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pursuitseternal · 1 month

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“Knowledge is a dangerous weapon:” Bookworm!Tav, Vampiric Spawn Powers, and Breeding—“Bites” Update 📚

Astarion x F!Reader | E | 4.6K of banter and breeding

Based on an anonymous prompt

(HBD @lipstickghoulie )

Summary: You have always loved your books and a challenge, when your Vampire Rogue learns his starvation has kept him from his full powers, you take him up on his challenge to teach him the skills that are his due. As you draw closer together, he finds that one bit of information you have failed to teach him… how to make a dhampire

CW: light mocking of Astarion’s ditziness, Spawn Spidercrawl, catching powers and feelings, flirty touching, creepy silent vampire moves, Breeding talk, no babies just breeding, Mating Press™️

Ao3 link | Series link | Masterlist

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You always knew he was… dumb. Thick headed. Unobservant.

Okay, at times the comments from his thick, rosy lips were just plain stupid. “That lever… must do something…” That was a wonderful moment, one that earned him your eyes rolling so far back in your skull they hurt. “We have some words and some… circles…. Wonder what they do….” Another example of his unparalleled intelligence.

Not to mention the countless times he failed to remember any of the major gods and their shrines as you passed through crypts and defiled chapels.

For as handsome as he was, for as sultry and seductive as you found him, he was… smoothed-brained. But as your journey forced you closer together, you couldn’t help but think some of it may be merely pretense, he was a magistrate after all. He was abused and tortured for centuries, surely that does things to one’s mind. And he was always reading. Every day, every night at camp, his beautiful aquiline nose stuck in a book, crimson eyes devouring the words at a breakneck speed.

One to even rival your own thirst for knowledge.

Maybe it was that you allowed the poor Spawn a chance to drink living, thinking blood for once. Your own. Maybe that was what began to take his little, stupid moments and turn them into something endearing.

Not that he was gracious when you corrected his ignorance. Every time, he gave that adorable, grumpy harumph and then defended his comments, or… since he started feeding from you, he’d just look at your neck still freshly marked and lick his lips. That really shut you up. Set you on fire.

But it wasn’t until you needed him to reach that last little chest up on the crumbling ledge inside some dank cavern that you realized his ignorance wasn’t wholly pretend.

Astarion, vampire spawn, didn’t know just what he should be capable of. He looked positively befuddled when you told him to just climb the brick wall. His sass had been sharp, “I’m not some spider, darling.”

“But you can spider climb, you dolt,” you had laughed imitating his tone, trying to call his bluff on skills he should have, at least according to what you had read in your book. A Spawn should scale such a wall with immense ease.

He just narrowed his crimson eyes at you, a snarl on his lips as he shook his head. “I have never performed such an act, darling, nor have any of my brothers and sisters, those of us Cazador kept for his bidding. Better check your precious facts in your precious tomes before you throw your assumptions on my prowess… dear.”

You still shiver at that night. Back at camp. When you ignored the way he bristled as you approached him in front of his tent. He had sneered at you, readying his next acerbic quip for you… Until you sat so close beside him, settling the heavy book in his lap. Leaning in, you point to the page. Traits and Strengths of the Vampiric Spawn.

You felt him cease breathing, his left hand clutching at the edge of the book growing even whiter. “Astarion,” you breathed. Leaning in more, you looked into his eyes, his gaze scanning the words so quickly on the aged vellum. And then he shoved you by your cheek out of his sightline. He needed to finish this.

“Why, I should be positively remarkable, assuming your book is correct,” he sighed, as if he saw a vision, a dream fulfilled. One where he was powerful.

You nodded as his crimson eyes flashed at you, wide with wonder. “You mentioned Cazador never let you feed enough, and not from thinking creatures.” He nodded, skeptical even as his eyes fixated on your lips. “Well, what you did not know was that denying you a sufficient diet meant also restricting you from your full powers, even as a Spawn, Astarion. You should be able to climb up walls and ceilings, move swifter, lift boulders too much for even Karlach to manage. You should be able to heal almost instantaneously, without potion or feeding.”

“And now?” he replied, that little tremor of hope in his voice unmistakable as his hand traced over the page of your book.

“Well, it’s a difficult deduction, since you have our unwelcome illithid parasite. But now that you are feeding regularly, even from thinking creatures, you should find the effects more than just making you feel… happy,” you rambled on. Even as you kept talking, his eyes glued their gaze to your neck, your lips. If you weren’t mistaken, they even dipped down the v-shaped cut of your tunic.

“So… the more I drink from thinking creatures, the stronger and more powerful I will be?” he murmured, a slight grit in his throat as his eyes definitely darted down your bosom now.

“Y-yes,” you rejoined, sliding back just a touch.

And he slid that touch closer, and then some.

“You’ll help me, won’t you, darling? You’ll help me learn these skills? Give me all I require to access my full potential….” His eyes looked wet, the ruby irises glowing in the flickering firelight. “Please?” he adds with that smirk and that single arching brow of his made you stomach flutter and heart thump so hard in your chest.

“I…” you started, but he only seemed to lean ever closer.

“You know, when I was a Magistrate, back in the City, I would have craved someone with intelligence like yours. We would have been rivals, colleagues…” his eyes dip once more shamelessly up and down your seated body. “Perhaps lovers even,” he breathed. “I always surrounded myself with those of highest intellect, darling. Intelligence is so… undervalued by many, and knowledge is a dangerous weapon, but I see you, my darling. Won’t you please come to my aid now?”

“We… we can try,” you had whispered, barely able to the let the words from your lips with how you seemed to seize under the intensity of his stare.

“Wonderful,” he purred, catching your cheek, your chin in his cool palm. “I just hope we don’t have to wait too long…”

You squirmed as his thumb began to brush beneath your lip.

“…to put my new strengths to the test I mean, of course.” He smirked that little bit more twistedly. More seductively. And you knew he heard your heart beating in your artery, your blood rushing under his touch in your veins to pool lower. It was his nature, and you knew more of it than he did.

“Of course…” you breathed. “I’d be happy to help.”

“Then it’s settled,” his voice was thick in his throat, you relished the way his other arm stole around you, clutching at you back to bring you all the closer under his heady spell of charm and seduction. “All that’s left is to seal our new arrangement somehow…”

He pushed that heavy book off his lap, sliding to bring you into completely flushed against him. You’re sure your pulse was raging so loudly, it’s deafened his pointed and twitching ears. That chilled, corpse-cold touch under your chin tilts you up just… so…

You melted, closing that distance between your lips. Every logical thought dispersed in the wind of your desire, that panting breath that passed from your lungs into his.

That’s how this all began, and where it had brought you to this moment, where he clings to the ceiling of a massive cavern filled with both the stink of Gnolls and the vile creatures themselves. Dagger gripped in between his glinting fangs. He readies himself with a look of pure and dark excitement. He loves this. He misses this when it’s just you all back in the quiet of camp, where he tests his ever growing strength and climbing abilities, where he drinks from you every night before he hunts in the dark.

Where he slowly makes you more and more aware of your awakening body the more he touches you and caresses and kisses you. Always every night. Always between your increasingly intellectual discussions about vampiric powers and the moment he sinks his fangs into your skin to feed. He always leaves you after dark, his own belly sated, while you… you grow all the hungrier. Needier. You want more debate, more analysis, more of his body covering yours as he drinks you down.

But not anything more. Not yet. Even as you knew he was edging closer to asking you for sex. Even if he didn’t know all the… implications. After all, knowledge was a dangerous weapon.

You shake your head to free yourself from the longing thoughts of past nights and burning expectations of the night to come. You give him the signal, watching him release with flawless precision, dagger in hand now, as he falls from his spider-perch.

The Gnolls never see you coming, not before your endearingly ferocious Vampire Spawn lands with preternatural grace on their heads and vivisects them before you even reach their location.

He pants as you get at least one good shot from your bow, right for the last twitching body on the ground.

It’s not until you smile, satisfied, you notice that Astarion’s pale skin is riddled with scratches and tears from the beasts’ claws. He holds out his arms, rolling up his sleeves and smiling. Enjoying the sight of his vampiric body healing before his eyes. That crimson gaze practically glows as he looks at you over the carnage. “See something you like, my sweet?” he purrs, arching that brow, just for you, as if the others in your party aren’t even there.

“Ahem,” you clear your throat, turning to find the coveted chest of supplies, that Zhentarim sigil on it is no deterrent to you. Not when your Vampire Spawn can charm anyone to do anything now. “We better head back to camp,” you kneel before the strong chest, trying your hand to pick the iron lock.

“Tch,” his voice brushes your ear, physically tickling the small stray hairs that make you gasp. “You know I’m far more skilled with my fingers, especially when it comes to slipping inside…” You shudder to feel him crouching right behind you, his thighs pressed against your ass, his waist brushing your lower back. “…Slipping inside chests, locks, that sort of thing,” he adds louder, just to appease your unease. That dexterous touch has only grown all the smoother and stronger and sneakier now that he has fed well for a while.

He is so sneaky in fact, only one of his hands actually works the lock pick for a moment, the other quickly skates up your leg, tracing the inner seam of your buckskin breeches almost to the peak of your thigh. He laughs in your ear as you muffle a noise under your own palm.

“Soldiers, you really need four hands to pick one lock? Haven't you gotten better, Fangs, now that our fearless leader has let you suck on her and tutor you in being a Spawn?” Karlach chortles, her feet swaying side to side in that perpetual motion dance she seems to do.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Astarion throws the barb over his shoulder, letting you bury your face to hide the tweaks of ecstasy at the corners of your eyes as his fingers keep moving higher… higher. “Some silent performance only you get to savor, it seems?”

“If I didn't know better…” Gale’s pedantic voice draws closer.

“There now,” Astarion crows like the proudest rooster of them all, his hand quickly leaving the edge of your mound to twist that pick and pop the lock just as Gale peers from behind. “Look at all this loot,” he groans and stands, satisfied as he folds his arms over his chest. “Good thing you have a strong, well-fed Vampire to bring it back with us. Wouldn’t you agree, darling?”

He smirks down at you, hand extended to help you to your feet. Back to the rest, he flashes you that fang-toothed smirk that he knows sets your pulse galloping out of control. Pulling you up, he has to steady you in your legs, near boneless as they are with just that tease of pleasure. “Calm yourself darling, you're making my undead heart hurt sympathetically from all that… excitement,” he rasps right into your ear once you’re on your feet before him, releasing you in favor of bags of treasure and potions and loot to stuff in his pack.

Your mind is racing as your trod back towards your little camp well off the Risen Road for good measure. Thoughts scramble, worries peak their heads up, and you can’t stop thinking about the rest of what you have learned reading about vampires. Necessary research for you, particularly since Astarion has seemingly added flirtation and seduction into your witty repartee this last tenday. So far, you’ve managed to keep his wandering eyes from those pages when he glances through your tomes. He seems to prefer every little dip of your skin where he can see it at any rate. So far, you’ve managed to keep his hands in places on your body that are not too dangerous, yours on his as well.

But something inside you knows that tide is shifting. He wants to offer you more in exchange for more… and… well, if it doesn’t just make your body thrum with life in ways no books had and no previous interests had either.

He has beaten you back to camp, haphazardly tossed the loot for the rest of you to sort out in the center of camp. You know he’s waiting in his tent, now that the sun has begun to trek lower and lower. It’s time for your research, for your indulgence of his strength, and… whatever else might happen.

His tent is dimly lit as you enter, a mess of blankets and pillows, some fine and some in tatters. Stacks of books in the corners have replaced the blood bank bottles you first found here to clutter his space.

But no Astarion.

You tilt your head confused, settling down on one pillow, more or less intact, reaching for an apple he keeps in his stash of food just for you. Just to replenish you between his own feedings. As you bite into the hard skin, as the juice fills your mouth, you reach for a book, some ancient law book he found in the ruins of that village. Must make him think of his old life.

The pages are old and soft in your fingers, your eyes absentmindedly skimming the long words and complex sentences as you chew.

Peaceful. Until you realize it’s far too quiet.

You feel the hairs on the back of your neck prickle, that feeling of being watched creeping up your spine. Turning, mid bite, you peer into the shadowed corner of his tent behind you.

Two glowing red eyes stare at you from the dark, just a hint of glinting teeth as he smiles and drinks in your fear and surprise. He laughs to hear you hiss as you jump in your seat. “There you are,” he croons from his darkened corner. “I’ve been waiting.”

“F-f-for what?” you force a smile and force your breath to steady all at once. He slides closer, settling down right beside you, and you notice your worn book in his hand, the smile on his face is sultry.

And predatory.

And for a moment, you regret teaching him as much as you have about his untapped powers.

“When were you going to tell me about your little bit of… research… on the side?” his voice is chilling, his brow arching as he flips the book open right to the back.

Right where you had been trying so hard to prevent his eyes from skimming, his ambitious brain from devouring the knowledge.

Your body is hot and rigid, and you know from the way his pointy ears twitch, he hears your pulse. You know from the way that his nostrils flare that he smells your arousal, the slick that dampens your underthings just to be this close to him again after his little stunt today.

“If my observations are correct… and they usually are…” he purrs, even though the stack of evidence to the contrary is vast. But you bite your tongue as he continues, your heart leaping at the topic he is about to breach. “You sound and smell eager to discuss this topic if dhampires, my darling.”

You swallow, watching so heated and frozen as he slides so gracefully to place the weight of that tome in your own lap, his fingers removing the half-eaten apple from your fingers to toss to the side. Then he brings their sticky, juicy tips to his mouth to suck them clean.

You moan, unbidden, at the wet and vigor with which his tongue cleans every crevice of those digits.

“Now, I’d hate to be left wondering just why my intelligent, little darling would withhold such a vital… potent… part of my unrevealed powers as a vampire?” he sets your hand back on your thigh, a little extra brush of his fingers, returning to trace that seam inside your breaches as he had before. “Is she… curious? Afraid? Is this why she has been just so hesitant during our…” he grips your chin, turning your head with commanding force until there is nowhere else to look but his deep crimson eyes, “…late night trysts?”

“It’s not something one just… brings up, Astarion,” you try to flatten your tone, even as that one hand still traces up and around your thigh. “It’s just not… done…”

Something about his eyes softens, “It would be important to discuss, you know, for there is more that I would like to share with you than just witty banter and blood…” his tone dips low into a rumble. “It’s not something I would have known, not a concern I would have shared until I knew of it…”

“There’s more to it than you might know,” you squeak as his fingers press into that slot between your legs. “Now that you’re well-fed, you’ll feel actual….”

You swallow the word. His touch presses hard enough into your folds through your breaches to make them soaked. And you, wanton you, you give a breath and a buck of your hips to keep his fingers there.

“Pleasure,” he smirks, eyes scanning your face as your force your eyes back open, halfway at least. “Yes, I gathered as much. The more I feed, the more I come alive… alive enough to perhaps even bestow a new life…” he squints a grin at you, your mouth slack as he draws that touch just as hard again, “…perhaps one day.”

You arch your body, trying to slip closer. Your secret is out, your anxious thoughts over clandestine information dispersed in the air. And so, the next words from your mouth just build on all that you had been swallowing down.

“Yes, perhaps one day…” you sigh, leaning back on your hands to try to give him full access to your cunt. “Perhaps one day, we could test out those powers together.” Your voice shakes with excitement, it’s pressed with the sincerity you feel for him.

“Oh, my love,” he smirks and reaches both arms around your waist. That newfound strength pulls you flush into his lap, until your molten, silk-soaked center presses against where he’s hardening. “You always know what to say… Seems like quite the power that will take much preparation and proper timing…” He brings your fingers back to his lips as he kisses them softly. “I’d have to feed on more than just a bear and more than just sips from my little treat, sweet as you are…”

You nod, once or twice, before losing yourself in the bliss of his tongue on the tingling inner skin of your wrist. Barely more than a lap before his fangs pierce your skin and suck you down. Your very essence, your living blood pools in his belly, you feel it coursing in his veins. It fills him and hardens him beneath your hips in an instant.

“Well, practice makes perfect you know,” he croons, bloodied lips barely hovering off your own. “I can tell from your scent you are not… in season…. And I have only had the single little taste.”

You pant, writhing at the scratch of your clothing, you long to rip it off and toss it where your book has long since been abandoned. “Sounds right to me,” you hiss, arms tucking around his neck to lower those arrogant stupidly handsome lips to your mouth.

Astarion’s throat rumbles with a growl, the taste of your blood fresh in his mouth as he rolls you on your back. Primal. Feral. He’s your powerful vampire, blood in his body, lust in his brain. And you want to put it all to the test—your own little experiment to match his enthusiastic desire for you. His touch is lightening fast and strong, pulling off your clothing, swift and sure and careful until every inch of your bodies are bare.

Strength hums in his muscles, even as his hands gently caress your cheek, your neck still sore from all his feeding. His body presses you into the pile of blankets that cover his plank of a bed. His hips grind your belly, your thighs are pulled almost against your chest until you’re spread wide open for him. But for every jolt of his cock as it prods above you and drips his early cum on to your belly, his kisses on your lips are sweet, gentle. A silent movement of gratitude for all your willing aid. Those fingers drag their slightly warmed touch around your breast, kneading it tenderly. With every arch of your back, you can almost catch the base of his cock inside your folds.

And you shake. You quiver. You’d had a few lovers, mostly boring and few and far between. But never has your body burned for anyone like it does for him.

As if his vampire touch is calling your blood to pool beneath it. Not one traditional strength, but with Astarion, you aren’t totally sure he doesn’t have some unnatural ability to command your body. To make your blood pound and sing just for him.

“What a good girl,” he rasps, a grind of his hips to send that cock near your navel, over your skin. “I can feel your heat for me from here. Just waiting to be fucked full.” His mouth descends quickly but carefully, only taking a single nipple in his lips. Sucking hard, he pops off with a loud wet noise.

Almost as loud as your moan.

“So ready, aren’t you?” His question weighs you down, your eyes half shut to savor the way he drags back with that length, sliding it in just an inch or so into your aching sex. “I’m waiting…” he growls, and you sob as he pulls even that little bit of his tip back out.

“Yes, hells below, yes,” you pant, hands flying to claw into his ass. Pulling him towards your throbbing core.

That blunted tip prods just barely inside you again. “You want me to fill you?” he rasps.

You nod, your teeth biting your lip hard enough to bleed.

“You want me to fill your belly like you let me fill mine with your sweet blood?” he grips his arms around your shoulders, pressing harder into, cock sliding in another little bit. “Fuck you so many times, my cum will drip from you for days?”

“Yes, Astarion…” you breathe, his mouth devouring your words, ready to swallow your cry as he does, finally, fill you.

You feel the gravity of his body crushing you, his legs braced with every tendon taught as he snaps his hips into. It’s so deep, so driving the way he fucks. And every thrust slaps your flesh and smacks his balls against your ass, but you love it. His breath dampens your collarbone, arms wrapped so tightly around you, you can do nothing but hold on for dear life. Your thighs burn from how they’re bent into your stomach almost, your folds leaking with arousal, and the drag of his cock touches every part of your walls and slams against your channel’s end.

He licks your shoulder, wet tongue lapping up to the artery in your neck. Where it pulses and dances in time with his beat inside you. Flushed and boiling, speared on his length, you pant, suffocated deliciously until you burst. Your visions swimming and muscles contorting in his press, you scream for him. You can hear your arousal, your slick, coating his thighs as his thrusts only increase with speed.

Lifting his head, he sweeps a hand down your sweat-drenched belly, palm bracing just below your navel. His push is relentless, hard and gradual enough you feel it behind your belly, how he gives you resistance from outside against that constant ramming of his cock at your deepest point. It’s enough to throw you into another coil of bliss instantly. “Good girl, so wet and dirty and waiting to be filled…'' he finally speaks through his panting. And he pushes on your belly once more, grunting with each fuck as he comes undone.

As he thrusts and spills his seed, prodding the full length of him to the deepest point yet. You can feel it almost sticking through your skin as he pulses. As he spills, burst after burst, he still rams that end of your cunt.

Beads of sweat drip from his forehead as he looks down your body, and how your skin is wet and flushed and marked from where he gripped you so fiercely.

He smiles and licks his lips. You try to clamber out, but his hand only comes to rest on your shoulder. “Ah ah,” he tutts his tongue at you, slipping out, only to take two of his fingers to play in your mix of cum, slipping it back inside you over and over again. “You’ll need to practice too, and you’ll need to rest to keep all of me inside of you.”

You shudder, a smile wide on your mouth, aroused and embraced, half hidden behind the back of your hand as you cover your face.

“Tch,” he chides you, pulling that hand from your face, “none of that, my darling. I’ll watch every bit of your blush darken your cheek until you’re ready to go again.”

“Again?” you choke. Your hips already feeling stretched and sore, you lay them flat and try to ease the aches.

“Oh yes,” he purrs, “you’ll have to build your strength the old fashioned way, my treat. Now,” he gives your ass a little smack on the side as he lifts it, “on your knees, darling…”

You finally take a breath, freed from his wiry, heavy frame. One cool hand settles between your shoulder blades to have you rest your head on his bedding. But that other hand pulls your hips up, slipping through your juices and teasing your clit until you buck back against his belly. You breathe contentedly, savoring the way his fingers caress you, worship you.

You close your eyes, wriggle your hips, already craving that stretching fullness inside you. A future with him at your side during the day as your strong, well fed vampire… and on your back and knees and belly and any way he would want you during the long nights with your virile lover.

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eatlikeadairyfarmer · 5 months

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Hello Danny! About your traps. Did I understand correctly that if a person gets there, then it is no longer possible to open the trap? So you converted it without taking into account the fact that it was either amputation or death? Were there any secret levers or master keys just in case? Because, you know, even if Andy had dealt with Lee, or a horde of walkers, he wouldn't have been able to free you? I don’t understand traps and their mechanisms at all, but I know the proverb “Don’t dig a hole for someone else, you’ll fall into it yourself.” In any case, every plan has flaws. I saw in one movie how a guy tried to steal a car - and the owners set a trap in it, near the clutch. The dude sawed off the chain and got away with a limp, not to mention almost getting caught. The trap was for a bear. It's a shame that movies aren't real life. Well, one more question: which of you converted the traps - you or Andy?

A bear trap is activated when the plate in the middle is stepped on, causin' the springs you pulled back and locked to unlock and clamp the jaws shut in one split second. These things were made to catch bigger animals- they usually have a release latch on em' so you can open the jaws. Since I'm huntin' humans, obviously I took the latch off because any human with a brain would just open it up and limp away like you described. We don't want that. We want a dinner.

I created it 'cus I knew no one could get out of it, that was the intention. I'd check the traps every few hours and bring back anyone they caught. Sometimes for fun I'd set one up in the barn and let a prisoner "escape". They'd get so excited they wouldn't look down at where they're steppin' and.. BAM! Eheheheh..

Look, I never thought I'd step on my own trap. I got a good memory- I always know where they are- I knew where the one I placed that night was. Wasn't my fault I got pushed into it. Alright?

I altered the bear traps, infact the huntin' and the butcherin' was my territory. I had experience from before the dead time, so I was trusted with the honors.

Fun facts about bear traps: they're actually banned in the huntin' biz- in Georgia at least. They tend to break human bones like glass. They fuckin' hurt. BAD.

#danny st john #twdg

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pascalpanic · 3 years

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Popping Pearls and Purple Skies (Din Djarin x f!reader)

Summary: While in your home system, Din takes you to your home planet for your favorite treat.

W/C: 3.6k

Warnings: food mention, Star Wars cursing lol, mentions of physical fighting, mentions of trauma

A/N: okay. this was inspired by me thinking Grogu would love popping boba bc he loved the frog lady’s eggs so much!! I hope I did it okay :) Siruus, reader’s home planet, is supposed to be a mishmash of cultures, none specifically, I just picked cool elements from a variety of cultures!

One of the delights you missed most from your home planet was, you discovered, practically unattainable on any other planet. You’d scoured far and wide, hoping maybe you’d cross paths with another Siruusian or an admirer of the culture, but found nothing. It was only on Siruus that you could find your favorite drink: a milky tea with popping pearls.

Din knows you miss your home. Late at night, in the hull of the ship, he’d confide that he missed his home planet too. He told you tales of growing up in Aq Vetina, the feather-light and velvety robes that he wore every day, the spicy foods his mother would cook- which later made him a great Mandalorian.

Did you know that the Mandos love spicy food, cyare? We have a whole vocabulary to describe the heat of a dish. It’s traditional. I was raised on it, and the comfort of a burning mouth was a universal sensation: one that reminded me of my real parents and my adoptive clan.

Rarely did the Mandalorian man let his guard down, but never had he completely done so like he has with you. From the moment he hired you to care for his little green son, he’d been entranced by your laughter, the smooth sound of your voice in the language you’d been raised speaking. He caught you teaching the kid some vocabulary, and he’d quiz him on it when you weren’t around. The kid couldn’t speak yet, but he could point and match words to images or objects, which he attributed entirely to you. You were the child’s primary caretaker and kindergarten teacher in one, and Din admired your care and commitment.

Something about you spoke to him, and over time he thinks he came to realize it was the fact that, though you’d never heard of The Way before meeting Din, you were the holistic ideal of a Mandalorian. You valued knowledge and valor, and though you didn’t work in the traditional Mando fields of bounty hunting or working as a warrior, you embodied another aspect: that care for children.

Watching you with the kid was what made him realize he was in love with you. He’d told you everything. When you looked over your shoulder and laughed, the baby watching you too, the gaze was a love Din has never felt but immediately recognized. It hit him and his whole body shuddered, harder than it had when the Maldo Kreis cold had seeped into his bones, even through the beskar. At the same time, he felt too warm in his own skin, like the fever he’d had as a toddler that threatened his life- he’d told you that story too. Dank Farrik. This was not in the plan.

You had told Din all about your home planet too. You told him of the bright flowers that bloomed in the cold of winter, that released a pollen that made the birds in the area start laying their eggs. He listened intently every time, clinging to every word he told you like he’d never hear that beautiful voice again. He’d hear you singing Siruusian lullabies to the baby, and on nights you missed home.

He’d offered to take you back many times. Any time you were near, there was a standing offer to pop in for a visit. But you’ve always declined; the child and Mando would bring too much attention to your quiet little planet, you explained. That was only partially true, so you didn’t feel as bad lying by omission to Din. You’d neglected to mention, every time, that this was your life now, and more specifically that you never want to leave his side again.

Din really is something. You’d never even heard of Mandalorians before he swept you off your planet, never understood the intricate Creed and their strong beliefs. It didn’t matter to you, that you couldn’t see his face; at least at first. Of course you’d respect the slightly terrifying man’s customs.

But over time you’ve fallen for him, and that’s made everything just a little harder. The man seemingly made of steel was warm and gentle beneath it, with you and the child. He’d wrangle a bounty into the carbonite freezer then tenderly tuck a flower he found behind your ear, calling you sweet names in Mando’a that you didn’t understand. The juxtaposition of the man’s very being- covered in impenetrable, freezing metal to hide an ooey-gooey center like that of a warm pastry- was exciting and beautiful to you.

How could you not fall in love? The three of you became a little family, even as you joined Din on the quest of returning your little green son to his people. You’d treated the baby as your own son, the way Din did too. You’d tried to shepherd him away from the Frog woman’s eggs, only to find him munching on them moments later, scolded him with love and promptly hidden the container.

That day made you miss home even more. The eggs reminded you of the popping pearls you loved so much- no wonder the kid loved them. You’d never eat the Frog’s eggs, of course, but you’d sung the baby to sleep that night in the hull of the ship, another lullaby from your youth. Maybe next time you’d take Din’s offer to visit home seriously. Maybe. There was still another reason you didn’t want to return: if you came home, you weren’t sure you could leave again.

Now you’re in hyperspace, nestled into the small bunk, your child snoozing softly above you with gentle grunts and snorts of sleep. Din is up in the cockpit and you can’t sleep. You wonder if he’s awake too. Maybe you’ll go check.

Sliding on warm slippers to pad your bare feet from the cold metal of the floor, you climb the ladder to the cockpit and see Din sitting in the captain’s chair. You’re unsure if he’s awake or not; it’s hard to tell through the beskar. His shoulders shift a little as he hears you moving and you can tell he’s awake. “Hi. Couldn’t sleep,” you admit as you assume your regular position. The chairs move with the pull of a lever, and you scoot yours closer to Din and prop your feet on his arm rest.

Din nods, resting against the chair. “Me neither. The kid?”

“Asleep,” you confirm and nod, slumping down in your seat.

It’s nice and quiet between the two of you, a relaxed silence as the stars fly past and the Crest hums its low rumble of engines and filters. Just being in his presence soothes you more than being alone in that coffin of a bunk. If you think this is calming, you ponder, just his presence, imagine his arms around you while you sleep. Imagine his warm skin beneath the beskar surrounding you and radiating heat.

He’s thinking the same thing. You look impossibly soft and warm. Your plush skin prickles with the cold of the cockpit and Din wants to put an ungloved hand over it and let the heat of his flushed body sink into yours. He doesn’t. He just stares off at the stars. “We’re approaching your home system,” he murmurs softly. “Would you like to visit?”

Well damn. You hadn’t expected to be confronted with the question so soon, and you’re not quite sure how to answer. “I don’t know.”

It’s quiet again. Din’s silence invites you to speak your inner monologue, to throw your tangled thoughts into the open so he can help unknot them with his nimble mind. In response to his lack of words, which say as much as any sentence, you respond. “I haven’t been there in so long. I don’t know if I want to go back. I like my life now, and I’m scared I’ll want to stay if we visit.”

Din nods as you speak, processing the meanings of your words. “Well,” he begins, “what if I rephrase it like this: would you like us to visit?”

Us. What the kriff does that entail? The three of you, your little family, perhaps? You and Din as friends, as coworkers? Or as something more… your mind spins and you can’t make sense of it, so you give it up. “What does that mean?”

Din turns his chair to face you, moving your legs to drape across his lap. Even through the gloves, he holds back a shiver as he rests his hands atop your shins. “We’ll go, all three of us. If you like your life now, we’ll be your reminders of it.”

Your mouth curves into a warm smile, your body feeling soft and fuzzy all over. “How kind.”

“I’ll even buy you that tea you ramble about,” he offers.

Gasping in excitement, you clap your hands together. “Will you try it? Oh, Din, you’ll love it, it’s the most delicious thing in the galaxy.”

“We’ll see about that,” he chuckles through the modulator, a sound you wish you could hear without the mechanical suppressor.

Popping up, you kiss the top of his beskar-clad head in excitement before you can stop yourself. “Thank you, Din.”

“Anything for you, cyare,” he says with a certain warmth to his voice, a large hand finding your waist. “Go get some rest, lie down. We’ll be there in about half a day.”

“Only if you rest too,” you tell him and your hand rests over his. It’s the most he’s ever touched you purposefully, and now all you want is for him to slide that hand back until he’s wrapping you in his muscular arms. Din nods and you pat his forearm. “Sweet dreams.”

The ramp comes down and your mouth forms a soft ring in excitement. It’s a beautiful day, the nearest sun making the atmosphere the beautiful purple you grew up under. The oranges and yellows of the architecture surround you, and you instinctively clutch the Mandalorian’s hand. “Welcome to my home,” you tell him with a grin and lead him down.

Your little green child is strapped to your chest in a baby carrier, a birikad in Mando’a, and he looks around in wonder, squealing excitedly. As you walk through the streets of the small city, vendors call in Siruusian, a language Din is slowly learning from you. He thinks he recognizes a few words here or there.

Venturing to the side, a stall sells small animals made of a gorgeously embroidered fabric. You had many of these as a child; your favorite was a blue and silver bantha, an exotic animal you’d never seen before your adventures with Din. The child coos at the menagerie in front of him and you squat so he can look at them.

“Toata,” you coo in Siruusian, a word to mean little one, “can you pick the frog?”

That’s one of the words you worked on with him. A tiny, green, three-fingered hand grabs a gorgeous yellowy-brown frog and holds it up in triumph. “Good job, cutie! Aren’t you a smart little thing?” you grin and kiss his forehead. “Is that the one you want?”

Din watches from a few meters back, grinning beneath the helmet. When the child nods excitedly and squeals, he almost laughs softly at the beautiful sight. You pay for the frog and Din meanders over, the baby already chewing on a long leg of the plush.

He wants to see you like that for the rest of his life: glowing with excitement, the little kid strapped to your chest, absolutely at ease and relaxed in the place you used to call home. “You want one too?” you ask.

He shakes his head at first, but after a little haggling, Din purchases himself a copper and yellow blurrg and a mudhorn made of silver for you. The symbolism of the mudhorn, of Clan Djarin, is not lost on you. It makes your heart flit nervously around your ribcage as you wander through the market, making your little mudhorn and the baby’s frog pretend to fight. As always, the littlest member of Clan Djarin triumphs over the mighty mudhorn.

An aromatic smell wafts through the air and your face lights up to see a stand selling your favorite beverage. Din spots it too and makes his way over, getting in the line, his hand holding yours once again. This time, he initiated it. You like that. It makes you giggle and squeeze his fingers softly.

“What do you usually order?” he asks you.

You frown and scan the menu. You explain your drink to him, an orange-colored, sweet and herbal milk tea with your favorite citrusy popping pearls in the bottom. He asks what you think he’d like and you pick a drink for him: a blue, warmly-spiced milk tea with the same pearls. “It’s not the proper drink without it,” you explain.

Picking the baby from his carrier to face you, you ask him questions by the process of elimination. “Okay, toata, do you like… mushfruit?” He makes a noise of disproval. You knew he hated that one; you wanted to ensure he was listening. “No? How about…” you pretend to ponder it. “How about panga?”

The baby squeals in excitement. The green fruit has always been his favorite when you and Din require him to eat his fruit. “Wonderful, and a panga milk tea with you. Do you remember froggie’s eggs?” You ask him, pointing to the frog toy he holds. He tilts his head in confusion.

“The snackies I said no?” That clue does it. He nods, cooing and giggling. “These taste like those! You’ll love it.”

The rest of the time in the line is quiet, shuffling forward slowly to reach the stand. “Is it what you’d hoped?” Din asks after a while.

You nod and smile. “As soon as I get my tea, it will be.”

“And you… you don’t want to stay?”

“Nope,” you agree, popping the p with your lips.

He doesn’t know quite what to say. He’s not the wordsmith you are. “Well. I’m glad. I, uh. I’d miss you if you left.”

The words are simple but they warm your heart. “I’d miss the two of you far too much to leave,” you assure him. “For different reasons, respectively.”

Your flirtation is more than mild, but it hangs in Din’s mouth like a spicy Mandalorian food. He knows what you imply, and the thought that you could feel the same practically sends him into orbit, above Siruus’s atmosphere and next to one of its 4 moons. He can’t respond. He just tightens his grip on your hand.

Once you’ve acquired the drinks, Din holding his and the child’s, the three of you make your way back to the Razor Crest so Din can enjoy the drink too. Walking up the ramp, you sigh as the air-controlled atmosphere warms your slightly-chilled skin from being outside for so long in the Siruusian spring.

You unpack the kid from his carrier, and grin as he toddles to his father, making grabby hands for his green drink. “Oh my, toata,” you tease. “Your drink is the same color as you!”

Din laughs softly, and sets the drink on the floor for him. The baby tries to hold it and walk but the cup is too tall to move with his tiny body. You lift it for him and move it so he can sit in a circle with you and Din, cross-legged on the floor.

The baby plops down in front of his drink then realizes it’s too tall for him to sip from the thick straw while seated. The baby makes a little whine of frustration and you scoop up the kid, putting him in your lap. You hold the cup for him, and his two tiny hands grab the straw to drink from. The baby squeaks as he pops a pearl in his mouth. It’s just like the froggy eggs, and he couldn’t be more excited.

Your free hand holds your drink, and you close your eyes in happiness when the first sip of your tea reaches your tongue. You make a content little moan at the flavor, then open your eyes to see the child vigorously slurping up the drink. “Woah, little man. Slow down.”

Din just watches the two of you, smiling to himself. When your eyes return to him, he lifts his drink. “I’m not really supposed to do this,” he admits as he grabs the edge of his helmet. Both you and the child watch in bewilderment as he lifts his helmet just enough to expose the bottom of his nose, his lips and chin.

You’d never really processed that Din would be… well, so human. The strip of his face, exposed, reveals warm skin, dark stubble, and lips that look ridiculously soft. It’s a sight to see, a Mandalorian cross-legged on the floor and sipping tea with popping pearls. It makes you grin, and both you and the baby lean in closer to try and look under the helmet further.

“That’s as much as you get,” Din teases as he lowers the helmet, once more covering his entire face.

You frown, but the excitement of Din trying your favorite treat overwhelms it for now. “What do you think?” You ask.

Din tilts his head and does exactly that: thinks. “It’s very good,” he nods as he looks at the child, nearly halfway done with his green milk-tea. “I really like it. That’s delicious.”

“Yay,” you smile and sip your own drink again, sighing. The three of you continue like that for a while, sitting together and drinking your tea. Every time he lifts his helmet, you consider those plush lips, the scruff coating his defined jaw and chin. When his tea is gone, you frown to realize the moment of intimacy, of seeing just a little of his face, is over.

The kid is tuckered out from his day. You put the baby to bed in his hammock over the bunk, kissing him goodnight and singing him a lullaby as you rock the knit cradle. He falls asleep quickly, tummy full of a delicious treat very similar to his favorite snack. While you put the child to bed, Din pilots you safely out of the sky harbor and away from Siruus, out of the purple-tinted sky and back into the darkness of space followed by hyperdrive.

You climb up to the cockpit, entering and standing behind Din’s captain chair. “I had a wonderful time today. Thank you.” You put your hands on his pauldron-covered shoulders.

“Thank you,” he insists. “I’d never go there for any other reason. The drink was wonderful and the kid absolutely loved everything about it.” “Maybe we’ll have to vacation there sometime,” you chuckle, spotting Din’s little toy blurrg peeking out from a pocket on his utility belt.

Din turns and stands from his chair, looking at you through that black t-visor. You’re not sure why he does it; in all honesty, he isn’t either. You stare into the helmet, where you suspect and hope his eyes are. “You’re very handsome under there,” you tell him, putting a hand on the divot of his helmet, where the beskar caves inward over his cheeks.

“I’m nothing special,” he shakes his head, a hand covering yours. “Nowhere as special or as beautiful as you.”

Heat rises in your skin, blood flowing closer to the surface. “That’s not true, Din.”

“It is. You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve seen in the galaxy,” he murmurs, his other hand cupping your cheek through leather gloves.

“Well, thank you,” you laugh softly, almost nervously, “but I meant you’re very special. I haven’t even seen all of your face and I know you’re absolutely gorgeous beneath that helmet.” You pause, tracing the curves of the beskar. “What color eyes do you have? I want to finish the mental picture.”

“Brown,” Din breathes out, barely able to control himself with you this close.

“Din?”

“Mesh’la.”

“Can… can you do what you did with your helmet to drink the tea?”

He lifts it just enough, just exposing those goddamn taunting lips and the scruffy jaw. “Like this?”

“Exactly,” you exhale before cupping his soft jaw, feeling the stubble beneath your palms as you press your lips to his. Those lips are a little dry but warm and strong, just like you’d assume the rest of him is. He puts a hand on your waist and pulls you in close, kissing you back deeply.

The beskar right above his lips makes it more difficult but not impossible. He lifts the helmet a little higher so he can tilt his head to the side, can kiss you with the energy and passion you’re putting into it. Mentally, he adds this to his lists of favorite tastes: spicy Mandalorian cuisine, your favorite tea with popping pearls, and you.

It lasts a while before you break away and Din lowers his helmet all the way once more. You breathe heavily from the fervor of the kiss, lips swollen and damp. Maker, he wishes this visor had a photo capability to take a picture of the way you look. “Come rest with me. Please, Din.”

Din can’t say no to that. He retreats downstairs with you, strips himself of the beskar save for the helmet, and snuggles into your side. Your wish comes true then and there, when you learn that he’s as good of a cuddler as you’d hoped. “Goodnight, Din. Thank you,” you murmur.

“Goodnight, mesh’la. Thank you more.”

The baby above you gives a little snort in his sleep. That’s the last thing you remember before falling asleep in his arms.

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how-masterful · 3 years

Text

Remastered

Dhawan!Master x Reader

Chapter 4: The Pandorica Opens

Summary: Roman Centurions. Pandora's Box. Together you and the Master find yourselves exploring the depths of the cavern below Stonehenge and what mysteries lay within. Legend speaks of a box, an ancient god trapped inside its walls. Why does the rest of the universe want it so badly? And what can the Master do when he finally finds out what’s waiting inside the Pandorica is not what it seems?...

Notes: Welcome back to Remastered! Its been a long time coming! I know I promised an update a while ago, but sometimes these things just don’t work out the way you want them to. If we had a dedicated Master show my job would be so much easier! I finally managed to beat my writers block and found an episode i’d like to masterfy, so i hope you all enjoy!

(You know the drill by now. @plethora-of-imagines, my beloved hat and master lover, this one is for you. just like the other ones. and all the ones coming. because who else would they be for?)

All around the Master, ever so slowly, the world he’d found himself in was suddenly starting to make sense. Dangerous, deadly, foreboding sense. On any other day, the renegade Time Lord would see that as a good thing. But that evening, underneath the ancient ruins of Stonehenge, the Master knew the dark was not on his side.

The communicator had crashed out a mere few seconds ago, fizzing and hissing against his ear. He’d thrown the device to the floor with a frustrated yell, gritting his teeth as his fingers returned to rub at his beard in thought. The same hand ran over his cheek and through his tangled fringe that hung over his eye, fingers gripping at the hair as his feet scuffed and disrupted the old dust upon the floor. He was pacing back and forth. This was not good. The high pitched ringing was deafening, his fingers plugging his ears as he stared down as the communicator. Its corner was dented, dust flying into the small cracks that had crawled up the edge of the glass. The screen still flickers with your face and name, the giant red letters of ‘COMMUNICATION LINE DISRUPTED' beneath it not failing to make his stomach churn.

You were both in grave danger. But it seemed like his was getting even worse.

“Master, it's not real!”

You’d yelled down the communicator line. Behind your plea, the Master had heard the Tardis creaking. Her engines were metal upon metal, screeching and groaning as it hurtled through the Time Vortex.

“What the hell does that mean, it's not real? Where are you?”

“Listen to me! All of it, everything’s a lie! The Romans, they’re right here.”

The Master was getting impatient. But you sounded almost terrified. The Roman platoon was hurrying around him carrying weapons and ammunition throughout the Underhenge. Almost like clockwork. At least they’d forgiven your lie about your identities- Emperor Nero and Pharaoh Cleopatra had seemed like clever aliases at the time. The Master sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What are you talking about, what's all that noise-”

“In the book!”

“You’d better not be breaking my Tardis!”

“Master just listen to me, please!”

You let out a sudden scream. The Tardis jolted forward, sending you slamming into the console. The cloister bells had begun to toll, sparks and shocks of electricity and flame spurting from the central console of the type 41 machine.

All around the Master, the Roman soldiers had slumped forward. Knees locked into position, life drained from their eyes. Weapons, spears and swords clattered to the floor with ricochetting bangs. The Master blew onto the screen of the communicator, banishing the dust from its surface. Every attempt to reopen the communication line was met with an electronic buzz, denying him access. Preoccupied, with one finger plugged in his ear and his shoulder pushed up against the other, he failed to hear the marching footsteps of the platoon behind him.

A unified electronic whirr permeated the room, with all of the soldiers' hands snapping open and small, cylindrical cannons pushing through the exposed middle of their palms. All around the Master, the soldiers were following their commands and drawing closer and closer.

“What was that bang?!”

The Master pulled the com from his ear, before pulling it back closer to his mouth. A Roman had turned to face him, sending him a quirked eyebrow. In return the Master sent a fake smile, before ducking behind the corner of the large box in the center of the room. It would be best if he wasn't seen during this conversation.

“Y/N, talk to me, can you hear me?”

The Master half whispered.

“The Romans are in this book! The Tardis took me back to my house, i don't know why-”

“Your house?”

“When I was a kid. Something else had been there, the grass had these weird scorch patterns and the readings on that thing you gave me were going off the scale. The book on my nightstand, Roman history, i’d studied it at school-”

“You’d said it was your favorite subject, yes.”

Part of you wanted to mull over the fact the Master had remembered your favorite subject, enjoying the fact the hardened criminal had taken the time and care to recall such a trivial fact about his ‘not’ companion. He often mused how preferred to call you his partner. You treasured its double meaning to no end. But you also knew that favouritism was what had led you to visit this Roman colony. You felt slightly responsible over the ensuing chaos.

“I knew I recognized them from somewhere- The Romans, in the book, they’re the exact ones that are with you right now.”

“That's impossible- they’re DRAWINGS, love!”

“I swear! Something has copied the book from my house!”

The Master smacked the side of the communicator, shaking even more dust free from the device. It was only after that he raised his head, suddenly aware of the silence surrounding him. The Romans, or whatever they were, had stood themselves in flank formation, lined up against the edges of the chamber. Blocking his only way out. Beyond the boundary the other soldiers stood side by side in perfect position, surrounding the Time Lord in the purple tweed jacket. Cornering him in front of the Pandorica. Finally, the ringing had dissolved into white noise. Now the Master could think. Almost.

Before he could even begin to spew out a threat, of which he had many planned and ready at the tip of his tongue, the room began to shake with a gargantuan rumble. Lit torches, hung on the walls in metal cages, rattled in their confinements as dust fell from the ceiling like snowfall. The Master's attention was yanked from the Romans, his head whipping behind him as the corner of the Pandorica slowly began to split along its seam. The rumble grew stronger as the stone walls shifted along their mechanisms, the green glow drowned by the emerging, blinding white light.

“Oh, good. You’re ready to come out now?”

Sarcasm and wit had recently become a favorite of the Master. His new body seemed to enjoy plastering on a smug grin and a growled one liner when facing certain doom. He was universally known as indestructible, as his previous faces had bragged. But it seemed this was rapidly misplaced in the current situation.

“I promise you!”

You yelled in protest, slamming hard on a lever and frantically tapping on the interface as you argued.

“They’re the exact same! So is the box!”

The Master reared his head to look at the box he’d pressed his back against.

“What do you mean, the box?”

The legendary Pandorica loomed down at him, the intricate detailing carved into its side glowing with an ominous green light that burnt from within. History had spoken of it, the mystery that lay beneath stonehenge, but to earthly historians, in their ignorant and self aggrandizing ways, it was just that. A mystery. Humanity had chalked the box up to being a folk tale, to ignore the mortifying idea of the supposedly supernatural being… natural: That aliens were anything beyond little green men in flying saucers, and human science simply couldn't, or more likely refused, to explain what had fallen from the stars.

“The Pandorica, I'd said it was like Pandora's box, right?”

You’d clapped with delight, unable to hide your excitement when the Tardis had materialised atop that hill hours before. You’d mentioned how similar the structure seemed to you, even down to the name: Pandora's box…

Your favourite book as a child. He could remember you mentioning it.

The Master did not like where this was going.

“Well?” he asked hesitantly, possibly for the first time in his life.

“It's here, on the cover of the book, my copy of the book, it's the same box.”

The Time Lord could see something peeking through the bright white, the silhouette of something existing within the box. He’d try again with the communicator in a moment, he supposed, slipping it into his endlessly deep inside pocket. He lent forward, peering into the glow, ever curious. Was this the so-called trickster, the universe destroying monster that had dwelled inside that box for millennia? The possibility of an answer was suddenly snatched away, however, when two strong arms punched through the gap between his torso and his arms, sliding under his shoulders and yanking him towards his feet.

The Master let out a shocked sound not unlike a bark, gritting his teeth as the soldiers clutched the man tight between them. His hair flipped madly as he turned to look at his wardens- the familiar, glassy look in their eyes turning the cogs in his brain. He tugged on their grasp, snarling as they dragged him through the dark and dusty cavern. His fingers scrambled to grab onto their own, to try and pry them from his form. Until he saw their fingers were no longer there. Replaced with small blasters in place of their palms. Their living plastic palms.

A sight all too familiar for the Master.

“How can they be the same, where even are you?”

The Master pinched the bridge of his nose once more, giving a disgruntled huff as his head fell back against the side of the Pandorica. Thoughts and possibilities were scrambling around inside his brains, like matadors trying to tame the most frightful of bulls in the ring.

“Master, these are my memories. Why did they go to my house, whatever it is?”

“Most likely, god, mimicry? They needed something that would peak our interest, make us come here-”

The Tardis jolted and screeched once more, her engines whining like a startled parakeet. Sparks and rumbles rocked the floor. You lost your footing, falling to your knees while clutching tight to the edge of the console. The Master pushed himself from the side of the box with a growl.

“What the hell are you doing to my Tardis, Y/n?”

“I don't know!”

You protested, heaving yourself up against the console. You continued to move along the screens, following the rhythm the Master had taught you. It was almost like a dance, especially the way his hands had wandered to your hips while he introduced you to the console.

“Its like something else is controlling it, the controls aren't responding-”

Another bang of sparks. The Master rolled his eyes.

“All those flying lessons I gave you- try and land her, wherever you are. The Tardis has protocols in place to keep you safe. You have to get out of there.”

“I’m trying!”

“The Nestene consciousness, I'd like to say it's pleasant to see you again.”

The Master grunted, trying to yank his shoulder free and almost losing his footing against his own force.

“Romans, a step up from shop dummies and plastic flowers, I'm impressed.”

He truly couldn't tell if his teasing was to intimidate or calm his own racing heartbeats. The Romans whirred and stomped, oblivious to his protests. Also oblivious to his remarks.

“Listen, I'm ordering you to let me go, there's bigger things for me to deal with here-”

Still no reply. The Master grit his teeth, yanking himself backwards in a feeble attempt at escape. He tried to thrash, to worm his way out of their grasp. But it was fruitless. The Autons were just as obnoxiously durable as the first time he’d met them, all those years ago.

“I COMMAND YOU TO LET ME GO!”

Further screams pierced through the communicator line, the timelord wincing as he once more pulled the device from his ear. You sounded terrified, the Tardis spiralling further out of control.

“Y/n? Love, talk to me!”

“Master, I can't control her! Whatever's out there with you, it has to be connected. The same box, the same Romans, the same night, that CAN'T be a coincidence! Master, everything out there with you, It's a trap. It has to be. They wanted us to come here, Please just trust me, you have to get out of there-”

Crash. Hiss. Bang. The Tardis was screaming as it hurtled through the Vortex. The Master was beginning to worry. This time he wasn't going to deny it.

“Y/N! SHUT HER DOWN!”

“MASTER, I CAN'T! PLEASE!”

The world round the Master began to ring with a high pitched shriek. A piercing ring that echoed throughout the underhenge. The timelord winced, scrunching up his face and baring his teeth as he shrunk away from the din. Beside his ear he could hear your screams, the Tardis hurtling towards the unknown. Until suddenly, zap. Crackle. Nothing.

“Y/n, can you hear me!?”

The communicator line went dead.

The Master was growing more tense by the second. And even angrier still.

“I order you to obey! Why do you want me, why do you want my Y/n’s memories-”

The Roman soldier to his left gave a grim admittance, staring forwards at the growing light shining from within the Pandorica. It was almost hypnotic to the lumps of plastic surrounding him, something he’d consider himself a seasoned expert of. But this was different. This still stunk of betrayal and subterfuge. And also a slight loss of pride.

“The Pandorica is ready.”

The Master should have been excited. Ready to meet this mythical creature, a ghost in time, a legend. But now he felt slightly sick. He leered up at the soldier, antagonizing the guard.

“Ready for what, eh? What other big bads have you around their pinkie this time?”

The plethora of Romans did not speak. They simply continued to stare.

“I’m going to tell you again, let me go. You took your orders from me, once- you should know who I am! I am the Master!”

“Correct. Subject has self identified.”

The Master's face practically drained of all color. He daren't move his head to look, knowing exactly what scum of the universe was waiting behind him. The sound of the Daleks still sent a quiver of tangible fear down his spine. It had been years since the time war, centuries since the destruction of Skaro. Of Gallifrey. But the Daleks had not only destroyed his people, they had executed him personally. And in the twisted sense of poetry, were the reason he was brought back from the dead. A soldier to fight in the universal war- the only time he decided to be like the Doctor, running away to the end of the universe to escape the carnage that gave the blood red skies and grass of home a brand new meaning.

He wouldn't say he feared them. But a dead Dalek was much more preferable than a living one.

Just like his old face had said. Stupid tin boxes.

“The subject has identified himself. Scan complete. You are the Master.”

“Well, you lot look different. Fancied an upgrade?”

He watched the Daleks, three in a crow, creep towards his line of vision. They were bulky things now, taller than before, each with a garishly bright color scheme that he almost wanted to shield his eyes from. An ugly design for an ugly creature.

“Or is that a poor turn of phrase?”

“YOUR LIMITS, CAPACITIES AND WEAKNESSES HAVE BEEN EXTRAPOLATED. YOU HAVE BEEN CONFIRMED”

Oh great. More Cybermen. If you were here, you’d tease him relentlessly for the reunion. You had earlier, suggesting he take the Cyber parts home and build his own. With a flash of white and a digital blue haze, the Cyber leader phased into vision, followed by two further Cybermen. All carrying large black weapons, much like what he’d found earlier.

“Oh, I was waiting for you to show up. Just can't stay away from me, can you?”

“Your arrogance is continued!”

Sontarans. Fabulous. In another flash, the squadron of Sontarans had appeared in the Underhenge, proudly brandishing their blasters. Before the Master could even calculate a response, the whole room seemed to glow in fire. The Pandorica was still slowly creaking open, the beam of light shining brighter and brighter. The Master, who stood right in its glow, had to shrink away and squint from its brightness.

Teleportation fields, transfer rays, dimensionally transcendental movement corridors, it seemed the world and his wife were cramming themselves into the cavern below the rocks. The Master, now adapting to the light, was met with an endless sea of familiar faces.

Draconians, Ogrons, Juddoon, Kasaavin, Axonites, Cheetah Warriors, Sea Devils, and even their silurian cousins. Even some faces he’d never seen before littered the crowd, some other foes he’d briefly met but never spared a thought to. Sycorax, Hoix, Zygons, members of the Trickster Brigade, Clockwork Droids- and tall, slender men in black suits with a name he couldn't quite remember. He even struggled to remember they were there, looming in the background behind the busying crowd.

The great monsters of the universe had gathered at the Pandorica.

“The Pandorica is ready!”

The Sontaran leader cried. Hesitantly, the Master dared to ask.

“Ready for what?”

The white Dalek, the new supreme, slowly moved closer.

“Ready. For. you.”

The sides of the Pandorica finally slid into position, the blinding shroud of light dissipating. Finally, the Master could see what was before him in the darkness of the cavern. The box had split open to reveal a mechanised chair, almost like a throne. Callous and black, the metal chair was embedded deep into the heart of the Pandorica. Its exterior was fitted with several restraints, the square shaped shackles glowing the same green as the exterior patterns. Two ankles, two wrists, and over the shoulders- any being within would be unable to break free. Or even attempt to escape.

Slowly, the puzzle, not unlike the box in the fairy tale of Pandora, was beginning to slot together. The Master turned to look at the aliens surrounding him- co conspirators, enemies, allies. All had stood to the sides of the room, leaving a walkway between himself and the Pandorica. They stood, watching intently, as the realisation began to appear upon the renegade Time Lords face.

The path was clear. The restraints on the chair had retracted outwards, unlocking themselves. The Pandorica was empty.

But the Master knew.

Not for long.

“Wait, you can't-”

But they already had. The Nestenes began to walk forwards, dragging the Master along with them by his armpits. The timelord kicked and fought their grasp, his grey shoes kicking up dust as he scrambled to find resistance in his footing. The surrounding monsters watched on as the Master fought for his freedom, desperately trying to pull away from the plastic men. He shouted, grunted, bared his teeth, but no amount of tugging and shouting could break the Master free. The Silurians tilted their heads, hissing. The Draconians stood with poised disapproval. The Daleks and Cybermen stood proudly at the front of the line, the Judoon watching silently with the authority of the shadow proclamation. All those creatures, lit by the roaring fire of the flickering torches on the wall.

The Roman imposters dragged the Master to the empty chair, their strength unmatched as they heaved the Time Lord into the waiting seat. He let out a furious yell as the restraints snapped shut around him, his body yanked backwards into the chair. First his wrists, then his ankles, then his shoulders. The entrapments of the Pandorica had shackled him down to his seat. A last set of restraints emerged from within the structure itself, entangling themselves around the Master's waist and stomach, pressing tight against his torso and locking him firmly into the chair. A single light shone from above, acting as a spotlight over the Master’s head. All eyes could see the Time Lord struggle and fight. All eyes knew it was useless. Exactly how they’d designed it to be.

“No, you can't do this to me!”

The Master was visibly rippling with rage.

“All those times I've helped you all!”

“YOUR ASSISTANCE HAS BEEN A SCOURGE ON THE CYBER RACE.”

The Cyberman with black handles spoke, as monotone and electronic as ever. The Master widened his eyes.

“No-”

“Your presence within the universe has caused vital damage to Dalek strategy.”

“All our plans, every time you step in, have failed to reach fruition! The glory of the Sontaran empire is threatened by your hand!”

The Master turned to look at every monster surrounding the box. The pathway had closed, the races and creatures surging forwards, cornering him even more within the machine. Their faces, if they had one, were full of hatred and disdain. Even the robots among the crowd were seemingly glaring. And those without faces watched on with agreement. The Master glared between them, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession.

“So, what? You blame me for everything? Want to lock me in a box because you blame me for all your problems!?”

“Incorrect.”

The Daleks' voice was scratchy and mutilated. Much like the creature inside the casing.

“The Pandorica was constructed to provide safety for the Alliance. You have aligned yourself with the Doctor.”

The Master paused for a moment, staring down at the supreme Dalek. How it stood there, with all its pride and might, and accused him of such a thing. He couldn't help but laugh. And so he did. The Master barked out a laugh, teeth bared and head falling back as he sat shackled to the Pandorica.

“Me? With her? Who told you that?”

“CYBER DATA HAS CONFIRMED. YOUR PREVIOUS INCARNATION ASSISTED THE DOCTOR IN CYBER DESTRUCTION.”

“Missy? Really? A five foot four mistress of evil scared you so much you had to put me in a box?”

“Your identity as the Mistress has been confirmed to stand in allegiance with the Doctor. It's a well known fact you chose to stand alongside them. Who knows what chaos you could harbour with your… track record of derailment.”

The Draconian leader stood proud among his council. The Master sent him a scowl, his laughter dying out.

“You think I'm the Doctor's little helper? Her weapon against you all, the crazy old Master, happy to do her dirty work? News flash, I've tried to kill her! Yeah, she's a she now, it's her turn! Some of you I've even worked with! I helped YOU with the Cyberium!”

“The evidence shows otherwise. You simply can no longer be trusted.”

The Kasaavin leader dared to talk against him. The Master questioned how he could even be here, after the Doctor's exile of their race from the planet. Their hatred for him must be strong enough to transcend dimensions. It was almost romantic.

“I’m nothing like the Doctor! I don't even LIKE the Doctor! Sure, I had a bit of a wobble in morals, tried to be good..ish… but I'm back!”

The Master was positively exasperated. His messy hair and wide eyes making him look manic.

“So can somebody, anybody: any man, woman, robot… fish thing. I don't care. Can somebody tell me, what do you all think makes me like the Doctor?”

There was silence across the room. The Master's outburst had made them think. The Master watched them, eyes begging for an acceptable reply. Finally, the Cyberman spoke.

“YOU HAVE GROWN SENTIMENTAL. YOU HAVE TAKEN A COMPANION.”

You. Oh, you. This couldn't just be about you.

The variables began to bubble and clash within the Master's brains. Everything seemed to come back to you. Your choice in trip, your favorite subject, favorite book, you attack from the guard, your fake identity as a queen. And your current fate... However unknown it was.

Surely this couldn't be about you.

“The memories of your companion were extrapolated. A scenario was formed as a test of your intentions.”

“Mercy for a human! Defence over a fleshy girl, instead of the opportunity for universal destruction! Your allegiance cannot be guaranteed, your newfound kindness poses a threat to us all!”

The Master huffed, his hearts fighting within his chest. This couldn't be happening.

“It was you, wasn't it? You took took control of my Tardis-”

“YOUR COMPANION WILL BE DISPOSED OF. YOUR IMPRISONMENT IS A RESULT OF YOUR MERCY.”

“You fell into a trap that you simply could not resist. The draconian empire condemns you.”

“You’re going to kill her, and imprison me, just because you can't trust me to not be good!?”

“The safety of the alliance is paramount. Your history of meddling in Dalek affairs, your part in the destruction of Skarro and our creator, the data cannot be ignored.”

The Master couldn't breathe. The surrounding forces were drawing closer and closer, surrounding him and his line of vision. The walls of the chamber had disappeared within the bodies of the alliance. They were really going to turn on him. They really intended to kill you.

“We will save our universe. From you!”

His mouth was dry. His palms were sweating, his breathing shallow, his rage burning like the brightest of suns. The Master glared upon the alliance, eyes twitching with inconsolable rage. This day had been long. He’d been tested far too much, pushed way too far. This morning he was lying in bed, embracing the warmth of the Tardis and your body against his own. But now his world was being stripped away from him.

Angry didn't begin to cover it.

“Now you listen to me- you bring her back, you know for a fact the destruction of a Tardis in the Vortex will ripple through this universe. And then you’ll have me to deal with.”

“NEGATIVE. YOUR IMPRISONMENT CANNOT BE AVOIDED.”

“Your companion will perish. Your isolation will be permanent. This is confirmed.”

The Master let out a furious scream, a bitter yell that ripped harshly against the back of his throat. The tribe of Silurians hissed and stepped backwards, raising their weapons.

“LISTEN TO ME! If she dies, if my ship burns, I will rip this box apart inch by inch and I will destroy every single one of your ugly little races!”

His shoulders were heaving, spit flying from his mouth as he spat between gritted teeth.

“I will bring down destruction on every one of your stupid little planets and your silly little spaceships. I’m a Time Lord, my people have made a mockery of you since the days you formed on your tiny little rocks, floating through space. I’ll show you how merciful I can truly be as I kill you all slowly, one by one, so you can watch what happens when you think you can destroy me. I am the Master, and you will all pay for this!”

The Cyber leader stepped forwards, clenching a fist to its chest. It looked deep into the Master's eyes, its soulless black pits of metal mesh showing no humanity nor hesitation.

“SEAL THE PANDORICA.”

“Listen to me, you will obey me! The Tardis will implode, your worlds are in so much more danger than you could possibly realise!”

The heavy walls of the Pandorica began to slide shut. The Master was frantic, tugging and yanking against his bonds. Nothing. The metal locks were clasped tight, his body imprisoned and trapped against the seat. His eyes were enormous, his hair flopping from side to side as he continued to fight against the seat. Still, there was no way of escape. No amount of fighting would work. That didn't stop him from trying his best.

“The universe will rot and perish if you harm her! Everything you know will be nothing but ash, I promise you! All your suns, your moons, your hopes, I will destroy each and every one of them! You can't do this to me! I am the Master! You will obey me!”

The Master's words echoed through the Underhenge, bouncing off every wall and dissolving into the gathered crowd. The alliance watched on as the timelord begged for his freedom, promising destruction in his wake. But these were songs they had heard before. Plans ruined by opportune chance, and disappointing failure at the hands of his old friend.

“YOU WILL OBEY ME!”

The Master screamed, as the walls of the Pandorica finally snapped shut. With a hiss the edges of the box sealed together, the mechanical insides ticking away as the glowing green sides twisted and interlocked. As the box gave its last rumble, the Pandorica was finally sealed. The legendary trickster, the mischief maker that had destroyed worlds and brought down civilisations, finally locked within.

The Tardis hurtled through the Vortex, crashing against the walls of time, its engines phasing and crying out as the cloister bell rang from within. You crawled across the floor, scrambling back towards the console, fingers grasping onto anything they could purchase. Sparks flew beside your head, the cables linked to the belly of the console fizzing and pulsating as you begged the console to calm down. You’d been with her for years now, you knew how the Tardis would normally fly. This definitely wasn't her doing. This definitely wasn't her in control.

Your hand smacked hard against the side of the communicator, the line still ringing out every time. You’d tried to call the Master several times, each instance ringing and ringing with no return. He never refused to reply. You clutched on tight as another wave of turbulence hit the flight deck, the trinkets and knick-knacks you’d gathered on your travels tumbling from every shelf and crashing into nothingness against the floor.

“Please, Master, answer me!”

Nothing. He simply wasn't there.

You couldn't cry yet, there was still hope. Or at least, you tried to convince yourself. You hoped for a miracle, for something that would help you regain control of the Tardis. You didn't want to die.

“Master, please! I’ve not got much time!”

Your calls were falling on deaf ears. Nothing was going to save you. A rogue spark suddenly flew from the console, knocking you backwards as the Tardis collided with the Vortex once more. You flung back towards the floor, head colliding with the hardwood as you fell. You felt the impact through your whole body, all strength slipping through your fingers as your eyelids felt heavy. From your position on the floor you could see out the window, the reflection of the flaming Tardis console bathing the Vortex in deep orange.

“Master, I love you, I'm sorry…”

You whispered, your vision beginning to fade. You gazed deeper into space, watching as the world shook and disappeared around you.

And as you blacked out, every star began to fade from the sky.

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fireinmywoods · 3 years

Note

Whenever you (gleefully) describe Jim's octopus-like sleeping preferences, we often see Bones complaining about how hard it is to escape when he has to pee. But how often is he getting up to pee in the night? Does he need to get this checked out, or is he really just an old man in body AND spirit?

I actually went back and fact-checked myself on this, wondering what exactly I’ve been communicating about poor Leonard’s urological health! It is indeed established in septenary that Leonard sometimes needs to get up to pee at night and that Jim makes this exceedingly difficult, but the phrasing leaves the frequency of these incidents rather open to interpretation, so allow me to clarify that it was intended to imply that this might happen at most once a night, and not necessarily every night.

In Leonard’s defense (and, frankly, my own), it's not abnormal to sometimes need to get up to pee once during the night, especially if you’re of a certain age and keep yourself well hydrated, and especially if, like Leonard and Jim, you're in the habit of frequently having a drink or two before bed. (Alcohol is a diuretic, meaning it makes you have to pee more, and as a health professional who works on sleep hygiene I feel obligated to advise you that it also disrupts REM sleep and overall negatively impacts your sleep quality and how rested you feel the next day.)

Now, it may not seem like getting up just once per night would be such an onerous task, but consider this:

You drift into a hazy awareness, heavy with lingering sleep, a touch overheated where the back of your neck meets the pillow and in the hundred places your lover's bare skin meets yours. His legs are twined through your own, his leaden arm is belted securely over your middle, his cheek is hot against your shoulder, and all along your side are plastered the slack skin-warm weight of chest and ribs and gently rising belly.

You're comfortable. You shouldn't be, maybe, but this is the least of the paradoxical contradictions you've had cause to reckon with since Jim Kirk came careening into your life, and all things considered you've decided it doesn't especially warrant fretting over. Jim sleeps like a boa constrictor that opted for a mid-meal nap, suffocatingly strong and entirely immovable, and you've never slept better in your life. Chalk it up as yet another mystery of the unfathomable universe.

You do kind of need to empty your bladder, though. It's nothing terribly urgent, but it's there, and you know it'll only grow more pressing by morning, when Jim will be drowsy-sweet and playful, offering and inviting the sort of languorous physical affection you find most difficult to resist. You'll want to laze around with him then, indulging in his idle touches, soaking up the easy intimacy of your bodies wound together, admiring the smoothness of his skin and the arcs of his comet trails as he hums and preens under your hands - and in order to grant your morning self that luxury, your groggy midnight self needs to take the hit and get up to use the head.

It really ought not to be such an ordeal. Unlike some other nights in recent memory, you're not obliged to step away from your campfire into the treacherous dark of a screeching alien jungle, nor to make profoundly awkward conversation with a chatty royal attendant before being admitted into the (God help you) communal relief chamber. Your own private, sanitized bathroom is only steps away, and making use of it will be a matter of less than a minute.

It would be one thing if you could slip unnoticed from the bed, the way you’ve done countless times before with past partners - if you could simply ease Jim down to the mattress and leave him resting peacefully in a heap of pale skin and fluttering eyelashes while you went and took care of business. You might even tuck a pillow into his arms to curl around in your absence, reassure him with a stroke to his lightly furrowed brow that you weren’t going far, and when you returned you'd gather him back against you with a sigh or a snuffle and drop near instantly back into the deep slumber that's still teasing at the edges of your reluctant consciousness.

Yeah, that would be nice. But, of course, nothing where Jim’s involved can ever be that easy.

You begin by levering your numb arm away from Jim's back, wincing at the stinging start of pins and needles, and even as you’re flexing your prickling fingers Jim is already registering his discontent, huddling even more tightly against your side with a low noise of distress, as though you'd thrown off a blanket to expose him to a biting winter chill.

You attempt to shift sideways, hoping against all reason and precedent that you might be able to slide free of Jim's grasp without needing to grapple with him, only to find yourself caged in still more inescapably by Jim's tensing limbs. He makes another sound, complaint and injury, the wounded cry of a man forsaken.

"Jim," you sigh, because at this point it's clear you're not getting away without verbal negotiation. You jiggle your tingling arm and shoulder under him, trying to jostle him into something resembling conscious reasoning. "Wake up."

“Mrmph.” Jim nuzzles your shoulder, obstinate and sweet, frustrating your efforts to muster up some nice productive impatience with him. Lord, how much simpler everyone’s lives would be if this recalcitrant little bastard weren’t so charming in his defiance.

“I gotta take a leak, kid. Loosen up some.”

This does seem to register. Jim grumbles another sulky noise into your shoulder, but his arm retracts slowly and grudgingly back over your belly, and his legs stir against yours in a feeble attempt at disentangling.

You take advantage of his weakened grip and ease yourself out of his clutches, rolling toward the edge of the bed and heaving your legs over to propel yourself into something resembling a seated position, and with your feet now firmly on the cool floor you think to yourself get a move on and now’s your chance and sooner you go sooner you can get back, all too aware that if you hesitate or look back now you’ll be trapped again.

So you get up and go, trudging across the short distance to the head, and when you’ve done your business and shuffled back it’s to find Jim still awake, as he always is, a familiar blurry-edged silhouette in the two percent light. As many times as you play out this scene, your fool heart still pangs a bit at the sight: the faint glint of his eyes seeking you out in the dark, the unspoken plea of his arm outstretched across your side of the bed.

“Budge over,” you say, though there’s plenty of space, because it’s the middle of the goddamn night and that’s no kind of time to allow yourself to feel any type of way about how Jim won’t sleep without you.

Jim draws his arm back some, a perfunctory concession, as much for show as your little pantomime of grievance as you pour your weary bones into bed and find yourself captured once more by the strangling embrace of the man you pray to God never stops reaching for you in the night.

#ask #anon #fireinmywoods fic #mckirk fic #mckirk #otp: bedside manner #mccoy #kirk #star trek #aos #gonna call this #palimpsest verse #while SIEL jim is equally cuddly at night he's passingly established as being a little more chill when leonard has to get up #whereas pverse jim is both obnoxiously clingy and 'always knows when bones is gone'#yes that's right i took this jokey tease of an ask and gave it Feelings #would you expect anything different from me honeslty #q

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dreamescapeswriting · 3 years

Text

Just A Little Bit Of Your Heart ~ JJK [Request]

WORD COUNT: 2.6K

GENRE: Non Idol Au, song request, ANGST, breakup, cheating

PAIRING: Jeon Jungkook x Reader

WARNINGS: No happy ending, toxic relationship, no part two - I will no write that she goes back to him because I don’t want to, it’s not something I would want since it’s toxic….So please don’t ask me to as I’m not comfortable with it x To the anon I hope this is alright, but honestly I couldn’t live with myself if I romanticized a relationship like the one in the song. Hope you understand

A/N: Please know your self worth and never stay with someone who would treat you like this, once a cheat always a cheat (been there done that) please never stay with someone who makes you feel small when you’re not. You’re all beautiful and lovely, and no matter what you will find love. Even if it doesn’t feel like it, you will

I don’t ever ask you where you’ve been. And I don’t feel the need to know who you’re with. I can’t even think straight, but I can tell. You were just with her…And I’ll still be a fool, I’m a fool for you…

The door to the shared apartment you owned with Jungkook opened and you glanced over at him from the coffee table and he didn't even glance in your direction as he made his way towards the staircase. There was no need for you to ask where he'd been, or who he'd even been with since you didn't want to think about it. Thinking about it meant admitting to yourself he was cheating on you, again.

"Is he working late again?" You best friend, Jimin, questioned as you turned back to look at him. Jimin had come over to your place so you could help him plan a surprise party for his boss. Jimin wasn't an idiot, you'd gone to him a lot the first time Jungkook cheated on you and he wasted no time in telling you to leave Jungkook behind. That it wasn't worth all of the stress you were putting yourself through, but no one seemed to understand how much you loved Jungkook. How you felt about him could never be replaced by anyone else so you just went on like this, hoping that one-day Jungkook would change and see sense.

"Yeah." You lied looking at the folder that was on the table, you weren't going to admit to Jimin that you knew Jungkook was cheating again...It would only start a fight that didn't need to be started. So you tried to focus on the huge lever arch folder in front of you that was dedicated to his boss, a huge surprise party in the main office of the building to help make his birthday special this year since everyone had forgotten it the year before.

"So I was thinking you could..." Jimin continued to talk but you just began to drown him out as you thought about where Jungkook could have been tonight. Who he would have been with instead of with you. You could never think straight whenever you got too into your head about things like this. Your mind kept wandering back to what Jungkook was doing when he was away from you, it was all that took over your head lately. Wandering who he was with if he was at work or had just decided to take the day off and spend it with someone else. You couldn't remember the last time you and Jungkook had spent any time together like that, just the two of you without fighting. Just hanging out together, cuddling...kissing...Come to think of it you couldn't remember the last time that Jungkook touched you.

"Y/n? Does that sound good?" Hearing your name made you snap from the small daydream you were having so you turned your attention back to Jimin who was showing you pictures of cakes. All with a similar style to them but he was explaining how he wanted it to be three-tier with different designs on each tier.

"Sorry, I'm distracted, you want something like these on each tier?" As you questioned Jimin, giving him your full attention Jungkook came into the living room again, carrying clothes with him for the wash meaning there was something on them he didn't want you to see. Probably more lipstick marks or it smelt like someone else's perfume, he'd even brought home a pair of women's underwear before. Which made you question if he was doing it on purpose, trying to get you to see it so you would break things off. You'd come close to it once but you never could do it.

"Yeah, are you sure you can do this? I can find someone else-" You shook your head, promising him faithfully that you could do it as you escorted him out of the apartment. You could feel the anger bubbling up inside of Jungkook the second you touched Jimin but you also knew Jungkook had no place to stand on this. He would get mad whenever you hung around your friends but the second you got angry about him being around different girls it would cause a huge fight.

"Another late shift?" You questioned carefully as you walked into the kitchen to see him watching you already, his eyes trained on you as you walked into the kitchen, clothes clutched in his hand as he stopped himself from what he was doing to keep an eye on you. For someone who was already cheating on you, he was sure paranoid of you cheating on him.

"Who was that?" You rolled your eyes, Jungkook had met Jimin a bunch of times before but still neglected to even acknowledge him as being one of your best friends. Of course, you weren't allowed to "have" guy friends because that meant you were sleeping with them...Which couldn't have been further from the truth. Jimin was more like a brother to you than anything else but Jungkook couldn't see past the fact that he was another boy.

"Jimin, I'm making his boss a birthday cake. Another late shift?" You repeated as you pointed at the clothes in his hand, you could already see the bright red lipstick stain on the collar but you pretended not to. It was easier to play the fool than to admit what was really going on behind your back. It was foolish of you to stay with him knowing everything he was doing but you were hopelessly in love with him.

"Yeah, Taehyung has us all pulling in over time..." That was it, that was the extent of the conversation you were going to have with one another as he made his way out of the room. Jungkook didn't even glance back as you let out a choked sob, he just headed up to the bedroom to get some sleep. You gripped onto the kitchen counter as you sobbed, falling down onto your knees as you thought about everything going on around you. How you let Jungkook be the one to treat you like this when you had every chance to walk out of the door. Leave him behind but it felt as no one could love you.

I don’t ever tell you how I really feel. Cause I can’t find the words to Say What I mean….I know I’m not you’re only but at least I’m one, I heard a little love…is better than none

A week passed and Jimin was around the apartment again to see what process you were making on the cakes. You'd been non-stop practising each design and flavour he'd asked for and he wanted to come and see it.

"I thought he had the week off?" He whispered to you as Jungkook came down the stairs dressed in his suit and tie for work.

"H-He must have been called in for overtime," You bit back a sob as you watched Jungkook leave without a goodbye, not even a wave was sent in your direction. All you heard was the front door slam shut behind him and that was when it hit Jimin what was happening.

"He's cheating on you again...Isn't he?" You could hear the venom drip from Jimin as he angrily began to express his feelings about Jungkook.

"I swear, he's a no-good pig who only thinks with his dick why are you even still with him-" He stopped himself from yelling and raving when he turned around to see you. Your hands were covering your face as you sobbed into them silently. Something you mastered a lot over the last week, learning to cry silently so you wouldn't have to talk to Jungkook. Explaining how you felt to him when you couldn't find the words to say what you meant.

"Darling, come here." He whispered pulling you into a tight hug where you continued to sob into his chest, sniffling harder as you both sank to the floor.

"Shh, it's okay. Let it out," He whispered repeatedly as he stroked his hand over your hand, promising you that he was going to get you out of this situation but that was the one thing you didn't want.

"I-I love him Jimin...No one is ever going to love me...A-At least with him I have a little love," You whimpered to him but Jimin cupped your face, staring into your eyes as you whimpered to him.

"No, Y/n you can't let yourself believe that...There's someone out there that's going to make you feel like the sun is something they built for you...Someone who is going to make you cry with happiness...Not this." You sniffled as he continued telling you things like this, trying to cheer you up but none of it was working.

"It's so hard-"

"Nothing's ever easy Y/n..." That was what everyone said but whenever you even thought about leaving Jungkook your heart would fall apart and it felt as though your world was falling apart.

"Doesn't it bother you? That you aren't the only one he's with?" The question you asked yourself every day.

"I know I'm not his only one, but at least I'm one...Just a little a bit of his heart is all I want Jimin." You whimpered looking up into his eyes when the front door opened again.

"What the fuck?!" The words cut through the air and you felt as though your world was about to come crashing down on you as you looked at Jungkook. He was red in the face and getting angrier the longer you sat there cradled in Jimin's arms so you jumped away from him, scrambling to stand up as you tried to get between Jungkook and Jimin.

"What is your fucking problem? You're allowed to sleep with anything with a pulse but the second Y/n tries to seek comfort from someone who isn't a complete and utter cunt-" You pushed Jungkook away from Jimin as he attempted to lung himself at him,

"Jimin...G-Go, I'll sort this...Please." Jimin could tell by the voice crack that you needed him to be gone for this.

"Fucking dirty scumbag," Jimin mumbled as he walked out of the house leaving you and Jungkook alone in the dead silent house. Once the front door shut Jungkook changed, he went to walk away again but you weren't going to stand for it anymore.

"No. Why? What's your fucking problem with me having a friend over?" Jungkook slowly turned around to look at you and looked behind you at the cake, then to your face as if he was trying to come up with some reason.

"You could be sleeping with him," That was only met by a cold laugh on your part as you couldn't believe what he was saying,

"Like it's any different to you sleeping with...Who is it this week?" He scoffed back at you folding his arms over his chest as he met your gaze but it was as if he was challenging you to say something about it. This time you weren't going to back down from it, you'd finally reached that breaking point.

"I wouldn't sleep with Jimin...I'm faithful, unlike someone in this house." You went to push past him to leave but his hand gripped onto your wrist and held you tightly in his hands.

"Where do you think you're going?" You looked into his eyes, all of the good memories came flooding into your brain. All of the good dates that you and Jungkook had, had before all of the cheating, before his lying and the sneaking around. The longer you stared the more of the bad memories began seeping into it, ruining the perfect image of him that you had in your head.

"I'm leaving you," You whispered, but it sounded as though you were saying it to yourself. Trying to convince your own mind and body that, that is what you were doing that you were finally going to leave him after everything he'd put you through throughout your relationship.

"I'm leaving you," You repeated with more confidence as you took your wrist away from his grasp looking him up and down before turning towards the staircase.

"You can't! You're not allowed to leave me!" He yelled out, rushing towards you as you began sprinting up the staircase but you beat him to the bedroom. Locking the door before he could make his way inside and start to sweet talk you out of this. You had to continue on this, you had to leave.

When you came out of the bedroom Jungkook was sitting on the wall opposite the door watching you, his face was stained with tears as he realised you were going to leave him. He'd been nothing but pleading with you through the door not to leave him that he would change but you heard the same speech from him before.

"Y.n please," He murmured as you pulled your bag over your shoulder and began descending down the staircase grabbing your car keys, he was close behind you. You could feel his breath on the back of your neck as you struggled to get the house key from the keys,

"I'm leaving Jungkook. I can't do this anymore...I-It's toxic." You were crying silently as you finally got the key off and shoved it into his chest. He was sobbing once again, tears gushing down his cheeks as you finally took charged and decided that you were worth more than he was going to give you.

"You don't have to do this...I can change myself...I won't see them anymore-" Your worst reality hit you that it wasn't just one other girl, that it was a collection of them but you stood your ground as you opened the front door to the apartment.

"I can change, I won't-I won't see them anymore, you mean so much to me." You shook your head at his words, throwing your bag into the car as he followed you outside, the neighbours next door were looking out of their window to see what was happening but you weren't going to let that bother you. Before, whenever you would catch them looking at you, you would beg Jungkook to stop the fight you were having. You didn't want to risk people seeing him as the bad guy but that was exactly what he was...He wasn't the good guy anymore. Or ever.

"I'm done. You won't change Jungkook. You can't change, once a cheat...Always a cheat. You tried. I'm done." You whispered opening the car door and sitting down, you shut the door but Jungkook began banging on the window so you rolled it down. Looking into his eyes as it took everything inside of you to keep your composure,

"Stay."

"N-No...All I ever wanted was a little bit of your heart Jungkook...J-Just a little bit of it but-" You started up the engine,

"I deserve more than that, I deserve a lot more than just a little." You whispered, putting the car into reverse as you backed out of the driveway, leaving Jungkook there as he watched after you wordless.

As you pulled into Jimin's driveway he rushed out after you, you'd called him from the road to explain everything that had happened after he left.

"Y/n-" You got out of the car and raced into his arms, breaking down into tears as he held you tightly. Shouting to his girlfriend to make some tea for you all,

"Come on," He whispered encouragingly as he walked you through towards his house, whispering how proud he was of you for taking charge of everything and leaving him behind. It was going to take everything inside of you not to go running back to him but you knew it was for the best. It was the only thing you had to keep reminding yourself. That this was for the best. You didn't need Jungkook in your life to be happy or feel loved.

Tagline: @lyoongx @mitzwinchester @fan-ati--c @rjsmochii @taestannie @kneel-begyourpardon @bisexualmess007 @sw33tnight @innersooya @sweeneyblue1

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janetbrown711 · 3 years

Note

“ you’re doing great , okay ?? i mean it . ” Wakko yakko

Yakko was glad that Wakko had already climbed to the bottom of the tower by the time he had gathered everything they’d need for their trip to the wishing star and he got to the bottom of the tower, otherwise he was pretty sure he would have had a heart attack from the anxiety. The tower was at least 50 feet tall for crying out loud- had it been any other circumstances, Yakko would’ve refused to even consider the thought.

Still, he made it, and all was well... for the moment anyhow. Yakko knew that “okay”ness wasn’t likely to last, especially if any of the guards noticed them slipping out with a sled in toe-

Okay, maybe this was a terrible idea... but they had to get there somehow. Yakko was not going to give up the opportunity of a lifetime just because it was a little stupid. They could finally, finally be free of their stupid grandmother. For good. If they made it they’d all be safe. Together. Happy.

Quickly and quietly, Yakko untied the last three bedsheets used to make Wakko’s rope and began to tie it to a stick, he then wedged into the sled, creating a kinda crappy but still functional makeshift sail of sorts that would hopefully work alongside the windy Acme Mountains to help them go further. He also set down a few blankets, their scarves, and snowshoes if needed. It was times like these he was grateful he was royalty- he couldn’t imagine not having warm enough clothes or supplies.

Dot sat in the sled while Yakko and Wakko began to pull, heading their way towards the back exit through the gardens- it was small and hardly ever used so they figured it was likely their best shot for escaping unnoticed.

Luck appeared to be on their side, as they had made it all the way to the gate itself, when a voice shouted for them to halt.

“Who goes there? On what business?” One knight said. Yakko gulped.

“W-well-”

“Aren’t you three the royal children? What are you doing up at such an hour?” The other asked. Yakko

“Well we were just on our way to- uh...”

“You three running away?” The first asked. Yakko, Wakko, and Dot looked at each other and shrugged. The guard nodded.

“I see,” He said, pulling the other to the side. There was a long awkward moment of just the two of them whispering, before he turned over.

“We were friends of your father. He was a brave man, we owe him a lot,” The first guard nodded.

“We will let you go, but we will not be able to stop her from chasing after,” The second said.

Yakko couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Really?! Thanks, misters!” Dot smiled at them.

“Dot, keep your voice down,” Yakko hushed her, before looking up at them. “Thanks though... it means a lot.”

They nodded, pulling a lever that opened the gate for them. Yakko nodded at his younger brother, and they pulled the sled out of the castle walls.

Alright, one obstacle down, a million more to go...

Well, at least they wouldn’t be discovered until morning- hopefully. That should give them enough time to make it to the mountains and get a fair head start before any of them noticed and went after them.

“Alright you two, you ready?” Yakko asked, noticing a breeze picking up. Wakko and Dot nodded, as Wakko got onto the sled. Yakko nodded back, as he started running downhill, catching the wind and they headed off to Acme Mountain.

.o0o.

“Are you sure we have everything William?”

“I’ve checked each bag a thousand times, Lena dear. We have everything,” William chuckled as closed the door to the cart.

“The cloaks? Food? Water? Extra mittens? The sword?” Lena asked.

“Even the sword, dear. It’ll be fine, Lena, we’re totally prepared, thanks to Helloise and Dr. Scratchnsniff,” William nodded at his childhood friend and the doctor.

“It’s not a problem, William. We’re always happy to help,” Helloise smiled. “Though... may I ask what the sword is needed for?”

William shrugged. “You never know with wild animals.”

“Well- don’t be too harsh on that arm of yours, or else you’ll end up right back,” Helloise chuckled.

“Right, yes,” Willaim laughed too.

“Yes- right. Seriously- thank you. For everything. Your hospitality has meant the world to us,” Lena said to them as well.

“It’s an honor, your majesty,” Helloise said.

“Right- well, if we want to reach the mountains by sunrise, we’d best get going,” William said, giving Helloise a quick hug before helping Lena onto her seat.

“We want her back in one piece as much as possible, ya? We want to use her to sell our elixir,” Scratchy said as William got on.

“Not a scratch, got it,” William chuckled as he grabbed the reigns of the horse.

“Do be careful though, you’re still not-”

“Quite healed, I know. I promise, I’ll be careful,” Lena said as gracefully as possible, hiding her annoyance- which wasn’t with the good nurse, but more so with herself. The nurse and doctor nodded.

“Well- you best be off then. We wish you the best of luck,” Helloise said.

“Yes- good luck,” Scratchnsniff nodded.

“Thank you! We’ll be back as soon as we can!” Lena waved as William pulled the reigns and the horse began to move, and they were on their way to the Wishing Star.

.o0o.

It had been a long night for Yakko. Thankfully, the wind had been on their side and carried them all the way to the Acme Mountains, but Wakko and Dot had almost immediately fallen asleep on the sled, so Yakko was forced to stay up the whole night to make sure they didn’t crash into anything. The cold air did help with that, but Yakko wished he had something else to keep him awake- otherwise, he might just pass out, and then they’d have a huge problem (likely the crashing into things he was avoiding).

Dot did eventually wake up, though Wakko remained asleep. Yakko thought it probably had to do with the fact that despite being out in the cold mountains, the blankets were much thicker and comfortable than whatever was in that dusty tower. He deserved his rest.

It couldn’t be more than an hour or two away- they were close. The mountains weren’t too terrible, though they were unfamiliar. Still, the path was wide and clear, and their sled had the perfect momentum.

However, their luck was bound to end at some point, as Yakko looked back through one pass and noticed that a royal carriage was in the distance. Now, there was a chance it didn’t see them and that they couldn’t get any closer, but Yakko was still on edge (as was per usual for the eldest prince).

Plus, he had noticed another group was following- though he hadn’t gotten a good look, he had only seen them briefly. They were on an elixir cart and were covered in coats and hoods, so Yakko couldn’t get a good look. They were probably just there to take what was rightfully their’s, which Yakko knew was a possibility but was still annoyed that it happened.

He just hoped that their sled would stay fast enough so hopefully those people wouldn’t even come close to them and the star.

“You look tired,” Dot said as she rubbed her eyes.

“Staying up will do that to you,” Yakko didn’t fight it.

“Is Wakko okay?” Dot asked, poking her brother slightly.

“Of course, he’s just... tired,” Yakko glanced down at his little brother, noticing how much he appeared to be clutching the blankets tightly despite sleeping, curled up into a ball.

“And cold, probably,” Yakko said, reasoning that it was a good position to preserve body heat. Dot nodded her head.

“I’m hungry,” Dot frowned.

“I only managed to grab a little food- let’s wait a while, okay?” Yakko sighed. Dot did too, but she was understanding so she didn’t complain.

They carried on for a little while, but it wasn’t too long before they ran into a long wooden bridge, which meant they’d have to pull the sled across.

“Wakko, wake up,” Yakko nudged his little brother. Wakko groaned.

“Wak, I need you to help me pull the sled, can you do that for me?” Yakko asked politely. Wakko groaned again.

“Mm... why can’t Dot?” he said. Yakko rolled his eyes.

“You know she isn’t as strong as you. Get your lazy butt up and help me,” Yakko said, jumping off and getting the rope so he could tie it around and pull the sled. Once he’d done that, he went back to Wakko, who still hadn’t moved.

“C’mon Wakko, you gotta hurry up- we can’t let them catch up to us,” Yakko said, getting more aggravated. Wakko sighed and tiredly pulled himself upright, taking off the blankets, and stepping out.

However, the moment he was on his own two legs, they immediately buckled and he face-planted into the snow.

“Wakko!” Yakko gasped and went to him.

“Wakko, what’s wrong?” He asked, holding him. Wakko was shivering.

“Mm... hungry,” he said hoarsely.

Yakko paused.

“When was the last time you ate?” He asked.

“Four days..?” Wakko tried to think. Yakko’s heart sank.

Four days. He had been in the tower for three- Yakko should’ve noticed- he should’ve brought something- now Wakko was- well-

“Dot, can hand me the brown bag?” Yakko ordered more than asked. Dot was quick to obey and handed it over.

“I have food right here- it’s gonna be okay Wak,” Yakko said, taking out a piece of bread and giving it to him. Wakko nibbled on it weakly. Yakko didn’t hesitate to just hand him the whole bag of food and hand it to him.

“Wak- I-i’m so sorry-” he began to apologize.

“S’okay... I never told...” Wakko shrugged. Still, intense guilt grabbed hold of his entire body, which he was pretty sure was going to haunt him for the rest of the day.

“You’re doing great, okay? I mean it- I’m sorry for snapping,” Yakko said, picking up his weak brother and placing him back on the sled.

“S’okay,” Wakko didn’t have the energy for words. Yakko again wanted to apologize, but they needed to get going if they were going to make it to the wishing star before anyone else caught up.

“Well, Dot- you wanna try and help?” Yakko asked as he put Wakko back on the sled and under the blankets. Dot shrugged and got off. So then the pair grabbed the rope and began to pull with all their might, dragging the sled across the rickety bridge. Yakko cringed at every eerie creak the bridge gave as they stepped, but thankfully it didn’t break and they reached the end safely.

“Feeling any better Wak?” Yakko asked as Dot got back on, and Yakko prepared the sail once more.

“Lil,” he said, nibbling on another piece.

“Be sure to pace yourself- too much at once and you may go into shock,” Yakko said. Wakko nodded tiredly. He didn’t have the energy for eating quickly anyway.

“Please be okay- I can’t have you dying from my neglect,” Yakko thought to himself as he started up the sled again, and they were on their way once more.

.o0o.

Lena and William had been riding for a little while now, though they quickly realized they weren’t alone. They caught a glimpse of another traveler, though they didn’t get a good look. Lena had immediately wanted to grab the reigns and make the horse go faster, but William promised he knew a short cut through the mountains that could get them there before any one else got to the star.

Lena hoped he was right.

Still, they were glad they packed cloaks to help them stay hidden. It made them feel a lot safer. Well that- and William kept the sword by his feet at all times too

“These roads are a lot less defined than you said they were,” Lena remarked, as the cart hit other rock and the whole vehicle jumped.

“It’s fine, Lena. I know this place like the back of my hand,” William didn’t mind her pessimism.

“You see your hand every day. You’ve not seen these mountains in at least 13 years,” Lena rolled her eyes. William chuckled.

“You know, when we were kids, I always imagined bringing you to these mountains one day so we could watch the sunrise,” William said. Lena laughed a little.

“We were so young back then...” She said, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Would you have done anything differently?” He asked.

“Outside of poisoning my mother? No,” Lena said with a soft smile, holding William’s free hand.

“Though I must say, I imagine this all going in a very different way...” Lena sighed.

“I know dear... don’t worry though, we’ll be safe and reunited before you know it,” William reassured.

“You better be right, or else I’ll never forgive you,” Lena snorted.

“I’m right, and you know it,” He elbowed her a little. Lena laughed.

However, their joy was quickly halted when they heard a carriage get behind them. Quickly, they pulled up their hoods to make sure they covered their faces as much as possible, when it suddenly pulled up beside them and ordered they halt. Wisely, they obeyed.

“You there, have you seen any travelers come this way?” It didn’t take them looking to know they were speaking to a royal guard.

“No,” Lena answered, disguising her voice.

It was the royal carriage.

“And you, what do you come for?” He asked. Lena and William exchanged a look.

“Answer in the name of the Queen,” The coachman ordered.

“We come to travel across to sell our elixirs over in Appleton, sir,” William said. The guard scratched his head, debating whether or not to believe them.

“You look like peasant folk, so I suppose I ought to believe that... know anything of a Wishing Star?” he asked them.

“No, sir,” Lena said, praying this conversation would be over.

“You there, sir... you seem familiar, do I know you?” The guard tilted his head, trying to get a better look at William.

“Oh- well, I - uh...” William panicked.

“You are not to be talking with the commoners. We must reach it before they do,” A harsh voice from inside shouted at him, and Lena felt a chill crawl up her spine.

Her mother was inside.

“Yes, yes, your majesty,” the coachman rolled his eyes and started up their horses once more. “You travelers be safe- these mountains can be quite dangerous.”

“We will, goodbye,” She nodded, making sure to keep her face still hidden, until they were finally gone. Lena sighed a breath of relief before looking back at William.

“We’re going to get there first, we are not going to let her win,” William swore, clutching the reigns. Lena agreed, making the same oath as well.

They were in this to win. Their family depended on it-

They were going to stop Angelina, no matter what it took.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14

#my fics #angelina 1 lives au #yakko wakko and dot #wakkos wish #queen angelina ii #william Warner #angelina warner #sir william the good #sorry this chapter low key sucks #it took forever to write #i promise the next one will be better and will ve written much quicker #im hype lol

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mnemosyne-musing · 3 years

Text

Double date (River/11)

(So this prompt link is very tenuous and has basically turned into pwp for which I at least partially blame sonic for encouraging me. This version is rated T but the link for the slightly smuttier version is here)

“So!” the Doctor leaps up the stairs to the console and grabs the monitor, spinning around on his heel before typing rapidly into the keyboard, “I was thinking, once River arrives, maybe, a trip to the Amazzi waterfalls. They have these wonderful pools filled with algae. Only, it’s not really algae, it’s this kind of-“

“Doctor,” Rory interrupts, somewhat tentatively, “We were thinking tonight. If you don’t mind that is. That we could just stay in? Maybe have dinner and, you know, just talk to River, and you of course?”

“Yes,” Amy pipes up quickly, “Only if you don’t mind of course,”

He looks up from the console at the two of them standing by the railing. Amy folding her hands slightly nervously in front of her and Rory biting his lip anxiously.

He beams at them. “Of course!”

Amy gives a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you! It’s not that we don’t want to go anywhere, it’s just, it’s been a lot the last few weeks and we haven’t really had much of a chance to process or talk to River or-“

“Ooh, it can be like a double date!” he cuts in and claps his hands together, “We can cook dinner here. I’ve got this wonderful recipe from Escoffier. Fabulous chap. I worked in his restaurant once actually and-“

“Doctor, are you sure?”

He waves a hand at them as he types. “Pond, it’s fine. I’ll be fine. It doesn’t always have to be running and excitement. I can do an evening in. Now, off you pop and get your cooking clothes on! I’ll pick up River and we’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

Amy and Rory grin at each other before bounding towards the stairs and out of the console room.

“Thank you, Doctor!” Amy calls as they scarper down the corridor.

It had been just over a month since leaving River in the hospital after Berlin. They’d seen her once since then. He’d taken the Ponds to a planet with a fantastic seventeen hour meteor shower and they’d bumped into her on the viewing deck. They’d also run into a gang of high-end jewel smugglers whose presence there River swore was a complete coincidence to hers. He had his serious doubts about that but, honestly, he’d been quite distracted by all the running and excitement and then afterwards River had had to dash off very quickly. Well, not so quickly that she hadn’t grabbed him and snogged him against the door of the TARDIS but. Anyway.

He sighs and shakes his head to clear of it of those thoughts before returning to the monitor. He’s just about to pull the lever to let the TARDIS dematerialise when there’s a familiar noise of someone appearing by vortex manipulator behind him.

“Hello sweetie,”

He turns around, a grin already on his face and leans back against the console. River is standing a few feet away, wearing a dark trench coat that’s cinched in and tied at the waist, a pair of dazzlingly high blue heels on her feet that do funny things to his insides.

She begins to stalk towards him, a little bit like a predator approaching its prey.

“I thought I’d bring you a birthday present,” she practically purrs, stopping just out of arm’s reach.

He quirks an eyebrow. “But, it’s not my birthday?”

She simply smiles. A slow smirk that spreads across her face and now she really does look like she’s sizing him up for the kill. That thought really shouldn’t thrill him as much as it does he briefly ponders.

She brings a hand to the belt on her coat and slowly pulls it loose. “Care to reconsider?” she asks, her voice low and throaty as the coat falls open.

The Doctor opens his mouth but all words and possible replies immediately evaporate as he catches sight of what she’s wearing beneath the coat. Or rather, what she’s mostly not wearing beneath the coat. He hardly thinks that the plunging bra and skimpy pair of knickers, both made of flimsy lace in a deep blue colour to match her heels, really count as clothes. In fact, he can think of several planets on which that is most definitely not considered an outfit and would probably be illegal and really- hang on, why is he thinking about other planets when River is here and-

He licks his lips and swallows. “I think,” he manages to croak out, “I think it might be my birthday after all.”

River grins wickedly at him and lets the coat fall to the floor with a soft thud. She steps in towards him and grasps his shirt front, pulling him off the console and steering him backwards towards the jump seat. She pushes him down willingly into the seat and his hands automatically drift to grasp her hips, his fingers splaying across her back and stroking the soft skin there.

As she leans down to kiss him, there’s a small flicker of a thought at the back of his mind that there was something he was supposed to be doing. Something he was doing just before River arrived and-

A little while later, she levers herself off his lap as gracefully as she can before turning to look for her knickers. He watches unashamedly as she bends down to retrieve them, arse in the air and wearing nothing but those heels. She frowns down at them before shrugging, kicking her heels off and slipping her underwear back on. Turning back towards him she leans down and nabs his shirt, slipping it on before he can protest and carelessly doing up less than half the buttons.

She looks so utterly delectable, all beautifully dishevelled and ravished that he reaches for her again but she dances out of his reach.

“River!” he complains, as she sashays away from him and towards the corridor, “Where are you going?”

“We need to toast your birthday!” she calls over her shoulder as she disappears around the corner.

“But, it’s not really-,” he sighs and stops as he realises he’s talking to an empty room. He shakes his head and pulls up his boxers and trousers before sitting back in the jumpseat and waiting for River to reappear. He still hasn’t really caught his breath back since River first appeared in the console room.

He must’ve closed his eyes very briefly because he nearly jumps out of his skin a few minutes later when River’s voice suddenly crackles in the air.

“Sweetie, do we have any of the 1976 Krug? I’m sure we do but I can only find the ’77 and it just isn’t as good.”

He looks around wildly but he’s still alone in the console room.

“River?” he exclaims, “What? How are you doing- Where-“

“I’m in the kitchen, sweetie,” she says in that infinitely patient tone that she seems to reserve for when she’s telling him something extremely obvious, “I’m speaking over the intercom.”

“But. The TARDIS doesn’t have an intercom?” he objects, still looking frantically around the room as if River might suddenly pop up from behind the furniture somewhere. Her silence in response to his comment tells him she is probably rolling her eyes at him.

He’s about to come up with something very cutting and witty when over the intercom he suddenly hears a gasp and a very Scottish ‘Oh my god!’

The Ponds! Oh gods indeed! He had totally forgotten them and their date! He leaps up, spinning around to look for his shirt and then remembers River had purloined it just minutes ago. He swears in Gallifreyan under his breath, running a hand desperately through his hair before dashing out the door.

He sprints down the corridor which is rather longer than he remembers it being, cursing the TARDIS under his breath as he does do. He careens to a halt just before the kitchen and vainly tries to slow his breathing as he attempts to nonchalantly stroll inside.

He stops in the doorway and swallows nervously. River is leaning back against the kitchen counter, still clad in only his shirt and her knickers. She’s clutching a bottle of champagne in one hand and a couple of glasses in the other and looking exceptionally amused.

There’s another doorway into the kitchen on the opposite side to him and standing there are both Ponds. Amy is looking mildly embarrassed but still faintly amused whereas Rory has a shocked and slightly horrified expression on his face.

“Ah, there you are, sweetie!” River calls out cheerfully, “Did you want a glass of fizz?”

“Doctor?” Amy simply puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head at him expectantly.

“Ponds!” he exclaims as he looks wild-eyed between them, “River just arrived and- she- Well, we were going to celebrate because-“

“I think we know how you two were ‘celebrating’,” Amy snorts, folding her arms in front of her, “You’re only wearing one outfit between the two of you!”

“Ah, no, no,” the Doctor shakes his head frantically, “I know what this looks like but actually I had to give River my shirt as she only had a coat and some underwear that, well, really wasn’t much of an outfit to begin with and after-“

“Not. Helping, Doctor,” Rory mutters from between gritted teeth as he scrubs a hand over his eyes as if trying to erase that particular mental picture.

The Doctor gulps and attempts to salute the other man. “Sorry, centurion.”

“I suppose I should have asked earlier but when are we, Doctor?” River asks, still looking far too entertained with the whole situation.

“We’ve only just done Berlin a few weeks ago,” he mumbles as her eyes widen.

“Oh! Early days then,” River nods in understanding, a grin still playing around her lips, “So, this is the first time you’ve caught us like this?” she asks Amy and Rory as they nod.

“Hang on!” the Doctor says in a panicked voice, her words suddenly sinking in, “What do you mean ‘first time’?”

River simply gives him that knowing smirk again. “Believe me, none of you want to know about those times in advance.”

He puts that rather worrying thought to the back of his mind, ignoring the way Rory blanches and Amy gives a small shudder. Pasting a smile on his face, he claps his hands. “Well, we’re all here now! We can have that double date!”

“Double date?” River raises an eyebrow as she looks at him.

Amy shakes her head. “Sorry Raggedy-Man. Seeing you two half-dressed has kind of ruined my appetite.”

The Doctor glares at her and pulls his braces up self-consciously over his bare-chest, ignoring River’s soft snort of laughter. “Oi. Rude, Amelia.

“Don’t you Amelia me!” she retorts and wags a finger at him, “I know exactly what you’ve been doing with my daughter!” she adds as the Doctor blushes bright red and avoids her gaze. She turns on her heel and heads towards the door, dragging Rory along with her. “We’ll see you in the morning,” she calls over her shoulder, “If you could try and keep it out of the communal areas that would be lovely!”

The Doctor splutters in protest and turns an even deeper shade of red. He turns to River who is still leaning against the countertop. “You,” he points his finger accusingly at her, “This is all your fault.”

“My fault?”

“Yes,” he nods emphatically, crossing his arms across his bare chest and trying to look foreboding as it was possible to look when only half dressed, “We had a nice evening planned. The four of us. A double date. And then, you arrived with-,” he gestures vaguely at her, “Well. With all-. Looking like that and now here we are.”

River ignores his attempts at glaring and simply laughs. She puts the champagne and glasses down on the side and slinks towards him, her hips swaying. She runs her hands up his chest and winds them around his neck.

“I’m sorry, my love,” she coos in a tone that suggests she isn’t really very sorry at all. She leans in closer and whispers in his ear. “Shall I make it up you?”

He swallows heavily, his arms having already uncrossed themselves and somehow found themselves settling on her hips. “Well,” he mumbles, “It is my birthday after all.”

Her answering laugh is muffled as he kisses her once more.

#river song #river x eleven #riverdoctorpromptweek #my fic #lmao this totally turned into tenuous pwp so I apologise #I am also doing no work this week bc of these prompts #rip my thesis

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noemibalbii · 3 years

Text

Six of Crows duology quotes

“Many boys will bring you flowers. But someday you’ll meet a boy who will learn your favorite flower, your favorite song, your favorite sweet. And even if he is too poor to give you any of them, it won’t matter because he will have taken the time to know you as no one else does. Only that boy earns your heart.”

“Kaz leaned back. “What’s the easiest way to steal a man’s wallet?” “Knife to the throat?” asked Inej. “Gun to the back?” said Jesper. “Poison in his cup?” suggested Nina. “You’re all horrible,” said Matthias.

“No mourners. No funerals. Among them, it passed for ‘good luck’.”

“The heart is an arrow. It demands aim to land true.”

“When someone knows you’re a monster, you needn’t waste time doing every monstrous thing.”

“She’d laughed, and if he could have bottled the sound and gotten drunk on it every night, he would have. It terrified him.”

“He needed to tell her… what? That she was lovely and brave and better than anything he deserved. That he was twisted, crooked, wrong, but not so broken that he couldn’t pull himself together into some semblance of a man for her. That without meaning to, he’d begun to lean on her, to look for her, to need her near. He needed to thank her for his new hat.”

“I have been made to protect you. Only in death will I be kept from this oath.”

“Please, my darling Inej, treasure of my heart, won’t you do me the honor of acquiring me a new hat?”

“What do you want then?” The old answers came easily to mind. Money. Vengeance. Jordie’s voice in my head silenced forever. But a different reply roared inside him, loud, insistent, and unwelcome, You, Inej, you.

“Greed is your god, Kaz.” He almost laughed at that. “No, Inej. Greed bows to me. It is my servant and my lever.”

“The easiest way to steal a man’s wallet is to tell him you’re going to steal his watch. You take his attention and direct it where you want it to go.”

“Better terrible truths than kind lies.”

“You’ll get what’s coming to you some day, Brekker.” “I will,” said Kaz, “if there’s any justice in the world. And we all know how likely that is.”

“You can’t spend his money if you’re dead.” “I’ll acquire expensive habits in the afterlife.” “There’s a difference between confidence and arrogance.”

“Stay,” he said, his voice rough stone. “Stay in Ketterdam. Stay with me.” She looked down at his gloved hand clutching hers. Everything in her wanted to say yes, but she would not settle for so little, not after all she’d been through. “What would be the point?” He took a breath. “I want you to stay, I want you to… I want you.” “You want me.” She turned the words over. Gently, she squeezed his hand. “And how will you have me, Kaz?” He looked at her then, eyes fierce, mouth set, It was the face he wore when he was fighting. “How will you have me?” she repeated. “Fully clothed, gloves on, your head turned away so our lips can never touch?” He released her hand, his shoulders bunching, his gaze angry and ashamed as he turned his face to the sea. Maybe it was because his back was to her that she could finally speak the words. “I will have you without armor, Kaz Brekker. Or I will not have you at all.”

“Some people see a magic trick and say, “Impossible!” They clap their hands, turn over their money, and forget about it ten minutes later. Other people ask how it worked. They go home, get into bed, toss and turn, wondering how it was done. It takes them a good night’s sleep to forget all about it. And then there are the ones who stay awake, running through the trick again and again, looking for that skip in perception, the crack in the illusion that will explain how their eyes got duped; they’re the kind who won’t rest until they’ve mastered that little bit of mystery for themselves. I’m that kind.”

“He’d broken his leg dropping down from the rooftop. The bone didn’t set right, and he’d limped ever after. So he’d found himself a Fabrikator and had his cane made. It became a declaration. There was no part of him that was not broken, that had not healed wrong, and there was no part of him that was not stronger for having been broken.”

“Do you have a different name for killing when you wear a uniform to do it?”

“Facts are for the unimaginative.”

“When we get our money, you can burn kruge to keep you warm.” “I’m going to pay someone to burn my kruge for me.” “Why don’t you pay someone else to pay someone to burn your kruge for you? That’s what the big players do.”

“How do you get your information, Mister Brekker?” “You might say I’m a lockpick.” “You must be a very gifted one.” “I am indeed.” Kaz leaned back slightly. “You see, every man is a safe, a vault of secrets and longings. Now, there are those who take the brute’s way, but I prefer a gentler approach - the right pressure applied at the right moment, in the right place. It’s a delicate thing.” “Do you always speak in metaphors, Mister Brekker?” Kaz smiled. “It’s not a metaphor.” He was out of his chair before his chains hit the ground.”

“A liar, a thief, and utterly without conscience. But he’ll keep to any deal you strike with him.”

“You couldn’t train a falcon, then expect it not to hunt.”

“The life you live, the hate you feel - it’s poison. I can drink it no longer.”

Jesper: “If Pekka Rollins kills us all, I’m going to get Wylan’s ghost to teach my ghost how to play the flute just so that I can annoy the hell out of your ghost.” Kaz: “I’ll just hire Matthias’s ghost to kick your ghost’s ass.” Matthias: “My ghost won’t associate with your ghost.”

“But all he could think of was Inej. She had to live. She had to have made it out of the Ice Court. And if she hadn’t, then he had to live to rescue her.”

“He was going to break my legs,” she said, her chin held high, the barest quaver in her voice. “Would you have come for me then, Kaz? When i couldn’t scale a wall or walk a tightrope? When I wasn’t the Wraith anymore?” Dirtyhands would not. The boy who could get them through this, get their money, keep them alive, would do her the courtesy of putting her out of her out of her misery, then cut his losses and move on. “I would have come for you. And if I couldn’t walk, I’d crawl to you, and no matter how broken we were, we’d fight our way out together - knives drawn, pistols blazing. Because that’s what we do. We never stop fighting.”

“Fear is a phoenix. You can watch it burn a thousand times and still it will return.”

“Maybe there were people who lived those lives. Maybe this girl was one of them. But what about the rest of us? What about the nobodies and the nothings, the invisible girls? We learn to hold our heads as if we wear crowns. We learn to write magic from the ordinary. That was how you survived when you weren’t chosen, when there was no royal blood in your veins. When the world owed you nothing, you demanded something of it anyway.”

“Crows remember human faces. They remember the people who feed them, who are kind to them. And the people who wrong them too. They don’t forget. They tell each other who to look after and who to watch out for.”

“Has anyone noticed this whole city is looking for us, mad at us, or want to kill us?” “So?” said Kaz. “Well, usually it’s just half the city.”

“She smiled then, her cheeks red, her cheeks scattered with some kind of dust. It was a smile he thought he might die to earn again.”

“No mourners. No funerals. Another way of saying good luck. But it was something more. A dark wink to the fact that there would be no expensive burials for people like them, no marble markers to remember their names, no wreaths of myrtle and rose.”

“Have any of you wondered what I did with all the cash Pekka Rollins gave us?” “Guns?” asked Jesper. “Ships?” queried Inej. “Bombs?” suggested Wylan. “Political bribes?” offered Nina. They all looked at Matthias. “This is where you tell us how awful we are,” she whispered.

“We meet fear. We greet the unexpected visitor and listen to what he has to tell us. When fear arrives, something is about to happen.”

“You don’t look like a monster.” “I’ll tell you a secret, Hannah. The really bad monsters never look like monsters.”

Until this moment, Wylan hadn’t quite understood how much they meant to him. His father would have sneered at these thugs and thieves. a disgraced soldier, a gambler who couldn’t keep out of the red. But they were his first friends, his only friends, and Wylan knew that even if he’d had his pick of a thousand companions, these would have been the people he chose.”

“They were twin souls, soldiers destined to fight for different sides, to find each other and lose each other too quickly. She would not keep him here. Not like this.”

“At some point, Jesper realized Kaz was gone. “Not one for goodbyes, is he?” he muttered. “He doesn’t say goodbye,” Inej said. She kept her eyes on the lights of the canal. Somewhere in the garden, a night bird began to sing. “He just lets go.”

“I’ve been nothing but kind to you. I’m not some sort of a monster.” “No, you’re the man who sits idly by, congratulating yourself on your decency, while the monster eats his fill. At least a monster has teeth and a spine.”

“But if you couldn’t open a door, you just had to make a new one.”

“You’re not weak because you can’t read. You’re weak because you’re afraid of people seeing your weakness. You’re letting shame decide who you are. […] It’s shame that lines my pockets, shame that keeps the Barrel teeming with fools ready to put on a mask just so they can have what they want with none the wiser about it. We can endure all kinds of pain. It’s shame that eats men whole.”

“She could feel the press of Kaz’s fingers against her skin, feel the bird’s wing brush of his mouth against her neck, see his dilated eyes. Two of the deadliest people the Barrel had to offer and they could barely touch each other without both of them keeling over. But they’d tried. He’d tried. Maybe they could try again. A foolish wish, the sentimental hope of a girl who hadn’t had the firsts of her life stolen, who hadn’t ever felt Tante Heleen’s lash, who wasn’t covered in wounds and wanted by the law. Kaz would have laughed at her optimism.”

“No matter the height of the mountain, the climbing is the same.”

“But when someone does wrong, when we make mistakes, we don’t say we’re sorry. We promise to make amends.” “I will.” “Mati en sheva yelu. This action will have no echo. It means we won’t repeat the same mistakes, that we won’t continue to do harm.”

“Van Eck promised us thirty million kruge,” said Kaz. “That’s exactly what we’re going to take. With another one million for interest, expenses, and just because we can.” Wylan broke a cracker in two. “My father doesn’t have thirty million kruge lying around. Even if you took all his assets together.” “You should leave, then,” said Jesper. “We only associate with the disgraced heirs of the very finest fortunes.”

“You’re better than waffles, Matthias Helvar.” A small smile curled the Fjerdan’s lips. “Let’s not say things we don’t mean, my love.”

“A proper thief is like a proper poison, merchling. He leaves no trace.”

“She took a shaky breath. The words came like a string of gunshots, rapid-fire, as if she resented the very act of speaking them. “I didn’t know if you would come.” Kaz couldn’t blame Van Eck for that. Kaz had built that doubt in her with every cold word and small cruelty. “We’re your crew, Inej. We don’t leave our own at the mercy of merch scum.” It wasn’t the answer he wanted to give. It wasn’t the answer she wanted.

“I just don’t get it. I’ve spent my whole life hiding the things I can’t do. Why run from the amazing things you can do?”

“She felt his knuckles slide against hers. Then his hand was in her hand, his palm was pressed against her own. A tremor moved through him. Slowly, he let their fingers entwine. For a long while, they stood there, hands clasped, looking out at the gray expanse of the sea.”

“Matthias knew monsters, and one glance at Kaz Brekker had told him this was a creature who had spent too long in the dark - he’d brought something back with him when he’d crawled into the light.”

“She wouldn’t wish love on anyone. It was the guest you welcomed and then couldn’t be rid of.”

“Brick by brick. Brick by brick. I will destroy you.” It was the promise that let him sleep at night, that drove him every day, that kept Jordie’s ghost at bay. Because a quick death was too good for Pekka Rollins.”

“Kaz narrowed his eyes. “I’m not some character out of a children’s story who plays harmless pranks and steals from the rich to give to the poor.”

“Inej had once offered to teach him how to fall. “The trick is not getting knocked down,” he’d told her with a laugh. “No, Kaz,” she’d said, “the trick is in getting back up.”

“It was because she was listening so closely the she knew the exact moment when Kaz Brekker, Dirtyhands, the bastard of the Barrel and deadliest boy in Ketterdam, fainted.”

“Our hopes rest with you, Mister Brekker. If you fail, all the world will suffer for it.” “Oh, it’s worse than that, Van Eck. If I fail, I don’t get paid.”

“This isn’t… it isn’t a trick, is it?” Her voice was smaller than she wanted it to be. The shadow of something dark moved across Kaz’s face. “If it were a trick, I’d promise you safety. I’d offer you happiness. I don’t know if that exists in the Barrel, but you’ll find none of it with me.” For some reason, those words had comforted her. Better terrible truths than kind lies. “All right,” she said. “How do we begin?” “Let’s start by getting out of here and finding you some proper clothes. Oh, and Inej,” he said as he led her out of the salon, “don’t ever sneak up on me again.”

“They fear you as I once feared you,” he said. “As you once feared me. We are all someone’s monster, Nina.”

“You still may die in the Dregs.” Inej’s dark eyes had glinted. “I may. But I’ll die on my feet with a knife in my hand.”

“Shame holds more value than coin ever can.”

“None of us move on without a backward look. We move on always carrying with us those we have lost.”

“You came back for me.” “I protect my investments.” Investments. “I’m glad I’m bleeding all over your shirt.”

“Why do you wear gloves, Mister Brekker?” Kaz raised a brow. “I’m sure you’ve heard the stories.” “Each more grotesque than the last.” Kaz had heard them, too. Brekker’s hands were stained with blood. Brekker’s hands were covered in scars. Brekker had claws and not fingers because he was part demon. Brekker’s touch burned like brimstone - a single brush of his bare skin caused your flesh to wither and die. “Pick one,” Kaz said as he vanished into the night, thoughts already turning to thirty million kruge and the crew he’d need to help him get it. “They’re all true enough.”

“You have no finesse,” a gambler at the Silver Garter once said to him. “No technique.” “Sure I do,” Kaz had responded. “I practice the art of ‘pull his shirt over his head and punch till you see blood’.”

“A gambler, a convict, a wayward son, a lost Grisha, a Suli girl who had become a killer, a boy from the Barrel who had become something worse.” [...] “What bound them together? Greed? Desperation? Was it just the knowledge that if one or all of them disappeared tonight, no one would come looking?”

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nanoland · 3 years

Text

new chapter (lucifer fic)

(earlier parts are here; whole thing is here)

Ponder on the Narrow House, part 3

Mazikeen + Eve + Michael, gen fic (for now), warning for gun violence

Along the California coastline, the cruise ship Illustrious Voyager bore four thousand three hundred and ten passengers, one thousand two hundred and ninety-six crewmembers, and two guide dogs.

Five thousand six hundred and eight souls, in total.

At around 4pm, without anyone noticing, that number became five thousand six hundred and nine.

Hands clasped behind her back, Eve strolled down the promenade, admiring the vessel’s size and beauty. This fresh new millennium’s wealth astonished her. Sickened, sometimes. Entranced, sometimes. But always astonished.

Back in the garden, they’d slept on and under rocks. When it rained, they got wet. When large animals came by, they hid. No weapons. No shelter. No blankets. The only resource they’d had in abundance was food. Good grief – so much food. God had been so proud of all the different fruits and nuts and mushrooms he’d made available to them, and Adam had been so grateful. Eve supposed she had been, too.

It hadn’t stopped her from one day approaching her husband and the plump rabbits resting in his lap – two of several dozen pets – and asking if he didn’t think the cold nights would be much more endurable if they each had a warm pair of fur slippers.

Then she’d met Lucifer. Fallen in love. Bitten the apple. Learned how powerful he and his Father truly were. That was when the real questions, the sticky, prickly questions, had come bubbling up.

If Lucifer has such a vast family, with so many siblings, why can’t I have even one? she’d asked the sky. Why is Adam all I get?

And later: If You can simply bring people into existence, why must I scream and bleed and shit myself in order to have children? Am I doing it wrong? Is there another way? If there isn’t, why not?

And later: Why is nothing fair?

And, most recently, after meeting Mazikeen: Why isn’t everything at least equally unfair? Why do humans get a world of options while Maze and her family are expected to serve angels from birth to death? Why isn’t Maze allowed into Heaven, even after an eternity of loyalty and hard work?

“Sorry,” she said, flashing white teeth at a passing crewmember. “I’m trying to find a friend of mine. Can you tell me how to get to Room 835?”

Half an hour later, there was a splash and the ship’s population dropped to five thousand six hundred and seven.

Before binding his arms and legs, Eve had secured Andrew Bismarck’s lifejacket and gagged him. Furious and helpless, he bobbed alongside her as the ship moved on and Mazikeen rowed up in her inflatable raft, wearing a sunset-orange swimsuit.

“Should I be worried about those, babe?” she asked as she gripped Bismarck’s lifejacket and hauled him out of the water.

Eve smiled at the dolphin pod swimming in playful loops around her, and patted the nearest one’s nose. “No. They’re my friends.”

The inflatable wasn’t big enough for three people, so Eve held on to a friend’s dorsal fin and let him drag her back to The Choronzon.

Michael stood on the deck, looking bored. As they climbed aboard, their prisoner slung over Mazikeen’s shoulder, he drawled, “Seriously? This sad specimen’s worth two million dollars?”

“Actually, his net worth is eight hundred million,” said Mazikeen, dumping him down. “Two million is just what his ex-wife is willing and able to pay.”

Wringing out her hair, Eve added, “She took half his money in the divorce but she gave almost all of it to a chimpanzee shelter. I really like her!”

His lip curled. “How delightfully sordid. Isn’t this all a little beneath you, Ms Mazikeen? I mean, you’re a big deal in Hell. High Commander of Lucifer’s legions, head advisor to the king himself. Aren’t you worried taking jobs like this diminishes you?”

Busy handcuffing Bismarck to the railing, Mazikeen said, “Eve, honey? Do me a favour?”

“Boop!” Eve chirped, having already snuck up behind Michael, and pushed him overboard.

“I know it’s your whole gimmick,” Mazikeen called down as he splashed and spluttered, his face red with princely indignation. “And I know you don’t have a lot else going for you. But the next time you try that on me, I will stop being nice. Kapish?”

“Kapish,” he muttered.

The Choronzon had barely travelled a mile before Eve spotted Bismarck’s henchmen coming after them.

“Someone gimme details!” shouted Mazikeen, busy putting a bulletproof vest on over her bikini and opening up the box she’d told Dan contained a fishing rod, not a halberd.

Eve peered through her binoculars. “Two speedboats. Twelve guys on jet skis. Guns everywhere.”

“Heh. Awesome. Mickey – move that tight ass to the front and make like a nice juicy target.”

“Wait, what about-…” Michael began, trailing off as Mazikeen dove gracefully into the sea.

Bouncing from foot to foot, Eve shot him a grin. “Don’t look so glum, sourpuss. This is the fun part.”

She’d never spoken to Michael in Heaven, despite the millennia they’d both resided only two miles apart, her in a lakeside cottage on the outskirts of the Silver City, him in the crystal palace in its centre.

Granted, she’d not exactly had a warm and fuzzy relationship with any of Lucifer’s siblings. They all knew what had happened in the garden. Some had been nice – Amenadiel had visited often, even though he’d never had much to say and they’d spent their time together skipping stones across the lake’s surface. But the others had kept her at a distance. She was a bad influence.

Michael, however, was the only angel she’d not ever said one word to.

She’d seen him, now and then, in the early days, when she was the only human in Heaven and, as such, grudgingly invited to divine family get-togethers. On those occasions, she’d spent too much time feeling awkward and out-of-place to pay attention to the sullen figure lurking in whatever shadows were available. The one time she’d glanced his way, it had been to marvel at the stories of people getting the twins mixed up; beyond the raw basics of bone structure, Michael couldn’t have looked less like her old lover.

Bullets sprayed across the hull. Humming, Eve stepped daintily into Michael’s shadow, seconds before they started bouncing off his shoulders and chest.

“It is beneath her,” he muttered.

She made an ambiguous noise. “How d’you figure?”

There came a shout and a splash from the nearest jet ski. The bullets stopped.

“C’mon. She’s Mazikeen. Everyone in the Silver City knows about Mazikeen. Ordinarily, we couldn’t give two dry shits about Lucifer’s minions, but her? She’s a minor celebrity. The power behind Hell’s throne. Christ, it’s no secret my beloved twin couldn’t govern his way out of a paper bag.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling fondly. “He’s kind of bad at everything. Except music. He’s a great musician.”

More shouting. More shooting. More bullets bouncing off Michael’s torso. Mazikeen rode by, one hand gripping her newly-acquired jet ski’s throttle lever, the other clutching her bloodstained halberd. Watching her circle the enemy, Eve was reminded of a sheep dog.

Michael went on: “And then there’s the fact that for a while, everyone thought Lucifer was going to marry her. It was all anyone could talk about. Jophiel was taking bets on when the proposal would happen. She’d have been High Commander and the Queen of Hell. Instead? All of a sudden, Lucifer takes an indefinite vacay to the mortal realm, drags her with him, and next thing anyone knows, she’s working behind a bar.”

The remaining jet skis and their terrified, wounded riders had been neatly rounded up, which meant it was time for Eve to open her purse.

“Um – how long have those been in there?” asked Michael, watching her take out three grenades.

“You want one?” she offered. “Don’t forget to take the pin out before you throw it. I did that my first time.”

One thing to be said for millions of dull, dull years spent sitting next to God’s Greatest Warrior, skipping stones across a lake; your aim got good.

The first blast was a warning, not close enough to actually kill any of Bismarck’s men, though the resultant waves did knock several into the water. They tried to retreat, turning their vehicles around, only to remember Mazikeen, corralling them single-handed and now armed with machine guns she’d confiscated from those already bested.

When they saw the second and third grenade incoming, they gave up and abandoned the jet skis, jumping into the sea and swimming for their lives.

“Fuck!” Michael yelped, blocking his ears at the concomitant explosions.

Gazing past the debris and smoke, Eve saw Mazikeen head for the nearest of the two speedboats. Its occupants, preoccupied with aiming a rocket launcher at The Choronzon, saw her coming far too late.

“I get your point,” said Eve, as her girlfriend and her halberd made short work of the crew. “But that’s a really… how can I put this? It’s a really angelic way of looking at things. Maze doesn’t consider anything ‘beneath her’.”

“Wow. Sick burn. You’re basically admitting she has no pride.”

“Oh, she’s got pride. Tons of pride. Her pride’s just dependant on how well she does a job, not on the type of job she has. She wasn’t happy working at Lux, but that wasn’t because she thought bartending was ‘beneath her’; it was because she prefers doing things she’s good at. Customer service isn’t really one of her strengths.”

The second speedboat was abandoned by its crew mere seconds before Mazikeen rammed the first speedboat into it, cackling victoriously.

“Actually,” Eve said, moving from Michael’s shadow to where Mazikeen had earlier set a crate of peach soda – her favourite – out on the deck, “now that you mention it, I guess I’m the one with no pride. Haven’t really ever had anything to be proud of. Your Dad never gave me the chance. I was never meant to do things. I was just meant to be.”

Michael snorted. “Lucky you. Trust me; he may have softened in his later years, but back in the day he never, ever stopped riding our asses. You think Lucy really rebelled because he had better plans for how the universe should be run? Because he was an innovator? Nope. Lazy dick just hated being told to do his chores.”

By the time Mazikeen swam back to them, saltwater had washed off the blood and her ponytail had come loose.

“Oh, hey,” said Eve, gripping her hand and pulling her up. “A mermaid.”

After pressing a rough kiss to her cheek and taking a swig of peach soda, Mazikeen asked, “You okay? He did his job?”

Eve patted the angel’s shoulder – the one that wouldn’t hurt. “He was terrific! Awesome addition to the team.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Michael mumbled.

Ignoring him, Mazikeen snatched up a towel to dry her hair. “Glad to hear it. Alright! Let’s get Bismarck back to shore, get paid, and find a place to have dinner so we can toast Team Hellrazor’s first successful mission.”

“R-A-Z-O-R,” Eve informed Michael. “To make it cooler.”

#lucifer #mazikeen #eve #michael demiurgos #demons #lucifer morningstar #amenadiel #michael #fanfic #my fic

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lizacstuff · 3 years

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Hoşgeldiniz SCK/EDSER Anons!

Lots of people wanted to talk about lots of things after episode 32 and the episode 33 fragman. Fragman asks are at the end.

Let’s get started!

(asks under the cut)

Anonymous said: The latest episode of SCK was a great step in the right direction for Eda & Serkan’s relationship but there is still a lot of work to do. They had a ton of scenes together which was a significant improvement not to mention solids conversations. Them working together to save the presentation was perfect. But how on earth are we four episodes into the Serkan & Selin relationship with no end in sight? 🤦🏻‍♀️Yikes! At least Selin is finally realizing that she will never be the woman for Serkan but real progress would be him realizing that. Hopefully he will finally take that step in the next episode!

I hear you! The funny thing is I’m fine with the pace on everything except with Selin. She is driving me CRAZY. It is excruciating to watch her scheme and fool Serkan episode after episode! Yes, he’s suffering from amnesia and probably Stockholm syndrome after she trapped him in that cabin and brainwashed him, yes she’s a childhood friend and he doesn’t remember her going off the deep end, but he’s free now, he’s seeing first hand that Eda is not what Selin told him she was, he’s getting other people’s perspective, he needs to question Selin a whole lot more than he has done.

Let’s hope there’s a development coming soon (more discussion at the end of this post in regards to the Fragman) that will push her out the door (off a cliff?)

Anonymous said: Do you think Serkan learning that Deniz & Eda are fake engaged to make him jealous is going to hurt or help the current situation? I feel like it should show him that she never stopped fighting for him but at the same time the show still has him acting very cruel at times. It could easily cause him to pick a quick wedding date with Selin as well or some other way to publicly humiliate Eda. Honestly I am hoping Eda tells Deniz that the fake engagement show is over early in the next episode and then have Serkan constantly trying to spend time with her to find out more. The fake engagement has run its course & Deniz needs to go!

Sing it!!! I have several asks along these lines, and I agree that the fake engagement has run it’s course and Deniz needs to go. The good thing is that I think Eda is aware of that now.

I get the fear that Serkan will feel manipulated when he finds out Deniz and Eda is fake, and he may, and if he does he might use it as a lever to try and keep some distance between Eda and himself, but I think he will mostly be relieved. No matter what his feelings are for her, think how happy he’ll be that she couldn’t really move on that quickly from him and that she didn’t give up and was fighting for them in her own way.

I think the fake engagement definitely had it’s uses. It’s pushed Serkan in ways he needs to be pushed. It’s made him outwardly curious about his past relationship with Eda. It made him experience jealousy he didn’t understand. I think Serkan sleeping in the office clutching her wedding invitation is proof that it gave him a lot to think about and at least made him question why he was so affected by it.

Here’s where I think Eda has gone wrong, she’s doing all of this to get Serkan to remember and when he doesn’t it crushes her, when she should be paying attention to the fact that he’s falling back in love with her even without the memories. She should be trying to connect with him more in those moments when he’s vulnerable with her.

The coffee shop scene is a perfect example. They’re both drawn there, he doesn’t know why. When she sees him you can see her mind working, that maybe he remembers, and when he doesn’t, she just sinks. She’s near tears that entire conversation. I’m sure it was extremely painful for her, but he’s sitting there opening up to her and instead of encouraging him to talk more or maybe offering him some answers, she gets up and leaves. If she’d stayed, they probably would have talked for hours.

Anonymous said: Do you think that Eda getting fakeengaged to Deniz was the wrong move? Am I being very unfair to her when I think this? Like I know Serkan is engaged to Selin and he's doing this even though he's not in love her, but he did experience amnesia and is genuinely confused at what has gone on in his life. Whenever he does have some breakthrough moments, like when he was questioning her in that cabin , she reiterates that she's with Deniz now and he's with Celine - I feel like that's the wrong move.

I think she’s made some missteps, yes, and you pointed out the biggest.

Here’s the thing, though, Serkan is like a scared little rabbit and Eda is holding out her hand with some lettuce trying to get the wee scared rabbit to come and nibble on it. Any wrong or sudden move and he’s going to scamper away! She’s afraid if he knows she’s available and still in love with him he’s going to freak out and run far, far away from her. The problem is she’s so cautious, that when she finally succeeds and he nibbles the lettuce (opens up and becomes vulnerable with her) she’s the one that retreats!

Poor babies.

That moment in the cabin felt like such a lost opportunity. Serkan was asking about their relationship, he was genuinely interested in learning more. And he sounded hurt when he asked about her giving up on him, which we know is a deep-seated fear of his, people abandoning him-- and there are so many things she could have done there to throw him a bone, but instead she doubled down on Deniz and Selin. Even if she would have ignored Deniz and just said, but you are with Selin, to drive home the fact that it’s him who gave up, but unfortunately she didn’t do that.

Anonymous said: I need Eda to lose it, confess about fake engagement, tell Serkan shes done trying to make him remember their love while he's happy with someone else because it just hurts too much so she needs to leave him and all these fake people behind and just go to Italy. Then Serkan can chase her (following her to Italy would be nice) and 33 can be our 11.

I’m onboard. I would love to see Serkan chasing her down again!

Anonymous said: I don't even care about Deniz from a love triangle standpoint but it is very sad for Eda that this longtime childhood friend that she trusts so much is working with the enemy behind her back. No matter what his ulterior motives are, it will be devastating for her to realize this. And Ceren is now super bitchy to her so Melo is literally her only real friend right now. I wish they could give us some Eda/Ferit scenes or something because they /could/ connect over all things Serkan/Selin/CerenI

I agree, it’s super sad to see how alone Eda is in all of this and to find out that this childhood friend who became a source of strength for her when Serkan was missing is actually capable of conspiring against her is devastating. I really don’t understand him, he doesn’t seem unbalanced or desperate like Selin, you’d think he’d know that he can’t force Eda to love him when she’s in love with someone else. Also I’m now on board with the theory that he was purposely not as helpful in the search for Serkan as he pretended to be. It was all performative, not substantive. Eda put her trust in the wrong person.

Thankfully she has Melo. What a terrible time for Fifi to have left and Ceren to have lost the thread. I agree I’d like to see some Ferit/Eda scenes, we know he would at least sincerely care about her and how she’s doing because he’s just that kind.

Anonymous said: Please can you explain to me why serkan keeps changing his attitude with eda? He jumps from eda to selin every episode and it's very frustrating. At the beginning of the ep he was like "you're not in my past or my future" and by the end of the ep he say "You gave up on me" come on serkan ily but boy make up your mind, one minute you don't want anything to do with her and the next minute you're making eyes at her...

This a pretty easy one to answer. The answer is because he’s suffering from trauma, PTSD, a brain injury, he has amnesia, he’s being manipulated by his oldest friend and is being lied to by the person he remembers as his girlfriend and all of a sudden he’s having powerful feelings for this strange woman that he doesn’t understand. I firmly believe that the reason we hear Serkan say in episodes 18 and 20 that he never loved Selin, is because he never loved Selin, but he didn’t know that until he met Eda. Before Eda, I don’t think he believed in love or thought much about it. If asked he might have said he loved Selin because he didn’t know better. So now he’s once again experiencing something powerful he didn’t know existed, compounded by all these other factors and it’s freaking him the fuck out!

The comment about you’re not in my past or my future was a reaction to whatever powerful feeling or recollection that made him say, “nobody touches you but me.” It scared him. And also, not for nothing, he apologized for being hard on her, something old Serkan NEVER did.

Most of the times he “jumped” to Selin in this episode were 100% in reaction to being confronted with Deniz and Eda’s relationship. In the office he witnesses Eda and Deniz all affectionate so when Selin comes in, in front of Eda he greets her warmly. When they’re outside the bungalows, Eda throw in his face that she’s so glad to be with Deniz now, so he throws a compliment at Selin. Deniz tells him he’s glad he almost died in a plane crash and has amnesia so Eda can actually finally be happy, (enough can’t be said about how awful that would be to hear, so fuck you Deniz) so he throws his energy into Selin at their party.

Every time he “changed” his attitude it was a reaction.

When he had just had a very positive experience with Eda, helping her with the presentation and their ride back to the hotel, he has zero patience for Selin and let her stomp off without even a look. When Selin was trying to get his attention later, he had no interest.

So, yes, while he was hot and cold, there was also a bit of rhyme to that reasons.

Anonymous said: I liked this episode but at times it seemed like the writers wanted to do everything to make me hate Serkan. With serkan kissing selin on the cheek, hugging selin, making heart eyes at her and throwing a surprise birthday party for her. And I'm not even talking about all those bad words he says to eda. I think it's too much. I know what they're trying to do with serkan but I think that trying to do too much will end up making the character of serkan unbearable for the audience.

Okay, but why aren’t you paying attention to any of the good things? How can you hate Serkan when he sleeps on his office couch clutching her wedding invitation, and scrubs his face not understanding why she’s gotten so far under his skin? Or when he’s so confused sitting in a coffee shop and he doesn’t know why, but feels at peace? Or when he drops everything to rush back to the office to help Eda. When he brings her coffee and calls her boss? When he looks so proud of her as she does the presentation. When he looks like a big sweet Golden Retriever after she hugs him? When he playfully tackles her while having a snowball fight. When he leaves Selin right as she’s making her birthday wish to go find Eda. He didn’t even ask if she wanted to help (which a sane, kind person would want to join everyone else in searching) he just bolted because Eda was in trouble. Then he carried her to safety and lit a fire and tended to her injuries. Does all of that make you hate him?

Is that “hateable” behavior.

I mean if it’s in your personality to only see the negative, okay, but life is much better when you don’t discount everything positive just to sate your desire to live in a dark place and only see the worst in people.

Anonymous said: eda & serkan are just so.. ahsjdkfd. such frustrating characters (whom i love but wanna knock them both in the head). everything they did with deniz & selin or when it came to their arguments was in reaction to what the other did. that's why i don't think this fake engagement thing is gonna work, bc if he's constantly being told by eda & deniz how happy they are, i dont think he's gonna be up front with this feelings. outside of eda leaving (like ep 11) i dont think a proper confession will come

Yes, I will give you that. THEY ARE FRUSTRATING!!!!! I agree that usefulness of the engagements have worn off both from a character perspective and a narrative perspective.

As I said above, I think the Deniz thing has served a bit of a purpose, but it’s now officially doing more harm that good and that shit-stain needs to leave ASAP.

Anonymous said: I was going to give a chance to these people who didn't care enough about Eda & Serkan in episode 29 but now 4 eps later, Selin has integrated back into the scene disturbingly well. Ferit is still the only one we've seen confronting her and Melo has been very supportive but that has not changed since 29 so development for other characters caring about EdSer has not improved in my opinion. They have accepted it :( And its actually worse now bc of Deniz. Aydan starting to feel bad does not count.

Oh I agree, they can all rot as far as I’m concerned, Piril is particularly disgusting to me.

You know, having said that, part of me thinks, even from Piril and Ferit’s first conversations with Selin, that they all just know it’s a matter of time until Serkan realizes he belongs with Eda. Like none of them are doing anything because they’ve witnessed over and over Serkan’s inability to stay away from her and assume the situation will play itself out and they just need to let it be? I would prefer to think this rather than any of them (other than Piril) being okay with Selin’s psycho behavior.

The other problem is that Serkan is such an authoritative figure to all of them. None of them, other than Eda, know how to question him. Did you see Engin, he’s too scared to tell Serkan they lost a client when he had nothing to do with the reason why? He has balls of Styrofoam. Kinda stands to reason that none of those gutless wonders are going to try and make him see the light when he’s so obstinately trying to not be the person they all told him he turned into with Eda.

For Aydan, while I will still never forgive her for keeping Serkan’s whereabouts a secret, she might be treading lightly because she knows Serkan tends to do the opposite of what she tells him to do. If she pushes too hard for Eda, he might start reacting against that.

Anonymous said: Serkan's change of attitude between day and night is really disturbing. The whole progression between him and eda is destroyed each time. At the end of the episode we always find ourselves back at the starting point with zero progression. At this point it's really tiring, they should stop it or at least take Selin out of the equation (also why selin and serkan are still engaged ? at this point is ridiculous).

While I agree that Selin needs to be out of the equation and her presence is beyond tiring, I disagree that their progression is destroyed each time. They really don’t start at zero.

Do you think they get to the point where they were in this episode without everything that came before? Having a couple of deep and real conversations, where Serkan is vulnerable, having Serkan leaving the hotel to come and help Eda? Calling her boss and working together as a seamless team? Him hugging her back? Him asking deep and sincere question about how she could move on and give up on him?

That would not have happened in prior episodes. I assume you feel like a deep moment happens and the next interaction they act like it didn’t? That is partly true, but I think it’s both of them protecting themselves, so after a particularly close moment they boomerang back. Serkan is being pushed out of comfort zones he didn’t even know he had. So yes he retreats after being vulnerable. Eda is at her emotional limits and she still has that pride. However, while that’s true that they do take a step back after a big moment, it’s also true that the next time they have a real moment, a big moment, it goes deeper than the last. They all build on one another.

So there is progression and they are building something. His feelings for sure are much different than they were in 29/30. He’s in a vastly different place, he’s recognizing that he has feelings for Eda to the point that he’s sleeping on his office couch clutching her wedding invitation. The progress is slow, but it’s happening, just like the first time around, when they’d take a step forward and then one of them would freak out and pull back a bit.

Anonymous said: It was a good episode but I still don't understand why writers keep on writing things that aren't necessary (aydan and ayfer killing alex plus all of theirs scenes together that are boring by the way, the scenes between selin and serkan where they are suddenly close, selin and deniz..) we don't need to see that. They should focus more on the trauma that serkan is going through and the way he falls little by little in love with eda with those memories of them that appear to him at the same time.1

They should just take Selin away and get rid of those fake engagement. 2

Well you certainly won’t get any argument from me that we need to get rid of fake engagements and Selin and Deniz. I’m also laughing because we’re all referring to Serkan and Selin’s engagement as fake. That’s because it is. It’s something Serkan is using as a buffer, and we are now at the point that he doesn’t need it anymore, its only him who needs to realize it.

As for Alex, Aydan and Ayfer the fact is this show is over 2 hours in length each week and they have to have B and C storylines in order to fill it. This week it was A/A/A and I got to tell you, I’ve seen worse. If you don’t take it too seriously (which you really shouldn’t take too much on this show seriously, at this point it’s really just a vehicle for Hande and Kerem to work their special brand of magic each week) you can just enjoy the reprieve from Selin and try and enjoy these two ladies’ dynamic and their shenanigans. Both Alican (Seyfi) and Evrim (Ayfer) previewed on twitter that they laughed so hard while reading episode 33, I assume it has to do with Alex’s “death.” I say bring on the comedy!

Anonymous said: you know i've seen a lot of talk about how serkan is being "cruel" with eda and i don't agree at all. i mean, when they're bantering, she's giving back just as good as she gets.. and bantering/arguing is kinda their "thing" .. it's like their foreplay lmao. and when she does feel hurt by something he does or says it's not like he's doing it intentionally with the purpose of inflicting her pain. idk.. cruel is a very strong word to use for what the dynamic is between them right now..

Agreed. Remember when the narrative from episode 20-26 was that Eda was being cruel to Serkan and needed to suffer? There are some people who can’t help but pit the two halves of the whole against each other. I don’t do that. There’s enough empathy to go around.

Especially when they’re arguing, as you say Eda gives as good as she gets (that’s why she’s the only match for Serkan, she’s the only one who can go toe to toe with him) and there were also quite a few moments where she was provoking him. As she told him in the shelter, just because they didn’t always agree, didn’t mean there wasn’t love.

Anonymous said: I see a ton of people cancelling Serkan each week but I think he’s going to cancel himself when he remembers and that’s what will further prolong their reunion/wedding. He drove himself sick with guilt about her parents and he had 0 fault in that, but in this instance, there are things a version of him said and did, even if it was in the wrong state of mind. I hope the writing does this justice.

Me too. While I don’t want to spend episode upon episode with him wallowing and self-flagellating, we are owed a scene of his devastation at what he’s put her through. He loves her so much it will be very painful when he puts it all together.

On the other hand, I think he won’t remember enough to be at that point until he’s already admitted he’s in love with her afresh. That might dull the need for him to punish himself too much as he would have fulfilled his promise to fall in love with her if born again.

jan31: Hi Liza, hope you are well. I am sure you have seen the fragman by now, have you got any idea why Serkan would give Seline 5% of his shares. Is at guilt thing after finding him with Eda? I want to believe he remembers more than he is letting on with her and it's some kind of test, but I think I am clowning! When it comes to love he is clueless but not business. Why would he take away his majority and now be 45%? I am perplexed! Maybe there will be something In the episode that will explain it, as I think this happens near the beginning? Not sure anymore if 33 will be Selines last episode now, maybe they are dragging out the drama a bit longer for ratings, who knows!

I think this is one where we can’t judge it until we actually see what happens. Serkan has to wise up at some point and giving away 5% of the company (even though its her shares she sold to him when she left town) is very unwise and I find it hard to buy that its something he does because he feels guilty because he got all cuddly with Eda in the cabin. He’s always been a savvy business man, and her hold on him has only been lessening, not increasing.

Let’s hope he’s starting to wise up and it’s some sort of test or trap. Unless the new writers just don’t understand who Serkan Bolat is at all.

Anonymous said: Anyone else need to take several deep breaths after watching that fragman? Everyone is canceled except for Eda, Melo, Ferit (if he knew nothing about the shares) and Serkan (although he is going to seriously make up for his cruelty at some point). I guess the only positive is that it seems like everything that happened in the last 4 episodes is all coming together finally. Eda will hopefully finally figure out what Ceren’s problem is and hopefully also figure out Deniz & Selin are working together. And at least Serkan seems determined to get Eda to admit there is still something between them which has to mean he has finally accepted his feelings for her. Things have been progressing slowly and Selin has been smug for far too long so exciting to think there will be a change.

My thought is we need to wait and see context for all of these things. I have a feeling not everything is as it appears.

Though one thing I think that is exactly as it appears is Serkan trying to get Eda to admit she has feelings for him. That’s good. That’s really, really good. He’s making a move. He’s bringing the sexual tension. Love to see it.

Anonymous said: Ok so do you buy the theory that Serkan suspects that Selin sabotaged Eda with that dossier? Because when I first saw him getting that flashback at the hotel, I didn't understand why they needed to show it - maybe just to let us know again that Serkan doubted Eda's work skills since they had been bickering all day? But then I read that the flashback could be to confirm that he knew Selin was present. This could be fans coming up with better ideas than the writers though. :/

I want to buy that theory. I want to buy it lunch and dinner and some wine and flowers and I want it to be true!!!! I also want the 5% shares to be a part of some plan he has to figure out what Selin’s is doing.

Though... lets not get too far ahead of ourselves, this is just speculation which mostly never happens, however the spoilers have long said that Selin leaves in 33 or 34. For that to happen something drastic has to happen. There’s also screenshots going around that show that there was definitely a security camera right behind Selin when she got into the network and deleted Eda’s files. So there’s a good chance hard evidence of her perfidy exists.

Honestly, this makes the most sense to me in getting rid of her (which means it’s probably not true).

However, if it were true, it would help bolster Serkan’s character a bit. He’s a smart man but they’ve turned him into a fool not suspecting anything about Selin, if he unmasks her himself and takes her down for business reasons and doesn’t care a bit about dumping her personally, it kills a bunch of birds with one stone. It restores his savvy, it gets rid of her, it gets rid of her by his hand so it’s not like the choice was taken away from him, it gives her some consequences and comeuppance without overtaking the plot, and it does all this without advancing the romantic story with Eda too quickly (cause I think they want to milk that a little while longer)

Also the only other way they get rid of her at this point is if Serkan breaks it off and tells her he’s in love with Eda. And I really need her GONE now and not once Serkan is at the screaming at her about how much he’s in love with Eda stage of this story.

Anonymous said: Okay so Serkan must have a plan and that is why he gave Selin the shares, right? Or he is doing it to make up for ruining her birthday? It would be great if he was doing it because he finally accepted his feelings for Eda on some level & plans to break up with Selin but feels bad about it. Just very weird that he would give her the shares (which to everyone that cannot read his mind comes off as cementing their future together) while at the same time trying to get Eda to admit her feelings for him.

Yeah, I think we’re all on the same wavelength that something is fishy here. Let’s hope it’s a ploy because Serkan knows Selin has been up to no good. And if so I really, really need Eda to be present for her takedown this time. Girlfriend deserves that.

Anonymous said: what do you think of this third set of writers? I'm not sure if the episodes have been bad because they were instructed to write this stagnant plot and its not really their fault, or if the scene would've been fine but were just actually written badly. Idk if Im making any sense. I personally refer to 26-27-28 as the "edser renaissance" and was not missing Ayse's team and now I'm sad but idk if it's unfair to the writers if this is more likely the showrunner's idea or something

It’s hard to tell because it’s only been two episode, but I think the DRAMA DRAMA DRAMA seems to be a directive from the producers/network. However, I think they’ve written some very nice individual scenes. As I’ve said, the scene where Serkan comes back to ArtLife to help Eda is already on my list of favorite scenes ever and there was a lot of goodness besides that. There was the accidental kiss, and arguing (how much did you love Eda sitting with Melo counting down until Serkan came to the coffee room) and the coffee shop and every second in that cabin. So I guess I disagree with you that the scenes are all bad. If there’s nothing you like in the episode, maybe go back and just rewatch some of the Edser scenes without having the stench of Selin and Deniz nonsense polluting them, I promise you there’s lots of goodness there.

#edser #sen cal kapimi #Sen Çal Kapımı #sck 1x32 #sck spoilers #sck 1x33 #asklizac #sckask

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the-darklings · 4 years

Text

—𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒆 [01];

—PART I. | GASOLINE GIRL

pairing: santino d’antonio x f!reader

word count: 6.2k+

summary: “Carry that ice in your heart, always.”

warnings: mentions of: child abuse, drug abuse, death/torture; swearing, typical mafia-related situations/discussions so take heed because this is a mature read for sure. But we gotta be realistic, this life ain’t pretty.

notes: so this can be read as a standalone though I do consider it a sort of mini sister series to COA. This will be short (no more than 5 parts) and only updated when I have free time. That being said, I do hope you enjoy. I even flexed my none existent photoshop skills to make the header pic lol. Get ready this one is going to be a ride.

You don’t become a part of Camorra by choice.

No one sane enough would.

Your parents simply got involved with people who would have had you killed if they stepped out of the line. You know because that was a threat made with you in the room and a cold, merciless barrel of a gun pressed to your head.

Giovanni D’Antonio’s men came at night, dragging you and your parents out of bed in nothing but your nightclothes. They made you kneel on the dusty floor, your knees aching against the hardness of the wood.

The man himself is as awful as you heard people on the streets whisper. Everyone fears him. Fears him and Camorra and the terrors they unleash onto anyone who doesn’t fall in line.

“Such pity you didn’t have a son,” the head of Camorra notes dispassionately as he scrutinises you, his fingers digging painfully into the flesh of your cheeks. “What am I suppose to do with a girl?”

The man tsks as if some grave crime has been committed against him and takes a long drag of his cigar, turning your head from side to side. Your squirm, knees knocking, your lips trembling, but don’t let him see fear. You can’t afford to let this vile, cruel man who asked his men to beat your father to a bloody heap on the floor to see you weak. You can’t show predator fear if you want to live. Not when your mother is already a sobbing mess on the floor, clutching onto your father in despair.

You wonder if he’s alive. A part of you—

A part of you doesn’t care to know because the man before you stares at you with such finely veiled disgust, you can’t help but know that he will kill you all regardless. He might even enjoy giving the order. And your father is to blame for that.

“Are you at least smart, girl?” he demands and slaps you lightly on the cheek when you don’t respond. “Answer me. Or I will cut your tongue out, and then you will know what it’s like not having the gift of speech. Or maybe I will start with your parents instead.”

Your mother cries harder, practically hysterical and you feel a sting of bitterness, of anger, deep in your chest. She should be strong.

She should be defending you.

But she isn’t. She’s just crying. As if that’s going to save you, protect you, keep these men away.

“You will kill us all anyway,” you whisper knowingly, your words hollow as you stare into those dark, cold eyes that have no end. “They stole from you and you hate thieves.”

The man exhales smoke directly into your face but you don’t flinch—not even as your eyes water from the sting of tobacco, not even when he leans his malign, handsome face closer.

“But I reward loyalty,” he tells you, now almost pleasant, and his thick fingers tilt your chin up as he regards you critically. “Do you understand what I’m saying, hm?”

You nod once.

Giovanni is quiet and thoughtful but then a slight smile creeps across his face.

It’s the most awful sight you have ever seen.

“Then we are done here,” he announces and his hand drops away from your face, his dark gaze lifting over your slight frame and towards the men hovering in the shadows, awaiting orders.

Two shots follow.

You don’t flinch.

The sobs cease.

Giovanni’s grim smile widens, pleased.

“Come along, girl. You no longer have family here.”

. . .

Camorra is a pit.

A pit of betrayal and blood and drugs and more blood.

The first four months are near unbearable.

You’re younger than what they usually recruit and it shows. You don’t know how to navigate this world. You’ve been dropped off at a “care home” that operates more like a drug house but has to keep up a front for the public. Which, in itself, is hilarious because you doubt there is anyone in the nearby province who doesn’t know what this place is.

But it’s survival of the fittest here.

And it’s not a game you know how to play well.

Each person is given a task, a job, and you must do it or you will be punished. Severely.

Giovanni left you here, in this hellhole, with a dismissive hum and a harsh pat on the head, “Let’s see what you make of yourself, gasoline girl.”

Gasoline girl.

Because he didn’t bother asking for your real name. Because he gave you a canister of gasoline and told you to pour it through your house, onto your dead parents, and gave you the remains of his cigar, his order clear.

You watched your home go up in smoke, your parents’ bodies still inside, with gnawing detachment eating away at your heart, your soul.

The flame was hot and bright and Giovanni made you watch till there was nothing left but ash and ruin.

“Little gasoline girl,” he had said then, even more pleased. “Carry that ice in your heart, always. It will take you far in my family.”

The care home, however, is a desolate place that lacks warmth your home had—that lacks anything resembling anything humane, in fact. The only reason why you’re not drugged that very first night is because Giovanni told his men that you are too young for such a thing. Because he wants to see if you can be useful, your mind as sharp as he hopes it is.

But if you disobey…

It doesn’t frighten you, not at first, not until you see them. Those with sunken eyes and pale skin. Lips cracked and limbs trembling. They no longer have wills or dreams or aspirations. They are tools, shells, empty of everything that once made them human. Riddled with pain and despair that plagues them till their next fix or death.

They frighten you so much you hide away in the attic. You’re not sure how you find your way up there but you curl on the floor—in the darkest, deepest hole you can find—and sob and sob and sob into the dust and the dirt. Sob till your eyes are swollen and your throat is raw.

You rip and tear the girl you once were to shreds that night. Because even then, you know, that you will not survive long like this. That this dark pit will consume you unless you find a way to survive, to fight back.

Carry that ice in your heart, always.

You intend to.

You will.

. . .

Next four months are consistent of a few things: death, blood, drugs and violence.

It’s everywhere you look, all you hear at all times of day and night, and you can’t escape it.

There is nowhere to go, nowhere to hide—not when Camorra owns this city. Not when Giovanni knows you by face, if not by name—something that’s a rare honour, you learn later, seeing the Boss in person. Being handpicked by him.

Money laundering, sex, drug distribution, torture; the care home cycles through it all on a daily basis.

Hunger becomes part of the routine, the attic your new home.

You exist in the shadows out of fear, at first. Then, you realize how much power comes from being unseen. If you are unseen, then you can never be hurt, never be abused.

Not like so many—young, so young—always are.

There is nothing glorious about this life. It’s just survival.

Ugly and filthy and dangerous.

So you listen and hide and learn.

The staff—mostly men who are loud and rowdy but follow the rules because they fear the Boss too much, and few older women—start calling you a ghost.

You don’t mind. Not even at all.

It’s better than being actually dead.

. . .

The first time you meet him, you’ve been at the care home for little over a year.

The sounds of pain, pleasure, and death no longer scare you at night.

They have become your reality. Your own twisted, lewd lullaby in a way.

Violence and hate. Pleasure and pain. Greed and death.

They have become levers and cornerstones upon which you have built stability and routine.

Giovanni is coming tonight, the people in the hallways whisper in hushed breaths that morning though, and if anything is out of place blood will be shed.

You haven’t seen him in a year.

You’ve grown and hardened, killed as many soft parts of yourself as you could since the last time you saw him.

You have also become useful.

So normal, so sweet-looking, so unassuming.

Like a ghost the staff compares you to, you haunt the streets and collect information for Camorra; the perfect little spy.

You nurture that ice in your heart and project it outward, and when Giovanni comes and calls forth everyone at the care home, you hold your chin up; unmoving, stiff-backed, and defiant.

Much to your surprise, his dark gaze snags on you and he pauses in his step, recognition reflecting back at you.

The leader of the care home pauses too, hesitating, clearly unsure if he should comment until Giovanni speaks.

“So you lived.”

He sounds surprised, pleasantly so.

You don’t so much as blink.

“Santino.”

It is then, from the folds of Giovanni’s guard, that a boy steps through. He’s barely taller than you and clearly you are close in age, if not the same, you conclude as he steps beside his father.

His hair is dark and finely combed, his clothes neat and expensive, and he reeks of privilege even more so than his father.

He’s also terrible at hiding his thoughts. He’s repulsed to be here, he thinks it beneath him and being faced with this—grim, hungry faces and grime—he’s balking under the stark contrast to his no doubt princely life at home.

He is the prince of Camorra—every bit as spoiled and arrogant as you expected him to be.

You hate him on sight.

“What do you see?” Giovanni asks his son as the two stand before you.

Santino’s dark brows furrow and he blinks slowly, looking you up and down. There isn’t much to you. Your clothes are dirty and worn, your features no doubt hostile and your gaze even worse. It’s how you keep yourself safe. Snarl and bite first. Some men like to mutter “rabid dog” under their breaths as you pass in the hallways, but you’re fine with that, too. Even when they make offhand comments that only one thing happens to rabid dogs eventually.

“A nobody, father.”

Oh?

Giovanni sighs, disappointed, and Santino sees this, scrambling for something else to add, “She’s—she’s a girl.”

“Obviously,” the man says, his voice bored, dismissive, and Santino’s expression falls, his eyes lowering. But the older man is still staring at you. “Keep that ice in your heart, gasoline girl,” he reminds you, mild but stern.

He walks away without another word, going back to business in a blink.

His son lingers for a breath, his eyes jumping up and finally meeting yours.

He looks resentful. He’s blaming you for his father’s disappointment in him. He thinks that you are to blame for the failed test.

He looks at you like you are beneath him, like you are less, a nobody he accused you of being.

His eyes are vivid green.

Green as your mother’s garden. Green as the oak that used to sway outside your window.

Green as the grass you used to roll around in when spring flowers bloomed behind your house.

You hate him even more, then.

For the reminder.

Santino D’Antonio stares at you for another long, hateful moment until his father calls him.

He surprises you by hesitating, still staring, but you only glare at him. Openly, without fear and with clear contempt.

I hate you. I hate you and everything you stand for—everything that you are. You will never know what it’s like to be hungry or cold or scared. What it is to kill and survive.

You dismiss him. A simple sweep of your eyes over his shoulder.

He exhales sharply at your defiance.

You wonder if anyone has ever defied him before and not been severely punished for it.

It makes you feel alive, for a moment, that spark of disobedience.

It’s perhaps the most real you have felt since that night with your knees in the dirt.

The weight of his stare is suffocating and you feel seen, beheld in a way that strips you down to your core.

“Santino.”

Giovanni’s voice is a subtle, cutting blade and his son jerks after him like dog on a leash.

You hope you will never see him again.

. . .

Days turn into weeks, into months, and then years.

With each new day at Camorra, your heart ices over and over.

You meet people, and you lose even more of them.

It teaches you a lesson of not getting attached, of not caring, of things outside of yourself being fragile and breakable.

First there’s Nari. Too sweet, too kind, and with circumstances that are a bit too similar to your own. Is it any wonder he seeks you out? Any wonder that you let him close? Becoming his friend seems inevitable when you’ve been lonely for so long.

He gets shot on a drug run gone wrong six months after meeting you. There is nothing left of him for you to remember him by. There’s only memories of dark, midnight hair and his wheezy, shrill laugh that you always told him was annoying.

Then, a few years later comes Lucie. You’re a part of the home by then. There is a place for you here; a strength and a steadily rising reputation attached to your person. The pain-soaked hallways are familiar and your own now because you claimed them as such. Attic is no longer a hole to hide in but your home, your sanctuary, your dark throne.

She’s too beautiful and too gentle to survive this place. You know it from the moment you see her. It takes one look to know that this place will gobble her up and spit her back out, crushed and broken.

But there is something about her. Something about the ring of her laughter and the spark in her eyes. The shade of her long hair that reminds you of your mother. Something about the way she trusts you, relies on you, and believes in you. Looks at you as a friend, as a companion, salvation. How during the cold, bleak nights she seeks your warmth and dreams out loud of the life you will have once you both break free of Camorra. Once you find a way to make an honest living. She dreams of a world far bigger and grander than you’ve ever had.

Your dreams are simple: survive, become a nightmare that sweeps through the ranks of Camorra.

Lucie dreams of a home by the sea with three chickens, a cow, and a loving family.

“I want a big one,” she reveals one night, turning to face you with a serious frown. “At least four kids.”

You suppress a shiver. Seeing what you have seen, living through what you have, you can’t imagine having a family. Not one that big, at least. But perhaps it’s because you haven’t felt safe in so very long that any extension of yourself will always feel like a weakness opposed to strength.

“Sounds painful.”

She laughs; a soft, soothing sound as she rests her cheek against your shoulder with a faint smile. “They will have an amazing, scary aunt to look after them. I’m not worried.”

It’s quiet for a moment before she speaks again. “What about you?”

Noting your blank stare, she adds, “Don’t you want a family? Or at least someone to call your own?”

“No,” you shoot back stiffly, and take another deliberate bite of your soggy bread. “People you love can be used against you. Hurt because of you, or by you. If I love them,” you pause, the word foreign on your tongue. “I won’t want them to suffer because of me. If I’m hurting them, then it’s not love at all.”

It’s silent for a long time.

“Sometimes,” Lucie whispers eventually with a sad, quiet sigh. “I can’t help but think that they’re one and the same.”

You think about that for a while.

Think about how her father used to beat her mother but they still stayed. Think about how that takes a special kind of bravery and strength. How despite that, he was a loving father to Lucie. How sometimes humans can be ugly and awful but have some semblance of good in them, too. How good can be done by bad and bad can be done by good.

“I suppose.”

She blinks up at you. “Well if I have a family, then you have to have one as well.”

Your lips curve and it feels strange on your face. “Is that so?”

She nods but her eyes are full of mirth. “We’re both going to be fat and pregnant with swollen ankles and awful cravings. Promise?”

Her eyes are full of dreams, full of light you have never seen before.

You try to protect that light, try to hide her away from the men who would hurt her, from the women who would drug her and bargain her away.

It’s foolish and reckless of you but you are almost frenzied with the need to keep something good alive. For once, you just need—

She gets taken.

It’s planned in advance, you learn later.

They had to get you out of the house first. They lied—a job straight from the high tier of Camorra, from the elite itself, no refusals—and used that time you were away to take her.

What they did—

They pay for it.

Everyone in the care home that had anything to do with it, anyone who knew.

You tear ten people apart. Slowly; piece by piece, muscle by muscle, sinew by sinew. Over the years you have found new talents, new hobbies. Ghost is an old name they called you around the house.

But you have others you prefer now.

When it’s done, you stalk through the too silent house, covered in cooling blood and—

You’re not sure how much of it is from the people you just killed and how much is from—

Lucie is where you found her.

Your eyes sting as you gaze at the sight in front of you. You gather her in your arms gently and even if it’s a slog, slow and painful, you take her to the tiny bathroom down the hall.

You wash her hair of dirt and blood and—

Tears fall heavy and hot the entire time you work and you have to pause in-between, choking down your sobs.

Her body is next. Wetting a cloth in your hand, you clean her skin, fold her hands over her chest, ignoring the broken bones and broken skin.

You’re glad it’s late spring.

The ground is softer, more pliable.

Despite that, it still takes you four hours to dig a grave deep enough. Your hands are numb, bloodied and blistered by the time you’re done. The stench of sweat and death mixes with the blood but you ignore it.

Lowering her takes time—time and care and self-control. Because she’s so cold, so stiff, and it’s awful knowing that you will never see her again after this.

You bury dreams and hopes and aspirations with her—both hers and yours. A handful of dirt at the time. Your hands are raw but you force yourself to keep going.

And when it’s done, you collapse beside the grave and stay there for hours, days, maybe weeks.

It starts raining and you let the freezing spring rain wash over you. The smell of wet earth and grass drags you into hazy dreams. They transform into feverish nightmares eventually, haunting you and killing you over and over again. You failed. Failed to protect something good. Maybe saving Lucie was only partially about saving her—an innocent—from this awful fate, and more about…

More about some vague, distant belief—hope—that you could be saved, too.

Grief splits you apart and suffocates you with every breath as you lay beside the fresh grave.

Grief. You’re not sure if you even grieved your parents. Not really. Because they were dead and you still had an uncertain future ahead of you. You grieved a life you could have had. But it’s been so long. So very long now.

Time is not a concept you can understand any longer.

By the time they find you, a part of you wishes they would just let you die and bury you beside your friends. Let you rest at long last.

But there are voices.

A foot nudges you as you roll over onto your back with a heavy thud. Dark sky stretches out above you.

Then, through a haze, a face appears, peering down at your with mild disinterest.

Recognition; it comes fierce and sharp and you know it’s the same for him.

Urgent, angry voices blur together as everything fades away into nothing.

You fucking hate those green eyes.

. . .

When you wake up, the Devil is standing over you.

Giovanni D’Antonio lifts a single eyebrow, not bothering to mask his cool distaste at your wheezing, delirious state.

You scramble upwards anyway, wincing at the ringing in your head and the popping in your ears.

You feel heavy and fuzzy in the worst way possible—the way that makes one slow and vulnerable. Nausea rolls your stomach, mixing with the instinctual fear of seeing who is standing above you.

“What a mess,” Giovanni drawls and hitches his trousers up as he sits down on a creaky chair beside your cot. “What a mess, gasoline girl.”

You’re sweating but feel so cold your body trembles and you can’t hide it. This man should never see you vulnerable but he is right now and you hate your own weakness.

“Who knew you had such a gift for death,” he continues and you swallow, your throat raw—from crying, from screaming and howling at the sky, you recall through your delirium—and you tremble again. “Ten dead. So easy, too. And such…brutality.”

If you didn’t know any better you would say he’s paying you a compliment—that he’s impressed.

The man reaches into his pocket and your bandaged hands—why are they bandaged, what—constrict around the fresh, cotton sheets covering you.

Cotton. You haven’t touched something as soft, as luxurious, as cotton since that last night you slept in your own bed years ago.

But Giovanni pulls out a cigar holder from his pocket instead of a gun, offering it to you. You don’t move, hardly breathe, as you stare at him through your watery eyes. Your ears are still ringing.

“I asked others about what happened,” he begins after lighting his cigar. He rolls it between his thick fingers, his golden rings gleaming and you shudder. “What justified ten of my own slaughtered like barn animals. So rethink lying to me, if that was your intention, girl. Let me start with something easy, though: was the girl your lover?”

Your eyes find his and perhaps it’s the fever, or the hole in your soul, but you don’t look away even when his eyes narrow on you.

He doesn’t understand. Of course, he doesn’t. As if a man like him could ever understand what it’s like to be so lost and raw with loneliness your heart is ready to crumble away at the gentlest of touches. As if everything in this world has to be about physicality and desire. As if care and loyalty can’t come from a place of love that has nothing to do with gratification of the body.

“No.”

“Then why did you kill them?”

“Because they deserved it,” you croak out, and your voice cracks as you pant for breath. Your head spins and you drop back against the wall even as your chest rattles with a loud, wet cough. Giovanni waits, expectant, and your eyes narrow. Let him kill you after. But he will hear this, if he wants truth so badly. “They deserved it for what they d-did to her. It—those m-monsters. She was sixteen. And they did it on purpose. Because they enjoyed it. I would—I would do it again gladly. Over and over again till there is nothing left of them to bury. Till—till only pieces remain and even then it would be too kind.”

The bloodlust is surging through you like a river after the fresh spring rain, untamed and wild, and you struggle for breath. The regret that you didn’t take longer, hurt them more—

And perhaps that makes you a monster. No—you know it does. But you can’t find it in yourself to care.

Better to be a monster than a coward. Better to be alive and hated than loved but dead.

Giovanni exhales, his lips pressing into a displeased line. “So naive,” he mutters and takes another drag. “I figured the home would have eroded that away by now. Shame.”

You gape at him, shivering but silent. It’s like he’s reached down your throat and robbed you of speech.

“What do you think happens to people like that girl, hm?” he wonders out loud, slanting his head just so. Even with his hair starting to grey, he’s still handsome, still electric to look at. It’s the coldness of that dark, bottomless stare that sets him apart from others you have met. “She was no better than your parents. Weak. And weak do not survive in this world, they are used and that’s how we live. You could have been like her, but you fought back. That’s why I told you to keep that ice in your heart, yes? There are thousands like that girl and there will be a thousand more, and a thousand more after that. It is the way of the world. I am simply…reaping.”

His cigar flares at the tip again as Giovanni takes a steady drag, savouring the burn of it against the back of his throat.

You want to cry and scream and tear at him. This world—his world—is wrong and twisted and—

But you have chosen it, haven’t you?

Better than being dead.

And you’ve killed and stolen and lied and cheated for years now. You’ve gotten good at it. Better than most. Better than anyone in the home had been.

“Did it break you?”

Your eyes drag back to him, and you realise that you’ve been silent for so long, you’ve started to doze off. Laying in the rain for god knows how long didn’t do you much good. You feel worse and worse with every second that stretches by.

His emotionless question clatters through you though, settling in the pit of your stomach.

Lucie.

Her happy smile flashes through your weary mind and you try to draw breath into your wrecked lungs.

“No.”

It has only made you colder and emptier, you realise. You had laid next to Lucie’s grave because you had hoped for a quick end. But—

But no.

For the second time in your life, you lift your head and look the Devil in the eyes as you choose life.

Whatever form it comes in.

Regardless of what else it will demand of you.

Perhaps, you should be thankful for this lesson.

The head of Camorra nods once, considering you, and then asks a serious, “Do you remember what I told you about loyalty, gasoline girl?”

I reward loyalty.

“Yes.”

It’s an effort to keep your eyes on him. His features are blurring, and you can’t even smell the thick cloud of smoke in the air anymore.

“Who were you loyal to when you killed my people? Your people?”

You don’t hesitate, spitting out a vicious, “To myself. Just as you wanted me to be.”

For a moment, you think that Giovanni D’Antonio will smile at you again. But he doesn’t. Instead, he turns towards the shadows of the room.

“What do you see, Santino?”

You still. You’ve been so preoccupied with keeping yourself awake and lucid, with keeping your whole attention on this man without scruples normal people have that—

It comes rushing back.

The grave, the smell of dirt beneath your cheek, rain, the coldness sinking deep into your bones, green eyes—

He was the one who found you. You have no idea how; a part of you doesn’t want to know, either.

He’s changed as well. His frame stretches taller, leaner, than the last time you saw him. His hair is slightly longer but still curly and neatly combed. That boyish roundness still holds his features, giving him an appearance of a youth instead of a young man and you stare at him with open, dazed animosity.

But there is something about the way he watches you from the shadows.

His pupils are blown wide open when he steps closer into the light, his shoulders coiled with tension that you have no name for.

He gazes at you like he is looking at something beautiful, something terrible, something—

Something he admires and hates and doesn’t understand.

No one has ever looked at you like that. Like they’re seeing right into you, through you, pulling apart every weakness and every strength.

That anger in your chest ignites at the sight of him, washing away the emptiness and the loss.

“A monster.”

It seizes a part of you. Cracks it to pieces.

You hate him, you hate him, you hate the fact that he—

That he sees you. Just like last time, just like now.

Giovanni’s eyebrows rise slowly at his son’s blunt assessment. He peers at Santino for a pensive moment before the boy finally drags his eyes towards his father, almost reluctantly so.

“Loyalty to yourself, was it, girl?” the man wonders calmly and takes another drag of his cigar. It’s almost gone now and black spots dance in your vision as you watch him tilt his chin upwards and exhale another lazy puff of smoke. “Give me your hand.”

You stare at him blankly, uncomprehending, almost nauseous now.

Giovanni turns his stern face back towards you and holds out his own large hand. “Your hand.”

His voice is eerily serene but it locks your muscles with fear. Like an animal being hunted down, even with your hazy, sluggish mind you still recognise the danger crowding in.

But what’s the alternative?

Your hand shakes but you hold it out, setting your jaw taut.

“I reward loyalty,” Giovanni reminds evenly, grasping your hand in his. His hold feels so cold you shiver. “But you still killed ten able bodies. Bodies I will now have to replace.”

“Father—”

Giovanni jerks your hand, palm up, and sinks his cigar right into the skin of your palm, burning right through the thin bandage.

Agony.

Splitting, sickening agony—

A sound that tears out of your throat is hardly human but the man has your arm in an iron-like grip; unmoving, bruising. You collapse face-first onto the cot, your scream growing silent and choked as you jerk weakly, unable to swallow your own spit.

Your hand is numb from a piercing, acute sort of pain.

Giovanni hums under his breath, and you feel him turn the cigar into your skin, making you yelp and twitch. “I hope you live,” he states coldly and pushes the cigar deeper into your palm, just once, before he drops your hand back onto the sheets. “There are a great many things I can do with that ice in your heart, gasoline girl.”

You don’t hear him rise over the sound of your pain. Your hand is spasming but you can’t look at it, can’t focus—

The door slams shut with a deafening bang and then—

Someone is speaking; hushed and soft, their hands on you, almost—

You barely manage to pull yourself over the edge of the cot and throw up before everything goes dark.

. . .

You’re burning.

There is a raging fire in your lungs and veins.

Your head is being held under a liquid flame, and you inhale it as it slithers down your throat, suffocating you.

You want to drag your nails down your body to get rid of the burn but you can’t. Someone—

Someone is holding you down and your lips part, a wounded sound slipping free. Why can’t you just be free?

A heavy weight pushes down on you and you try to fight it off, try to—

“Stop moving,” a voice urges, breathless but annoyed. “Stop—”

You think that you might be crying or screaming or both.

You’re burning.

There is no relief.

Not for a long time.

. . .

“Will she live?”

“It’s hard to say right now. The infection—”

An inpatient exhale. “I know what her condition is,” an irritated voice snaps. “I want to know if she will live.”

“I will try my hardest to save her.”

A lengthy pause follows. “No,” the voice speaks again, but this time with such soft malice that you shiver again. “My father wants her alive and so she will live. Or you will find yourself without a head, dear doctor. As will your family.”

. . .

Cool fingers brush against your hair.

“Lucie?” you rasp weakly and try to open your eyes.

Everything blurs around you so you let them close again.

Sickness cramps your stomach and you shiver for what seems like the hundredth time.

Still, the sensation of a glass pressing against your lips registers. Urgent, insistent. “Drink.”

It’s an order. Spoken by someone who is used to being listened to, obeyed, heeded.

You don’t want to but you’re so thirsty. There’s a painful itch in your lungs and you inhale again, deafened by the crackling in your lungs. Whatever it is that you’re wearing clings to your body in a sweaty, uncomfortable mess and you almost sigh when those cool fingers return. They press against your cheek, turning your head and the glass returns.

This time, you force your cracked lips to part and refreshing wetness slides down your throat seconds later. Flinching, you force yourself to swallow. The sensation is like a knife being forced down your chest but you bear it.

The fingers tilt your chin. “Slowly.”

You manage another few, shaky mouthfuls before your strength escapes you.

“Are you—”

The fragility of your own cracking voice might have disgusted you once. There had been plenty of times in the past when you had seen and heard Fredricko peeling back peoples’ fingernails to get the information he needed. That often resulted in such weakness—such fragility. Now though—

“Are you…”

Something freezing cold and wet comes to rest against your forehead and you sigh, gasping slightly. A wet cloth. A miracle, perhaps. It soothes the burning and the itch. It trails down your forehead and jaw and neck. Brushes over your dry lips, too. You almost sob in relief, making a miserable little whine at the back of your throat.

“Are…”

A quiet hum. “Am I what?”

“An angel?”

The cloth disappears for a few moments and you curl into a ball, silently willing it to come back.

A few moments later, mercifully, it does. As does the voice. “No.”

You lean into the refreshing cold again. Try to hide your disappointment, too.

The cloth presses against your forehead and stays there. A beat. Then, fingers ghost over your tightly clenched hand. Your other hand—

There is only numbness there.

An odd sense of fear follows that foggy observation. Like you’re forgetting something you shouldn’t—something important.

The fingers are delicate and careful but they help. They pacify that nameless, gnawing dread.

“Would you like me to be?”

There is a long moment in which you have no idea what the voice is asking. But your muddy mind finally manages to claw back a recollection of your earlier question.

An angel.

You think that the owner of this voice is an idiot.

He no doubt thinks that you mean a guardian angel. Something holy, fierce, and divine.

But you had meant the Angel of Death. Finally here to take you. Finally here to reunite you with those you have lost.

But is there any difference anymore?

You’ve been half-dead and half-alive for years now.

A foot on the doorway to death ever since that fateful night. You have embraced it though. Bargained and stolen and killed. What you did for Lucie was just a fraction, you think through the delirium, just a fraction of what you can do.

You will turn that ice in your heart into a blade, and that blade you will use to cut down anyone in your path.

No half-measures, no mercy. You will be as terrible as they want you to be.

You will be the most terrible thing they have ever seen.

And when it’s done.

Oh, when it’s done.

You will set it all on fire and watch it burn.

“Yes.”

The fingers pause, hovering. Then they wrap around your still clenched hand. Slow but purposeful.

And the tightness of that grip makes you think that your hand will never be your own again.

. . .

an: wellllllllllllll, here’s that! Warning you all now that, yes, this story will get even more twisty and Santino/V will be hate-to...uh...love? We’ll see, I guess lol. Some familiar faces will appear in the future, too. And, uh, maybe some smuttiness is on the cards as well but you know how I roll - nothing too wild or explicit because this clown sucks at nsfw.

Also because I have no idea when or how often this mini-series will be updated, I will be opening up a tag list for this series ONLY (I rarely do them because they’re often more work than they’re worth). So please feel free to comment or send me a message and I’ll add you. Thank you so much for reading!! Any feedback would be swell. <33

#santino d'antonio x reader #santino d'antonio #john wick fic #john wick #john wick imagine #riccardo scamarcio #fic: flowing in me #s: i can wait

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softrobotcritics · 3 years

Text

HG Wells soft Martian robots from “The War of the Worlds” (1897)

The cylinder was already opened in the centre of the pit, and on the

farther edge of the pit, amid the smashed and gravel-heaped shrubbery,

one of the great fighting-machines, deserted by its occupant, stood

stiff and tall against the evening sky. At first I scarcely noticed the

pit and the cylinder, although it has been convenient to describe them

first, on account of the extraordinary glittering mechanism I saw busy

in the excavation, and on account of the strange creatures that were

crawling slowly and painfully across the heaped mould near it.

The mechanism it certainly was that held my attention first. It was one

of those complicated fabrics that have since been called

handling-machines, and the study of which has already given such an

enormous impetus to terrestrial invention. As it dawned upon me first,

it presented a sort of metallic spider with five jointed, agile legs,

and with an extraordinary number of jointed levers, bars, and reaching

and clutching tentacles about its body. Most of its arms were

retracted, but with three long tentacles it was fishing out a number of

rods, plates, and bars which lined the covering and apparently

strengthened the walls of the cylinder. These, as it extracted them,

were lifted out and deposited upon a level surface of earth behind it.

Its motion was so swift, complex, and perfect that at first I did not

see it as a machine, in spite of its metallic glitter. The

fighting-machines were coordinated and animated to an extraordinary

pitch, but nothing to compare with this.

People who have never seen

these structures, and have only the ill-imagined efforts of artists or

the imperfect descriptions of such eye-witnesses as myself to go upon,

scarcely realise that living quality.

At first, I say, the handling-machine did not impress me as a machine,

but as a crablike creature with a glittering integument, the

controlling Martian whose delicate tentacles actuated its movements

seeming to be simply the equivalent of the crab’s cerebral portion. But

then I perceived the resemblance of its grey-brown, shiny, leathery

integument to that of the other sprawling bodies beyond, and the true

nature of this dexterous workman dawned upon me. With that realisation

my interest shifted to those other creatures, the real Martians.

The Martians wore no clothing. Their conceptions of ornament and

decorum were necessarily different from ours; and not only were they

evidently much less sensible of changes of temperature than we are, but

changes of pressure do not seem to have affected their health at all

seriously. Yet though they wore no clothing, it was in the other

artificial additions to their bodily resources that their great

superiority over man lay. (((The soft robots or “handling machines” are a kind of Martian powered exoskeleton, a plug-and-play suit for the Martians, who are mostly brains.)))

We men, with our bicycles and road-skates,

our Lilienthal soaring-machines, our guns and sticks and so forth, are

just in the beginning of the evolution that the Martians have worked

out. They have become practically mere brains, wearing different bodies

according to their needs just as men wear suits of clothes and take a

bicycle in a hurry or an umbrella in the wet.

And of their appliances,

perhaps nothing is more wonderful to a man than the curious fact that

what is the dominant feature of almost all human devices in mechanism

is absent—the _wheel_ is absent; among all the things they brought to

earth there is no trace or suggestion of their use of wheels. One would

have at least expected it in locomotion. And in this connection it is

curious to remark that even on this earth Nature has never hit upon the

wheel, or has preferred other expedients to its development. And not

only did the Martians either not know of (which is incredible), or

abstain from, the wheel, but in their apparatus singularly little use

is made of the fixed pivot or relatively fixed pivot, with circular

motions thereabout confined to one plane. Almost all the joints of the

machinery present a complicated system of sliding parts moving over

small but beautifully curved friction bearings. And while upon this

matter of detail, it is remarkable that the long leverages of their

machines are in most cases actuated by a sort of sham musculature of

the disks in an elastic sheath; these disks become polarised and drawn

closely and powerfully together when traversed by a current of

electricity. In this way the curious parallelism to animal motions,

which was so striking and disturbing to the human beholder, was

attained.

Such quasi-muscles abounded in the crablike handling-machine

which, on my first peeping out of the slit, I watched unpacking the

cylinder. It seemed infinitely more alive than the actual Martians

lying beyond it in the sunset light, panting, stirring ineffectual

tentacles, and moving feebly after their vast journey across space.

After a long time I ventured back to the

peephole, to find that the new-comers had been reinforced by the

occupants of no fewer than three of the fighting-machines. These last

had brought with them certain fresh appliances that stood in an orderly

manner about the cylinder. The second handling-machine was now

completed, and was busied in serving one of the novel contrivances the

big machine had brought. This was a body resembling a milk can in its

general form, above which oscillated a pear-shaped receptacle, and from

which a stream of white powder flowed into a circular basin below.

The oscillatory motion was imparted to this by one tentacle of the

handling-machine. With two spatulate hands the handling-machine was

digging out and flinging masses of clay into the pear-shaped receptacle

above, while with another arm it periodically opened a door and removed

rusty and blackened clinkers from the middle part of the machine.

Another steely tentacle directed the powder from the basin along a

ribbed channel towards some receiver that was hidden from me by the

mound of bluish dust. From this unseen receiver a little thread of

green smoke rose vertically into the quiet air. As I looked, the

handling-machine, with a faint and musical clinking, extended,

telescopic fashion, a tentacle that had been a moment before a mere

blunt projection, until its end was hidden behind the mound of clay. In

another second it had lifted a bar of white aluminium into sight,

untarnished as yet, and shining dazzlingly, and deposited it in a

growing stack of bars that stood at the side of the pit. Between sunset

and starlight this dexterous machine must have made more than a hundred

such bars out of the crude clay, and the mound of bluish dust rose

steadily until it topped the side of the pit.

The contrast between the swift and complex movements of these

contrivances and the inert panting clumsiness of their masters was

acute, and for days I had to tell myself repeatedly that these latter

were indeed the living of the two things.

Suddenly I heard a noise without, the run and smash of slipping

plaster, and the triangular aperture in the wall was darkened. I looked

up and saw the lower surface of a handling-machine coming slowly across

the hole. One of its gripping limbs curled amid the debris; another

limb appeared, feeling its way over the fallen beams. I stood

petrified, staring. Then I saw through a sort of glass plate near the

edge of the body the face, as we may call it, and the large dark eyes

of a Martian, peering, and then a long metallic snake of tentacle came

feeling slowly through the hole.

I turned by an effort, stumbled over the curate, and stopped at the

scullery door. The tentacle was now some way, two yards or more, in the

room, and twisting and turning, with queer sudden movements, this way

and that. For a while I stood fascinated by that slow, fitful advance.

Then, with a faint, hoarse cry, I forced myself across the scullery. I

trembled violently; I could scarcely stand upright. I opened the door

of the coal cellar, and stood there in the darkness staring at the

faintly lit doorway into the kitchen, and listening. Had the Martian

seen me? What was it doing now?

Something was moving to and fro there, very quietly; every now and then

it tapped against the wall, or started on its movements with a faint

metallic ringing, like the movements of keys on a split-ring. Then a

heavy body—I knew too well what—was dragged across the floor of the

kitchen towards the opening. Irresistibly attracted, I crept to the

door and peeped into the kitchen. In the triangle of bright outer

sunlight I saw the Martian, in its Briareus of a handling-machine,

scrutinizing the curate’s head. I thought at once that it would infer

my presence from the mark of the blow I had given him.

I crept back to the coal cellar, shut the door, and began to cover

myself up as much as I could, and as noiselessly as possible in the

darkness, among the firewood and coal therein. Every now and then I

paused, rigid, to hear if the Martian had thrust its tentacles through

the opening again.

Then the faint metallic jingle returned. I traced it slowly feeling

over the kitchen. Presently I heard it nearer—in the scullery, as I

judged. I thought that its length might be insufficient to reach me. I

prayed copiously. It passed, scraping faintly across the cellar door.

An age of almost intolerable suspense intervened; then I heard it

fumbling at the latch! It had found the door! The Martians understood

doors!

It worried at the catch for a minute, perhaps, and then the door

opened.

In the darkness I could just see the thing—like an elephant’s trunk

more than anything else—waving towards me and touching and examining

the wall, coals, wood and ceiling. It was like a black worm swaying its

blind head to and fro.

Once, even, it touched the heel of my boot. I was on the verge of

screaming; I bit my hand. For a time the tentacle was silent. I could

have fancied it had been withdrawn. Presently, with an abrupt click, it

gripped something—I thought it had me!—and seemed to go out of the

cellar again. For a minute I was not sure. Apparently it had taken a

lump of coal to examine.

I seized the opportunity of slightly shifting my position, which had

become cramped, and then listened. I whispered passionate prayers for

safety.

Then I heard the slow, deliberate sound creeping towards me again.

Slowly, slowly it drew near, scratching against the walls and tapping

the furniture.

While I was still doubtful, it rapped smartly against the cellar door

and closed it. I heard it go into the pantry, and the biscuit-tins

rattled and a bottle smashed, and then came a heavy bump against the

cellar door. Then silence that passed into an infinity of suspense.

Had it gone?

At last I decided that it had.

(...)

I came upon the wrecked handling-machine halfway to St. John’s Wood

station. At first I thought a house had fallen across the road. It was

only as I clambered among the ruins that I saw, with a start, this

mechanical Samson lying, with its tentacles bent and smashed and

twisted, among the ruins it had made. The forepart was shattered. It

seemed as if it had driven blindly straight at the house, and had been

overwhelmed in its overthrow. It seemed to me then that this might have

happened by a handling-machine escaping from the guidance of its

Martian. I could not clamber among the ruins to see it, and the

twilight was now so far advanced that the blood with which its seat was

smeared, and the gnawed gristle of the Martian that the dogs had left,

were invisible to me.

I stood staring into the pit, and my heart lightened gloriously, even

as the rising sun struck the world to fire about me with his rays. The

pit was still in darkness; the mighty engines, so great and wonderful

in their power and complexity, so unearthly in their tortuous forms,

rose weird and vague and strange out of the shadows towards the light.

A multitude of dogs, I could hear, fought over the bodies that lay

darkly in the depth of the pit, far below me.

Across the pit on its

farther lip, flat and vast and strange, lay the great flying-machine

with which they had been experimenting upon our denser atmosphere when

decay and death arrested them. Death had come not a day too soon. At

the sound of a cawing overhead I looked up at the huge fighting-machine

that would fight no more for ever, at the tattered red shreds of flesh

that dripped down upon the overturned seats on the summit of Primrose

Hill....

1 note · View note

artnerd1123 · 4 years

Text

Chapter One

All Moving Pictures End

——————————————

Chapter one is always quiet. Until the end, that is. Henry knows this better than most. That doesn’t necessarily make it any easier.

DTRH!AU masterpost AU askblog

——————————————

This is my first fic for BATIM, and my first fic i’m posting anywhere! I’m a lil nervous, but mostly excited! Hope y’all enjoy!!!

————

Chapter one was always quick. Sure, he could drag his feet if he wanted. The breathing room did him good some days. But there was only so much to do. Only so much to explore. The only other “person” up here was a wolf’s corpse. Not exactly the most welcoming environment. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen it all a hundred times, anyways. He could do the whole thing blindfolded if he wanted. Not that it mattered. Everything in this place ground to a halt eventually. Every movie has its credits. Every book has its final page. And every chapter has its ending twist. It was as inevitable as his next loop around this godforsaken studio. Might as well get it over with.

————

Henry Ross strolled slowly down the halls, gaze flicking around him. He knew it was safe. Old habits die hard, though, and so would he if he didn’t keep an eye out. And he was pretty sure there’d be a cutout jumping out somewhere soon. He eyed the end of the hall suspiciously. “Last thing I need is to get startled into fight or flight early,” he mumbled to himself. One more step. Nothing yet. Another. Still nothing. Huh, he thought, brows furrowed. Maybe it was down the other hall? His mind was drawing a blank. Always an encouraging sign. Or not. The toon shrugged. Whatever. He had a valve to turn. He took one last step, and the sharp trill of a violin sent a violent chill up his spine. His hand flew to his chest as his body shivered comically. A hollow grin peeked out at him from around the corner, ducking back around before he could do anything more than gasp. “Oh- oh c’mon, that wasn’t even fair,” Henry complained. “Cutouts don’t even do anything. Sheesh.” He rubbed his temples as he caught his breath. It’s still chapter one. The scriptwriter just wanted to throw him off his rhythm. As per usual. Once he quit his toonish shivering, he resumed his stroll down the hall. The cardboard cutout earned itself a slightly stern look as he rounded the corner. “You best behave yourself,” he told it simply. At least he still remembered the projector room’s tricks. Henry strode right in. He didn’t even blink as the projector suddenly sputtered to life. Its light spilled onto the wall, ready for an audience long gone. The animation was simple. Just a cheery demon doing a jaunty dance. Unseen speakers crackled along with it, an old recording whistling over the sound of film spinning. Henry couldn’t help but smile. There he was. The little devil darling. “Right on cue, bud.” The demon kept right on dancing as Henry ducked under the projector. Sure, he could’ve walked through the light. But it’d been a long while since he’d seen bendy dance. He wasn’t about to stop that, even if it was just a fleeting ghost of the past. Henry whistled softly along with the recording, straightening back up on the other side. The valve was right where it should be, next to where he’d grabbed the plushie earlier. Not for the first- or last- time, he wondered why he couldn’t have turned it earlier. Why Joey has me running all over kingdom come is beyond me, he thought. Gripping the sides of the valve wheel, Henry gave it a strong yank to one side. It loudly protested the movement, the grating groan of old metal ringing out. He grimaced at the sound. “C’mon, you can’t be stuck now,” he huffed. Though the racket made his ears want to bleed, Henry pulled harder. The groan resounded again, rusty joints straining as much as the toon, before they finally gave up. He let out a satisfied grunt as it spun a few slow turns. “There she goes.” The valve ground to a stop after a moment or two, clanging as the pipes above it started to rumble and creak. They might have been old, but they held the pressure of rushing ink well enough. Henry gave it a nod of satisfaction. Good. Ducking back under the projection, he gave it a thumbs up. “Step one done, bud,” he told it. “I’ll see you in a b-” What more he had to say was cut off by a very loud pop. A mini monsoon of ink burst out of a pipe directly overhead, gushing onto the toon below it. Henry gasped and sputtered like an angry cat as he scrambled out from the ink. He tripped over the step on his way out, flopping onto the floor with a wet splat. He was utterly drenched. Soaked gloves slapping against the floorboards, the poor toon tried to prop himself up. “Augh- that stuff’s spoiled- uck-” he choked, hacking up some ink. It burned on the way out. As if it was trying to stick to him. The sensation made his muscles tense as he struggled to get his feet under him. No. Not now. Not ever. His breaths wheezed as he swiped ink off of his arms, shaking out his legs and hair. Ink flew everywhere in a haphazard fashion- as if a dog was shaking itself off instead of a man. It was all gone in moments. He was clean again. Never had Henry been more grateful to have a trope at his disposal. “Eugh… talk about a bad time to be short a shower…” Henry said shakily. Looking over his shoulder, he could still make out little bits of light through the spurting ink. The cheerful whistling still reached his ears over the little waterfall roar. The sound eased some tension from him. Even under all the ink, Bendy was still there. Let’s hope that stays true, he thought grimly. Henry’s footsteps quickened as he traversed the halls again. The noise of the machine grumbled along behind the walls. Just one switch to flip, then he could really get this nightmare started. And he was gonna do his damn best to make this loop count for something.

The relic room was the same as he left it. Well, almost the same. Everything sat silently on its pillar. Dust still sprinkled over the floorboards. The screen next to the lever, however, flashed with a single word- READY- in big, bright letters. The rumbling of the pipes confirmed as much. Henry stared grimly at the screen from the doorway. Sure, the machine was ready. And him? “... ready as I’ll ever be,” he said softly. Time to start the show. He crossed the room without another thought, setting a hand on the lever. Despite the state of the studio around it, the metal was warm to the touch. As if someone- or something- had put it to recent use. He didn’t care to think on it further. Henry tugged it down with a grunt. The screen darkened for a moment before the letters changed. “RUNNING,” they declared. At once, the machinery along the wall sputtered to life. Slow at first, but getting faster as ink oiled the worn gears. Henry felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up when the lights suddenly dimmed. The only light left in the room was a bright circle- illuminating the machine’s life-giving power source. And, of course, the toon standing before it. He turned to the door as the clanking, rumbling, and groaning of old mechanics and ink ticked up louder. Step two was over. Now, he had a meeting to keep. The halls- once lit brightly- were now as dark as a tomb. More fitting, he mused, than the false mirth the old lights had given off. All that was left now were candles and emergency lamps. He passed by them quickly, trying to ignore the way they flickered and dimmed. Just one foot in front of the other. Another turn to the right, and a sign greeted him. It proclaimed itself as the “ink output schedule.” As he neared it, a couple other signs came into view. “EXIT,” one said. “DANGER, KEEP OUT,” cautioned another. He slowed to a stop before them. The ink machine was close. One more turn. “... this thing’s gonna need some serious updating,” Henry muttered, giving the output sign a tap. “As for the rest of these…” He snorted, shaking his head. If I could actually follow them, I’d be set, now wouldn’t I? But no, he’d ignore them. Again. He peeked around the corner instead. The way to the machine was boarded up already. How the boards got there, he wasn’t sure. But he supposed a little protection from what was in there didn’t hurt. The fact that he needed it, though, did. Could the demon see him? Did he know he was here? Was he already out of the machine, lurking just out of sight? Was he just a whisper of script? Words yet to be written? Or rather, words yet to come to fruition? He didn’t know how to answer any of those questions. Answers or not, the toon still knew what he had to do. He took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Fists clenched at his sides, he stepped over the pipe before him. The floorboards creaked lightly as he closed the gap between himself and the boarded up doorway. He raised a hand, forcing his fingers to flatten out. Though the determined look on his face couldn’t hide how he shook. Behind the boards, the room was quiet and calm. Deceptive as the rest of the studio. Just touch the boards, Ross, he thought to himself. Get it over with. You’ve done harder. It’s not like you can go back now. His hand wavered. Moved forward, pausing again. Trembled. And quickly, before a moment more passed, he pushed his hand against the old wood. The studio around him instantly burst into inky chaos, a devilish grin erupting before him. Clawed gloves swiped out from the gap between the boards, a loud shriek accompanying their deadly strike. Demonic talons dug themselves into Henry’s chest before he could so much as flinch. The movement knocked him off his feet, the toon crashing backwards into the floor. He let out a strangled wheeze, stars bursting across his vision. All the wind had gotten knocked out of him. He couldn’t get in any air- he couldn’t breathe- oh g- fuck- c-c’mon- By the time he managed to suck down a breath, the demon was long gone. The remnants of its appearance, however, were still very much in effect. Henry’s chest heaved as he lurched to his feet, clutching his torn shirt. Morphing stains laced over the walls as ink poured from the ceiling. There was so much- too much- that it was flooding the halls. Move move mOVE MOVE, his mind screamed, nothing more than wheezing coming from his mouth. The ink was already lapping at his feet while he struggled to get over the blasted pipe in the hall. Dark liquid clung to his legs, splashing up against the walls the more he struggled through it. He just did what he could to keep moving. Each new crash of ink rupturing old planks made him flinch. But he didn’t need the herding of inky waterfalls to get to his destination. The toon pressed on towards the door he knew was waiting for him. Henry caught a glimpse of a scrawled message on the wall- DREAMS COME TRUE- before another cascade of obsidian sludge obscured it. The irony wasn’t lost on him at all. The only dreams that come true here are fucking nightmares. He let out a strangled chuckle, grabbing onto the corner to pull himself through the rising ink. It was up to his waist now. A slow burning sensation on his legs spurred him on, the toon now throwing himself around the next corner. His hands scrabbled desperately against a chest of drawers against the wall, breaths hitching in his throat. He could see the main room to his left. The exit would be right around the corner- right there! He was close! Just a little farther, Ross! Chest leaking ink, ceiling overflowing with sludge, and spoiled liquid eating at his form, Henry splashed his way around the last corner. The sliver of light shone enticingly in the darkness. Once again, he couldn’t help but wish he could reach it. So he tried. Lurching forward, Henry all but jumped towards the light- -only for his foot to pass through nothingness. His outstretched hand was illuminated for only a moment before the rest of him pitched downwards. He let out a cry- both of fear and of rage- as he tumbled, once more, into the depths of the studio.

————

A loud splash and a stream of curses announced Henry’s arrival at the bottom of the pit. He sat up with a groan. Ink still leaked down from above, pattering against his dark stained clothes. He swatted at it halfheartedly. Frankly, he’d already had enough of it. His free hand reached to gingerly rub his back, the other keeping him from flopping backwards. He got up as carefully as he could. How in the world he didn’t break his spine from that fall was beyond him. But, he thought ruefully, it wouldn’t be much of a story if the protagonist died right away, would it? At least the pain and injury would fade quickly. The trope of animation errors at its finest. “Alright… alright,” he grumbled to himself. “I better get a move on. Where’s those blasted valves…?” A glance around the room didn’t reveal much. It was a simple space. What wasn’t cut off by a small ink waterfall was still half flooded with the foul sludge. A metal shelving rack sat against one wall. A pipe with a valve was against another. Easy enough. Henry was about to wade to the pipe when something flashed in the corner of his eye. He whipped his head towards it, not caring that his neck protested painfully. What looked like a thin box glowed softly on one of the shelves. Henry’s brows furrowed. If it glowed, it had to be important. He paused a moment to see if he could recall… “… Oh!” he snapped his fingers eagerly. “Right! Tapes!” He splashed clumsily over to the shelf, giving the “box” a look over. It was an audio log. He could see that clearly now. A little beat up and stained, but unmistakable. A small smile twitched at his lips as he ran a hand over it. He couldn’t quite remember who this one was… but he didn’t think it mattered. Any trace of his old friends was good enough for him. The voices made him feel less alone. He could do with a little less loneliness. Henry gently pressed the play button, watching the little machine come to life. The tape clicked softly into place. There was a moment of quiet whirring before a grumbling voice rang from the speaker. “It’s dark and it’s cold, and it’s stuck behind every single wall now. In some places, I swear this godforsaken ink is clear up to my knees! Whoever thought that these crummy pipes could hold up under this kind of strain either knows something about pressure that I don’t, or he’s some kind of idiot,” a man barked gruffly. Henry recognized it instantly, his smile widening into a grin. “Tom!” he said brightly. “Good to hear from you, old friend.” Ah, yes. Thomas Connor. The studio’s repairman. Henry shook his head as the tape continued, the memories of Thomas complaining about pipes drifting up in his mind. … of course, a few choice phrases in the recording made the toon’s smile slip. “Like a dying dog on its last legs,” Thomas said about the pipes’ noise. He wasn’t wrong, but the mention of a dying dog… “This whole darn thing… just isn’t natural,” Thomas grumbled uneasily. “You could say that again,” Henry muttered darkly. Of course, it was the last phrase that really sobered him up. “You can bet, I won’t be doing any more repair jobs for Mister Joey Drew.” The final click of the recording echoed in the silence. Henry gave the log a long, hard look. “... well, you weren’t wrong, Tom,” he finally sighed. “You certainly weren’t wrong.” Reaching for the log, he flipped it onto its back. If he remembered right, he could probably get the tape out of there… a muffled click let a smile flit across his face. “There you are. C’mere, you.” He slid off a panel in the back to reveal an old tape. It had a labelled transcript taped to it, thankfully. That’d help keep track of names. He carefully slipped the tape into his pocket, setting the empty audio log back on the shelf. With the tape listened to and taken care of, Henry turned his focus to the task at hand. Draining all this awful ink. He slogged through the black sludge that stuck to his knees, making his way to the first valve. It turned easier than the one upstairs, but still made the same godawful groaning noise. “Geez Louise, you were right about the noise, Tom,” he winced. The ink level was falling, though, so he didn’t complain more. He was just glad the valves worked. “One down, two to go.” Glancing around, he spotted the door to the stairwell through the waterfall of ink. Because… of course it would be back there. Where else would the door be but behind more ink? Henry put his arms over his head as he jogged through the inkfall, shuddering at the feeling of old ooze on his limbs. He continued his jog down the steps, grumbling as yet another waterfall blocked his path. Stepping through this one gained him more than a shudder, though. It was a downright uncomfortable grimace. His foot had splashed right down into another deep puddle of ink. “Aw, c’mon now,” he sighed, wading down once again. “Can’t ever leave things simple and easy, can we?” At least this valve’s right in front of the stairs…

Another two rounds of groaning pipes, descending ink, and running down steps deposited the now soaked-and-grumpy toon in a rather cramped room. Calling the space a “room” was almost too generous. It was more like a glorified broom closet. A very drippy, very busted up one at that. “We’re gonna need a dozen teams of restoration architects in here,” Henry said flatly. “And that’s at a minimum.” Ink dripped slowly down from his hair before he flicked it away. A quick shake off had him relatively clean, minus some staining on his shoes. Once he was satisfied, the toon turned to the one other defining feature of the room. A closed door. It didn’t remain that way for long, the knob turning easily in his hand. He knew his way clearly from here. The door swung in to reveal an old workshop. Henry strolled right in, gaze sliding over the sparsely furnished area. All that was of note were a few stacked barrels, and an old workbench, and a boarded up doorway along the far wall. The bit of graffiti spattered around- a venomous declaration that “THE CREATOR LIED TO US-” drew a soft snort from the toon. Yeah, you could say that. Overall? The room was nothing of interest. No, what he was really looking for sat on top of the workbench. An axe lay out on top of it, its blade glinting dully in the dim light. Henry picked it up, testing its weight thoughtfully. It looked pretty sharp. Pretty durable, too. An axe had always served him well… “Hmm… yeah, I could go for a new one,” he said decisively. Swapping the axe into one hand, he shoved the other into one of his side pockets. He pulled out another axe a moment later. This one was slick with damp ink, its blade blunt and its handle full of hairline cracks. It had certainly been through the ringer. He gazed at it fondly as he set it on the bench. “So long, bud,” he sighed softly. “We had a good run.” Henry took a minute to swing the new axe around. This room was as good as any to test it out. It was a little different than he was used to- no doubt because it was newer- but it swung and balanced well. He gave it a pat of approval. Approaching the doorway, he glanced it over, sizing it up. “Now-” grunting, he hefted the axe over his shoulder- “new friend of mine-” tightened his grip- “let’s get-” and swung hard at the boards before him- “to work-!” The splintering of wood made a wonderful soundtrack as Henry chopped his way through the final hall. The work went quicker than he liked, but it still felt good to swing a proper axe again. Breaking boards was easy. Breaking boards was kinda fun. And, most importantly, breaking boards meant progress. At the end of the short hall, he leaned on the wall to catch his breath. The new axe really was nicer. Hopefully it’d last a few loops. One last door was before him, three boards holding it shut. He eyed it somberly. At long last, there it was. His entrance into chapter two. The toon straightened up slowly, rolling his shoulders. The axe dragged against the floor as he walked purposefully over. One more door. One more room. And one more unfortunate headache. Flipping the axe up, he promptly slammed it into the old wood. All three boards gave away like butter to a hot knife. Satisfied, Henry tucked the weapon behind his back. It was better to save things in his hammerspace than to trust that a certain scriptwriter would provide him another axe later. The door opened with a slow creak after he turned the knob. Before him was a small room, lit only by candlelight. Some sort of large ritual circle was drawn in the center of the floorboards. Candles sat flickering at six points around its edge. Edging in, Henry kept an eye on his feet and the circle. That thing might be his ticket to chapter two, but he didn’t want to jump on the train early. The location didn’t feel fuzzy as he looked around, but… well. You never know what could pop up next in this studio. At the wall across from the entrance, two coffins leaned side by side. A boarded up door was to their left. On the right side of the room, three chairs were set up. On the left side, there was an empty shelf. Whom the chairs or coffins were for, Henry couldn’t say. The sight of the door, at least, was reassuring. All that was left now was to step into the circle. “... you better make this quick, Joey,” he muttered.

Without further ado, he planted a foot squarely in the inky circle.

The pain he felt was immediate, surging up through his leg and into his head like a lightning strike. He couldn’t help but gasp, hands flying to his head as he doubled over. An image of the ink machine flashed before his eyes. By the time he squeezed them open and shut to dispel it, the pain had lurched him sideways. An image of a wheelchair greeted his newly opened eyes, and he groaned desperately. The pain was cranking higher- higher- so much he could barely see straight. He fumbled around, vision clouding up as he tried to turn back to the door. All that greeted him, though, was one last horrifying image. The ink demon was standing there. Illuminated by the light of an open door behind him. Reaching for him. Some distant part of Henry felt his body stumble backwards. His mind finally fell into darkness. And then… Then… … Nothing.

Nothing but the dark of the ink.

E̶̷̸̮͍̮̤̪̠͔͚̬̻̼̰̤͉̱͔̝̰͠Ņ͈͉̙̣͙̜̣͖͔͍͍̯̟̬̭͢͠ͅD̷̨̼͇̖̮̙ ̶̴͎̪͓̯̮̲̼͠O͏̶̸̸̞̣̦̟̫̦̞̪̳̤͎͚̯̦̝̳F̶̵̥͚̘̣̮͔ ̣̫̞̰̬͚͞͞C̭͎̥̠͔̩͕͕̯͉͍̤̬̩̙̟͎̱͉̕͠͠͠͞Ḩ̢͜͠҉̲̥̮̫A̴҉͕͚̬̳̲͙̮͙̝͡͝P̵̩͎̩͓̲̬̕͟Ţ̯̱̠͍̝̲̠̗̼͜͜E͏̷̮̬̪̬̠̙R̷̡̹̖̥̖͘͜ ̧̪͈̥̝̞̘̰̬̻̺̞̠͎͟͟͞Ó̠͙̲̞̰͔͕͡N̵̬̜̣̜̬̻̖͈̙͍͍̻̰̤͎̙̜͜͝ͅĘ̰͎̩̺̙̱̯͈̭̬͙͇͔̕.̸̸̧̳̱̣̠̺̭̖̦̹̳͙̼̳̠͠͡ͅ

#batim au #arty writes #dtrh!au #down the rabbit hole au #dtrh!henry #dtrh!bendy #dtrh!thomas #aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa #this is queued bc its like midnight as i'm formatting this lksjdflkjfkls #anyways!!!#here!!! is the thing!!!!!!!!!!!#someone yell at me to rb this to my askblog if i haven't later!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#i'm v v happy with this tbh ^^#idk exactly what i wanna say abt it #but yea i did this in like. three days of adrenaline filled hyperfixation LSKDJF #go me!!!#i hope u guys like it!!! ;w;

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tellmealovestory · 4 years

Text

Such Great Heights

Summary: You and Bucky spend a day at the carnival.

Notes: Also posted on my ao3. This was written for @ussgallifreyfics 700 followers writing challenge. Congrats on all of your followers and thanks so much for letting me join!

Warnings: A couple swear words and a slightly anxious reader.

“Do one thing every day that scares you.” - Eleanor Roosevelt

Cotton colored candy skies. Tongues and lips and teeth painted blue and red from icy cold snow cones. The smell of fried everything. People laughing and talking at decibels that wouldn’t be acceptable any other place. Long lines that wound through the park. Blistered and tired feet. Faces that were tinged red and pink from the hot sun blaring down on them all day. Tired smiles. Tired eyes. Children asleep in strollers. Balloons wrapped around wrists of the children who were awake. People clutching giant teddy bears and goldfish in bags that surely wouldn’t survive the week once they got back to real life. Glitter dotting the apples of girls cheeks. Smiles stretched wide from face to face.

Cheers erupted around you. For a moment you’re confused until you see the cause. The carnival lights are turning on bathing the grounds in soft blues, bright reds, lively greens, golden yellows. The food stands are a blur of neons. Pinks and greens and purples. It’s beautiful, but it hurts your tired eyes to look at them for too long.

A small step forward. Followed by another. And then another. You’re next in line. Your heart rate spikes, your hand growing sweatier in Bucky’s and you wait for him to say something. To ask if you’re okay. But he doesn’t. And when you look at him you see how happy he is standing in line for the ferris wheel knowing you’ll be the next in line. You wish you could muster up some of his happiness, but you can’t. You can only offer him a gentle squeeze of your hand, a forced smile on your painted lips which he doesn’t take notice of.

You’d do anything for him. Anything at all.

He could ask you to run away with him tomorrow and you’d do it. He could ask you to marry him on top of the highest building in New York and you’d do it. Never mind the fact that you’d miss your friends and family. Never mind the fact that you’re utterly terrified of heights.

In the back of your mind you know that you should tell him. Tell him now and you know that he’d take your hand and whisk you away. He’d find another ride for you guys to go on never mind that you’ve been on everything except the ferris wheel. He’d never make you do something that you didn’t want to do.

But you want to do this. At least that’s what you try to tell yourself as you take a shaky step forward. Your body moves on its own. You can hear the excited chatter of people surrounding you. Can vaguely make out the voice of the ride operator as you slide into the seat next to Bucky. Can faintly feel the way the seatbelt fits snugly across your lap as the safety bar lowers.

And with one final shaky look down at the ground where you would give anything to be the seat of the ferris wheel is lifting up, up, up.

It doesn’t matter that you can still see the ground you’re terrified. Your hand grips the bar, a quiet fuck spilling from your lips as the seat sways and when you shoot Bucky a panicked look he only presses a sweet kiss to your forehead and you know there’s no way you can tell him now.

A flurry of thoughts flit through your mind. None of them good. All of them disaster related from too many horror movies and your own anxiety making things seem worse than they really are. What if you get stuck at the top? What if the ride crashes to the ground? What if, what if, what if?

The seat lifts higher. This time shakier than the last and you want to curse out the operator. Yell at him to be gentle. For fuck sakes the signs on the back of all the chairs clearly says do not rock. And yet there he is down below safely on the ground jerking the ride lever as if he has no cares in the world, as if he doesn’t care that there are people on the ride afraid of heights, as if he doesn’t care if the chairs rock.

The handle is slippery with your sweat and even though Bucky had promised you that the views up top would be worth it you can’t see anything with your eyes closed so tightly all you can see is black. Your teeth hurt from clenching your jaw and when he wraps an arm around your shoulder puling you closer to him you let out a quiet squeak when the chair rocks gently back and forth.

“Bucky,” you try, your voice cracking and you swear if you start crying you’re never going to forgive yourself.

He had only asked you one thing today and that was that he wanted to go on the ferris wheel with his best girl. He wanted to see the views from up top. Wanted to share this with you. Steve had told you that when they were younger they used to ride it at Coney Island. Said it was always one of Bucky’s favorite things. And though this isn’t Coney Island he had still asked you to go on with him.

Throughout the day you had made excuses. The line was too long. The sun was too hot. Someone had thrown up on one of the chairs. You had just eaten now wasn’t the time. You had just had something to drink now definitely wasn’t the time. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t pressure you. Didn’t ask you more than once. You thought if you waited until the sun had gone down that it would be easier to handle. You wouldn’t be able to see as much therefore you wouldn’t be so scared. You had been wrong. So very, very wrong. With the carnival lights shining bright and dusk settling over the park coming on at night was way, way worse.

“Honey, open your eyes, you’re missing the view.” His voice is soft, calming, sweet against the shell of your ear and though you want nothing more than to do as he asked you can’t.

Shaking your head you bite your lower lip refusing to open your eyes. You can’t tell how high up you are which might have been a good thing except for the fact that your mind had you convinced you were so high you could touch the sky. The chair stopped. Sucking in a deep breath you still didn’t open your eyes. Either the ride was stuck or you were finally situated at the top. Either way you weren’t ready to open your eyes to find out.

“I can’t,” you whimpered, the sound pathetic to your own ears and you hate that you’re ruining this for him.

“Why?”

A beat passes. The chair still doesn’t move and you swear to god that it’s stuck. You’re going to be up here for the rest of the night. You’re going to die up here. Oh god, oh god, oh god. The things that you do for love.

“Honey?” That sweet, calming voice again, the patience and you know that now is not the time to tell him, but that doesn’t stop you from blurting it out.

“I’m afraid of heights!”

There. The words are out there in the open and there’s nothing you can do, but hope that he’s not mad at you. It’s a ridiculous thought. You know that. He would never be mad at you for telling him that, but it doesn’t stop your brain from thinking it. From focusing on that thought alone until the chair starts to move again, swinging wildly and you swear that when, no, if you make it off this hell of a ride you’re going to tell the operator to get a new job or better yet take the advice on the back of each chair and do not rock the chairs!.

“What?”

“Please don’t be mad at me. I was going to tell you, but then you were so excited about going on this and I didn’t want to disappoint you and I thought if I was with you it’d be okay,” you rambled. Cracking open an eye you watch him carefully. He doesn’t look mad which is a relief. Softening his eyes you lean into his touch when he pulls you closer, but that only results in the chair swinging and you find yourself hissing, your knuckles turning white against the handle.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did tell you.”

“Y/N, no you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“When did you tell me you were afraid of heights? Doll, if I knew that I wouldn’t have taken you on this.”

“I told you, shit, shit, shit, why does he keep doing that?” You whined, as the chair reached the top.

Afraid to close your eyes and afraid to look down you don’t understand how you’re just reaching the top now. One flesh hand and one gloved hand reach up to cup your cheeks forcing you to keep your eyes steady on him and if your heart wasn’t racing so fast, if you weren’t so close to having a melt down on top of the scariest ride at the carnival you would kiss him for helping to center you.

“I did tell you,” you tried again, swallowing the lump in your throat when the chair doesn’t move to make a descent down. “I told you like... two minutes ago, Bucky, try to keep up.” Joking is the only way you know how to make it through this situation without bursting into tears and when you see him fighting the smile that’s threatening to curl his lips up you let out a shaky breath.

“That’s not what I meant and you know that.”

“I know, but I just you were so excited and when Steve told me this you used to be one of your favorite rides I wanted to do something nice for you and I really thought I could handle this and I... god damnit.”

“Hey, look at me, okay? You’re okay, honey, you’re okay. Keep your eyes on me,” he cooed.

Nodding your head you do as he asked keeping your eyes on his which is harder than you thought it would be when the chair finally makes a descent backwards. You begin to breathe a little easier the closer to the ground it gets, but you’ve seen this ride before, you know that you’ll have to make at least two or three more times around which means more time at the top again.

“What about the view? You wanted to look at the view.”

“I am looking at the view.”

“Okay, that is not what I meant and you know that,” you retorted with a roll of your eyes and a soft laugh. It’s the first one to slip past your lips since the ride started and slowly you begin to feel more like yourself. Not quite as anxious. Your heart rate isn’t spiking as fast. Your palms aren’t as sweaty, but your knuckles are still white.

When you pass the ride operator you shoot him a death glare, too busy helping people on and off he doesn’t notice, but it still makes you feel a little bit better until you feel the chair starting to climb back up to the top.

“Ya know the first time I saw you I was afraid to talk to you.”

The comment is so random that you can’t help gaping at him. “What? Why?”

Shrugging his shoulders he licks his lower lip. True to his word he never takes his eyes off of you. The pad of his thumb brushes across your cheek and you find yourself leaning into his touch.

“Cause you were so confident and cute and even though the coffee was awful I kept coming back to see you.”

“God, Bucky I was anything but cute and confident in those uniforms.”

“Ya gonna let me tell the story my way?”

“I guess...,” you teased.

“It took me months before I got the nerve up to talk to you and that was only because Stevie and Natasha made me. You probably don’t remember it, but when I went to ask for your number I couldn’t stop shaking. Same with our first date and our first kiss.”

Smiling softly you remembered that. Not the same way he did of course. The two of you had met at a coffee shop where you had been working at the time and even though he thought the coffee had been bad you lived on that stuff to get you through your college classes. You remembered him coming in nearly every time you were working. Always sitting at a table near the back. Baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. It had taken you a few visits before you finally noticed him, but once you did it was nearly impossible to take your eyes off him.

The night he had finally asked for your number it was just you working. He had been your last customer and as you had been wiping down the tables he had come up to you startling you out of your daze you had jumped before shooting him a sheepish smile when you saw him flinch. Both of you had apologized at the same time, but the damage had been done. He had been awkward, clumsy, shy. Nothing like the sauve ladies man from the forties you had grown up hearing stories about. You wouldn’t see peaks of that until much later when you guys had been dating for close to a year.

“And every time I gotta leave you for a mission I still get scared,” he murmured. “The point is it’s good to do stuff that scares you every once in awhile. Look where it led us. If I hadn’t gotten the nerve to finally get your number we wouldn’t be here.”

Letting go of a shaky breath you loosen your hold on the bar seeing that the ride is finally almost over. Three chairs are ahead of you and you’re finally brave enough to tear your gaze away from Bucky’s and look down. It’s still scary and you almost wish you hadn’t, you’re still too high up for your comfort level, but you take his words to heart.

“Look at me, doll.”

For once you’re grateful that he can read you so well and you do as he asks.

“I’m okay.” You’re not sure if you’re saying it for his benefit or yours. The ride operators movements are still jerky, the chair continues to sway causing your stomach to swirl with nerves despite being closer to the ground. You know that you’re not going to be able to fully relax until your two tired and blistered feet are back on solid ground.

Two chairs are ahead of you and with his hands still cupping your cheeks, with his beautiful eyes never wavering from his you ignore everything. The bright carnival lights, the sounds of people laughing and screaming, the way the chair swings with every movement, the off key music from a cheap band playing one hit wonders from the eighties under a tent filled with drunk people. You focus on Bucky and only Bucky.

Leaning forward you crash your lips against his trying to show him with one kiss how much you love him, how much you appreciate him, how much you love that he opened up to you and told how he was afraid to talk you, how he still got scared to go on missions even after all this time, how much he showed you sometimes it was okay to be vulnerable, okay to tell someone that you were scared. Releasing your sweaty hands from the safety bar for the first time since sliding into the seat your fingers curl around his shirt pulling him closer to you.

One chair is ahead of you, but you pay no attention to it or just how close you are to getting off. All you focus on is the way his lips feel chapped against yours from the sun hitting them all day, the way he tastes of sugary sweet cotton candy and powdered sugar from your shared funnel cake. You focus on the way his tongue swipes against your bottom lip, the way you part your lips allowing his tongue in. The way he’s able to pull moans from you, the way his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your head bringing your lips closer to his.

And when you’re next in line to get off you don’t notice that either. You don’t notice the cough from the ride operator, don’t notice the uncomfortable stares from people waiting to get on, don’t notice their impatient tapping feet against the steel walkway. All you notice is the way Bucky pulls away slowly as if he’s afraid he’ll never feel your lips against his again.

Everything happens too fast and too slow at the same time. Bucky’s eyes are glazed over and you’re sure yours are too. His hand drops from your cheek and the back of your head, your fingers uncurl from his shirt as the safety bar is lifted. Unbuckling the seat belt you watch breathlessly as he stands up before turning to you and holding his hand out. Taking hold you giggle as he pulls you up. Your legs are shaky from nerves at being up so high, but he doesn’t let you fall, would never let you fall as his hands reach out to grasp your waist in an attempt to steady you. Still a little shaky when you follow him down the three steel steps you take a deep breath when your feet land on concrete. Finally on solid ground again.

Turning to watch the Ferris wheel continue its slow descent you’re mesmerized by the lights, by the people growing smaller and smaller as the ride goes higher and higher. Standing on the ground looking up it doesn’t look so scary anymore.

“Bucky? I think we should go back on it,” you said, turning your attention back to him.

“What about your fear of heights?”

Pursing your lips to the side you know that you can handle it if he’s by your side and you don’t look down.

“I know, but you never got to see the view from up top and if you tell me I was the view I’ll smack you,” you teased.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, darlin’.” He replied and you don’t miss the hesitancy in voice.

The fact is you know he’s probably right. You’re not sure you can stomach another round of the ride operator carelessly swinging the chair. Not sure if you can stomach being so high up, but you also know that his earlier words were true. It is important to do things that scare you at least once a day and how bad could the second time be? You already know what to expect.

“Maybe not, but I want to. Wasn’t it you who gave me that speech about conquering fears? I’ll be fine. I promise.”

You don’t quite believe the words and by the way his eyes are appraising you you can tell he doesn’t either.

“That was different,” he sighed.

“Please? I want to do this for you.”

Without giving him a chance to object you grab his hand pulling him to the back of the line. Your hand never leaves his, your heart never stops pounding, your breath never quite coming out in the slow steady way it should. But none of that stops your feet from moving forward every couple of minutes when the line shifts.

Ignoring the pointed stare of the ride operator you slide into the seat with Bucky right at your side. And when the safety bar comes down and you see Bucky giving you one more look that says you don’t have to do this you only kiss his cheek before laying your head on his shoulder.

Much like last time the chair swings every couple of minutes with jerky movements anytime someone gets on or off and when you stop at the top you can hear Bucky suck in a deep breath. You may have been willing to go on again, but you know there’s no way you’re looking down. Burying your head in his neck you close your eyes focusing instead on the way he smells like sun and sweat and woods. To anybody looking at you all they would see was a couple in love.

Unsure if it’s the fact you’re curled up next to Bucky or that this is your second time, but the ride seems to move faster and before you know it you’re back at the bottom and stepping off the ride.

“How was the view?” You asked once your feet make contact with the solid ground again.

“Better the first time.”

Knitting your eyebrows together it takes you a second, but when you get it you slap his shoulder playfully.

“Shut up,” you teased.

Leaning down he kisses you softly. “Come on, I wanna win my best girl the biggest stuffed bear they have.”

#gallifreys700 #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #my writing

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