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tickle-bugs · 3 years

Text

Patience (and Silence) is a Virtue

Summary: In his commitment to restlessness, Anakin discovers something about Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan can't let him get away with that, of course.

Anon: Hi I don't know if you're taking prompts at the moment but would you consider writing a fic where Obi wan is tickling anakin, maybe where it's during the clone wars and anakin is being restless and teasing Obi wan so he decides to put him in his place?? Or something obviously if you're not taking prompts don't worry! But if you're that would be really cute

Do not tag this as ship. Don't do it.

Anakin had a critical inability to stay still, Obi-Wan noticed. He had become calmer and more focused under his wing, sure, but he was restless to his very core. Other Jedi masters would certainly have found his fidgeting to be a nuisance, something to be expunged--Obi-Wan saw it as human. For the things they’d seen and had to do, a little humanity was very welcome.

Except now, of course.

Anakin paced past Obi-Wan for nearly the twentieth time this hour--he’d been doing laps around the room at a speed that’d put any trooper to shame. Obi-Wan’s attempts at meditation had given him some measure of calm, but inner peace was hard to find with your protégé stomping past you every moment.

“We are wasting time.”

“There’s nothing to be done but wait,” Obi-Wan murmured, unwilling to release his patterned breathing.

“I can’t just sit around.” Anakin switched directions, pacing the other way.

“You are far too eager, Anakin.” Obi-Wan shifted slightly, but did not rise.

“And you are far too boring!” He snapped, but it held no real venom. Obi-Wan sighed deeply, dropping his head, and the relaxation promptly left his bones. He stood, brushing himself off, and Anakin watched him tensely.

“Perhaps a bit of sparring would do you some good.” Obi-Wan drew his lightsaber and beckoned him closer, already assuming a combat position. Anakin drew his, twirling it idly, and they circled each other.

For all of Anakin’s restlessness, he paid rapt attention in the field. Obi-Wan could see the gears turning in his head as they circled one another, waiting for Anakin to inevitably make the first move.

They exchanged a flurry of blows, sending blue sparks flying into the air around them. One of the strikes set Obi-Wan unexpectedly off-balance and Anakin used the opportunity to press his advantage, crowding in closer to force a surrender. Obi-Wan smirked--he could never resist playing dirty when an opportunity arose--and squeezed Anakin’s side. He yelped, lightsaber flying into the air, and Obi-Wan caught it, sheathed it, and clipped it to his belt. He tried not to look too amused at Anakin’s pinkened face.

“Do you yield?”

“Never.” Anakin smirked, rushing forward. He swung at Obi-Wan and he simply leaned to avoid it, hands tucked primly behind his back. A mistimed strike gave him an opening--he sidestepped and shoved Anakin forward and away.

“Your impatience will cost you if you aren’t careful. Again.” Obi-Wan readied himself as Anakin charged. Of course, he could never make things easy, but if he moved a tad slower to let Anakin get a few hits in? Ah, who’s to say.

Anakin locked Obi-Wan’s arm behind his back and started twisting out another forced surrender. It would’ve worked too, if Anakin’s stance didn’t leave his free hand wide open. Another lesson for another day, perhaps.

Obi-Wan reached back and grabbed at Anakin’s side, but he didn’t let up this time. He felt Anakin’s forehead smack into his back and heard the faint laughter floating up, but it took quite a few stubborn seconds for Anakin to actually let go.

“Excellent work.” Obi-Wan held out the captive lightsaber. Anakin took it gratefully.

“You absolutely cheated.” The silly smile on his face was contagious.

“I prefer calling it ‘alternative strategy’. Either way, you did well.” Obi-Wan squeezed his shoulder.

“Thank you, Master.”

“Of course. Now, for my sanity, I implore you to clear your mind. I’m not sure how much more pacing I can take.” Obi-Wan took a seat on the ground, and when his padawan didn’t move, he patted the space next to him until Anakin followed suit.

He could sense Anakin’s mind slowing beside him, falling deeper into the tides of the Force, and the comfort of it enveloped him. Obi-Wan allowed himself to drift inwards. His spirit floated away from his physical form and deeper into his psyche, deeper into peace. Tension left him in droves. He inhaled.

The air punched out of him, though, when Anakin started poking his upper ribs. He tried not to startle so visibly, but it was a little late for that.

“Are you trying to accomplish anything in particular?” He cleared his throat. Anakin could smell weakness, he was certain of it.

“Juuust testing a theory.” Anakin’s prodding fingers marched down his ribs and his fingers twitched minutely.

“You will not find what you’re seeking.” Obi-Wan’s voice strained against his better intentions. It took all of his strength not to move and a little more to appear calm.

“Are you sure?” Anakin reached Obi-Wan’s sides and didn’t let up. He exhaled a little too hard. He couldn’t allow himself even a smile—Anakin would never let him live it down.

“Of course, I’m—“

A lone giggle shattered their dialogue.

“Woah.” Anakin beamed, slow and steady. The dangerous sparkle in his eye was about one of the only things that could make Obi-Wan nervous.

“Anakin, I’m warning you—“ He didn’t get to finish. Anakin’s hands darted through the various folds and layers of his robes, seeking easier purchase, and found a delightful (read: terrible) spot around his waistline that pulled snickers from him like fresh taffy. He folded forward, falling into fuller laughter at curious scribbles upon his stomach, and Anakin gasped in wonder.

This was so alien to him, a relic of a life long gone. He found himself trying and failing to break up a cage match between his human instincts and his Jedi ones. Had what little shred of pride he had not been at stake, he would’ve fallen over under Anakin’s absurdly nimble hands.

“This is the best day of my life.” Anakin laughed, letting his fingers slip beneath Obi-Wan’s arms, and the subsequent bark of laughter surprised them both.

It’s about to be your last. Though he couldn’t possibly stay mad at the way Anakin was lit up. Perhaps it would be alright to let him win. Just once in a while.

Not today, though.

“I wish you hadn’t done that.” He hit Anakin with a gentle pulse of the Force, enough to push him back. Anakin’s face settled into playful terror in real time and he fled, making a hopeless dash for the door. Obi-Wan watched him run--he’d gotten faster lately--before grabbing him by the belt with the Force and throwing him back across the room. He caught Anakin bodily in his arms.

“No, wait—“

“Consider this a lesson in patience, ambition, and sensitivity. Especially the latter.” Obi-Wan locked his arms around Anakin’s waist and lifted him clear off the ground, burying his fingers into as much torso as he could. He burst into squeaky laughter, rife with voice cracks, and threw his head back, narrowly avoiding cracking open Obi-Wan’s nose.

“Oh, looks like you may have a thing or two to teach me!” Obi-Wan grabbed handfuls of Anakin’s sides and he snorted around his next bout of laughter.

“Obi-Wan pleahahase!”

“You know I am not a stickler for rules, but do remember your manners. You could get in some nasty trouble.” He swept Anakin’s feet out from under him, still tickling, and lowered him to the ground, taking great care to avoid the flailing limbs.

“I’m gonna die!” Anakin fruitlessly scrabbled at Obi-Wan’s torso to get the upper hand. Obi-Wan hooked his arm around Anakin’s and pulled it up, exposing the perfect landing strip for pinching fingers.

“Nonsense. You’re so close to being free! Wiggle out from my grip there—oh, you’ve made it worse. Hm.” Obi-Wan clawed at Anakin’s stomach with two hands and an iron grip. Anakin tried to pry the evil hands away, but his strength and coordination had evacuated long ago.

He swung his legs back and forth, kicking wildly, and Obi-Wan was proud of the little momentum he had. It was a clever idea--using momentum to break free of the hold. A fruitless idea, but a clever one nonetheless. Obi-Wan crossed his arms over Anakin’s torso, burying his hands beneath his arms, and the resulting shriek had Obi-Wan chuckling.

“This is wonderfully endearing, Anakin, but not at all effective.” On the next swing, Obi-Wan caught Anakin’s knee and wormed his fingers behind it. Anakin threw his head back and cackled wildly, all bright smiles and nose-scrunched laughter, and Obi-Wan had no qualms with admitting how much the sight lifted his spirits.

“I see the problem. You’re laughing too hard to focus.”

“You thihink?” Anakin squinted at him.

“I do. Try laughing less and see where that gets you.” Obi-Wan rained a hail of pinches down upon his hips and the fight was lost. Anakin made a noise like a ship’s hyperdrive starting up and flailed hard—he caught Obi-Wan in the chest with a stray punch. An endless stream of high-pitched, hysterical giggles bubbled out of Anakin and he did his best to muffle them, but Obi-Wan’s fingers on his neck ensured that he couldn’t.

“You’re turning rather red. Is something the matter?” Gloating was unbecoming, sure, but the two of them had always done things a bit differently. Besides, this was beyond endearing. He’d earned a little teasing.

“I give!” Anakin yelped, scrunching as much as possible. Obi-Wan’s fingers slowed.

“Good. You seemed intent on passing out.” Obi-Wan poked his stomach and Anakin snickered.

“One day,” Anakin wheezed, “I am going to destroy you.”

“I would love to see you try.” Obi-Wan extended a hand towards Anakin, glowing with pride, and he took it.

Did Anakin’s promise send a minute shiver up his spine? Perhaps, but he was never one to turn down an entertaining fight.

#my fics #star wars #ticklish!obi wan #ticklish!anakin #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #i dont like this one all that much but im gonna give it a sequel! i think it's gonna be cute :)

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synchronousemma · 2 years

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Wednesday, 26th January: Emma hears of Mr. Elton's engagement

Read: vol. 2, ch. 3 [21]; pp. 109–116 (“Emma could not forgive her” through to “any power of speech”).

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Context

Mr. Knightley and Emma discuss Jane at Hartfield. Miss Bates and Jane Fairfax arrive with news of Mr. Elton’s engagement. Harriet arrives and tells Emma of her encounter with Mr. Martin.

Miss Bates tells us that Mr. Elton “has been gone just four weeks […] four weeks yesterday,” which places this meeting on the 26th.

Readings and Interpretations

Dull Repetitions?

D.A. Miller argues that the repetition beginning this chapter (“Emma could not forgive her”) indicates the desire that Austen as an author has to identify with the “full social being” (p. 66) represented by Emma:

What generates the first “Emma could not forgive her” is Emma’s own affective consciousness, intimately accessed and ironically inflected by its free indirect narrative performance. What generates the second “Emma could not forgive her” is pure narration, a detached consciousness to which Emma’s own has ceased to contribute, having been reduced to a little bit of information useful to the plot. By virtue of repeating the same formula (truly magical), we move from free indirect style […] to mere omniscient narration, more remote in its detachment […].

[…] It is as though the narration were trying, and failing, to pull away from the attraction of free indirect style—from that identification with an image of the Person which is the only thing that distinguishes it […] from its usual “omniscient” mode. But in the course of shaking off its secret, severed identification with Emma, it has produced a cloud of dust that only resettles on it, as the telltale residue of that same identification. It seems […] hard for Jane Austen to relinquish her identificatory cathexis on Emma, or to cool it down into an even more detached form […]. (pp. 63–6)

Two Persons’ Understanding

The conversations in this section develop the tension between understanding and misunderstanding that imbues the relationships in Emma. William Deresiewicz writes that “the complexity of their relationship has tuned Emma and Knightley’s sensibilities to be able to perceive the subtlest communicative inflections—small tonal shifts, facial expressions, body language—sometimes […] operating on more than one level at once”; using this sensibility, Austen is here able to “keep[] three conversations going at the same time: the one Mr. Woodhouse thinks he is having, the one Emma and Knightley are having out loud, and the one they are having silently” (p. 94). The dialogue Emma and Knightley address to Mr. Woodhouse is quite different from the conversation they are carrying on with each other:

[B]oth Emma and Knightley recognize that there is something potentially disturbing to Mr. Woodhouse about the full nature of their relationship […]. Knightley accordingly employs a particularly obvious, stagy kind of condescension in speaking to him about Emma—“I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one’s ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women” […].

But having thrown him this bone, Knightley can turn to Emma and address her directly in far different accents: “I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma . . . ” The tone is familiar, all traces of condescension having dropped out of it […]. Still, Emma invariably finds Knightley’s supervision, whether expressed in approval or rebuke, damaging to her self-love, so here, as usual, she responds to it as no child ever could, with a playful and even mocking parry-and-thrust: “[…] I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield.” […] Brought up short by Emma’s response, Knightley’s tone hardens here, becoming clipped and almost stern […]. But Emma again defends herself, this time even more playfully, while following Knightley in veiling the full purport of their exchange from her father: “An arch look expressed—‘I understand you well enough;’ but she said only, ‘Miss Fairfax is reserved.’” (pp. 93–4)

Rachel Brownstein argues that Emma and Knightley’s sous-entendu communications, though imperfect, are effective:

Mr. Knightley, rebuking Emma in her adoring father’s presence, makes the point that she sometimes is by saying she is “not often deficient either in manner or comprehension.” It is not yet midway through the novel and Emma only imperfectly does, although she thinks she really does. […] Depending on being understood by the people they talk to, speakers like Mr. Knightley and Emma may encode their meanings by inflecting the words and looks they exchange, telegraphing “You know what I mean” in order to prevent others (like Mr. Woodhouse, here) from beginning to comprehend their meaning. Doing that, they make a connection that depends on silence and sympathy, and on separating themselves from those around them […]. (pp. 206–7)

It is instructive to recall Emma’s and Mr. Elton’s failed attempts to communicate in the same way (“‘as there are no husbands and wives in the case at present’”; vol. 1, ch. 6; p. 28; “‘(in an accent meant to be insinuating)—I am sure you have seen and understood me’”; vol. 1, ch. 15; p. 86). And Emma is soon to guess something that Harriet means to communicate (“What do you think has happened!” p. 114), and to guess wrong.

As to Her Deficiency

Our learning that Emma has “sent the whole hind-quarter” of a pig when her father hesitated to send less further inflects our reading of her real or imagined “deficiency” (vol. 2, ch. 1 [19]; p. 99) as regards the Bateses, or charitableness in general. Sheryl Craig writes that

Emma feels a bit guilty about her own neglect of Mrs. and Miss Bates, […] but, when Emma does act, she is very generous. Mr. Woodhouse means to send the Bateses a leg or a loin of fresh killed pork, but Emma sends the whole hind quarter instead. Mr. Woodhouse’s pork and Mr. Knightley’s apples are delivered to Mrs. and Miss Bates, just as the Martins’ goose, “a beautiful goose: the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen” (E 28), is sent to Mrs. Goddard’s school. In her turn, Mrs. Goddard promptly invites “all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her” (E 28–9). As Maggie Lane observes, “the giving and sharing of food becomes a symbol or extended metaphor for human interdependence, resonating through the entire text” (Jane Austen and Food 154).1 (pp. 129–30)

Laura Mooneyham, however, argues that though this incident shows “Emma is not deficient in her material charity, […] all the same one cannot say that she is in charity with her neighbours. Unlike Mr. Knightley, she is a snob who thus feels uncomfortable in the company of those below her on the social ladder. Emma is therefore uncharitable with her time, especially with the Bateses (p. 126).

Suspiciously Reserved, Redux

Emma’s dialogue throughout this section, both before and after the Bateses and Jane arrive, is much in her typical animated, playful tone—“‘Who shall answer that question?’” (p. 112); “‘we shall not excuse your being indifferent about Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins’” (p. 113). Jane’s dialogue is reserved and almost wooden in comparison, but certainly more precise, not giving into Emma’s style of generalization or exaggeration (compare, for example, Emma’s sardonic “‘Mr. Elton is the standard of perfection in Highbury‘” to Jane’s “‘When I have seen Mr. Elton, […] I dare say I shall be interested’”). We, of course, know that Emma means to needle Jane on the subject of her supposed attachment to Mr. Dixon in her assertion that Jane must have been “hearing and seeing so much of late” regarding matrimony, and “must have been so deep in the business on Miss Campbell’s account” (p. 113). Jane can only respond to the literal signification of Emma’s speech as regards Mr. Elton, as of yet unaware why Emma is generalizing from the specific topic of Mr. Elton’s engagement to the broader topic of marriage.

What Is Before Me, I See

Miss Bates’s dialogue in this section reveals her habit of observing and saying more than those around her (and some critics) give her credit for, or else saying more than she herself knows. In sharing her past suspicions that Mr. Elton, if he aspired to marriage with Emma, would be rejected, Miss Bates’s juxtaposition of the subject with a question about Harriet, and the exclusion from her speech of a disambiguating reference to what Harriet is recovered from (last month’s cold?), seem to hint at knowledge of Harriet’s heartbreak:

Well, I had always rather fancied it would be some young lady hereabouts; not that I ever—Mrs. Cole once whispered to me—but I immediately said, ‘No, Mr. Elton is a most worthy young man—but’—In short, I do not think I am particularly quick at those sort of discoveries. I do not pretend to it. What is before me, I see. At the same time, nobody could wonder if Mr. Elton should have aspired Miss Woodhouse lets me chatter on, so good-humouredly. She knows I would not offend for the world. How does Miss Smith do? She seems quite recovered now. (p. 113)

Mary Hong writes that this monologue conceals the “revelation that the unfastidious and undistinguishing Miss Bates is more discerning of motives and intentions than is the clever Emma,” “present[s] a Miss Bates who had discerned the vicar’s social-climbing ambition, Emma’s prior in- terest in the vicar as a potential suitor for her protégé Harriet, and Harriet’s unrequited love,” and “shows an awareness of the fine distinctions in rank lost to all three participants in their matchmaking” (p. 241). She continues:

In the middle of expressing her opinion, Miss Bates explains that her insights are merely the recording of an external reality transparent to all—”I do not think I am particularly quick at those sort of discoveries. I do not pretend to it. What is before me, I see”—thus making them no more extraordinary or different than the descriptions of her domestic surrounding. Her self-effacing comment not only counters, and mocks, Emma’s confidence in her own ability to interpret the motives of others, but presents a different account of experiencing, and more importantly, narrating, the world.

[…] In other words, unlike the free indirect discourse that reveals Emma’s self-consciousness, Miss Bates’s words show how knowledge is constructed apart from self-knowledge. She knows without having to know that she knows. One could go further and say that Miss Bates knows even when she thinks she doesn’t know, in contrast to Emma who always thinks she is right when in fact she is wrong. (p. 242)

What Do You Think Has Happened!

Before Harriet’s speech, Emma assumes that Harriet’s perturbation is because she has heard the news of Mr. Elton’s engagement (indeed, Harriet’s introduction to the tale has invited her to guess). However, and tellingly, the story in fact regards Robert Martin. The fact that Emma gives the news of Mr. Elton’s engagement in order to distract Harriet from her dismay at this meeting would seem to elevate the Martins in importance; however, over time, Emma insistently subordinates the former to the latter (it “had been serviceable in deadening the first shock,” p. 116).

The presentation of Harriet’s speech in this section undergoes a switch from indirect to direct discourse after Harriet reveals the cause of her upset: “And so, there she had set, without an idea of any thing in the world, full ten minutes, perhaps—where, all of a sudden, who should come in—to be sure it was so very odd!—but they always dealt at Ford’s—who should come in, but Elizabeth Martin and her brother!—Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think. I thought I should have fainted” (p. 115). Joe Bray argues that the switch indicates Emma’s greater attention to what she is hearing, such that FIS “suggests Emma’s listening presence”:

The FIS in the passage […] suggests […] Emma’s impatience as she longs for Harriet to get to what she (Emma) is wrongly assuming to be the point. The third person and past tense suggest not the narrator’s ironic distance from the character, but rather Emma’s filtering perspective, as she listens to the ‘unchecked’ Harriet ‘[run] eagerly through what she had to tell’. Neither the narrator nor Emma appears to be mocking Harriet here; Emma is indeed concerned for and sympathetic towards her as she fears (incorrectly) the effect that the news about Mr. Elton will have on her.3 (pp. 39–40)

T.A. B. Corley argues that Harriet’s speech itself tells on her education:

Having spent all her time, apart from occasional stays elsewhere, at Mrs Goddard’s, Harriet finds the school and its trivial events dominating her conversation, until Emma diverts her thoughts into more enticing channels, and soon eradicates her schoolgirl’s giggle. […] [W]ith Emma she talks slangily as she does at school. “I thought it would have been the death of me”, and “I would rather have done anything than have it happen” [p. 115].4 To do her justice, after a few months in Emma’s company most of the slang has disappeared. (p. 127)

Footnotes

Craig notes that this generosity is not displayed by others in the novel: “Newcomers to Highbury’s gentry class, the Coles reveal their social ineptitude when they […] invite Miss Bates, Jane Fairfax, and Harriet Smith to come for tea, but only after the two-course dinner for the wealthier guests has been eaten and cleared away. […] Mrs. Coles is asserting her own, assumed, social superiority […]. This is an antisocial blunder that the Woodhouses, Mr. Knightley, and the Westons do not make” (p. 129).

On Emma’s tendency to generalize, see Babb (pp. 181ff).

Bray perhaps considers this to be free direct speech (FDS), rather than direct speech (DS), because it lacks an “introductory reporting clause” (p. 32).

The Norton Critical Edition has “would rather done any thing.”

Discussion Questions

How does this section change or deepen our understanding of Emma’s charitableness, or lack thereof?

How is Jane characterized throughout this section?

Has Miss Bates really guessed the truth of Harriet’s feelings? What does her dialogue in this section suggest about the relationship between perception and narration?

Bibliography

Austen, Jane. Emma (Norton Critical Edition). 3rd ed. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, [1815] 2000.

Babb, Howard S. “Emma: Fluent Irony and the Pains of Self-Discovery.” In Jane Austen’s Novels: The Fabric of Dialogue. Columbus: Ohio State University Press (1962), pp. 175–202.

Bray, Joe. The Language of Jane Austen. London: Palgrave Macmillan (2018).

Brownstein, Rachel M. “Why We Reread Jane Austen.” In Why Jane Austen? New York: Columbia University Press (2011), pp. 195–236.

Corley, T. A. B. “Jane Austen’s ‘Real, Honest, Old-Fashioned Boarding-School’: Mrs La Tournelle and Mrs Goddard.” Women’s Writing 5.1 (1998), pp. 113–30. DOI: 10.1080/09699089800200035.

Craig, Sheryl. “Emma: William Pitt’s Utopia.” Jane Austen and the State of the Nation. Palgrave Macmillan (2015), pp. 118–40.

Deresiewicz, William. “Emma: Ambiguous Relationships.” In Jane Austen and the Romantic Poets. New York: Columbia University Press (2004), pp. 86–126.

Hong, Mary. “‘A Great Talker upon Little Matters’: Trivializing the Everyday in Emma.” Novel: A Forum on Fiction 38.2/3 (Spring – Summer 2005), pp. 235–53. DOI: 10.1215/ddnov.038020235.

Lane, Maggie. Jane Austen and Food. London: Hambledon (1995).

Miller, D. A. Jane Austen, or the Secret of Style. Princeton: Princeton University Press (2003).

Mooneyham, Laura G. “The Double Education of Emma.” In Romance, Language and Education in Jane Austen’s Novels. Houndmills: Macmillan Press (1988), pp. 107–145.

Murphy, Terence Patrick. “Monitored Speech: The ‘Equivalence’ Relation between Direct and Indirect Speech in Jane Austen and James Joyce.” Narrative 15.1 (January 2007), pp. 24–39. DOI: 10.2307/20107402.

#Jane Austen #Emma #Emma Woodhouse #Jane Fairfax #Mr. Knightley #Miss Bates #Mr. Woodhouse #Mr. Elton #Harriet Smith #Robert Martin #e

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mldrgrl · 3 years

Text

The New Addition

by: mldrgrl rating: PG-13 Summary: Hanella welcomes a guest for the weekend

Even more rare than a call from Becca was a FaceTime. Texting was more her style. So, when Hank picked up his phone and saw the incoming video call, he answered immediately.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“That’s how you answer your phone?” Becca said. “Why does something have to be wrong?”

“Many apologies, Daughter, but the infrequency with which you grace us with your face from a remote location are rare as natural breasts on a porn star.”

“Do you think that’s an appropriate thing to say to a daughter, Father?”

“Fuck no, but surprise calls make me nervous. What’s up, Kitten?”

“Don’t ever call me that again. Is Stella there?”

“Yeah, I think she was grading some exams or something, hang on.” Hank turned away from the phone and leaned over the sofa to try to see down the hall to the back room she was using as a study. “Stella! Stelllllllaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

“Oh my god, why are you screaming at her?” Becca said.

“I like to take the opportunity to rehearse my Stanley Kowalski impression when I can. Here she comes.”

Stella came down the hall with her hands on her hips and her brows raised. Hank held his phone up so she could see Becca on the screen and she immediately dropped her hands from her hips and softened her brows, but she quickened her step.

“Becca, darling,” Stella said. “What’s the matter?”

“This is why I only text,” Becca said.

“Well, if you called more, we wouldn’t think shit had hit the fan somewhere.”

Hank opened up his arm as Stella came around to the sofa and sat down. She leaned against him and he adjusted his grip on the phone so they were both in the frame and so that she could also see Becca.

“I have someone I want you to meet,” Becca said.

“How the hell did you meet someone during a pandemic?” Hanks asked. “Oh my god, are you online dating? You know those people usually turn out to be serial killers.”

“Dad!”

“Darling, don’t worry, it’s still statistically a very low probability even if related crimes have been on the rise. Give me his name and social security number and I’ll run a background check.”

“Or her,” Hank interjected. “We’re still holding out hope she’s a lesbian.”

“This is the last time I am ever calling you,” Becca said.

“Does your mother know about this guy?”

“Or girl,” Stella added.

Becca sighed and rolled her eyes. She leaned down and tilted her phone at the same time so the view was of her ceiling and then she came back into frame with a small, brown poodle. “This is Ziggy,” she said. “A friend of a friend of mine was giving away her dog’s puppies and I picked him up this morning.”

“Lovely,” Stella said. “He’s very handsome.”

“I haven’t even met him, but I guarantee this is my favorite guy you’ve ever introduced me to,” Hank added. “Now you’ll be far too busy for online dating.”

“I’m not online dating, but I’m wondering if you can do me a favor?”

“What’s the favor?”

“Next month I have the writer’s retreat scheduled upstate. It’s just for a long weekend, Friday to Monday, can you watch Ziggy for me? He’ll probably be housetrained by then. Maybe. Hopefully.”

“Of course,” Stella answered, as Hank also said “Not a chance.”

Becca grimaced slightly. “It’s just that I’d really rather not have to put him in a kennel. I guess I can call Mom and see if she can pick him up, but it’s so far.”

Stella squeezed Hank’s knee. “You don’t need to call Karen,” she said. “We would love to watch him.”

“Fine,” Hank said.

“Thank you.” Becca smiled and held the dog closer to the phone. “Ziggy says thank you as well.”

Hank ended the call and then turned to look at Stella. She tipped her head back to look at him as well. He tried to scowl and she smiled.

“Why did you say no?” Stella asked.

“Why did you say yes?” he countered.

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

“Because I don’t see a reason to say no.”

“Because I got her a dog once and where do you think that dog is now?”

“I wouldn’t know, where is it?”

“I have no fucking idea, that’s the point. I went through all the trouble to steal the little fucker from the boyfriend of this woman I was...uh, actually it’s irrelevant how I acquired the dog, let’s just say I got a dog for Becca and fuck if I know what happened to the late, great Cat Stevens.”

“What in the world does Cat Stevens have to do with it?”

“That was the dog.”

Stella patted Hank on the knee and then tried to get up from the couch, but Hank pulled her back down. “I have to grade papers,” she said.

“I just wanted to make sure you knew about the naked shower party I’m having tonight.”

“Wouldn’t any shower party be naked by virtue of being a shower party?”

“That’s a very good point, Sherlock. I’d revise the invitation, but I’d rather just be redundant.”

“Mmhm.” She pushed on his knee and this time he let her up. “Text me the details, I need to get back to grading.”

“What, like a dick pic?” he called after her.

She glanced over her shoulder at him with one eyebrow raised. He waited until she was back in the study to unbutton his jeans.

*****

Becca dropped the dog off on a Friday morning, bright and early. Stella was awake to prepare for one of her classes, but Hank was still asleep. He didn’t hear the drop-off, but when he woke up and wandered into the kitchen to make coffee, he tripped over the dog, stubbed his toe, and shouted a ‘motherfucker’ so loud he was pretty sure he was going to get scolded for it later. The dog ran away.

“Yeah, you better run,” Hank mumbled, limping to the coffeemaker. “Fuck.”

Stella startled him not a minute later when she smacked him on the ass. He jumped and rubbed at his stinging backside, turning to her with a pout. She was holding the dog in her arms and it was whimpering and holding on to her neck with its head turned away from him.

“What was that for?” he grumbled.

“First, for shouting expletives whilst I was on a lecture.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t mean to. Did they hear me?”

“No, fortunately, I was on mute. There are student presentations today. Which I must return to.”

“The damn dog tripped me and I stubbed my toe. It might be broken.” He leaned against the counter and lifted his foot up to show her his foot. “See.”

Stella reached out and took a light hold on his toe. He made a face at her and she gave it a rough tug to which he yelped and pulled his foot back.

“You’re fine,” she said.

“You’re mean.”

“Please don’t make enemies with Becca’s dog for the weekend.”

“He started it.”

Stella handed the dog over to Hank and gave it a scratch on the head before she walked away. “I put the instructions on the refrigerator,” she said. “Give them a read and then make yourself useful and take him for a walk.”

Hank pulled a sheet of instructions out from the magnet on the refrigerator and read through them. They were very detailed. Too detailed. He wanted to crumble them up into a little ball and burn them.

“Ridiculous,” he said to the dog. “When we left Becca with the babysitter the only unwritten rule was just not to kill her. You’re a dog, you should be pretty self-sufficient. Just don’t piss on the rug and don’t shit in any of my shoes and we’ll get along fine. Deal?”

The dog twisted and wriggled in Hank’s arms to be put down and so Hank put him on the floor. The dog sat down and then lifted a paw to scratch at Hank’s knee.

“Make up your mind, Zig. Up or down, what do you want?”

The dog barked once and then sneezed.

“I don’t speak canine.”

Ziggy whined softly and pawed at Hank’s knee again. The coffeemaker beeped behind Hank and he turned around to shut it off. He poured the coffee into a travel mug and left the cap off so it could cool a bit.

“Okay, Stella says you need a walk,” he said. “I need to put some pants on. Don’t lay anywhere where you blend into the floor. I need my toes.”

The dog followed Hank into the bedroom and immediately jumped on the bed. Hank shooed him off and undaunted, he explored from corner to corner, sniffing the walls and the furniture and the clothes on the floor. Hank snatched up the jeans Ziggy was nosing and put them on. He grabbed a fresh t-shirt from the closet and then went to dig through a duffel bag that Becca left for the dog’s leash.

It took Hank several attempts at getting the harness onto the dog. Number one, because he kept stepping out of it as soon as Hank got it on one foot. Number two, because he initially put it on backwards and didn’t know how the clip could possibly work when it was under the dog’s chest. He finally figured it out though and it seemed secure. He grabbed his keys, his wallet, a mask, and the coffee and headed to the elevator.

The half an hour walk with Ziggy made Hank understand the meaning of the term ‘boundless energy.’ If it wasn’t for the coffee, he couldn’t be sure he’d have made it. When they got back, he unclipped the dog from his harness and even though it felt like they’d just run a marathon, Ziggy dashed across the room and hurdled himself onto the sofa where Stella was now sitting. To Hank’s surprise, Stella laughed as she dodged excited kisses from the dog and didn’t scold him at all or tell him to get down.

“I am exhausted,” Hank said, collapsing onto the sofa beside Stella. He grimaced and let out a pained ‘oof’ as the dog stepped on his crotch and up onto his chest. “Fuck me, this dog is trying to kill me.”

“Have a nice walk?” Stella asked.

“That thing had to piss every five feet and terrorize all the squirrels and pigeons in the neighborhood.” Hank pushed Ziggy away when he tried to lick his chin and the dog laid down on his chest, panting hot and heavy in his face.

“How’s your toe?”

“What toe? Oh. Not broken, I guess.”

“Lovely.”

“He is a total chick magnet though,” Hank said, waggling his eyebrows at Stella. “Ladies were flocking to me like flies to honey. Almost got a few numbers.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t worry I told them my wife would kick my ass before she let me take a hot girl’s phone number.”

“I think I might join you for this afternoon’s walk.”

Hank chuckled and nudged Stella’s leg with his knee. “Kidding, Sherlock. Some kid did ask me if Ziggy had an Insta and then had to explain to me that any dog who’s anydog has an Instagram account and we should get on it the sooner the better if we want him to be a doggie influencer.”

“A what?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Looks like you have a new nap partner.” Stella inclined her chin towards the dog, who had dropped his head down to Hank’s shoulder and let out a deep sigh as his eyes closed. She smiled a little and stroked the dog’s back a few times.

“I didn’t know you liked dogs so much,” Hank said.

“More of a cat person, really. I don’t mind them though.”

“Did you read that list Becca left? It’s more complicated than the Treaty of Versailles.”

Stella chuckled. “It is a rather overly complicated schedule. For a dog.”

“I say fuck the list. I kept her ass alive for the requisite 18 years without a list, I can probably handle a dog for a weekend.”

“Tell that to Cat Stevens.”

“Oh yeah. Wherever the fuck he is. Okay, maybe we better stick to the list. Though I would like to point out, Cat was Becca’s dog.”

“Maybe that’s why she made a list this time.”

*****

Ziggy was sound asleep when Hank turned off the lights in the main room. The dog was passed out on his back, in his bed beside the couch, tongue lolling out of his mouth. Hank tiptoed past him into the bedroom and quietly shut the door. Stella was in the bathroom brushing her teeth. He came up behind her and pressed her into the counter with his hips, sneaking his hands up her shirt to massage her breasts.

Stella grunted slightly through her nose and pushed her hips back into Hank’s. She put her hand up to hold her hair back and Hank pulled his hands out from her shirt to do it for her. She leaned over to spit into the sink and he held her hair with one hand and stroked her neck with the other.

“Thank you,” she said.

Hank finger-combed Stella’s hair up into his fist at the top of her head while she wiped her mouth and then he let it go and rubbed her shoulders. She turned around and he held her by the hips.

“Where’s the dog?” she asked.

“Outside smoking a cigarette.”

“Do you think he should go outside once more?”

“He’s dead asleep. He was like…” Hank imitated the dog, rolling his eyes back and sticking his tongue out of the side of his mouth.

“You’re the one that was worried about him urinating on the rug.”

Hank pouted his lips and then nodded. “Fine, I’ll take him upstairs. But, you better be naked when I come back, or else I’m sleeping on the couch with the dog.”

“I don’t think that’s the threat you believe it to be.”

Hank narrowed his eyes and pinched Stella’s hip before putting his mouth to her neck and nipping lightly at the back of her jaw. She laughed and pushed at his chest until he let her go. He playfully slapped at her backside on the way out of the bathroom and she swatted his hands away.

The dog was still sleeping when he opened the door, but he whistled softly and Ziggy startled to his feet and then shook himself. “Come on, hairball, we’re going outside.” He snapped his fingers a few times and the dog followed him to the door to the roof.

Ziggy was hesitant on the stairs, taking them slowly and pausing every few steps to get his footing as he hopped up. He ran around the newly landscaped deck, sniffing just about every nook and cranny and lifting his leg on half of them. It had gotten chilly since the sun went down and Hank, in bare feet and a t-shirt, hopped up and down a few times and rubbed his arms as he called the dog back.

Hank was forced to carry the dog down the stairs when he wouldn’t budge from the top. He made a few false starts, but ultimately sat down and wouldn’t move. When he put him down, Ziggy stared up at him and then stayed closed to his legs as he went back to the bedroom.

“You, stay,” Hank said, pointing to the dog bed.

Ziggy sat down next to the bed. Hank closed the door. Stella was sitting up in bed, reading a magazine or journal, which she set down on her lap and took her reading glasses off.

“Did you really think that’s going to work?” she asked.

“He’s fine.”

Before Hank even finished, Ziggy was yelping and scratching at the door. Stella raised her brows and Hank sighed. He opened the door and the dog came flying through, jumped on the bed and leapt onto Stella with his paws on her chest, wagging his tail and kissing her cheek and chin.

“Settle, darling,” Stella said, turning her face away and pushing the dog back. He gave a whining bark as he dropped down.

“Do they make ritalin for dogs?”

“He’s just a baby.”

Hank kicked the dog bed into the bedroom and then pushed it against the wall with his foot. “Go get in your bed,” he said.

Ziggy laid down where he was, next to Stella. He put his head on his paws and lifted his eyes up at Hank.

“Now he’s giving me puppy dog eyes,” Hank said.

“Shockingly, I believe that’s where that term came from.”

“Well, I don’t like it. It’s too effective.”

“Resign yourself to the fact that we have a little guest for the weekend.”

Hank grumbled under his breath as he went to the bathroom to get ready for bed. He stripped to his jockey shorts and snapped off the overhead lights on his way back. Ziggy looked up from beside Stella like Hank was the intruder. He even had the audacity to give a little growl when Hank leaned over to give his wife a kiss. Annoyed, Hank flopped onto his back and the dog scooted closer and rested his head on his arm.

“Oh, now you want to be nice,” Hank said, reaching over to scratch the dog on the head. “I’m surprised Becca hasn’t called.”

“What do you mean?”

“To check up on the dog or let us know she made it to the retreat.”

“She’s been texting me all day.”

“What? What did she want?”

“Checking up on the dog.”

“She doesn’t trust us?”

“You didn’t question her motivations five seconds ago when you were surprised she hadn’t called.”

“I like to be fickle to keep you on your toes.”

Ziggy sighed and squirmed until he was on his back, all four paws limp in the air. Stella chuckled and rubbed his chest before she closed her magazine and tossed it onto the nightstand.

“We’re letting this thing stay up here, then?” Hank asked.

“Yes.”

“I think I’m more of a cat person too.”

*****

Hank was surprised that the dog was no trouble during the night. He woke briefly when Stella, always an early riser, got up and said she was going to take Ziggy for his morning walk and when she got back, would be entering in project results into her electronic gradebook for a bit. He grunted in response and mumbled a reminder to leave him some coffee.

When he finally woke fully, left the bedroom far more cautiously than he had the previous morning. Ziggy was nowhere to be found, but as soon as he started puttering in the kitchen, the dog appeared. Hank crouched down and gave him a few scratches.

“What were you up to, hm?” he asked. “Getting into trouble?”

Ziggy followed Hank as he went to the bedroom, most likely interested in the piece of toast in his hand. Hank held the toast between his teeth, wiped his hands on his jeans, and picked up his phone from the nightstand to text Becca.

Morning sweetheart. The furball is good. Not to worry. Haven’t shipped him off to a kennel yet and probably won’t. Have a good time at the retreat.

Hank took a bite of his toast and then tore a piece off and tossed it to the dog. Ziggy caught it mid-air. About thirty seconds later, he heard Stella calling his name and he snapped his fingers at the dog to get him to follow him out of the bedroom.

“What’s up?” Hank asked, and shoved the rest of the toast into his mouth.

“What did you say to Becca?”

“Hm?” he mumbled, mouth full.

“She just texted me and said you’ve implied the dog has been sent to a kennel and wants proof of life.”

“No I didn’t,” he said. “I said I haven’t sent the dog to a kennel so she doesn’t need to worry.”

“Why would you say that to her?”

“So she wouldn’t worry.”

“Well, she’s worried.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“I’ll send her a photo. Ziggy, come here, darling.”

Stella kissed the air a few times, but Ziggy thought trying to be caught was a game. He bounded away from Stella and then stopped and bowed down, his hind end in the air and tail wagging. She patted her knee for him to come, but he just jumped a few feet to the left and went back into the same pose.

“I’ll get him.” Hank started towards the dog and Ziggy barked and then ran to the kitchen. Hank ended up chasing him around the butcher’s block several times before he was able to catch him, but keeping hold of him was difficult. “Stay still, Zig.”

Stella knelt down and quickly opened the camera on her phone.

“What’re you doing?” Hank asked.

“Taking a photo.”

“A selfie?”

“Do you have another suggestion?”

“I don’t know, I don’t do selfies. Unless they’re dick pics.”

“Yes, I am aware, but we won’t be sending your daughter a photo of your penis.”

“Well hurry up, this guy is a bitch to hold onto.”

“Smile, darling.” Both Stella and Hank smiled as she held down the photo button, but Ziggy wriggled and squirmed.

“Anything usable?” Hank asked, setting the dog free.

“A little blurry, but they should suffice.” Stella got up and texted the photos to Becca. “She says thank you, and for you to never fucking text her again.”

“Brat.”

“You started it.”

*****

The day passed. They took the dog to the park. He napped when they got back. Hank worked on his book. Stella worked on a report for her class. In the evening, they lit a fire in the new firepit on the roof and cuddled up on the daybed with the dog between them.

“Should we get a cat?” Hank asked.

“Do you want a cat?” Stella countered.

“Not really.”

“Me neither.”

“It is kind of nice having this little hairball around though. Not that I want him to stay. He’s also annoying as fuck. But, nice to have around. For an hour or two. When he’s asleep.”

“Kind of like you.”

“Hey!”

Stella laughed and Hank pushed her down onto the bed, rising to his knees to lean over and nuzzle her neck. It was a ticklish spot for her, especially when caressed lightly, and it made her laugh harder. Ziggy barked from where he was wedged beside Stella and under Hank. He wiggled out from under them and then jumped on Hank’s back with his front paws, barking and growling.

“Relax, man,” Hank said, rolling to one hip off of Stella.

“He’s being a good protector,” Stella said, laughing when Ziggy nipped at the blanket over their legs and tried to pull it away.

“He’s being a cockblocker.” Hank wrestled the blanket back from the dog and then grabbed him under the chin, giving him a few firm scratches. “You know what, Zig? You be a cockblocker. You be the best cockblocker you can be, at Becca’s place. Cockblock the shit out of Becca, okay?”

Ziggy barked and wagged his tail.

“Good boy,” Hank said. “Good little cockblocker.”

“Don’t say that to him,” Stella said.

“Why not?”

“One day you will need to face the fact that your daughter is a grown woman who deserves a healthy sex life.”

“Oh my god, I’m going to throw up.” Hank groaned and flopped down onto the bed with his arm over his eyes. “Consider me officially cockblocked.”

Stella moved up onto her hip this time and put her arm over Hank’s chest. She kissed his chin and then pulled his bottom lip between her teeth. He grabbed her around the waist and grunted softly into her mouth. Ziggy trampled the both of them and stuck his cold nose into Hank’s cheek.

“Gah!” Hank groaned.

The licked furiously at the both of them and Stella released Hank’s lip with a laugh and a scrunched face. She buried her head down into Hank’s neck while curling into his side and Ziggy tried to wedge his snout down to keep licking her face.

“We are officially never, ever, ever, ever getting a dog,” Hank said.

“No argument from me,” Stella answered, sliding away from the dog and Hank and stepping off the bed. “Meet me downstairs and I guarantee you won’t be cockblocked.”

“Oh?”

“Naked shower party for two in ten minutes.”

“The naked is redundant!” he called after her as she walked away. He waited until she had started down the stairs to take Ziggy’s face in his hands. “Listen. This is a cockblock free zone, you got that? Keep it up and you just may end up like Cat Stevens. We good?”

Ziggy gave a short, gruff bark and then lifted his paw. Hank nodded and they shook on it. He got up and let Ziggy explore the roof for a few minutes while he folded the blanket up and put out the fire. Not for long though. He had a naked party to get to and he didn’t want to be late.

The End

#i wrote this #hanella #humor #DOGS #hank moody #stella gibson

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oof-big-oof · 3 years

Text

ACOTAR and Setups Part II: Tamlin and Rhysand

SPOILERS: ACOTAR series (and Macbeth too ig)

Part 1: Feyre

In "Macbeth", Macbeth and Banquo are narrative foils to each other. While Banquo is loyal to the king and uses language of growth and imagery of nature when he speaks, the traitor Macbeth's words are full of references to destruction, fire, and unholy happenings. Foils are not just good ways to explore character traits, but also excellent for setting up conflicts and exploring the thematic concerns of the world.

I think it's safe to say Tamlin and Rhysand are foils. They have opposing imagery (spring, flowers and sun for Tamlin, winter, snow and night for Rhysand) and always stand in opposition to each other when it comes to Feyre's narrative, switching in and out of being the "bad guy" and the "good guy". But the way this is handled is .... eh.

I'm going to look at shifts in Feyre, Tamlin and Rhys that work of this foil - and try to look for when and how they were set up.

1. Feyre's shift - TW: discussions of abuse, mental health issues

In the first book, Tamlin is a source of protection and love for Feyre. But by the second book, Feyre is not only struggling with her PTSD but has begun to realise that life at the Spring Court as a dolled up accessory might not be for her. By the end of the book, she has found her place in the Night Court - by Rhysand's side. And honestly? Go girl! Go live up to your potential!

The problem arises with how this is done - that is, Sarah J Mass never does the brunt work of showing us why Feyre cares. It is plausible she is motivated by a desire to protect the human lands, but we never actually see that. There isn't a moment where she realises she needs to work for a greater good, or a moment she realises that she needs to protect those more vulnerable than her - instead, the narrative has her tolerating abuse until she finally has had enough.

Which is great. I have got to admit that I really like the explicit rejection of a happily ever after storyline for Feyre because it took away her agency. But we get this radical shift in character motivation from wanting to be protected and comfortable with those she loves to desiring agency and understanding of herself in two lines:

"The girl who had needed to be protected and who had craved stability and comfort... she had died Under the Mountain"

and

"I didn't know how to go back to those things. To being docile"

hhhhhh. I mean - if you have to say it that explicitly, you're already doing something wrong. But also, why? We never see Feyre struggling with herself in her new body, and wondering why she does not want the same things as she did when she was a human, never see an impetus point for when her desires shifted.

But honestly? I don't mind Feyre's arc. I think it's a bit confused and lacks clarity or intent, and as a result, it is harder to root for her because you don't quite know what she wants, but I think it's still quite good. Where I really have problems are with Tamlin ad Rhys.

2. Tamlin - TW: discussions of abuse, mental health issues

I am not a fan of Tamlin's arc. You could argue that it is part of the thematic message of the series: that things are not as they seem. Tamlin is the wolf to the savour to the abuser, Rhysand is the "most beautiful man " Feyre had ever seen to Amarantha's monster to Feyre's eventual mate. But - the constant twists are unnecessary, more importantly, they and have little to no foreshadowing and just seem like retcons- making it seem as if they are there to keep the audience guessing rather than genuine plot progressions. This becomes even more obvious when the series abandons its core theme of "appearance vs reality" altogether, and as a result loses a lot of its cohesion: a direct consequence of having a bad setup.

His reason for doing the abusive things he does is conveyed to us in two lines, in the same monologue that Feyre's motivation is:

"Tamlin had gotten his powers back, had become whole again - become that protector and provider he wished to be"

Sure. He was much more powerful than Feyre when they first met, so I am having a hard time buying it is the return of the powers that his making him act this way. We know that his actions come from a genuine desire to protect Feyre - this is the guy that was willing to sacrifice his life multiple times and the future of his entire court to keep her safe. The only justification we have left then for the way he acts is that his PTSD, borne out of the trauma and torture he underwent and watched Feyre undergo changed him in some way.

This is why the endless villainizing of Tamlin makes me really uncomfortable. While it is true that the abused can become the abuser, and figuring out how to help them while protecting yourself is something that absolutely needs to be discussed and explored - the way it is done with Tamlin is horrendous because he is never given a chance to heal. Instead, he is thrown from plot point to plot point, an eternal punching bag for the Inner Circle and others to seem morally superior in front of.

And his treatment of Feyre is just weird. If he's so concerned about her safety - why does he not wake up when she has nightmares? Is he instead trying to pretend like everything is okay - if so why does he give Feyre an escort of guards? If his core motivation is protecting Feyre at all costs - why does he lash out at her?? And the text really tries to tell us how to feel about him in this regard, but it doesn't do it very well. For example, take the scene where Tamlin says "There is no such thing as a High Lady". Feyre a second before expressed her desire not to take on any responsibility, and Tamlin responded with this - and the text really makes us want to hate him for it, but all you can see is a person who is perhaps not the best at reading subtext trying his best.

In conclusion - Tamlin's shift to the villain of the narrative is hamhanded and underexplained, making it hard to genuinely hate him, and further confusing the narrative.

3. Rhys the foil gets the girl - TW: discussions of abuse, sexual assault mental health issues

Rhysand in the first book is interesting - he clearly has a heart and a soft spot for Feyre but is also a schemer with dubious motives that drugs and sexually harasses Feyre. There are places in the set up where we understand he cares - but never where we can begin to see he might be a genuine paragon of virtue.

And I will address this more in my post on ACOMAF, but the point I am trying to make here is: we are told through the constantly opposing imagery that Rhys and Tamlin are wolds apart - but never actually given examples of how. Rhys is said to be different from Tamlin because he respects Feyre's choice - but he drugs her in a bunch of weird scenes (that serve no clear narrative purpose by the way - like what was he trying to achieve? why he couldn't he just let Feyre in on that part of the plan?) and withholds information from her about life-threatening situations. Rhys is said to pull less rank - but we multiple times see others defer to him, especially in later books, and never actually see rank being enforced in Tamlin's court with his treatment of Lucien (many times described as his partner, and openly questioning him) and later Ianthe. Rhys is said to have less archaic laws in opposition to Tamlin's Tithe - but he abandons the Court of Nightmares to the monsters who rule it, and never takes serious actions against the Illyrian people who clip of women's wings, and a lot of Tamlin's idea of racial superiority and general superiority just come completely out of left field in the middle of ACOMAF.

Both of them are problematic - it's just that the text tells us to root for one, without actually showing us how one is better, or setting up any clear ideological difference between them. And that cheapens Feyre's character shift and lessen the efficacy of the foil - turning it into Feyre hopping from one lover to the other with little to no character consistency and no nuanced exploration of the theme of the series or trauma.

#tamlin #rhysand #feyre #anti rhysand #anti feyre #tamlin deserved better #critique #anti sjm #anti acotar #anti acomaf #god adding tags exhausting #anti sarah j mass

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copias-thrall · 3 years

Note

I really liked the Papa III x F! S/o where the s/o was a typical shy and cute introvert, but this huge dork with those closer to her. Would it be alright if I requested the same with our dear Papa Copia (god I’m so happy to call him papa now :) )

Of course, nonny! Let’s get some sweet Papa IV up in here.

(Reference Prompt here. 😊)

Copia notices you because of your quiet nature. There are lots of Siblings that are vying for his attention and favors…and then there you are: sitting quietly during mass and reading the hymn book.

(He doesn’t have to know that you’ve been reading the same page the whole time while you admire him from out of the corner of your eyes.)

Every time he looks out, all he sees is your quiet dignity, and it speaks to him on such a personal level. While he’s grown to enjoy and embrace the showmanship of the Ghost project, he’s not a natural extrovert. So, when he sees you existing in your subdued state, he can’t help but yearn to be right there with you.

He sees you reading your book in the quad on a nice day, and he immediately pictures himself with his head in your lap as you read to him. When he spies you daydreaming in the library, he imagines what it would be like to play footsie with you under the table. As he comes across you sweeping the halls with your headphones on, he pictures giving you a homemade mixtape to listen to while you work.

Really, he wants to worm his way into the rich inner life he knows you must have.

He never does anything about it, though—in his mind you’ve been perfectly clear about your indifference to him. And he’d rather not stammer through an invitation that you’re only going to reject.

The mess hall is always a sticking point for Copia. He loves the attention—he does; it amuses him to watch the Siblings fight over who acquires his meal and who gets sits next to him. He’s still a man with an ego, and he likes it to be stroked.

But.

Some days, the whole scene just gives him a headache. On days just after an important sermon, or when he’s just back from tour, or when he’s spent the morning on a stack of paper Imperator has given him, “ASAP now, please, Papa”—it’s simply too much for him to have to be On for his admirers.

On those days, he has his Ghouls create a distraction (and Dew is always more than happy to set a fire) so that he can get in and get out with no one noticing. Then, he tries to find a quiet, out of the way place to eat his food in peace.

And that’s how he encounters you cavorting about with your friends.

You're out on the grounds because it's a fine spring day, and he can't believe that his this reserved, demure Sister is running about and chasing her fellow sister with a worm! You're laughing—not a coy titter, but a full belly laugh after you make a ribald joke about Imperator and a Brother!

Copia gapes.

You have a secret side that only your intimates know about? Well! It’s a circle he desperately wants to be a part of! (Even if he’s contractually not allowed to jest about the Seestor.)

He imagines your laugh ringing out in his quarters as you let his babies crawl all over you (someone who doesn’t mind worms surely wouldn’t mind rats, yes?), and how you'd make him laugh with your uncouth humor. He can almost taste the domesticity.

But…he decides to stay out of sight—he doesn't want to ruin the party (which he’s sadly come to realize that, as Papa, he does quite often just by virtue of his presence)—and that’s when he realizes he actually has a hope.

You’re lying back in the grass, watching the clouds roll by, and you say,

“Hey, that one looks like a rat,” to which your friend responds, “That’s just cuz you have Popia on the brain.”

“I do not!”

“You think he’s gOrGeOUs, you want to KisS him, you want hUG him,” he singsongs.

“Shut it!” you screech as your face flushes and you throw a balled up napkin at him.

He blocks it easily, and you lie back down with a huff.

“Whatever. He doesn’t even know I’m alive.”

Embarrassingly, the conversation shifts to how you’ve done it to yourself and if you’d just look at Copia instead of doing your best impression of a church mouse, that would be a good start.

Your face burns the whole time. I mean, having his intense focus just on you?

You shudder.

Surely you’d combust.

Copia bites his fist.

He could…? Have you??

***

Perhaps any of the other Papas would have been on you like white on rice…but research has always been more Copia’s thing.

Which means he spends the next few weeks slinking about like a bad spy (seriously—he might as well have on Groucho Marx glasses) trying to figure out what all your favs and interests are.

And the Siblings are beginning to talk about it.

“He was behind a column, and I thought he was a statue,” hisses one. “He moved, and it scared the crap out of me!”

“I saw him petting the potted plants in the west corridor like a weirdo,” whispers another. “I hope Primo doesn’t hear about it!”

“I went into the broom closet to get cleaning supplies, and when I pulled the light on, he was just…standing there!” laughs someone else. “I was too surprised to be startled. He just coughed and excused himself!”

The only weird thing to you is that you seem to be the only Sibling who hasn’t witnessed Copia being adorable odd.

You often sit by that pillar to read when it’s chilly outside, and that area in the west corridor is where you sweep. Heaven!—that broom closet is next to the wash station you use! How haven’t you seen him even once?

Dew thinks this is great fun. He’s been suggesting even more ridiculous schemes (that Swiss and he giggle about back in the Ghoul dorms) for Copia to “overhear” you and your party—which Copia is taking down in earnest.

Aether thinks Copia’s being a dumbass and guesses he and the girls will have to fix this mess. Cirrus thinks Copia just needs to learn the hard way (“He’s taking advice from Dew—how does he not know better?!”), but Cumulus agrees. The two of them coral Copia into the practice space where they firmly, but gently, tell him to stop pussyfooting around and just kiss the girl already!

Copia stutters out a series of awkward rat noises before simply nodding.

“I have been procrastinating, eh?”

“You can do it, Boss.”

“Who’s the best Papa!”

Copia straightens his posture. “I am.”

***

You’re staring out the window in the classroom—woolgathering instead of dusting—when you hear a quiet throat clear behind you. You nearly jump out of your skin and hurriedly turn to make your excuses.

What you’re expecting is Sister Imperator on one of her shadow runs—but what you see is a one (1) Papa in his casual blacks (that still seem vacuum-sealed onto him) looking at you with eyes full of mirth.

It’s with great effort that you yank your eyes from his thighs up to his face.

“Oh! Your Dark Excellency, sir! I-I-I…” you stutter before composing yourself. “If you need the room…?”

A smirk turns up one side of his lips as his white eye twinkles at you.

“It is you I wish to be seeing.”

You toss the duster to the side and smooth down your habit.

“M-me?”

“Sí.”

Did you do something wrong??

You worry nervously at the sides of your habit.

“I—” Copia starts, then suddenly looks unsure. He runs his hands over his head, smoothing his thick hair back into place.

He starts again, his speech clipped and formal.

“Would you do me the honor, Sister, of joining me for dinner?”

“I—dinner?” Like a staff dinner? Or...?

Copia blinks at you.

“I am asking you on a date.”

You blink right back.

Just you and him? Alone…

His face turns into lines of apprehension.

“Mi scusi—perhaps I am mistaken.”

He starts to back away, and you finally find your voice.

“Wait!”

When he stops, you gulp and take a deep breath.

“I would like that, Your Dark Excellency.”

A look of relief smooths his worried expression right before he smiles at you.

“Ah…‘Papa’ is fine, Sister.”

He takes his leave of you, closing the door behind him.

You manage to hold yourself together for another moment before you let out a loud whoop and jump up and down (and unbeknownst to you, Copia is standing just outside the door, beaming).

***

Dinner went over smashingly (literally—between the nervous energy of two of you, a plate, a goblet, and a wine bottle all ended up in pieces). Copia was the perfect mix between awkward rat man and smooth Papa, and you felt comfortable enough to engage easily in conversation with him.

You’d been a little trepidatious about after dinner (Copia certainly had not absented himself from the pleasures afforded to a Papa), but the only thing you’d done in his quarters was to meet his rats.

He’d walked you back to your room, then asked if he could kiss you. It was just a press of his lips to yours as he’d cupped your cheek, but it had felt like a promise.

The two of you end up making a perfect couple, actually. Copia, of course, respects your quiet demeanor, but it’s more than that—he understands it. The only time he singles you out is when you need to be his date to a clergy function or Abbey party—and he always gives you forewarnings for those!

On the flipside, you and he have the high capacity to be total dorks. The two of you feed off each other's humor, often being the only two in the room cracking up as you wheeze half-uttered statements at each other while the rest of the gathered looks on with pained expressions.

But neither of you care.

You finally have your Papa, and he’s made all of his imaginings with you a reality.

#asks #papa iv #female reader #fluff

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wellimaginethat · 4 years

Text

Personal Sunshine

Pairing: Connor Rhodes x (female) Reader

Word Count: 2027

Author’s Note: First request for Connor! Woo-hoo! Hope it’s good! I haven’t watched the old episodes of Chicago Med in so long, and I had a hard time finding clips when I was writing this, so Cornelius might be OOC and I apologize for that. I also only loosely based it on the episode, because like I said, it’s been a while since I’ve seen it.

Trigger Warning(s): Misogynistic comments, argument, bad words

Disclaimer: I don’t owe nor am I affiliated with any of the Chicago shows, I just like to play with the characters

Summary: Connor and Y/N are happily married and have been for awhile. They’re both working at Gaffney when one of his father’s employee’s comes in after getting injured. This wouldn’t really be that big of a problem if Cornelius wasn’t a complete ass to his son and daughter in law.

Y/N = Your Name

You and Conner met while you were both still in med school, it started out as a friendship but quickly turned into something more. You dated throughout school and got married when you were going through residency.

Connor admired you, although you didn’t really know why.

He admired how kind and thoughtful you always were, even when you were exhausted you still managed to smile and be friendly. He admired how smart you were, and how you were able to think on your feet faster than any other doctor he knew. He admired how you gave your all to save every patient you could, and how you didn’t stop fighting for them until the very last minute, even when everyone else was ready to throw in the towel.

He admired and loved everything about you, every strength you had, every weakness, every virtue and every flaw. He loved all your quirks. The little dance you do when you’re cooking and think no one is looking. How you sing or hum along to your favorite songs. How you get excited over the little things in life, how your eyes light up when you tell him about your hobbies or about something new you just learned, or how talkative you get when telling him about your last obsession.

He loved every little thing about you, but couldn’t figure out what you ever saw in him.

It was something that played through his mind the entire time you were dating, and had almost kept him from ever asking you out in the first place. And this little worry still nags him even though you’ve been married for a few years now. It’s not as bad as it used to be, but it still floats around in the back of his mind waiting for the slightest little thing to make him second guess everything.

You had tried to assure him, time and time again, that you loved him and that you thought he was amazing, but your words fell on deaf ears most of the time. You blamed it on his upbringing. Although you had never met his dad, the little things that Connor actually told you made your heart ache and a disdain form for the man.

That was something you never brought up, meeting his dad. It wasn’t because you didn’t love Connor, it was the opposite in fact. You loved him so much that you didn’t want to put him in the position, so you never really talked about his dad.

That is until Connor walked into the break room, steaming.

You could feel how upset he was, and even if he didn’t look upset, which he did, you always had a way of knowing. You watched him carefully, walking over to him slowly. “Babe? What’s wrong?” You asked him gently.

His eyes found yours and immediately his demeanor softened and he let out something that was between an exasperated sigh and a groan. “My father is here.” He answered briskly.

You frowned in confusion. “Why? Is he hurt or something?”

“No one of his employees is and he doesn’t want to cover the operation.” Connor answered in the same tone, with an annoyance that wasn’t aimed at you in the slightest, just at the situation. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, leaning his head back.

“Oh.” You barely said, walking over to him and running your hands up and down his biceps slowly, trying to calm him. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

His eyes found yours and you could tell that he was relaxing a bit, he gave you a small, tight smile and shook his head. “You’re doing exactly everything you can do.” He told you, the annoyance fading from his voice.

You sighed a bit and nodded. “Wish there was more I could do.” You told him.

He shook his head. “I really don’t want you near this.” He told you. “I don’t want you anywhere near him.” He clarified.

You nodded, your eyes fixed on his even though he wasn’t looking directly at you at the moment. “I’ll try to keep my distance.” You assured him. “Shouldn’t be too big of a problem, I have back to back surgeries today.”

“Well sounds like you’re in for a fun day.” Connor replied, a genuine smile forming.

“Yeah sure.” You laughed a bit, glad you were able to make him feel even slightly better.

Connor kissed your forehead tenderly before looking at you and sighing. “I have to go and try to deal with him. Good luck on your surgeries.”

You smiled gently at him. “Good luck with your dad.” You gently squeezed his arm as he pulled away from you.

You finished up your first surgery a bit early that scheduled, so that left you with enough time to get some coffee, so you did just that. However, on your way back you decided to detour through the ED to check on Connor. You were halfway through the waiting room when you were stopped by an older man.

It didn’t even dawn on you that this man could be Connor’s dad. Maybe it was because you still had your mind on the surgery you just finished, or maybe it was because you were thinking about the one you were about to start. Or maybe you just didn’t connect the dots between this guy and your husband.

You thought it was incredibly strange that this man would hit on you in the middle of the busy hospital, surrounded by people waiting to hear the status of their sick or injured loved one, but it actually wasn’t the first time. Not that it made you any less uneasy that he hit on you, but coupled with the fact that this man was old enough to be your father, you started to feel incredibly uneasy.

“Now what is a girl like you doing wasting her pretty face working in a hospital?” He had asked you.

You hadn’t even noticed he was talking to you until you turned and saw him staring, waiting for an answer. “Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just that you’re so beautiful you could be a model. Or at the very least a trophy wife.” He replied like it was a compliment.

You stared at him in disbelief for a moment before shaking your head. “I beg your pardon, I happen to be one of the best pediatric surgeons, not just in Chicago, but in the Nation.” To say that you were insulted was an understatement.

“Smart girls rarely get guys, sweetheart.” He replied and the way he called you sweetheart made you blood boil. “Guys like pretty girls that don’t challenge them.”

Your eyes narrowed into a glare. “For your information, my husband adores how smart I am.” You replied snidely, unable to maintain your normal happy go lucky personality.

He seemed to be shocked, whether it was by your tone or the revelation that you were married, you weren’t sure. “Oh you’re married?”

You nodded as you tried to calm down, it didn’t look good if you weren’t polite, and if any of your new coworkers saw you upset, they might get worried. You were kinda known around the hospital as the happy girl. Connor called you his own personal sunshine.

“Well he certainly is a lucky guy.” The man replied to you. “Is he a doctor too?”

You nodded again. “Yes, in fact, he is.” You smiled proudly, and that was when you spotted Connor and thought that it was the perfect way to get out of this annoying conversation. “There he is now.” You practically skipped over to him, halting just a bit when you saw the look on his face. “Babe? What’s wrong?” You asked, frowning slightly and tilting your head.

Connor looked at you and his cloudy expression was replaced with what seemed like a tired smile, whether he was actually tired or just exhausted from dealing with rude people, you didn’t know. “Nothing.” He tried to assure you, but you assumed it was still from dealing with his father.

You let it go for a second, wanting to tell him about the guy that hit on you. “Hey, you see that weird old man over there?” You asked quietly, leaning in towards him and discreetly motioning over your shoulder. “He just hit on me in the rudest way ever. Told me I’m too pretty to be a doctor and should be a trophy wife instead.” You huffed out and rolled your eyes, keeping your voice low.

Connor’s eyes trailed over to the man and his cloudy expression returned. “Do me a favor and stay away from him.” He told you, lowering his voice so only you could hear him as he continued to glare over your shoulder.

You gave him a confused look. “I was already planning on it. Why?” You stopped short, a dread settling in your bones that you knew exactly why Connor was asking you to stay away from him.

“That’s my dad.” Connor answered you in the same tone, still not looking at you.

Your eyes widened slightly from the revelation, even though you had already pieced together that, and you were about to say something when you felt someone come up behind you.

“So you got married and didn’t invite me.” Cornelius remarked.

“Yeah, there’s a reason for that.” Connor replied coldly, his body going stiff and his expression hardening.

You turned so that your back was no longer to Cornelius and so that you were beside Connor.

Connor’s arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close to him in an almost protective way.

“Hard to believe a pretty little thing like her would marry you.” Cornelius replied.

You felt Connor inhale sharply, about ready to reply when you butted into the conversation. “Excuse you? What the hell is wrong with you?” You asked, crossing your arms.

Cornelius was taken aback by your sudden outburst.

“You come in here and think you can treat him like that? Well you can’t.” You told him, trying to find the words to say but it was becoming difficult due to how upset you were. “Connor is a great man and a great doctor and I love him so much, there’s not enough words to express how much.”

Connor was even shocked by your sudden outburst, you were usually so polite, even to the rudest people.

You couldn’t find any other words, so you huffed and took Connor’s hand, pulling him away from Cornelius, who was still trying to make sense of the fact that you just stood up to him.

As soon as you were alone, you turned to Connor. “I’m sorry-” You started to apologize but were cut off by his lips on yours, kissing you passionately. You kissed him back, your arms going over his shoulders, draping them around his neck.

His hand rested at the base of your neck, the other on your waist, holding you close to him as he continued to kiss you.

You only pulled back when you needed air. You slowly opened your eyes to look at him, being met with his blue eyes gazing at you with love and adoration.

“Don’t apologize.” He breathed out, a small smile forming on his now puffy lips.

“But...but won’t this cause problems?” You asked him as you felt the worry started to settle in your mind.

Connor shook his head. “I’ll deal with it.” He assured you gently, kissing your lips once more before kissing your forehead. “Don’t worry, sunshine.” He told you before he began to walk away.

You felt your lips quirk up into a small smile and quickly grabbed for his hand. “Hey.” You said, stopping him, and waited until he looked at you to continue. “I love you.”

He smiled at you again. “I love you too.” You watched as he walked away after that, the smile he caused not leaving your face for the rest of the day, despite the fact that you were still incredibly worried about what the repercussions of your little outburst might be.

#connor rhodes x reader #connor rhodes imagine #connor rhodes imagines #chicago med imagines #chicago med imagine

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k7l4d4 · 3 years

Text

Midnight Striga: Fairy Tail/Owl House Cross Fic Episode 5 Part 9

Hello all, I am back with another exciting segment of Midnight Striga!! Admittedly, this one is slower than the prior chapter, but I still hope you all enjoy it.

Lilith strode forth, Eda hot on her heels. They circled through the Covention, spotting the representatives from the Major Nine assisting. The Construction Coven workers were rapidly working on structural damage dealt to key pillars and walls, members of the invading force held tightly by hastily assembled cells and chains, the Construction Head, and Lilith was genuinely puzzled as to where he had come from, looming over the invaders, personally guarding them. The Oracle, Healing, and Illusion Covens were working in concert, with the Oracles tracking down trapped or injured citizens while Illusionists either guided them to safety, or rescue workers to their locations, and the Healers had set up a clinic to attend to the injured.

The Plant and Abomination Covens worked to root out and capture the remaining attackers, many of whom were thrown into those same cells she had passed alongside the Construction Coven. The Beast Keeping Coven members used their abilities to track down and locate those stuck in areas inaccessible to the abilities of Oracles, allowing rescue workers to bring them to safety, the Bards using their magic to manipulate the pieces that the Construction members couldn’t move safely. The sight of the Covens working together, in harmony, brought a melancholy smile to Lilith’s face. Her mood plummeted further, however, when she saw the bodies.

Piles of corpses, so many they couldn’t lay them out properly and were overlapping in awkward lumps, were arranged before the Healers’ Clinic, families weeping over their loved ones, the ones who had been present with them at least. The rest would need to be informed. And not to mention the numerous corpses of Guards, some having died cleanly… others not so much. Titan, she really was a failure, wasn’t she? Shaking herself from her self-loathing, she turned to her sister. “Edalyn, I must ask, but do you have any idea what has occurred?”

“Well, from the looks of it, a huge fight.” Eda said, faux-humorously. Before Lilith could snap at her, she continued. “But seriously, while you were stuck in la-la land, that guy, Rudolph he called himself, said he and his group were part of the ‘Black Dog Squadron’ whatever that means, and that they were here to kill everyone for someone or something called Oroboros. Beyond that, I couldn’t say.” She recalled, face grave.

Lilith bit back a curse. Taking a deep, calming breath, she attempted to draw more information out of her sister; out of all the adults on the Isles, Eda’s knowledge of humans was estimated to be some of the best, by virtue of her regularly full stores of ‘treasures’ to sell. “Edalyn, I am begging you, if you have any knowledge of how this…” She gestured, to the corpses, to the crying parents and children, the ruined stands and damaged walls, ”all happened, I need you to tell me!” She pleaded.

Eda leveled an even stare on her sister, before slowly replying. “Lily, I had no idea how this happened, or what went into it occurring. As much as I hate Bonehead, if I had ANY idea that something like this was going on, I would’ve either let you know, or tried to stop it beforehand myself, maybe both.” Lilith searched her eyes, an almost desperate light burning within her, before sighing, accepting Eda’s words.

“As much as it pains me to say this, I will likely need your help for the moment.” Lilith said as evenly as she could, the bitter sting of acknowledging just how much her sister still outclassed her rearing its ugly head. “If any of these scavengers are still lurking about that are on the level of that maniac Rudolph, I will likely need your skill to defeat them before they can wreak further havoc.”

“Heh, glad to see you finally admitting my skills,” Eda preened, oblivious to Lilith's mood plummeting at her statement, before growing serious. “And yeah, of course. We may have had our differences, but I’m not gonna cut and run when kids are in the crossfire.”

Lilith nodded, relieved. She hated that she felt relieved; it was just another admittance of how Eda was better than her. Still, Lilith took in the sight of the dead guards, the mutilated children, and felt her resolve harden. It didn’t matter if Eda was better than her right now; justice was what was needed, and she would bring about that justice. She felt her eyes mist. It was the least she could do, as penance for failing them.

Throwing up her arms in confusion, Lilith exclaimed. “What I truly wish to know is how did Humans gain the ability to wield magic!? It should be impossible!! They lack a bile sack, so how did that-that maniac cast those spells!” She whirled on her sister. “Please tell me you didn’t know about this?”

Eda shrugged, feeling guiltily amused at Lilith’s flustered panic. “Eh, only for a few weeks or so. And let me tell you, it sure caught me by surprise!” She laughed. Eda paused, a thought occurring to her, but it was one she was hesitant to share. Biting her lip, she carefully broached the topic. “You know, I think I might know someone who could shed a little light on this whole mess.” She said cautiously.

Lilith zipped into Eda’s personal space, tightly gripping the front of her dress. “Truly!?” She asked, pleading honestly. “Where are they? Who are they!?”

“Well first off, personal space sis,” Eda bluntly stated, lightly pushing Lilith out of her comfort zone. Taking a breath, she added, “As to where they are, they honestly should be right here in the Covention.”

Lilith’s face fell, already fearing the worst. “But, if they were here, then wouldn’t they have had to face…” she gestured to one of the attackers being led to the cells, cackling insanely, “ Them?”

“Pffft! If goons like that were a serious problem, I’d be a little worried, but she’s crafty enough to stay alive, heck, she probably beat a few of them!” Eda cackled, before adding, with a hint of nervousness, “And, well, I hate that I got to ask this, Lily, but please keep an open mind when you meet her? Please?”

Lilith gave her sister a flat stare. “Edalyn, I have just had a rather large portion of my worldview regarding humans and the power and stability of the Isles torn out from under me, as have a large group of others. When word starts spreading, I have no doubt that more than a few people will either go into denial or mass hysteria.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Very little could properly phase me at the moment. So yes, Edalyn, I will keep an open mind.” She said the last part so dry and sarcastically that, if this weren’t serious, Eda would’ve been so proud to call them sisters. Eda nodded grudgingly, accepting her promise. With that, the two headed out. Eda really hoped the kid was okay.

Luz gasped and sputtered, nearly choking on her tears. Willow slowly rubbed circles on her back, calming some of her heaving and screams. Gus and Amity stood on the side, both feeling lost and awkward; neither was as close to Luz as Willow, but neither wanted to see the girl in such despair either. All three just wanted to know what was going on.

“Sshh… sshh… it’s gonna be okay.” Willow whispered, unbothered by the tears staining her dress; it had already been ruined from the blood and grime of the battlefield the Covention had turned into, but even if it was fresh and clean, Willow would gladly soil it for a friend to cry on. “You can talk to us, okay? And if you don’t want to, we’ll be here anyway.”

“She-She can’t be alive!!” Luz spluttered, tears clogging her throat. “She can’t be!! I can’t have abandoned her!” She wailed. It had to be a lie, it had to be!! Because, if it wasn’t… Luz would never be able to stop until she saved her, no matter what she’d have to do in order to do it.

“Who?” Amity hesitantly asked.

“My hostage.” Luz said glumly, her tears drying up for the moment. She reached into her jacket, pulling out a photo tucked inside, showing it to them, a watery smile forming on her face. “My sister.”

“Sister?” The group echoed, leaning forward. Staring back at them was a picture of Luz and, well, Luz! Or rather, they saw Luz standing by what they presumed was her identical twin. The two were still very much distinguishable from one another. The one on the left was clearly the Luz they knew, having a similar style, a wild and reckless grin stretched across her face. The one on the right, however, was shyly glancing away, a nervous smile on her face, hair tied back neatly with a pair of clips.

“Yeah, Vee.” Luz said, a melancholy look of remembrance on her face. “She was always my leash, even before I got drafted into Oroboros. Whenever I had some crazy idea, she’d talk me through it before I did something stupid.”

Willow and Gus sat down beside her, leaning close, Amity standing a respectful distance behind them, clearly listening. Luz continued. “One time, I got this idea to make home-made Lacrimas by shoving a bunch of magic into one spot, and Vee reminded me that neither of us knew how Lacrimas formed, and just stuffing magic into things blew them up.” She snickered, a tear tracing down her cheek. “And this one time, I was gonna try and tame a Wyvern, I actually went out and did it even! But then, Vee reminded me we had nowhere to keep it, and no way to feed it, so I found it a nice hunting ground, and convinced it to defend a nearby town.” She laughed out loud, a heavy, full-belly laugh that sent her sprawling, tears leaking.

She paused, tears in her eyes. “She was my best friend, the person who made every day away from home something bearable. She was my anchor, my rock, and Oroboros used her against me.” Her fingers dug into her hand, a pained look crossing her features. “If she’s actually been alive this whole time…” Her tears were cut off when Willow and Gus hugged her, both having tears of their own.

“Hey, it’s okay. We’ll get through this.” Willow stated, pulling away and looking Luz straight in the eye. “Oroboros is going to keep coming after the Isles, so you’ll probably get an answer one way or another. And either way, I’ll be right by your side.”

“And the same goes for me!” Gus chimed in. “Plus, my dad’s a reporter, so I can help find out new info for you to go off of!”

“And if I am available, I would not be averse to using my magic to fight against those who’ve threatened the Isles. Rescuing an innocent will be a nice bonus, I’d say.” Amity primly stated, sporting a confident look.

Luz gave the three an almost awestruck look. “You guys.”

“GET AWAY FROM THEM!!” A voice screamed, drawing their attention. Luz’s eyes widened as Lilith Clawthorne, Eda’s apparent sister, rocketed towards her, staff glowing with magic, her eyes burning with rage. Before she could smash Luz’s face in, however, Eda jumped in, tackling her sister to the ground.

“Sheesh, Lily! Chill out!” Eda cried, desperately wrestling her sister to the ground. “I told you to keep an open mind, remember?”

“What does that have to do with-” Lilith ranted, only to pause, eyes widening in realization. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” She groaned, hanging her head as Eda sheepishly chuckled.

“U-um… Eda, what’s happening?” Luz tentatively asked.

Eda really wanted to ask Luz why she’d been crying, but decided to put it off, focusing on the current issue. “Well,” She drawled, “My prissy sis here wanted info on everything that happened. And after thinking it over, I thought you’d be the best person to give it to her.” Eda stated, pointing at Luz decisively. As unbalanced as Luz’s emotions were at the moment, she could see the logic in that.

“Seriously!?” Gus cried, incredulous. “After what she just learned!?”

Eda blinked. “What? What’d she learn?” She asked, figuring that whatever it was was the reason behind Luz’s tears.

“Something we can talk about later. In. Private.” Luz stated, her face screaming ‘let it go for now!’ Eda grudgingly agreed.

“Ugh, can we please move back on to the topic of information?” Lilith growled, pulling herself up. She loomed over Luz, a suspicious glare emblazoned across her features. “I have a great many questions for you, human.”

“And I’m perfectly willing to answer them, Miss Clawthorne.” Luz replied, unblinking. She glanced around, taking note of the damage around them. “But maybe it’d be better if we went somewhere more private for this?”

Lilith nodded, seeing the logic in that. “Indeed, better we not be interrupted.” She turned to her sister. “If that is acceptable for you, Edalyn?” She asked, getting a shrug and a nod in return, the Witchlings following Eda’s lead. Lilith clapped her hands. “Well then, we’d better be going back to the main center, as I recall seeing the Covens building something of a camp there to deal with the aftermath of this mess. The Healer’s Clinic should have a room we can use.” And with that the group set off, a tension running through them after their collective ordeal.

Emira paced, frantically glancing about the interior of the Healer’s Station, Edric gloomily slumped next to her. Her eyes scanned the nearby groups, hoping to spot something, anything, that could give her some hint as to where her sister was. She and Edric knew she was here, but where had she disappeared to after being displayed up there with Lilith was the real question.

“Could you please stop pacing, sis?” Edric groaned, clutching his head. “It’s not going to just make her appear if you keep doing it.”

Emira whirled on her brother, fire in her eyes. “Well what do you expect me to do!? Maniacs barged into the Covention, massacred who knows how many people, and OUR SISTER IS MISSING!!! I don’t have a lot of options right now, now do I?” She brutally snapped, briefly yelling in the middle of it, before fading into a broken tiredness. All those people, those kids, all gone. If her sister was gone like that, and her only memories were of her and Edric pranking her… She looked into Edric’s eyes, and saw the same fear, the hopeless, helpless realization that Amity may be gone, and her only memories of them would be of all the times they gave her trouble.

Edric sighed, tiredly rubbing his eyes. “Believe me sis, I get it, but all we can do is wait, and hope she’s okay.” He patted the spot next to him, a clear invitation to sit. Emira gave one last furtive look around, and glumly complied. The two briefly wondered just how their parents would take all of this.

Bria bit her lip, glancing over at Gavin and Angmar. She didn’t consider them friends, not really. Maybe she’d change that? She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure about much right now. She… had been made helpless. Magic like nothing she’d ever seen had been on display, and a LOT of people were dead. She, Gavin, and Angmar WOULD be dead. If it hadn’t been for Matty. Matty; goofy, clumsy, always taking the fall, boasting about his skills Matty, had saved their lives. Tears pricked her eyes, as she remembered how close she’d come to death, the sheer heartlessness on display. Was that what she was like? Some kind of monster? ...Was that what everyone was like at Glandus, behind all the excuses about being powerful?

“Hey, I got your drink!” Matty cheerfully replied, holding a glass out to her.

Bria shot him a half-hearted smile. “Thanks Matty.”

“Eh, it’s no problem.” He said, waving it off. “After all, we’re friends, right?”

“Yeah, friends.” Bria muttered, sipping her drink. Maybe… they really were friends. She’d have to talk to Angmar and Gavin about this. Maybe Hexside was still taking transfers.

Skara listlessly handed supplies to Bo, who was frantically patching up as many injuries as she could. Skara just felt so tired, so hollow. So many people had died. She’d seen little kids ripped apart, their parents crying over their bodies. She’d seen the opposite too, parents being cried over by their kids and family members.

Skara only had eyes for one thing, though. Boscha. Boscha was propped up on a bunk, at least two rows away, but still in Skara’s line of sight. She’d been brought in by a little demon, screaming and demanding that someone help her. Skara felt a twinge of jealousy at the thought that it wasn’t her demanding that someone heal her friend. Oh, wait, they weren’t friends anymore. It still hurt to think about, even though talking with Amity helped. The demon was hovering around Boscha, ranting and ordering around anyone and everyone who got close. In the back of her mind, Skara was honestly impressed at how unrelenting and exacting he was with his demands, even if no one was following them.

Then, Skara caught sight of another body brought in, another corpse. It was Batthew, a nice guy who had flirted with her a few times before. He was sweet, in his own way, and was really fond of going over the top. His throat had been slashed open. Skara didn’t fight the tears as they came.

Lilith pulled up a seat, eyes glaring daggers at the human seated before her. One way or another, she was going to get the answers she needed. She briefly spared a glance at Perry Porter, a known and well-viewed reporter upon the Isles, and one known for being unabashedly honest and direct in his reporting, something that earned him several points with the populous, as they knew they could trust his information. The boy, Augustus, had called him in after they’d gotten to the emergency clinic the Healers had established, citing a need for the people to understand what had happened. Thinking of her own impending reveal to the public, Lilith had agreed. If all turned out well, both could be accomplished together.

Lilith leaned forward. “Now then, human, it’s time for you to answer my questions. The People of the Isles are dying to hear what you have to say.” She said, eyes half-lidded.

Luz placed her hands on her chin, a brave smile on her face. “Ask away. I’m all ears.”

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rocketzealot · 3 years

Text

PERFORMANCE REVIEW Pt 2

“It is as Executive Petrel says,” she said, voice deep and coarse, with much restraint. “We have long been considering your position in Team Rocket, as you well know. The truth is, we are always short on Agents, and once we promote grunts to fill those positions we become short on grunts. That is why people like you are so important. Do you understand?”

Fred replied with a clipped “yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Team Rocket has mercifully decided not to demote you. Giovanni does not believe in waste, and nor do I. But we also do not tolerate underperformance.” She spoke with a little more vigour, cold green eyes twisting the knife into Fred as he flicked his vision back in her direction.

“As such,” she continued, voice becoming calmer and quieter once again, “we have arranged somewhat of a reshuffle in your duties. Elite Agent Wyatt has informed me that despite your lacklustre numbers, you are a positive representative of the Rocket brand. You will continue to recruit in your own time, more specifically when you are given days without orders. You will be expected to convene with potential recruits as long as you are sleeping under Giovanni’s roof. However, we have agreed that you would be made more useful if you were given more focussed missions.”

Fred listened in carefully, finding himself looking more and more at the Elite Agent, his hands resting on the edge of the table as he leant forward. This seemed to be a life ring… perhaps the last one he would get. To think… almost nothing would change… he had gotten away with—

“In addition to this, we will be assigning you a partner, with a view that he will provide you with much needed focus and motivation during missions. Although he is newly promoted, he is one of our most efficient and obedient Agents, and comes with a plethora of skills that I think it would be generous to say that you could not hope to possess. Although I don’t expect the pair of you to be as friendly as some of our Agents, I expect you to become a unit quickly. No arguments.”

Oh. Well, that wasn’t really so bad. The best Agents came in twos! Butch and Cassidy, Atilla and Hun, Annie and Oakley… Perhaps Fred and his new partner would be just like them. The woman opposite him stared him down intensely. A biro had appeared in her hand whilst Fred had been daydreaming about being famous in the halls of the Rocket base. It was as if she was preparing to record his reaction, especially given her request for no arguments. Fred was in no position to argue. Agent Wyatt had moved behind him to the door. An eyebrow quirked on the face of the Agent whose name he could not remember as she saw the beginnings of an optimistic smile begin to creep onto Fred’s face.

“Very well, invite him in, Lee.”

Like a school child turning to see who their new classmate would be, with that fizzy mix of apprehension and excitement, Fred shifted in his seat, feet moved around in readiness to get up and shake the hand of his new partner.

Yet his blood froze.

“I believe you are acquainted, but allow me to reintroduce you to Theodore Falsey, your new partner.”

The doorway was occupied by a slender young man, so thin it created the optical illusion of great height. Like Fred, he donned the white uniform given to Agents to differentiate themselves from the rabble. Unlike Fred, he held himself with such an air of respectability, it verged on parody. It was no doubt that the person who stood with his heels clicked together like a good little soldier was Ted.

As if nothing had changed.

Ted bore the marks of years passed- a little more facial hair, a few more lines under his eyes, less colour in his cheeks- but he seemed the same as ever. That same haughty demeanour, a posture so upright it could have been mistaken for a spine problem. Although, something was different about him, about the way his eyes stared blankly ahead through the lenses of the goggles he seemed to be wearing now. And yet for all the differences in the world, Ted was still there. That was enough.

Don’t cry.

The heat around Fred’s eyes told him that it was too late for that, though. He spun his head towards the Elite Agent.

“Th-this… You can’t. I can’t—“

“No arguments, Ellsworth. I expect civility. Or did you really want that demotion that badly?”

Fred didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, let alone speak. Suddenly, it became very clear why Petrel had wanted to clear out so quickly. He didn’t want to have to deal with the messy emotional fallout of this arrangement. Fred gripped the back of the chair to stop him throwing a punch at Ted, whose eyes he felt boring into him from behind. Yet as his fingers sunk into the padding, all he could think about was throwing the chair. The last time he had seen Ted, the only way they had managed to be in the same room together was by virtue of the extreme violence Fred had been able to exert on the once smug scientist. Fred knew about the demotion, but liked to pretend he knew nothing of Ted. He didn’t want anything to do with him, least of all… partnership.

As he stared into the space of the room, things briefly became very, very clear. Fred was underperforming because he was too comfortable in his position. He was so content to be mediocre, he never strove for improvement. Of course, there was the promise of the fabled glory of Team Rocket if he did well. But any manager knew that the one thing more effective than a carrot was a stick.

And Ted was the stick.

Suddenly, Fred was very mad at Team Rocket… furious. This wasn’t a reshuffling of his responsibilities. This was a punishment. A punishment they wanted to convince him was a favour. He huffed through his nose.

“Your orders will be delivered to you the following morning. Is there going to be a problem? Should I call Executive Petrel all the way back here?”

The Elite Agent leant forward, her biro hovering over an ominous looking box in Fred’s paperwork. He frowned back at her, but his brows instinctively curved backwards into a frightened look. Her eyes met his with the same expressionless glare Ted had often given him when there was no choice… Besides… Fred never really knew how to fight back.

“No, ma’am.”

“Very good. Given your penchant for misplacing and destroying paperwork, I will have your orders given to your new partner. I expect the two of you to organise time to meet up and coordinate. From now on you will report to myself first, Petrel second, under your new code names as Agents Seraph and Nidhogg. Seraph,” she said, giving a pointed look at Fred as she began clearing the desk, “you are to report to Agent Wyatt when convenient, or should he request a report from yourself.”

Folding the file under her arms, she stood tall above Fred.

“Dismissed.”

Like a clockwork toy, Ted set to, marching out the office at the sound of his command. Fred glared at him, narrowing his eyes as he watched. Something was definitely up with him, but Fred couldn’t put finger on it. Seeing his new superior (whose name he should definitely learn) waiting for him to leave, he reluctantly did as he was told… like a good little Houndour, tail between his legs.

The Elite Agents followed their juniors out of the office calmly, saluting as they left. Ted returned the salute so fast it could have happened before they started. Ted hadn’t been doing that the last time Fred had been with him. Even so, Fred returned a salute their way, albeit with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

“Glory to Rocket,” Agent Wyatt croaked, barging his shoulder into Fred’s as he stalked away. Fred watched the pair leave, fists balling up beside him. Neither of them spoke as they trooped down the corridor, Wyatt pulling out his PokeGear, to flick through what was doubtlessly a barrage of texts from his recruiters, informants and associates, the woman walking straight forward, likely with the intention of offloading Fred’s grotty file.

Once they had disappeared around a corner, Fred swung his attention to Agent Nidhogg. At the very corners of Ted’s mouth, he was sure he could see the beginnings of a smile, the tightening of cheeks, the pull of lips, the tiny little crevice beginning to form where they met.

Before either man could say a word, Fred had Ted pushed up against the wall. He was too short to lift him off his feet, but had no trouble making Ted scrabble for his balance. He shook and pulled him straight, forcing him to look him in the eye, the taller’s arms halfway up in defence. That was when Fred noticed them.

Ted’s eyes were all wrong. Where he had once had delicate, ice blue eyes, he now had artificial, electric blue eyes, the colour flooding the whole eye. Instead of perpetually full stop sized pupils, thin, pointed slits bisected his eyes. What had he done? This wouldn’t have been the first time Ted messed with his own eyes before… but this was entirely not his style… This was monstrous.

His rage was dampened with enough fear to make him stop, but Fred didn’t let it make him pity Ted. Not that. Not again. He shook it off, shook Ted.

“We are not friends. We’re not. I don’t know what you did, don’t care— I never wanted to see your ugly mug again, Ted.”

Whilst Fred breathed hot breath, Ted only looked back with that befitting, cold stare. “This is an assignment.”

Ted even sounded different. The same… but different. There was something odd about how he said his consonants. Still, he stared back, so almost expressionless.

“Bull. SHIT.”

“We have been assigned to work together. I am only doing as I am—”

“BULL. SHIT!”

“… I am only doing as I am asked, as should you. I did not choose this assignment any more than you did.”

Ted’s arms had dropped by his side, limp, unthreatening. But just like a doll dropped in the rain, just because he did not move, it didn’t make him any less frightening. There was every bit of purpose in the way he fell limp as there was in the precise choice of his words.

Fred let go of him with a shove. “Outside of work, I still don’t wanna see your face. Not even on lunch breaks. I don’t even want you to text me.”

Silence hung in the air as Fred swayed away from him, desperate to tear his gaze away from the puzzling form of Ted. The ex-scientist stood patiently, staring unblinkingly at him, lips parted a millimetre. He pulled himself up to his full height, and unstrapped something from his belt. A medium-sized tablet sat in his hand as he calmly entered some details.

“Tomorrow morning I will relay our orders to you. I have arranged for one of the small office spaces to be ours so that we may convene to discuss how we will proceed at eleven-hundred hours.”

Without protesting Fred’s assertion, or awaiting protestation of his own, Ted strode off in the opposite direction, Fred aghast.

#☆ r e p o r t e d ☆『drabbles』#//heehoo heehoo #//is FINISHED #//now i finally have them all #//what did it cost? tedverything

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busterkeatonfanfic · 3 years

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Chapter 3

The third glass of whiskey at lunch was a miscalculation. He felt a little too unsteady on his feet as he walked into the barber shop set and they weren’t filming any pratfalls today, so he couldn’t play it off as that. He put an extra stick of chewing gum in his mouth just in case the first stick and brushing his teeth hadn’t concealed the smell of the drink on his breath, and tried to keep his gait steady. At least he’d be sitting for most of this scene.

Reisner was fussing over the props with the workmen, telling them some sign wasn’t straight. “Buster, where do you want these?” said Bert, gesturing to the barber chairs where he and his girl were destined to reunite. “Do you want them farther apart than this? Closer? Or what?”

Buster shrugged and sat down in one of the chairs. “They look fine to me. Maybe a little closer.”

“I mean, are the cameras going to have enough room?”

“Bert, they’re fine,” he said. “Move them a little closer together if you want. You know I trust you.”

Bert nodded and wrestled the other chair forward a few inches. As he wrestled, he said offhandedly, “You sure scared Nelly, didn’t you?”

Buster had no idea what he was talking about. “Nelly?”

“The prop girl, Nelly.”

“I’m not following.” Behind him and to the side, men bustled lighting into place.

“The new girl I’ve got in the prop house. I sent her to ask you about the chairs. She looked like a ghost when she came back.”

A second ticked by, then another. Then another. He still wasn’t—

Realization landed like an oversized prop anvil. “Ah, hell.”

“What?” said Bert.

“That was your prop girl?”

“Yes. What did you say to her to make her look so white?” Bert gave him a knowing look.

“Nothing!” Buster said. He’d been acting and ad-libbing his whole life and he wasn’t about to stop now. “She got a little tongue-tied and I filled in the blanks. Thought she was coming to ask for her big break in the movies, you know how they corner me about that stuff. I must have embarrassed her, I guess.”

Blame that third glass of whiskey. It had made him dopey and loose, thrown off his judgment. There was a feeling in his stomach right now that he didn’t like, a sizzling sense of shame. It was a feeling that hung around too often these days in one form or another and he was getting sick of it. It wasn’t his fault. Nine times out of ten when there was a woman under the age of forty in his dressing room, she was already naked or willing to be. The other times, it was the age-old hard-luck story about needing a break. He’d had perfect reason to assume both motives. It wasn’t his fault.

The shame niggled. Oh yes it was.

He tried not to dwell on the fact that he’d insulted the girl’s looks on top of it all. In truth, there was nothing wrong with them. She looked fine, just not suited to pictures was all. With the whiskey freeing his tongue, he’d thought nothing of answering honestly. Now the terrible coarseness of his remarks was apparent.

The shame went on niggling him until the cameras began rolling and he lost himself where he always lost himself, facing down the cameras with a stone face.

By the time she’d gone to bed, Nelly’s humiliation had invited a friend along: anger. She knew that men were frequently cruel, licentious, and crude, but she’d never thought in a million years that Buster Keaton could be counted amongst them. All of it was a damnable lie, the wife and the children and the sophisticated parties, and most of all the sweet trepidatious Buster of the films. He wasn’t Rudolph Valentino’s Sheik or John Barrymore’s Don Juan, not her favorite character or star in other words, but she’d always found him charming; what girl didn’t? She had to wonder—were they all like this? Did Valentino have a nightly habit of robbing women of their virtue? Did Barrymore delight in dressing down girls until they felt about as small and as low as a bug?

She rolled onto her side fitfully, fuming. It now seemed like a mistake to come to California. Perhaps it was just better to turn tail and go back to Evanston rather than spend another day in the employment of a man who had belittled her ambitions and her looks before she had a chance to get a word in edgewise. She could maybe work herself up to a couple starring roles in local productions, retire at the height of her career, marry, and host garden parties and luncheons for the Women’s Auxiliary Club just like her mother and aunts. Of course, the thought wasn’t a serious one. She was being paid a handsome twelve dollars a day, far more than she’d ever earned as a part-time governess in Evanston. She’d swallow her pride, finish out the picture, and use the experience as entrance into another picture, maybe not a laugh feature next time.

She let a fantasy of John Barrymore rock her off to sleep. Although she’d never seen him in Hamlet , she’d clipped a picture from the production from a magazine and glued it into her scrapbook: dark clothing, brooding brow, those strong hands that could clutch a girl and make her swoon. After Steamboat wrapped up, she’d return south to Hollywood and finagle her way onto the United Artists lot, where she would be cast as Katherine to Barrymore’s Petruchio in Taming of the Shrew . The last thought in her mind before she drifted off was of Barrymore’s big hands tearing the blankets off of Kate as she lay in bed, declaring them unfit for such a woman as his wife.

The memory of what he’d said to the prop girl bit at Buster like a flea all the next morning. As soon as the cameras stopped rolling, his traitorous mind would wander to the incident and he’d be reminded unpleasantly of what a low thing he’d done. He stuck to one whiskey at lunch, even though he would have preferred a second. He tried calling Nate at the Villa, thinking that hearing her voice might provide some kind of consolation. The phone just rang and rang, until finally Edwin picked up and told him she was with Dutch.

At last, his conscience pricked him so much he left his dressing room early. He peeked in the canteen and cheers of “Buster!” erupted from the extras and the crew. He gave them a wave of acknowledgment and left. The girl wasn’t there. He exited and headed toward the prop house. Feeling slightly shy in addition to remorseful, he swung open the door when he got there. The prop girl didn’t notice him over the sound of the radio. She had her back turned to him at the workbench and was crunching an apple and reading a book.

“Hello,” he said.

“Jesus Christ!” she said, nearly startling out of her skin and whipping her head around.

Her swearing made him feel better. In his experience girls who swore could take care of themselves, which meant that maybe he hadn’t crushed her underfoot like a flimsy petunia blossom.

She blanched when she realized who it was. “Oh. Mr. Keaton,” she said. An expression resembling dislike settled on her face.

He couldn’t blame her. He crossed the room and swung himself onto the workbench, dangling his legs. “I insulted you yesterday,” he said, studying her face. Despite the dainty little mouth she’d drawn on with lipstick, she couldn’t hide the fact that her lips were full. Her brown hair was done up in earphones in a faux bob. She reminded him a little of Evelyn Nesbit. Now that he had a good look at her, without the glaze of whiskey, he doubly regretted what he’d said about her looks.

She stared straight ahead, expressionless, the apple forgotten in her hand. She still seemed a little nervous around him, but there was a set to her jaw that told him he was not going to be forgiven easily.

“There’s baseball practice tonight at seven. You’re invited,” he tried.

She finally met his eyes. “I have plans.”

“Okay,” he said, conceding. “You’re angry with me. I get it. Look, I was out of line yesterday. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for opening my big fat mouth. I was way out of line.”

She merely looked at him.

“I acted disgracefully. There’s nothing wrong with your looks. I never should have said anything, I never should have—” He couldn’t bring himself to mention that he assumed she’d also been looking for sex. “I’ve been out of sorts lately and, look, I won’t start making excuses. It was wrong, plain and simple. I made assumptions and I shouldn’t have. What’s your name? Nelly?” he said, pressing. He wasn’t going to let up until that flea he called his conscience stopped biting.

“Nelly,” she confirmed in a flat voice.

“Let me make it up to you, Nelly. Do you want to be an extra today? I’ll ask Bert to give you the afternoon off.” He could almost see her internal struggle. She set her half-eaten apple on the workbench and folded her hands in her lap. “I don’t want any favors,” she said, staring ahead.

She was a proud one. It should have annoyed him, but he found himself admiring her stubbornness. Anyway, he had a lot of practice in Natalie cracking tough nuts. He hopped off the workbench and sank to one knee, propping supplicating hands on her knee. “Please?”

She drew in her lips and he could tell she was trying not to smile. Ah, sweet victory.

For his pièce de résistance, he broke into song. “ I can hear the robins singing, Nellie Dean. Sweetest recollections ringing, Nellie Dean .”

Nelly succumbed to the smile. “Alright,” she said, shaking her head and trying to hide it.

“Good,” he said, getting to his feet. He crossed the room and poked his head into the area where all the costumes were stored. Although the film was ostensibly set fifty years ago, all of the women’s costumes were of the latest fashion. He thumbed through the rack and pulled out a few dresses halfway before selecting a pink sleeveless one embroidered with burgundy flowers. “Wear this,” he said, walking back into the main room and handing it to her.

She looked surprised. “Are you sure?” Her eyes told him she still didn’t trust him.

“Of course I’m sure. Go dress and I’ll walk you to the set.”

Looking now as though she especially didn’t trust him, she nonetheless went into the costume room and closed the door behind her. She came out less than a minute later. She looked just fine—maybe not like a leading lady—but just fine. The shame nipped him again and he scratched it off, reminding himself that he was making it up to her.

“Sure you don’t want something nicer for the shoot?” he said, noticing that she was wearing flat brown Oxfords.

“Oh, they’re fine. I don’t suppose the cameras will be anywhere near my feet.”

When he stepped closer to her, it clicked; she was a couple inches shorter than she’d been yesterday. He’d made her embarrassed of her height and she switched shoes. It was another reminder of how rotten his words had been. No taller than he was, she was certainly not a giant. He even had an inch on her, give or take.

“Do I need to put on more makeup?” she said.

He shook his head. “No, you don’t need to wear any if you’re in the background. We have to do it to stick out,” he said, indicating his powdered cheeks.

“Alright then.”

“Hold on a minute.” He ripped a piece of paper from a steno pad on the workbench and wrote, Stealing Nelly for the afternoon. Will return her in a timely fashion. -Buster. He set the half-eaten apple on top of it for a paperweight and offered his arm to Nelly. She just stared at it and then at him. “I’ll walk you to the set,” he explained.

She continued to look unsure as she accepted it, but his conscience felt much lighter as they left the prop house together.

The bright lights agreed with Nelly. They probably wouldn’t have appeared particularly bright to any proper budding starlet, but that Buster had made her an extra for a day, that she would actually be on film and tens of thousands of people would see her, was exactly what she’d been hoping for when she’d taken a train from Evanston to West Hollywood to Sacramento.

It turned out that being an extra involved a lot of standing around waiting for direction while the cameras tracked the exploits of the main characters, namely Buster and his mouse-sized co-star Marion, whom everyone called Peanuts. The scene was about missed connections; Buster, encountering his girl on the street, tries to apologize to her. She ducks in and out of the telegraph office, debating whether to accept, then follows after him as he trudges away from her.

Peanuts needed the benefit of multiple takes. Buster was flawless, Nelly thought, in every one. Her role was to be one of the town inhabitants walking down the sidewalk. It was hot in the early afternoon sun and she was grateful that Buster had picked out a sleeveless dress for her. She tried to act casual while strolling back and forth and not get distracted by the action further down the sidewalk where Buster and Peanuts were.

After the scene had wrapped, the director and Buster moved onto the next one: Buster walks dejectedly up the street and a car whizzes his carpetbag out of his hands and onto its running board. She and the other extras gathered in a small crowd facing the car to watch. Behind the scenes like this, she began to see how the gags were accomplished. For this one, the camera tracked Buster on the left. When the car came into frame, it obscured most of his body. Because of this, the audience couldn’t see one of the actors in the car pluck the carpetbag from Buster’s hand in one fluid movement, which left him bag-free and bewildered after the car had passed. The hand-off was invisible. This scene took only a couple takes. Buster was all business in between, telling the other actors and the director in a serious way what he thought the scene should look like. It was all so fascinating to finally be on the inside and see the nuts and bolts. She watched carefully, trying to commit it to memory.

For the next scene, the carpet bag was meant to tumble off the running board and trip up Buster, who was running at top speed after the car. It took around three or four takes for the bag to fall satisfactorily into Buster’s path. Each time it did, he would somehow tumble head over heels to miss it. The first time he accomplished the stunt, the extras hooted and broke into clapping. Buster flashed a quick smile, clearly pleased, and Nelly joined in the applause. No matter how many times he vaulted over the bag, going briefly vertical, she couldn’t tell how he did it. After that, it was back to the sidewalk for her even though she was too far in the distance, she thought, for the cameras to see her at this point.

After some time had gone by, Buster announced that it was a wrap. So that was that. She looked around at a couple of the other extras for guidance, wondering what came next. The logical thing to do would be to return the dress and finish out the rest of the day in the prop house, so she decided just to slip away rather than reveal herself as a rookie by asking. As she turned at the corner near the facade of the Western Union Telegraph building to take a shortcut, the sound of hurried footsteps made her look over her shoulder. It was Buster. The extras turned to look at them as Buster came to a stop. Nelly felt herself pale a little as she faced him. For all her bravery in the prop house earlier, she was still far from used to him.

“Coming to practice tonight?” he said, a little out of breath.

She was surprised. She’d assumed that the invitation earlier had been flippant. “I can’t,” she said, before she had time to think about it. She had a hard time reading the answering expression on his face, but she thought it was puzzlement. “I have plans.”

However thrilling being an extra had been, part of her had not forgiven him. When she’d stepped back and looked at her torso in her bureau mirror that morning, all she could think about was his comment about her bosom being too big and her needing to lose twenty pounds. The words still felt like salt in a bleeding gash, even if he clearly did wish to make it up to her. Anyway, she wasn’t fibbing about having plans. She’d agreed to play blackjack with Joe and Maggie, the owners of the house on 22nd Street, that night.

“Well, alright then,” Buster said, with a nod. “I’ll see you around.”

“Sure,” she said, feeling an upwelling of all sorts of emotions: regret at turning him down, pride at her own resolve, anxiety that he might decide to can her if she continued to rebuff him. “Thank you for letting me be part of the picture.”

“No problem.”

She nodded at him and they parted.

The worst of the confused feelings had faded by eight that evening when she was at the leather-top folding table with Joe and Maggie in their sitting room, regaling them with stories from the day. By now, they knew that she was employed in the prop shop and not as an extra, so the fact that she really had been an extra that afternoon was of the utmost interest to both. She went over every detail, keeping back, of course, yesterday’s ignominious encounter with the picture’s star. As the conversation waned and they settled into the game of blackjack, she felt positively luminous. Not even Mary Pickford, she thought, could feel as famous as she did tonight. (Watch Steamboat Bill, Jr. here.)

#Buster Keaton #Silent Film #Golden Age Hollywood #Actor RPF #RPF #Fan fiction #Fan Fic

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bouwrites · 4 years

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Even Heroes Have the Right to Dream: Chapter 15

All that’s left for me to climb to the heavens is the chasm of the night.

First, Previous, Next. Ao3.

Story under read-more.

Marinette is awoken by a muffled shout. She frowns into her pillow for a moment, waiting and wondering if it isn’t just her imagination, and then she hears it again. Not a yell, not a sob, something in between. That involuntary whimper closer to a groan, dulled by a wall. It only takes her a second to decide to rise from her bed.

It’s… not the first time she hears sounds like this from Jon’s room. She knows he hears the same things from hers. But both of them know each other’s pasts as heroes, so both of them understand. They don’t interrupt. It’s an unspoken agreement. They talk about nightmares, sometimes, if they need to, but only the one suffering brings it up. They certainly don’t go to each other in the middle of the night.

But… that was then. That was when they were friends. Best friends, even. Now, they’re dating, and even though Marinette still fights to do it, crossing the boundary into his room feels less inappropriate. She’s not afraid of overstepping her bounds. Not as much, anyway.

And besides that. Given what happened, Marinette already has an idea of what’s troubling Jon tonight.

A new brother, hidden from him for a month, locked in combat with his father. A weapon made to kill Superman, replace him, with Jon’s old name. Damian’s storage of kryptonite the only means of putting down the last Kryptonians.

Jon does so well out there on the farm. Marinette is so proud of him for standing up and resolving the situation peacefully, if not quite how he intends, and for having the strength to chastise Superman directly after a panic attack like that.

But Marinette also knows, because she does the same thing, that pushing past something, brute forcing his way through to the conclusion he needs, is not healthy resolution. Just because he does what he needs to do doesn’t mean he’s okay when all is said and done.

It’s been a while since the last nightmare. At least, the last one Marinette is able to note. She’s sure they’re more frequent, but Jon is quiet enough that she can’t hear, or she just doesn’t wake up at all and misses it. To her knowledge, though, this hasn’t happened since they started dating. Not during last semester, at least, and none the days he spent in Paris during the summer.

It pisses her off that it’s been triggered again. Jon deserves peaceful dreams. He deserves a peaceful life. But as much as Marinette wants to rage at Superman, for letting himself get dragged into a fistfight with a teenager (at best, given Conner is technically much younger, and she doesn’t care that Conner started it, Superman is an adult who should have handled it peacefully), for keeping Jon’s own brother a secret from him for a month, for not handling the situation so that Jon needn’t have been called in, that’s not Marinette’s place.

She certainly loses respect for Superman, but she’s following Jon’s lead with this. It’s his family. She has much more important things to worry about than spiteful fury at Superman for allowing this. She has to take care of Jon.

She raps her knuckles gently on his door. “Jon?” She asks quietly. “Can I come in?”

There’s a sharp, shaky breath that Marinette only hears because she’s listening so closely for it, then his voice. “Please.”

She turns the handle and slips into the pitch-dark room. Jon’s breathing is labored, and sounds like he’s fighting tears, and Marinette can make out just the barest silhouette of a Jon-sized ball curled up on the bed.

She doesn’t come in here often, not even after they start dating, but she knows Jon keeps his floor clean, so she doesn’t think twice about making her way over to him.

Her foot snags on fabric along the way, triggering a shatteringly loud clatter of metal and rustling denim. She winces. Jon does go directly to his room when they finally return home in the evening after their confrontation; she should expect him to not care to make sure his clothes are put away properly. Just this once. That’s her mistake. Carefully, she pushes the discarded pants aside with her foot, and finally reaches the bed.

She slips in under the blanket beside him and coaxes him to roll over to face her. Then, she hugs him close and kisses his head. She says nothing. She simply holds him.

It takes some time. Minutes, hours, Marinette can’t tell, but she’s there for a long time. Slowly, Jon’s breathing relaxes. She can tell by the way his face furrows up that he hasn’t fallen back asleep, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that, little by little, he calms down.

“I woke you up, didn’t I?” He asks, voice just a whimper. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ve woken you up, too.” Marinette says matter-of-factly. “It’s okay.”

Jon breathes a shaky sigh. His forehead falls against hers. “I hate this.” He says softly. Despite how he trembles, despite the undercurrent in his voice that rises above the fragility, his voice never travels beyond the tiny space between the two of them. “Dad didn’t even tell me about Kon. I had to find out from Damian telling me to break them up. Does he… does he just not trust me? Because I’m not Superboy anymore? I- I know I told him I don’t need to be kept up to date on all the hero stuff, but… this is my brother! Why wouldn’t he tell me about this?”

Marinette exhales gently. “It was wrong of him to keep Kon secret from you,” she agrees, “but he was probably just trying to protect you. I’m sure he just didn’t want to risk you getting dragged back in.”

Jon scoffs bitterly. “What a great job.”

“I know.” Marinette rubs Jon’s bare back carefully. “I know…”

Jon sniffs. “What’s wrong with me, Marinette? I always – always – trusted Dad. He was my idol. I used to want to be just like him. Now, I… I feel like I can’t be any more different from him. What- what do I do? What did I do? Why am I… Why…” His breathing grows more tense, and he screws his eyes shut tight. “I don’t even know what happened. It’s like one moment I was Superboy, and the next… he doesn’t even tell me about my own family. No one does until they need me.

“Am I really that- that broken that- that I…”

New York is lucky that fury isn’t a physical thing. Superman, the Justice League, and all of America as collateral is lucky that the fire under Marinette’s skin stays there and does not immolate the entirety of them all. How dare they hurt Jon like this? How dare they make, however unintentionally, a man like Jon feel broken.

Marinette spent a long time feeling broken. Betrayed, alone, without her only mentor in the cruel world of heroism. She spent a long time believing it all to be her fault. She only persisted out of obligation.

Adrien once spent a long time feeling broken. Abused by a father blinded by a vain hope. Forgotten in his gilded cage, left to believe he’s the problem.

Like hell is she letting Jon feel that way.

“You’re not.” Marinette says firmly. “You’re not broken. You are the most wonderful, the kindest, the bravest, the most principled man I have ever met. There is absolutely nothing wrong with you.”

Jon is quiet for a long time. “Did you hear Kon?” He asks eventually. “Cadmus made him because I retired. Because we need a Superboy. I… I turned my back on that, on everyone who needs me, and… and because of that…”

“I don’t believe that.” Marinette says. “That might be what they told him, but he also said that he’s supposed to kill Superman if he turns bad, right? This… Cadmus. They didn’t tell you about that plan, did they? So, they would have made Kon either way, except… if you were there as a replacement, he might have only been a weapon. To take down either of you if they thought they needed to.”

Jon squeaks out such an odd noise. It’s a laugh cut off by a shaky gasp. “You always were so much smarter than me. You’re… you’re right. God knows why that makes me feel a little better, but… it does.”

“Pretty stupid that our lives are so weird that the thought of a half-brother created solely to kill you is a comforting thought, isn’t it?” Marinette teases, finally pulling a real laugh out of Jon. “But it’s because you know it’s not your fault. You haven’t done anything wrong. Matter of fact, I’m really proud of you.”

“You are?”

“Of course, I am. You put them both in their place, and never sacrificed your virtues to do it. You proved to us both that even if the worst happens, we don’t have to sacrifice what we’ve done here. Right? Nonviolence. To me, you’re exactly what the Girod stands for.”

Jon sighs. “I’m still not convinced it’s possible. But… thank you. I’m- I’m trying.”

“I know you are.”

Jon pulls her closer and buries his head in her shoulder. They lay like that, in silence, for so long that Marinette is sure he falls back asleep. But he surprises her when he says, “Today made me think… look back on everything that happened. I… God, I don’t even recognize myself. I always thought I’d grow up to be Dad, basically, but… now I’m on a completely different path from him. So different that he doesn’t even- I’m… scared. Lost.”

“I know.” Marinette mutters into his hair. “God, Jon, I know.” Throwing herself into the unknown with clipped wings and no safety net, Marinette knows the feeling. Not knowing where she’s going, hardly recognizing where she’s been. It’s scary, and it’s lonely, but… they’re not alone. “I’m here, Jon.” Jon’s grip on her tightens when she says it. “It’s okay, because we can do this together, right?”

“…Together. Right. If we’re together… I love you, Marinette.”

“I love you, too, Jon.”

“Hey, Marinette?” Jon whispers, with life just about renewed in his voice. “…On a scale of one to ten… how much have you already adopted Kon?”

Without missing a beat, Marinette says, “Your dad will have to fight me for the papers.”

Marinette is no stranger to sharing a bed with her boyfriend. The only difference when she wakes up today is that it’s Jon next to her rather than Adrien. Even so, it’s been years since back then, when she and Adrien were living in that apartment together.

If someone had told teenage Marinette that this is what her future holds, sleepily rising with the morning sun over the skyline of New York City, with not Adrien, but a farm boy from America stirring at her side, that little Marinette would probably have had a panic attack. If she’s told that she’s the one who steps away from the life she dreams of, that life with Adrien, with marriage and kids and a hamster on a horizon close enough to taste, that little Marinette might actually faint from shock.

It’s so strange, how dreams change and how reality drags them down to Earth. Jon is right. When she looks back at the person she was and how she manages to get where she is… she hardly recognizes that little girl. It’s sad, in a way. It’s rose-tinted nostalgia frozen by an odd melancholy. Affection for that little girl, in almost the same way she looks at Conner – a kid overwhelmed by the craziness of life, who needs a guiding hand – but… knowing that not only has she given up on those dreams, but that she made the choice to reject them is… sobering.

Would little Marinette like the person she is now? Does the Marinette of today? Marinette smiles and rubs Jon’s shoulder idly. He’s stirring awake, not quite dead to the world like she sometimes is in the mornings, but much more tired than he should be. He’s a morning person. Has been for as long as Marinette has known him. He only has trouble rising if he has trouble sleeping, and that considered, Marinette expects it this morning.

Even if it would be the shock of a lifetime for the Marinette of so long ago, Marinette thinks she’s quite happy with this. It’s still frightening. She’s still a little lost. To leave behind dreams she holds so dearly for so long is no small thing, and Marinette knows the next big change is just around the corner. They only have this year before they graduate. After that, they need to enter the next chapter of their lives. The transition may or may not be an easy one. But if they tackle it together, they can overcome it just like they are overcoming this one.

Jon sits up, rubbing his eyes and yawning, and mumbles, “Someone’s at the door.”

Not a second later, the doorbell rings. Marinette rolls her eyes. With a ruffle of Jon’s hair and a jump out of bed, she leaves Jon’s room for her own. “Be with you in a minute!” She calls to whoever’s at the door.

She refuses to answer the door in her nightgown. That said, it’s an easy affair to slip on a simple dress. As she leaves her own room to answer the door, Jon emerges from his, shirt still unbuttoned and fastening his belt.

Marinette answers the door. Standing there, looking very much out of place, Conner Kent fidgets with the hem of his shirt. “Oh! Conner! That was fast. Come in, come in!” Marinette steps aside so he can squeeze past her. “Take your shoes off. You can put them in this closet here.”

Conner mechanically does as instructed, so Marinette turns and catches Jon with a quick kiss to his cheek. “I’m going to make some cookies. And breakfast. You move the furniture.”

“Yeah, this ain’t my first rodeo.” Jon smiles back, catching her before she can hurry to the kitchen to give her a kiss on the lips. When he lets her go, he turns to grin at Conner. “Good to see you, Kon! Let me give you the grand tour.”

While Marinette is working on breakfast (and cookies on the side) Jon comes into the living room with Conner on his tail. Conner looks so lost, like a little duckling following his mother, and Marinette coos internally at his dumbfounded expression.

The two don’t have guests often, but their friends have been over before. They figure out quickly that their little table and two chairs isn’t enough space for everyone to share a meal, much less hang out at, so they figured out their alternative. Jon pushes the table and chairs into a corner (they don’t need the chairs with only one guest) and then pushes the sofa back closer to the center of the room. It’s further from the television, but it gives him space to pull the coffee table away from it. The coffee table itself is lower to the ground, and much larger than their little dining table, so if they all sit around it on the floor, they can share a meal with friends – or family.

It’s not that much adjusting. Just pushing things around a little, not nearly as major as when Marinette needs floor space to cut fabric, and Jon’s strength means it’s hardly an annoyance to set everything where it needs to be.

“So, did you already piss of Dad, or did you just miss me?” Jon asks casually as he picks up the coffee table.

“I didn’t do anything.” Conner crosses his arms defensively.

Jon shakes his head slowly, standing from placing the coffee table down in its new place. “I didn’t mean it like that, bro. I was just teasing. Come on, sit. What made you decide to visit so soon?”

He plops down on the sofa, hesitant Conner following suit a moment later, and watches his brother expectantly. For a moment, Jon meets her eyes, a silent question overtaking his expression. Ordinarily, if they have breakfast at home, he helps cook. And that’s when they’re cooking for two. Marinette shakes her head. She’ll do this, Jon needs to focus on his brother.

She keeps an eye on them, though. Connor is distinctly uncomfortable here. “I’m sorry.” He says. “I should have called ahead.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Jon says nonchalantly. “Marinette and I have classes in a couple hours, but we’re free until then.” Classes, and if Conner’s sticking around this afternoon Jon will have to ask his professor for a short extension on an assignment he planned to complete yesterday, but it should all work out. They’re definitely not cluing Conner in on that part. The last thing they need is for him to feel like he’s getting in the way of their university work. “And I said you’re always welcome here, didn’t I?”

That gets Conner to loosen up just a little. “I…” Conner starts. “I… I’m here to update you on the cover story. On how you suddenly found a new brother.”

I don’t suppose anyone would believe if we said you fell from the sky. Marinette thinks, snickering to herself.

“Ah, yeah, I saw the message when I was getting ready this morning. You’re sixteen, officially, were in California with adoptive parents until now. I assume those names were all aliases.”

“Think so.” Conner says.

“Adoptive parents died, you came here to be taken care of by your birth parents. Did I miss anything? I just skimmed it, honestly.”

“There’s some more details, but that’s the idea.”

“Cool. Real nice of you to come tell me that in person after you already sent the brief.” Jon says it in a friendly way, but it’s clear that Jon knows that isn’t the real reason Conner is here. “Your idea?”

Conner grits his teeth and crosses his arms again. “I… I wanted to ask you about Superman. And about Superboy. And… what happened.” Jon’s expression turns serious, but Conner, despite looking somewhere between angry and terrified, forges on. “All I know about you is what Cadmus taught me, and all they know is the public stuff. No one ever said why you retired, some people are even still saying you’ll come back, but… you told me to use the name, so… you’re not coming back, are you?”

“No, Kon, I’m not.” Jon sighs heavily. “If you know all that public stuff, you already know that at first, the League just said I was on leave.” Conner nods stiffly. “I haven’t talked much with them since then, but I know them pretty well. I’m sure they were just trying to prevent a panic from Superboy disappearing suddenly. The truth is, it was a temporary leave at first. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, because I was raised to believe that fighting, using my powers for the good of the people, is the right thing to do. But… I honestly hated it. Fighting, I mean. It wore me down, until eventually I had to decide what I want my life to be. Mom convinced everyone to let me take a leave while I go to college. I was supposed to use my college years to decide my future. If I’d go back, or not.” He chuckles a little helplessly. “I think everyone expected me to come back within a few weeks.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No. I didn’t. My friend Damian told me once that it started because I felt safe enough to process everything. All the fighting. But… after I was away for a while… anytime I thought of going back, I’d start panicking. Not like- not like worry or anything like that. Like what you saw back at the farm. I freeze. I- uh, I’d rather not go into detail on exactly how it feels, but… I can’t fight anymore, even if I wanted to.” Jon shakes his head slowly. “But I don’t want to.” He grins at Conner’s near-horrified face. “I was only getting worse and worse towards the end of my time as Superboy. I’m happier now living a… well a peaceful life. So, no, I don’t intend to ever go back. I promised myself and Marinette that I wouldn’t ever fight again. And I intend to keep that promise. We’re pacifists now.”

“That’s… I’m sorry.” Conner looks to the floor. “That must be hard.”

Jon snorts. “Not when my old League friends aren’t trying to drag me back into it. Not anymore, anyway. You totally missed my whole ethics crisis phase.”

Conner winces, despite Jon’s attempt to lighten the atmosphere. His hands tremble and he bites his lip as he stares at the table. “I’m sorry.” He says. “If I didn’t start that fight, you wouldn’t have had that panic attack, I- I- you’re my-” Conner huffs, closing his eyes. His jaw and brow are set determinedly. “I’m not going to put you through that again. I’m sorry it happened once. I won’t make my brother feel that way.”

“Kon…” Jon’s gentlest voice carries through the room. “Don’t blame yourself for that. I knew what would happen, and I went anyway.”

Marinette rolls her eyes as she brings three plates of food to the coffee table. Conner seems to be trying hard to figure out a response, so Marinette uses the opportunity to interrupt. “Breakfast.” She says. “Eat up.”

“Ah! Thank you, Marinette!” Jon immediately leaps from the sofa to take a seat on the floor next to the table. “You’re the bestest ever!”

She giggles, bending down to kiss Jon’s head. “You’re cooking next time.” She murmurs, smiling at his laugh in reply.

Conner jumps, like he’s forgotten she’s there. “Oh. Thank you. You were there yesterday, too.”

“Of course, I was.” Marinette says. “I’m a lot like your brother. I was a hero for a long time. Started when I was a kid, too, though not quite as young as him. Put that life behind me, came to America for university. It was a stroke of luck that we ended up roommates.”

“Now she’s my girlfriend.” Jon beams proudly. “So, get used to her. She’s your sister-in-law.”

“We’re not married, Jon.”

“Have you seen us? We were married before we started dating.”

Marinette giggles, and, for the first time since he got here, Conner smiles. A small, weak one but a smile nonetheless. It falls quickly, though. “I can’t believe Superboy gave up being a hero. Just… like that.” Conner says quietly.

Jon lets out a sharp laugh. “Hey, that took years. I wouldn’t say it was just like that. Trust me, bro, it was hard. Worth it, though.” Marinette lets Jon take her hand and give her that same smile he had on Thanksgiving.

“Superman wants you to be a hero.” Conner says. “He doesn’t want me.”

Jon’s brow knits together. “Kon.” Jon touches his shoulder, drawing Conner’s eyes to his. Both the same blue, just a few shades deeper than Marinette’s own. “Do you want to be Superboy? Not me, Superboy, you Superboy. Is being a hero something you want to do?”

Conner awkwardly pushes his breakfast around the plate. “I… I was made to be a hero.”

“That doesn’t answer the question, Kon.” Conner flinches, but doesn’t say more, so Jon sighs and says. “It’s your life. Never forget that. I always thought I’d grow up to just be Dad, but look at me now. I had to decide my own path, and someday you will, too. If you want to be a hero, that’s fine. If you don’t, that’s okay, too. I’m your brother, and I’ll support you either way. And Dad?” Jon pauses for a moment. “He’s doing the best he can. You scare him, that’s the only reason he wouldn’t have told me about you. If you scare him that badly… it’ll take time for him to really accept you. But he will. And even if he doesn’t, your life is still yours. You don’t have to be him if you don’t want to, and he can’t stop you from using him as an example if that is what you want. Do you… sort of get what I’m saying?”

“I have to decide what I want to do.” Conner says.

Jon grins and throws an arm over Conner’s shoulder. “Yeah, but there’s no rush. You’re like, a month old, dude, you’ve got time to figure everything out.”

Conner glares at Jon, but makes no move to push him off. The expression quickly softens. “You’re… not at all like I expected.”

“Trust me, bro, when I look back at myself when I was Superboy, I think the same thing. Is it good or bad?”

“Good… I think.”

Jon beams brilliantly and roughly ruffles Conner’s hair, making him quickly rescind the statement.

Marinette slides into her seat. As usual, the professor isn’t here yet, but it’s not worth the walk home with only an hour between classes. Luckily, no one uses the room at this time block, so Marinette can sit down early and work on some sketches, or homework, if she needs it, or even just a bit of hand sewing.

She doesn’t expect Kasey and Louise to come in, both hesitating in the doorway with wide eyes like she’s some sort of ghost. Louise gently coaxes Kasey forward. “Hey, Marinette.” Louise says with a guarded smile.

Their countenances being so clouded puts Marinette on guard herself. “Hi. I don’t usually see you here, what’s up?”

Kasey fiddles with a pink pen in her hands. “Well, um… Have you heard from Sam recently?”

Marinette just raises a brow. What could she say that you’re so afraid of? “No.” Marinette answers honestly. “I blocked her when she started harassing my boyfriend. Haven’t heard from her since.”

Like she’s flipped a switch, the tension drains out of the two other girls. “Oh, good.” Kasey says. “Uh, er, I mean- not that it’s good that- I- aw…” She covers her face and ducks into Louise’s shoulder, groaning at herself.

Louise just smiles awkwardly, patting her back all the while. “We didn’t invite Sam back into the apartment this year.” She explains. “When it looked like you were willing to forgive what she said, we decided to do the same, but when we found out what she was trying to do with Jon… it crossed a line. It took a while to finalize everything, but we’ve basically cut contact with her. Last we heard, she blames you and threatened us that she’d ruin our friendship, like you ruined hers with us. Apparently, she was assuming that we’d cool off over the summer and forget about it. When she found out that we didn’t… We… aren’t sure yet what she’s planning.”

Marinette suddenly feels very weary. Who would have thought unnecessary drama would follow her right out of heroism (and lycée) and into normal university life. Maybe drama is less a kid thing and more a human thing?

If that’s the case, Marinette has never been more thankful for Jon’s Kryptonian heritage.

Then again, there is the whole “I’ve got a new sixteen-year-old brother created in a lab to kill or replace me, whichever comes first” thing, so maybe Kryptonian lives are actually even more dramatic.

Only Jon is worth that headache, no matter how cute a kid Conner is. And it really does put this kind of dumb, petty drama in perspective. Marinette sighs. “Guys, just forget about Sam. Trust me, she can’t do anything to me.” If Lila couldn’t, Sam definitely can’t. Lila is a lot more frightening than her, and Marinette’s already beat her twice.

Kasey collapses heavily into the seat next to her. “I wish I could.” She whimpers. “But… Sam was my friend. I still can’t believe she did that in the first place.”

Marinette stops for a moment, frozen, and slowly sets down her pencil. Louise takes the seat in front of them, imploring Marinette silently with her eyes to do something, though Marinette sees deep within those eyes that Louise is hurt, too.

The truth is, Marinette is hurt, too. Betrayal is betrayal.

So, she carefully picks Kasey up off the desk and turns her around so that she can comb her hands through the other girl’s hair. Kasey relaxes into the touch just like Marinette used to when Adrien or Alya or Nino did the same for her way back when. “When I was in collège,” Marinette says gently, “back in Paris… that’s middle school here, though it went on into high school, there was a girl in my class called Lila.”

Louise leans close resting her head on the desk while Kasey frowns a little at the story. “Lila is…” Marinette licks her lips, searching for appropriate words. “A sad, sad girl. All she cares about is fame and attention and power, and to get that, she tells all sorts of lies. A lot of bragging about celebrity connections, charity work she claims to do to make her look good, that kind of thing. Plus, she lied about disabilities to get my classmates to do things for her. Anything from her homework to carrying her lunch tray.”

“Wow.” Louise says. “She sounds like a bitch.”

Marinette giggles. “I wouldn’t have called her that, we were just kids, after all, but given she made no effort to change even towards the end of lycée… yeah, she was.” Not to mention how she got worse, with Hawk Moth and the Miraculous. Marinette has to shake the memories away. There’s no use lingering on that right now. “She’s a lot worse than anyone imagined, even me, but… that’s not why I’m telling you this. The point is that, early on, I figured out she was lying. I called her out. Because of that, she considered me a threat and did everything in her power to ruin me. She would plant evidence to accuse me of stealing, or cheating, make false claims of me attacking or bullying her, spread rumors about me, anything to make my life terrible. To prove that she can, and to punish me for defying her.”

“Definitely a bitch.” Louise mutters, quieter this time. Kasey makes a disgruntled noise of agreement.

“She threatened me with exactly the same thing Sam threatened you two with. She told me that she would take all my friends away, that I’d be all alone.” Marinette continues. “I won’t bore you with all the details of that whole thing, but… it was a tough time. There was more going on on top of everything, so I was already stressed, and the threat of losing my friends – seeing them trust Lila even when I know she’s lying, take her side when I try to call her out on the lies… it was hard. But you want to know how it all ended?”

Kasey pulls away to look at her with determined, curious eyes. Probing eyes what hunger for the answers. Marinette appreciates that look. That drive for knowledge is a good trait to have. It reminds Marinette of Alya, much more tempered by logic now than when they first met but no less passionate. “How?” Kasey asks.

She got arrested for being a supervillain. Marinette smiles to herself and decides that bit of information isn’t strictly necessary to get her point across. “I’m still close friends with all my classmates from collège. None of us have heard of Lila in years.” Marinette chuckles. “Sam’s little stunt reminded me of Lila, honestly. Except Lila was a lot more threatening. Trust me, I’m way too familiar with that type of person to fall for her tricks. She has no control over our friendship. That’s something only we can control.” Marinette lifts up a fist, holding it out to Kasey and Louise. “Right?”

Kasey laughs, loud and bright and shiny like her, and crashes her own fist into Marinette’s. “Right!”

“Definitely.” Louise says, much more quietly, but with no less feeling, adding her fist to the group.

Marinette reaches out and pulls both girls into an awkward hug over the desk. “I miss Sam, too. Just because she showed her true colors doesn’t mean we didn’t think of her as a friend. But it’ll be alright, because we’ve still got each other.”

Marinette has to hold back a yelp (and Louise fails to) when Kasey throws her own arms around them all and squeezes tight. “You’re really something else, Marinette. I’m so glad we’re all friends.”

——-=——-

Tag List: @moonystars14 @pawsitivelymiraculous @magic-miraculous @vixen-uchiha @buticaaba @bigpicklebananatree @lozzybowe @moonlightstar64 @amayakans @theatreandcomicfreak @toodaloo-kangaroo @too0bsessedformyowngood @justcourttee <3

#miraculous ladybug fanfiction #ml fanfiction #ml x dc #maribat #marijon #ehhtrtd

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thebiasrekkers · 4 years

Text

Shadow’s Birthright | MYG

Chapter 03: Dark Passions

Plot: Riding in on thunder and lightning, two princes are born. But a crown cannot be shared. It can only be worn by one and one alone. The hands of man have separated the brothers, allowing one to live in wealth and comfort inside the palace while the other grows up among commoners. But Fate cannot be destroyed by the hands of man. A shared destiny reunites the brothers; one to become a king who descends into madness and the other will rise as a dragon whose journey has only just begun in order to claim a crown he does not desire to have.

Rating: NC-17 // NSFW

Pairing: Min Yoongi (Lee Yoon) x Female OC (Kalina Shuri)

Warnings: Historical setting, caste system, magic/sorcery, graphic violence, disturbing graphic images, religious tones, angst, slow burn, smut

Additional Warnings: Oral (female receiving), heavy teasing, internal possession, body worship

Previous Chapters: Prologue 01 02

Links: FAQ || BTS Masterlist || Admin E’s AO3 || [ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ]

Word Count: 4,869

Tag List: @luxekook, @pinkpjmin, @btsaudge, @flowerwrites06, @stillcopingxx, @taevkimchi, @aroseforyoongi, @vivpurple7, @happilystrongthroughthedark, @sw33tnight, @nikkitane, @mini-coop25

AN: And we have the smuts finally. Woo. I did it early this time, guys. Again, I just want to let everyone know that this series is going to be updated slowly. Like, one chapter a week. So just be patient with me. I promise you that it will be worth the wait. If you would like to be added to the tag list, feel free to drop me a line!

P.S. Please bear in mind that while the historical accuracy will be mostly correct, I am setting this in a time period in Joseon history where there was no such thing as a king who had a twin brother. Obviously that’s where the fiction/creative freedom is going to come in. Everything else will be period accurate, trust and believe.

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“Never love anybody who treats you like you’re ordinary.” - Oscar Wilde

Kali sighed as she watched the moon slowly rise over the mountain peaks. The world was still and quiet, the occasional chirp of the cicada barely audible in the silence that blanketed over everything. Turning her head slightly, she smiled as she watched Yoongi sleep. It took a bit longer than she might have wanted, but with the aid of a sleeping draught, he finally relaxed and allowed her to tuck him into his bedroll.

San slept faithfully at its master’s feet, his large head lifting when he heard Kali move to stand. The wolf started to get up, but she placed her hand out and shook her head. The wolf yawned and shook its upper body before settling back comfortably on the floor. She bent down to pet the wolf’s head between his ears and smiled when one of his ears flicked at the touch.

Scooping up her satchel, she reached inside and pulled out several books. Setting them on a nearby shelf, Kali made sure the letter was nestled between the pages of the book on top. After ascertaining that the two of them were sound asleep, Kali pressed herself out of the humble mountain home and stepped out onto the cool night air.

“I’m sure he will be seeking me out soon,” she murmured, gripping the strap of her satchel in one hand as she lifted her face toward the sky, “the tiger will bare his fangs if I do not answer his summons.”

With a wave of her hand, the space in front of Kali rippled. The trees, grass, and fireflies all blurred and tilted in motion. Finally, a dark hole appeared and she stepped through the portal. Once inside, a swirling galaxy of stars and light appeared around her. The large expanse of the void rippled with each step she took. Many voices careened at her body from every direction, causing her heartbeat to elevate with each second she was inside of that dimension.

Another portal opened in front of her after walking several meters. Without blinking, Kali passed through the large black opening. When she reappeared, she was back in her own personal quarters in her home just outside of the Crown City. Sighing, she took a quick look over herself in her vanity’s mirror. Her satchel barely touched the ground just as a loud knock echoed from outside.

Kali had no servants. She had no need for them. Despite a certain royal’s persistence, she refused to have any attendants that could possibly spy on her during her ritual prayers or when she crossed into The Veil. Joseon was still a skeptical nation and its people were quick to yell “heresy”, even without all the information. Being branded a foreign devil, the last thing Kali wanted was anyone being able to prove just how much power simmered beneath her fingertips.

Adjusting the front of her robes, she retreated from her chambers and out to the main courtyard. Her estate was small in comparison to most noble households, but the King spared no expense when it came to her comfort. Her biggest budget crusher was her personal garden that was full of plants of different varieties to help with her potions. Kali took a moment to survey her plants, despite the heavy persistent knocking rattling the large wooden gate to her estate. She was in no hurry to answer since she already knew who was on the other side.

She managed to clip a few sprigs of tea leaves and some Nightshade before the erratic knocking began to grate on her nerves. Placing the items into the leather pouch that swung from her hip, she approached the gate and slid the large wooden bracer ff the panels. Shoving the wooden gate hard, it swung out loudly and knocked into the person on the other side hard enough for them to fall on their backside. He looked up, perplexed, as she scowled down at him, biting back an irritated snarl.

“Persistence is only a virtue in some religions, Sir,” she said, her tone even, “patience is a virtue every child of man should learn to embrace.”

The young man scrambled to his feet, dusting off his clothing as he readjusted the hat on his head. “F-Forgive me, Lady Shuri!” He quickly bowed his head, apologies tumbling from his lips, before he reached to his side and pulled out the messenger cylinder hanging from his shoulders. He hurriedly untwisted the cap, pulling out the rolled up piece of paper inside. With his head bowed, he handed it to her.

Unfurling it slowly, her eyes scanned over the elegant brush strokes that belonged to the Crown Prince. He was asking for, as she knew he would. Wishing for his fortune to be read was simply a ruse. It always was. What he longed for was something that she could happily give to him. As a subject of Joseon, even as a foreigner, it was her duty to give into his desires. It was the one thing she could do to help tampen the madness that was already starting to brew inside of him.

She couldn’t deny him, even if she wanted to.

Folding the note away, she slipped it into the sleeve of her robe. “I will be there as His Highness wishes,” Kali replied, already moving back into her estate.

“B-But, My Lady...His Highness, the Crown Prince, said that I should escort you personally.”

She glanced at the messenger over her shoulder, cutting her eyes at him. All he could do was stand frozen in terror before a dark smile spread over her full lips. “His Highness will receive me when I am ready to be received. He knows I have been traveling and need to change.” Kali began closing the gate. “I will see him soon.”

The messenger swallowed the lump in his throat, fearing more for his life than for the lack of her presence accompanying him on the way back to the palace. But if he was smart, he would relay her words exactly as she said them to the Crown Prince. He would know the meaning behind them and he would be patient for her. Otherwise there was no meaning or value to their relationship in the first place.

Pulling the pin from her hair, her dark tresses fell about her neck and shoulders as she entered her manor. It wouldn’t take her long to gather up the herbs and oils needed for a nice soak in the bath. As for her clothing choice, Kali knew she would have to pick something shimmery but tasteful.

Even if her robes would not be on her person for very long.

It was late and he’d dismissed his servants for the evening. There were the standard guards posted outside of his palace entrance, but other than that, he was completely alone. The Crown Princess requested to see him, for him to spend the night at the Magnolia Pavilion, but Yoon refused. He would see his wife another night. But not tonight.

Tonight was reserved for one person and one person only.

Yoon paced inside of his personal chambers for what felt like hours. Every so often, he would reach up to bite his thumbnail both from impatience and aggravation. It would be a lie to say that his anger hadn’t flared when the messenger returned with Kalina’s words. As impertinent as he imagined her tone to be, he knew that what she spoke was the truth. Kalina was not a person of Joseon and, as such, not one of his people.

She held a certain level of autonomy within the Joseon Royal Court because of her standing with the King. Whispers of him being bewitched by the foreign soothsayer spread throughout the different Noble Factions. But everyone also knew how faithful the King was to the Queen. He had two royal consorts, but the Queen always had his father’s favor above the others. The other two concubines were arranged marriages from two different court factions. Yoon’s own wife was a member of the Western Faction of Nobles.

As it stood, no one in the royal family could marry someone outside of their own country. Not like in the times of their ancestors, when Kings were warriors and legends were carved in stone; immortalizing them forever. Joseon was a strict nation; even more so after the Goryeon Empire crumbled to the ground. But if Yoon could have his way, he would pass an edict that allowed him to marry someone outside of their own nation state.

For his own selfish reasons, of course.

Flopping onto the silk cushion behind his desk, Yoon grunted. He was growing more and more impatient. How long was she planning to make him wait?

Just as he was preparing to mentally chastise her, energy warped in the far corner of his room. The Crown Prince stood, the steady beat of his heart escalating as the color palette in one part of his room began to shift. Saliva collected around the inside of his mouth as Yoon slowly stood from the floor.

This wasn’t the first time.

This wasn’t the second time.

Kalina rarely came to him in this fashion, but when she did, it never got old.

He could watch her enter through that portal like a timeless dream until he ceased to exist.

The first thing he saw were her sleeves; a deep, rich purple spun from the finest silk and trimmed in silver. Her lithe fingers, modestly decorated with stone rings, reached into the space that occupied his chambers. The rest of her entered his room, her skin like chestnuts freshly plucked as her raven hair danced about her shoulders - just barely hidden beneath the softness of the robes she wore. She was barefoot, her toes peeking out from beneath the hems of her dress; the aroma of rose petals and lavender oils permeating his senses.

Sweat prickled along the back of his neck, her own neck bare save for a single jade pendant that hung from a thin black chain. She dipped her head slightly, looking up at him from beneath a hooded gaze. Kalina’s long lashes accentuated the forest green of her eyes, cheeks slightly tinted a soft pink from either the warmth or a flush at seeing him.

He didn’t care which it was.

The portal closed behind her with a mere wave of her hand. The magic that existed there almost seemed to vanish, but he could sense the power that circulated through her blood. Her arms swept out to either side of her as she delicately lowered herself to the floor. Everything fluttered around her, the candle flames dancing at her mere presence. Her head was bowed, but he could still see the smile on her face; like she’d succeeded in trapping the greatest game the likes of which man had ever seen.

Like any warrior, Kalina seemed to hold no such openings for Yoon to exploit. Yet she could pierce through every single one of his defenses. All it took was one simple phrase.

“Kalina Shuri is here, my Crown Prince,” she said, a bell-like lilt in her voice. Kalina lifted her face as he stared pointedly down at her. “...I am here, Lee Yoon.”

The trigger was always his name. His true name.

No one was allowed to whisper it. Not even his own wife. His parents set that name aside when he was elevated to the rank of Crown Prince. Lee Yoon disappeared from within the palace walls.

Only this exquisite creature before him, a being who seemingly had not aged since he was a child, dared to call him by name.

Yoon launched himself from the other side of the room, intent on laying his hands over every single inch of her. But just as he was less than a meter away, something stopped him. His body was rigid and no matter how hard he grunted, he was unable to break free. Wide eyes moved to look at Kalina, watching as the woman held her hand out at him - palm facing outward. There was a soft vibration in the air that sang over his skin, causing the hairs on the back of his arm to prickle. Sweat slid down the column of his neck, disappearing beneath his robes.

“Kalina,” he managed to choke out, feeling the veins starting to pop near his temple. Yoon’s eyes narrowed as she slowly rose from her seated position. “Release me at once.”

She was standing at her full height and was still a full head shorter than him. Yet in that body thundered supernatural power that only existed in myths and legends. That same power that was holding him bound in place, unable to take a single step toward her. Instead, she smirked, inching her way forward as the sleeves of her robe slid off just a bit to bare a shoulder to him.

“Now, now, Seja Cheo-ha,” Kalina said, the bell tone replaced with something deep and velvety, “the night is still young and I have not seen you in weeks.” She leaned forward, pressing her nose into the curve of his jaw. Her scent filled his lungs instantly, breathing her in at the exact moment she breathed him in. “Let me have a look at you, hm?”

This was torture. Yoon should have her flogged, but the way she plucked him like a brand new harp was deliciously unfair.

“Release me now, Kalina,” Yoon half-snarled as he felt the tip of her tongue press against his throat, “you jest far too much.”

Her hand glided over his shoulder, teasing at the baby hairs near the back of his neck. Kalina lifted her face to peer into his eyes and had it not been for her spell, he would have lost his ability to stand completely. The sorceress pouted. “But you’re going to be leaving for a long journey soon, are you not?” He shouldn’t have been surprised, but the expression appeared anyway. “Is that not why you summoned me?”

Yoon frowned. She was going to make him beg. This was outlandish.

“Will you have me beg, woman?” The question showcased his ire, but this only caused her smile to widen.

“A lowly being such as myself would never request such a thing,” Kalina whispered, her hand gesturing over his body.

What spell held him was lifted. Upon his release, he grabbed her and harshly tackled her onto his plush bedroll. The sorceress released a soft giggle, failing to abate his anger. He hadn’t pinned her arms down and she took the initiative to reach up and pull at the small pin that held his hair in place. His white-blonde tresses fell around his shoulders like a soft curtain of wheat and he felt a ripple slip down his spine.

Her fingers combed through his hair and for a while, neither of them spoke. Only the hushed sounds of their breaths existed between them. He lifted one hand up to press the pads of his fingers against the soft skin around her jaw. He let his thumb dip in between her lips and Yoon released a soft hiss when he felt her bite down around the digit. The loose-fitting robes suddenly felt too tight as his erection threatened to rub itself raw against the silk.

Removing his hand from her face, he slid it between the loose fabric nestled around her legs. He could feel her heat and his brows lofted when he realized how bare her attire actually was. Her flush-kissed cheeks grew a deeper shade of pink and he flashed her a predatory smirk.

“Were you preparing yourself for me?”

Kalina huffed an impetuous laugh. “Isn’t it a servant’s duty to always know the needs of one’s master?”

He bit back a groan. Her words were like a spider’s web, trapping him further. The harder Yoon struggled, the more he was ensnared.

Tearing at her clothes like a wild animal, every layer was peeled away to expose her sweat-tinged skin to him. He saw her lifting her hand, reaching out toward where the candles were, but he swiftly snatched at her wrist to stop her. She lifted a brow at him, aptly curious as to his intentions.

“No,” he whispered, bringing her hand up so he could press a soft kiss to the inside of her palm, “leave the light.” He grazed his teeth along the center of her hand, giving it a sharp nip. “I want to have a look at you.”

Leaning forward, he pressed his face along the valley of Kalina’s breasts; soft, pugnacious and full of warmth. He could feel the thrum of her heartbeat against his nose and he trailed his tongue between her breasts, a lascivious hunger threatening to burst from his entire body. Yoon’s hand fondled one mound and he used his other hand to pull at the ribbons keeping his robe cinched to his body. He ached for her. Yearned for her to release him from his demons.

Because only she could and she knew it.

His silk trousers fell easily off his waist and he kicked them from his legs in haste. Reaching behind him, he pulled his dark blue robes off his body and tossed them to the side; abandoned with Kalina’s own robes. He was hard and ready, his hands coated in her juices as he reached down to play with her folds. Decreed by the Heavens to rule, Yoon could only see himself worshiping this witch that lay bare in front of him.

Her fingers curled into the hair at the crown of his head, urging him forward as he pressed kisses along her stomach. He turned to press his teeth into the tender skin of her inner thigh and he smiled when he heard the gasp push from her throat. Inhaling deeply, he relished in her womanly scent before diving into her velvet heat to have his late night snack.

Yoon swirled his tongue over her clit, the taste of her enough to get him intoxicated. The glistening moisture around her thigh made his mouth water. He wanted to draw as much sound from this woman as he could. He would never tire of this taste; this aroma. She smelled sweet and dangerous. A deadly draught.

She was a poison that he would happily drink, the promise of unparalleled ecstasy at the core of her being.

Her moans permeated the room, lost along the silk folding screens and the sheer curtains as her own sweat soaked into the silk bedroll. She quivered under his touch, his kiss, from everything he was doing to her and more. He pulled back from her folds, his lips shining with the leftovers of her essence and proof of the meal he’d indulged in. Kalina moved to kiss him, but Yoon stopped her with a gentle clasp of his fingers around her throat - bearing the brunt of his weight on his other arm that was braced just on the other side of her head.

Yoon selfishly licked his lips, cleaning his mouth of every drop of her. He wouldn’t share. Not even with her and it was hers to begin with. He teased her folds with the tip of his erection as he felt her hips rise up to meet his own with a subtle push. His teeth snapped as he hissed, his dark eyes meeting her smoldering greens. He had her where he wanted her. Where he needed her. The level of restraint he was holding back made his arms tremble.

The look on her face, that look, was for no one else. Just him. The way her heart beat in her chest? It was for him. Kalina was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life. The way the candlelight flickered across her body, cascading golden rays like the morning sun long her skin, was surreal. It was unfair. Why had the gods done this to him? Created a woman so blindingly beautiful with enough power to make any fearless man’s blood run cold? And he could not have her the way he wanted her; could not possess her the way he desired.

There were feral noises coming from Yoon as he leaned upward. Moving to his knees, he grasped Kalina’s hips and pulled her toward him. Her green eyes danced from the firelight and it nearly stole his breath away.

“Yoon-ah,” she half-sobbed, causing Yoon’s erection to swell even more. He was going to shatter and be dust in the wind if she said his name that way again. All it would take was one more croon from her voice and he would be ruined.

Ruined as he’d been ruined time and again by the sorceress.

He could stand it no longer! Yoon held her hips in his hands as he lowered his body. “Not yet,” he murmured, his hooded gaze roving over her body, “wait for me, Kalina…” His own form trembled as he settled her over the head of his throbbing erection.

Yoon bit down on the lower swell of his lip, holding her steady as her legs seemed to open up even further for him. He was drunk off her scent, his vision growing hazy for only a split second before righting itself.

Rolling his hips, he couldn’t help the narcissistic smirk that painted over his features as her legs moved to knock into his sides in an almost vain attempt to wrap them around him. Her heat squeezed him in a multitude of ways and the pleasure that he coaxed out of her was intoxicating - her mewls of strained lust urging him onward with each moment he drove into her. The sorceress’ nails dug into his biceps, gliding up the sweat-soaked surface up to his shoulders before grasping onto the meat of the muscle there.

Tiny puffs of air lifted from her swollen lips - lips that he’d teased and pulled at with his fingers. She was getting close and so was Yoon. His tempo accelerated gradually, a low growl pushing from his throat as he watched her rutting her hips against the slickness of his shaft - their pelvic bones crashing into each other with unbridled need.

Her cry of desperation echoed throughout the room, filling the space both around and between them. This spurred him on, reaching the edge of his own need for release as he felt the stinging pain of her nails dragging along his skin. There would be marks but it was of no consequence to him. He would deal with them before he began his journey. There would be questions but no answers would be given.

Heat spread through, filling her with everything until he was well and truly spent. The young woman beneath him had already succumbed to the pleasure she was given, her orgasm making her limbs grow weak.

Bucking his hips into her one more time, Yoon rode out the rest of his aftermath before slipping out of her with ease.

Rolling onto his side, he pulled Kalina with him so that she could nestle into the crook of his arm. For a while, all they did was share in heavy breathing as they attempted to recover. Yoon didn’t worry about falling asleep and someone finding them in that state in the morning. Kalina always left before the break of dawn, something that he mourned in the darkest corner of his heart. But decorum was standard in the Joseon Royal Court, something even he must adhere to.

He closed his eyes as her fingers traced over his brow, sweeping a few sweat-soaked locks from his cheek and tucking them behind his ear. Taking in another deep breath, he brought her just a bit closer to savor her warmth and scent.

“My poor, sad Prince,” she whispered, causing his eyes to snap open as he peered at her. Her expression looked solemn and Yoon wondered if Kalina was about to go to that far away place he could never reach. “So much pain. So much sorrow.” Her fingers, once again, combed through his hair. “So...unnecessary.”

Kalina’s words were cryptic. They always were. But they held a deeper meaning somehow.

“When you were a child, you were afraid, weren’t you?”

Yoon blinked, his lips parting slightly. “What nonsense do you speak, Kalina?”

Her eyes lingered on his for a handful of seconds before she pulled at his hair, pressing it between her fingers. “Your hair wasn’t always this fair. Once, it was darker than black.” It wasn’t a question. “Stories of unrest in the palace reached your ears. The struggles of your father in his youth before he was placed on the throne.” Her eyes lifted to look into his face. “Stories of bloodshed.”

An angry knot of pain began to form in Yoon’s chest. She didn’t need to finish this story. He knew it better than anyone. Being the oldest prince guaranteed that he was the next to obtain the crown. And while he had younger siblings, they were all princesses or far too young to even begin taking steps toward resting it away from him; his birthright.

But the fear was still there, gnawing at the back of his mind. His fear led to impulsive decisions. One of them being the ingestion of poisons. Not just one type, but multiple types. All at once. At the age of nine, he nearly died. The physicians were beginning to think that there was no hope.

The Heavens, however, had other plans. They helped him to survive; overcoming his own crazed attempts at ending his life. The result? His hair transformed from jet black to platinum blonde. It happened over the course of one week. There was no explanation for it other than his own body’s form of retaliation to the death that attempted to claim him.

Yoon was officially installed as the Crown Prince the following year.

He was pulled from his thoughts as he felt Kalina’s fingers slowly moving from above his right brow and down below his eye. They stopped just at the halfway mark from his lips and mouth. Something crossed her features, a somber expression, and he could only look upon her with mild wonder.

“This face will be marred someday,” she whispered softly, “but that day will not be tomorrow or the day after.”

Yoon sputtered a small laugh. “Mine will, you say?” He let his hand rest at the curve of her hip. “I’ve trained my body and mind extensively, sorceress. Unless it is you, no one would be able to get close enough to harm me.”

Because she was the only person he ever lowered his defenses for.

“You are a powerful and cunning young tiger, it is true,” came her gentle reply, “but that does not mean that your tail cannot be grabbed.”

His eyes narrowed. He wanted to question her; to demand an answer and determine the reasoning behind her ominous words. It was a warning, clearly. But a warning of what?

Before he could ask, however, Kalina was already pulling herself from his embrace and retrieving her robes. He sat up slowly, grabbing his own robe and draping it over his shoulders. Shuffling to his desk, he retrieved the hairpin and waited for her to finish wrapping herself up. Just as she cinched the wide silk waistband around her midsection, he began to pull up her hair. Her head turned slightly but he used his hand to keep her head facing forward.

“My Prince?”

“Shh,” he hushed, moving to gather up her thick waves in one hand, “let me do this for you.”

She hummed her assent, waiting for him to finish. It only took a handful of seconds to fully secure her hair in the pearl hairpin. Her hand moved to trace her fingers over the hair ornament and she glanced over her shoulder at him.

“Is it beautiful?” she asked while smiling up at him.

“It pales in comparison to you, sorceress, but it will have to do.”

Yoon cupped her chin in his hand, lifting her face up to meet his as he captured her lips in his own. They were dangerously close, but he held himself back. If he pursued any further, he would not let her leave.

He would cage her forever.

He watched her rise gracefully from the floor, the hem of her robes sweeping over the bamboo flooring. Every single curve of her form defied logic and as he watched her opening up the portal to leave, part of Yoon truly did want to capture her; to claim her as his and no one else’s. It was a selfish, hungry and dangerous desire, but it was there all the same. He could not ignore it.

With a soft gaze, she smiled and dipped her head low. “Your journey will be free of perils and you will obtain success. Have no fear, my Crown Prince.”

And like a dream, she disappeared into the void, dousing the candle flames and leaving Yoon to ponder her words as everything plunged into darkness.

46 notes · View notes

weprettytings · 4 years

Text

Outrun The Lie

Here’s my piece for @zabdielmuch 700 writing challenge! Thank you for letting me take part, hope you enjoy it and congrats again 💚

Prompt #3: “Close that door”

Written for Zabdiel in AU! Kinda angsty, kinda smutty?? First time posting something I’ve written ☺️

Word count: 2.4k

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The darkness of the night sat still, the only thing glowing in contrast was the city skyline in the distance. The clock on the dashboard seemed to tick ever more slowly with each passing minute. My senses had heightened since we stopped here, I had hoped this would be a quick exchange - nothing out of the ordinary. That was until I had been forced to bring a runner with me.

“You know I’m more than capable of doing this by myself! And of all people why him?”

“It’s been getting tense out there, it’s for your own good.”

“What you think I can’t run shit myself?”

“No. I know you can’t. Not right now Amor.”

“Well at least send someone else with me, he’s not experienced enough.”

“Exactly. Who better to train him than you. Don’t doubt him.”

I gritted my teeth, trying to not let his words sink too deeply into my already wounded ego. The anxious tapping of my partners fingers on the dash didn’t help my already bubbling anger.

“Erick would you quit it!” I snapped. He quickly stopped coiling back into his seat. I almost felt bad for yelling. Almost.

“I’m sorry Y/N. I’m just nervous,” He spoke timidly.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, instead trying to take a more hostile approach. “Don’t worry. You’ve already got all the product strapped to you. He should be here shortly, it only takes a few minutes to exchange.”

“I don’t want to mess it up.”

“Speak loudly and clearly when he talks to you and you won’t. Can’t make a bitch of yourself.”

He widened his eyes in surprise at my choice of words. I refused to look at him any longer. It wasn’t the fact that he was annoying, or the fact that he had no experience that had irked me so much. It was the fact that this I was him, more so, could’ve been him. On my first run scared out of my mind. He’s worried now but it won’t take long before he’s worked his way up the hierarchy of the system and moving his own product and making his own hits.

All these years doing the same job over and over constantly having to prove myself. I can do a thousand more runs like this and Erick will be promoted before I ever am while I’m here in the drivers seat with a new face next to me. I have more experience in handling shit than anyone else who would ever come through and yet I’m here, still in the same position Erick’s in now, only stronger.

“Is this him Y/N?” A car pulled up on the opposite side of the parking lot, headlights turned off. I squinted my eyes trying to get a better look at the driver but the tinted windows and lack of lighting didn’t help.

“You’re up,” I told him cooly. “Don’t panic, I’ve got you covered from here okay? Guards up.”

He gave a small nod before trying to exit the car. “Erick wait,” I pulled a gun out of the glovebox and hastily shoved it in his sock. “Just in case.”

I gave him one last reassuring look before he left, the coolness of the air creeping into the car for a split second. He won’t need the gun, as a matter of fact I don’t think he knows how to shoot one. I grabbed onto my own gun from the glovebox. “Just in case,” I quietly reminded myself.

The person in the other car didn’t get out, instead Erick rid himself of everything he had been holding onto in a hurry. My brows furrowed in confusion. Rule number one in the drug dealing world; always make sure your buyer gets out of the car, for multiple reasons. I scanned the area looking for any suspicious activity but everything seemed as it was before they arrived.

I couldn’t see clearly enough but Erick reached into the vehicle, making me assume he was accepting the cash. As soon as his arm was out the driver put his window up and quickly sped off throwing the both of us off guard. Rule number two; make sure all the money is counted and correct before parting ways.

“What the fuck,” I unbuckled my seatbelt getting out of the car to make sure everything was clear.

Rule number three; leave the area as soon as the drop has been made. Don’t stick around for too long.

These rules had all been ignored this entire time, leaving the car wouldn’t make a difference now.

“Erick!” I called out. “Come on we need to leave right now.”

“Espera un momento, I just need to count the money,” He slowly started walking back to the car looking in the envelope he had just received.

“You can do that in the car, let’s ju-“ My demands had been cut off by the sound of another car quickly approaching, headlights off as well. They parked exactly where the previous car had been, only this time the engine was cut and two men stepped out.

“Aye! You better not be leaving with my product,” One of them called out as Erick stood next to me.

“We’re not, just making sure everything’s in here,” I turned around pushing Erick into the car.

“Y/N,” He tried protesting.

“Erick not now, we need to get out of here. Whatever happens stay put.”

The same man yelled out, “We don’t have all day, you got our shit or not?”

“Patience is a virtue, it won’t kill you to wait a couple more minutes,” I bit back. I hurried to the trunk of the car pretending I was looking for what they came for.

Their footsteps slowly started to make their way towards us, “Well I don’t have a couple of minutes sweetheart, especially for Zabdiel’s little bitch.”

My breath hitched in my throat. Fuck they recognised me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was sent here to make a drop, which we’ve already done. You’ve mistaken me for the wrong person.”

I turned around to make an escape but one of them launched themselves at me quickly knocking me down. “Well if you don’t have our shit I can think of something else to take.” His hands wrapped around my throat in an attempt to cut off my airways.

“Fuck you,” I spat in his face buying me a split second to flip so he was pinned beneath me. Quickly I freed myself from his grip and punched him straight in the mouth.

In the heat of the moment I had forgotten about his accomplice who had taken it upon himself to put me in a choke hold.

“Boss will be happy when we bring your head back,” A cool metal was placed roughly against the side of my head.

“You’re making a mistake,” I spat.

The other one one the floor was still trying to wipe his face clean of my attack. The gun I had armoured myself with sat in the waistband of my pants. I could easily free myself if I just-

“PUT THE GUN DOWN!” Erick’s voice echoed surprising all of us.

“Or what?” He laughs menacingly in my ear.

Before I could cut in a bang went off. The grip of the man holding onto me eased as he slumped onto the ground. My ears rang loudly and there was a burning sensation on the side of my head. I quickly pulled myself together ignoring the sting and dealt with the man on the ground, pulling my gun to serve him the same fate.

Instinctively I reached up to touch where the pain was still throbbing only to notice a huge chunk of my ear was missing and blood was pooling onto my hand. “Erick you fool, you clipped my ear!”

“Lo siento! I was just trying to help,” He begged with me.

“I told you to stay put I had it under control.”

“They had guns!”

“So did I!” I didn’t want to waste another second argue knowing we had to leave the area as soon as possible. “I need you to drive back so I can get myself cleaned up.”

Most of the ride back was quiet as I tried my best to stitch my ear. The bleeding had stopped but the pain was intense.

“Erick.”

“Yes?” He looked over at me nervously.

“Whatever I say go along with it okay?”

——————————————————————————————————

Erick’s foot tapped away nervously at the floor. I swear I could hear every thud and it irritated me. I took a deep breath to control myself. Maybe it was the ringing I still had playing in my ear.

He sat behind his huge mahogany desk, emotionless. He hasn’t looked at me once since we arrived. It was one of the few times I couldn’t read what he was thinking. I tried to match his expressions but I know, even without looking at me, he can see right through me like a thin veil. The injured ear didn’t help my case anymore.

“The money?” He finally spoke.

Erick wasted no time sliding the envelope across the desk for him to check. He opened it without breaking eye contact with the brunette boy, pulling and laying out a few $50 bills. Wouldn’t have even been an eighth of what we were suppose to bring back.

I huffed wishing this would all be over and done with.

“What happened?”

“It was my fault,” I was quick to speak up. “Some guys pulled up before the ones we were suppose to meet. I didn’t assess the situation well enough and let Erick make the exchange. By the time they left it was too late.”

“I didn’t ask you what happened,” He finally bore his eyes into mine. There was no softness like I was used to seeing. Only aggravation.

“You weren’t exactly specific.” I remarked.

He hummed in response not taking his sight off me, “Is this true Erick?”

“Yes.”

I raised an eyebrow daring him to challenge me.

“You can leave,” He addressed him.

Erick turned to leave giving me a sympathetic smile on the way out.

“Zabdiel-“ I tried to speak.

“Close that door.” His spoke lowly standing up from his seat.

I obeyed his orders instantly not wanting to anger him anymore.

“Why are you lying Y/N?”

“I’m not,” It sounded like I was trying to convince myself more than him. “I made the shots.”

“I thought Erick did? Literally.” My heart rate slowed at his answer. He couldn’t know two men had been taken out.

“Answer me,” He demanded.

“He didn’t. He stayed in the car, I dealt with it.”

“So two of their men are dead.”

I didn’t answer him this time knowing it wasn’t a question. “What happened to your ear?”

“One of them bit me during the fight.” The lies rolled off my tongue easy but there was no persuasion behind them.

“Because you’re Zabdiel’s little bitch right,” He mocked. “That’s why you got upset?”

Fucking Erick.

“Erick told me everything, you don’t need to lie anymore.”

“So why play games?”

He smirked, his gaze finally softening. “No games Y/N. You can’t hide anything from me. I will have to punish you though.”

I rolled my eyes, “What? You going to have your men beat me up, you know I’ll kick their asses. Or are you going to stop me from working? Because I rather stop all this shit than be in the same fucking position I’ve been in since we started this. I’m your best option here yet you won’t give me more.”

He walked towards me speaking in the same calm tone. “Bend over the desk.”

I starred at him dumbfounded my displeasure quickly draining. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

My legs were shaking as I walked over and placed my hands on the cold wood hoping this stance would be enough.

“Bend.” Clearly not.

I spread my legs further apart pushing myself down into the desk further. The throbbing in my ear seemed to intensify; so did the the throbbing elsewhere.

His feet pressed into the carpet at what felt like an agonising pace but it only took a few seconds before I felt one of his larger hands cupped underneath my chin. His front rested directly onto my back as I felt my core start to heat up.

He placed his lips right against my good ear, “Amor, I’m doing everything I can to protect you, my best worker. But you are making my job harder.”

His other hand roamed my inner thigh teasingly making my eyes flutter close.

He continued to work his way up my thighs and waist with his featherlike touch. “What am I going to do with you?”

I had lost all ability to string together a simple sentence, let alone my own thoughts.

“Punish me,” I spoke barely above a whisper.

“You want that don’t you? My touch.” His lips tickled my neck, not kissing me.

“Zabdiel please,” I was practically begging at this point.

He laughed deeply, “The kingdom can be ours but you have to deal with this problem first. As punishment.”

“What happened to protecting your best worker?” I questioned.

“I can do both. Don’t doubt me.”

His hands left my skin making me whine at the loss of contact. He threw a box in front of me. “For you.” I stood up to face him only to be met with a tender kiss on the forehead, a complete 360 from the mood he was just in.

He started to retreat out of the room leaving me confused and worked up. “Zabdiel wait!”

His grin was sly knowing what he had just done to me and the state he was leaving me in. “We’ll have all the time in the world for fun, when you deal with the war you started.”

With that he left the room closing the door behind him. There was no point in following him as Zabdiel was a man of his words. We would have time later.

I grabbed the box tentatively opening it.

My eyes grew wide at the gift. Neatly perched on some tissue paper inside was a piece of flesh… the flesh that perfectly matched my injured ear with a menacing note next to it.

Next time we’ll be sending her head.

#zabdielmuch's 700 writing challenge #zabdiel de jesus #erick colon #richard camacho #christopher velez #cnco #cnco imagines #cnco angst #cnco smut #lowkey nervous #zabdielmuch

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micahrodney · 3 years

Text

Thread; Chapter 4 - Through The Looking Glass

The following is a commission for Matthew Caveat Zealot. The morning of the memorial service was especially bitter and cold. A slight drizzle had started which threatened to turn into lake-effect snow at a moment's notice. Kevin made his kids pack up everything just in case they couldn't make it back to the hotel, and the trunk had a fully stocked emergency kit. It was something of a Brown family tradition to prepare for the worst, but this quality had been more pronounced since the accident.

“How's this?” Neil asked, fiddling with the knot on his tie.

“I don't suppose you'd consider a clip-on?” Travis teased, moving in to correct the full-hearted but half-studied attempt at a Windsor knot.

“Can't tie a tie, little bro,” Dawn said, waggling a mock judgmental finger. “They aren't teaching you anything at that school.”

“You're just upset that I'm not in the psych ward,” Neil shot back, running a comb through his hair while Travis fiddled with his tie.

“Injustice of the century,” she smirked.

Kevin, Kim, and Rocky were already downstairs eating the continental breakfast and no doubt having “adult” conversation. Travis was still in the kid's group but only by virtue of sharing a room with Neil. Dawn had been dressed since 7 AM, but only because Kim woke her up by loudly dropping her make-up kit on the bathroom floor a half-hour prior.

She looked quite nice in a simple black dress with matching leggings, though Neil wondered what their mother would have said about the heeled boots that she wore with them. Combined with her unique hair coloration, the whole effect was very “Bride of Frankenstein”. But then Dawn had always been avant-garde in her fashion sense.

Travis was wearing a chocolate brown suit with a charcoal tie. It didn't quite match but then Travis didn't own much in the way of suits. Not that Neil could talk, he had only ever owned the black suit that his father bought for him for the funeral three years prior. Wearing it to every memorial service since probably did not help the mounting anxiety and grief. It was as though a bubble was forming in the pit of his stomach that threatened to consume him the moment he let his guard down. There was the choking sensation followed by the slight urge to vomit.

“There you go. Dad will be proud,” Travis announced, completing the adjustment to Neil's tie.

“Cool. Can you tell him I did it?” Neil joked, his stand-by for keeping the nerves in check.

“If you think he'll believe it,” Travis replied with a weak chuckle.

A moment followed, where the three youngest Brown children sat in uncomfortable silence. They knew what happened next and each was dealing with it in their own way. Dawn was aloof as she always was, but she wasn't drowning her senses in her electronics. There was a stillness to her mind that was a precursor to the waves of emotion that would inevitably hit her around the halfway point of the service. She had notably forgone mascara today, the easier to pretend she wasn't crying.

Travis felt compelled to “big brother” more, and Neil's clumsiness with his tie was a perfect opportunity to let him express that. He wanted to reclaim some of the control he felt he had lost in his life after their mother's death. This was especially potent considering his past addictions. Travis had been balancing on a tightrope across a chasm of chaos for so long, and this day was the hardest one of the year for him.

Neil was unsure how Kim was coping. She was the oldest, he was the youngest and their age gap meant she had been out of the house for most of his life. He had gained a portrait of his older sister in the family meetings and stories from Travis and their father. Still, it was fascinating how incomplete these recountings were. Humans were complicated but at least when you lived with somebody for a time you got to understand how they behaved. Without this context, everything else in their life was as shrouded in mystery as if they were a stranger, and carefully curated stories never did them justice. Sometimes it baffled him how little he really knew about somebody so close to him.

As for Neil, jokes, pointed asides, flippancy: these were his allies. It was not that he was going to try and avoid feeling sad. The pain would come and he would fully experience it, making no attempt to hide his tears when the time came. He just didn't want to cross the bridge yet. Things had to go according to a schedule. If he could contain the emotion, then he was in control of his emotions. Perhaps he and Travis were not so different.

“So,” Travis said, breaking the silence. “Breakfast?”

---

Saint Mary's was Colleen Brown's church as a child. It was just a few blocks from the river and had a rich history to it, about which Colleen could recite paragraphs at a moment's notice. It was founded in 1850 and much of the original foundation was still intact. While clearly weathered, the chapel was remarkably beautiful.

The centerpiece was, as always, Christ the Redeemer upon the cross just above the dais. He was flanked by John the Baptist and St. Peter. Further out on the walls adjacent to the stage were the Virgin Mother on the left and Joseph carrying a depiction of the baby Jesus on the right. As far as Catholic churches went, it was a fairly humble affair. There was just something inherently wholesome about the building which Neil found comforting.

The only people in attendance at this quiet ceremony were the Brown family, Rocky, and a couple of Colleen's friends about whom Neil knew very little. All in all, there were roughly ten people including the priest.

Father Dwight McMahon was a person who Neil had come to know, at least somewhat. He was a family friend long before he took to the cloth. Their mother had described him as an “inspiring young man”, though how they had initially met was unclear. However both Kevin and Colleen had taken a liking to the young man as though he were a foster son, and he had often attended any family occasion of note, at least for the past six years. It seemed only right that he, having joined the clergy around the time Colleen passed away, preside over the ceremony.

“Let us pray,” the Father began, as was his custom.

The attending lowered their heads respectfully and clasped their hands together.

“Most Holy and Gracious God. We meet before your sight this day in remembrance of your daughter Colleen Angelica Brown, who departed three years ago. We seek your guidance and comfort as we honor her memory and uphold the traditions of her family. We thank you for your blessings and tender mercy, for surely you are the light and the way. In humble gratitude, we pray. May our lives please you, oh Lord. Into your embrace, we offer ourselves. For what lies on the journey ahead, God only knows. Amen.”

Dawn swallowed hard. Travis's head was lowered. Their father could barely keep his eyes open. Kim was already openly weeping, and leaning on Rocky for support. As for Neil, he just felt empty. There was a pit where his heart should be. It was the same as every year. A horrible reminder of what he had lost. Neil forced himself to look up at the Reverend, to try and connect with the man who had begun reading off the life story of his mother.

He let out an audible gasp, perhaps mistaken as a sob for how Travis put a consoling arm around him. But it was not grief that overcame Neil, but terror.

McMahon had been wearing the standard black cassock, but now stood draped in off-color robes with a wide-brimmed hood. In that instant, the nightmares he had forgotten about came screaming back into his mind. The deep pit, the darkness, the pool of suffering, and the frozen temple in which gathered a black mass of robed skeletal figures.

“We all want to go home,” McMahon said, his voice now hollow and raspy. “We can never go home.”

“We just want to go home,” came a pale imitation of Dawn's voice from behind him.

“End our suffering,” Travis uttered, his bony hand now clasping itself around the back of Neil's neck.

Neil wanted to scream. He wanted to react in some manner, but it was as though every joint in his body had locked up.

“This is a nightmare,” Neil said to himself. “I've fallen asleep and this is sleep paralysis. That's all it is.”

Hail began to pelt against the windows of the chapel. A ferocious wind burst open the doors, wood crashing into brick with a loud crack.

“You cannot go home,” came a stern and familiar voice. “Because your home no longer exists.”

At once, Neil stood up, suddenly free of the grasp of terror that had consumed him. He turned to the figure who now stood in the doorway; purple translucent lines containing a field of glowing stars.

“Rem,” he choked. “Is that you?”

“It is us,” Rem replied simply. “The thread of this one is broken, difficult to follow. But we have finally found you. You must come with us. The Dreamer awaits.”

“Go where?” Neil asked, still processing the new reality. “I'm in the middle of my mother's memorial.”

“Are you? You are here. Your body's location is ultimately irrelevant for our purposes,” Rem explained.

“Am I... asleep?” Neil asked, desperate for more information.

“Approximately,” Rem replied, his voice growing sterner. “There are complications to that term, but it is perhaps the closest understanding you will grasp. At first.”

“Go home,” the phantom priest bellowed.

“Want home!” screamed the nightmare Dawn.

“Your thread is broken,” Rem explained again. “But you still exist. Were you any different, you would be as they. Lost in time and space, a shadow of your former self.”

The shades moved closer to Rem, their movements foul mimicry. It was as though they were marionettes with a few cut strings.

“Home!”

“We want to go home!”

Rem raised his hand. “Your homes are no more. You return to the Dreamer now.”

With a wave, the chapel and all of its inhabitants vanished. The fabric of reality melted away, revealing a field of stars in which the two now floated. The great planet on which Neil had spent several eventful hours in the prior dreams was directly beneath them, as was the iridescent star.

“You have seen this world as it once was. I will show you what has become of those who once dwelt upon it. Soon, you will understand, Neil Brown,” Rem announced.

Without warning, Rem placed his hand on Neil's forehead, covering his eyes in bright pulsing light from the stars within. His retinas burned, his head throbbed, and soon he felt nothing as the light overtook him.

---

Neil shook himself awake and leaned forward, gasping in shock as the sleep paralysis wore off. The dream had been especially vivid, and utterly horrible. But at last, it was over and Neil was in the safety of...

“Where the hell am I?” He exclaimed.

The young man was surrounded by stars, safely observed through translucent panes held in place by a silvery steel framework. He had been lying on one of several identical beds, though he appeared to be the only occupant, each raised high off the ground the better to appreciate the cosmic light show. The air was crisp and manufactured, the low hum of some alien technology thrummed somewhere beneath him.

This was not a dream.

“You are awake, Binder,” came Rem's rigid voice from just behind.

Neil turned to greet the figure once more, though he noticed that his would-be savior was now wearing a silvery robe which seemed far more opaque than the rest of him. His footsteps were a musical chime on the metallic floor.

“What is this place?” Neil asked, repeating his concern now that a supposedly sympathetic ear was present.

“We refer to it as The Cradle,” Rem explained. “Throne of the Dreamer and safe haven for the Somni.”

Neil tilted his head slightly. “I mean... could you start from the beginning?”

“Nox will give you a more thorough explanation. I am to take this one to her,” Rem replied. “Please accompany me.”

Rem gestured towards the center of the room, where a railed circular platform hovered a foot or two off the ground. Just above it was a tunnel through the ceiling which went up quite a ways. The lift could hold perhaps three of these Somni at once, but Neil barely took up a tenth of the space.

With a slight jolt, the lift began to rise. Neil almost lost his footing at the sudden momentum but was able to steady himself. After the initial shock, the rise was smooth and swift, rocketing the two of them up several hundred feet. The lift tunnel was illuminated by pure white rings of the light in even intervals. The effect was almost hypnotic, not that Neil felt any desire to sleep.

The lift finally reached its destination, placing the two of them on the rear wall of – there was no other term for it – a space station. The room was massive, at least ten times the circumference of the galactic dormitory they had just departed. The silvery steel framework branched out around the room creating a dome-like structure, offering a mostly unobstructed view of the cosmos. At ground level, a variety of holographic panels were erected, forming a semi-circle opposite the lift. Indecipherable glyphs relayed incomprehensible data at lightning speed, observed by a host of these Somni.

In the dead center of the room was one particularly large well-like structure, above which hovered a glowing cerulean orb, bound up in crisscrossing threads of white light. At varying intersections of the impossibly dense thread were tiny golden spheres. A horrible sense of deja vu overtook Neil as he beheld the gentle turning of this web.

“You behold the Threads of Fate,” said Nox, moving out from behind one of the holographic terminals on Neils' left.

She was adorned in a cerulean robe with golden pauldrons. There was a royal aura about her, and given the uniform attire of all the other Somni in attendance, it was clear that she was the one in charge.

“I,” Neil began, but words failed him. So much was happening so quickly. He had no idea where he was, what he was doing there, and what his family must be going through with him suddenly gone.

“This must be quite troubling for you,” Nox offered, grasping his shoulder in a comforting yet strangely hollow grip. It was as though he was being touched by a ghost.

“This is just so confusing,” Neil explained.

“Perhaps we should start from the beginning then,” Nox said.

She gestured to Rem who busied himself at the central well. With a few flourishes from him, the scene changed, and the cerulean gem in the center took on the appearance of a planet.

“Millions of years ago,” Nox began. “We Somni lived as you do. Mortals upon the blessed planet of Somnus. Ours was a paradise, and from our bountiful came a wealth of technology and hoarded knowledge. In time, we began to become aware of not only the existence of other planets throughout the universe which sustained life but entire planes of reality apart from our own.”

The planet's image changed slowly, with a number of the continents now covered in sheets of ice, while others succumbed to wildfires and volcanic eruptions.

“However this knowledge came at a terrible price. We suffered calamity after calamity, which we later discovered to be deliberate attempts to destroy us. The Somni had grown too powerful, and we were becoming a threat.”

“A threat to who?” Neil asked.

The image shifted once more, a black cloud now consuming the entire planet.

“We came to call it Kosmaro: the Nightmare. It is an entity as old as time itself, in constant combat with the Dreamer. One creates, the other destroys. As the final catastrophe rent our world asunder, the Dreamer reached out to a select few of us and granted us with these forms.”

Nox gestured to the room at large. Neil only noticed then that several of the Somni had gathered round to witness this retelling, starry gazes twinkling gently in the dim light.

“So,” Neil interjected delicately. “Why am I here?”

Nox let out an approving noise; a musical hum exhaled from her like a sigh. “For you are a Binder.”

“I've heard that term a lot lately,” Neil replied. “But I have no idea what it is.”

Nox turned her attention back to the well. “It comes down to the Threads of Fate. The history of our universe is one full of opportunity and choice. Yet several events are preordained and must occur according to the whim of the Dreamer. Their dream, their plan. Yet the incidental day-to-day interactions upon which new realities may come to exist are immaterial to them. No matter how many threads are created, all will eventually converge upon a Crossroad.”

Nox pointed to the bright golden stars floating around the threads. Neil could now notice in greater clarity that thousands of these strands all seemed to converge around every one of these points.

“This is a multiverse then,” Neil offered.

“This one is familiar with the theory,” Rem said almost approvingly, before returning to his usual stoicism. “Though their kind has barely begun to scratch the surface of the implications.”

“With a Binder in their midst, perhaps they will learn more,” Nox chastised. She then elaborated. “You see, Neil. Kosmaro has been attacking these Crossroads. And when a Crossroad is destroyed...”

With a wave of her sleeved arm, a single golden star flickered out of existence. The white strands that connected to it floated about aimlessly for a moment, connecting to nothing and seemingly adrift in the void. Another wave and a second Crossroad vanished. Now those few threads which had been connected at both points faded from existence.

Neil swallowed hard, as he remembered the desperate cries of those phantoms.

We want to go home.

And what had Rem said?

You can't.

“My family,” Neil sputtered. “Are they dead?”

Rem, frank as ever, immediately responded. “A few thousand variations of this one's family have been lost to the phenomena, but they number among several quintillion lives. It is of little consequence one way or the other as far as you are concerned.”

“Rem,” Nox warned, her tone approaching annoyed while still retaining its ethereal quality. “The thread from which you originate has not been lost. However, it and many other adjacent threads remain in jeopardy. It is fortunate that we discovered you when we did.”

The image above the well zoomed in on a small section of the web, Two Crossroads were now enlarged, with the threads between them more easily distinguishable. What Neil had once taken for a few hundred were in fact several thousand.

“Binders are Somni who are able to traverse the Threads of Fate to repair the damage done. Kosmaro is as old as time itself, and thus the strain on our universe is an inevitable part of it. Some day in the future, Kosmaro shall, eventually, win the battle. But Binders do their part to delay that unhappy hour as long as possible,” Nox explained.

One of the golden lights dimmed into a dull grey, and the threads were once again floating about in tatters, loosely connected to the other. It looked like a badly frayed knot.

“And to do that, Binders must enter these Crossroads and set the actions right. Things must play out according to the will of the Dreamer. If they are successful,” Nox touched the dimmed Crossroad once more and its light returned, setting the strands right again. “Balance is restored.”

Neil was doing all he could to keep his head straight. In summary, there was a multiverse full of temporal weak points, and these strange alien beings were saying he was one of a select few capable of repairing it.

“How?” Neil spluttered out finally. “How am I supposed to fix those? I've never seen anything like this before.”

“It is better to show you rather than tell you,” Nox said. “But for now, you should return to the world from whence you came. Rem shall be in contact with you, and will come for you when the time is right.”

“Rem?” Neil asked nervously. The stern specter had not done much in their brief interactions to inspire a sense of camaraderie in him. “Can't it be you?”

“Nox is the Voice of the Dreamer. She has matters well beyond the scope of managing this one,” Rem sighed. “I shall serve as overseer and – if the need arises – protector.”

“Take heart, Neil,” Nox said soothingly. “It is a long road you have ahead of you, but we shall be your allies every step of the way.”

With a popping sound, all the lights on the station dimmed. The room slipped away to darkness, and Neil Brown felt himself falling once more into nothingness.

#writing #cosmichorror #commissionwriting #shortfic

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docholligay · 4 years

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Pharah/Mercy!

This is really, largely, about a lot of what Pharah and Mercy see in each other, and what makes them so perfect for each other, and how that has to do so much with everything that came before int heir lives. Anyway I really love them. 2,200 words! I hope you enjoy

Ordinary, Routine, Typical

Pharah and Mercy were boring.

Every Friday night, they had a quiet dinner together before Mercy headed off to service. Every Sunday morning, Pharah brought Mercy coffee and a pastry and they sat in bed reading the newspaper or a journal or some book they had picked up, commenting one to the other from time to time on a point of interest. Every other Sunday night, they went to Winston’s for a family dinner, and, on the third Saturday night of every month, they went out on a date, nearly always the little Italian place, with the corner table, and Pharah always got the bolognese, and Mercy rarely strayed from the alfredo, and the waitress now brought the bottle of rose from the middle of the menu as soon as they sat down.

Their life was a series of mile markers on the highway, each as likely as the next, only the odd exit for snacks and a pee break in the form of a trip to Spain, a battle in Paris, the unspeakable daring of a new restaurant.

Every Valentine’s Day, Pharah brought her the same bouquet, with a card written of her virtues, and a small box of Swiss chocolate, with the dipped oranges she liked best.

Mercy did not think on this, often, but Tracer had teased her about it the day before, and left her thinking. Tracer was not this way, not at all. She had her pub, of course, and her family, anchors that she returned to when she needed a bit of grounding, but Tracer thrived on the novelty of it all. She was always taking Emily to exciting new bars with passwords and smoking cocktails, hip restaurants that she obtained entrance to by reminding them she had saved London, whisking her away for a weekend in Scotland, a school break in Iceland, anyplace with a landing strip and a hotel was open for consideration.

Mercy had moved from place to place after her parents were killed. Medical school in Zurich, internships in countries all across Europe in the summers--Italy, Sweden, Germany, and one very memorable summer in Ireland-- residencies in top-rated hospitals, never in the same place, and then a highly-regarded fellowship at a cutting edge hospital in California.

She had done it all by the age of twenty-five. And she had not been home since she was thirteen.

Oh there were places she lived, of course, sometimes for a few years at a time, and she had been in Zurich plenty, but home had disappeared for her on the day, replaced by a winding and twisting backroad of uncertainty and newness at each glance. Overwatch had changed none of this, only upped the ante on the whole operation, sometimes in a different place from month to month, always new people. It didn’t help that Mercy was, in some ways, very solitary--all those years being a teenager in medical school had taught her that it was normal--and so she spent most of her time in her lab, or her office, or checking on patients, consulting on cases.

She’d hadn’t even known she wanted to come home again until she had been walking through Boston one day with Fareeha Amari, and the light turned golden, and she felt a sudden shudder of fear that she would know loneliness again. That constant was no longer a comfort. No longer a little nitpick.

Pharah would be making dinner tonight, and it would be lamb, with pilaf and a burgundy wine.

Pharah and Mercy were boring. Well, that is not precisely how Pharah would put it. Mercy was a woman who worked very hard and so of course had little time to plan things or come up with ideas. Pharah would simply say: Pharah was boring, and Mercy paid the price for it.

She tried, sometimes, to do things that were impulsive and exciting, but she was a woman of routine, a woman of planning and order. They liked the Italian restaurant. The food was both good, and something they rarely ate at home. The service was excellent, and they knew Pharah and Mercy’s preferences. She wanted Mercy to know that she would be there every Sunday morning, bringing her coffee and a pastry she liked.

Whenever Pharah’s mother had shown up, it was always a surprise to her. Ana did important work, her grandmother had told her in a clipped, efficient way, the way she herself had as a younger woman, and so there was no sense in crying for her. She could feed Pharah breakfast just as well, and take her to her first day of school, so what did it matter what country her mother was in? Her aunt could take her in other times, depending on if her grandmother was needed at a meeting. There were family friends she could stay with. She would always be fed, and clothed, and helped with homework, but where and by whom was a bit more of a question. Amaris went where they were needed.

Pharah was the dedicated sort, even as a child, and so, not being given a framework to grow around, she built her own. She cooked her own breakfast as soon as she could reach the stove, her beans and eggs simple but nourishing, every morning. She pressed her school uniforms and kept them straight, and she kept her shoes shined and neatly lined. She cut her hair to one and a half inches exactly above the shoulder at eight, and had it trimmed every six weeks. She became a hall monitor, a student leader, a team captain. While her mother wandered in shaky loops and quick darts, Pharah raised herself up in a fine, strong line, where things were assured, whether Ana showed up to share dinner or not.

She had been so proud of her diligence, of how reliable and steady she was. But staring down at the lamb in her cart at the grocer’s, she wondered if she was too dull for Mercy, who had such a life of excitement and travel before she met Pharah. If the chocolate and poorly-arranged roses and daisies and card were too predictable.

Tracer was not this way, and everyone loved her, didn’t they? Tracer was exciting, you could never know what she would do or say next, where you would go to, and Emily seemed so pleased whenever Tracer sprung something upon her. Tracer was creative and impulsive and charming. Pharah was the filing cabinet, she thought, and this was not what she wanted for Mercy.

Pharah loved Mercy. Mercy deserved excitement.

Mercy wore the same pink dress she had worn on their first date, like she did every year, with a little purple wrap for the chill, and came downstairs. There were no candles lit on the table, and lamb did not fill the air, and Mercy was confused for a moment. Pharah had been so busy with trying to get Overwatch on track here in London, sending out releases to world governments, meetings. It would make sense that she might have forgotten, and still Mercy could not believe it. Her Pharah was steady as the tides.

Pharah came out of the kitchen in a red velvet blazer, a dark shirt with a burnout pattern on underneath it. She had pulled her hair into a pompadour for the occasion (or rather, had Dva do it, it not being on the list of three practical hairstyles Pharah had taught herself well) and stood smiling in front of Mercy.

For a moment, Angela Zeigler did not recognize her wife, or perhaps thought, even more briefly, that there had been a sort of Freaky Friday situation, and that Tracer was simply doing a very poor job of imitating her wife, who would be staring at a Tracer with her hair neatly parted in a presidentially blue suit with the same look on her face.

“You don’t like it.” Pharah’s voice was tinged with embarrassment, and Mercy saw her then, her kind and steadfast love desperately trying to be something new for Mercy.

“No, I--” She walked toward her, “I am thinking I have never seen you this way.”

Pharah nodded, and took a deep breath. “I managed to find a club for us. A private booth, with bottle service, and dancing.”

Pharah did not mention that it was Tracer’s sparkling sense of patter and complete lack of shame that had gotten it. Mercy would know anyhow. Hopefully she would see the love in asking Tracer for help.

“Oh,” Angela giggled, “so new! I am not in the clubs very often”

Pharah took her hand. “And there is a restaurant, with food I think neither of us could know. I am sure that I think they know. It seems very experimental.”

Angela nodded gamely. “I am a scientist, after all.”

“This will be a different Valentine’s Day,” Pharah brushed at her shiny, loud blazer, “I want--I want to make things exciting for you.”

“Fareeha, I am never wanting you to be exciting.” It was soft, when she said it, and I bit mumbled at the edges, and she hadn’t realized until she said it that it was true.

Pharah was dedicated in all areas of her life, and never more did she want to do well than in this. She had gone too far, and become silly, but--

“I can do this better.”

Mercy shook her head and put both hands in Pharah’s. “No. I--” she stumbled over the words, “Fareeha, my life has been too exciting. You are not doing badly. I only want that…” she looked away for a moment, “I only want that you are, how you are. I love your shoes lined up and you are like a calendar. I feel safe, knowing that I can set my watch to you.”

She looked back at Pharah, and the honesty and love in her eyes was almost more than Pharah could bear. Even in these years that they’d been married, it surprised Pharah that someone could love her so much for what she was, rather than in spite of it.

“Tracer--”

Mercy laughed. “I had my chance to be with Lena and I was so quickly saying no,” She put her hand on the back of Pharah’s neck as she looked at her, “She is different to you. Not better.”

Fareeha Amari had not realized, until that very moment in time, that sometimes she could be truly jealous of Tracer. Tracer was jealous of her, and admitted to it fairly often. Pharah was tall, Pharah was focused, Pharah was a legacy Overwatch leader, Pharah could remember where she put her keys three minutes ago. Tracer expressed all these things Pharah was, that she wished she were, and Pharah had never expressed the same. Tracer was charming and easy to like, Tracer was funny, Tracer had a constant sense of her family and her place. Yes, Pharah knew, she was just as jealous of Lena Oxton as she was of Pharah.

“Beside that,” Mercy smiled, “I am boring, too.”

Pharah chuckled. “No, you traveled--”

“I moved so much, and there I would eat delivery food always and the same box of wine, and read my medical journals, Fareeha, I am not fun, I just wandered.”

She said it with a sense of sadness and amusement, as if she could believe how silly she was for herself, not to mention saying all this to Pharah.

Pharah stroked her hair, in the same bun, with the same little enamel flower pin in it, the one Pharah had given her from the Cairo market.

“We are boring.”

“Yes,” Mercy stepped closer to her, nose to nose, “together, we are very boring. I like it. I am always knowing where home is.”

Pharah kissed her, and knew this is what she had always wanted, a wife who was always there, a little bit of a mess but who reveled in Pharah’s sense of structure, who loved the steadiness of her, who saw the same things Pharah saw in the routine: A sense that she would always be caught. That some things could be counted upon. Mercy was the constant person Pharah had always sought, a light at the end of a long journey that still sometimes seemed like a mirage.

“I will cancel the club,” Pharah nodded, “We are too old.”

“We are.”

“But!” Pharah smiled and gave a decisive nod, “We will go to the restaurant. Even boring people like us, should be exciting sometimes.”

“I am feeling very brave,” Mercy offered her arm, “If you are.”

Pharah and Mercy were boring. They went to the same restaurants, ordered the same things off the menu, and spent the weekends in the exact same way. They did their chores on the same days, and settled in to read the same magazines and papers with their matching reading lights at night. Their routine rarely changed, only side stops on the larger highway of their lives. They were so very dull, so very steady, and so very predictable.

And so very at home, and so very, very happy.

#valentine's ficlets #HON HON HON #seolh

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