling, after a few, difficult, sore, flaps of your powerful wings, your weight slowly carried you into the gravelly ground below the cliff in a heavy thump. Your knees buckled at the landing, and you cradled the boy underneath you as you collapsed onto your elbows, panting for breath. Your wings surrounded the two of you like a limp cage.

Your bad wing twitched as you struggled to relax it again, and the soreness started to set in. Shit. You really should've practiced that dive in your self-taught physical therapy. Then again, you never thought you'd have to do that ever again.

"Are you ok?" A little voice asked. You opened your eyes to peer at the scared, worried face underneath you. You tried your best to muster a tired, pained smile, and sat up, letting him go. He didn't move far, crouching beside you. You realized that he couldn't have been much older than a six year old.

"I'm fine. I just need a moment…" You mumbled. "Where are your parents, kiddo?" He frowned for a moment, sitting down beside you with his knees underneath him.

"My grandmaster is somewhere in the forest, " He gestured towards the lush greenery of the field around him. "-but I think I might have to search for him." He said, glancing up at the cliff. You nodded in response. Grandmaster huh? You analyzed his clothes. A ninja in training maybe, you didn't know how you hadn't seen it before.

"Don't worry. I'll help you." You smiled up at him while splaying and retracting the bad wing back and forth. After a tense moment, you collected yourself. Making sure that your bag was still secure on you after the fall, and standing. The bad wing drooping limply while the other folded behind you. The boy stood with you, gazing at your wings with wide eyes. You chuckled at his curiosity, holding out a hand for him to take. He stared at it for a moment, and then back up at you.

"Well? Let's go find him." You nudged your hand forward again, and he smiled, taking your hand. You smiled back at him, trying hard not to grimace at the painful soreness of your wing.

Glancing around, you managed to pick out landmarks you had noticed while flying. Creating a path in your mind of how you could make it back up to that shady, tree covered cliff, you tugged the boys hand lightly. He quietly followed beside you as you walked.

You wandered away from the gravely clearing and into the forest around. Helping the child pick his way through the bushes. The short journey took only about twenty minutes. Mostly consisting of following the edges of the cliff until you could find a slope, and a path that he recognized.

He only let go of your hand when the two of you had to climb a steep side of the path. He quickly scaled it, turning towards you. You smiled up at him, stretching your wings to boost yourself up there out of reflex, but you stopped. Wincing at the soreness once again. The boy looked at you quizzically, and you shook your head at him. You slowly climbed the slope, and continued on. Soon enough, you were moving through the flat patch of shady, woody, land just before the Cliffside clearing. The boy took your hand again.

"Thank you." He said softly. You smiled at him again, squeezing his hand, but not speaking. "...I'm Takeda." You were taken aback for a second, and determined whether or nor you should be giving the child your name. It couldn't hurt, could it? Your voice cut clear through the silent woods as you spoke.

"My name is..."

You started to trail off as a man silently emerged from the brush on Takeda's side, knives at the ready for just a moment. His eyes locked with yours, and then widened. Shocked at the sight of you, his defense faltered a bit, but still remained. You, on the other hand, bristled. Huge wings defensively folding around you and the boy.

You wished it was rage that invoked such a reaction, but it was fear. Your eyes stinged with watery tears that you desperately tried to keep under control.

"Takeda, get back." You commanded, pulling him closer to you by his hand. Takeda tried to speak, but you couldn't hear what he was saying. The awful flashes of memory, the smell, the pain, all of it was running through your mind. Your bad wing twitched and almost retracted back into your body, but you painfully forced it still, desperate to protect Takeda.

"I'm not here to fight you, and I'm certainly not here to hurt Takeda." Scorpion spoke, gaze soft. He hesitated for a moment, but sheathed his weapons. He held his hands out to show you that there were no tricks. Bullshit. You didn't back down, keeping an angry stare set squarely on him. You could see it in his eyes that he knew that you weren't convinced. Takeda quickly put himself between you two, and you almost reached out to yank him back.

"This is my grandmaster," He spoke in a loud voice. Your eyes widened, flickering back and forth between him and Scorpion. It didn't seem like he was lying, he didn't seem like the kind of kid who would lie- but a child being trained by the deadliest member of the Shirai Ryu? You looked squarely at Scorpion with suspicion, looking him up and down. Your defensive demeanor never let down for a moment. You scowled at him, but when Takeda came back over to you, and reached up for your hands again…

You gave Scorpion a warning look, and relaxed your wings. Feathers smoothing out and wings folding behind your back. You squeezed Takeda's hands gently.

"I thought you were dead?" Scorpion's voice was clear and unwavering, but the question portrayed more than his voice would give away.

"I wonder why." You spit the words like venom. Your bad wing twitched again, this time it felt a little more painful than the twitches normally did. You hissed as you held it still. Takeda frowned, looking like he was about to tear up himself. Scorpion's face fell in a guilty look. This supposed new persona of his had to be a trick. Takeda turned to face his grandmaster. Speaking a few quiet words to him in Japanese that you didn't understand. You were to focused on the pain in your wing to care anyway.

You gazed fondly at the little boy, and sighed. It was clear to see that he was indeed Scorpion's student. You were no longer needed. You inwardly scolded yourself for becoming so attached to the boy so quickly. Sure, you had been longing for a connection… for a family… but this, this was not the place, nor the time.

You looked around, the clearing and cliffside edge was close enough that you could see it through the trees. In an almost dejected manner, you started to make your way over to it. The cliff would provide a great spot to make returning to the sky much easier.

"Will you be able to fly?" Takeda's voice called out to you. You stop in your tracks, turning just slightly so that you could see him, and stretched your wings. You winced as you did, the movement bringing back the soreness and pain you had glimpsed while climbing the slope earlier. You pressed your lips together, only glancing at Takeda before looking back at the sky that shone between the leaves.

If you couldn't leave, where would you go? You certainly couldn't stay here. Not with that Man. Not with Scorpion.

"The Shirai Ryu will extend our kindness to you, if you will accept it." You side-eyed Scorpion as he spoke. Fully prepared to decline before you saw the worried look on Takeda's face. You fully turned towards the two, wings low behind you.

"What does that 'kindness' entail exactly?" Your voice came out just above a whisper, but the malice behind it remained. Scorpion's serious face was a contrast to his student's.

"I am offering you shelter at the fire gardens until you have re-gained your strength." You looked at the boy, and then back at the man who killed you, and then at the sky. Who should you trust? Takeda? Or your own broken body? If you took a fall-

You took a deep breath, bit your fear back, and approached Scorpion and Takeda.

#scorpion x reader #hanzo hasashi #scorpion #scorpion imagines #mk scorpion #mkx #mk imagine #mk x reader #mortal kombat x reader #enemies to lovers #if you are still reading the tags i applaud you #part 2 is coming soon i promise

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sergeantsporks · 3 years

Text

Swapped

Ch 4/5

Ao3

Or read under the cut

The year did not pass in a flash, even after he got a job at a little cafe. The year passed agonizingly slowly, with one dull moment after another, while in the meantime, Zoe came back with story after story of exciting goings-on at Hextech.

Well. Not every moment was dull. Sometimes the moments were painfully embarrassing as he would be called up to the board to attempt something he didn’t know how to do, or would be handed back yet another assignment with a ridiculous amount of red ink scrawled on it.

The teachers seemed to be catching on that he knew absolutely nothing, and had one of two reactions; one of them was to simply leave him alone and not embarrass him further, and the other was to attempt to help him learn by calling on him more often.

At least once the students accepted that he was dumb as dirt when it came to school, they liked him fine. A lot of them were incredibly confused about how he could possibly be so bad at school and then be socially competent. He tried to steer clear of them.

Douxie Casperan, please report to the counselor’s office.

Uh-oh. That did not sound good.

Aaaaand yep, the whispers started up, following him down to the counselor’s little room. Really, it wasn’t THAT hard to figure out why he was being called out. He sat down in a chair, his report card facing him with a line of F’s and D’s. Oh, and one A+ in history. He could do that, at least, having lived through most of it.

“Douxie,” the guidance counselor started.

“Yep, I know, I’m a horrendous student with horrendous grades, I need to take school seriously and apply myself. I know all that.”

“You’re a smart kid, Douxie. Your history grades prove that you can do well. And the teachers all say that you’re trying. It just seems like… you’re missing a lot of other information.”

Uh-oh. She was a little too smart. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you don’t seem to struggle in Calculus because you don’t understand calculus—it’s like you struggle because you never learned algebra, so the background isn’t there. It seems like no one ever taught you basic essay-writing skills, so you can’t write an essay, despite seeming to understand analyzing literature fairly well.”

Douxie nodded along as she spoke, but his attention was caught on something outside the window. Something very shiny, and glowing blue.

Trollhunter. The amulet. That bar girl had been right. And the trollhunter was… wandering around in broad daylight. A human?!

“Douxie?”

Douxie put his hands down on the desk. “You’re right, I never took algebra, also I’m nineteen so I don’t technically have to be here, bye!”

He ran out the door, grabbed his bag, and left school forever. He didn’t find the trollhunter, but that didn’t matter. No more calculus. No more counselors and school. The human trollhunter had arrived.

According to the instructions Merlin had left behind for his apprentice, that meant Merlin couldn’t be far behind.

Xxx

Douxie read Merlin’s instructions. Then he read them again. And one more time just to be sure. The old wizard hadn’t left behind anything specific. Only that there would be a human trollhunter, and he would be the one to wake Merlin. And that Douxie was to stay out of it. No handy dates, or a “meet up here!” note, besides a vague bunch of instructions about opening up a bookshop.

“Don’t stress too much over it,” Archie advised him, “He’s Merlin. He’ll contact us when he’s ready, I expect.”

“I don’t want—” Douxie bit down on his tongue. He couldn’t exactly tell Archie about his mission. “I don’t want to wait that long. What if he’s forgotten about us?”

“Merlin never forgets a detail. It’s his thing.”

“I know, I just…”

“Douxie. It’s okay. He’ll be here. Just… be patient.”

Douxie swept the pages of instructions off of the Hextech help counter. “I’ve been patient!” he shouted, “I’ve waited for nine-hundred years, and he can’t even bother to give me a place to check?!”

The door swung open, and Zoe took in the scene. “Oh, boy. Don’t tell me Mr. Arthurian legend is going to be here soon.”

“Well, the problem is,” Douxie growled, “I don’t know!”

Zoe delicately picked up the written instructions, scanning through them. “Right. Well, if you’re really so determined to wait around for this guy—”

“I am!”

“Then I suggest you open that bookstore he’s got set up. If he’s going to meet you anywhere, it’ll probably be there.” Zoe took his hand. “Douxie, can I talk to you? Alone?”

Douxie let her lead him outside, where she dropped his hand. “Why do you need Merlin?” she asked simply.

“What?”

“You heard me. Why do you need him? Why are you so determined to meet back up with this guy that abandoned you for nine-hundred years?”

“I—there’s still so much I don’t know about magic. And I’m not a master wizard yet, I—”

“Why do you need to be a master wizard? Why do you need Merlin? You’ve been doing just fine without him, or some master wizard title for so long! With just you, me, and Archie! What do you need some crusty old guy to tell you?!”

Well, being a master wizard had been the other Hisirdoux’s plan. But… why was he still holding onto some mission? One that he hadn’t needed to do for nine-hundred years? No. That kind of thinking was out of line. He needed to do this. For his parents, if he couldn’t do it for the pale lady. “I… I just need it.”

“But why?!” Zoe half-screamed, “What’s so important about it?!” She grabbed his hand again. “We don’t have to open the bookshop! We don’t know when or if Merlin will wake up! We can go anywhere, do anything—just like we did before you saw the human trollhunter! You can work here, at Hextech, the wizards here are so varied, you can learn whatever magic you want from them—some of them probably even know things that Merlin doesn’t! Just forget about Merlin and his instructions! How can you feel so attached to him still—you’ve spent nine-hundred years with Archie and I, isn’t that more real than any old apprenticeship that you haven’t been a part of for centuries?”

“I’m opening the bookshop,” Douxie growled, “I’m waiting for Merlin.”

Zoe threw her hands up in the air. “Fine! Fine, you open your bookshop, and wait for your stupid master! I’m staying here at Hextech!” She ran a hand through her bangs. “Gah, Douxie! I love you, but you need to learn to let go of some things, okay? Just… think about it. Give it a few days before you open up that bookshelf. Figure out what you really want, not what you wanted nine-hundred years ago and have been holding onto ever since.” She went back inside, the door slamming behind her.

What he really wanted.

He had a mission. A purpose. Right?

Well, what did he care what the Pale Lady wanted? She hadn’t been seen for centuries, just like Merlin. She’d just left behind cryptic instructions, just like Merlin.

But his parents—he couldn’t just abandon them. And if he was on the winning side of this war, if he kept on Gunmar’s side and delivered the information about Merlin’s plans—if he ever woke up—maybe, just maybe, he could make sure that Zoe and Archie wouldn’t get hurt. That there would be a place next to him for them.

Who was he kidding? They’d never agree to that. He couldn’t have a Gum-Gum victory and his new friends. There had to be something else—a way to get his parents back and protect Zoe and Archie and not lose their friendship.

He had to figure out a way.

In the meantime, he opened up the bookshop.

He kept monster hunting with Zoe and Archie.

He kept working at the café.

All the while, more and more of his skin was turning to stone, blue stone lines meeting pink flesh where Something Had Happened to Hisirdoux, but WHY?! So he kept covering up more and more skin, wearing long sleeves and pants even in the heat, much to Zoe and Archie’s amusement.

And he kept running through plans. But they always came down to choosing between his parents or Zoe and Archie. Volunteer enough information to get his parents out of the Darklands, Zoe and Archie hated him. But he couldn’t just leave them stuck there!

Then there was the problem of… well, explaining what he was. Could he ever tell Zoe and Archie the truth? If he rescued his parents, it would come out eventually, wouldn’t it? But he couldn’t just leave them stuck there!

He was set in autopilot, going through the motions of his day while his brain continuously raced to figure out the paradox of How to Not Lose Anyone.

And then he wandered right into a web of dark magic at work. He almost stopped dead in his tracks before forcing himself to continue walking and acting like nothing was wrong. The human trollhunter. Jim. He’d tried to get in closer a few weeks ago, shown up at the school, handed out flyers for the Battle of the Bands. Talked to Jim’s friends. He still wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong, but the trollhunter was glaring at him.

That magic, though. It wasn’t coming from the trollhunter. It was coming from… Claire. No surprise, she was the shadow magician, but… this felt… different.

And then a voice spoke in his head, slithering and cold.

Stay out of it.

Douxie blinked. Had he just-?

I am your queen, your creator, Morgana, Baba Yaga, the Pale Lady, and I am ordering you to not interfere. The girl is mine.

Douxie gulped. Right. This was happening. Okay. Fine.

Act as though nothing has happened. Your cover is necessary—Merlin may soon return.

Douxie steeled himself and took their orders—he wasn’t quite sure how to tell her, but Morgana wasn’t exactly… doing the best job fitting in. And the whole time, his mind spun and reeled. Had Morgana read his mind all along? Did she know everything he’d struggled with?

Well, don’t think about it now, he told himself, shaking his head.

Should Merlin return, Gunmar awaits in trollmarket. I will guide you to him, my special wizard. Soon, you will no longer have to pretend. You will be free to be yourself.

Morgana’s presence faded from his mind as Claire and Jim left, and Douxie shivered, rubbing his arms.

What if I’m not sure who “myself” is anymore?

#toa #tales of arcadia #douxie #zoe #archie #toa fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #dalmar #swapped #changeling!douxie au

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glorious-blackout · 3 years

Text

Self-Indulgent Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino/Simulation Theory Crossover Part Five

@rock-n-roll-fantasy Still haven’t settled on a more fitting title than ‘Mark Needs A Hug’ (though my brain keeps coming up with The Shining/Hotel California references) but he does get several of those in this chapter if that helps? 😉 Part Six should be up soon as well! 🥰

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

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

Mark wakes to find his face half-smushed against his pillow, limbs heavy and sluggish from sleep as his mind clings to the last remnants of a pleasant dream.

An aura of peace lingers like a warm flame as he recalls the circumstances of his fantasy. He’d been sitting on the floor of a modest living room, clad in pyjamas that were too small for his rapidly growing limbs; too entranced by the shiny electric guitar in his hands to make note of his surroundings. It was the exact model he’d been begging for on a daily basis since spotting it in the window of a music store, and had no doubt been living in his parents’ closet for months as they coyly teased him in the run-up to Christmas. Music was playing from a battered old CD player residing on a stacked bookshelf, and he strummed along despite not having the faintest clue how to play a single chord.

His lack of experience couldn’t have mattered less. Nothing could have broken his contentment in that moment. Not even his mum asking him to “turn the music down, love” so he could pay heed to his other presents had disturbed him from his trance, and Mark had awoken with a pervading sense of peace as the unmistakable melody of The Strokes’ ‘Last Nite’ wormed its way into his brain.

It was one of those dreams that feels more like a long-lost memory than a fiction. One of those subconscious reminders of a simpler past that manages to elicit a smile even when the world at large is falling to pieces. Mark knows this cannot be the case here. He has too many memories of partying his way through the seventies to reconcile those experiences with the notion of being a teenager at the height of The Strokes’ popularity. And yet, the sweet taste of childhood nostalgia is one he appreciates all the same, enough that the thought of waking sends a sharp ache through his heart.

Seeing no obvious reason as to why he shouldn’t slip back into restful slumber, he lets his eyes flutter shut and sighs as he feels his limbs go pliant once more. He can almost taste the sweet embrace of sleep, only for it to be yanked from him once again with a brutal shove. A low whine escapes his throat as a persistent intruder nudges his shoulder, and he swipes a vicious arm in their direction in a wordless protest. His efforts are ultimately feeble, not to mention futile. The nudging continues, now accompanied by the constant repetition of his name, and when his tormenter gives no indication of surrender, Mark is forced to abandon his state of bliss and re-enter the realm of the living.

He squints, bleary-eyed, at the formless blob hovering over him as he lifts his head from the pillow, flattened hair clinging to one cheek as his brain swims in the wake of his rude awakening. It occurs to him that doesn’t remember how he got here. Judging by his position he must have collapsed face-first at some point in the night - still fully-clothed if the wrinkled cotton of his shirt is any indication - but all memories leading up to that point are absent. He only vaguely recalls receiving a call from Murphy in the evening and senses that it must have dragged on far longer than usual, but he would not be able to describe how the call ended even with a gun to his head. Not that it particularly matters. He’s only grateful for the fact that Murphy must have taken pity on him at some point and let him surrender to his all-consuming weariness.

His vision finally clears following several exaggerated blinks, rendering him somewhat relieved when the humanoid blob morphs into the fretful form of Nick. The man is dressed remarkably casually for someone who likes performing in three-piece suits, and his shoulder-length hair hangs lazily around his face. It takes Mark far too long to realise that Nick’s informal apparel is no doubt related to the fact that he has inadvertently given him several days off from his day-job.

“Hey,” Mark croaks, cringing at how utterly wrecked he sounds as he settles his aching back against the wooden headboard.

“Hey yourself,” Nick replies with a breathy chuckle which does little to mask the concern etched on his face. His outstretched hand is still resting on Mark’s shoulder, as though he suspects he’ll drift off into the abyss again if he dares let go. “I were startin’ to think you were out for the count.”

Mark frowns at that, casting his eye to the bedside table in an instinctive search for his phone, only to find that it isn’t there. He spots it lying neglected on the desk by his computer, too far away to bother checking the time. The room is illuminated by a soft yellow glow as the hanging lights do their best impression of the afternoon sun, and beyond the circular window he can see that the spotlights have bathed the hotel in blinding gold.

“How long’ve I been asleep?” he asks, rubbing the lingering exhaustion from his eyes and groaning as every movement sends a dull ache shooting through his muscles. No doubt the question will be impossible to answer, given that even he doesn’t know when he slipped into unconsciousness, but Nick may be able to give an indication of how badly he’s overslept at least.

“Couldn’t tell you,” Nick admits with a shrug, before lifting himself from his crouched position and coming to rest on the edge of the bed, his hand finally leaving Mark’s shoulder. “Jamie came by to check on you about eight hours ago, then Matt popped round at lunch. Doesn’t look like you’ve moved much in the meantime.”

Mark frowns. It isn’t like him to sleep so heavily. Usually a single nudge is enough to have him wide awake and alert. He shivers as he envisions two of his best friends waltzing into his suite without him having any recollection of their presence or even of his sleep being disturbed. He trusts Jamie and Matt implicitly of course, but the notion that he has been so dead to the world makes him feel too vulnerable for comfort. Anyone could have swanned in, and by the sounds of it he wouldn’t have so much as shifted in his sleep.

“How’d you get in?” he asks, trying not to sound suspicious and doing a terrible job of it. He tears his eyes away from Nick’s face in shame and decides that tugging on the duvet will be a better use of his time. The fact that he’d awoken with it wrapped snugly around him strikes him as odd. He doubts he’d had the mental faculties to pull it around himself last night. A bittersweet smile tugs at his lips as he pictures Jamie giving up on his efforts to wake him and proceeding to tuck him in instead; the mental image filling him with a strange sense of longing.

When he braves a glance at Nick’s face, he feels fierce heat return to his cheeks as he takes in the man’s confused - almost hurt – frown, and he inwardly scolds himself for planting that expression there.

“You gave us all keys on our first day, remember?” Nick reminds him, extending a hand into the pocket of his jeans and revealing the offending object, complete with shiny silver keyring in the shape of a bass guitar.

“Oh, right,” Mark says lamely, eyes glued to the set of keys as though seeing them for the first time.

Of course he remembers giving the lads keys to his room. He has copies of all of theirs too, set aside for emergencies. He remembers the painstaking effort it had taken to pick out individualised keyrings, and the delight that lit up his friends’ faces when they received them all those years ago. It just strikes him as odd that the keys have barely seen any use in all that time. They don’t tend to hang out in each other’s suites anymore now that the lads have families of their own, and barring one miserable fortnight where Mark had been holed up with the flu, he’s rarely been in such a state that he’s needed someone to keep a constant vigil over him. If his friends have been driven to this level of fretting, he must truly look horrendous.

When Mark doesn’t say anything else, Nick shoves the set of keys back in his pocket before lifting himself to his feet. Anxiety tugs at Mark’s heart as he half-expects his friend to leave him alone, but it quickly turns to relief when Nick makes his way over to the coffee-machine instead. Good coffee seems like an excellent idea given that for all the sleep he’s had, he still feels utterly bone-weary. At a guess he must have been out for upwards of sixteen hours, yet every muscle fibre in his body is telling him that he won’t be fully sated until he’s been comatose for a week. At least.

He groans as he sits up straighter, shoving the duvet away from him in the process, and he’s forced to bring a hand to his forehead as a persistent throb settles behind his eyes.

“Bad hangover?” Nick asks from his perch by the kitchen counter, the coffee-machine giving off a low rumble as it brings the water to boil. Mark can’t help but laugh at the assumption; it’s certainly a fair guess.

“Surprisingly no,” he admits, lowering his hand and pointedly ignoring the way one of Nick’s eyebrows quirks upwards in subtle disbelief. “Haven’t had a drink in four days, believe it or not.”

“Coulda fooled me!” Nick scoffs, and despite the lightness in his tone, Mark can’t help but flinch. His discomfort must not be very subtle, for Nick’s smile drops instantly and he directs his gaze to the floor as though silently ashamed. “Sorry. It’s just... We’ve been worried about you. Me and the lads. It’s not like you to cancel shows without running it by us first, and whenever one of us tries to check if you’re okay, there’s no answer.”

Nick’s tone isn’t accusatory in the slightest, but Mark still wonders if the guilt unleashed by his words will swallow him whole. It’s true. He hasn’t said a word to his friends since he abandoned them after their last show, and even before that he’d been aloof and stuck inside his own head. He’d cancelled all of their upcoming performances without even notifying his bandmates first; no doubt they’d turned up to rehearsals only to be chased away in bewildered confusion by the orchestra’s conductor. And while Mark has barely checked his phone over the past few days, he has noticed several missed calls and unread texts which hadn’t struck him as particularly urgent at the time.

The others have no idea what’s got him so wound up. They don’t know about Matthew, or the armed guards who came after him, or the cupboard with the flashing red lights in the impossible corridor. For all his thoughts of calling Jamie in the hope that he’ll somehow rationalise those events with logical ease, Mark has neglected that opportunity at every turn.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, unable to bring his gaze to meet Nick’s for fear the shame will kill him. His voice sounds impossibly small and he feels completely unsure of himself in a way that he never has before. Even the self-consciousness that characterised his youth cannot compete with the crushing uncertainty which consumes him now. “Truth be told, I haven’t really been feeling like meself these past few days. Probably needed some sleep if I’m being honest.”

“Well, you certainly got some of that,” Nick jokes with a fond smile, and a surprised laugh breaks free from Mark’s chest as he shrugs in wordless agreement.

The coffee-machine finally halts its racket and Nick sets about preparing them both a simple Americano, having correctly assessed that anything more complicated would likely not be tolerated in Mark’s current state. Mark swings his legs over the side of the bed and briefly closes his eyes as a new wave of pain racks his skull, but he greets Nick with a smile when he settles beside him, gratefully accepting the proffered steaming mug in both hands.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, cradling their mugs and blowing off steam before taking careful sips. Mark’s eyes close in satisfaction at the first taste of coffee – prepared just the way he likes it – and while he doubts it’ll achieve the impossible task of revitalising him, he feels a little more human with every sip.

When his mug is half-empty, Nick takes it upon himself to break the silence with a gentle, “Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” Mark admits with a sigh, unable to tell whether he’s being entirely truthful. Telling the whole story is out of the question. He has little desire to leave Nick questioning his sanity, and he doubts he’d be able to explain everything that happened that night in sufficient detail even if he prepared a script beforehand.

Nick isn’t going to let him get away with saying nothing though, judging by the bemused expression on his face.

“Fine. I met someone the other night and he just... freaked me out a little,” Mark attempts eventually. That part is true at the very least. “Haven’t been able to get him out of me head since.”

It’s a lame explanation and he knows it. Even if that wasn’t already obvious, the way Nick’s brow furrows in confusion hammers the point home with all the subtlety of a brick smashing through a car windscreen.

“Did you and he...” Nick starts, before thinking better of it as his face becomes alight with flame.

“What?” Mark asks, only for the insinuation to become clear as day with the spreading blush across Nick’s cheeks. “Oh no, definitely not. It weren’t like that.”

No doubt his current state of mind would be less confusing if he and Matthew had simply stumbled into a drunken mistake, but the man’s looming influence isn’t driven by any romantic inclinations. It strikes Mark as odd how easily Nick had accepted the possibility, though he can’t say he minds. He’d almost prefer the prospect of his aloofness being driven entirely by shallow ‘guy problems’. At least there are plenty of words in the English language to describe dilemmas of the heart. In contrast, the explanation “A stranger presented a rather compelling argument for our existence being nothing more than an elaborate, pointless lie before disappearing into a cupboard which no longer exists” is a little less run-of-the-mill, and that’s before you throw in the notion of a boss who may or may not be the mastermind behind the whole sorry affair.

Huh. Somehow in the midst of his exhaustion, he’d forgotten about Murphy and the smug satisfaction plastered all over his face towards the end of their call.

“Well, whatever happened, he’s clearly left you in a bit of a state,” Nick remarks, oblivious to the turmoil raging within Mark’s head. His voice cuts through the noise and serves as an anchor, returning him to the present, and he can’t quite hide his relief as his mind quietens. “Do you want one of us to have a word with him? Give him a warning shot, perhaps? Matt’s taken up boxing, I’m sure he’d be all for it.”

“Absolutely not!” Mark retorts with a burst of shocked laughter, before descending into a fit of hysterical giggles as Nick indulges in a victorious grin. It doesn’t take long for Nick’s laughter to accompany his own. The prospect of his bandmates collectively ganging up on an unsuspecting Matthew is so ridiculous that the absurdity of it lightens his heart. Though he’s not sure how to explain that if they’re going to beat anyone up, he’d much rather they go after Murphy instead.

“You wouldn’t get the chance anyway. He’s already gone,” Mark clarifies once their laughter has settled. He neglects to mention the unusual circumstances surrounding Matt’s disappearance, settling instead for polishing off his cooling mug of coffee. “And honestly, it weren’t like that. He was a nice guy, all things considered. Just a bit strange. He had a way of getting inside your head and I don’t think he realised he was doing it. Besides, all of this is my fault. I shouldn’t ‘ave let him get to me like that.”

“Right,” Nick says sceptically, no doubt still hoping for something or someone to blame for Mark’s recent state. Mark can sympathise. He imagines he too would be frustrated if he were forced to bear witness to one of his bandmate’s private struggles only to be offered no obvious means of fixing the problem.

“Seriously Nick, I’m okay,” he insists, turning his body to face his friend head-on and suddenly feeling more sober than he has in days. “Or I will be soon enough. I just... I needed some space. Have done for a long time if I’m being honest. I reckon the other night were just the breaking point.”

He aims for flippancy, but watching Nick’s face fall is enough to inform him that he’s missed the target by a country mile. Concern darkens his friend’s kind eyes and sends guilt coiling in the pit of Mark’s stomach. He’d give everything to wash away Nicks worry; to convince him that he isn’t worth the anxiety his friends are wasting on him. He feels responsible enough for dragging them to this blasted rock in the first place, away from their homes and families and ambitions. Lumping further pain upon their shoulders is simply unforgivable.

“You could have just told us that, you know,” Nick says after a while, not unkindly, and Mark feels his heart ache. He does know. No doubt all three of his bandmates would have leapt at the chance to hijack Murphy on the phone and bully him into offering Mark some time off, but he’d never wanted it to come to that. The running of the hotel and the responsibilities associated with it are his to bear alone. The band is a separate entity entirely - something pure and liberating amongst the daily deluge – and dragging his friends into his messes has never been his intention. Not that his efforts have come to much in the end.

“I’d miss a million shows if it meant you were okay,” Nick adds when Mark doesn’t say anything, twisting the knife deeper without intending to. “I’m pretty sure the others would do the same.”

Moisture gathers at the corner of Mark’s eyes but he furiously blinks it away. His face is sticky enough with dried tear-tracks, though he can’t remember where they came from for the life of him. Heaving a sigh, he tears his gaze from Nick’s face and rests his head on the man’s shoulder, closing his eyes in quiet contentment. Nick’s frame stiffens for only a moment, before he wraps an arm around Mark’s shoulder and gives him a gentle squeeze.

This is okay, Mark thinks to himself. Despite the madness of the week, it finally feels as though the lost, fragmented pieces of his identity are coalescing into a coherent whole once again.

“I love you all,” he says without a hint of reservation. “You do know that, right?”

“I dunno,” Nick retorts with a gentle shrug, careful not to shift Mark’s head from its perch. Mark doesn’t need to look at him to sense the gentle, teasing smile on his friend’s face. “You’re usually shitfaced when you say it so I’ve always been doubtful.”

Nick gets a light punch to the side as punishment for his jest, and he laughs before pressing a soft kiss to Mark’s temple.

“We love you too, you daft pillock,” he says, sincerity dripping from his tone like syrup. He hugs Mark closer as though frightened that he’ll slip away if he loosens his hold, and the hand perched on his shoulder starts tracing a path down to his elbow before creeping back up. The action is so soothing that the effects of the coffee instantly vanish, and Mark thinks he could easily drift off again. He wonders if doing so will take him back to that peaceful dream, with the guitar in his hands and a loving family within reach.

They stay like that for a little while; Mark on the cusp of a peaceful doze and Nick doing very little to dissuade him from slipping away. There’s still an unmistakable sense of unease clogging the air – a sense of foreboding that has burrowed its way into every corner of the hotel since Matthew’s disappearance - but Nick’s presence keeps it at bay like a shield warding off demons. No doubt that protection will vanish in the same instant Nick elects to leave, and Mark will be left to fend for himself against unseen monsters lurking in the dark, but for now he can’t remember the last time he was so content.

He almost finds himself lost in the dream again – can feel the sensation of rough guitar strings dancing beneath his fingertips – but he’s pulled away at the last second by the buzzing of a phone. It isn’t his, though even if it was he wouldn’t be inclined to check it. Nick pulls his own device from his pocket and replies to the message as subtly as he can, but the damage has already been done. Mark opens his eyes and makes note of the softer light outside as the spotlights dim to a soft orange glow in an attempt to simulate an evening sunset. Deciding that he’s wasted enough of the day as it is, he finally lifts his head and stretches his weary limbs with a groan.

“You know what you should do?” Nick says, pocketing his phone and taking advantage of his newfound freedom to rise to his feet, giving the impression of towering over Mark even more so than usual.

When Mark’s only response is a half-hearted shrug, he goes on: “You should get yourself out of those clothes and go hop in the shower while I make you a very late breakfast. No, I don’t want to hear any complaints, Turner; you reek and something tells me you haven’t eaten a proper meal in days, so I’m not giving you a choice. You’re going to eat what I make you, then you’re going to get dressed up nice, and then we’re gonna meet the lads at the bar so we can all get properly wankered. Sound like a plan?”

Well, that solves the mystery of the buzzing phone. No doubt one of the others has noticed Nick’s extended absence and is attempting to rescue him, all while trying to put a stop to Mark’s reclusive act in the process. It’s ingenious really, and he can’t fault their line of thinking. Part of him can’t help but be wary of returning to the bar given his last visit is what reduced his mind to a frazzled mess in the first place, but knowing the others will be with him lifts his trepidation somewhat. And now that he dwells on it, Nick’s other suggestions don’t sound half bad either. He can’t remember the last time he ate, and a low growl emanating from his stomach implies that his body isn’t best pleased about his neglectfulness. He can’t even recall when he last changed his clothes with any certainty, let alone took a shower. Perhaps some food and a wash will make him feel alive again, or at the very least make a start to the process of resurrecting him from his zombified state.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a genius?” Mark asks, grinning without restraint as Nick releases a bashful laugh topped off with a modest shrug of his shoulders.

“It’s a burden I must bear,” he concedes, his expression settling into one of fondness before his parental instincts take over. “Seriously though. Shower. Now. The more time you waste, the less time we have to get shitfaced.”

Mark doesn’t need to be told twice.

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

The calm before the colossal, world-ending storm lasts all of two hours. Two hours in which Mark manages to wash the sweat and tears from his face under a piping hot shower, before adorning the most casual t-shirt and jeans combo he can find at the bottom of his drawers. Two hours in which Nick thrusts a hastily prepared cheese and ham sarnie into his hands – mocked up from what little food he has in the fridge – and insists that he eats every bite with crossed arms and lips pressed into a stern line. Two hours in which they eventually make their way to the ballroom to meet Jamie and Matt at the bar, where Mark is greeted with a crushing hug from Jamie and an enthusiastic “Welcome back to the land of the living!” from Matt. The latter tops off his greeting with a firm embrace of his own, before ordering the first round of beers with renewed vigour.

For those blissful two hours, Mark feels as though life is finally returning to normal. The burden of responsibility is temporarily lifted from his shoulders, and he lets himself laugh at his friends’ lame jokes as he downs the first pint and swiftly follows it with another. They must resemble a bunch of teenage holidaymakers who have accidentally stumbled into a high-end establishment – their casual attire clashing with the sharp suits and stylish frocks of the waltzing guests – but Mark couldn’t care less.

At one point Jamie turns to him with an unvoiced question resting in gentle blue eyes. Palpable concern radiates from him like heat and for a moment the scrutiny is unbearable, but when Mark responds with a genuine smile, Jamie’s worry melts away in a heartbeat as he follows it up with one of his own. A light buzz takes hold after the third pint and Mark’s aware that he’s done little more than smile like a fool all evening, but he cannot bring himself to care. Those two hours are the happiest he can remember experiencing in a long time. A tiny microcosm of perfection that he wishes he could live within forever.

And then the world shudders.

It begins subtly enough. Little more than a low rumble permeating through the air, barely resonating over Nick and Jamie’s spat as they intensely debate over which of them looks better with long hair. Mark is the only one who takes notice as the rumbling begins to rise in volume; brows furrowing as narrowed eyes scan the ballroom in search of the culprit. Nobody else appears to be alarmed. The guests are mostly in the process of getting royally drunk over a dinner of roast beef or venison, and the waiters continue about their business without a trace of panic.

Only, the sound doesn’t abate with time. With great effort, Mark tries to drown out the surrounding ruckus and closes his eyes to focus solely on the new disturbance. The groan sounds like it’s coming from far away – like a distant car-crash or fireworks display – but the harder he listens, the more it feels like the rumble is creeping towards him from beneath the earth.

“Can you hear that?” he says to no-one in particular, having to raise his voice to be heard over the cacophony of violins and chatter and clinking glasses. Three pairs of eyes turn in his direction – the petty argument momentarily forgotten – but as they listen intently, Mark sees only a growing sense of cluelessness clouding over their features.

“Hear what?” Jamie asks eventually, which strikes Mark as odd, for that persistent groaning has now become so loud that he can practically feel it hammering against his skull.

He draws his gaze to the half-empty pint resting on a coaster before him and watches with detached curiosity as ripples spread across its golden surface. It isn’t just his glass either; the same effect is visible across the entire countertop. It’s little surprise when the faint clattering of glasses joins the growing commotion. Mark looks up towards the bar and sees unopened bottles trembling against each other on the shelves, vibrating in time with the ground which has started to shift uncontrollably. A bottle of scotch topples to the floor with a mighty crash but no-one pays it any heed, and it is soon followed by several priceless bottles of champagne, drenching the floor with booze and fragmented glass.

The low rumble graduates to a deafening roar as the room begins to shudder relentlessly, and Mark lets out a sharp cry before shielding his ears and pulling his head towards his chest. Logic screams at him to get out - to take his friends and run to safety - but whether by fear or something deeper than that, he finds himself immobilised on his chair. It strikes him as odd that nobody else appears to be panicking. The air is alive with the clatter of shattering glass, the rattle of the looming chandelier, the roar of the moon’s underbelly as she protests against those who have desecrated her surface... but not a single scream. No frantic activity or barked orders from level-headed security guards. Not even the chatter which overwhelmed the hall only moments before remains. The room is filled with hundreds of people and yet, as the world trembles around them, they are all as silent as the grave.

Mark included.

It occurs to him that he hasn’t taken a breath since the ground began to shake and his chest burns in protest, but even the simple act of gulping in air feels like a complex task. He clenches his eyes shut as his heart begins to roar in his ears, but doing so offers little relief. If anything, the sudden blackness makes the situation worse. Imagination runs wild; he pictures cracks snaking up the walls and the floor giving way to the rocky depths below. Envisions ivy crawling through those very same cracks and burying the entire building until it resembles an abandoned ruin on Earth. Envisions the curved ceiling giving way and burying him alive beneath several layers of marble and plaster.

He still can’t tell what’s causing the floor to shake with such ferocity. Can the moon experience earthquakes? The thought is so ridiculous that he finds himself giggling hysterically, but what is the alternative? Unless his perception of time has been drastically altered, the quake has gone on far too long to be secondary to an explosion, and the space station is too far away for any launches to be felt as anything more than a minor shudder.

Hours seem to pass. His skull whines in protest as he presses his hands even tighter against his ears, and a single tear spills from the corner of one eye from the effort it takes to keep them clenched shut. His jaw aches as the shudders grind his teeth together and he can feel acid rise in his throat, his gut protesting against a cruel wave of fear. Everyone else remains eerily silent, even his friends who surely wouldn’t have left without him. He knows he could always open his eyes to check on them, but a burst of terror as he comprehends what he’ll find stops him in his tracks. Instead, he simply remains sitting there, curled up like a frightened child, as his surroundings continue to shatter around him.

And then, without warning, the world becomes a brilliant white behind his eyelids and everything stops. The cacophony reaches its abrupt coda as all sound is sucked through a vacuum. Only his shuddering breaths remain, followed by a desperate sob. The whiteness refuses to abate, and for a moment it occurs to him that he may well be dead. That he might be nothing more than a shattered bag of bones, crushed among the ruins of the very hotel he built from scratch. There’d be a certain poetry in that, he thinks, though the persistent cramping of his muscles and the burning in his chest implies that he hasn’t ascended to ghostly status just yet.

It’s impossible to tell if hours or mere seconds pass. The world is so still, so silent, that time loses all meaning and Mark can feel his mind begin to empty, as though the featureless light is consuming him whole. When small details finally do make a reappearance, they do so slowly. He becomes aware of his elbows digging into the hard oak surface of the bar counter. A glass clinks somewhere off in the distance. He becomes painfully aware of the cool sweat on his brow, and his inability to take in a deep breath without his chest hitching with choked hiccoughs.

The silence is finally broken by a single unprovoked chuckle, followed by a muted wave of laughter echoing across the walls. With the flick of an unseen switch, the usual chatter flares up once more and the violins resume their task of reciting an old Tchaikovsky piece, seemingly unaffected by what has just transpired. With a considerable degree of trepidation, Mark tears his hands away from his head and opens his eyes to face a complete wall of booze with no missing bottles in sight. No glass fragments or wet stains litter the floor. No cracks creep up the walls; no ivy sprouts from the ground. The ceiling above remains stubbornly unmarked, and the chandelier glitters as immaculately as it had on the day it was installed. Casting a glance over the assorted faces around him reveals only unaffected smiles, with no trace of fear or even the slightest acknowledgement of the quake that rocked the ballroom only moments before.

Even drawing his attention to his friends brings little clarity. Rather than looking as shellshocked as Mark himself, Nick and Jamie have settled for resuming their debate – this time arguing over who looks best in a ponytail – while Matt grumbles something about not being able to grow his hair without sprouting an afro.

The world has elected to carry on as normal, and yet Mark can’t shake the feeling that everything has irrevocably changed. That the very foundations of the ground he walks on are set to crumble at any moment, taking him down in the process.

It’s impossible to keep his breathing under control, and a weak sob rips from his throat as air escapes in frantic gasps. The sound draws Jamie’s attention back to him, and his eyes widen with fear as he extends a hand to rest on Mark’s shoulder with a careful, “Hey, what’s going on?”

The contact doesn’t help in the slightest. Mark tries to answer but his throat seals shut, turning his words into a low whine, and he settles for shaking his head instead. He needs to get out of here. There isn’t enough oxygen in the ballroom and he can feel the weight of the gathering crowd suffocating him, and before he can think twice, he stumbles to his feet and pushes away from the bar.

That turns out to be a terrible decision. The sudden change in posture has his stomach dropping, and his vision narrows to a fine tunnel before blurring altogether. No doubt the only reason he doesn’t collapse to the floor is because of the hands which appear out of nowhere, holding him upright as his ears drown out a puzzled, “Easy!” followed by a shaky, “Let’s sit you back down mate”. His friends may as well be faceless for all the attention his broken mind grants them.

It feels like his frayed nerves are dangling by a thread; the cool blades of a scissor resting barely a hairs-breadth away, threatening to sever his sanity with an unfeeling snap.

And then the dam breaks.

The buried chest keeping his memories concealed behind a rusted padlock bursts open. Assorted moments in time spill forth from the wreckage, drowning him beneath their weight like the horrors trapped within Pandora’s Box. Only instead of horrors, his mind is suddenly overcome by melancholic nostalgia and untouchable bittersweet memories.

He remembers sitting by the piano as an eight-year-old boy, trying in earnest to play the tunes his dad loved to listen to on his record-player. He remembers sitting in class, drawing his eyes away from the window in silent awe as the profound beauty of John Cooper Clarke’s writing set up camp in his heart. He remembers listening to The Strokes’ debut album with Jamie and Matt before begging his mum for a guitar, followed by the sheer contentment that consumed him as he strummed his new love by the light of a Christmas tree. He remembers countless shows - from shy appearances in small clubs to major headlining slots at massive festivals - and the thrill of terror and excitement that thrummed through his veins before each one. He remembers all of his loves and all of his heartbreak; remembers how the latter had always been overcome by a pervading sense of joy, as he dwelled on how lucky he was to do what he loved with his best friends by his side.

And he remembers the hotel. Remembers excitedly developing the concept and expanding the world and the characters within it. Remembers crafting the model by hand, carving his creation out of cardboard and wiling away the hours as it slowly came together. Remembers the rush of pride when the model was finally complete. Only he had never intended the hotel to be a real place, and he certainly had no inclination to run it.

Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino was always intended to be the setting of an album and nothing more. The fact that he’s currently confined within its walls is nothing short of impossible.

He doesn’t acknowledge that his vision has faded to black until colour slowly creeps back from the fringes. A persistent burn lingers in his chest and it occurs to him that he should probably breathe, but doing so only encourages another sob as hot tears spill down his cheeks. He lets himself be manhandled onto a chair without protest, his limbs reduced to jelly, and even when his eyes offer a glimpse of his worried friends gathered around him, all he can focus on is a section of wall directly ahead. A voice breaks through the roar of blood pounding in his head – a panicked “C’mon Mark, you’re scaring me now!” - but he cannot identify its owner, nor can he bring himself to look at his friends closely enough to see whose lips are moving.

A further memory spills forth from the unlocked chest, prompted by the frantic hands holding him in place. The setting appears to be Bonfire Night, judging by the ecstatic burst of colours lighting up the darkening sky and the acrid smoke wafting from the fire in the local park. They’re gathered in one of the lad’s gardens with a stolen pack of fireworks; far too young to be playing with them on their own, but too swept up in the rebelliousness of it all to care about the inherent risk. Jamie and Matt are chasing him around the garden with sparklers in their hands, mindful of the unlit fireworks planted on the grassy lawn, but his younger self decides to push his luck and edges just a little too close. He doesn’t realise his mistake until he trips and falls, taking his sparkler down with him and inadvertently lighting a fuse.

He clearly recalls the rush of panic and the realisation that he is far too close. All he can do is stare in wide-eyed terror as heat dances along the fuse, threatening to release the firework at any moment and send white-hot sparks of flame in his direction. Before he can brace himself for the exquisite pain however, two pairs of hands grasp his arms and yank him roughly to his feet, dragging him as far back as he can possibly go until he slams against a solid wall. Mere milliseconds later, a burst of sparks erupt from the ground and a high whistle shoots into the air, followed by a stunning explosion of scattered reds and golds.

They remain frozen for what feels like an eternity, until the panicked silence is broken by a high-pitched “Fuck!” on Matt’s part and the release of hysterical laughter on Jamie’s. All he can remember doing himself is staring up at the sky – eyes fixed on the lingering embers of the firework that nearly melted his face off – and noting at the back of his mind that neither Matt nor Jamie have released their crushing hold on him. No doubt they were experiencing the same aftershocks of terror that were gripping his tiny frame.

Eventually Jamie had let go, and he remembers his ten-year-old friend stepping forwards, donned in a navy-blue tracksuit, before turning to the others with a crooked smile and a shaky declaration of, “That were a close one, weren’t it Al?”

A similar form of fearful desperation clings to Jamie now, as he crouches by his side. There’s no relief in his friend’s features this time, only panic and an unmistakable sense of frustration borne of cluelessness. It occurs to him that his inhalations are still coming thick and fast and his head is swimming as he sways in his chair and yet, paradoxically, his mind feels infinitely clearer than it has in years.

“Mark?” Jamie asks cautiously, bringing a warm hand to his cheek in an attempt to anchor him. “Wanna tell us what’s goin’ on?”

The utterance of that name sends a flinch shooting through his body, and before he can even think, a hand shoots out and grabs Jamie by the wrist. The man stills, blue eyes widening as they draw level with a determined gaze, and though he can sense Matt and Nick edging closer, he doesn’t dare break eye contact as he utters his next words.

“Alex,” he hisses, chest heaving with the effort required to voice that old, familiar name. “My name is Alex.”

#Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino #Simulation Theory #Muse #Arctic Monkeys #my fic #writing

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thisentertaining · 3 years

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As the Blue Spirit Howls - Chapter 2

STORY SUMMARY:

Zuko was not a good shifter.

Azula could switch between her wolf and human skins between steps. Not Zuko, he needed several minutes before he even started the shift, and that was on a good day. If it had been Azula who Animal Control found in that alley, they would have walked away convinced that their eyes had played a trick on them. There had never been a dog there.

But Zuko's long transformation would have only revealed his kind to the world. Father may think he has no honor, but he wouldn't stoop so low as that. Even if that meant being dumped in animal shelter, trapped as much by the 24/7 security cameras as by the cage bars.

He had the worst luck. -

"Come on guys!" Aang said as he lead his friends through the clamoring barks of the shelter. "I want to show you my favorite dog! He's a sweetheart."

Aang lead the pair to where a monstrous beast of a dog was growling with raspy barks loud enough to drown out the rest of the shelter. His bright white teeth contrasted against golden eyes and a bright red scar that stretched over the side of his face as he lunged against the cage door.

Sokka laughed nervously. "Did the word 'sweetheart' change meaning when I wasn't looking?"

Chapter 1

Chapter 3

Read on Ao3

Zuko’s ears (well, his good ear) fell back against his skull and he couldn’t help letting out a little whine. Immediately he told himself to get a hold of himself, and straightened, but the roaring emotions within him sent his ear back again. For several moments, he was deaf to the world around him, as his ear flicked back and forth from upright and proud to cowering back against his head.

This… this wasn’t fair. He’d spent months looking for Avatar, going without sleep or meals, getting into fights with gangsters, running from the police, spending every cent he could earn or steal to pay for bribes or information.

He’d run himself into the ground, relaxed long held morals, given everything he had and it had amounted to nothing. Less than nothing, it had amounted to him being homeless, nearly starved, fresh from a beating, half drunk because the only liquid he could find were some puddles of beer outside a sketchy bar. It had been the lowest point in his life, certainly low enough to realize that his father would never accept him back after he’d fallen so far.

More importantly, he’d been low enough to indulge in the self-pity he tried so hard to deny himself, allowed himself to think the traitorous thought that he had only fallen so far because his father had pushed him off a cliff. With one eye blindfolded. Fathers shouldn’t do that, but his had without hesitation. Then, he’d forced himself to admit even further that in his ‘Zuko Alone’ period, he had started to doubt that he even wanted to go back.

He had been told that Avatar was being paid some rival to FireNation Inc., someone who had gone to the police with convincing lies on their lips that would paint their company as one with their hands firmly entrenched in dozens of criminal pies. He’d been told that the witness would lay false claim to seeing FireNation Inc involved in everything from drug trafficking to weaponizing criminal groups. Zuko’s search had brought him among the worst of mankind, individuals who made him nauseous to speak to and sick to work with.

They had all spoken his father’s name with familiarity.

Zuko never wanted to see them again, wished they were behind bars, and Father worked with them. If he were ever to actually become the owner of the company as he was training to do, he would be expected to work with them as well.

He didn’t want that.

So, on that night in the alley, hitting rock bottom at his lowest point, he’d reasoned that giving up on his quest, giving up on proving himself to his father, couldn’t make him go any lower. So he had.

And now, now here he was, Avatar cross legged in front of him, right there, right after Zuko had given up.

What does that mean? Was the universe rewarding him for forsaking his family? Giving him what he wanted in return for his new mindset? After all, the Avatar before him didn’t match up to Zuko’s constant imaginings. It was hard to picture this child as anyone’s go-to for planting false evidence. Based on what Zuko knew now, it was likely that the boy had truly seen every shred of evidence that Ozai denied.

Or was it saying that he shouldn’t give up? That he had a real chance to go back to his old life and should fight for it? After kicking him down for his entire life, was the universe finally allowing him to catch a break.

Because if Zuko could prove himself to Father, maybe he could make a difference. If he gave Father the Avatar, he would have to realize that Zuko was worthy of the family business. That he wasn’t the screw up that his latest report card claimed. If he had Ozai’s trust, his ear, then he could convince his father that they didn’t need to be doing any of these shady dealings, that FireNation was strong enough to stand on its own, legitimately.

All it would take was betraying the kind of kid who sat next to supposedly abused dogs for hours until they let him touch them.

Zuko whined again, ears laid back. It was much harder to hide his emotions in this form, though he wasn’t necessarily good at it in either. The girl, Aang had called her Katara, gently shushed him and scratched along his back in an attempt to comfort him. The motion cleared his mind a bit.

No, he couldn’t think about that. The important thing was, this was Zuko’s chance to prove himself to his father, to get back to his family and make a difference. He would have to be carful though, not rush things as he had in the past. While he had known nothing of the Avatar’s identity, he had been too sloppy (or too desperate) for the same to be true of him. He knew Fong knew what his human form looked like, and knew that Zuko was seeking them.

He had to think of a way to get Aang into a position that his capture would be assured, but he couldn’t risk getting discovered in the meantime. It was good that he knew Avatar’s identity, but he couldn’t let him slip through his fingers again. He had to be smart about this. He had to-

Suddenly, Aang’s arms were wrapped around his neck. He yelped and snapped at the unexpected contact, but the boy simply continued his… embrace?

His hold.

“Please!” The boy was begging his companions. “Director Kuei said that he would fast track the foster application!”

The girl looked skeptical. “Aang, we just said-“

“But this is different!” The boy interrupted. This would be fostering Blue Spirit, not adopting him.”

“And the difference is…” Sokka asked.

“He’s still up for adoption! We would keep him at our house, but his picture and information would still be on the site! That way the cage is available for new dogs, but we can bring him back to meet anyone who sees his picture and is interested in adopting him!”

Neither of the other children said anything, but they glanced awkwardly at Zuko. The werewolf felt his lips curling up in a snarl. He knew what they were thinking, he’d seen himself in the reflective silver bowls that the shelter used. The horrendous scar that covered half of his face would have been hardship enough for a dog seeking a forever home. It was puckered and ugly red, a blighted spot where no fur would grow. One of his eyes was permanently squinting and one ear was shriveled and clearly useless. It was huge and impossible to ignore.

Beyond that however, the Shift was as magical as it was physical, fueled by concentration, focus, self-actualization and self-worth. The more control on had of themselves and their emotions, the more effective the shift. It was why his sister had been so skilled, and why his had taken longer and longer ever since the disappearance of his mother. Shaving his hair in all but his Phoenix Plume had not merely been a physical change for Zuko, it symbolled his dishonor, his father’s disapproval. It, as much as the scar, marked him as a failure. It had become so tied to his identity that it had transferred to his lupine form, only starting to grow back when he’d given up in the alley a few weeks back and accepted his lot.

Or maybe it was just because he hadn’t been able to shave since he had been placed into the shelter.

Regardless, the fact of the matter was, when he’d entered the shelter his fur had looked like it had been completely shorn other than an obnoxiously fluffy tail, which apparently represented his plume. The bareness revealed and highlighted the smattering of scars that covered his body (accidents, “accidents” courtesy of Azula, beatings from his time on the streets, and prior results of failing his father) in addition to the unseemly skin that covered every canine. Some may prefer hairless breeds, but that was when they were cute lap dogs. In a creature as damaged and intimidating as Zuko’s wolf form…

That website would be waiting a long time before anyone called for him.

“Aang…” The girl began, voice dripping with careful gentleness. The boy hunched, holding his head between his shoulders and Zuko found himself licking the boy’s suddenly closer cheek in an expression of comfort.

What.

He needed to get out of the form. His canine impulse control was becoming crap.

He refused to even think of a single possibility in which that action was caused by anything other than some unfortunate canine instinct.

Aang jerked at the touch, but it had pulled him from his funk and he laughed, scratching at Zuko’s belly. “I know what you’re going to say, Katara, but most of the fur will grow back! The face scar won’t look nearly as bad once the rest of it has grown in. Just think of what a handsome boy he’s gonna be.” Aang cooed the last bit in baby talk.

Zuko wanted to retract his lick.

No, not his lick. The wolf form’s lick. He refused to admit any part to it.

“He just needs a good place to stay for a while for that to happen! And we can train him not to be so growly and loud, and to react better around new people and dogs!”

“If he’s bad with other dogs this isn’t going to work.” Sokka said, back to scratching at the good-ear-spot. “Appa, remember? And those teeth are pretty fierce. I’m pretty sure Momo isn’t going to be anything more than an exotic snack.”

“Well, he hasn’t exactly been bad around other dogs, not yet at least! They sometimes act weird around him, but Appa is really well trained!”

“I don’t know, Aang…” The girl continued to protest. Aang sent the pair wide, pleading eyes.

“Pleassseee? He’s a good dog, he really really is! But the shelter knows that no one is going to adopt him in this state and there aren’t any other fosters who would be able to take him in! All we have to do is take care of him, train him to be better behaved, take photos for the website and bring him to adoption events! If Zuko finds us again and we have to move, we can bring him back here, but at least then he’ll have a better chance.”

Zuko jerked at the mention of his name, hating the way it sprang from Aang’s lips as if he was talking about some kind of boogeyman or monster who would pop up and say ‘boo’. He was the villain in Aang’s story. It was a sobering thought, one he didn’t necessarily like.

But it didn’t matter, he forced himself to remember. Of course Aang thought he was a bad guy, the teen had set himself against Zuko’s father. It didn’t mean anything more than how rival sports teams felt about each other. Yes, the stakes were much higher, but it didn’t mean that Zuko was a bad person for being against Aang.

It didn’t.

Zuko whined again, ears once more flat against his skull and suddenly, it was all too much. The caressing hands suddenly felt like they were everywhere. His skin felt like it was crawling with discomfort, with fear, with guilt that he tried to convince himself wasn’t deserved. He rose to his feet, shaking until all of the hands, with their free comfort and freer trust, finally left. He resumed pacing in the little area that the cage allowed as the three teens looked at him with concern.

Katara frowned. “I think he’s getting antsy.”

Aang perked. “Maybe we can take him for a walk while we talk! I bet you’d like that, huh boy?”

“I guess that’d be okay.” The girl allowed, and the other boy’s face scrunched into thought.

“I mean, that makes sense. If we do foster him, we have to be able to take him for walks and stuff.”

Aang shot that boy a victorious grin, one that meant he knew that he was taking home a foster dog.

Fresh air sounded amazing, so Zuko didn’t so much as twitch as they fitted a collar and leash around his neck, practically pulling a yelping Sokka out of the kennel. He was considered a ‘flight risk’ so they were very careful about who they let walk him. Which was reasonable. He was huge, and every step away from starvation was a step towards renewing his strength. The kennel had security cameras close enough to his cage that he couldn’t simply shift and unlock it, and the exercise yard was constantly monitored while in use and covered in tall fencing that would be hard for even him to jump. The dog walking trails behind the shelter were his best bet at escaping from this place.

Consequently, he hasn’t been walked by anyone other than the blockhead wrestler whose anger-management coach insisted he do community service. Zuko knew the issue intimately, as ‘the Boulder’ was fond of ranting about it during their walks.

While speaking in third person.

And referring to himself only as his stage name.

Needless to say, Zuko was not the hugest fan of walk time.

Director Kuei himself was in the lobby when Aang attempted to walk through, his huge New Foundland Bosco panting lazily at his side as always. He frowned at the young boy. “Aang, what are you doing with Blue Spirit?”

“Well, you said that I was too young to walk him, but Sokka is two years older than me, so I thought he could do it! Look at how good he’s behaving.”

Bosco sniffed a little to closely at Zuko and the werewolf snarled at him, making the other dog whine and back behind his owner’s legs. “Quite… though I’m not sure that’s enough. I spoke with the Boulder the other day, and he said that even he is having a good deal of difficulty keeping Spirit in check.”

“Woah hey!” Sokka yelled. “Don’t underestimate me!” He held up his bicep, which was… decent, for his age but was no where near the size of the Boulder’s. “See that? It’s all muscle?”

The man adjusted his glasses and hummed uncertainly, turning to the general manager for his opinion. Fong made the majority of the decisions at the shelter, financially and staff wise. Kuei was content with owning and bankrolling the shelter and taking care of the animals.

Fong looked down his nose at the group of children, consideringly. “It would not reflect well on the shelter if we were to lose a dog prior to it’s adoption. There are no problems in Ba Sing Se humane society.”

Aang leaned forward. “But you said that you were thinking about letting me foster him so that he wouldn’t… how are we going to foster him if we can’t even walk him?”

Fong looked like he sucked in a sour lemon, but by this point they were starting to garner the attention of the others in the lobby, who were looking at the raggedy-looking dog at the end of the leash and the young adults clearly trying to walk him. Likely to save face more than because he actually agreed, Fong acquiesced. “Use multiple leashes. He shouldn’t be able to pull all of you.”

Aang brightened. “Thanks!”

Additional leashes were clipped to the cheap plastic collar, much to Zuko’s annoyance. They weren’t expecting a dog with human intelligence though. Zuko was pretty certain that he would be able to escape. He should easily be able to get far away from…

…wait.

Why would he escape? This was perfect.

The dog’s tail started slowly waving as they walked out of the shelter doors. If Aang really wanted to adopt him, then it would be perfect. He could stay with the boy, learn his patterns and his ways, earn his trust. He could do this the right way, with forethought and planning rather than desperation and fury. He could actually do it this time, bring Aang to his father and make him proud.

He just had to be patient for a bit, be a dog. His father would be ashamed to see the shift used in this way, but maybe he would overlook it so long as it achieved his goals. Zuko’s restored position would be well worth the humiliation coming his way.

So, now he just had to… be a good dog. How hard could it be?

#Avatar The Last Airbender #atla #Zuko #Aang #Katara #Sokka #Werewolf AU #Werewolf!Zuko #Modern Au #My Fanfics

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ghostspideys-moved · 4 years

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We’ll Have Tomorrow

Chapter Four

A/N: I didn’t forget to post this chapter, it just took me some time to find the motivation to actually put this all together, but hopefully you guys like this chapter!

Word Count: 2.2k

Pairing: Steve Harrington x OC, Jonathan x Nancy x OC (eventually)

Summary: Everyone makes their way to the lab and River’s leg kind of gets taken care of for now.

“How exactly are we planning on finding them?” Hawthorne asked. He was holding onto River, letting her use him as support. Normally, he’d get on her case for doing something so stupid, but now hardly seemed like the time. He was just glad she wasn’t dead or in worse condition than she was now.

“Hawkins Lab,” Lucas answered. “It looks like they were headed there, so it’s the best place to start.”

Dustin scoffed. “Of course it would have to be there,” he said. “At least Dart’s okay.”

“You’re positive that was Dart?”

“Yes. He had the exact same yellow pattern on his butt.”

“He was tiny two days ago,” Max clarified.

“Well, he’s molted three times already.” Steve didn’t seem to be following. “Malted?”

“Molted. Shed his skin to make room for more growth,” Dustin explained. “Like hornworms.”

“Well, when’s he gonna molt again?” Max asked.

“It’s gotta be soon.”

Hawthorne tuned out at this point, especially when Dustin and Lucas started arguing. He didn’t care too much to listen to their bickering, so he turned to his sister. “How are you feeling?” he asked, looking down at her ankle. The bottom of her jeans were slightly torn away, and the bite didn’t look too good. It wasn’t bleeding very much, but there was broken skin and horrendous bite marks.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Really, it’s not the worst I’ve been through, and you know it.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not going to worry.” Hawthorne sighed and shook his head. “I swear, you’re going to get yourself killed one of these days.”

River grinned and nudged him playfully. “At least then you wouldn’t have to deal with having a twin to share everything with.”

“And celebrate our birthday alone? Tempting, but I think it definitely wouldn’t be the same,” he admitted. “Besides, who else would give me heart attacks on the daily?”

River laughed dryly and shrugged. “I’m sure you’d get over it.” She winced when she accidentally put too much weight on her injured leg.

“You know, you should have just let me carry you.” “You’d never let me live it down if I had,” she said. “I’d rather lose my leg than damage my pride like that.” She might have meant it as a joke, but he knew there was more truth to that than one might think.

Steve yelling for attention brought Hawthorne back to the moment. It was then that he finally noticed the growling sound coming from a distance. Silently, he hoped it wasn’t Demogorgons, though he knew it couldn’t be anything else. Steve took off in the direction the sound was coming from. Max protested, and he thanked God he wasn’t the only one questioning the sudden rush into possible danger. Putting his fear aside, Hawthorne pulled River along with the others, careful not to hurt her too much with how fast they were going. Max wasn’t far behind, and she even tried to help, much to River’s dismay. If he knew anything about his sister, he knew how much this must be hurting her pride. As of right now, she could hardly even stand, and that alone must have made her feel weak. Something he knew she hated more than anything.

They stopped atop a hill overlooking a great amount of the forest. There weren’t any Demogorgons to be seen, but the sound was unmistakable. Lucas scoped out the area below through his binoculars, easily pointing out Hawkins Lab.

“They were going back home,” he realized.

Hawthorne already had a feeling of dread overtaking him. Hawkins Lab was the last place he wanted to be. Especially after the last time. They had yet to explain themselves, but he hardly thought he could keep their secret for much longer. Dustin clearly had most things figured out already.

It was only a matter of time before they would have to explain that they’d been tested on in that damn place. River and Hawthorne might as well be returning home as well, if he could even call it that. Hawkins Lab was never really a home, but neither was their house. He’d gone through so much escaping the lab, then dealing with the abuse their father put them through. Surely he could help fight off Demogorgons after all that, right?

Yet, Hawthorne almost felt sick at the thought of even going near the lab, much less going inside. That would be even worse. River seemed to be having similar thoughts, and she gave him a sympathetic look as she read his thoughts. He was used to her doing that, and by now he could tell when she was doing it. Like he could feel her presence inside his mind whenever she did.

River didn’t look half as mortified as he felt, but she was always better at putting up a brave front than he was. Deep down, maybe he would always be scared of everything that went wrong in his life. He couldn’t help it, but it made him feel worse when he thought about it. So, he tried not to. Right now, he was focusing on following the rest of the group as they headed towards Hawkins Lab.

The trees began to thin out, and Hawthorne could see the edge of the forest thanks to the flashlight he was holding in his free hand. As they approached the lab, a voice called out to them.

“Who’s there?”

Once they’d cleared the forest, he could make out Nancy and Jonathan standing a few feet away from them.

“Steve?” they exclaimed simultaneously .

Nancy scanned the group, her brows furrowed as they approached. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” Steve countered.

“We’re looking for Mike and Will.”

Dustin peered past them. “They’re not in there are they?”

“We’re not sure.”

“Why?”

The screeching coming from inside the lab answered Jonathan’s question, for better or for worse. Everyone began talking over each other, trying to ask questions and figure out what the hell was going on.

They were disrupted by Nancy, who pointed out that the power was back on. Jonathan rushed over to try opening the gate, but it didn’t move at all. Dustin tried giving it a shot, though he didn’t appear any more successful.

As much as he didn’t want her to leave his side yet, River left him to try and help. After pushing the button relentlessly, Dustin managed to get the gate open. Jonathan took off in his car with Nancy as soon as it was open. They waited nervously, and Hawthorne hoped things weren’t about to get much worse.

They hadn’t been gone long before Hawthorne spotted them speeding back. A car pulled up next to them, Chief Hopper of all people in the driver's seat, rushing them to get in the car. He helped his sister in as quickly as he could. Hopper took off quickly once everyone was in.

Hawthorne had no clue where they were headed, but he started putting it together as when he noticed what direction they were headed. He’d only been to the Byers house a handful of times to talk to Jonathan, but he started putting the pieces together when he realized that was the direction they were headed in. Sure enough, they pulled up to the Byers household, and Hopper rushed everyone to safety inside. He helped carry River over to the kitchen and look over her injury, and Jonathan’s little brother, Will, was set on the couch. He looked completely passed out, and it occurred to Hawthorn that he had no clue what was wrong with the poor kid.

In the kitchen, River was sitting atop the counter, wincing slightly whenever her leg moved too much.

“What the hell happened to you?” Hopper exclaimed. BY now, her leg looked worse. There was a significant—even shocking—amount of swelling and redness around her ankle. Hawthorne knew she’d probably be fine, but he couldn’t help worrying anyways, and it didn’t help that she didn’t look like she was in great shape.

“Demogorgon,” was the only explanation she gave, and that seemed to be enough for him. Hawthorne and Jonathan gathered up supplies from the bathroom to clean and wrap her leg in the meantime.

Hawthorne held her hand as Hopper cleaned the wound, which wasn’t his best idea. If she squeezed his hand any harder, she might just break it.

River hissed and pulled her leg away. “Fuck, that hurts!”

“It’s gonna hurt more if you keep moving.” Hopper finished and wrapped her leg to keep it from getting infected. “You’re lucky it’s not a hell of a lot worse than this.”

“Someone had to keep Steve from dying.” “I had it under control.”

“You really didn’t.”

Dustin, who was sitting at the table, rolled his eyes. “Don’t you have cool powers that could have kept you from getting hurt?”

“Henderson, zip it. I tried my best, but I didn’t time things that well. The problem is, I’m not very good at using them, and I didn’t want to risk hurting someone by accident,” River huffed.

“I’m sorry. Am I missing something here?” Hopper asked. “Does no one think to fill me in anymore?”

“River and Hawthorne have powers,” Lucas said. “They’re like El.”

Hawthorne sighed. “Do you really have to go around telling everyone?”

“Everyone here already knows about all that. Is it really that bad?”

Hawthorne paused, unable to come up with a good enough response for once in his life. He could lie his way out of anything, but he was too far into this mess.

Lucas took his silence as a ‘no.’

Hopper glanced between the twins, processing this sudden bout of information. “How long have you two been flying under the radar?”

Hawthorne shrugged. “Four years maybe?”

“And none of those nut-job scientists know you’ve been gone for so long?”

“They knew we’re gone,” River chimed in. “They just didn’t know where. Dad called it ‘hiding in plain sight.’ As far as they’re concerned, we might as well have left the state.”

“So, what? Acting like normal kids was supposed to throw them off your scent?” Steve asked.

Hawthorne nodded and ran his fingers through his red hair. He was sure he looked as worn out as he felt. “It’s been working so far, hasn’t it?”

Hopper appeared to be wracking his brain, though he wasn’t sure why he was as concerned as he seemed at the moment.

“Every time I think I’ve seen it all, and something comes along to prove me wrong,” he sighed. Hopper left them to their own devices, borrowing the phone. From the kitchen, they could hear him arguing with whoever was on the other line (the police, Hawthorne guessed, which felt rather ironic).

There was an awkward silence, as no one really seemed sure what to say at the moment. So they stayed that way for a few moments, the only sound coming from anyone being Hopper’s yelling.

As soon as Hopper hung up, they all turned to him, their hope slowly diminishing.

“They didn’t believe you, did they?” Dustin asked.

“We’ll see.”

Mike was the first to voice his anger. Hawthorne was getting a sense that he did that quite often, though he could hardly blame him. Hopper ordered everyone to stay put until help arrived.

Admittedly, no one seemed to really believe anyone would be on their way to help them any time soon. There wasn’t a whole lot about their situation that would exactly feel believable to an outsider.

Time ticked by slowly as they sat around, twiddling their thumbs and hoping someone, anyone, would come to their aid. The longer they waited, the more and more unlikely that seemed.

At some point, Mike had an epiphany, and the Byers took Will out to the shed to work out whatever was wrong with him. Something about the Mind Flayer, if he recalled correctly, whatever the hell that was. He’d gathered that the kids liked to name these creatures after their weird games.

Whatever the case, it didn’t seem like their plan was really amounting to much. The worst part was the sudden screeching coming from outside. It sounded distant, but they all knew immediately that it wasn't a good thing to hear regardless.

Hopper came rushing back in, and everyone gathered in the center of the room. River stood in front of him, brandishing her hockey stick. It seemed like such a harmless weapon, especially compared to everyone else’s. The look on her face, somewhere between determination and fear, told him that she hardly cared. Like that wasn’t going to stop her from giving her best effort.

They waited in silence, and the room felt like it had gone still. For the first time in forever, Hawthorne felt like he was a part of something. Because despite the fact that he’d just met these people not that long ago, they all seemed so willing to protect each other, and it gave him a sliver of hope. Something he was admittedly a little scared to let himself have.

Hawthorne was immediately pulled back to reality when there was a thump just outside, and a Demogorgon came crashing through the window before the door swung open. The last thing he expected was to see a girl step through the doorway.

When Mike rushed over to her, he realized that this must be the girl Dustin was talking about in the junkyard, the one that seemingly disappeared. El was back.

Taglist: @bravest-at-heart @musicalytrashpanda @queenofthehairharrington

#steve harrington #dustin henderson #will byers #jonathan byers #mike wheeler #nancy wheeler #joyce byers #jim hopper #jane hopper #lucas sinclair #max mayfield #stranger things #stranger things 2 #stranger things 3 #steve harrington headcanon #steve harrington x oc #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction

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all-hail-the-witcher · 4 years

Note

I have literally no clue how to do this, but director’s commentary on your ‘One expensive can of easy cheese’ fic?

hell yeah!!

all comments will be in bold

______

Race was sat on top of the counter in his and Albert’s apartment, race only knows how to sit on counters lets be real, he can't sit in a chair to save his life a piece of duct tape over his mouth and his hands tied together with kitchen twine KINKYY. He sighed against his restraints, resigned to watch his boyfriend make their contribution to this year’s Thanksgiving gathering: mac and cheese. okay so its mac and cheese cause if you read spies mac and cheese is Literally the Only thing albert knows how to cook, other than coffee, and he's Really Fuckin Good At It (he's the mikey of mac and cheese okay this is my hc)

Now, of course everyone and their mother knew that mac and cheese was not a Traditional Thanksgiving Food is it though, r a c e r?. But, Albert had won (best out of three) mario kart yesterday so he had gotten to decide what they would bring to Jack’s house i was gonna make it rock paper scissors, i do not know hot to play mariokart, but it sounds more heated than rock paper scissors. Had Race known that he had been planning to make mac and fucking cheese, maybe he would have tried a little harder race be quiet you literally love alberts mac and cheese its a known fact.

Apparently, Albert was not pleased with Race’s reaction to his decision to make mac and cheese, and thought that Race might try to get in the way somehow (which he may or may not have fully intended to do) he did. So he did what any loving boyfriend would: sat him on the counter, put duct tape over his mouth and tied his hands together so he wouldn’t interfere albert sounds real kinky in this, why did i make this so kinky, wait when did i even write this.

Race was beginning to wonder why he had agreed to move in with Albert in the first place. CAUSE YOU LOVE HIM THATS WHY

With a violent shake of his head and one final spat who the fuck uses the word spat huh saph??, he was able to dislodge the duct tape d i s l o d g e thats some karen bs right there.

“Albieeeeee,” he whined, laying down on the counter. “Can you pleaaaaaaaseee let me helllllllllp?” yeah albert let him help jeez he's the one who actually knows how to cook

Albert barely glanced up as he pulled the big wooden spoon out of the pot and gave it a thoughtful lick note to self, all licks should always be thoughtful. “Hmmmmmmm. No.” dumbass. if only you knew what was coming.

“But-!” He wriggled w r i g g l e d around to give Albert his best puppy dog eyes. “Can I make something else then? Ple-OW!” He glared at the spatula that had been hurled at his arm. “You apologize for that!” damn albie why so mean? o wait i wrote this wait...

“Nah.” He smirked and went back to stirring his wretched pasta okay but i did a good job making race salty i gotta give myself that. Well, actually Albert’s mac and cheese was quite good hELL YEAH IT IS. Race was just salty that he was making it for Thanksgiving when it was very well known that he was the chef of the two and Jack was expecting something good not the mac and cheese Albert famously made at 2am in college when they were all high as hell. okay real talk tho, no one eats good mac and cheese in college, its the instant microwave shit cause were all broke so thats a lie race

“Can you at least untie me then?” ;)

“No.” Albert even bother considering this time. albert this is gettin Real Kinky..

“Well.” If logic wasn't going to work on Albert he would have to try another method. “I know you know how to make a guy feel good Albie HAH YES I KNEW I PULLED SOMETHING WEIRD, but I never expected ropes to be a part of it. What’s next? Handcuffs? Whips? Chains?” i gotta tell ya life without ya has been hard. hard? has been bad. bad? has been r o u g h. k i N kY

In two seconds flat Race was out of his kitchen twine bonds and flexing his sore wrists. LIKE HECK HE WAS CAUSE ALBERTS ACE AND HE DONT WANT THAT REPUTATION!!!

“Man Albie, who knew you had a twine kink.” hehe u go race

“You know,” Albert began loudly, as if thinking that his loudness would cover up his totally obvious twine kink yeah albie has a twine kink, he licks it, no this is a joke, “if you want to do something that's actually useful, you could go to Walgreens and buy me another can of Easy Cheese.” W A L G R E E NS. this whole fit was an excuse to write another part of the walgreens au

“Is that what you put in your fuckin mac and cheese?” Race swore he actually felt bile rise in the back of his throat when Albert nodded. “That’s it. I’m never eating your mac and cheese again.” BUT YOU LIKE IT

“But-!”

“I’ll eat you though,” Race winked, taking a moment to enjoy the startled, yet somehow pleased look on his boyfriend’s face. okay maybe albert wasn't ace in this particular fic...

“Not until after we’re done at Jack’s.” yeah definitely not scratch that. i write a lot of fics. Albert said only half jokingly as he dug around in his pocket for a second before throwing a crumpled five at Race. “In the meantime though, be gone thot!” GO AWAYYYY. IM A MAN OF GOD. mikey and my sister have subjected me to too many tik toks im sorry

Race barely managed to catch the bill without falling on the floor, but still blew a kiss to Albert before walking out of the apartment.

Who the fuck puts easy cheese in mac and cheese? albert does. but its actually a plot point just to get you to walgreens and if anyone puts easy cheese in mac and cheese i will fite you. He wondered for the millionth time as he stomped the three blocks to Walgreens. Albert claimed that he had chosen his apartment for its proximity to the store he did, actually, but up until today Race had always assumed that he had been joking he was not. The man did make a lot of mac and cheese and if Easy Cheese was an ingredient well….maybe there was some truth to that story after all. you can buy easy cheese at a lot of places tho...i don't actually know if you can buy easy cheese at a walgreens

Race pulled open the door to the Walgreens, pausing briefly to wonder why the absolute fuck it was open on literal Thanksgiving before remembering that it was a fucking Walgreens and why wouldn’t it be open to sell his dumbass boyfriend a can of fucking Easy Cheese. walgreens remains a mystery indeed. my only experience was the one that my best friend and i would go to at lunch during senior year. also have you ever noticed that most walgreenses are on corners? cause their slogan is at the corner of happy and healthy??

In order to get to the Easy Cheese, or at least he assumed so because he had never bought a can of Easy Cheese in his whole glorious 25 years of life a true chef, Race had to walk past the Pharmacy section of the store. And, it just so happened that there was a guy sitting behind the counter at the Pharmacy. A very attractive guy. With a beard. In scrubs. oh my god the most questionable villain I've ever written.

Now, of course Race loved Albert and nothing would ever change that, but he could appreciate an attractive man when he saw one indeed he could. He thanked whatever deity was out there for the bit of man candy M AN C AN D Y that he had been granted and went in search of his Easy Cheese. oh just you wait racetrack

“Mac and cheese, velveta cheese, microwaveable mac and cheese, where the fuck is the- oh thank fuck there we go.” my best friend and i spent much time looking at the mac and cheese in walgreens He pulled a can of Easy Cheese off of the shelf, tossing it once and catching it athletics before turning to go pay for the horrendous product, happy to finally be done with the whole ordeal when- B R E T T

“Easy cheese? Really?”

Race whirled whirled? saph please get a better vocabulary around to see Mr. Man Candy hA himself leaning against the opposite shelf. “Wh- who?”

“Oh,” he dusted his hand off on his scrubbs oh my god Wait i wrote this cause one time when i was in a walgreens i Did see a hot dude working the pharmacy and decided to write a fic about it!! i remember texting mikey about this hjfhgjhg, “allow me to introduce myself. My name is Brett O’Hare. and mikey came up with that name And you, sir, are a disgrace to society. The very reason why so many Americans are in poor health in this day and age.” brett is an obnoxious millennial in case you can't tell

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The Easy Cheese!” Brett gestured wildly toward the can in Race’s hand. “Gosh do you even know how many preservatives are in that stuff? And all the cancers that it can cause? It’s terrible. We wouldn’t need free healthcare if people just stopped eating Easy Cheese!” apparently he's a millennial who's also a republican...?

Race had lived in New York City his whole life, and he had seen some pretty strange things subway pizza rat, but never had he seen a pharmacist in a Walgreens lecture anyone about the health benefits of Easy Cheese. easy cheese has no health benefits. and if you'd stopped annoying your boyfriend maybe you wouldn't be there

“So let me get this straight,” Race rubbed his head, trying to make sense of the situation. “You go around yelling at people about the ingredients in the things that they are purchasing?” yeah its nyc people love to have Opinions. and so do millennials

“Yeah.”

“You do realize that this is a Walgreens, right? Everything in here probably contains some kind of chemical.” man brett has his work cut out for him. New Yorkers never ceased to amaze him.

“All the more reason for me to inform them of their poor eating habits!” Brett pointed a finger at him. “And stop distracting me! You’re the one buying the freaking easy cheese here!” this is so weird why did i come up with this idea. what possessed me.

“It’s not even for me!” Race shouted back. “It’s for my boyfriend’s fucking mac and cheese that he insisted on making for Thanksgiving even though everyone knows that mac and cheese is not a fucking Thanksgiving food and he’s only making it cause he knocked me off the goddamn rainbow road right before the fucking finish line!” someones salty Race was fuming but the time that he was done.

“Oh, man I’m so sorry, that's lousy.” but it won't stop brett...

Race looked surprised. Of all the things that he thought he would get out of this Walgreens experience, a therapy session was indeed not on the list. But neither had been hearing a lecture about the preservatives in Easy Cheese from a pharmacist. i have literally no explanation for this train wreck of a fic

“But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re still buying Easy Cheese!” Between one second and the next, Brett had grabbed the can of Easy Cheese out of Race’s hand, wielding it like a brick ha percy jackson heroes of olympus anyone??. “Buy some fucking vegetables!” you can't buy vegetables in a walgreens brett

And with that, he struck Race over the head with the can of Easy Cheese.

Now, Race had definitely done some questionable things during his life Thats for sure. Once he had slept on the roof of his dorm building in January for a week because he lost his dorm key god why you can't even get on the roof of dorm buildings i know, I've tried, and another time he had been tricked into making an entire wedding cake using salt by Who??. However, being smacked over the head with a can of Easy Cheese by a health nut in scrubs on Thanksgiving put any and all other situations he had been in to shame in a walgreens don't forget. how did you forget that saph.

He opened his eyes, suddenly blinded by the lights, and reached for his phone, muttering curses about man candy and vegetables as he should be. Squinting so he didn’t have to look at the screen, he somehow managed to dial Albert. no one d i a l s anyone saph. its the 21st century. i have like maybe 8 phone numbers memorized, half of them belong to my family the other half to people i knew in middle school.

“Racetrack Higgins, where is my Easy Cheese?”

Race pulled the phone away from his ear and winced at the sound of his boyfriend’s voice. “Um, it may have been used to give me a concussion by a health nut in scrubs?” for Once al isn't the one who gets injured in a walgreens. bet you didnt see That coming

Albert let out a loud sigh. “Ah man, did you run into Brett? That guy’s the worst.” hehe bet al used to date him

“Wait, you know him?”

“Race, I know every Walgreens employee in Manhattan, of course I know Brett.” There was the jangling of keys in the background. “I thought I told you to go to the one on 4th for this reason, ah, well. I’m on my way. I’ll take you to urgent care. Hang tight.” ofc al goes to urgent care. and everyone there knows him by a first name basis

Race’s head hurt too much to process what Albert had said except for the words ‘I’m on my way.’ “Okay,” he sighed. this was definitely one of the times i asked mikey about oddly specific concussion symptoms and then proceeded to forget everything he told me and do my own stuff

“Love you.”

“Love you too.” Race’s eyes focused on the dented can of Easy Cheese rolling on the floor he should still buy it. “And Al?”

“Yeah?”

“This is going to be one expensive can of Easy Cheese.” get it? cause race has to pay urgent care for his consultation? and they're also Very Very late to thanksgiving. cause al insists on finishing his mac. jack is not impressed. he eats all races pie.

anyway thats that hope you enjoyed

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haberdashing · 4 years

Text

The Cold Never Bothered Me Anyway

Good Omens convenience store AU fic. A. Z. Fell putters around his bookshop on a blustery winter day.

Written for @badthingshappenbingo, for the trope “Shaking And Shivering”; my current bingo card will be posted at the end of the fic, under the cut.

on AO3

It was almost Christmas, and the heat wasn’t working in A. Z. Fell’s bookshop.

Most people would have considered this reason enough to close up shop and go home. It wasn’t an unseasonably warm day, after all, far from it, and few customers would be willing to tolerate the frigid temperatures for long enough to pick out a book from the many to be found within the store. It wasn’t likely to be fixed any time soon, either; one call to a repairman had led to a call to another, more specialized repairman, who apparently wouldn’t be able to come out until some time Monday morning, and it was currently the middle of the day on Saturday.

A. Z. Fell, however, was staying in the shop, even leaving it open to customers, cold or no cold.

Why?

Well, the cold wasn’t affecting the books any, at least, and all the tinsel and ribbons that he’d set up earlier in the month left the shop looking very cheery indeed, and his outfit was a bit on the warm side, and it didn’t feel that cold to him, really, and if he was shivering a bit, well, his father always did say that he could stand to lose a few pounds, and while shivering wasn’t the best exercise out there, it would do in a pinch...

It definitely wasn’t just because he didn’t want to go sit around at home with his parents, definitely wasn’t because he knew his mother would call somebody he’d never heard of and get a repairman into the shop that day if not that hour, definitely wasn’t because his father would spend the whole time condescendingly telling him about how he couldn’t keep running home to them every time he had an issue and how someday he’d have to settle things like that by himself like a big boy, especially if he ever wanted to be taken seriously as a shopkeeper and businessman...

...it was, admittedly, at least partially because it was mid-December, which meant that both the holidays and the end of the fiscal year were fast approaching, which meant that sooner rather than later he was in for a series of uncomfortable talks with his parents (his father, really; his mother couldn’t care less, it seemed, which might well be a problem of its own kind) about how his bookshop wasn’t making enough money to be worth keeping open, even though they all knew that the money involved was far from the main reason he looked after the old place.

It also meant that his father was likely to threaten to close the place up, only to eventually relent, but make a number of conditions required for the bookshop’s continued operation.

A. Z. Fell knew from experience that his father would never bother to check that half those conditions were fulfilled in the first place, and that he’d have forgotten about the other half by Valentine’s Day if not sooner, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that his father was messing with his bookshop, and he didn’t want to deal with that, regardless of whose name was technically on the store’s deed...

...and the best way to avoid dealing with that was actually getting enough sales in to make his father shut up for once.

All of which meant that, while A. Z. Fell spent most of the year wishing that customers would go away so he could enjoy the bookshop in peace, this time of year, A. Z. Fell was willing to stay shivering in the cold in the hopes that one more customer might walk into the store and magically turn a year’s worth of rotten numbers around in one fell swoop.

The lights were all working just fine, at least. The store looked open, because it was open, heat or no heat. Hopefully some customers would realize as much sooner or later and make his time spent there worthwhile.

After a few minutes of standing near the doorway, hoping that his presence there would miraculously draw customers inside somehow, A. Z. Fell decided to make the most of the situation and do a bit of light dusting while he waited. It was a chore he tried to avoid doing whenever possible, but if any last-minute customers did make their way inside the shop, he had better have it looking presentable for them, after all.

(And if his hands were shaking slightly from the cold, perhaps accompanied by a touch of nervousness, well, that would just make the dusting easier, wouldn’t it?)

What made the shop look presentable didn’t do much to make him look presentable, though. It seemed like the dust was drawn towards A. Z. Fell’s suit, getting all over his outfit in the blink of an eye; he did hope that the dust would come off of the suit as easily as it had come off the bookshelves, wouldn’t leave any unpleasant stains that would draw eyebrows or even lead to nasty remarks back at home.

When he had started, A. Z. Fell had thought that the dusting would take some time--there were rather a lot of bookshelves to tidy in the place, after all--but once he had finished, it seemed as if no time at all had passed, and the day was no closer to being over...

...and, of course, no customers had entered his bookshop in the meantime.

Admittedly, customers were few and far between for him, and usually he preferred it that way, but... but today was different. Today he actually wanted them. Shouldn’t the universe know that he wanted customers and just... draw them in somehow?

(If so, the universe clearly wasn’t working as it should, but that would be far from the first time A. Z. Fell had thought as much.)

After dusting he went with sweeping for the next task that would occupy his time, and his hands were definitely shaking now, too much to pretend he didn’t notice anymore, shaking enough that he nearly dropped the broom on his feet more than once. Not that his feet were doing terribly well anyway, mind you. All sorts of dirt and debris were covering his shoes now, making them look absolutely horrendous.

For a moment, A. Z. Fell considered hiring somebody to help take care of such unpleasant tasks on a regular basis, but then remembered that that would mean having somebody else hanging around in his bookshop day in and day out, and he certainly couldn’t have that. He would just have to keep doing things himself if that was the only alternative.

At one point, A. Z. Fell saw his hands letting go of the broom yet again and just let it fall onto his feet, mostly because he wondered if that would help clean his shoes up a bit somehow. It did a little bit, but it also left a small but definite mark on them, a crease that might or might not still be there by the time he got home. The broom hitting his feet hadn’t hurt as much as he’d expected, though; in fact, he had barely felt it at all, though he wasn’t entirely sure whether that was a good thing or not, given the circumstances.

The sweeping took longer than the dusting did, but still not long enough. The day was still dragging by, and there was still not a soul in the shop besides himself.

After the sweeping was done, A. Z. Fell stood in place for a moment, his whole body shivering from the cold now, before going to the shop’s front door and double-checking that the sign said it was open. That would be embarrassing, spending all this time waiting for customers when passersby thought the place was closed for business-

-except the sign was flipped to open for all the customers to see.

Just bad luck, then, he supposed.

He let out a long sigh and started to walk away, sure that he could think of some little task that needed doing in the place, before heading right back to the front door, his nearly-numb fingers flipping the sign from open to closed as he headed outside.

Perhaps his father was right when he said that too much time cooped up in that bookstore by himself wasn’t good for him. There were plenty of places nearby he could go to warm up a bit and relax before trying to attract customers once more...

...come to think of it, he’d never tried the coffee at that convenience store down the road, and coffee sounded like just the thing for him right about now. A little heat, a little energy... yes, that would do the trick quite nicely.

And perhaps he’d bump into that one clerk there--Anthony J. Crowley was the name, if he remembered correctly. With the J being “just a J,” supposedly, though he didn’t know whether that meant it was literally just the letter J, like with Harry S Truman, or whether it stood for the word J, or if Anthony J. Crowley just didn’t feel like giving out his full middle name. A. Z. Fell could sympathize with that last bit well enough--when people used his full name instead of his initials, it never seemed to fit quite right, for some reason he couldn’t quite put a finger on.

He definitely wasn’t going there just because of that Anthony J. Crowley, no, of course not, that would be preposterous!

But a friendly face certainly did sweeten the deal, so to speak.

Though he was still shivering from head to toe, a few snowflakes landing on his suit and sinking into the fabric below, a smile appeared on A. Z. Fell’s face as he headed towards the convenience store, content with the destination and plans he had in mind.

#good omens #good omens au #good omens miniseries #good omens show #good omens tv show #good omens tv series #good omens fic #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfiction #personal #shitpost #my writing

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xazz · 4 years

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- Patreon - AO3 -

Worship

Summery: Malik is in southern Turkey researching the former practice of white smithing, a now dead practice involving “magic” white rock. He’s got a lead and more than he could hope for in there being a still intact white rock forge that’s since been forgotten and neglected over the generations as the world moved away from magic.

Then he finds an old sword in the decrepit forge and brings it back home with him.

This chapter is NSFW but you're only able to read that part on my patreon.

*Vibrates excitedly*

Modern person having to deal with someone from the past is a favorite trope lols

Chapter 2: Sword of the Eagle

Come the fresh morning Malik had two tasks once he got back from mosque with the Tazim men. One was to start cleaning the sword and the other was to start digitizing his notes. He still didn't think the sword was very old or valuable so he wasn't super worried about the restoration process. But at the least he could clean it up and make it a display piece for back home. Which was why the first thing he did was fill up a bucket with water and baking soda and let one end soak in it. It wouldn't damage the sword beyond making it wet and the baking soda would start to break down the grime, dirt, and hopefullly what Malik thought was blood.

While the sword was soaking Malik was using his lap desk sitting right in front of the old window unit and working on his notes. He copied the notes he'd taken yesterday to his notes on his computer while downloading the five hundred pictures he'd taken yesterday. Once they'd downloaded he started going through them, finding the best ones.

Unfortunately, the lighting hadn't been that good yesterday. He'd known that but hoped it wouldn't have mattered. He had some good pictures closer to the flash light but a lot of them were dark and while Malik’s eye had been able to see it pretty well the digital camera had failed to do so. Only about a quarter of his photos were usable and none of the ones of the white rock pit were useable at all.

Malik was disheartened at first before realizing that since they were bad that meant he could just go back and take more! He wrote in his field notes book which areas of the room he needed pictures of still.

After lunch he took the sword out of the bucket and wiped it off. “Huh, you’re kinda pretty,” he said as he cleaned the baking soda off the hilt. There was still nasty dirt all over it but he could see the metal of the hilt now. It looked like a gilt metal of some sort. He wiggled the sword in the scabbard to try and pull it all the way out.

With a few grunts and thanks to some water getting into the scabbard he managed to yank the sword out of the scabbard. “Yeah, just a mameluke,” he said, disappointed. “Sorry bud, wish you were something cooler,” he put the sword blade first and the scabbard into the bucket along with some more baking soda. He'd check on it in a while.

When it wasn't so ungodly hot out Malik finally ventured out of his room and went out to just wander the city a little. It was a nice place and the people friendly even with his horrendous American accent all over his Turkish. He'd gotten a lot better in the past two weeks thanks to speaking it exclusively at his home stay since Yusuf only spoke some English and his parents no English.

He ended up finding a bar and getting food and drink for dinner. A live band played and he made some bar friends who were talkative drunks and got him to drink probably too much raki.

Far later than he intended he stumbled out of the bar. It took him three times to correctly dial Yusuf’s number and about fifteen minutes to get around to asking for a ride. Mostly because Malik kept just talking about random shit and was just sort of gay over the phone and making Yusuf laugh. Malik was out at home but didn't talk about it here in Turkey. He hadn't said anything too obscene, just told Yusuf he was handsome and had pretty blue eyes and was funny and had a nice beard. He'd just said all those things about twelve times.

Yusuf arrived with his moped and all Malik had to do was hold on. He ended up with his face pressed into the back of his shoulder because the movement of the moped made him nauseous. Yusuf smelled nice.

Before he knew it they were home and Yusuf just found Malik’s drunkenness amusing and helped him into his room. Malik just took off his shoes before face planting into the bed.

When Yusuf knocked early for dawn prayer Malik was still fast asleep. “Whatttt?” he groaned from the bed.

“You coming to mosque?” Yusuf called.

Malik blinked. “No,” and he rolled over, “hung over.” He said it loud enough for Yusuf to hear and heard him laugh through the door. Malik went back to sleep soundly.

He only woke when the heat became unbearable and he had to get up and turn on the AC. He tore his shirt off and stood in front of the cold air to help dry his sweaty skin. Blinking in the bright light he grabbed around for his sunglasses, found them, and glued them to his eyeballs. Then he put on some new clothes and went to beg Jawna for some food because he was starving and had missed breakfast. She just tutted him gently and gave him a carby meal with rice and, of course, some delicious bread and cheese.

Once Malik was fed and feeling not so hung over with a belly full of food he went back to his room and picked up the sword out of the bucket. He wiped the baking soda and water off but it was still nasty. He'd change the water out later. In the meantime he just threw the water out the window. He ended up taking a shower and laying in bed most of the day watching American cartoons on a pirate site before it was time for dinner.

Thankfully the next day he was over his hangover and could get back to work. That was mostly research of other whitesmith forges and cross referencing pictures from there to the Tazim forge. He made more notes and wrote about his day yesterday in his journal.

After lunch he turned his attention to the sword while watching something on his laptop. He got out his tools for careful cleaning of historically significant relics and more water and baking soda. It was some busy work to do he stopped every few minutes to watch his show before going back it.

The hilt was a real mess. Just caked in dried dirt and disgusting grease and grime and some blood that had solidified into something nearly like stone while it had been in the white rock pit. He just carefully chipped it away and used a toothbrush and fine tooth picker comb to scrap it clean.

Around dinner time he’d cleaned half of the hilt and only then did he really look at it. “Wow,” he said. The hilt had really good craftsmanship to it and surprisingly the pommel was made of some sort of porous stone like pumice but it glittered like white rock. The metal part was gilt, probably iron or steel, but with actually several large faceted gemstones imbedded in the metal. The facets just made Malik think it was a newer sword all the more and the gaudiness of it meant it was probably some sort of ceremonial sword. He rubbed the grime off one last time on this side of the hilt, the gilt gleaming in the light of the ceiling light. And it had a slight shimmering quality like the white rock in the pit. He was sure it was because powdered white rock had the consistency of fine glitter and was thus difficult to remove completely without multiple washes.

“You’re actually real pretty,” he said to the sword in English. “Dunno how you ended up in that pit but,” he shrugged. “You'll be a good souvenir. Kadar is going to lose his mind when he sees you. He'll be so jealous,” he laughed a little. Then he got up from the floor, put the sword aside, and went to go have dinner with the Tazims.

The next day Malik planned to visit the forge the following morning. He went out and bought some equipment he might need. Mostly a bigger backpack and a high luminosity flashlight with a removable battery he bought a spare of. He got all his equipment in order and spent the rest of the day watching football with Yusuf and Ubaid between two Turkish teams. Once he could finally get away he returned to his room and started cleaning the other side of the hilt. He removed about half the dirt before going to bed.

The trek up to the white rock forge was even worse that day. Yusuf had work so it was just Malik and Ubaid so Malik had to carry most of everything. Ubaid carried their food and half their water but Malik had to carry the rest plus his equipment. It took them two hours to reach the forge that time and Malik needed about half an hour to recover before he could actually start to work.

He set up his tripod with his camera and directed the flashlight to points of interest. It was as bright as natural sunlight with the flashlight on what he pointed it at and could take good pictures of the forge. He spent most of the day taking pictures and rubbings in the forge. In the afternoon he started emptying the pit in the room so he could see the entire thing without the white rock dust obscuring it.

Malik opted to leave any undrunk water and some of his heavier equipment in the oven. No one came up here and if someone did steal it tripods and big flashlights weren't super expensive. That would also be less weight to carry up the next time.

Upon arriving back home Malik attempted to wash off the white rock dust all over him. He managed it but like the sword, there was still residue all over his clothes, skin, and boots. He'd be like a sparkly vampire for a few days because of that. He slept good that night.

In the morning he immediately set to work on his notes and research. He worked furiously all morning and in the afternoon Yusuf came and dragged him west out to a beach to hang out with some friends. Malik ended up getting a mild sunburn for his troubles. After dinner back home he worked a bit more on cleaning the sword.

Over the next week, the pattern continued. Malik would get up, spend the morning working and after lunch do something else, either cleaning the sword and going and doing something in the city. He and Ubaid went up to the forge two more times that week. Malik also made significant headway on the sword, cleaning the entire hilt and most of the scabbard. Cleaning the inside of the scabbard was easier said than done thanks to its curved shape but he just worked on it a bit at a time.

The next week was much the same except Malik turned his attention to the forge’s entrance and the fresco murals painted so beautifully across it. He also started trying to clean the blade itself. But the damn thing was stubborn and no matter how much he scrubbed or rubbed the rust wouldn't come up. It was frustrating.

One day he was so furiously trying to clean off the rust that his hand slipped. He let out a yell as it sliced his hand and he dropped the sword. He rushed out of the room to find Jawna to help him clean the wound and let her coo over him as he blubbered at the cut on his hand.

He also went and got a tetanus booster.

When he came back from the clinic he found the sword where he’d left it. “Huh,” he picked it up. He’d cut himself on the backside of the curve. Normally mamelukes were single-edged, like most sabers and scimitars, but this one had an edge on both sides, not unlike a more traditional wedge-shaped sword. “Who made you like that, huh? And why? That’s so weird. Who makes a curved sword with two edges?” There was, of course, no answer. He put the sword back in its scabbard. He'd work on it again later. His hand hurt still and he should probably clean up the blood on the floor.

Except there was no blood on the floor. He knew for sure he’d bled on the floor. Maybe he’d exaggerated. Being cut made him think he'd bled more than he actually had.

The next few days he worked to clean the rust off the sword blade when he had some downtime. He was rewarded for his effort with several more cuts on the hand and one on the top of his arm. Nothing too serious beyond a yelp of pain and running to Jawna for sympathy and her to bandage him up and give him some mother's attention for his slips.

But it was weird because sometimes he wasn't even sure how the sword cut him. A few he absolutely deserved by handling it stupidly. But several it was like the sword moved to knick his finger. He knew that was impossible but still.

The rust still didn't come off no matter how much he cleaned it and he was starting to get frustrated with it. So he just started keeping it sheathed and cleaning the hilt and scabbard because at least that he could clean.

The sword itself was beautiful honestly. Under all the dirt and caked-on grime the scabbard was lacquered red with a white stripe and studded with what could have been round polished jewels or colored glass. The end was capped with gold and it had a golden spine shaped like a flowering vine. The hilt was equally ornate, pretty and gilt with several faceted gems or colored glass. The pommel ended in a hooked claw shaped like an eagle’s head, the beak perfectly shaped for ripping and tearing. Malik didn't know what an ornamental sword like this one needed a pommel claw for. But it made it all the prettier since the eagle was done in a lifelike cast and like the rest of the sword gilt in brilliant gold.

The craftsmanship put into it was insane and unlike anything he’d ever seen except in ancient epics. It looked almost like how Odysseus’ sword was described in the Iliad save for the shape. Or like the sword in the epic of Gilgamesh but it had the eagle hook at the pommel. Whoever had made this sword had put a lot of time into it. He also didn't know where something like this would come from other than a prop maker or something like that for how extravagant it was. It wasn't old enough to be anything but. That didn't explain what the hell it was or why it was a double-edged saber.

After a few days of getting over his annoyance about not be able to get the rust off, he decided to take another stab at it.

When he unsheathed the sword the blade was clean.

There wasn't a speck of rust on the steel. It was shiny and new and when Malik gently tested the blade it was so sharp it gave him a paper cut just from touching it. “What the actual fuck?” He just looked at the sword in confusion. The last time he'd drawn the sword it had been a rusted mess.

He left the scabbard and went out to find Yusuf who was leaning close to the TV watching a football game. “Yusuf,” he said.

“Huh?” Yusuf looked up but was distracted by the game playing. Then his eyes darted to the sword. “Oh! You finally got the rust off! Awesome! Knew you could do it. Just took some elbow grease, yeah?”

Malik blinked, “I… so the sword has no rust to you too?”

“Uh, yeah Malik. You okay?”

Malik blinked some more, “Yeah. I guess I’m just in so much shock I finally got it clean I couldn't think straight,” he said. No way he could tell Yusuf that the sword had just untrusted itself. That would sound insane. “It’s nice right?”

“Yeah. It's cool. Did you need something?” He motioned with his head back to the football game.

“Oh. No, I just wanted to show you. Go ahead,” and he stepped back. Yusuf immediately returned his attention to the TV and Malik slowly went back to his room.

He held the sword gently across his palms, aware of how deathly sharp it was. “What happened to you? How did you unrust?” The sword just sat there across his palms. He shifted his hands a bit and cried out when the sword cut him, so clean was the cut he didn't even feel it at first. He tossed the sword onto the bed and left. “Jawnaaaa,” he called as he entered the kitchen where she was making dinner.

“Malik— did you cut yourself on that rusty sword again?” she scolded him and he just whined pathetically. She scolded him and then cooed over him, helping to clean his wound and like the grandma she was also gave some bread, jam, and nut butter. He thanked her before going back to his room.

“Stupid ass sword,” he muttered in English as he opened the door. He closed the door whining over the fresh cut on his hand. He needed to just keep it in its sheath. It was way too sharp to keep it out. He went back to the bed to do so but when he looked up… his sword was gone. “…. Who the fuck are you?” he demanded.

Lying belly down on his bed with one of the GQ magazines open was.. a man. A naked man. Bronze skin and dark brown hair that curled around his ears. They looked over at Malik casually and his eyes were nearly golden they were so amber. “Welcome back, Malik,” he said in Arabic in a shockingly polite voice.

Malik stared and looked around to make sure he wasn't being punked. There was a naked guy in his room. A hot naked guy! A really hot naked guy. Oh fuck. Oh no oh fuck. This was so bad. He didn't even want to think about how bad this was. On a scale of shitty to manageable this was get arrested and deported level. “W-what?” Malik managed to get out.

The man held up the magazine open to him. It had some well-dressed men on it. “Buy me this,” he said.

“What? No! What the fuck!” Only then did he realize he needed to lower his voice. “Who are you? What are you doing in my room?” he whisper yelled.

“You left me here,” he said and put the magazine back on the bed. He sat up. “It isn't my fault you left before I’d finished. Is your hand alright?”

“My hand— how do you know I cut my hand? Who are you? Where is my sword?”

The man blinked at him in annoyance. “I am your sword. I’m a sentient weapon.”

Malik gaped at him. Just full-on jaw on the floor. “You’re what?” he squeaked. A sentient weapon!? Those were just things in stories. Odysseus had had a sentient weapon in the stories. So had Gilgamesh. It was said Julius Cesare had one and even Ghengis Khan. They appeared everywhere in mythos. Every legendary warrior had a sentient weapon and every evil in those stories wanted to possess it. Mythical weapons imbued with great ‘magical’ power infused with the soul of a sublime warrior giving the wielder superhuman abilities.

It was all stories. Everything about sentient weapons was a myth. There had never ever been a confirmed sentient weapon since the contemporary when people turned away from mysticism for morality based religion and science. They weren't real.

The man cocked his head at Malik. “Malik?” he asked.

“I need to sit down,” he said and there was no chair in the room so he just slowly lowered himself onto the floor feeling dazed.

A moment passed and he looked up and saw the man had gotten up and was leaning down in front of him, a concerned look on his face. “Are you alright?”

“Y-you’re actually a living weapon?” his voice felt small.

“I am.” Malik just stared at him and oh no he was even prettier up close with smooth skin and long lashes, his dark hair curling around his face prettily. This wasn't at all fair. “My name is Altair by the way,” he added.

Malik rubbed his face. “What?” he felt so lost. So utterly confused and like he didn't know anything.

“My name. It’s Altair,” he said, slowly getting more annoyed with Malik for acting like a fool.

“Oh— okay. I— living weapon? Shit- oh shit,” he rubbed his face with both hands. Then he looked up at Altair and realized he was very naked. “You’re naked.”

“Well I was a sword until approximately three moments ago,” Altair said.

Malik pushed himself up numbly and shuffled over to his dresser. He pulled out a thobe he’d bought when he’d first come to Dörtyol to fit in a bit better with the local populace. “Put this on,” he said to the naked human-shaped living sword holy shit that sounded so out of this world.

Altair reached out, touched it but didn't take it. “No,” he said.

“What? Yes. Put it on.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Why not?” Malik demanded.

“It feels cheap,” he folded his arms and turned away, nose up snootily. “I’m better than that.”

Malik’s eye twitched. “You’re putting this on. You’re fucking naked in my room and I can’t have that.”

“I’m not wearing that cheap trash,” Altair said dismissively.

Malik scowled at him. “Yes you are you dumb ass hunk of metal,” and Malik attempted to wrestle it onto him. Altair was scrappy and batted at him which just freed up his hands for Malik to shove through the garment.

“Get off,” he said, trying to push Malik off. “I’m not wearing that.”

“Yes you are,” Malik snapped and they ended up scuffling a bit on the floor. Malik managed to yank his limbs through the sleeves and his head through the hole when he froze as someone knocked on the door.

“Malik? You okay in there? Mom said she heard some noises in here,” Yusuf asked, voice heavy with concern and it took Malik a moment for his brain to switch back over to Turkish.

“Ah- yeah, I’m fine,” he called back. “Just moving some stuff around.”

“You need help?”

“No!” he hoped it didn't sound panicked because he felt a bit panicked.

“… Okay,” Yusuf said slowly. “Dinner is going to be ready soon.”

“Okay! I’ll be out in a minute,” Malik called and was glad when he heard Yusuf’s footsteps walk away. “Don’t get me into trouble, brat,” Malik hissed in Arabic and yanked the thobe the rest of the way down Altair’s body.

“Then get some class,” Altair glared back.

Malik frowned. “Enough. What the fuck? What did you do? What are you? Actually, hold that thought. I need to go have dinner. Keep your damn clothes on.”

“Or what?” Altair growled.

“Or I’ll be pissed off,” Malik snapped. Altair folded his arms moodily as Malik climbed to his feet to go get ready for dinner.

“Everything alright, Malik?” Yusuf asked when he joined them at the table.

“Yes. Everything's fine,” he said shortly. He didn't really talk during dinner and just ate quickly in silence excusing himself as soon as it was socially appropriate. He didn't imagine the Tazims looking after him in concern as he quickly washed his dish in the sink and went back to his room.

Altair was sitting on the bed, naked, looking at the GQ magazine again. “Where are your clothes?” Malik asked. Altair just looked up at him and rose an eyebrow. Malik looked around and found the thobe on the floor by the bed. He picked it up. “Put it on,” he said sternly. Altair just looked at the thobe and then Malik like he was crazy. “Put the thobe on.”

“I can’t understand you,” Altair said in Arabic.

Malik blinked. Right. He just naturally switched to his shitty Turkish when talking with the Tazims. “You know damn well what I'm saying even when I talk Turkish,” and he motioned with the thobe again.

“It’s uncomfortable.”

“Stop being so fucking annoying. You want to get in trouble huh? Because that's what’s going to happen if you don't put this on.”

“Trouble with who?”

“The government. You're a naked man, in my room. Put on some damn clothes before I get arrested.” To say nothing for the fact that he was beautiful and that was a distraction for Malik who didn't need to be distracted when he was having a bit of a freak out over his sword turning into a sexy naked man! Who apparently was a sentient weapon!

Huffing Altair took the thobe and pulled it on. “Happy?”

“Yes, actually,” Malik said sternly. Altair’s lips twitched in something like a smile. “Now what are you doing?”

“Could you be more vague?”

“This,” Malik motioned sharply to Altair's form. “This body thing. You’re a sword.”

“You just took such good care of me after I’d been abandoned I wanted to see what you looked like and not just what your hands felt like, or your voice sounded like,” Altair said, surprisingly soft spoken and kind about it. Malik bristled in a flush high in his ears and across his face. That was the gayest thing he'd heard in months unless he was on a call with his brother.

“Ah— oh— well— can you change back?”

“No.”

“No? What? Why not?”

“I don't have the energy to do so. It took me all the energy I had just to get here from my reserves and from you.”

“Well, then what? You need food?”

“No.”

“That isn't an answer,” Malik said sternly.

Altair frowned at him in annoyance. “You were much nicer to me before. If I knew you were an asshole I would have stayed rusted,” he said.

“Excuse me for being freaked out my sword turned into a man. Which, by the way, WHAT!? And second: HOW?”

“Magic,” Altair said.

“Magic isn't real,” Malik scowled at him.

Malik looked at him, rose his eyebrow and then motioned to himself. “Like you said, your sword turned into a man. Or rather, a man was turned into a sword and he turned back into a man. How do you think that happened?”

“Sentient weapons are myths and not real.”

“And yet here I am,” Altair stood up and Malik flustered when he stepped over to him and got real close, looking up at him. He was pretty short all things considered and the top of his head only came up to Malik’s chin. “You should be grateful.”

Malik bristled. Being mad was better than being turned on by the weird guy in his room. “Oh really now? How you figure that?”

“Because I’m a magic weapon. And judging by your reaction they don't make things like me anymore. I didn't understand you every time you spoke around me but I do know you're a man of history. You should be thrilled I exist.”

Malik frowned at him, annoyed he made sense and annoyed he should have been too. “Okay, look,” he gently pushed Altair back and away. “Magic isn't a thing. Sentient swords are a thing in stories. And this country is super against homosexuality so you showing up naked in my bed like nothing is wrong freaks me out because if anyone found you here I’d be in a lot of trouble.”

“Oh,” Altair said slowly. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are they like that?”

“Because they're stupid.”

“They are,” Altair nodded.

“So you need to not be naked. I don't want to be thrown in jail or deported.”

“I don't want you to either,” Altair said and Malik hated he got all flustered when Altair put his hand on Malik’s chest, worry written across his face.

“So you’ll not try to take your clothes off all the time?”

“I guess,” Altair sighed. “Buy me nicer ones.”

“Sure, whatever. Now can you turn back into a sword?”

“No.”

“Right, energy thing. So what do you need to get more energy?”

“I need to feed.” The way he said it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up on end.

“I can get you food.”

“No. I don't eat,” he said.

“But you just said-

“My sustenance is no longer food.”

Malik rolled his eyes. “Okay, then what do you eat you picky asshole?”

“Blood,” Altair said with a straight face.

Malik blanched. “So you’re a vampire?”

“A what?”

“You know, a vampire,” Malik said again.

Altair blinked in confusion. “I don't know what that word means. What is a vampire?”

“Uh— it’s a monster that drinks blood for food.”

“Oh, you mean an ekkimu? Those are still around?”

“Wha- actually you know what, no. I don't want to know. We’ll just go with yeah, like that.”

“And I’m not quite like that. I don't have to bite someone like they do. And I don't need much to return to my natural state. It takes much more energy to become this altered state,” Altair said.

“But you can't turn back into a sword without blood?” Malik clarified.

“No.”

Malik sighed. “Does it matter what sort?”

“No.”

Malik sighed again. There was nowhere to get blood this time of night. All the butchers were closed for the night and Jawna had used the last blood she’d bought for blood pudding last week. “So that means… you need my blood.”

“If you don't want me here… yes.”

Malik rubbed his face. “Okay. How about this. I’ll get you some blood tomorrow but you absolutely cannot just turn into a person whenever you want.” Altair made an annoyed face but nodded. “Wait here,” he ordered and left his room quietly, went into the bathroom and found the medical kit Jawna used to patch him up from Altair cutting him several times. In it there was some roll bandages, some medical tape, and some antiseptic. He grabbed all of those and went back into his room, closing the door as softly as he could.

Altair was waiting for him when he came back and his eyes brightened with interest as Malik sat everything down and rolled up his sleeve to over his bicep. He used some of the bandages to wipe part of his skin with the antiseptic. “What’s that?” Altair asked as Malik opened his bedside drawer and pulled out his pocket knife. “Oh!” he cried in delight when Malik pushed the button on the side and the knife unfolded. “Magic,” he declared.

“Not magic, just some springs,” Malik said and wiped down the blade with antiseptic too, letting it air dry.

“Springs? How do you fit all that water in there?”

“… Nevermind,” Malik sighed. Then he clenched his jaw and put the knife against the skin of his bicep. He felt the touch of the cool steel but his hand hesitated. He just needed to get it over with.

His hand wouldn't move.

He hissed in annoyance when he lowered his hand. He couldn't just maim himself like that. “Malik?” Altair asked and sat on the bed next to him.

“Just a second. It isn't easy to just cut yourself,” Malik said. Unless you were a cutter, he supposed. Malik had never done that sort of self-destructive behavior. He lifted the knife back up to try again and again his hand wouldn't move even when he tried to will it. He sighed heavily and dropped his hand again.

“Do you want me to do it?” Altair asked him.

Malik didn't totally trust him. “You drink blood and you’re a sword. How do I know you won’t just cut me up?”

“If I wanted to do that I would have done it already,” Altair said. “No one touches me unless I allow them to.” Malik couldn't dispute that. “I am very precise and light. You won't even feel it.”

“I doubt that,” but Malik still handed him the knife. “Don’t touch the blade and cut where I wiped,” he instructed.

Altair took the knife with a serious face, nodding. He held the little pocket knife with what looked like great reverence. He put his hand on the front of Malik’s arm and very carefully put the knife against his skin. Malik looked away. “Do you want me to warn you?” Altair asked him.

“No, just do it,” Malik said and squeezed his eyes shut. Altair didn't respond there was at once just a faint searing sensation on Malik’s left arm as Altair cut a wide mark across his bicep. He hadn't even felt the cut. The skin around the cut hurt but it had been shockingly painless. He looked back and saw Altair draw the knife back. Malik stared when he licked the blade, his tongue against the sharp edge, leaving no trace of his own blood on the knife and carefully folded it back up.

Malik swallowed when Altair leaned over and licked up his arm to catch where the blood was starting to trickle out and seep down the curve of his arm. Malik was very aware of Altair’s tongue on his skin and the way his arm never actually got bloody. He was also very aware of how oddly reverent Altair seemed about the entire thing. It reminded Malik of his Catholic friends telling him about taking communion at church. A holy act of taking something into their body.

Malik was getting the weirdest and most awkward boner in existence about the entire thing. It was making him really uncomfortable.

After a minute Malik cleared his throat. “You— ah, you done?” he didn't know why he was so flustered by this. Why would he be flustered? This was weird and he really didn't like this at all. Altair looked up at him, tongue splayed against his arm. Was this why people had vampire fetishes? Shit, this was why people had vampire fetishes.

“Almost,” Altair said softly and looked away from him. Thank god.

Another awkward (at least for Malik) minute passed. The bleeding had subsided quite a bit to his surprise when Altair pulled away and licked his lips, making sure he got every drop. Malik quietly had a chub now too and wow he hated that so much. “Done now?”

“Yes,” Altair said, his eyes lidded in content. “A good snack if nothing else.”

Malik refrained from saying the actual first thing on his mind. Instead, he said, “Good, don't get used to it.” And he quickly applied more antiseptic, cursing at the stinging pain of it and wrapped his arm in the bandages. “Now you going to change back into a sword?”

“I suppose. I did say I would,” Altair sighed. “I did rather miss being human,” he said and stretched out his arm in front of him to look at his hand. “It’s nice to be able to see what’s going on and not rely solely on touch or vibrations to understand the world.”

“Yeah— well- later, when the family isn't home.”

“Finnne,” he said as a complaint and leaned back on one arm on the bed. Malik hated it was a distracting motion. “I suppose you aren't that bad of a master,” and Malik was sure he blacked out for a second because the next second Altair was gone. In his place was the sword, resting innocently on the sheet, in its vibrant, jewel-studded, red scabbard.

Malik stared at where he’d been. “What the actual fuck?” he asked the room in English. He just could not deal. He ended up putting the sword in his dresser and closing the drawer.

He poked his head out of the room. He heard the TV on in the living room. Now and then he heard the Tazims laugh at some show on it. Okay good. They were none the wiser. That was how he wanted it.

Malik ended up pacing back and forth in his room for a while, stressed beyond belief by the fact that his sword could just, at will, become a naked man. What was he going to do about this? He’d told Altair he would get him blood. How would he do that? Could he just have him around in the room? A thousand other questions raced through his mind as he calmed down a bit now that his initial panic was over. Like how old was he? What sort of first-hand experiences did he have?

Malik stopped pacing at that thought. Altair could potentially be a mother lode. First-hand accounts of whatever time he was from. Deep insight on whatever time he was from that might be lost to them. But it was a long time ago. Would he remember? Did he have memories as a sword? Had he forgotten thanks to the time between then and now?

By the time it was bedtime Malik was beyond curious and less stressed about the naked man thing. He just had to get Altair a nicer set of clothes and bam, problem fixed. He could do that.

He brushed his teeth, said goodnight to the Tazims, and got into bed. But he ended up staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. His mind was abuzz with a thousand questions and what this could mean for his research. What this could mean for his career. If he had real, tangible proof, of what he’d come out here to study and not just pissing in the wind they’d have to take him seriously. They’d realize his ideas were right.

#altmal #Altair Ibn La'Ahad #malik al sayf #Assassin's Creed #worship

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muggle-writes · 5 years

Text

Stretch Thursday

Prompt: "In front of the protagonist, the grocery store clerk just packed several large glass bottles on top of the eggs. The protagonist hears them crack."

Constraint: write in first person

(I vaguely knew how this was going to end, but everything between the first paragraph and the actual prompted moment, and then most of what came after, surprised me on its way out of my fingers.)

Gods above, could this checkout line move any slower, I wondered. Sure, there were only two people in front of me, but the haughty swaggering lump of a human being in front was questioning everything, in search of a nonexistent bargain:

(readmore should be right here but it's not hey tumblr please build a functional app ever maybe?)

Why didn't you accept this week-out-of-date coupon? Why did that coupon only apply to one package of frog eyes, not four. Are you sure this naga skin rucksack isn't on sale? I'm pretty sure the sign said it was on sale. (the leather shoulder bag in a similar size was on sale.)

The poor clerk - Ashley, their nametag said, a pin on the lanyard instructing people to use She or They pronouns - was the only person on checkout duty in the early afternoon. She seemed flustered, but answered every single question in the same patient, even tone of voice.

I wouldn't be able to do that. Actually, when I worked in retail, I got fired from three different jobs for intimidating customers when they started acting like that. Like just because they cleared out a nest of giant rats on the outskirts of town or prevented a band of goblins from establishing a camp in the caves just across the river, that they're entitled to luxury and hero worship, or at least special privileges, from the rest of us. Thank goodness I finally got a job with the local theater, my talents in projecting illusions finally celebrated for dressing the actors up with "no effort" (on the part of the makeup team, not that I don't stretch my magic as far as it can go and then some every night at rehearsal and for hours at a time eight days straight when our shows are open to the public, to turn the bright-but-plain frocks into resplendent ball gowns and every other bit of nonsense that was asked of me). And that's so much better than when I was viewed with suspicion by peers and teachers alike because apparently creating tiny intangible dragons or silent fireworks and lying about my character are the exact same thing, who knew?

I reeled that train of thought back in. There was no need to be bitter about high school bullies considering I'm now living the (pre)Broadstreet dream, and most of them... Well, even the "successful" ones still work ten hour days at tedious office jobs to keep the heat on and the wards up.

The one thing that bitter spiral was good for was that by the time I forced it out of my head, Ashley was calling "have a nice day, Sir" in the same perfectly-bland tone at Mr Cheapskate as he stalked off, carrying three bags on each arm and leaving his cart half-blocking the checkout lane.

He nearly got blown off his feet as he stepped from the store's heat and calm across the ward line, a generous two feet outside the door, into the frigid wind the meteorologists were calling a sneak peek into the blizzard that should hit this weekend. Good riddance.

I met Ashley's eyes as they tapped the rune to pull the items on the conveyor belt forward. I rolled my eyes sympathetically at her forced smile and dead-exhausted eyes. (Not literally dead! Apparently my brain was stuck in high school again because I could almost hear Mrs Primfoot growling about teens and their inability to describe things accurately. Come on. The zombie revolts in Rhodesia were fifteen years ago, and hyperbole is hilarious. Do people just lose all sense of humor when they turn 30?)

Ashley didn't roll their eyes back, she probably worried about losing her job over disrespecting customers in front of other customers, but their lips twitched and their smile seemed a little less stiff.

"Just these two things?" Ashley asked, with professionally-faked curiosity, picking up a large carton of eggs to scan them. "Eggs and milk to wait out the blizzard?" Eighteen goose eggs was a bit much for waiting out a two day storm, even for a bigger family, but some people liked to overprepare. Gods knew I'd seen weirder purchases when I had to check people out. I'd seen weirder people too. This woman, with her sapphire blue, floor-length dress and gray roots belying her dark brown hair, appeared absolutely normal, even with her curls adding at least two inches in height, making her appear barely shorter than me.

"Those are golden goose eggs," the woman corrected her in a syrupy sweet tone that sent a shiver down my spine. Ashley's eyes widened - probably in recognition because they'd been too professional for anything else, but I wouldn't have blamed her for expressing horror. The only customers worse than the adventurers who thought they were better than everyone else, were the governor's many cousins, who were obscenely rich through none of their own effort and not only thought they were better than everyone else but that we were all too naive to understand that.

"For my sweet niece's fourth birthday," the woman continued as though it were obvious.

I couldn't hold back a snort and immediately faked a coughing fit so she wouldn't turn and lecture me in that same patronizing tone.

Even if a dozen golden eggs wouldn't cost me over a month's wages, the yolks, with the flakes of gold leaf suspended throughout, gave them an awful texture no matter how you prepared the eggs, and they inevitably tasted metallic. No toddler would appreciate that, not even if she was already spoiled so rotten as to only accept the priciest of gifts. Well, if the kid was allowed to smash the eggs raw and then go "panning for gold" she would probably have a blast, but something about this woman's perfectly symmetric makeup, smooth, manicured nails, and shockingly hairless arms told me that she would accept nothing less than the most picture perfect cuisine, which meant she was likely to boil the golden eggs so she could present them, polished to the classic shine.

Regular egg yolks turn chalky and disgusting when you boil them, boiled golden eggs are infinitely worse.

Ashley didn't respond beyond a mild "ah, of course" as they efficiently double-bagged the eggs and set them aside.

The woman made a vague disgruntled noise in the back of her throat, but didn't say anything.

Ashley reached for the next item, the package of six tall carafes that I was now sure were something other than plain milk. Sure enough, when Ashley picked up the package, their hand moved in an arc, as though the carafes weighed less than they expected. The additional height caused the yellow light from the enchanted ceiling to dance across the bottles, drawing my eyes to the anti-theft runes stamped on each one.

Suddenly I recognized them. If I were going to blow an entire paycheck on luxuries, I certainly wouldn't buy the two or three golden eggs I could afford with that amount, but I might splurge on a set of these corruption-identifying bottles. They were supposed to be equally good for home canning, for jams and pickles and the like, and for potions. the not-quite-clear, milky white glass promised to turn sickly green if the contents of each bottle went bad, or if poison was added, intentionally or otherwise, or if the properties of the potion inside changed even if it was still safe to drink.

As Ashley was starting to tuck the bottles into a new bag, the woman cleared her throat. "Dearie, I'm sure those will fit in with the eggs. No need to waste another bag."

Ashley hesitated. "Ma'am, it's Magemart policy to bag fragile items separately and"

"It's fine, it's fine," the woman interrupted. "There's only two items, and I don't need all this extra plastic.

"Of course, Ma'am," Ashley agreed, monotone. They opened the top of the bag of eggs, which had folded itself shut.

As Ashley tucked the bottles into the bag with the eggs, I thought I heard a sharp clink, like glass on glass. Odd, but whatever. maybe one of the bottles is loose in the package. and ran into another.

"This is your total," Ashley said, straightening up and indicating the display. Either the lack of reading the final price was another breach of policy or there was a clause in the policy about not reading numbers with more than four digits aloud. I don't remember exactly, my own job at the Magemart closest to my apartment lasted barely three days, the shortest of any of my retail jobs.

The woman swiped her credit card, and was just tucking it back away into her wallet when one of the carafes exploded with a tinkling crash that seemed to echo for ages. I flinched at the sudden noise, and Ashley jumped back with a yelp, unflappable facade forgotten.

We all looked at the fluorescent green shards for a moment. I couldn't quite believe my eyes - either I'd badly misunderstood how CI bottles were supposed to work or there was something really horrendously wrong with those eggs. Besides just being golden goose eggs I mean. All of the other bottles had dangerous green cracks spreading throughout, and another looked like it might fall apart into thousands of shards like its fellow at the slightest provocation.

Almost before I had processed what I was seeing, the woman had rallied enough to shout in Ashley's face, leaning over the counter. "What the devil did you do?"

Ashley cowered, silent tears building at the corners of her eyes. They still looked stunned, frozen in place.

"Hey!" I shouted, feigning confidence and trying to get in this woman's face to protect a fellow cashier. She ignored me. "You were the one who told them to put everything in one bag!"

That got her attention. It wasn't quite what I meant to say, but I was having trouble figuring out what I meant to say, and that slipped out in the meantime.

"And you want to defend her for what? Selling me defective goods?" the woman demanded, equally happy to yell in my face. At least I'd kind of gotten into this knowingly. "CI bottles don't work like that! Or if this is some new function, then that means these golden goose eggs are poisoned or spoilt and they shouldn't be selling them to me!" she insisted.

"What do you expect her to do?" I asked, meeting her continued shouting with a tone that I would call 'panicked' but that Sierra once called 'dangerously quiet'. "How should she have known? Is she supposed to spend her shift finding any magical item that might interact with other things, and taking it around to set it on every other item it might possibly be bagged with, to make sure there's no unexpected interaction? Should they be doing that instead of checking people out, while they're on the clock?" I tried to make the scenario obviously illogical but I think I rambled too much to get the point across.

The woman only squinted at me for a long moment before putting her nose half an inch from mine and shouting even louder than before, "I! Want! A! Manager!"

I wiped spittle off my face, and she stamped her foot, which seemed to be the impulse needed for the second and third bottles to shatter, with another echoing crash.

Someone in line behind me muttered about a manager, before rushing off. ...Probably. I didn't exactly turn to look, with the woman still glowering in my face. Hopefully they ran off to get a manager who would take this belligerent lady out of my and Ashley's faces.

Fortunately, that's exactly what happened. A manager showed up to talk to the woman right around the time she started making threats, and Ashley and the line of people waiting to check out shuffled over to a new register without glass shards everywhere.

We all kept our positions in line, so it was finally my turn to check out. My heart was still pounding from the confrontation as I handed Ashley the bag of moonstone chips to scan.

They offered me a weak smile. "Illusion magic? Isn't that really hard to learn?" Ashley asked, with a tiny but genuine spark of interest in her eyes.

I nodded before I fully processed the second question, already fumbling for my company credit card. "I work hard at it," I said, stretching the truth a little. I certainly didn't have the usual trouble developing the basics, but I push my limits near-daily at the theater and stumbling out of my comfort zone proves to me that I can do more.

"Will that be all," Ashley asked, but tapped the appropriate button on the register before I could reply, my card already poised over the place to swipe it being answer enough. "Your total is 10.53," she said, the next line in the cashiers' script that I still unfortunately have memorized.

They skipped the part of the script asking me if I wanted a receipt, just grabbed it when it printed and scribbled a quick message on the back of it, before finally presenting it to me, holding it out with the handle of the plastic bag with my moonstone inside. "Here is your receipt Ma'am."

I grabbed both, gently, and before I could pull my hand back to look at the message, she flipped her hand over to grab mine.

"Hey.... Thanks," they murmured, then let go.

I flashed her what was either a reassuring to smile or a pained grimace. Hard to tell from inside my own face. "Cashiers ought to be allowed to yell back at people like that," I said. "I'm glad I could get her attention off you."

Ashley opened their mouth to respond but the person behind me in line cleared his throat, and she turned to him, professionally flat expression back in place.

I flipped the receipt over to read what Ashley had written. It was her phone number and the message

I get off at 5. May I treat you to coffee?

I pulled out my phone to text her a yes, and fumbled putting the basket back into the stack for future customers twice before I paused typing long enough to focus on putting the basket away.

I wasn't really bothered by my klutziness. For once my hot head earned me a hot date instead of a hot mess.

#stretch thursday #well i started this on thursday after work #feedback tentatively accepted #muggle writes #muggle originals #writing from prompts #long post #i've tried to add a readmore but they don't seem to work on mobile #i'm not so certain about the ending but i needed to be done #listen it's 3am and I need to be done proofreading and I'm 95% certain there were more things I wanted to fix and I can't find them #if you think I didn't fullfil the prompt please read the prompt again i made sure to quote it directly #hmm what's the tumblr magic key to skip a post?#press j to skip #?#k and j are up and down in vi but there's no guarantee it's the same here #also that still only helps for people on desktop who presumably have xkit anyway

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thelionshoarde · 6 years

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untitled; obiyuki fic

for obiyukimadness, accidental soulbond

if i don’t stop now i won’t ever stop and i have work to do today, so here, have a couple of scenes from a fic that i may never finish and which, if i do finish, will probably either be scrapped or changed beyond recognition, since the rest of what i’ve written more recently for this stupid thing is pretty different already

what you need to know: harry potter au, seventh year, obi super-sneaky cast a spell to bind zen and shirayuki together without their consent and, wonder of wonders, fucked it up, so now he and shirayuki are all tangled together and shirayuki NEEDS TO STUDY FOR N.E.W.T.S, OKAY?? also there are elements of non-con throughout because of obi��s stupid, stupid choices. (o shit yeah also: i gave ‘em last names)

A clap of thunder woke her from a dead, dreary sleep, and Shirayuki -- without opening her eyes and with a groan of instinctual dismay, heart hammering and wide-awake with a sickening lurch -- slapped her palm desperately at her headboard and her wand in its bolted holster above her pillows.

Merlin, but she wished there was a gentler way to wake herself up.

The silencing charm on her bed curtains, at least, ensured that none of her year mates would strangle her in her sleep. And Prickle was the type of kneazle who could sleep through the entire castle falling down around their ears, so the heavy, warm weight stayed content across Shirayuki’s ankles, attempting to lure her back to slumber with indecent amounts of purring.

Shirayuki, alone, suffered the horrendous alarm spell.

A shift of agitation -- muzzy and sleep-addled, like the buzz of distant wasps -- looped about her sternum, tugging.

“Well,” she told Prickle, rubbing at her eyes and shifting up onto her elbows. “If he didn’t want to be a morning person he should have thought for a moment and realized that casting a highly illegal, highly temperamental soulbond spell on two students who had not given their consent would backfire on him in epic proportions. He can deal.”

After all, the whole thing was his stupid fault.

The agitation mounted, tugging more firmly, and Shirayuki scowled beneath her palm. A headache throbbed at her temples, and she felt sick, shaky, weak. Not dissimilar to how she often felt woken so suddenly, on little sleep, still exhausted and worn from the mountainous work assigned her, but much, much worse and with a significantly more frustrating cause.

Reaching unsteadily for her wand, she forced her wrist to move into a smooth clockwise circle, and then cast, “Tempus,” on the sudden uptick. A clock face wavered into perfect existence atop her wand point, hour hand at four, minute hand at ten.

Nearly ten hours since she had last seen him, and considering the distance -- Hufflepuff Basement versus Ravenclaw Tower, could this possibly have been a worse combination -- between them, it --

Was getting worse.

Last week hadn’t been nearly so bad. But each day the spell pulled on them tighter and tight, cinching them inward, pushing them hard until they were plummeting deeper inside each other, until struggling out, away, apart, became an excruciating exercise.

How bad, she wondered, would this have to get before they fixed it? How many hours would they have before the side effects became unbearable? Exactly how close would they need to be, for how long?

Ugh, it was too early to dwell on it.

A wave of her wand dismissed the spell into a dissipating, pearlescent fog, and she gripped the length of applewood in her fist as though for comfort, rubbing at her chest where she could feel him curled tightly in annoyance, woken by her own slap-dash heartbeat and sudden startlement.

Probably, she should say sorry; should go back to sleep and head into the Great Hall at a later hour, let the ache and nausea and exhaustion abate with his presence; should, no doubt, not have skipped out on performing the second-half of the ritual to end this on the last new moon.

But she wouldn’t, because N.E.W.T.s waited for no witch, and it was all his own fault.

So instead Shirayuki was going to get up, escape from the comforting weight of Prickle, and the soft glide of her warm duvet, and she was going to get dressed, and make certain that her robes were not on inside-out this time, and then Shirayuki was going to get some studying done, and to hell with Obi Karasu and this stupid, stupid soulbond.

If the agitation prickling along the barrier of her ribs eased, soothed, turned rueful and fond in response to whatever involuntary feelings of apology and guilt Shirayuki may or may not have felt at waking him up at 4:50 in the morning, then she just sniffed, annoyed, and ignored it, because she wasn’t going to say she was sorry, and if he knew that she was then that was cheating and did not count.

“This sucks,” Shirayuki told Prickle, who opened one glittering green eye and yawned, teeth gleaming, plumed tail twitching, and entirely without sympathy.

Quidditch.

Stupid, stupid quidditch.

Slumped in an armchair in the library hours later, Shirayuki glared blearily at the quill clenched between her fingers. The ink on the nib had long since dried, and Yuzuri, at this point, had both elbows on the table, chin cradled between her palms, watching her with interest.

“You know...”

“I do, actually, know a lot of things,” Shirayuki interrupted desperately. “What I do not know is how I’m going to get any work done if he insists on flying about every morning.”

Yuzuri snorted. “It is quidditch season, you know. And he is their best player.”

“He’s just a beater,” Shirayuki complained, glum. “Maybe if he was a chaser then I’d understand. Or seeker, even! But he just -- hits things --”

“Mm, yes,” Yuzuri grinned. “And he does it very well.”

Groaning, Shirayuki finally released her quill and allowed herself to slump forward onto the parchment that was meant to be twenty-three inches of Potions essay, and was, instead, mostly just staggered blotches and emptiness. Merlin, but her head ached. There wasn’t much, she thought, that she wouldn’t do for the kind of migraine that could be cured by just going to the infirmary.

But no. It could only be cured in one way.

And just -- what the hell was wrong with him?

Didn’t he know how stupid it was to be on a team during Seventh Year? He should have been focusing only on N.E.W.T.s, he should have been studying, not hundreds and hundreds of feet up in the air, dizzying heights, far above her and out of reach, their bond pulling and tugging, straining worse than it did with the entire distance of the castle between them.

What an idiot.

“I think I hate him,” she wailed, voice muffled by the crook of her elbow as she buried her face in her arms. “I am so tired.”

Yuzuri patted her head gently, hesitated, and then plucked at Shirayuki’s hair. “You should really put this up in a ponytail,” she tutted. “You’ve got a bad case of bed head, Shirayuki. I meant to tell you. You can’t go see him looking like this.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Shirayuki whimpered.

“Then do so elsewhere, please. I’ll watch your stuff, so just go. You know it won’t get any better until you do.”

Unfortunately, that was true. Because of the stupid bond Shirayuki had to give up valuable studying time to hunt down Karasu by the Hufflepuff dorms so she could snag him after quidditich practice. When he was all sweaty, and flushed, and encased in leather padding, and...

Ugh. This was the worst.

“Well, now you just look down-right flustered,” Yuzuri commented when Shirayuki finally leveraged herself back upright, waving her wand at Shirayuki pointedly. “You look like you could use --”

“A hug,” Shirayuki said, voice flat, and refusing to acknowledge the flush that wanted to burn her cheeks.

“Sure,” Yuzuri winked. “If you wanna call it that.”

Ten minutes later Shirayuki was stumbling past the portrait that led to the kitchens towards the cluster of barrels that disguised the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room. She was practically one with the wall by the time she got there, and let herself slump into a defeated lump on the floor to wait.

“I want a nap,” she told the empty corridor sadly.

It was all well and good that Yuzuri could joke about Shirayuki getting some, but the truth of the matter was that the side effects of that stupid spell Obi had performed were awful. The migraine was a pulsing agony, her vision slick and blurred, white lights and nausea to the point of vomiting. If she could have convinced her sluggish body to go any faster she would have, but she couldn’t.

The real kicker, though, was how sluggish her brain felt. Mental exhaustion was the worst of the side effects in Shirayuki’s opinion. She had N.E.W.T.s to conquer. A mental hiatus for any length of time was too long.

Despite the truly impressive amount of work she’d gotten done last new moon, Shirayuki did, indeed, deeply regret not finishing the ritual needed to break the soulbond spell. She just hadn’t realized how pervasive this spell would become. How incredibly, absolutely consuming, and impossible to ignore.

Next time, she promised. Next time I will not forget!

But in the meantime, she supposed it wasn’t such a bad thing if she just closed her eyes. Just for a moment. Karasu wasn’t going to show up any sooner just because she kept her eyes open, after all, so there was no point in bothering. She’d just...rest. A little.

And if she fell asleep listening to the fast-paced beat of another heart echoing inside her chest, well, no one had to know.

Shirayuki woke up when another body slumped down to the floor beside hers, almost close enough to touch.

“Mornin’,” Obi grinned, looking weary. There were bruises beneath his eyes, and his skin looked pale, soured. Even his eyes were glassy, too-yellow when usually they were a bewildering blend of darkened topaz and rich honey and pale gold. A bead of sweat lingered on his brow. “You look like shit, Akagi.”

“Touch me,” she said.

“Holy -- shhh, jesus fuck, Akagi!” Nervous, Obi darted his gaze around the hallway, but he must have waited to wake her until the rest of his teammates had gone inside, and there was no one in the hallway to have heard.

Honestly, Shirayuki wasn’t certain she would have cared if there had been.

“Touch me,” she ordered, voice slurred with sleep and pain, and lifted up her arm to offer her hand. It trembled, slightly.

Grumbling, Obi pulled off his quidditch glove and, after only a small hesitation, laid his palm against hers. Instantly, relief swelled through Shirayuki. It doubled as she caught the ricochet from Obi, the two of them overlapping, mingling, pressing into each other too intimately. “Ohhh,” Obi groaned, leaning the back of his head against the stone wall and rocking it there, eyes closed, an expression of agonized bliss on his face.

Shirayuki bit her lip, trying not to think of Yuzuri’s suggestion. Trying not to think about anything other than how much she needed to get back to the library as soon as touching Obi stopped being as necessary as breathing.

“It’s like a fucking drug,” Obi complained. “Complete with body-wrecking withdrawals. I almost fell off my broom today, Akagi.”

Shirayuki frowned.

“Don’t,” Obi said, scrunching up his nose and refusing to open his eyes to look at her. “Ugh, I can feel your worry, all right, and your disdain for our practice sessions, stop it, that’s enough. What do you have against quidditch, anyway?”

“Nothing. It’s just -- distracting.”

Distracting, like the low-burn of arousal she felt from Obi every time the pain went away, a knee-jerk reaction. Like the horniness he carried with him every day, all the time, because he was seventeen and hungry and it was ruining Shirayuki’s life, because before this she had had control of her hormones, she had been better than this, damn it.

“You are so weird, Akagi, I don’t even know where to start." Obi sighed, lashes fluttering as he forced his eyes to open and remain so. “C’mon, we gotta go before any one comes by and sees us. Do you -- No, wait. I’m starving, actually. Have you eaten?”

Shirayuki admitted, “No. I didn’t want to loose it when the side effects set in. And I need coffee. Lots of coffee.”

Laughing, Obi went to his feet. Their fingers were linked, locked, never letting go. Shirayuki was tugged up with him, helpless to do anything but follow him down the sort distance to the entrance to the kitchens, basking in the way their momentary contentedness layered, sweet and soft.

No stranger to the kitchens -- late night study sessions in Ravenclaw common room necessitated copious amounts of snack food, after all, and Shirayuki had done her due diligence in retrieving it at three in the morning -- Shirayuki tickled the appropriate pear, grasped the resulting door knob giggling against her palm, and led them inside.

“Oh! Obi Karasu, sir! You has come again!”

Shirayuki’s forward march to a cleared space at one of the long, rough hewn tables bisecting the massive, high-ceiling room was brought to an abrupt halt. For a moment, Shirayuki thought about twisting her hand out of Obi’s grip. Most of the side effects of the spell had eased, though relief still shivered beneath her skin at the prolonged contact. But it was enough to get by; she could have easily escaped.

Sighing, she turned toward the house-elf quivering before them, and summoned up a smile, made all the more easier for the throb of fond affection Obi felt, suffusing her with an indulgence she might otherwise not have found without coffee.

“Now, Bonky,” Obi started, voice warm and curled through with amusement, “You know I couldn’t possibly stay away from you. How’s it been going?”

“Oh, Master Obi! We is just fine, just fine!” The house-elf, knee-high, with large, gleaming eyes and a neat, pale-yellow shawl wrapped about his little body, grinned fit to split his face. “Master Obi is too kind to ask after such as us, sir.”

“Is that so?” Obi asked, sounding convincingly surprised; but Shirayuki felt the frission of helplessness and frustration course through him, there then gone, and turned to look at him. Obi glanced back, eyes all honey-glaze and secrets. He looked back at the house-elf, but Shirayuki lost the thread of the conversation, thinking: he always did have a lot to say about house-elf rights in History, didn’t he?

Shuffling closer, Shirayuki took a deep breath in, let it out, and leaned against Obi’s side, arm to arm. He shifted beneath her weight, and she felt the sharp, bright note of his surprise before Bonky pulled him back into conversation.

Eventually, Bonky released them to be fed.

A veritable army of house-elves saw the two of them seated at a table near the massive fire, and a small spread of the breakfast mirrored above in the Great Hall had been set out for them. The crush of sound was almost comforting. The clang of copper pots and the thwock of knives, ladles ringing, dishes being washed eased the heightened, too-aware silence between them as they muddled through the indignity of eating one handed.

Shirayuki thought about being embarrassed. Thought about being horrified that handsome, clever, popular Obi Karasu was watching her get cream on her cheeks and nose, golden flaky bits of pastry all over her robes and sweater. Thought Yuzuri, at least, would be mortified at the way she shoved food into her mouth, heedless, reckless, without grace or poise or manners.

She had seen him far worse, after all, and that when they had been little more than acquaintances; when he had been Zen’s friend, an irritation on her peripheral that was too loud, too bright, too boisterous, glittering gold and shifting shadow, secret darkness too deep and treacherous to ever risk the venture.

And then Obi had wrenched that choice away.

So she stuffed herself full, uncaring, her fingers shifting, sliding, catching against his, their knuckles grazing the rough wood of the bench, pulling and tugging and readjusting, and never, ever letting each other slip.

Obi Karasu could deal with her, all of her, every single improper part of her.

He had no one but himself to blame, after all.

Later, after they’d each eaten their fill, Shirayuki said, voice low: “They’re quite fond of you.”

“Hm?”

“The house-elves,” Shirayuki clarified with a faint smile, watching him steadily.

Obi grimaced, free hand cupped around a chilled goblet of pumpkin juice while he straddled the wide bench, his thighs -- still strapped into all-too-enticing, corrugated leather protective gear -- flexing as he shifted forward. Shirayuki sipped from her own hefty mug of sweetened coffee in a helpless bid to moisten her suddenly dry mouth.

Quidditch uniforms were the worst.

“House-elves have always been pretty fond of Hufflepuffs,” Obi dismissed. “And I mean. I’m not a part of S.P.E.W. or anything, which I think they appreciate. It’s not like I do anything in particular, I’m just, you know, naturally charming and awesome.”

“You treat them with respect,” said Shirayuki, and she opened her mouth to say more -- that he treated them better than most humans, like sentient beings deserving of affection and equality, like friends, and that it was all the more important for being a conscious choice -- but she felt the twist of his agitation and discomfort sharp in her gut, and let it go.

“I’ve never been to the Hufflepuff common room.”

“The Basement?” Obi asked, surprised. “No? Huh, that’s right. You Ravenclaws don’t really party much.” He grinned, a bright gleam of white teeth against dark skin. “Pity, we’ve got some good party favors. I would totally get you high, Akagi, you’d love it.”

If Shirayuki was very, very lucky, Obi took the hot, vibrant burst of arousal in her gut at his stupid, perfect grin as anger. She muttered into her coffee, “That is a waste of valuable studying time. Really, Obi, we’re in our Seventh Year.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Obi said, rolling his eyes. Between them, their clasped hands shifted, awkward, uncertain. “Anyway, wanna come with? I can show you.”

“I should really get back to the library.”

“Oh, my god,” Obi groaned, tipping his head back. Shirayuki stared at his throat, frustrated. In her chest her heart beat fast, hard, and she saw the moment it echoed in Obi’s because he started, chin coming back down with his brows raised up in question.

He decided, “Yeah, no, you need a break, Akagi. If you spend any more time in that library you’re going to actually become a fixture there, permanently, and then you won’t ever get to do anything with all that knowledge you’re hoarding.”

“No,” she said, and watched the way Karasu moved beneath the surge of her emotion, the roiling morass of half-thought, visceral reaction; the sting of irritation, the hot buzz of anger, the helpless drip of desire and how much Shirayuki hated feeling that way.

“I need,” she tried, again, swallowing hard, “to go back and study. Yuzuri is waiting for me. But --”

Obi wasn’t looking at her. He was looking down at their joined hands, and she could see the shift of his jaw as he clenched his teeth, the furrow between his brows; could feel him in her veins, a black tide -- regret, shame, acceptance -- that threatened to drown before pulling back.

“We do need to talk about this,” Shirayuki admitted. With a sigh, she slipped her hand free from his. “We -- the new moon isn’t for another two weeks, and we can’t go on like this, right? Pretending like nothing is happening and then almost -- almost falling off of brooms, really. So we... We’re going to set up a plan, a -- a schedule, or something. So I’ll see you later, Karasu.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, slipping from the bench and standing, stretching, as if he hadn’t a single care, as if this was nothing at all. When Obi’s voice got sharp and flat, like a smooth sheet of tin, Shirayuki could hear the emotion strike off it like raindrops on a roof. He thought he was subtle. He was not subtle.

Honestly, it was endearing and stupid. He was endearing and stupid.

Shirayuki didn’t fight the surge of affection that got stuck in her throat, and huffed a sigh at the way his eyebrow twitched, feeling it. “You’re a menace,” she complained. “And I need to study. Don’t you need to study?”

“Eh,” said Obi, rocking back on his heels. He was waffling, now, confused by the swift change of her emotion, of the back-and-forth. She was exhausted, confused, furious.

None of this was fair. She hadn’t asked for this. For Obi in his stupid, sexy quidditch uniform, stretched lean and long and rippling before her, still sweat-damp and beautiful, and --

Eventually, Shirayuki realized she was staring because Obi was staring back, jaw dropped a little with surprise.

It was the surprise, really, that jerked Shirayuki away from her hormones. Irritation welled up in her, warring with the need to lick the sweat off Obi’s collar bones and neck until he was shaking beneath her, gasping, and --

A blush suffused his skin, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Did he have to look so surprised that she found him attractive? Really? What was she, a rock?

“You need to leave,” Shirayuki huffed, shoving at her fringe. “I mean it. I don’t have time for --” she waved her hand at him, fluttering it in the air in disgust, “-- this.”

His heart flipped in her chest -- lub-da-lub -- and --

“Right,” Obi babbled, edging toward the door out of the kitchen, sounding wildly confused by what he was reading off of Shirayuki’s emotions. “I’m gonna -- study, too, I guess, if just so you’ll stop nagging me? And shower. Cause I must stink. Rank, right? I left practice as soon as we hit ground to find you and so -- I, uh, sweat. Stink. Shower!”

“Go,” Shirayuki managed, before her stupid sex drive could quite finish latching onto Obi showering.

this thing wants to be some weird mash-up of angst and comedy or some weird shit and also apparently i really want to spend too much time talking about how badly shirayuki hates her father because i really think teenage shirayuki in an environment like this would not be quite so cool with daddy being awol, and there is just, a lot of things that are cropping up that i’m tripping along behind too slowly to keep up with, so yeah, we’ll see if anything else ever comes of this, HOPE YOU HAD SOME FUN THOUGH, i figured the least i could do was save the silly pervy-esque bit for you guys /thumbs up??

#obiyukimadness #accidental soul bond #obiyuki #the other hp au #my fic #ans

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sweetnestor · 6 years

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12 Days | Chapter 2

Two guys that lowkey hate each other are forced to walk in each other’s shoes in order to learn a lesson.

***in collaboration with @themarkiplierexperience

lmao soz its not actually x reader we’re just desperate for attention haaaa

“I really think you overworked yourself this time,” said a soft, yet clear female voice. “Maybe you should have slept instead of working at the office all night.”

Tom wasn’t sure how long this girl had been speaking. All he knew was that he was in a car with her, and she was driving him to… he didn’t know where. Probably missed that in the midst of all the panic. He barely even got a look at her, so he turned his head to the driver and, well…

He recognized the shiny black hair that faded to a vibrant pink. Her side profile was oddly familiar. This was Bella, right? The girl who the people at “the office” were talking about. Tom knew her from somewhere, he just couldn’t pinpoint where. For some reason, he had to look at her until he figured it out.

She noticed his staring and glanced at him before turning back to the road. She seemed very concerned for this Ethan guy. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Yes, actually. I think I switched places with your friend and I don’t know where I am or how to switch back. That’ll land Tom in the hospital for sure. He didn’t need to be locked away in the psych ward, he just had to find out how this happened. In the meantime, all he could do was go along with what this girl was saying.

“I-It’s probably what you said,” he replied, breaking the gaze. “Overworked myself.” He pulled out his - or Ethan’s - phone and one look at the lockscreen made it click.

Bella is his girlfriend.

“Yeah, next time,” she continued, “let’s not go right back to editing after a convention. I know you’re passionate about YouTube, but you need a break just as much as anyone else does. And besides, Mark has two editors for a reason, Kathryn could have taken over if you were really that exhausted.”

“Right, got it.” Tom hesitated. Maybe he could still play off being disoriented from the panic attack. “Um, love… do you happen to remember my, my passcode?”

She chuckled. “Is it not your thumbprint, my dear?”

Well, shit. Now I’ll never know who’s body I’m possessing. This is useless, I’m stuck-

Again, it clicked. Tom pressed the button, mentally kicking himself. Before he could dig around and find more information, the car came to halt in front of an apartment complex. Was this the place Ethan shared with Bella?

He got out of the car and followed her into the building. This was so strange, he shouldn't have been here. He was supposed to be in his own body, on a plane to Atlanta.

“Chamomile?” Bella offered as she unlocked the door to the apartment.

“Yeah… please,” Tom replied.

While she dove into the kitchen, he looked around at the place. Things were scattered here and there. However, he noticed 2 large plaques on the wall and went to look at them.

They were identical play buttons in large frames, one was silver and the other was gold. They both read “Bella Santiago, Congratulations for surpassing ______ Subscribers.” The silver was for one hundred thousand and the other was for one million. This girl was popular on YouTube, apparently. Tom didn't quite understand that.

Wait. YouTube. Pink hair. Blue hair.

Tom gasped just as Bella approached him again, this time with a mug of tea. She raised her eyebrows at his miniature burst.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

You interviewed me. I know you.

“Nothing,” he replied as he accepted the mug.

She chuckled. “Come on, cariño. Let's go lie down. Or… would you rather I just take you home?”

So this wasn't a shared place. Why were there two bedrooms, then? Tom was very confused, and that was already an understatement.

He had to find out more about Ethan, and where exactly they both were, so Tom decided to let Bella take him ‘home’ after he finished his tea.

It didn’t have any calming affect on him. It was even worse when Bella leaned in to kiss him when she walked him to the front door. Tom instinctively leaned back in shock, his eyes wide. He was the boyfriend.

After that awkward interaction, Bella unlocked the door for him, since Tom left Ethan’s keys at the office. His girlfriend didn’t seem too pleased when she left, but there were other things to think about at the moment.

Tom wandered around the apartment, glancing at all of Ethan’s belongings before pulling out his phone again. With a press of a button, it was unlocked again, and Tom began to properly snoop through this guy’s social media. What kind of life was this Ethan person living? Besides having a hot girlfriend and an office job, of course.

Instagram name: CrankGameplays. Still don't know his surname. Bio: “I scream at the video games.” Helpful. Tom scrolled through Ethan’s profile, only seeing the face that he now owned. Although, the first picture he saw was of him wearing a red wig, making a silly pose with a woman with black hair. He’s seen worse. The next one that caught his eye was of Ethan posing in front of a huge screen. His head covered most of it, but Tom could make out the words: Markiplier’s You're Welcome Tour.

So… he's a comedian? Is he in an improv group?

Tom left that app and went to Twitter. Ethan's profile was mainly a bunch of tweets with links to YouTube videos. Did he do this alongside the office job? Or… was this the office job? He tapped on one of the links.

“What is up my cranky crew? It's Ethan from CrankGameplays, and today we are back with ‘Little Nightmares!’” said the real Ethan in the video.

Growing impatient, Tom skipped forward a few minutes, only seeing the guy play some horror game. That's all this 45 minute video was. He looked at other videos of his, and they were all the same. Playing video games. This is what he did for a living? Tom had so many questions, but most of all, he just had to know how to contact the real Ethan.

He went back to Twitter and searched his own handle. As expected, there were no new tweets. Of course he couldn't send a direct message to this account either because they weren't following each other.

Tom went back to the homescreen, thinking. If everything in his actual schedule went according to plan, then his actual self should be in Atlanta right now. So if he was still in the States, then that meant he had his America phone…

The only reason Ethan had decided to play along, to 'take the role' as Tom was that, well, he had no choice. It was either pretend he was Tom and nothing was wrong or spill the beans and risk getting put in the hospital for a week. Also, the car was at least a way out of this hotel room that was increasing his anxiety by the minute.

He'd underestimated the severity of his sickness though. He was sure he was hungover now, judging by the way he couldn't stop sweating and the way his stomach kept flipping. He stepped into the car with every intention to make them turn around and take him home, but was knocked out as soon as he felt the unusually comfortable leather seats. So much for going back home.

He woke up long enough to stumble onto a plane with the help of Harrison, completely in a daze that he couldn't quite shake. "Jeez Tom, you fat lard," Harrison mumbled as he carried the majority of Ethan's weight.

Ethan was barely able to groan in response.

He was nudged awake a little while later. "Come on, you've got to drink this," Harrison whispered as he shoved a glass of water into Ethan's hands.

His sight was blurry, but that glass of water was a sight for sore eyes. His cotton mouth was horrendous and his throats felt raw and scratchy. Two pills were shoved into his palm. Without even asking what they were he popped them in his mouth, finished off his glass, and fell right back asleep.

He woke up once more while on the plane, approximately 40,000 feet in the air on its way to Atlanta. The light streamed in through the half open window next to Ethan, effectively blinding him as Harrison sat down in the seat next to him.

"Rise and shine sleepy beauty! Up for good now, or have you still got some sleep left in ya?" Harrison clapped his hand onto Ethan's knee.

Fuck, so it hadn't just been a bad dream.

"Jesus Christ, why are you yelling?" Ethan mumbled, covering his eyes with his palms as he stretched.

"I'm not, you're just still bombed from last night," he snickered.

Ethan groaned, he doesn't even know who this guy is, much less why he's on a plane or where he's going. "How much longer?" He murmurs, eyes still squinting as the sun beamed onto him.

"We land in 20 minutes. You slept through a 4 hour flight, there's no way you're getting any sleep tonight."

Ethan's blood ran cold. 4 hours?! The flight to Maine is almost 5, where the heck was he going?

"Oh good, you're up." A blonde woman walked into the room and sat in the seat facing him. "Feel any better?"

"Uh yeah, yeah. Guess I just needed some more rest," Ethan tried his best not to stammer, how would Tom act in this situation?

"I bet, you were hitting those drinks pretty hard last night," she laughed as she pulled out her tablet.

"Yeah, my bad," Ethan chuckles nervously. He can't help but wonder if he looks as nervous as he feels. Can they hear how fast his heart is beating?

"Alright, so here's the plan for today. We land in about 20 minutes, then you and Haz can stay in your hotel rooms for about an hour or so. You've got a meeting with the Chaos Walking crew at 3, so be down in the lobby by 2:30. After that you've got a few interviews at 5, they shouldn't take very long though. Dinner afterwards and then we’ll be back on the plane by 10." The words flowing out of her mouth just served as a smack in the face for Ethan. He's going to do what and go where at what time?

"Uhh," the blank face on his face pulled a laugh out of 'Haz', is his name not Harrison?, and the woman in front of him. "Run that by me once more?"

"No need, as long as Haz knows the schedule you'll be fine. I'll be there too," she said with a shrug. Ethan slowly began taking in her features as she and Haz began discussing something about the schedule.

Shoulder length blonde hair, curled at the ends. Blue eyes, a pair of glasses resting in her hair. She didn't look like she was taller than Ethan, although it's had to tell from where he's sitting. A name catches his interest. Olivia. She must be his agent or manager or whatever those people that tell you what to do are called. She seemed nice.

Ethan spent the last 10 minutes of the ride staring at his shoes.

Another rush of anxiety passed through him while exiting the airport, he was getting used to these. Holy shit, was he going to have to interact with all of the fans waiting outside? Sure, he's interacted with fans in the past, but never on a scale this large outside of a convention. He didn't even know what Tom's signature looked like!

"You up for a few pictures?" Olivia asked. Ethan shook his head, no, not in a million years. "Figured, you look a mess."

Well thanks. The security guards pushed past the group of fans outside, the look on Ethan's face a mixture of excitement and terror. So this is what being swarmed feels like.

The car ride was quiet, Harrison and Olivia chatted the whole ride while Ethan was just content to look out the window. He calmed down a bit, feeling ok for the first time all day. Harrison led him up the elevator and to their rooms.

"Oh, by the way, here's your phone," he said right before Ethan walked into his room. "I grabbed it back in LA before we left. I'm surprised you haven't asked for it yet," he said with a chuckle.

"Ah, thanks," Ethan nodded at him, mustering up a small smile and quickly locking the door behind him.

As if on cue, the phone in his hand started to ring. The panic that runs through his body is cut short, that's his phone number! “Hello?” He answers, still not used to the sound of his voice.

“Hello!” Tom said, nearly jumping at his own voice. “Hi, hello!” He was so antsy about what he would hear on the other line that his mind immediately went blank. What was he supposed to say now?

There was a silence then, an uncomfortable one. Unsure of what to say Ethan blurted out the first thing that came to mind, “Is this… Ethan’s… body?” Stupid, what kind of question was that?

“That depends,” he replied slowly, like he was choosing his words carefully. “Is this… is this Tom?” His heart was beating unnecessarily hard.

“Uh, yeah?” Ethan let out a sigh of relief, “I'm not crazy right? Something really fucked up is going on, right?”

“Definitely.” Tom leaned forward in his seat, trying to form any sort of coherent sentence. “God, I have so many questions… I - er, how the fuck did this happen?”

“No fucking idea, god this feels like a nightmare, no offense,” Ethan whispered before he made his way to hide in a closet. “Just kinda woke up in a strange hotel room in someone else’s body. By the way, thanks for the killer hangover. I was sweating and slept the whole time I was on that plane ride dude.”

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “A hangover is probably nothing compared to what you were shooting up last night. Yeah, I saw those needles in your pocket. I swear to god, I thought I was high when I looked in the mirror.”

“...You mean my epipens?” Ethan wanted to laugh, this fucker really thought he'd just be shooting up in the office? Yet another reason to hate Tom Holland. “Anyway, hi nice to meet you. Ethan Nestor, professional screamer and deathly allergic to peanuts at your service.”

Tom covered his mouth. “Sorry, mate. My bad… Er, hi, I’m Tom Holland, professional actor and still very confused as to what happened to us.” Wow, he felt like an asshole.

Professional actor, what a narcissist. Professional screamer sounds way cooler anyway. Ethan laughs, “Well don't be too humble now.” Was Ethan actually salty about Tom taking pride in his work? No. Was he still salty about Bella’s googoo eyes for him? Hell fuckin’ yeah.

“Hey, my acting was able to save your ass and have a panic attack to get the day off from your job,” Tom shot back. Yes, the panic attack was real, but it did buy them some time. “If I was still at… your office place, then we wouldn’t be here trying to figure this out.”

“Well I'm not even a professional actor, and I'm able to pass as you no problem?” Ethan shot back. There's no reason for this to be happening, he should be playing nice. It's not like it's Tom’s fault this is happening, but Ethan can't help himself. “Some ‘career’ this is,” he continued, kinda regretting what he said but also kinda meaning it.

Oh god, Tom swapped lives with a grade A asshole. What did Bella see in this guy? He shook his head, trying to bring back the main focus of this conversation. “Okay, you can sit there and take jabs at me, or we can try to… switch back…? And then we’ll never have to see each other again. Take your pick.”

Ethan hesitated, he still had more to say that's for sure, but Tom was right. This wasn't getting them anywhere. “Whatever, something had to have happened at the convention to cause all this,” Ethan said with a sigh as he racked his brain for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing.

“Right,” Tom agreed. “I remember seeing you. You were with Bella when she interviewed me. Do you think something happened there?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, I didn't feel any different afterwards when I was with Bella in the bathroom… Nothing felt different until the next morning?” Ethan was stumped. The convention went about like every other convention he'd ever been to. What made this one different?

“In the bathroom?” Tom repeated with a chuckle. “Quite an eager beaver, aren’t we?”

“Oh my- no, not that way! God you British and your awful humor,” Ethan stifles a laugh as he rolls his eyes. “No, if you must know, you literally gave my girlfriend an anxiety attack and I had to calm her down in the bathroom.”

That changed things. Tom didn’t know how to react at first. He didn’t know much about anxiety attacks, even after experiencing one himself not that long ago. “Shit. I’m sorry, man. Did I say something to make her… like that?”

“Sorta, it was mostly just the whole situation? I don't know, she's fine don't worry about it. Just, careful what you say, okay? She's been through… a lot.” Ethan's face and mood dropped. He missed Bella. A lot.

An awkward silence filled the air. He wasn’t good with things like this, he didn’t know how to console people with a tragic past, if that’s what Ethan was implying about his girlfriend. “Well,” Tom began, “she seemed… relatively normal when I was with her just now. She was worried about you. Actually, you had a few people worry about you.”

Aww, they care. “Yeah, they're great…” How many awkward silences are gonna happen throughout the duration of one phone call? Ethan didn't know what else to say. Thankfully, he didn't have to.

“Tom, are you back in the closet?” Harrison called out. “Didn't think you'd be back in there again,” he joked. Shit, how did he get in? Hadn't he locked the door?

“Uh, yeah, gotta go Tom, I'll call back later?” Ethan said wondering what happened to the so called hour of a downtime he was promised.

“I - alright,” the real Tom replied, feeling the sinking sensation in his stomach. He barely made out the sound of his friend’s voice on the other line. Now, he had to go on without him for the time being.

“Ok bye,” Ethan replied. Back to the real, bizarre world.

______

tag list: @marie-is-in-the-dark @beardedsteveslut

______

#crankgameplays x oc #ethan nestor x reader #tom holland x reader #tom holland x oc #sweetheart writes #twelve days #sweetheart collabs #i like the response we've gotten so far :')#its only gonna get more wild from here lksjdfklaj #also if u couldnt tell im writing tom in ethans body and sam is writing ethan in toms body #look at us we got this shit Sorted #we got this

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weekendwarriorblog · 5 years

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WHAT TO WATCH THIS WEEKEND May 10, 2019 - POKEMON: DETECTIVE PIKACHU, THE HUSTLE, TOLKIEN and More

It’s Mother’s Day weekend and while Avengers: Endgame seems to holding strong, we get four new movies in wide release, two of which I’ve seen, both of which are pretty decent. Unfortunately, due to illness, I’m running a bit late on this column, but I’ll try not to cut too many corners.

The big movie this weekend is POKÉMON: DETECTIVE PIKACHU (Warner Bros.), starring Ryan Reynolds as the voice of Pikachu and Justice Smith from Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom, plus the likes of Bill Nighy and Ken Watanabe, the latter who seems to be Legendary Pictures’ go-to Japanese actor. (He’ll be appearing in Godzilla: King of the Monsters later this month.) I’m hoping to still get around to reviewing the movie, but I will say that I generally enjoyed it, even if my connection to the material was the old TV cartoon rather than any of the games. (Look for that review before Friday, if I’m able to get my ass gear. In the meantime, here’s my interview with director Rob Letterman.)

I’ve been interested in the Anne Hathaway-Rebel Wilson comedy THE HUSTLE (U.A. Releasing) since it was called “Nasty Women” and was a straight-up remake of Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, but I just haven’t had time to catch the one press screening, so it looks like I’ll have to catch this sometime down the road.

And then there’s POMS (STXfilms), a new Diane Keaton comedy featuring an ensemble of actresses in their prime, including Pam Grier and Jacki Weaver. While this doesn’t look like my kind of movie, I totally would have gone to see it if I could, but I’m less apt to see it than The Hustle.

The other movie opening Friday which I’ve seen and enjoyed is TOLKIEN (Fox Searchlight), directed by Dome Karukoski (Tom of Finland) and starring Nicholas Hoult as J.R.R. Tolkien and Lily Collins as his wife Edith Bratt. I’m hoping this finds an audience, even though it’s obviously competing with much stronger and more high-profile films.

Mini-Review: I began to watch this movie with some trepidation, because at least at first, it seemed to be a typical biopic, much like director Dome Karukoski’s previous film. At least as the film began, it cut between Nicholas Hoult’s Tolkien while on the frontlines during WWII and his early schooldays at King Edwards and then Oxford, where he formed a bond with three other students.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure I necessary needed to see a Dead Poet’s Society type way of getting the viewer to know more about the fantasy author, but that’s just a very small part of the film. Where the film really picks up is when Hoult and Collins take over their respective roles, because this is when the romance between Tolkien and Edith becomes a larger part of the story. It’s a bittersweet tale where Tolkien is forced to pick going to Oxford over continuing this romance by Colm Meany’s pries, who has become Tolkien’s guardian after his mother dies suddenly. The majority of the film bounces between Tolkien in the trenches and dealing with school issues, being a poverty-stricken orphan, but he finds an ally in Derek Jacobi’s headmaster.

I’m constantly impressed by what Hoult has been doing as an actor as he gets older, but Collins really brings more to their scenes together than any of the classmates or acting veterans.

Tolkien is a flawed film for sure, but the last half hour is so abundantly full of feels it’s easy to forgive the earlier problems, as Tolkien seeks out one of his school chums on the battlefield, a part of the movie where Karukoski is allowed to shine as a director. (Honestly, I think Steven Spielberg would be quite proud if he made this movie, and that’s saying something.)

I’m not sure this movie will be for everyone, even those who love Tolkien’s work as much as I do, but as a testament to what an amazing life he had before he started writing The Hobbit, it’s quite an amazing story with a worthy film to tell it.

Rating: 8.5/10

You can find out my thoughts on the weekend box office over at The Beat.

LIMITED RELEASES

There’s actually some decent movies opening this weekend, but the one that I want to give special attention to is John Chester’s doc THE BIGGEST LITTLE FARM (NEON), which is all about how he and his wife Molly left their California apartment living behind to try to develop a 200-acre sustainable farm outside L.A. For months, my favorite doc of the year was NEON’s Apollo 11 about the 1969 moon launch, but this quickly took it over after I saw it, because it’s amazingly educational in terms of what it takes to make a farm work. It also looks absolutely fantastic, and seeing the trailer in IMAX in front of Apollo 11 made me really want to see it. If you want to see a great doc that hopefully will be in theaters over the summer, then definitely look for this one. I’m sure it will open in a few cities Friday but hopefully NEON will do another great job getting out there as they did with Apollo 11 and Three Identical Strangers last year. This movie is a MUST SEE.

Kenneth Branagh directs and plays William Shakespeare in his new historical movie ALL IS TRUE (Sony Pictures Classics) which also costars Dame Judi Dench and Ian McKellen. It follows Shakespeare on his return home to Stratford after the Globe Theater has burned down, as he tries to reconnect with his older wife (Dench) and his two estranged daughters. This is a fine film if you’re a fan of Shakespeare’s works and were interested in knowing more about his last days, because it features a great script by Ben Elton, and fine performances by Branagh and Kathryn Wilder as his younger daughter Judith, who gets caught up in controversy while trying to find a husband. It will open in New York and L.A. this weekend, and you should look out for my interview with Sir Kenneth over at The Beat in the next couple days.

Opening at the Metrograph this week is Abel Ferrara’s PASOLINI (Kino Lorber), an amazing look at the Italian filmmaker as played by Willem Dafoe. I’m not particularly familiar with Pier Paolo Pasolini’s work, although the Metrograph did a pretty extensive retrospective last year. Like with All is True above, the movie covers the last days in the filmmaker’s life, and it proved to me that Dafoe is doing some of the best work of his career these days and like a few others (Woody Harrelson and Ethan Hawke, for instance), you can put Dafoe in your movie, and it will immediately make it better. I haven’t seen much of Ferrara’s recent work but I feel it’s been a while he’s been at the height of his greatness with Bad Lieutenant and King of New York, so it’s nice to see him creating a new movie in that general vein. Apparently, Ferrara’s movie premiered at Cannes many, many moons ago, but I think it was a smart move by Kino Lorber to save the movie and give it a release. By pure coincidence… or not… MOMA has been having a Ferrara retrospective (see below), so if you haven’t been able to get up there and see the movie, then you now have a chance with Ferrara and Dafoe doing QnAs after a few showings this weekend.

Matt Smith plays cult leader Charles Manson in CHARLIE SAYS (IFC Films), the new movie from American Psycho and The Notorious Bettie Page director Mary Harron along with her frequent collaborator, writer Guinevere Turner. As a huge fan of their previous moviesand with interest in the subject matter, I’m not sure why I never got around to watching the screener I’ve had for months, but much of it has to do with how generally busy I’ve been. Anyway, it will open in around 35 theaters and be on VOD this weekend if you have similar interest.

Opening at the Film Forum Wednesday is Almedea Carracedo and Robert Bahar ‘s doc THE SILENCE OF OTHERS (Argot PIctures). Executive Produced and presented by Pedro Almodovar, this is an amazing film about the horrendous crimes committed under the Franco regime in Spain by people who were able to get away scott-free when it was decided to create an Amnesty Pact of “Forgiving” after Franco’s death. The thing is that there are people who had been tortured or had loved ones killed who are hoping to get justice or just get their bodies back from mass graves, and this doc covers those amazing efforts. Frankly, I found this film to be far more interesting than Joshua Oppenheimer’s similar films about the crimes by the Indonesian government in The Act of Killing and The Look of Silence.

The Quad Cinema will have two new exclusive releases starting Friday, beginning with Christian Carion’s French thriller MY SON (Cohen Media), starring Guillaume Canet as a man whose son has been kidnapped, so he travels across France to where his ex-wife (Melanie Laurent) lives to try to solve the crime.

Also, the Quad will be showing Nicolas Brown’s doc The Serengeti Rules (Abramorama), which looks at five ecologists who broke new ground with scientific concepts we take for granted, and it looks at how the Serengeti might be the place to look for civilizaton’s sustainable future.

Amy Poehler makes her feature directorial debut with the comedy Wine Country (Netflix), which is getting the usual nominal theatrical release in a handful of theaters but mostly will be on the streaming network. It co-stars long-tie Poehler pals Maya Rudoloph, Tina Fey, Ana Gasteyer and Paula Pell, but I’m excited to see it for Maya Erskine from the Hulu show Pen15 and the upcoming rom-com Plus One, which was one of my favorite movies at Tribeca. (Don’t worry.. I’ve started writing something about that festival, too, so stay tuned!)

Opening in New York at the Cinema Village and in L.A. at Arena Cinelounge is Akash Sherman’s Clara (Screen Media), starring Patrick J. Adams as Isaac Bruno, an astronomer looking for life beyond Earth. This becomes more of a reality when he meets Troian Bellisario’s artist Clara, who shares his interest in space.

After years of problems and lawsuits, Farhad Safinia’s The Professor and the Madman (Vertical) is finally seeing the light of day, no thanks to a lawsuit put on it by star and producer Mel Gibson, who plays Professor James Murray, who begins compiling the first edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, receiving 10,000 entries from Dr. William Minor (Sean Penn), who is a patient at a asylum for the criminally insane. I have no idea how bad this movie must be to be buried as long as it has, but it has a great cast including Eddie Marsan, Natalie Dormer, Stephen Dillane, Jennifer Ehle and Ioan Gruffudd, so how bad can it really be? Good luck finding it in theaters but it will prbobably be on VOD as well.

This week’s major Bollywood release is Student of the Year 2 (FIP), directed by Punit Malhotra. As you might guess, it’s a sequel to the 2012 romantic comedy, this one involving a love triangle between a guy and two girls, and it will be released in about 175 theaters on Friday.

STREAMING AND CABLE

Amy Poehler’s directorial debut WINE COUNTRY will begin streaming Friday, though I haven’t seen it yet, so instead, I’ll recommend Dava Whisenant’s fantastic doc Bathtubs over Broadway, which will premiere on Netflix Thursday. I missed this movie last year but I got to catch-up when it screened at the Oxford Film Festival in February, and it’s fantastic. It follows Letterman writer Steve Young as he follows his passion to find rare records featuring industrial musical numbers presented at corporate events throughout the ‘50s and later to energize employees.

REPERTORY

METROGRAPH (NYC):

I’ve already mentioned how Playtime: Family Matineeshas become this cinematic comfort food that’s helped me relive my childhood, but this weekend, the shit gets real as they screen the 1977 action-adventure Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger, featuring the stop-motion animation of the late Ray Harryhausen. I still remember first seeing The Golden Voyage of Sinbad at a drive-through in Framingham, Mass. when it first came out and I loved it so much I picked up the novelization. I wonder if I still have that somewhere. (I’m pretty sure I saw this sequel as well.) Late Nites at Metrographwill screen Lukas Moodysson’s 2002 film Lilya 4-Ever, as well as the not old enough to be repertory film Climaxby Gaspar Noe. (Lots of cool movies coming up in this series, as well.) Another series starting Friday is the first-ever New York retrospective of Japanese filmmaker Ryûsuke Hamaguchi, whose new movie Asako I & II will have its theatrical premiere at the Metrograph starting next week. I’m not too familiar with Hamaguchi’s work – though I’ve seen Asakoand generally liked it -- but I don’t think I’ll have the time to see his 5-hour long 2015 family drama Happy Hourany time soon. The series features seven of his movies, almost all of them shorter than Happy Hour. (2012’s Intimacies, showing a week from Thursday, is four hours long.)

THE NEW BEVERLY (L.A.):

After showing the Judy Garland version of A Star is Born (1954) today at 2pm, the New Bev has double features of Claudia Weill’s Girlfriends (1978) and It’s My Turn (1980), the latter starring Jill Clayburgh and Michael Douglas, on Weds and Thurs. Kathryn Bigelow’s Strange Days (1995) and Lizzie Borden’s 1983 Born in Flames will screen on Friday and Saturday and then the 1933 film Christopher Strong (starring Katharine Hepburn) and Anybody’s Woman (1930) will screen Sunday and Monday. The weekend’s KIDDEE MATINEE is the animated The Chipmunk Adventure (1987) while the 1995 anthology Four Rooms (featuring one room by Tarantino) is the Friday midnight and Anna Biller’s 2016 film The Love Witch will screen midnight on Saturday. On top of that, there’s a special Cartoon Club on Saturday morning at 10AM and Gina Prince-Bythewood’s Love & Basketball (2000) will screen Monday afternoon.

FILM FORUM (NYC):

It’s the last full weekend of Film Forum’s“Trilogies” series and on Thursday, they’re screening Whit Stillman’s (Is this a real title for the trilogy?) “Doomed. Bourgeois. In Love” trilogy Metropolitan (1990), Barcelona (1994) and The Last Days of Disco (1998) with Stillman doing select intros and QnAs that day. Friday is Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s “BRD” Trilogy, including The Marriage of Maria Braun (1978), Lola (1981)and Veronika Voss, and this weekend is a Carol Reed Post-War Noir Trilogy, including The Third Man (1949). Saturday also sees a Michelangelo Antonioni trilogy including L’Avventura (1960) and two other films from the Italian master. Sunday and Monday sees a very rare screening of Wim Wenders’ “Road Trilogy” including Kings of the Roadfrom 1976 and Alice in the Cities. Also, on Wednesday and Saturday is a repeat of a John Ford trilogy, including Rio Grande and Fort Apache, plus don’t forget the weekend’s family-friendly Film Forum Jr, which this weekend shows a bunch of cartoons from Bugs, Daffy and Friends. Obviously, there’s a lot going on at this venerable NYC arthouse and I hope to get to some of these now that Tribeca is over.

EGYPTIAN THEATRE (LA):

If you live in L.A., you can spend a good part of your weekend at Maltin Fest 2019, taking place at the Egyptian Theater, which includes a really incredible series of screenings and events with special guests. Friday is Nicole Holefcener’s Please Give with Holefcener and frequent collaborator Catherine Keener on hand, plus a screening of Sing Street! Alexander Payne and Laura Dern will be there Saturday afternoon to screen the filmmaker’s early work Citizen Ruth, plus lots more! I also want to pay special attention to them showing the late Jon Schnepp’s doc The Death of “Superman Lives” on Saturday night.

AERO (LA):

Thursday is a Christopher Munch double feature of The Hours and Times (1991) and The Sleepy Time Gal (2001) with Munch and the great Jacqueline Biset in person! Then it goes right into Starring Europe: New Films from the EU 2019 i.e. new films, not repertory but still interesting.

IFC CENTER (NYC)

Waverly Midnights: Parental Guidance shows James Cameron’s Aliens (okay, am I crazy or do they show this every other month?), Weekend Classics: Love Mom and Dad shows Martin Scorsese’s Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore (1974) and Late Night Favorites: Spring is the Coen Brothers’ Fargo (1996).

BAM CINEMATEK (NYC):

In the midst of Black 90s: A Turning Point in American Cinema, which will include Ice Cube’s Friday (on Friday, of course), as well as Set It Off, New Jack City, Belly, Straight Out of Brooklyn and Menace II Society over the weekend. Also, the late John Singleton’s Boyz n the Hood will screen twice on Sunday as well as on Monday as part of the series.

MOMA (NYC):

Abel Ferrara: Unrated continues this week with repeats of 1998’s New Rose Hotel, 1993’s Body Snatchers and more recent films like 2017’s Piazza Vittorio and 2007’sGo Go Tales, and this series will continue next week. The current Modern Matiness will conclude with Pixar’s Up on Wednesday and Vincente Minnelli’s Meet Me in St. Louis (1944) on Weds and Thurs, respectively.

MUSEUM OF THE MOVING IMAGE (NYC):

Panorama Europe continues through the weekend but that’s all new stuff, not repertory.

LANDMARK THEATRES NUART (LA):

Friday’s midnight screening is Wes Craven’s Shocker (1989) with a QnA… but not with Craven.. unless they plan the creepiest movie tie-in possible!

That’s it for this week but next week, we get John Wick Chapter 3 and more!

#Pokemon DetectivePIkachu Tolkien TheHustle POMS Movies Reviews TheBiggestLittleFarm

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faeriekim-blog · 5 years

Text

P.I.S.T. - Chapter 8

Christine doodled in her notebook as she sat in the circle of chairs and waited for the meeting to begin. She didn’t even notice when Sophie entered the room.

“Hi, Chris,” Sophie said, sitting down next to her. “What’s that you’re doing?”

Chris looked up and beamed a smile at her friend. Then she looked back down at her notebook briefly, feeling a little embarrassed. She had been drawing a picture of a ghost and another picture of a werewolf. In between the drawings she had written the words: “what’s next? Vampires?”

“Oh,” said Sophie, looking at the doodles and reading the words. “You’ve been thinking about what happened the other night.”

“It’s silly,” Chris said, hurriedly closing the notebook and putting it away in her bag. “I must be nuts. One drunken experience and a weird blood sample don’t prove anything. Vampires…” she laughed. “Of course they’re not real.” Then she looked up at Sophie again, a moment of fear and doubt in her mind. “Are they?”

Sophie looked as worried as Chris felt. She shrugged her shoulders, her eyes wide with bafflement. “I don’t know,” she replied in that beautiful Indian accent of hers. “If you asked me a few weeks ago I’d have told you that ghosts and werecreatures weren’t real too. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Any updates on the blood sample?” Chris asked.

Sophie tightened her lips and looked down at her feet. “I should never have told you about that,” she said. “Patient files are confidential.”

Chris let it go. It was none of her business really and she shouldn’t pry.

“It’s looking no clearer though,” Sophie told her. “I’m a woman of science. I always prided myself on not believing in superstition. I don’t even follow my parents’ faith. But now I don’t know what to believe.”

Chris felt sympathetic to her new friend’s plight. She felt much the same way about it. “Well, whatever it is,” she explained, as helpfully as she could. “It’s not religion or superstition, is it? If it’s real then it’s scientific. It’s measurable. It’s fact.”

Sophie looked up at her and smiled. “But I keep wondering.” She said, her eyebrows crinkling slightly in puzzlement. “What if the scientific facts turn out to support the idea of the supernatural? What do we do then? It will overturn everything.”

“Then we’ll just have to deal with that when it comes to it,” Chris assured her. “In the meantime there are lots of possible explanations that don’t necessarily involve ancient curses or souls surviving death.”

“It’s a problem for the philosophers in any case,” Sophie agreed, visibly relaxing again. “Not doctors and scientists. We just collect the data. It’s up to society to work out what it means.”

“Exactly,” Chris said with a reassuring smile. “Try not to worry about it.”

Eventually the meeting started. Wendy, the group co-ordinator, made some announcements and then got everyone to introduce themselves, going round in the circle.

“So,” Wendy said after the introductions were finished, and casting a sideways glance at Chris, “if we can avoid getting side-tracked by discussions about whether the transgenders count as women, there are several important activist concerns to attend to this month…”

There were a few murmurs and giggles around the room and Christine noticed Heather looking in her direction with a self-satisfied smirk. Wendy started talking about a woman’s march and the attention turned back towards the issue at hand.

But Chris found it hard to even listen to the meeting after that. She was starting to feel like she didn’t belong here and wasn’t welcome anymore. It was like playground bullying and it was horrendous. Why should she be humiliated and thought less of just for voicing a difference of opinion? She wondered, not for the first time, if this was really the right group for her after all. Should she side with the intersectional fourth wavers? Maybe they weren’t so bad and she had misjudged them all this time.

Sophie seemed to notice her discomfort. She felt the Asian lady’s slender hand reach out to touch hers. They held hands then and Sophie squeezed her fingers comfortingly in Christine’s palm. Chris looked up at Sophie. Their eyes met. They smiled.

At least she had a friend in Sophie. And they had experienced something that no one else here had seen. They had also shared something else very special, Chris thought to herself with a naughty rush of joy.

Just then the meeting was interrupted by a sudden low moaning sound, like a woman in pain. Everyone stopped talking. Chris and Sophie let go of each other’s hands, their faces no longer smiling but looking at each other in alarm. Chris remembered that groaning sound well.

“What the hell is that?” One of the other women asked, looking round the room.

“Is she alright?” Another said, also searching for the source of the sound. “Where’s that coming from anyway?”

“It’s probably nothing,” Wendy said, waving her hand dismissively, although her eyes looked as frightened as everyone else’s. “If we can just ignore it and try to carry on…”

They tried their best to continue the discussion but Chris suddenly found herself dragged away from the present moment, as if by a waking dream.

“I can’t believe this!” The young woman screamed at them all, standing up suddenly so that her chair fell backwards. “I was attacked!” She said, gesticulating wildly as she spoke. “I’ve experienced all the same things you have. And you talk to me about male privilege and how I’m not a real woman!”

Christine realised with shock as she experienced this that she had been here before. This had actually happened a few years ago. Looking round the circle of chairs, she could see that Wendy was there too, and Heather also.

“There you go again,” Heather replied with a rolling of her eyes. “You know, you’re giving off a lot of male energy right now. This is a woman’s group. And while I appreciate that you might also have been a victim of male violence,” she added in a smug voice, her eyes half shut, “your claim that you have experienced actual sexism and misogyny when you were socialised as a boy and experienced nothing of what it’s like to grow up as a little girl is quite frankly disgustingly insulting. You don’t know what it’s like to be oppressed because you have a womb and every man sees you as a baby making machine.” She continued, pointing accusatorily at the woman and looking her in the eye. “You’ve never had periods. You don’t have to worry that sex with a man might make you pregnant. You don’t know what it’s like to be a real woman and so maybe you should just sit down and listen to real women’s experiences, instead of talking over us like a man.”

The woman who had stood up to speak, a woman that Chris now remembered was called Jessica and who was transgender, looked utterly heartbroken and crestfallen as she sat down again. Somehow Chris hadn’t remembered that part from when it happened years ago. She had written it off as a weird bit of drama that happened in the group one month. She had only met Jessica that once and the memory had faded from her mind quite rapidly. Knowing what she knew now, Christine was honestly shocked that a vulnerable trans woman had entered her life for one brief moment and she had been so unaware of transgender issues at the time that she had been complicit in the group’s ill treatment of her.

“But I’m not a man,” Jessica said in a voice so hollow and wracked with pain that it broke Chris’s heart to hear it. “I am a woman. I was beaten and raped and…” She broke off, almost sobbing. “I thought I’d be welcome here,” she added, standing up again. “I thought I’d find some support. I can see I was wrong.”

Jessica turned round and left the room. Christine could hear now that she was sniffing back tears as she went, her high heels clacking hurriedly on the floor.

“Good riddens,” said Heather heartlessly. There was laughter. Christine noticed with shock that she also had been laughing, relieved that the drama was over.

Suddenly Chris was back in the present day. But no one was talking anymore. They were all looking at each other in fear and confusion. Had they all just experienced what she had seen?

The moaning got louder and then a wispy, indistinct shape appeared in the middle of the circle. It was in the form of a woman, her skin pale and white, red marks on her wrists. Although the woman’s gaunt face was wailing, the skin was drained of colour and her hair was draped over her eyes, Christine could just make out from the facial features that this woman was indeed Jessica, the trans woman from years ago.

Suddenly Jessica lifted her head and the hair fell back to reveal a look of fury in her eyes. The moaning turned into a growl of anger and an echoey, otherworldly voice sounded from that open mouth. “It’s your fault!” Jessica screamed at them all. “All of you! You did this to me!”

The lights flickered and blew. A gust of wind swirled around the room. And most horrifyingly of all, drops of red liquid fell from the ceiling.

The apparition flew wildly around the room, screaming incoherently at them all with a terrifying mixture of rage and torment, bleeding all the while from her thin wrists.

Everyone panicked and fled the room. Chris grabbed Sophie’s hand once more and together they ran outside, fleeing the building and running out into the street.

Panting for breath as they ran round the corner, they stopped outside a posh looking cafeteria. Chris turned to her friend and lover and spoke what was foremost on her mind. “That does it,” she said. “We’re going to grandma’s house.”

“What’s this all about, dear?” Grandma said as she opened the front door to greet them.

The sun was shining and the birds were singing outside Grandma’s quaint little house on the edge of town. There were pink roses painted on the white door frame and an array of real flowers, yellow, red and blue, in the flower beds of the front garden. The lawn needed cutting a little, but was otherwise neat and tidy. On the left hand side there was a driveway without a car and another door at the back that led to the kitchen.

Grandma was dressed modestly and simply, her feet still in slippers as she met them. “Who’s this?” She said, looking at Sophie.

“This is my friend, Sophie.” Chris told her hurriedly. “I need to see Grandpa’s old things.”

“Oh, Christine,” said Grandma in a disappointed tone of voice. She sounded just like Chris’s mum. “What do you want with all that junk?”

“I want to honour his memory,” Chris said fiercely. “Can’t a granddaughter reminisce about her dear old Grandpa?”

“Well, of course,” grandma replied, turning round to lead them inside, visibly flustered by the sudden outburst. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of your grief or your love for your Grandpa.” They followed her into the kitchen. A pot was on the hob, boiling what smelled like vegetable soup. There was an unmistakeable scent of leek. “You always were a strange girl. And you and your Grandad always got along so well. It was touching really. But that hobby of his…”

Chris didn’t want to hear it. “Down in the cellar, is it?” She asked.

“Well, yes…” said Grandma, again taken aback by Chris’s attitude. “It always has been. Do you and your friend want a cup of tea or anything?”

“Yes, thank you,” Sophie said, smiling and polite. “That would be lovely.”

“Yes, thanks Gran,” Chris said, more dismissively than her friend. There were important things at stake and no time for chit chat. She turned to leave for the cellar, taking Sophie with her. “We’ll be up in a bit. Just after I’ve shown Sophie all Grandad’s old things.”

“Fine, fine,” Grandma called out as they left. Chris could still hear her talking as they walked down the steps to the cellar. “I don’t know what you youngsters see in all that old nonsense but be my guest. I’ll get you some cake too, shall I?”

Reaching the bottom of the stairs and switching on the light, Chris and Sophie got to work, rummaging around in some old boxes, cupboards and drawers. Eventually Chris found all the paperwork for the Psychic Investigation Group, along with many old photographs of paranormal phenomenon, some measurements from archaic equipment the investigators had used and various correspondence and eye witness accounts of paranormal activity.

“This is amazing,” Sophie said, flipping through the pages and marvelling at what Chris showed her. “Did he make a lot of money or any kind of name for himself with all this?”

“He had a book published,” Chris told her. “I’ve got a copy in my room. And he was sort of semi-famous at the time, yes. But he didn’t really make much money from it, I’m afraid.”

“Well,” she replied, “it seems like an interesting life, anyway.”

“Junk she called it!” Said Chris, feeling that indignant need to defend her Grandpa from her family’s disapproval of him. “Ridiculous bunkum, my Dad said. Well, we know different now, don’t we?”

“You said the explanation might not be supernatural after all,” Sophie reminded her, putting down what she was reading to look Chris in the face.

“Maybe,” said Chris, collecting as much of the paperwork together as she could, “maybe not. But it still needs investigating, doesn’t it? That’s what he was about, and that’s what we need to do too.” Chris looked up, making eye contact with Sophie. “We both saw that ghost; not just once, but twice. And you found a man with corvid DNA in his blood, a man who said he turned into a crow every month at new moon.”

“Well, yes…” said Sophie, looking away slightly, her brow furrowed with doubt.

“So we have ghosts and were creatures to investigate,” Chris concluded, reaching out to touch her friend’s arm. “It’s time, Sophie. It’s time to honour Grandad’s memory.” Sophie looked up again and their eyes met, as Chris stated her intent with new confidence and determination. “I’m going to rebuild William McInnery’s Psychic Investigation Group for the modern age!”

This is the last chapter of the story that I’m posting on this blog. To read the rest of the book, please buy The Psychic Investigation and Study Team on Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk

#fiction #fantasy #supernatural #writing #novel #lgbt #ghost

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earth-2harrisonwells · 7 years

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Ficlet plz? Pretty plz? Maybe Jay's first weekend home? With smax? I just really want to see a h0rny Harry, sorry.

I wrote most of this in a somewhat sleep-deprived state, so I apologize for both my tardiness and the overall quality of the fic. In any case, let us begin...

~Welcome Home...~

Harry wakes to sensation of his light summer quiltshifting gently over his naked skin.

The bed dips by his left hip as Jay slips into bed.He’s been gone a little over a week now, visiting with friends and family onEarth 3, bringing his old allies up to speed on the hell he’d endured atZolomon’s. He was supposed to come home a couple of days ago, but Harry knowshis lover’s real ‘home’ is back there. He can accept that, really, but he’sbeen so lonely in the meantime…

So he hatched a plan on Friday night and waited.

It’s not the most elaborated plan, but it doesn’t needto be. Its brilliance is in it’s simplicity: Harry, naked, fast asleep in thecentre of the bed. Lifting the corner of the quilt as Jay is now, and with themoonlight streaming into the room through the bay window behind him, there’s noway Jay isn’t aware of his nudity. Just the fact that Jay freezes at the sightof him is telling enough.

Harry knows he’s succeeded.

He cracks his eyes open then and rolls over onto hisside. The alarm clock on the bedside table reads 3:42am, which is probably whyJay was trying not to disturb him.

“Hello,” Harry whispers, his voice a deep rasp, hoarsefrom sleep.

Jay doesn’t immediately say anything, just standsthere with one knee perched on the edge of the bed, eyeing first Harry’s hipsand then his face. Once the initial shock has worn off, Jay smirks, flingingthe corner of the quilt in his hand toward the foot of the bed to expose hislover completely.

Grinning, Harry reaches out for him, his intentionshopefully clear as he cups Jay between his legs, giving the man an experimentalsqueeze.

Rock hard already.

That’s his Jay alright.

“Missed me?” Jay chuckles, teasing. He lets Harryknead him through his pajamas as he pulls his white t-shirt up and over hishead. He tosses it onto the floor behind him and then slowly tugs down thewaistband of his pants.

“Every inch.” Harry replies faintly, relinquishing hishold. Jay takes this opportunity to stand back and kick his pants off. He’s notwearing anything underneath. Probably because he was hoping to get a littleaction first thing in the morning.

Harry was already feeling a little excited when herealized Jay was home, but there’s really only word that adequately describeshow he feels now and that’s horny. Unbelievably so, which is kind of hilariouswhen he remembers that there was once a time when he would’ve been embarrassedby his body’s primitive reaction to something as simple as the sight of hisnaked companion.

He was always so cold and aloof as a young man, veryrarely driven to the greatest heights of arousal. But now, thanks to Jay’sblatant hypersexuality and often bold propositions, Harry’s body has been trainedto expect a certain level of recreational ‘activity’ a night, which he has beensorely lacking since Jay’s return to Earth 3. He has a copy of their tape withwhich to amuse himself, of course, but it’s one thing to watch his lover getoff on a grainy recording and quite another to be the one to bring him to thatsacred precipice with his bare hands.

As Jay rummages through the top drawer of the bedsidetable to find the lube, Harry shuffles closer to his side of the bed andreaches out for his lover again. It’s such a horrendously ridiculous piece ofanatomy, Jay’s cock, jutting up proudly from a frazzle of golden brown hair,but Harry loves the goddamn thing to bits. The skin of it is just so warm andsoft in the palm of his hand. Firm in form and top tier in dimension, swellingout to an appreciate girth and length, it’s a funny little thing all the same—sixand a half inches of pure, unadulterated fun, curled gently upward at the tip.

Who would’ve known that this is what Harry would be craving the most during his mid-lifecrisis.

Jay chuckles again as Harry strokes him. Harry almostrolls his eyes in return. His boyfriend loves it when he’s eager, but the truthis Harry will never be asconcupiscent as him. Just by standing in one spot, Jay builds up enough energy tosustain all of Keystone City for a week, which is why the other man is alwayslooking for an excuse to burn off a little steam. His refractory period is alsopretty much non-existence.

There’s just no competing with that.

Harry traces the vein on the underside of Jay’s cock withhis thumb, all the way up from his balls to the head, smearing the first fewbeads of precum already gathered at the tip. Softly, he says, “What are you inthe mood for?”

Jay stares at him quietly for a moment, breathingdeeply through his nose as Harry continues stroking him. He glances at thebottle of lube in his hand and then back at the bedside table. “I was thinkingof making more of a mess than usual…” he replies.

Wondering if he’s interpreting the other mancorrectly, Harry lets Jay slip from his hand and reaches over for the top drawer,pushing it slowly shut. When Jay does nothing to stop him, Harry smiles.

No condoms it is then.

Satisfied, Harry rolls over onto his back. He bendsone knee and takes himself in hand, watching Jay pop the cap open on the lube.The man pours a generous amount into his free hand before tossing the bottleonto the bed, then climbs next to Harry and stretches out alongside him.Propped up on one elbow, he leans over to kiss Harry, tongue probing betweenhis lips confidently as he slips his hand down between Harry’s legs and pushes hisfirst finger in.

Harry gasps. He’s tight, but Jay still pushes throughto his last knuckle.

They haven’t been rough in a while.

He cries out into his lover’s mouth. Jay tilts hishead to kiss him better, murmuring something against his lips before dippinghis tongue between them again, finger crooking, unraveling Harry with practicedease. And then Harry finds himself scrambling for the bottle of lube as Jaypulls his first finger partway out to tease the tip of the second against hisentrance. Harry finds it and squeezes a little lube into his hand just as Jay breathesa soft and inquisitive “Yeah?”against his lips.

Harry knows what he’s asking. He responds by takingJay’s cock in hand again and giving it an encouraging squeeze. “Yeah,” hesighs.

Jay pushes his second finger in.

Harry squeezes him again on impulse, mind momentarilythrown for a loop as he tries to figure out what he’s supposed to do beyondmoaning wantonly into Jay’s next searing kiss. Continue stroking him, hesupposes, so that’s exactly what Harry does, sliding his hand smoothly up anddown Jay’s length, trying to follow the same rhythm that his lover pumps hisfingers. But every time Jay pauses to crook them he throws Harry off course again,a cruel kind of game that forces Harry to roll his hips to keep him working ata half-decent pace.

Jay just laughs at his antics and teases him with athird.

Harry takes it in and begins the fight anew.

He’s so hard, he’s about ready to cum.

“You want it that bad?” Jay whispers, turning his headaside to stare down the length of Harry’s body. It’s obvious by the glazed lookin his eyes that he’s mesmerized by the sight of his hand between Harry’s legs,whipping the mortal man into a sexual frenzy with nothing more than hisfingers. “You think you can handle metonight?”

“Yes,” Harry hisses, stars dancing behind his eyes asJay rubs his prostate. “But we’re going to have to move this along now,otherwise I’m not going to last.”

“It isn’t too soon?” Jay asks.

Harry kisses the corner of his mouth. They’re alreadyproceeding at the usual pace, but he can tell Jay’s concerned they’ve beenapart for too long. But he needn’t be. Harry knows his limits. “Just do mealready.”

Jay hums thoughtfully, still fingering him, cautiousto a fault. But then he relents, slipping his hand up and over Harry’s hip, hisgrip firm but gentle as he rolls between Harry’s legs.

Harry bends his knees and lets them fall open with analmost boneless quality, accommodating the other man as Jay lines himself up.He knows this going to hurt, but a part of him is craving the kind of ache heknows is coming.

Harry wants to feel his lover when he’s gone.

And sure enough, that’s what he gets, the usual stretchand burn, diminished somewhat by the way Jay rocks into him slowly, inch byagonizing inch, until he’s buried to the root. Then he pauses for a breath ofair and flashes Harry one of his roguish grins.

Harry squirms. He feels too hot all of a sudden. Too Full.

He wants both more and less.

Of everything.

Jay braces himself on his elbows and moans, giving afew little abortive thrusts of his hips to warm them up. “God,” he sighs. “You’retight…Knew you would be. I’ve been dreaming of you since I left.”

“Same here,” Harry breathes, curling his legs upagainst Jay’s hips. He’s sore, but loosening up relatively quick. He canalready feel his orgasm creeping up on him. “I watched our tape a couple oftimes.”

“Oh yeah?” Jay’s next thrust is a little harder, testinghis limits. Harry hisses softly between his teeth, running his hands under hislover’s arms and across his triceps, tracing the muscles lightly with hisfingertips. “You like watching me screw you on the living room floor?”

Harry laughs. Then he asks, seemingly at random: “Howmany days are you here for?”

“…A couple, at the very least. Why?”

“Good.” That’s an honest relief. He doesn’t know if hecould handle seeing his boyfriend for only a day at a time during his Erth-2visits. “I want to make a few more tapes. I think we should start acollection.”

Jay falters in his rhythm. He had a hard enough timeconvincing Harry to make the first one, so Harry knows this must come as ashock to the other man.

His lover is silent for a moment, rocking steadilyharder until Harry feels it: the buzz. It’s gentle as Jay can manage, but it’s stillone hell of a sensation when he’s wedged up hard against Harry’s prostate, and Harry’simmediate response is to moan and cant his hips downward, indecisive aboutwhether he wants to chase his pleasure over the proverbial cliff or run away nowto draw it out a little longer.

“What do you want to film?” Jay finally asks, hisvoice a deep rumble in the darkness.

Harry smooths his hands out against the side of Jay’sribs and then drags them up over his back, teasing the tips of his nailsagainst his lover’s skin. He rolls his hips again, rubbing his own cock betweentheir stomachs, leaking precum as he sinks slowly into the heady sensation of agood fuck.

Breathing hard, he says, “I know you wanted to film medoing you at least once. That could be one of the tapes…Maybe then just a regularfilm of us in the bedroom? Then another of us the floor? I’ll ride you. I knowyou love it when I do that.”

“Yes,” Jayhisses softly. He vibrates a little harder.

Harry digs his nails in deep.

He’s soclose.

But he’s also a gluten for punishment, which is why hethen says, “You could tie me up and fuck me again. Blindfold and all. Wehaven’t done anything like that since January.”

“Fuck,” Jonmutters. He’s now dragging against Harry’s prostate with every thrust, movingwith wild abandon. He’ll be nearing completion himself pretty soon.

But while Jon is still only approaching the tippingpoint, Harry is pretty much already there. He cries out in surprise and internallythanks the universe that Jesse doesn’t live at home anymore, because eventhough her room is at the far end of the hall, Harry knows he’s loud enough tobe heard all the way downstairs.

Finally reaching his limit, Harry comes between them,clenching down hard on his partner. He’s squirms again for a shot whileafterwards, gasping Jay’s name like a mantra as the man tips him too far overthe edge, still chasing his own pleasure with a single-minded intensity untilhe reaches his own climax. He comes long and hard inside of Harry, swearingunder his breath.

Once Harry can breathe again, he laughs.

Jay kisses him, either to shut him up or because heagrees with the sentiment. “I love you,” he mumbles against Harry’s lips. “Andfore more than just the amazing sex. You’re a wonderful man.”

“I love you too.” Harry replies. Then he squeezes downon Jay, slowly softening inside him, as either a tease or an invitation. He’lllet Jay decide that. “We should’ve filmed this.”

Jay laughs. “Do you think you’re really going to be upfor making a couple of tapes in just a few days?”

Smirking, Harry crooks an eyebrow at him. “If we get alittle shut eye now, we could give it a go first thing in the morning. You canlie back and hold the camera. I’ll ride you.”

The tip of Jay’s tongue darts out to lick his top lip.Harry can tell by that gesture along that Jay likes the sound of that. “Oh yeah?”he breathes.

“Oh yeah,” Harry reiterates, curling a hand around theback of Jay’s head to pull him down for another kiss.

They’ve got a hell of a lot of catching up to do.

#harrison wells #rp stuff #my jay #ficlet #Anonymous

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mybumpbirthandbeyond · 5 years

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Becoming Mummy

So did you think surely my physical problems were behind me?! I certainly did. I had had thrush of the breast, mastitis and an abscess, and bad separation of my muscles (I didn’t know how bad until later.) Well lo and behold, when my milk was drying up, I noticed a red mark on my left breast this time. You guessed it! I ended up with my second lot of mastitis, in a different breast, even though I wasn’t even breastfeeding!! Back on the antibiotics for me. It was starting to feel like a very cruel joke - great pregnancy with no real complaints, couldn't have wished for a better birth and now it seemed I was being punished for those things in my postpartum recovery 🙄😢

I should also mention a common problem I did experience during pregnancy, and one which continued for a few weeks after I gave birth. I had carpal tunnel syndrome in both my wrists. Late on in my pregnancy, I felt like I had arthritis in both my wrists, and I would wake up for my (umpteenth) trip to the toilet and notice my fingers were sore and swollen. I had probably stopped wearing my engagement ring in January (being due in the April), as it was smaller than my wedding ring. I eventually took my wedding ring off the month before my due date, as I was terrified it would have to be cut off! When I had told my midwife about this at my 38 week appointment, she laughed and said you might be a bit late for physio! It was manageable and I coped by elevating my wrists on my pillow at night to allow the blood to drain away from my fingers. After I gave birth, I was disappointed to learn it hung around for a few months after. I ended up buying a wrist splint from Amazon to wear on my left. It seems silly, but they don’t sell them in pairs, so I had to gauge which wrist was worst and go with that. I went with my left, as my rings were still not going on, much to my dismay!! I eventually got my wedding band on about 8 weeks after I had Cailean but my engagement ring still wouldn’t go on!! I was actually really upset by this, having not worn it since January. The stupid things you think about in the vulnerability of being a new mother - what if people think I've had a child and I'm not married?! I don’t care about things like that in real life, it doesn’t matter if you’re married or not so who cares!! Only very narrow-minded people have issues with that, yet somehow it just flitted into my mind one day. As I say stupid thing to think! But there you go, that’s how strange things can happen when you become a parent and how self-consciousness and dark thoughts can creep in. I actually made a trip to the jewellers where we bought the rings to ask about getting it enlarged. When I told them I was 9 weeks postpartum they looked me and told me it was too soon, I should give it longer. That kind of helped me see sense! I think it was another 4 weeks before I got my engagement ring on and knew I could get it off again fairly easily. I was so happy when I did!! Honestly, when you’ve had the recovery I've had, you take the small wins where you can - which is probably not a bad rule to follow generally as a new parent!!

My husband was such a great help and support during those first few weeks. I was really lucky to have him home for 4 weeks. He took one week of paternity leave and the rest was floating annual leave. Paternity leave would have reduced his pay to half for the second week. Given I'm on statutory maternity pay, that was just not an option. It’s pretty ridiculous when you think about it!

Those first few days without him were a bit of a steep learning curve - trying to get Cailean fed and dressed and myself showered, fed and dressed to go out and walk the dogs was a bit of a challenge! I was lucky to get out before 12 initially, but luckily my two Springers were great and very patient. The most challenging part about the first days when Alex was back at work, was when Cailean was unsettled and very cranky. I’m not going to lie, it is the hardest thing to deal with when your baby is crying constantly, and you have no idea why. What makes it even worse, is the fact that when Daddy came home, it seemed to always be all smiles!! After checking his nappy, feeding him and winding him, I’m not afraid to admit that there have been a few times when I have had to leave the room for a few minutes, just to keep myself sane! (It goes without saying that Cailean was safe in his nest or Moses basket).

One particular day, when Alex was on a backshift, I struggled big time when he left. When Alex left the house, Cailean was smiling and within minutes he was screaming. It was so disheartening! It was honestly like Jekyll and Hyde. 👿 My mum called me in the evening to find out how he was. Before I even thought about it, I had told her i was having a nightmare. I hadn’t eaten dinner, and as far as I could tell there was nothing wrong with him but he just would not stop crying. When I came off the phone I was kicking myself - I was sure my mum would end up coming round to help, so I called her back and told her everything was fine now (I lied). To my relief she wasn't in the car but it turned out I caught her just before she left the house - she arrived at mine 10 minutes later. She looked after Cailean while I had my dinner and relaxed in a much needed bath, and stayed until he fell asleep. Just goes to show, the real superheroes don’t wear capes!! 🦸🏻‍♀️

A few days later, we were unlucky enough to have another trip to the hospital. Alex was still on a backshift but we had noticed in the morning, Cailean hadn't been able to poo for a few days and he was clearly struggling. We tried everything - bath, 1 fl. oz of water, cycling his legs, nappy balm around his bottom, and massaging his tummy (always clockwise!!!). He was screaming a few hours after Alex had left for work and so upset. Alex called to find out if he had pooed and when he heard him, he thought I should call NHS24. I’m not a paranoid mum by any means, but the fact we had tried everything and he was so uncomfortable, I began to worry about a blockage and also overloading him with milk. They gave me an appointment within the hour at the out of hours service. A nurse practitioner saw us in Dunfermline and Cailean by this point would not stop screaming. His temp wasn’t bad, but his heart rate was elevated. She said she could tell straight away there was something that just wasn’t right. They told us we should go to the NICU in Kirkcaldy (at the hospital where I'd given birth). We were told there might be quite a wait and this was at 9pm by that time. Thankfully, we didn't have to wait too long. The doctors were fantastic and so lovely. We made it clear we thought it was constipation but were worried there was something more serious because of everything we had tried. Well, did he not do a massive poo while waiting on the doctor coming back in the room!!! Honestly, we were so embarrassed/relieved!!! 😅🙈The doctors were so kind and made no issue of it whatsoever. They told us we had absolutely done the right thing because he was so wee, and to call back directly if there were any other issues. If you ever have any concerns, better to be safe than sorry and get it checked! They are too precious not to.

I was out with my neighbour one day, and I told her about how cranky Cailean was becoming. Having been such a happy and content baby (other than during poo gate!), he seemed to be so unhappy and typically, it was when I was on my own with him. She explained to me that Cailean was probably going through a leap. She told me about an app called the Wonder Weeks, which would track and alert you to each of your baby’s developmental leaps. It is an absolute lifesaver! It teaches you what your baby is learning during each leap (and explains the crankiness!), while telling you how long they will be experiencing it for. The app sets an alarm (we nickname it the alarm of doom!) for when the leap starts and also lists the skills the baby will exhibit at the end of each leap. Here is the link from the App Store for anyone who would like to download it: I highly recommend it!

My 6 week GP check was yet another trip to the Doctor, and I suspected, the last time I would be checked by a health professional in relation to the pregnancy, unless I made an appointment. I explained about my thus far, horrendous recovery. I also explained I suspected my thrush in my breast hadn’t cleared up. Apparently dry looking skin around the areola is a sign, as well as the fact I was still getting some pain despite not feeding. The doctor told me the cream I was given was due to the fact I was breastfeeding, but I could be prescribed much stronger medication now that I wasn’t. She checked my stitches as well as I had been feeling some discomfort down there. She said she thought there was a sore down there, but it was maybe to do with the way the stitches were healing. I explained I was told I could be referred to a physio for the separation of my abdominal muscles. What was pretty concerning, was she didn’t seem to have any idea about it at all and said she guessed that meant she would just write a letter to the physios at the hospital? I wasn’t convinced she knew what to do, but waited to see what would happen. As it happened, I received a letter within a couple of weeks offering me an appointment, but the appointment wasn’t until the start of July, and my GP check was in May. I guess it was the best I could hope for on the NHS! 🙄

In the meantime, Cailean was given his appointment for his first set of jags. His health visitor had told me to get infant paracetamol and the doses to give him throughout the day whenever he received the Men B vaccine. The fact that she had to ask whether I wanted Cailean immunised or not, was terrifying. Thanks to that report from an American doctor (who has since been struck off and all his findings disproved,) sadly, there are still people who refuse to immunise their children, and now we are seeing a return of those horrible diseases which didn’t exist for long enough. It was a no brainer for me. You can get infant paracetamol from any chemist (you have to show your red book and you’ll for it for free) and you’re advised to give your baby 2.5 ml prior to the jags, and then two further doses every four hours. Cailean was, understandably upset by his jags, although he settled quickly. He slept most of the day after the first two lots, but didn’t show any other ill effects luckily. It’s so horrible watching a needle go into your baby’s soft skin, not once but 3 times!! (for the first and third jags). The third set were definitely the worst for Cailean for some reason. He was just very unsettled and upset the whole day, so much so that I decided against his Baby Sensory class that day. Thankfully, that’s the end of them until he is 1!

Speaking of classes, at around 9/10 weeks, I decided to enrol Cailean in Baby Sensory. Most baby classes you’ll find are based on school term time, so you can usually book a block, bearing in mind that there will usually be a break at some point. Baby Sensory gives babies all types of different stimulation through song, sign language and different objects. Every week is a different theme, but the song at the start and the end are always the same so the babies can learn what to expect. The lady who takes our classes puts so much into it! I couldn’t imagine having to sterilise and disinfect as many different things as she does. It’s a great way to meet other mums and babies. What I like most about it, is seeing the development and how much Cailean has come on since he started. I decided to wait until he was 9/10 weeks, as I didn’t think he would get much out of it before then. His first few classes, he only lasted the first half of the hour, and then fell asleep! Some babies come earlier and it is from 0-6 months, but I definitely think he showed more interest being the age he was. Although he still has his moments, he loves the class and has even started smiling and noticing other babies, which is the cutest thing ever! 🥰🙊

I also take Cailean to Baby Massage which we have just started. Amazingly, this is a free class! It’s such a nice thing to do, and a great way to learn about what can relax your baby, and even help with things like colic and constipation etc.

One of the best classes we have done so far though, is Water Babies. It is expensive, but the fact your baby is learning to swim from as young as 12 weeks old, is incredible! Cailean was very nearly a water birth, which I think might also contribute how calm he is in the water, as well of course as babies being in the amniotic fluid. The classes are only held in pools warm enough for babies, although we bought Cailean a wee sleeveless wetsuit just to keep him a wee bit warmer. I've not yet braved taking him on my own - my husband has been at all of the classes so far. With Alex working shifts, he won’t always be able to make it, so I said he should go in the pool with him when he can. It also helps to have an extra pair of hands when changing! There have only been 3 classes so far, but he hasn’t cried once (Cailean that is, not Alex!!)! I couldn't believe it when, at the end of the first class, the instructor told us the babies would be going under. However, I needn’t have worried, Cailean did brilliantly! He certainly thought about crying initially, but changed his mind and is now under quite a few times in each class. What’s great about the classes is that you are taught how to teach your baby to swim. There are no armbands, and much of the class is about safety and repetition so the babies come to expect when they will go under, etc. It’s amazing how many of the skills are actually based on babies natural instincts but they always find a way to make it fun!

In my next blog, I'll cover sleep (or lack thereof!) and also our first trip with Cailean (practicalities) and my ongoing recovery.

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank each of you who have taken the time to read my ramblings so far. I started this blog in the hopes that my experiences might help even just one other person in knowing what to expect, but it’s also helping me deal with the struggles of my recovery and the steep learning curve that is becoming a new mum. Please continue to share with others if you feel it would be useful and if you’re enjoying the blog. We’re all just winging it on a daily basis, and the support network is vital to keep us all going when the days are hardest! 💖 xx

#newblog #newmum #firsttimemum #4thtrimester #postpartumrecovery #mybumpbirthandbeyond

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