#Still want to focus on entangled fates and i am planning some more for the siren au | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kayr0ss · 4 years

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A Ring On It

[Diakko Week 2020, Day 7: Free Day, Help Diana, Fluff, Feelings, a bit of humor, Established Relationship, Diana is Trying Her Best (TM)] AO3

Happy to participate in Diakko week 2020! @dianakko-week

---

‘If you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it! If you like it then you shoulda—’

With a flick of Diana’s wrist and wand, the music player that sat along a side table in her office fell to silence.

“—put a ring on it.” Hannah hummed, smirking up to Diana. She was sitting on the camelback sofa opposite Diana’s desk, shooting the blonde witch an infuriating look that she urgently wanted to wipe away. “I was listening to that, you know.”

“I didn’t think that sort of music was your type.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Hannah raised an eyebrow. “Besides, I think it had a very good message to convey.”

“One which I surely don’t need any further reminders on.” Diana replied in a clipped voice, leaning on her arm above the desk. She so rarely let her posture slack, but this was Hannah, and the thoughts weighing on her mind were heavy enough to let her shoulders slump.

“As the wise Beyonce so graciously exclaimed, ‘If you like it, put a—”

“I am working on it.”

“You have been for three months.” Hannah groaned in exasperation, dropping the porcelain cup of tea that matched their dessert plating. The set went remarkably well with her simple hardwood furniture, if Diana could say so herself.

“What’s stopping you?”

The blonde witch rubbed at her temples, wishing that Barbara had joined them this afternoon so that at least one other person would see the logic of biding her time. Then again, even Barbara’s patience was beginning to wear thin. Their initial excitement at the prospect of Diana proposing served to bolster her resolve and the firmness of her decision to do it soon. But then Akko had to fly to Japan within the month, on account of caring for her mother who had fallen ill (and thankfully is fully recovered by now). She thought to maybe follow her—perhaps find a scenic mountain where she would get down on her knee and ask for everything she had ever wanted—but then she supposed it would leave a poor taste in Akko’s mouth, with an ailing mother to worry about at the time being and all that.

The month after that, it was Diana whose affairs had gone awry one way another—her work in Medical Magic hounded her well into the weekends, even late at night at home. There was even an argument about it at some point, with Akko growing tired of Diana barely having a minute to spare for her.

That was the sign that told her to sort out her horrible habit of over working and under-delegating. Akko had always been an understanding partner. She knew that she prioritized her career and never slacked away from her responsibilities, and it would have taken a lot to push her into being upset. So month two was a no, for sure, but she was thankful they took the time sort out issues which would have come up sooner or later. How well they handled that obstacle in their relationship solidified her decision to take the next step towards marriage.

By month three it was all just nerves if she were to be honest with herself. What if she messed it up? What if Akko decided she wasn’t ready yet? What if Diana was misinterpreting the progression of their intimacy and it turns out they weren’t on the same page, thereby making it—

“Diana, I can hear you.” Hannah snapped her out of her thoughts.

It was also by month three that her two best friends started their incessant badgering.

“Really. Relax. Haven’t you two already had a conversation about this?”

“We have, of course. I wasn’t planning on just catching her off-guard without establishing that.”

“So it’s just a matter of when.”

“It is.” Diana sighed. She was thankful for the reminder. Akko was quite clear about it—she was ready now. But no one was in a hurry, and she didn’t want Diana to feel rushed. The latter witch appreciated it, greatly.

But she was ready too.

“I have a tip, with regards to the timing.” Hannah said pointedly, taking a sip of her tea to emphasize her dramatic pause.

Diana leaned forward to listen.

“Soon.”

---

She sat in a booth at her favorite corner café, jotting down the outline of her plan. The coffee was wonderful, and so was the feeling of finally having a place start.

Daunting tasks became surmountable when one broke them down into smaller, more manageable pieces. This line of thinking served her well throughout life.

Why should a proposal be any different?

She decided to set a small goal as the first step towards achieving ‘The Proposal.’ Of course, the other steps have been vaguely outlined by now, but her focus mustn’t shift away from Step 1: Finding Her Ring Size.

Diana felt good about this.

The ring, of course, would have to fit Akko perfectly—and how hard could it be?

---

It was much harder than she anticipated.

Akko was staying over the night.

At this point in their relationship, it could be said that they practically lived together—but to the surprise of many, it was Akko who insisted that she maintain her own space and a separate apartment. She still considered it as ‘home’ around half the time of each week. Diana could respect this, space was important, and somehow it helped make sure she didn’t take their nights together for granted. It gets cold—a large and empty bed, that is—when you’ve grown used to falling asleep with so much… warmth.

And Akko was so wonderfully warm this evening, slumbering at her side.

She was illuminated in hues of blue by the moonlight streaming in through the window. Diana allowed herself to stop and stare for a minute before carrying on with her plan.

She tucked a strand of brown hair behind a freckled ear.

She couldn’t wait for this to become her life every day.

Her eyes fell towards Akko’s left hand, resting easy above the thick covers she pulled up. Diana moved slowly, methodically, so as not to wake her target. She reached over to her night stand, pulling out a spool of red thread which she would expertly wrap around the finger in question. Smooth. Easy. Couldn’t possibly go wrong.

She licked her lips, careful not to disturb Akko’s slumber, and slowly began to pull lengths of the thread. She lifted her partner’s ring finger gently, keeping it up as she used her other hand to wrap the thread once, twice, and then thrice—

Akko began to stir. Oh no. Oh no!

She was usually a very heavy sleeper—small actions like this wouldn’t be enough to wake her, for sure! The blonde kept still, holding her breath.

Akko’s fidgeting came to a stop, and she went back to snoring.

Diana sighed in relief.

But then out of nowhere Akko rolled over and—oh by Beatrix she didn’t cut the thread! She hastily reached over for some scissors, but Akko had rolled a full one-eighty-degrees and entangled them both in thread. Diana gulped. Right. The scissors!

Akko decided to roll around one more time, coming full circle and facing at Diana again. Except this time she found herself fully entangled in thread, blankets, and furiously messy brown hair.

“Diana,” she mumbled softly, arms reaching forward in search of a warm body to hold. This effectively pulled on the string even more and—ah. What a mess! Now they were both entangled, but thankfully thread was easy to manage and she could probably just charm it to fix itself.

“Dia?”

But then Akko just had to wake up.

“Hush darling, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Akko blinked her vision back into focus. “What is this?” she looked at her hand, half-awake. Diana swallowed. “Are you pulling some red-string of fate shit at me?”

“I—” She honestly had no idea what she meant by that but she’ll take the out. “—I suppose so, yes?”

“You are so cheesy.”

“I am?”

“It’s cute.” Akko yawned. “But it’s itchy.” She whined, swatting away the thread she was entangled in and haphazardly pulling the knot Diana made along her ring finger. “Now—sleep.”

Akko snaked her arm around her waist, and as much as Diana enjoyed the sensation of being so near, it was also now out of her reach.

Diana sighed.

Perhaps another day.

---

“It’s for medical reasons.”

Diana said with as straight a face as she could muster which, honestly, was quite ironic given her sexual orientation. She would have laughed if she weren’t so nervous.

“You want to examine my hand for medical reasons?” Akko blinked.

“Yes.”

“I mean, sure!” Akko happily held out her left hand, and Diana obliged, taking it into hers and scrutinizing it with dedication. “Well?”

“It’s looking quite handy.”

“I did not just hear you say that.”

She wasn’t exactly sure what she aimed to accomplish with this, and she wanted to flick herself in the forehead. Akko was blinking at her expectantly.

“Do we still have that tape measure?”

“Uhh.” Akko looked upwards, squinting in frustration as she tried to remember. They used it some time ago, to help with getting her measurements for all the costumes changes she’d have to do. “Yeah! Let me grab it real quick.”

By the time Akko returned with the measuring tape, Diana had realized just how poorly planned out this whole endeavor was. She figured she couldn’t just go and measure one finger and be done with it, right?

“I’m going to measure the circumference of all your fingers now.”

The more you know, she supposed.

“That is weird.” Akko narrowed her eyes. “But! You’re the magical doctor and shit between the two of us so okay I guess.”

“For health reasons.”

---

She couldn’t believe that actually worked! Diana walked briskly towards the Manor courtyard, eager to fly to the central market district of Blytonbury where Paul could be found. Finally! After all her (very awkward) efforts! She actually had to measure all ten of Akko’s fingers, but after that interesting examination Diana had breezed through the remaining paperwork she had to look-over for the day—if only so that she could give Paul the specifications before evening.

“Could you grab me some of those sweet buns I loved so much back when we were in school?” Akko called from the center of the courtyard. She was practicing another one of her performance routines. Her next show was in Glasgow, and the central theme of this particular run was fire and light magic.

Akko captivated her.

So much so that Diana stopped in her tracks, mesmerized, just watching Akko perform feats of magic that nearly looked like a dance. Fire trailed her fingertips—it matched her eyes, her hair, her spirit. She reached out and caused a spectacle of flames in blue, green, and orange. It looked a little bit like an oriental dragon, and her mastery of it impressed her so.

She was warm, yes, but sometimes Akko could burn and Diana knew this in every sense of the word.

The blonde nearly forgot that she was leaving for a quick trip to the jeweler, especially when Akko caught her gaze. She winked at Diana, and blew her a teasing, flying kiss.

Diana felt her mouth dry up, and suddenly her priority was to move towards her partner, temporarily forgetting about getting on her broom.

But then something… smelled like it was burning?

“Oh, shit!” Akko squealed, and Diana finally began to register that her fingertips were very, very warm. “I’m sorry!”

Akko had somehow set her little piece of paper on fire.

The paper.

Which had her measurements.

Diana felt her stomach sink as though she swallowed lead. She would like to perish. Preferably soon. But it would be quite problematic to perish, because then she wouldn’t be able to follow-through with her plans of eventually marrying this wonderful woman—despite the raging temptation to hex her at this moment.

---

“Her ring size?” Amanda leaned against one of Diana’s bookshelves with a shit-eating grin.

“Yes.” Barbara sighed in unison with Hannah. “And it is taking her ages.”

“I’m right here, you know.” Diana deadpanned.

“You know, why don’t just magically resize it?” Barbara offered.

“Because the ring will be crafted by one of the goblin workers that protested with Akko. Paul—worked in the kitchens? Brought her snacks. He’s a jeweler now. I don’t want to tamper with his craftsmanship, and I’m sure it’s something Akko would appreciate deeply.”

“That’s really thoughtful of you.” Barbara swooned.

“Now if only the thoughts became actions.” Hannah laughed. Diana rolled her eyes.

Barbara piped in, “did you try the thread thing?”

“Ended in disaster.”

“Get a mold of one of her old rings?”

“She doesn’t weary any.”

“Ask her parents?”

“Her… parents?”

“They might know!”

That could be worth a shot, she supposed. She had already asked for their permission anyway. It seemed like as good a lead as any, but her hopefulness was quickly damped by the sound of Amanda snickering.

“Damn, Cavendish!” Amanda looked about ready to burst into laughter. “I would have thought by now you’d know all about how girthy Akko’s fing—”

“Out of my office, O’Neill!’

---

She's tried it all and was so very near her wit's end. She asked Lotte and Sucy. She discreetly tried to slip a paper ring onto her while they held hands but Akko was much too excitable to stay still! She even tried sneaking around, like a thief in the night, in case Akko might actually have a few rings hidden somewhere in her portion of the closet. Diana didn't get very far. It was the guilt and fear of seeing something she shouldn't.

And so she finally gave in to Barbara's suggestion and phoned in for some help.

“H—Hello?”

Diana flinched. She never stuttered anymore these days, much less on the phone, but this wasn’t an ordinary phone call, no, it was one of utmost importance.

[“Diana!”] A deep, excited voice greeted her at the opposite end of the line. There was familiarity in the way he spoke, as though she had received this particular warmth before. It immediately put her at ease. Akko, it seems, took after her father.

“Mister Kagari.”

[“Call me dad!”]

She swallowed, feeling herself grow flustered at the thought of doing such a thing. “I—I need your advice on a matter, sir.”

[“Sir?”] He almost sounded aghast. [“Didn’t I just say it’s ‘dad’ now?”]

She sighed. This was going to be a long phone call.

---

It was snowing.

They were sitting on a bench in Blytonbury, huddled together in the evening while flakes of frost floated down from the sky. Akko’s seen snow so many times before—both back home in Japan and here in her new home—but it amazed her every time. Diana cherished it. She wished that her childlike wonder would never dull or fade away.

She loved her a lot.

And as these feelings once again made themselves known to her, she couldn’t help but feel the frustrated at her foiled attempts at furthering their relationship.

“Whatcha thinking?” Akko asked.

“Nothing much.”

“I hate to break it to you, but that’s pretty much impossible for Diana Cavendish.”

The blonde huffed in laughter, coming up in puffs of mist through the crisp and cold air. Akko wasn’t exactly wrong.

She’s decided to drop all the secrecy and plotting and simply just ask. It was just a ring size. It wasn’t anything too much, given where they already were in this relationship.

“Could I get a look at her your hands again?”

This time, Akko looked suspicious albeit teasing. “Is it for ‘health reasons’ again?”

Diana smiled. “Definitely.”

Akko reached over, settling her hand facing up on Diana’s lap where she held it reverently.

She had such lovely hands. They were tan, because Akko loved the outdoors, but they were so much softer than people expected. Akko was a tactile individual; she liked to reach, hold, touch and feel the sensations that the world had to give. But for all the brashness of her voice and personality—her hands were soft.

Diana turned it over, tracing her fingertips along the indentations of her veins. How lovely it would be, to see two rings glistening on one of those fingers. The thought of it made her giddy a little. She couldn’t wait to wear her own wedding band as well.

She heard Akko giggle.

“Medical reasons, huh.”

Akko leaned forward, soft and teasing, and kissed her at the nose. She felt Akko’s fingers thread along with her own, and her stomach fluttered along with her heartbeat.

“If you wanted to hold my hand—” Akko grinned. “—you could have just said so!”

The brunette’s father had more or less given her the same answer. Akko was straightforward and beating around the bush would do her no good. She may as well just ask—that was apparently what he did to get her mother’s ring size before he proposed himself. So far, it seems it worked. So why the hell not?

Diana was tired of stalling, and this was a sure-fire way to get it right.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, Akko.”

“Mhmm?”

As she turned her head to meet her partner’s gaze, Diana’s breath hitched.

Akko looked so beautiful under the lamplight and snow.

“Diana?”

Right. Ring size.

“I—”

—am so in love with you.

“You good, Dia?”

“I just wanted to ask, since we’ve talked about it already, we should begin looking and shopping around for—”

Akko blinked, her eyelashes batting with flakes of snow caught at their tips. Diana’s mouth dried up.

I—

She wanted to marry her.

“You look wonderful,” Diana blurted out.

The brunette flushed red, beautifully, and it took her breath away.

“I just meant to say, that, I—”

“Diana?” Akko asked softly, concerned, because Diana’s speech was broken and rambling by now. “What is it you’re trying to say?”

She loved her so much.

“Will you marry me?”

fin

#Diakko #Dianakko #Diakko Week 2020 #Dianakko Week 2020 #Diana Cavendish #Akko Kagari #Fluff #Romance #Established Relationship #Fanfic #LWA #Little Witch Academia

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leviathanswingman · 3 years

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love is a losing game, chapter 9: drop the guillotine

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7 , Chapter 8, Chapter 10

Lucifer felt a strange kind of peace he'd never felt before. Although perhaps, the words at peace weren't inherently correct to describe the sensation flooding his senses as he lay floating in the middle of a vantablack lake, surrounded by dark woods and even darker shadows.

He spread his fingers and let the murky water run through the gaps, relishing in the almost comforting feeling of forgiving liquid caressing his fingertips. Lucifer closed his eyes, but before he could even take his first deep breath, his body was already sinking to the ground and his lungs were slowly filling with gooey, bitter fluid. He tried to fight his way back to the surface, but his body was dragged to the ground by something bigger than life, a pillar of everything that could've been tied around his middle like a dead-weight.

Bubbles were escaping from his parted lips as he tried to take his last breath. Just as his body reached the murky ground, Lucifer noticed a light shining through the surface.

A hand, bright and colourful in this inky lake of nothingness, was reaching out to him and for some reason, Lucifer felt safe at once. Without any hesitation, he grabbed the hand tightly and felt himself being pulled up again.

With a startle, Lucifer awoke. Strands of hair were falling into his face as his body shot forwards and a drip of sweat ran down his temple. His breath came out in shallow gasps as one hand shot up towards his throat and the other gripped onto whatever was closest to him at the moment.

The room was spinning. His eyes darted back and forth as he took in the sight of his surroundings which were slowly coming to a halt, his heart beating ever so erratically. It took a few moments for his eyesight to clear up and become less disoriented again, but once it did, Lucifer felt the urgent need to curse.

He seemed to be sitting on some sort of examination table in what appeared to be a home praxis.

Sitting in front of him were two demons, one to his left, seemingly calm and composed, and the other to his right, looking dishevelled and upset. Doctor Naamah and Lord Diavolo.

Only now Lucifer realized that in his post wake up panic, he had grabbed onto Diavolo's forearm and to this moment hadn't let go of it. There were two possibilities as to what had happened: either his body had automatically sought out the most familiar thing in the room or that cursed bonding mark had detected the presence of its origin and grabbed onto it the second Lucifer's self control had slipped.

At once, Lucifer opened his hand and released his grip. For the shortest of moments, Diavolo and his eyes met. There was a certain question in those golden eyes, wet and slick, undeniably obvious and on full display. It was in this exact moment that Lucifer realized that his cover had officially and irrevocably been blown.

But instead of worrying about the chaos that would inevitably follow that realization, Lucifer decided to worry about his current situation first. When he tried to focus, he could still remember the strange aftertaste of an unfortunate dream, but not what had brought him to this place. His memory felt uncomfortably woozy and blotchy.

„Lucifer!“ Diavolo leant forward zealously, desperate and relieved at the same time. Without any hesitation, he grabbed Lucifer by the shoulders and pulled him towards his body, hugging him tightly, his eyebrows furrowed and eyes screwed close.

Despite everything, Lucifer could not help himself. After all -he realized disgruntledly- he was still bonded with Diavolo. Although he tried to deny his advances and refused to melt into the demon's touch, Lucifer felt comforted by the sudden and unexpected physical contact. Yet still, no matter how much his body wanted this, he couldn't allow this to happen, no matter what.

“You can let go now,” he brought out and to his luck, Diavolo obeyed.

Lucifer's breath came out heavy and shallow as he tried to collect himself. His mind and body were at war, entangled in a ferocious battle with no victor in sight. No matter how much he desired to be with Diavolo, realistically he knew that he couldn't afford a luxury this expensive.

With every breath he took, Lucifer's chest rose and sank in an irregular rhythm. It took him another moment to take in his surroundings and relax considerably.

The first thing he had to do was figure out what exactly had happened after he had passed out and hit the ground.

Following, and more importantly, he would have to figure out what exactly Diavolo now knew. After all, Lucifer knew the future demon king well, sometimes perhaps even a bit too well. There was no way he had ended up bringing Lucifer to the doctor himself without there having been a damn good reason for it. Otherwise, he would've just sent Barbatos.

„Diavolo, what in the name of-“ he started and tried to push himself up, only to immediately be pushed back onto the examination table by Diavolo.

„Rest,“ Doctor Naamah's voice came sounding from Lucifer's left.

„That really isn't necessary,“ Lucifer countered in the blink of an eye, having already made up his mind about leaving as quickly as possible. What he needed was space, since generally speaking, space gave him enough time to come up with new plans and even newer excuses. And new excuses, he desperately needed if he wanted to keep his little problem a secret.

Worried, Diavolo tightened his grip on Lucifer's shoulders. „Lucifer, don't be ridiculous. We need to-“

„Oh no, my lord. Let him do as he pleases, it's fine,“ Doctor Naamah countered without moving from her spot at Lucifer's side. „You'll see.“

Although Lucifer still felt dizzy and drowsy, he swung his legs over the edge of the examination table, placed them on the ground and pointedly ignored the way his head started to spin as he lifted his body from the mattress. „There is no need to worry, I can handle myself.“

Diavolo, apparently unsure of what to do with his hands, simply watched him with that strange expression on his face. „You are pushing yourself, aren't you? Come, sit back down again, please,“ he threw in. No matter how hard he tried to forget it, whenever he looked at Lucifer and remembered the sight of that tainted sigil, he felt shivers run down his spine. Why had he been so hell-bent on hiding it? Wasn't Diavolo one of his most trusted companions?

„Although I appreciate your concern, I can assure you I am more than alright,“ Lucifer said stoically.

„More than alright? Lucifer, correct me if I'm wrong here, but being unconscious doesn't really classify as being even remotely alright in my book!“ Diavolo replied, frustrated. All he wanted was for Lucifer to get some rest so he could heal and finally be back in his life again. Perhaps this was a selfish thought, but Diavolo didn't feel all too guilty about having had it. He was long past the point of denying that he wanted to keep Lucifer all to himself.

Lucifer threw him a quick glance, opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again, apparently having changed his mind. He crossed his arms, stood up quickly and before he could even take as much as a step, he started to sway and almost took another swan dive if it hadn't been for Diavolo's quick reflexes.

Diavolo had leapt up from his chair and pulled Lucifer close to his chest, his own arms crossed safely over Lucifer's shoulders as they both took a tumble to the ground.

„See? I knew he wouldn't listen no matter what. Some people need to learn the hard way,“ Doctor Naamah said as she pushed her bangs aside, pinched the bridge of her nose and watched Diavolo pull Lucifer up with him again. „He's got a concussion, but he'll be alright as long as he gets enough rest and doesn't overexert himself.“

„A concussion?! There must be something you can do about that, right?! As long as it makes him all good again! “

„There is no need to coddle me like-“

Diavolo pushed his hair back with shaking fingers. „You looked like you were bleeding out,“ he forced out between clenched teeth. “I thought you were dying. Will you hold me at fault for worrying about you?”

As they kept on bickering, Lucifer ever so kept together despite his head injury and compromised appearance, Diavolo riled up yet still composed, Doctor Naamah watched them.

She threw another glance at Lucifer, who was clearly struggling to keep his balance, looking bothered by his body's lack of cooperation. His right hand travelled up around his neck until it stood at halt at the back of it, right where his tainted sigil was situated. He could most definitely feel that something was amiss.

Naamah watched her patient as he threw a glance at the demon prince and right in that moment, Naamah knew for a fact that she had been absolutely right in the assumption that Lucifer had bonded with none other than Lord Diavolo himself. She could see it in the way they looked at each other when they thought the other one wasn't paying attention. There was pure devotion in their eyes, the sort of foolish dedication one could only observe within fated lovers. However, Diavolo and Lucifer, no matter how powerful and smart they were, seemed to be utter fools when it was about love.

The doctor sighed. „Lord Diavolo, would you mind leaving us alone for a moment? There is something I need to discuss with Lucifer regarding his sigil.“

At the mention of the bonding mark Lucifer's shoulders tensed up and he pressed his lips together into a tight line. He threw Doctor Naamah a questioning look. „What happened to doctor patient confidentiality?“ he asked, breathing out sharply and rubbing his eyes in an exhausted, almost defeated manner.

Then, Diavolo suddenly chimed in. „She didn't break any laws, Lucifer. I saw your neck when she asked me to help her roll you over. There's no need to hide it anymore, I already know. I saw the sigil. I know this must be an awkward position for you to be in right now,“ he threw in, his voice quiet and soft, not upset anymore. However, there was a certain undertone to his voice that betrayed a sense of hurt, out of sight yet clearly not perfectly stashed away just yet. Although he tried very hard to be supportive and good, Diavolo felt crushed despite his good intentions. No matter how hard he tried to ignore his own feelings, the fact that he had always found Lucifer far too perfect and irresistible tainted his judgement like black ink on a clean sheet of paper.

An unreadable expression ran across Lucifer's face as his eyebrows furrowed and he averted his gaze. Diavolo could hear the way his heart-rate elevated in a matter of seconds. Was it something he said?

„Of course you do, Diavolo.“ Lucifer stated after a short moment of silence. „If you'll excuse us?“

With a short nod Diavolo exited the room, but his thoughts never left Lucifer's side. Something definitely felt off and he needed to find out what exactly that little something was.

As soon as the door fell closed, Lucifer exhaled deeply, his shoulders slumped and he almost immediately dropped his head into his opened palms. „Tell me what happened while I was unconscious. Fill me in, doctor,“ he mumbled as he dragged the palm of his hands down his face just to drop them into his lap. „Tell me what the fuck happened. How come Diavolo knows about my affliction? I thought I was more than clear about the secrecy of the matter.“

The doctor watched him with a careful eye. „And I thought I'd been more than clear about the importance of telling your partner about the bond, but it seems like you disregarded my advice anyway. This is no laughing matter, Lucifer. You know that.“

Naamah walked over to Lucifer and lifted her hand. Before she could so much as touch him, Lucifer gripped her wrist tightly. „What do you think you're doing?“ he brought out and the doctor simply sighed.

„I am going to check on your head wound again, okay? Which, by the way, is also the reason why you're here in the first place. Lord Diavolo carried you here, looking like a fresh corpse. You should thank him, you know that, right? Actually,“ she then added, „I think you owe him a bit more than just an apology. An explanation would be a good start.“

Quickly, Lucifer let go of Naamah's wrist and let her examine the wound on his forehead. For a moment, they both kept quiet as she did her work quickly and efficiently.

Eventually, Lucifer visibly deflated. Although he knew showing any sign of weakness was against his own moral compass, in this moment he knew he could allow himself a tiny moment of existential dread. After he felt a bit more calm again, Lucifer asked about the one thing that kept on haunting his mind. „Did you tell him?“

Naamah rummaged through a drawer before shutting it closed again. „I didn't have to. He saw your pact mark.“

Lucifer froze in place.

He had tried so hard to remain his composure, had removed himself from Diavolo whenever it was needed and had burned even the smallest inadequate thought about his superior down to a burnt crisp, yet in the end, none of his efforts had born any fruits.

In spite of all his efforts, Lucifer had failed ever so miserably. Although it was no laughing matter, he suddenly felt the inexplicable urge to break out in laughter. The strangest of sensations ran through his body, and before he knew what was going on, he felt the sigil burning hot against his flesh. Lucifer hissed and ran his cold fingers over the back of his neck. It was a wrong, feverish heat and all at once, he was nauseous to the core.

The doctor stopped in her tracks and watched Lucifer with a professional eye. „I wish I could be of more help, but there's only so much I can do. You probably know this already, but at this point your head wound is the most insignificant of your problems. You have a concussion, but except for that, you're doing alright. The real issue is your sigil. It's tainted.“

„Tainted? What is that supposed to mean?“

The paper on the examination table rustled eerily in the otherwise silent room as Lucifer adjusted his position.

„It means that you have to make a choice. Actually, it's a choice that's long overdue. If you don't act quickly your life will be in danger. Unclaimed bonding marks are no joke. Not even your body will be able to withstand this game of cat and mouse that you've been playing,“ Naamah said loud enough for only Lucifer to hear, but too quiet for it to echo through the room.

Although the door was closed the walls were still terribly thin, and knowing her wife, there was always the slightest chance that someone was secretly eavesdropping at the door.

„I am no fan of blaming my patients whatsoever, but if you had listened to me from the beginning, you wouldn't be in this mess right now. This is why communication is key. Switching between seeing your partner and avoiding him is literally the worst thing you could do in this situation, and I'm convinced this is exactly what happened here with you. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong though.“

„You-“ Lucifer started, but stopped himself before he could act irrationally, his hand clenched to a tight fist. Getting angry wouldn't solve anything. No matter how offended Lucifer felt by the way this daring doctor was talking to him, he had to admit that her honesty was refreshing. After all, no lies had been told until now.

Instead of choosing to stray as far away from Diavolo as possible, Lucifer had remained by his side -although reluctantly- and had toyed with the magimeds which were supposed to make his life easier and the symptoms better. He had never been one to dismiss the possibility of consequences to his actions, so this revelation nearly didn't shock him. Perhaps, he had seen it coming all along. Had he not been prepared to go down for Diavolo right from the beginning?

In the end, Lucifer was no ordinary demon. What killed others made him only more vicious. Like an abandoned mutt, he refused to go down purely out of spite.

Lucifer's eyes, lit up with a new, absurd sort of dedication, met with Naamah's. „There is nothing for me to correct there, doctor. You are right in your assumptions. There are certainly consequences for my mistakes, so tell me, how much time do you reckon I have left?“

The ticking of a clock echoed through the half-empty room. Lucifer carefully touched his forehead, right where the doctor had placed a band-aid on the already healing head wound.

Naamah simply stared at him incredulously for a few more moments. In the end, she resigned herself to a singular defeated sigh. She was more than used to headstrong demons. However, no demon could rival Lucifer when it was about being stubborn and proud. From the look on his face down to his posture, one thing was clear: there was no way in hell Lucifer would change his mind. By now, it was set.

„Depends on how careful you are. Rule of thumb is the more time you spend with your bond partner without having fulfilled the bond, the quicker the rot starts taking over your body. It's like a parasitic infection.“

Lucifer stroked his chin with his thumb and pointer. „Hm. Alright,“ he mumbled, clearly already lost in his own plans. „Alright.“ This could still go his way. This simply had to go his own way. After all, he was one to command and demand. He wouldn't just buckle under the pressure of fate. Whether it was life or death, whatever was to come would have to take him kicking and growling. Lucifer had never been one to capitulate nicely.

Upon seeing Lucifer's calculated reaction, Naamah knew at once that no matter what, he would neither listen to her nor change his plans.

„As your doctor, I can only advise against what you're about to do.“

Lucifer raised his eyebrows questioningly. „What exactly would that be now?“

She sighed. „I don't know any details, but it's practically written on your face that you've reached a decision. Be smart, Lucifer. Please.“

She received no answer. She had expected as much, but still felt her eye twitch in annoyance faced with this demon's stubbornness. With an exhausted sigh Naamah wiped her brow before walking over to the door, opening it and calling out. „You can come back in, Lord Diavolo! Oh, and could you bring my wife with you?“

As Diavolo walked in, closely followed by Preta, the doctor seemed to relax considerably. „Sweetheart, did you school Lord Diavolo thoroughly?“

Preta's curls bounced as she nodded her head. „Yep! Told him everything he needs to know 'bout caring for concussed patients!“

A tiny smile spread on the doctor's lips as she watched her ever so lively wife. „Thanks, dear.“ She focused back on Lucifer and Diavolo.

„You two should be ready to go. There is nothing left for me to do here, so all I can do is prescribe you a lot of rest and most of all, a break from work until I can fully clear you, you hear me?“

Lucifer crossed one leg over the other, the perfect image of power and strength if it weren't for his body's current weakness. „That certainly isn't necessary, doctor. I heal rather quickly. In the blink of an eye, this will have passed,“ he announced.

„Normally, yes. You, however, are a special case. Your body is preoccupied, so your healing rate is at an abnormally low level.“ She waved her hand towards Diavolo. „Which is why I asked my wife to give Lord Diavolo a quick rundown on what to look out for. Someone needs to keep an eye on you, and he seems more than capable.“

Lucifer stopped dead in his tracks.

Life was a circus and he was the underpaid ringmaster.

The sound of Diavolo's huge, leathery wings flapping in the night was closely followed by the sharp clacking of heels hitting solid ground.

„Diavolo?“

„Yeah?“

Lucifer cleared his throat abashedly. „You can let go of me. Have we not arrived?“

Diavolo's hands were still wound tightly around Lucifer's torso, holding him so close he could almost feel his heartbeat. How dearly he wished to be allowed to hold on forever.

„If you can stand I will let go of you,“ Diavolo said as he grabbed Lucifer's face with one hand and mustered it as if it were an open book.

After a short moment he slowly released Lucifer, who crossed his arms, turned his head away from Diavolo and huffed out a puff of air before he let his hand roam over the back of his neck. „Of course I can stand.“

„You have a concussion.“

„I merely slipped.“

Diavolo took in a deep breath, frustrated, and crossed his arms as well, accidentally mimicking Lucifer's pose. „Lucifer you almost bled out!“ he forced out and his voice came out louder and more upset than anticipated. He cleared his throat, took a miniscule break and stared at his right-hand man with glowing eyes. „You need to take better care of your health. If you won't I might find myself forced to do it for you.“ He paused, took a step forward and pushed Lucifer softly against the brick wall of the house of lamentation, one hand on Lucifer's shoulder, the other straight against the brick wall.

Lucifer didn't waver. He didn't break eye contact with Diavolo, both of them stubborn and headstrong. For a moment, all he could hear was his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. The sigil on the back of his neck felt like it was trying to burn through his bones, down into the very core of his being. Perhaps, it had already managed to do exactly that.

Lucifer grabbed Diavolo by the wrist, still not breaking eye contact. „I don't need pity. If this is why you're acting so strangely, don't. I can manage on my own. This whole situation is entirely my fault. You can drop your misplaced sense of duty, I don't need it,“ he brought out with an eerily calm composure. „I don't need anyone,“ he added, so quiet it was barely audible.

His body was warm under Diavolo's fingers and rigid against the wall. Perhaps, Lucifer allowed himself the smallest of moments to think how it could be if things were different. He trampled those thoughts as quickly as they'd sprouted from his mind. Was he this weak already, weak enough to foolishly fall back into delusional daydreams? Things would never be different, not for him, never. Happiness had never been his to claim. The last of his childish hopes and dreams had went up in flames the moment his little sister went out like the purest of flames.

Not that he needed happiness. All he needed was himself. There was no one else he should have to rely on, he was plenty powerful already.

Suddenly, Lucifer felt himself brought back to reality as Diavolo straightened his back and took a step back. The air filled with the familiar scent of smoke as he changed out of his demon form and his majestic wings disappeared again. „Let's go inside.“

Lucifer kept quiet for another second, mentally reminding himself of all of the reasons why he shouldn't let Diavolo inside. Not after what had happened last time.

A tiny laugh escaped Lucifer's lips. „Just like that night, huh,“ he said quietly, his eyes travelling up to the starry sky. He felt the immature need to let out a good, strong curse word.

„Like what night?“

Instead of an answer, Lucifer let out a growl. His sigil was burning up and his head felt as if he'd had an unfortunate meeting with smooth alabaster tiles. Oh wait.

His eyebrows pulled together and his hand shot up to the back of his neck.

Of course, Diavolo noticed the change in Lucifer's behaviour. Hell, he'd watched him like a hawk ever since they had left the doctor's house. To be precise, Diavolo had watched Lucifer with that one particular look in his eyes ever since he'd woken up. It was a strange look to describe, after all, Diavolo was quite good at hiding his honest thoughts.

„Lucifer, are you alright?“ Diavolo asked, suddenly far too close again. He gripped Lucifer's shoulders, almost as if he was afraid he'd faint. Lucifer could feel his eye twitch with an onset of annoyance.

„You don't need to worry about me. I'm neither weak nor frail, Diavolo. I'm not going to shatter into pieces the moment you take your eyes off me.“

„That would be quite the foolish thing to think, wouldn't it? However-“

Diavolo put the palm of his hand onto Lucifer's forehead and held it there for a moment. It felt like hot coal against his cold skin. „You have a concussion and we've been out in the cold for far too long already. Let's get you inside.“

Irked by the sudden change of subject, Lucifer furrowed his eyebrows and looked at the demon prince, who still hadn't removed his hand. He stared at him for a moment or two, once again uncertain as to what exactly Diavolo's intentions were. Why would he still feel so comfortable around Lucifer, after everything that'd happened? And even more importantly, why didn't he feel the need to comment on the most pressing issue at hand: the fact that Lucifer had formed a bond with him by accident. After all, it wasn't like Lucifer had caught just a simple cold, no, he had done something unspeakable and highly inappropriate. Although unplanned, it was still completely and undeniably his fault.

Before Lucifer's traitorous mouth could slip and ask Diavolo right then and there about it, he caught himself. There was no need for it, after all. Diavolo didn't owe him any explanations after all. Pushing the prince's hand aside, he nodded his head. “As you wish,” he replied rather coldly and his fingers twitched restlessly.

The house of lamentation seemed to be as lively as usual. Even from the outside, you could tell that most of the brothers were still up and going. For that exact reason, per Lucifer's request, Diavolo and Lucifer were entering through the back door.

After all, they looked quite a mess and it wasn't an everyday occurrence for Lucifer to arrive, covered in dried blood, his forehead plastered with a stark white band-aid, followed by none other than Lord Diavolo himself, who refused to leave him alone.

So they had found themselves having to revert back to sneaking around like teenagers up way past their bedtime.

They turned corner after corner with Lucifer leading the way and luckily for them, they didn't cross ways with any of Lucifer's brothers until they had already arrived in front of Lucifer's room. Mammon just rounded the corner when Lucifer grabbed Diavolo by his tie and pulled him into the room. The door fell shut behind them with Lucifer still holding tightly onto his superior. As he realized the situation he'd put the both of them into, he quickly let go again.

“I apologize. I really don't want to risk any on my brothers seeing me like this right now.” With one hand, Lucifer pushed his hair back, and his fingers caught onto several strands of hair, glued together with dried blood. At once, he felt disgusting and dirty and unkempt. This was anything but seemly. However, nothing about his current situation was even remotely seemly whatsoever.

Diavolo, leaning against the door, watched Lucifer closely and noted the way Lucifer once again seemed to shiver in his thin turtleneck. Without any hesitation, Diavolo lit the fireplace with a snap of his fingers. Caught off guard, Lucifer looked up.

“You didn't have to do that,” he said.

“I know,” Diavolo answered with a small smile on his lips when in all honesty, he'd have preferred to embrace Lucifer until every single cell of his being was filled with Diavolo's fiery heat. But he couldn't allow himself to think in such ways.

“You also don't need to stay here. I am absolutely fine. You can leave, Diavolo. I don't need your help.”

“This, I don't agree with. Have you already forgotten what the good doctor told you?” A cheeky grin spread across Diavolo's face. “You can't get rid of me that easily, Lucifer. You're stuck with me until you're all better.”

Lucifer shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. All he wanted was to be left alone right now. It had been quite the adventurous evening and in addition to his pounding head and tingling sigil, his body felt tired and lethargic. He crossed the room, went over to his closet and pulled a few items out of one his neatly organized drawers, his back turned to Diavolo.

“I suppose there is no convincing you otherwise?”

Diavolo walked over to Lucifer, reached out to touch the side of Lucifer's face, but retracted his hand before it could make contact. Instead, he slapped his hand onto Lucifer's shoulder. “You know me too well, dear friend. Now let's get you lying down. Doctor's orders.”

A disgusted look rushed over Lucifer's face. “Diavolo...I hope you don't really expect me to lie down in my own dirt? I am practically bathed in blood. I am taking a shower.”

Lucifer turned to his bathroom, hand already on the doorknob. He stopped in his tracks as he sensed Diavolo following him. Of course. He took a deep breath and raised an eyebrow.

“Really?”

“What if you collapse while you're in there? We can't have that now, can we? I'm coming with you.”

Today had already been embarrassing enough. What was a little more?

Lucifer allowed himself a minute more in the shower than he usually would. Today, he had definitely earned this little luxury. Steam was rising around him as for the first time that day, he was able to allow himself to relax a bit. Streams of water, almost too hot in temperature, were falling onto him in thick droplets, cleansing him from head to toe. Lost in thought, Lucifer ran his fingers through his hair, back around to his neck, along the sharp edges of his shoulders.

Then, he heard the slightest movement from behind the shower curtain. “Lucifer?” Diavolo asked, loud and clear.

Lucifer held back the need to slam his head against the shower tiles. He couldn't risk a second concussion. “Surprisingly, I have not slipped and died, Diavolo,” he brought out instead as he turned off the water and opened the shower curtain. He wasn't worried about Diavolo seeing him naked whatsoever. After all, there wasn't anything he hadn't already seen before.

Diavolo was sitting cross-legged against the bathroom door, his eyes covered with both of his hands. The sight almost made Lucifer chuckle. Almost.

After Lucifer had dried off and changed into a silken bathrobe, he took some time to watch the demon prince for the smallest of moments, observed him as he sat against the door with his eyes shielded, ever so hell-bent on allowing Lucifer privacy while simultaneously pushing his boundaries in a way no one else would ever dare to.

The bonding mark twitched dangerously as he couldn't help but find Diavolo endearing. Suddenly, shadowy worms started crawling through Lucifer's skin, wriggling back and forth.

With quick strides, Lucifer walked over to the mirror hanging over the sink, turned around and dropped the bathrobe off his shoulders so that his neck was exposed. As his eyes fell upon the sigil, dark red and intimidating in appearance, encased with ink black roots and blotches, Lucifer couldn't help but let out a flurry of colourful curses, which alerted Diavolo immediately.

He jumped up as soon as he heard the sound leave Lucifer's lips, but stalled in his tracks as he saw Lucifer standing in front of the mirror, bathrobe slid off his shoulders, with his neck craned as he traced his fingers across the sigil Diavolo had only seen once before. The look on his face was unreadable, but certainly strange.

“Lucifer,” Diavolo finally started. He stepped closer to Lucifer, who quickly pulled up his bathrobe and retied it to look at least somewhat less dishevelled.

With shaking hands, he smoothed over the fabric of the bathrobe. “What is it?” he asked, his voice icier than usual. It was easy to see that this was a conversation he was not looking forward to have.

For a moment, Diavolo didn't know how to bring up that one specific topic. Although they were close friends, there had always been a certain boundary between the both of them. Now, he feared, if he continued this conversation, that boundary would inevitably crumble to the ground. Still, Diavolo couldn't forget the sight of Lucifer, limp on the ground, followed in quick succession by the close-up of a strangely familiar sigil, tainted black, on the nape of Lucifer's elegant neck.

And all of a sudden, just like that, the words that had been begging to be released left Diavolo's lips without much hesitation.

“Why didn't you say anything?”

Lucifer froze in his steps. Slowly, he turned around to Diavolo. What was he supposed to say? Suddenly, the damp air felt suffocating instead of comforting. The room was silent except for the dripping of water off the shower head. Although he was nothing near a coward, Lucifer would pay much money to be anywhere but here right now. He had known that sooner or later, he would have to explain himself. Still, that didn't make things easier.

Lucifer pushed wet strands of hair out of his face and forced himself to relax his shoulders. “Let's not do this here,” he said as he opened the door and looked back at Diavolo. He nodded his head towards the door and lead the way, arms crossed and mind far away, back to his room.

Lucifer and Diavolo were sitting on pure white armchairs near the fireplace, face to face. Lucifer was leaning back, one leg crossed over the other, but the unnatural rigidity of his body betrayed his otherwise calm demeanour. Diavolo, on the other hand was leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his sole focus the demon in front of him.

Lucifer took in a deep breath. “You were confused as to why I didn't say anything,” he started and let his hand travel upwards to touch the back of his neck again.

He hated that he had to do this. He hated that the right words failed to come out and seemed to be stuck in his throat. “After I found out about it, I decided to solve this problem by myself. I didn't want to burden you. After all, this is my problem. I didn't see why I should make it yours as well.”

Diavolo didn't move. The expression on his face was serious, mixed in with something else. “Lucifer,” he eventually said quietly. He stood up and crossed the small distance between the chairs. Without hesitation, he caught Lucifer's hands between his own and dropped down next to him. His eyes were big and pleading, shiny like ancient coins, as he looked up at his right-hand man. “What did I do?”

Confused, Lucifer stared down at Diavolo, his cheeks undeniably dusted with a red tint as he took in the sight of his superior on his knees before him. “What did you do?”

“I must've done something to make you distrust me. Otherwise, you would've come to me. How often do I have to tell you that you can rely on me as well?” As Diavolo held onto Lucifer's hands, he let his fingers glide along cold skin, drawing small patterns with his fingertips.

Lucifer's sigil sent a powerful shiver down his spine, almost painful in its intensity. “Diavolo, this is not your fault. I am to blame here. I am the one who overstepped, therefore I shall bear the fruits of my own weakness,” he mumbled, admittedly distracted by the way Diavolo's big hands felt on his own. This had to stop. “I am dealing with this.”

All of a sudden, Diavolo looked up. “But are you really? Shouldn't you be getting better by now?”

For a moment, Lucifer's eyes travelled across Diavolo's face, searching. Something felt off. Was Diavolo teasing him? Or was he perhaps mocking him?

The sigil sent painful shock waves through Lucifer's body and before he could stop himself, he flinched noticeably.

Concerned, Diavolo let go of his hands and raised his hand to Lucifer's neck, but before he could reach it, he was interrupted.

Lucifer had grabbed Diavolo's wrist and was now staring at him with an expression very close to shock. “Don't,” he stated plainly. He could feel inky black roots grow taller, could feel them crawl under his skin along his neck, down to his shoulders. His skin felt like it had been injected with poison.

“Please, just let me help you Lucifer. You don't have to do this all by yourself.”

And there it was again. Whenever he thought he had found a way out, Diavolo managed to pull him back down even further.

Before he could stop it, a sarcastic laugh escaped Lucifer's lips. “That is the entire point. I have to do this by myself, you should know that better than anyone else.”

“Lucifer, why should I-”

“But as usual, you have to stir up trouble and make this difficult for me.” Lucifer let go of Diavolo's hand and quickly stood up. He turned Diavolo his back. “Pray tell, how will you help me with my unclaimed bond?” There, he finally said it. The word felt raw and exposed in the air. “I can't even seem to keep my distance from you,” he forced out and rubbed the sigil. “And do you know what's even more preposterous? If I did, this problem could be solved quite easily!” Lucifer started pacing the room. “I have become such a fool,” he muttered.

Diavolo crossed the room in quick strides, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion and worry. He grabbed Lucifer by the wrist and pulled him back around. “Lucifer, what are you talking about? What do I have to do with-”

Lucifer tried to pull his wrist free, but found himself unable to. His head was heavy and his body felt aflame. Then there was a certain emotion filling his heart that he hadn't felt in a long time.

Shame. He felt ashamed. If only he had managed to keep his emotions locked away in that little pandora's box in the back of his mind back then. But he just had to be selfish.

He looked up and his eyes, burning with humiliation, met with Diavolo's.

“Lucifer-”

“Don't feign ignorance,” he growled. “I know that doctor told you all about our bond.”

Diavolo stopped dead in his tracks and his grip around Lucifer's wrist loosened considerably. Did he just hear correctly?

“Our bond?” he asked quietly.

Lucifer used one arm to prop himself up against the wall as the pain in his neck suddenly doubled in intensity and his legs threatened to buckle. His breath came out ragged and heavy. “Whose else?”

Diavolo finally awoke from his momentary shock and looked back at Lucifer. His heart was beating wildly and his hands had started shaking again, but he ignored both in favour of rushing to Lucifer's side.

“I don't need your-”

“What are you talking about?!”

Lucifer's head shot up and his eyes locked with Diavolo's, his own confusion perfectly mirrored in Diavolo's facial expression. He remained silent.

After a few moments, Diavolo straightened his back and raised his head. His eyes were shining like liquid amber in the light of the fireplace as he pressed Lucifer against the wall. He helped him stand up, one arm supporting his waist while his other hand had gripped Lucifer's face.

Diavolo, with a beating heart and a mind upset at what had just been implied, finally asked the one question he had felt too reluctant to ask before, afraid to receive an answer he couldn't bear to hear.

“Lucifer. Who did you bond with?”

The ticking of an ancient clock filled the room as Lucifer stared at Diavolo's fiery expression, for the first time unable to deny what was fact.

“You.”

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thedeviltohisangel · 3 years

Text

Creed//3//

Din normally didn’t act impulsively. He normally knew his objective and worked towards it determinedly and methodically. But she made him veer off path. She made his heart sputter and mind spin. The universe converged upon her until she was all he could think about. Until he didn’t think he’d ever be able to breathe again if his eyes didn’t land on her. Until the passion surged through his veins that only she could ignite. He loved her. He never stopped loving her.

masterlist is my url/writing or on ao3

send me any requests for these two

She was silent as they flew through space. The Child had moved to the seat next to him, looking around curiously and making the occasional noise. But she stayed as far away from him as she could possibly get in the tiny cockpit. Din thinks he would have rather had her screaming at him than be quiet. He’d rather hear her say how horrible of a person he is. How he ruined her life and should leave the Child alone so he didn’t ruin his life either. That no matter where he went, he left waste and destruction behind him.

“Have you ever heard of a planet called Sorgan?” Korra stood from her seat and took a few hesitant steps closer.

“No.” It was short with no feeling behind it. Deflating.

“I think that will be a good place to land. Lay low.”

“Okay.” She wanted to ask him how long he planned on laying low for. How long he thought he could hide from the Empire. How long he planned on keeping her away from her mother.

“Korra…”

“Not now. Not when I can’t look into your eyes and tell whether or not you mean it.” There had been a time when Din had shown her his face. Had done so willingly and desperately. He had broken his creed because he loved her. Because she was going to be his wife. His partner for the rest of his life. He doesn’t know if that was who she was to him anymore. If he could show her his face. Allow her to look into his eyes.

They landed not soon after, Korra walking slowly down the path so she didn’t get too far ahead of the Child. He waddled more than he walked and she found it endearing. He was determined to keep up with Din and not be left behind on his scouting mission. Even if she was unhappy with the man in front of her, she couldn’t be mad that he had chosen to smuggle the tiny one away from whatever fate had awaited him. “It might be best if we find him some food,” she offered as she still refused to look in Din’s direction.

“You’re right. You should eat something too.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m capable of taking care of myself.” Korra bent down to pick up the little one, carrying him forward so they could pick up the pace a little in town. There was nothing good that came from lingering amongst unfamiliar crowds. She entered what looked like a public house and found an empty table with a high enough chair for the little one.

“What’ll be for you folks?” the worker asked.

“Two bone broths,” Din answered as he gestured towards his two companions.

“Nothing for you?” Korra asked with a raised brow. He always did act like he didn’t need basic items such as food and shelter. But she also knew it would catch up to him if he didn’t admit he was human sooner rather than later.

“Nothing.” She rolled her eyes but accepted her own bowl of broth happily, tucking in as soon as it was placed in front of her.

“You put yourself in a difficult situation but you don’t have to actively make it harder by being stubborn.” Korra could see the look he was giving her even though he had his helmet on. It was one that had a million words embedded in it.

“I thought you weren’t interested in talking?”

“I am not interested in hearing your fake apology.”

“It is not fake. You know I take every action with you-” He stopped himself and turned his head in the opposite direction.

“Whatever you were about to say is clearly a lie. If you cared about me and my well being you would have done so many things differently, Din Djarin.” She closed her eyes and attempted to steady her breathing. More than anything, she did not want to cry in front of him. He could never know how devastated she was by him leaving. She could never let him know the true power that he held over her.

“Keep an eye on the kid. I think I saw something.” Din threw some credits down on the table to cover the meal before swiftly exiting to look for the woman he had seen lurking in the corner. Korra’s appetite was gone as she pushed the bowl of broth away from her.

“You should eat. You must have had a long day and an even longer journey ahead.” She doesn’t know if the creature could understand her or even cared that she was speaking to it but it felt good to not be entirely alone. She urged a couple more spoonfuls into his mouth before he looked eager to get down from the chair and see where Din had gone. “Let’s go see what trouble he’s found himself in,” she muttered as they followed in his footsteps. What they find is Din flat on his back with a blaster in his face and his own weapon pointed at a woman.

The woman, now seated back inside with them, introduced herself as Cara Dune. She told her story, from rebel shocktrooper to diplomatic protection, to her arrival on Sorgan to avoid the bounty she knew must be on her head.

“Only one of us can be here. And I was here first. Unless you want a round two…” Korra knew what she was implying. Cara and Din had seemed quite evenly matched. Next time, she would be prepared and would pull no punches. Din spared Korra a glance, communicating to her silently that they would need to move on from Sorgan. He had no interest in drawing anymore attention to them than he may already have.

It was dark by the time they reached the Crest, the Child sleeping comfortably in Korra’s arms. Her own eyes were drooping and her body was asking her to follow in his footsteps and get some rest.

“A couple of repairs need to be made before we can lift off. Why don’t you get some rest yourself. We’ll be in a new system before you wake up.”

“I want to be in my system when I wake up, Din.” He was silent and offered no physical indications as to what he was thinking. She turned and climbed back onto the ship, gently settling the little one in his pram. Korra took a deep breath. Maybe she needed to force herself to get used to this. Force herself to accept the notion that she was with Din and living life on the run. In the past she would have been excited by the notion. Told anyone who asked that the two of them could overcome any challenge that came their way. They had fallen so far. That was what hurt her the most. That she was afraid to talk to him. Bitter and angry when she did. She didn’t think she owed him an apology but maybe she owed him a listening ear. “I’m sorry for behaving like a womp rat. It’s been a long...long couple days.” Din stopped what he was doing and gave her his full attention as she stood at the top of the ramp.

“I’m sorry. For more than I could possibly list.” She watched him and he watched her. Just enjoying the moment of peace that had settled between the two of them. “I came to you because I didn’t know what to do. All I knew was that if it was the end for me, I wanted to see you one last time. Not in a dream but in person. I didn’t think it through.” Din normally didn’t act impulsively. He normally knew his objective and worked towards it determinedly and methodically. But she made him veer off path. She made his heart sputter and mind spin. The universe converged upon her until she was all he could think about. Until he didn’t think he’d ever be able to breathe again if his eyes didn’t land on her. Until the passion surged through his veins that only she could ignite. He loved her. He never stopped loving her.

“I can’t be mad at you for doing as I would have done.” It was true. Korra would not have been able to leave the little creature behind. And if she had truly thought death was coming for her, she too would have sought one last moment with the man she loved. No matter the cost. “We are both here now. We should focus on making the best of it. On figuring out a plan to get as close to normal as we can.” She had accepted that since Din made her a part of this, there was no going back. She would always be an outlaw. They would follow her back to her home and try to pry information from her. She couldn’t bring that back to the people of her planet. Din moved to stand at the bottom of the ramp, too afraid to get any closer. Afraid that if he did, all the progress they had just made would be erased by him pushing too far.

“I know it is not the life we once dreamed of having but-” The whirring of speeder bikes made the words die in his throat. He immediately switched into his role as bounty hunter. Killer. Protector. He pulled his blaster and aimed at the sound, slowly creeping up the ramp to try and shove Korra to safety.

“We mean no harm, Mandalorian! We’ve come seeking your help!” The two men explained that the entirety of their last krill harvest was stolen by raiders. That they had pooled together the money to hire him as village protector.

“I’m sorry but I cannot afford to entangle myself in any further business.” They sighed with defeat and went to board their bikes when a thought occurred to Korra.

“Wait! Where is it that you live exactly?”

“On a farm.”

“Is it secluded? Is there lodging?” It was then Din picked up on her train of thought. Maybe this could be where they laid. Maybe this could be where they began to build some semblance of normalcy in their lives. They nodded their heads affirmatively to both of her inquiries. “Then he’ll do it.”

----

Din made the choice to recruit Cara on the mission as well. He knew her experience could only help the situation. And he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t slightly fond of the woman who could beat him in a fight. The group traveled through the night before reaching the village, the local children immediately infatuated by the little green creature.

“Looks like he will fit in just fine,” Korra remarked as she grabbed the bag of her belongings and followed their host, Omera, to where her home was. It was humble but warm. The way a home was supposed to be.

“We can’t thank you enough for agreeing to help us. They startle our children and steal our crops. Your presence is a blessing for us all.” Korra smiled and knew Din was most likely blushing under his helmet. She moved towards the bedroom to set up the Child’s cradle as the Mandalorian stumbled through a response to their host.

“She seems very nice,” Korra spoke as Omera gave them some privacy and Din entered the room behind her.

“She is just grateful. Grateful I agreed to help protect her livelihood and her family.”

“I’m sure she wishes to see what is under your helmet,” Korra muttered as she moved to find the fresher. She wanted to brush her hair and splash some water on her face then find something to eat. Maybe even try and convince Din to eat.

“That is quite the statement,” Din replied as he followed after her and leaned in the doorway. “Even if she was curious, I would never show her.”

“When is the last time you removed your helmet in front of someone else?” she asked the question quietly. Almost sheepishly. Like she was embarrassed by the thought that it plagued her to think someone else had seen him.

“You were there. The night before I moved to Nevarro.” He swallowed thickly at the memory. He cherished it and the feelings of warmth and love it inspired in him. But also dreaded painful aftermath that had ensued. The sickening feelings of abandonment he had left on her. The way he had surrounded himself with a numb barrier as he had taken off the next morning.

“Ah, yes. The night you never even uttered the word goodbye.” Korra smiled shakily as she looked down at her hands. “Does that mean there’s been no one in your life since then?” She didn’t ask directly but he knew what she meant. Had he loved anyone since that night. Has there been anyone else in his heart since her.

“I had no interest. Still have no interest in anyone but you.” Din wanted to tell her exactly how he felt. That he still loved her and wanted to be with her. That he still thought he could survive this life if it meant coming home to her at the end of the day. That he would give anything to be able to fulfill those dreams they had spoken about so many cycles ago.

“I was so lost without you, Din. And I thought I would be angry with you the rest of my life. Thought that no other man’s advances worked on me because my hatred of what you did to me was all my heart had room for. And then I slowly realized it was because I could never not love you. That I could never move on because I wasn’t meant to.” Tears were slowly weaving their way down her face and Din couldn’t stop himself from reaching up to cup her cheeks and wipe them away.

“Does that mean you don’t actually hate me?” he asked with a chuckle as she melted into his embrace.

“No. I hate the universe for making you so stubborn. I hate that you are so loyal. I hate that you still maintain your honor even in a galaxy rife with corruption. But I hate even more that after all this time and all the pain and all the nights I spent alone that I still love you like you hang all the stars in the sky.” He wishes he could kiss her. Kiss her breathless and hold her close with no beskar between them. But he hadn’t made that leap in so long. Hadn’t had a reason to.

“Korra, my creed-” She shushed him.

“I waited this long just to see you again. I can wait until your heart tells you it is the right time.” She closed her eyes and imagined what he had looked like that last night when he had taken his helmet off. Imagined that he still looked exactly like that under all his armor. Even if he didn’t, he was still Din. Her Din.

“I love you and will do whatever it takes to earn your trust back.”

“Promise me you won’t shut me out. Never, ever again.” That was what had hurt her the most. It had felt like losing a limb, not being able to talk to him.

“I promise.” And Din thinks the words he shared with hers, the promises he made and would work to keep, were their own sort of creed. A bond between the two of them that maybe one day would overcome the one he had taken as a child. He hopes so, as he looks into her eyes and repeats in his mind. I promise, I promise, I promise. I love you and I promise.

#the mandalorian #pedro pascal #star wars #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #star wars fanfiction

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unaccomplishedwriter · 4 years

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- s a v i o r -

. Nicholas Scratch x Reader .

Prologue

{PART ONE}

“No.”

A furious hiss rang out, making the red backdrop of this particular confrontation all the more intimidating. A figure cowered in the corner, ignored for the time being by the malevolent being contorting his face in deep, malicious hatred before (y/n).

She almost found herself afraid, but then she felt the faint but unmistakable presence of the soul pulsing deep within the body in front of her.

“I am the Dark Lord! I am Satan, the DEVIL, your kind shall have NO control over me!” spat the man.

She closed her eyes for a moment, reminding herself of who she was and why she was here. The very existence of the aforementioned soul was why she was sent here, meant to commune with the Dark Lord himself. As a celestial, it should have normally been impossible for the Fates to grasp his tangible soul, yet here he was. Assigned to her, a rookie in every sense of the word. Could Fate be so cruel to assign one of its daughters the monumental task of curbing a literal universe-implicant apocalypse in her freshly assigned star domain?

Well, certainly it could.

“You are the Devil,” (y/n) stated calmly, “but where has the Devil found himself? Trapped in mortal flesh. The cosmos are imbalanced, and frankly I need an explanation before the Fates decide to wipe out this domain completely.”

As curses were rained down upon her by this literal god-forsaken man, (y/n) reflected on how she’d found herself here in the first place. Unlucky star domains were assigned at random, even this process being left to Fate. Not every stela has the responsibility of managing an Unlucky star domain, but, bright eyed and bushy tailed, she chose the longer option of waiting it out for one as her very own. The appearance of an unlucky fated star in a domain usually heralded an impending apocalypse, which was not uncommon for her kind to see and mitigate. But when she received her star and its respective domain, the Fates themselves were horrified at the sheer scope of catastrophe this domain had the potential to cause. Not just one, but several sects and gods were implicated as the haze over this domain was lifted for the first time. Being the dwelling ground of various sects of power, Greendale had never fallen into normal confines of Fate as these powers masked its existence to the stela. With the removal of the Dark Lord from Hell, his soul was binded to a mortal’s, his celestial existence ceasing, in a sense, while he was confined to the flesh acheron. Now with a tangible soul, the Dark Lord became subject to Fate, and in its attempts at bringing this domain back under its control he received an official fated star. The downtrodden celestial bore the the brightest unlucky star seen in millenia, only to appear just as (y/n) was receiving an assignment of her own. With the balance of power now out of whack, the haze that surrounded the domain that encompassed Greendale’s living was now visible in the star chart for the first time ever. As she felt the strings of fate tie her to the souls and fated stars of those of Greendale, she felt true fear for once in her life. Greendale was home to a bed of unending changes and terrors, certainly too much for the young stela to handle alone. Notifying the Fates was her first plan of action, but they couldn’t go back in Time, and the most they could do was allow the help of others when needed. (Y/n) knew she was being watched closely, and could very well be responsible for a catastrophe if she wasn’t careful.

And as she looked at the raging, childish man in front of her, she couldn’t help but to blame him.

“Shut up.” She inflected, voice thick with irritation. Ignoring the deeply offended and murderous look that fixed upon the man’s face, she cut off any attempt at retribution by raising her palm, cutting him off.

“If you want things to go back to normal, we need to work together. Whatever you are, you’re under my domain now. That means you help me, I help you. If you don’t,” she shrugged, “you and this entire world will probably be destroyed. Doesn’t mean much more than a demotion for me, but for you...”

Honestly, (y/n) was definitely underexaggerating the ramifications for herself should she fail at her assignment. But she was 100% correct in saying that the Dark Lord didn’t really have a choice in complying with her if he wanted things to go back to how they were. The man seemed aware of that, because he immediately began pacing, his voice a thunderous growl.

“Those bitches! They betrayed me! They all did. I’ll kill them all!” he screeched, violently waving his hands.

It took quite some persuasion for (y/n) to calm him down enough to extract the full story, and if she were being honest with herself she was pretty impressed with the witches’ sense of self-preservation.

“That explains the appearance of your star. Your soul must be entangled with the mortal you’re trapped with. His star...” (y/n) trailed off, eyebrows furrowing. In her star chart, alongside the Dark Lord’s fated star was a dim, dying one. The star was obviously feeding off the energy of the weaker one, dimming it’s owner’s connection to their fate.

What this meant for them, she didn’t know.

Upon this thought, her eyes immediately flashed to the figure hunched in the corner. Studying it carefully, she observed a boy in his late teens, early twenties, hands over his head and mumbling to himself. The boy did not seem well, and it wasn’t until she saw the same odd split in his soul she observed previously that she remembered who he was trapped here with did (y/n) finally get the full picture of what happened here.

The Dark Lord’s soul was also split, meant to represent his celestial self and the break unto mortal flesh. But this boy’s soul had been split and essentially shared with the Dark Lord, rendering him incomplete.

It the most unfortunate soul she’d ever seen.

(Y/n)’s wasn’t the only attention spotlighted onto the boy, the Dark Lord immediately turning his ire to the one who’s body held him captive. Not willing to see the poor figure being tortured, she made a sigil, and with a flash the gloomy red scenery turned white.

Now they were alone.

It seemed as if the boy didn’t notice the change in scenery, because he didn’t even flinch as he rocked back and forth, mumbled jargon pouring listlessly from his mouth.

It wasn’t until (y/n) drew closer and rested her hands upon his face, palms glowing silver as she calmed his mind best she could that she received a reaction from him, his hands shooting up and gripping her own.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she cooed, her eyes searching for his. (Y/e/c) eyes met brown eyes, anguish and torture reflecting in muddy pools that stared dazedly back at her. As a sort of celestial being herself, (y/n) was able to send small, gentle waves of her presence washing over his body until his mind cleared a bit more. She couldn’t undo what the Dark Lord had done to him, but she was confident that her presence at the moment was at least relieving some of the burden.

“Who are you?”

he croaked, eyes flooding with tears. This was the first time he’d felt relief in what felt like an eternity, and all he could focus on was the figure in front of him. His grip tightened around her wrists, but she didn’t mind. Threading a hand in his hair, (y/n) settled herself between the boy’s knees, getting as close as she possibly could.

“I’m here to help you. It’s okay,” she repeated.

“Wh-where did he go? The..the Dark Lord,” he squeezed out, muscles tensing up at the mere mention of the alias. (Y/n) felt her heart go out to him, her own eyes becoming misty as well.

“I sent him to...sleep. He will be back, but not for a while at least.”

Of course she couldn’t separate them completely, they were still in Hell of course. Her powers weren’t nearly as strong here, and she could only offer temporary reprieve. But it was something, she thought, and that’s what matters.

“What’s your name?” she questioned, intending to keep his mind present and away from dark, straying thoughts. He stayed silent for a while, attempting to anchor himself to the present as he focused on the healing effect washing over his mind.

“...it’s Nick,” he eventually responded, his breathing deeper and less erratic. They sat there in silence for a long while, her presence giving him comfort and his warmth making her feel inexplicable.

Eventually, (y/n) felt her form starting to fade as her stolen time in Hell, aided by the Fates, approached its limit. He must have felt it too, because he grabbed her hand once again and used the other to caress her face,

“Will you come back?”

Begging eyes met hers once again, and (y/n) felt her heart clinch. Visiting Hell for as long as she has took not only her power but the power of the Fates as well. If she came here alone again, it wouldn’t be for nearly as long, and would exhaust a huge chunk of her power every time she did so. But as she faced the boy in front of her, she couldn’t find it in herself to say no.

With whispered promises and broken sobs, (y/n) eventually found herself amongst her people once again, with a lot of explaining to do.

But even as the Fates shook her down for information, why could her mind only muster up images of the boy steeped in tragedy?

Author’s note: once again, I apologize for formatting!

#nick scratch x reader #nick scratch #nicholas scratch #nicholas scratch x reader #chilling adventures of sabrina #sabrina #ambrose #fanfiction #fanfic #xreader #x reader

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please-return-to-villanelle · 4 years

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The Fates of Man

S3E7 recap

I’ve been actively avoiding spoilers for the finale so if some of this analysis has already been debunked then I’m sorry for the clownery you are about to read.

Firstly, I’d like to point out the infamous opening title cards are back but this time, they are a greenish color rather than the reddish color we saw in S3E2. It’s worth noting in this episode Villanelle wears green on more than one occasion while Eve is wearing a red colored shirt underneath her cardigan.

It’s an interesting use of opposing yet complimentary primary colors perhaps signifying that Eve and Villanelle are strong and bold personalities that lie on opposing sides of this spy game and the psychopathy spectrum, but they complement each other none the less.

In the opening scene, Villanelle is meeting with Helene and her go-to assassin Rhian. The purpose of this meeting is for Helene to assess Villanelle’s fitness for duty after her injury on her last mission.

Despite almost failing completely at killing her last mark, Villanelle takes a seat at the head of the table (a seat associated with power and control) and projects an aloof and uninterested demeanor. What I find really odd about this entire encounter is that Helene mandates that Villanelle is unable to work because she is injured and NOT because of her unstable emotional state.

So I have to wonder, why hasn’t the Twelve sent Villanelle for a psych evaluation in series 3? When she showed she was losing her focus in series 1, the Twelve mandated she had to be cleared by a psychologist before she was allowed to work again. I find it very odd that that’s not happening this season but rather Helene was sent to promote her to Keeper and then bench her because of her arm despite the evidence that she is erratically emotional which is clouding her judgement.

Monstrous people like you often feel like they have to fly solo and keep things bottled up inside them.

Maybe Helene is taking a new strategy with Villanelle and is trying to manipulate her emotions and have her unleash them in a productive fashion. Either that, or she has an alternate plan that does not involve prioritizing Villanelle’s health and safety. I mean if she has Rhian, her own assassin that seems to get the job done, why keep a problematic assassin like Villanelle around? It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense on the surface which leads me to assume the Twelve is using her as a means to an end.

The scene ultimately ends with Helene asserting her power over Villanelle, with Rhian hovering over her shoulder.

Once they exit the room, Villanelle releases her emotions and seems to concede to the fact that she truly has no power in this situation and is very alone.

Her fate as a member of the Twelve is to act as a monstrous puppet and do her master’s bidding. I think this scene ultimately shows that Villanelle’s priorities have changed, and she cannot find peace of mind in the role as monstrous killer and she really does not want to spend the rest of her life by herself.

Later on, Dasha reminds Villanelle of both her loneliness and her lack of joy in taking lives.

This season has drawn many parallels between Villanelle and Dasha showing that both women are egotistical, perfectionist killers, and started their careers at young ages. I think the writers might be trying to show us what Villanelle’s career path might look like if she continues working for the Twelve. She could end up as a has been assassin who does not “still got it”, is forced to work with others despite hating every second of it, and is be manipulated by her handlers by being denied what she truly wants.

Dasha is under the impression that Villanelle is her final mission and upon completion she will be rewarded with what she wants: her freedom to return home evidently to her loved ones.

Sounds oddly familiar to Villanelle’s wish list, doesn’t it?

The fact that Dasha has family waiting for her is the metaphorical salt in the wound for Villanelle who is still in turmoil over her disastrous family reunion in which she realized that she doesn’t have that sense of family with her blood relatives that Dasha implies to have with her son.

Villanelle is also lacking the joy and power she used to once feel when she watched the life drain from her victims’ eyes.

This is something her and Dasha had in common as Dasha describes how she feels when she kills and how much she will miss that feeling once she retires. In fact we literally see HOW Villanelle NOW feels after she kills someone (or when she thinks she has killed someone).

Rather than feel powerful, she looks lost and panicked. She does not stick around to watch the life drain and take pleasure in that, instead she runs away from the situation entirely and tells her real mark to do the same. Ultimately, this illustrates that Villanelle choses not to walk the same path as Dasha and does not want to share her fate of working for the Twelve for many years to come.

On the opposite side of the murder spectrum is Eve Polastri who finds an injured Dasha.

It is here we witness the beautiful transition into Dark Eve which arises with provocation from Dasha…

Eve processes the new information that Dasha did in fact try to kill Niko.

She calculates what she wants to do next to deal with this situation.

She chooses her own fate by acting as she wants to with a smile on her face. Revealing to us that, when in control of her decision to murder, Eve feels joy watching the life start to drain…

And she feels powerful while killing.

Could this mean that the higher ups in the Twelve could see this in Eve all along and have been keeping an eye on her to recruit her as an assassin? Or maybe Carolyn had similar hopes and dreams for Eve as well?

Either way, it’s as if Villanelle and Eve are both capable of murdering and revealing in that but they currently lie on opposite ends of this spectrum regarding how they feel about killing at this time.

Eve feels powerful while Villanelle feels powerless.

We see this juxtaposition with them in their final (and only) scene together.

When Villanelle first boards the train she seems sad and lost but perks up once she sees Eve.

To her, this is tangible evidence that Eve cares about her and maybe she is not as alone in this world as she previously believed. This action from Eve causes Villanelle to reach out to Eve by calling her with the phone number she has apparently had this whole time. Her motivation here is to end the chase and create a new opportunity to form a real relationship with Eve; the one person who seems to care about her despite the chaos. It’s worth noting that Eve cycles through the same thought process when she receives the phone call that she did when she chose to try and kill Dasha (ie giving into her deepest desires).

Eve processes the new information that Villanelle is calling her.

She calculates what she wants to do next to deal with this situation.

She chooses her own fate by acting as she wants to with a smile on her face.

Carolyn begins this episode seemingly in control of her own destiny.

She is making progress with Kenny’s murder and has identified a weasel in MI6 that is working for the Twelve. However, by the end of the episode we see Carolyn realize that she may not be as in control of this situation as she once believed.

I feel the walls closing in on me. This is starting to feel personal.

As a long-standing MI6 agent and head of the Russia desk, Carolyn has to have been involved in many entanglements with the Twelve. In fact, in series 2 she successfully negotiated with them in regard to the Aaron Peele mission. Carolyn has managed to separate her MI6 work life from her personal life for many years and it seems like now that line of separation is breaking down. The death of Kenny and Mo now feel personal attacks to Carolyn rather than the typical collateral damage she is used to.

Perhaps Carolyn too will find a way to once again become the master of her own destiny rather than succumb to the will of the Twelve.

(Carolyn and Villaneve team up in series 4, please!)

Konstantin mentions death a lot in this episode and seems fixated on the many explosive tasks he is juggling. He claims that everyone in his life wants him dead because he is a prick and toys with the idea of letting the Twelve kill him since running away is pointless. They will eventually find him and kill him.

This conversation with Villanelle made me think of the promo photos and the concepts of The Fates (post). Interestingly, each woman has Konstantin tethered at the neck with flowing fabric from their respective dresses.

Konstantin is entangled with Carolyn, Eve, and Villanelle thanks to his money embezzling plan to gain his freedom from the Twelve.

This plan lead to the death of Kenny who was trailing the money and this personally affected Carolyn. Carolyn then involved Eve to uncover what foul play lead to Kenny’s demise which then directed Eve’s attention to chasing down Villanelle.

Konstantin seems to have now made peace with his decisions and accepts his doomed fate.

However, when he is on the brink of death during his heart attack he openly confessed that he doesn’t want to die with absolute honesty. He is revealing in this moment that he will do whatever it takes to save himself and escape his grim fate.

I am a shit. I think whatever his plan is it will involve redirecting the wrath of the Twelve from him over Carolyn, Eve, and Villanelle Villanelle has already been implicated the most in the embezzling: she killed Kruger’s wife, a death that Paul is very interested in, and now her and Eve are going to retrieve the money (which now implicates Eve). Maybe Konstantin took advantage of Geraldine’s kindness and manipulated that situation to somehow frame Carolyn in all of this without her knowing as well.

Either way, this is a recipe for an explosive finale that will affect the fates of all the main characters.

#killing eve #killing eve season 3 #villanelle #villanelle x eve #villaneve #Eve Polastri #Carolyn Martins #konstantin vasiliev #the fates #killing eve analysis #beautiful monster #i feel things when i’m with queue

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catyo90 · 5 years

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The Hunt: Ch. 23

For four years the seasons passed as the trees turned from green to gold. The cold breath of winter soon claimed the land covering it in thick snow. Dis and Y/n were watching Vili and Thorin playing with Fili and Kili. The young princes laughed as Vili fell over onto Thorin covering the both of them with snow. Y/n giggled at the sight as the children jumped on both of them. Dis ran over to them and help Kili up from the snow. She was a little protective of him seeing as he was the younger one but she loved both of them equally. Y/n sneaked around one of the trees and held up a snowball toward Thorin, but Vili got in the way and manage to throw one at her. She quickly hid behind the tree and laughed.

Thorin sat up as Vili landed in the snow next to him and smiled at the sight as Fili started to pull on her robe to follow him from her hiding spot. She smiled at the little one trying to make her come out. Thorin saw it as an opportunity to tease her. He stood up and started to walk toward the tree, Y/n noticed this and quickly went to make a snowball. As she stood away from the tree she stopped in her tracks to see him right in front of him and held her in a tight embrace. Before she could figure out what he was planning, the both of them rolled onto the snow. After a few minutes the two of them laid there and started to laugh to themselves. Y/n sighed as the sudden rush of adrenaline coursed through her. She had forgot what it was like to be this happy. It felt like something completely new. Thorin looked at his wife to see she had tears in her eyes. He quickly sat himself up and brought a hand to her cheek. She gave an innocent smile to him and he nodded in understanding. Before the two of them knew the were jumped upon by Kili and Fili who started to giggle as Thorin lifted the two of them with ease. Y/n stood up and watched the three of them playing as Vili started to join them.

“MY LORD!”

The family turned their heads toward the gate to see one of the messengers who had entered through the gate had fallen to his knees, the dwarf was covered in dirt and blood as he seemed out of breath. Dis and Vili picked up the children while Thorin helped the man onto his feet, Y/n quickly took a look at the wounds, she looked away from them and tried to focus. The white light and pulse that she had felt all those years ago had not returned for years. Even when she knew the kingdom needed her abilities she could not control them. Sadly today was the same. The dwarfs wounds were too deep and clearly he had not eaten or drank since. He could not be saved from his fate. Thorin helped the man to rest as Y/n held his hand for comfort as the man struggled with his words.

“To the west...a pack of orcs..they attacked us in the night... we...we couldn’t.”

The dwarfs head fell backwards as he drew his final breath. Thorin sighed in anger and grief. Suddenly the wind started to pick up, from the west a storm started to gather. Thorin called out for Vili who helped him carry the man inside for a proper burial. Y/n and Dis hurried the children toward the main halls of the royal house. The storm seemed to carry through the rest of the day and night without any relief. That night Thorin was troubled about the traders that were sent. They weren’t warriors not even true traders of business. He started to think about going out to search for them but right now there was barely anyone left who could fight properly. Dwalin instantly offered to help but he believed that they should only bring one other. Thorin didn’t like the sound of it but he couldn’t think of anything else. Taking an army would take too much time and resources and they could easily see them coming from miles away but a small group would manage.

That night Thorin, Vili, Dwalin, Dis and Y/n spoke about the plan to bring back the others. Dis immediately disapproved of Vili going.

“You can’t just go off and play hero! You have two children who need you here... I won’t watch you go to play soldier. And if you don’t come back...”

Dis said nothing for a moment as she looked away from him. She took a deep breath and looked up at him with an angered expression and tears pricking her eyes.

“I won’t survive.”

Vili sighed at his wife’s plea, he didn’t want to. Mahal knows he didn’t but he knew it was the right thing to do. He placed a hand on her shoulder. She started to sob as she tightly hugged him. He lifted a hand to the back of her head and gently stroked her hair.

“You know I don’t want to. But I have to.”

Dis sighed at the sad truth. Dwalin groaned to himself as he looked away. The others knew he felt bad for the two of them but he was too stubborn to show it. Thorin was very resilient to let him come with them but in truth he wouldn’t let anyone else join them. Vili was a well trained fighter and he knew his way around these lands better than the others. Y/n agreed with Dis. Kili and Fili needed their father, especially during these times. Rumors of orcs and goblins coming out of hiding brought the fear of war over the horizon. As well as the fear of what was brewing past the misty mountains.

That night it was decided that Dwalin, Thorin and Vili would travel in search of the others. Dis and Del were together with Kili and Fili trying their best for them to get some rest. Y/n had decided to help Vili prepare for the travel. Thorin and Dwalin offered to help the two of them but were politely declined. Vili after some time offered Y/n to reside for the night as her continuing yawns signaled him that she needed rest. When she arrived to the chambers, the sight of Thorin sitting up from the bed in his regular attire. He hadn’t slept, Y/n thought as she walked over to him. She carefully took off his cloak and helped him settle into bed. Soon afterwards she joined him.

At the crack of dawn the three of them headed toward the gate, for now the storm had calmed down but it would not last very long. Y/n carried Fili as Dis cradled Kili in her arms following them. Dwalin ordered the men to speak of nothing as he slipped a pouch of gold to each of them. They didn’t need orc spies to know of their plans. Vili turned to Dis and looked down at the sleepy Kili in her arms, Vili tucked a hand under the blanket to the babes chin and gently tickled it. Kili cooed at the slight tickle and soon opened his eyes to meet Vili’s piercing light blues. Vili chucked at the sight and then turned his attention to Fili. Y/n carefully handed Fili to him, soon Vili found his son’s arms clutched around his neck, he in turn embraced him. After a few moments Vili finally was able to muster the strength to let him go. Dis looked at her husband and gave him a light kiss on the lips as she clutched to his cloak. Dis pulled out a black stone with gold letters carved into it, a simple token. Y/n had brought her attention to Thorin. He watched as she mouthed these words to him.

“Be safe.”

Thorin nodded in response, Vili gave Dis one more embrace before he turned to the others and they started to head out to find the others. Dis and Y/n stood there as they watched the three of them disappear into the roaring winds and falling snow. After a short while they returned to the royal home. Del was waiting outside the inner gate with maids helping the young princesses inside from the bitter cold. Y/n looked out the window, it would take them a least two weeks to come back. She turned her head at the sight of Dis sleeping with Kili and Fili on either side of her, she chuckled at the sight and brought a thick fur blanket over them. That night and for the past days they waited.

It had been a week since they left home, Vili was at the front of them as he tried his best to navigate them through the storm, however after some time Dwalin insisted they find a place to camp and rest for awhile.

“We need to find shelter! Perhaps there is a cave nearby!” Thorin yelled out.

“There! Over the fields near the woods!” Vili pointed out to a small cave that was covered in the roots of the old trees, like looked like webs entangling the stone together, even though it wasn’t to deep it was the best they could work with. Vili had Dwalin start a fire while Thorin helped tie a fur curtain around the entrance, for now it was best that they stayed unseen. Thorin and Dwalin offered some meat to Vili after he weighted the curtain down with a few stones.

“This is ridiculous. A storm like this should have been gone by now, why the hell is it still around?” Vili asked shivering holding his hands to the fire

“Perhaps it be the makings of a wizard?” Dwalin said as he chomped down his food.

Thorin chuckled at those words.

“i highly doubt it, I would believe it to be the those pointed eared bastards. Who knows what they are capable of.” Thorin said with a hint of anger in his tone. Vili merely nodded in agreement to change the subject.

“So Thorin I have to ask...your an Alpha right?”

Thorin was slightly taken back by his question.

“Yes, Y/n has a specific scent that only alphas can sense.” Thorin pulled out his pipe and started to fill it with a bit of Old Toby.

“So Dwalin isn’t an Alpha right...or are you? Vili turned to Dwalin with a questioning look.

Dwalin gave him annoyed look and looked to Thorin to see if he should answer. Thorin shrugged, he really wasn’t that concerned.

“Yes I am. When she was first introduced to the others I was one of them but I had no reason to go after a mate. I ain’t ready for that kind of commitment. Even so, I wouldn’t go after her when this one clearly was awe-struck when he saw her.”

Thorin chuckled at the statement as he added a little more wood to the fire. After a few moments of silence Dwalin moved the curtain a little out of the way so he could see. Past the woods and near the middle of the field were a pair of glowing eyes. Dwalin quickly closed the curtain and turned to Thorin who had already readied his weapon.

“We were followed. Past the field, there are two hounds. We can take them.” Dwalin whispered as he readied his battle-ax.

Vili covered the fire with snow, Thorin and Dwalin stepped outside to see only one of the wargs. Where the other one was they weren’t sure. Vili stayed behind them and watched their backs. The woods would be the best place for a stealth attack. Clearly not what they needed. Vili could hear the snow cracking under the wargs weight but couldn’t see it through the thick trees and the blasted snow. Suddenly the warg in front of them snarled toward them as another one stood next to it with the orcs riding them speaking to each other.

“I thought you said there were only two.” Vili asked as he questioned Dwalin.

“At least we know there are only three of them.” Thorin said as he raised his sword toward the wargs in front. Dwalin and Vili followed suit as the wargs started to circle the three of them. The wind started to speed up as the snow started to drop more rapidly. The sound of snow crunching around them as small drops of blood fell from the wargs mouth with every growl and snarl.

#the hobbit #the hunt #thorin oakenshield #thorin x reader #reader #romance #@thewildomega #enjoy

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chinxino5-blog · 7 years

Text

It’s A Package Deal - Epilogue

1/2

Stockholm syndrome was something Bryce didn’t completely understand. He didn’t believe in fate, nor did he go on about how “everything happens for a reason”. All in all, he didn’t have any specific beliefs about how the world worked.

Whether Stockholm syndrome was the source of it all, living with Ryan proved to be… different. The first few months were definitely odd as they came to fall out of their previous lives. It was strange going from a college student with an apartment and a boyfriend, to a guy who was living out in the Michigan forests with an emotionally-constipated ex-hitman. Ryan had, despite how much he hated and denied it, an addiction of sorts when it came to his gun and using it.

Eventually he properly taught Bryce and they would go out and play around with shooting bottles and trash as targets. Ryan also thought it was worth-while in case someone got the idea of killing the Great Ohmwrecker, or whatever. Bryce living with him would never be totally safe, it was best he learnt how to protect himself if it ever became a necessity.

He also began working out, keeping his strength and ability as high as he could. Bryce joined in with him every now and then but he much preferred to sit back and read.

His biggest goal was to open Ohm up and find Ryan. No longer a hitman, no longer a murderer. He was someone able to start fresh, but doing so was far harder than he expected. Untangling the mess of an emotional barrier he’d encircled himself with. Years and years of getting colder and harsher, it was not a two-day task.

It was blatant that both of them were getting antsy as days passed. Sitting around all day every day doing barely anything got boring after a week or two.

Eventually, Bryce strode into Ryan’s room one morning and demanded the two would go into town. The ex-hitman, obviously, had nothing better to do and they ended up returning with five tins of paint, a guitar and a little bit more enthusiasm. No matter Ryan’s uptight and tense attitude in public, Bryce chattered away and didn’t bat an eye. No one saw them as anything other than newcomers.

They painted the days away, the blonde being absolutely hopeless with a paintbrush or pencil, especially beside Ryan who had some sort of good luck with hidden talents. Their home had two bedrooms and Ryan’s soon filled up with painted canvases. Bryce fell into the pattern of just watching the older man work away at the white, his fingers often strumming at a guitar and his voice often humming or singing along to whatever melody the instrument released.

Those were the nicest days. They didn’t need to speak. They enjoyed the presence of music and the presence of each other.

Months passed and they spoke more. Ryan never changed in that he wasn’t much of a talker. As much as he complained, he still loved listening to Bryce talk. He took in all the information about him and noted all the little quirks throughout his everyday life. He learnt to love living with him and hearing his voice and watching his eyes wander and sparkle with curiosity, and joy, and excitement.

And maybe he was falling a little bit in love as months turned into years. And maybe he hated the idea of such a thing and would never mention it aloud. But maybe it wasn’t so bad when there was no longer enough space in his room to be a bedroom so Bryce let him sleep in his room until they sorted out another area for the paintings to go. Maybe neither really cared for finding another place to put them.

It wasn’t so bad as Bryce fell in love with Ryan’s warmth next to him each night. And when it went unspoken after the first few nights of going to bed apart and waking up entangled, they didn’t care for personal space or distance. They never spoke about it, they didn’t need to.

They fell in love over years of just each other. They found comfort together and that was all they really needed. Between kisses to cheeks, and kisses with tongue and teeth and skin on skin, and loose arms around waists or fingers hanging from fingers. They found a simplicity they needed to stay together and stay alright.

As much as Ryan wanted to hate it because how cheesy could it get, he was addicted. His gun stayed in his bedside table for longer and he left the house to go shopping with Bryce more than he did to go shooting. He curled his fingers around paintbrushes, and pencils, and blonde hair instead of triggers. He snarled at the coffee machine when it didn’t work for him, instead of assholes who didn’t pay for what they got.

He learnt to open up, even if it included several nights of frustrated tears and refusing to acknowledge he was cuddling Bryce because he’s not a teenage girl. Frustration of “I don’t know who Ryan is,” and “I want to change but I don’t know how!” Frustration calmed by Bryce’s fingers running through his hair and touching his cheeks and lips and eyelashes with gentle reassurance of “You get to decide who he is,” and “It’s not an overnight thing, you have to give yourself time.”

Bryce was always patient and calm. He knew the man he lived with and he knew the man he loved. He accepted his outbursts of anger and distress and didn’t say anything about how some nights his hold was tighter and slightly more desperate. He didn’t mention when Ryan’s sleep was restless and just lay awake while the other hid his face in his neck.

He gave him the time needed to change. To get better and relearn how to live a relatively normal life. Relearn how to go out in public without walking down back alleys and carrying guilt on his shoulders when he did nice things and helped older ladies across crosswalks and off buses.

They were there for each other at most and accepted that they were both missing pieces. Love doesn’t account for missing pieces, and neither man really cared much about specifics. They lived alone and comfortably and that was all they wanted. That was their paradise.

2/2

Bryce smiled up at the brunette, earning a nasty glare in return. The older dropped onto the couch behind the blonde who sat on the floor with his guitar in his hands.

“You’re terrible,” Ryan grumbled, head falling back as Bryce lovingly patted his knee. He laughed aloud as the other swatted him away. “You can barely cook, you manage to shrink clothes and dye them different colours, you make the beds with the wrong sheets.” The list only made Bryce smile wider, very aware of how horrible a housemate he was. Plus, Ryan loved to have control and know everything that was going on. It bugged the Hell out of him when Bryce didn’t do things the way he was supposed to and the blonde used it to his advantage and laziness. He also loved to complain. “Is there anything you can do?”

Bryce set his guitar to the side, twisted around to kneel and look up at his “housemate” with a smirk. Playfully, he dropped his hands to Ryan’s knees, pushing himself up to hover above him. Silver eyes widened ever-so-slightly, the closeness unexpected as Bryce’s lips crawled up his jaw to his ear.

“Well--” the blonde pressed a kiss below his ear, voice low and hot, “--I’ve been told I’m pretty good with my tongue.” Heat spread right across Ryan’s cheeks and his body tensed up as the teasing fingers trailed up his thighs slowly. Teeth played with his earlobe and he could barely focus on breathing, let alone the heat that was flushing every inch of his skin. “Want a demonstration?”

His hands found Bryce’s arms and he roughly shoved the blonde away. He didn’t look up at the shit-eating grin. “Fuck you,” he huffed, standing and trying not to squirm. His pants were suddenly extremely uncomfortable and he dragged himself towards the kitchen.

“That was the plan,” Bryce cooed, giggling to himself as he pranced after the ex-hitman. Catching up to him, he slung his arms over his shoulders and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. “You gotta take the good with the bad, baby,” he sung ignoring Ryan’s huff of fake-irritation. “I’m a package deal.”

The brunette turned, catching his jaw with calloused fingers and pressing his mouth hotly to the other’s. Hands squeezed Bryce’s ass and he lifted the twenty-five year old up onto the counter. The space between them became very small and very hot.

He gasped as Bryce rolled his hips forward, growling and slipping his hands up to grasp his hips tightly. “Fuck, you,” he said again, rough and breathy. He was so easy to set off, the blonde just couldn’t help himself.

Bryce grinned against his lips, tangling their tongues as he continued to rock his hips in the way that got Ryan worked up. He pulled back slightly, flashing a satisfied grin as the brunette’s head tipped back in a whisper of a sigh. His teeth nipped at Ryan’s jaw. “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

Ryan rolled his eyes, tired of the other’s words, and pulled him back in close, melting them together just the way they both loved it.

End

First: Prologue

Previous: Twenty-One

FINALLY

ITS DONE

I’m so fucking happy omg, this thing took almost three months and I actually loved it wow. I’m excited to go back and read through the whole thing tonight and see how it really flowed because I’ve had some really sweet feedback and I think I’m pretty happy with how it turned out.

Now. Future plans. I am writing a mini story, a cliche, [punk! pastel! h2ovanoss because I felt like it would be fun]. I don’t know how that will go but it will be fun to write so fuck it.

I might open requests for certain ships and stuff, I don’t know how that will go over either. Either way I don’t think I’m going to take on any longer chapter stories for a while. I reckon people will enjoy a lot of short fics and I can explore different genres and that sort of thing, I think it’ll be good. You guys tell me what you want.

Back on topic of [It’s A Package Deal] Thank you guys so much for putting up with my mistakes and sections of inactivity, I’m happy to have been able to finish it in the end and I really appreciate feedback so I can see how to improve and what to focus on in the future. It was hell fun to write, hell fun to post and I’m so happy some of you guys really enjoyed.

I’ll let you guys know what else is going on later, I’m probably going to write a bit more for now and maybe see what I have tonight. Thanks again, I appreciate every single one of you.

gi <3

#brohm #brohm fic #brohm fanfic #bbs #bbs fic #bbs fanfic #fic #fanfic #hitman!ohmwrecker #stockholm syndrome #its a package deal #it's a package deal #epilogue #final chapter #end

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justforbooks · 7 years

Photo

My Life as a Writer

The following is an interview Philip Roth gave to Daniel Sandstrom, the cultural editor at Svenska Dagbladet, for publication in Swedish translation in that newspaper and in its original English in the Book Review.

“Sabbath’s Theater” is now being translated into Swedish, almost 20 years after its original release. How would you describe this book to readers who have not yet read it or heard of it, and how would you describe the main character, the unforgettable Mickey Sabbath?

“Sabbath’s Theater” takes as its epigraph a line of the aged Prospero’s in Act 5 of “The Tempest.” “Every third thought,” says Prospero, “shall be my grave.” I could have called the book “Death and the Art of Dying.” It is a book in which breakdown is rampant, suicide is rampant, hatred is rampant, lust is rampant. Where disobedience is rampant. Where death is rampant.

Mickey Sabbath doesn’t live with his back turned to death the way normal people like us do. No one could have concurred more heartily with the judgment of Franz Kafka than would Sabbath, when Kafka wrote, “The meaning of life is that it stops.”

His book is death-haunted — there is Sabbath’s great grief about the death of others and a great gaiety about his own. There is leaping with delight, there is also leaping with despair. Sabbath learns to mistrust life when his adored older brother is killed in World War II. It is Morty’s death that determines how Sabbath will live. The death of Morty sets the gold standard for grief. Loss governs Sabbath’s world.

Sabbath is anything but the perfect external man. His is, rather, the instinctual turbulence of the man beneath the man. His repellent way of living — he is a kiln of antagonism, unable and unwilling to hide anything and, with his raging, satirizing nature, mocking everything, living beyond the limits of discretion and taste and blaspheming against the decent — this repellent way of living is his uniquely Sabbathian response to a place where nothing keeps its promise and everything is perishable. His repellent way of living, a life of unalterable contention, is the best preparation he knows of for death. In his mischief he finds his truth.

Lastly, this Sabbath is a jokester like Hamlet, who winks at the genre of tragedy by cracking jokes as Sabbath winks at the genre of comedy by planning suicide. There is loss, death, dying, decay, grief — and laughter, ungovernable laughter. Pursued by death, Sabbath is followed everywhere by laughter.

I know that you have reread all of your books recently. What was your verdict? And what was your opinion of “Sabbath’s Theater” while reading it again?

When I decided to stop writing about five years ago I did, as you say, sit down to reread the 31 books I’d published between 1959 and 2010. I wanted to see whether I’d wasted my time. You never can be sure, you know.

My conclusion, after I’d finished, echoes the words spoken by an American boxing hero of mine, Joe Louis. He was world heavyweight champion from the time I was 4 until I was 16. He had been born in the Deep South, an impoverished black kid with no education to speak of, and even during the glory of the undefeated 12 years, when he defended his championship an astonishing 26 times, he stood aloof from language. So when he was asked upon his retirement about his long career, Joe sweetly summed it up in just 10 words. “I did the best I could with what I had.”

In some quarters it is almost a cliché to mention the word “misogyny” in relation to your books. What, do you think, prompted this reaction initially, and what is your response to those who still try to label your work in that way?

Misogyny, a hatred of women, provides my work with neither a structure, a meaning, a motive, a message, a conviction, a perspective, or a guiding principle. This is contrary, say, to how another noxious form of psychopathic abhorrence — and misogyny’s equivalent in the sweeping inclusiveness of its pervasive malice — anti-Semitism, a hatred of Jews, provides all those essentials to “Mein Kampf.” My traducers propound my alleged malefaction as though I have spewed venom on women for half a century. But only a madman would go to the trouble of writing 31 books in order to affirm his hatred.

It is my comic fate to be the writer these traducers have decided I am not. They practice a rather commonplace form of social control: You are not what you think you are. You are what we think you are. You are what we choose for you to be.

Well, welcome to the subjective human race. The imposition of a cause’s idea of reality on the writer’s idea of reality can only mistakenly be called “reading.” And in the case at hand, it is not necessarily a harmless amusement. In some quarters, “misogynist” is now a word used almost as laxly as was “Communist” by the McCarthyite right in the 1950s — and for very like the same purpose.

Yet every writer learns over a lifetime to be tolerant of the stupid inferences that are drawn from literature and the fantasies implausibly imposed upon it. As for the kind of writer I am? I am who I don’t pretend to be.

The men in your books are often misinterpreted. Some reviewers make the, I believe, misleading assumption that your male characters are some kind of heroes or role models; if you look at the male characters in your books, what traits do they share — what is their condition?

As I see it, my focus has never been on masculine power rampant and triumphant but rather on the antithesis: masculine power impaired. I have hardly been singing a paean to male superiority but rather representing manhood stumbling, constricted, humbled, devastated and brought down. I am not a utopian moralist. My intention is to present my fictional men not as they should be but vexed as men are.

The drama issues from the assailability of vital, tenacious men with their share of peculiarities who are neither mired in weakness nor made of stone and who, almost inevitably, are bowed by blurred moral vision, real and imaginary culpability, conflicting allegiances, urgent desires, uncontrollable longings, unworkable love, the culprit passion, the erotic trance, rage, self-division, betrayal, drastic loss, vestiges of innocence, fits of bitterness, lunatic entanglements, consequential misjudgment, understanding overwhelmed, protracted pain, false accusation, unremitting strife, illness, exhaustion, estrangement, derangement, aging, dying and, repeatedly, inescapable harm, the rude touch of the terrible surprise — unshrinking men stunned by the life one is defenseless against, including especially history: the unforeseen that is constantly recurring as the current moment.

It is the social struggle of the current moment on which a number of these men find themselves impaled. It isn’t sufficient, of course, to speak of “rage” or “betrayal” — rage and betrayal have a history, like everything else. The novel maps the ordeal of that history and, if it succeeds, by doing so probes the conscience of the society it depicts.

“The struggle with writing is over” is a recent quote. Could you describe that struggle, and also, tell us something about your life now when you are not writing?

Everybody has a hard job. All real work is hard. My work happened also to be undoable. Morning after morning for 50 years, I faced the next page defenseless and unprepared. Writing for me was a feat of self-preservation. If I did not do it, I would die. So I did it. Obstinacy, not talent, saved my life. It was also my good luck that happiness didn’t matter to me and I had no compassion for myself.

Though why such a task should have fallen to me I have no idea. Maybe writing protected me against even worse menace.

Now? Now I am a bird sprung from a cage instead of (to reverse Kafka’s famous conundrum) a bird in search of a cage. The horror of being caged has lost its thrill. It is now truly a great relief, something close to a sublime experience, to have nothing more to worry about than death.

You belong to an exceptional generation of postwar writers, who defined American literature for almost half a century: Bellow, Styron, Updike, Doctorow, DeLillo. What made this golden age happen and what made it great? Did you feel, in your active years, that these writers were competition or did you feel kinship — or both? And why were there so few female writers with equal success in that same period? Finally: What is your opinion of the state of contemporary American fiction now?

I agree that it’s been a good time for the novel in America, but I can’t say I know what accounts for it. Maybe it is the absence of certain things that somewhat accounts for it. The American novelist’s indifference to, if not contempt for, “critical” theory. Aesthetic freedom unhampered by all the high-and-mighty isms and their humorlessness. (Can you think of an ideology capable of corrective self-satire, let alone one that wouldn’t want to sink its teeth into an imagination on the loose?) Writing that is uncontaminated by political propaganda — or even political responsibility. The absence of any “school” of writing. In a place so vast, no single geographic center from which the writing originates. Anything but a homogeneous population, no basic national unity, no single national character, social calm utterly unknown, even the general obtuseness about literature, the inability of many citizens to read any of it with even minimal comprehension, confers a certain freedom. And surely the fact that writers really don’t mean a goddamn thing to nine-tenths of the population doesn’t hurt. It’s inebriating.

Very little truthfulness anywhere, antagonism everywhere, so much calculated to disgust, the gigantic hypocrisies, no holding fierce passions at bay, the ordinary viciousness you can see just by pressing the remote, explosive weapons in the hands of creeps, the gloomy tabulation of unspeakable violent events, the unceasing despoliation of the biosphere for profit, surveillance overkill that will come back to haunt us, great concentrations of wealth financing the most undemocratic malevolents around, science illiterates still fighting the Scopes trial 89 years on, economic inequities the size of the Ritz, indebtedness on everyone’s tail, families not knowing how bad things can get, money being squeezed out of every last thing — that frenzy — and (by no means new) government hardly by the people through representative democracy but rather by the great financial interests, the old American plutocracy worse than ever.

You have 300 million people on a continent 3,000 miles wide doing the best they can with their inexhaustible troubles. We are witnessing a new and benign admixture of races on a scale unknown since the malignancy of slavery. I could go on and on. It’s hard not to feel close to existence here. This is not some quiet little corner of the world.

Do you feel that there is a preoccupation in Europe with American popular culture? And, if so, that this preoccupation has clouded the reception of serious American literary fiction in Europe?

The power in any society is with those who get to impose the fantasy. It is no longer, as it was for centuries throughout Europe, the church that imposes its fantasy on the populace, nor is it the totalitarian superstate that imposes the fantasy, as it did for 12 years in Nazi Germany and for 69 years in the Soviet Union. Now the fantasy that prevails is the all-consuming, voraciously consumed popular culture, seemingly spawned by, of all things, freedom. The young especially live according to beliefs that are thought up for them by the society’s most unthinking people and by the businesses least impeded by innocent ends.

Ingeniously as their parents and teachers may attempt to protect the young from being drawn, to their detriment, into the moronic amusement park that is now universal, the preponderance of the power is not with them.

I cannot see what any of this has to do with serious American literary fiction, even if, as you suggest, “this preoccupation has [or may have] clouded the reception of serious American fiction in Europe.” You know, in Eastern Europe, the dissident writers used to say that “socialist realism,” the reigning Soviet aesthetic, consisted of praising the Party so that even they understood it. There is no such aesthetic for serious literary writers to conform to in America, certainly not the aesthetic of popular culture.

What has the aesthetic of popular culture to do with formidable postwar writers of such enormous variety as Saul Bellow, Ralph Ellison, William Styron, Don DeLillo, E. L. Doctorow, James Baldwin, Wallace Stegner, Thomas Pynchon, Robert Penn Warren, John Updike, John Cheever, Bernard Malamud, Robert Stone, Evan Connell, Louis Auchincloss, Walker Percy, Cormac McCarthy, Russell Banks, William Kennedy, John Barth, Louis Begley, William Gaddis, Norman Rush, John Edgar Wideman, David Plante, Richard Ford, William Gass, Joseph Heller, Raymond Carver, Edmund White, Oscar Hijuelos, Peter Matthiessen, Paul Theroux, John Irving, Norman Mailer, Reynolds Price, James Salter, Denis Johnson, J. F. Powers, Paul Auster, William Vollmann, Richard Stern, Alison Lurie, Flannery O’Connor, Paula Fox, Marilynne Robinson, Joyce Carol Oates, Joan Didion, Hortense Calisher, Jane Smiley, Anne Tyler, Jamaica Kincaid, Cynthia Ozick, Ann Beattie, Grace Paley, Lorrie Moore, Mary Gordon, Louise Erdrich, Toni Morrison, Eudora Welty (and I have by no means exhausted the list) or with serious younger writers as wonderfully gifted as Michael Chabon, Junot Díaz, Nicole Krauss, Maile Meloy, Jonathan Lethem, Nathan Englander, Claire Messud, Jeffrey Eugenides, Jonathan Franzen, Jonathan Safran Foer (to name but a handful)?

You have been awarded almost every literary prize, except one. And it is no secret that your name is always mentioned when there is talk of the Nobel Prize in Literature — how does it feel to be an eternal candidate? Does it bother you, or do you laugh about it?

I wonder if I had called “Portnoy’s Complaint” “The Orgasm Under Rapacious Capitalism,” if I would thereby have earned the favor of the Swedish Academy.

In Claudia Roth Pierpont’s “Roth Unbound,” there is an interesting chapter on your clandestine work with persecuted writers in Czechoslovakia during the Cold War. If a young author — a Philip Roth born in, say, 1983 — were to engage in the global conflicts of 2014, which ones would he pick?

I don’t know how to answer that. I for one didn’t go to Prague with a mission. I wasn’t looking to “pick” a trouble spot. I was on a vacation and had gone to Prague looking for Kafka.

But the morning after I arrived, I happened to drop by my publishing house to introduce myself. I was led into a conference room to share a glass of slivovitz with the editorial staff. Afterwards one of the editors asked me to lunch. At the restaurant, where her boss happened to be dining too, she told me quietly that all the people in that conference room were “swine,” beginning with the boss — party hacks hired to replace those editors who, four years earlier, had been fired because of their support for the reforms of the Prague Spring. I asked her about my translators, a husband-and-wife team, and that evening I had dinner with them. They too were now prevented from working, for the same reasons, and were living in political disgrace.

When I returned home, I found in New York a small group of Czech intellectuals who had fled Prague when the Russian tanks rolled in to put down the Prague Spring. By the time I returned to Russian-occupied Prague the following spring, I wasn’t vacationing. I was carrying with me a long list of people to see, the most endangered members of an enslaved nation, the proscribed writers for whom sadism, not socialism, was the state religion. The rest developed from that.

Yes, character is destiny, and yet everything is chance.

If you would interview yourself at this point in your life — there must be a question that you haven’t been asked, that would be obvious and important, but has been ignored by the journalists? What would that be?

Perversely enough, when you ask about a question that has been ignored by journalists, I think immediately of the question that any number of them cannot seem to ignore. The question goes something like this: “Do you still think such-and-such? Do you still believe so-and-so?” and then they quote something spoken not by me but by a character in a book of mine. If you won’t mind, may I use the occasion of your final question to say what is probably already clear to the readers of the literary pages of Svenska Dagbladet, if not to the ghosts of the journalists I am summoning up?

Whoever looks for the writer’s thinking in the words and thoughts of his characters is looking in the wrong direction. Seeking out a writer’s “thoughts” violates the richness of the mixture that is the very hallmark of the novel. The thought of the novelist that matters most is the thought that makes him a novelist.

The thought of the novelist lies not in the remarks of his characters or even in their introspection but in the plight he has invented for his characters, in the juxtaposition of those characters and in the lifelike ramifications of the ensemble they make — their density, their substantiality, their lived existence actualized in all its nuanced particulars, is in fact his thought metabolized.

The thought of the writer lies in his choice of an aspect of reality previously unexamined in the way that he conducts an examination. The thought of the writer is embedded everywhere in the course of the novel’s action. The thought of the writer is figured invisibly in the elaborate pattern — in the newly emerging constellation of imagined things — that is the architecture of the book: what Aristotle called simply “the arrangement of the parts,” the “matter of size and order.” The thought of the novel is embodied in the moral focus of the novel. The tool with which the novelist thinks is the scrupulosity of his style. Here, in all this, lies whatever magnitude his thought may have.

The novel, then, is in itself his mental world. A novelist is not a tiny cog in the great wheel of human thought. He is a tiny cog in the great wheel of imaginative literature.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS

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