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tatooedlaura-blog · 5 years

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20 Questions

My Lord, I am rusty at this … been too long without words …

Not part of the Life series … but just something to get me writing again …

**hugs to all**

&&&&&&&&&

Six beers apiece, three frozen pizzas, a gallon of ice tea, a knockdown, drag-out argument complete with yelling, swearing, file throwing and roughly 12 hours later …

Snow.

Piled up to the top of the parking meter; deep, heavy, wet, sloppy, icing over snow.

All viewed by a sleepy, blinking Scully who had the minor deluded idea of getting home that night but then a draft wafted over her stocking feet and any idea of leaving evaporated in a heartbeat. Turning around, she debated going in to tell him she was staying but clock glowing 1:43am made her stay quiet and think about going back to sleep.

Problem was, she had been off the buttery, broken in couch just a hair too long and now the leather was frigidly cold, seeping immediately into her soul and making her stand before she fully understood she’d been sitting. Muttering a ‘damn it’, she grabbed an afghan, wrapped it tight and wondered where the thermostat was.

Oddly, it wasn’t in the living room, kitchen or hall, so she headed, sock-shuffle-slide, into the bedroom. It was dark in there, warmer than the living room and without the drafts. She debated whether to wake him up to kick him out of the large bed but given she was a semi-decent person, regardless of freezing status, she finally found the thermostat on the wall beside the door. Touching a button lit the panel up and the voice from the dark made her jump, “you cold?”

Keeping the whisper status of the two-word conversation, “I won’t be once I crank this bad boy up to 80.”

“Won’t help. It never gets above 70 with that thing, regardless of what I set it at.”

Turning towards the voice, her face still bathed in electric blue, profile perfection, mouth half-twisted in shivering debate, “then you either need to move over so I can share or help me dig out my car from the snowpocalypse that occurred after we fell asleep.”

With a ‘pshhht, no way in Hell’ noise, “I am not moving from under these covers so go grab the rest of the blankets off the couch and get in here but so help me God, those feet touch me and I’ll shove you right back out.”

“I love you, too, Mulder.” She went and gathered her armful then crawling under upheld covers, complained in a hissing breath, “it’s just as fucking cold here as the couch was.”

“Jack Frost has made you mouthy.”

Quaking as she spread the blankets over the pair of them, mostly her, well, all over her really because he was already warm and whatever, she couldn’t feel anything below elbows and knees, “two feet of snow, Mulder, while we slept. While you let me sleep. While you went to bed and left me to ice over out there in the living room.”

“In all seriousness, If I had woken you up, you’d have bitten me.”

Her embarrassment nearly warmed her cheeks but not quite, “that’s a very good point, although it would have been very nice to be wearing my pajamas instead of jeans.”

Searching the dark, he poked her cheek, “cranky pants, go to sleep.”

Not warming yet but decidedly on the better side of frozen solid, she moved her foot until it found his leg, “I’m not cranky.”

“Remember I said I’d kick you out of bed if you touched me.”

Turning on her side, facing away, she grinned into the pillow as her muscles unclenched, “like you’d ever kick me out of anything.”

“Very true.” Debating for a moment, “do you want some pajamas?”

“I’ll get them if I need them.”

&&&&&&&&&

“Mulder?”

“Go to sleep.”

“I can’t.”

“Yeah, you can. Shut your eyes and stop thinking.”

To relieve her aching shoulder, she rolled to her back, keeping everything from the bottom of her nose down well under the covers, “we should play ’20 questions’.”

“I’m sleeping, Scully.”

“Your voice tells me otherwise. I can also deduce that you are very nearly as wide awake as I am.”

Mulder, awake mostly because she was within two feet of him, dipping his mattress and driving him mad with that warm Scully smell that wouldn’t stop invading his nose, his brain, his entire God-damned existence, gave in because … well … Scully ..., “animal, vegetable or mineral?”

Next she traveled to her other side, facing him, for the sole purpose of being able to pull the covers over her head as well, warming ears and crown without suffocating in the luxury, “mineral.”

“Of course science-girl picks mineral.”

Wiggling one last time to get properly settled in her concave cocoon, “I’ll give you a hint. It’s clear.”

“Water.”

Hand across sheets for a brief moment, she tweaked his nose, “you’re cold. Get further under and no, it’s not water.”

He buried his head to mirror her, flipping to look at her, “tell me if I reek of beer and garlic, please.”

Because she was his friend and had been for the better part of 200 years, she sniffed and approved, “you’re good.”

“Go me. Anyways, is it shiny?”

“After it’s polished.”

“Is it colored?”

“I just said it was clear.”

“Hey, detail-oriented individuals such as myself know that something can be colored and clear at the same time. See through anyways. I can see the world through a pair of rose-colored glasses or some shit like that.”

This time, she waited until he’d tucked the fringe from one of the wayward afghans away from her forehead, “touche, Mr. Mulder. It is both clear and uncolored.”

He could get to like this nonsense at 3am, “is it rare or common?”

“Common for certain occasions but rare in relation to grains of sand on Earth or stars in the heavens.” He stared at her for so long after this, she began to wonder if he’d frozen solid or died on the spot, eyes still open and studying, “what? Already run out of questions?”

Game forgotten and unmissed, “I love when that poet trapped inside you gets to come out and see the world, even if just for a few moments at a time.”

“It’s not poetry, Mulder, it’s just a description to the question you asked.”

Darkness softened the walls between them faster than any alcohol could, “don’t be flippant about it. Poetry is beautiful and so are you and when you say things like that, I’m surprised I can still remember that we probably shouldn’t be sharing a bed.”

Her previous blush had nothing on this one, toes suddenly on fire, but she held his gaze, “I don’t want to go back to the couch though.”

“Then I should tell you your mineral is diamond and that we should try to go back to sleep.”

“But then you’ll win the game.”

The things he shouldn’t say this late at night were alphabetized, categorized and easily accessible to his lightning fast mind but who really gave a shit when they were snowed in bed with no hope of anyone but Scully’s God and possibly three or four dust bunnies hearing him, “I won it a long time ago, Scully, you ought to know that by now.”

One foot drifted absently over to him, finding a flannel covered kneecap, “we were having a nice, innocent game of ’20 questions’, Mulder, remember that?”

“Not really and you know why?”

She wasn’t stupid, not in the slightest bit, and wondering if she could blame the following confessional already bubbling up her throat on the liquor she’d consumed seven hours ago, “because we’ve never done anything innocent in our lives when the lights are out and we have nowhere to go and no one is listening?”

“Because tonight you are a poet and I huddle at your feet in awe that you didn’t try to escape when you had the chance.”

“Like the choice ever occurred to me.” Her fingers, having shifted of their own accord, met his jaw, playing with the underside of stubbly chin, “we have a problem with the dark, you and I.”

“Not when we’re together in it, we don’t. In fact, it’s one of my favorite places to be with you.”

She watched him not-so subtly sliding towards her and instinct beat sense to fucking dust as she let him, “why?

He stopped a good six inches from her, bunches of blankets impeding his travels and she was glad to have the barrier, given her resistance had dialed down to nil, “because you are poetry in the dark.”

Shifting blankets out of the way, she sidled closer, closer, closer until she felt his arm slide over her back, “but you can’t see me in the dark.”

His hands itched to feel more, to know more but instead, he relaxed into her, “the feel of you is enough.”

“Sometimes I don’t think it is.” She let that hang over them, weighted world above, blankets around, heat between, “Mulder?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t make me leave this bed anytime soon, okay?”

He would have laughed had it not been such a serious question, requiring a well thought out, well-versed response, “if I could manage it, neither of us ever would.”

Her warm hands found his back, under his shirt, dipped in his spine, “I retract my statement … our problem isn’t the dark … our problem is thoughts in the dark.”

“Are your thoughts becoming a problem?”

Shivering despite the overwhelming warmth of her around him around her, “thoughts are always a problem.”

Hands under her shirt, finding the clasp on her bra and unfastening, “how the hell can you sleep in that thing?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think about it I guess.”

With a grin, he kissed her forehead, “exactly.”

The universe breathed deep with Scully shaking her head and shifting all the way under the covers, head and all, “back in a second.” There was some wicked wiggling and two grunts and one elbow in Mulder’s stomach but before he could smile again, she was back, whipping the bra across the room, “I hate that thing.”

“So do I.” The look he got did things, “now I can sleep in peace.”

“Have we moved on from poetry in the dark?”

Snuggling back into him, “I will not be held responsible for the compromising position we will find ourselves in in the morning as well as the compromising positions we go through to get there. Poetry in the dark writes itself sometimes without our knowing and I’m not going to fight it because in the morning, the curtains will still be closed and this room will still be dark and we will not have a damn thing to do or a damn place to go.”

“Why didn’t you take your shirt off along with the bra?”

“Because I’m suddenly very comfortable and a little bit tired.”

“You are very dangerous in the dark, Scully.”

“I’ll be more dangerous after I’ve had a nap.”

Letting his hands drift further down than normal, “do you remember who won the argument last night?”

“The dark doesn’t care, Mulder and neither do I.”

#you are poetry in the dark #when the lights are out and we have nowhere to go and no one is listening #xfiles fanfic #txf fanfic #xf fanfic #msr #My writing

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truthofficial · 5 years

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Teaser #6 || (SPOILERS) Who Is Green?

WARNING: MAJOR SPOILERS REGARDING THE TRUE IDENTITY OF GREEN. DO NOT READ IF YOU DON’T WANT TO BE SPOILED.

The house was as most abandoned houses were: overgrown, falling apart. Unspectacular. But it offered shelter somewhere few would look, and the bushes and trees growing around it would offer enough cover to talk without being noticed. There was a gap in the fence around the back of the building, just large enough for someone to slip through, and Elyan made a beeline for it; tailed closely by Lydia.

"Remind me again why we're doing this behind their back?"

"She clearly doesn't want them to know she's alive, yet," he explained in hushed tones as they squeezed through the gap and into the spacious backyard of the house. "It's risky enough that she's agreed to talk to us directly; keeping up this small sign of trust will hopefully be enough to gain hers."

Angela Mason. Biological sister of Evie Mason; both missing from their home in Inverness as children. Tori had clammed up the moment he asked how Angela died, but however it happened it appeared not to have stuck. As far as he could tell she was the only one to have "died" before Erik and Tori's escape, and judging from their reactions to even the mention or thought of her, it wasn't a good "death". He didn't blame her for wanting to keep this quiet for now. The house looked like it was beautiful once, a long time ago. Amongst the overgrowth were flowers and plants that had clearly been planted there, and they almost walked directly into a garden shed that was completely overrun by bushes and vines. The house itself was once painted white, with bright, open windows now covered with dust and boards and creeping plants. For a moment Elyan wasn't sure how they were going to get in, but as he examined the boards covering the door, they disappeared -- fading away to reveal the door itself. It was old and faded and pieces of wood still hung from it, like the screws had been pulled out ages ago, but the door was operable and after a confused glance back at Lydia (who was staring and nodding before he even looked, just knowing he'd need confirmation it was real), he pushed it open and crept inside.

The dust had been disturbed recently. There were footsteps and tracks in the dirt and grime on the floor of the once-lavish kitchen, and they followed them quietly, rounding a corner to the living room. The place was mostly unfurnished, save for a couple of old, dusty sofas and a broken down coffee table. On one of those sofas perched not one, but two people. One was an unfamiliar blonde woman, soft-faced and grey-eyed, sat patiently with her hands in her lap. The other was more recognisable, and while Elyan's heart kicked into overdrive, Lydia's blood boiled. Paul Jameson.

"Let us explain," he said quickly, before either of them could think to react to his presence here. Indicating the sofa across from them, he fixed them with pleading eyes. "Please." Lydia looked just about ready to pounce, but Elyan reached an arm out gently to stop her; as reassuring as it was restraining as he stepped cautiously into the room, eyeing Paul's companion with a frown. She hadn't made to look at them despite the conversation; merely tilting her head up slightly, looking almost like a cat "feeling" her surroundings. Looking closer, he noticed her fingertips twitching just slightly like operating invisible keyboards.

"You're Angela, I'm guessing?"

"I am," she said, barely a second after he stopped speaking, "You're Elyan. And Lydia. Thank you for coming alone." Her voice was struggled and impeded, like it took effort to form every syllable but she wasn't entirely sure how to in the first place.

"What is that?" Lydia, apparently, couldn't contain her curiosity; gesturing to Angela's hands with a frown, "What're you doing with your hands?"

Angela smiled almost imperceptibly. "I'm feeling the air for you," she said, "I-.. think I should start with an explanation of myself, no?"

"Aye, I'll say," Elyan hummed, "Erik and Tori seem to be under the impression you're dead."

"I was," she sighed, "for about ten minutes. Long enough for the Controller to drag me away and have me revived."

"Why? What killed you in the first place?"

"I was-.. the least receptive to his experiments. My powers grew at a similar rate to most of my siblings, but I paid the highest price for them. I started losing things. My sight. My hearing. Then, slowly, my sense of feeling. I only feel anything worth note in my fingers and feet now. Everything else takes a lot of focus. The Controller knew I wouldn't be any use to him in the field; I'd never be worth anything in the squad the way I was. So he told the others to kill me." She spoke the words with the kind of calm that came with having years to come to terms with what happened to her. The calm of understanding and acceptance. "They did as they were told. Since then he's had me working for him in secret, dealing with the menial tasks and taking care of any new recruits. Mostly he just uses me as his guinea pig." Again, despite the tiny hint of spite that was there this time, her words came calm and accepting, "Something already broken, that he can toy with without breaking something useful."

"He doesn't know the extent of her powers." Paul added, "I've been training her in secret. The electrokinesis is a secret only we and the people she contacts can know about, or else this whole game is up."

"How are you talking to us, then? If you can't see or hear?"

"I can read your minds," she said simply, "Surface thoughts. The words you're about to say come louder, and I give a second for you to process and speak them before I respond." Lydia and Elyan both stiffened at the idea. Even "surface-thoughts" could reveal things neither of them would want said. It was enough that she could access their computers; their private files. To access their minds too-.. "If that makes you too uncomfortable, that's okay. I can pull back, and Paul's mind will tell me what you say as he processes it."

"Yeah. Do that," Lydia agreed quickly, perhaps a little sharper than she intended.

"The trick with the door outside," Elyan wondered, content to continue with his line of questioning now that had been settled, "was that you?"

"The disappearing boards. Yes. It was an illusion, to "hide" the door from anyone I didn't want finding us. I lifted it when I felt you approach it."

"How are you getting hold of so much information to give us?"

"As Paul said, the Controller doesn't know what I can do. When he's busy, I search his systems. I don't go as deeply as I could in case he has defences, but I get enough that those searching for us will be able to learn more than otherwise."

"She only gets involved when people are actively searching," Paul interjected again. "I tend to step in to-.. discourage."

"Aye, got that much," Lydia hissed, glaring at him, "If you're so fucking interested in helping us then why did you try to kill us first?"

"You think The Controller is going to trust me after what I did for Erik and Tori? I helped them escape. I managed to worm my way out of being killed but he's had a close eye on me ever since. Offering to lead a clean-up crew to deal with you is all I could have done."

"'Clean-up crew'. Nice." Lydia scoffed, shaking her head, "And if we weren't saved? If your little operation actually worked?"

"I knew Erik and Tori were nearby."

"And I kept the Controller from seeing them in the area," Angela added.

"I wouldn't have tried it otherwise."

Lydia looked as though she were about to argue further, but Elyan lifted a hand to quiet her again. "This whole thing started from a case I got recently. A missing girl."

"Jani Grant." Angela gave a shaky, unsteady nod. "You want to know if we know anything about her disappearence."

"The poor girl was starting to show the signs of psychic sensitivity that the Controller looks for," Paul sighed, "She's one of his throwaways to poke and prod at until there's nothing of her left. She's still alive and I'm trying to keep it that way, but-.. unless a miracle happens I doubt we'll get her back to her family. I'm sorry."

He wasn't surprised. Not in the slightest. But still, he couldn't help the piercing jolt of disappointment that squeezed at his chest, "And what am I supposed to tell her mother?"

"The same thing you always tell them."

I'm sorry. Nothing has come up yet and I've lost her trail. I'm afraid there's nothing I can do right now; but don't lost hope. I've never found a case that's truly lost, as long as there's still someone to believe in it. It was a speech he’d made so many times now he was beginning to wonder if he ever completed a job any more. Chewing at his lip, he nodded, falling silent.

“You should take this,” Angela said eventually, sighing and carefully reaching to pat Paul’s arm. He nodded, fishing in his jacket for a small but chock-full folder and handing it to the siblings. A cursory flick-through revealed just what a risk it was for her to be here: files. Similar in nature to the ones she'd been sending them, but so many more and all at once. There were details of the Controller's work, and of the people he'd kidnapped over the years that filled in the blanks in the files he already had. "It's not much, but it's everything I could get for you. Maybe it won't help, but-.. at least you won't be so in the dark."

"All the squad members' files are in here?" Elyan wondered, glancing back up at the two with a grateful, impressed smile.

"Including some of the experiments performed on us, and the more recent squad."

"More recent," Lydia repeated, "so it's true. You're being replaced."

Paul nodded grimly, "He believe's he's done what he can with the first-.. 'batch'. There were so many complications-.. so he's making a second."

"He made a second," Angela clarified, "grown from us. Spread out across the world. He thinks the pain we experienced growing up is what made us strong. He wants to see what would happen if we started with our powers and grew into that pain. It's all in there."

"We're hoping you'll find what's left of them before he does."

"Wait a minute," Lydia interrupted, chewing at her thumbnail as her mind raced, "If you're alive, that means it's only Josh who died, right?"

Angela nodded slightly once more, gaze flickering down at the memory.

"What if he didn't?"

Elyan heaved a sigh at that, gaze softening again, "Lydia--"

"No. None of the 'Lydia I know that'd be nice but it's not likely' detective-turned-your-sister's-therapist crap. If she's alive, and she died years ago, maybe Josh is alive too."

"I only survived because the Controller wanted me," Angela breathed, her voice shaking just a little more than usual, "If he wanted Josh too, I'd know about it at least. Paul would know."

"Then what if he faked it?" All three faces were sympathetic and cautious, and it made her sick. Elyan was always talking about gut feelings, right? All she knew was that she had to find her brother. Or at least see a body to know what everyone was saying wasn't bullshit. That she still felt that way even now-.. that had to count for something. "It's classic, aye? Inescapable shit? Fake your death, hope to hell they leave your body there so you can sneak off when they're gone."

They still held the same look, but she could see just under the surface, in the glint of their eyes, that they all wanted to believe her. That was enough for Lydia. It always had been. “Whatever,” she huffed, flopping back against the dusty sofa and watching them all with a sharp glare, “so you want us to find these new kids now? What about the first lot?”

“Both would be ideal,” Angela sighed, “but I’m beginning to think collecting the children is a higher priority right now.”

“Of course.” Lydia threw her hands up in defeat, scoffing derisively, “Every time we fucking get anywhere, the goalpost moves. You know what? I’m starting to think miss mysterious know-it-all voice on the computer doesn’t actually know shit all about what we should do.”

“I don’t,” she said simply, though there was an edge of annoyance there this time. Her hands stilled for the first time, bunching tightly in the fabric of her too-small dress. “I’m just doing what I can to help my family, same as you.”

The words were biting and pointed, stilling Lydia’s temper in its tracks and silencing her then and there.

“We’re all doing our best,” Paul tried, his voice finally sounding as tired as his sunken eyes again, “and I know that’s not good enough but our best is all we have right now. I’m sorry.”

“We should go.” Though reluctant, Angela’s voice was urgent; her hands restarting their restless, searching dance, “we’ve already been out too long. We’re putting them in danger.”

“Agreed,” Paul hummed, pushing to his feet and picking up the folded wheelchair he’d rested by his feet. “Can you manage until we’re outside?”

“Of course,” she insisted, allowing him to help her unsteadily to her feet as her twitching and searching increased tenfold; clearly aiding her as she navigated the narrow space between the sofa and table with a similar stiffness and imbalance to that of a child just learning to walk. Managing to seek out the Moores again, she held a hand out. “It was a pleasure to meet you both in person. I hope it won’t be the last time.”

“What do we tell Tori and Erik?” Lydia wondered, ignoring the hand while Elyan politely moved to shake it.

“Whatever you feel is best,” she said simply, turning to slowly make her way out of the room.

“Thank you for hearing us out,” Paul added with a sad smile, following close behind with one arm consistently poised to guide Angela.

#original novel #novel teaser #writers on tumblr #feedback wanted #teasers #teaser 6 #spoilers #truth spoilers

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ohmytheon · 6 years

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Karma in Retrograde (8)

title: Karma in Retrograde

summary: When Dabi is hit by a de-aging quirk, he’s turned back to a 16 year-old U.A. Gen Studies student with self-esteem and parent issues, a destructive quirk, and no memory of the last five years. To help the Dabi of the past, present, and future, he is placed with Class 1-A. There, they must all face the question of whether he can change or if his destiny is already set in stone.

– Chapter 8: Ryouta has a conversation with Midoriya and a run in with a few others.

Lanni notes: It's time our boy starts to bond with his other classmates - uh, sometimes not in a totally positive way. Ryouta's dynamics with the kids in Class 1-A is just as important to us as his development on his own. Of course he will end up being closer to some more than others, but it's fun that way. The title is from the English version of “Choir Jail”.

Let my soul be seen by all For these eyes have failed to find the pain escaping from this tale Let my sins burn up in flames

Thick, black smoke, smothering like fog. Faceless screams echoing in the air. A smile stretching across his face, pulling at his skin.

And then there were the blue flames. Burning burning burning. Brighter. Hotter. Powerful. More than ever before. It wasn’t natural. It was. It was wildfire, scorching him from the inside out, but it was his. Stronger.

More. Let go. Don’t hold back.

He could burn brighter.

Ryouta’s eyes snapped open, a burning sensation jerking him out of his nightmare as blue flames licked at his right wrist. He reacted out of instinct, forming a fist and punching the wall above his bed. His quirk immediately died within him, the fire snuffing out the second his knuckles impacted against the wall, the burning replaced by the sting of his hand. He hissed as the pain turned into a dull throb and slowly pulled his hand back to hold it over his chest and examine it.

He’d hit the wall hard enough to break the skin over his knuckles, blood slowly seeping down the back of his hand as it trembled weakly. When he turned it over, he saw a faint pink burn on the inside of his wrist. It wasn’t bad enough that it needed bandaging or would scar; it would most likely fade away on its own after a while. Besides, he’d suffered much worse. He clenched his hand back into a fist to stop it from shaking, ignoring the pain that flared as he did so, and then sat up to look at the wall.

Ryouta cringed. Maybe he could just put a poster over it or something. No one would notice the dent or the scorch marks on the wall then.

Throwing the thin blanket to the side, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and pressed his bare feet to the floor. The pajamas that Shouto had lent him reminded him of home. Seeing as how they were basically the same size, they fit him well enough. He’d found a spare U.A. uniform in his closet that he took out now. First things first, he had to clean up his hand, lest he get blood on the new clothes he’d been given. It was still early enough in the morning that it was possible that no one was awake yet, so he could wash himself up without any awkward questions.

Sure, tip-toeing out of his dorm room and to the elevators to get to the bathroom was kind of ridiculous, but he didn’t want to wake anyone up. He had a feeling that Iida would only worry if he found out about the incident and he didn’t want Aizawa to think him unstable. It had just been a nightmare. It wasn’t like he’d never had them before, especially ones concerning his quirk. Fire was a pretty terrifying thing.

He did find it unsettling that he’d activated his quirk in his sleep. He hadn’t done that in years. Maybe he should ask Aizawa about quirk inhibitor braces. Oftentimes kids with dangerous quirks were given them until they learned how to control themselves. He’d used them when he was younger after the bedroom fire incident. He didn’t like the idea of having to use them now that he was older, but he couldn’t afford an accident like that. They might not be so forgiving, or even believe it was an accident, if someone got hurt.

Besides, if he told Aizawa, it would get him off his back. He knew that he hadn’t believed him when he’d avoided talking about his quirk. This was one of his issues, so it wouldn’t be a lie.

Once he was in the bathrooms, he began the process of cleaning his hand off. At first, the water stung when it splashed on the split skin over his knuckles, but then the coolness began to soothe the small wounds. He watched as the water in the sink turned pink, his blood swirling down the drain. It made him think of the blue flames in his dreams, how they had spun almost like a tornado. He couldn’t remember doing that before. It didn’t matter. This was fine. Everything it would be fine.

“Ryouta?” a hesitant voice called from the doorway.

The sudden sound nearly caused Ryouta to jump out of his skin, but when he turned to look over, he saw that it was just Midoriya, standing in his pajamas and rubbing his eyes. His heart slowed back down to a steady beat, although he then realized how bad this looked. If any of them got the idea that he was prone to violence, they’d report him and he’d get in serious trouble.

“Early, isn’t it?” Ryouta said as he hastily shut the water off and grabbed a towel to cover his hand.

For however tired he was though, Midoriya was, unfortunately, observant as well, zeroing in on the one thing that Ryouta had tried to hide. “What did you do to your hand?” Damnit, he’d been too slow.

“Uh, I…” Just be honest. It would take openness to build any sort of trust. He’d started last night with Shouto. He could do so with Midoriya, who his brother apparently trusted if he had any inkling about what life in the Todoroki household had been like. “I had a nightmare.” He peeled the towel away to show the wound. At least it wasn’t bleeding anymore. “Must’ve been pretty bad if I woke myself up like this.”

“What was it about?” Midoriya asked as he examined the wound closely.

“I can’t really remember, to be honest.” Yeah, well, it was a good start. Ryouta couldn’t claim to be perfect. “I just remember feeling freaked out.”

Actually, he’d felt like of...happy in the dream. Elated. Powerful. He hadn’t been scared at all, not until he’d woken up on fire and confused about what it meant. It had been a nightmare though. All those screams and fire and the smoke and the burnt flesh, which he must’ve smelled when the fire began to eat at the skin on his wrists. Those weren’t the things of happy dreams. He’d had nightmares like that before and he hadn’t liked them.

“Water isn’t going to do much good for those cuts,” Midoriya pointed out. He was right, but Ryouta had planned on figuring out what to do after getting out of here without being spotted. Seeing as how that had gone down the drain along with his blood, he was at a loss. “C’mon, I’ve got a first aid kit in my dorm.”

Before Ryouta could open his mouth to decline his offer, Midoriya had already turned on his heels and was walking out the door, his reason for coming to the bathroom forgotten. Since he remembered that Midoriya had said his dorm was Ryouta’s old one, he knew where he was going, but he let him lead the way. It felt strange, having someone go out of their way to help him - he’d never liked accepting it before on the rare occasions when it had been offered to him - but he had a feeling that was just who Midoriya was and he felt swept up in it.

The two of them sat on the floor of Midoriya’s dorm room, which looked a hell of a lot different from when it had been Ryouta’s. He’d never seen so much All Might paraphernalia in his entire lifetime, much less all in one room. How did he manage to sleep with that grinning face surrounding him? Ryouta was fairly certain that he was going to have nightmares about it tonight, but it would be better than dreaming about the flames again.

Coughing in order to cover up the sting of antiseptic against the cuts, Ryouta said, “So, I’m gonna take a wild shot in the dark and say that All Might is your favorite superhero.”

Midoriya chuckled anxiously. “How did you know?”

“I’m a good guesser.” Ryouta watched as Midoriya started to bandage him up. It was a lot better than Ryouta’s attempts at self-care. He’d gotten fairly good about cleaning up burns, seeing as how they happened to him too often, but Recovery Girl still scolded him over it. Burns weren’t something to mess around with. They could get infected if not treated properly. “You’re pretty good at this.”

It was incredibly awkward, holding his hand out for Midoriya to take care of. While Ryouta was used to silence and keeping to himself, he felt the need to fill the void, like he was the one that needed to reassure the other boy that he wasn’t going to do anything.

“Aizawa taught us how to use a first aid kit on ourselves for emergencies,” Midoriya explained as he finished. The bandages weren’t something that he’d be able to hide, but it was better than walking around with obvious wounds on his knuckles. He’d tell Aizawa about it today. After all, honesty was the best policy -- or at least the most he could manage for now. “You get a lot of scratches and bruises in the hero course.” He grinned a little. “I just happen to get more.”

Ryouta could tell. As Midoriya had helped him with the cuts, he couldn’t help but notice all the scars running up his arms, most notably his right. They were bad. It was surprising, since Recovery Girl’s quirk usually healed a person well enough to cancel out the scarring. He must have hurt himself severely multiple times for her not to be able to completely take them away. It made Ryouta uneasy, thinking about the scars he’d seen on Dabi. She probably wouldn’t have been able to heal him completely either, even if he had still been in school.

Some wounds were too damaging to erase.

“There, you’re good to go.” Midoriya pulled his hands away and began to put away his first aid kit as Ryouta wiggled his fingers and flexed his hand. The bandage impeded his movement a little, but not too much. By the end of the day, he’d probably be able to take it off and be just fine. He’d have to keep from using his quirk in that hand, lest he aggravate the cuts and render Midoriya’s work useless.

Still, it was better than doing nothing about it, so Ryouta mumbled a ‘thanks’ and then pushed himself to his feet. Midoriya eyed him for a moment before following him, putting his hands on his hips and leaning back to stretch. Ryouta looked around the room, wondering if he should just leave now that his hand was taken care of, but then everywhere he looked, the beaming face of All Might met his gaze. Endeavor was the number one hero now. What had happened?

Maybe he’d allowed the confusion to slip onto his face or the furrow in his brow gave him away, but Midoriya carefully prompted, “You don’t know what happened, do you?”

“Nezu told me that my father was the number one hero,” Ryouta said as he walked towards a larger poster. He’d never had any hero posters in his bedroom growing up and hadn’t put one up when he was a student here. Despite wanting to prove himself as a hero, he’d never quite connected to any of the heroes. Truth be told, hero worship wasn’t something he understood. “All Might is- was the Symbol of Peace. I was told that he’s a teacher here, but I didn’t see him. Did he retire to teach?”

Midoriya bit his lip, an uncomfortable look crossing his face. “Not...exactly.”

“It’s fine,” Ryouta sighed. He knew what that reluctance meant. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m sure I’ll find out that I was somehow involved as Dabi.”

“In your defense, you were unconscious for half of it,” Midoriya offered halfheartedly. It wasn’t that comforting or much of a defense and both of them knew it, but Ryouta appreciated the gesture. Midoriya was trying to build a bridge between them and that was more than he could ask for, all things considered. He had a feeling that Midoriya had more reason to dislike and distrust him than some of the others. “He’s teaching the hero course today, so you’ll see him then. He’s probably eager to meet you.”

That actually made Ryouta feel worse, so he said in a flat tone, “Looking forward to it.” He didn’t even try to lie about how he felt. If Midoriya was friends with Shouto, then he would understand it.

Ryouta made to leave, but then Midoriya started with a simple, “Wait,” and he came to a halt. It should not have been that easy, but he couldn’t just brush this kid off. “I know it’s not my place or anything,” Midoriya continued in one of the most sincere tones that Ryouta had ever heard, “but if you ever need to talk about anything, or just vent, my door is open.” It was the second time someone had outright offered to help him - to listen to him. There was plenty he could say, just nothing that he wanted to bring up. “Todoroki - ah, well, your brother - told me enough to know that...things must have been hard. It was different for you though, wasn’t it? Endeavor…”

“He wasn’t a good father,” Ryouta cut in, a little harsher than he intended, making it clear that this was something he had no intentions of talking about with him. The closest he got was with Shouto and even then he held back. Shouto didn’t need to know everything; it would only make him feel guilty. “He’s always been an incredible hero though. I can’t take that from him.”

Midoriya swallowed. “Yeah, of course, I get it.”

He didn’t, but it was the thought that counted, right?

Ryouta nodded his head, thanked him again, and walked out of the room. He could tell that there was so much more that the other boy wanted to say and now would’ve been the perfect time, but he didn’t want to talk about his darkest secrets, not to a kid that didn’t even trust him yet either. Besides, everyone was probably waking up by now. He’d go to his room and get ready for school. He had a feeling that Iida was the type of person who was ready before everyone was even up and he did not want to be late.

Considering that this was only his second day, there was no way school could start out normal for Ryouta, but he’d be damned if Iida hadn’t tried his best. After asking whether he had slept well, Iida had zeroed in on the bandage over his hand. He gave the same answer he had with Midoriya, but then the other boy, as if sensing that he did not want to fall into the same questions, jumped in to explain how he had given Ryouta first aid. That had served to both distract and please Iida, who counted it as a step towards him being integrated into the class.

With that out of the way, Iida had explained that he had already spoken with Aizawa about his expectations. They needed to figure out where exactly Ryouta was course-wise. Once they did that, they’d probably be able to pull up his old grades and maybe even papers to figure out where he fit in the class rank-wise. Besides that, he had a lot of catching up to do when it came to the hero course. Everyone else already had their hero provisional licenses.

Ryouta wasn’t an idiot though and, as much as he liked to dream about proving his father wrong and becoming a hero, he wasn’t idealistic either. The idea of him getting one of those, even temporarily, was ridiculous. They couldn’t explain that one. What would they say?

“Yeah, he’s technically a villain, but not anymore due to getting hit by a de-aging quirk, so could we give him like a temp hero license just for fun? It’ll be good for building character.”

It had been a stretch putting Ryouta in the hero course at U.A. while he was under the quirk’s effect. There was no way in hell that Aizawa would be able to pull that. Some parts of the hero course would not be for him and he would have to accept that. Besides, Aizawa seemed like the lowkey creative type of teacher that liked to figure out fun ways to torture his students into learning. He’d figure something out.

From what Ryouta could tell from the morning lessons, they were actually behind where his memories of school left off, which put him at ease. His grades had been above average his first year, even if he had struggled in literature. Not that Present Mic wasn’t an enthusiastic teacher. Ryouta just hadn’t cared about it. The same could be said for Art History, but Midnight scared him enough to put in the work at least. Maybe, if they were good enough grades, Aizawa would let him focus on hero course homework, although he figured most of it was practical.

That brought up another problem that he knew he’d have to deal with sooner or later. Aizawa would want to see him use his quirk. He might even be put in a position where he would have to fight, as that was how the hero course students strengthened their quirks and built up their skillset. Sure, he had a sneaking suspicion that Aizawa had seen his quirk up close firsthand when he was Dabi, but he would want to see what Ryouta was capable of at sixteen and that made him very anxious. Now that he was in the class, something he had dreamed about, he was quickly beginning to realize that it was his worst nightmare.

He didn’t want to disappoint, not after all Aizawa and the other U.A. teachers had sacrificed to bring him here. If they thought he lacked any potential or his quirk proved too dangerous to control, they might kick him back down to GE or leave him in Class 1-A but keep him on the sidelines. Both seemed like miserable options.

This time, when lunch came around, Ryouta knew that he couldn’t avoid it like he had yesterday. He wouldn’t be able to get away with saying that he wasn’t hungry a second time in a row. This time, he filed out of the room with the rest of the class into the packed hallway. With so many other U.A. students, it allowed him to blend in a little with Class 1-A, but there were a few students that now looked at him with suspicion instead of curiosity.

Ryouta moved to hunch over and hide behind Iida, but someone slammed into his shoulder, forcing him to nearly do a complete 180 turn. He staggered on his left foot and looked up to see who’d bumped into him once he caught his footing. Standing a few feet away from him was the blonde-haired boy that had glared at him yesterday afternoon. He had his back turned to Ryouta and was eyeing his hand.

“Hey, what was that for?” Ryouta demanded before he could stop himself. Not that it hurt, but it had clearly been a deliberate act. This was behavior that he’d experienced a few times when he was in General Studies from a few hero course students that witnessed his inability to control his quirk during testing. Outside of Bakugou and maybe a few others that knew of his past (future?), he hadn’t expected it to come from others.

“Curious,” the boy said to himself. Whatever he had found interesting, Ryouta had missed while trying to regain his balance. The boy peered up at him with a heavy-lidded gaze and a smile that Ryouta could see right through. He thought that was rather the point. “My bad. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking.”

Narrowing his eyes dangerously, if only because his nerves were on edge from being out in the open, Ryouta opened his mouth to call the kid a damn liar. He was stopped when, at his left, Shouto said, “Forget it.” It wasn’t until he spoke that Ryouta noticed his brother’s hand on his shoulder, holding him back, but when he glanced over, there was a faintly heated glint in his mismatched eyes.

The boy’s gaze flickered back and forth between the two of them.He let out a thoughtful, “Hm,” before waving and walking away, disappearing into the crowd.

“Don’t mind him,” Uraraka told him. He was a little startled to see her at his right. Unlike Shouto, there was nothing faint about the heat in her eyes. “That’s just Monoma. He’s from Class B.”

“Competition can get a little...tense between the hero classes,” Midoriya explained before they started for the grand mess hall again, “especially this year since we’ve been attacked by the League--”

He cut himself off when he realized what he was saying and Ryouta fought the urge to let out a sigh. Everyone treading lightly with what they said around him was going to get old fast. He understood that they were trying to spare him pain and humiliation, but hiding things from him was such a short-term solution. The truth would come out eventually and likely from less than kind sources.

“It’s okay,” Ryouta said in a flat voice. “I need to hear it.”

“You weren’t- I mean, Dabi wasn’t involved in the first few attacks by the League of Villains at least,” Midoriya pointed out gently. It shouldn’t have, but it made Ryouta feel a little better. It meant that he had only been a truly dangerous villain for the past year. What had he done in between dropping out and joining the League? Why had he done it? There were so many questions that they didn’t seem to know the answers to either.

The grand mess hall was packed to the brim with students, which made it easier to blend in. Aizawa had said that funds had been deposited into an account for him, presumably under his name, although Ryouta was unsure if he had meant his father’s or mother’s surname. He’d go with the latter, seeing as how it offered him more anonymity from students in the other classes. He didn’t know how much money was in the account though, so he resisted the old urge to load up on food. He’d had to be careful about his spending before; he could do it now. However, if he was forced to use his quirk more often, that might have to change and he’d have to figure out a way to make money.

Lost in his thoughts and swept around by the normalcy of lunch, when Ryouta got his food, he realized that he had been separated from the others. Iida had to be close by, but it was so busy that he couldn’t find him. A terrible and inconsequential fear gripped Ryouta’s heart, one that he hadn’t felt in a while: the questioning that came from trying to figure out where to sit. The only difference now was that there were people that actively loathed his presence and for good reason.

As if summoned by Ryouta’s thoughts alone, he felt someone else shoulder check him from behind, almost making him drop his tray of food, but this time he didn’t have to look to know that it was Bakugou. There was something much harsher and even more deliberate in the way that he’d done it, like he wanted Ryouta to know that he’d done it on purpose.

“Look at you, pretending to be a normal student,” Bakugou all but snarled. Ryouta told himself not to react and kept a neutral face that only served to piss Bakugou off even more. “You’re a disgrace to U.A. You shouldn’t even be allowed here after all that you’ve done.”

“Probably not,” Ryouta replied as evenly as he could, “but it wasn’t my idea, you know.”

Bakugou narrowed his eyes, his focus razor sharp. “You really don’t remember shit, do you?”

“How do you figure that?” He was tired of people questioning him, but he knew it couldn’t be helped. They had more knowledge and experience with him being a villain than he did.

“Because I don’t think you’re smart enough to pull off that big of a lie,” Bakugou replied, his tone equally cutting. Ryouta’s lips twisted into a disgruntled frown, but he didn’t respond to the provocation. He certainly knew how to get to the bone. “Why don’t I be of some service?”

When Bakugou lifted a palm up, mini explosions crackled in the air above his skin. Small as they were, it was an impressive level of control over what Ryouta immediately recognized as a very strong quirk, something which he very much lacked. He didn’t think that Bakugou would attack him in the middle of the mess hall, but that wasn’t to say he wouldn’t use their hero class as a means for revenge.

Strangely, even though he knew in the back of his mind that he should feel threatened, Ryouta felt no urge to call up his quirk to defend himself even in the face of Bakugou’s. It lied dormant inside of him, like a sleeping dragon.

“I can always beat that memory out of you,” Bakugou said in a low growl. “Help you remember what you did to me and how you almost killed my classmates.”

Ryouta had known that he’d done some shitty things and he knew that some of them had been downright horrific. He didn’t know how Iida and the rest could look at him straight - how Shouto could want him here - how Aizawa thought he belonged here now. Maybe that was what made a hero. He couldn’t blame Bakugou for not believing in that or him, not when he’d experienced Dabi the most.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Ryouta clung to his tray tightly, his knuckles turning white. “I can’t exactly apologize when I know that it’ll mean shit to you. So what do you want?”

“I want you out of here,” Bakugou told him honestly. “You don’t belong here.”

“Tell that to Aizawa then,” Ryouta retorted. Where was Shouto? Iida? Hell, even Midoriya or Uraraka would be nice. People were starting to stare and he didn’t know what to do. Lunch was a bad idea. He never should’ve come out in the open like this. He had to leave now, tell Aizawa that he just wanted to eat lunch in the classroom from now on.

Bakugou clenched his fists and stared him down. “They had me chained up. You were so afraid to let me loose that when ordered you had someone else do it for you.”

Ryouta snorted. “You attacked the second they untied you, didn’t you?”

“Of course,” Bakugou snapped. He paused and considered him for a moment, though his gaze didn’t cool any. “Do you remember?”

“No,” Ryouta replied, “that’s what I would’ve done though.”

A scowl crossed Bakugou’s face, as if he was furious that Ryouta would even suggest that they had something in common, and he moved to snatch Ryouta by the front of his shirt like Endeavor had done. Before he could do so, two pairs of hands grabbed him by the arms and pulled him back. He kicked and fought with them, a few more small explosions erupting from his hands, but his captors were undeterred.

“Sorry about that!” the pink girl from class said as she poked her head out from behind Bakugou. “We weren’t keeping a very good eye on him.”

“Uh, it’s okay,” Ryouta said, his eyebrows raised. He felt both surprised and confused, leaving him unsure of how to feel at all. “He’s not in the wrong.”

“Let go of me!” Bakugou snapped as he struggled with them.

“No can do, buddy,” the red-haired boy on his right said with a shake of his head. “You heard what Aizawa said. We’re just trying to keep you out of trouble.”

At the mention of their homeroom teacher, Bakugou calmed down just a little. It was enough to cause his friends to loosen their grip, allowing him to pull his arms from them. Instead of going after Ryouta again though, he merely shot him a vicious glare and then stomped away. The redheaded boy shrugged his shoulders in a helpless manner and then jogged after him.

The pink girl let out a breath, although she didn’t appear tired from holding back a raging Bakugou. “Like I said, sorry. He gets a little hangry.” Ryouta didn’t really know what to say to that. He was pretty sure that Bakugou hadn’t targeted him because he hadn’t eaten yet today. The girl held out her hand. “I’m Mina Ashido, by the way. That was Kirishima.”

After eyeing her hand, Ryouta moved to hold the tray with one hand and then shook hers. She had a surprisingly strong grip. “Let me guess. I tried to kill you as Dabi at some point.”

“Kind of,” Ashido responded with far too much good humor. “It was your clone.”

Ryouta let out a groan. “Oh, that’s...fucking great.”

“But I mean, it wasn’t really you,” Ashido continued. “It was Dabi.” She gave him a light smile and put her hand on his shoulder. He did his best not to react. What was up with these kids and their physical comfort? “Not gonna lie: it’s gonna take Bakugou a while to, ah, not want to attack you, but if Aizawa says this is for the best, then he’ll accept it. We trust him.”

“He’s a pretty good teacher, huh?” Ryouta thought back to Aizawa’s unreadable gaze. He had been relentless in his interrogation during their first meeting when he’d told Ryouta the truth about who he was, but then he had stood up for him to Endeavor in a roundabout way and had supported U.A.’s decision to bring him here. From what he remembered of Aizawa from his time, he’d heard that the man was a terrifying teacher who students lived in fear of.

Ashido smiled brightly. “He can be pretty scary and he’s super hard! But he’s saved us so many times already.” From Dabi. He’d saved them from Dabi and more. “He knows what he’s doing and I think he made the right choice with you.”

They were kind and supportive words, but on the heel of Bakugou’s anger, they fell a little short. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I don’t want to believe in a world where someone can’t be saved,” Ashido told him. She caught him off guard, but before he could try to respond, someone was calling for her. She turned around to wave at them. “I gotta go, but I’ll see you in class. Have a good lunch!”

She was gone before Ryouta could even say goodbye. Seeing as how she was pink, it was easy to watch her zigzag through the crowd and join a table with some of the other Class 1-A kids. He felt thrown, first by Bakugou and then Ashido. The students in the hero course certainly were different. Their perspective alone was something he had never encountered before. He didn’t know people could be so...optimistic.

“There you are!” Iida exclaimed, appearing from the crowd. “You vanished on us!”

Relief coursed through Ryouta’s veins, although he was a little embarrassed to admit it to himself. “I was looking for a table…” Well, he had been before Bakugou had struck him like a missile.

“Is everything alright?” Iida asked, perhaps noticing Ryouta’s confusion.

After glancing back at Shouto, Ryouta turned to Iida and nodded his head. “Yeah, I’m good, just hungry.”

“Let’s not waste any time then,” Iida said as he picked out a table for everyone to sit. “We’re going to need our strength for today’s hero class.”

Ryouta’s stomach turned as he set his tray down. Right, the hero class with All Might teaching. Aizawa would probably be there to oversee things since it would be the first time Ryouta could use his quirk. Not to mention the threat from Bakugou that hung in the air. That was not going to be fun. So much for getting his wish to join the hero course.

@mistystarshine notes: 99% of the stuff I have to say about this chapter… contains spoilers and will have to be done later, retrospectively. Whoops! Have some more dynamic building?

I do, however, have a fun little anecdote to share.That thing with Ryouta waking himself up by punching the wall? That actually happened. To me. Where he burned himself a little and got scraped up, I broke one of my knuckles, since the wall happened to be three feet of solid cement. And I clocked it full force. Didn’t even get a dent for my troubles.

The lesson here is that you should be proud of your property damage: it means you won.

#dabi #dabi is a todoroki #izuku midoriya #bnha #katsuki bakugou #mha #anime #mina ashido #ejirou kirishima #tenya iida #boku no hero academia #dabi fic #my hero academia #shouto todoroki #ochako uraraka #monoma neito #shoto todoroki #bnha fanfiction #the things of songs

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hithelleth · 6 years

Text

The Originals 5 x 06 “What, Will, I, Have, Left”

I went into it already hating it. Justifiably.

Let’s get away with the few good things first.

Klaus and Caroline (who went after Hope and Roman on a road trip) were cute and great, but it’s hard to be happy about it, considering.

(Though, there was also that BS about Caroline never feeling safe, when Caroline was the only one who was safe around Klaus to the point that the gang sent her to distract him because he would never hurt her – except that one time... you know, these writers and their inconsistencies started long before now in TVD S4.)

As always, loved Vincent and Freya’s friendship.

I also loved Ivy and Vincent and her asking him when he was last happy (poor guy, before Sabine even) and telling him keeping things away from people is also taking away their choice and not knowing is sometimes worse than knowing (re: telling Declan about the supernatural, since he was worried about Hayley.)

Oh, and BTW, Declan is Camille’s cousin? (Okay, he’s Irish, fine, but weren’t the O’Connells the last of their line or something? IDK, my memory is faulty. And I don’t give a fuck either way.)

I also loved Hayley and Hope (Hayley is really such a great mother!), but that is where the pain starts.

We’ve all known this would happen since last year’s SDCC and I can’t even cry; I’m just beyond pissed off.

Okay, so, Roman brought Hope to Hayley, believing Greta just wants them to bind their hybrid side and then they would let them go and everyone would live in peace. Stupid naïve boy. Though, I guess him having his family slaughtered twice, once by werewolves and then by Klaus (Although, wait, Klaus didn’t do it, did he? (I guess he meant ‘extended family’ or something’?)) explains his devotion to Greta, but still.

Greta, meanwhile, went to Antoinette to lie about being worried about Roman’s involvement with Hope that required Elijah protecting him from Klaus and they fell hook-line-and-sinker for it. Antoinette was clued in that it wasn’t like that when Roman called with the true version, but couldn’t go after them before nightfall.

Hayley agreed to the binding so she would break the cloaking spell (because Hope cloaked her as a hybrid) and so Hope could escape – because Hayley couldn’t due to being just a vampire now and it being daylight outside.

Unfortunately, Greta arrived just then, backed by Elijah who snapped Caroline’s neck and fought Klaus who arrived at the same time.

Greta tried to convince Roman to kill Hope, then a fight with Hayley ensued and since Hayley was impeded by sunlight, Greta got the upper hand and almost ripped her heart out, but Hayley broke her hand at the last moment and lurched both of them outside to burn in the sun.

And all that time, Elijah was repeatedly staking Klaus, so he couldn’t have helped.

Yeah, what a great fucking idea this train of events was.

And for what? For what?!

But before I get to that, this whole SL doesn’t make sense.

For starters, where was Marcel the entire episode? Yeah, I know CMD was directing, but he is more than capable of doing a great job of both directing and acting in the episode, as proved by 4x07 (not to mention all the eps directed and acted in by his co-stars and countless other actors on other shows.)

Are you telling me Marcel wouldn’t be the first Freya and/or Klaus called for reinforcements? Are you telling me he wouldn’t be doing everything he could on his own, anyway, to find Hayley and Hope and worrying every single moment? Are you saying he wouldn’t jump at the first possible moment to help when he learned where Hayley is? BS.

So, Marcel was just inexplicably non-existent.

That’s one, and far from stupidest writing decision.

Two: the whole Elijah is the only one who can stop Klaus thing? Are you kidding me? Did we forget how in S2 of TVD the only way for Elijah to get to kill Klaus was catching him when he was vulnerable during the moment of transformation when breaking the binding? And that was even before he was a hybrid! And ever since then, the only couple of times that Elijah one-upped Klaus was when catching him unawares and even that not for long.

But never mind. Let’s give that a pass, Elijah caught him by surprise and Klaus was perhaps not giving 100% because it was Elijah and he was also distracted by wanting to help Hayley (but wouldn’t he achieve that by incapacitating Elijah the fastest? And wouldn’t Klaus in a rage fit to help the mother of his child be even stronger than normally?) But, fine, let’s leave it.

Three: we also forgot about the Hollow and two Originals being in proximity for more than a second brining all the signs of doomsday around, let alone two Originals being in proximity to each other AND Hope. No, nada this episode.

So much sloppy writing.

(Three/II: Elijah’s memory loss/compulsion. Why didn’t it wear off by him having burnt himself in the sun? That could count as a temporary death even for an original? (Speaking of, even an Original should need some time to recover from that, but it’s been a few days at most and he’s as good as new.) Also, apparently Elijah put his daylight ring back or had a new one made? For the greater cause, right? Or did we just forget the burning in the same line that we mentioned taking the ring off? Shoddy writing galore. Okay, whatever.

Also, I’ll grant them that since Vincent and Marcel compelled Elijah for his own good/per his own request, they maybe wouldn’t want to decompel him and/or they couldn’t have done it on such a short notice when seeing his being compelled is actually detrimental to everyone. Just let’s not forget that per universe canon people can be decompelled by whoever compelled them.)

Four: Rebekah and Kol haven’t existed since 5x02/3, either. No need to at least mention them by a line of them being worried about Hayley and Hope or anything, nope.

Five: I get that Vincent might not want to help, as he doesn’t, but why wasn’t at least Freya there? Maybe she was still on the way? Because you’re not telling me she wouldn’t think that maybe they would need a powerful witch to help? She broke up with Keelin for her family’s sake, FFS, and now she would just idly sit by when finally finding Hayley, not run to her aid? Please.

And, lastly, but not the least important reason why this doesn’t make sense: I’ve heard a lot of people saying the writers chose to kill off Hayley to free Klaus for Caroline, and I don’t know what the writers were thinking, but as much as killing one ‘love interest’ to make space for another is shitty, it’s even shittier in this case (if that had been their reasoning), because it was completely unnecessary.

Because, as per canon, Hayley and Klaus weren’t even a thing. Ship and fanon them as much as you want, but in canon Hayley and Klaus had a one-night stand resulting in pregnancy that had them gradually become friends and amazing co-parents, but Hayley was no obstacle whatsoever for Caroline.

So, Hayley died for nothing.

(I mean, her dying so she could free up the space for Caroline would’ve been terrible, but they don’t even get to have that excuse for killing her off. The fuck!)

Sure, she took Greta with her. But Greta could have been dealt with in a number of different ways, by Klaus himself, by Freya, by Marcel, or the three combined; by writing Elijah’s memory loss differently, or not at all, etc.… and if I can think of that in a couple of minutes, there was no reason the writers who are paid to spend time on it couldn’t have done it, except that they didn’t want to.

They just wanted to kill her off for ‘drama’ and they failed even at that because we’ve known about it for nearly a year now, so it was no shock at all. (It does still make me beyond angry, though.) And they knew it wouldn’t go over well and had the time to change it, but went on with it anyway.

Fuck that.

And if Elijah miraculously regains his memory by seeing Hayley die, as I think some spoilers said as well, it will just be that much worse and senseless.

I knew this season would be shitty as soon as they said JP was taking back the reigns and Narducci was leaving (not that the team under Narducci was flawless; killing off Camille could’ve been avoided as well; but at least they made a lot more sense most of the time.)

Anyway, I’ll probably hate-watch the season through, because I’m a masochist, and then I’ll take the few worthy bits and pieces (mostly just the premiere, TBH) and forget the rest of the crap even happened.

And afterwards I’ll probably re-watch the first four seasons – because those were one great show – and just imagine myself a happy ending for everyone (which I’ve already written, ha!)

#The Originals #to s5 #5.06: What Will I Have Left #the originals meta #my meta: the originals #here there be swearing #this is now some other show than the one i loved #idk if i even want to reblog anything #just some hayley probably

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whatever-the-fucky-i-writes · 6 years

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Caught Somewhere in Time - Part 3

Word Count: 1,896

Pairing: None (Maybe a very slight OFC x OMC)

Main Characters: Sam, Dean, OFC - Andi, OMC - Max

Warnings: Mentions of injury, Mentions of death, Swearing

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 (Final)

Series Masterlist

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters from Supernatural, only my OFC and OMC. Also, the plot line is basically a mash-up of a couple different episodes so I don’t own those either.

Previously: In the moonlight streaming through the window, I read the time of midnight. I silently get up, somehow managing to make it all the way downstairs to my bag. I pull out my iPod and my earbuds and miraculously make it back upstairs and down onto my temporary bed without waking either Winchester. I insert the earbuds into my ears and scroll through my playlists. I select one with more calming melodies. I relax and focus on my breathing. Slowly feeling like I’m being dragged under into unconsciousness, I begin to feel myself drift into sleep. Sleep finally welcomes me into its warm embrace as “Stairway to Heaven” plays quietly in the background of my mind.

Around twelve hundred hours the next day, after getting no particularly useful information from the police or the two victims families, we’re once again sitting around the table, this time eating lunch. I’m dining on some exquisite chinese food from the “modest” place down the street. I finish it rather quickly, throwing the empty container and chopsticks into our makeshift trash can, the plastic bag from last night’s gas station dinner.

“I’m going to get started on some research,” I announce, taking my Raging Bull .44 Magnum out of its holster and placing it on the table. Sam nods, setting down his salad, saying,

“That’s probably a good idea. Want the case files?”

“No. ‘Cause it’s totally possible to know what we’re dealing with without even knowing how the victims died,” I reply sarcastically, “Yes. Of course I want them.”

“Here you go,” he says, retrieving a few manilla folders with pictures and news clippings taped onto them from their place on the floor a little ways from the table where they were unceremoniously dropped when dinner arrived. I set them next to me and pull out my laptop. I turn on my WiFi hotspot, plug in my headphones, crank my music, and get down to business. I rummage through the folders until I find the ME’s reports. Both victims were mummified, that much was obvious, although the how had escaped the ME. The police reports were of no further help. Aside from their COD, the vics had no connection to each other. After today’s many interviews, that much was certain. To further my growing level of frustration with this case, none of the signs were pointing to a ghost or any of the usual suspects. I opened up a new tab on my browser and started rummaging through the surprisingly extensive archive of information on monsters that can suck the life out of a person. It couldn’t be a Shtriga, those fed on children and all our vics were well past adolescence. I found a few sources that spoke of a time god, but all the old gods had long ago lost their powers along with their worshipers and there wasn’t a whole lot to suggest that this god could do this to people. Mainly, it seemed he just had people sacrificed to him and, if you summoned him correctly, he would tell your future so I skim over him. I’d heard of witches being able to give and take years of a person’s lives.

Maybe that’s what we’re dealing with here, I think. I run a search for other deaths across the country with similar MO’s. Sure enough, the map lights up like a christmas tree. Dozens of deaths across the country in different towns in different states. The victims are always mummified inexplicably and they always pop up in sets of three. There was another string of these deaths in Chicago in the 1980’s... and the 50’s going back and back and back. I’m looking over an old version of the Chicago Defender from the 1910’s when I spot him. In the picture, the man is wearing a suit, trenchcoat, and a fedora. He appears to be in his 30’s. He looks very familiar. It hits me like a bulldozer. I’d seen this man before. I look at the article from the 80’s. Just as I thought, in the background is the man from the picture, looking exactly the same.

“Hey guys,” I say, spinning my laptop around so they can compare the picture on my screen to the clipping picture, “I think I might’ve found our culprit. You ran into a warlock that could give and take years before, right? Well, what if that’s what this man’s doing?”

“Could be our guy,” Sam says, “Says here that the person who found the body was a young girl, Lisa Carstairs, on her way home. Maybe she knows who he is.”

“Yeah,” Dean chimes in, “How ‘bout you track her down and Andi and I will start asking around that area to see if anyone remembers him?”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” I say, getting up, “Let’s go.” I put my Raging Bull back into its holster and walk out to Baby, sliding into the shotgun seat. Dean hops in, turns on the ignition, and she purrs to life.

About two hours later, we get a call from Sam letting us know that he tracked the lady down. Turns out, the guy's name was Ed Snider and he used to live down the street from her. After thanking him and hanging up, Dean and I pull up to yet another bar.

“I hope this goes better than the last twenty bars we’ve gone to,” I say to Dean.

“Me too,” Dean agrees as he pushes the door open and walks inside. We walk up to the bar and signal the bartender over; she nods to let us know she’s coming. She walks over after about a minute after finishing serving the person she was with.

“What’ll ya take?” she asks, pulling out a glass.

“Actually, we won’t be taking anything,” Dean says politely, pulling out his FBI badge. I do the same. “I’m Agent Bonham and this is Agent Jett. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“What d’ya wanna know?” she says sounding slightly skeptical.

“We’re wondering if you know this man,” I say, holding up the photo of the warlock, “He may go by the name of Ed Snider. Have you seen him around at all?”

“Why should I tell you?” she retorts.

“Because we can have you arrested for impeding a federal investigation,” Dean states matter-of-factly.

“Well… When ya put it like that,” she says, “Ed’s a regular here. Usually comes in around seven for a drink or two. Plays a round or two of pool or darts. Takes a few shots and leaves. Is he in trouble?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. But it’s part of an ongoing investigation and we’re not at liberty to discuss. My apologies,” I say sincerely. It’s always heartwarming to see people get concerned about their friends. “That’ll be all for now. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“Sure thing,” she says, walking over to another customer.

“So,” I say to Dean as we walk out of the bar, “I’ll call Sam and we can rendezvous back at the house.”

“Let’s do this thing!” Dean says excitedly.

After calling Sam, who sounded very relieved that we had finally found a way to track the guy down, we met back up at the house.

The boys let me have the room upstairs to change in so I grab my duffel and walk up to the room. I make short work of getting my fed suit off.

God, how I hate that thing, I think to myself. My hunting clothes are much more my pace. I pull on one of my Metallica tank tops. Over this goes a black men’s long sleeve Henley that I found at Goodwill (best purchase of my life, ever!). Next on is one of my looser pairs of blue jeans, and my black combat boots. Next up are my holsters. First, I put on my two thigh holsters. Each holds one gun to the outside of my leg with one band of leather going around my thigh and two straps that hook into the belt loops of my pants, one in front and one in back. A chance meeting with a gamer who’d seen me wearing my full hunting get-up had told me that they looked like the ones in the video game Rise of the Tomb Raider. Secondly, I put on the one that goes around the lower part of my abdomen with pockets for two guns in the back. Next comes my shoulder holster, which holds two guns on the outsides of my abdomen. Finally, I put on my custom one. It holds one around the center of my back by attaching to the shoulder holster. It’s a bitch to get on, but the gun is easy enough to retrieve. After putting all the holsters on, now it’s time to load up. I put the Smith & Wesson Model 29 .44 Magnum in the one on the center of my back. The Taurus Raging Bull Model 500 .5 Magnum and 6” Desert Eagle .50 AE Mark XIX Pistol go in the thigh holsters. The two guns that go in the holster on my lower back are the 7” Mateba Model 6 Unica .44 Magnum and the Smith & Wesson Model 629 .44 Magnum Stealth Hunter. Finally, my Taurus Raging Bull Model 444 .44 Magnum and 8” Colt Anaconda .44 Magnum go in my shoulder holster. Over all this, I throw on my leather trench coat. It keeps me from looking like a walking armory if we have to be out in the open at all. I had also sown some pockets onto the inside so it carried my extra amo.

I make my way back downstairs and find the boys ready to go.

“So how are we going to do this?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, “We going to try and jump him outside the bar before he goes in? After he leaves? What’s our plan?”

“Me and Sammy here were thinking that we’d wait for him to show up at the bar. We’ll wait at the exits and let the others know when he leaves. From there we’ll trail him until we can figure whether or not he’s actually our guy,” Dean says, “We don’t want to take any chances that this is all just some wacked up coincidence and accidentally kill an innocent person. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds like plan,” I say enthusiastically, “Let’s gank this he-witch and go home!”

He’d shown up right on time. Nineteen hundred hours sharp. Shortly after that, we split up. Dean stayed with the Impala in the front, Sam took the side exit, and I took the service exit in the back. I’d been standing there for what felt like hours, but my watch told me it had only been one. Time always seemed to slow down when I had to wait for a monster to show itself. Finally, he appeared from within the bar. He came out my exit and began down the street.

I text Dean and Sam,

He came out through the back. I’ll start tailing him. You guys tail me. See you soon.

I follow at a safe distance. Far enough back that he won’t notice me and I’ll have time to hide quickly if he decides to turn around, but close enough that if he makes a move, I’m within killing range. I’ve been following him for about half a mile when he stops, looking behind. I quickly dart behind a building.

Shit! I think, I hope he’s not on to me. That’d make things awkward. I peer around the corner.

“Son of a bitch!” I say under my breath. He’s gone. I walk up to where he was and look around. He’s nowhere to be seen. Just as I’m about to give up hope, I hear a sickening scream. It’s coming from within the alley, I run towards the sound. I can hear Sam and Dean running not too far behind me. I turn the corner of the alley. That’s when I see the poor homeless man lying there.

To Be Continued...

#supernatural fic #supernatural series #no pairing #caught somewhere in time

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