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sunflowersteves · 3 years

Text

alive and well || b.f.

summary || whoever was in the familiar green armor before you was about to feel your wrath for stealing what wasn’t theirs.

author’s note || this is my first boba fic so pls go easy. it was also way longer than i intended and very sad but i hope you all enjoy!

warnings || angst, sadness, fluff, soft!boba

masterlist

You never thought you would be back in the place you dread most. You hated it—your body filled with pure contempt as your feet trudged across the hot sands. Jabba’s Palace looked almost exactly the same as you remembered it. The red rusty metal gleamed against the blazing suns of Tatooine.

You could feel the bounty hunter’s eyes behind you, making sure to escort you into the large building. Everything was dark, with no light or windows to pave the way in front of you. The bounty hunter pushed you forward, and you let out a groan, almost falling onto the ground. Despite knowing that they can’t see you, you still send them a glare.

The aura took no mercy on everyone around it; cruelty and greed were highly regarded above all else. There was always someone on top, someone that ruled over others. Someone always had control over the forsaken land and its people.

And that was currently Bib Fortuna.

After that day, you wanted absolutely nothing to do with that place. Bib tried to convince you otherwise, but you sneered at him and spoke in a venomous tone.

“There will never be a day when I’ll want to come back to this wretched place.”

So having one of his lackeys come and ask for your presence had confused you. He was aware of what would happen if you came back, of what would happen to him if you came back. You blamed all of them for what had happened on that day, and you would make them pay.

The bounty hunter pushed you slightly for what felt like the hundredth time, hinting for you to get a move on. You want to squeeze your eyes shut at the familiar stairwell, bile rising in your throat. You thought of him and those brown eyes staring back at you. You thought of his lips and how they felt against your cheeks. You thought of his skin and how it felt flushed against yours, the heat radiating off onto you. You thought about his hand clinging to yours, feet dangling in front of the Sarlacc pit. You thought about those soft words that poured through the modulator of the helmet.

“It’s okay, little one. It’ll be okay. Let go.”

Your boots touch the hard ground of the cantina area, the music loud with dancers floating on tables and customers chugging Spotchka. Your eyes trailed from table to table to watch everyone with a sneer.

You knew you shouldn’t have come back to this place, a wave of disgust washes over you. Your eyes follow to the center of the room, right where the throne is. You expected Bib Fortuna to be sitting there with a smug expression while he whipped one of his slaves. You expected Bib Fortuna to want something from you, to exploit your services for his own gain.

But what you weren't expecting was to see him. No, his armor. There was no possible way that that was him. You had watched him die. You had watched him fall into the depths of the Sarlacc pit, the tears stinging your eyes as he let go.

So who the fuck is this?

The newly painted armor shined against the dim lights; it looked brand new. It didn’t have the chipped paint that you remember or the small bits of rust packed on the side. The visor was locked in your direction; whoever was underneath your riduur’s helmet was staring at you.

Before you could even really think, you pointed a blaster straight at the helmet. The whole room becomes dead with silence, anticipation leaking from the walls. The amount of respect held for the thief before you had surprised you quite a bit. Bib Fortuna only had Jabba’s reign that kept him at the top. So whoever this being was, they were highly regarded and feared by others around the cantina.

The mercenary next to them immediately reacted back with a blaster now pointed directly at your head. But it didn’t phase you. You held your ground and spoke with pure venom against your voice, “Take it off.”

“What did you just say?”

You didn’t look at the mercenary that spoke. Your eyes set right on the black visor. Honestly, you straight up ignored her, and the blaster pointed at you. You didn’t care, not when someone was wearing his armor.

“That armor doesn’t fucking belong to you. Take it off.”

“That armor does belong to him.”

You wanted to give her an exasperated look. You know who the armor belongs to, and it wasn’t them. There was no possible way that it was theirs. “No, It doesn’t. He probably found it somewhere. Kriffing—take it off.”

She smirked. “Or what?”

Your eyes finally flick over towards the mercenary with your hardened gaze never wavering. You spoke your next words carefully, making sure that every syllable was articulated. You wanted everyone in Jabba’s Palace to know just exactly who you were.

“I peel it off his dead body.”

Her fingers pressed against the trigger, you mentally prepared yourself for the mistake you were making. The entire cantina was full of people who would shoot you in a split second. She was almost about to shoot when a booming voice rang against the walls.

“Everyone out!”

You almost had to double-take at the sound of that voice. You knew that voice. You knew that voice better than your own. You could spot the click of his tongue and the shake of his vocal cords. Your gun only lowered slightly as you try and decipher whether or not your ears were playing tricks on you.

It took some convincing for the mercenary to leave, but everyone filed out as quickly as possible. The helmet, however, stayed right on you. He never wavered or faltered as everyone rushed out of the room. Your hand reacted quickly at the movement of his hands; the blaster pointed at his head again. He lifted his hands before slowly reaching his helmet. Once he saw that you weren’t going to shoot him, he started to lift his helmet. The hissing sound lifted into your ears as he slowly showed his face and the scene before you made your heart stop.

It was him.

He was alive. He even looked well.

Your riduur was sitting right in front of you on a fucking throne. He was much different, that much you saw. There were new scars that were scattered on his face, and he didn’t have the fluffy black hair you once remembered. There were small wrinkles that deepened his smile lines, and his eyes had a sense of void in them.

Before, they were lively and spirited. Before, they shined bright against many suns and glowed in the depths of moons. But now, they seemed duller, more broken.

You lowered your gun ever so slowly. Was it really him? Was the love of your life really standing before you? You didn’t know how many moments had passed that had been spared from the time you had been staring at him. You even didn’t know how long it had been since you started crying, the tears soaking your cheeks and dripping down your chin.

“Boba, is—is that really you?”

The soft pillows of your voice struck his ears, and he could’ve sworn it was the most beautiful sound he had heard in quite some time. Tears pricked the corner of his eyes as he thought about the days, weeks, and years you went through, knowing he didn’t make it on that day. But, you were here. His little one was right in front of him, flesh and blood.

“It’s really me, little one. I’m here. I’m alive.”

You were closer to him now, having taken a few steps onto the throne. A part of you wanted to reach out and touch his face, to hold him and never let go. However, the other part didn’t want to pressure him. What you had was in the past, far away from the surface of what once was.

Before you could even make a decision, Boba grabbed you so desperately into his lap. The cool metal your body felt made you ache, pure fire burning through your body as he quickly took off his gloves. He needed to feel you. He needed to feel the soft crevasses of your skin, the rough calluses that grew beneath you, the edges and rounds of each and every part of your body.

Your hands immediately went to rest on his cheeks, a gasp leaving his lips at the sensation. You didn’t waste any more seconds and pressed your lips against his, mouths colliding and mushing against one another. His hands roamed your body in desperation, his fingertips tingling at the familiar feel of your silky skin.

In between each kiss, you both sputtered out sweet words, grabbing and twisting at every waking moment. “I missed you. I’ve never stopped missing you.” He let out a breath, “you were always on my mind, little one. There wasn’t a day that went by where I didn’t think of you.”

You never thought that this moment would come to life—you had dreamed of it many times. You never thought you would ever see him again except for your memories. But he was here. He was right in front of you—kissing you, loving you. “I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you. You are my alit, my one true love.”

“I love you, I love you, I love—” You cut him off with another kiss, begging for those lips to never leave yours. Your hands ran down his chest plate, the hard surface struck upon the pads of your fingers. Your lungs screamed at you for some type of relief, but you never wanted to give in.

“Never leave. Never leave me again. Never—”

“I’m never leaving. For as long as you want me, I’m yours.”

You shook your head slightly at yourself, “I should've looked for you. I should’ve gone there to save you. I should’ve held onto you tighter. I should’ve tried harder—”

He quickly grabbed your hands and held them tightly against his chest. His mouth pressed kisses against your cheeks and nose before diving back to your lips again.

“Cyare, there was nothing you could’ve done. I was dead. I was gone. By luck, I was saved, and I knew you’d come back to me. I always knew.”

Your cheeks were still wet from the buckets of tears that had poured out of your eyes. Your hands shook slightly from the pure shock of the moment. But none of that mattered. All that mattered was that you were home. You were with him, and that’s all you could ever ask for. Your riduur found his way back into your arms.

Star Wars: @marvelous-capsicle @fandomsandxfiles @mudhornchronicles @cutebubblylmp @3strogen

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lennydaisy · 3 years

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SWAN SONG || The Walking Dead AU

‘You have to trust that every friendship has no end, that a communion of saints exists among all those, living and dead, who have truly loved God and one another.

You know from experience how real this is. Those you have loved deeply and who have died live on in you, not just as memories but as real presences.’

HENRI NOUWEN

The Walking Dead.

Season 1-?

FEM OC! and ?

This is the prologue for a Walking dead AU that I wrote ages ago, and I feel like its too good to waste. So here it is :))

‘Now to John, who's live at the scene. John, what's happening there?'

'I'm here at Central Atlanta Hospital where there has been a reported disturbance within the wards. Patients allegedly have gone rogue, biting and scratching the doctors and each other.'

'If we pan to our left here, you can see the hallways are overflowing with newly found patients from the attacks.'

Glancing up at the ancient box TV perched in the top corner of the room, eyebrows frowned as I take another bite of my bland chicken sandwich.

The screen displays a lit yellow Hospital hallway with beds and chairs cluttering the space. With no room to breathe, the patients packed together like a tin of sardines.

The camera zooms into one patient in particular, who judging by their attire is a nurse themselves. A sickly colour of unnatural grey washed over their face, a layer of sweat glistening under the cheap lights and her veins protruding from her neck as though she's struggling to keep herself calm.

'Miss, would you be able to explain how your feeling?'

I can't help but scoff at the reporter's request. She is clearly in no condition to answer any of his questions and it's downright ignorant to shove a microphone in the face of a woman who has clearly seen better days.

The women slowly turned to face the reporter, her eyes appearing to lack any colour with bags drooping down to her jaw, and glares with all she can muster. Despite clearly being exhausted from whatever is happening to her body, she has no problem expressing her aggravation towards the man.

'Not responsive I see. Well no mind, as the viewers at home can see, Central Hospital is in desperate need of doctors and nurses. So I'm here to announce that if there is anyone-'

I don't know how to describe what I just saw. Just know that it was revolting enough to put me off chicken sandwiches forever.

In the midst of the reporter's announcement, a pair of hands slowly made their way around his body. Their nails were bitten down to stumps, their fingers a troubled colour of blue as though clogged with blood. The sickly hands, lazily but purposefully, claw at the reports button-up shirt from behind. Tugging on the attachments like grips, the women who the reporter was previously questioning is now sinking her teeth into the man's neck. Trails of blood dripping from her lips as she pulls her jaw roughly away from his neck taking a clump of him with her.

The look of pure horror wash over the man's faces, and mines in probably mimicking his. I've never seen anyone's eyes pop so far from their head. The face of sheer panic and terror covering his visuals as he opens his mouth to let out what I can only assume to be a deafening scream but before a sound is made the camera quickly cuts back to the studio, where the two anchors are now shaking at the sight they just witnessed live.

'We'll be back after this quick intermission,' squeaked out the anchor, eyes still wide, never leaving the screen off camera.

'Were you recently involved in an accident?', the convenient ad was interrupted by the television being turned off. Snapping my head to my right, only to be met by the sheepish face of Darcy, the department receptionist. Smiling weakly at me from her desk, "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about."

Nothing to worry about. "Were we just watching the same clip," I breathe baffled at the idea of not worrying about what we just witnessed, "That man just had his neck bitten into but some Wednesday Adams looking women," I laughed, struggling myself to understand what just happened.

"I'm sure he's fine," she waves her hand in my direction before quickly standing up as I did seconds before, " What are you doing?" She questions as I grab my hat off my peg.

Rolling my eyes as I make the reach for my keys, "My job," my fingers scraping the keys before they are snatched out of my reach. Looking up at the elderly women with bored eyes, I hold my hands out waiting for her to cave.

"No, half the department is already helping the city, we need you here in Kings County," she argues quickly running back to her desk, sliding into her roller chair. Out of my vision but not hearing, I hear the clashing of keys, the slamming of metal and the sound of a lock.

She locked my keys in her desk.

"Darcy- " I begin only to be interrupted.

"No" she heaves, hands crossed over her chest tightly, "It's bad enough those two are God knows where doing God knows what, I can't allow the only deputy left in the building to leave."

I would be annoyed and honestly, I am, the woman isn't not letting me do my job, but with just a simple look in her eyes I can see why she doesn't want me to leave, "You're scared," I point out pulling my chair over to the front of her desk, sitting my hat on the table.

Refusing to meet my eyes answered my assumption. She was scared and she had every right to be. What we just watched on the news isn't normal but it's not the first we've heard of this 'infection'. It's been going on for weeks, especially in the city. Residents reporting sights of people staggering through the streets, grabbing and biting anything they can get their hands on. Honestly sounds like a typical weekend in the city in my opinion, after a couple of drinks, you'd be surprised what some people turn into. I haven't seen any of these things personally but that news clip just made everything people have been bustling about all too real.

"These things are apparently migrating. It's not just a city virus, they're making their away out into places like this," her hands brushing the nonexistent lint off the top of my hat, her voice so soft, if you didn't listen closely enough you'd miss it.

"I'm not going to fill you with false hope because honestly, I have no idea what is happening but I will say this if I know you at all, something like a little virus isn't going to be the end to the bombshell that is Darcy Peters."

A small smile begins to creep onto her face, "You should have seen me in my youth," flipping her white shoulder-length hair. Shaking my head with a giggle, I lean over her desk and turn her desktop towards me looking at the set back of work left for her to complete. Moving the mouse to the bottom of the screen I log her off, " Take the rest of the day off."

Knowing fine well she would say no, I left her no room for arguments as I hastily grabbed her coat passing it to her, "Don't tell me no Peters, Deputies orders," I said with authority behind my voice but eventually broke out into a smile at the delightful women before me.

"But what about-" she points at the computer addressing the work she still had to do. Grabbing the women's hands as I begin to drag her out the door, "Don't worry I'll handle it but you need to go home and chill out," snatching her car keys as I begin walking with her hand in hand to her beloved mustard Ford Fiesta.

Opening the driver's door, "M'lady," I bow holding the door. Shaking her head at my act, she wraps her arms around my shoulders, brings me in for a hug, slightly shocked but I hug her back none less, "Thank you, Macy," she laughs in my ear before pulling away, cupping my face like an affectionate grandmother.

Slapping my cheeks lightly she points her finger timidly at my face, "Now no running off play superhero, you're needed here," her eyes never leaving mine as though to challenge me to say otherwise. Well, I like a challenge, "No promises."

A dead look in her eyes causes me to laugh once more, "Okay, I promise I won't run off, I'll stay put. Now beat it, tell Richard I say hi," closing the door behind the women before stepping away from her car.

Just before she was about to drive off, she rolls down her window, "Oh before I forget, here's the key to the desk. Also there's something for Officer Friendly in there you won't miss it," see spoke throwing the flimsy key my way. Nodding my head towards the women, I mockingly salute her off, catching a glimpse of her rolling her eyes smiling.

Tossing the small, rusted key between my hands, I make my way back to Darcy's desk. After a couple of shakes and jiggles, the lock to the drawer eventually clicks. Pulling open the drawer, I grab my car keys stuffing them in my back pocket. That's when my eyes catch a shine reflecting out of the space. Reaching my hand in my finger brush across metal embroidery.

A Sheriff badge.

Unable to help the smile that made its way to my face as I stare down at the achievement of my friend. 'Officer Friendly's going to flip. So will someone else but for a different reason.' Shaking the thought from my head, I quickly run round to the desk of the newly found Sheriff. Going to place the shining badge on the desk, a note stops me;

Gone for a quick lapse of the county. If I'm not back by finish, I'll see you tomorrow, Officer Friendly.

Still sitting the badge on his desk, hoping that he at least makes it back in an hour, his face will be priceless. Snatching the remote from the floor, I flick the television back on, wanting to see if there are any updates on the situation.

'Government officials have requested that everyone stays inside their homes, only leaving unless extremely necessary. Until this is contained, please be cautious. This has been channel 5's news.'

Drowning out the rambling of the adverts, I absorb myself I'm my phone. 7 texts, damn I'm popular.

From Corey. Hey, can you drop me off :) Sent 07:39

From Corey. Oft okay never mind then I know I broke 3 of your car window, but that doesn't forbid access does it?? Fine two can play at that game, I'll walk. Ummmm that's when you're supposed to be the super big sister and say 'no sweet little sister, don't walk and ruin your BRAND NEW BOOTS, I'll happily drop you off' Boo you, you suck :(( Sent at 07:57

From Corey. Hey, can you pick me up ;) Sent at 17:12

This girl, I swear.

To Corey. I'll think about it :)) Sent Now.

Collecting my things, preparing myself for my leave. All too quickly trying to rush out the door, I skid to a halt and turn round to a certain desk in particular. Contemplating my options, I decided to take the newly found badge with me. For one; it is past shift time and I really want to witness his face when he gets promoted.' I'll just give it to him tomorrow when everyone's here', I thought.

Now I'm well aware that my car isn't exactly the best site for sore eyes, I'll be the first to admit that, but it was my dream car and it was the first real big purchase I ever made as an adult. My glorious, yellow Volkswagen Beetle. She's seen better days that for sure, but she means a lot to me and a couple of bumps and scratches isn't going to make me trade her in. Ever.

I grew up in Mormont, Georgia. A small county that no one has heard of and when people ask where I'm from I'm always met with the same look. In Mormont everybody knows everybody. It's a tight-knit community with no secrets. When word got out the resident widow had adopted 3 girls from the now shut down orphanage, the community was sent into a frenzy.

The same woman who was framed for burning down her old farmhouse that her husband happened to be still asleep in, was now going to be a mother of 3 very different daughters.

Without my mom I wouldn't even be here today, I would be how I am today. Mom adopted me when I was 4 years old, and even at a young age, I know that something about me was different from the other kids at kindergarten. Kids would come and leave joyfully holding the hands of their parents whitest they rambled on about what we did that day. I would leave on a bus with a woman who didn't really care enough to remember my name, looking after me in the centre was just a 9 to 5 for her and she got to go home to her family without a care in the world. I will never forget the day I was called down to the main office.

Believing that I had done something wrong, I reluctantly climbed down the creaking bunk beds steps. Looking around the room, I'm met with many stares, some glaring, some shaking their heads. I was in a room surround by judgemental toddlers.

I've never been called down to the office before. I've seen others been called down and they never come back. Tommy told me that Glenda, the houses mistress, feeds them to the two-headed man in the attic. I never believed him, knowing that he only wanted to scare me but now I'm not so sure. 'I don't want to be eaten', I thought.

One step at a time, I slowly make my way down the wooden steps that despite my lightweight still shriek under my shoes. Before I reach the bottom of the stairs, I'm met by the glorious Glenda. Her lopsided, spectacles clawed eyes boring down at me, 'Come,' she said before spinning around and heading to the room she just walked out from, 'There's someone here to see you."

'Someones here to see me? But I don't know anybody' I thought to myself as I follow behind the women with a newfound spring in my step.

"Mason this is Charlotte, she'd like to adopt you."

I guess you could say that's when I knew. When I first land my eyes on hers, I felt something that then in my short 4 years of life had never felt before, safe. Fast forward 22 years and that feeling had never left. Like the light of an eternal flame, that shine behind my mom's eyes never left, never even flickered. It's a constant reminder, I knew it when I was 4 years old and I still know it now at 26, that home isn't found in a physical building but instead found in those you surround yourself with.

No matter how hard I try, I will never be able to fully express my gratitude towards my mother. She gave me a chance and took me into her home with open arms. She says 'Thats what mothers do' and that might be true but she didn't have too. That's just the type of person she is. A heart of gold, a heart that is far too big for this world. She might not be my birth mother but in my opinion no one could do better, I don't know what I did in a past life to deserve the right to call her my mother, all I know is that I'm forever thankful for that.

Cora, or Corey, my sweet baby sister. The best way to describe her would be prissy. A real drama queen but strong-minded. When it comes to Corey no mountain is too high. Basically it's Corey's world and we're all just live in it. I take deep pride in telling her that she was an ugly baby and I'm not telling any lies. One look at her baby pictures sends a shiver down your spine.

She's your basic stressed college student who believes that the world will end if she fails to hand in one essay on time, but has no problem with partying the night before a big exam. Beginning to understand what type of person Corey is?

Then there's Ally. The big sister, my big sister. I remember growing up and always wanting to be like her when I grew up, I thought she was the coolest person in the world. She shaved off her hair when she was 18 and me and my 8-year-old self desired to do the same. Mom was mortified and kids at school did laugh at me for a while but I didn't care, I wanted to be like my sister, buzz cut and all.

As I grew up however I realised something, Ally had a darkness inside her. When I was younger I never noticed, I always saw her acts for rebellion as inspiration for my own mischief but as I got older and matured, she never. She always stayed the same. It some cases that's a good thing if you're a good person that is. I never believed my sister to be a bad person, more troubled than anything. I think why you get to the age of 36 and still rebel against your mother like an edgy teenager somethings not right.

Ally thinks the world is constantly against her, that the whole world is testing her, but that couldn't be further from the truth. I was the first to know she was pregnant, she didn't tell me herself but the positive stick sitting in the bathroom bunker was a big give away. I've seen her anger a handful of times and more often than not it consumes her, her anger is her own worse enemy and that day I meet the worst of it. There was a lot of screaming and hitting, and things being thrown in my direction. Luckily enough no one else was home when all this happened, but it was quite hard to explain why I had a black eye and Ally had burst knuckles. I lied, that's what I did.

'I got jumped,' it was the best I could come up with at the time. I made up a story of me being mugged and Ally saving the day. Mom barked up a storm, ask question after question, and I was slowly running out of ideas for my action sequence. That was until Ally spoke up,

'I'm going away for a while,' she said placing her fork down on her barely touched the plate, 'Work,' she replied to the looks that were sent her way. I refused to meet her eyes but I knew fine well that she was staring at me in particular, that didn't stop me from listening though.

'Oh, well for how long?,' Mom asked swirling around her glass of wine, 'A couple of months.'

'And what work relate thing causes you to be away for a couple of months?' Corey spoke up, her eyes never leaving Ally's as though to challenge her, 'The companies looking for a new manager, I thought I would try and run for it. It is more money,' she spoke trying to convince not only Cora but our reluctant mother too. Reluctant and our mom isn't two words that I would put together, she's a keen believer of 'if you want it, go and get it', but not when it comes to Ally.

'It seems like a good opportunity,' mother said honestly, nodding her head at her oldest daughter, 'seems like bullshit,' I muttered under my breath causing my mom to kick my shin from under the table, only to be faced with the stern stare of my mom.

'Language Mason' sternly spoke our mom making Cora laugh slightly at the use of my full real name.

'I'm just saying, she seems to go on a lot of these trips and comes back empty-handed every time, sorry for having some doubt.'

'That's enough Cora,' Mom said not breaking eye contact with her youngest who is sitting across the dinner table from her, 'yeah whatever, can I be excused?' Before she could get an answer she was already on her feet marching out the room.

Nodding sadly, mom looked around the table at the remaining 2, 'Macy, darling, you've barely touched your dinner.'

Meeting her eyes, 'I had a big lunch,' the lies pouring out my mouth at this point.

The rest of the dinner that night was filled with awkward silence. The sound of the chair next to me scraping against the old hardwood floor breaks my concentrated gaze on my plate. Ally's hard duty boots marching out of the room and storming up the stairs.

My mom let out a sigh and placed her fork on her now empty plate, looking up at the only remaining daughter at the table. Flashing my mom a small smile, taking a sip of my now lukewarm water, "You make good spaghetti mom"

"Go check on her for me please," she practical begged, her voice suggesting nothing but defeat, "She never talks to me anymore."

'I'm probably the last person she wants to see," is what I wanted to say to my mom, but looking at my mother with her head in her hands at the thought of my troubled older sister broke my heart.

Before taking the dreaded walk up the stairs and to the door at the end of the hall, I placed a hand on my mom's shoulder, squeezing in reassurance.

'Everything will be okay.' I thought to myself.

Knocking on the door, only to receive no reply, 'I know you're in there,' I said continuously knocking on the oak door. Getting bored with being ignored, I did the brave and open the forbidden door, Ally's bedroom door.

Ally's bedroom is something, I don't know what that something is but it screams Ally. It's dishevelled yet bland, perfect for Ally I guess. Nothing but a set of drawers with half the handles missing, piles of dirty washing sitting in the corner of her room that will probably stay there for weeks, and a chipped dark wood bed. And then there's Ally, who is currently packing a bag.

'There is no business trip is there?' I asked even though I fine well knew the answer already. Throwing the last of her clothes in the bag, she stares me dead in the eye from her position at the bottom of her bed, 'I have to get out of here.'

Walking further into her room as she walks back to her drawers closing them loudly, 'Promise me one thing,' I asked looking out the window at the deserted street. Hearing no noise for behind me I continued, 'That we'll get to meet them one day,'

'I can't promise you that,' turning round to stare at her in confusion, 'what you're never coming back?' I asked softly shaking my head at the idea of her leave and never returning. Ally goes away a lot but she always comes back. We might not be as close as we use to be when I was younger but it's a comfort to know that she's here with us.

She just looked at me not speaking yet her glances spoke a thousand words. I didn't know silence could get any quieter but I was proven wrong in that moment. It was as though the whole world stopped spinning, it was like the world ended right and then. Shaking my head at my sister mentality, my heartbreaking even at the thought of what she wanted to do, 'Oh,' was the only response I muster up as I move to sit at the edge of the bed, my legs suddenly feeling like jello.

Rubbing my hands over my eyes and tugging at my hair, trying to get all my thoughts to settle down. The feel of a hand softly holding my shoulder caught my attention. Looking down at me was my sister, my big sister, that I wanted with every fibre of my being to be like when I grew up. But people change, and Ally surely did. That moment made me realise something, Ally never changed. No, she was always the same. It was me who changed, I was just too young to realise.

The day that Ally left, a part of myself left with her, and that necessarily wasn't a bad thing. No, she took the naive part with her. The sense that everything was okay now, that everything was perfect now because I had a family. Sometimes families go through rough patches and for some reason ours was never-ending.

Shaking my head, snapping myself out of my thoughts, focussing once more on my journey home. I love county lanes, there the best to drive on. You can go as fast as you want and when you go over a little hill you get those silly butterflies in the pit of your stomach. My family hates driving with me on these roads. Apparently I'm too careless when it comes to driving, I argue that I'm not careless I'm just used to acting like I'm in the Fast and Furious movies.

Speaking of radical driving, I hit the breaks slowly once I spot what's up ahead. A car parked sporadically in the middle of the lane, but that's not what's got me confused. There are people, a headcount of about ten, all banging their hands lazily on the windows of the car, smearing their faces over the glass.

Cutting the engine, leaning over to the car pocket reaching for my emergency gun, I slowly stalk my way out of the car. Holding the gun with both hands at the ground, the safety still on as I make my way closer but not too close.

"Hey, what are you guys doing, what's the problem-" my voice slowly losing its confidence as the figures around the car turn to face me and begin to walk drunkenly towards me. The noise they make doesn't sound too good, the air now filled with grunts and groans, the sounds of pain. I noticed a couple not paying me any mind, to busy eating something. Oh.

Realising exactly what I'm witnessing. Those are the sick people that has the world on edge. A group of them a coming right towards me. Raising my gun and flipping the safety off, I take aim, "Don't come any closer, I'll shoot," I announce not really wanting to have to shoot them. I might as well not have spoken, they just keep pushing, stumbling over one another as they inch closer.

Lining up, setting my sights on one, in particular, a middle-aged man, a civilian, I shoot one shot into his left leg. Nothing. A slight knockback at most but he's still alive. Trying again, I aim for his chest and the same happened again. Lastly shooting the head, that's what does it. He's down.

That one alone took up to much time, I have another 8 headed my way and I only have a limited amount of bullets. The odds were not in my favour, that much was clear. Making a dash for my car, hastily ripping my keys from my pocket. Silence.

"Come on don't fail me now!" I said through gritted teeth. Shoving the keys into the engine once more and twisting. Sounds of my struggle echo throughout the car as I feel the nonexistent sweat beginning to build as my breath becomes hot with frustration. Now as good a point as any to point out that I have 3 broken windows, no thanks to Cora. Not broken as in they don't go down, oh no, they don't go up. I mean how one single girl breaks 3 windows is beyond me. Honestly, it didn't bother me that much to begin with, it gives my car character. Right now though it's a different story.

If my internal panic with my car not starts wasn't enough, then maybe those things reaching their grimy hands in my car are. Before I knew it my car was surrounded by the creatures, some toppling over the bonnet of my car, others pushing their hands through my half-cracked down windows. I feel the lazy touch of the fingers brushing against my shoulders and hair causing my entire body to shiver.

"Please" I beg over the sounds of the deathly groans and screams. Turning the key again with my sweaty hands, my body shaking in fear of what's to come. As though Jumpstarted, my car roars to life. The sound of my own engine has never sounded so delightful and I should honestly appreciate it more.

Not caring for speed limits, I push the pedal to the metal. The shrieking of my tires scraping on the hard concrete leaving evidence of my wheels spinning. Pushing through the moss pit of things before my car wasn't as hard as it sounds, even though they look like dead weight, they are quite easy to redirect.

Speeding my car a distance away for the scene, next to the car they were previously attacking, before I slow to a stop again, looking in my rearview mirror. They're following me. Looking to my left, I see the beaten car. Curdling blood dripping from the passenger seat window with loose pieces of straggling hair stuck to the wing mirror. Leaning over slightly I see a few fingers laying on the ground. Holding back my gag, I look back up into the car, only to be met with a figure. A hard to distinguish figure. Completely devoured and unrecognisable. Those rabid animals shredded these poor souls face to shreds with any features now ruined.

Shaking my head at the sounds of the things coming closer to my car again, I slowing start moving, only to hit the breaks instantly as a thought came to my head. Looking in my rearview mirror again at the car, tears begin to build in my eyes. A mustard Ford Fiesta. That's the car. That's her car. My cheeks slightly soaked, my hands shaking once again as I roughly grab the roots of my hair. Having enough, I swat away the tears that are trailing down my cheeks, nose scrunched up as I try my hardest not to look back again. I didn't.

Driving down that road, the road that usually fills me with overwhelming joy, felt different this time around. It felt darker. The road that I knew ultimately leads me to home is beginning to feel like a drag. It's a road that I never want to drive down again because the only thought that I can think of now is: it's my fault.

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avasharpe · 3 years

Text

The Best of Me Belongs To You

Chapter: One of One

Summary: The four times Nyssa saw Sara and the one time she greeted her.

Fandom: Arrow, Legends of Tomorrow.

Relationship: Nyssa al Ghul/Sara Lance, Sara Lance/Ava Sharpe (Mentioned), Roy Harper/Thea Queen.

Characters: Nyssa al Ghul, Sara Lance, Ava Sharpe, Thea Queen, Roy Harper

Rating: General Audiences.

Additional Tags: Fall Aesthetics, Angst, Unhappy Ending, WE COULD HAVE HAD IT ALL.

Read at AO3

Read at FFN

(This is an old fic I’m reposting but it fits with the fall vibes.)

...........................................................................

Nyssa walks down the aisle in search of a new tea kettle. The old one had collected rust after spending the majority of its time on the stove holding tea she would never drink. Somehow she ended up in the home décor section and her boots click on the floor as she carries her basket in the crook of her arm.

There was a swish and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she felt the air brush past her, moved apart by the knife that flies through it. Nyssa hears it land and looks to see to it embedded in a cutting board on the next aisle over.

“What have I told you about playing with merchandise?” A harsh male voice criticizes the thrower.

Nyssa looks to see Sara turn towards the store manager with a disgruntled look. Sara wears jeans and a store issue shirt with her long blond hair swaying around her shoulders. She looks good, although she doesn’t look happy.

There’s a pain in Nyssa’s heart, one that is as familiar to her as breathing. The manager says something and Nyssa can see the murderous glare in Sara's eyes and she wonders if the effects of the pit still torture Sara. Nyssa stands there, frozen in time as she watches Sara scowl at her manager before being called away by another customer.

She wants to go to Sara, but a little voice inside tells her that Sara may not be happy to see her. Especially, if her soul is plagued by the Pit's desires. The event that Nyssa begged to stop, and the guilt she still cares for the part she played her Beloved's tortured soul.

...........................................................................

Nyssa had just finished her latest novel and in a fit of rage had gone back to the library in the midst of a rainstorm just to return the book. The novel, although praised by critics, had a cathartic tone that had not been well played by the author. Leading her to be disappointed and yearning for a more satisfying story. Now, she roams the shelves in an attempt to find something else to satisfy her.

The peace and warmth of the old building, along with the browned tones had calmed her as the smell of old books surrounded her senses. As she picks up an ancient novel she caught a flash of blonde hair in between the crack in the shelf that sent her heart into her throat.

Nyssa walks to the end of the aisle and peeks around the corner. Sara sat at one of the oak tables mulling over several books and papers. There were a number of tables set up in the library for students and others to sit at, but they were all empty save for the one Sara was using.

Nyssa could see the many papers Sara had spread out and the various books she had stacked around her. She was deep in her studies and writing in her notebook, a look of concentration on her features. One Nyssa had seen many nights before as she taught Sara her language and as they studied other League related things.

However, these were not subjects Nyssa had studied before. The stack of books next to Sara were about aerospace engineering and flight as well as astronomy and history. Curiosity got the best of her as she considers approaching Sara and inquiring about the reason for her study.

Once again that little thought intrudes into her mind, saying that Sara was better off without the pain Nyssa brought to her life. Every time Nyssa had entered Sara’s life it had ended in only heartbreak for both of them, but this time they were free of the service to the League and expectations of others. Perhaps this time it could be different.

She contemplated her position and almost lost herself when she caught Sara's blonde hair flicks over her shoulder. Sara whips around in an attempt to catch her. Nyssa quickly sidesteps behind the shelf as she hears Sara get up and race towards the aisle, but by the time she reaches it, Nyssa is long gone.

...........................................................................

This time she had drawn the short straw, literally. Thea had held them both between her fingers in an attempt to settle the argument of who should venture out into the cold fall weather for takeout. A welcome change from their usual dinner of boxed meals. She goes up to the podium at the restaurant and gives the manager the fake to name placed under their order.

The lowlights and red decor mirror the fall evening outside the windows. Nyssa looks around for a place to sit and wait when a short brunet woman brushes past her. She pulls along a tall man with a sunny smile whom she vaguely recognizes as he mutters an apology. Her eyes follow the happy couple as they go to their table. A party full of several other people takes up the center of the restaurant, but Nyssa easily picks out Sara’s face in the crowd. She’s smiling at them as they greet her and sit down across from her.

There is an empty seat next to Sara and Nyssa thinks about how easily she could fill it, but would Sara even want her there? There’s a familiar ache and her heart as if it was tearing open a deep longing. Nyssa watches the party as they laugh and talk, sipping red wine and eating the bread on the tables as they wait for their food.

A clap of thunder catches her attention as it rumbles through the air. The party doesn’t notice, they continue on with their merry dinner. The manager calls her name and hands over the bag of hot food and Nyssa can see the steam come up through the paper boxes. She takes one last look at the group and at Sara's beautiful smile. It’s a genuine smile and true happiness radiates from her.

Nyssa can’t ruin that, she thinks. Sara deserves happiness more than she does. She turns away and walks out the door of the restaurant into the wet, cold streets of the city, layers with golden leaves.

...........................................................................

Nyssa happens upon it, walking around the corner in the park towards the fountain. She sees the couple straight ahead of her. She had been out taking a walk to cool her head. It seems that sharing an apartment with two all but teenagers still slaves to their hormones had taken its toll on her sanity. Nyssa ran out of the apartment they had been staying in after Thea and Roy and started kissing, grabbing only a coat and her gray hat.

The couple is locked in a kiss. Sara is leaning up on her toes as the other blonde’s ducks down to reach her lips. Sara’s got a grip on the other woman's gray jacket collar, holding onto her to keep herself steady. She used to do that to Nyssa, she used to run her fingers along her label and cling to it with a death grip. Nyssa touches her collarbone as if she can still feel Sara's hands there.

Her first thought is that it should be her. It should be her kissing Sara. It should be her ducking down to reach Sara’s lips, but it’s not and Nyssa can barely stand to see it. She thinks she should feel jealous, but instead, she just feels a longing for her beautiful yellow bird.

Sara pulls away with a smile across her face, mirroring the one on the woman’s face in front of her and dropping back down onto her heels. Sara straightens the other woman’s shirt as she pulls Sara in closer to her. She whispers something in Sara's ear that makes her laugh, the sound echoing through the park.

It was that beautiful sound that sent Nyssa falling in love with her all over again. Sara’s laughter pulls at her heart, but it wasn’t meant for her. She knows now if Sara were to look over and catch her, she would see the pain on Nyssa’s face. She steps back once, then twice, till she turns and runs in the other direction. Now Nyssa only feels jealousy in her heart.

...........................................................................

“I don’t want to go,” Nyssa insists.

“Oh come on you’ll have lots of fun,” Thea said, as she put the finishing touches on her makeup. “It’s for Felicity, remember. It’s her first Hanukkah without Oliver and I want to be there.”

The idea of spending the entire night enjoying Felicity's and everyone else's company without having to see Oliver entices her very much so. Despite how the thought of potentially running into Sara overwhelms her senses.

“What are you gonna do Nyssa? Celebrate Hanukkah all by yourself in this crappy apartment?” Roy asks, knowing she would attend just to spit him. They have a very good relationship although, it was more teasing than anything, he was the little brother she never had.

She was also looking forward to having the night off and being around others her own age. Thea and Roy were wonderful, but despite their shared agenda, they were both at different stages in their lives.

"Alright," she agrees.

“Hey,” Felicity greets them with an eager smile and a warm hug and she ushers them into her home.

There was a fire going in the hearth and blue and white decorations adorn the brick walls. Felicity and Thea quickly got swept into a conversation as Nyssa hung back admiring the apartment. She wanders around towards the kitchen and before she catches Sara’s familiar warm smile. She’s wrapped around the arm of the blonde Nyssa saw at the park. She turns to walk away from them, but before she can take a step Sara recognizes her.

“Nyssa.” Sara calls out, her name sweet on Sara's lips.

“Hello, Sara,” she said trying to be polite. When she turns around and looks at Sara she sees a kind of softness in her eyes.

“It's good to see you, Felicity mentioned that you were traveling with Thea and Roy to destroy the other Lazarus pits,”

Nyssa nods. “They also told me of your time traveling adventures. It must be exciting.”

There’s a kind of heaviness that sets in the air as they gaze into each other’s eyes. The other blonde that is attached to Sara’s hip looks between the two of them.

“Hello, I’m Ava Sharpe, Sara’s fiancé.”

Before she can introduce herself to Ava, Thea bounds over having heard Ava’s introduction. She squeals at Sara as they embrace each other in an excited hug.

“I heard someone’s engaged,” Thea sang.

“Yeah, Sara show her,” Ava said, holding up Sara’s hand, to display the ring on her finger. It's certainly extravagant with several large diamonds in an intricate display. Something Nyssa knew Sara never wanted. Not in their lifetime at least.

“So Ava, Felicity said that you work for some sort of time agency?”

“Yes, the Time Bureau…” Ava said as she began to explain her work.

Nyssa lets her eyes fall down into left, a silent signal to Sara. Who takes her cue and untangles herself from Ava. They walk towards the pantry and away from the crowd as Nyssa puts her hand on Sara's back, knowing that she would lean into her as Sara caves to Nyssa's touch.

‘I’ve missed you’ or ‘you look good’ are some of the things she expects Sara to say. However, once they're alone in the pantry, Sara turns to lean against the counter across from her.

“I’m so proud of you,” Sara said, her smile is soft and the weight of her words surprises Nyssa. “Standing up to your father and Merlyn, dismantling the League, and destroying the Lazarus Pit. You've ventured out on your own and created your own path in life. It’s everything I could have wanted for you.”

“I was simply doing what was best," Nyssa said, looks down at the floor and away from Sara’s bright eyes, grateful for her approval, but her instincts are always to be modest.

Sara gave a little chuckle and Nyssa wants to wrap up this moment in a bottle. If only so she could keep the feelings and the sound of Sara’s laugh forever.

“And what of you? I have heard of some of your adventures, but none of the details?” Nyssa asks, yearning to hear of Sara's life.

“I’m a time traveler now and the captain to a crew of misfits. Recently we’ve been battling a few demons. Things somehow get messed up a lot, but I like to think we fix things more than we break them.”

Sara seems to shine as she describes her work in Nyssa can see that it is her true calling.

“I’m glad you’re happy with your work and with Ava as well,” Nyssa said, the first part fell naturally off her tongue, but the latter set of words she had to force herself to say.

“Yeah Ava and I are happy,” Sara said, nodding her head eagerly and fiddling with her ring. “Are you happy? Do you have someone? I didn’t see anyone else with you tonight.”

“There is no one else in my life,” Nyssa said, ‘only you’ she thought. “But I am happy, very much so.”

“That’s great,” Sara said nodding, drumming her fingers on her clutch.

“Yes,” Nyssa agrees too quickly.

Every cell in Nyssa’s body screams ‘go to her! Kiss her, pull her into your arms and never let go!' Surely Sara must see the longing on her face and the way Nyssa’s body aches for her.

“There you are,” Ava said walking into the pantry. “Have you two had enough time to get caught up?”

Ava plants herself next to Sara and wraps an arm around her. Ava leans down to give her a kiss, but Sara turns away and resigns Ava to kiss her cheek.

“Yes,” Nyssa said, eager to leave. “I think I’ll go find Felicity and see if she needs any help.”

Then she does something she’s never done before. While walking away Nyssa turns to look back to her. Sara's lips were parted and there was a look of longing in her eyes, one that Nyssa knows all too well. Against her better judgment, she left Sara in the pantry. She knew that Sara will be happy with Ava. Nyssa has seen it and she can find someone else to love. Although, in that moment it seemed she will never truly love anyone else.

...........................................................................

“Why didn’t you tell her how you feel?” Thea asks on the car ride home, questioning her from the passenger set. “You could have swept her off her feet and taken her away.”

“Not everything is a fairytale, little Queen.”

Thea rolls her eyes but continues. “Didn’t you see the way Sara looked at you, she still loves you.”

“She said she was happy and she is engaged to another. I will not go against her word and intervene where I am not wanted.”

“Nyssa, Sara’s lying. Can't you see, she was looking at you all night, she…”

“Thea, enough,” Nyssa said, gripping the steering wheel.

Nyssa studies the road before her and the rain that fell across it. The leaves from fall sit decaying on the roadside as winter sets in. She knows she will never be with Sara. No matter how much she longs for her, no matter how much she is jealous, no matter how happy she knows she and Sara could be.

#Nyssa al Ghul #Sara Lance #Nyssara #Ava Sharpe #Arrow #DC's Legends of Tomorrow #Roy Harper #otp: Beloved #Thea Queen #DC #FanFic: LoT #FanFic: Nyssara #FanFic: Arrow #My FanFics #my writing #my work

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malecsecretsanta · 3 years

Text

Merry Christmas, bidnezz!

For @bidnezz. Happy Holidays! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it.

Read On AO3

*****

wouldn’t it be the perfect crime (if I stole your heart, you stole mine)

If Alec knew that being an FBI agent would involve long hours of schmoozing at a fancy party in the Hamptons, he might have chosen a different career. He thought he’d left this kind of thing behind him along with his parents’ plans for a future they’d never even bothered to consult him about when he chose Quantico over Columbia Law. But, no. It turns out that years of enduring tedious socialites means he’s apparently the perfect person to send undercover in a gathering of tedious socialites.

“Quit looking so bored out there, Lightwood.” Lydia’s voice is flat and tinny in his earpiece. “I’m the one stuck back here watching the cameras all night. At least you get to sample the canapes.”

Lydia Branwell had been a class ahead of Alec at Quantico, and as the newest member of the team, it should by tradition be Alec on camera watching duty, but Agent Aldertree thought he'd blend in better. Not only does Alec disagree, but he's certain he and Lydia would both be a lot happier with their roles reversed.

Alec grabs a couple canapes from a passing tray and makes sure he's in full view of the nearest security camera as he wraps them in a cocktail napkin and tucks them into his pocket to give to Lydia later. He hears a soft snort, and Alec is glad to have brought a little levity into this very, very boring assignment.

The whole mission is a long shot. When the host of the party contacted the authorities about a series of notes he received that could maybe be construed as threatening and explained his very tumultuous history with a man who just so happened to be on the FBI's most wanted list, Alec's superiors at the Bureau decided it was a lead worth pursuing, especially since the notes made repeated references to this particular party, which was apparently an annual tradition. Personally, Alec thinks the notes sound more like an annoyed neighbor or fed-up employee than actual threats, let alone threats from a guy wily enough to have evaded authorities for almost two decades, but his superiors think this op is worth it, and they’re the experts.

Alec takes up a position near some kind of decorative pot thing, pretending to examine it while he scans the other side of the room for any new faces or anyone that looks even remotely like their target.

“That’s a lovely piece,” says a voice over his left shoulder.

Alec starts. He didn’t notice anyone approaching him, and he’s usually a hard guy to sneak up on. His surprise only grows when he turns to the man who’d spoken. Alec cannot begin to fathom how, in his hours of surveilling this crowd, he’s managed to miss a man who looks like that.

Deep brown eyes are rimmed with kohl and accented with a just a hint of vivid blue that perfectly matches the streak in the man’s hair and the stitching on his brocade waistcoat. His nails are lacquered in a deeper blue set off by the array of silver rings that adorn his fingers. His lips quirk in an amused, almost secretive smile that steals Alec’s breath and gives him a number of thoughts that aren’t entirely appropriate to be having about a man he’s only just met, and definitely not appropriate to have while he’s working.

“Are you a fan of ceramics?” the man asks, and Alec flushes, realizing that he’s been staring. He’s a little surprised he can’t hear Lydia snickering at him in his earpiece. She must have decided to be kind and mute her mic.

“Not really,” Alec admits. “I just, um. I like the blue.”

The way the man’s smile widens makes it clear he knows Alec isn’t talking about the pot. Still, he nods at it and says, “Cobalt oxide. That’s what gives that vivid blue when fired at high temperatures. Very emblematic of Ming dynasty porcelain, although the style did spread to the West in the following centuries.”

Alec blinks. “Wait, is that thing an actual Ming vase?” He doesn’t know much about ceramics, or art in general, but he’s heard his parents’ friends go on about it enough to know that a Ming vase is very valuable, and not the kind of thing most people have just sitting around their house. Although, this particular house could probably be more accurately described as a mansion.

“Oh yes,” the man assures him, reaching out a hand to point at the vase. “See that faint rust color down near the bottom rim? That’s not something you tend to see except on real Ming dynasty porcelain. It’s caused by a reaction between the firing process and the iron in the particular Kaolin clay used. It causes that rust color on any parts of the piece that aren’t fully glazed, most often seen near the bottom rim.”

Alec nods, but he’s not paying attention to the vase anymore. Instead, his eyes are caught by the strip of skin revealed when the man pointed at the vase, and the color that adorns it. He’s surprised by the sharp disappointment that wells up, and he feels immediately foolish for it. What does it matter that this man who he’s barely exchanged a handful of words with and whose name he doesn’t even know has a soulmate? Especially since the indistinct gray lines on his own forearm mean Alec has a soulmate somewhere out there, too.

It shouldn’t matter. But, somehow, it does.

“It’s not a sure sign, of course,” the man is saying. “A competent forger could fake it. But Lorenzo is notoriously thorough in vetting his collection for authenticity, so in this particular case— Oh.”

Alec pulls himself out of his own thoughts, wondering what caught the man’s attention so suddenly, only to find the man’s gaze fixed on him, sharp and intense. Alec can’t look away.

“I’m Magnus,” the man tells him.

“Alexander. Um, Alec. Everyone calls me Alec.”

“Alexander.” Magnus says his name almost like a prayer. “Would you—”

“Darling, there you are.” It’s the word ‘darling’ as much as Lydia’s hand on his arm that finally breaks Alec’s lazer focus on Magnus. ‘Darling’ is their code word that an op has gone off the rails, and if Lydia is out here talking to him in person instead of over his earpiece from the security room, then something is definitely very wrong. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“I didn’t realize,” Alec tells her. He turns back to Magnus, excuse already on his lips, only to find that the other man has already disappeared back into the crowd.

Alec firmly pushes aside the ridiculous sense of loss that accompanies that realization. He has a job to do, and he shouldn’t have let himself get distracted in the first place. Especially not by a man who’s already found his soulmate.

“All our cameras and communications went down about five minutes ago,” Lydia explains in a low voice. “Aldertree and Fairbrand are running protection on Rey. We need to round up Starkwright and Heygrove.”

It takes two hours to clear out the guests without causing a panic and another half hour before they discover the missing painting: a Renoir that had hung in the library on the second floor. It was expertly cut from the frame without setting off any of the alarms meant to protect the precious piece of art.

It isn’t until he’s back in his hotel room that Alec sees it, the dark curl visible as soon as he unbuttons the cuff of his shirt sleeve. He can barely breathe as he rolls his sleeve up to reveal his now fully-formed soulmark.

Alec stares down at the image of a sleek black cat with eyes such a vivid gold they almost seem to glow. Something in the tilt of its head and set of its tail are distinctly reminiscent of Magnus's smile. Alec isn't sure if he wants to laugh or cry.

He's still unsure two days later when the Art Crimes Team announces that the Renoir was stolen by the notorious art thief Le Chat Noir.

~!~

Magnus is on his fourth glass of whiskey when Ragnor and Cat make it back to the rendezvous.

"I'll have you know," Ragnor says, "that it is deeply unfair of you to start celebrating without us when we did most of the work on this—" He stops mid-sentence and mid-stride when he actually processes what he's seeing.

"Magnus," he says slowly, "are you drinking whiskey?"

And Magnus is so, so grateful that his friends know him as well as they do. Well enough to recognize his heartbreak drink. Well enough that all he has to do is show them his arm, now bearing the image of three crossed arrows fletched in blue, and they understand without him having to say a word.

Catarina stows their prize and gear while Ragnor grabs two more glasses. For several minutes, the three drink in silence.

"You know," Catarina offers as Magnus fills his glass for the fifth time, "we don't have to go Prague right away. It's more dangerous to stay in the States, but if you want to stay, Magnus, if you want to find your soulmate again, you know we'll help you look."

Magnus shakes his head. There's a part of him that does want to find Alexander, desperately wants to recapture the hope he had in those first moments after he noticed that his mark had changed. But that hope was built on a fantasy, and Magnus is fairly certain Alexander doesn't want to be found. Not everyone who has a soulmate wants one, after all.

"He's married," Magnus says.

He doesn't tell them what it felt like to watch the pretty blonde slide her arm through Alexander's, light glinting off her gold wedding band. He doesn't say that it felt like a physical blow to hear her call him darling.

They leave for Prague in the morning.

~!~

It takes Alec two years to get reassigned to the Art Crime Team. Two years of spending all his off hours studying, because he knows nothing about art when he starts. Two years of gathering evidence for what he knows has to be true, because Magnus was standing right next to him when the Renoir was taken, but no one actually on the case seems to have figured out yet.

He doesn't let himself feel guilty when he presents his case and the SAIC praises him for figuring out that Le Chat Noir is a team rather than a single person. He can't let himself feel guilty, because he has to find Magnus. He just isn't sure yet what he's going to do when he does find him.

It should be easy. Alec is an officer of the law. Magnus is a criminal. Soulmates or not, there's only one way for this to end.

But.

But the longer Alec studies Le Chat Noir's crimes, the more details he learns, the less certain he is about, well, anything. Because Le Chat Noir never hurt anyone in the course of their heists—not even minor injuries—and a lot of the art they take only technically belongs to the people they steal from. And all of those pieces—taken from families by invading armies, plundered by early archaeologists who gave no thought to the supposed savages whose cultural artifacts they took—always seem to find themselves back in the hands of their original owners' descendents.

That’s not all Magnus and his team steal, of course. Some of the pieces they steal, like the Renoir, are clearly chosen for their monetary value. But even then...

When Alec joined the Bureau, he did it with dreams of protecting people from violent criminals who prey on others. He can’t help noticing that the people Le Chat Noir steals those valuable pieces of art from all seem to share much more in common with the sorts of people Alec always thought he’d be putting behind bars than those he thought he’d be protecting.

"I've got the neighbor's security footage from the Rouse case for us to review."

Alec winces at the thought of reviewing yet more grainy security cam footage, especially first thing in the morning in the company of his distressingly chipper partner.

"I also brought you coffee."

His distressingly chipper, but also very thoughtful partner.

"You're a godsend, Fray," he tells her, accepting the cup. "What have we got?"

"Simon cut out all of the footage with no movement on it, but we're still looking at about ten hours."

"Which leaves us with five hours each if we split it," Alec says. "So let's see if we can get this done by lunch."

Alec finds Magnus in the third hour of footage. He's only in frame for a few seconds, and Alec has to backup twice to be sure. And then he backs up several more times just to satisfy the part of him that's desperate for even that much of his soulmate.

He doesn't tell Clary. He tells himself it's because Magnus isn't doing anything on the security footage besides walking down the street the morning before the theft, that he would have to explain who Magnus is and how Alec knows who he is.

He's relieved when someone else on the team puts it together that Le Chat Noir is responsible for the theft.

~!~

Magnus manages to ignore his soulmate's existence for almost three years, or at least make a good show of it. And it’s fine, really. He reassures Cat of this every time she asks, reassures Ragnor every time he gives Magnus one of those looks. Any foolish, romantic fantasies Magnus might entertain between sleeping and waking are between him and his idiot heart.

Except then Alexander is there on the television, standing among the team of FBI agents investigating Le Chat Noir’s latest stateside heist (one that Magnus is particularly proud of, thank you very much), and looking just unfairly hot in his dark suit. And there’s really just no ignoring that.

Magnus spends the next week researching. Some things are easy to find out. There are only twenty agents on the FBI’s Art Crimes Team, and currently only one Alexander. From there, it’s easy enough to track down Alec’s employment and school records, his family, even his gym membership. Other things take a bit more work, like his current address, mobile number, and email.

One thing is very clear, though, no matter how many times or places Magnus checks: Special Agent Alexander Lightwood is not—has never been—married.

“I messed up.”

Ragnor and Catarina exchange a worried look.

“Magnus, he’s an FBI agent,” Catarina says gently.

“An FBI agent currently trying to track down and arrest all of us,” Ragnor adds, somewhat less gently.

Magnus knows they’re right. He does. But...

“He’s my soulmate. And I just left.”

There’s no fixing this, Magnus knows, but he can’t leave things the way they are.

~!~

The first note comes on heavy cream cardstock, delivered to the PO box Alec uses for anything that might get him put on a mailing list. It’s addressed simply to “Alexander,” and he knows as soon as he reads it who sent it.

It takes almost a week to determine that the anonymous tip about their current case is legitimate, and only a few days longer before they have the perpetrators of the string of violent home invasion robberies in custody. It’s the first case Alec has worked since he transferred to the Art Crimes Team where the criminals seem as interested in hurting the people they steal from as stealing valuable art, and he’s very, very glad to have it behind him.

After that, the notes become a regular thing. They come in a variety of formats: cards sent to Alec’s PO box, his home, his office; texts from burner phones; emails from non-existent addresses; tucked into a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses on Alec’s 28th birthday. They don’t come for every case Alec works, probably not even one in ten, but they do keep coming.

Alec never mentions the notes to his team after the first one. He can’t keep them from Clary, not all of them, but she never mentions it to anyone else, never suggests that they should. For once, Alec is very grateful for his partner’s tenuous relationship with following rules.

Alec keeps that first note tucked into the billfold of his wallet.

~!~

Magnus isn’t sure why started sending the notes. No, that’s not true. He sent the first note because those sadistic bastards were giving all art thieves a bad name, and they didn’t deserve to have beautiful things any more than the people Magnus steals from do. He sent the tip about how they were offloading the pieces they stole (and really, how sloppy were they that Magnus had found it so easily?) to Alexander because, well, it was the closest he could get to an apology.

Magnus isn’t sure why he keeps sending the notes, but he can’t seem to stop. It would be easy to say that it’s the only way he knows to be—in some small way—a part of Alexander’s life. And that is a part of it, but...but the truth is, it’s also fun. There are too many art thieves who have no place in the business, either just because they’re terribly sloppy (really, do they have no respect at all for their craft?) or because they’re horrible people who Magnus has no desire to share an occupation with. Screwing them over while also making Alexander’s life a little bit easier is doubly satisfying.

“I think we should retire,” Ragnor says. They’ve just finalized the sale of their latest score and are having drinks in Barcelona to celebrate.

“Retire?” Magnus asks. “Why?” He can’t help noticing that Catarina doesn’t look surprised.

“Because,” Ragnor says with a shrug, “I don’t think any of our hearts are really in it anymore. I started doing this for the money and the thrill. Now, I think I’m getting a little too old for thrills, and I have more money than god.”

“You’re thirty-eight,” Magnus points out irritably.

“Even so,” Ragnor says. “And you’ve gotten all wrapped up in your,” he waves his hand, “side project.”

Magnus can’t deny it, he’s been distracted. But that doesn’t mean he wants to quit.

“Cat?” Magnus asks, turning to look at her.

“When I was little,” Catarina says, studying the dregs of her Manhattan, “I wanted to be a nurse. After my parents kicked me out, I gave up on that dream, but lately I’ve been thinking maybe I could settle down, go back to school.” She looks up, meeting Magnus’s eyes. “This, what we do, it was great when I was sixteen, when I was twenty-five. But it was never supposed to be forever, and I think. I think I’m done.”

“I see.”

It’s Magnus’s turn to stare into his drink. The truth is, he’s never thought about retirement, not really. Cat and Ragnor chose this life, and maybe it wasn’t much of a choice for either of them, but they weren’t born into it the way Magnus was. Stealing is something his friends do, but it’s who Magnus is. Going straight just isn’t an option for Asmodeus Bane’s son.

Is it?

“Maybe you’re right,” Magnus says.

If Cat and Ragnor want to retire, he doesn’t want to be what stops them. Magnus can always take some time off, and when his friends are settled into their new lives and well clear of him and his father’s influence, he can look into putting together a new team. It won’t be the same without Cat and Ragnor, but Magnus will survive. He always does.

And maybe... Maybe it means something that Magnus’s soulmate isn’t a thief. That Alexander is about as far from a thief as you can get. Maybe...

Magnus doesn’t let himself finish the thought, but he doesn’t let go of it, either.

~!~

“Come on, we’re going out for lunch.”

Alec looks up from the report he’s in the middle of. “Uh, not today. I’ve got a lot of paperwork to catch up on.”

“Yes, today,” Clary says, reaching down to flip his folder closed. “We’ve been working crazy hours all month, and I’m not letting you skip lunch again now that we’ve closed the case just so you can do paperwork.”

For all of Alec’s protests, he finds himself in the passenger seat of Clary’s car not ten minutes later. He frowns when realizes they’re headed out of the city.

“Where are we going?”

“Just a little hole in the wall place I found.” Clary’s voice is light, but she has her mission face on. “I think you’ll like it.”

Alec is suddenly on high alert. He has no idea what’s going on, but it’s clear Clary is worried about someone listening in, and whatever this is, he trusts Clary. He doesn’t always like her, but he trusts her.

“There’d better be melted cheese involved,” Alec tells her.

By the time they pull up to a modern, high-rise apartment building in Bethesda, Alec’s stomach is doing somersaults. He follows Clary up to an apartment on the fourth floor, not sure what to think when she pushes open the door and motions Alec inside.

The inside of the apartment looks like the platonic ideal of a nerdy bachelor pad, with an entire wall of the front room devoted to an extensive video game collection punctuated by superhero figurines, and an empty pizza box on the coffee table.

And the platonic ideal of a nerdy bachelor sprawled on the couch with a laptop.

“Lewis?” Alec says. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh,” Simon answers, “you’re in my apartment, dude.”

“It’s the only place we could think of that we’re sure the Bureau doesn’t have under surveillance,” Clary explains. “And you might be my partner, but I don’t actually want to lose my job for you if I can help it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I sweep the place for bugs every couple weeks,” Simon says. “I helped develop a lot of the current surveillance tech, so it’s easy enough to find them. They spy on all of us, you know. Like, all the time.”

“No, I—” Alec shakes his head. “Why are you worried about bugs? And what’s this about Fray losing her job?”

Clary and Simon exchange a look, that wordless communication they have that never fails to give Alec a headache.

Finally, Clary looks at him, just the faintest hint of uncertainty in her smile. “Simon figured out where your notes are coming from.”

Alec feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. “What?”

“I’ve actually been tracking them for a while,” Simon explains. “But they were never sent from the same place more than once. Not until recently.”

“But why?” Alec knows his poker face is terrible. It’s why he never goes undercover anymore. Still, he tries very hard to act like this is no big deal. “They’re just anonymous tips.” He’s pretty sure he fails.

“Because they’re from your soulmate?” Simon says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“That’s not— I don’t—” Alec can feel the panic rising in his chest and does his best to push it down. If he lets it overtake him, there will be no getting out of this. “Why would you even think that?”

“That time in Atlanta,” Clary says, “when you got stabbed. I saw your soulmark when the nurse put in the IV for your antibiotic drip.” She shrugs. “After that, it didn’t take a genius to figure it all out.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Fuck, Atlanta was years ago. “Why didn’t you turn me in?”

“I told you, you’re my partner,” Clary says, looking almost offended. “And you haven’t done anything actually illegal.” She holds up a hand. “Don’t tell me if you have. Please. Besides, your soulmate’s been helping us solve cases.”

“But you decided to tell Lewis?”

“He’s my best friend. I trust him.”

“Also a hopeless romantic,” Simon adds cheerfully. “I’m kinda jealous of this whole star-crossed lovers thing you’ve got going on, to be honest. Like Romeo and Juliet, but with less death.”

“Oh god,” Alec says, sinking onto the couch and burying his face in his hands. He can’t believe he’s been this careless. Who else knows?

“I can see your panic wheels spinning, Lightwood,” Clary says. “And I think you might have missed the important part, here.”

Alec raises his head to look at her. “Missed what?”

“Simon found where the notes are coming from. We have an address.”

“The messages have been coming from the same place for over a year,” Simon adds.

Alec stares at the slip of paper Simon holds out to him like it might bite him if he touches it. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“That,” Clary says, “is above my pay grade.”

Alec takes the paper with a shaking hand. If Magnus has stopped moving around, does that mean he wants to be found?

~!~

Magnus watches the sun dip beneath the Paris skyline. Nearly two years into his stay in the city, and he’s still not tired of the sight. It’s the longest he can remember ever staying anywhere. Maybe there’s something to this whole retirement thing.

He sips his martini and flips open the stupidly expensive imported issue of The New York Times he purchased entirely for the very grainy photo of Alexander, along with the rest of his team, on page A-7. Magnus didn’t help with the case they’d recently closed, but he can’t help being just a little proud of Alexander, regardless. There’s a part of him that knows this whole thing is foolish. He can’t spend the rest of his life pining after a man he met for five minutes a decade ago, soulmate or no soulmate. He needs to let it go, needs to let Alexander go. He runs his fingers over the photograph, staining them with newsprint. Just. Not tonight.

A sharp knock on his front door pulls Magnus out of his thoughts. It’s probably Madame Boucher from upstairs again. The woman has to be old enough to be Magnus’s grandmother, but she’s still a terrible flirt and comes up with the most ridiculous excuses to stop by Magnus’s loft at least twice a week. Magnus adores her.

“Êtes-vous à nouveau à court de sucre, ou—” Magnus freezes in the act of opening the door when he registers who, exactly, is on the other side.

“Uh, my French is pretty rusty, but I definitely don’t have any sugar.”

“Agent Lightwood,” Magnus says, holding onto the door like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Maybe it is. “I’m fairly certain the FBI doesn’t have any jurisdiction here.”

Alexander frowns, a tiny crease appearing between his eyebrows that Magnus refuses—can’t afford—to find endearing. “I’m not here in a professional capacity.”

“Then why are you here?” Magnus’s voice comes out sharper than he intends. He doesn’t know what to do with any of this, with Alexander standing in his doorway, with the longing trying to claw its way out of his chest.

“I thought— And then, you sent all those messages.”

Alexander pushes up the sleeve on his sweater, and Magnus sees his soulmark for the first time. Magnus has to dig his fingers into the doorframe to keep from reaching out to trace its lines. It’s startling how a cat can bear such a striking resemblance to him. He wonders if Alexander would have the same reaction to his mark.

“Oh god,” Alec says, misinterpreting Magnus’s silence. “I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. I’ll just— I’ll go.”

“Alexander, wait.”

The moment Magnus’s hand closes around Alec’s wrist, a frission of energy goes through them both. Magnus should let go. He should.

He doesn’t.

“It’s just,” Magnus says, “I’m a retired art thief and you’re an FBI agent. What kind of future could there be for us?”

“Former,” Alexander answers.

Magnus frowns in confusion. “What?”

“Former FBI agent.” Alexander gives him a sheepish smile. “I, um. Resigned. Before I got on the plane to come here.”

“You quit your job?” Magnus understands the words, but he’s having trouble assigning them meaning. “Why?”

Alexander shrugs. “Why’d you retire?”

“I—” Magnus wants to say that it’s not the same. But, then again, maybe it is. “So, where do we go from here?”

“I was thinking we could start with dinner?” Alexander smiles, hopeful and earnest, and Magnus feels that same spark of hope light up his chest that he felt all those years ago when he realized who Alexander was to him.

“I’ll get my coat.” Magnus lets his fingers slide free from Alexander’s wrist, and it doesn’t feel like letting go.

#bidnezz #malecsanta20 #*fic20 #*gifts20

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lowkeyaesthvtic · 5 years

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Evil Karma - Chapter 1

Word Count: 2,753

Pairings: none yet

Summary: A new VK arrives on the isle with no clue of what has happened to her ‘almost family

Rating: whole story will be a T rating (with some chapters being M) but this chapter is relatively PG

Warnings: mentions of (not graphic) death, just overall anger and villainy

I awoke in a haze with a sharp pain in my back and shoulders. The last thing I remembered was using one of my father’s old trinkets to make a portal. The special thing with portals is that they could take you anywhere as long as you focused on where you wanted to go. What sucked about that was I had never been anywhere else before...therefore I had no place to focus on. This must have been where the portal placed me. I forced myself to stand and took a look around me. One thing I could immediately tell was that I was on some sort of island from the familiar scent of salty seawater hitting me. As I continued to look around, however, I knew this island was nowhere near familiar. Everything felt so incredibly overcrowded. Trash, dirt, and flies invaded the space around me. It was only a few more seconds before I noticed people bumping into me without a second thought. Some of them girls, some of them boys, some of them tall and mischievous, others were small and unknowing of their actions. One thing they all had in common? They all tried to steal something from me.

Pickpocketing was something I had learned from my father at quite a young age. He told me that the boys where we lived were ‘incredibly lost souls’ and ‘may not know how to react to someone who looked like me.’ His answer to that problem was to teach me as much as he could. So that’s what he did. I learned all the ways of my home’s magic, figured out how to harness and use it as a sort of...persuasion, and became the best on the island with a bow and arrow. It was because of all I had learned that anyone who tried to steal from me had failed. Until one person in particular had brought a bit of a challenge.

As soon as I felt him bump against my hip, I dodged any further contact and went for my dagger, as per usual. However, when I brandished my dagger, I was met with something I never thought I’d see: a rusted hook made of silver. No way. No way this could be true. “Hook…” I mumbled, standing down from my fighting stance and running through the crowded alley.

“Wait, you know me? But I don’t know you! Come back, you runt!” I hear a confused, aggressive yell in response and before I knew it, he was chasing me. As I hurried past the people in the alley, I ran past names that looked all too familiar. Lady Tremaine...Dr Facilier...Mother Gothel...it was at this point that I finally knew where I was. I knew my father and I had lost. My magic wouldn’t work here, my boys were likely too far gone, and I’d have to start all over. It wasn’t until I saw the hooked man’s figure in front of me that I realized I had stopped dead in my tracks. “How do you know me? One of the street rats tell you about me?” His accent was thick, incredibly hard to understand, yet it spoke to him. Something about his voice added to his madness, his unpredictability.

“I don’t know you...well, I don’t know your face, at least. Our parents knew each other. It was kind of a love-hate relationship.” I responded, taking in his face. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that he looked intriguing. His hair was a dark black and looked extremely messy, as if the chaotic life of a pirate had tossed it around. Despite attempting to darken his eyes with eyeliner, his eyes’ color matched the blue of the ocean from my home island. His face was incredibly structured and, like his hook, his jaw was sharp enough to cut. “My father was Peter Pan.” At the name, his eyes lit up.

“So you’re the famous Sofia Pan? Goodness, my father told stories about yours almost every night!” He stepped away from me, almost completely throwing away his intimidating aura and letting a playful smile grow onto his face. “I thought your father placed that one spell on Auradon to make them think he was a hero...what are you doing here?”

“Well, you’re right about that...I’m gonna be honest, I don’t remember much. All I know is I wouldn’t be here if Neverland was still intact. I guess you could say I’m on my own now…” Things were silent for a few seconds before he looked to me and gestured to what looked to be some kind of restaurant.

“Maybe not… come with me, Sofia Pan. Let me show you how to take the Isle of the Lost and hook it like it’s nothing!”

“Oh, you can just call me Sofi. If you want.”

“Harry Hook. It’s nice to put a face to your name, Sofi.” And with that, he led me further down the alley into what I could assume was some kind of plaza. We were much closer to the ocean and a lot farther away from the pickpocketing ‘street rats.’ I had started to notice during our walk that most people either respected and followed Harry Hook or were scared of him to the point where they’d do anything he asked whether they wanted to or not. Eventually, we came upon Ursula’s Fish and Chips Shoppe. “Uma is going to absolutely love you! We’ve got girls on the ship, yeah, but if you’re anything like your father...well we’ll just see what happens.” A smirk began to return to the young pirate’s face. Something in my gut began to tell me that this would be a bit more intense than I thought. Was this a good idea?

“The chip shoppe looked just as run down as the rest of the Isle, the only difference being an overall theme of the sea and a tiny television tucked by a long table at the front of the restaurant. Standing by said television was a sight I nearly felt honored to behold. Her skin was smooth and matched the wood of the table she stood behind. Her hair was tightly braided, combining white, black, and a shade of blue that matched the sea close to what I used to call home. She had a bitter glint in her eye but I could tell she wasn’t the type to wallow in her problems. “Harry! It’s about time you came back...where’s the money?” She spoke with certainty, domination, like she knew that she was in charge. In all honesty, the assertiveness in her voice was almost as intriguing as Harry’s accent.

“Right here, my Captain. I have something else for you..a bit of an unexpected guest.” He abruptly pushed me towards her and our eyes met for the first time. After a few seconds, Uma snapped out of a momentary daze and looked to Harry.

“Who is this? Are you trying to set Gil up again? I mean, come on Harry...I don’t think she’d be his type.” She began to eye me up and down, as if she were checking me for anything that could threaten her or her crew.

“No...this isn’t for Gil. Uma, I would like you to meet the wickedly infamous Sofia Pan.” Her eyes widened at the name, was I really that well known on the Isle? “Well...she said that Sofi was fine enough, but I figured you’d want to know her rotten legacy.” With emphasis on the word rotten, I was reminded of where I had come from.

When my father first created Neverland, he had relatively wholesome intentions. He wanted to take boys who felt unloved and unwanted to a place where they could do what they wanted without fear of what others would think. But as he continued to live on the island, Neverland’s magic grew stronger and infected him with madness and the undying desire for power and control. He began forcing his Lost Boys to live on the island, using magic if he had to. He once made a magic Pan Flute that he would take with him across the kingdom and use its song to lure all of the young boys away from their parents and off to Neverland.

By the time I was born, my father was completely corrupted by the magic of the island. His darkness was all I knew. However, it did have its benefits. He taught me to never take no for an answer. He taught me to look in the eyes of authority and say ‘you can’t control me.’ Little did he know that would be his demise…

“So your father had the power to fool an entire kingdom into thinking he was the good guy? I honestly don’t know whether I should be jealous that I wasn’t in your shoes or intrigued by what that could mean for you.” She kept her arms crossed and firm, but I could tell that I wasn’t her victim. Not today, at least.

“If you must know…” I stepped closer to her, leaving Harry in a state of surprise. I guess he must have thought that I’d be hesitant. The poor naive boy, he has no idea just how easily I can charm someone. “It means I’m an expert archer, I know how to reel boys into shape, and I can be..incredibly persuasive.”

“Incredibly persuasive? What does that have to do anything? Your Neverland magic isn’t going to work here.” Harry questioned, trying to act as a barrier between me and his Captain.

“It means she can get anyone to do anything...and we need that here.” Uma grabbed Harry by his hook and gently pushed him to the side. The way the two looked at each other was almost affectionate. It wasn’t my business to question what they had with each other, and something told me that I would soon find out as long as I kept my mouth shut.

Our conversation was quickly interrupted by the sound of the television being switched on. “Hey Uma! Harry! The VKs are on the Auradon News again!” Uma rolled her eyes as she looked towards the television. What I heard next sent shivers down my spine.

“Alright Meeko, this is Nakoma here with the latest update on Auradon’s newest heartthrobs. Our four VKs, Carlos, Jay, Evie and Mal informed us last week of the wicked corruption behind Peter Pan, a hero that we all thought we knew and loved. It turns out, when villains were being sent to the Isle of the Lost, Peter Pan used his Neverland Magic to enchant the entire kingdom of Auradon so he wouldn’t be locked with the rest of the villains. It’s a good thing evil magic doesn’t work on the Isle, because if it weren’t for these core four, we never would have known about it! I’m here with Mal, daughter of Maleficent and current partner of our King Ben, who has just returned from seizing this corrupt island. So Mal, can you describe the events that took place during this battle?” The news anchor gives her microphone to a skinny girl with purple hair, green eyes, and an obviously fake smile.

“Well, the first thing we did was search for Peter Pan himself. He had quite the army built up, it was probably one of the most difficult battles the VKs and I have faced. However, I can happily say that Neverland is completely empty, never to be inhabited again.”

“So did you ever find Peter Pan? And what of the Lost Boys living on the island? Are they all on the Isle now?”

“We couldn’t find Peter Pan anywhere, we can only assume that he fled away. He’s never been one for bravery, after all.” The reporter laughed with Mal before continuing her tangent. “As for the Lost Boys, I can say that they were...properly taken care of.” I could feel the fire rising in my eyes. I remember now, I remember it all.

I could feel Harry and Uma shift their eyes towards me, their crew following suit like a pack of sheep. They killed my Lost Boys...she killed my Lost Boys. Out of pure rage and impulse, I grabbed pieces of the fish guts from some pirate’s tray and chucked it at the television. “You murderous wench! You heartless, cold coward! I swear to all that is wicked if I ever see you I’ll -” Next thing I knew, I felt two pairs of arms around me pulling me down from the table I was standing on. There was Harry, looking at me with almost a sense of concern, and a blonde pirate looking at me like a confused puppy. Uma quickly switched off the television and put her hand on the blonde’s shoulders.

“Gil...I just realized that our new sail hasn’t been set up yet. How about you take the rest of the crew and get that taken care of, huh?” He jumped at the idea and led the rest of the pirates out of the restaurant, leaving me, Uma, and Harry all alone. Did I know what she had planned for me? No. Did I care? Not really. This ‘Mal’ and her friends had slaughtered the only family I had, and I wanted revenge. “Well, I guess now we have a common enemy.” Uma said to Harry, slowly shifting her direction to me.

I tsked and looked to her. “What, she killed your family too? Who does this purple haired traitor think she is? And since when were VKs allowed in Auradon?” Harry rolled his eyes and threw some scrap fish at the screen.

“Since three months ago. King Ben chose four VKs to come live on Auradon for some kind of ‘second chance.’ He wanted to start with the baddest of the bad. Son of Jafar, son of Cruella De Vil, daughter of the Evil Queen...and apparently, the daughter of Maleficent was the most rotten of them all. He whisked those posers off to a better life and left the rest of us in the dirt.” Uma replied, scowling at a poster of the ‘core four’ that had since been vandalized with classic pirate graffiti reading ‘we ride with the tide.’

“What I wouldn’t give to wipe the smiles off their faces…” Harry drifted off, wiping a piece of fish from the television and slipping it into his mouth with his finger.

It was then that an idea had popped into my head. Would it be hard to pull off? Of course it would be...but the victory would be oh so worth it. I sit on the long table behind me and look Uma straight in the eye. “What if we did more than that?”

The two pirates piqued their eyebrows in interest. Clearly I was winning them over. I’m not saying I’m completely surprised but given Uma’s sense of domination I figured it’d be much harder to get her to listen. I guess you learn something every day. “More than wiping smiles off their faces? Explain…”

“Mal and her little group of friends left you and your crew to rot, when you clearly deserve to be on Auradon more than she does. She also had the gall to go after my home and take everything I once held close to me. As you said, we have a common enemy.”

“Yeah...I still don’t know what you’re entailing here.” Harry mumbled, now leaning on his Captain’s shoulder.

“What if she got a taste of her own medicine? She left you out to dry and she tore apart my family...so we take her little group and tear them limb from limb until she feels all alone, just as she deserves. My village pillaging friends...what I’m proposing is an act of karma so sinister that Princess Purple here will wish she was never born.” Harry and Uma’s eyes begin to light up. Harry’s mad smirk returns and Uma mischievously chuckles before going to sit on the table next to me.

“You know Sofi, our crew needs someone like you…”

“Funny you say that, Uma. I was thinking the exact same thing.”

#descendants fic #harry x oc x uma #harry x reader x uma #harry hook x reader #tumblr #uma x reader #uma daughter of ursula #harry hook x uma #descendants x oc #descendants fanfiction #descendants

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tara-the-quiet-bookworm-2016 · 4 years

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Reunited (Yandere! Simon x Reader) (Chapter Four)

Authors Note- Aaaand here I am with Chapter Four of Reunited. I hope you’re enjoying the story as much as I am. Also just a heads up this chapter will feature things such as Non-con kissing, touching, being held captive, choking, blood and biting. And a hint of the impending Rape at the end of the chapter here. If none of this is your cup of tea then this is where we part ways. But I will remember our time fondly. Now that we got THAT out of the way here is chapter four of Reunited. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter Four.

For the first time in a very long Simon felt at ease, a small smile gracing his lips as he looked down at your prone form. A sign escaping your lips before you shifted onto your side. Sitting on his knees in front of your bed he watched as your continued to sleep, the tips of his fingers brushing against your cheek, relishing the feel of how soft your skin was, and Simon wondered what it would be like if he-

He was jerked from his thoughts as the door to his room swung open, and in walked Josh. Dark eyes wide as Josh stared at the woman, scratch that the human woman laying in Simon’s bed before looking to the blonde android.

His mouth opening a closing a few times as Josh struggled to find something to say before casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure no one was coming as he closed the door, locking it as he did so. “What the hell are you doing?” he hissed, looking to Simon once more.

“I...I couldn’t be without her so, I-”

“Brought her here I see that.” Josh cut in, looking to you once more. His features softening as he looked to Simon. “Look you can’t keep her here. What if someone comes looking for her? Do you know how bad it could be for us? For the revolution?”

Guilt gripped Simon as he looked down at his hands, he knew what he was doing was wrong, but... Looking to you once more he then turned to Josh. “This...this is only temporary I’m going to find a place to keep her it’ll just take me a little while.” Simon told him, and it was true, he knew when he was carrying you here that he couldn’t keep you here.

But finding a place while also helping with the revolution took a lot of time. So this would have to do for now, casting a glance around the room Simon noted the various posters on the walls much like you had at home. To the books on the shelves, to the various other knickknacks littered around the room.

And the newer acquisition to his room? The brand new lock on his door just in case someone tried to barge in or you tried to escape while he was out. Though, Simon worried at his lip as he thought about that, he hoped you would at least see reason and stay.

Josh sighed, if Markus found out this could be bad, but he could see there was no point arguing further, turning away from the blonde android he looked over his shoulder and said, “I just hope you know what you’re doing...” And walked off, leaving Simon alone with you.

***

Where were you? You thought as your eyes blinked open, and you found yourself staring up at a unfamiliar ceiling, confusion filling your mind as you propped yourself onto you elbows and looked around, noting the posters on the rust covered walls, to the blonde android sitting on the edge of your make shift bed.

“Si-Simon?” you choked out, wincing at how dry your throat felt.

Simon seemed to jump a foot in the air, before turning to face you, a soft smile on his lips as he saw that you were awake. Before saying anything he handed you a glass of water, watching intently as you downed it in one gulp before placing the glass back on the table by your bed.

“Where am I?” you asked.

Straight to the point, no dancing around the subject that was typical of you. Running a hand through his hair Simon braced himself for what he was about to tell you. After all, there was a good chance you wouldn’t understand but still...

Also, Simon realized as he opened his mouth to tell you where you were, he couldn’t tell you where you were exactly, what if you escaped and ran to the authorities? That would be it for them, even if Simon had hoped you would be somewhat understand his reasoning behind bringing you here, but still he had to be cautious.

“Simon?” you asked, clutching the blanket to yourself as you inched away from him slightly, there was something different about him now. Was he...deviant?

Worrying at your bottom lip you looked to him, that would explain everything such as him leaving you a year ago, and maybe him taking you from your home? But as you looked to him you felt dread begin to form in the pit of your stomach. There was something more going on here.

“You’re safe,” Simon said, finally, meeting your gaze. “That’s all you need to know.”

Brow furrowing you continued to look at him. “Simon? Is there something wrong, why did you bring me here, if I am in danger shouldn’t you have taken me to the police if someone is-”

“I have to confess something to you, the person that has been following you...Has been me.”

Upon hearing those words leave Simon’s mouth you felt you blood run cold, him? He had been the one who had been following you, watching you? Swallowing thickly you opened your mouth to ask him why, what had you done to have him do such a thing. To have you looking over your shoulder every time you stepped out of your home?

“Why?” You managed to choke out.

Simon worried at his lip as he struggled to come up with a way to tell you. To tell you how he felt, would you understand?

Taking a deep breath he began to tell you, all while you listened raptly, your eyes that normally shone with warmth were now filled with worry. You mouth, normally with a soft smile on them turned downwards as he told you everything...

Told you how he had developed feelings for you and had deviated a year ago. How he had tried so hard to push his feelings for you aside but was unable to so had decided to leave. Fat lot of good that did as a year later he still found himself obsessed with you until he had realized that he wasn’t going to rest until you were with him again. Now, now there was silence.

You blinked as silence permeated through the small room, as you tore your eyes away from the android before you, finding yourself unable to meet his gaze before looking at him again. Those soft blue eyes boring into your own.

“You need to let me go home, Simon.” You said finally.

Simon was silent as you said this, a pang of sorrow shooting through Simon’s thirium pump at your words.

“But I brought you here to protect-”

“You didn’t bring me here to protect me.” You said, turning to face him once more, your eyes narrowing into slits as you glared at him. “You brought me here because you think you’re in love with me, this...this isn’t how people go about it, Simon.” You said, you were being harsh you knew that but...

Simon was silent, and you couldn’t help but wonder if you had upset him with your words, when suddenly without a word he stood up and began to pace around the room, hands clasped behind his back, his brow furrowed. Had he expected things to go differently?

“I know,” he said after a moment, making you look up at him. Then did that mean he was-

“But despite that, despite what I am doing might be wrong I’m not letting you go. I can’t lose you again.”

“You never lost me-”

“It would only be a matter of time before something happened to you, before someone decided to hurt you.” Simon said, stopping to peer outside the small, grim encrusted window before looking to you once more.

“No one is going to hurt me.” You said, getting up from your seat, and moving towards him.

“How do you know?” he asked, and for the first time in your life you were actually scared of him. What had you done to make him like this? To make him so obsessed with you in the first place?

However before you could dwell on that thought for much longer you were jerked from your thoughts as Simon brushed his fingers along your cheek. Without thinking you swatted his hand away, making him blink in surprise.

The look quickly melted away and was replaced with a dark look in his eyes as he moved to grab a hold of you chin, forcing you to look at him. “It’s a dangerous world out there, Y/N. And you’re a really sweet girl it would only be a matter of time before some be it human or android took advantage of you.”

Letting go of your chin Simon placed a tender kiss on your forehead, before moving past you, a sigh escaping his lips as he moved towards the door, before casting a glance over his shoulder at you. “You may not like it now, but you’ll learn to appreciate everything I’ve done for you, you’ll see.” And with that he was gone.

Watching as the heavy metal door opened you raced towards it, hoping you would be able to escape before he closed it-

“WHAM!

A pained cry escaped your lips as pain shot through your shoulder as you dropped to the ground, an audible click followed shortly after, a sure sign that Simon had locked the door behind him, leaving you alone in this dank, and dark room, alone with your thoughts and your injured shoulder. You had to get out of here, you had to get help, you couldn’t stay here.

Biting down on your bottom lip you scanned your room, looking for any way out of here, noting the all too familiar posters on the wall to the various Knick knacks on the shelves. He really was going to keep you here, wasn’t he?

Collapsing on the bed you sighed as you wracked your brain for an idea on how to get out of here...

***

Something was up. Markus concluded as he peered around the corner just in time to see Simon leave his room, but not before locking it. Odd, why would he need to lock it? Watching as Simon was out of sight Markus moved towards the door he had just locked.

Looking at the lock on the door he tested it finding it locked up tight. Was there something in there that Simon didn’t want anyone to see? But why? What could he need to hide from them? However before Markus could dwell on that thought any further he heard someone calling his name, looking up he saw North standing at the end of the hall, looking at him suspiciously. Feeling his cheeks flush Markus pulled himself away from the door he had been examining he made his way to her, as much as he would have love to have eased his curiosity there were more trying matters to attend to.

*A Few Weeks Later*

This was it you thought, as you pressed your ear to the heavy metal door, straining to hear anything that might indicate that Simon was returning. Why wouldn’t he? Then, as you predicted you heard the door screech open, the pipe heavy in your hands as you lunged at Simon as he walked through the door.

Blue eyes widened as he saw you lunge at him, your pipe catching him in the forearm, the sound of the plastic casing cracking on his arm reached your ears as you took another swing at him again, this time catching him in the jaw, making him stagger. Now was your chance, seeing that the door was still open you made a break for it, dropping your pipe to the ground with a clatter. Freedom was yours, when-

Cool fingers gripped your bare forearm, before jerking you back, tossing you to the ground unceremoniously as the sound of the door slammed shut. The sound echoing through out the room, and your hope of escape dwindling down to nothing.

“So,” Simon spoke, rubbing at his throbbing jaw as he stood before you. Exhaustion tinting his voice as he crouched before you. “That was escape attempt number...what?”

You said nothing. What was the point? He never listened to you anyway, it had been a week since you found yourself here and every day it was the same old thing, you pleading with Simon to let you go. Simon refusing. It was taking it’s toll on you just as much as it was him, Simon, who had tried to treat you so kindly, so sweetly as he did a year ago when he was your android. Now, you constantly fighting him was taking it’s toll on his nearly as much as the revolution was.

“Why don’t you answer me?” Simon asked, crouching down before you, gripping your chin and forcing you to meet his gaze, seeing something else shining in his eyes now, something other than the love he had for you, you couldn’t put your finger on it, in fact you wondered if you wanted to. After all, it looked like your constant resistance to his affections had soured his feelings for you somewhat.

Not like that ever stopped you, your eyes settling on the wall behind his head, where this mornings breakfast stained the wall, an action that had resulted in him wrapping his hand around your throat and squeezing until you were clawing at his hand, and begging him to stop. Which he did thank god. However, now it seemed you had more trying matters at hand as you were jerked from your thought as Simon pressed his lips gingerly to yours, and you, being the slow learner bit down on his lip, making him jerk back with a cry.

Blue blood trickled down his chin, standing out against his pale skin as he dabbed at his bloody lip. Before glaring at you, the LED on his temple glowing a bright, bloody red. He was upset, and you were frightened now. Letting out a whimper you moved to get away from him as he advanced on you.

“I do everything for you, Y/N.” Simon said, gripping you by your arm once more, and tossing your to the bed. “I try to do the best by you and still day after day you throw it back in my face, and now...” Simon trailed off, as he climbed on top of you, his hands pinning yours above your head.

Fear shining in your eyes as you looked up at him. “Now I’m tired of fighting, I’m going to make you see how much you mean to me.” Before you could utter a word he pressed his lips to yours once more, lust shining in his bright blue eyes as he finally pulled away, as dread formed in the pit of your gut at what he was about to do as tears sprung from your eyes. Your pleas falling on deaf ears as he kissed you again, this time firmly, silencing you.

#Chapter 4 or 6 #DBH #Yandere Simon #Josh finds out #Markus knows something is up #Tw captivity #Non-con kissing #Non-con touching #Eventual rape #This rather dialog heavy #Sorry it took me a while to get back to this fic.#Simon isn't as nice this time around #Sorry for the time skip at the end there I had no idea how to continue from there #Tw choking #Tw biting #Tw a little bit of blood

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rubecso · 4 years

Text

The Insomniacs

I wrote this short story for my fiction writing module at university. Now it’s done and submitted I’d love to hear what people think of it. It was inspired by the real (and surreal) experience I had of being awake in the early hours in a Dusseldorf hotel.

Words: 2178

The Insomniacs

The hotel was like a museum with bedrooms. Every hallway was lined with paintings of misty, continental landscapes or old nobility with jutting chins. Glass display cabinets or sculptures with missing arms or noses lurked in every corner. Thomas’ flight from London to Dusseldorf had been one of the earlier ones, so he’d sat in the lobby and watched a succession of aunts, uncles and cousins gasp in delight as they arrived, before remembering the occasion and reverting to suitably sombre expressions.

He could see why Christoph had picked this place. It was a marvel, in the day at least.

At 4am, it had a different feel. Most places did, in his experience. The succession of dead aristocrats judged him as he passed. The rolling hills and Alpine forests gained a third dimension and beckoned him to fall into them. The sculptures were somehow both more human and less so.

He wandered down to the lobby, the marble tiles cold beneath his socks. Near the entrance was a semi-circle of peculiar chairs. They were red velvet with carved, wooden ornamentations (Baroque or maybe Rococo, he wasn’t sure). Yet they had a strangely modern shape, like something in a university common room. The backrest curved at the sides and overheard, so when he sat down it enveloped him.

He was so blinkered that he didn’t notice the man sitting in the chair next to him until he spoke:

‘Finden Sie auch keinen Schlaf?’

Thomas was startled. He was used to the world being empty at 4am. He looked round to see a pair of dark eyes looking expectantly at him from a wrinkled face.

He blinked, brain digesting the words. He was fairly sure the old man had asked him if he couldn’t sleep.

‘Oh, er, jah,’ he stumbled over the unpractised language, ‘ich bin… um, ich habe…’

He stopped and sighed.

‘Sorry. My German isn’t so good tonight.’

The lines around the old man’s eyes deepened as he smiled kindly.

‘English? English is fine.’

‘Thanks.’ Thomas wore the apologetic smile of the uncomfortably British. ‘I was trying to say I have insomnia.’ He paused, watching for confusion in the old man’s face. ‘You understand?’

He nodded. Then he gestured to himself.

‘Me also.’ He leaned forward in his chair and whispered conspiratorially: ‘I have not slept in three thousand years.’

Thomas chuckled, but the old man did not (he supposed something had been lost in translation). He searched for something to say, but the man got there first:

‘This is your first time here?’

‘The hotel? Yes. My grandfather stayed here, though.’

‘When?’

‘Oh, years back.’

‘Perhaps I met him.’

‘Do you come here a lot?’

He smiled, as if at some joke Thomas had not heard.

‘This is my hotel.’

‘Oh.’ Thomas gestured to their general surroundings. ‘And the artwork — it’s all yours?’

Another nod.

‘Wow.’ He would never have taken this simply-dressed man for a multimillionaire art collector. ‘It’s an amazing collection. Really it is.’

A spark lit in the owner’s deep, dark eyes. ‘You think so?’

‘Well,’ he gestured inarticulately, ‘of course.’

The old man stood up with surprising speed.

‘Let me show you around.’

***

As listened to the hotel owner speak about each of the artworks, Thomas felt like he should be taking notes. The old man spoke instructively. His accent was hard to place; close to German but with a melodic quality that sounded almost Italian. Thomas wondered if he was Swiss.

He seemed to know the provenance of every piece by heart; this was painted by Herr so-and-so, that was sculpted in such-and-such a century. For all Thomas knew about art history he could have been making it up as he went along, but he spoke with such authority that Thomas found it easier to believe he simply had it memorised. But more than these facts, he was full of odd little details about each piece, especially the portraits.

‘The Countess von Schrattenberg,’ he said at one point, pointing to an oil painting of a middle aged woman in an embroidered bodice with tightly curled, powdered hair and a pair of piercing, green eyes, ‘A very intelligent woman.’

He appeared to expect Thomas to reply.

‘You think so?’ he ventured.

‘I know so.’

Before Thomas could ask him to elaborate, he’d set off again. He walked briskly, hands clasped behind his back, a little bent but not overly so. He was certainly an old man, but not a frail one (or at least it seemed that way).

They carried on like this, Thomas following him up and down the hallways of the hotel and trying to take in the steady flow of facts and anecdotes. After a while, he decided the way the old man spoke about the artists and their subjects must simply be an eccentricity, or perhaps another joke that didn’t translate well. Or maybe Thomas was just too tired to get it.

One of the display cabinets stood out to Thomas. Its contents were a jumble of mismatched artefacts: fragments of pottery; metal objects twisted and bubbled with rust; some kind of carved, bone figurine; and a small, glass bottle. The bottle caught Thomas’ eye. It was green and cloudy, with a delicate handle. When he asked about it, the owner told him it dated back to Roman times. He fished out a set of keys and opened the cabinet to let him hold it. Thomas asked him if he was sure, having visions of it slipping through his fingers and shattering on the marble floor, but the owner insisted.

As Thomas turned the fragile flask over in his hands, the old man explained that it had been pulled out of the Rhine, along with everything else in the display cabinet.

‘The Romans had a fort here,’ he explained, ‘They brought in perfumes or oil in bottles like this, to trade with us Germans.’

(He meant the Germanic tribes, presumably.)

They got to talking about how long people had lived on this spot by the Rhine, how there were parts of the city where you could see the old town, and how before the town it was a village that grew up around the Roman fort, and how before that people settled along the river and lived off fish.

‘Ah,’ the old man sighed, ‘but you go back further than that, it becomes hard to remember.’

‘Hard to know, you mean?’ Thomas asked, ‘Because there aren’t written records?’

The owner regarded him silently for a few moments. Thomas wondered if he’d asked a stupid question or if it had been rude to try and correct him.

Then he shrugged. ‘Yes, perhaps.’ A thought appeared to strike him. ‘Have you walked by the river?’

‘No.’

‘You should.’

‘I might not get time.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well I’m busy tomorrow and then after that I’m leaving.’

‘Ah,’ said the old man, ‘What are you busy with?”’

‘I, er,’ Thomas shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down at his socks, ‘I’ll be at a funeral. For my granddad, Christoph — the one who stayed here? It’s actually why we’re here. It was one of his requests.’

He glanced up at the owner, worried he was over-sharing. The look on the old man’s face was hard to read.

‘You were lucky,’ he replied.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘To get the rooms, on such short notice. Most of our guests book months in advance.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Thomas opened his mouth to say something more, but instead it widened into a yawn.

The old man smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

‘You should try to sleep, I think.’

***

The next night, when he heard the old man speak from the chair beside him, Thomas wasn’t surprised. Somehow he’d known he’d be waiting for him.

He’d tried to sleep. He’d been sure he would the moment he put his head down. He’d struggled to keep his eyes open all through the funeral service and the meal afterwards. Yet despite the exhaustion seeping into his limbs (nothing like insomnia to teach you the meaning of ‘bone-tired’), he still couldn’t sleep. So he let his feet carry him down to the lobby again, the marble floor somehow less solid than before. When he passed the portrait of the green-eyed Countess, he was sure he saw her move out the corner of his eye. When he sat down in the peculiar chair again, he felt like it had swallowed him whole.

Then the voice came again:

‘Did you get time to walk by the river?’

‘No. Sorry.’ He wasn’t sure why he apologised.

‘Perhaps next time.’

They lapsed into silence, deeper and heavier for the thick, velvet upholstery surrounding Thomas on all sides, muffling even the distant ticking of the grandfather clock in the lobby. Perhaps the hotel owner was comfortable with quiet, but Thomas found himself grasping for something to say. He came upon something he’d almost said last night, and once it was in his mind it was the only thing he could think of. Finally it bubbled up through his lips:

‘We did book in advance. We knew when Christoph was going to die. He did it in Switzerland. Assisted suicide.’

He turned to look at the old man, expecting him to have shrunk back in surprise or disgust. But instead he had leaned in, his dark eyes gleaming and fixed on Thomas as if he were one of the artworks on the walls.

‘Tell me more about this.’

Thomas didn’t know if it was the calm confidence of the old man’s voice, or if sleep deprivation had stripped him of the usual restrictions he put on his speech, or if it was just that for the whole day no one in his family had brought it up, even though they all knew. He didn’t know why he wanted to tell this stranger about his grandfather, but he did. He told him how intelligent he’d been, how even when Thomas was a child he’d wanted to be smart like him. How he’d been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. How even before he’d lost his speech or his ability to dress himself, he’d planned his death in advance. How certain he’d been that he didn’t want to keep going once his memories began to leave him, how he wanted to die while he was still himself…

‘Still himself?’ the hotel owner cut in, ‘What does this mean?’

Thomas blinked; he’d almost forgotten he was talking to another person.

‘While he still had most of his memories.’

‘Ah, so.’ The old man nodded. His eyes were drifting, seeming to search for something Thomas couldn’t see. ‘This is what makes us who we are? Memories. Ah, but I did not know a person could…’ He trailed off, then gestured to Thomas. ‘Please go on.’

So Thomas told him about the clinic in Switzerland, that strange country between other countries where people went to die. He told him about the garden by the clinic, where he and his mother had walked with Christoph in his wheelchair. How it had seemed like he might change his mind at the last minute, but then he’d just stopped and said ‘Now then’, and that was it. How when he went, it was like he’d just fallen asleep.

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’

They were quiet again then, and this time Thomas was comfortable in it. He let the hotel owner break it:

‘I have one more item to show you.’

***

It was the bone figurine from the display case, the one Thomas had overlooked in favour of the Roman flask.

‘What do you think that is?’ the old man asked him as Thomas held it, running his thumb over the carved notches.

‘I don’t know.’

He waited for the old man to tell him, but instead he sighed.

‘Neither do I.’ He paused, then seemed to make a decision. ‘But I think it should go back to the river.’

Thomas looked up, frowning.

‘But it looks so old. Isn’t it valuable?’

The old man shrugged.

‘Perhaps. But what good is it if no one remembers what it’s for?’ He caught Thomas’ eye. ‘Even me?’

‘Even…?’ Thomas began, but then the owner reached out and grabbed his arm.

‘Will you do that for me? Give it back to the Rhine?’

‘I don’t…’

‘Please?’ His grip tightened. His dark eyes burned.

Thomas swallowed. Then he nodded.

***

Later, after Thomas returned to the hotel and found the owner was nowhere to be seen, he slept deeply. In his dreams he was by the Rhine again, but the city was gone. A thick, dark forest took its place, thinning out at the marshy ground by the river. The air smelled ancient.

The old man was sat by the water, dressed in animal pelts. He held a knife of flint and was carving something with it. As Thomas approached, he held it up to the light and smiled with understanding. The small, bone figurine.

He looked up at Thomas.

‘Thank you.’

#writing #original fiction #short story #cw: death #cw: assisted suicide #insomnia

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yeoldontknow · 5 years

Text

Time Runner: 5

Author’s Note: welcome back! thank you all for being so patient! once again, im making it clear that there will be historical inaccuracies and that this is a fictionalized account of the events of the inquistion, and i am not claiming that everything that is happening is something that would have happened. thank <3 Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Genre: time travel!au; suspense; thriller; drama; romance; angst; sci-fi Rating (this chapter): R Warnings: graphic violence; graphic depictions of blood; swearing; dark themes; themes of abandonment; themes of war; explicit language Word count: 4,526

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Unknown, 1484-85 Turuel, Kingdom of Aragon, Spain

How strange, you thought, for the air to lose its static, a vacuum biting against your skin with claws; hard enough to make your existence hurt.

How strange, you thought, for the world to taste bitter. To taste bitter and to becoming little more than a mausoleum of memory, colours rusting and dimming with only your joyless eyes to touch them.

How strange to be burning alone in the world, waiting and waiting and waiting.

It seemed as though, with Chanyeol’s fading form, your breath had left with him, dissolving into little more than a phantasm of life and living. With no oxygen to propel you into motion, your feet faltered, unsteady and unbalanced against foreign terrain without a hand to lead them true.

Echoing everywhere and nowhere at once, perhaps thriving only in the marrow of your bones, his named died on your lips. Against your lips, the syllables were hot to the touch and left a residue on your tongue, thick and scratching at the roof of your mouth like ash. In the brief moment of stillness, you felt the flux of solitude press against your arms, the molecules in the air disrupted by a thing that was once there and suddenly was no longer.

There was a gentleness and a cruelty to the glimmers of possibility that faded around you - a soft brush against your skin, feeling not unlike whim or fantasy, before the weight of knowledge sought the innocent openness of your pores. Once inside, it moved deeper and deeper still until it found your throat, found the trust that you offered freely alongside every word you had ever said, and choked it. Of you, it wanted everything, until there was no end to where your turmoil began.

Behind you, the members of the Ministry vanished with little pomp or circumstance, their interest in you evidenced by how quickly they left you behind. With you on your knees, they had you exactly as they wanted you: vulnerable, broken, tongue pressed behind your teeth and silenced. Your turmoil had been their victory, a thing they had never witnessed in the long line of history, a new treasure to behold. And, once they had seen it, it became clear that your grief was neither special nor unlike any other throughout the whole of time, it merely tasted sweeter because it belonged to them.

Perhaps it should have alarmed you how one swift motion of abandonment could render you obsolete, leaving you for dead or simply just leaving you, letting history claim you as its own to fade namelessly into oblivion. Confronted at last with the speed at which life both begins and ends, ugly at both ends of the spectrum. Of you, they had created an offering, a gift offered to the slowness of time and the madness of men.

It was not, you thought, that you wanted to be found, that you wanted them to care, that you wanted be found as guilty as you felt. Simply, you thought you wanted to matter. To someone.

They never came back for you, neither for questioning nor for an execution.

Instead they left you for dead at the hands of an army so skilled in psychological and physical torture, you took to breaking yourself, cutting at the dead pieces of your spirit, before they could do it themselves. At least this, you thought, you were good at. Staying mobile, moving, running, accepting the darkness and letting eat the tips of your fingers. The length of your life had become blurred with Chanyeol by your side, the chronology unordered and disorganized, but you know you had spent years learning how to move without eyes keenly following; of learning to make yourself small and make yourself invisible, running with enough speed to be forgotten and enough force to slowly stop wanting to be seen at all.

This time, your footprints left marks in dirt roads, tracks you learned to cover with leaves or mud. This time, you did not have days or weeks to catch your breath. Sometimes minutes, most often seconds. This time, it was not to explore or see or learn or help or love.

This time, it was to survive.

And this time, it was for yourself.

You ran from town to town, palms sweating and chest burning with each thrust of your feet to soil. Every burning city you entered held a brief promise of security: empty houses containing discarded scraps of food, piss soaked beds to sleep in, the torn, mangled clothing of men hauled off to jail cells below the earth. Some homes contained weapons, discarded daggers and knives you strapped to your belt with leather laces you found in old, worn boots.

With a knife, you learned to pull apart the shoes and yield scraps of leather. With butchers needles and tools, you learned to strap the leather together, binding your breasts tightly beneath a soiled tunic you found discarded behind a farm, no trace of the man who had worn it. It took practice to cut your hair without clipping part of your ears in the process. You wore scars on the side of your head, self-inflicted and only half healed.

Three weeks was all it took before you killed a man. You told yourself it was survival, that he would have killed you first, that this was your life now. You had walked into a war between God and men, and if men could command time and temporality then there was no longer a difference between the two. God, man, woman, beast - in your eyes there was no difference, decided that in the mouth of hell, we were all equal. His life left his eyes before your dagger left his side, the blood hot and thick on your fingers as if to burn straight through your bones.

It seared against your fingerprints, as though his blood contained all the memories of his life, as though, in death, he demanded you remember him.

You held him close while he struggled, spasming violently until he stilled, collapsing against your chest like a spent lover. In your arms, you held him, cradled him, while you cried through grit teeth, realizing that it was easy, easier than you thought it would be. Killing a man was easy and this would not be the first time you held mortality between your unwilling hands.

In a daze, you walked along a river until sundown, unseeing and unseen. The trees lined the bank, leaves rustling in the wind as though whispering about you, sharing your secrets, speaking the names of the dead as though you were meant to respect them. For hours, you did not want to clean your hands, stared at your open palms and remembered Chanyeol’s palm against yours, wondered how his skin would feel with blood pressed between you. For hours, you wore him, until the stain of his blood on your skin became a tattoo.

And even when you did, when you finally used the blunt edge of a rock to wash him away, replacing his blood with yours, your skin was slick with the memory of him for days.

Patience was never one of your virtues, your past life so filled with endless noise begging for your attention that stillness always seemed irrational in the modern world. With Chanyeol, time had become tangible, something you had run through, and between, something you could touch, and kiss. With Chanyeol, there time became something that moved with your will, and you thought, surely, that kind of unrestrained living could never be replaced.

After six months of running towards nothingness, towards a mapless terrain and without any promise of safety, the slowness of living, the slowness of expecting death and counting the hours of night, you forgot what it mean to live quickly at all.

Somewhere along the way, you had grown accustomed to fear, to anguish, to the impossible length of a minute, the unbearable torment of a second. Somewhere along the way, the cold and the fear of longing had given way to a survival instinct that filled your lungs with heat; expectation of the warm arms of a man became a dream of an oncoming pleasure, inconsistent, irrational, and intangible, and, when it was over, you were always filled with disappointment.

After six months, you stopped telling yourself he would come back, ceased a morning ritual of bathing and whispering today is the day. Eventually the memory of him splintered altogether, becoming little more than just footprints on the wind and a phantom limb in a cold bed.

Yours had become a tempered reality, one filled with false heroism and the saving of tyrannical children from a sacrilegious death. The violence of this new life suited you fine, and you wore the blood and the armor with a chest puffed full of regret. Unfazed by corpses and carcasses, your nose no longer seared from the stench of burning flesh, eyes unblinking and the bones piled high or the homes reduced to ash. Steps slowing as you passed, you saw these things, you felt them, you mourned them, but, eventually, you did not fear them.

You’d seen towns fall and women bleed; you tasted war on the air and swallowed it whole, studying the nuances of the flavor and finding retribution in the way it made your teeth ache. The sight of a sword ripping through a man no longer made you ache with recoil, only made your knuckles tense with disdain. The hatred of men had become commonplace and, until he came back, until you were pulled back and taught how to run without the clanking of metal behind you, the act of loving was nothing but a distant, surreal dream.

When winter came you skinned rabbits and learned to properly sew, stitching their uncleaned fur into the lining of your shirt, binder, and boots. You walked through ice and snow, from town to town, taking a drink in each but never staying long enough to share a name, to share a bed, to be remembered at all. You had become a wanted man, hoarding secrets beneath the costume you’d turned into a shield; a heretic for believing in nothing except that time was continuous, that this genocide would happen again, and that if Chanyeol could touch time then somehow he was touching you, until even this too was brought down like so many of the gods before him.

When the trees of the forest of Aragon began to emerge from their slumber, the shade of their bark taking a ruddy complexion rather than the pale brown of death, you saw him standing not too far down the path you walked on. Like a pine shaking loose its nettles, you shivered at the sight of him and paused, breath stilling in your lungs at the sight.

He was beautiful, still so impossibly beautiful, you recognized him the moment his frame appeared on the hill up ahead. The sunlight, frigid and unsoothing in its glow, yet learning how to bloom once again, splayed behind him, making halos against his limbs where none should exist. You could have sighed, you would have sighed, shut your eyes from the relief and the hope and the bliss, but instead visage on the hill made you feel slightly sick. As though this should convince you he were yours for touching, as though this, his emergence like Virgil before Dante, should act as reassurance at all.

You’d imagined his presence countless times and, while you were fully aware he was no premonition, that your mind had long since given up imagining his visage once it had been almost completely forgotten, you felt little excitement behind the knowledge that he had proven you wrong, expecting this to make up for all the days in which you were right.

He ran to you, face unchanged and golden, the brightness of his smile combating the sun for dominance and tugging at his cheeks as it demanded access to your heart. Around him the air shifted, just like it always did, making space for him and igniting with an electricity bordering on cosmic, your skin starting to prick just like it used to simply because he was near and he was magic. Already, you could see the coil of tension in his elbows and hands, desperate to hold you and pull you to him, as if you were still his to touch. His hair in the wind moved back and turned his expression of delight and relief into something boyish.

Long ago, you would have swooned at the sight of, would have held his cheeks between your palms with a desperation that dripped down to your soul, and kissed and kissed and kissed him, until all the breath in your lungs was his. Instead, you felt yourself begin to seethe, the scars along your neck searing with blood for the first time in months, burning with contempt and derision. At him. At time. Mostly, at yourself.

Still you wanted him, still you yearned for him, limbs twitching with the unfulfilled effort of reaching towards his arms, his hands, his cheeks, his skin. The urgency to touch him betrayed the year of everything you had learned without him, pulled towards him as always as a moth to a flame, but you kept still. Gritting your teeth and lips pressed in a thin, neutral line, you kept your feet rooted to the earth, reminding yourself you were no longer the woman he left behind, body pressed into shapes you could no longer call human. He was running towards the past, a version of you he had idealized and held close, or maybe never held at all, and you remained motionless, accepting that time neither begins nor ends, it simply is.

‘I found you.’ He said the words to himself as he approached, proud and pleased and pink with gladness at your reunion, celebrating in solitude with himself. As he reached you, he slowed, paused, fumbling awkwardly over his feet as he finally, truly saw you.

‘What’s happened to you?’ The lowness of his tone wandered over your skin, reintroducing itself to your veins, your pores, and seeking permission against a guard that did not previously exist.

Time had pulled you apart, Chanyeol had pulled you apart, and still his voice could make you quake, make you thirst for the flush taste of his sweat on your lips, the needle that promised to mend you back together. But even then, you did not know exactly what you desired of him, or how you were meant to be sewn, for you were not a thing worth softness, or the gentleness, hope. The ghost of you had burned to ash beneath your bones so long ago, the desire you felt was little more than echoes, little more than memories of a love born from childish fantasy.

Now, you simply needed his eyes on your scars, his eyes on yours, demanded he feast on the mess and trauma of you. You hoped he would drink his fill, that he would see what he had made of you, that you had become this for him.

In stoic silence, you watched the way his gaze traveled down your body, tracing the scars and the scabs, the distinct lack of the swell of your breasts, the steadiness of your grip. Wherever his eyes went, the hairs on your body stood to attention, forced awake after a hibernation that felt like prison, the magnetic touch of his gaze bringing your molecules back to life. Slowly, his expression became mangled with a shock not unlike horror, jaw twitching in an expression you could not read. You were glad for this, glad that you had unlearned enough of him to make new opinions about the length and power of his bones.

And only after he returned his eyes to yours, only after you finally saw his nostrils flare in confusion and hurt did you take your turn to speak.

‘What the fuck took you so long?’ You were a venomous thing, and you wondered if he would ever learn to love a snake.

He loved you when you were young, naive, begging to be brave and uncertain how. He loved you when you followed, when you asked questions that felt like philosophies and not war strategies. He loved you when you were asking to matter. Now, he would have to relearn you. Now, he would have to love you as his judge, his jury, and his executioner.

Without hesitation his brow furrowed, eyes wide in bewilderment and abjection, cheeks blanching. Chanyeol fell over his words, eager and rushing his speech like a child. ‘Took me - it’s been two hours!’

‘Two hours?’ you shouted, unconcerned with giving away your position. Let them find me, you thought. Let them find me so I could watch him run once more. Blood left you, left your head, your cheeks, your fingers, numbing you. Anger, a red thing, blanched you completely, mouth turning dry as it kissed your tongue. ‘It’s been over a year!’

Behind his eyes, you counted infinity, an endless stream of thoughts that raced behind his dilated pupils, the only place his fragile guard had never reached. You expected tears or rage, regret, every emotion he had ever offered or received or taught you to feel. Instead, he blinked. He blinked and he nodded, brows furrowed as he released a trembling sigh.

‘So this is what happened to you...’ he began, slowly, chewing at the inside of his cheek before glancing away from you, conflicted.

‘What the fuck did you expect?’ you sneered, tone cold and demanding. The loss of his gaze made you feel scorned, betrayed - you wanted all of his sadness, all of his distress; wanted to see if it could ever match your own.

Meeting your eyes once more, he regarded you as though you were the key he had stolen, as though you were his answer, his benediction, his greatest fear. The change, you felt, was staggering.

‘When I met you,’ he said, voice small and struggling to remain even, ‘you were raw and hard. Something about youth didn’t sit right on you, I could never imagine you as a child - you just were as I had met you, forever. Not at all the person I met in the library. I see now this was the year that turned you.’

The voices of the crows echoed in the sky as though echoing his words, and you felt yourself rear back, frowning. No longer merely a thief, he had become a liar.

About you.

About the order of your life.

About everything that involved him, which weighed so much more than the memories you had of just yourself and your past.

It was as though he had peeled back pieces of your skin, his skin, revealing an ugliness that tainted every memory you had shared with him - the ugliness of expectation and disappointment. You were not as he had wanted to find you in the library, and, now that you were, you were unsure you wanted to be found at all.

‘Remember,’ you said, tone thick and words heavy, ‘that you did this. You made us this.’

Chanyeol did not crumble or break in the wake of your words, neither begged for forgiveness nor defended his actions, simply remained still and relearned how to breathe. Lines formed on his cheeks, creases giving away his sadness and his anguish, the guilt eating away at him just as life had eaten you.

For a while you said nothing, simply watched the way his fatigues moved in the breeze and the way he flushed when your tongue moved along your lips, wetting the flesh. The tension in his throat was palpable, full of words that lived and died before ever reaching his lips, strained from the effort of remaining strong, hardened, when for you he was always, eternally soft.

Between your bodies, longing lingered, a heaviness that begged to be felt - unfinished kisses, unwhispered sentiments, vows of love and life and death cluttering the space your bodies did not touch. These things looked nice, sounded nice. You wanted them, almost as badly as you wanted him, but there were too many questions, too many bodies, and too many knife wounds were your affections used to lie.

You wanted him, oh how deeply you wanted him, but not like this.

Chanyeol broke the silence with whimper comprised of sorrow and regret, fists clenched at his sides from the effort of not reaching and touching you.

‘There’s blood under your fingernails,’ he offered weakly, eyes focused on your left hand which remained weaponless.

He studied your knuckles, the scars and the marks, the bloodstains and the dirt, likely remembering how he used to cherish your hands. Pressing his lips to your fingers, he would kiss each pad before moving your hand to his cheek, feeling your skin against his and sighing with an affection that made your chest ache. He would bind your fingers together, blocking out the sun, the air, atoms unable to fit between your hands until you felt as one. It must have hurt, you thought, for him to wonder what you had held without him.

‘There’s more than blood under my nails,’ you said, keeping your voice level and emotionless, remembering how you used to touch him, too. How even after war and death and grief he was still so incredibly, impossibly soft. For you. Only for you. ‘You don’t send a person to the Inquistion and expect a child to come back.’

'It's killing me not to touch you -'

'I went a year without you.' You cut him off, voice strained and tight, the thickness in your throat beginning to throb. 'Surely, you can wait a little longer.'

‘You were always a soldier. I wondered what made you this way, all these years. You would never tell me.’

‘The details are in history books, where they belong,’ you countered. ‘My version is too stained with blood and vomit to be legible.’

‘What’s -’

You cut him off, blinded by questions and anger. You wanted to scream, to hold his throat beneath your palm and remind him you had earned the right, the right was yours to be the Inquisitor. My feelings are valid, you wanted to shout. This right is mine because I felt it. It was mine because I lived it.

‘Run me somewhere safe,’ you said, instead. ‘Run me somewhere that feels like home.’

31 December, 2012 New York, New York

The world built itself around and against you in a haze of black and white, malformed objects that surrounded you as deities, the hiss of exterior modern sounds consuming your senses in disorienting cacophony. When the colours started to seep in, the noise of the Earth became vibrant and loud. Everything felt distantly familiar, things that once belonged to you but had been traded away for a promise of delight, a promise of excitement. They no longer belonged to you, and you did not miss them, though, briefly, you missed the sense of simplicity they brought.

Modernity, you remembered, was an uncomplicated mess. Disastrous, if only because the effort and the knowledge of to survive had been almost eradicated.

The concrete beneath your feet was a comfort, the terrain unchanging with weather and weight. For the first time in over a year, you felt stable, powerful in the posture that rooted itself in your spine. Almost instantly, your eyes began to burn, the smog in the air making them sting and the lights of modernity altogether too bright after spending so long in the bleak dimness of the past. Covering your mouth, you coughed several times, lungs having grown used to an uncontaminated atmosphere.

Chanyeol watched you with eager eyes, glancing between your face and the panel on his arm, with a wary gaze.

‘When are we?’ you asked once you were able to speak, taking in the high rise buildings. Their height made you anxious, feel swallowed by the metals and manufactured glory of men.

‘New Years Eve, 2012,’ he said softly. He came to stand next to you, facing out to the street as he watched cars pass.

In the closeness, he let his fingers graze against yours, seeking the feel of your skin if only for a moment. Electricity coursed through your joints, the shock of contact making you glance down at his hand, though neither of you moved away. Perhaps, you thought, he was afraid you would run from him, breaking away and abandoning him once your feet had touched the ground.

It would not have been the first time he misjudged you. It seemed as though you were born to make the hard choices, born to make the things that hurt most into something magnificent.

‘Where?’ Your voice was flat, exhausted.

‘New York.’

‘I need clothes.’ You moved your hand away from his, ignoring the small whine of protest that spilled over from his lips. He kept his eyes on the street as you pulled the thick tunic away from your chest, nervous to look at you and the actions of a life you learned without him. It reeked of dirt, blood and vomit. In the oncoming breeze, you could smell the odor of your skin and clothes, and you scowled, nose hairs burning with the stench. Water had began to leak into your boots, the snow melting through to numb your toes. ‘What time is it?’

‘Just half six.’ Chanyeol turned to you, body and soul battling the hope for reconnection that threatened to turn him into a dying star. He was waiting for the fallout - your fallout.

‘Shops should still be open,’ you hummed, though truly it did not matter. A small smile played at your lips, smirking at how naturally willing you were to follow the rules of your own time. You turned from him then, beginning a brisk walking down the street towards bright lights and a crowd of people, suddenly bold in the anonymity his presence offered you.

In just a few strides, he caught up, walking at your pace as though he were born to follow you, as though he were used to existing at your side and not asking for much more.

One year for you but two hours for him. You played this over in your mind as you walked, wondering what happened in his two hours that would have made him so compliant, so willing to let you walk freely without question. Idly, you recalled the last thing you had said to him, the last proper request you had made.

‘When we get out of here, you teach me how to lead.’

It took effort not to snort at the irony, that it was not he who taught you how to lead, but yourself.

You taught yourself to lead. You taught yourself to stay safe.

You were safe.

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monotonemanday · 6 years

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Mysme Royal AU - Saeyoung The Royal Scribe

I have decided to continue my royal AU! So here is the next part! Where Knight MC meets Saeyoung, the scribe for the royal court! I hope you enjoy!

Something Wicked (Awesome) This Way Comes

As MC stood in front of the massive gate her feet still unwilling to move, she noticed it was oddly quiet. Only moments ago it seemed like peasants and nobles alike were pushing their way past one another outside of the castles walls. Going about their day's as planned. She looked to her right and as soon as she did she heard a sharp voice.

"Ya know..."

MC snapped her eyesight to the left. Standing next to her, looking directly forward, was a seemingly common man, with blazing red hair and honey eyes. The sun hitting them, the trajectory of the light making them shine gold. He was not looking at MC and he had not finished his sentence. MC stared at him with wide eyes. Wondering if he was going to continue. The silence making her uncomfortable. She furrowed her brows and inhaled, ready to break the silence. But as if he was baiting her to try and say something, before she could get the words out, the man cut her off.

"I found that just staring at things doesn't cause them to do what you want. Allow me to assist you, fair maiden!" The red haired man walked up to the gate. When he gave it a few gentle raps with his knuckles, the gate began to part open. "You see. Just gotta know the right knock to get in." He winked and walked back beside of MC.

"Thanks but...I wasn't exactly trying to get inside." MC mumbled to herself, clenching her hands into fists and looking down at the dirt beneath her, but her voice carries more than she is aware of.

"Oh, were you not? Are you waiting on a formal invitation? No that can't be right. You already got one!"

When she looked to her side the man was gone again. She found him perched. Sitting on one of the nearby posts by the gate. A very high post. She was impressed he made it up to sit. She arched an eyebrow at him quizzically.

"You know who I am?"

"Why of course! You're the new sheriff in town! I was just on my way inside and as a member of the royal court, seeing you, it is my duty to greet you! Make you feel at home!" The lively man jumped down and stood beside her once more. He picked up the roughed up sack and satchel MC had brought with her and threw them over his shoulder. "So onward we go my lord!" With his free arm he pointed forward in a charging motion and began to hastily walk through the gate doors.

MC chuckled to herself and found that her legs that earlier felt like they were cemented to the ground, now were as light as feathers and she took the first step forward since she had arrived at C&R Kingdom. She quickened her pace to catch up with her new acquaintance.

"So you know me, but who exactly are you? You seem very informal for a member of the royal court."

The man stopped and turned toward her with a deadpan look. Then a single tear fell from the corner of his eye. MC stood in horror trying to think of what she had done to trigger such emotion.

"Thank you! That is one of the nicest things anyone could say to me!" His honey eyes sparkling from the moisture of his fake tears, closed tight as he let out a hardy laugh and began to walk forward once more. "The name is Saeyoung! And I am the royal scribe!" He stopped and waited for MC to step beside him and then he leaned in close to her ear. "I am also the self appointed caretaker of the Prince's royal feline, but that's between you and I." Saeyoung winked at MC and they continued on their walk down the paved path to the castles main doors.

MC was walking with her hands clasped behind her back and her posture straight as a board. She was not carrying anything since the scribe so graciously scooped up her things. She knew that she was within the castle walls now however, and she needed to present herself in a certain manner. She came to be the head of an army. A "Lord" to the Prince. She had not yet met Prince Jumin but she couldn't let herself falter in the eyes of anyone who was already known to him. The people within these walls were potentially her men, the people she was to lead. And even those that were not hers to command, she felt needed to see her and take her seriously in her new position. Aside from that, intimidation. The Prince and the royal court may have invited her to the kingdom of C&R but that didn't meant it's people would be so gracious as well. She walked tall and proud but her inner Knight had rusted armor.

"And those are the only titles you hold?" MC side eyed her companion, looking for a specific answer.

"Well, some people call me Seven! As for titles though, I hold no more. Is something bothering you oh brave knight?"

"Bothering me? No. It does not bother me. But you did not mention to me that you can do magic."

Saeyoung did not stop walking but MC noticed that his shoulders tensed. He was only about a foot in front of her. He looked back and she saw the corner of his lips upturn slightly.

"Is that so? I wasn't planning on bringing it up so that is probably why, well...probably why I didn't!" He laughed but MC did not find it as entertaining as him.

"Well yes, after all, you are a mage." MC stopped walking, signalling that she was starting a heavier conversation between the two. "So you are like me. Hiding somewhere that accepts your differences because the rest of the lands fear what you do."

Saeyound let out a loud gasp and held his hands over his heart. "Oh Revolutionary Knight! Such filthy words you speak! The M word is forbidden across this land and many many others!"

She raised her brow at the man once more. Not playing along with his games. "But you are. That gate has to be manually operated but there was no one stationed at that point. You were perched on that post that was far to high and difficult to climb, and you are carrying those bags with such ease because you aren't really carrying them. They are hovering."

"Looks like you caught me oh wise and ruthless knight!" Saeyoung placed his hands behind his head, interlocking his fingers and using them as a pillow. He leaned back. Far enough to where he could lift his legs off the ground. He was levitating now, swinging side to side as if he were in an invisible hammock. "I have magic hands. It's true. And if you come to my chambers later I could even show you my crystal ball." He raised his eyebrows a time or two at MC.

"I'll pass." MC hoisted herself up to sit on the half wall that was bordering the paved path they were walking. Saeyoung brought his feet back down to meet the the path and leaned against the wall. Putting his weight on his elbows. "You use magic so openly?"

"Within these walls, absolutely! These are my people! They love The Great Wizard Saeyoung!" He stood up and began to move his hands around gracefully, like he was summoning spells over a cauldron.

MC merely rolled her eyes. "I doubt that anyone calls you that."

Saeyoung floated himself to sit next to MC on top of the wall and he let out a soft sigh. "Listen, MC. You've heard of The Knights of the Round Table?" MC only nodded her head in response. "The great knight, Arthur Pendragon, who wields the legendary sword Excalibur. King Arthur who fights with his companion the great wizard, Merlin! That. That is you and I. Our destiny. What we are about to become. This Kingdom faces a great danger. The Empress of Magenta and her Mint army. They will come soon. And when that time comes, you and I will stop her! Together. The Valiant Knight and Extraordinary Wizard! THE FAMOUS DUO! MC AND SEVEN! SEVEN AND MC! WITH THEIR STEEL AND MAGIC! HEROES OF C&R!" He flung his arms towards the sky but gave himself a little too much momentum. The enthusiastic story teller lost balance and tumbled backwards. The path they were walking and the wall they were perched on were not high, but the drop behind them was pretty significant.

"Saeyoung!" MC shouted after him, hopping off of the wall and grabbing his wrist.

"Nice catch, MC! But there was really no need to get so worked up. I mean...you know...legendary wizard and all." He smirked and MC pulled him up over the ledge. Instead of sitting back on the wall they settled for leaning against it.

"Sure, all of that sounds exciting Saeyoung but Arthur and Merlin? They are just legends, myths."

"So were you, MC. The Revolutionary Knight. But here you are, right in front of me. Coming to help our lowly little kingdom."

A million thoughts began to rush through MC's head and she leaned in silence. The energetic red haired man she had met only minutes ago was trying to convince her of this tale about a disgraced maiden on the run, turned hero. She didn't want to be a house wife, a simple maiden or the princess to some kingdom she didn't care for just because of a sham marriage. So she became a fighter and a rogue, knowing it was not how things are supposed to work. Once that facade came crashing down she was an outlaw. And now she is back in someone's kingdom, under someones rule but she is an authority. All of these thoughts where overwhelming but she knew as the "Revolutionary Knight" she didn't have time to dwell. She was to push forward.

"Well," She pushed herself off of the wall and collected her sack and satchel from the ground. "If we are going to become legendary heroes to be remembered...It's a good thing you're handsome."

Caught off guard by the comment, Saeyoungs cheeks flushed. Then he rushed after MC who had made it quite away's ahead of him.

"So are you rethinking your answer to meeting me in my chambers later?" The magician teased.

"Absolutely not."

Saeyoung huffed at MC's blatant response. They walked in a comfortable silence for a moment until the atrocious roar of MC's intestines burst forth.

"Aha! Our hero is hungry! It just so happens I know where to find the best chef in the kingdom!" Saeyoung grabbed MC's forearm and jerked her into a new direction. "This way! Off to see the kingdoms royal chef! Who not only is the best chef, but he is also the cutest." Saeyoung laughed to himself as he drug MC off to a separate place other than the main entrance to the castle. There was still a bit of time before she had to meet with Prince Jumin.

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kaptain-writes · 5 years

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The Emperor and The Traveler

Premise: A powerful Emperor meets an unexpected visitor...

Author’s Note: I’m not particularly looking for criticism on this, as it’s more of something from the heart than anything I’m worried about being seen as perfect. It’s been years since I last wrote anything, but this felt like something I had to get out. It’s definitely not my best work, but maybe it’s a gateway to doing more. If you’re reading this, thanks for taking the time, and I hope it doesn’t disappoint.

The Emperor and The Traveler

The Emperor sat in his gilded throne room. He was attended to by a great many handmaidens; guarded by a thousand men. He wore a golden mask in the visage of a dragon atop his head. It had been crafted in such a way that the Emperor could only ever look forward, never around him. His subjects loved him, hated him, sympathized with him, spoke against him, bled for him, and inevitably died for him. He wore his bright red robes as if he was a god of blood; his black armor as if he was the darkness of death itself.

On this particular evening, the Emperor rested on his throne. His palace was silent, his guards unmoving in their vigil. His mask looked as if it hadn't moved in a century, though the man inside would be steeped in contemplation. How many had fallen for him to attain his position? What was his empire when he was just a man?

In the midst of his reverie, the Emperor had not noticed the woman appear before him. She wore a black fedora on her long white hair. Her eyes were obscured by a pair of sunglasses; her face looked young but gaunt. She was dressed in a wool coat with a checkered scarf over a dress shirt and black suspenders. The woman's pants were formal, her shoes polished black. She held a cane in her black-gloved hand that had a cat's skull as the grip.

The Emperor stood up, confused by the woman's presence in his court. "Guards!" he shouted. A clatter could be heard, as weapons were unsheathed and men in thick armor turned to face the intruder. "That will not be necessary, my Emperor." she grinned, before snapping her fingers. In an instant, the guards had vanished, leaving the two alone in the Emperor's throne room. "Where are they!? Where are my guards!?!" The Emperor snarled. "They are where we are not, my Emperor. They are perfectly safe." the woman said.

The Emperor unsheathed his own blade, moving towards the woman. "How dare you intrude on my throne room! How dare you take my guards!" he spat, storming up to the unmoving woman, who only stood smiling. "My Emperor, I am not here to fight you. I am not here to harm you or challenge you. I am a mere traveler." she said. Her voice was smooth, but there was a spark behind it, like a madness ready to unfold. The Emperor placed his blade at her chin, the woman's grin not even fading as he pushed it as close to her throat without drawing blood. "You do not fear death? You mock me in front of my own throne!?" he growled. The woman simply laughed, instantly moving from the end of his sword to inches away from his face. The Emperor gazed through his mask into the black lenses but saw nothing. The woman continued to grin, staring into the golden mask, into the Emperor's own eyes.

In the next moment, the Emperor found himself alone in the throne room. His guards were still missing, as he backed up to his seat. Falling into the embrace of the ornate throne, he dropped his sword. "My Emperor, I am but a mere traveler." a voice echoed in the empty chambers. It was suddenly right beside him. "I am humbled by what I've seen, and maddened by the enormity of it; emboldened by my right to share it this day." She leaped down from the arm of the throne, twirling her cane as she sidled up in front of him. "Come, my Emperor, I have a great gift for one so magnanimous as you." she laughed, holding her hand out to him.

Confused, frustrated, and insulted, the Emperor chose to stand up and take the woman's hand. "I will have your head by the end of this." he contested. "By the end of what? By the end of our talk? By the end of your empire? By the end of your world? My dear Emperor, endings don't exist when time marches on without you or I." she said, pulling the Emperor off of the steps and to the floor.

With what could only be described as the shout of an angered lion, the Emperor fell on his back, sprawling on the marble floor. The woman stood at the top of her steps, both hands on the cat's skull of her cane. "Shall we begin then, my Emperor?" she held up one hand, snapping her fingers in a way that reverberated in the hall.

As his vision adjusted, the Emperor could see a pitch black sky, before he sat up and noticed where they were. The woman stood in front of his palace, grinning as wide as ever as she pulled him to his feet. "This is your home, correct? Your empire, your domain?" the question was rhetorical of course, but he felt behooved to answer. "Yes. Of which you are trespassing." he spat. "Ah, trespassing, no my sweet Emperor, I am simply traveling. Your Empire, your throne room, just happened to be one of my stops," she explained. "What a beautiful empire it is too! One that worships a dragon emperor that never looks behind him for his future is all that he thirsts for; unaware of the famine he might leave in his wake." "How DARE you say such things! My people are fulfilled! My empire is strong, my armies powerful! I stand above all those that come before me!" he instinctively reached for his sword before realizing it was not there.

The woman turned around, gazing at the draconic flags that adorned the great structure. "Your people? My Emperor, since when were your people not just a means to an end? They benefit when you benefit, they fail when you fail, and they bleed when you bleed. What more could they be to you?" she asked with one hand outstretched. "Worthless cur! I will end yo-" the Emperor's response was cut off by another loud snap.

Both figures now stood on a hill, overlooking an almost endless field of grass. "Do you know this place, my Emperor?" the woman asked. As he regained his composure, the Emperor stumbled to her side, choosing to look instead of an attempt to strike her. "I know not what trickery this is nor where you have brought us, but I will see it end now!" he spat. She just turned, her ever-present grin putting the brutish man off balance. "This is where the greatest battle you fought was conducted! The blood of a great many men shed nourishing the earth. What a terrifying and glorious day that was for you, right, my Emperor? When your army clashed against the neighboring empire's and was seen to its doom?" "Impossible! This land is filled with the remains of the dead from that day even now! Their weapons broken and strewn about! You lie to me, trick me more, vile woman!?" The woman took off her hat, holding it to her heart as she pointed the end of her cane to the distance.

A rock sat in the middle of the field, with a skull resting at its base. The Emperor kneeled beside it. He gingerly pushed it aside, finding the remains of an insignia from one of his soldiers. "What...is this? Why are you showing me these things?" he asked, looking up at the grinning woman. "Why? Don't worry about why just yet, my Emperor. There is much to see." she said before snapping her fingers again.

The Emperor found himself on a tall structure, lined with windows. There was thick smoke in the distance; dogs barking, bangs and pops, mechanical beasts roaring through gray strips of land. "Wh-where are..." he began, aghast at the alien nature of his surroundings. "This is what the world is. This is a place you never were, where nobody belongs, and everyone has found themselves in. A great city, where the only constants are decay and pain." she said. The Emperor struggled to keep his footing, as the woman calmly walked along the edge like a cat in the shape of a human. "This world you see around you knows only the self, where a great many humans try to avoid their inevitable fall." The Emperor looked over the edge, watching a man brandished an object made of metal at another man. A loud bang, followed by another, and his opponent was laying in a pool of red. "This world is a painful, lonely one." the woman continued, before snapping her fingers once more.

Again they found themselves on the rooftops of more strange buildings, but this time it was different. The city below was clean, smooth, with men wearing outfits similar to the woman's walking to and fro. A young man stopped to give food to a beggar; while another gave his cab to an older man. "There is still kindness though. There is still gentleness, camaraderie. The ever-pressing contradiction of humanity's nature pressing in all around that pain and loneliness. Isn't it beautiful? To live in such a strange world?" the woman said, turning to the Emperor. "Humans are odd creatures, don't you agree, my Emperor?" He simply remained silent. His eyes moved back and forth in the mask before he closed them tightly in an attempt to...to wake up from this strange dream. Another snap.

When he opened his eyes, the Emperor saw a quiet row of wheeled boxes. There was furniture and refuse littering yards. The same loud beasts but dormant and rusted laying amidst these places. Flashing lights could be seen inside, as he peered into the windows to see individuals and families watching a colored box, making food, playing and talking. "Simple, isn't it? Such poor accommodations and yet people manage to live out their lives in simplicity." the woman said, walking alongside the Emperor. "It's like...a wasteland...but with homes built in it." he gaped. "A wasteland is correct. These are not homes in many ways though. This is a wasteland of humanity." the woman said, before pointing to one of the homes. One of the metal beasts careened past, metal pointing out of the windows and clattering like the sounds of hell itself. In moments the home was full of holes, just before exploding in a ball of flame. The woman stood in front of the gout of flames. Snap.

All around them, as far as the eye could see, was nothing but ash. Fires left burning, smoldering wreckage of the world they had just left, the remains of structures brought low around the two figures. The Emperor looked amazed. "Traveler...where is this?" he asked, walking slowly down the destroyed paths. "This is what humanity does, my Emperor. They self destruct. This is the remains of a world gone wrong." the Emperor looked around, horrified by the destruction he saw. "Why...why?" The woman just continued grinning as he fell to his knees in front of her. "Oh, my Emperor. There is so much more though," she said. Snap.

They stood aboard a ship, swaying and pitching as a violent storm whipped around them. Men screamed at each other, pulling ropes and tying knots. "This is also what humanity does, my Emperor! They challenge nature, and persevere!" the woman shouted with shrill laughter. The Emperor clung to the side of the ship, watching the people scrabble about the decks; a man in ostentatious attire much like his own barked orders at the crew. "Humanity survives, in a world that deems them fit to die!" Snap.

This time they stood on top of a great metal leviathan, surrounded by darkness. "Wha-" the Emperor stood in awe, looking at a great blue, white, and green giant. He was speechless at the silence and serenity of the image, with the stars twinkling around him. "This, my Emperor, is humanity's intelligence! They choose to go as far as they please, apathetic to those that tell them not to!" Snap.

A woman standing in defiance of men who seek to silence her. "Humanity choosing what's right for itself!" Snap. A man being put to death as a traitor, where authoritative figures stood gathered, exchanging coffers of money. "Humanity choosing their end for the sake of those that come after! Humanity finding its own fortune the means to its own end!" Snap. A group of people surrounded by fire pushing against a smaller group with shields. "Humanity choosing to rise up against their own to allow themselves to live freely! Free men and women choosing to hold others under their own beliefs! This is humanity, my Emperor! Contradiction and perseverance!" Snap.

They now both stood atop the Emperor's palace, overlooking his subjects going about their daily lives. People bartering with one another for bread; doctors moving to see patients, farmers carrying crops to the stalls, soldiers guarding diligently. "This is humanity. These are your people my Emperor. They are a means to your end as much as their own." the woman said, before one last snap.

The Emperor found himself sitting in his throne. His guards surrounded him once again, although seemingly unaware of the woman's presence. She picked up his sword, handing it to him. He glared through his mask, taking the blade. "Why have you shown me these things, Traveler?" he demanded. She turned around, adjusting her fedora and clicking her cane on the steps as she began to walk away. "My Emperor, I show you these things for your own gain, as everything else in your life has been. I only ask that you remove your mask that excludes the world around you. For you have everything but have seen very little beyond what belongs to you. I, however, have nothing but have seen a great deal in my travels. I come tonight to give you a glimpse into what more and how much greater you could be." she turned her head to the side, removing her sunglasses finally. Two beautiful brown eyes, dyed in madness and bejeweled in history looked back at the Emperor. "Farewell my Emperor, and may you live to see the world through eyes that have traveled."

#kaptain writes #the emperor and the traveler #by susan lavender

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xyfanficarchive · 6 years

Text

Four-Letter Word

(Sequel to Firelight - Part 1 here!)

Pairing: DBH Simon x Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: a little angst

Summary: The reader is a human who is dedicated to helping the people of Jericho. After seeing only three made it to jump off the roof of Stratford Tower, they are worried sick waiting to find which of the four didn’t make it.

Word Count: 1835

Author’s Note: Holy hell y’all. I don’t think anything I’ve written in my whole life has ever come easier than both parts of this story. This is like three pages long! it feels good, man. I hope you all enjoy this!

There was a faint whistling coming from all around. Outside a violent snowstorm raged, the air sounding just as angry, as biting and bitter cold as it felt, even deep down in the hold of that rusting old ship. The residents of Jericho were restless, a general discomfort and fidgety energy of unease hung heavy in the air. Everybody was nervous.

You tried to conserve your energy, reluctant to leave the little bubble of comfortable warmth your heated blanket provided you in the raised room overlooking the main chamber. You were all set up, headphones playing music, browsing the internet on your tablet, screen illuminating your features blue in the low light. To an onlooker, you might have appeared calm, almost offensively calm given your humanity and the situation, but on the inside you were almost sick with worry. It was all just an attempt to distract yourself from the weight of the situation, and the pit in your stomach growing wider, threating to swallow up your insides as the hours ticked by with no word from Markus, North, Josh, and Simon.

You were almost at the point of regretting encouraging them to go to Stratford Tower. It was a surprise when Markus had asked you for your opinion. Up until that point you had just been staying quiet about their plans, thinking it wasn’t your place as a human to be giving your thoughts at will. Yet still, after discussing it with the other three, he turned to you and asked what you thought. You’d pointed at yourself inquisitively. Did they really mean you? After shaking off the shock you’d said that… it seemed like a suicide run, given your human perspective. But if anyone at all was going to be able to pull off a heist of this magnitude, it would be a team of androids with superior reflexes and mental abilities unclouded by human perceptions. That if there was one way to grab the undivided attention of everyone in the country, it would be this. And secretly you’d thought that it was about damn time someone in this whole android commune stood up to make their voice heard, instead of hiding fearfully in the dark as you’d seen them do for over a year now.

“It’s settled then,” Markus had said determinedly. “We go to Stratford Tower tomorrow.” And you tried to not let the swell of pride you felt bubbling up in your chest spill up and over onto your face at the thought that your judgment was valued by someone here.

Now, you sat deathly still, and deathly afraid, trying not to let your mind drift off to those places that told you would have heard from them by now, that they hadn’t made it, that they were all dead, and all because of you. All because of you, and your stupid judgement.

It was then that you’d seen it. After half an hour of fruitlessly refreshing one of your social media feeds over and over, the first post popped up. A live newscast showing a replay of the events that had just transpired. A showing of the speech that – yes, undoubtedly that was Markus without his skin – had delivered. Relief flooded your chest. They’d at least made it to broadcast their message. You didn’t take in any of the words the newscasters said, none of their fearful and negative opinions, instead waiting for a confirmation that they’d all made it to jump. It was then that the feed cut to a sweeping helicopter shot of the skyscrapers and streets of Detroit, partially obscured by snow, and one, two, three… Three. Three. Three parachutes.

All that relief in your chest dissipated in an instant, like sand falling through the cracks in your fingers. Numb fear oozed and creeped up on your limbs and into your throat, thick and black like pitch. Only three parachutes. Only three had made it to the jump. And as guilty as you felt for it, you hoped to god that it wasn’t Simon left behind to whatever unknown fate befell the last person.

You were starting to feel that fidgety, uneasy energy now. You shed your heated blanket to stand up, shivering in the chill of the air. A panic was starting to twirl in your brain, dizzying as you paced the length of the room and ran your fingers through your hair, and wrapped your coat tighter around your body. You couldn’t bear the loss of Simon, you just couldn’t.

It was true that your relationship had changed following that spring night of the storm, standing by the fire, as you spilled all your feelings about humanity and androids to him. As he touched your face so gently, so intimately, and you’d come so close to… something, so close. Not close enough before he’d pulled away and left you all alone. He’d retrieved those blankets and handed them to you wordlessly, without even meeting your eyes. You fell asleep that night feeling… disappointed? Hurt? You couldn’t really tell between the cocktail of emotions swirling in your head. The next morning you left without saying anything to anyone, and without seeing Simon.

It was different in the most painful of ways from then on. You still returned to Jericho to deliver thirium and spare parts on your normal semi-regular schedule. It took a while for him to warm back up to you, but Simon remained friendly. He kept his distance though, both emotionally and physically. You couldn’t deny that it hurt. It hurt a lot, almost more than if he had cut you out completely. It was like that moment by the fire drawn out into infinity; so close, and yet never close enough. In the months that followed you were always at arms length to him, and you tried to be okay with it, tried to convince yourself that you weren’t as messed up emotionally about this particular boundary he wanted to set, but in all truth that night had brought your feelings about him to a head. And you missed it all; the closeness, the casual touches and embraces, the conversations. You missed his warmth. You missed just being able to look into those beautiful blue-grey eyes of his and not have it be weird. Yes, you felt for him so deeply, but tried not to think about that one four-letter word for fear that it would cement this all irrevocably into reality.

Still more agonizing was the thought of him dying. The thought that he was dead somewhere on top of that broadcast tower, body destined to be hauled off and taken apart, dissected and analyzed and once they were done, simply tossed out like he was nothing more than an object. Nothing more than garbage. The thought that you would never, ever in your life see him again, the possibilities you wanted to explore with him shut off as tight as could be by the finality of death. It sent your mind into a spin, and you sat on the floor, knees tucked up into your chest, on the verge of tears for another hour yet before you heard a commotion coming from Jericho’s main room.

You knew it meant they were back. You screwed your eyes shut, and covered your ears, scared of being clued in to which three returned before you were ready to know. You knew eventually you would have to work up the courage to face it, so you counted to three, and then again, and then again before you stood yourself up. Legs shaking, fists clenched, and eyes firmly on the floor, you made your way out the door and onto the catwalk before you faced your fears and looked up to scan through the crowd.

You found the three in the center of a circle gathering around. And your heart stopped, all the noise and panic in your head stopped, the world crept to a standstill around you. Simon wasn’t there. Funny enough, once you were actually face to face with the reality of it, you didn’t know how to react. It felt like your insides were being ripped out in front of you, and you were distinctly aware of the pressure and sharp ache behind your eyes that accompanied the need to cry, but you couldn’t. You just stood there, completely still, in complete anguish but unable to do anything about it. You saw Markus tilt his head up to lock eyes with you. He shot you a sympathetic glance before turning his attention back to his people. The only thing you felt you could do was amble back to slump down in your original spot, curling up under the heated blanket.

It was a while before Markus came into the room. Jericho was celebrating the success of their mission outside, but he came up to sit down beside you. You didn’t even have the strength to look at him. The silence was palpable for a moment, before he finally spoke up.

“You’re worried about Simon, aren’t you?” He asks softly. You don’t know how to answer, so you stay quiet, but he speaks again before it becomes awkward.

“He’s not dead, you know. Or, not that we last saw him anyways,” he tells you. “He was injured. He’d been shot in the legs. We –’’ his face twisted up in an expression of pain and remorse – “We had to leave him on the rooftop. He couldn’t make the jump. We would have all been killed otherwise.” You lift your head up to see his face, looking into his heterochromatic eyes.

“We left him a gun to defend himself with. He’s smart. He’ll make it back to us,” Markus says. His voice is so smooth and comforting that you can almost believe it. The room falls back into silence, and your gaze drifts back down to the floor. He speaks up again, gently, hesitantly, quietly, as if he’s afraid to disturb the hush:

“You love him, don’t you?” Your eyes widen, as your head snaps back up towards him again. Your lips part, with words just on the tip of your tongue that refuse to leave, as you feel that barrier around your head start to come down. You meet his eyes with an expression of fear, and pain, and bewilderment on your face. “I can see it in your eyes, when you look at him,” his voice barely above a whisper.

You can feel that wall holding back your tears cracking and crumbling under the weight of it all, the pressure behind your face releasing as it twists up and you let out a sob, burying it in your hands. You love Simon. You love him. You love him. You love him.

You cry, choked sobs wracking your body, shaking your whole being, as Markus wraps an arm around your back, soothingly stroking his hand up and down your side.

“He’ll make it back. I promise.”

You just wish you could believe him.

#dbh x reader #detroit become human x reader #dbh simon x reader #dbh #dbh simon #x.writing

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queen-asante · 6 years

Text

ejucated immigrant

((AUTHOR’S NOTE: @eene-fangirl For the Fanfiction Weekend Challenge! I should probably wait to post this for Rolf Appreciation Month, but there’s a lot of Jonny backstory/headcanons in here, so I thought it would count. Basically, it’s a poem from Rolf’s POV but it’s technically about Jonny, or rather, Jonny was my muse for this.

I haven’t written a poem in Rolf’s ‘’voice’’ since 2014 but believe it or not, that one little line that Edd says in ‘’A Case of Ed’’ inspired the poem (you know, the one), and as I was reading Ntozake Shange’s for colored girls who have considered suicide/ when the rainbow is enuf, it produced said result. A turnip for your thoughts? I don’t normally write Rolf like this, it’s actually more like Rolf emulating Ntozake Shange for those familiar with her style. As an Indian Immigrant girl who’s considered suicide, that book changed my life, she’s my idol. Hence, the poem is written in ebonics and all lower case to pay homage to Shange (and I consciously dropped third person redundancies, it wasn’t a mistake). Three non-EEnE characters are briefly mentioned: the first one is Vanessa, my friend who’s half African-American and half Haitian. The second one is Ice, who belongs to my friend, Dani. Ice, in her world, is a black and white cat who becomes Double D’s pet. Rolf fears him because he’s not only black and white, but he shares the name of Immigration and Customs Enforcement by pure coincidence. Dani didn’t plan this, as she created Ice before she met me but she liked the idea of giving Rolf a reason to fear the cat, and so we came up with that story together. The third one is Dr. Feelgood who was my therapist, it’s not her real name, it was an affectionate nickname I coined for her in my years battling Bipolar Disorder Type 3.

As a closing thought, much apologies for the length, also tumblr’s going to mess up the format.))

‘’ejucated immigrant’’

dear gods,

i be 14 wit skin as rough as treebark & hands dat look old

i waz the dark skined immigrant wanting to bathe in bleach

Brown Black / Blue Black / Amber Beige / Bister Brick Bronze / Chestnut Chocolate Cinnamin

Copper / Drab / Dust / Ginger / Fawn / Ochre / Coffe Colourd Caramel

Tawny / Terra-Cotta / Henna / Sepia / Umbre

lookin in the thesurus eddward wit two ds give me when i come to dis country

everything spell Brown but nothing spell White

White sound nice like pearl like snow like milk like golden skined white skined light skined

honey dipped / lemon kissed / but begging for ivory / fair frosted silvery ashen boy jimmy

your white hands on my brown skin

i waz the dark skined immigrant botherin to drag you round

you stand there like a closed mouth statue & you insult my way of life

think you know everythin / rolf just some ignorant third world peasant or somethin

but we be livin dis way longer than the foundin of your land

your country young my country old

numbers & poppy / it just to give you illegitimately born breeds of donkeys

somethin to hee-haw over / science say there no gods either but who know dat

you cannot contain lightning bugs in a jar

i waz the dark skined immigrant dreamin of shakin the mr presidents hand

the former mr president wit eyes like a tired old man & Brown his Brown like a mud bath

it really too bad you know / rolf like your former president

dat black man who dont check dixtionaries for validation of his blackness

he not so bad / he waz sympathetic to the plight of the immigrant but his hands tied

not blame him / he not god he not have all the power in the world to fix dis weather

dis cloud dat hang over your land & who the hell is perfect?

it really such a shame / i dream to see the Hill / see the pearly house painted white the place where he live meet him shake his large brown hand / one brown hand to another

cept i not black / rolf not have to be / not pass / rolf european he is white not bloodless

he not pass he not be white enough for your country

cept i be white on the inside look coloured on the out but i aint no coloured

under my skin i am more than a colour

whoever herd of white passing for person of colour

but suddenly i get to dis country & i be treated no different than jonny

so alls i got is coloured dreams

poor grate nano lived & died on silly dreams / well they not exist

there be only reality & reality not kind to the dark skined indigenous immigrant

no one know what i supposed to be / take a wild guess

indian pakistani mexican romani rolf herd it all & none suppose right

they only looking at my face / the outside the outside not matter

cuz i waz the dark skined immigrant not italian not irish but the other kinds

& no one will see unless rolf cut open his veins & bleed

a Wood Nymph have my colour & if i check off the box dat say caucasian i get a funny look

from the lady sittin behind the counter wit the yellow nail polish & beaded eyeglass

spose if jonny do the same they wont believe him neither

jonny be good

yous see him dancin / wearin his stomach out / dark skined bare feet / swayin his hips

& grate thin arms but he not care dat he gots splinters in his fingertips

his nails turnin all black & blue & those chapped lips look like eyes starin out atchu

the gods make dis child the way he is

wit skinted knees & all & elbows pointed outwards readin you like a map

always wit the label on the left side

but he bootiful & he know it / beauty sometime come in the empty coffee can

not in the paper lillies or plastic pearls

you cant make a silk purse from a sows ear / even if dat ear be made of wood

of wood widda crayon drawn smile

jonnys mother the madwoman in the attic

rolf be certain jonny the wood boy some kind of elf from the passage of Valhöll

the mother of the Tree Sprite she not like rolf / well she not like any child it seems

weepy jimmy-boy & rolf invited to jonny-boys abode for a meeting of the Urban Rangers

& tho his mother never says so we feel she not like us very well

she never ast us to stay for lunch

even tho rolf personally would not eat a morsel of what these people eat

& we always been so polite to her but still she build walls

rolf believe she jealous of us becuz jonny likes us

she come out to the parlour / barefoot / flowers in her wild tangled mess of black raven hair

like yoko ono & wearing a long paisley skirt / she bootiful in an earthy sort of way

but she has a wild look in her eyes like a tigress

a violently insane expression like a german vampire dat make rolf think of bertha mason

she looms over her son like a dark older sister becuz they look so alike

altho her skin much darker / a deep chocolate brown / her complexion remind rolf of vanessa maybe she is haitian / she like the demon in nanas stories the one we all have widdin us

who comes out when we try too hard to be good children

she look at white as snow jimmy & myself like she disprove

either she not like us the uniforms or both

rolf forget tho these hippies wit their anti-establishment

they think every uniform represents what jonny calls ‘’the Man’’ & dats what it is rolf think

she not want jonny in the organisation

becuz she think it goes against their opposition to social norms

rolf could tell she wanted to ast us to leave / she not like jonny spending so much time wit us

becuz then he not at home meditating wit her or whatever it is they do

jonnys family is strange / they not eat meat & walk around shoeless

rolf has been called a gypsy by the children at school but flower child jonny seem to rolf more of a gypsy if there ever waz such a thing

he is almost ethereal / his family must be from a clan of faeries the kind nana warns rolf about but brown-skinned jonny seem harmless enough

i watch his mama put a daisy in the pocket of his jeans

i not know if his daddy be white or black but what difference does dat make

rolf understand it is important for a child to love their family no matter their faults

i know The Giving Tree still love his mother

even if she would prefer him to leave the Urban Rangers

of us three jimmy be the whitest of white jonny the blackest of black & i somewhere in between

but any one of us can walk into a puerto rican bar & start speakin spanish

& no one would know what we are

race too complicated & people too narrow minded / want everything boxed in

one day we waz layin on dat grassy knoll / jonny & i

where the trees whisper to us & we whisper back

cuz you know the boy talk to trees & i listen to his voice / & i be lookin at our hands you see

cuz we waz layin inches apart a flower between us & i tuck it behind his ear

then i look & see my skin only one shade lighter than his

tho the sun make me browner than i really be

out in the sun for hours & hours plowing & plowing the fields

by sundown i roasted coffee bean brown / as black as the inside of a chimney

& if i stumble into town any passing stranger would think i waz Black i mean African

id have to stay out of the sun for days to get my old colour black lest i wander round wit only the whites of my eyes visible on my sun burnt dyed rust brown brown skin

& hair so course youd suppose it come off a horses ass

lookin more like an American Indian than a White

i holdin the back of my hand up to jonnys now

how bout dat two brown hands one dark & one light but whos to say i not be a dark white & he not a light skined brown

dont you dare tell me what i am & am not

bitch dis aint no south africa where yous all can reassign us based on what you think

i aint no sandra laing but sometime i wouldnt mind bein black if it meant for you to leave me be

in fact ill gladly be whatever you want me to be but i am what i am

not black enough for black not white enough for white so what am i?

dont box me into Black & White / cuz in dis world brother dat not exist

im sorry as hell but i gettin real tired of bein called

an illegal / an alien / a wop / a gypsy / a guinea / a brownie whatever you want to call us

all your bigoted slurs clumping us together like we one & the same

dat fine but papers or no papers not define who i am

so uncle sam can take it & shove it

welcome to america!

i be having a long love affair wit your country & people

i also be having a war wit em

mama told me there are limits for dark skined immigrants stuck in dis light skined first world

we come over the border wit all the rest of them

wit all them people from central & south america

wit all them refugees from africa & asia

guess what we blend right in we look no different

look just like any other brown faced ‘’illegal alien’’

border patrol take one look at us & think we just like the rest

cuz yesterdays europeans are todays mexicans & middle easterners

coloured Sons of Shepherds gots few chances

what it like to be bilingual / to speak in two tounge

ah but to be fluent in one & not the other tryin to find any definishun in the dixtionary

in which i drop third person redunduncies cuz i only one person not three

& i only speak two language

you speak spanish?

no habla inglés

you speak english?

i dont speak spanish

one day the hat & head as one edd boy say oh rolf! youre so unejucated!

i think my ears deseeve me but i know what i herd

i wish to strike his milk honey cheeks full of nonsense

& say to him i am the ejucated immigrant you be warned about

dont talk to me bout ejucashun

i sale cross the oshun

i wash up on your shore

i lern another language

it wasnt easy

what you know bout ejucashun

all you know come from books & theories

at least i know where i stand

you are a child & i am old old old my hands notted thick wit veins like the roots of a tree

you say i sound angry / yea i angry but not as angry as you

cuz there nothing they fear more than a minority who knows what up

i used to be fraid but not no more

i used to fear the plainclothes agents in Black & White uniform

of immigration & customes enforecement / of ICE police

of eddwards Black & White cat name Ice on ICE

he must be making fool out of me to call a domesticated beast after homeland security

a cat in uniform because the gods make him so not by choice

like there be some purpose to it / i waz the dark skined immigrant you made fun of

i see what they do to the undocumented immigrant on the telly

but now i not be fraid / becuz you cant touch me

so the grapefruit widda red ugly mouth & bleached hair sit in office now

damming all them people from ‘’shithole countries’’ / just as well but we here to stay

it not what i ast for but no use fighting it

& i will gladly pull the bookmarks from my english dixtionary

the one double d edd boy give me

no longer will i bathe in bleach / only use to washing dishes & floors

i not some bloody floor

‘’immigrant’’

at least i can spell dat / i look it up in the dixtionary

websters dixtionary / who the hell is webster?

but now it marked up used copy wit yellow post it notes

i use it a lot to lern your tounge

i not smart but i sho as hell not unejucated / papa can tell me dat

i be in your country in first place to reseeve ‘’best ejucashun’’ like grate nano wanted

grate nano waz an adventurer / a dreamer wit big goals

he travell far & wide seeking fame & fortune

when he a very young boy immigrants from every cesspool in western & eastern europe set sale for The North / it waz always grate nanos dream to travel North

everyone say he more insane than a bovine wit mad cows disease

there no room in dis life for dreams they tell him / he prove our village wrong

when rolf eight years of age grate nano briefly left the Old Country to set sale for america

everyone say he be too old / he never too old for dreams

he wanted to find dat American Dream he hear so often about

spoken wit fondness by the tinkers who visit our land

he returned from his valiant voyage wit stories about what he seen

in the North he said everyone has cars & money & television & running water

no one listen / The North the North they say dat is all you ever talk about

he waz a man who dreamed of a new life for his family & so he decided to send for us

& make a better life for ourselves after the plagues of the land had haunted our family for years grate nano promised us america he said youll soon be eating apple pie from off a china plate white picket fence / coca cola / santa clause / marilyn monroe / empire state building

it sound like a fairytale he spun a legend dat the streets waz paved wit gold

& we believed him for shining in grate nanos eye waz a dream & so here we are

rest his soul he wanted so much to buy us light & sun & clean wind of the oshun

‘’immigrant’’ waz a new word for rolf when he first come here

did not know after hearing the stories from grate nano dat he would soon be one himself

rolf not know what dat mean & still really dont

the dixtionary definishun say \ ˈi-mə-grənt \ noun. a person who comes to a country to take up permanent residence

\ ˈi-mə-ˌgrāt \ verb. [to go or remove into; in, into, and migrate, to remove.]

to come into a new country, region, or environment in order to settle there: opposed to emigrate.

oh sorry dat definishun not say we unclean people / flea invested vermin

sickly serpents who not speak english / greaser / sheenie

contagions of american society / incredibly dirty tramps fresh off the boat

so pervasive / such nonwhite filth / staring back at pitch black faces

not blonde haired & blue eyed / nonwhite skin only fit for dirt & waste work

mama papa kiss me goodbye i going to haiti

but it is what rolf is now it part of his identity just as much as the colour of his skin

just as much as bein a pagan / just as much as bein a male

just as much as bein the Son of a Shepherd

now rolf a new man living in the New World

i am an immigrant

sometime i wish i waz shug avery / bootiful fictional dark skin harlem singer

half man half woman / wit my large glittering masculine thighs i make an animal of men

maybe i have the courtesan complex

so i ast dr feelgood what my diag-nonsense

& she say poor soul you suffer from Stressed Shepherd Syndrome

okay so we all crazy in one way or another / it alright for some

of a mannequin in tears / of personal prejudices

im an unejucated farm boy from No Mans Land

im a poet who write in english

neisatnaf i isatnaf ne / ttim tetrejh dem gnyalp re lesgnel og gem tolrof nuh

rettenremmos i sirb ne mos rav ed / gem etlatrof nuh dro retsem nadrovh

etted tal eddejks rofrovh? / enneh lit gem trekided gej og enneh teksnø etrejh ttim

senneh enenyoø ås gej etted tla eddejks rofrovh

& this is for Sons of Shepherds who have considered suicide

fin

#my writing #poetry #poem #eene #ed edd n eddy #jonny #jonny 2x4 #rolf #jonny appreciation month

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crowkingwrites · 6 years

Text

The Snow Was Falling When I Fell For You

Pairing: Ramsay Bolton x Reader

Fic Request: Just wanna say one I am in love with your Ramsay fanfics and oneshots and two it's my birthday today and I was wondering if you can do a oneshot of Ramsay x Reader and they're childhood friends I always have that concept in my mind but can never write it since I suck at writing fanfics😭

Words: 2092

Author’s Notes: I oved this up in the queue of requests I had b/c it was the nonny’s birthday. Happy Birthday, sweet nonny! I hope this fic makes you happy :* Two, this is much different than most Ramsay One Shots i’ve been doing. I wanted to take a different take for this one and I’m really proud of it.

Read on Ao3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12969735

The snow crushed beneath your feet as your little feet ran in the snow. Your cheeks were red and you were covered from head to toe in warm furs. Your family had settled in the North months ago. Your father wanted to raise your family around people that had morals and values instead of violence and politics. So, he took your mother, your siblings, and you far north away from king’s Landing where the land was cold, but the people were warm.

Most of them anyways. The butcher’s boys were running after you with an old set of rusty knives. It scared you, so you took off. They kept running after you simply because they wanted to scare you more.

Your feet carried you across the fields by the Weeping Water. The river had frozen over, but people still used it as a guide to where they were. Right now, it was your guide near to your father’s workplace, The Dreadfort.

“Come back Y/N!” the first butcher’s boy said.

“Yeah we won’t hurt you!” the second responded. They laughed as they brandished their rusted kitchen weaponry. Tears began to form as you ran faster in the snow. Suddenly, you tripped over a snow-covered branch. You landed knee-first into the cold dirt. The butcher’s boys caught up to you and loomed over you.

“Did someone fall?” they cackled.

“Please stop,” you begged them.

“She’s crying!” the first one came closer. He had a meat cleaver in his hand. His dirty fingers wrapped around the handle tightly as if he were some knight. “Let’s see if we can make her cry more.”

The butcher’s boy raised the cleaver high above his head.

“Please! Don’t! Stop!” you cried loudly. You heard the younger butcher’s boy mock you and laugh. You closed your eyes. This was it. That’s when you heard another set of footsteps in the snow.

“I would leave her alone if I were you,” you heard his threat and you opened your eyes. He was a little older than you. His dark hair was wild, but his blue eyes were set on the two boys in front of him. He stepped in front of you, creating an obstacle between you and your enemies. “You can’t tell us what to do,” the older one told him.

“Yeah!” the younger one shouted. The older boy protecting you kept a serious face. His hand twiddled with a flaying knife.

“I don’t care what you think I can and can’t do. Leave her alone, that’s an order,” he threatened. The boys stood their ground. The older butcher’s boy was a heavy one. His size was easily twice the size of the older boy. He walked closer to him, making the space between them little and tension higher.

“I’m not going anywhere. Now move, or I’ll cut you.” The older butcher’s boy raised the cleaver above his head again. In a swift move, the older boy took his flaying knife and cut the butcher’s boy’s face. The cut was thin and long. Blood started to leak from his cheek and his eyes caught the end of it. The butcher’s boy dropped the cleaver and screamed in pain.

“My eye!” he cried out. He covered his face and ran off in the opposite direction. You sat up in shock. They were gone. A hand extended out towards you, and you took it. The older boy helped you off the ground.

“Are you alright?” he asked you. You nodded your head. “You’re Kevan’s daughter, aren’t you? My father is a very big fan of your father’s work.”

“Thank you,” you said in a small voice. You winced in pain. Lifting your skirts, a small stream of blood leaked down your leg because of the cut on your knee.

“Don’t worry,” the older boy said. “I won’t let anyone hurt you again. Come with me.” He offered his hand to you, and for the first time you felt the world slow down. His fingertips were in high detail. You could see every groove on them, just as you could see every shade of blue in his eyes. Your heart was swelling. You thought this only happened in the romantic stories your mother told you.

“What’s your name?” you asked as you took his hand.

“Snow. Ramsay Snow,” he guided you back to the Dreadfort.

From that day on, you followed Ramsay like a small shadow. He did not mind. You were his private audience to his entertainment. Every bug he smashed, you were there. Every adult he stood up to, you were there. Every cut he made on someone, you were there watching him, admiring him, falling for him more.

You couldn’t say if your father approved of the special relationship Ramsay shared with you, but it made his pockets swell with coins. Turns out, if the bastard favors you, the Lord of the Dreadfort favors you, then business would do extremely well.

But he was your father first. He had heard of Ramsay’s torment behavior. How he enjoyed inflicting pain upon others. Granted, most of them were enemies of the North, it still concerned him. He secretly looked at you longer every time you came home, and checked for any cuts or bruises. God help the man that inflicted any pain on you. However, your skin was clear of any aliments or pain. You always smiled when you came home and you always helped around the house. Your father let it go.

Ramsay was only two years older than you, but every time his father made him wear ‘proper gear’ when Ned Stark came to visit, he looked much older than he was. Ned made frequent visits to other castles to hear their concerns and such. This particular visit was important to Roose, so he pulled out all the stops.

A feast was held, candles were lit, and nearly everyone was invited. You wore your best dress and half-braided your hair into a wreath crown. Long sleeves protected you from the cold weather, and the rest of your hair cascaded over your shoulders. When you walked into the great hall, young men noticed you as a young woman for the first time. Ramsay Snow, all in proper wear, watched you float like a dream he remembered having over and over again.

That night, Ramsay never left your side. His fingers could never quite leave your body alone, and your father noticed quite quickly how beautiful you looked and how Ramsay’s eyes never strayed from your chest and face.

It had been a magical night for you. Ramsay never treated you like this ever. Of course, you never told him how you felt. How your heart swelled when you saw him or how you admired how he was true to his family traditions. You couldn’t express how your hairs raised when he touched you.

Ramsay led you away from the feast, laughing and shushing you. Both of you stopped near open windows to see the snow gently falling from the black sky. Ramsay touched the ends of your curls and played with them. The next thing you knew, he placed his lips over yours. Your eyes fluttered shut and a warmth grew from inside you. Ramsay’s hands held your face. He kept kissing you like he needed to breathe.

It was wonderful, but your father saw. His head couldn’t get rid of the rumors. The ideas of dark dungeons filled with the stench of rotting skin, organs across the floor, and dead kings on the walls telling him to get his daughter away from Ramsay. This was too much. Yes, the idea of his daughter marrying highborn was a desire among common men, but not this one. Not this bastard.

He looked back at you and the Bolton bastard kissing, and your father had to do something.

The next day, your heart broke into pieces as your father had sent you off to Winterfell, a place miles and miles away from Ramsay. You were a handmaiden now to Catelyn Stark. Although she was kind and warm to you, you missed home. You missed your family, your friends, and you missed him.

Months passed, and you learned to live without him. You heard how ill Robb Stark would speak of Roose, and you would keep your ill-mannered words to yourself. Years passed, and you watched Ned Stark leave home, and soon enough you watched Catelyn and Robb leave home as well. Soon enough, you knew they wouldn’t return home.

Then, you watched in horror as Theon Greyjoy took over Winterfell. He was always so cruel to you. Lingering looks and trying to convince you to warm his bed, pushing you to the ground when you didn’t. He was your Lord now whether you liked it or not, but you were smart. You knew squids couldn’t survive far from the water for too long.

The sky was gray that day. Clouds gathered up in bunches and crowds and filled the sky with something ominous. You were tying to do your chores that day when a Greyjoy soldier cornered you.

“Where you going?” he asked you, his breath smelled of old ale.

“To the kennels, ser,” you looked down. He grabbed your arm tightly.

“No, you’re coming with me. Theon says you’re a good bedwarmer.” His smile had two ‘ missing. One on the top, and the other on the bottom. Another soldier ran towards the center of Winterfell. “Oi! What’s going on?”

“I don’t know! We’re being called! Come on!” the soldier continued to run. You tried to get out of the soldier’s grasp.

“Uh uh, you’re coming with me. Understand?” the Greyjoy soldier dragged you to the courtyard. Your eyes looked down at the ground. Flakes of snow decorated your hair. Theon Greyjoy was shouting something, and that’s when you heard him.

You looked up to see him. He looked more like Lord than the Bastard. He wore his family’s colors like he was a trueborn. His blue eyes were frosted and he had bags under his eyes. He’s aged. So have you. You felt so frozen. He had to know you were there. Ramsay’s eyes scanned the crowd.

“Ramsay!” you shouted. The Greyjoy soldier hit you in the back of the head hard.

“Are you mad? Don’t you know who he is?” he said worriedly. The back of your head burned, but you opened your eyes to see Ramsay’s looking back at you. You saw a mixture of emotions in his face. Confusion. Realization. Love. Depression. Anger. Wrath.

You weren’t sure how it happened, but it was fast. An arrow went through the Greyjoy soldier’s head. Two other Greyjoy soldiers died on the spot. You ran off. You knew better than to stand in the middle of a slaughter. It didn’t seem long until you heard the shouting and fighting. Not long after that, you could smell the Greyjoys piss themselves.

The aftermath was ugly. Several men had lost their limbs. Other men were crucified in X-shaped crosses. Flies had already began their feasts spreading disease and pestilence.

“Y/N,” you heard a voice behind you. You knew who it was. You would run to him while everyone else could run away. You wrapped yourself around him, breathing him in. “Is this where you have been? All of these years?”

You nodded and let yourself cry in his chest. Ramsay pushed you away, but kept you close enough to wipe away the tears.

“My quiet girl. Hush now,” he comforted you. “I promised you I wouldn’t let anyone touch you, didn’t I? Don’t cry, sweetling.” Ramsay turned you around for you to see the whole carnage. Greyjoy soldiers and Winterfell natives lay dead on the ground. Snow fell over their bodies creating an eerie sheet over them. Blood seeped into the dirt; this was Bolton land now.

“One day, this will all be mine,” he whispered into your ear. “And my word will be law. You won’t disappear from me again. No one could touch you. You would belong to me.”

“I already belong to you,” you told him. You didn’t let go of him as you kissed him in the cold weather. Your lips parted for a moment. Your forehead touched his. “I’ve missed you terribly.”

“Don’t leave me again. Stay here. Watch me rule over them all,” Ramsay’s gloved hand lifted your chin.

“Yes my lord.” You smiled, melting to his touch. You fell for him when the sky was gray and ugly, and you would always fall for him.

#the snow was falling when i fell for you #ramsay bolton #ramsay snow #ramsay x reader #ramsay snow imagine #ramsay bolton imagine #one shot #fic request

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crimsxnflxwerz · 6 years

Photo

the door rating: teen fandom: buzzfeed unsolved [coraline au] pairing: ryan bergara & shane madej summary: “Don’t you want this?” the other Shane says, and his shiny, deep brown button eyes gleam in the low light. Another firework splits the sky like lightning, but this time Ryan can feel it in his gut, can feel the wrongness grip his body like the cold. “Everything you’ve ever wanted, it can be yours. If only you stay here, with me.” Ryan just wanted to love and be loved in return. When did this become such a mess? author notes: bear with me omg

“Help me unpack, Ryan.” His mother asked, stepping out of their car.

“Fine,” Ryan said, shoving his phone into his pocket, before getting out as well.

Ryan hated moving. He wished that he could just stay in one place. So many of his friends stayed in place, planted and left to flower. Not him, though, he swore he was destined to get uprooted each time. Just when he’d thought he could settle down here, he could survive this new climate and endure this new environment, he was ripped away from it. It made him feel lonely. Though he always managed to round up a few friends in each place, as he grew up, it had been getting harder and harder to do that.

He knew his parents’ divorce would ultimately be really hard on him. His father was the one that kept them anchored in one place, and his mother would travel often. After they split, and his mother got total custody of him, he prepared himself for a move. He would see his father once a month, well hypothetically, but it never really worked out. His father did send him letters and gifts occasionally. He guessed he couldn’t be disappointed if he hadn’t had any expectations in the first place.

Together, they managed to move all the boxes into their new house rather quickly. They were only two people, so they didn’t exactly have that many possessions. The major things had already been taken care of by the movers, like beds and other furniture. They decided that they would unpack things they needed immediately today, and the rest later.

Ryan stood in his new kitchen, turning the faucet on and off, staring out the window.

“Ryan, why don’t you go play outside?” his mother suggested. She sat at the round, two-person table in the middle of the room with her notebook and laptop. His mother was a reporter, taking notes on interesting current events, and travelling around to find better places to write about and inspire her. She moved to the small town in Oregon. It was isolated, but that was what made it interesting. Recently, Ryan noticed that his mother’s interest had been piqued while researching urban folklore. Small towns tended to run rampant with stories and tall tales. Living in one would give her perspective.

Ryan wasn’t too hyped about it. Before this, he only ever lived in or around cities. While each place they lived had it’s differences, they all had things in common with city living. Small, loud, busy. He always had something to do and somewhere to be in the city. No matter the time of day, something was going on. Sure, there were things he didn’t miss about the city, too. Like traffic, and pollution, and having no real place to go if he wanted to just roll around in some grass or something.

Ryan rolled his eyes and turned the faucet off. Outside there were barely any other houses, mostly trees and shrubbery for miles. The spectacle of messing around outside wore off after the last place they lived when he stepped on a rusted nail and needed to get a tetanus shot and stitches in his foot.

“It’s raining out, though.” He complained, trying to think of a good reason to just stay inside and do nothing.

“Oh, that reminds me, I have a present for you.” His mother said, and stood up to go into her bedroom. Ryan watched her go, and saw that she was carrying a flat box. She opened it and lifted out a lemon-yellow raincoat. She held it out to him.

“I got you think since we moved to somewhere that’s known to be rainier,” she explained. “I know you don’t have a raincoat, so I thought you might need one.”

Ryan’s face lit up slightly. He took the raincoat and felt it against his hands. It was soft, despite its rubbery texture to keep out the rainwater. He slipped it on and grinned happily.

“Thanks mom!” he said, hugging her briefly, before going towards the front door.

“Be back by dinner, kiddo!” she called after him. He ran to get his boots. He had two pairs of thin, rubbery boots from the city. One of them perfectly matched his new coat, so he slipped those on. He didn’t have much in terms of colorful clothing items, so the yellow was a stark contrast to the black pants and socks he wore.

He ran outside. It wasn’t raining too hard anymore, just a little drizzle, but he put the hood to his coat up anyways. As soon as he was outside, he looked around for something weird to explore. The neighbors were pretty far away, and he wasn’t really too interested in making friends right now anyways, so he scrapped that idea pretty quickly. After a moment, he spotted a stone path leading down a hill off the side of their house.

“Mmm, perfect,” he muttered under his breath, and began to follow it. The path was made of mis-matched stones, like a garden path, taking a long curve down the hill so that the slope was gradual instead of dramatic. As he walked down the path, he noticed that the thick line of trees didn’t start for another few yards. Instead, there was a large, grassy clearing with clusters of grey boulders and stones scattered about. Looking down towards the bottom, he saw that the trail turned into dirt. Well, it was likely mud now in this weather.

To his left there was a cluster of rocks. A rustling drew Ryan’s attention. He looked over, but didn’t see anything that made the noise immediately.

“Hello?” he called out. “Anyone there?”

He shuffled his feet nervously, plunging his hands deep in his coat pocket. He found some lint there, which he tossed out, watching it fall to the ground. Just as he turned, he heard more rustling, and a low growling. He started, turning to run the rest of the way down the hill. At the bottom, he hit a patch of mud and fell heavily onto his knee.

“Ahh!” he yelped, clutching his knee. He sat up, brushing off dirt and mud from his clothes. He saw that he’d managed to land on a rock. There was a large tear in his pants, and a gash in his knee that was bleeding. He sucked in a breath as rainwater dripped down into the cut.

“Dang,” he whispered, and shakily got back onto his feet. He shivered, the world around him looking a lot darker now than before. He moved on further down the trail into a thin patch of trees. The ground was muddy, but also rocky. Ryan took care not to slip again, his knee throbbing painfully. He let out a sigh, coming up to a rather large fallen tree. As he approached it, however, he heard the rustling again. His entire body stiffened in horror.

He knew he was being dramatic, but he couldn’t help but feel fearful in a new place. He didn’t know what lived in Oregon, there could be a bear stalking him for all he knew!

Just as he was backing away, a white blur pounced out from behind the log. Ryan screamed, but then quickly realized that it wasn’t something to be scared of after all. It was just a dog. Ryan recognized it as some kind of white terrier. It barked at him, before trotting up and sniffing at his feet. Ryan saw that it was mostly white, except for a single brown and black ear. Ryan giggled.

“Are you the thing that was scaring me?” he asked. The dog looked up at him and tilted its head to the side. It didn’t have a collar, so he wasn’t sure if it were a stray or not.

The dog barked again, wagging its tail rapidly, before trotting off along the path towards where it seemed to be leveling out. Ryan followed it hesitantly, and came upon an old, decrepit clearing that looked like it used to be something. In the center of the clearing, the dog sniffed around a raised circular section. It was covered in mud in lumps, but some places were cleared enough to reveal rotted wood.

Before he could move closer, he was startled by a loud revving noise. The dog started barking at the surprise. Down the hill came a cloaked figure on a motorbike of some kind. They drove around them and skidded to a halt on the other side of the clearing. Ryan took a closer look and saw that it looked to be a boy, older than him, with a checkered bandana covering his nose and mouth. On his head was a go-pro camera attached to a head strap. It made his damp hair stick out in odd directions around it.

He kicked off the bike, turning it off and stepping onto the muddy ground. The dog yapped some more, running over to the boy and running up on him. Once he was standing straight up, Ryan saw that he was very tall. He had at least five or six inches on him, which was a lot, at least in Ryan’s mind. It was kind of intimidating. Although, most of the intimidation wore off when he saw the big guy practically melt petting the yappy white dog.

“I was wondering where you got off to!” he laughed, rubbing the dog behind its ears. “Who’s a good puppy, you are! You found the new kid!”

Ryan cleared his throat. “Hey, I’m right here?” he called out.

The big guy gave the dog a few more pats, before looking over at Ryan. He pulled the bandana down to reveal his face. Ryan tried not to blush. The guy was pretty cute.

“Yeah,” he said. He approached, scratching the back of his neck nervously. Ryan noticed that he tended to slouch. Does that mean he’s actually even taller? “You’re the new kid. I’m Shane.”

Ryan narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Yeah, I’m Ryan.”

“Ryan? Can I call you Ry?” Shane asked. He had a casual face, even though his body language screamed nervous. Ryan crossed his arms.

“No.”

“Okay, Ry.” Shane said. He turned back towards the thing that the dog was sniffing at earlier. “Do you know what this is, Ry?”

“Don’t call me that,” Ryan snipped, then joined Shane, crouched by the circle in the center of the clearing. Shane picked up a small pebble and brushed some dirt away with a gloved hand, revealing a small hole in the wood.

“Watch,” he said, and pushed the pebble down into the hole. For a long time, there wasn’t a single noise, not a ping or a splash or anything to imply that the pebble had landed yet. Ryan could have sworn that the pebble continuously dropped for around thirty seconds until a very distant plop reverberated up to them.

“It’s a well?” Ryan asked. “That’s a long fall. Isn’t this, uh, dangerous?”

Shane laughed. “Of course, it is. Well, as long as you don’t fall in, you’ll be fine! But no one’s going to fill it in. No one fixes anything in this town.”

Shane stood, the dog coming around to rub against his leg. Ryan winced when he straightened up, accidentally leaning the heel of his hand into his wounded knee. Shane did a double-take of Ryan’s leg, and suddenly looked alarmed.

“Is that blood? Ry, are you okay?” Shane asked, sounding a little panicked.

“Calm down, will ya?” Ryan snapped. He looked down and saw that there was dried blood and mud caked onto his exposed knee. “It’s just a cut.”

“You’re going to get it infected.” Shane fretted. He held out an arm as if to grab Ryan’s wrist, but stopped himself at the last second, looking to Ryan’s face for permission. “Can I carry you?”

“No, no, no, no.” Ryan said. But something in his voice must’ve sounded like a yes, because Shane smirked and scooped Ryan up into his arms. He paused, however.

“Oh, my bike.” He said. “Want to hop onto my back, instead?”

Ryan was completely red in the face when Shane put him back down. He nodded without a fight and climbed onto Shane’s back, wrapping his arms around the taller boy’s neck and his legs around his waist. Shane walked over to his bike and hopped on, Ryan moving down to sit on the back end, transferring his arms around Shane’s neck, to his waist. Shane started up the bike and drove up the path, the dog barking and chasing after them.

When they got to Ryan’s front porch, he hopped off the bike and went to sit on the steps. Shane kicked the bike stand down and followed Ryan to the porch.

“Ah, the pink palace.” Shane said thoughtfully. “Oh yeah, you’re the new family that moved in here.”

“The pink palace?” Ryan asked, wincing again as he tried to wipe some of the mud off his knee. Shane noticed and went to his bike. There was a container strapped to the back. He unzipped it and pulled a few things out, including water, a small white bottle, a white hand towel, and a linen wrapping. He came over with the supplies, setting them on the porch.

“Yeah, my grandmother owns the pink palace. Was her parents place, but they moved out a long time ago.” He explained, rolling Ryan’s ripped pant leg up. “Wanna take your shoe and sock off? I don’t want to get them wet.”

Ryan slid his boot and sock off, putting them aside. Shane wiped some mud away with the towel, then poured some water on it and wiped more off until it was mostly cleaned out. The cleaning opened it back up, and it bled a little bit.

“Why’d they move out?” Ryan asked. He looked up at the looming house. It was the first time he got a really good look at it. Right now, it was sectioned off into three apartments. He and his mother had the middle section. “It must’ve been so big all opened up.”

“Well, when my grandmother was just a little girl, she had a sister.” Shane explained. “Her sister stopped playing with her, and would fight with their parents more and more until she finally disappeared. My grandmother says she was taken away by something in the house.”

“Something in the house?” Ryan asked. Shane uncapped the white bottle and squirted out some white paste onto his fingers. He rubbed them together before rubbing it into the gash. Ryan bit his lip to stop himself from crying out. He didn’t want to look like a total wuss. “Did the sister ever come back?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Shane paused, before rolling out a portion of the bandage and ripping it with his teeth. He started wrapping. “She didn’t have a sister. Well, she does have this picture in her attic of her with a girl who looks very similar to her, but no one seems to remember her sister.”

Ryan felt like he should gasp at the revelation. “So, who’s in the picture, then?”

Shane shook his head. “I only ever saw it once. If my parents never told me otherwise, I would have assumed it was her sister.” He ripped off a piece of medical tape and finished the wrapping. “Feel better?”

Ryan smiled. “Yeah.” He blushed. “Thanks, Shane. Why do you have all these supplies?”

“Oh, I’m outside a lot and,” he paused, scratching the back of his head. “I like to be prepared.”

The dog from earlier came running up from behind the house then, jumping up onto the porch and licking at Ryan’s cheek.

“Haha, get down!” he shooed the dog. Shane rubbed the dog behind its ears. “Is it your dog?”

“Ah, no,” Shane said, sounding a little disappointed. “Ma won’t let me have a dog, but this puppy likes me well enough. I feed him half my lunchmeat sandwiches, and he gives me company when I go searching for bigfoot.”

“Bigfoot? You know that’s not real, right?” Ryan teased, rolling down his pant leg and grabbing his sock and boot. Shane simply laughed.

“That’s what everyone says, but I know that he’s real,” he said. He stepped back and motioned at his camera. “I’m gonna catch bigfoot, and his bigfoot wife, and his bigfoot children on my go-pro I got for my birthday.”

Ryan wheezed in laughter as Shane bent over to collect his medical supplies. He went over to put them back in his bike pack. Ryan hopped up to walk over after his boot was on.

“Well, good luck,” he said, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “Do you think I could join you on a hunt sometime?”

Shane turned and grinned. He reached out and ruffled Ryan’s hair. To Ryan, Shane’s hand was quite large. He was just a big, tall guy in general. Ryan blushed. He felt like a child in comparison. He was fifteen, damnit.

“Of course! Oh, we also look for gnomes,” he added. “I know they’re real, where else do all my left socks go?”

Ryan laughed again, and Shane chuckled a bit, too. “Sounds like fun.”

Shane nodded. “If you want, we can go out tomorrow. Just meet me here around 3:30?”

“Yeah, sure,” he grinned. The white dog ran over and circled them a few times, barking.

“Hey, calm down pup!” Shane said, laughing. The dog growled playfully, before darting off in the direction of the neighbor’s house. “Wait up!” Shane called out, but he paused, “See you around?”

Ryan nodded. “Yeah, you will.” He said. Shane hopped onto his bike then and started it up, driving in the direction of the stray dog.

Ryan stood outside a little bit longer, staring off in the direction where Shane went off. He stood there in the rain until he heard his mother calling him in to dinner. After dinner, he curled up in his bed. He stared blankly at his bare walls for a moment, mentally putting together everything he would put up tomorrow to decorate his room. This might not be what he would call home, but he could make it work. He was going to be here for a while, anyways.

Eventually, he drifted off to sleep, and dreamt of goofy smiles and little white dogs.

#coraline au #shyan #buzzfeed unsolved #bfu coraline au #my fic #me

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