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iambilliejeanok · 3 years

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🤎A Break With My Lover.🤎

Part One

Pairing: Might Guy x Tenji( made up character)

Summary: Tenj is back from her two month mission and is so excited to spend time with her new boyfriend Guy, who pampers and adores her. Just a cute little short story for all my Guy sensei hoes to enjoy.😊

Warnings: 18+, language, fluff, SFW and NSFW, smut.

Tenji now stood at the entrance of the Hokage mansion, grateful to have been granted a full week's rest after her team worked tirelessly for a full two months. Another breeze blew a curl that dangled from her loose bun into her face, not caring in the slightest to put it back in its place. Her main goal was to reach her beloved apartment and take a much needed cool shower to wash away the grim, sweat and blood that clung to her aching body. With her eyes closed she inhaled a deep long breath, forcing herself to take the first step. Her body felt so heavy and her mind fuzzy, a sudden wave of fatigue ripping a whine from deep in her throat. “Oi, Tenji,” a sharp flick on the side of her neck immediately snapped her out of her sluggish mood. “Tch! Genma what the fuck,” a sly smirk appearing on his smug face as he took pleasure in her frustration, relishing the irritated look he managed to put on her face. “Well hello to you too Tenji, it's been too long, glad that you're back and in one piece it seems,” he spoke as he gave her a quick once over, ensuring that she was really in one piece and he hopefully hadn’t spoken too soon. He noticed the dark circles under her eyes as he inspected her obviously fatigued face, a hint of sympathy pulled at his heart realising she would probably have to walk all the way home on her own despite how tired she was. Tenji noticed the slight worry in his light brown eyes and instantly thought of a plan. Maybe she could convince him to carry her home after seeing the state she was in. “I’m okay I guess, I’m so tired, just wish i had help getting home Genma,” she whimpered as she stepped closer, leaning her chubby cheek into his broad, muscular chest, she looked up at him, hopeful that her long time buddy would show even the tiniest bit kindness he claimed to have, pulling her best puppy face while looking into his light brown eyes, her darker eyes needy as her full lips curved into a pout that he almost gave into until he realised what she was up to. Now, it’s not that he didn’t want to help(maybe a little) but it was also that he had already been summoned by the Hokage and couldn’t afford to be later than he already was and also because he knew Tenji could be such a spoiled brat sometimes and he was not in the mood to baby her today. He averted his gaze and placed two long, slender fingers on her forehead before gently nudging her off of him. “Geez Tenji” , his words almost sounding empathetic until he opened his mouth again, “Good luck finding someone who will help you with that”. Tenji’s mouth hung open in utter defeat as Genma walked right past her, not missing how he unashamedly took in the gorgeous sight of her full, round ass, her uniform gracefully complimenting it with the way her pants clung desperately to the curve of her hips and hugged her ass in a way that he would always appreciate. “Tch”, Tenji scoffed as she turned fully to face him, his soft light, brown eyes slowly climbing up her body taking in her front, failing to hide the disappointment in them, missing the blessed sight she turned away from him, reluctantly looking back up into her darker orbs to wink at her, disappearing into the Hokage mansion. She blamed herself for expecting anything from that perverted bastard, as she hesitantly began her dreadful walk down the busy streets of Konoha.

Tenji kept her eyes glued to the ground, drowning out the sounds of the happy village folk all around her, as she continued on replaying how good it would feel to walk into her apartment and pamper herself to a nice shower and some well needed rest. A low growl from her tummy dirsturbed her train of thought, reminding her of her deep hunger for some delicious, warm food. The divine, savory smell of Ichiraku’s ramen, not helping her best attempts at ignoring it and heading home, her fatigue too overwhelming for her to entertain her hunger as she stood in front of the little ramen restaurant. “Tenji sensei!,” a loud voice erupting out of nowhere pulled her attention directly in front of her. A young and enthusiastic Lee stood in her path, the biggest grin spreading on his face, clearly excited to see her. A mini Might Guy, always bringing a deep nostalgic feeling in her heart, he was far too adorable for her to not smile at him, despite the exhaustion that tugged at her eyelids, with his little green jumpsuit, “Lee-san, so good-,” she was suddenly cut off as two large hands tugged at her waist, lifting her up and tossing her high into the air, she squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the one sensation she absolutely despised, punching her deep in her gut as the fall back downwards came shortly after. Landing right into none other than her boyfriend, Might Guy’s strong arms. “Precious!”, she shuddered as he spoke way louder than she would have liked; “After so long you have finally returned from your mission! Wow I’ve missed you'', Guy was basically roaring right in her face at this point, which she normally wouldn’t mind, but the fatigue she couldn’t shake off any longer made her highly irritable. “Guy!, put me down right now, baka!”, she blurted, his big, pretty grin never leaving his face as he gently complied. “My precious flower, how was your mission” he spoke in a much calmer voice, now sensing her irritated mood as he shamelessly inspected her entire body, not bothered by the irritation in her tone, making sure his eyes and hands didn't miss a single spot, hoping she wasn't injured as she replied, “It was a success. I just reported to Lady Hokage and I get a full week of rest as a reward so i'm going home now” , the tone of her voice growing more and more annoyed as she noticed Kakashi and his team all standing there, watching Guy fiddle with her body, the embarrassing display of care leaving a light blush across her plump cheeks. Everyone knew they were dating, despite the fact that their relationship was still very new, it didn't take a scientist to figure out they had been in love with one another even as friends. “Guy!” she whined, pushing him off of her hoping he was now pleased with his inspection. “As expected of my lotus! Always glowing in the light of her youth!”, he continued with his over enthusiastic praise. Tenji was now very used to his overly positive attitude that he was apparently born with, considering he was just as loud now, as he was when they were still children. Kakashi looked at her with a knowing look of second hand embarrassment as he nodded towards her “Yo, we‘re going inside Ichiraku’s now, join us whenever you’re ready Tenji-chan” he spoke in the warm, familiar manner, he always spoke in when talking to her. “Kakashi-san, I’m too tired. Next time?”, she replied, her eyelids noticeably droopy as he nodded in understanding, walking into the restaurant.

Guy stood in front of his new lover, feeling like his heart would explode with the surge of joy he felt to be near her after not getting to hang out much, especially in the past two months. Tenji stood before him and let out a deep sigh, knowing that she wouldn't have to worry about the dreadful walk home because her best friend and now lover would go to the ends to make her happy, as she would for him. Tenji looked up at him, her deep brown eyes never leaving his onyx ones as she stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his large build, gripping on the back of his green jumpsuit, sighing heavily into his chest. Her heart fluttered, remembering that she could now hold him like this. He was hers now. Guy’s flak jacket draped her arms as he engulfed her in a warm embrace, strong arms wrapping firmly around her, pulling her impossibly closer. Her eyelids fluttered shut, comfort washing over her as he began to rub his large hand soothingly up and down her back making her eyelids feel like a ton of bricks as she finally gave in to keeping them closed. She relished in the heavy slumber that quickly crept up on her feeling like she was sinking deeper and deeper into her lovers addicting hold, but it was cut short as she was abruptly interrupted by the rumbling of Guy’s hard chest, a deep chuckle leaving his lips as he felt the weight of her body dip further into his. “Someones ready for a nap I see?” he spoke placing a soft kiss on her forehead, “Mmhmm”, was all Tenji had the strength to say, too tired to move her mouth into actual words, revelling in the pleasant warmth Guy’s soft caresses provided—despite the afternoon heat—bringing his fingers to brush the coily strand that escaped the loosely tied bun at the nape of her neck and tucked it back into place. Attempting to tuck the one strand in, the whole bun began to fall apart and Guy being the sweet bean he was,decided to fix the whole thing for her. Speaking to her, he continued to work on it, gently detangling her hair from the scrunchie that failed to keep her thick, dark brown coils neatly bundled up. “How about I take you home and help you wind down?” , he continued, finally able to pry the scrunchie from the last little coil that wouldn't let it go, careful not to hurt her. “Miss you”, she sounded muffled, snuggling further into his chest, a pang of happiness filling her chest at the action, taking in her favourite faint scent of lemon and a much stronger earthy smell. Guy began to softly brush her hair back with his palms, making sure to pull all escaping strands into the ponytail he was forming in his fist at the nape of her neck, now securing it all with the scrunchie. “Well let's get going precious”, he sighed out, gently prying himself free from her tight grip around him, quickly silencing her whine, turning around and gently tugging at her arm, easily pulling all her weight onto his back. A move that she was all too familiar with, Guy always treating her like the ‘precious flower’ he always described her as ever since they were younger. Her heart leaped along with him as he jumped up onto the nearest rooftop, maintaining a firm yet gentle grip on her thighs, a faint sigh leaving her lips and excitement bubbling up from the pit of her tummy, pleasantly spreading around the rest of her body as thoughts of the cuddles and attention she was going to receive clouded her mind. Why didn’t they get together any sooner? Not only did she have a whole entire week off, but she also scored time with her lover. It couldn't get any better than that.

#might guy #gai smut #gai x reader #might guy imagines #black women #naruto imagines

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verfound · 3 years

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Here in this diary! (I think I know but I wanna seeee)

...I was honestly gonna save these for the next two WIPWednesdays, but then someone said @lukanettejune had Villain!Luka as today's prompt (6/4), and it just seemed like it'd be fun to share this today?

Because I've been sitting on Villain!Butterfly!Luka for a while now without having a lot of time to work on it, and I'm pretty sure the only ones I've discussed it with are the OG LBSC crew. And y'all will never believe when I say our Fluffy Meet Cute Queen is the one who gave me the prompt. 😁

The prompt started with Marinette recording Guardian/Ladybug-specific things in her diary, in case anything ever happened to her (because superheroes typically don't have a long life expectancy lbr), to explain - or to lead the next Guardian. I can't remember if Luka specifically getting the diary/Marinette giving it to him was the original idea (it's LBSC it probably was), but it...ran away with me. And Shadowman was born.

The summary: Under normal circumstances, Luka would never read someone’s diary. But Marinette’s been missing since Ladybug’s death, and he’s desperate. Every page gives him new insight into the girl he was realizing he never really knew. Every page reveals just how much Paris had failed its beloved heroine – how much he had failed her. Now Luka Couffaine is out for revenge, and the only person who could stop him is gone.

So here's what I've got.

We open on the death of Ladybug. It's the final showdown with Hawkmoth, and Viperion is the only 'temporary' hero there because LB thought they'd need Second Chance (and he's the only one she really trusts anymore). Viperion and Chat Noir are standing over LB's body, and Hawkmoth is cackling behind them, Mayura crumpled at his feet. He tells them he might not have won, but they haven't either - "Your hero is dead! Your precious Ladybug is DEAD!"

And Viperion walks over and just clocks him. He takes Hawkmoth and Mayura's Miraculous, but when he turns around Chat and Ladybug are gone. This leads him to believe Chat has LB's body/her Miraculous - but he's...confused. Did this mean they won? He hears the sirens approaching and waits for the police. Before they take hi away, Gabriel asks him: "Have you actually won anything? Is Paris truly safe?"

Two weeks pass. It's a mixed bag: Hawkmoth is defeated, but Chair Noir hasn't been seen or heard of since the defeat, and Ladybug is dead. Paris is safe but in mourning. Luka is guilt-ridden over Ladybug's death, convinced he could have prevented it and his failure to fix it makes him an unworthy Snake. He renounces Sass, and he's been keeping the Snake, Butterfly, and Peacock in a safe place.

In this 'verse, Luka doesn't know or suspect that Marinette is Ladybug. Immediately after the battle, Luka called Marinette. He needed to talk to her, to see her - but she never answered. He tried to go over the next morning, but Sabine calls him and lets him know Marinette wasn't in her bed that morning. They didn't hear her leave, but she's not answering her phone and they can't find her - has he seen her? So for two weeks he has been at the bakery almost constantly, tirelessly helping Tom and Sabine search for Marinette. No one can find her. No one's heard from her. And he's starting to go a little nuts.

(Note that this takes place during summer - HM was defeated right before break. Dingo's back in Australia for the summer, which is important for Reasons. Luka's not in school, stopped going to work, and is using pretty much all his time to help look for Marinette.)

So it's been two weeks. No akumas because no Hawkmoth, a dead Bug, and a missing Marinette. Luka's at the bakery, shambling around Marinette's room. Tom and Sabine are downstairs, waiting on a call from Roger who may have found a lead. And Luka's just poking around, spiraling, when he notices...the box with Marinette's diary is open. It wasn't open before. And there, on top of her diary, are two letters: one addressed to him and one addressed to Chat Noir.

So he reads his. It's a goodbye/Just In Case letter. She explains how she was hoping he wouldn't find it/she wouldn't need it. She'd set a magical lock on the box, so that if something happened and she didn't come back...and she's sorry. She's so sorry, because she never wanted to drag Luka back into this, but she needed him. She tells him her diary will explain everything: she wrote everything down, and she always thought it was because she just loved to journal, but she realized it was because she never had any proper training. The next Ladybug/Guardian deserves better. If she doesn't make it, the next LB/Guardian has to be prepared. Better than she was.

And Luka can't move. Can't breathe, can't think. Because the letter had been addressed to him, and he wasn't going to read it, but he had hoped maybe there was a clue, except the clue was...Marinette is Ladybug.

Ladybug is dead.

...Marinette is dead.

And it's all his fault.

And he reads her diary, convinced he had to have misunderstood...but it's all there. Everything. Becoming Ladybug, her spiraling feelings for Adrien, Chat being so pushy with his affections, her troubles with Lila and the class, the expulsion, Alya constantly pushing/pressuring her with Adrien, becoming Guardian, feeling like she had to bear everything because Chat was so lackadaisical/reckless/self-sacrificing, her growing feelings for Luka...and Luka realizes it's true. She was Ladybug, and she was going through so much more than she ever let on. And he realizes that all of them - even him - only made it worse. And they're not going to find Marinette, because Ladybug is dead, and they never found Ladybug's body, and...he just goes numb.

He walks out of her room. Out of the bakery. He doesn't answer Tom or Sabine when they ask if he's ok. He just...walks. And he doesn't fully realize any of this/where he was going/doing until he wakes up the next morning in his bed with tears still drying on his face. And Juleka's there, and she's like "bro wtf?" because he's freaking her the hell out, and he just says: "...she's gone."

And for the first time ever, Luka looks at Juleka and is...angry. Furious. And he can't talk to her. He realizes he blames her. He blames himself. He blames everyone: her 'friends', her classmates, her family, Paris...if they had all tried harder, been better, then she wouldn't be...if they hadn't left her all alone...

And Luka just Shuts Down. Everyone's worried about him, but he won't talk about it. He's closing himself off to everyone - even Juleka and Anarka. Sabine calls Anarka, because Luka went from being at the bakery every day helping the search to nothing, but Anarka has no idea?

Luka keeps rereading the diary. He's stuck in this loop of "I should have known," "we should have helped her," "this is our fault..."

And another week or so passes. There's still no sign of Marinette, except now Luka knows why - knows that she's never coming back. And he finally goes back to the bakery to tell Tom and Sabine what he knows, because it's cruel to put them through this any longer. He has the diary, her letter, and the three Miraculous stones with him. And they're all sitting in the kitchen, and he's trying to talk and failing to find the words.

The news is playing in the background: Nadja is doing a special on the rise and fall of Paris's beloved heroine. She comments how Chat Noir hasn't been seen since the "battle that freed Paris from Hawkmoth's reign of terror" and speculates that it's because he's mourning his lover. And Luka just...snaps. Shouts "That lying bitch!" at the television. Sabine asks if he's ok, but he's not - Ladybug is gone. Marinette is gone. And nobody cares. Nobody realized they caused it. And they need to be held accountable - they need to pay.

Tom and Sabine knew about Silencer, of course, but they've never seen calm, sweet Luka so angry before - and it terrifies them. And Tom tries to tell Luka that it's ok - Marinette's not gone, not like Ladybug is. They're going to find her. They can't give up hope. And Luka realizes her own parents didn't even know. They didn't notice. They did nothing to see or stop how she was hurting. And as much as he loves them, he realizes they must pay, too - and he's the only one who can make them. He has her diary. He has the Butterfly. He can make them all realize how alone they left her. He can make them all feel as hopeless as they made her feel - as he feels now.

And he tells Tom he's wrong: Marinette is dead. Marinette was Ladybug, and she's dead, and she's never coming home, and it's all their fault - even his. But they don't believe him, and he leaves without showing them the diary. He just feels...defeated.

Back at the Liberty, he comes home to find Juleka and Rose watching the same report. And he retreats to somewhere deep in the Liberty, somewhere private, where he can don the Butterfly. He starts flipping through the diary, and he finds a passage where Marinette was venting about Nadja: her journalistic integrity ("No wonder Alya thinks its' ok when THAT'S Paris's example!"), the Prime Queen interview when she was more interested in pushing LadyNoir than discussing Hawkmoth, about how she's ALWAYS been like that, how many times she's called her last-minute to watch Manon to chase a story...and it's important to note that none of these things are inherently bad, or that Marinette is saying Nadja's awful for them. She's venting in her diary, like you do. But Luka's in such a dark place by this point that it only makes things worse.

He tears the page out and keeps reading and rereading it. Keeps thinking how Nadja must pay. HE summons Nooroo, and before Nooroo can speak Luka tells him everything that happened. Hawkmoth's gone, but so is LB. That Paris let their Guardian fall. Nooroo is devastated because that means Tikki's gone, too, and what about the Miracle Box? Luka assures him he'll take care of the Box, but Paris has to answer for what they did. Nooroo agrees to help, gives Luka a basic rundown of the Butterfly's powers, and Luka transforms - except Nooroo didn't explain everything, and Luka didn't have Marinette's training, so he doesn't realize Nooroo doesn't need negative emotions. He thinks you have to upset someone to create an akuma.

So he takes the diary page to the TVi studios and confronts Nadja on air. He introduces himself as Shadowman. (For a hot second he considers introducing himself as 'Shadowmoth' - which I would like to point out this story was started before that name was dropped so fuck you Gabriel - but it's too close to 'Hawkmoth', and Hawkmoth was the one who killed Marinette. He refuses to be associated with him/take his name.) He tells Nadja and the world that Ladybug was Marinette Dupain-Cheng. That Marinette is dead because Ladybug is dead. And that Paris caused it.

He accuses Nadja of sensationalizing Ladybug and the akumas/battles. He reads the diary page on air. Nadja doesn't believe him at first, but then he gives her the page and she recognizes Marinette's handwriting. Realizes he's right. She's overcome by guilt/grief, and Shadowman creates an akuma. It goes into the diary page, and Prime Queen is reborn as Telecaster.

And this was all live. All of Paris is watching the broadcast, and they know they aren't safe.

Cut to where Adrien's been hiding. He sees the whole thing, and he can't believe it - until he hears the people in the studio screaming. He realizes he has to do something, because Paris isn't safe anymore, and this time there's no Ladybug to fix his mistakes.

Back at TVi, Telecaster is attacking everyone. As Nadja she was determined to tell the news, even to the point of amping up stories for ratings - but that was kinda forced by her producer? So she's going after the bigwigs at the studio for forcing her to be so ratings-focused/sensationalistic. And she's just destroying the studio, which is...fine. Paris has other media outlets...right? It's just chaos.

Chat Noir finally shows his face and demands to know what Shadowman thinks he's doing/who he is. Part of Shadowman's disguise is literal darkness, so he lets the shadows recede and lets Chat actually see him. And Chat realizes it's Viperion/Luka - and he pleads with him to stop. That LB/Marinette wouldn't want this - that she loved this city and knowing he was attacking it would kill her.

And it's just...the wrong thing to say. Shadowman says the city was what killed her, and they have to answer for it. That Chat has to answer for it. But Chat doesn't understand - he was LB's partner? Her friend? He was at the final battle with her - how is her death his fault?

But Shadowman tells him it's not his time yet. He is coming for him - he will get his Miraculous back for the Box - but not yet. He will get LB's Miraculous back (note that he's operating under the belief that Chat has LB's body/Miraculous, so he honestly believes CHat will just use them to purify the akuma and fix the damage - except Chat doesn't and can't). But Paris must suffer first, just like Marinette suffered. He disappears before Chat can go after him - and then Telecaster is attacking and he has to focus on her.

And Chat does defeat Telecaster, but there's no LB. No one to purify the akuma or fix the damage. He doesn't actually have her Miraculous, so what now? (This leads to Chat having a growing collection of butterfly jars with akumas and no idea how to fix it. Paris needs LB - he needs LB.)

After leaving Chat to deal with Telecaster, Shadowman goes back to the bakery to retrieve the Miracle Box. Marinette's skylight was always open (he always assumed it was because it's the roof no one can enter through there - except now he realizes it was easy access for Ladybug). Tom and Sabine hear noise from her room and burst in with umbrellas/paddles/whatever but freeze when they see Shadowman standing there with the Box. They try and stop him: they saw the report, they know who he is, they realize who Marinette was, and believe it's now their duty to protect the Box, since Marinette can't. And Shadowman is livid, because "You couldn't even protect her. You never even noticed...your home is supposed to be safe. Your parents are supposed to keep you safe. When did you ever do that?"

He akumatizees Tom and Sabine before he leaves: the dual-akuma Safe Harbor. There's no diary page left with them because Marinette never actually spoke out against her parents in the diary: it's just Luka's frustration with them. He leaves them there and goes back to the Liberty to retieve Sass, Duusu, and the diary.

Back at TVi, Chat realizes that if LB was Marinette and LB was the Guardian then Marinette would have the Miracle Box. He takes his coffee mug with the akuma and books it back to the bakery, except her skylight door is now locked? The balcony was always open to him, but is now locked? So he has to go in through the side/home door as Adrien.

Tom greets him. Is being very jittery/Concerned Parent and acting Weird - and so is Sabine. They're both worrying over him, apologizing about Gabriel, asking if he's ok - and he can't get a word in edgewise. Finally yells at them to stop - he needs to see Marinette's room. He needs to get the Miracle Box. And they just...freeze. They don't react at first. He tells them he knows they saw the news - everyone did - so they have to know that Marinette was LB. And LB had the Miracle Box/all the Miraculous gems, and he has to get them back. But they try and laugh it off (again, it's all very stilted), and he finally just transforms. Says he was LB's partner, and with her gone it's on him to protect the Box now. Except when he looks back at them the butterfly mask is over their eyes and he realizes they're akumatized, too - and he just gave his identity away to Shadowman.

Safe Harbor is like a Stepford version of Tom and Sabine. They're turning the bakery into a fortress because they couldn't keep Marinette safe, so now they're making it the ultimate safe haven. And even though Shadowman realizes Adrien's identity, Safe Harbor doesn't fully? They just see it as Adrien fighting back/resisting their protection - so they deem him a threat and start attacking him. (Again, no diary page here: the akumatized object is a family photo of Tom, Sabine, and Marinette.)

After the fight, Chat goes to trap the akuma in the coffee cup with the other one - only to realize the cup is empty. He remembers akumas can phase through objects, and he has no feasible way of trapping the akumas. But...Cataclysm destroyed Uncanny Valley. Could it maybe destroy akumas, too? Before he can try it, the akuma is released and a white butterfly flutters away.

Across the street, Shadowan is lurking and watching him. He doesn't understand why Chat didn't use Ladybug's powers to purify the akuma. Why isn't Chat fixing any of this? Does he want to watch the city burn? He thinks Chat's just being stubborn. Well, he can be stubborn, too. He has to up his game next time. He releases the akuma because, deep down, Shadowman is still Luka. He still cares about the city and the people he's going after. Maybe a little sliver of conscience not letting him go all-out yet?

So Luka returns to the Liberty long enough to retrieve Sass, Duusu, and the diary before he realizes he has to leave. Adrien is Chat, and Adrien was the one who chose him as Viperion, so Chat knows who he is/where to find him, too. Juleka catches him before he leaves, and says, "...I was afraid it was you. On the TV. Luka, you have to stop this." "None of you stopped. I don't see why I should, either."

Luka goes into hiding. He remembers reading about Master Fu's old shop in the diary. Master Fu had left it to Marinette as a safe house, but as far as he knows Chat doesn't go there anymore (no reason to) and doesn't realize he knows about it. (Eventually, later on, Chat does go there and catches Luka - so Luka ends up hiding out at Dingo's home, bc the Kings are in Australia for the summer/it's empty.)

Aaaand that's all I have of the outline so far. 😂 The idea is Luka creates a hit list using the diary: Nadja, Tom and Sabine, Mayor Bourgeois, Alya, The Girl Squad (yes even Juleka and Rose), Lila, Chloé, Marinette's class in general, Mlle. Bustier, M. Damocles, Master Fu, Chat Noir/Adrien, and finally Luka himself. He confronts each person with a page torn from the diary, and he uses Marinette's own words to convince them of their guilt. With the exception of Tom and Sabine, the akuma is always in the diary page. Chatdrien is Luka's 'last' target, because as Ladybug's partner he blames him most - except the real 'last target' is actually Luka.

He plans his final akuma almost like a suicide mission, hoping that Chat will Cataclysm him/take him out when Shadowman kills him, so they're both defeated simultaneously. Except...

Things don't go as planned. Because Ladybug wasn't dead. The Guardians were able to heal her. And she was never supposed to see Luka this way.

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irondadfics · 4 years

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I’m looking for fanfics where Peter is Tony’s biological child and he goes missing/gets kidnapped as a young child. He is raised by someone else and doesn’t know he’s Tony’s son. I’ve already read Lost Boy and Things I Almost Remember on archive of our own and I wanted to find stories with a similar plot.

WHEW! It’s kind of a long list, but we did our best finding several fics that feature both BioDad!Tony and Peter being kidnapped at a very young age. ENJOY!!

PETER IS TONY’S SON BUT THEY WERE SEPARATED WHEN PETER WAS A CHILD REC LIST

Lost Boy by winterda

Isaac Stark disappeared from a crowded park a few months shy of his third birthday. There were never any signs of him, and no arrest were ever made in connection to the case. It was as if the toddler had simply vanished off the face of the earth. Twelve years later, Peter Parker has a really bad day, which only get worse when his prints are put through the system.

Things I Almost Remember by IcedAquarius @icedaquarius31

Peter's past is not as it appears. It all starts one day with a genetics project and slowly spirals into something Peter never could have imagined.

hydra's not a home by tempestaurora @tempestaurora

At 6 years old, the son of Tony and Pepper Stark, Peter, is kidnapped, never to be seen again. Or, so they thought. Ten years later, while raiding a HYDRA base, the Avengers come across a new, enhanced individual, working for the enemy: in black spandex, with a tendency to stick to walls and shoot webs from his wrists, the Black Spider is a pain in the ass in more ways than one.

If They Knew All About You by MsHermia

Tony Stark had lost his son when he was only 2 years old, stolen away in broad daylight with nobody the wiser of what exactly happened. Years later, Tony has just made it through the disaster with Ultron. He is trying to keep himself and the team together but relationships are strained and tempers are running high. Then a random turn of events leads to his path crossing with that of a particular vigilante. They are strangers to each other, or so they think.

Peter Parker is on top of the world. After a few shitty years, losing his parents and then losing his Uncle, things are finally looking up. Sure he lives in a crappy little apartment with his Aunt but he might have just found his mission in life.

------

This is an AU story obvious by some of the tags. I'm starting out a few weeks after Age of Ultron took place. Civil War will be a thing. Other than that I'm not too concerned about sticking to every canon detail and storyline.

Finding Their Way Home by ElliahRose

Peter Benjamin-Edward Stark went missing on a Tuesday. For months the entirety of the New York police department, as well as anyone else the Starks could convince to join, searched for the tot. He was only three when he was taken and for four months, two weeks, and four days, Tony Stark and Pepper Stark (nee Potts) worried and fretted over their beloved child.

Peter Benjamin-Edward Stark was murdered on a Friday. A ransom call gone wrong spelt the end of the child’s life. The world grieved as the kidnappers gleefully told the devastated parents they’d find his body in the morning.

They never did.

Twelve years passed and the family was still grieving, and Tony Stark worked tirelessly to find his only child’s killer and gain justice for his son.

Meanwhile Peter Parker was having literally the worst day ever. He just wanted to help make the world a better place, but instead he got stabbed. That's just his luck, isn't it?

missing, presumed dead by hailingstars @hailing-stars

They hadn’t had a funeral for Peter.

There hadn’t been a casket or a service inside a church.

There had been, before Tony decided in his heart that Peter was gone, candlelight vigils and pleas on the media for whoever had taken him to bring him home. Neither of those did any good. Neither of those brought Peter home.

Tony Stark's son gets kidnapped when he's two. Twelve years later he comes back.

I told you to be better (and you became the best) by HaruK

Tony was blessed with a healthy baby boy, and for once in his life, was actually happy. Until everything derailed and he had to send his son away to keep him safe, because those related to the Stark family, one of the worlds biggest and most targeted families in the black market, always end up hurt. With a new name and identity that Tony himself doesn't know, the young baby was wiped off the map, his existence erased, never to be heard of again. . Years later, Anti-hero Iron Man meets a local superhero vigilante and Tony becomes surprisingly close with young Peter Parker.

The Curly-Haired Boy In The Paper by Svn_f1ower @svn-f1ower

When Tony sees the blurry, grey scale photograph of someone he thought he had lost years ago, he follows the trail to a newspaper company, to a hospital, to an adoption agency, to the police station and finally to May Parker's house.

hold him tight & don’t let go by jessicagoddamnjones @farremoved

Peter Stark went missing when he was four years old.

Eleven years later, he’s found.

Only now he’s Peter Parker by day, Spider-Man by night, and he doesn’t like the idea that his entire life is a lie.

Rise from the Ashes; Just to See You Again by Mintstream @iwritedumbshit

Tony Stark didn't expect Mary Fitzpatrick, or the news she delivered. He didn't expect that he would become a father, or that he would actually enjoy it. He didn't expect Penny to love him just as fiercely as he did her.

He didn't expect to lose her so soon.

In the wake of the loss of his daughter he tried--tried to do right by her. He became Iron Man, he was an Avenger, he protected his world because he couldn't protect his daughter, but through it all, he hoped to be reunited with his daughter.

He didn't expect to be alive when he was.

AKA the biological daughter kidnapping AU no one asked for. Hope you read, and hope you enjoy.

Updates on Saturdays.

Coming Home by inkinmyheartandonthepage

AU – Peter Stark was kidnapped when he was just three years old. Tony and Pepper never stopped looking for their boy. Years later, Peter finds his way back home.

A Change In What We Knew by Imissyoutoo @imissyoutoo

Tony scoured the floor behind Steve as though his one-year-old son had somehow crawled to him, before finally, he looked up. The realisation dawned on him like an eclipse; the decaying darkness hiding the sun. Hiding his son. Because his boy wasn't there.

”Where is he? Steve? Where's my son Rogers?!” At only a year old, Tony Stark’s son is taken, leaving him shattered. Little does he know, his journey to find what is lost only begins twelve years later. In the most unlikely of places, and all because of two words.

”Hey kid.”

I Found You by honestchick

Tony had a son; he raised him for two years until someone kidnapped him. Tony was devastated and heartbroken. And who would have thought in Starks Expo, he’d be able to see his son once again?

move back home forever by chasingflower @evahmohns

The results say he’s not actually Peter Parker.

They say he’s Peter Stark. You know, the one who’s been missing for 10 years.

Yeah. He knows.

Soon You'll Get Better by lostinmorewaysthan1

Peter Stark was kidnapped. That was all anyone knew. He vanished into thin air, no traces left behind, when he was eight years old.

Six years later, on one of the final raids on the HYDRA bases, they find an enhanced assassin, with super strength and the ability to climb walls. No one imagined that it would be Peter. Least of all Tony.

With no memory and brainwashed by HYDRA, Peter Stark goes home and tries to recover.

Let This Road Be Mine by CommunicationFlail

Ten years ago, five year old Peter Stark disappeared. When the trail went cold, the case was closed. Now new evidence has been brought to light and Tony will stop at nothing to get his son back. No matter how many fakes he has to meet. His son is out there, and he will find him.

Return to me, the one I love so endlessly by SuperHeroTiger @superherotiger

James Edwin Stark was born on the 10th of August 2001, and for the first time in his life, Tony Stark cried tears of joy.

All the fears, all the dread that had once consumed his soul washed away with a single look at the baby’s gentle features, so familiar and yet so distinctly unique at the same time. Tony made many promises that day. Promises to love his son, to protect him, to always be there for him.

On the 10th of August 2002, James Edwin Stark was stolen in the middle of the night, and his father’s world came crashing down. Shattered and alone, Tony whispered the same promise he’d made to his son the day that he was born.

‘…My love for you is endless…’

Fourteen years later, hidden away from the world in a forest of pine, Peter Beck would dream of a day he might get to see the towering city of New York. And when a wounded stranger stumbles onto their property a week out from his birthday claiming to be a famous billionaire from New York, his dream might just come true.

Once Lost Now Found by FreckledAvenger11

Peter Parker was just trying to get used to life without his uncle. He wasn't expecting to find a familiar face in an article about Tony Stark's missing son. Follow Peter on his journey to discover just who he is. Is he Peter Parker? Is he Spider-Man? Or is he someone else entirely? Just who is he and what secrets died along with his parents in that plane crash?

So He Walks The World Alone by Miola014

This is a story 'bout a broken boy With his headphones in just to block out the noise Of everyone around him telling him the way to go So he walks the world alone Wondering if it gets better Or if he's always gonna feel empty forever So he gets lost tryna find another way back home As he walks the world alone

The Kidnapped Peter Stark AU that I promised y'all!

#fic rec list #tony is peter's biological dad #kidnapping

417 notes · View notes

chaoticevilbean · 3 years

Text

What if....

Ahsoka decided to stay with the Order?

What if she looked at Anakin? Looked at her Master, the one who raised her and taught her, the one who told her what she needed to know and prepared her how he could. Looked at the one who she would die for in an instant, who she never wanted to leave. The one who battled tirelessly to save her, who she knew, despite the Jedi way, despite all the time he’d spent as a Knight, was attached to her.

What if she looked at him, as he held out his hand, hopeful, and decided she would do as he had done for her? She would be attached, but learn to be powerful enough to not fail. What if she took his hand, and stayed, not with the Order, but with Anakin?

Anakin is overjoyed, but also worried. He doesn’t know how being betrayed will affect her, how being hunted by clones will change her dynamic while fighting. So he decides to leave immediately to ‘scout’. A different yet familiar setting should help, and they’ll avoid actually battling for at least a little while.

They get on the ship, and Ahsoka sticks close to her Master. The clones are cautious. They all heard the stories and rumors, and also heard the accomplishments of the Commander. Wrongfully accused, wrongfully convicted, and still loyal, still strong. Her life, dedicated to helping others.

Ahsoka is fine, if a little quiet. She participates sparingly in the take-off briefings, and she’s absolutely silent when Anakin informs the Council of his entire plan.

Then Anakin sends her off to rest, so she can fully recover. He drops her off at her quarters, gives her the next day off. The night passes as it used to.

Then the clones comm Anakin in a panic. They say there’s something wrong with Ahsoka. “Come to the cafeteria! Quickly, general!” Rex’s voice is barely audible over the distressed shouts of his fellow soldiers. Anakin rushes over. He’s scared, scared that something has happened to the Padawan he only just got back.

He gets to the cafeteria to find all the clones outside a locked door. The key pad has lightsaber cuts on it, slashed the exact way he taught Ahsoka to do when she didn’t want anyone inside. Rex says that they were all heading to breakfast as scheduled, and Ahsoka was already inside. She seemed fine, but when she saw the clones, she freaked out. She started pushing the tables at them, blocking their way inside and forcing them out. She came closer only to slash the doors before jumping back.

Anakin tells them to go about their days as usual. They’ll have to skip breakfast for now, until Ahsoka is okay. All but Rex leave. Anakin accepts that. It takes a half hour to get inside, opening the door without the keypad and deciding against just cutting a hole through. Every table is piled haphazardly in the way, nearly falling on the duo.

Anakin moves them with the Force. Carefully but not gently. At this point, he can hear crying. He becomes less careful. It takes an extra ten minutes.

The moment he can, Anakin sprints into the cafeteria. It takes him two seconds to spot his Padawan.

She’s in the corner, curled as tight as can be, sobbing. She doesn’t react to the presence of her Master, but the moment she sees Rex, she wails, pressing further and further into the walls. Anakin motions for Rex to stand down, and the clone moves as far back as he can without losing sight of his friend.

Ahsoka lets Anakin walk over, eyes trained on the white behind him. She only looks away when hands start to gently pull her up, pull her in. She doesn’t fight, hiding in the safety of her Master.

“What’s wrong, Snips? What happened?’ She doesn’t respond right away, but there’s no rush here. When she answers, her words are broken, strained.

“I- I was- was back there, and I cou- couldn’t let them get me, but there were so- so many.” Anakin tugs her closer. His heart that had only begun healing from the recent events was breaking all over again.

“You aren’t, Snips, okay? I won’t let that happen again. As long as I’m around, you’ll be okay.”

Ahsoka takes a long time to calm down. It’s a good thing nothing was planned for this day. Rex stays back the entire time, thinking about the pain his sister-in-arms had been brought because he and his brothers refused to disobey orders. He wouldn’t do it again, he promised himself. He wouldn’t let anything like it happen again.

Anakin spends the day comforting Ahsoka. He asks her if she can stay in her quarters that night. She says she’ll be fine, but that’s their personal code for “I’ll push through it.” He lets her stay with him that night, taking the mattress from her room so she can have a bed.

Midnight comes, and Anakin wakes up suddenly. It isn’t a threat, so he stays still.

A smaller hand reaches up to grab his. It squeezes. He squeezes back.

The next day, Anakin never leaves Ahsoka’s side. Even when they have to, he waits for her, never letting her remain alone. The clones keep a bit back, the word having been spread about the Togruta’s fear. They don’t want her to be scared, not when she asks them for honest opinions, speaks to them like she does anyone else, knows each one of them by name and can tell them apart even when they’re wearing the same armor with no characterization.

The next night, Anakin learns about Ahsoka’s nightmares. She sits up, fast, and she’s crying again. He hugs her, whispering that he’s there, that she’s not in danger. They fall asleep like that, the Master and the Padawan, holding onto each other like they’d always done.

A month passes of the same routine. Ahsoka sticks close to her Master, and sleeps on the floor next to him at night. When the darkness gets too much, she grabs his hand, anchors herself with his presence. When the nightmares come, they wake up in the morning as if they hadn’t fallen asleep hugging. The clones gradually get closer, until it’s almost like normal. They’re lucky there haven’t been any battles.

Then the battle does come. They go up against an all-droid ship, and the droids manage to board. Ahsoka gets separated from Anakin, but they’re in the middle of a fight, there’s no time to find him, no time to panic. So Ahsoka goes to the next best comfort: the Force.

It takes all of two minutes to take down the remaining droids in that area. The clones are standing back in shock. In the moment she gave in to the Force’s power, she became a blur. Her mind was no longer filled with the memories of the very men she fought with turning on her. Instead, it was filled with thoughts of how each one had dedicated their lives to the cause, how every last one of the soldiers were literally born and raised for battle. So many had died thinking their sacrifice was worthless, unimportant. So many had died, period. Ahsoka would not let that number grow if she could help it.

With the Force guiding her every move, more powerful now that it was her second companion, she's ten times as strong. Without waiting for the clones to catch up, she rushes through the ship, taking down droids by the dozens.

Every last boarder is destroyed, with minimal casualties. The enemy ship blows up and they make it safely away. Anakin is glad when Ahsoka reaches him, perfectly fine. She’s still wary of the clones, but she can feel their good, their light.

The day after she tries again to let the Force guide her. She’s sitting near Anakin as he fixes a fighter ship. There are clones all around her. She feels the light once again.

Then she feels something else. A little switch in the minds of all the soldiers, one that will change that light to darkness in a heartbeat.

She tells her Master what she felt that night, just before they rest. He says they can tell the Chancellor tomorrow.

The holograph forms of Palpatine. Ahsoka slams her fist down to shut it off.

“What was that‽”

“He isn’t good.”

“What do you mean he isn’t good?”

“I.. don’t know. I saw him, and I just felt so much darkness. He isn’t good, Master.” Anakin accepts the answer for the moment. Then he calls Obi-Wan. The two relay their message about the clones. Obi-Wan promises to look into it. Ahsoka speaks up quickly, much more confidently than before.

“Don’t tell anyone but the Council. Please.”

Obi-Wan agrees.

The days keep passing. The nightmares are more frequent, if less painful. Ahsoka no longer sleeps on the ground. Anakin won’t let his little sister be in so much pain for nothing. The nightmares are better like that.

The clones get closer to their commander. They drop ‘hints’ about how they see her.

“Commander Tano is one of the best people I’ve worked under, hands down.”

“What about the general?”

“Listen, I’d die for either in a heartbeat, but if you forced me to choose, I’d pick Ahsoka every time.”

Ahsoka was sitting a table away in the cafeteria. Anakin smiled at her then, though it was more of a smirk.

“She’s basically one of us at this point.”

“I know. We might as well call her sister.”

Rex was walking into a briefing. Ahsoka hid her face in Anakin’s arm, blushing bright orange at the words.

She lets the Force guide her constantly. Anakin follows her lead, and they both find that their attachment to one another actually helps. They’re bonded through the Force, and they grow stronger as they grow attached to one another. There is no way they’ll separate anytime soon.

Ahsoka can temporarily leave her Master’s side. It takes a lot of courage, and Rex usually has to be nearby, but she pushes away her doubts.

One day, she’s walking with Rex, trying to see how long she can go before her fear grows too large. She still feels that switch, and she hates it. Hates that her friend could become evil in a second and she can’t even tell why. So she reaches towards it. Maybe she can get it stuck on the light side, or something of the sort.

Rex freezes when he feels it. The little voice in his head, the very reason he followed orders he hated, the reason he listened to Krell at all, suddenly disappeared.

Ahsoka didn’t mean to destroy the switch, but she was happy that it happened. The switch was meant for dark, and so the light destroyed it.

Rex looks at Ahsoka, who’s grinning that sharp-toothed grin at him. He’s glad the voice is gone, but he also wants to know what she did. He doesn’t want people messing with his mind unannounced.

“What did you do?”

“I got rid of the switch!” It doesn’t immediately occur to her that Rex doesn’t know about the switch. If every clone has it, then surely they know about it and simply didn’t know the use.

“What switch?”

“The one that was gonna turn you bad. Luckily I felt it after that big battle we had against those droids. Master Obi-Wan’s looking into it, but I wanted to see what I could do myself. I only meant to keep it from working. Apparently, I can get rid of it.”

Rex is still confused, but he’ll ask General Skywalker later. Instead, he grabs a passing soldier’s arm, pulling him into the conversation.

“Does he have one?”

“Yeah! Every clone has one!”

“Can you get rid of it?”

There’s a pause as Ahsoka’s eyes close, then the trooper stiffens. He was highly bemused, even more so now, but he can feel the difference. The constant need to follow orders now seems more like a choice.

Rex and Pint take Ahsoka throughout the entire ship, randomly dragging their brothers towards the Togruta and waiting for her to destroy their switches. Anakin finds them later, having gotten an update from Rex that the Padawan was fine. He’s happy for his men, and for Ahsoka. An hour into their crusade and the clones are coming to the trio, gathering to see what’s going on with only the assurance from their comrades that it’ll be worth it. It is.

Ahsoka doesn’t feel the need to find Anakin that day at any point. She’s ecstatic that she could help the troopers. Rex is glad his family is no longer faced with that voice compelling them. At least not on this ship. Not anymore. He tells her the thought running through each of their heads in replacement of that switch.

“Thank you, sister.”

Anakin almost completely panics on finding a crying Ahsoka, but she says they’re happy tears. Happy tears.

A quick visit from Master Windu is all it takes to undo so much work.

Ahsoka is silent as he visits. Windu asks how she’s recovering. She nods and moves behind Anakin just a little.

The clones notice the change in their sister. She tries to feel their light as she’s been doing for a while now, but the memories of that time, of when she thought no one cared anymore, no one but Anakin, they shove themselves into her heart, undoing the stitches that hold her together.

Windu only came for an update and a small resupply. He leaves within a day. It’s still too late.

Anakin starts thinking it all over that night, while he’s holding Ahsoka close and attempting to ward off her nightmares. Why would his Snips stay if she had so much pain associated with the Order?

He comes to the conclusion just before they have to get up. She stayed for him. If anyone else had asked, she would’ve left. She’d latched onto him for a reason, and they’d both helped each other recover.

If she was willing to stay for him, he’d leave for her.

He forms his plan mentally as he walks with Ahsoka to do their rounds. He’ll prepare a ship, stock it enough they can make it to a more neutral planet. He’ll leave a message for Rex to let him know what had happened. Then Anakin would breach the topic with Ahsoka and convince her that he was okay leaving. She probably wouldn’t mind never having to see the Council again.

It takes a week before Ahsoka can leave her Master’s side again. Rex is by her side as she leaves, but he glances back at his general in suspicion. The man had been acting weird.

Anakin records his message and leaves it on his desk. He goes to the hangar and starts prepping a ship. The clones ask what he’s doing and he brushes them off with a vague excuse. After all, he has a lot of work to do.

He goes to sleep knowing there’s very little work left to be done. Soon, he can help Ahsoka leave behind what has hurt her so much.

He doesn’t notice his message to Rex is gone.

Anakin sends his Padawan off with Pint and Fives before he goes to finish his preparations. None of the clones question him this time, but they seem to look at him in mild amusement. He wonders why...

... until he enters the ship to find it completely empty of the supplies he’d stocked.

He’s confused. It’s not like the clones to play a prank, at least not one like this. A throat is cleared behind him. He turns sharply to find Rex standing in the entrance.

“Uh, Rex. I thought you’d be on the bridge.” Rex doesn’t speak. He instead opens his palm to reveal a holodisk. Anakin’s message plays before their eyes. The Jedi says nothing, shocked that he hadn’t noticed the missing disk and nervous about his commander’s reaction. They both stand in silence for some time, until Rex finally breaks it.

“She’s our sister, and you’re our brother. She gave us freedom. We’ll use it to help you get yours.”

When the general and the commander walk off with smiles on their faces, the surrounding clones cheer. They’d all had to talk it over, and the agreement had been unanimous.

Ahsoka is briefed on what’s happening. She’s concerned, uncertain, and takes her time to think. She eventually agrees. With everything considered, it will be better.

They reprogram the ship, No one will be able to track them easily. Anakin, Ahsoka, and Rex plan. They’ll go to an uninhabited planet. They’ll land the ship and start building. If they can grow or craft things to sell, money won’t be a problem.

Ahsoka reminds them that the loss of the ship and its entire crew will lead to the Republic suffering in the war. Rex suggests helping discreetly. Anakin suggests something a bit more... radical.

They have skill on their side. If Ahsoka and Anakin can make their way to different Separatist planets, then maybe the duo can find evidence of the Separatists’ more nefarious deeds that were kept hidden. Seeing that they were lied to could cause some of the planets to turn to the Republic or neutrality, thus aiding in the war.

They begin their journey, taking the more obscure and isolated routes. All calls to the ship were blocked, and there was a team of clones assigned to making sure they weren’t tracked. Ahsoka declared she would teach some of her brothers the finer points of engineering and tech. Anakin declared that she would not, but he would. Instead, she could help them learn to craft some things, or study subjects outside of their war training.

They soon find that some clones are incredibly talented at art, and others at engineering. Rex understands physics better than any of his brothers, and Six-Piece ends up having to be dragged away from his agriculture books just to eat. The clones better at building make a forge out of the incinerator, and some of the others practice smithing. And when that goes wrong, a medical droid starts teaching a small group how to heal small wounds (and not-so-small wounds).

Some clones find that they really are made for fighting. So Ahsoka helps teach them to fight with swords and staffs and knives and every weapon they have onboard.

It takes two months to get to their final destination. A planet void of any sentient species, but with plenty of edible flora and fauna. They land the ship in a wide open space, and the real work begins.

They spend the first few days drawing up plans and unloading what they can. A few dozen clones begin to gather lumber and clear land for buildings. The next few days, those dozen are joined by more, and supplies are organized. They build a storehouse first, basically just a huge room. It will hold whatever they collect for now.

Six-Piece leads some of his brothers in clearing more land for farming. Pint starts collecting seeds. Fives draws blueprints for different tools and crafts. Ahsoka and Echo disappear for several hours one day and return with canine creatures of a scaly nature. Anakin nearly has a heart attack at the sight of the green and purple scaled animals following his Padawan. Rex almost entered a similar state, but managed to avoid it by scolding the two.

The canines were kept, and Echo and Ahsoka started training them to guard against threats and help out on the construction sites.

Within the first month, they have several rows of edible flora sown. The storehouse is built and filled with lumber. They begin reinforcing it. The ship is restructured and reorganized. The forge is upgraded the best they can, and the hangar is converted into an enormous workshop. Fighters are moved around to accommodate the new order, and several clones begin setting up work areas and tables.

They begin separating. Anakin realizes that they’ll need more rations if they want to last long on the planet. He sends some of the men to gather food and some to cultivate the land further. Then he finds the clones that seemed only meant for battle. He tells them to hunt.

They take the canines, begin training them for the trips. There’s plenty of animals to track, and plenty more that seem trainable, if only in the future. They report back with plenty of meat and a list of the more docile creatures. Who knows, maybe they can domesticate them like the canines.

The men start building more rooms to the storehouse, so that they can put the supplies in separate areas. Tools begin to be stored, the food as well. Fuel goes next, and Rex starts making cranes with his new knowledge of physics and Pint’s knowledge of engineering.

Ahsoka helps make the workshop, using the Force to lift the heavier items. Her and Anakin compile everything that isn’t necessary and doesn’t have much value to the group. They load what they can onto a transport and head for the nearest outpost. Out where they are, there are four near enough, and each is neutral.

They sell their wares. It seems what isn’t valuable to them fetches high prices at the market. They use the money to buy tools and rations, along with several books for the clones to read and some textiles. They leave quickly, not wanting to be noticed.

Clothes are made with the textiles, mostly for Ahsoka and Anakin since they’ll be going off-world the most. But some of the clones discard their armor for cloth, and some repurpose the armor for the canines.

Ahsoka names the canines Flurrians. She thinks it sounds cool. Anakin doesn’t bother arguing.

The crops grow faster than expected. The clones are ecstatic to have so much to do and it isn’t fighting.

A few find strange rocks. They crack easily with the new pickaxes their brothers fashioned from spare parts. The smiths melt them to make nuts and bolts and screws and tools and buttons and all sorts of small and large things to help. The builders finish making the storehouse, only to have to build more with all the new supplies coming in.

With the hunters bringing back animals (some simply captured so they can be domesticated), a few clones learn to clean and tan the hides. Some learn to cure the meat. Some begin teaching themselves to cook, and some to sew.

The smiths work together with their new metals to forge Anakin a mask. It looks like that of the notorious Boba Fett, but simpler and softer in the features, painted blue and grey and white. They make a little headpiece for Ahsoka, to wrap around her montrals.

Ahsoka discovers she can see around her with the Force. Anakin can as well, but he doesn’t find the need to use it often. His Padawan trains herself to connect with that sight constantly. She finds her montrals capture more sound, more waves that give her a clearer view of things nearby. Both the Force and her natural ability give her a boost.

A boost that leads to several complaints and near heart failures.

Apparently, being able to ‘see’ so well makes her entirely silent while moving around, unless she’s purposefully making noise. More than a dozen times, Rex screamed at the sudden ‘appearance’ of his sister. Anakin didn’t think much of it until he had his own minor heart attack one day. He tells her to find a way to announce her presence before she gets too close. She does.

It starts with Leo giving her a small stone he found on the ground.

“It’s pretty,” he justified. “I thought of you.” She attached it to the headpiece with help from Pip.

Then Pint handed her a shell, and Echo a feather. Beads and pebbles and scraps of metal, all handed to her because they were shiny or colorful. She slowly began to accumulate long chains of the items. The weight didn’t bother her as she gradually gained more and more prizes. Then one day, Ahsoka looked in the mirror and saw a young Togruta with a beautiful headpiece and montrals and head-tails covered in strings of trinkets. She looked eccentric, but also free.

She finds Six-Piece and he helps her make paint. She uses blue to highlight her face markings, brightening her appearance further. She’s happy.

Rex and some of the others make more paint. They decorate their buildings in colorful pictures and draw on each other’s faces. Ahsoka nearly cried when she saw Rex with paint matching her markings.

Anakin wears his helmet on trips or at night. He puts it on his belt otherwise. He makes retractable staffs that include his and Ahsoka’s lightsabers in the handles. Ahsoka’s can be separated, but is better as a staff when used as one. They would allow the blades to be carried with them, but not noticed.

As they expanded and learned how best to utilize the land, the large group gained a surplus.

“We’re going to have to sell these,” Anakin announced one day, standing in the storehouse that was packed.

“And we still have to go after some of the Separatists,” his little sister reminded.

“You’ll need new names, otherwise there’ll be bounty hunters and troops crawling everywhere,” Echo added, petting his favorite Flurrian, Sil.

“How about Socks?” Anakin smirked at the glare sent his way, but felt pure dread when the look mimicked his own.

“How about Sky?”

“Sky and Socks, sounds good to me,” Rex commented as he walked by.

The two former Jedi attempted to protest.

Sky and Socks begin a routine that becomes well-known to those who meet them. Each of the four outposts are visited at different times. The duo sells their crafts and supplies each time, and always use their money to buy more tools and more materials and more books.

And their wares are always incredibly valuable. Plants that can be used to make fuel, food that can’t be found anywhere else, metals that are so rare some don’t believe in their existence. It seems that the siblings (for that is what they are, as they assured their customers) didn’t know their items were worth so much. They start coming every month to at least one outpost, with the fact that they now know that one of the plants they grow is a highly efficient fuel and they won’t have to buy some for every trip.

Ahsoka often listens to the gossiping beings around her as her brother handles customers. She gains information on nearby planets and the frequent visitors. There are many criminals and bounty hunters around.

The first planet to turn is small. A mysterious pair of beings are said to have broken into the governor’s mansion and found evidence of his misdeeds. They sent it to the entire planet. The Separatists had been separating families and quietly getting rid of the governor’s opponents. The Republic gained a new ally.

Anakin and Ahsoka kept up their work. All planets they could reach quickly, they went and managed to convert to the Republic or to neutrality. Usually, it was to the Republic after the Separatists were proven to be traitorous. Some turned without evidence after hearing tales of what had happened elsewhere.

Sky and Socks always made it back home.

They made their own small civilization, with a farm and stables and workshops and storehouses and barracks.

Sometimes, Sky and Socks came across clones while traveling. The switches were destroyed, and the clones always agreed to go back with the two, even though they never offered, only explained what had happened to Rex Chief and his brothers.

Asajj Ventress came across them at an outpost while they headed back from a newly-aligned Republic planet.

Ahsoka hugs her, much more energetic with all the freedom and light she’s had. She gushes about the many good things that have happened to her since those dreadful days.

Ventress joins them. It takes less than a week before Ahsoka calls her sister. It takes a month before Witch joins Socks and Sky, dressed in a blue and black version of the Nightsisters garb.

Word gets around about the Clone Snatchers and Separatist Traitors.

The Clone Snatchers steal clones from battles, without any signs of struggle. The Separatist Traitors turn Separatist-aligned planets to the Republic.

There are bounties for both in both alliances. Both are wanted alive by the Republic, the Clone Snatchers so they can get their missing soldiers back and the Separatist Traitors so they can meet and possibly join forces. The Separatists want the Traitors dead or alive, preferably dead, and the Snatchers alive so that they can... ally themselves.

After only a month of radio silence from Anakin and his ship, before they established themselves so well, Padme heard the news. All that was known was that the Separatists had nothing to do with the disappearance. The senator was not pleased, and proceeded to call her husband as quickly as possible.

He picked up on the second ring, despite Obi-Wan never managing to get a call through.

“Padme, are you alright?” Anakin is calm, collected. Not at all troubled, it seems.

“Where are you?” the woman demands.

“Um... on our way to an uninhabited planet that we can land on and then live there.”

“Without me?”

“... Do you wanna know the coordinates? I kinda had to deal with changing alignment and reorganizing and reprogramming everything, and I sorta assumed you’d want to remain a senator?”

“Of course I’m going to remain a senator, but I’m still going to visit my husband.”

“HUSBAND‽ Rex, did you hear‽ Anakin and Padme are married! I’ve got a sister! Rex!”

“Is Ahsoka listening?”

“Yeah, she wanted to know why I would answer a call when we’re on radio silence.”

“So, why the change? I thought being a Jedi was everything to you.”

“No. The people I care about are everything to me. Ahsoka wasn’t going to be able to recover while constantly around the Order. Our marriage went against the code. The clones were always dying for what felt like no good reason. It makes sense to get away from what causes so much pain.”

“I understand. I’ll visit as soon as possible.”

“I call you when we land.”

FEEL FREE TO ADD MORE BC I MIGHT NOT (or might, who knows)

#star wars #clone wars #ahsoka tano #anakin skywalker #obi-wan kenobi #rex #mace windu #asajj ventress #republic #separatists #clones #flurrians #may add more later

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thecipherlegacy · 3 years

Note

For the touch promt! Touching foreheads with Mavasha and any of her daughters

Touch writing prompt

I feel like I haven't covered much of her relationship with Rexia so this one is going to be focused on them!

Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been a few days since young Rexia had healed from the incident. While the family had visited Dromund Kaas there was an attack on the city by an unknown source. A large explosion had sent shrapnel flying and nearly killed the eight year old. She was lucky to only lose her right eye and get some scars. Her father was now tirelessly looking for the terrorist responsible for the attack while her Mother had helped her with the therapy for her new cybernetic eye.

"Did you find the dead man responsible for hurting our little girl?" Rexia heard her mother's voice ask while she looked at herself in the mirror. The scars protruded from her cybernetic eye like lightning, and her sight from that eye was odd. She missed having a normal eye, and a normal face.

"Not yet, my lord" her father's voice replied. He was definitely in work mode. "I have some leads though. How is she doing?"

"She's adjusting. Let me know when you find a name, dear. Also, take a break and spend some time with us tonight. The girls want to some time with their father."

The familiar sound of Mavasha's heels began to echo down the hall along with Malavai's response "Of course"

The clicking stopped behind Rexia's door. The little one looked at it expectantly. "Rexia, darling. May I come in?" Her mother asked.

"Of course, Mommy" she replied.

The doors slid open and Mavasha stepped in. She gave a sad smile when she realized her child was sitting at the vanity again. "There's my beautiful girl" she greeted her. "How are you doing?"

The young ones blue eye looked up at her mother, then glanced back at the mirror. "I'm sad." She told her honestly. "I'm different now... I don't wanna be different." Her hand traced one of the scars back across the part of her head they had shaved to do the surgery. Fuzz had grown back since then, but the scar was still seen through the black hair.

Mavasha sighed and kneeled down next to her daughter. "Oh honey... you're not different. You're still you, inside and out. And don't you worry, the man that hurt you will pay for his transgressions" she explained. Of course, her daughter didn't doubt the perpetrator would feel her mother's wrath. She just wished it hadn't happened in the first place.

"I am different, mommy. I don't look like you or daddy anymore... And what if they won't let me be a soldier because I have one eye?..." her dream was to be like her father, had been since she was old enough to understand what his job was.

The long clawed fingers of her mother combed through her hair "little Rexia. You look so much like your father that even a mask wouldn't convince me that you aren't his. " the woman assured her. "And your new eye will help with a lot in the military. You just haven't learned all of it's tricks yet"

The little girl's hand reached up for the scars again "tricks? Will I be special like Yavie and Cat?" She asked. This question surprised Mavasha. She never thought of any of her daughters as less special than the others. Yavasa and Cathilia were very strong with the force, but Rexia was just as passionate and even while young shes worked very hard to be the best she can be.

"You are special, you always have been, my little crystal. Who told you that you weren't?"

The young one shrugged, her eyes to the floor. "I did, I guess..." she mumbled. "I dont have pretty lekku like you and Yavie, and I don’t use the force." Her voice was quiet and her hands were in her lap, fidgeting.

Her mother was gentle, she leaned over to her daughter and carefully pulled the young one into her lap before pulling out a datapad. On it was a photo of their family when Cathilia was first adopted. "I want you to look at this photo." She said in a soft tone "look at your father. He doesn't have any of those things you described either. Would you tell me he isn't special?" She asked.

Rexia took a long look at it. In that picture she was being held by her father. She really did look just like him. "Daddy is the best officer. He's smart and nice and loyal.. Of course daddy is special" she admitted.

"And you're just like him. Now with a little accessory" Mavasha said with a smile before she put away the datapad. "We tried for so long to have a second baby, and when you were born it was a miracle. We both cried" She chuckled fondly at the memory then leaned down to press her forehead against her child's. "You and your sisters are everything we could have ever asked for in our children. Passionate, powerful, beautiful and unique. Your father and I are so incredibly proud of you."

Two small hands held the mothers hand softly "Thank you Mommy... I love you" Rexia mumbled.

Mavasha placed a small kiss on her forehead and smiled. "I love you too, my heart." Came her reply. She knew her daughter would still need time to adjust, and she planned to be present for all of it.

#mox's ocs #my ocs #swtor oc #mox writes #oc: mavasha #oc: mavasha scorn #oc: rexia #quinn family fluff #touch ask meme #thanks for the ask!#i got carried away with these but thats okay lol #im not super proud of the writing here but its cute 🥺#poor baby Rexia

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firemedicdiaz · 3 years

Note

Hi babe <3 Can I get Ethereal or Numinous with Buddie? Please <3

Ethereal: extremely delicate and light in a way that seems too perfect for this world.

Numinous: feeling fearful yet awed and inspired.

Buck had attended all of one childbirth in his life.

Well, three, actually, but all at once, and he’d only assisted with one before backup had arrived to relieve him.

This was different, though. He wasn’t attending a patient, he was holding the hand of the young woman who had agreed to be his and Eddie’s surrogate. Eddie was on her other side, an arm around her shoulders, encouraging her to breathe and to push. It was surreal, this moment, and Buck could feel his heart racing with excitement, anxiety, and everything in between.

They were about to meet their baby girl.

They’d waited nine months and more, through ups and downs, doctors’ appointments, birthing classes, and long nights full of laughter and cursing as they attempted to put together all of the nursery furniture for their daughter-to-be’s room. They’d become friends with their surrogate, had supported her tirelessly through the pregnancy, marveled at the way her belly had grown taut and swollen, at the way their baby girl kicked at their palms and the way her heartbeat had filled their ears when they’d listened for it. The entire experience had been sublime.

Even at that moment, through grunts and moans and tears, all Buck could feel was wonder and awe. His heart leapt into his throat as their little girl was born, her cries filling the air, sighs of relief, peals of laughter and joy ringing through the room as the cord was cut.

A stillness and silence replaced the noise inside of him as a nurse held the swaddled newborn out to him and Buck was suddenly struck by the immensity of the moment. She was so small, she barely weighed anything, and she seemed to quiet the moment he pressed her to his chest. She was delicate, fragile as an antique porcelain doll, and Buck was scared to move lest she break in his hands. She seemed content, though, dozing off almost immediately as his warmth soothed her.

She was perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes, and a mess of dark hair that reminded Buck so much of Eddie it was unmistakable that she was his daughter. A little cherub, cheeks rosy from the fading effort of coming into the world kicking and screaming. She looked like a little angel, radiant and resplendent like something straight out of a renaissance painting.

Eddie watched the two of them as he comforted the woman on the hospital bed, praising her for her hard work, for everything she’d done so that they could have this moment and so many, many more. His heart was cracking at the seams, full of so much love and joy that tears blurred his vision. He’d known his love for Buck, for Christopher and their whole little family unit was limitless, but watching his husband and his newborn daughter opened up a chasm so wide and deep that it almost frightened him. He’d never known such enormity.

Buck glanced up as he gently rocked their daughter in his arms, his gaze meeting Eddie’s. There were a dozen people in the waiting room outside who desperately wanted to meet their little girl, but there would be time for that later. In that moment, as they were shepherded from the room by a nurse to give their surrogate some privacy, peace, and quiet, the world had narrowed down to the three of them. Everything else could wait for a little while longer as they basked in the glow of the brand new life they’d just welcomed into the world.

They walked slowly and carefully into a private room next door where an anxious Christopher waited in the company of a nurse. He hadn’t been allowed in the delivery room, but Buck and Eddie had refused to leave him out of the moment. He bounced excitedly in his chair as Buck crossed the room and slowly knelt in front of him.

“Chris, there’s someone we’d like you to meet,” Buck murmured softly. “Say hello to your little sister.”

Christopher’s face reflected every bit of light and joy in Buck and Eddie’s hearts. As he fawned over the little girl in Buck’s arms, everything felt right in the world. With the four of them finally all together, their family felt complete, and nothing and no one in the world could ever take that away from them.

Request a drabble.

#jules answers #9-1-1 #Buddie #fanfiction #Evan Buckley #Eddie Diaz #fluff #fireladybuckley

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discopiratetanis · 4 years

Text

The words you want to hear [geraskier week 2020 | Soulmates]

TITLE: The words you want to hear | Read on AO3

AUTHOR: ficsfordummies | TanisVs

PROMPT DAY #: 1. Soulmates

SUMMARY: “They will say those words to you, my dear. Your soulmark is what you most want someone to say to you. It represents how much your soulmate loves you and cares about you. That's why only you can see your soulmark until they say it, if anyone could see them, they could trick you into thinking it's your soulmate when it's not. They are words that must be born from the heart, do you understand?”

WORD COUNT: 4795

BOOKS/NETFLIX/2002 SHOW/VIDEO GAME: Mostly Netflix.

TRIGGERS/WARNINGS: N/A (Well, there are a lot of headcanons)

RATING: M for future chapters.

ADDITIONAL NOTES: Written for @geraskierweek No beta. So here we are! This is my little contribution to the lovely and beautiful Geraskier Week 2020 initiative. It will be my only work for it, a three-chapter fic with the first prompt (soulmates) topic as its core, I hope you like it ❤️❤️❤️

I don't care about your songs if you're dead

Jaskier had read those words over and over throughout his childhood. The phrase was written with rough thick strokes, as if someone had carved the letters into his tender and delicate skin of his left forearm when he was a baby. And the ink. The words were made of dense, deep black ink, but in the light of the fire, candles or the sun itself, it sparkled with gold and grey if Jaskier turned or moved his wrist, like the scales of an iridescent fish.

“Those are all markers of your soulmate, Julian, it represents them,” His mother had told him when Jaskier had described the appearance of his soulmark when he was five.

“How will I know who my soulmate is, mother?” Jaskier had asked then.

His mother had smiled at him, softly.

“They will say those words to you, my dear. Your soulmark is what you most want someone to say to you. It represents how much your soulmate loves you and cares about you. That's why only you can see your soulmark until they say it, if anyone could see them, they could trick you into thinking it's your soulmate when it's not. They are words that must be born from the heart, do you understand?”

Jaskier had wrinkled his little nose at that time.

“Yes, mother,”

“And remember,” she had said too. “Soulmates are persons meant to be together, yes, but you can’t or should force a soulbond. If someone will be meant to be with you, you have to build a strong relationship,”

“I… understand,”

“You’ll meet a lot of people in the future, my dear, don’t worry about that now,”

“Yes, mother,”

And Jaskier had not worried much about the subject until he turned fourteen and his father began to pressure him to study more seriously. He was the son, the only son, of a viscount, and they might not be of the highest nobility, but the family had status and his parents expected Jaskier to be even more literate than many of the sons and daughters of the high nobility. For that reason, Jaskier went to Oxenfurt, and though he was too young to attend higher education classes, Jaskier took the opportunity to start to take the first step to find his soulmate.

He knew that if his soulmark spoke about songs, then he must study something that would lead him to write poetry and music. So he chose the faculty of Trouvereship and Poetry, to his father's disgust and his mother's resignation. He studied there for three years, arduously, tirelessly, determined to be the best. And yes, he was the best of his class, and of his promotion in all faculties. His teachers told him that he would write peerless poetry, that his music would be remembered forever. He believed them. Jaskier graduated with honors, and hit the road with seventeen, still too young, too innocent and kind.

Then he came face to face with reality.

Outdoors of Oxenfurt nobody liked his music o his poetry, and far away from his family and their commodities, Jaskier suffered hardship. He went hungry, cold and sometimes he had to make dubious deals to avoid dying. Many times he thought about returning to the nobleman's life, but then he would roll up his left shirt sleeve, would look at the words, those crude but precious black words that sparkled with amber and gold under the light, would take a deep breath and would keep going.

For whoever that had to be his soulmate.

Then he met Geralt of Rivia, the infamous Butcher of Blaviken whose stories he had heard since he was a child, and decided that the witcher was the best inspiration he would probably find in his life. So he followed Geralt everywhere, without realizing he had taken the second step to find his soulmate.

* * *

It had been half a year since they last saw each other. Jaskier had become more confident, but only because his new growing fame made him more secure and have more coins in his pouch. He had to thank Geralt, of course. People loved stories about witchers who, although they might seem like men of terrible behavior without morals and without principles, in the end had a heart, saved people and cared for the weak. Geralt had once told him that all that was stupid, but Jaskier had ignored him.

The truth didn’t lead to greatness.

“So, what if I invite you to ale in the next village tavern? You are going there, right? You could tell me about your latest adventures,”

“Hm,”

“Ah, yes, that one was very interesting and funny,”

Geralt was walking, guiding Roach by the bridle, with his heavy cloak waving softly behind him. Jaskier had one much more fancy and lighter that it didn’t hide his rapier and back-daggers at all, with his elven lute hanging from his shoulder. His pace was prideful, lordly.

“So, I heard of your affair with the striga in Temeria,” Jaskier said, much more serious, less cheerful, and looked at Geralt with curious.

He had grown a few inches in the time that they hadn't seen each other, but Geralt was still much taller than him. Geralt said anything, not even a grunt, and the road remained silent, a silence only broken by the happy chirping of the spring birds. Jaskier saw the grim gesture Geralt made at the mention of the striga, and didn’t press. He walked beside him until they reached the town ahead.

Then, when the first villager noticed Geralt was a witcher, Jaskier went to the tavern alone.

It was the witcher’s life. He knew that.

“A selkiemore, uh?” Jaskier mumbled while writing in his journal.

The tavern was full of a crowd of townsfolk listening to the man who had contracted Geralt that morning. Jaskier had his belly full of warm food and a decent ale, so he felt with enough energy to try to write, or at least think, about his next great song. Toss a coin to your witcher it was good, very good, and people loved that song, but he didn’t want to become stagnant. He needed more successful songs.

Songs.

He slightly touched his left forearm, over the doublet sleeve. Then he remembered why he was there, in Cintra, and remembered the letter the chamberlain of Queen Calanthe had sent to him a month ago. It was a great honor to be the main bard in the court of such an important queen during her daughter's betrothal. But he knew that it was risky. Because in his obsessive spiral of finding his soulmate sooner rather than later, Jaskier had meddled in other people's marriages, even though they were not married to their true soulmates. And some of those people were nobles. And he knew that, at least, his beloved Countess of Stael was going to be in the ceremony.

With her husband.

So he was fucked up.

A little.

Jaskier was thinking about that while he was writing the description of the monster according to the words of the fat farmer who had witnessed the fight between Geralt and the selkiemore. He smiled when the man said that Geralt was dead, because he didn't believe for a moment that the witcher was going to die in such an absurd way. So he laughed when Geralt entered the tavern, covered in blood, guts, and shit as if nothing had happened. It wasn’t the first time. He made the crowd sing Toss a coin to your witcher, knowing Geralt would groan, tired and disgusted. He collected a few coins. Geralt took a tankard of ale from a table and drank, spitting it half a second later. Jaskier snorted and leaned on the counter of the tavern.

Then he took a deep breath, and when Geralt approached him, he said:

“I need a favor,”

Geralt looked at him, silent, serious, and saw the apprehensive face Jaskier was making without realizing it. So the witcher tilted his head a little while viscous droplets of blood dripped to the floor.

“Tell me,”

* * *

“Wow, what a night, right?”

Jaskier trotted behind Geralt, who was striding along the hallways as if the Destiny itself were to appear in the palace to grab him by the neck and force him to claim his Child of Surprise before he or she was even born.

“This is your fault,” Geralt snarled, ablaze with anger.

“What? My fault?” Jaskier protested, irritated and incredulous. “Excuse me, but I’m not the one who chose the Law of Surprise as payment here, you know,”

Geralt stopped dead suddenly, break-breathing, still furious, with a remarkable frown carved in his forehead. Jaskier sighed, facing him, his lute hanging from his shoulder like always, and didn’t flinch when Geralt glared at him with amber fire.

“If you hadn’t brought me here, I wouldn’t–” Geralt whispered, still wrathful.

Jaskier pressed his lips in a thin line, feeling a hot and unpleasant sensation in the pit of his stomach.

“Don’t you dare to blame me for what had you done, Geralt, you heard me?” Jaskier mumbled back, not with the same anger but with determination. Geralt huffed, looking away from him. “You could have asked for money, for lands, for anything other than that, but you preferred the Law of Surprise,”

“I know,” Geralt growled again.

Jaskier let out a deep breath, an exhausted and long sigh. They were in the middle of an empty and lonely corridor, with the rumor of the music at the party fluttering even there. Geralt sat on a nearby stone bench. Jaskier sat beside him, thinking.

“You knew it?” he asked after a minute in silence, with Geralt staring intensely at the floor.

The witcher shrugged a little before straightening and leaning on the wall with a grunt.

“Of course not,” he mumbled, calmer. “How could I have known it?”

He sounded resigned. Jaskier threw him a sympathetic glance and felt guilty anyway. He had been a little selfish because, of course, he could have defended himself against aggrieved husbands and wives, but… He wanted to go with Geralt to the party. Maybe it was really his fault.

Maybe.

“Well, think about it,” he said. “If I hadn’t brought you with me, Calanthe would have killed that man, you saved a life tonight,"

"You would have done the same, I saw you fighting before,"

Jaskier parted lips, feeling his cheeks burning.

"Oh, yes, but I'm good at duels or like… two against one, even three against one, but an entire squad of soldiers? Thank you, but no," he saw Geralt smiling from the corner of his eye. Jaskier swallowed. "So as I was saying, you saved a life tonight, and saved Pavetta from soulrotting."

Soulrotting. He could recall when his mother had told him about that concept. He was eight at that time, and one of his mother's maids had lost her husband, her soulmate, in battle. Jaskier remembered that day. The scream of agony had heard everywhere in the Lettenhove fortress.

"How do you know they are soulmates and not two simple lovers?" Geralt asked, slowly, looking at Jaskier.

Jaskier shrugged.

"I don't know for sure, but…" he hesitated, feeling his soulmark heavier than before. He touched his left sleeve and dragged his fingers a little over it. "If my mother would be about to kill my soulmate I would scream like that too,"

"That was magic,"

"You know what I mean," Then Jaskier looked at Geralt and met those golden eyes. Something inside him tingled. Geralt looked away a second later, with a grimace. Jaskier swallowed slightly, still caressing his sleeve. "You wouldn't do it?"

"Do what?"

"Defend your soulmate against everyone and everything?"

There was a silence, a big and dense silence that Jaskier didn't understand and couldn't explain. He felt it heavy and… bitter. Geralt sighed, grunted. Again he sounded tired and resigned.

"I suppose, I don't know," Geralt murmured.

Jaskier blinked, confused.

"What do you mean you don't know?" he asked.

Another silence, thicker than before. Jaskier frowned, knowing that he shouldn't push him, but…

"Geralt?"

… but surprisingly, Geralt answered without snarling at him, his voice full of exhaustion.

"Witchers don't have soulmates, Jaskier, "

The third silence wasn't heavier than the previous two. It was strangely soft, although uncomfortable and somehow… painful, agonizing. Jaskier didn't know and knew at the same time why he felt as if someone had punched him in the guts, ripping all the air from his lungs.

"Oh," he mumbled, and wet his lips, suddenly sad. "How do you… How do you know? You don't…?"

He knew it was a dumb question. But Geralt, again, answered with much more patient than Jaskier would expect.

"I don't have a soulmark, no. Witchers don't have words on his arms," Then Geralt got up, without looking at him. "Come on, let's get out of here,"

He started to walk, not so fast than before, towards the end of the corridor. Jaskier watched him for a second, still feeling… sad, and got up too to follow him. He sighed, clenching his left hand in a fist.

* * *

Jaskier turned the rapier in his hand, elegant, keeping his balance. He stabbed the air and backed away, then he cut an imaginary opponent, spinning on his heels, chaining block, feint and attack movements again and again. When he stopped he was out of breath, sweating. Then he lowered his rapier and sheathed it with a loud sigh.

Geralt, sitting against a tree near the edge of the clearing, discovered he was holding his breath until then. He thought, he noticed, he always noticed, how gorgeous, how stunning, was Jaskier when he trained, when he used his sword, when he was such concentrated and full of harsh and intense energy. It didn't have anything to do with the strength Jaskier detached when he sang or when he tricked someone with his silver-tongue. Geralt couldn't say what oh those attitudes he liked more.

"Geralt?" Jaskier's soft voice made him blink. He saw the bard smiling, cheeky. "See something you like?"

Geralt blinked again, watching him. Jaskier had his hair slightly wet, his forehead pearly with sweat, his cheeks rosy. He was on his too much tight trousers and on his shirt, only on his laced, cute and luxurious shirt that was mid-open, and Geralt could catch a glimpse of part of his pecs and, of course, his chest hair. He felt how his throat went dry in seconds, and looked away with a loud grunt.

Jaskier laughed and sat beside him, at his right against the tree. He had rolled up his sleeves so his left forearm brushed with Geralt's right arm. Geralt stared at the clearing, knowing that in that blank skin was a soulmark, the words that Jaskier wanted the most to hear from someone.

Someone.

A claw gripped and tightened his heart and, somehow, his right forearm burned with an old and long lost memory.

* * *

Jaskier mumbled a curse, crossing out the last word he had written. Tiny drops of ink fell to the sheet, mottling the parchment of his not-yet-finished new song with a myriad of little black stars. He thought in silence with the feather under his chin. He lasted three seconds. Then he sighed and left the journal on the table, tired, upset.

The tavern was empty except for the owner, Geralt and himself. It was early anyway, and neither of them expected to see anybody until noon.

The silence was weird.

"What's wrong?"

Jaskier looked up. Across the table, Geralt was watching him, with that frown that Jaskier knew meant the witcher was a little worried.

"Nothing," he mumbled, grabbing Geralt's tankard and taking a sip. When he saw Geralt arching an eyebrow, he groaned. "Nothing, really, don't worry,"

He took another sip, and that allowed the witcher to snatch the journal Jaskier had left on the table. He opened it on the last page. He made a grimace, confused at first, curious at second. Jaskier let out a new tired sigh and take a third sip of ale.

"I know," he said, sarcastically. "It's horrible, a complete disaster,"

"It's not," Geralt replied, absent.

"Geralt, I don't doubt that with age comes knowledge but I know you don't have any idea of music or poetry, so don't try to cheer me up with empty flattering,"

Geralt turned a page, ignoring him. The journal was full of lyrics, old and new, and sheet music, both finished and incomplete. Or at least that was what it looked like, Geralt wasn't sure. Jaskier was right, he didn't have any idea about music. But what he liked wasn't the music notes or the attempts and tests for rhymes.

No.

It was his handwriting.

It was fluid, thin, delicate. Like the course of a quiet but sometimes playful river. Its stroke was slightly bowed to the right because Jaskier was right-handed. There were words crossed out everywhere. Geralt thought it was pretty.

And that it was... familiar.

Familiar.

Suddenly he felt his inner right forearm itching, a not quite unpleasant sensation. Geralt rubbed that specific zone of his arm, above the sleeve of his shirt, and frowned, uncomfortable. Jaskier, locked in the ale tankard, didn't notice that. Geralt left the journal on the table with no words, and took a deep breath.

He knew where he had seen that type of handwriting before.

He knew very well.

* * *

"You can't come,"

"Don't be ridiculous, Geralt,"

"Oh, I am the one who is being ridiculous?"

Geralt secured the straps of his swords and checked out that he was wearing them tightly to his back. Beside him, Roach huffed a little uneasily, sniffing the air of tension between the witcher and the bard. Geralt searched in one of the mare's saddlebags and extracted a couple of bottles filled with a green and silver liquid. He put them in his pouch and turned around.

Jaskier was facing him, arms crossed, with a clearly indignant and annoyed frown. He had his rapier, his silver rapier, hanging on the left side of his hip, his daggers, his also silver daggers, on the right side. His lute was safe in their room, upstairs, inside the inn. Geralt thought Jaskier should be inside the inn too, safe, without wanting to go with him to do his job. Geralt huffed as Roach had done before, patted the mare on the neck and walked away past Jaskier, towards the location where the monster that he had to kill was supposed to be.

Jaskier followed him.

"You can't face an entire pack of drowners alone,"

"Ah, you know how to do my job better than me, it's that so, bard?" Geralt hissed. "Should I tell you how to write music now?"

He didn't want to sound mean. He didn't want to be mean. He knew Jaskier was worried, he could smell his fear. But...

"No, but I can help you, you know I can help you. At least with that type of monster. I have silver, and I am fast, faster than most of the men, you always say that,"

He always said that. It was true. Jaskier was a great warrior, and Geralt would trust him with his life, with his eyes closed. But not with that, not with monsters. Not with something that could rip off his flesh in a blink and eat him while he was still alive.

He didn't want that.

He couldn't live with that.

They were in the middle of the street, rain splashing furiously as if the gods were angry. There was water running everywhere, pouring from everywhere. The perfect scenery for a bunch of creatures that lived in the sewers.

"Come on, Geralt," Jaskier grabbed him by the arm, trying to stop him. Geralt didn't flinch and pushed the bard off, grunting. Jaskier groaned too, frustrated, and trotted until he surpassed the witcher and got in his way.

"Please, let me help you with this," Jaskier said. No, implored, begged, pleaded. Geralt caught the heavy and thick scent of fear, but it wasn't just fear. No. It was panic, pure and electric terror. Jaskier feared for him, but it wasn't the first time Geralt had to hunt monsters, leaving the bard behind. Geralt avoided Jaskier and he kept walking, faster.

The rain raged and one lightning ignited the sky like a fierce and bright snake. Then, just then, Geralt felt again a hand grabbing his arm, and this time the witcher stopped.

The thunder rumbled violently and it was as if a dragon was roaring.

The clutch on his arm was strong. Geralt didn't look back, didn't look at Jaskier. He breathed in, deep, and sensed the fear more intense than before. Another lightning. Another thunder. Geralt tried to let go, but Jaskier tightened his hold. Geralt felt a growl being born in his chest. He could get rid of the grip easily, he was stronger, but he was also tired of those arguments. Jaskier should understand why he couldn't go with him.

"Jaskier," he said, low, slowly. A warning.

"Geralt," Jaskier replied, arrogant, stubborn.

Geralt inhaled deeply for a third time, and noticed that fear was no longer the only smell there, under all the rain. But he couldn't recognize the new scent, not yet. It was bitter but also sweet. Geralt growled.

"You can't come, it's not negotiable,"

"Why?" More obstinacy. "It would not be the first time,"

"Drowners aren't like bandits, or like a single monster I can make be focused on me," Geralt tightened his teeth, closed his eyes for a second, and then opened it still without facing Jaskier. "You could die,"

There was a two seconds silence, only broken by the violent storm.

"So are you," Jaskier replied, and his voice was softer than before, weaker.

"It's my job, not yours"

And I don't want you to die, he should say, I want you to be safe here, where I could return to you later, he should say. He thought about the drowners, he thought about their claws and fangs, their viscous, horrendous skin and faces. He knew it wasn't the monster's fault, really, but…

"Well, If we are talking about jobs–"

"Jaskier," Geralt growled, again, getting angry, angrier. He still didn't look back, at him.

"No, come on! If we are talking about jobs I have one, you know?"

"Jaskier, " The growl grew up.

"Remember? That one in which I sing and people throw me money?" Geralt stepped forward, only two steps. "You remember it, right?"

"You're wasting my time,"

"Because I have been neglecting my job only for you! Because you insist on not telling me anything of value for my songs, and–"

"Jaskier, "

"And! I thought, well, I understand, he is not good explaining shit, he doesn't want to talk, so if I watch how he fights and hunts monsters I suppose I can manage with that, but no! Also no! How do you want me to do my job, witcher?"

And then, the third lightning sparked in the sky, enormous, violent. And something in Jaskier voice made Geralt to burst. He faced the bard, finally, his amber eyes flaming with hurt fury.

"Jaskier, I don't care about your songs if you're dead! Do you understand that or not?!"

The third thunder erupted immediately after and devoured the other sounds. It lasted at least four long seconds. Four long seconds in which they looked at each other under the dark rain with no words. Then, slowly, Jaskier loosened his grip. And Geralt noticed his expression. Jaskier looked down, frowning a little, his hands trembling, his lips pressed in a thin line. Geralt saw him swallowing, hard. A strong and powerful scent cracked around him.

But the bard said nothing.

So Geralt took that as an advantage and turned around to walk away. He didn't say anything either. He felt strangely tired, tensed. He didn't look back, he had a job to do.

* * *

It took him four days to clean the sewers from drowners. Geralt emerged to the surface covered in green-black blood, murky water, and shit, so he seemed like one of the monsters he had killed down there, in the guts of the city. It wasn't the first time, and it wasn't the first time he had to come back to the inn covered in dirt like that.

When Geralt arrived into the room he shared with Jaskier, he found him leaning on the windowsill, reading something. At the sound of someone appearing, the bard looked up and turned around. He arched his eyebrows in surprise.

"Geralt!"

And in relief.

Jaskier moved toward the witcher with two steps and hugged him tight, exhaling a heavy breath and resting his forehead on his chest. Geralt went stiff, not because Jaskier was hugging him but–

"Jaskier, you are going to get dirt," Geralt sighed.

Jaskier squeezed him a little before releasing him and looked at Geralt with his bright and pretty blue eyes.

"I was worried," he mumbled.

He had mud in his forehead, in his right cheek, and in the front of his fancy doublet. But he didn't seem angry. Geralt breathed in and caught the pale scent of flowers, ink, and wood that followed Jaskier everywhere, alongside something soft and sweet under all his own dirt. He grunted, weakly.

"Sorry, it took me longer than I would think, "

"Right, uh…"Jaskier hesitated, looking away, and headed to the door. "I will ask the innkeeper to prepare a bath for you,"

Geralt watched him go, knowing that their fight was not resolved. He sighed again, feeling exhausted, hungry. Then he glanced at the piece of parchment that was on the windowsill, forgotten, and he felt curiosity. It had been folded and unfolded many times, and it had a red wax seal that, when he examined it closely, he recognized it.

It was the blazon of the Lettenhove. It was a letter.

Geralt backed off and decided not to pry more. It was Jaskier's. And whether or not he wanted to tell him, it was none of his business.

He rubbed his right forearm unconsciously. That thought made him feel… more tired.

Gerald needed two rounds of hot water to get rid of all the shit he was covered with. With the third bath, he let himself get enough relaxed to lingering in the water doing nothing more than leaning against the edge and wall tub with his eyes closed. It was already night, so Jaskier had lit a few candles around the room. The bard hadn't talked much in that time except for two or three nervous jokes about the dirt water Geralt had been spraying everywhere when he was leaving his two previous baths.

Geralt knew Jaskier was ruminating something.

He didn't want to push him.

But he also wanted…

He opened his eyes, slowly, and saw that Jaskier was with his back turned to him. He counted five seconds, determined to talk about the discussion they had had four days ago, determined to be the one making the effort to fix things this time. He parted his lips, just about to say his name, to call him.

Then Jaskier turned around and faced Geralt, serious, but at the same time nervous. Geralt smelled something uncomfortable, something anxious and painful.

Something sad.

He shut his mouth.

Jaskier took a deep breath. He hadn't changed his clothing yet or cleaned his face.

"Geralt, I…," he said, hesitating, licking his lips, avoiding his gaze. He exhaled, long, as if he didn't know how to say what he wanted to say. Then he bit his lower lip. Geralt stared at him, feeling on edge, vulnerable for the first time in a long time. "I want to ask you for something," Jaskier looked at Geralt, and Geralt nodded.

Then Jaskier sighed one more long breath, biting his lips again, looking away, again, and crossed his arms, almost hugging himself as if he needed someone holding him, as If he needed a shield.

"I…"

The bard frowned a little more, and Geralt saw that frown trembling. Jaskier clicked his tongue and, this time, locked eyes with the witcher. Geralt felt the intensity, determination, and… grief.

Grief.

He knew what Jaskier wanted to ask. He should have known in the first moment he had seen the letter with the Lettenhove emblem. He had no doubt.

"You want to hire me," Geralt said, low, soft, calm. "You want to make a contract,"

Jaskier parted his lips.

"Yes," he said.

And Geralt saw, saw, how just then Jaskier looked and walked away, out of the room, squeezing, clasping, his left forearm with tight and shaky fingers.

#geraskier #geraskier week #geraskier au #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #geralt x jaskier #soulmates au #my fanfiction #sorry for the netflix show divergences #i want to picture a more reliable friendship #i think

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mystic-shadows42 · 4 years

Text

Against the Odds {Part 17}

Warnings: Angst, Death, Language, and Violence

It should’ve been a relief to tell the truth, though it still feels like you’re carrying a weight on your shoulders.

You won’t let Hvitserk and Ivar get to you. No matter what, they’d never understand the position you were put in.

You are proud of the fact that you defended yourself successfully even at the expense of some deaths.

There’ll be more threats to come. This was just the beginning. You didn’t know if you’d even make it, but you prayed to the gods that your baby and your siblings will make it.

You couldn’t imagine anything bad happening to them. They were you purpose and motivation to keep pushing. To fight.

You and Hvitserk hadn’t talked to each other since the confrontation in the dungeons. Hvitserk was still here, he hadn’t completely abandoned you. If he was truly angry and wanted to severe ties, he would’ve done so by now.

He had at least defended you from Ivar’s outrage, but was it out for his love for you or his obligation to your unborn child?

You shook the thought away. It shouldn’t matter. He protected you when you needed him to. You were thankful that your baby was safe. That was all that matters.

Ubbe and Sigurd had remained in Kattegat. They hadn’t approached you, they simply kept to themselves. You were thankful for that. You didn’t know where their mindset was at or where they would stand with the upcoming fight.

Meanwhile, Ivar had snuck away in the middle of the night. He was crafty, finding another way out of Kattegat. He would be a threat for sure.

You only felt safe when you were around your siblings and Lagertha. She always had a smile on her face when she would look down at your growing stomach. She treated you with respect and with kind words when you felt down, thinking about Hvitserk.

Some days seemed hard without him when you were feeling sick with your ongoing pregnancy. Instead of his gentle touches and blanket of comfort his presence had over you, your siblings took on the role.

Sif would hold your hand and rub your stomach while Leif would fetch soup from the cooks.

With everything going on, Lagertha wanted Kattegat to be prepared for the upcoming attack with Katia’s father.

Everybody was helping out to defend Kattegat, should anyone attack unexpectedly. Currently you were helping out, making spears. The work took your mind off of all of the bad.

You looked up seeing everybody bustling about. From the left you saw Hvitserk headed your way. You looked back down, focusing on your work. It would be a first in awhile since you last saw him.

His feet were the only thing you could see while looking down. You tried not to get your hopes high in his presence.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m making wooden spears to defend my home.”

Hvitserk placed his hand over her wrist that held the blade.

“Your hands look bad.”

He was right. You worked tirelessly making these spears. You feared the thought of wasting time. It wasn’t an option, not when lives were at stake.

“I’ll be fine,” you brushed off, continuing to slice the wood, shaping it into a fine point.

“You need to give yourself a break. There’s no need to overwork yourself.”

“The more I make the better protection we have at defending ourselves.”

He took the blade from your hand and helped you stand up.

“Let me take care of this.” As you stood up, you looked down at his hands over yours. He looked into your eyes as if he wanted to say more. You wanted him to say something, anything that’d indicate what you had wasn’t lost. “Just go home.”

He let go of your hands and sat down where you were sitting to finish your previous task. You masked your disappointment and went home.

****

The next day Hvitserk had approached you. He held your arm, holding you in place. You looked at his face seeing warpaint on his face.

“Ships have been spotted not too far.”

“They’re here already?”

“It looks like it. It’s sooner than we had hoped.”

“I’m surprised you’ve stuck around to help.”

“Despite what’s happened, I understand what you had to do. I may not have reacted that way, but I’ll make that up to you. Just know that I still love you.”

His words were touching and just what you needed to hear, especially if Kattegat was going to be under attack soon.

Hvitserk looked past you with his eyes squinting.

“What is it?”

Before you could turn around Hvitserk grabbed you and pulled you away. All of your body weight was on him as you looked where you were previously standing.

There was an arrow that was pierced in the wooden beam that you were standing next to. It would’ve been a fatal shot.

You looked around frantically trying to see who shot it when you saw those blue eyes staring back at you.

Ivar smirked when you realized it was him who shot the arrow. Hvitserk had already picked you up carrying you in your shocked state. He set you down in front of your house.

“Disguise yourself. Get Leif and Sif and hide in the dungeons. Lock the door and don’t come out unless I come for you.”

Hvitserk had some shieldmaidens escort you and your siblings into the dungeons to hide along with others who could not fight.

Everything was coming undone. Disguisers revealed themselves as the attackers. Arrows were flying everywhere from both sides. Some of the enemy boats were docking. The attackers fell into hidden ditches full of spears.

Hvitserk’s eyes followed the boats and the man who came off of it. It was Katia’s father. His men stood around him, protecting their leader.

Sigurd stood next to Hvitserk watching Katia’s father as well.

“I’m with you brother.”

“Whatever you do Sigurd, don’t go after him on your own. He’s a skilled fighter.” He knew what Sigurd was capable of on the training grounds, but he knew his weaknesses as well. He wouldn’t stand a chance against a man like Katia’s father

Before he could give Sigurd the chance to make a smart comment he went on the attack of Katia’s father’s men. He put all his skills from training into the battle.

He was swift and skilled with his sword in hand, wounding the men before the final blow that’ll end their lives forever. Many men and women will be in Valhalla today. He wished for it, but not before he sees to your safety and his baby being born.

From the corner of Hvitserk’s eyes he saw Sigurd fighting Katia’s father. He was being outmatched and was on the defense.

“No, Sigurd,” Hvitserk tried to make his way over but took a heavy punch to the face knocking him down onto the floor. From there, he saw his younger brother take a sword through the chest.

He had no time to react when the man who punched him lifted him up off the ground. Hvitserk unleashed his anger and headbutted his attacker.

Hvitserk used that distraction to swing his sword at the man, striking him dead. He then turned his attention to Katia’s father. He pulled his sword on him as he did the same.

They clashed swords. Even with Hvitserk’s experience he could feel his arms start to tire. His emotions were overcoming him. He has a lot to lose fighting a man like him.

“Your whore killed my daughter!”

“No. I killed your daughter,” the sparks from their swords blinded Hvitserk for a moment as he retreated to a defensive stance. He wanted his anger to be on him instead of you.

“I’m going to take everything from you just as you have done to me.”

Hvitserk was hit from behind and dropped to his knees unexpectedly. It was a cheap shot by one of his men. Katia’s father kicked Hvitserk’s shoulder and stepped on his hand when he tried reached for his sword on the floor.

He yelled out in pain. He looked up at the man who would take his life. The one that would take everything from him just as he stated before. He prepared himself for his death seeing the man above him pull his sword back.

All of a sudden a spurt of blood splattered on Hvitserk’s face. Katia’s father was struck dead. His body fell to the floor and Ubbe appeared behind him, wiping off his sword.

His brother saved his life. One that he was very grateful for.

Now he has to find Ivar. No doubt he’d scour the earth to find you and make you pay for mother’s death.

Tagged: @lol-haha-joke @geekandbooknerd @alexa4040 @fairyofvoid @soleil-dor @grincheveryday @belovedcherry @lordsexmachine @ahlittlelost @hey-marina

#Hvitserk #Hvitty #Hvitserk x reader #Hvitserk Imagine #Hvitserk Lothbrok #Hvitserk Ragnarsson #Vikings #Vikings Fanficiton #Hvitserk fanfiction

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sea-and-storm · 4 years

Text

FFXIV WRITE 2020: Crux (#1)

Arukh had wondered no few times during the last few years of his life if there was a limit to how much a man could endure before he could no longer be called a man at all. No few times had he wondered just how far away from that nebulous line he himself lie after nearly four decades of having that which he held to slip through his fingers, no matter how tight his grip.

Such were the thoughts that lingered upon his mind now as he lie back amongst the blankets and furs of his bed, staring up without focus towards the ceiling of the yurt above him.

He could remember a time before he knew loss's hateful touch. Those early years of his life had been few, but still full of vibrancy and warmth. He could remember clinging to his mother's skirts as she tended the cookfire, the smell of spices filling their home and the soft melody she hummed as she stirred. He could remember his father hoisting him up onto his shoulders as he went about his tasks for the day, tirelessly answering each and every question that had escaped from his inquisitive young mind. He could remember when his parents had explained to him that another would soon be added to their family, and the wonder he felt with his hand pressed against his mother's stomach.

Yet the memories of that time grew fuzzier at the edges with each passing year. He could no longer remember the notes that made his mother's song, nor all the questions he had asked his father much less their answers. Once, he had vividly remembered the sensation of the baby kicking against his tiny hand. Now, he struggled to remember if that had even happened at all or if it were simply a fabrication of nostalgic longing. The rest of his childhood memories had grown similarly fuzzy, if not forgotten at all.

It wasn't merely the march of time that had robbed him of these glimpses into the past though, of that he was convinced. It wasn't that he had never thought back to them save for fleeting occasions moons or years apart. Rather, they were often on his mind, a safe respite that he had clung to in the storm-tossed sea of his life. He thought of those times when he closed his eyes, and when he slept he dreamt of what they could have become if only things were different. And yet still, as close to heart as he kept them, they too were leaving him.

It was a vexing phenomenon, but not one that defied explanation. If anything, the explanation was painfully simple: loss, and his was a life marked by it. Cursed by it.

First, he had lost his family; not just his baby sister who had been taken from them, but his parents as well. After they had been forced to surrender Ghoa to the gods, they had never been the same. His mother's cheerful hums had been replaced with muffled sobs. His father's endless patience for his questions finally found its end, and he had grown quiet and distant. And of course, the baby sister he had been eagerly awaiting was stolen away from his future for reasons that he was too young to understand --- not that he truly understood them any better as a man grown.

Without a doubt, the sundering of his family was a deep wound, though perhaps it might have had a chance to properly heal in time had it been the only injury sustained. But his lot was to be born into a tribe for whom loss was an inevitability. Each year, as Arukh turned from child to adolescent to young man, he had stood by and watched as more were taken from him each time the Kharlu came to claim their due. Friends he had grown alongside. Aunts, uncles, cousins that shared his blood. Mentors that molded and shaped him into the capable young man he had become. So many people of significant importance to him had been taken, to serve as little more than battle fodder to soften the Jhungid assault for their newfound Kharlu masters.

And then finally, he too had been chosen, and what did remain to him of home had been ripped away as well.

In its place, Arukh had found himself thrown into what felt to be the deepest pit of the hells. That first year a slave, surrounded by those who treated him with indifference at best, he had gravitated towards those who shared his plight for any scrap of comfort and belonging he could muster. He had been warned against it, of course, but he hadn't listened. Not until after the first battle, at least, when the majority of those whom he had called friends laid slain around him. After that loss, he had grown far more reserved and withdrawn.

Scant few had expected him to survive that first battle. Fewer still, if any, expected him to keep surviving them, year after year. Perhaps it was only natural after he'd thrown all of his time and energy into the honing of his skills rather than the makings of fleeting camaraderie and its inevitable end. But eventually, his capability and his stubborn refusal to die earned him the opportunity to rise above the miserable state of slavehood he'd languished in for what felt like a veritable eternity.

It had seemed like a blessing at first, as such typically do when one still possessed even the slightest bit of hope. He had earned the right to shed the title of slave and worthy of claiming himself as Kharlu, and he had been given the duty to prepare newly captured slaves for the battle ahead of them. Perhaps this was his chance to change things, he had thought. Those who had trained him upon his arrival hadn't even bothered to learn his name, such was their apparent apathy. They had cared not if he lived or died, but he would be different. He would pour all he had into shaping them and preparing them for what was to come. He refused to let them surrender to the hopelessness of their situation ere they ever heard the first bellow of the warhorn. He could do it. He could save them. He had to save them, because that was the only way he could still save himself.

What a naive ideal it had been, he had realized in hindsight as he had walked through the healers' tents set up after the war to tend to the wounded. A few of those he had trained had made it back, but far from a majority. Yet even of those few, almost half of those who had returned had succumbed to their wounds but days later. After all, the best healers and the lion's share of their resources could not be wasted on expendables such as they when there were those more worthy of treatment.

After that, Arukh had realized just why those who had prepared him for war were so aloof. You had to be, lest the neverending grief drive you mad. No matter what he did, war was war. No matter how hard he trained them, his men and women were little more than living shields for the Kharlu warriors that followed after. For those on the front lines, skill was secondary to sheer luck, and the odds were stacked against them.

In the years that followed, things had eventually become easier. While he still worked diligently to prepare those in his charge for the battles ahead, Arukh no longer cared to learn their names or where they come from. He no longer sat around the cookfire with them, lending shoulders upon which they could rest their woes and worries. And he certainly no longer walked the healer's tents after each battle, hoping each bed held a familiar face come back to him. It had taken time and no small amount of hurt to master, but Arukh had gradually learned how to meet those that came to him and then silently bid them peace and farewell in the same breath.

But he wasn't ignorant of the fact that what had made these endless cycles of loss easier to weather was that each one carved out another piece of him as it passed. With less and less of him left, it was hard to muster up any manner of attachment at all anymore. Keeping everyone around him at arm's length, he had only a handful of acquaintances but none he would call friend. And while most others of his position and age had turned their focus to family, finding a wife and having children had never been thoughts he had even passingly entertained. Even his attachment to life itself was tenuous at best, with only the solemn sense of duty he felt to those in his charge keeping him from letting the chaos of the next battle take him.

One day, Arukh suspected, he would find the point he had long pondered the existence of when there was no more man left to him. When the next loss would become the last loss, because it had stolen away every lingering drop of his ability to feel anything at all. Maybe then he would no longer remember those days of his carefree, happy youth, but neither would he feel swallowed up by darkness and loneliness and hopelessness again. Truthfully, there was a part of him that had begun to yearn for that numbness, even if it meant letting go of what little light he had left to him.

But what if there was another way..?

That was the next question that haunted him now, echoing in his head in the voice of the very woman who had posed it to him but a few suns prior. Chakha had come seeking to recruit him into the small sect of conspirators who aimed to bring the yearly war to an end and thus peace to the coastlands. That she had chosen him for this had surprised him, especially given that he had tried to keep her, too, at a distance. Naturally, his first instinct had been to decline. But something had caused him hesitation. Whether it was the persuasiveness of her words or something long buried deep inside him, he did not know, but he had finally told her that he would consider it and return his answer to her soon.

Now he stood at a crossroads. A crux that would set the course for the rest of his days: whether he would reject the idea that the cycle of loss could ever be broken and resign himself to the inevitability of emptiness once there was nothing left to lose, or if he would choose to not only believe that such a miserable fate could yet be changed, not only for himself but for those who came after.

It was agonizing, this decision. Surrendering was easier, and far more comfortable. He suspected it wouldn't be much longer until he reached that anticipated point of no return should he stay his current course. But to fight was to force himself to feel again, to force himself to hope again. It risked reopening all the ugly wounds that had taken years now to heal, and that to him was far more terrifying than any battlefield he had ever set foot upon.

But again, he could not stop his mind from going back to those memories of the happy, bright-eyed boy he had once been. He could not stop thinking back to all of those he had lost across the years. Most of all, he could not stop thinking about those who would walk these lands after him and if they would find themselves walking the same miserable path he had forged because he had been too afraid to let himself be hurt again.

Arukh finally squeezed his eyes shut, softly cursing the watery sting that rose to them -- a sensation he hadn't felt now in years of which he had long since lost track. It felt terrible and great at the same time, that rushing torrent of now unfamiliar emotion.

And he knew his answer.

#ffxivwrite2020 #prompt 1: crux #MY DRABBLE GAME IS RUSTY BUT #here u go #drabble for the drabble gods #and oh look its some depressing shit WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT #one day ill write happy things #one day #im also too lazy to format #its almost midnight

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chaoswillfallrpg · 4 years

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JAMES POTTER is TWENTY-THREE YEARS OLD and an AUROR in THE DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT at THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC. He looks remarkably like DARREN BARNET and considers himself aligned with THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX. He is currently TAKEN.

→ OVERVIEW:

A living legend amongst those who had the pleasure or displeasure of knowing him, James Potter is a name widely known amongst young members of the wizarding world. The only son of FLEAMONT and EUPHIMIA POTTER, James' parents were in their twilight years when he came along. Both retired, the Potters were known as entrepreneurial cosmetic potioneers having long and prosperous careers. James’ father created the famous Sleekeazy's Hair Potion whilst his mother had created a Blushing Beauty Potion which gave those who took it a healthy pink glow that lasted all day. James’ parents had always longed to have children but years of trying without success prompted the couple to stop trying and focus on their work until as if by magic, James Potter was born. An only child, his parents were very affectionate toward him and doted on James tirelessly. He grew up fussed over and was provided with everything his heart could possibly desire resulting in him becoming fairly spoiled and entitled. His parents told him each and every day that he was their miracle child and their reason for living, the world was to be his if only he went out into it and dreamed. James told other children in his neighbourhood in North London that he was destined for greatness, to be a Quidditch player or a great Auror that would be written about for centuries to come.

Life before Hogwarts was a string of family parties with glittering potions and exploding champagne. His parents were elderly but they knew how to throw a good party and enjoyed entertaining the wizarding high society, particularly those who ran in similar circles. PROFESSOR HORACE SLUGHORN was a personal friend of his father’s who would often attend parties at their home. When his letter for Hogwarts came, James was instant his parents bought him the very best of everything he needed. Boarding the train with a pocket full of galleons, his broomstick and his owl, James strutted along the carriage determined to show his impressiveness to the other children who he believed would be falling over themselves to be friends with future Quidditch star James Potter. Of course a few of the older children laughed at him, but sniggers only spurred James on to act up to the new first years. His first act was to buy the entirety of sweets which lined the refreshment trolley, just before RABASTAN LESTRANGE could buy anything which James vowed to share with the person sitting in the carriage beside him. SIRIUS BLACK had a similar air of confidence about him that James recognised.

A smirk plastered on his face as he tucked into a load of licorice wands bought by his new friend. They shook hands with James and vowed there and then to be his best friend. James knew he would be happy with having Sirius as his best friend and a couple of adoring fans to sweeten the deal, but something about PETER PETTIGREW caught his eye enough to add him into their inner circle of misfits. It could have been that he seemed like he would make a good friend, but it was more than likely the fact they hadn’t even entered The Great Hall yet and he’d already tried to issue a right hook to LARKIN MULCIBER for insinuating Peter was poor that spurred James and Sirius on to be his friend. Whispering together excitedly they waited to be sorted and when James sat last under the chair and was placed in Gryffindor alongside his two new friends James knew everything had fallen exactly into place. Then he met her. LILY EVANS was a red headed witch and the most beautiful girl James had ever seen in real life, with piercing eyes and a sarcastic tone that pierced his soul but made him laugh at the same time. James quickly learned that while he head Gryffindor wrapped around his little finger, Lily Evans would not be so easily swayed.

Everyone, even the most difficult characters like his close friend and eventual first girlfriend MARLENE MCKINNON succumbed to dancing to his merry tune in the end but Lily refused. In fact she actively called him out when she disagreed with him, which although he was used to with Marlene stung more when it was from Lily. Though Marlene often commented he was boastful and annoying, Lily had a special way of speaking to James that really signalled to him she was a challenge. James would have gone as far as to say Lily was the only person in his world who hated him and that only made him want her to like him even more. James spent his entire school career attempting to garner some sort of attention from Lily. Becoming the star Chaser in his second year at just twelve years old. Pulling pranks with Sirius and Peter. Dating her best friend or throwing spells at unsuspecting members of their class like SEVERUS SNAPE who he suspended in a tree in the hopes of making Lily laugh after Snape called her a Mudblood. Befriending his roommate REMUS LUPIN was also in some way connected to impressing Lily in the beginning. A bookish and quiet boy, Remus was different from him, Sirius and Peter and someone he aimed to corrupt in an attempt to drive a wedge between him and Lily who he knew were friendly. But very quickly Remus became so much more to him than just a tool to annoy Lily, he became one of his best friends and someone who taught James to be a better person.

Remus disappeared often without warning for days at a time while they were at school, always making strange excuses that didn’t make a lot of sense. One night during their second year, James was awakened by Peter and Sirius shaking him violently before they bundled themselves up into James' invasability cloak and told him of what they’d seen. Remus was a werewolf. James had been taught to be suspicious of werewolves, as were most others in their community. Remus was a gentle soul ashamed of who he was which didn’t sit right with James. It was Sirius who suggested they learn to become Animagi and accompany Remus during his transformations and look after him. It was at that point the four became truly bonded. Known as the Marauders, they became inseparable and vowed to take the secrets of one another to the grave. The boys were known as some of the most popular at school and became known for their wild parties and crazy antics that would go down in Hogwarts history long after they had graduated. James graduated school a decorated Quidditch captain and Head Boy, which had shocked even him. Upon graduating, James moved in with his three best friends in a little apartment in Farringdon, close to the station which suited them well and began his training as an Auror.

James’ life seemed to be going according to plan, he was training in a job he enjoyed and he and Lily had begun becoming something that could closely be considered friends, then PROFESSOR ALBUS DUMBLEDORE approached him. James had been aware of a shift within their world that had only gotten worse during their time at school. The wider world seemed much worse, with disappearances happening frequently which Dumbeldore believed was all connected to one particular group of individuals with hate and domination on their minds. The Order of The Phoenix was put together to build an extra line of defence against those people, which Dumbeldore strongly advised James and all of his friends to join in the event they were needed. Outside of work James is often found at The Order headquarters working with his mentor HESTIA JONES, an exceedingly talented witch who has little time for James’ constant sarcastic comments and mild flirtation. Although he’s a little intimidated by her, James is glad to be working with Hestia who pushes him to be a better wizard, both in terms of his spell casting ability and on a personal level as he gets to know her better. James is doing his best to enjoy his early twenties with his friends, but with times getting darker and bodies piling up he is aware his carefree days are most certainly numbered.

→ ADDITIONAL INFORMATION:

Blood Status → Pure-Blood

Pronouns → He/Him

Identification → Cis Male

Sexuality → Up to Roleplayer

Relationship Status → Single

Previous Education → Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (Gryffindor)

Societies → N/A

Family → N/A

Connections → Sirius Black (best friend/housemate), Remus Lupin (best friend/housemate), Peter Pettigrew (best friend/housemate), Lily Evans (close friend/potential love interest), Marlene McKinnon (close friend/ex-girlfriend), Mary MacDonald (close friend), Dorcas Meadoews (close friend), Maren Linwood (friend), Cassiopeia Kim (friend), Emilia Grey (friend), Cressida Abercrombie (friend), Gilfred Abbott (friend), Caradoc Dearborn (friend), Poppy Hookum (friend), Aurora Sinistra (friend), Gwenog Jones (friend), Hestia Jones (mentor), Alastor Moody (boss), Severus Snape (adversary)

Future Information → Husband of Lily Evans, Father of Harry Potter

JAMES POTTER IS A LEVEL 6 WIZARD.

#james potter #darren barnet #rp #rpg #marauders roleplay #order member #ministry #magical law enforcement #magic #taken #taken wizard #taken order member

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dreams-of-valeria · 4 years

Note

Could it be F1 and A1 but like maybe the reader and hopper have an age gap so the reader parents are almost (but they are not... or they are ? Idk that’s up to you lol) the same age as hopper therefore there’s this kind of tension??? And hopper being kind of clumsy at the cake ? Sorry if I am asking too much, tbh your prompts got me exited!

@may85 asked:

Sooooooo can I please request A1 and F10 together? F10 being that the readers parents are complete shit and giving reader a hard time about Hop being late. Pllleassee!? 🥰🥰

In the midst of winter

F1: Baking a cake together

F10: Requester's choice

A1: Late for Christmas dinner with Reader's parents

Pairing: Jim Hopper × Younger female reader

A/N: Merry Christmas and thank you so much for your kind words! I’ve clubbed both of your requests together because as you can see, they are essentially the same but I’ve made sure to give them some individuality and I really hope you like it!

Warnings: Ok so this turned out to be a little darker than I expected and includes mentions of abuse and crying but it’s nothing our favourite Chief can’t handle. Age gap.

Word count: 3,067

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The old clock on the wall taunted you with every plock, demanding your attention between every bite of the bread you were working down just to keep your mouth busy.

The alternative would be to make conversation with the two severely conservative, stuck up and judgy people you knew as your parents. But unlike that moment, your childhood didn’t consist of you swimming in bread, although it had always been your favorite.

Your eyes drifted anywhere but over them sitting across from you at the table, and rather flew over the spread you had spent all day making. Gingerbread, ham, mashed potatoes, roasted green beans and carrots, sugar cookies, cake batter on the counter and a stuffed chicken because the store had run out of turkeys the night of Christmas Eve. The festive season was surely joyous and mesmerizing, but also meant you had to work tirelessly to a goal you had set for yourself, and could barely accomplish when your parents had arrived an hour early; just so they’d have extra time to pick at how untidy your apartment was, how old your simple black dress looked, and how you were wasting your life working as a writer at local newspaper. Which, they had added rather graphically the people of Hawkins only used to wipe their unmentionables. And that was even before they got to the pièce de resistance.

They had always been elitist and looked down upon the humble families just trying to survive and make it in a capitalist country, especially the folks of a small town, which was part of the reason you had moved to Hawkins, Indiana. The lion’s share was because you just had to get away.

The pleasant dream of having a small, homely Christmas dinner with Hopper had been shattered by that one phone call last night, of how your parents had caught wind that you’d found someone for yourself from your sister.

Becky hadn’t told them on purpose, of course. Unlike your parents, she didn’t see anything wrong with you dating a 40-year-old man especially when you were finally, truly happy. In fact, her only folly had been to leave the postcard you had sent her out on the counter, and naturally, your nosy parents had found out. Strangely, it had been Hopper’s idea to dress both of you up in all red for the photograph and send Christmas postcards out to everyone you knew. He wasn’t very generically forthcoming but did have certain ways to show affection.

Including offering to cook dinner with you. You smiled when you remembered, how only last night he had taken you in his arms after the phone call and calmed you down until your panic attack had passed. ‘We can figure it out’, he’d said, brushing your hair lovingly. You missed feeling that sense of warmth and safety in his arms.

You didn’t feel even an iota of that warmth and safety in your own apartment and surrounded by the people you’d known ever since you were born. But knowing and loving were two completely different things, you’d realised, a little too late in your life. The moment you did, you were on a bus heading south.

But now there was nowhere to run. They were there to meet your boyfriend, and like he had said, you just had to get through it. Pull off the bandaid. You wished Hopper wasn’t late, that he was there to defend you from the comments or offer comfort with his hand on the small of your back, but he was late, fighting crime. Typical.

Unlike in your parents’ case, you found that to be endearing. Even if he was forced to let you cook dinner alone.

“It’s been a while,” commented your mother, pulling her blazer’s sleeve back down over her diamond wristwatch. She was studded all over with stones, and they made your eyes hurt from the glare. You swallowed the bread and the lump down your throat and tried to smile.

“Like I said, he’s the Chief of police and must be busy with work.”

“On Christmas Eve? Did someone lose a cow or something?” Your father laughed, a balding bespectacled man who outshone his better half only in contempt.

“We’re not all mindless, farming hillbillies, dad.” You sighed, taking a sip from the wine, but reminding yourself not to drink too much. Drowning your sorrows in alcohol had worked before, but right then, it would only work in your parents’ favor. Just another reason to find a flaw in you.

“Of course not, dear. You’re not one of them.” Rebutted your dad, keeping it civil but his eyes spoke otherwise. Appearances meant everything to them, but you could never forget that look in their eyes that spoke more than those golden words ever did.

“Them are people too you know? Like Jim, my boyfriend.” You smiled, rubbing it in. It was a rarity for you to have the upper hand when it came to irking your parents, and you were not going to let this go. Your father sighed, and you could see that he was taking deep breaths to keep the civility going. Deep down, you wished he would break. You could feel a storm brewing, but it was no reason to let Jim bear witness to it. Provided that he made it in time.

“Of course.” He gritted his teeth but soon eased up. “All we’re saying is, it’s rude to be late to dinner. Especially when you spent all day cooking.”

You opened your mouth in reflex to counter but then listened to his words. Really listened. There were no double entendres or veiled insults. That made you even more suspicious.

”We just want what’s best for you, y/n.” He smiled and your mother mirrored him, and you looked between them like a deer in headlights. What sort of game were they playing? There had to be a game.

“And it’s never too late to make the right decision–” Your mother started off, and you interrupted her with an exasperated sigh.

“I knew it,” you chuckled grimly. “You’re just here to try to talk me out of my relationship.”

“What relationship?” Your father spat suddenly, and the timber of his voice made you shudder. There it was. “You are a child, and that jerk is just forcing you to–”

The door clicked open behind you and heavy footsteps gushed in, along with a gust of frozen air. All eyes went to the hallway and landed on the man of the hour, all bundled up in a parka and boots and huffing heavy breaths, probably from running up the three flights of stairs.

He scanned the room and pursed his lips. “H-hey.”

He was terrible at meeting new people. But that was the least of your concerns. You went up to him with an automatic smile on your face despite the circumstances and helped get his parka off.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, a car had tipped over on Maple street and it took forever for the fire engine to get there and I had to wait, baby, there were kids inside–”

“It’s ok.” You assured him with a smile, holding his face in your hands briefly, knowing you had an audience. An especially judgy one.

On that note, he approached the table with a smile and drew his arm across to the seated guests.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Brown, I’m Jim–”

“Ms. Brown.” You mother corrected, eyeing him sharply. You went up behind him and rest your hand on his back, as a form of apology. You knew already you’d be doing a lot of that later.

“My apologies, Ms. Brown. And also for being late. It’s great to meet you.” You could hear the smile in his voice despite the curt way in which they shook his hand.

“Likewise, Jim.” Your father’s jaw clenched. “Now, shall we eat before you get called into duty again?”

Hopper forced a chuckle and you could hear it. He took his seat by you, not excusing himself to change out of his uniform or splash some water on his face like he usually did before dinner. He knew that no matter how much you mouthed off about them, there was still something there, and he respected that enough not to drag it out longer than it had to be and to take whatever they threw at him. It warmed your heart that he would do that for you, but at the same time, you wished he wouldn’t.

“It smells amazing, y/n.” Jim smiled on your right, squeezing your knee gently. You looked into his tired eyes and smiled back. He meant the world to you. Would they ever see that?

“Do you cook, Jim?” Asked your father as he served himself some vegetables, beating you to it. You sighed and served the potatoes to your mother, yourself and Jim.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Brown–thank you, sweetheart–unless you count microwave dinners.” He laughed in that deep, rumbling voice as he scooped some potatoes onto his spoon.

“I don’t.” Snapped your father, watching him intently as he chewed. “So this is what your … relationship is like? My daughter cooks for you and you don’t even help out–”

“I like cooking for him.” You interrupted, making louder noises with the cutlery than needed. You used to get reprimanded for that too.

Jim gently rubbed your thigh. “I meant to get here earlier, but my job–”

“So if God forbid something happened to y/n late at night, you’d be on Maple street, correct?”

“I bet you’d love if something happened to me, wouldn’t you, mom?” You hissed, stuffing your mouth with the potatoes. They were overcooked. Damn it.

“Please don’t be a martyr, y/n.” She scoffed.

“How could I be when you steal the show, mom?” You snapped and watched her jaw drop. That had never happened before.

“Y/n! That is not how you speak to your mother. Apologize.” You could see the perspiration on your father’s forehead already, and the next level would be his vein throbbing. Some part of you wanted to push him further.

“No, I’m good. Honey, could you pass the ham?” You asked Hopper, and it took him a second to blink and realize you were talking to him. He did as asked with a slight frown as he watched you closely.

You could feel your father’s eyes burn holes through you a while longer before he wordlessly returned to his dinner. You’d nailed the ham. That Jacques Pepin really knew what he was doing.

“If we knew this was how it was going to be, we’d never had flown up.” Your father said passive-aggressively, attacking the poor ham with his knife. “Thought we could just visit our daughter for Christmas …”

“Don’t pretend like that’s all you’re here for, dad.” You rubbed your fingers over your eyes, feeling moisture come back.

“Well, of course, it’s not! We paired you up with the most perfect man!” He exploded, and you were surprised he could hold it in for as long as he did. Of course, he would bring up the lowest point in your life.

“Oh, Gerald?” You scoffed, watching his vein pop. Hopper shifted uncomfortably, arms ready to interrupt if it came to that. He knew everything about your past.

“Yes, Gerald! He went to Yale! He’s going to be a doctor, y/n.” Your father cried, eyebrows furrowed in a rage. Like you had stabbed him in the back. Your mind imploded with the overwhelming memories and seemed to grip at your chest painfully. You could feel another attack coming.

“He … hurt me.” Your voice cracked, and Jim’s arm came around your shoulders.

“So you say!” Your mother dropped her cutlery, leaning forward in a rage. “He is a good boy but of course you would find faults with him, y/n–”

“He hurt me …” you gasped for breath as your voice quivered, feeling the tears track down your face. “ … every. Day.” Jim’s other arm had come around your front and held you tight, but somehow it made you feel better. The weight on your chest was getting lighter with his touches, as he whispered sweet nothings into your ear.

“Oh, I remember the lies, y/n. And that you ran away. And all for what? Him?” Your father spat, pointing at Hopper. His arms around you froze, and you followed.

“Do you have any idea how much you’ve marred the Brown family name? Dating a damn divorcee who’s twice your age in the middle of Godforsaken nowhere?” He rasped, as his entire face turned red.

“What do you want me to do, dad?” You pleaded, throwing him another lifeline. You were stupid to hope, but that was who you were. “You want me to leave the man who loves me for who I am and finally makes me happy and go back to the one you two approve of? Even if he beats me up?”

You gazed at your parents through tears with a sincere question, still waiting like a fool for them to prove you right.

“Gerald would never do that.” Your father sighed, cleaning his glasses to the end of the table cloth, before looking up at you. There was nothing behind those eyes. “But, yes.”

And there it was.

You knew the moment you’d received that phone call that was the reason they were flying down. Not to check on their younger daughter who couldn’t do anything right with her life, or wouldn’t stay with the abuser her own parents had chosen for her right out of college to marry. But still, you dreamed that they were coming to see how you were doing, to meet Jim and maybe playfully threaten him to take care of you or to tell you that no matter what choices you made or who you were, that they were with you. That they loved and supported you.

You scoffed, realizing that that moment was the final nail in the coffin. You had long abandoned your dream of seeking your parents’ approval, but this was the end. You’d found a new dream already, and Jim would not make you chase him or point out your flaws. And you were completely and gratefully in love with him. And that was enough.

You gazed up at his face, at his still tired eyes and haphazard hair, but also at the overwhelming love in his eyes as he asked you repeatedly if you were alright. He was more than enough.

You smiled at him before turning back to them.

“Well, if I’m such a dishonor to the family name, maybe I shouldn’t have it anymore.” You said, straightening up in your seat as Hopper released you, but still kept his hand on your chair.

They looked up at you slowly, until they said almost at the same time, “What?”

“You heard me. And I think you should get going before the snow comes in.” You pulled your chair back and stood to your feet, watching them expectantly.

They seemed confused, and stared up at you with slack jaws until he said, “You’re kicking us out?”

“Perceptive aren’t you, father?” You mocked, and that seemed to do it. They hastily got to their feet and shuffled around to the hallway, grumbling as they put their coats on.

“You remember this moment when you turned your own family away, y/n. When you come begging back to us.”

“Jim treats me more like family than you two ever did. And if I do come back, it’ll be as Y/N Hopper.” You said, before closing the door after them. Their startled faces were etched into your mind as you walked back into the kitchen, wiping the remnant tears from your face.

“Honey?” Jim called hesitantly from behind you but paused in the kitchen when he saw you at the counter, throwing your apron on.

“You promised you’d help, Chief. Get your apron,” You smiled at him warmly through the tears as you uncovered the half mixed cake batter in the bowl. Hopper cautiously threw the apron on as he watched you, washing your hands before dousing them into the yellow batter.

“I’m sure we have a whisk, sweetheart.” He said, tucking some loose hair behind your ears.

“No, it’s better this way,” you smiled like you didn’t just cut off ties with your parents.

“You wanna talk about it?” Hopper asked in as gentle a voice as he could, eyeing the raisins in a bowl. He didn’t like raisins in his cake.

“I’m good. Could you pass the vanilla, please?” You asked, pointing your eyes to the small vial by the oven. He did as you asked, and you could still feel his eyes on him.

“The raisins, too.” You asked, but Jim didn’t spring into action this time. You entered a staredown, one where you looked at him expectantly, and he pleaded with his eyes. You gave in with a chuckle. He could be so adorable sometimes.

“Alright, but just this once.” You conceded, and he hovered behind you, laying a soft kiss on your shoulder.

“I love you,” he whispered, kissing your hair this time. You paused the mixing and sighed, smiling as his arms wrapped around you again. That one ounce of doubt disappeared when you were in his arms again, and bliss replaced it.

“I love you too,” you declared, turning your face to kiss him. Jim was chaste this time and let you off with a peck, lending that moment more gooey-ness than the batter. And it only increased when he slid his fingers down your arms and into the bowl, kneading along with you.

“What are you doing?” You chuckled, leaning back into him. He was your pillar in more ways than one. You were grateful for him every day, starting with the day you’d met him at the newspaper office when he’d wanted some ‘intel’. You’d found out days later that it was all made up and the only reason he was there, was for you.

“Helping.” He hummed, kissing your cheek as his fingers intertwined with yours and straightened out the batter, and Jim Hopper was kind enough to lend the same favor to you.

And that was more than enough.

#jim hopper x reader #jim hopper imagine #jim hopper fanfic #jim hopper #chief hopper x reader #stranger things #fanfiction #hopper x reader #hopper x you #chief hopper #hopper family #hopper imagine #hopper × oc #anon asks #christmas #hopper angst #hopper fluff #david harbour #christmas writing prompts

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chroniclackofselfpreservation · 3 years

Text

Creatures of the Night

Chapter 8 - secrets, running over my soul without sound

Back to the Beginning < Previous chapter / Next chapter >

AO3

Masterlist

(TW: mild violence, panic attacks, and negative self talk)

(The title for this chapter comes from "Secrets" by Lola Ridge)

"Life went on like that for years," Dorian muttered, staring into the fire with his knuckles resting against his lips. Roman's eyes hadn't left the demon's face in a dozen minutes. It hadn't changed. It hadn't so much as twitched aside from his mouth moving as the words flowed. It was inhuman, though Roman figured that would make sense. Dorian wasn't exactly human himself.

Anymore, at least.

Still, Roman didn't see how this related to himself, or his curse, but he didn't dare interrupt. Somehow, he knew that if he stopped him now, he may not start again—tonight at least. Roman glanced at the mouth of the cave. They had maybe an hour until his curse would lift.

"The Witchlands didn't see a hint of Ursula for years, but there were whispers. The pixies spread rumors of the Dragon Witch returning, of her finding something; a weapon of some sort. Something that surpassed anything Rosemary had only dreamed of. She heard the rumors and she..." his voice cracked, and he blinked slowly, meeting Roman's gaze. His eyes, the human one and the other, were dry. Unswollen, and not even a little bit red, and yet full of so much pain and suffering and downright exhaustion Roman physically felt it.

He sniffed, and looked down again. "She had me... dispel the rumors. Over the course of the next few months, I became known as Bloodwyrm. An omen of death. When stories were written, it was I that the heroes were sent to slay. Children were compelled to be good for fear of my wrath." He shifted. "But I digress. At one point or another, Ursula circumvented the magical borders around the Witchlands she could no longer cross, and sent her familiar into the castle to steal another one of the queen's chosen projects. I took care of it swiftly enough, but Rosemary was paranoid. In a show of power, she drafted a curse in my own blood and had an envoy sent to deliver the letter to Ursula. You should have received a similar letter detailing your own curse."

It took Roman a while to realize he was being addressed and nodded quickly. He'd become enthralled and almost forgot why he was telling the story in the first place.

"This curse, however, was created so that it would enact itself as soon as Ursula opened the letter and read it."

"Why'd she open it, then?" Roman said, his first words in several hours. "She knew what it was, right?"

"Yes. Of course she knew what it was, but you can't simply reject these sorts of letters," Dorian explained, smiling at him as if he were a child asking why the sky was blue. "Back to the point of all this. Upon opening the letter, the curse began. According to the words of the queen, I was to hunt Ursula to the ends of the earth, never resting until her blood wetted my fangs and she lay dead before me. Compelled by its power, I left the Witchlands, never to return until my task was finished. I had confidence that, if I could not kill her myself, at least I would outlive her and be able to return, once more, to my homeland. However," Dorian's face grew hard, "Ursula proved far more intelligent than Rosemary had given her credit. After only forty-five years, she managed to perfect what Rosemary could not. Even as I pursued her with tireless advances, she somehow harnessed immortality—the correct way. And so I found myself stuck in a never ending cycle, of unkillable chasing unkillable, both trying to end the other."

"Okay," Roman said slowly, "I still don't see what this has to do with me."

"When someone as powerful as the Witch Queen dies, to continue her legacy, she can create what is called a Witch's Inheritance. Such an inheritance guarantees that her firstborn—and every firstborn's firstborn after that—receives the full potential of her powers. You, little prince, are a direct descendent of the Witch Queen, and thus have unimaginable power."

Roman barked a laugh, "I think I would have noticed if—"

"You are the firstborn of your mother, correct?" Dorian cut in, losing patience.

"Yeah?"

"And she was the eldest of her siblings, was she not?"

Roman swallowed. "Yes. She was."

"This is not our greatest issue, so please, just know that I tell you the truth and let us move on," Dorian said, glancing at the readily lightening skyline. The fire popped. "In her old age, Rosemary's anger overcame her and she banished her eldest son from the Witchlands after he claimed she was not fit to rule any longer. The inheritance was lost from the royal line, and that is why your ancestors lived out here, in the human realm. Rosemary died, and I was left fulfilling a curse I had no hand in. Ursula knew of this line of power and, after decades of constantly running from me, decided to take advantage of her enemy's latent power. She hunted down each and every firstborn she could find, forcing them to become her champions and keep me at bay for her."

Roman's mind worked as if swimming through a pool of molasses, connecting the dots he never knew were there before.

"Your family tree was, at one point, enormous. Hundreds of children born with the Witch's Inheritance to choose from. However, as they were all born outside of the Witchlands, only a few ever discovered their powers or developed them well enough to stand a chance against me. At most, an heir could keep me at bay for half a decade, maybe more, but in the end, I would kill them."

Dorian leaned forward. "You are the last heir of the Witch's Inheritance, little prince."

Roman stared at the fire, pressing his mouth against his interlaced hands. He felt faint. "So," he began, his voice no more than a whisper, "my mother... you... you killed..."

"I did. I will not speak of her with any hint of authority, but know that you have my deepest apologies and condolences."

"Condolences?" Roman hissed, looking up at the demon through wet eyes. "You ripped my life apart. You're the reason my dad's so—" his voice caught in his throat. He shot to his feet.

"You must understand," Dorian said, making no move to stand. "The curse does not allow me to stop. I must be making a constant effort to find and kill Ursula. Whoever that witch sticks in my path I must kill, no matter the circumstances."

"I don't care!" Roman shouted, the tears finally spilling over. He couldn't remember the last time he'd let himself cry about his mother. He'd always had to be the rock in his relationship with his father. He wasn't allowed to be the sad one, but now... it was different.

"Sit down," Dorian insisted, meeting his eye.

"I'm leaving," Roman growled, making for the entrance of the cave. The curse would lift soon and he couldn't stand to look at the creature in front of him any long—

CRACK!

Dorian's body exploded out into its serpentine form, filling the entire front half of the cave and blocking the exit completely. Roman stumbled back, nearly missing the fire. The roof of the cave shuddered and Roman looked up nervously. Dorian's head shot forward, knocking Roman into the stone wall.

"We had a deal, little prince, and I will not sit here and let a child throw a tantrum while there are far more important things happening in this world! Your mother is dead, and there is nothing you or I can do about it!"

"Shut up!" he shouted, reaching for his pistol.

"Do not insult me with your toys, little—ACK...krghh!" the demon cried as Roman shot him in the mouth. He stood there, battling with himself over running away or filling the demon's mouth with every bullet he had. Old, dusty feelings combined to create a shapeless thing inside him. Its fingers tore into the soil he'd tirelessly compacted over the coffin where he'd trapped his grief and pain for the sake of his father.

A wall of scales slammed into Roman's chest, and he saw stars as his head cracked against the stone floor. Dorian pinned him underneath his incredible weight, blood trailing out of the corners of his mouth and down his scales.

"Get ahold of yourself," he snapped. "We don't have time for this. If you want to learn about your curse and how to break it, you must listen to me."

Roman writhed under the snake's immense body, barely able to breath. He guessed it was pretty fortunate they'd already made the deal and the demon wasn't able to kill him anymore.

"Fine," he managed, the fight leaving him. "Tell me what I need to know."

* * * * * * * * * *

Logan sat in the dark of his empty classroom atop one of the desks, his feet on the chair. Under normal circumstances, he'd never ignore the proper use of a chair, but he was restless.

Long ago, when they had all been in highschool themselves, Virgil had offered his solution of "sitting on things that weren't meant to be sat on" as a way of helping himself focus or gain new perspectives—literally and figuratively. He rested his elbows on his knees and pressed his chin into his hands, staring blankly at the wall. He could hear the teacher in the classroom adjacent to his prepping their classroom, the faint sound of staples being pressed into the felt siding bleeding through the wall.

Logan had finished setting his own classroom up days ago, and was now focused on preparing for the first day of school next week. Or rather, he had been focused. His attempts at being productive had borne little fruit, as Roman's reluctant explanation of his interaction with the demon—Dorian—and this so-called solution to his curse earlier that morning had plagued his thoughts.

Roman had come back numb and quiet, the way he always was after blowing up. His anger always left him empty and sad and far too much like his father for Logan’s liking.

He hadn’t been covered in blood and injuries, so at least there was that. Instead, Logan had sat on the end of Roman’s bed and listened as he explained what had happened.

There was no other solution.

The only way to break the curse was for Roman to die. He’d made a deal only to get information he’d already had.

Before Logan could storm into the forest and give that demon a piece of his mind, Roman stopped him. He explained, in soft trembling tones, the loophole. The answer to their problem, given by the very source of the issue itself.

The amulet Ursula gave him. According to Dorian, the amulet would allow Roman to die and, upon its removal, bring him back. It was a terrifying thought. All they had to go on was the word of an untrustworthy magical beast who, until quite recently, had been seeking Roman’s life by any means necessary. This could be a trap. In fact, it was most likely a trap. A ploy to trick Roman into killing himself over some foolish hope of freeing himsel—

“Mr. Sanders?”

Logan jerked, looking up. Two students stood in the doorway, the light of the hallway behind them hiding their faces.

One leaned forward, “Um… why are you sitting in the dark?”

He cleared his throat, standing up and straightening his suit. “It’s of no importance. What can I do for you two?” He turned on the light.

“I’m Karla,” said the little blonde one on the right, “I’m in fifth grade.”

“Congratulations,” Logan said, dipping his head. “However, I’m afraid this is a fourth grade classroom.”

“Oh, I know,” Karla said, swinging the hand she had clasped in her friend’s. “But Hye-mi is. I’m showing her around. She’s from Korea but she’s living with me and my family for a bit!”

“Salutations, Hye-mi,” Logan said, squatting down and holding out a hand. She looked to Karla nervously, who nodded. The shy girl shook Logan’s hand.

“I look forward to having you in my class.”

“Thank you,” she said, bowing. Logan returned the gesture. The two girls turned and left, chattering and giggling to each other.

Logan watched them leave, his smile slowly fading. His friendly, cordial self deflated like a balloon into the reserved, worried state he’d been in all morning. With a slow hand, he turned the light off again and lowered onto a desk.

He covered his face with his hands.

* * * * * * * * * *

Virgil raced down the stairs, leaning over the banister. "Hey, Pat?"

"Hm?" Patton hummed, looking up from the notebook he was doodling in. He'd gotten off work early today, or rather, he'd been sent home by his mother, but he wouldn't explain why.

"Do we have anymore Quee—er, rosemary lying around?"

"Rosemary?" Patton set his pen down and wandered over to the herb and spice cupboard. "Why do you need that?"

Virgil's mind raced for a believable lie. "I like how it smells," he managed, trying to sound casual. "I wanted to put some in my room."

"Oh, okay," Patton shrugged, pulling down a jar. "Looks like we're out of whole leaves, but I've got some ground rosemary around here somewhere. Will that work? I can run to the store—"

"Ground is fine," Virgil said, descending the last half of the stairs and meeting Patton in the kitchen.

He handed him the plastic container, smiling, "Dinner's going to be in an hour or so, once Logan gets home." He looked at the clock, "He should be back any minute now..."

"What're you making?"

"Not sure," he mused, looking around. "I need to use up the rest of the tomatoes before they go bad, so maybe some pasta? I'll have to run to Mia's anyway to pick up some garlic and oregano..."

Virgil looked at him for a moment, forgetting to say something. Patton was the kindest human he'd ever met, and he'd met a lot. It was curious to Virgil how someone could be so optimistic and selfless without getting anything in return. Of course, the three of them always made sure to thank Patton and do nice things for him whenever the opportunity arose.

"Is something wrong, Virge?"

He snapped out of his thoughts. "What?"

Patton smiled, amused. "You were staring at me."

"Oh, uh, sorry. Thanks for the rosemary," he stammered, then hurried off up the stairs.

That was another thing about humans he never understood: how they managed to fluster him without seemingly any effort at all.

Alone in his room, Virgil dipped his fingers into the squat plastic container of rosemary powder and traced runic circles around himself on the floor. He'd made sure to lock his door beforehand, not wanting to explain to Patton or Roman why he was drawing on the ground with herbs.

Speaking of Roman, he hadn't left his room this morning. Logan told them he wasn't feeling well, and had already been provided the necessary medicine and supplies to take care of himself. It took several more minutes, however, to convince Patton that Roman simply didn't want to be bothered. Virgil couldn't shake the feeling that it had something to do with the curse.

Was he still in the mindset of letting the demon kill him? No, if he was, he'd be dead already. Dorian wasn't one to waste time when an opportunity was granted him. What had happened then? There was only one logical explanation, though the prospect filled Virgil with dread.

He'd made a deal. Or was about to.

One thing was for sure, Virgil needed to find his button. Then he could help Roman. Then he'd be useful.

The spell he was about to perform to locate Remus wasn't hard. It was a basic spell that every six-year-old witch knew. As a familiar, he could also perform magic, in the technical sense. In fact, as a magical creature himself, it should be easier.

But he wasn't like every other familiar out there.

He was broken, thanks to that slimy snake. Dependent on a stupid talisman to perform all but the most simple of magics. Transforming into a human, for one, was something every familiar was inherently able to do. There wasn't much technical magic involved, hence Virgil's retained ability to do so. The spell he'd used previously to figure out what happened to his button were easy enough, with the stabilizing power of Queensleaf to help him. He wasn't too sure how ground Queensleaf would fair, but hoped it would be enough.

This spell, however, would be different. He'd have to call on spirits—something he hadn't done in decades. Finding a human was one thing, but a hobgoblin who didn't want to be found? Near impossible on his own... but he had to try. He had to do something.

He couldn't let Roman deal with this on his own anymore.

Dipping his fingers in the powder once more, he scrawled Remus's name on the floor in witchtongue—not as strong of a link as his true name would elicit, but it would have to do.

Finishing, he muttered some quick words under his breath and lit the circle of seven candles surrounding the rosemary sigil. Stepping out of the circle himself, he plucked a few of his hairs and sprinkled them across it.

He took a breath, holding out a hand. "Alight your eyes to find who's lost, spirits grim and gaunt; scan the stars and ground below to bring me what I want."

The light in the room dipped, the shadows in the corners solidifying and oozing to the ground like slime. The hair on the back of Virgil's neck stood stick straight, and his heart hammered in his chest. Not that he was scared of the spirits; he'd performed far more terrifying magic in his time. No, he was terrified for an entirely different reason.

He felt the slow seeping feeling of power leaving him filled his chest, hitching and limping along like a crippled animal. Hollow screams that sounded a million miles away filled his ears and breathed across his face as a swarm of spirits materialized before him. The specters' faint, almost childlike chanting began and Virgil bit the inside of his mouth. He had to hurry and send them off before it finished.

The Song of Death.

He'd heard the first half of it before. It was intoxicatingly beautiful and many a witch had lost their lives listening to it in its entirety.

A slow ache pulled in his chest cavity, steadily growing more and more painful. The halted progression of the spell devolved into a grating, freezing sensation. Fear sprouted in Virgil's mind as he swayed, suddenly dizzy. What was he thinking? He wouldn't be able to complete a spell like this without his button! One of the great dangers of magic every witch learned in their youth was to never experiment with magic more powerful than themselves. Once a spell started, it could rarely be stopped. If you weren't strong enough to endure it...

But, he'd done far more complex magic than this before! Dozens of times! Well, back before he became this broken, pathetic version of himself. Before he'd lost his talisman and reduced to nothing more than a cat with a few party tricks. Magic was like a muscle. Leave it stagnant for too long, and it atrophied.

Virgil's fingers and toes went numb with cold. The spirits danced around him, the soft, enticing song filling his ears and making his brain go all fuzzy. The shadows swelled as if breathing, circling the room. The song was lilting and warm, like slipping into a bath of warm water after trekking through the snow for hours on end. It felt good. Virgil slumped to the ground, relaxing into it.

How nice it would be, to never have to worry about anything ever again? To finally sleep without being tortured by nightmares of Ursula or Bloodwyrm?

Virgil couldn't breathe. The spirits surrounded him, enveloping him their frostbitten embrace. One more idiot familiar to add to their ranks. His chest spasmed and tears ran down the side of his head, but he still felt calm. The song was nearing its end. It was like nothing he'd ever heard before. Absolutely beautiful.

Slow.

Cold.

So cold he felt warm.

The spirits shifted. Agitated. Something was coming. Already here?

Annoyed muttering. Worried whispers. Shouts. Screams. Shrieks of rage and spikes of pain driven through every point of Virgil's body. He couldn't move, let alone react to the pain. Left alone in his mind to suffer through it. And then...

Heat.

Searing heat so intense Virgil felt like he was burning up. The spirits vanished, running from it. He coughed, spluttering up water that wasn't there, finding himself wrapped in someone's arms. He was shivering, yet felt like he'd been boiled alive at the same time. Every breath felt like fire.

"...gil! Virgil, wake up! Please, don't be dead. Please!" A voice cried, shaking him. Or maybe it was just their arms trembling. It sounded like Logan.

He tried to speak, but all that came out was a soft gurgle of pain. Quivering hands brushed his bangs out of his eyes. They were wet. Why were they wet? He opened his eyes a small amount despite the clanging, throbbing pain ricocheting through his skull.

"Logan?"

"You're alive," Logan breathed, relaxing somewhat. He rested his head on Virgil's, repeating, "You're alive," over and over again, as if he couldn't quite convince himself.

"What..." he started, looking around as fast as his head would allow him. The spirits were gone. Had the spell worked? His eyes fell to the dark sigil on the floor. The rosemary was broken, swiped away and smeared across the floor. Dark black scorch marks remained where the sigil once had been.

"What happened?"

"I was hoping you'd be able to tell me," Logan snorted, releasing Virgil. He scrambled back, knocking his head against the foot of his bed.

Panic started bubbling up inside his throat. He knew. There was no more hiding. Logan knew, then he'd tell the others and then they'd all hate him and he wouldn't be able to help Roman anyway because he was too much of a pathetic weakling to even complete a simple spell—

"Hey, hey, it's okay. I apologize, Virgil," Logan said softly, holding his hands up submissively. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I simply want to make sure you are okay."

"No, it's... I can't—You won't," he hiccupped, unable to get the words out. Why couldn't he get the words out? He couldn't breathe again. Was he dying again? It didn't matter, because that was his last resort. That was it. The spell didn't work. He wasn't strong enough to help his friend. Wasn't good enough.

"Virgil, I need you to breathe for me. Can you do that?" He reached out and touched Virgil's hand. A sob escaped his mouth and he jerked away. Why would Logan touch him? Why be near him? He was loathsome. Undeserving. A complete and utter waste of space that—

"For thee the sun doth daily rise, and set behind the curtain of the hills of sleep."

Undeserving. Loathsome. Why even try—

"And my soul, passing through the nether deep, broods on thy love, and never can forget. For thee the garlands of the wood are wet, for thee the daisies up the meadow's sweep stir in the sidelong light, and for thee weep the drooping ferns above the violet."

Virgil looked up through his puffy, watering eyes, chest still stuttering. What was Logan doing?

He leaned back against the bed next to Virgil, his face the epitome of calm. "For thee the labour of my studious ease I ply with hope, for thee all pleasures please, thy sweetness doth the bread of sorrow leaven..."

Virgil began to breathe easier.

"And from thy noble lips and heart of gold I drink the comfort of the faiths of old, and thy perfection is my proof of heaven," he finished, opening his eyes and looked sidelong at Virgil. "Feeling better?"

"What was that?"

He smiled. "George Santayana's forty-fourth sonnet. One of my favorites, actually."

Virgil bit his lip, still hugging his knees, though markedly calmer and more collected. "How did you... know how to break the spell?"

"It was only logical," he replied, sobering.

Virgil took a breath. "Listen, I know you probably have a million questions and aren't even sure if you can trust me, or—"

"You're right," he said, and Virgil's throat constricted. "I do have a plethora of questions for you, but you don't have to answer them right now. I only ask that you explain one thing to me."

"Okay."

Logan's brow knit together. "What was the purpose of the spell?"

"I... was trying to find someone."

"That is all?"

He nodded, then asked. "Where are Patton and Roman?"

"Patton is out acquiring ingredients for dinner tonight," Logan replied. "He was leaving right as I returned home. Roman, I'm assuming, is in his room bingeing Parks and Recreation and eating a pint of ice cream. I doubt he heard anything, if that's what you are concerned about."

"You mean, you won't tell them?"

"Not if you don't want me to."

"How are you so... okay with all of this?" he muttered. "You're acting like you see this kind of stuff every other day."

Logan chuckled and stood, approaching the door. "It isn't quite like that."

He gave Virgil one last reassuring smile before closing the door.

#sanders sides #thomas sanders sides #thomas sanders #sanders sides fanfic #fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #fanfiction #tw violence #violence tw #violence #tw panic attack #panic attack tw #panic attack #negative thoughts #tw negative self talk #negative self talk #creatures of the night #chroniclackofselfpreservation

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kidcataldo · 3 years

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Summary: Severus has a secret created by a lie. Now that lie is dead and the secret is on its way to Hogwarts.

I haven’t read the books since high school, but I just went on a harry potter movie binge and wrote this in my drafts for the fun of it. You can also find it here, or you can click “keep reading” and read it on tumblr.

Dead. He received the letter by owl over breakfast: "I regret"—I regret—"to inform you her state of mind has only gotten worse these past few months and it is expected she will die before nightfall." Malfoy thought he might like to know—how he found out, Severus hadn't a clue—but he had little interest in the matter; he preferred to forget her existence altogether. Beryl Bulstrode, ghastly woman: she joined the Death Eaters right after him—for him, in fact, he was told later. Her intentions were as clear as day to any seeing man, so Severus must have been blind his entire life and not realized it. She was a mad woman in her prime; he could only imagine what the Dementors created while she rotted in Azkaban all those years. Nothing pretty, and she entered looking horrid. Would he tell Dumbledore? Yes, of course he would—but nothing more.

Malfoy must have also told his son, for the entire school looked at him differently that day. He caught a group of third year Ravenclaw girls talking quietly amongst themselves on their way to the dining hall—they fell silent when he caught sight of their gossiping, and then they hurried away when he approached them. Minerva could barely look at him while Pomona kept sneaking glances at him. And his students were unusually quiet too. The misfits and troublemakers kept to themselves, hardly causing any ruckus at all. The Wesley twins in particular behaved uncharacteristically that day—obeying his every instruction, not attempting to blow up their potions for the joke of it, even referring to him as sir instead of professor, or not acknowledging him at all. It was quite nice, actually.

By dinner, everyone must have known. Sybill Trelawney was the only one brave enough to speak to him about it; he sat through a long ramble of hers throughout dinner, pretending not to hear her, as other professors and some students watched on in horror. Minerva tried to shut her up a few times, but the daft woman never caught on; "Oh, Severus, to lose a loved one so dear to one's heart," the loony woman said to him. "I can only imagine what that boy of yours is going through." The boy. It was always about the bloody boy. Albus's eyes briefly searched his own, and then Sybill was back to her babbling.

---

"You must tell the boy, Severus," said Albus. He was sitting in his chair. Phineas Nigellus's portrait hung above him, looking on as he reached for his bowl of sherbet lemons and offered one to Severus.

Severus shook his head and quickly turned away. "No," he said. "No—you've asked plenty from me already..."

"They may suspect something if you don't."

"And if they do?" said Severus. He turned back to the headmaster; his calm demeanor hadn't shifted, but the portrait above him was now empty. "Your plan was ridiculous from the start—it's a wonder how we've gotten this far without anyone realizing..."

Albus sighed. "If Lucius Malfoy, or anyone else, were to discover—" He stopped quickly at the sound of footsteps, and then they heard a quick knock on his door. "Come in," he said, turning his attention to the door.

Minerva entered the room with the confidence of a group of centaurs riding off to battle—or a strict transfiguration professor in need of a word with her superior—but she stopped and hesitated upon seeing Severus standing there. Again, as she had done throughout the day, she avoided looking at him. His past had odd ways of creeping up on the both of them.

"Yes, Minerva?" asked Albus calmly, bringing the attention back onto himself. Severus excused himself quietly just as Minerva announced the restoration of the girls' bathroom to its former glory, and then continued by questioning the whereabouts of that nasty troll. Severus was nearly out the door when Albus politely silenced Minerva and halted his departure. "Tell the boy, Severus," he said, and Severus slammed the door shut. That bloody boy.

---

How long had it been, he wondered, since they had seen each other last? Summer, perhaps. But he never kept track, nor did he care to do so. "Must you always mess with that thing?" The boy sat on his knees at the head of the table with Severus's enchanted red quill in his hands, attempting to tame the magical object; the more he tried to control it, the more it resisted his touch. With the wave of Severus's wand, it was out of the boy's grimy little hands and back in its holder. "It doesn't like you. Leave it alone."

He turned, his brown eyes showing no new change in emotion. "You're here."

"I am." Mrs. Cott let out a gentle snore in the rocking chair near the fire. He thought, or rather hoped, she had died and had been rotting there upon first entering the room—and to be perfectly honest, what a pity it was to learn that was not the case. Large wooden knitting needles moved mechanically in front of her, working tirelessly on a grey and green sweater.

He waved his wand again and the needles fell onto the old woman's lap. The old woman jolted awake with a loud snort. She remained still for a long moment, blinking her eyes and tasting her lips to adjust to her new wakeful state, until she caught sight of Severus and sprung out of her chair, letting the needles and unfinished sweater fall to her feet. "Severus, you're—well, I wasn't expecting you so soon."

"You're paid to watch him while I'm away, Mrs. Cott," he reminded her stiffly, "not lounge around like you're on holiday."

Her eyes searched the room, and then outside where it was dark. "Is it the holiday season already? So soon?"

"Leave us now," he commanded, again facing the boy. "I need a word with the boy alone." Her quiet footsteps hurried off through the kitchen door.

"What's happened?" the boy said. His hair was dark auburn, nearly brown—not like it was a few years ago. "Did Dumbledore die?" And those eyes, ordinary and brown, were far from exceptional. He had a mole below his left eye, just above his cheek. He looked and acted simply ordinary, like no one he had ever seen before.

"What makes you think that?"

He shrugged. "I dunno." His words were also never snarky, never trying to resist Severus's authority. But he was annoying with his questions, and he was hardly ever satisfied with the answers given to him. "You don't usually come back so soon, unless there's an emergency."

"Dumbledore did not die," he said. It seemed he always spoke in riddles with him—never quite finding the nerve to lie, just alter the truth.

"But someone did?" And he always seemed to catch on. "Who was it, then?"

Severus huffed. "The woman you call mother," he said, hoping he would understand.

"Oh," said the boy. He adjusted himself on the chair, sitting properly with his feet under the table. There was parchment in front of him and on it was scribbled a drawing—Severus couldn't make out what it was; it looked something like a figure. In the kitchen, Mrs. Cott could be heard moving pots and pans around, or something of that sort.

"Accio, pen," muttered Severus, summoning a normal, non-magical pen. "Here," he said, tossing it onto the table. "Finish your silly drawing. And don't even think about using my quill again." He turned to leave, apparate the hell out of there—back to Hogsmeade, back to Hogwarts.

"Was she also a Slytherin," he asked suddenly, and he turned back to him. "Beryl Bulstrode?" The woman he called mother.

"Yes."

"Do you think I'll be a Slytherin?"

"I doubt it," Severus said to him, and he apparated away.

A week later, he received a letter from the Ministry, asking about funeral arrangements—as if he owned the damn corpse. "The boy ought to see her be buried," Albus's voice rang in his ears. "It might give him closure." Severus hoped to burn the body; in front of the current Minister and all his minions, even. They all believed the boy was born in Azkaban—that was why he was so small and weak and fragile, they said; the Dementors drained both mother and son's soul for several months before it was discovered she was with child. Dumbledore and Bagnold knew the truth, of course—but they would take that truth to their graves.

Again, upon Albus's request, he visited the boy and prepared him for the woman he called mother's funeral. Severus, the boy, Mrs. Cott, and Dolores Umbridge, who worked close to the Minister were the only people in attendance at her funeral. She had other family—distant cousins, aunts and uncles—but none Severus was close to, and they never wrote asking to attend. When they arrived at the gravesite, the boy ran off to search the graveyard, leaving Severus alone with Mrs. Cott and Umbridge—the two most unpleasant women in the wizarding world. The boy returned before the closed—thankfully—casket made its descent with a handful of wild flowers, all uniquely styled, and placed them on top of the casket. Umbridge did not stay long; she offered her deepest condolences with a phony, sympathetic smile, briefly touched the boy's shoulder, which he shrugged away, and then left. Severus apparated soon after.

---

Winter came and it went. And by the end of the year, everyone seemed to put the Beryl Bulstrode business behind them, for other events surrounding the school distracted them. Students started behaving like themselves around him again, Minerva was no longer hesitant to speak with him, Sybill no longer tried talking to him during dinner; all seemed well, given the circumstance. And then it was summer, and the boy could not keep his mouth shut about Hogwarts, no matter how many times Severus told him to shut up. He wore the green and grey sweater vest Mrs. Cott knitted for him nearly every day; perhaps expecting to be sorted into Slytherin. Severus, of course, knew better. When his letter arrived one expected morning over breakfast, he made Mrs. Cott take him to get his supplies the next afternoon. Severus stayed behind to read a book. He arrived back with new robes, a wand, and a grey furry fat cat he named Gravy—a parting gift from Mrs. Cott, much to Severus's dismay. His books had yet to come in, however, so with great reluctance, before the start of the new school year, Severus took the boy back to Diagon Alley.

It was there he saw him, standing with the Weasleys, looking as filthy as a Weasley, and the Granger girl, along with her muggle parents. Gilderoy Lockhart was there as well, looking more doll than man—Severus felt his blood boil; why Albus chose him of all people, he would never understand. He could feel them all staring, but he refused to acknowledge any of them. "I thought he only came out of his coffin during the school year," he overheard one of the Weasley twins whisper to the other; Severus chose to ignore their snickering, but made a mental note to assign them both detention their first day back.

While he waited for the boy to retrieve his books, Severus found himself tangled in a brief conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Granger as Hermione Granger looked on with a mixture of embarrassment and concern on her face. Potter and Weasley observed the conversation as well, but their eyes were daggers; he decided to assign two more detentions at the start of the school year. Finally, Mr. Weasley guided the muggles elsewhere. Lucius Malfoy and his son arrived shortly after, looking on at the group with as much hate as Severus, but the boy had returned with his books before anything could develop beyond a courteous hello. But Severus noticed Draco give the boy a nod and a gentle smile as they passed him to leave the shop.

He wish he could say the start of the new school year was as smooth as the last, or the one before that, but the famous Harry Potter could not allow that to happen. He was proving to be more and more like his father each year, unfortunately. He was told he and Weasley didn't even board the train at platform nine-and-three-quarters—choosing to arrive by car instead—and at the start of the feast, before the first years were even sorted, he received word from Filch about Potter and Weasley's fashionable entrance, diving into the whomping willow head first in a blue Ford Anglia, a car belonging to Weasley's own father. The Evening Profit arrived soon after, and it was worse than Severus could have imagined. They both should have been expelled for their foolish behavior, and any normal boy would, but the Boy Who Lived always did have special privileges at Hogwarts, and everywhere else too—if Lockhart's story over staff breakfast had any merit. And if Albus was indeed correct about... his return, perhaps it was better Potter remained at Hogwarts, under his watchful eye.

A migraine blossomed while shouting at the pair and, by the time Minerva and Albus arrived, he was fuming. He stormed out with Albus following close behind, leaving Minerva to tend to their needs—they had missed the feast; if it were him, he might just let them starve, but Minerva conjured up some sandwiches the house elves made earlier that evening.

---

"The boy's sorting has surprised us all," said Albus, sounding slightly amused. They were walking the halls now; Severus had calmed some, but his blood still boiled. On their journey, they encountered a group of Slytherin first years being guided to their house's common room—coming at no surprise, the boy was not among them.

"Why? We knew he would be sorted into Gryffindor," said Severus casually as he nodded to the first year students. Albus gave them a gentle wave.

"He wasn't sorted into Gryffindor, Severus," said Albus—and Severus stopped, letting the first years pass.

He waited until they turned the corner before he asked, "Where exactly did the sorting hat put him?"

Severus had just always assumed he would be sorted into Gryffindor—with Potter and... the rest of them. He never really saw the boy as anything else; he never really cared to think of him as anything but a Gryffindor. "Florus Snape, son"—Severus flinched at the word while Albus remained unfazed—"of Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin House, was sorted into Hufflepuff this evening," said Albus. And he chuckled softly to himself. "I wish you were there to witness Pomona's reaction. She nearly flew out of her chair."

Somehow the man's words made him feel better, slightly less angry. Severus said his farewells to Dumbledore, and then quickly turned his heel and headed in the same direction as the Slytherin first years. He wasn't relieved, no. He never lingered on what house the boy might get into; he didn't know him well enough to do so, but he assumed it would be Gryffindor. Why should he care what house the boy was sorted in? Gryffindor, Hufflepuff... he was still—he still wasn't... It made no difference at all.

"You can't stay out here," said Draco Malfoy's voice clearly as he drew close to the Slytherin common room. "You have to go back to your own common room."

Severus turned another corner just as he heard Vincent Crabbe say, "Maybe the sorting hat was wrong."

"Not likely," said Pansy Parkinson.

"Look. It's not like Hufflepuff is a bad house—well, it's not good, but at least you're not in Gryffindor," continued Malfoy, "with Potter... and the Weasleys."

Malfoy and his gang stood outside the portrait of the serpent. "What's going on here? Why are you in the halls passed hour?" he said, and then he saw him, dressed in his Hufflepuff robes, eyes red and puffy from crying—he rarely witnessed the boy cry; he sniffed as Severus approached him. "Ten points from Hufflepuff—get back to your common room. Now."

"He's upset he's not in Slytherin," explained Draco. Severus glared at him, which made his eyes go wide in shock and he quickly added, "Sir."

"I'm sorry, sir," the boy cried out as he rubbed his watery eyes.

Severus felt a slight pain in his gut as he grabbed the boy by his wrist and pulled him away from the group. "That doesn't excuse your behavior." The pain in his gut only grew stronger as he stared into those unfamiliar glossy brown eyes, and he found himself loosening his grip on him. "Would you quit your incessant whining. Your mother wouldn't care which house you were sorted in. Slytherin, Hufflepuff, you could be in Ravenclaw and it still wouldn't matter to her."

The boy stopped crying. Looking up at Severus, he sniffed. "Really?"

And Severus realized his mistake immediately; he let go of the boy's wrist. "Yes, really," he said, reverting back to his sternness. "Now go. Before I take another ten points from Hufflepuff."

#Harry Potter #severus snape #fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #hufflepuff #slytherin #Gryffindor #ravenclaw #Albus Dumbledore #minerva mcgonagall #pomona sprout #sybill trelawney #gilderoy lockhart #Ron Weasley #Hermione Granger #fred weasley #george weasley #arthur weasley #molly weasley

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callmeblake · 4 years

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JULY 31st, 2019

Frank Iero Reflects on “Barriers,” Growing Up and Making Mistakes: “The Universe Has a Way of Figuring Things Out”

Photos & Interview: Shannon Shumaker

With an ever-changing lineup of musicians and a new band name accompanying each release, rebirth and reinvention are a common theme among Frank Iero’s three solo albums. From 2014’s Stomachaches, which Iero admits initially wasn’t meant to be released, to 2016’s emotional release, Parachutes, which arrived just weeks after the band was involved in a life-threatening traffic accident, each album serves as a snapshot of Iero’s life - something born out of necessity and a desire to create. Now on Barriers, his third solo release with his new band, the Future Violents, those needs haven’t changed, but Iero’s outlook on life has.

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Like the two albums that came before it, Barriers wasn’t something that Iero planned on writing or releasing. As he puts it, it was an opportunity that he just couldn’t pass up when the now-members of the Future Violents (previous collaborator Evan Nestor on guitar and backing vocals, Murder By Death’s Matt Armstrong on bass, Thursday’s Tucker Rule on drums and Kayleigh Goldsworthy on piano, organ and violin) suddenly became available. The resulting twelve songs, recorded to tape with Steve Albini, are easily Iero’s most dynamic, honest and fearless work to-date. The reason? Because he wasn’t afraid to make mistakes.

It’s all in the name; Barriers is all about breaking down walls and taking risks, and that’s reflected directly in the sonic landscape and lyrical content of the album. From the hopeful opener, “A New Day’s Coming” and the dark anthem, “Young and Doomed” all the way to the sorrowful “24k Lush” and explosive “Moto Pop,” Barriers showcases an immense amount of growth from Iero, who even admits that the album is his favorite of the three so far. And lyrically, there’s plenty to unpack on the album, whether you’re sixteen and think you know it all, in your mid-twenties and unsure of what you’re doing, or like Iero, in your thirties and finally realizing that you don’t have it all figured out - and that’s okay.

The Prelude Press: You’re out on the road right now in support of your new album, Barriers. Now that it has been out for a little bit and you and fans have had the chance to digest it, what are some of your favorite things about the album?

Frank Iero: I think one of my favorite things is just playing with the people in this band. It’s so rewarding to play with this caliber of musicians, just people that I’ve looked up to for a long time and wanted to be in a band with for a while. And then you know, you work tirelessly on the songs and then finally get to kind of unleash them into the world. To play songs that you wrote together, play them live together, is a wonderful thing.

That actually sounds simple, but the first few records, I didn't get to do that, you know what I mean? Like, I wrote something on my own, for or the first one. I had my friend, Jarrod Alexander, play some live drums on it. But we didn't tour together, so it was like, teaching those songs to new people. And then for Parachutes, that was me, my brother in law, Evan, and our drummer at the time, Matt, but we didn't have a bass player, we didn’t have a full band. So again, we had to teach a newcomer to play the songs. So it always felt like you didn't get to play it with the people there that wrote it and recorded it. So finally, I get to do that, and it feels so wonderful, so powerful. Like, the songs just feel so powerful.

And it’s an actual band now, and not just you.

Exactly, exactly. And how boring [laughs].

What do you think they were able to bring to the record during the writing process? I’m sure they had some input as well.

Oh absolutely. You know, everyone in this band is a very accomplished, talented musician. So, there was no slouch, it was just impressive, impressive. I just always felt like, I've always gotten better as a player when I've gotten put in a room with people that are better than me. You kind of force yourself to reach a new level. And that’s how it went. You know, being in the room, recording together simultaneously, recording live to tape at Electric, it was just everything that this record needed. Because you get this - and not in like a bad way - but it’s almost like one-upping. You’re impressed by somebody and you’re inspired so you want to keep doing that for other people, and it forces you to play at a higher level.

That makes a lot of sense. I think in any art form, if you are challenged or if you have people inspiring you, you’re going to work a lot harder.

I totally agree. On this record too, there’s songs on this record, like “The Host” and “Ode To Destruction” that started with elements of aggression or riffs that Evan brought to the table and “24k Lush” is something that started with Matt. So that’s a new thing too, to have these outside influences come in and we work on them together and make it a full band recording which is really awesome.

So I mean, it’s kind of in the name - Barriers is all about breaking down walls and challenging yourself and doing shit that scares you, so did you have any goals when you first started working on the album, or anything that you wanted to try that you hadn’t before?

Yeah, I think a lot of it. I think sometimes, you grow as an artist and you almost put yourself in this box, or people expect you to be put in this box. I think on this record, maybe even more so than any other that I've ever done, I felt like there were no rules, and I could kind of chase the things that I've always wanted to chase, you know? To write a song like “A New Day’s Coming” or to work on a song like “Six Feet Down Under,” these are styles and feels that I've always enjoyed, loved and wished I could put forth with my own spin on it, but just maybe always felt a little self-conscious or felt like, “Well, you know, people think I should be doing this other thing. Maybe I should just only stick to what I know or what I've done.” So that was a huge thing too, to break down that barrier, and to feel like, “You know what? I can do anything I want to do.” And sometimes, just attempting it and failing is rewarding, you know? But this time around, I think we really did push that envelope and succeeded every time.

Well I will say that having listened to the album a few times, it’s easily the most wide range of sounds you’ve done so far, too.

Thank you, I appreciate that. I think that was the thing too, working with Steve and knowing what to expect with him. Like, I knew that we were going to be able to chase the tones on this record, and not really have to worry about, “Oh no, we have this song that’s kind of half written, we’re going into the studio, we're going to need a lot of time for that.” I knew what the song needed to sound like, I knew what I need to say in it, so the time was really spent on finding the correct sonic landscape for it.

Lyrically, one of the things that resonated with me is, when you’re a teenager or even in your early twenties, you have this mentality of “Oh, I’ll have my shit figured out by the time I’m this age,” and this album is very honest and real, and it’s obvious that you’re still figuring shit out. So how do you feel that you’ve grown with the writing of the album?

That’s a very good question. And that’s the thing, when you’re a teenager, you feel like, “Oh, no, I got this all figured out, I'm good, don't worry about it.” And then, around twenty-one in the real world you're finally like, “Oh, cool, I get to use all this stuff that I know because I know everything so well.” And then at twenty-five, you go crazy, because it's not that way, you know? And then by thirty, you’re like, “Nah, nah I got it figured out now.” And then you start to go crazy a little bit again and you finally realize by your mid-thirties, it's like, “Hey, guess what, I don't know anything, I'm still learning, and that's cool. I'm fine with that.”

I think that that realization that like, our parents didn't have it figured out, either… You’re told to believe that grown-ups have it figured out. You can feel safe now. If you knew then what you know now, you would never feel safe. So to be an adult now, and realize that I’m still learning, I don’t have it all figured out and that’s okay, I think that’s the most comfortable I’ve ever been. It’s okay to not know and to still continuously want to learn. I think that’s when you run into problems, too, even in an artistic sense, is when you’re like, “Oh, nah man, I’ve taken lessons, I’ve played in bands, I’ve sold records, I’m good, I know what I’m doing…” It’s like, fuck you, no you don’t. [laughs]. Once you think you’re done learning, that’s when you die - it’s over, it’s dead.

And you get lazy, and nothing changes.

Exactly, yeah.

So, branching off of that, I know it’s probably night and day, but how have your goals for your music - or life in general - changed since you first started playing in bands to where you are now?

Oh man. Recently, like, in the past three years, I realized how important my time is. And happiness. You know, I used to subscribe to that no regrets thing, and I don’t think that that's realistic. I think it's actually kind of asinine. I think that you should have regrets. I think that living life without regrets is actually not living at all. I think you should get hurt and you should hurt other people, and you should feel sorry about that. You should know what kind of weight words carry, and your actions, and that's the way that you grow as a person.

But you know, I also had this thing in me where I was very much a people pleaser, trying to make everyone happy. I think that as I've grown, I realized that you can't do that, because when you do that, you're you're definitely not happy, and you’ve definitely not made everyone else happy. No one is happy at that point. So you do the best that you can, and ultimately, you have to do what makes your soul feel good, you know? So if you can sleep well at night, then you're doing a pretty good job.

“So you do the best that you can, and ultimately, you have to do what makes your soul feel good…”

That doesn’t mean you’re not making any mistakes.

No, you’re still making tons of mistakes [laughs]. Because we’re human and we have to, and that’s fine. That’s kind of what’s so intriguing and beautiful about us. But yeah, it’s about just spending your time wisely, and spending it with people that you care about.

Is there anything that you wish you could say to your past self?

Oh man, yeah. If I could just let my past self know, like, “Listen, don’t worry so much, it’s going to be okay.” I think I would have had so much more fun. I was definitely - and I still am - always a worrier. Like, oh my gosh, is this gonna work out? I need to know the next thing, and the next thing, and the next thing and plan so far ahead that you didn't really enjoy the moment you were in. And I think that's my biggest thing. I wish I had enjoyed it more.

And then the next day you think about it and you’re like, “God, what the hell was I thinking?”

I know. I think that’s the thing - ultimately the universe does kind of figure it out. I had this discussion recently with a friend, and I do think it's kind of true, that the universe has like this roadmap - these signs - right? And artists are the only ones that can really see them. It’s not like we're these amazing creative beings, it's just that we see the things that nobody else sees, and we create from that. You know what I mean? And that’s not saying that you can't just ignore it and deviate from that path, but the universe has a way of figuring things out, and I think that if we were to just kind of be a little bit more calm and feel more comfortable in our own skin, we could enjoy it a little bit more.

You’ve mentioned before that you kind of never expected to do one solo record and now you’re at a third one. I assume that you didn’t plan to write it, and it kind of just happened?

Yeah. No, that’s exactly what happened. It’s weird, you know I wrote the first record not thinking anyone was ever going to hear it. It was really just for me to just have. I was dead set that I was going to do something completely different than music. I was like, “Alright, I did music, I did it with a band, I did everything I ever wanted to do, I’m gonna try something new.” But I just had these songs in my head, so I was going to keep track of them, so that when I become like sixty years old, I can show my kids that I wrote a record. Then someone heard it and passed it along, and before I knew it, there was interest in it, and blah, blah, blah life happened.

Now I’m on my third one, and I think it’s the best one. I don’t know, it’s weird. Again, this does branch off of what we were talking about. Life happens, and the universe kind of just tells you what you should be doing. You can listen to that or not. I’m pretty ecstatic that I did. I don’t know what else I’d do. I’ve done this for my entire life, it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, is write songs and have people sing along and play shows. Ever since I was literally six or seven years old, that was my dream. I started my first band when I was eleven, played my first show at thirteen, went on my first tour at seventeen, and now I’m gonna be thirty-eight, so I guess this is it. I guess this is what I’m supposed to do.

“Life happens, and the universe kind of just tells you what you should be doing. You can listen to that or not. I’m pretty ecstatic that I did.”

Yeah, there’s no going back now. I’ve talked to a few people about it, and it’s funny because any musician will say the same thing that it’s shitty and stressful and there are some days where you really want to quit, but it’s kind of like an addiction. You can’t.

Oh totally. For me it’s like breathing. You can’t not do it. You have to create because you have to create. Does it love you back? No, not all of the time, at all. And is everything that you create wonderful and fantastic? Fuck no. It’s not always easy, either, but you still have to do it. I don’t know any other way.

So even if I did, all those years ago in 2014, if I had decided, “No, I’m gonna do something different,” I’d still be writing songs. It’s in my DNA.

So I’m guessing this is a daunting question, but what’s next, then? Do you know what you want to do after this?

I don’t know. I really don’t. Sometimes I think like, a trilogy, that’s pretty good. Go out on that. But you know, who knows what other opportunities will present themselves. I didn’t think I was gonna write another record after Parachutes and the accident happened three years ago, and I was like, “You know what, I can’t do this anymore - I don’t know how to do this anymore.” And then all of these musicians that I wanted to work with for twenty years were free and wanted to make a record, and how am I going to say no to that opportunity? I can’t.

So, what do I think is going to come next? Probably another opportunity that I can’t say no to. [laughs]. Who knows.

STAY CONNECTED WITH FRANK IERO: Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Website

Frank Iero and the Future Violents are currently in the midst of a headlining tour in support of Barriers alongside Geoff Rickly of Thursday. For more information, tour dates and tickets, click HERE.

SHANNON SHUMAKER

#frank iero #frank iero and the future violents #shannon shumaker #the prelude press #tunnel pic #navy blue patagonia windbreaker #july 2019 #2019 #interview

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